A Lady's Secret Page 14

  “It is perfectly clear.” He did not retaliate with sarcasm or take time to reproach her. Instead, Oliver nodded toward the door with a resigned sigh. “Shall we?”

  ****

  They were nearly to Town. and he had yet to discover the truth of what had happened. Amy rode better than any woman he knew and kept her horse nose to nose with his. They rode hard, which discouraged speech. It was kinder to let her get her wits together. While she pretended to be unaffected by Miranda’s disappearance, he knew that was not true.

  If ever a sister needed another, it was the case with the Spencer sisters. He could not imagine one without the other. They were not a lot alike, but they were two parts of one whole. They had weathered the storm that was their life when others would have been defeated by circumstance.

  It was imperative they find Miranda. To do so, Amy would have to confide in him, whether it pleased her to do so or not.

  A rider had gone ahead, so a pair of groomsmen waited their arrival at the townhouse. The horses would be stabled nearby. A fresh pair waited for them, if they were needed. The Gregory stable kept a portion of the larger local establishment for its own use and had animals at the ready at all times.

  He dismounted and tossed the reins, knowing they would be caught before they hit the cobblestones. He went to help Amy, who looked ready to fly off her mount on her own. He reached up, put his hands around her slender waist, and lifted her down to the street. She was flushed, from riding or worry, when she met his gaze.

  A sheen of unshed tears made her gold-flecked eyes even more luminous. Fear showed clearly, but there were other emotions as well. All swirling in the stare she gave, all just below the surface of incredible restraint. He wished in that moment that she would cry, and he could hold her close to comfort her. Then, perhaps, she would let her guard down.

  There were more feelings within him than he knew what to do with. But all of that would have to wait.

  “Let’s go inside. A pot of tea—”

  She looked around, toward the scene on the street. It was an ordinary day. Pedestrians and carriages moved smoothly, and the sun shone down on them all. “I need to go; I need to find her.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Her face crumpled, and a single tear dripped down one cheek. He thumbed it away, surprised that she was so cool on such a warm day.

  “I don’t know.” It was a near-whisper. Her fear cloaked them. “I have to find her, Oliver. Miranda is all I have—all I have ever had.”

  He willed himself to remain a gentleman and not pull her into his arms, lest some prying eye might see and damage her reputation. It was hard, but he managed to behave the way he knew he must.

  “Let’s go inside. We can decide what to do over a cup of tea.” He turned her gently toward the front door, which stood wide. Jenkins, the butler, waited on the top step ready to assist. As they climbed the wide brick steps, he added, “It will do us both good, I think, if you confide in me. I cannot help when I do not have the facts, Amy. And whatever is going on is less important than getting your sister home where she belongs. Agreed?”

  She paused just outside the door. Looked back once more to the street, with all its happy people conducting their daily activities. Then she met his gaze, showing him the full measure of her fear and sorrow. Had he not been prepared, it would have knocked him backward, the emotions were so intense. But he waited, standing firm because he was resolute in his desire to protect those he loved.

  And, just looking at the woman before him, his heart swelled. This was more than a friendly connection. His heart was no longer his own.

  A small nod. “Agreed.”

  Chapter 28

  “What has been going on with all of you women? I have watched and waited for it to sort itself out—we all have, but it does not seem to be getting sorted.”

  They were in his office, where walls of books made the place his favorite room in the house. A large walnut desk sat in one corner, with his big brown leather chair behind it, and was the perfect spot for going over accounts or tending to correspondence. Since his return to health, he had taken over most of the family’s business, leaving his father free of the burdensome part of their societal responsibilities.

  A cluster of high-backed, upholstered chairs gathered around a low table by the fireplace. There was no fire in the grate, but the long shutters were open, and sunlight warmed the room. They sat in a circle of light, his chair pulled so close to hers he could see her bosom moving as she breathed. He pulled his gaze to her face and forced his mind to concentrate on the topic at hand.

  “Well?” She did not answer, not even after she took a sip of the Earl Grey. Her cup and saucer landed carefully on the table before she put her hands in her lap and stared stubbornly at the patterned rug at their feet.

  Oliver placed his cup beside hers. Leaning forward, he put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands loosely between his legs. It was, he hoped, a pose to inspire trust.

  “Why can’t you confide in me? We all know there is something going on, we just do not have any idea what that something might be.”

  “Who is the all you speak of?”

  “Father. Myself. Will. Not Nick; he has too much on his mind already to see how the ladies of the manor are behaving.” He spread his hands wide. “If you would enlighten me, I am sure I can help.”

  “And how exactly are we behaving?” She spoke without taking her gaze from the rug. Its swirls and pattern seemed more interesting than their conversation. “Perhaps you could enlighten me.”

  He did not take offense at the thin sarcasm. She was under a great deal of pressure, and it was not awful that she showed her human nature.

  “You are all acting like a bunch of hens, guarding secrets as if they were eggs and leaving those who care for you in the dark. Pray tell, what is going on?”

  It struck him that comparing ladies to barnyard fowl was not the smartest move.

  It did not impress Amy, either.

