Chapter 3
Three
Dear Sir Robert Williamson,
It was no accident. His last meeting was with Viscount Pembrock. Then six children were orphaned.
Astley
—A letter penned by Caillen Griffith, Baroness Bredlebane to Sir Robert Williamson, War Office, London, England, from the deathbed of Simon Clark, Earl of Astley.
Caillen sighed as she set the cup of tea laced with laudanum next to the bedside table and looked down at the sleeping earl. His battered face and body looked nothing like the day they had met. At the time, she’d thought a man of the ton couldn’t look more disreputable. Now, she knew otherwise.
Gingerly, she dabbed at his perspiring forehead as she said a silent prayer for his recovery.
Perhaps this was her purpose, the reason she had survived.
Perhaps she was meant to care for her husband’s children and Astley.
Maybe there were more people who would turn to her in their time of need and she would be the caretaker she never wanted to be.
She closed her eyes and prayed that was not her destiny.
“Lord, I am not that good of a person.” She knew that much about herself.
She was not meant to be a nursemaid. She hadn’t the patience for the sick, or dying, or the crying, or for that matter, obstinate men.
She’d known this before her marriage, and yet, somehow when she’d fallen in love with William, she’d completely discounted her lack of ability to endure whining.
It was her one major character flaw. The worst failing a wife or mother could have.
Her sisters had taken care of their youngest sibling, Robina, while she’d escaped out the back door with a book in her hand.
Astley had recognized the fault in her character the very first time they’d met in the Duke of Ross’s townhome.
She’d been sitting in the library reading a scandalous novel Ross had given her as a birthday present.
The book had been written by an author only known as, A Lady, when the earl had stumbled into the room and had mistaken her for the duke’s newest paramour.
“Well, well, well. Who has the duke brought home for us to play with this evening?” He had purred as he sauntered into the room as if it were his very own home.
Caillen had immediately defended her honor by launching her book at his head.
If he had not been so completely foxed, she had no doubt he would have avoided the heavy tome, but his inebriation had made him fall into the projectile, nose first. He yowled and began cursing at the moon.
Or at least, that’s how it had seemed. Caillen was too busy throwing more books in the strange man’s direction.
The bloody mess that had followed, along with the cursing and commotion he created by waking up the entire household staff and her sisters, along with the duke and his mother, was nothing short of scandalous considering she was wearing her dressing gown over her shift, and it was two o’clock in the morning. She smiled at the memory.
“I think you broke my nose,” he had snuffled with blood seeping through his fingers, as everyone in the household ran into the room, with the duke leading the charge in nothing but his smalls and a pistol in his hand.
“‘O monstrous beast, how like a swine he lies!’” She breathed. It took everything she had not to stare at the duke. She’d never seen a man’s bare chest before that moment.
“Good Lord, is she quoting Shakespeare when I’m in need of a doctor?
” Astley had whined. “Would you put on some clothes, Ross? Even with the shocking amount of my blood your paramour has extracted from my nose, not one of the many lovely ladies you’ve brought to this party seems to be able to look in my direction. ”
One woman had—the duke’s mother. “Is that Astley?” She’d asked as Ross had growled at the earl and then shooed the rest of her sisters from the room before the butler handed Ross a banyan and closed the door.
Two minutes later he returned with a pitcher of water and a stack of clean linens for the duchess to nurse the earl’s nose wound.
“What the hell are you doing with Miss Blair?” Ross had yelled.
“Miss Blair?” Astley had said her name as if it meant something to him but couldn’t imagine why in his inebriated state.
“Yes, this is Miss Caillen Blair. My mother’s house guest.”
“Your mother?” Astley’s voice was full of trepidation, as his gaze flew to the duchess whose shoulder he had slung an arm around to hold himself up.
The duchess had nearly laughed out loud in amusement, her self-control, however, had been vastly stronger than the earl’s and she merely nodded with a twinkle in her eye and a curve of her lips.
Ross’s control was markedly less. A vein pulsed on his forehead.
“You didn’t tell me your mother was in Town.” Astley accused with a thick tongue and a full nasal cavity.
