Two
Baron Buried After Eloping with a Blair By-blow
Dearest Reader,
Not one, nor two, but three sources have confirmed the nuptials of the first Baron of B to one of the scandalous sisters. It is said that Miss C is the first of the by-blows to trap a lord. All sources further revealed the marriage trap was set by the young miss, however, this author has it on good authority the opposite is true. Unfortunately, tragedy struck during the couple’s return to London when they were beset upon by brigands of the worst order. To the ton’s horror, the baron did not survive the attack as he attempted to protect his young bride.
The Earl of A came upon the scene in time to rescue the newly widowed baroness, who is reportedly convalescing at his country estate with the Countess of A and her exotic brood. One can only guess what the earl was doing on the road to Gretna Green.
—The Whispers of the Ton, London, March 5th, 1812
March 1813
He was dying. Simon Alexander Clark, Earl of Astley didn’t just feel it in his bones, he felt it in his gut, his fingers and his toes. His death was imminent. Days, hours, he wasn’t certain he could mark the time. He just knew death was kicking down his door and ready to seize his broken body and soul.
He should send word to his mother and siblings, but he didn’t want them to see him like this. Or rather, he didn’t think he could bear their grief. Watching others grieve was worse than experiencing it himself. He thought of Caillen, broken and battered. He’d attempted to save her, only to arrive moments too late to do anything but pick up the shattered pieces and force her to live, when she wanted nothing more than to slip into oblivion.
He hadn’t understood her desire to die, until now.
“Rise and Shine.”
Simon groaned and rubbed the expanse of his aching chest. His left arm was the one appendage on his entire body that seemed whole and hearty despite the wrappings around his wrists. The raw skin, tattered and exposed from months of manacles, seemed to no longer plague him. The rest of him bloody well hurt. He looked out his one good eye at the lavishly appointed bedchamber decorated in soft hues of blue and yellow. It was not his. It did not belong to his mistress…he’d let her go some time ago. Damn. He closed his eye.
“Rise and shine.”
If the most disagreeable female in his life was present, he was at least still breathing. “There will be no rising or shining in the foreseeable future, Charlotte,” he whispered through crackedlips. At least he thought he responded to her, his voice was so wobbly and frail, it may have belonged to a ghost.
“Bloody Nightingale,” Charlotte squawked loud enough to wake the damned dead.
“Go to bloody hell, Charlotte. I can’t even get out of this bed to piss.” Nor did he want to. It hurt too much.
“Then you should have rung the bell, and I would have helped you,” a different, more melodic female voice replied.
If he didn’t hurt so much, he would have begged her pardon. He had no idea who the voice belonged to; a maid, a nurse, a bloody courtesan? Now that was a manner in which a man could go to the afterlife with no regrets. Ross would do that for him. A moment of clarity made him realize there had been a time when his best friend, The Duke of Ross, would have known exactly how Simon would want to enter the afterlife, with a woman on top of him, but the Duke of Ross was now married and devoted to his duchess. Something so base as to hire a woman to ease Simon’s passing, however, would not be tolerated by the new duchess.
He sighed. Dying was proving to be a mundane process. As it was, he didn’t have the energy to express his regret or give a damn about the bloody shame of that admission. Instead, he asked in a weak whisper, “There’s a bell?”
“Next to your right hip so you don’t have to reach for it, remember?”
He felt, rather than saw, something being lifted from the bedding and then the softest touch he’d ever experienced picked up his injured hand that lay across his rather sunken abdomen and placed a cold, hard object in his palm. He flinched at the chill of metal. The smooth sleekness triggering memories of manacles and chains. He flung it across the room. Or at least he’d meant to throw the damned thing as far away from himas possible. It landed at his opposite hip. The side on which he couldn’t move his arm.
“Bloody hell. Get it away from me,” he croaked.
“It’s all right,” she soothed, gently grasping his hand once more, her bare hand skimming his own with a light touch that was barely perceptible. “If you don’t care for the feel of metal, it’s completely understandable.”
To women of society, it wouldn’t be. She was obviously baser born, familiar with the haunting effects manacles could have on a man.
“Grasp hold of the bell’s handle.”
“Give it a tug, Sweet,” Charlotte interjected.
“A tug is not required, Charlotte,” he replied. As much as he wouldn’t mind this woman sending him off to the beyond with her smooth, gentle hands wrapped around his shaft, his body didn’t have the stamina. Blast his damned luck, that.
Her gentle grasp of another appendage, his arm, however, was difficult to accept because, despite her compassionate nature, he found touch to be too dangerous, too intimate, just too much everything. He was glad death was coming. He didn’t think he could live without touch for years upon years. He hadn’t grown up in the typical ton family. His family was loud and boisterous and demonstrative with their affections. And he would never be that again.
“Who are you?” he asked. “A man should know the last person he speaks to on this earth. Charlotte doesn’t count.”
“You don’t recognize me?”
