The Wicked Truth. Lyn Stone
had headed.
The doctor waited at the bottom of the stairs, his hat and cane gripped tightly in one leather-gloved hand while he tucked away his timepiece with the other. Ready to leave already, thought Elizabeth. Thurston must not be too seriously ill, then. “So, how is he faring, Doctor?” she asked, eager to have the interview over so she could be on her way.
“Truly besotted, I should think,” the doctor answered with a quirk of one dark brow.
The small movement drew Elizabeth’s notice to his face. Good Lord, he was handsome…and familiar. But no, she’d have remembered meeting this one, she was certain. She shook her head to clear it. He was just the physician and they were discussing Thurston. “Sotted, you say? He drinks?” She’d never known Thurston to indulge before. “Peculiar.”
The doctor grunted impatiently, shifting his cane to his right hand. “Don’t treat this lightly, my lady. I’m asking you, pleading if I must, to let him go gracefully. And as gently as you may.”
“Let him go? Of course, I was just thinking I should have done so months ago.” She wondered where Thurston would go. Perhaps her cousin, Colin, would offer him a cottage on the estate for retirement, just for old times’ sake. The old man fairly worshipped the son of his old employer. “He’ll be upset, of course, but you’re quite right. I’ll make it as painless as possible, I promise you.”
He smiled then, and her knees almost gave way. Devastating was the word that came to mind. The man was devastating. Dangerously so. Women patients, ill or not, must fall at his feet with astounding regularity. He was well over six feet tall and built like a brick wall. The somber black waistcoat, trousers and knee-high boots emphasized his build. A snowy shirt, one with the new turndown collar and soft, unstarched cravat gave him a sort of Bohemian air. He carried a wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat, also black, fashionable but still a bit daring. As was his scent, not the usual bay rum or witch hazel most men wore, but spicy and unidentifiable, subtly teasing.
There was an easy grace about him, a comfortable acceptance of his form that communicated itself. Dark blue eyes, almost black, glittered like gemstones in their lush, black-rimmed settings. Midnight hair, carelessly brushed back, tick-led his collar. A deep wave of it fell over his forehead and right temple, softening his strong features. His nose was long and nobly formed, accented by sharply planed cheekbones. Smooth skin, slightly tanned, spoke of outdoor exercise. Of course a doctor would take care of himself. This man looked as though he worked at it. And his mouth…
Elizabeth cleared her throat and held on to the newel post for support. Men didn’t affect her this way. They just didn’t. Or they never had before. She felt so stunned she hardly heard his next words.
“I hadn’t expected such understanding,” he said. “You’re being a real brick about this, Lady Marleigh, and I want you to know I do appreciate it.”
“Thank you for saying so, but it’s no great thing. I can easily find someone else,” she mumbled automatically. Then she squinted at him. “Have we met before, Doctor?”
“No,” he said amiably, still smiling. “I don’t believe we have. Perhaps it’s just the family resemblance—the eyes, I’m told. Most people remark on it. I’m always flattered, but Ter-rence—”
“Terry! You’re Terry’s uncle! I recall he mentioned you were a doctor just returned from serving with the army. What a coincidence you’ve come…”
Then the truth dawned—the awful truth about why he was here in her foyer. She shrank inside, a painful shrinking that made her feel queasy. Her face hardened and felt as though it would shatter. “You didn’t come about Thurston, did you?” she asked in a near whisper. “This isn’t about him at all.”
His smile vanished. The beautifully molded lips drew into a thin line, white around their edges, before he spoke. “I’m sure I don’t know a Thurston. If he’s another of your conquests, I have no interest in him. All I want is for you to withdraw your affections—and your claws—from my nephew.”
Elizabeth fought the rage rising inside her. She had almost forgotten for a moment—for a sweet, blessed moment, while talking to a man who didn’t pounce before greeting—that she could expect no more than revulsion, leering or lust. She ached to slap his face, to scream at him and tear out his hair. How could she have believed for a second that he was any different? “And if I don’t withdraw, Doctor? If I refuse?”
He drew himself up to full height, seeming to tower over her even though she stood on the second step up. “Then, my lady, you must believe that I’ll do anything necessary to remove you from his life.” He paused—for effect, she thought—before adding ominously, “Anything.”
Oh God, he was the one! It was him! Fear gripped her like a vise and she couldn’t move. Her eyes cut from one side of the deserted foyer to the other, searching for help. Why had she dismissed all the servants? Only a bedridden butler, a wine-soaked cook and a hen-witted between-stairs maid were all she had left in the house. None of them could do the least bit of good against this threat. Terror choked off her breath and she felt faint.
“Do you understand?” he asked in a gravelly tone that chilled her blood.
Elizabeth nodded.
“Then take care of it.”
Without a further word of farewell, he turned on his heel and marched out the door. It banged shut with a whoosh of cold November air.
Elizabeth collapsed on the stairs and clutched the rail for a long moment until her heart stopped pounding in her ears. Then, with a haste that threatened her footing, she raced up to her room, grabbed her overstuffed valise and ran down the back stairs to the carriage house.
Humphrey stood waiting, and the coach was ready, just as she’d ordered earlier. “North,” she gasped breathlessly as she shoved her case at him and scrambled inside. “And make haste.”
The wheels bounced over the cobbles, vibrating the inside of the carriage as though coach springs hadn’t been invented yet.
Elizabeth tried to calm herself by calculating the time it would take to reach Scotland. No one would expect her to go there. Hardly anyone knew about her father’s old hunting box. It wasn’t grand enough that he would have invited any of his cronies to it. He had purchased it in his youth and kept it strictly as a refuge for the times he wanted to spend alone. She would never have known about it herself had they not gone to Edinburgh earlier this year. A quick stop on the way home to insure the lodge was properly stocked was the only clue he’d ever given that it existed.
She would take the carriage to Edinburgh, dismiss Humphrey and ride alone to the lodge. It would be a perfect place to hide.
The doctor couldn’t kill her if he couldn’t find her. Oh, she understood full well why he wanted to, but it did seem a little extreme. Why had he waited until tonight to warn her? He must be a fool to think she needed three attempts on her life to scare her into heeding his demand.
She would never have married Terrence Bronwyn, anyway. Hadn’t she told him as much time and again? He seemed to have some misguided notion of restoring her to society. Saving her from the wolves of the ton, as he had put it. Righting the wrongs. She’d reminded him it was a bit too late for that. Those wolves had already ripped her to shreds, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
Now that she knew who wanted her dead, all she could do was disappear for a few months until Terry—and this murderous uncle of his—forgot about her. Maybe she’d never come back. Life alone in a hunting box couldn’t be nearly so bad or so lonely as life in her London town house…. By the time they left the cobblestoned streets for the open road, Elizabeth had drifted into a fitful sleep.
Neil almost turned back an hour into the journey. It was fairly obvious now that the woman wasn’t on her way to meet Terry. When he’d seen her carriage careen past his at breakneck speed, a possible elopement had been his first thought. Where the devil was she going in such a lather? Curiosity prevented him from abandoning his surveillance. That,