The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham
‘Who brought me here?’
‘It was a hired coach. He didn’t know who you were. His instructions were only to deliver you to the door.’
‘Did he say who had arranged for my travel?’
‘You did, my lord. The coachman was an irritable sort, being as it was the middle of the night, and he insisted on being paid his fee immediately.’
Obviously this chain of questions was going nowhere. ‘What belongings did I have with me?’
‘Nothing. Only the clothes on your back, such as they were.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They were in tatters, my lord. Simply ghastly. They smelled of rotting fish, and I had them burned.’
Had he been taken aboard a ship? He might have learned more if the butler hadn’t incinerated his belongings.
Stephen controlled his temper and asked softly, ‘Did you check the pockets before you destroyed the garments?’
‘No, my lord. I didn’t think of that.’
Stephen ground his teeth and said, ‘Thank you, Farnsworth. That will be all.’
The butler cleared his throat and hesitated. ‘My lord, about Lady Whitmore?’
‘What is it?’
‘Well, sir, the staff and I were wondering…’ Farnsworth coughed, delaying his statement once more. Apparently there was some other detail the butler intended to share. Either that, or he was in dire need of some medicinal tea to treat the irritating cough.
Stephen clenched his fists in the coverlet. Get on with it.
‘Yes?’
‘To put it bluntly, my lord, your wife has been making several…changes.’
‘What kind of changes?’
The agitated Farnsworth fidgeted with his hands. ‘I have been a loyal servant to your household for over thirty years, my lord. I would never speak ill of the Chesterfields. But I fear she may have gone too far.’
Stephen wondered if Emily had moved a vase in the front hall six inches to the left. Or perhaps she’d poisoned the cat in a fit of vengeance.
Farnsworth’s paranoia seemed ridiculous under the circumstances. He couldn’t recall the past three months of his life, and the butler worried that his wife had gone too far?
‘What. Has. She. Done?’ he gritted out.
‘She’s sacked Cook. And—’ he lowered his voice to a whisper ‘—she says she won’t hire another. She’s planning to do all the cooking herself.’
Bloody hell. The woman really did mean to poison him.
Chapter Two
In the kitchen, a woman must keep the premises orderly and clean at all times. Husbands should also be thus managed.
—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book
Later that night, his intense headache deepened into a dull throbbing. Sleep would not come. Eyes dry and nerves raw, Stephen pushed back the coverlet. His bare feet padded across the Aubusson rug before his knee slammed into a mahogany blanket chest at the foot of the bed. Cursing, he fumbled his way towards the fireplace.
A large mirror hung above a dressing table. He could barely make out his own features in the shadows. Lighting a candle, he studied the man staring back at him. At one time, he had a well-ordered, predictable life. Now, a haggard expression gazed back at him. An angry red scar creased a jagged line across his bare chest, a knife wound he didn’t remember. The blow to his head was a recent wound, possibly from thieves or worse. Yet someone had saved his life and sent him here.
He didn’t know himself any more.
The uncertainty unnerved him. Every time he searched his memory for a fragment of the past events, his mind shut down. He didn’t remember his supposed marriage, or anything leading up to it. It was as though an invisible wall barricaded him from the truth.
He was about to retreat when his gaze narrowed on a black symbol edging the back of his neck. Turning, he tried to distinguish what it was. Though he could not see the entire design, he recognised it as a tattoo.
Why? When had he got it? Never in his life would he have considered such a thing. Now, the indelible ink marked yet another facet of the mysterious past.
He tried in vain to see more of the emblem, but from the awkward angle, he could not see the full pattern. Stephen stepped away from the mirror. He would find the answers he needed, regardless of the effort.
Emily held some of those answers. She was wary of him, and well she should be. Likely she had lied to him to protect the children, using him for a place to stay.
He simply couldn’t believe that he’d married her, even though they had been friends as children. More than that, if he were honest with himself. Like Eve, she had tantalised him with the sweetness of a first love. Then his father had found out and had forbidden him to see her again.
How had their paths crossed after so many years? And why couldn’t he remember?
A fretful noise caught his attention. Stephen paused a moment, then opened the door to the corridor. The whimpering grew softer, then stopped. Was it an animal? He frowned, wondering what else had been brought into his house without permission.
As he passed down the hallway, he heard the sound coming from a bedchamber. He opened the door and inside saw a bundled shape beneath the covers. It was too small to be Emily, and as his vision adjusted to the dark, he recognised the boy he had met earlier. What was his name? Ralph? Roger? The child’s face was buried in the pillow, his small shoulders shaking.
Stephen’s throat constricted, but he did not move to comfort the child. It was as though his feet were locked in place. He was not the child’s father, nor his guardian, regardless of what Emily might claim. It was not his place to interfere. And it was better for the boy not to expect comfort or coddling from others.
His own father had taught him just such a lesson until he had learned how to suppress tears. The future heir could not cry or show any emotion. His father had beaten it out of him until Stephen had become a model of composure.
When the boy’s sobbing eased into the heavy breathing of sleep, Stephen took a step forward. He lifted the coverlet over the child, then left as silently as he had come.
The sun had not yet risen, but the sound of rain spattering against the stone house brought Emily a sense of comfort. The scullery maid Lizbeth lit the fire, and a flickering warmth permeated the room while Emily mixed the bread dough.
She knew the servants viewed her with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. A baron’s daughter should never venture into the kitchen to work. But it was a deep need within her, to be useful. Giving orders to the household staff made her uneasy, for she had practically been a servant herself until recently.
She had done her best to keep the family together after Papa had died. Her brother Daniel’s business failings were a constant source of anxiety, but Emily had learned to suppress her criticism. None of their relatives would help them, not after—
She closed her mind, not wanting to think of the devastating scandal. She had done what she had to, bartering at the marketplace after Daniel had gambled away their finances.
He’d been grieving for his wife, a man out of his head. She’d forgiven him for it, even if it meant sacrificing her own marriage prospects.
But now she was married.
Emily kneaded the bread dough, letting its rhythm sweep away her fears and troubles. The familiar yeasty smell eased her tension, and she let the mindless task grant her time to think.
Whitmore