adamant the estate be settled. Mr. Strait was quite clear that the goal was to
have it done before he expired.”
Galen’s eyes flickered at the mention of Mr. Strait, and he shifted his weight
unconsciously.
“How did you come across Carrington’s personal articles?”
Galen’s eyes slid to the mound of gowns. “They were delivered to me, with the
second will.”
“Who delivered them?” Michael asked quickly.
“A courier,” Galen lied.
“And the doll?”
“The doll belonged to Abbey when she was a child. It was the captain’s hope she
would give it to her children,” Galen patiently explained.
Michael slowly pushed himself to his feet. He walked to his desk and perched a
hip on one corner, folded his arms across his chest, and brazenly considered
Carrey. “Do you really expect me to believe that Carrington would have pressed
this marriage if he intended to leave his estate to you? What possible motive
would I have to marry his daughter without a dowry?”
Galen tossed his head indifferently. “Her dowry, my lord, was the elimination of
your rather sizable debts. Did you think he would also compensate you?”
He
snorted sarcastically.
Michael bristled; a vein in his neck began to beat with the steady rise of his
rage. “I’ll tell you what I think, Carrey,” he said in a dangerously low voice,
“I think you and your little one concocted this scheme. I think the two of you
determined you would have Carrington’s wealth for your own. I think the two of
you—with the help of a fraud of a solicitor—forged a will designed to force my
hand and banked on the assumption that once we were wed, I would not divorce her
in the face of scandal, and she would continue to live in the lap of luxury when
you made your claim. Assuming, of course, you could not successfully kill me.”
A cloud of bewilderment glanced Galen’s features before he pressed his lips
tightly together. “You may interpret it how you will, Darfield. But know that I
will drag this through the courts if I must. Before you dismiss me out of hand,
my suggestion is that you return what is mine. It is simpler for everyone and
will invite far less talk for you and the marchioness than a lengthy court case!”
Michael laughed impertinently. “You sorely underestimate me, Carrey. I am not
the least bit afraid of scandal, nor am I the least bit reluctant to divorce Carrington’s daughter. And I will bloody well keep the Carrington fortune for my
time and trouble.”
Galen’s face turned crimson. “This can ruin you,” he hissed, slapping his gloves
against his thigh for emphasis.
“I seriously doubt that,” Michael said in return. “And I would think twice before threatening me, sir. You are a charlatan who deserves to be hanged, and
believe me, I will see it done.”
Galen paled. “Consider carefully what I am telling you, Darfield. The will has
not been fully executed, and if I were to tie it up in the courts, Carrington’s creditors will not be paid, and that, my friend, will fall on your head,” he shot back.
“Get out of my house.” Michael growled.
“You are a fool, Darfield!” Galen turned-abruptly on his heel, almost colliding
with a chair. He stormed to the door and jerked it open, then paused to look
over his shoulder. “Your name will be dragged through the mud. Again.‘’
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Michael said calmly. “I’m quite certain I’ll see you dead first.
Galen’s lips pursed; he looked as if he would say more, but on second thought,
he stalked from the room. Michael walked calmly to the door, shut it, and turned
back to the pile of gowns. He lifted a blue one to his face and inhaled her scent, then dropped it and walked to the sideboard and the dozen decanters
there.
Galen cursed lightly under his breath as he strode down the hall. Routier was an
absolute fool to think Darfield would roll over. That devil would not give into anyone’s demands, Galen was quite sure of it. As he walked swiftly toward the
foyer, he was startled by the opening of the library door. Abbey stood at the
threshold, staring blankly at him.
She looked like death. Dark circles shadowed her dull, lifeless eyes. Her intrinsic sparkle was gone, doused. Her hair hung limply down her back, fastened
at the nape of her neck with a leather tie. She wore a shapeless, plain brown
gown and hugged a leather-bound book to her chest.
“My God,” he breathed helplessly.
Abbey’s stoic expression did not change. “I am forbidden to see you,” she said
flatly.
