Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 88
There was not enough time for him to tell his daughter everything she needed to hear, let alone time to summon her older sister.
And he was wasting the precious time he did have. The words that needed to be spoken were stuck in his throat, playing through his head, yet never passing his lips.
So many years he’d searched for Peter.
So many years he’d denied the existence of Ruby.
And all the while, he’d ignored the child before him.
Ellington.
He’d so infrequently spoken—or even thought—the name that it sounded foreign even in his mind. Her heart-shaped face, red hair, and freckled nose were as distant in his recollection as so many other things he’d put from his awareness in recent years.
What he did recognize was the loathing radiating from her very person, the hatred in her stare, and the aloofness she donned to mask it all.
Because, when he’d been able to stand and look in a mirror, her character appeared the spitting image of the man who’d sired her.
The Marquis of Drake.
As steadfastly as he’d denied it to Mrs. Bee and himself over the years, his blood ran heavy in Ellington’s veins.
She flaunted her superiority.
She fought with passion.
She argued relentlessly.
She made all the mistakes her father did. And she would pay for them, too—with loneliness, grief, and a life unlived.
What scared him the most was her propensity for doing exactly as she pleased. The girl did not think he noticed her comings and goings, but he was aware of everything going on in his household, even though he hadn’t left his bed in days.
He knew when the day came and she gave her heart to another, she’d love him with all her being; every ounce of her existence would be given to that person. But he feared that man would not know her worth or her loyalty. Andrew didn’t trust another to mend her broken heart…return the soul he’d stolen from her. He didn’t think anyone could.
She would cease to live if the man she finally came to trust and love were taken from her.
Much like himself…or, more accurately, the man the marquis used to be.
A memory so distant, Andrew wasn’t sure he’d ever truly been that man.
The man he was now was certainly not one his ancestors would be proud to count in their lineage—one future generations would wipe from every wall in his large home.
He knew his time was near, for his breath became increasingly hard to draw in; he realized these were his last moments. He needed to tell Ellington, show her that she was his. Convince her of the mistakes he’d made and admit to her how sorry he was for…everything.
He’d found and brought Peter to her.
At first, he’d been unconvinced of the child’s identity, but one look at the boy and Andrew had known his true parentage—his Lorelei…and Lord Chastain, the man Andrew had considered his friend for more years than he could count.
But he’d fought the realization for so long that there was no time left to tell the boy of his mother and the great love Andrew had shared with her, fleeting as their physical relationship had been.
It was only now, as he listened to his own death rattle in his chest, he realized that the boy’s deformities were no longer of import; that the physical abilities of a man were not more significant than the willpower and fortitude one possessed.
It was his heart that mattered most.
Andrew had spent hours…days, watching the young man in his duties. For his limited years, just six months older than Ellington, the boy was good with the horses and cared much for his fellow man. The other stable hands respected him and his abilities with the livestock.
“My daughter—” His words were barely understandable as he felt his lucidity fading. He should remain quiet and take his secrets to his grave without burdening anyone further. It would be the kindest thing he could do for his child, but his history had proven that he was anything but a kind man.
Ellington’s fingers tightened where she gripped his hand, warmer than the noonday sun upon his icy skin.
“Do not—” She cut off his words. “Not now, after all this time.”
“I must.” He pushed through the heaviness in his chest. “There is so much to say.”
“It is too late.”
Suddenly, Andrew was in a different time, another place…holding the dying form of the only woman he could say with certainty he’d loved. “I know what too late is, and we have not reached that point.”
“What could you say to me now that you have been unable to say in the past?” Ellington whispered. Her grip on his hand faltered before tightening once more. “You have been quite clear about how you feel toward me.”
“It is not your fault.”
She wrenched back in shock. “You think I ever believed that your treatment—your resentment—of me was my fault?” She stumbled over her words. “You are a sad, pathetic man.”
“I did not mean—“
“The meaning behind your words has never been anything but perfectly clear.” Ellington leaned in close to him once more, her eyes narrowing as she spoke, “You have made it well-known that I am only the daughter of a whore, not worthy of your time or your name.”
His words thrown back in his face stung a thousand times worse than any bee sting could.
“I am a bastard, left upon your doorstep by a woman who’d secured her own death by spreading her legs for any man with enough shillings.”
Andrew would not, could not, deny that he’d said those exact words many times over. His main goal had been to keep her at bay, suppress his own longing for love and acceptance. In truth, he didn’t deserve her love nor any forgiveness found this day. If he hadn’t become ill, it was likely he’d have continued to treat her harshly. Keeping her close for selfish reasons and forbidding her from finding her own way in the world. Andrew had promised Ellington no future except her measly existence under his roof.
Several times, he’d caught her sneaking into his house from God knows where at late hours of the night. He’d accused her of visiting those women of her mother’s ilk, women of the night at Craven House.
And Ellington had never denied it.
He’d feared that Ellington would leave him. Abandon him to be taken in by that group of harlots. The same set who’d sent the girl’s mother to seduce Drake in his time of weakness after his one true love wed another.
