Chapter Twenty-Five
Jasmine was born three weeks before Cassandra. At four years old, Matthew hadn’t known what to think of her—this chaotic bundle of noise screeching in his ear.
His father made him sit down to hold her.
‘Support her head.’
She was the smallest human being he had ever seen. Light and fragile. So very fragile, like the woman he now held in his arms. Now, Jasmine was quiet, limp, and heavy.
He kept his feet moving. With every forced breath, his lungs burned. Arms aching, he shuffled Jasmine for a better hold, and she whimpered.
“It’s me. I have you,” he soothed. “No one is going to hurt you.”
Step after agonizing step, he made his way to the entrance of the manor. As best as he could, he supported Jasmine’s head on his chest. The rising volume of the music from the ballroom guided him, growing louder with every turn until he reached the main hall.
The entryway was just ahead.
And so was Duke Kendall—framed by the pillars of the open doorway, with the evening sky as a backdrop. Three ladies stood with him, two blondes and one brunette, all wearing identical shimmering pearl dresses. They lifted their fans, laughed, and stood directly in Matthew’s path.
As if they had been there all evening.
When Matthew approached, the women surrounded him in a circle, reaching for him—for Jasmine—and he snarled at them.
“Get out of my way.”
Duke Kendall’s hands rose, palms out. “Everyone, calm yourselves. I’m sure there is a reason for this spectacle.” He leaned forward and leered at Jasmine.
“Pardon me, Your Grace—Lady Jasmine needs medical attention.”
“My, my. It looks like someone has had too much punch.” He smirked. “Step aside ladies, leave Lord Lincolnshire to his lush. If Lady Jasmine cannot handle her libations, she is not the wife for me. She’s all yours, seeing as she’s ruined now.”
Matthew shouldered past him. He descended the stone steps onto the street and searched for his carriage in the long line of vehicles. The horses and carriages bled together, looking the same on the crowded street. A dozen aristocrats hurried forward, calling out to him in concern.
“Is that Lady Jasmine?!”
“Lord Lincolnshire, allow us to help!”
“Lord Lincolnshire! Lord—oh, someone, please!”
“Mrs. Winslow, find Lady Dorchester! Make haste!”
He brushed past them all, not trusting anyone.
Someone grabbed his shoulder. He jerked away, but instead of pulling him back, the person pushed him forward.
Like a shadow, Blackmoor fell into step with him.
Matthew didn’t have the breath to ask him what he was doing there, nor the time, but relief coursed through him to see the other man.
Wordlessly, Blackmoor led him to a two-horse carriage waiting near the curb. A footman jumped at once to open the carriage door.
“Hand her to me.” Blackmoor opened his arms to Matthew. “I’ll help you—”
“No.”
“Lincolnshire—”
“I said no, Blackmoor! No one else is touching her.”
Matthew ducked his head and stepped inside, holding Jasmine as a bundle in his arms. He collapsed on the leather seat and arranged her on his lap. Breathing hard, he pressed his brow to the crown of Jasmine’s head.
“What do you need?” Blackmoor asked.
“Send my sisters, her parents, and a physician to my townhouse.”
“I’ll gather Mr. Reeves too. We’ll meet you there.”
Blackmoor gave the address to the driver and closed the door. The carriage jolted forward, its wheels clattering over cobblestone as the coachman pushed the horses on.
Jasmine groaned. “Matthew?”
He choked on his next breath.
“There you are, love.” He kissed her brow and kept his voice soft. “How are you feeling?”
“My head hurts,” she whined. “Where are we…?”
“We’re in a carriage, I’m taking you to my house.”
“I need to go home,” she murmured.
“You’re staying with me.”
“Mama…” Her brows furrowed. “Lost?”
“She’s meeting us there,” he assured her.
“I’m tired…” Her eyelids fluttered closed.
“No, no. Stay awake,” he urged. “Talk to me. Did you eat anything, drink anything?”
“…punch… tasted like dirt…”
Her breathing deepened once more, and she slept. The carriage stopped, and once more, he lifted her in his arms.
Each step to the door of his townhouse was a mountain. He kicked the door as hard as he could, and within moments, Davis opened it. Dressed in his nightclothes, the butler’s brows rose and his mouth opened. Before he could speak, Matthew walked past him. If he stopped now, he would collapse.
“Prepare for company, Davis.”
“Right away, my lord,” Davis responded.
What the butler did next was lost on Matthew, who concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. One final staircase, one more darkened hallway, and finally through the door to the master bedchamber.
White linen dust covers smothered the four-poster bed in the center of the room.
Matthew walked the last steps and placed Jasmine on the mattress.
