chapter 17
Caroline sneaked back up the servants’ stair, into the dressing room attached to Lord Langley’s former room. She shed Jack’s nightshirt and stuffed it in a dresser drawer before checking the main hallway. When she saw no one, she slipped out of the empty bedchamber. Breathing a sigh of relief, she scurried down the hall to her room.
The door was locked. She rattled it. Fearing she might be trapped in the hallway, apprehension scuttled down her spine. No response. On her toes, she skittered down the hall to Mr. Broadhurst’s room. Her husband’s door was locked too.
Her mouth dry, she tapped and called out softly.
Mr. Broadhurst was usually not a heavy sleeper. When he didn’t answer, panic rose in her throat. She just couldn’t be caught standing here in a transparent gown.
Above her on the attic floor, soft thumps and rattles signified the servants’ first stirrings. Her elbows pressed into her ribs. The housemaids were getting ready for their day and would be descending any minute.
Caroline knocked louder.
Still no response.
She twisted. Could she try to find a key before she was caught? Or would one of the other keys even work in her door?
Heavy footfalls ascended from the floor below. Dear God, the gentlemen’s gentlemen were probably about to come upon her. She pounded the flat of her hand on the wood.
Down the hall her door jerked open.
Caroline heaved a sigh of relief and darted back toward her room, but when she got there, Mr. Broadhurst filled the frame.
“Sir, let me in.” Rather than shove him out of the way, she recoiled from touching him. He was a loathsome creature and she would feel slimy.
He didn’t step to the side. “Have you done what you were supposed to do?”
“Yes, I have.” Her skin fired and she couldn’t look at the man she’d spent the last fifteen years of her life with. A man she had thought she knew. Jerking her head to look over her shoulder, she swallowed hard.
“Which man?”
Caroline gasped. Did he know she ducked into an empty room? Surely Mr. Broadhurst hadn’t concerned himself with the sleeping arrangements. She couldn’t tell him she’d been with Jack. Besides, he’d heard Jack’s staged exercise. Her legs—already feeling weak from the unfamiliar activity—threatened to give out on her. “Sir, that is none of your affair.”
He folded his arms over his striped nightshirt—so like the one Jack had given her to wear.
“I cannot stay out here in the hall, the servants are about.” She would have to push him out of the way, but her strength had never been any match for her husband.
Mr. Broadhurst reached out and tilted up her chin. “You do not have the look of a woman who has just left a man’s bed. Your hair is not mussed. Your lips are not swollen. You look untouched. You’re lying. Again.”
Panic threatened to choke her. Gathering strength to confront her husband, she spit out, “I did not need to be kissed to accomplish what was necessary.”
“Caroline.” His look was doubtful.
Her face hot, she hissed, “I hardly think my mission will be successful if his seed all runs down my legs.”
Mr. Broadhurst’s eyes narrowed, then he yanked her into the room.
She jerked away.
“Get in bed,” he commanded.
Caroline gathered the nightgown she’d left on the covers.
Mr. Broadhurst yanked it away. She turned and found he was standing naked behind her. Had he been wearing nothing under his nightshirt?
His body was old, the skin wrinkled and sagging over flabby spotted flesh. She shuddered. “What are you doing?”
“You want everyone to think the child is mine. The staff will expect us to have relations.”
Caroline shrunk back. He hadn’t been able to carry out his part for months, but now his member jutted out. Cold dread poured down her spine.
“It seems the medicine the doctor has given me makes me feel like a new man.”
“I cannot have relations with you and another man. I am sore enough as it is.” She had little hope that he would care. Jack had at least minded that she was in pain. Nothing had ever mattered to Mr. Broadhurst, not tears, not cries of pain, not pretending to be asleep when he joined her. It was his right as her husband, and he often reminded her he’d paid dearly for the privilege. But so had she.
Feeling cold all through her, Caroline climbed into the bed.
Mr. Broadhurst followed, and her skin crawled. He lifted her sheer nightgown and rubbed his hand over her thigh.
“Did you not enjoy it?” he questioned.
“No!”
She scooted across the expanse of the mattress to the far side.
“I despise the act,” she hissed. “With you, with him, with any man. Now leave me be.”