But Ellington had always returned to him.
Andrew had long wondered why his daughter would return to a man who gave her nothing and a home that would never be her own.
Maybe, just maybe, the one thing his daughter possessed was the only thing Andrew lacked himself.
The strength to persevere and the ability to make the best of one’s situation.
Andrew had given up long ago.
But now, he had one last chance to do right by her.
“Ellie,” he said, returning his look to her. He’d drifted off without knowing it, and he struggled to keep himself in the here and now and not ponder what awaited him, or dwell on what was long past. “Alex, you must trust him.”
“The stable boy?” Confusion clouded her face. “Whatever does he have to do with…anything?”
“He will care for you.”
“Certainly, you jest!” Her indignation at his words was exactly as he’d expected. “Have you promised me to a stable boy, Father? Is that to be my lot in life?”
She’d called him Father, something she’d only done once—and had been punished severely for, yet now, the words sounded sweet to his ears; a part of him being filled after so many years.
“Am I to live in a one-room hell with naught but what his meager salary will afford as we struggle to feed ourselves and the babies that keep coming?”
She said it as if it were far worse than death, though Andrew knew death—or the death of a loved one—was far worse. “If that were the case, would it be so terrible?”
Ellington looked around the darkened room; her eyes taking in the splendor that Andrew had always surrounded himself with. Crystal hung from the ceiling, vases adorned every table, and the best oil paintings money and influence could buy hung upon every wall.
“You never meant for me to have any of this, did you?” Ellington stood, the chair she’d sat in toppling over behind her and striking a framed landscape that leaned against the wall, nicking the wooden frame.
“No, I did not.” He would not lie to her, not in his last moments. “But that is not to say I have not planned for your future.”
“A stable boy…that is what you planned?” The accusation in her question cut him deeply. “You would keep my existence hidden for all eternity.”
“That is untrue, I only wish for you to trust Alex.” Everything was sounding so far from what he’d wanted to say to her. What he’d planned to say. “Ellington, my daughter, you are the only one strong enough to help him find who he truly is—it will determine not only his future but yours, as well.”
Andrew hoped he hadn’t made the direst mistake of his life by keeping Alex’s true past hidden; he feared the boy would never discover that he was so much more than an orphan raised amongst a horde of misfortunate souls.
But with Ellington by Alex’s side, he stood a greater chance than ever before.
Chapter 1
London, England
March, 1817
* * *
Lady Ellington peered through the slatted railing in the loft of the stables and down on the stable hands below as they hurried to and fro; mucking out stalls, polishing horse tack, and brushing the sweat from a matching pair of greys after their daily exercise.
The activity was relatively extensive for a residence in mourning, and therefore, a household in little need of horses or carriages. Since the marquis’ death, the stable had gone largely unused except for the rare occasion when Ellington’s older sister, Ruby, had stayed past dark and requested a carriage ride home.
Scanning the group below, Ellie spotted the man she searched for. Up until a year ago, she’d viewed him as not much more than a boy…and a crippled boy, at that. But since the marquis had mentioned him on his deathbed, her interest in him had been renewed.
Her curiosity only escalating after their brief sojourn to Lady Haversham’s Christmastide gathering.
Ember, her orange tabby, pushed into Ellie’s hand, demanding attention; with a quick pat to the cat’s head, Ellie went back to watching below.
Alex, two hooks in hand, swung a bale of straw out of sight below the high platform Ellie laid on, the loose straw hiding her from view. One would never know that he had one hand—and part of his arm—that were ever so slightly smaller than the other side, nor that he walked with a slight limp. In fact, all that she noticed at the moment was his bare chest and the corded muscles that ran the length of his back as he swung another heavy bale.
She must have made some audible sound, because just then, Alex looked up in her direction.
Quickly, Ellie pushed back from the railing, sliding across the dirty floor as the wooden boards below her groaned, her dress snagging on a splintered board as Ember walked the edge of the loft and mewled with vigor, exposing her presence to the men below.
Alex offered the cat a greeting from below. Ember’s tail flipped back and forth as she hurried to the ladder and navigated the rungs down to the stable floor.
“Traitor,” Ellie mumbled, pushing farther back into the shadows to hide from view.
It had become almost a ritual for her, lying high above the stable floor, watching and listening to the men jest about women, work, and cards, among other less thrilling topics—although Alex never said much. He kept silent when the men complained about their harping wives or the aches in their bones from their long day’s work.
In the time Ellie had been watching Alex, she’d learned absolutely nothing about him besides his affection for his nursemaid, Mrs. Dutton. On his one afternoon off each week, he normally spent it reading, reciting the books aloud, even with no one about to listen. On occasion, he’d taken the brisk walk to Lord Haversham’s townhouse. Ellie hadn’t the faintest idea what he did inside because she hadn’t wanted the task of explaining to her sister Ruby or Lady Haversham why she was there—they’d never believe she’d come on a social call without first being summoned.
