“Why, when I caught her sneaking in through the kitchens with straw poking out of her hair at all angles”—her hand splayed against her chest—“well, I knew at that moment, all our plans were for naught. She had to marry immediately.”
“I told her I would be back within two weeks,” he bit out. Why was he letting them get to him?
“How were we to know that? That girl was an undisciplined hoyden. She wasn’t the delicate miss we spent years instilling,” she twittered. “She didn’t even afford her late husband a full year of mourning. We’ll be the laughingstock.”
In a deliberate, slow turn, Brock pierced the baroness in place with all the haughty disdain learned at his father, the Duke of Addis’s, knee. “Laughingstock? That’s what you’re worried about? Those marks on her arms you inquired about, did you truly wonder where they originated?”
“How did you know I—” Her large frame dropped into a sturdy chair. The baron put a tumbler of whiskey in her hand, and she gulped a large swallow. “No, I-I—”
“I’ll tell you where they came from. From that very husband you sold her off to for the sake of ruin. He took great pleasure in putting out his half-smoked cheroots on her skin. He broke her wrist. Shall I go on?” Brock brushed his palm along his shoulder.
“You heard the baroness,” Wimbley blustered. “Virginia couldn’t follow a rule to save her life, and when we discovered she’d spread her legs for the first vagrant—”
At the force of Brock’s hit, the chair toppled back with Wimbley still stuffed in it, blood pouring from his snout. Brock leaned over the man. “Do I look like a vagrant to you?”
“What the devil were we supposed to do? At the least she would be ruined. At the worst, saddled with a bastard. All of her own making.”
A child. Irene?It wasn’t possible. Maudsley had been dead almost a year. Surely Ginny would have told him if that had been the case, but the seed took and refused to be rooted out. Grabbing Wimbley by his starched neckcloth, Brock rose, pulling him and the chair upright. “Children are not made by a mother’s own making, you fool.”
The door to the parlor flew open, and Ginny hurried in. She marched straight over to him and poked her finger into his chest. “This ismyhome. You have no right telling tales about my marriage.”
“They need to kno—”
“No, they don’t. It’s no one’s business but mine.”
A dead calm iced his veins. His fingers were numb with the sensation.
But she didn’t appear to notice his absolute fury. She spun around and spotted her father’s bloody face. Hers paled, starkly highlighting the freckles across her nose. “What the devil happened here?” She hurried to the bell cord.
Kipling appeared seconds later. “Madam?”
“Ice, Kipling. Cloths and water. Right away.”
The baroness seemed stunned into a slab of marble, not an inch of her swaying. “Mother.” Ginny snapped her fingers in her face. “What happened?”
She flinched, jerking back to life. “Lord Brockway. He hit your father.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Did Maudsley truly burn you? Did he break your—”
She shot Brock a withering look that would fell a lesser man. “It appears Lord Brockway could rival the rumormongers at Almack’s with his loose tongue.”
As furious as Brock was, he couldn’t help the admiration that filled him watching her. When he’d found her on the floor of her bedchamber the year before, she’d been almost dead, unconscious for several days. At the time, he hadn’t believed he would ever bask in the fire of the girl he’d tumbled in that loft ten years before. “How old is Irene?”
The air in the parlor dissipated. Ginny froze, all but her left hand. It trembled. Kipling chose that moment to enter with his tray of medical necessities that rattled with each step.
Ginny took advantage, ignoring his question. “Just set it on the secretary, Kipling. Thank you.” She dipped the cloth in the water and set to the process of cleaning the grime from Lord Wimbley, starting with his forehead. “Did he break your nose, Father?”
“I fear he might have.”
The baroness sprang to life. “Your father cannot possibly go to the theater now. We shall have to cancel.” She took the cloth from Ginny.
Inspiration struck Brock like a bolt of lightning. “That’s not necessary. I shall accompany you, Lady Maudsley.”
Ginny opened her mouth as if to refute him but snapped it shut, finally speaking as if the words were being drug from her. “Yes. I should enjoy that, my lord.” Meaning clearly she wouldn’t.
The baroness’s gaze moved between Brock and her daughter with a calculation he was altogether familiar with, but this was one time the tactic would work in his favor.
“Yes. That should suffice.” She lifted her nose with a sniff in Ginny’s direction. “I do hope you are not planning to attend Drury Lane dressed as a peasant, my dear.”
Ginny’s eyes flashed fire. She glanced down at her damp skirts. “Yes, I suppose I should change. Please pardon me, my lord.”