  She turned to him, finally, with a horrified, wide-eyed glare. “Did you actually call us chickens?”

  “No, of course not.” His mind raced. How to get out of the corner he’d painted himself into? “I just feel that I have no idea what is happening in my own household.”

  Amy scrunched up her nose, as if a vile odor permeated the room. The air was redolent of the scent of lilacs, the vases having been filled for their arrival from the bushes along the back lawn.

  “What do you think is happening? With the chickens you house, I mean.”

  “I did not call you chickens.”

  “You did—but go on, please. There must be more, since you seem so wholly unnerved by the women around you.” Her eyes flashed, and he could not understand why she was thusly angered. The chicken comparison was harmless. Why was she taking on so?

  It was a waste of time, this bickering, but she sat resolute. No help would come from her lips until they worked this out. Better to reason with her than fight her. Men had more muscle, but women were the stronger sex—even if no one readily admitted that.

  “Vivian is of course, and understandably so, rather emotional. She is in a state that is accompanied by such mood fluctuations. The doctor told Will to expect…ah, well, to give her temperament some leniency.”

  She stared in stony silence. So, he went on.

  “You have been ill, and I think that is the reason you are so…”

  “So what?” Her brow furrowed.

  “Well, you are understandably unwell, and it makes you a bit moody. Anyone would be feeling out of sorts if their belly rebelled at every turn.” When she did not bite his head off, he stuck his neck out a tad further. “I am concerned by your illness. And, by your refusal to allow Doctor Fairweather to help you. Don’t you understand? How you feel matters to us. It matters to me. Please, when we get back to the estate, allow the doctor to examine you. He can help.”

  Amy pulled a huge breath into her lungs and held it while she turned her gaze ba
ck to the rug.

  “Can’t you just agree to see the doctor?”

  She shook her head. It was a small, sad movement and tore at his heart.

  “Why not? He can help you.”

  Meeting his gaze, she shook her head a second time. “No, he cannot.”

  Terror shot through him. He fought to keep his voice steady.

  “Whatever do you mean? Are you ill—tell me, please, do not keep me in the dark. Are you ill in a dangerous way? Tell me, please.”

  He was begging, but he did not care. It had so recently come to him that he cared for the woman that the thought she might be deadly ill nearly cut him in pieces. Small, jagged, painful pieces.

  “Only dangerous to me, I am afraid.”

  “I can help, if you will only confide in me. Damn it, Amy, I-I—damn it.”

  She gave him a shocked grin. “I believe you have already said that. The damn it part, I mean.”

  “You have to let me help. Don’t you understand how I feel about you? Please, don’t close me out. If something is wrong, I need to know.”

  Her hands lay in her lap, and he did not care that it was improper. He took one in his own, and when she tried to pull away, he gentled his touch and ran a fingertip across her palm. Amy ceased resisting, so he spoke softly so she leaned closer to hear. “This is not the time to say what I need to say to you. I am aware of that. But my feelings for you are more than…” He took a deep breath. Time was getting away from them, but he selfishly stole another moment. “I care about you, and when you are unwell, I am unwell. And, if there is a large problem to be solved, it is my hope that you will let me solve it with you. Please, don’t shut me out. I cannot stand the thought that something is wrong, yet you won’t tell me what it is. Worse still, that you won’t accept my help.”

  She disengaged her hand, but so slowly it seemed she truly did not want to break the connection. He did not force her and twined his fingers together when she placed both hands back on her lap.

  “You are sweet, Oliver.” The pause was punctuated by a deep breath, then a shaky exhale. “I am grateful, but you cannot help me. It is not something…ahem…well, it is not something that can be undone. No one can help me. Not even you, I am afraid.”

  He had to know. It would gnaw at him like a flea on a dog unless he asked.

  “So you are saying you do not care for me the way I do for you? Is that what you are telling me?”

  Amy met his gaze. Her eyes were veiled, and she hid her feelings behind a face whose features were so noncommittal she could have been asked if she preferred Earl Grey to Oolong.

  “It is. I do not care for you in that way, Oliver.”

  His gut told him otherwise, so he was stubborn in his acceptance. “But our kiss? Not to be indelicate, but you kissed me back.”

  She shrugged. “I was shocked by your behavior. You practically ravished me on the side lawn. What could I do? I was fearful for my life—you are a man, and I am outmatched. What else would any woman do? Can’t we leave the unpleasantness behind us?”

  Unpleasantness? Good Lord, but could she have lost her mind? Between the nausea and shock of Miranda’s absence, perhaps Amy had a case of the mental vapors.

  The only other explanation…

  “Are you imbibing on a regular basis?”

  She stood so quickly her knee knocked the edge of the table. Their cups clinked against their saucers, but neither looked down.

  “How dare you?” Amy paled at his accusation. Bright red spots appeared on her cheeks, looking even more impressive against the alabaster tone her skin had turned. “I-I—why, I am appalled by your inference. How dare you—just, how dare you?”

  With every ‘how dare you’ her voice rose. Soon the help would be outside the door, thinking there was something murderous taking place in the room.

