Second Chance Marquess (Second Chance Series Book 1) Page 4

  Her finer things…

  If Kitty had ran away to an estate in the north – a particularly chilly location, with a viscount who she would undoubtedly be trying to impress, wouldn’t she have taken her finest cape? It was more expensive than any of her gowns and everyone was always remarking on how beautiful her pale complexion and sapphire blue eyes were against the golden flecked fur and azure fabric.

  Willie started to tear through the room. Kitty’s pink gown, her white gown, her green gown…every gown. They were all still there. Her sister was entirely too vain, her appearance always took precedence over everything else. Why ever would she have left her most treasured belongings at home? Surely, if she were embarking on a trip, culminating in the celebration of her wedding night, she’d at least have brought along a suitable change of clothes? Kitty wouldn’t wear the same gown twice in the span of a week. There was no conceivable way her sister would ever attend her own wedding wearing days’ old traveling clothes.

  Willie walked toward the bannister. “Lord Chesterton!” she called down. “Come up here straight away!”

  She watched him bound up the stairs, taking three steps at a time until he’d reached the top.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked between breaths.

  She pushed open the door and waved her arm. “This is what’s wrong!”

  He stepped through the doorway and walked toward a pile of garments on the floor. He kneeled beside them and looked around. “So much damage…Henry couldn’t have done this. Do you think Kitty’s been kidnapped?”

  Willie bent her head. “What are you talking about?”

  George stood. “Someone’s been here, combing through her belongings, with no regard whatsoever.”

  “No.” She set her hand on her hip. “This isn’t the doing of any kidnapper. I’m afraid this is how Kitty keeps her room.”

  “Well, fortunately for her you have servants,” he remarked snidely, eyeing the room’s content.

  “Cleanliness has hardly been her strong suit,” Willie explained. “But I’m afraid you’re not entirely mistaken either.”

  “I’m not?”

  “No,” Willie answered. “All her belongings are still here. If she’d planned an elopement with your brother, then I’m certain she would have at least packed a trunk. But almost everything she owns is still here. It looks as if she might have packed a comb and a gown or two, but that is all.”

  He arched a brow. “Then she obviously didn’t run away with Henry.”

  She rebuked him with a glance, cautioning him from making any further deductions that could possibly exonerate his brother. “Now, I didn’t say that.”

  “Then how do you explain the fact that Henry left, giving notice to my man and going so far as to pack multiple trunks, emptying the content of his rooms, whilst your sister seems to have run off with barely enough to fit into her reticule?”

  “Well, I can’t say for certain.” Willie felt a sense of unease. “She must have left quickly. Perhaps they were afraid of getting caught?”

  “Or…” George pointedly looked away, the back of his neck flushed, just as it always did when he was shying away from something.

  “What haven’t you told me yet?” Willie knew there was more to the story.

  George turned back, the solemn expression on his face spoke more to her than any words could. “She left in a hurry.”

  “That’s what it looks like. But why?”

  He hesitated. “I think I might have an idea.”

  Willie took a step forward. “Obviously. Now, enough of this evasion. Tell me.”

  “Henry had a problem in the past.”

  She reached for the back of a nearby chair. “What kind of problem?”

  “Gambling,” George answered, worry clearly written in the deep lines that marred his brow. “Henry had a penchant for cards, Vingt-et-un.”

  “As do most gentlemen of your station.”

  He was tense, his stance rigid. There was more. “What makes your brother’s hobby any more of an issue than that of his peers?” she asked.

  “Henry hasn’t much skill, and even less good judgement.”

  “Again, what makes him so different from other gentlemen of your station? And what does this have to do with Kitty?”

  George spoke more delicately than he had been, as if it pained him to make such an admission. “It means he isn’t very good and doesn’t know when to quit. It’s not uncommon for the twit to lose tens of thousands of pounds in a single evening.”

  “A common enough predicament among your kind. Fortunately for him, he’s from an old, wealthy family and as rich as a sultan.” She couldn’t mask the disdain in her voice. His money and her lack thereof had been a source of contention since their very first meeting.

  George pulled a chair out from the table at the center of the room, brushing the gown draped across the back to the floor before seating himself. “Hardly. I cut him off.”

  Willie took the chair across from him, sitting atop a taffeta cream and lavender striped gown. “Completely?” She was shocked. Cutting an aristocrat off from their income was tantamount to banishment in these parts. He might have just as easily sent him off to the wilds of the Americas to fend for himself, he’d have a far easier time than trying to make it in Town with a sixpence to his name.

  “I had no other choice. The revenue from the estates simply isn’t there anymore. Granted, we’re still quite fortunate, but without our lands producing like once they did, we just don’t have the kind of disposable income required to support Henry’s less desirable habits. I provided him with a hefty purse, as he was entitled to, but it was never enough. I just couldn’t stand to watch him lose any more.”

  “So you helped him to stop?”

  He shook his head. “No. He didn’t let a little thing like having no purse to gamble with get in his way. Henry couldn’t stop.”