“You are still my wife.”
Caroline stared into the darkness of her room and waited for Mr. Broadhurst to claim his marital rights. She shut down her thoughts and reactions, as she had learned to do to tolerate his touch.
Yet, she hadn’t shut out everything with Jack. She hadn’t needed to go numb. Perhaps she hadn’t despised it entirely with him. Toward the end, she thought she might have not have minded the unsettled way it made her feel. If the act weren’t a sin, weren’t a betrayal, it almost would have been easy with Jack.
Her stomach turned as Mr. Broadhurst stroked her skin.
At no time with Jack had she felt nauseous the way she felt now.
Before Jack opened his eyes he knew he wasn’t alone in the breakfast room. Having another person in the room when he woke wasn’t unusual, but the menace he felt wasn’t present when one of the servants entered. He slowly opened his eyes. The predawn murkiness barely illuminated Mr. Broadhurst standing at the sideboard where his bottle of laudanum rested.
“Dr. Hein says you are not out of the woods yet.” Broadhurst said without turning around.
A shudder rippled down Jack’s spine. “Sir.”
Did the man know Caroline had been with him last night? Had Broadhurst seen her wearing the nightshirt he insisted she wear as she went through the house? A nightshirt Broadhurst might have recognized as his own. Jack eased the covers around his chin to conceal his undershirt and bare arms.
“A man with such a serious injury could die at any time.” The laudanum bottle clinked and Broadhurst turned around, his expression thoughtful.
“I’d rather not.” Jack didn’t lift his eyes from the man as every muscle in his body tightened.
Broadhurst moved across the floor and towered above the bed. “I’d rather my wife didn’t spend time with you.”
Jack wanted to stand to face Broadhurst, but he couldn’t risk exposing his lack of a nightshirt. Instead he lay flat on his back, clenching his fists under the covers. He hated the way the submissive posture left him feeling emasculated and impotent. But he couldn’t risk behaving differently than any other millworker would. To act as if they were equals or rivals might confirm Broadhurst’s suspicions and put Caroline at risk. The idea of Broadhurst knowing she had turned to him chilled Jack’s blood.
Broadhurst’s eyes flattened like those of a dead man. “She shouldn’t concern herself with you.”
“I am just an outlet for her feminine urges to comfort and care for a weaker being.” Jack held his breath as he hoped his words weren’t misinterpreted. The woman would be an excellent mother if he had succeeded last night.
“Don’t think my wife will protect you forever.”
“No, sir. I don’t, sir.” Jack pressed his lips together. He sounded servile, but then again, any trouble he created could spill over to Caroline. The last thing he wanted was for her to become the third Mrs. Broadhurst to rest underground. “I’d rather not rely on anyone’s protection, least of all a woman’s.”
Then again, he wasn’t particularly keen to find out exactly what Broadhurst had in mind in regards to him. If it wasn’t for Caroline’s interest, he would have been booted out the first day.
The door clicked open and a maid carrying a coal bucket stepped inside.
Jack couldn’t hold back his relief. It escaped him in a hiss.
“I expect clerks to work hard, have a legible hand, and to not make mistakes with their math,” said Broadhurst in a mild tone.
Jack blinked, startled by the change in the old man’s voice.
“Reasonable expectations, I’d say,” added Broadhurst with a curling of his lips that on another man might have looked like an indulgent smile.
“Absolutely, sir,” answered Jack. “I would expect nothing less, were I in your position.”
Broadhurst’s eyes flashed, but the genial expression stayed on his face. “We are understood, then.”
“Yes, sir.” Jack nodded, wondering if he’d been threatened or simply warned that the clerk job would vanish at his first mistake. If he made it to London, got the job as a machinist, the clerk job would be a moot point. But he didn’t dare refuse the place at the mill until he knew.
Broadhurst left the room without acknowledging the maid working to clean out last night’s ashes.
If he stayed and became a clerk—assuming Mrs. Broadhurst could help him learn enough so he could do it—he would see her daily. Leaving would likely mean he would never see her again, and that left him feeling strangely lost.
