Cheryl Holt (34 page)

As she was wearing a hat, with a veil that shielded her face, she wasn’t eager to be recognized.

“Pardon me,” she said, stepping away so he could move past, then she gasped. “Phillip Paxton? Is it really you?”

“Yes.” Narrowing his focus, he strove to peek through
the weave of the veil. “Winnie Stewart? I thought you were still in the country.”

A grim smile flitted across her lips. “I came back a bit early.”

He remembered that peculiar afternoon, when he and Edward were in the garden, and they’d encountered her. She and Edward had been so awkward, making it clear that they had a relationship of which others were unaware.

Had Edward sent her away? Or had she fled when she’d been apprised that he was to marry Olivia?

He felt a kinship with this woman whom Edward hadn’t wanted. He, himself, had endured a lifetime of Edward’s fickleness as to who was worthy of an association and who wasn’t, and he’d never tolerated Edward’s mercurial rejections with much grace.

It had to be awful for her, to ascertain how inconstant Edward’s fondness could be, and he wanted—in some small way—to alleviate her anguish.

“Was it because of the wedding?” he broached.

“The wedding?” Aghast, she clutched a fist to her chest as though her heart were aching.

“You didn’t know?”

“No.” She was shaking. “Margaret maintained he would propose, but I never believed her.”

“It was announced Monday.”

“The day after I left,” she murmured. “When is the ceremony?”

“Friday.”

“Tomorrow . . .”

On hearing the news, the air seemed to rush out of her, and, afraid she might collapse, he gripped her elbow, steadying her. An alert footman was hovering nearby, and he also approached.

“The lady’s had an upset,” Phillip advised the man.
“Might we have a private room, while she collects herself?”

“Yes.”

The servant escorted them to an adjacent salon, and as Phillip guided her to a sofa and eased her down, the footman poured her a brandy, extended it to Phillip, then slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

Phillip pulled up a chair and offered her the glass. She stared at it, then lifted the veil on her hat, grabbed the beverage, and drank it down in a long swallow. The large quantity of alcohol had an immediate effect. Her trembling abated, and she set the glass aside.

“You loved him,” he suggested.

“If I did or didn’t, it hardly matters now, does it?”

“I guess not.” A becoming blush colored her cheeks, and he realized how pretty she was, how wise and mature. He wished Edward wasn’t such a snob, that he’d had the good sense to marry her instead of Olivia. She would have been an admirable partner for him.

“Would it soften the blow,” he volunteered, “if I confessed that I was madly in love with Olivia?”

“Really?” She chuckled, but without humor.

“Yes. I actually tried to persuade her to cry off, to elope with me.”

“She never would have, Phillip,” she gently stated. “She wouldn’t shirk her responsibilities to the family.”

“I understand that.” He grinned. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve been wondering whether Edward intended to propose. With the speed that the wedding’s looming, maybe some misadventure coerced him into it.”

“Ahh . . .” she mused. “Margaret must have concocted some ploy to snag him.”

“That could very well be.”

“She was bound and determined to have them wed. At any cost.”

The assessment was sound, though it didn’t make Phillip feel any better.

They were silent, reflective, when Miss Stewart ruefully said, “We’re a pitiful pair, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I’m definitely licking my wounds.”

“They heal,” she counseled, “as I’ve learned from prior experience.” She exhaled a heavy sigh. “I didn’t need this on top of everything else. I can’t tackle another disaster.”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing with which you need concern yourself.”

“Tell me, Miss Stewart.”

“Winnie, please,” she urged.

“Perhaps I can help, Winnie.” He scrutinized the elegant decor, but it was a club for males, where women weren’t allowed—and with valid reason. There was a nude painting hanging on the wall behind her. What could have induced her to enter such a disreputable place?

“May I inquire as to why you’re here? It was quite a shock to stumble upon you.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.” She studied him, to evaluate if he could be trusted, and ultimately decided he could be. “I’d come looking for a friend about a problem that developed while I was at Salisbury.”

“But he wasn’t here?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Olivia has a niece—” she started.

“Helen, yes. Olivia told me all about her.”

