The Worthington Wife. Sharon Page
only difference between her and Mrs. Brand was that the poor woman’s broken heart had broken her mind, too.
“Is there any way to make her understand what happened?” Cal asked.
“I explain it over and over, as gently as I can. But then she forgets what I’ve told her.”
“She just can’t face the fact her daughter might be dead. Maybe if she could be snapped into reality—”
“No!” Julia grabbed his arm. “What if that snapped her mind altogether? What if it made her so depressed she did something drastic? That would destroy Brand.”
But Cal left her. Frightened, Julia watched him walk to Mrs. Brand.
He dropped to one knee and clasped her hand. “Do you know where Sarah is?”
“Don’t do this,” Julia hissed at him. “Please don’t.”
Slowly Cal told the woman who he was. “I’m so sorry to tell you that your daughter is missing. She might have gone away. That’s what we hope. I’m going to find out what happened to her. For you. I promise.”
He couldn’t promise that. How could he find out now, so many years later?
He was gentler with Mrs. Brand than she expected. She had to admit that. He had been that way with Ellen and Ben. Kind. She could see they all liked him.
Of course, they had no idea what he planned.
She bustled forward and gave out cups of tea. “His lordship is worried about you trying to manage the farm,” she said to Mr. Brand. “He wonders if you would be happier to leave it. You could be given a cottage—”
“Pensioned off?” Brand exclaimed. His cup rattled, spilling tea. “Nae, I’d not like that at all. This is our home. I won’t leave until they carry me out. Brands have farmed this land for over a century. It should have gone on to me son—”
“We can’t go.” Mrs. Brand looked up suddenly. “We can’t! We have to be here for when Sarah comes home! We can’t have her come home and we’re not here. She’d never find us! If I leave here, she’ll never come home to us!”
Julia saw Cal soothe the woman, a look of raw panic on his handsome face. She wanted him to see what it would do to these people to be forced out. Though she hated to make them upset.
“You won’t have to leave,” Cal said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Mrs. Brand stared at him, shaking. “Who are you?” she demanded. “I don’t know you.” The woman looked up helplessly. Then saw her. “Lady Julia! Good afternoon, your ladyship. Is the wedding to Lord Anthony going to be soon? I saw him yesterday. Driving his fancy horseless carriage, he was. All the silver on it shone in the sun. Brilliant red, it was, like a ripe apple. It’ll be a lovely wedding, I’m sure.”
Julia hated this moment. She didn’t want to remind the woman that Anthony died in the War. That would lead Mrs. Brand to remember she’d lost her son, too. But she must be honest.
Then Cal said, “I’m afraid Lord Anthony was killed in the War. He was a brave young man. I am the Earl of Worthington now, Mrs. Brand.”
“But you’re Lord Anthony. I see it now. You’ve changed so much, but I do see—”
“No, Mrs. Brand. I’m not Lord Anthony.” He gently squeezed her hand. “I’ll find someone to help you here, with the farm. How does that sound?”
“We’ve got our son. And Laura and Sarah. We’re just fine.”
Cal flashed a helpless look. Julia mouthed: You can’t do anything.
He stood and reiterated to Mr. Brand, “You need help around here. I’ll see that you get it.”
He was lying to Brand, surely. And she hated that. As they left, she whirled on Cal. “You aren’t going to get them any help. Your plan is to sell their farm out from underneath them. It will probably kill them.”
“And it’s better to let them die there?”
“I look in on them almost every day. Though, I do agree they need help.”
“I will look after them. I gave them my word. And, when I sell this place, I won’t leave innocent victims.”
“You were kind to Ellen and to the Brands. I can see you really do care about their welfare. You could be a good lord for Worthington Park.”
He grimaced, as if in pain. “I couldn’t live with myself, angel, if I stayed here and lived like an earl.”
* * *
Rain came hard that night, slamming against the paned windows of his bedroom. Cal undid his right cuff link and tossed it into a silver dish on the dresser. By rights, he would be undressing Lady Julia right now, exposing her lush, creamy skin, kissing every delicious inch of her. But she kept taking him places where he had no right to be thinking about seduction.
He was going to have to fix that.
Removing his other cuff link, he tossed it, but it bounced out of the dish, landed on the polished floor and skidded beneath one of the wardrobes.
Cal squatted down, reached under the decorative wood skirting and found his cuff link. But his fingers touched something else and he pulled that out, too.
A small photograph, faded and curling.
He looked at it and almost dropped it in shock. Lady Julia gazed back at him with parted lips and enormous innocent eyes, and she was wearing almost nothing at all.
Cal rubbed his eyes. Sure enough, it was not Julia. It was a grainy photo of a black-haired young woman in a corset. The corset gave the woman a generous swell of bosom and the picture showed a stretch of fleshy bare thigh. Her hair was loose and thick. All that dark hair and the huge eyes made the woman look like Julia.
The photograph probably dated from the War, from the look of the corset.
Julia had said John Carstairs was just a boy during the War. So had this naughty photo belonged to Anthony? He flipped it over and there it was—written in careful handwriting. A, with love. No initial or name for the woman. Considering he’d sketched and painted dozens of naked women, Cal had to smile. He could imagine a repressed Englishman being titillated by the picture—
“My lord, when do you wish to begin a search for a new valet?”
Cal looked up. He held the photograph in his hand, and Wiggins stood in the doorway. “I told you I don’t need one. I’m capable of taking off my own clothes.” He held out the picture. “I found this under the wardrobe. Lady friend of Lord Anthony’s?” He was teasing, expecting to make the butler blush.
He was surprised when Wiggins turned white. “I apologize, my lord. I did not realize the apartments had not been thoroughly cleaned. I shall have Mrs. Rumpole reprimand the maids for their carelessness.” The butler yanked the picture out his hands. “Let me dispose of this, my lord.”
Cal didn’t want to see a maid getting in trouble. “It’s not a problem.”
“It is my duty to deal with the matter, my lord. If you will excuse me, I will take my leave.”
Wiggins retreated so fast that the door slammed behind him. Lightning forked outside the window, illuminating the room in a flash of silver-blue, then thunder boomed.
It was then he realized that Anthony had never been earl, so had never slept in this room. So why was his picture under the earl’s wardrobe?
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