Then again, last night had been one of the most awkward and frustrating of his life. He’d wanted to make it at least pleasant for her, but she’d been so . . . distant, resistant to letting go. He’d always admired her reserve, but in bed it was a barrier. Her helping him down the back stairs was far more intimate then their sexual encounter. Her arm had been around his waist, his over her shoulders, their sides pressed together as he navigated the narrow flight. A frisson of interest rolled through him. How could he want that again?
Jack groaned and flipped to his side, facing the empty fireplace, but taking care not to let the blanket slide off his shoulder.
“Would you like your medicine, sir?” The girl rose to a knee.
“No!” He wasn’t taking the laudanum after Broadhurst had been near it. Not even if his leg was screaming and he was in agony.
The maid stared back at him, no doubt confused by his vehemence.
Jack let his lips curl up as if nothing were wrong. He gave her a warm sleepy look that worked on most women. Except of course Caroline. Nothing seemed to work on her. Damn, he wanted so much more than the coldly functional encounter they’d had. “I’d much prefer the fire lit, miss.”
“Oh, of course,” the girl fluttered, and then went back to work.
The whistle at the mill blasted. Jack tried to sort in his mind if he’d heard it the day before. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday, sir.”
He had to be in London Friday morning, and it was a full day of train travel to get there from Manchester, which meant he had to be in Manchester by Thursday morning. Getting to Manchester might not be as easy as it once was when he had two good legs. Damn, he hadn’t been thinking of getting to London last night. He hadn’t been thinking the appointment would interfere in his offer to get Caroline with child. He’d been so eager to have her, he never considered having to abandon his dream to help her. How could he have been so stupid? He groaned again.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like your medicine?” asked the maid.
Not only was he concerned that Broadhurst had added something to it, but the laudanum had been clouding his thinking, making the passage of time seem unimportant. He had to get home, retrieve his money, and make arrangements to get to London. He couldn’t risk taking the laudanum anymore.
“I’m all right,” he said softly.
The maid looked young and uncertain. Perhaps easily manipulated. He’d need her to do his bidding to get out of here. He hated that he would be abandoning his deal with Caroline, but if he didn’t get to London on Friday, he’d never be worthy of her. And he wanted more than the cold impersonal business of getting her pregnant, which might have been accomplished last night. “Could you find me clothes? If I have to spend another day in bed, I will go mad. Surely there is a footman or groom close to my size.”
Her mouth twisted. “I don’t know as I should.”
Jack gave her his best smile. “Please. I know your mistress thinks I should remain abed, but I only want a little exercise.”
She looked uncertain. “You should ask her.”
Cursing in his head, Jack tried to keep his expression pleasant. “Would you see if I could speak with her, then?”
How would he explain this to her? The words twisted in his head and felt ineffectual and wrong, but dammit, he’d sworn nothing would keep him from London this time.
The maid twisted her hands in her apron. “She’s gone to the mill for the day.”
When did Caroline sleep? Jack pressed harder, “The doctor said yesterday it is time I walk farther than I can manage in this room. It would mean a lot to me if I could show Mrs. Broadhurst I am getting well, thanks to her kind hospitality and care.”
The girl chewed her lip and Jack added a silent entreaty.
She dipped her head as she picked up the empty coal bucket. “I’ll see what I can do, sir.”
With luck he would be dressed and out of the house before any of the servants had any inkling of his intentions. He could get home, retrieve his money, and see if he could hitch a ride or hire conveyance to Manchester. He swiped his hand over his face.
He would have to go to the mill and ask to speak to Caroline and hope he could make her understand. But then again, it wasn’t as if she’d exhibited any softer feelings toward him. He was a convenience to her. The yearning for a deeper connection between them was all on his side.
Less than a half hour later Jack stood at the top of the wide stone staircase at the front of the Broadhurst house. His heart pounding and his mouth dry, he considered how best to get down without tumbling to the ground.
Caroline wasn’t here to hold onto him if he stumbled or lost his balance. The stone walls, to each side, didn’t give him anything to hold like the railing on the inside staircase. The stairs might thwart him yet.
Sucking in a deep breath, he lowered his crutches to the next elongated step and inched his foot forward to the edge, took a little hop and landed on the step below.
