Chapter Twelve #2
As she trotted down the hall on curiously silent feet, the irony of a random child with questionable moral character knowing where his wife’s bedroom was when he did not wasn’t lost on Stephen.
While Abigail had given him directions—go to the top of the stairs and turn right, second door on the left—so that he could retrieve the cat carriers, he didn’t know it by heart. And that was the problem, wasn’t it?
Hearts.
His, bruised and battered but willing to try again.
Hers, cold and closed off to even the smallest possibility of love.
“There’s one,” Jack said suddenly.
Reacting instinctively, he snatched up a blur of gray fur before it could dash past him. The caught feline meowed loudly in protest as he carried it into Abigail’s room and nodded at Jack to open the door of the first carrier.
“These are nice.” Eyeing the carriers, Jack lifted an empty one to test its weight. “Wonder what they’d fetch,” she mused, more to herself than to him, but the space was small and his ears were quite keen.
“Is that what you do when you’re not cat-tending?” he asked, lifting a brow. “You’re a thief?”
“I wear a lot of hats. That’s Cleo.” She pointed at the cat they’d caught who was now laying on its side batting at its own tail and looking astonished when it moved. “Not the shiniest apple in the bushel. That leaves Ferdinand and—”
“Susan,” he cut in darkly. “We’ve met before. I can’t imagine her demeanor has improved.”
“How long have ye and Dr. Chadwick been married?” Kneeling, Jack lifted the quilt to look under the bed and then popped back up to her feet. “She never said she had a husband.”
“If I answer a question, you have to answer a question.”
Jack’s mouth moved from side to side as she mulled it over. “All right. Deal.”
“Dr. Chadwick—Abigail—and I have been married for eight years.” He peered behind the curtains. No cats. “The time we’ve actually spent together is considerably shorter.”
“How come? She doesn’t like ye? I wouldn’t like a man tellin’ me what to do and where to go, that’s for certain. That’s why I’m never gettin’ married.”
Given his experience with holy matrimony thus far, Stephen couldn’t say her decision was a bad one. “I believe it’s your turn to answer a question. Where are your parents?”
“Dead,” she said dispassionately. “Well, my mum is. Dunno where my pa is. Never met him. He could still be alive, I guess. If he is, to ’ell with him.”
“Then who is taking care of you?”
She sniffed, as if insulted. “I’m takin’ care of myself, thank ye very much. Susan and Ferdinand aren’t in here. We should try the room down the hall, but don’t let ’em get downstairs. We’ll never catch ’em.”
After a thorough search of a second, smaller bedchamber whose primary use appeared to be the storage of books and boxes, they managed to find and secure both cats after discovering them huddled together on the windowsill.
Stephen earned a bright red scratch on the back of his hand for his trouble, and Jack charged him another crown to help load the cats into the carriage.
All in all, it was not an experience he cared to repeat anytime soon and a great deal more trouble than Abigail had implied it would be.
“Can I give you a ride back to wherever you came from?” he asked, and to his mild surprise, Jack said yes, whispering her address to his driver before she jumped into the carriage ahead of him and immediately made herself comfortable.
“Feet off the cushions, please.” Stretching into his own seat, he crossed his legs and turned his gaze to the window as he waited for his driver to take them to what he could only presume would be a less savory part of London given Jack’s clothes and demeanor.
But he found himself surprised yet again when the town coach turned in the direction of Grosvenor Square instead, and brought them to a stately park-side manor instead.
A manor, if he wasn’t mistaken, that belonged to the Marquess and Marchioness of Kentwood.
“Do you have more cats to feed?” he asked.
“How much silver do ye think they’ve got in that house?” Jack tapped her finger to her chin. “I bet it’s loads.”
“You had me bring you here so you could commit a robbery?” he said incredulously, and before she could leap out, he reached past her and closed his hand around the carriage’s mahogany door handle, holding it firmly closed. “I am not in the habit of aiding a petty criminal.”
Jack crossed her arms and scowled at him. “Who are ye callin’ petty? Let me out!”
“So that you can rob these poor people blind? I think not.”
“Why the ’ell would I rob poor people?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I—”
Thwap.
A loud strike against the side of the carriage caused Stephen to jump.
Jack peeked quickly out the window, then sat back with a grin. “Now you’re in for it,” she smirked, and before he could ask her what she meant the door was wrenched out of his grasp, nearly causing him to fall out onto the cold pavement below.