  Willie had lived the greater part of her life in the country, but was no stranger to habits turning into obsession and the havoc those obsessions might cause. Whether it be drink, fighting (themselves or with their animals), or games of chance – the destruction left in the wake of such frenzied passion was always the same. “What did he wager if he had no money of his own?” The pit in her stomach was beginning to grow more desperate.

  George swallowed, his voice hoarse with emotion. “He wagered everything, including the clothes off his back. The boy came home once in nothing but breeches. He made promises to men he shouldn’t have.”

  Willie drew a staggered breath. She wasn’t happy about Kitty running off with George’s brother, but at least she’d believed she was safe from bodily harm. Suddenly, dread washed over her. “What kind of promises?”

  “The financial kind. But I thought I’d taken care of it all. And I also thought we’d gotten past it.” George sat, elbows on his knees. “He stopped running around and spending his nights at the hells.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Recently,” George answered. “A couple of weeks ago. But of course, I still worry. Men like that have terribly long memories.”

  Willie did the math in her head. “He quit because of Kitty.”

  He nodded. “Possibly.”

  “Do you think those men had something to do with their disappearance?”

  George shrugged. “I honestly don’t know, but I don’t think we should rule anything out at this point. But Henry took enough of his belongings to lead me to believe he wasn’t planning on returning to London any time soon. But, if Kitty did not – I can’t be certain.”

  “I’ve heard enough.” Willie stood up. “Whether they ran off by choice or by dire need, it doesn’t matter. They’re gone, and we need to find them.”

  Chapter 6

  Rain pelted the top of the carriage in a steady stream, increasing from the London drizzle to a more respectable country downpour. The sound of the drops showering against the hard leather accompanied by the rocking of the carriage lulled her into a state between wakefuln
ess and sleep. She wanted desperately to just doze off completely, but it was impossible given the severity of the situation and the worry gnawing at her soul.

  The worry had always been there. After all, she’d been so easily swayed by a man herself. When she’d taken on the role of raising Kitty, she knew the perils of being a young woman. Which is why she’d worked so hard to protect her, to steer her in the right direction…

  To not repeat the mistakes of the past.

  And there he was sitting on the opposite bench, her greatest mistake of all. He was looking out the window now, his jaw sharp and his profile chiseled from stone. Time could be cruel and aging particularly unkind, but not to him. The years had worked in his favor, and much like a good wine or a bottle of fine whiskey, he’d aged to perfection.

  She inhaled, trying to clear her mind. But all she could smell was him, cigars and sandalwood, surrounding her, dulling her senses.

  “You shouldn’t worry,” George said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it won’t help anything,” he said, leaning forward. “They’re en route to Chesterton, so there’s not much we can do there. Besides, I already sent for my solicitor and told him to do whatever was necessary to take care of things. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that he arrives there before we do. Mr. Wingett’s been with my family for years, and I can promise you with all certainty, that he’s quite aware of what’s at risk and won’t rest until it’s properly dealt with.”

  “What about those men your brother involved himself with?”

  “I sent word from your aunt’s home to my valet and asked him to reach out. He’ll make sure all debts are paid in full and there are no hard feelings. A bit of money thrown their way should go a long ways to curbing any rash behavior. No need to work yourself up over something that is merely hypothetical at this point. My brother could have been exceedingly conscientious in his packing and your sister could have been overly excited and left her belongings in the haste of it all. Never underestimate the idiocy of young love.”

  She settled deep into her seat, his reasoning having provided a small amount of comfort. Kitty was the type who’d leave her head at home if it wasn’t attached. It didn’t alleviate all her concerns. Her reputation was still in jeopardy, but his rationale did help to alleviate the immediate concerns.

  “How long has your husband been gone?” he asked abruptly.

  She swallowed, collecting herself before answering. “Eight years ago. Why do you ask?”

  He gestured to her skirt. “Your gown. You’re still wearing your widow’s weeds. I thought perhaps it had been much more recent.”

  They hadn’t spoken in ten years. He wouldn’t have known the details of her life, like when Victor passed. She smoothed down the black fabric of her skirt, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscience over her disregard for fashion. No one but her censorious aunt had bothered to question her choice to remain in her mourning clothes before. “It’s easier this way.”

  “Easier?”

  “No one ever questions the whereabouts of a widow. It gives me a certain amount of freedom to go about as I please and not have to worry about things like chaperones or having to suffer the company of men shopping for new wives to help keep their households. As a widow, I don’t have to bother with going to parties or showing up to dinners. I’m allowed a humble existence in my aunt’s home, spending my days reading and watching over my sister. I’d just assume go around like this than have to worry about all the conventions that accompany a brightly colored redingote.”

  He chuckled, and she found herself smiling a bit. “That’s brilliant. But I feel foolish now. I thought perhaps you were still in mourning,”

  “I do miss him, but I don’t need to dress in all black to do that. My widow’s weeds are simply a defense mechanism to help ward off the trappings of Society. Real mourning doesn’t require a uniform.”

  “Eight years ago? You weren’t married that long then.”

  No one else would dare be so forward as to ask such questions. But their history allowed him extended liberties and he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of them.

