He ground his teeth together with loathing. His mother had died three weeks later, giving birth to the child who would have been Maximilian's brother. That same day, the earl had sold their house. He'd used the funds to build the ballroom.
Maximilian had decided long ago that he would own that room. He would open it up and hang a portrait of his father and mother on the center wall. He had planned to do so when he became lord of the manor, and had come very close to that end only two short weeks ago.
But of course, as always, there had been another setback. There had been further frustration because Creighton-that spineless old lord-had not been man enough to keep his daughter under control.
Maximilian looked down at the brandy glass again. Deciding that he would not be denied his due a second time, he raised the glass to his lips and downed the whole drink. He picked up the brandy bottle to pour another, watched the amber liquid gush forth, and carried the glass to the bed.
Yes, he had let Rebecca slip away because he had been too patient and easy on the earl, and had not expected any resistance. Not from the old man, at any rate, considering the history they had together. Rushton had assumed the earl's daughter would simply arrive on his own doorstep, dutiful as always, dressed for her wedding.
Evidently, he had underestimated her, which he now knew had been a mistake. He should have expected something like this, especially after the incident with the dogs.
He had been overconfident, he supposed, as he lay down on the bed, still wearing his coat and boots. He was convinced that he could snap her spirit like a dry twig once she was living under his roof. As it turned out, there was far more spirit and gumption than he had bargained for.
Not an unattractive quality in a wife, he decided, as he tipped his head back upon the thick pillows, for at least he could be sure their son-the future heir to the Creighton title-would not be a weak-willed jellyfish like the present earl. Maximilian's son would be taught with a firm hand never to whimper, and he would grow up to be a powerful man, hold a seat in the House of Lords, and Maximilian would enjoy a new position in society.
Yes, after all he had been through, it was time he reaped his due. If there was any justice in the world-and he could not accept that there was not-the Creighton earldom would repay its debts, both financial and otherwise.
Maximilian didn't care that Rebecca had married a marquess, for he still had the power and means to take her away. She would discover that very soon.
A fine, cold mist put a chill in the air the day Rebecca and Charlotte ventured out to visit the milliner. Their coach pulled up in front of the shop and slowed to a halt, and a footman hopped down from the page board to lower the step. He assisted them both out of the coach, and Charlotte led the way inside.
They were greeted by the milliner herself-an older woman with plump, dimpled cheeks and spectacles. She wore a gown of dark green foulard with Russian pleating, and appeared with a smile from behind an elegant display of hats.
"Lady Charlotte," she said, "how wonderful to see you. Have you come to view the new selection? I have a number of fashionable designs this week. Or if you would like to see the fabrics…"
Charlotte beamed. "Yes, Mrs. Sisk, I want to see everything. But first I must present you to my new sister-in-law, Lady Hawthorne. Rebecca, this is Mrs. Sisk, the most gifted milliner in England."
The woman placed a hand over her heart, then curtsied. "I am honored, your ladyship. I hope I can be of service to you in the future."
"Thank you, Mrs. Sisk," Rebecca replied. "I can see by looking around at your beautiful inventory that I will be visiting your shop often. This is spectacular." She gestured toward a stylish cap of embroidered batiste, edged with Mechlin lace and trimmed with lilac ribbon.
Mrs. Sisk turned to the hat in question. "You have exquisite taste, Lady Hawthorne. You may try it on if you wish, and if it does not fit perfectly, I can make you another exactly like it."
So followed an hour of delightful millinery pursuits, with both Charlotte and Rebecca experimenting with different colors and styles, while Mrs. Sisk spared nothing in tending to all their needs, whether it was in the presentation of hats and bonnets, or the arrangement of cookies on a tray, and tea with milk and sugar.
They were sitting on the sofa later in the afternoon, enjoying their cookies and cakes, when Charlotte glanced toward the window.
"Look at that man out there on the street, Rebecca. He has been pacing back and forth for quite some time. You don't suppose he is up to some kind of mischief, do you?"
Rebecca set her teacup on the table and turned.
"What is it, Rebecca? Do you know him?"
Her heart began to pound.
Rising slowly, she walked to the glass and spoke slowly, with disbelief. "It is the man my father wanted me to marry."
Charlotte set down her teacup as well and joined Rebecca at the window. "Mr. Rushton?" They continued to watch him as he looked in the shop windows across the street. "What was so terrible about him?" she asked. "You never really put it into words."
Rebecca swallowed uncomfortably. "He is cruel. He beats his dogs and horses, and he is ruthless in his ambition. He preys on those who are weaker than he-those he believes will permit him to be superior."
Charlotte wrapped her arm around Rebecca's. "In that case, I am very glad you came to us when you did."
Just then he turned and looked their way.
"Good Lord," Charlotte said. "He's seen us. We should not have been staring."
Rebecca strove to remain calm while her former neighbor started off across the street toward them. "I believe he saw us long before we started staring," she said. "My guess is that he has been watching us for the past hour."
"That is a rather disturbing notion." They both remained in the window, watching him approach. "What shall we do?"
"There is nothing else to do," Rebecca answered, working hard to steady her nerves, "but wait here until he comes through the door, at which time we will discover exactly what he wants."
Chapter 20
Devon had just sat down in his study to answer some letters of estate business, when the butler knocked and entered. "There is a Dr. Thomas to see you, my lord."
"Do send him up," Devon replied, relieved that the man had finally arrived. He set the letters aside.
A moment later, the butler returned and announced the doctor, then left and closed the door behind him. Devon took in the man's appearance and demeanor. He was fair-haired, slender, and appeared to be in his midfifties. There was a clear mark of intelligence in his eyes.
"Dr. Thomas, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he said, rising and coming out from behind the desk, "and it was good of you to come on such short notice."
"It is an honor to be of service to you, Lord Hawthorne." They shook hands.
Devon invited the man to sit. "I presume my mother explained the particulars to you in her letter?"
The doctor moved to the sofa. "Her Grace said the duke has been unwell. She mentioned symptoms of insomnia, anxiety, and some possible delusions?"
Devon regarded the doctor steadily. "That is correct. All this is confidential I presume."
"Of course, my lord."
He paused a moment, watching the doctor's eyes, then sat down in a facing chair. "My father wanders the palace corridors at night talking to himself-or rather, he talks to the portraits of his ancestors, the first duke especially. He has let his appearance go-his valet has had a difficult time lately-and he often seems nervous, agitated, frightened."