Glancing over his shoulder, Galen quickly stepped inside the library.
Abbey made
no effort to move, and he had to step around her to enter. The library was oppressively dark, and he went immediately to the windows and drew the drapes
and blinds, then opened both windows. Abbey squinted painfully and
turned away
from the bright sunlight that poured into the room.
“Michael will be very angry if he finds you here,” she said quietly.
“Dear God, Abbey, look at you!” he exclaimed.
Abbey shrugged and moved slowly toward an overstuffed armchair as if she carried
some enormous weight. She dropped her book carelessly onto a table, then fell
listlessly into the chair like a rag doll.
Alarm rifling through him, Galen demanded, “What has he done to you?”
Abbey did
not look at him, nor did she move a fraction of an inch. Suddenly frantic, Galen
crossed the room in two angry strides and grabbed her by the elbow, jerking her
upright with a force that surprised him. Abbey made no sound; her eyes were
blank as they turned to him.
“What has he done? Does he starve you?” he barked, appalled by her complete
apathy.
Abbey’s gaze dropped to her lap. “What does it matter?”
Galen leaned over her. He gripped her chin and forced her drawn face upward so
he could peer closely into her eyes. “It matters.‘’
Abbey’s lifeless violet eyes flickered briefly, then slid away. Touched and disturbed by the devastation he saw there, Galen straightened slowly and pushed
a hand through his hair. Darfield was a monster to have broken her spirit this
way. But worse, far worse, was the realization that her devastation was of his
own doing. Guilt soared in him, guilt he would do anything to quash.
“Bloody hell, I don’t know what he’s done, but you cannot go on like this!”
She
did not respond, did not acknowledge him. Galen inhaled sharply. “I never thought you a coward, Abbey.”
Abbey’s dull gaze flicked to her lap. “I am not a coward.”
“You are acting like one,” he interrupted. With his hands on his hips, he looked
disdainfully down the length of his nose. “He accuses you of unspeakable crimes
you did not commit. And you respond like this?”
She grimaced and pushed herself off the chair, moving sluggishly toward the bank
of windows. “Pray tell, how should I deport myself? Should I pretend that everything is the same as it was four days ago?” she asked with her back to him.
“You should act like the innocent you are, an innocent wronged,” he snapped.
Abbey’s spine stiffened. “What would you suggest? That I put on my finest and
gad about town as if everything is quite ordinary?” she asked angrily.
“I suggest precisely that,” Galen said emphatically, his anger with Darfield spiraling out of control.
At the window, Abbey glanced skeptically over her shoulder. “You must be out of
your mind.”
Her profile against the bright sunlight was a poignant as any work of art he had
ever seen. Her pale skin, shadowed by the light, made her torment clearly visible, a torment borne of a broken heart. He winced at the deep, painful stab
of guilt.
“Has he touched you?” he asked quietly, angrily.
Abbey choked on a bitter laugh. “No.‘’
“I will not allow this. I will not allow him to intimidate you like this!” Galen said hoarsely, moving to close the gap between them. She was fighting valiantly
to keep the tears at bay, and her whole body quivered from the effort. He reached out and touched her shoulder.
Choking on a sob, Abbey lost her control. A torrent of tears burst from her, and
she doubled over. Galen caught her and wrapped his arms around her.
Cupping the
back of her head, he eased her face into his chest as sobs racked her thin frame. Abbey clutched forlornly at the lapels of his coat and cried as if her heart would break. He held her protectively in his arms, swallowing bitter lumps
of emotion until her tears at last began to subside and her grip on him began to
ease.
“Abbey, little one,” he whispered, “I am so very sorry. I never meant to cause
you any harm, you must believe me.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she swallowed hard. “You did not
cause
me harm, Galen, Papa did. But do not be sorry—I am glad I know what Michael is,”
she muttered unconvincingly. “No more. I will not cry one more tear for him.”
She hiccuped.
“Good,” Galen said soothingly.
