Chapter Nineteen
S ander took little comfort in the carriage on the way back to Stonemare, although the rutted roads did play in his favor in throwing Miss Fairclough almost on his lap a time or two. Until she wised up and grappled the strap, doing her utmost to lengthen the distance between them.
Even in the gloom, he detected her fiery blush—it glowed almost as bright as her hair—which was further deepened by the other two occupants sitting across from them. Already, he’d had to hide his amusement in keeping his gaze trained to the nearly visionless landscape.
The ride was tedious. For what should have taken thirty minutes had already stretched to over an hour. The coachman, Dermid, was due a raise if he managed the journey without a cracked wheel or axis. Fletcher as well just for having to ride beside him.
“How much longer?” Docia was not a patient young lady.
The trap opened and Fletcher’s face appeared. “There’s another carriage blocking the portico, sir. ’Fraid it’ll be a soggy trek to the portico.”
“Thank you, Fletcher. Have Dermid maneuver as close as he can,” Sander said. The trap shut and he addressed Docia. “To answer your question, we’re close. Bundle up.”
“To whom does the other carriage belong?” Miss Fairclough murmured.
“Oh, it must be Lucius,” Docia said. Excitement emanated from her in her inability to sit still.
He barely heard her over the pelting rain, but the same question occurred to him.
Their own conveyance rolled to a stop, but Sander’s ears still vibrated with the roar of the rain and rutted roads vibrating his head until he thought it would fall from his shoulders into the muck. Clearly, he would have to carry each of the occupants inside and he planned to save Miss Fairclough for last.
Docia was first. The lightest and quickest he dropped inside, where things were in chaos.
If Sander had been shipbound, Damien’s voice could be heard over the crashing waves. “Do you realize the danger you’ve put the horses in, traveling in such conditions?”
Sander heard no response and hurried back out to bring in Docia’s maid. “I’ll return shortly,” he told Miss Fairclough.
“Out of my sight, you little bastard. I can’t bear to look at you.” The harsh growl reverberated through the hall. Damn Damien. He hadn’t an iota of sense. Any more than their sire had had.
He’d set Olive on her feet just as Lucius tore out of the study and pounded up the stairs, fists swinging at his sides. The boy’s looks were identical to Damien’s at Lucius’s age of thirteen. Just what the devil was going on?
There was no time to find out now, however. Miss Fairclough couldn’t very well sit in the carriage until he dealt with the issue. Drenched through, Sander stepped back out into the deluge. To his great disappointment, Dermid was moving the carriage to the portico due to Baldric’s removal of the other now rounding the side of the castle in the direction of the stables.
Well, that was disappointing. He’d rather relished the idea of carrying the woman over the thresh—Gads, he was an idiot. With a sigh, he pulled the door back and leaned in with a grim smile. “It appears my nephew has indeed made his way home from Eton unexpectedly. The fireworks inside would give Vauxhall a run for blunt,” he told her.
“Oh, dear. The earl’s not pleased to see his son, then?”
“To put it mildly.” Sander took her gloved hand. Its warmth reached through the soft kid leather and he held it a touch too long for propriety’s sake. He met her emerald gaze that reflected the storm surrounding them. “We must hurry.” Though he could have stood there all night into the next day. “There’s no need for two of us being soaked to the gills.”
Her hesitation was minute.
“I don’t bite.” He shot her a wolfish grin. “Not hard, at any rate.”
Once more, that dash of scarlet heightened her cheekbones.
The opportunity… opportune. And who was he to resist? He tugged on her hand, startling her right into his arms.
Right where she belonged.
*
Verda needn’t have worried that anyone would witness her in Mr. Oshea’s arms. The entryway was devoid of even Mr. Winfield. Couldn’t Mr. Oshea have held her a tad longer? He assisted her with her cloak, his fingers brushing her nape, raising the fine hairs there. He, of course, was soaked… to the gills. “You’ll catch your death,” she said on a breathless rush.
“Likely so. I shall have to change before I am up to dealing with the current crisis,” he told her. He took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her in the direction of the library. “Warm yourself by the fire. I shan’t be long.”
Mrs. Knagg entered from the back of the house. “Oh, thank be to the heav’ns, yer back. I’ll bring you tea. The girl and ’er maid’s awaitin’ as well. The girl’s a’cryin’ ’er eyes out, she is,” she blustered out before hurrying away.
Verda contained her groan, straightened her spine, and marched into the library. The nice, warm library.
Docia and Olive were near the fire with their heads together, whispering.
Verda moved in front of them. “Is everything all right?”
“Um, of course.” Docia lifted her gaze and blinked. One fresh tear trekked down her cheek.