Halfway down he was sweating and cursing. His good leg shook with the unfamiliar use. All his life he’d been working toward this opportunity in London, but his thoughts wouldn’t leave the encounter last night. He didn’t know what he would tell Caroline, but he couldn’t bear a whole lot of nights like last night, with her in pain as he tried to impregnate her.
His fantasy had been more like a nightmare. He’d been reduced to being a stud for a very unwilling and uncomfortable woman. And how, if he too ignored Caroline’s pain, was he a better man than Broadhurst?
Even if he made a success of his life and returned home when the old man finally kicked the bucket, Caroline would likely have none of him. But he couldn’t help but envision a warm welcome upon a return as a man with accomplishments and wealth.
Feeling a bit like he was breaking out of a jail, he cast a backward glance over his shoulder to make certain he wasn’t being followed. But the servants were engaged in the flurry of morning activities, cleaning grates, toting coal and ash buckets up and down, hauling wash water and linens. He’d picked a moment when the hall cleared and made his escape.
At this rate he would never get to the village, let alone London. Swallowing his bitter pride, he plunked to his backside and thumped down the rest of the way. The jarring made his leg throb, but he gritted his teeth and continued.
By the time he arrived home, his arms were shaking, his good leg was on fire, and his head seemed likely to detach from his head and float away. The walk had taken him thrice the normal time, and he’d had to rest several times, leaning against a tree or on his crutches. He didn’t remember ever being this weak and mewling. Fine stud animal he made. If he were part of a herd, he’d be culled from the breeding stock for lack of fitness.
He opened the door to the familiar smell of cabbage and too many children crammed in a small house. Beth was in school, so three-year-old Daphne, her face full of grim concentration, rocked the baby in his cradle. Their father yelled from the bedroom, “Who’s there?”
Daphne popped up from her chair and shot across the room. “Jack!”
Her little face transformed into a smile and then melted into shock as she realized his leg was twice as thick as it should have been. She backed toward the soot-grayed wall. The wavy glass let in little light, but what did landed on her mouth rounded in an O.
“It’s still me,” he said with as much of a smile as he could manage. He suspected it was more of a grimace.
He crutched toward the vacated chair and sat, heedless of the cries emerging from the cradle. Years of practice making the movement automatic, he set his foot on the runner and restarted the rocking motion. He willed his youngest brother to sleep before his leg could no longer work.
Daphne stared at him. He suspected she would come around if he acted normal, but he no longer felt normal.
His father emerged from the single bedroom, stooped and shuffling across the scuffed wood floors in a way that made him look older than Mr. Broadhurst although he was decades younger. His eyes glistened with uncharacteristic moisture. “Martha isn’t going to want you here. Said you kept too much of what you made anyhow.”
Jack understood Martha wanting more of his wages—there was never enough. But that his father wouldn’t fight for his oldest son to stay left Jack feeling as if a rope had tightened around his chest. He had to get out of here. “I just came to get my things.”
His father heaved a sigh of relief. “How long you going to live up in the fancy house?”
“I was only staying until I can go to London,” Jack said.
Daphne patted his leg. He tilted his crutches against his side and curled his arm around her shoulder, moving her hand away from the throbbing ache in his leg.
“You always was lucky,” muttered his father. “Getting to stay up there.”
“I’d rather have not had my leg crushed,” said Jack.
“Mama got a new stove,” piped Daphne into the awkward silence.
Jack twisted toward the cooking area behind the main room. A big cast-iron affair had replaced the old rusted stove that had been in the house since he was little. How had Martha managed to . . . His stomach churned. He turned back toward his father and the evasive eyes, the dusky wash of red on his father’s sallow cheeks screaming shame told him everything.
Trying to hold back the wall of angry despair, he said, “Do I have anything left?”
Her brother stood in the entrance hall, and several of the gentlemen came down from the first floor. The butler had the silver salver with several letters on it and was holding it out to the men, but mostly Caroline noticed the closed breakfast room doors across from her. Her heart thumped erratically in her chest as she anticipated seeing Jack again, as if she hadn’t seen him just hours before.
Her eagerness to see him heated her like a hot fire after a day outside in the winter. Would he be glad to see her? Anticipating her visit in the night? She pressed hands to her hot cheeks, trying to cool them.
