If He's Wicked. Hannah HowellЧитать онлайн книгу.
son and them papers will be all the proof he will be aneeding from you. ’Tis as much as I and a few others dared to do, sorry poor help that it is. I will pray for you, missy. You and the lad here. Aye, and I will pray for meself as well, for I have surely blackened my soul this day.” He hurried out of the cottage.
After waiting a few moments to be certain the men were gone, Chloe Wherlocke crept out of the niche by the fireplace where she had hidden herself when the men had ridden up to the door. She moved to kneel by her sister Laurel’s bed and stared at the child she held, the living, breathing child. Touching the baby’s soft, warm cheek, she looked at her sister, grief forming a tight knot in her throat. Laurel was dying. They both knew it. Yet her sister smiled at her.
“’Tis just as you foresaw it, Chloe,” Laurel whispered, weakness and not a need for secrecy robbing her of her voice. “Life appearing in the midst of death is what you said.”
Chloe nodded, not at all happy to be proven right. “I am so sorry about your child.”
“Do not be. I will join him soon.”
“Oh, Laurel,” Chloe began, her voice thick with tears.
“Do not weep for me. I am ready. In truth, I ache to be with my love and our child. My soul cries out for them.” Laurel lifted one trembling, pale hand and brushed a tear from Chloe’s cheek. “This is why I lingered on this earth, why I did not die soon after my dear Henry did. This child needed us to be here, needed my son’s body to be here. I recovered from that deadly fever because fate required it of me. My little Charles Henry will have a proper burial. A blessing, too, mayhaps.”
“He should not be placed in the wrong grave.”
“It matters little, Chloe. He is already with his father, waiting for me. Now, remember, you must make it look as if this child died. Be sure to mark the cross with both names. Wrap the bones we collected most carefully. Ah, do not look so aggrieved, sister. Instead of being tossed upon a pile as so many others dug out of the London graveyards are, that poor child we gathered will have a fine resting place, too. Here in the country we are not so callous with our dead, do not have to keep moving the old out of the ground to make room for the new. ’Tis a fine gift we give that long-dead babe.”
“I know. Yet throughout all our careful preparations I kept praying that we were wrong.”
“I always knew we were right, that this was a fate that could not be changed by any amount of forewarning. I will miss you, but, truly, do not grieve o’er me. I will be happy.”
“How could a mother do this to her only child?” Chloe lightly touched the baby’s surprisingly abundant hair.
“She cannot bear his lordship a healthy heir, can she? That would ruin all of her plans.”
When Laurel said nothing more for several moments, Chloe murmured, “Rest now. There is no need to speak now.”
“There is every need,” whispered Laurel. “My time draws nigh. As soon as I am gone, see to the burial, and then go straight to our cousin Leopold. He will be waiting, ready to begin the game. He will help you watch over this child and his father, and he will help you know when the time is right to act against that evil woman and her lover.” Laurel turned her head and pressed a kiss upon the baby’s head. “This child needs you. He and his poor love-blind father. We both know that this boy will do great things some day. It gives me peace to know that my sorrows are not completely in vain, that some good will come out of all this grief.”
Chloe kissed her sister’s ice-cold cheek and then wept as she felt the last flicker of life flee Laurel’s bone-thin body. Pushing aside the grief weighing upon her heart like a stone, she prepared Laurel for burial. The sun was barely rising on a new day when she stood by her sister’s grave, her sturdy little mare packed with her meager belongings, a goat tethered to the patient mount, and the baby settled snugly against her chest in a crude blanket sling. One wind-contorted tree was all that marked Laurel’s grave upon the desolate moors. Chloe doubted the wooden cross she had made would last long, and the rocks she had piled upon Laurel’s grave to deter scavengers would soon be indistinguishable from many another one dotted about the moors.
“I will come back for you, Laurel,” Chloe swore. “I will see you and little Charles Henry buried properly. And this wee pauper child you hold will also have a proper burial right beside you. It deserves such an honor.” She said a silent prayer for her sister and then turned away, fixing her mind upon the long journey ahead of her.
When, a few hours later, Chloe had to pause in her journey to tend to the baby’s needs, she looked across the rutted road at the huge stone pillars that marked the road to Colinsmoor, the home of the child she held. She was tempted to go there to try to find out exactly what was happening. The village had been rife with rumors. Chloe knew it would be foolish, however, and remained where she was, sheltered among the thick grove of trees on the opposite side of the road that would lead her to London and her cousin Leopold.
Just as she was ready to resume her journey, she heard the sound of a horse rapidly approaching. She watched as a man recklessly galloped down the London road and then turned up the road to Colinsmoor to continue his headlong race. He made quite a show, she mused. Tall and lean, dressed all in black, and riding a huge black gelding, he was an imposing sight. The only color showing was that of his long, golden brown hair, his queue having obviously come undone during his wild ride. His lean aristocratic face had been pale, his features set in the harsh lines of deep concern. He was the perfect portrait of the doting husband rushing to join his wife and welcome their child. Chloe thought of the grief the man would soon suffer believing that his child was dead and the grief yet to come when he discovered the ugly truth about the woman he loved. She wondered how it might change the man.
She looked down at the infant in her arms. “That was your papa, laddie. He looked to be a fine man. And up the road lies your heritage. Soon you will be able to lay claim to both. On that I do swear.”
With one last look toward Colinsmoor, she mounted her horse and started to ride toward London. She fought the strange compelling urge to follow that man and save him from the pain he faced. That, she knew, would be utter folly. Fate demanded that the man go through this trial. Until his lordship saw the truth, until he saw his lady wife for exactly what she was, Chloe knew that her duty, her only duty, was to keep this child alive.
A fortnight later she knocked upon the door of her cousin Leopold’s elegant London home, not really surprised when he opened the door himself. He looked down at the baby in her arms.
“Welcome, Anthony,” he said.
“A good name,” Chloe murmured.
“’Tis but one of many. The notice of his death was in the papers.”
Chloe sighed and entered the house. “And so it begins.”
“Aye, child. And so it begins.”
Chapter 1
London—three years later
Struggling to remain upright, Julian Anthony Charles Kenwood, ninth earl of Colinsmoor, walked out of the brothel into the damp, foul London night. Reminding himself of who he was was not having its usual stabilizing effect, however. His consequence did not stiffen his spine, steady his legs, or clear the thick fog of too much drink from his mind. He prayed he could make it to his carriage parked a discreet distance away. While it was true that he had been too drunk to indulge himself with any of Mrs. Button’s fillies, he had felt that he could at least manage the walk to his carriage. He was not so confident of that anymore.
Step by careful step he began to walk toward where his carriage awaited him. A noise to his right drew his attention, but even as he turned to peer into the shadows, he felt a sharp pain in his side. Blindly, he struck out, gratified to hear a cry of pain and a curse. Julian struggled to pull his pistol from his pocket as he caught sight of a hulking shadowy form moving toward him. He saw the glint of a blade sweeping down toward his chest and stumbled to the left, crying out as the knife cut deep into his right shoulder. A stack of rotting barrels that smelled