Winnie raised a brow, as if his possession of this information elevated him in her esteem. If Olivia had confided in him about Helen, then they had truly been close. “She disappeared while we were away. I’ve tried to get a straight story from our servants, but they have
differing tales about when and how she went missing.”

Helen lost? He couldn’t process it. Such appalling events never befell the offspring of the rich. This was the sort of debacle that occurred in the life of the poor.

“Have you notified Olivia?”

“I hadn’t a penny to post a letter, but our housekeeper claims that Margaret was advised, and that she retained a gentleman”—she rummaged in her bag, found a scrap of paper with a name scribbled on it—“a Mr. Lassiter, who has been hunting for her.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“He wouldn’t meet with me, so I was hoping to prevail upon my male acquaintance to conduct an interview for me. I presume that a
man
might have more success in dealing with him.”

“Do you know where his office is located?”

“Yes.”

He rose and held out his hand. “Let’s go.”

“You’ll assist me?”

She gawked at him, as though she couldn’t credit his overture, and he scowled. What was it about the women in this family? Why did they automatically infer he was a laggard?

Tough nuts to crack
, he thought, amused and aggravated by her reticence.

“Of course I will. Now, let’s be off. Time’s a-wasting.”

Within minutes, they were clopping down the street in a hired hack, then halting at the brick building where Mr. Lassiter’s business was lodged. It was a prosperous structure, near the courts, and packed with solicitors, accountants, and other men of commerce.

He left Winnie in the coach, with strict instructions to stay put, then he went inside, examined the directory, and barreled up to the second floor. As he burst into Lassiter’s office, the man’s secretary jumped to his feet.

“I’d like an appointment with Mr. Lassiter.”

The thin, snippy employee frowned over the rim of his spectacles. “And you are . . . ?”

“Viscount Salisbury,” Phillip lied. And why not? He was dressed to the nines, and strutting in as if he owned the accursed place. For extra import, he added, “Son and heir to Edward Paxton, Earl of Salisbury.”

The titles had the fellow snapping to attention. Income was about to be generated! “I’ll see if he’s available.”

“You do that. And be quick about it.”

He slithered into the inner office, and after some extensive whispering, peered out. “Mr. Lassiter
is
available.”

Phillip marched by the secretary without giving him another glance. Lassiter stood behind his desk, an obese, weaselly character, with balding pate, rotund stomach, and seedy disposition. He was the type who would cheat and rob you while smiling, so that you wouldn’t notice when he was stabbing you in the back.

Phillip detested him on sight.

“Lord Salisbury,” he greeted him fawningly. “What an honor. What can I do for you?”

“Where is Helen Hopkins?”

Lassiter faltered, but swiftly regrouped. “Helen Hopkins . . .” he brooded, tapping a finger against his lip. “Helen Hopkins . . . hmm . . . I’ve never heard of her.”

“Let me refresh your memory.” Phillip rounded the desk. He was much taller than Lassiter so he towered over the smaller man, severely and effortlessly unnerving him. “She vanished while the countess and Lady Olivia were in the country. Where is she?”

“I have no idea—”

Phillip grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him off the floor, the shoulder seams popping. “Where is she?”

“I don’t . . . she’s . . . you’re . . .”

Gulping, stammering, he was terrified of Phillip and what Phillip might do, and Lassiter was wise to be afraid. After the humiliations Phillip had recently suffered, he felt capable of any dastardly deed. He’d be thrilled to vent some of his frustration on a despicable villain who clearly deserved it.

With Lassiter balanced off the ground, his toes dangling, Phillip gripped him by the throat, squeezing and cutting off his air, and he plucked at Phillip’s fingers.

“You’re not being very forthcoming, Mr. Lassiter.”

Lassiter gestured toward a cabinet, and Phillip tossed him away like a rag doll. With a loud thud, he flew and banged into the wall, then he slid to the floor. Moaning, he curled into a ball.

The secretary scurried in. “What the devil . . . ?”

“Shut up, and get out.” Phillip shot the underling such a malevolent glare that he hurried off, running for the stairs and shouting for help, though Phillip couldn’t imagine who might rush to his aid. A gaggle of clerks?

He tugged at a cabinet drawer, pleased to note that Lassiter was tidy in his affairs, his records neatly cataloged and arranged. With no difficulty, he identified the Hopkins file, whipped it open and scanned the contents.