  “No. He contracted the wasting disease shortly after we were married. It took nearly two years for it to finally take him.”

  George sat back, frowning. “I’m sorry. That must have been terrible for you.”

  “It was,” she answered honestly. “He suffered greatly and it was quite difficult to watch. I had Kitty, and though she was old enough to care for herself and manage the simpler chores, it was still hard to care for them both.”

  “You didn’t have anyone to help?”

  “Who would help me? I was the vicar’s wife, so parishioners would contribute what they could, and believe me, I was grateful. I was grateful for every pot of stew or loaf of bread. But, I had no family to speak of, no friends. I’d lost touch with most everyone I’d known through my parents, and Aunt Louisa was on her tour, not that she’d return any of my letters. Kitty did what she could, but she was only ten.”

  “You must have loved him very much,” George said, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

  “I miss his friendship terribly,” she answered before turning toward the rain-streaked window.

  *

  Though she spoke matter-of-factly, he clearly heard the pain in her voice. He couldn’t imagine having to watch someone you care for die so slowly, so painfully. He never had the misfortune as personally knowing those with the wasting disease, but he’d heard the details of the suffering. He’d only known death as a distant observer, first with his mother, then with his father. Neither time was he privy to the experience, only learning of both through the words of a servant after the fact. But to see the agony, day in and day out…it would take a tremendously strong person to withstand such a trial.

  And that was his Willie. She’d always been courageous. He was glad to see that part of her hadn’t changed. But still, she’d lost part of herself since he’d last seen her. This wasn’t the Willie he’d known before, the lively woman who’d lived and loved with equal intensity.

  “You had no children.” He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but she turned and he immediately realized his error.

  “No,” she answered curtly.

  That should have been enough, but he was curious. “You said you dress this way to avoid unwanted suitors. Don’t you want a family one day?”

  “I have Kitty. She’s my family.”

  “But what about children of your own?”

  He noticed her jaw tense. “I have my family.”

  George noticed pink splotches spreading across what little chest her modest gown exposed. He knew she was riled, but for the life of him, he just couldn’t understand why she’d taken this ridiculous stance to avoid marriage. She was only seven and twenty and more beautiful than women ten years younger. Widow’s weeds couldn’t disguise the fact that Wilhelmina Turner was a walking Venus, tempting men at every turn. She had no right to lock herself away like that.

  “Won’t you be lonely? Don’t you worry about who’ll take care of you?”

  He could tell from the pink flush across her cheeks that he’d gone too far. “I know exactly who’ll take care of me. I will.”

  “But you can’t be alone forever?”

  “And what about you,” she asked. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Not a day goes by that I don’t hear that question, and my answer is always the same. I don’t need to be married.”

  “But who’ll take care of you?”

  His brow furrowed together. The little minx had turned his own words against him. “I’m a titled gentleman. I’m quite certain I don’t need someone to take care of me.”

  “Neither title or sex act as any sort of qualification.” She crossed her arms across her chest.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve read about your escapades, George. You of all people are the least qualified to take care of yourself.”

  F
or a moment, he was flattered that she’d bothered to keep up with his undertakings over the past few years, but that flattery was quickly overshadowed by the knowledge that all she’d learned about him was what had been reported in the gossip rags.

  “You can’t believe a word of what the papers write about me,” he defended.

  “Oh,” she said, her voice dripping sarcasm. “So I shouldn’t believe that you have a tendency to cavort with married women, particularly the wives of your good friends.”

  Ah, yes, the scandal surrounding the Countess Darby, the wife of his once best friend. That had been an unfortunate turn of events, to say the least.

  “I’ll have you know that was a mistake.”

  “I’ll say it was,” she remarked snidely out the side of her mouth.

  “No,” he clarified. “It was a simple mistake. I didn’t know she was Lawrence’s wife.”

  “She was the wife of your best friend. You and the Earl of Darby were practically inseparable when I met you. You shared everything. How could you not know?”

  “I was drunk and it was a masquerade,” he stated matter-of-factly. He rarely spoke of it, but for some inane reason, he felt the overwhelming urge to clear his name. He hadn’t really cared what anyone thought of him before. But for whatever the reason, Willie’s opinion mattered.

  They had gotten one part right at least. Harry had been his very best friend since they were lads at Oxford. After everything had gone wrong with Willie, he became quite self-destructive. He’d warred with himself, and his friendships suffered collateral damage.

  “So your excuse is that you were too drunk to know what you were doing,” she said snidely. “Even more reason for someone to watch over you, don’t you think? You obviously can’t be trusted with yourself.”

  “I make no excuses for my behavior. You wanted to know what happened so I’m telling you. There’s more to the story than the short column the paper presented. That woman wasn’t good for Lawrence,” he continued. “She’d made overtures toward me before, but I’d always ignored them. I didn’t want to hurt him, so I never said anything. Lawrence was quite proud of his beautiful wife, loved to show her off. This time it was at a masquerade. I drank myself into my usual stupor and didn’t question it when a masked woman came up to me, making advances. I didn’t know who she was until it was too late.”