“What are you doing with my ward?”
He had time to catch a glimpse of flashing blue eyes and a pink mouth curled in a warrior’s snarl before a long wooden cane smacked him on the shoulder with such force he felt the blow from his neck all the way to his fingers.
Bloody hell.
Had all of London gone mad?
“Well?” the she-devil demanded, raising the cane for a second blow. “I asked you a question!”
“My lady,” he said, hastily throwing up his hands as much to protect his face as to show her he meant no harm.
While she was wielding a weapon, it was evident by the tailored fit of her clothes and the coiled blonde curls pinned neatly beneath an elegant velvet hat that he was addressing a fellow member of the aristocracy.
“I believe there has been some confusion. I didn’t realize Jack was your daughter—”
“And that grants you permission to molest her?”
“What? No. No, I—ouch!” he snapped when the cane smacked his knee. “Will you please stop hitting me?”
“When you release Jack!”
“For the love of God, take her.” He leaned out of the way, giving Jack room to scramble past him and jump out of the carriage. She and the woman exchanged a few muffled words, and then she skipped into the house with a cheerful wave tossed into the wind.
The woman frowned up at him. “It seems that I . . . owe you an apology. I should not have leaped to conclusions before having a better understanding of the situation.”
“I would never hurt or abuse a child,” he said stiffly.
“Jack assured me you were nothing but polite and respectful. I’m almost certain you cannot say the same for her in return.
” The corners of her eyes crinkled. “Won’t you come inside for some tea?
I do believe, Lord Lancaster, that we are neighbors, and I’ll admit I’ve long been curious about the mysterious earl whose manor at the end of the street has sat vacant for the past year. ”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“What you’re planning to do with that cane.”
A sheepish smile flitted across her lips as she tucked the cane behind her back.
“Once again, you have my sincerest apologies. Were my husband here, he would be the first to acknowledge that I have a tendency to let my temper get the better of me. Particularly when I fear those I care about are in danger. I can assure you it will not happen again.”
The tension in Stephen’s shoulders—the left one still smarting—dissolved. After all, what wouldn’t he do to defend those he loved? What lengths hadn’t he gone to in order to find Abigail? And what wasn’t he willing to do to keep her?
“My visit must be brief, but I will accept your invitation, Lady . . .”
“Lady Katherine Colborne, Marchioness of Kentwood. But please . . . call me Kitty.”
*
Where was Stephen? The paradox of wanting to see her husband after three years spent hiding from him wasn’t lost on Abigail as she paced across the front parlor, pausing only now and again to glance out the window at the long drive and the red-orange sun behind it that seemed to sink deeper with every passing minute.
He’d told her that he would return with her cats before dinner, but that designation had already come and gone.
By her best calculations, he should have reached London by ten.
A quarter hour to secure Susan, Cleo, and Ferdinand (given their sweet, docile natures, she was sure they’d been compliant), and then the journey back, which should have had him home—she glanced at the longcase clock in the corner—two hours ago.
But here she stood, at nearly half past six, without her husband, without her cats, and without any sense of when they might return.
What if Susan had gotten out of the house?
“My lady . . .”
What if the coach had broken down?
“My lady . . .”
What if it had been overtaken by highwaymen?
“MY LADY!”
“Yes?” Startled from her worries, she pivoted to that find Mrs. Robbins had entered the parlor and was holding a covered tray. “Are you speaking to me?”
The housekeeper’s weathered countenance creased in a smile. Like the rest of her, her face was pleasantly round and soft, with rosy cheeks and twinkling brown eyes that instantly invoked a sense of warmth and calm. “You are the lady of this manor, are you not?”
“I . . . I suppose I am, but I’d much prefer if you called me Abigail.”
“Oh, I could not possibly do that, my lady. Nor will the rest of the staff, I am afraid. You are Lady Lancaster, and His Lordship is Lord Lancaster, and that is the way it is and shall be.”
“But I don’t feel like a lady, let alone a countess.”
“And how could you? Growing up in that uncivilized place.” Clucking her tongue, Mrs. Robbins set the tray down on a circular table and lifted the lid to reveal an array of neatly sliced meats, cheeses, and fruit.
“You need to eat, my lady. I won’t have you turning to skin and bones, not on my watch. ”