“An orphanage?” he muttered, tucking the folder into his jacket. “What the bloody hell?”

Stomping to the rear of the room, he saw Lassiter was still huddled in a heap. “I won’t listen to your excuses as to why you’d engage in such an iniquity, particularly for money, but you’d better pray she’s alive and healthy when I find her.”

He kicked Lassiter in the ribs, the toe of his boot making excellent contact, then he swept down the hall and the stairs. Frightened bookkeepers and scribes peeked
out, eager to deduce the cause of the commotion. As he raced by, they slammed their doors, and he knew he must look like a madman.

The driver of the hackney was familiar with the orphanage, and Phillip learned that it was situated in a gruesome neighborhood. He climbed into the carriage, worried about breaking the news to Winnie.

“Did you have any trouble?” Winnie asked as he clambered in.

“None at all,” he fibbed.

The coach lurched away as he dropped into the opposite seat. There was no easy way to say it. “The countess had Lassiter kidnap Helen and deliver her to an orphanage.”

She gasped. “What? That’s craziness.”

“I don’t understand it, either.”

“She
paid
him to do this?”

“Yes. And to keep quiet about it, if anybody raised a stink.”

He gave her the folder, letting her read the details. Lassiter had been explicit, probably to cover his sorry behind in case the scheme went awry, and he’d meticulously described his numerous dealings with Margaret Hopkins. Winnie perused the pages more slowly than he, delving more deeply into factors of which he hadn’t wanted to be apprised.

Suddenly, she froze, growing white as a ghost, all color draining from her face. The file skidded off her lap.

“What is it?” he queried, alarmed by her pallor.

“Oh, my Lord . . .” As if she might be ill, she pressed her fingers to her mouth. “Oh, my Lord . . .”

She leaned into the squab, tears dripping down her cheeks.

“Winnie! What is it?”

“Lassiter had a prior transaction with her,” she managed to blurt out.

“Another?” Retrieving the page she was holding, he skimmed the information Lassiter had jotted down. “When was this? Twelve years ago?”

“Almost thirteen.”

She was so stricken that he hated to pry. “You knew this girl?”

“Oh, my Lord . . .” she repeated over and over.

“Tell me!”

Finally, she said, “When I was younger, I did a terrible thing.”

He couldn’t picture her doing anything more horrid than using the wrong fork at a fancy supper. “What?”

“I fell in love, and I had a baby.”

Aah
. . . Perception dawned. “Out of wedlock?”

She nodded, the tears flowing. “I had nowhere to turn, so I came to London. To Margaret. She didn’t want to be bothered, but her husband—a very kind man, Olivia’s father—insisted she foster me. So she had to, though she loathed the notion.”

“This other girl . . . she’s your daughter?”

“She has to be. The dates match perfectly.” She pulled at the curtain and stared out the window. “Margaret told me she’d negotiated an adoption, to a lonely couple on a farm in rural Yorkshire. All this time, I’ve envisioned her there, but instead, she’s been in that institution. Oh, I just want to die!”

Phillip posed no more questions. He’d heard enough, and his temper was flaring.

Ever since Olivia had become affianced to his father, he’d wanted to make someone pay, and Margaret Hopkins seemed a fine choice. Nothing would satisfy him more than to extract a bit of revenge from the nasty old crone. She could benefit from a meal of just desserts, and he
would happily shove every bitter bite down her craw.

The carriage rumbled to a halt, and Phillip peered out at an imposing edifice that towered over the street. From the outside, it wasn’t too shabby, but the interior would be another story.

“We’ve arrived, Winnie,” he cautioned. “Can you bear to go inside with me? Or would you rather wait?”

“I must accompany you.”

“Then compose yourself.”

“Am I a mess?”

“Yes.” That brought a wan smile, and he removed a kerchief from his jacket, so that she could dab at her eyes, though it didn’t do much good.

“There’s no hope for me. I’m beyond repair.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is our sole visit, so who cares?” He smiled, too, and offered his hand. “Let’s get this over with.”

They exited the hack, and presently, they were in a drab but tidy foyer, and a servant showed them into the matron’s office. A Mrs. Graves introduced herself as the administrator.