He walked to the window where he could look outside to the south wing where the ballroom was located. Possession of that, he supposed, was his foremost ambition.
A few minutes later he heard the sound of the earl's cane tapping down the stone staircase, then he appeared, breathing heavily and clutching a woolen shawl around his narrow, hunched shoulders.
"How dare you keep me waiting," Rushton said.
Creighton made his way across the hall. His face was pale and gaunt. "May I offer you a drink?"
"No."
The earl approached him warily. "I assume you read my note?"
Rushton reached into his breast pocket and withdrew it. He held it up between two long fingers, wiggled it in the air, then tossed it onto the ashes in the grate. "How is it possible that you do not know the whereabouts of your own daughter?"
"She sneaked away four nights ago. I thought perhaps she might return by now."
"You promised to deliver her to me today. Instead I get this written apology. You should have informed me sooner."
The earl had no reply.
Rushton strode to him. He was more than a foot taller than the old earl, and found himself looking at the top of the man's balding head, for his cowardly gaze was fixed on the floor as usual.
"Did you make the mistake of telling her she would become my wife?"
The earl nodded. Still he did not look up.
Rushton spoke in a low controlled voice, though it boiled with his wrath. "Why? You should have just stuck her in the carriage and brought her to me."
"I had to tell her," he replied. "She knew something was wrong."
"Well, now something is wrong," Rushton said. "My bride has run off and you are in danger of being exposed. If you want to prevent it, get your daughter back."
"I don't know where she went."
"You had best figure it out, Creighton, or you know what will happen. You have one week."
Never once lifting his gaze, the earl backed away and sank into a chair against the wall. He dropped his head into a trembling hand and began to weep.
Rushton felt no pity for the man. He could not. Creighton had brought this on himself, doing what he did to Serena that day at the rotunda. He deserved to go to hell for it.
Besides that, there were too many years of his own misery locked away in this house. It was why he had brought Serena here to tempt and lure the earl into his trap in the first place. If the man had not lost his head at the rotunda, Rebecca would not now be forced to be a part of this. Serena would have accomplished the task for her. She would have borne a male heir for Creighton, then Rushton would have moved in to take over from there.
But it hadn't worked out that way, had it? So now he needed Rebecca. His lip twitched with repugnance as he turned around and walked out.
Chapter 12
Devon glanced up from the paperwork on his desk when a knock sounded at his door and his mother entered his study. She wore a form-fitting gown of lavender silk, and looked as lovely as ever, though he could see from her expression that something was troubling her.
"Good morning, Devon. Do you have a moment?"
"Of course." He invited her to sit across from him by the window. "You haven't come to tell me I'm making the worst mistake of my life, have you?"
"No, nothing like that," she said with a smile. "To the contrary, I am thrilled for you, as I think very highly of Lady Rebecca. Charlotte and I have been fortunate enough to become acquainted with her over the past few days, and we both admire her very much. She is lovely. I could not have chosen a better bride for you myself."
"Not even Lady Letitia?"
His mother gave him a knowing look. "She was your father's choice, not mine."
"In that case, I am pleased you approve of the choice I have made."
She folded her hands together on her lap. "You might be surprised to hear it, but regardless of Lady Letitia's departure, your father could not be happier. He hasn't said anything to me, of course, but I know he is proud of you, and pleased that you have taken up your rightful position here at the palace again, so soon after your return."
He had not spoken to his father privately about his engagement. He had chosen to announce it publicly at dinner the night before. Everyone had applauded, and his father, who was seated at the head of the table, had risen and raised a glass and delivered an elegant and jovial toast. No one in a hundred years would have guessed the man was off his rocker.
Devon was simply relieved that he had not thrown a fit over Letitia.
"But I confess," his mother continued, "that I sense you are not completely comfortable with your decision. Are you having doubts?"
He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. "Do not worry, Mother. I am a man no different from any other, and as such have earned the right to have cold feet before my wedding day. Which is being planned with incredible haste, I might add. What man wouldn't be uneasy?"
"But you are not just any man," she replied. "And I know you too well. It's more than cold feet."
He gave up trying to appease her with jokes and lighthearted assurances. "You have always known it would be this way for me, Mother. You know how I feel about marriage and love."
"I know how you feel about your role in Vincent's tragic attempt at marriage."
He paused, then spoke in a low, gentle voice. "Your unhappiness has always cut my heart deeply, Mother."
He had always known his parents' marriage had been arranged, and later he had come to understand that she had once loved another. Though she would never speak of it.
She slowly stood up and turned away from him. "Please do not say such things. It would break my own heart to think that I was the cause of your unwillingness to find joy in your marriage." She faced him again. "Do not use Vincent or me as examples, Devon. We are poor ones. Especially me."
"Because you married for duty to your family? Isn't that what we all must do?"
"Not necessarily."
He gazed long and hard at her. "You know I am in an impossible situation, Mother. Father has already altered his will and he has an iron fist when it comes to what he thinks is best for everyone. I have already surrendered to my duty and proposed. There can be no turning back."
"I don't want you to turn back, nor do I want you to simply 'surrender to duty.' I want you to have more than that. I do not want you to feel as if you put everyone else's happiness before your own. I don't want you to feel as if you have made a mistake."
"Are you saying you made a mistake in marrying Father?"
He wanted to hear her say it.
She was speechless for a moment, but remained always the proper duchess and wife. "No, I will never regret the decisions I have made. I was meant to marry your father, so that I could have you and Vincent and Blake."
"And the twins," he added for her. "Charlotte and Garrett."
She lowered her gaze. "I was meant to have them, too, of course."
But they were the evidence of what she believed was her greatest transgression-her one brief flirtation with happiness, her children by another man. She carried the shame with her like a wedding ring.
No one ever spoke of it. It was one of those family secrets buried in the gardens of the past, where flowers grew from roots no one would ever see.
She sat back on her heels. Her voice was resigned and heavy with guilt. "Don't, Devon. I came here to discuss your future, not my past."
He leaned forward and took her hands in his, determined just this once to expose that wound she kept wrapped and hidden from everyone, and gently apply salve to it if he could. He spoke softly.
"Do not punish yourself, Mother. You are a saint. You seized one moment of happiness, which you deserved. You deserved it because you sacrificed your entire life to give your sisters and family a better future. You never thought of yourself. You still do not, and we all respect and adore you for that. You have set the finest example for all of us, so do not tell me to do something different from what you have done."