No, until she found out exactly what her father had meant by his last words—that she should trust Alex—she wasn’t about to let her sister and her bosom friend, Lady Haversham, in on anything. It was enough that they barged into her home every other day to ‘make sure she fared well’ after she’d been less than cordial at Lady Haversham’s holiday gathering. They didn’t understand Ellie’s need to keep her distance after their return.
Ellie scooted once more toward the rail and peered down. Alex sat on a wooden bench, his shirt returned to his body—shame, that—and drank from a large jug. The container could only contain house water, for Ellie also knew that Alex did not partake in spirits as the other men did. His character was so at odds with every other man she’d known. It made no sense, but the fact drew her to him further.
Finally, a bell tolled and the men set down whatever they were working with and left the stables for noonday repast. This gave Ellie the opportunity to hurry down the ladder, out a side door used for kitchen deliveries, and make her way toward the main house.
“Miss?” Ellie paused, looking toward a man, possibly ten years her senior. “I am looking for a young woman—about your age.” He shielded his eyes as he spoke, slowly walking toward her.
“Ah, well.” Ellie looked about, noting she was startlingly alone in the yard between the stable and the back entrance to the manor. “I am the mistress here. Maybe I can help you find whomever you seek.” She’d never seen the man before, but he appeared well-dressed and acted the gentleman.
“I would be grateful for any help.” He looked about the yard as if noticing for the first time how alone and inappropriate the situation was. “My wife has been missing for several months and I have heard she may be here.”
Alarm bells went off in Ellie’s head—a missing wife…a few months gone…in her home.
“Oh.” She took a tentative step backwards toward the closed kitchen door. “I am certain there is no one in my household that hasn’t been in my employ for many years.”
“Are you positive?” he continued. “She may be working as a maid, or maybe in the kitchen?”
Another few paces and she’d be within reach of the kitchen door, or at least hearing range of her servants within. “No, you have the wrong house. I hope you haven’t traveled too far in your search.”
Without her noticing, he’d kept pace with her across the yard, his steps twice the length of hers. They were mere feet apart, and if he tried, he could reach out and grab her.
“You have not even heard her name.” He grinned, probably thinking it would comfort her—gain her trust—but it only sent a shiver down her spine. “Daphne.”
“What?” she asked.
“I am Sir Gregory, my lady. Her name,” he continued. “It is Daphne.”
Her back hit the doorframe, the knob digging into her back. “I think you should leave.” Her voice was too shrill, terror most certainly showing on her face. “There is no one here by that name.”
“In this entire grand house? Can you know all that work in your home?”
“I do,” Ellie lied. However, she did know what Daphne he referred to—and he’d have to step over her cold, lifeless body to reach the girl.
“Maybe you should ask about the house,” he continued. He’d stopped about three feet from her, and the distance at least gave her a measure of security. “I can come inside and we can ask—maybe your housekeeper will know her.”
“I said leave. Now.” Ellie stood straight from where she’d leaned against the door. Certainly, someone within could see her—and more importantly, notice that she was in need of assistance.
“I am not going anywhere until I have Daphne,” he sneered. “She is my property. I am her husband.”
“You will not have her.” Her quickly spoken words were confirmation; there would be no denying her knowledge of Daphne any longer.
“My lady?” Ellie looked up, terror surely etched her face from what had almost transpired. “May I assist you with something?”
Alex was at her side in an instant, a barrier between her and the man.
“Is something amiss?” The stable hand spoke to her, but glared at the intruder.
“Your mistress was about to run inside and collect—“
“I most certainly was not about to do anything of the sort.” She took a confident step forward. “This man was just leaving.”
Alex looked the man up and down, relaxing his menacing posture when he noticed he carried the upper hand; obviously sensing the dandy would be no match for him if anything turned physical. “Then you are both in luck. I am headed down the drive now. I can make sure you get on your way.”
“Thank you,” Ellie whispered close to his ear. “I am grateful.”
“It is my honor, my lady. You may return to the house.” Normally, she’d take offense to being ordered about, but all she could think about was getting to her room and making certain Daphne was safe. “Come, sir.”
The man pulled away when Alex attempted to grab his arm.
“I suppose I may be mistaken about her whereabouts.” He gave Ellie a curt bow as if mocking her. “Pardon the intrusion.”
Ellie didn’t pause long to watch the men make their way toward the main drive—Alex keeping pace with the man, yet behind to make sure he didn’t try to turn back.
She made little sound as she raced through the kitchen and up the flight of stairs used by the household staff. Servants lowered their heads as she hurried past, none uttering even a simple greeting.
She entered her room and listened for Daphne. Thankfully, she heard the girl mussing something in Ellie’s dressing closet. Ellie stripped the dusty, black fabric she was currently wearing from her body. The crushing cocoon of sorrow finally falling away with the heavy brocade mourning dress she’d donned for the last moments of sadness she’d attribute to the late Marquis of Drake.
