Two days ago she had heard the same rumor that he was at his country estate in Hampshire. Elizabeth had been surprised and dismayed. She was in London—and he was within miles of her home at Eastleigh. She’d left the ball early, ordered her maid to pack her things, and they had returned to Eastleigh the following day.
It was all she could do not to rush over to Wideacre the moment she arrived home, but not only did she need to visit her husband and concern herself over his welfare and health, she had two daughters she dearly loved and missed. Instead, she had seen to Eastleigh’s health and had spent the day with the girls. It was her stepson, William, who had casually let the cannonball drop.
“I suppose you have heard about our new neighbor, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth sat outside, watching her younger daughter riding sidesaddle over a series of small jumps. She applauded enthusiastically. Not looking at William, she had said, “I beg your pardon?” She very much disliked her eldest stepson.
“Oh, come!” He sat down next to her in a lawn chair, his long legs sprawling out. “My, Lila is such a fine horsewoman.” He faced her, his face too close for comfort. “We both know why you have hurried so quickly home in the midst of the new season!”
“William, I have no idea what you are speaking of,” she had returned, standing and fanning herself. “Lila!” she called as her daughter rode her chestnut horse up to the edge of the terrace. “That was wonderful, simply wonderful!”
“Thank you, Mother.” Lila beamed, her blue eyes sparkling. She whirled the horse and cantered off, clearly wishing to impress yet again.
William also stood, just behind her, uncomfortably close. When he spoke, it was in a whisper, and his mouth practically touched her ear. “Devlin O’Neill is in residence at Wideacre, and he has openly installed his mistress there.”
And Elizabeth’s heart had stopped.
Now she saw the brick pillars and the drive just ahead. Her heart felt as if it were lodged rudely in her throat. And there it burned. This was a mistake, she thought, a terrible mistake. Devlin could not possibly have a mistress at Wideacre—she was his mistress!
Of course, she had always known there were other women. But she did not care about Spanish barmaids and Sicilian whores. She did not care what he did when he was gone for months on end on a tour.
She did care, very much, what he was doing now.
VIRGINIA HAD ESCAPED THEhouse hours ago, taking a very long walk into the village and back. Now, as she entered the drive, she saw the carriage parked in front of the manor and froze. Dread began. She firmly—grimly—shoved it aside. Three days had passed since their first caller and there had been a dozen callers since. Apparently half of Hampshire knew that the infamous Captain O’Neill was living openly with his mistress and everyone had to come see for him or herself. She thought she was playing the game well. She kept her head high, her tone soft, she called him darling, touched and kissed his cheek, and the scandalmongers were satisfied. Devlin was satisfied. Only she knew how hard it had all become.
She hated every moment. It was like being a fish in a fishbowl. Or worse, it was like being a naked woman in a fishbowl, gawked at by lechers with terrible intent. And Devlin did not seem to care. But then, she would never let him know that the game had become such a terrible indignity.
She paused, staring at the front of the stone house, hugging herself. She was simply not up to another performance; she was not up to a severe and judgmental inspection. She debated going back to the road and continuing her walk when she noticed the banner on the carriage.
She knew it well. Her father had had a book of coat of arms and she had been shown the Eastleigh emblems at an early age. Her heart lurched. She did not know whether to be thrilled or dismayed. But Eastleigh must have come to pay her ransom. And maybe it was time to give up, maybe it was time to simply go home.
A part of her shrieked inwardly, refusing to be such a coward. Virginia ignored the silent tantrum, but as she hurried toward the house she wondered how easy—or how hard—it would be to walk away from Devlin O’Neill now.
“They are in the library, Miss Hughes,” Tompkins said, his eyes wide. And he was not smiling.
Virginia halted, confused. Devlin always entertained their callers in the parlor. And Tompkins always smiled. “Is something amiss?” she dared to ask.
His smile appeared, terribly strained. “Of course not. They are behind closed doors,” he added with significance.
Virginia had been about to walk away. She halted and looked right at the butler. “It is my uncle, the Earl of Eastleigh?” she asked.
“It is the countess,” he said.
Virginia blinked. How odd, she thought, instantly envisioning an old woman as fat and gray as her husband. But maybe the countess had come to ransom her, as the earl seemed so feeble. She started forward, began to open the door, and the moment she did so, she heard the soft, cultured and sensual tone of a woman who was neither old nor feeble. The tone was of a young woman in distress.
Virginia froze.
“I don’t understand this, Devlin.”
The countess was calling him Devlin? Virginia peeked past the door, which was ajar by mere inches. She gasped.
A very beautiful blond woman, old enough to be William Hughes’s wife, not Eastleigh’s, stood facing Devlin, clearly aggrieved. She was more than lovely; she had a lush, seductive figure and a face of terrible, haunting beauty. Beyond dismayed, Virginia’s gaze shot to Devlin, but his face was a mask, impossible to read.
Her heart began to pound.
“Is it true?” the countess asked softly, touching his chest.No, God, no,Virginia thought,this cannot be.
“I’m afraid so, Elizabeth,” he said, and he walked away.