Ross snorted as he eyed Astley’s arm around his mother. “I sent a missive to your residence.”
“I’ve been at my mistress’s…” His eyes shot back to the duchess. “That is…I’ve…I’ve been in the country at my estate.” His words slurred.
Ross seethed through gritted teeth.
Caillen rolled her eyes.
The duchess patted the hand wrapped around her shoulder as if the earl needed to be soothed.
“He accused me of being your paramour,” Caillen provided. She couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her lips as Ross stalked Astley, who hid behind the duchess.
“‘Her benefits are mightily misplaced…’” Astley said as he and the duke circled around the duchess.
Caillen blinked. Had he just quoted Act 1 of As You Like It? “‘Thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!’” she replied.
Everyone froze. Good heavens. Had she really thrown that vile curse from The Comedy of Errors at an earl?
That had been Caillen’s first introduction to a member of the ton, other than her brother-in-law and his mother.
Caillen hadn’t realized how dear the memory had become to her.
That night had been a comedy of errors, and her faux pas had signaled Astley’s turn to grin as the duke and his mother twisted around to stare at her in disbelief.
Her cheeks had flamed three shades of red that could have matched the hottest embers in hell.
“I believe I have received more of a shock than I realized by this evening’s events,” she had said. “I will bid you all goodnight.”
“‘Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.’” Astley had called after her and Caillen had not been unable to stop herself from slamming the heavy library door behind her.
Just as the door banged closed, she had realized she’d left the room without retrieving her book.
That night she’d lain awake cursing Astley, and all the rest of the men of the ton, long after the sun had risen. To make matters worse, the next day her book had been missing, and she’d been too much of a coward to ask the servants, or anyone else, if they had seen it.
It had also been the first time she’d seen how efficient Ross’s household staff was in an emergency.
Astley had actually whined more than her little sister, Robina, had when she’d fallen out of a tree and broken her arm at the age of twelve.
She was fairly certain Robbi had faced her broken limb with more fortitude than Astley.
What she wouldn’t give now to hear him whine like that again, but the attention-seeking aristocrat she’d known had disappeared somewhere in France.
Odd how they’d both seen a different view of the world in the past year.
A view that had left them beaten and broken.
Except Caillen might be the only one to survive, and that would be the biggest travesty of all.
The moment she’d told Charlotte to shut up he’d recognized her exasperation. She’d said those same words to him on countless occasions in one form or another. Oh, shut-up, Astley. Astley, do shut up. Do you ever shut up, Astley?
She was everything of grace and elegance when he wasn’t around.
His presence, however, seemed to grate on her nerves and bring out everything she hid from the world behind those books she coveted.
She was smart and witty, not a wallflower at all.
Caillen had fire. It would take only one little spark from him and she would become a glorious flame of femininity.
He’d fallen for her the first time he’d provoked her.
No sane man could resist her if they took the time to converse with her.
He certainly couldn’t. Everything about her enticed him to beat his chest and declare her to be his.
Except Bredlebane had gotten to her first. He didn’t want to think about her former husband igniting that inferno of desire.
Yet he would have rather died than to witness the manner in which her passions had been extinguished.
If he had gotten to her earlier. If he had ridden harder, pressed the horses to give him more. Then maybe…
How had she come to be in his townhome with him?
No doubt caring for his sorry arse was bringing back memories of that horrid day.
He was a testament to every reason why she should not be here…
at his deathbed. Her life had purpose. She was kind and giving and everything that was good.
Everything that he was not, and now she was somehow stuck caring for the one man who made hell a reality for her.
Perhaps if he just let go, and got on with the business of dying, she could go on with her life. Start anew.
He’d dictated the letter to his superior with his last bit of strength, trying to make it as ambiguous as possible, yet…
Bloody hell. He’d said six children. Six.
Her pen hadn’t hesitated, at least he didn’t think it had.
Would she question his superior? Demand to know why in God’s name an earl was writing a letter to the head of the War Office on his death bed about six children—the exact number of Blair sisters who had been left orphaned and penniless upon their father’s death?