  “Calm down, please. I did not—”

  “How dare you tell me to calm down?”

  She stomped a foot. Her hands had found her hips and were fisted on them, pulling her traveling gown upward slightly. He caught a glimpse of her leather boot landing just an inch from his own.

  “Amy, really…I do not believe you’re thinking rationally. If you would just listen—”

  Of course, he had gotten to his feet when she stood.

  Now, she pushed past him, a blue-skirted dervish in high temper. As she did, her skirts knocked the table, and their cups and saucers flew in all directions. The sound of shattering china and the scent of spilled cream followed her as she stalked across the room.

  “Whatever are you doing?” He was close on her heels, mindful of her toes and tempted to grab her and make her see reason.

  He had been irrational many, many times—for many months—while in the throes of addiction. It pained him to believe her capable of such behavior, but anything was possible. He could not cast a dubious eye on anyone after what he had done.

  She grabbed the door latch and would have pulled had he not covered her hand and held tight. “Let go—damn it, let go of me!”

  He did not immediately release her. There was a fine line between strong handing someone and just trying to protect them from themselves, and he stayed conscious of not being overly forceful. Still, she was not behaving rationally. He could not in good conscience just let her storm out.

  “Talk with me, please.” He put his mouth close to her ear and spoke quietly. She was so loud that he just wanted her to still. “Amy, I love you. I cannot let you―”

  She whirled and faced him. Her eyes were pain-filled, and tears hung on her lower lashes. When she spoke, her anger startled him.

  “You do not love me—you are like every other man, talking about love and romance, and-and-and forever—but you don’t mean it. It is a ruse, all of it. You-you men, you are all liars in topcoats, not to be trusted.” Her tears fell, streaming down her cheeks.

  He was dumbstruck by the intensity of her hatred for him.

  She scrubbed a hand over a cheek, a sad motion that made his heart fall. He took a step back and broke contact with both her hand and the door latch. Her distress was severe enough that to add to it by keeping her near him when she so vehemently wished to get away was cruel so he did not do it.

  Nothing entered his mind. It was completely blank. Nothing to soothe or smooth her anguish. He had offered her his heart and had been rebuked. After that, what could a gentleman say?

  Chapter 29

  Amy could not stop the man from following her. She was not afraid; he was one of the grooms from the manor’s stable and had been on her tail ever since she left the townhouse. At first, she had run without thinking. But one can only run blindly for so long before stopping to consider the next course of action.

  Miranda had been subdued recently, there was no denying it. Not just with her, but with the others, as well. No one pressed her for an explanation, although now it was apparent that someone should have done so.

  Who was she trying to fool? She was the person to reach out to her sister, but she had not. Her involvement with Lyle had consumed her, made her self-centered and let her neglect those who mattered most in her life.

  What had she done?

  London teemed with its usual late afternoon activity. How to find someone who does not wish to be found?

  Miranda was a practical person. She did little, if anything, on a whim. Her disappearance had been planned.

  On the slim chance that it had been an actual, honest-to-goodness lapse of judgment, she returned to the milliner’s. It was, thankfully, empty of shoppers.

  The clerk did not look surprised to see her a second time in one day. She smiled, as if it were the norm for three women to behave as they had. Amy appreciated her discretion.

  “Hello again.” She gave her a big smile, hoping to gain some confidence. “I was in earlier. With my, ah, sisters.” A small faradiddle could not hurt. And Vivian was part of the family that she considered her own, so really, how much of a falsehood was it?

  “Yes, of course. You
purchased three hats; all straw with different color embellishments. One violet, for the lady with the beautiful violet eyes. Yours was green, a deep emerald green that is a particular favorite of mine. And your other sister, the lady who left suddenly? I pray she likes the periwinkle blue, for it matches exactly the lovely outfit she wore.”

  The woman had keen observation skills. It would be to Amy’s advantage if there was a tidbit in that mind which would help her.

  “You are a clever woman, indeed. How you recall so vividly what each customer chooses is beyond me, but I commend you for that talent. I, sadly, can barely remember where I last left my reticule.”

  She attempted to appear cork-brained. In the past, her silly choices had brought the accusation upon her head, usually from Miranda’s lips or even Lucie’s well-intentioned concern, but the reality was her upper works were just fine.

  No one could say that looking for love was a terrible thing to do. It was all she ever wanted. It was what she believed Lyle was offering.

  The thought of the man came to mind, but she pushed it aside. He broke her heart, disillusioned her, and shattered her dreams, but it was all for the best. She knew now that she did not love him, and recalling his actions brought a sour taste to her tongue.

  Dear God, I hope I am not going to be ill.

  She swallowed hard, wishing the wave of biliousness to subside. It did, a little, so she hurried to conclude the visit. Best not to press her luck where her indiscretion was concerned.

  “Have you left your reticule?”

  The clerk looked about her, checking the shop tables and hat stands with a fast eye.

  “No, no…” Amy raised her arm and showed the bag dangling from her wrist. “I have it—today—but there are many instances where I cannot find it. I simply do not have a memory as sublime as yours.”