“No, I mean it, Galen! He did not even attempt to believe me! He doesn’t even
know you, yet he instantly assumed you are evil! And dear God, you would not
believe the incredible speed with which he concluded that I had lied! I deserve
some consideration, don’t I?” she demanded against his neckcloth.
“Indeed you do,” he readily agreed.
“I should be insulted! I have never given him any reason to doubt me!”
“I know you have not, little one,” Galen said, heartened by the spirit beginning
to emerge.
Abbey suddenly pushed back from him and wiped her nose with the back of her
hand. “Why should I stay holed up in this godforsaken house? I’ve done nothing
wrong!”
“If you stay holed up like this, pining away, he will think you do have something to hide,” Galen encouraged her.
Abbey’s brows snapped together. “I have nothing to hide,” she said vehemently,
but her angry frown quickly turned to helpless wonder. “But what am I to do?”
she asked forlornly.
Galen guided her to a chair. “You did nothing wrong, regardless of what he believes. It would seem to me that you should carry on. Let him bear the burden
of his faithlessness,” he suggested confidently.
“What do you mean?”
“You should go out into society as you have every right to do.”
Abbey’s brows knitted together as she considered that. “Go out?” she asked
hesitantly. “But I cannot go out alone, can I?”
“I will escort you,” Galen said, lifting his chin.
Abbey looked frightened by the mere suggestion and hesitantly shook her head. “I
do not think that’s a good idea… I mean, I am not allowed to see you.”
“Lord, Abbey, will you allow him to control you so completely? Will you allow
him to forbid contact with your own kin? Does he tell you when you may eat and
sleep? Are you a prisoner here?” Galen demanded.
Abbey’s eyes narrowed, flashing a brilliant shade of violet. “No, I am not his
prisoner!” She leaned back against the cushions, considering the pattern on the
arm very thoughtfully.
Galen looked nervously at the door. Darfield would kill him if he found him in
there. He turned back to his cousin, going down on his haunches next to her
chair. “Abbey, I must go before he discovers us. Harrison Green is having one of
his infamous routs this evening,” he suggested impetuously. “Meet me at the
park, eight o’clock. Will you meet me there?”
Abbey did not lift her gaze from the arm of the chair for a long moment, but
slowly, uncertainly, nodded her head. “I will,” she murmured. “I will meet you.
He cannot keep me prisoner—the king’s army cannot stop me!” With that less than
hearty avowal, she glanced up, smiling tremulously at her cousin.
Harrison Green was the untitled nephew of an influential duke who had gained a
reputation among the ton for throwing the bawdiest of routs. The number of people in attendance that night attested to the immense popularity of his affairs. Abbey was acutely aware of the stares in her direction as she and Galen
pushed through the throng. Tension began to knot in her stomach as her eyes
swept the crush. She shuddered to think what Michael would do if her found her
here with Galen. Even though they lived in the same house—at least she thought
they did—she had not seen him since their altercation in the drawing room, but
she knew the Black Plague went out every night.
“Lady Darfield!” The cheerful voice belonged to Lady Delacorte, who was pushing
unceremoniously through the crowd, dragging her husband behind.
“Madam, what a pleasure to see you! Oh, I had so hoped you’d be able to attend
our little gathering last evening,” she said as she reached Abbey.
Abbey’s eyes flew wide upon realizing she had forgotten the invitation.
“Lady
Delacorte, I am so sorry! You must forgive me for being so rude!” Abbey cried in
genuine horror at her faux pas. Lady Delacorte arched a penciled brow.
“Please, my dear, there is no need for an apology! Lord Darfield explained the
entire situation quite clearly,” the woman smiled. Abbey froze. Surely Michael
had not publicly derided her, surely not.
“The entire situation?” she asked weakly.
“What my wife means is that Lord Darfield explained you had unfortunately discovered a previously unknown allergy to shellfish, madam,” Lord Delacorte
said, politely lifting her hand to his mouth. Her relief was great; Michael had