Page 89 of Passions of a Wicked Earl
“Don’t suppose you thought to bring any liquor.”
“We’ll be stopping soon to change horses. If you’re quick about it, you should have time to get something to eat and drink.”
Stephen didn’t want to think that they might arrive too late. He might not be so concerned if Westcliffe didn’t look as though he’d ridden through hell. “About your wedding—”
“I know what you did and why you did it, but it was still idiotic. I’m not going to relieve you of any guilt you might be feeling, so save the words.”
“Rot in hell.”
“Do you not think I’m already there?”
Stephen turned his attention to the dreary countryside. For the first time, he wished his mother hadn’t managed to keep him in England. He thought facing hordes of Britain’s enemies would be preferable to facing what awaited them at Lyons Place.
“It was supposed to be Anne,” he said quietly.
“What?”
“In the conservatory.” He looked at his brother. “I was supposed to meet Anne there. Claire was the last person I expected to see. Her back was to me. In the shadows I could tell little of her hair, little about her. I thought I was kissing Anne. She’d approached me—”
“She approached you?”
“Yes. In Chelsea. How she found me, I don’t know. But she wanted us to have a tryst in her conservatory while there was a ball being held in her residence. She thought it would be wicked, fun.”
“That sounds like Anne.”
It worried him that his brother’s voice was so flat and emotionless. He leaned forward. “I’m wondering, though, do you think her plan all along was to have you find me with Claire? If she knew your temper—”
“She knew my temper.”
Stephen heard his brother’s harsh curse. “She can’t have been that conniving.”
“If she wanted you badly enough,” Stephen cautioned.
Westcliffe cursed again. “I shall never forgive myself if I am the cause for this.”
“Perhaps if Claire recovers, and we know how she came to be there, it will all make sense,” Stephen offered.
“Perhaps.”
The rain had stopped, but the mud made for slow going.
“Are you sober enough to sit a horse?” Westcliffe suddenly asked.
“I can. Can you?”
“We’ll transfer to saddles at the next stop.”
They’d chopped off her hair. Westcliffe knew it was a silly thing to mourn: the loss of the glorious golden strands, but mourn them he did. The short tufts gave her the appearance of a baby chick.
“The physician said her hair was holding the fever in her brain,” the maid said.
Westcliffe had never heard of such a thing, but then what did he know about the healing arts? He wished he’d had the wherewithal to think to bring a physician from London with him. Surely a doctor in the city knew more than a doctor in the country.
“Has she awoken?” he asked.
“A couple of times, m’lord, but she is so weak—”
She was still blabbering her dire predictions when he went to the sitting area, selected a chair, and shoved it over to the bed, nearest the side where Claire lay. “Sit,” he ordered Stephen.
