Launching herself at him, she pummeled his chest with her fists, and he let her. Hands at his sides, Owen remained motionless under her assault. She continued until she heard a strange sound and realized it was herself, sobbing and moaning.
The sound of the frightened child she’d once been under her father’s torment stayed her fists. Paralyzed, she could barely breathe while tears coursed down her cheeks, and her hands, still balled, rested upon Owen’s broad chest.
As he drew her close, she pressed her face against his coat. He was warm, his heart beating strongly beneath her cheek, and he smelled familiar. He smelled like the man with whom she had been falling in love.
Feeling him gesturing with one arm, probably to summon his coachman, he embraced her again. She heard his carriage drawing close, and wordlessly, he turned her toward it.
Not acknowledging what she was doing, keeping her head down, Adelia let Owen help her into the safety of his clarence. He sat close on the same side, his thigh touching hers and his arm draped around her, as if he could stave off all the evils of the world and all the pain she would ever face. Yet, he was the one who’d caused the worst of it.
“I will never forgive you,” she whispered, leaning her head upon him.
“I know,” he said.
Chapter Eighteen
Adelia was unableto rest despite being bone-weary. She hadn’t slept a wink since Owen deposited her in her front hallway. She’d closed the door firmly on his parting words, not listening, nor did she return Mr. Lockley’s greeting. Standing at the bottom of the staircase, she sensed how hollow and vacant her home was, knowing her brother wasn’t there.
Nor would he be—not ever again—unless she did something about it.
Trying to rest for an hour, she lay down upon her counterpane fully dressed in her beautiful gold and blue gown from the Cambreys’ dinner, now all rumpled. She doubted she would ever wear it again.
However, sleep would not come. She considered who she could enlist as an ally. Obviously, she would have to send word to Mr. Beaumont and to Mr. Arnold in a day or so, but she could think of no one else who need know or who would care.
Keenly, she felt the lack of friends and family. She couldn’t even confide in Penny, who might talk to the other servants. If the belowstairs gossips caught wind of it, word of her brother’s incarceration could spread throughout Mayfair and beyond by midday. Of course, his valet might ask her when to expect the master of the house’s return, and she would think of something vague to tell him.
Hours later, she rose from her bed and let Penny give her a sponge bath before selecting a respectable day gown. After her maid brushed Adelia’s hair, she put it up in a plain bun—hopefully the perfect hairstyle for meeting with lawyers and then going to Newgate to visit her brother and pay off guards.
She could still hardly credit what had happened.
And through the entire morning, as she collected a sack of coins and climbed into her carriage, Adelia’s thoughts kept returning to Owen. The blasted perfume had shredded the screen of duplicity she’d woven between her and the viscount. She was not particularly proud of having lied to him, but she would do it again the same way, particularly after knowing the awful outcome.
On her way to the Inns of Court, knowing the massive task ahead and how ill-equipped she was to discern a good lawyer from a bad one, in desperation, Adelia opened the window and called to her driver to alter his course. In short order, she drew up in front of the townhouse of Lord and Lady Christopher Westing.
Terror gripped her, but she could think of no one aside from this couple whom Owen had always spoken so highly. Lord Westing was his dearest friend, and Owen had stood by the marquess after he’d been blinded in a gas explosion. In any case, it was not him she had come to speak with. It was his wife.
Lady Jane was known for her good work with London’s most unfortunate creatures, the orphans and beggars. Beyond that, she was considered capable and organized, not to mention kind. Adelia needed all of that.
With a trembling hand, she rang the bell, mindful of the utter impropriety of showing up uninvited to a stranger’s home. At least it was nearly eleven, so not too terribly early.
When the door swung open, she tried to speak, but nothing came out. The butler waited, staring at her, although not unkindly. She cleared her throat and tried again.
“I wonder if Lady Jane is…that is…if Lady Jane is…,” she trailed off as her voice squeaked to a stop.
The butler frowned slightly but managed to quickly become a mask of indifference.
“Lady Jane is at home and seeing visitors. May I have your calling card?”
“My card,” she murmured, and the butler stared pointedly at the thick cream-colored stock in her hand.
Ninny!she scolded herself. Yet, as she raised a still-shaking hand, she found her fingers weren’t working correctly. For while the man tried to take the card from her, she had trouble letting go. In fact, she could only grip it more firmly.
After an embarrassing few seconds of him tugging and her clutching, she finally managed to work her tight fingers, releasing the card with a sigh of humiliation.
As if nothing untoward had occurred, the butler read the card, bowed his head, and said, “This way, my lady.”
Stepping back, he allowed her entrance into the Westings’ marble foyer. After he had closed it behind them, he led the way toward the first set of double doors to the right of the entry and opened the left one so she could step through.
“Please make yourself comfortable, my lady. I shall advise Lady Westing as to your presence.”