She had to calm down. No one could know of what transpired last night. She must act as she always did. Not think about Jack’s dark eyes holding her gaze, his hands on her hips guiding her and his member inside her, filling her.
As she reached for the handle, the butler stopped beside them.
“Uh, ma’am . . . Mr. Applegate isn’t here.”
Caroline’s chest squeezed. “Where is he?”
“I don’t rightly know,” answered the butler.
Like a stuck plaster had been ripped off her entire being, Caroline felt raw.
The butler turned away.
“Stop.” Her mind was spinning with the idea that Jack wasn’t where she left him. “When was Mr. Applegate last seen?”
“He had the tweeny bring him clothes early this morning, but no one saw him leave. We were all busy.”
Why had he left? Had he hated their encounter so much? Caroline wanted to dissolve on the ground into a puddle, but she couldn’t let the butler—or for that matter the gentlemen standing about reading their correspondence—know how much Jack’s leaving upset her.
Caroline’s knees buckled. Jack was gone. What of their bargain?
And what was she to do? If she sent servants after him, everyone would question why she was so concerned with the welfare of one injured worker.
Her hands shook so badly she could scarcely untie her cloak. Jack had left.
She’d known the minute he had clothes he would leave. But after last night, she would have thought . . .
What? That he truly thought she was pretty and desirable? She’d always known she wasn’t the kind of woman who inspired passion.
As if a demon had ripped out all her entrails and left a big gaping hole inside, she clutched her stomach. She wanted to curl into a ball on the floor. She had to regain her composure. Thankfully, none of the gentlemen seemed interested in her. With Jack gone, she would have to try again with one of them. Dread knotted her spine.
She couldn’t help but look in the breakfast room, as if she might find Jack lurking behind the sideboard.
But he wasn’t here. She felt brittle, as if she might break into a thousand pieces. She touched the headboard as though it would give her some assurance that Jack would return, but the bedstead was cold and sucked all the warmth from her.
“Caro.”
She swiveled hoping to find Jack behind her, even as she recognized the voice as her brother’s.
“In here,” she called, and was alarmed at how foreign her voice sounded to her ears.
“Caro,” her brother repeated. He hesitated in the doorway.
She whirled, staring at the empty bed so out of place in the breakfast room. Her heart thumped hard in her chest and a tingling sensation ran down her arms.
She drew in a deep breath and tried to gather all the pieces of her into one whole that could act as she should. Robert’s face was as white as the letter he clutched in his fist. He vibrated with agitation.
Bad news from home? Her breath ripped out of her. She couldn’t bear more bad news.
“What is it?” She rushed toward him. “Are the children . . . ?”
Robert shook his head and held out his palm. “Whitton has been slain.”
For a minute Caroline searched her brain for which of her brother’s children might be called Whitton before it dawned on her that Mr. Whitton—the man she had tried to seduce while drunk—was whom Robert was talking about.
“What?”
“Whitton was murdered by a highwayman.” Robert thrust the letter at her.
Caroline crushed the page to her chest, trying to still the mad racing of her heart. Mr. Whitton was dead? Murdered?
“We returned for the day and this letter was awaiting me,” Robert explained. “Actually there were several letters. Langley said they were stopped by a ruffian in a greatcoat, low hat, and high muffler who demanded to know which was Whitton, and then he shot him.”
Beyond Robert, the men milled about the hall. Their mutterings drifted in to her.
“Who would kill Whitton?”
“Too much like the revenge of a cuckolded man,” said one man.
Lord Tremont narrowed his eyes and stared at Caroline.
What was a lady to do when her legs might give out on her and her heart was beating faster than any drum could be beaten?
A couple more men turned to her and regarded her speculatively.
“Don’t think I’d want to tamper with a man’s wife about now,” said another.
Had her encounter with Whitton had anything to do with his death? Her thoughts swirled. Before he left, Whitton had been sequestered with Mr. Broadhurst. Then that same night, there was that stranger who refused to let a servant take his dripping greatcoat or remove his pulled low hat. He’d said he had business with her husband. What sort of business was conducted so late in the evening? Her hand went to her mouth.
Dear God, had Mr. Broadhurst had anything to do with Mr. Whitton’s murder?
Worse yet, had Jack left of his own free will?