Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Milton had stopped by The Leaf to learn Harris was indeed en route to the border. He did not relish telling his wife this news.
In fact, he cursed his lot as he searched for Elizabeth first in the drawing room, and then the library.
He swore altogether much these days, which was unbecoming of a baron, though lately he felt less the titled gentleman and more the lowly whoreson from the East End.
It was Finch, worming his way back into Milton’s life again.
For years he’d been focused on his devil of a sire instead of his childhood demon, but now the two merged into a single, solitary evil in his head.
He loathed that his wife’s sister was mixed up in all of this. It was the last thing he’d wanted, and it complicated his plans. What he wanted was to start a family of his own, to enjoy the wealth he’d amassed, and of course to make his father pay.
Hardly asking much, given the hand he’d been dealt.
He’d always desired more from life than he’d been given, and why shouldn’t his dreams be bold?
Milton had a blood right to riches. His mum had regaled him with stories of life beneath his father’s roof, of the sumptuous meals and glittering rooms the man enjoyed.
Horses, hounds, and hijinks of all sorts had been music to Milton’s young ears—he didn’t blame her for indulging his childhood fantasies.
Lord knew she’d needed fantasies, too, to keep herself from going mad.
Hunger was a funny thing though. It never left, even when one’s belly was full.
And his was full. His house was more opulent than his father’s, his silly phaeton the most expensive for miles. Yet the more he gained, the less sure he felt, as if he lived some sodding parable of conceit in which the rest of the bloody world still didn’t see him for who he was: a man of worth.
“Lizzie.” He stopped in his tracks, frowning, for there she stood on a small step stool, painting bookshelves alongside staff.
His butler would get an earful.
She turned, brush in hand, a smudge of paint on her cheek. He shoved down a vision of his wife in that smock on her knees, pleasuring him.
“Why in God’s name are you … painting?”
“I wished to speed completion,” she answered, as if her statement were not utterly absurd.
He shook his head at her. “When you are done, I’d like a word.”
“Have you news?” She looked so eager, so filled with hope, he hated that he must disappoint her.
“Yes.”
“Then I shall come at once.”
***
Elizabeth put down her brush, wiped her hands on her smock, and followed her husband down the hall. Since meeting Hieronymus Finch this morning, she’d felt thoroughly unsettled, restless almost with worry. Painting shelves distracted only so much.
Clearly, Milton’s past with Finch fueled the awful man’s desire to snare Annabelle, meaning blame rested not just with Papa this time, but also with her husband.
Who was the Baron, that he should be mixed up with such a scoundrel?
Miss Li’s words repeated in her head: Milton is the man he is because of his past. And that past was key to understanding the present—key, she felt, to ensuring Annabelle’s future.
Elizabeth was determined to uncover her husband’s past if she had to wrest the answers from Finch himself.
“Drink?” Milton offered the moment they entered his office.
“No, thank you.” She took a seat before his desk, recalling what had transpired here once before. She shivered.
He brought bottle and glass from the sideboard to pour himself a brandy, and Elizabeth felt like she’d arrived for an interview, an awkward one at that.
For to expose oneself so nakedly in body to another person, yet remain inwardly so guarded, hiding one’s thoughts and feelings even as one bared one’s flesh, continued to split her psyche in two.
“I have news of Harris and your sister, but first tell me of your visit with your father. Is Ginny installed?”
Surely news of Bella superseded all else! Yet if she wished to gain answers, she must gain her husband’s good graces first.
“She is, sir. Cook alone is aware of our ruse.”
“Good.” He downed his drink. “And your father knows I am sending a man over?”
“He is apprised.”
Milton poured himself another. “Had he word yet from Finch?”
She hesitated. “Mr. Finch called while I was there, yes.”
Her husband gripped his drink so tightly the veins on his hand bulged. “And you choose to tell me this only now, Lizzie?”
“I … Forgive me, Milton. I did not mean to keep this from you, I merely—”
“Any news, Elizabeth, any hint of information you have concerning Hieronymus Finch is to come to me at once. Do I make myself clear? At once!”
She shrank in her seat as he violently pushed back his chair to pace the carpet. “What did he say, how did he conduct himself? Tell me what you know.”
Milton was upset beyond reason; she must tread softly, lightly now.
“Mr. Finch wished to speak with Bella, but Papa and I put him off. He said he’d call again tomorrow; it was more a threat than a request.” Elizabeth followed her husband’s long strides about the room.
“He said he always gets what he is promised, even if he has to take it for himself.”
***
Milton stopped to stare at his wife. He wanted to crush her to him knowing she’d been in the same room with Finch, let alone exchanged words with the fiend. “Lizzie, what else did that cur say to you?”
“He … had a message he asked me to give you.”
Milton’s heart hammered a slow, sluggish thump in his head. For a second, he could hear only its painful beating. “Out with it, woman.”