Tingling numbness radiated from his shoulders to his fingertips.
She shivered and curled into a ball. Matthew placed the bedcovers over her, and a lock of her hair fell over her face.
He tucked it behind her ear—and Jasmine flinched.
He removed his hand and placed it in his lap.
When she woke, would she welcome his touch?
Drenched in sweat, hardly able to move, he lifted his shaking arms to his face and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. What he wouldn’t give to lie down next to her, hold her, and sleep. Instead, he moved to the other side of the room, to the fireplace along the wall.
Leaning his arms on the mantel, he cradled his head in the crook of his elbow. The faint scent of coal smoke rose from the fireplace, even though a fire hadn’t been lit there in years.
He ought to burn the house to the ground.
When he closed his eyes, he saw his mother dying from a wasting disease in the same bed that now held Jasmine.
Echoing in the empty halls, he could almost hear the wailing of his sisters after he told them their father had died in an accident.
Whenever he passed the dining room, he saw Seth on the table, bleeding from a gunshot wound, after Sir Reginald shot him instead of Cassandra.
And as always, Matthew had cleaned up the mess.
Now—on every surface of this godforsaken house—he saw blood. Coating the floor, his clothing—on his hands, and on the pitchers of water it took to wash them clean. They never felt clean again—
“Matthew?” Cassandra’s voice trailed from the hallway.
Cassandra and Caroline entered the room and rushed to Jasmine.
“Oh, God,” Caroline cried and knelt by the bedside, holding Jasmine’s hand.
Matthew moved to join her, but Cassandra touched his elbow.
“Adrian told me everything,” she said. “A physician should be here shortly, and Jasmine needs to be readied. I’ll take it from here.”
Matthew shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”
“We need to remove her dress,” Cassandra said. “Give us some privacy.”
“No. I’ve already seen her—”
“Not like this,” she whispered gently. “Let her have her dignity.”
She waited there with reddened eyes, swollen with unshed tears, and Matthew nodded.
“Seth is downstairs with Adrian. Wait with them,” she said. “Aunt Valentine and Uncle Edward should be here soon.”
Jasmine whimpered softly. Cassandra went to her side and spoke in hushed tones, as if talking to her daughter, Rose. “We need to get you out of that gown. Will you help me? Can you give me your arm? Yes, like that sweetheart—”
Matthew cursed and turned to leave—while he still could. He closed the door behind him and sank to the floor. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he listened to his sister’s muffled voice. He had to do something, because he couldn’t sit there for another minute.
This couldn’t go unpunished.
He rose to his feet and stormed down the steps, making his way to the front door.
Seth exited the sitting room and shot ahead of him. He crossed his arms at the door. Blackmoor followed and leaned against the sitting room doorframe—ready to step in.
Matthew would fight both of them if he had to.
“Where are you going, Matthew?” Seth asked.
“To kill Duke Kendall,” Matthew growled.
“I can’t let you do that. Go sit down.”
Matthew curled his hands into fists. “Stand aside, or I’ll throw you aside.”
Blackmoor moved from the doorframe, and Seth stepped forward, boxing him in, but Matthew wouldn’t yield ground.
“He needs to pay for what he’s done!” he shouted at Seth. “If it was Cassandra, you would want vengeance!”
“If it was Cassandra, I’d stay by her side,” Seth snapped. “I wouldn’t allow her to wake up afraid and alone—in an unfamiliar bed and different clothes! You want to be Lady Jasmine’s husband? Act like it, and sit down.”
Matthew backed down because Seth was right.
But why is Blackmoor here?
Naturally, he would be there in an emergency. Only an emergency. The last time Matthew and Blackmoor had been at the same ball was the night of Cassandra’s attack.
When he knew there was a threat.
“You were there in an instant, Blackmoor,” Matthew accused. “Almost as if you were waiting for me to walk by.”
Blackmoor’s face remained passive. “A ‘thank you’ would suffice.”
“You know what happens in that mansion, don’t you?” Matthew asked. “How Duke Kendall hurts women. Did you know he was going to attack Jasmine?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me, Blackmoor,” Matthew hissed. “Did you know?”
“No.” Blackmoor shook his head. “I knew he had something planned, but I thought his target was—”
“Me.” Caroline stood at the top of the staircase. She stomped down the stairs and glowered at Blackmoor. “Isn’t that right, Lord Blackmoor? You thought Duke Kendall was going to attack me, and you didn’t say anything!” She pointed her finger at Matthew. “And you didn’t warn me about him!”
“I did warn you,” Matthew growled.
“Not properly!” Caroline spat.
“I told you he was dangerous!”