“Obviously, something is wrong, dear. What is it?”
She gave a delicate sniff, so perfectly ladylike. “Lord Pender yelled at Lucius. He showed no restraint for decorum. He told Lucius to get”—she hiccupped—“out of his sight. He called him a… a bastard,” she finished on a whisper. “That’s n-not t-true, is it?”
“I’ve been trying to explain to her ladyship,” Olive said in a low voice with an awed glance to the door, “that just because someone is called such a thing doesn’t make it so. The earl was very angry.”
“I’m certain all will look different in the morning,” Verda assured them, not at all certain.
Unshed tears pooled. “But, is he really a… a…”
“Docia,” Verda said firmly. “He is Lord Pender’s heir.”
“Yes.” She took a lace handkerchief from a small reticule, Verda hadn’t noticed before now and dabbed at her pert nose. “He’s a viscount. Perlsea.”
“Thank you. Lord Perlsea is certainly not a bastard. It sounds as if the earl just lost his temper a bit.” Unsurprisingly.
“It’s Lady Docia,” she corrected through a sniffle.
Verda clasped her hands at her lower back. “Apologies. Another point of fact, Lady Docia, is this is a family matter.” She kept her tone soft—mostly. “And, frankly, it is none of our concern.”
Mrs. Knagg, thankfully, entered that instant where the fragrance of scones fresh from the ovens hit Verda’s nose. Her knees almost buckled from hunger. She sank in the nearest chair and quickly poured out three cups of tea being as there was no lady of the house, and deliberately handed the first one to Olive.
A huff of irritation emitted from Miss Docia.
Verda then selected a scone for the maid and handed that to her too. “Olive,” she said so sweetly, her teeth ached. “Would you allow your mistress and me a moment of privacy?” She pointed to the table she and Noah used for his mathematic lessons.
Olive shot Docia a quick glance, though the girl didn’t acknowledge her in the least.
“We’ll only be a moment,” Verda added. “Now, please.”
“Of course, miss.”
Once Olive had moved across the room, Verda offered Docia a scone. “How do you prefer your tea?”
“Four sugars and milk.” The excessiveness was not unexpected.
Verda handed it over, then doctored her own with just milk. She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Treating one’s servants without respect reflects poorly on oneself, my dear. You should have a care.”
Miss Docia’s eyes filled with those unshed tears that glistened into pools of midnight. As always, the suddenness stunned Verda. The girl, too, leaned forward. The move sent another perfectly dropped tear down her face. “But, Miss Fairclough, I fear for my well-being. She’s quite horrid to me when no one is about.”
Verda’s insides stilled. Her eyes cut to Olive and back. “That’s a little difficult to fathom. I’ve seen no evidence of such action.”
“But it’s true,” she said in all earnestness. She set her cup and plate aside and pulled her sleeve back, revealing a dark bruise on the inside of her wrist.
“If that is indeed the case, why didn’t you say anything to Mr. Oshea—or me—before now?”
“I tried telling you in my way. You just refused to listen. Besides, Papa would be livid had I left her behind. He said she is to go everywhere with me. H-He made me promise.” The tears flowed freely now.
Doubts plagued Verda. It had been Olive who’d insisted on accompanying Docia. Not the other way around. Verda grabbed a serviette and placed it in Miss Docia’s hand. Hadn’t her own father demanded the same when Verda had been young? Actually, no . The only lady’s maid Verda had ever had was Lizzie, who a few years back had been released, then reinstated when Papa had decided she was to set her cap for the Duke of Rathbourne. Not to mention, Docia was an eleven-year-old child. Their situations were entirely different. “All right, dear. Dry your tears. Crying doesn’t help.” She sat back against her chair, still studying the girl.
“But—” Verda followed Docia’s eyes to where Olive maintained a docile pose at the table. Her black hair blended into the mourning drapery behind her, displaying her face in stark paleness, her gray eyes nearly black.
“Docia—forgive me— Lady Docia, did Olive put the bruise on your wrist?” Verda asked. The girl’s mouth opened, but Verda stayed her with her palm. “I want the truth.”
Her head dropped. “No, ma’am. I fell.”
Verda reclined back, letting out a long stream of air, and considered her next words carefully before leaning forward again. “Thank you for your honesty. That is the true definition of ‘lady’ to be sure.”
Her gaze snapped up, as if she didn’t believe what she’d heard.
“But I absolutely insist you treat her and others with more respect. That will only help you going forward. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Miss Fairclough. Thank you. Thank you so much.” She picked up her scone and took a small bite. “This is most delicious, isn’t it?”
Verda narrowed her eyes on the girl, confused as ever.