“He said: Master Finch has returned to punish his boy. He said it twice, Milton. Every word that man said struck fear into my breast.”
He turned away; he could not bear for her to see his anguish. The devil had returned to ride him like before. Only this time Milton was older, wiser. Harder. This time he would rise like a phoenix from the ashes of his youth, and strike his demon down.
If he didn’t, he was doomed.
“Milton…”
He continued to pace.
“You have yet to tell me news of my sister.”
Muscles screaming from the message she’d just delivered, he clenched his fists, his mind oceans, leagues away.
“Milton,” she snapped. “Tell me what news of Annabelle. Where has Harris taken her?
“En route to Gretna as we speak.”
“No.” Her face drained color. “No, Bella would never agree to that. You are mistaken. Harris has hidden her somewhere safe, somewhere—”
“There is no place ‘safe’ from Finch, Lizzie,” he snarled. “Arty’s done what he must. Marrying Bella is the safest course of action.”
“Marriage is hardly safe.” Elizabeth’s lenses flashed at him, catching light. “She barely knows Harris.”
“He is better than Finch; it is that simple.”
“Marriage is not simple,” she fired back. “There must be another—” She abruptly ceased. “Why, to think I spared Annabelle marriage to you, only to let her fall into Harris’s hands is detestable.”
“And do you regret that choice? Were it better she’d married me so that you fell prey to Finch instead?”
She scowled. “Neither option is tenable, sir. And you should have told me this news at once, rather than ask me to—”
“And what difference would that have made, Lizzie, eh? Tell me how that would have changed a goddamned, blasted thing.” It took all his willpower not to suddenly weep.
“If we leave for Gretna right now and spare no haste—”
“They are at least a full day’s journey underway, two if they drove through the night. We’d never catch them, it is futile.”
“You say that just to dissuade me,” she accused.
“You mean for him to marry her. You planned this all along! Keeping me in the dark on purpose, telling me nothing of your past with Finch. You trust me even less than Bella and Papa do. And what have I done to warrant such treatment? Not one of you has seen fit to tell me anything at all, and I’ll be damned if—”
He shut her up the only way he knew how, with a brutal kiss, though she fought his lips as much as she fought his grip, pushing him off.
“I will not be silenced in such base manner! I will bloody ride to Scotland myself to stop them!”
Milton steadied his emotions in order to objectively assess his wife, all fire and brimstone yet again, wild eyes shooting daggers at him. She was just mad enough to saddle a horse and take off, which was the last thing in the world he needed when she might very well be—
The image of her round with child momentarily terrified him.
He swallowed his fear fast. “Elizabeth, nothing we do now will stop Arthur Harris from marrying your sister, but it is not so awful a fate.”
“Don’t tell me what is not awful,” she fumed.
“I know what it is to be at the mercy of a man, at your mercy. That, sir, is married woman’s fate.
Why, you treat the servants better than you treat me!
You speak to them as equals, allow them familiar use of your name.
You behave toward them in every way as friend and family, whereas me you treat like—”
He physically shook sense into her. “Woman, stop behaving like a hellcat and start acting like an adult.”
“Hellcat?” Her voice pitched higher. “Oh I’ll give you a hellcat, Baron. I’ll make you rue the day we married. Rue the day you stole me from my home, stole my sister from me, stole all that I hold dear!”
She was spinning out of reach, trapped in a spiral she could neither quell nor contain. He knew that maelstrom well.
“Give me your glasses,” he ordered.
“No! I shall not be—”
“Now, Lizzie,” he repeated. “No argument. Give them to me or I shall take them from you.”
“Rot in hell, Jasper.” She spat his name like it was poison.
And rot in hell he likely would, he thought, plucking her spectacles from her face to slip into his breast pocket, then spinning her around to secure her hands behind her back. He marched her to a footstool, where he sat himself down and deposited her over his lap.
The moment he lifted her skirts she opened her mouth to protest. “You cannot—!”
“Elizabeth, I do this for your own good.”
“It is abuse of power! You wish to humiliate me, degrade me!”
Down came the first crack, knocking the wind from her lungs. “Count for me, Lizzie.”
“No!” she howled. “I will not do your—”
“Two.” He laid into her other cheek.
“—bidding, blast you!”
“Count, woman,” he urged more sternly.
“No, you filthy, sodding—” Her words were swallowed short by his fourth wallop.
“Elizabeth.” His tone brooked no argument. “Count.”
She gasped, “Five,” as he dropped another smack.
“Six.” Her voice grew stronger.
“Seven.” Control slowly returned.
“Eight!” she cried, triumphant.
And on he slapped, till she’d counted to sanity and collapsed, in exhaustion, across his lap.
Milton rocked his wife in his arms and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Her rage, thank God, had passed.