Love's Price(20)

“I’m assuming,” he said, “that you were shocked to see him.”

“That would be putting it mildly.”

“I didn’t realize you would be so undone, or I wouldn’t have sprung him on you like that.”

“Had I been given a month to prepare, I doubt I’d have been ready.”

Westwood pulled up a chair, and he moved it very close so their feet and legs were entwined.

“Tell me about him. Tell me what they did to you and your sister.”

It seemed as if he truly wanted to know, but she never discussed her family, how she and Harriet had been treated, how appalling and lonely it had been.

If she told him, what would he think?

He was fond of her, and though it was foolish and wrong, his heightened interest was the only thing that made her life bearable. If she confessed her past, and he was condemning or judgmental, she’d be crushed.

At the same time, the notion of unburdening herself was so tempting. She’d often yearned to talk with someone who might commiserate and advise.

Could it be Westwood? Could he be a confidante and friend?

She decided to take a chance, to discover where it would lead, and she began speaking. As Westwood sat quietly, holding her hand, she shared the entire narrative, and by giving her his undivided attention, he provided her with precisely what she’d needed for so long.

He listened. He really listened, and the fact that he did was a kindness that no other person had ever extended to her. It was a gift she would always cherish.

When she finished, she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Uncle Richard claimed that my father was actually the earl of Trent. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know him,” Westwood carefully said.

“Could it be true? Could Lord Trent be my father?”

Westwood clasped her arm, and he studied the birthmark on her wrist. It was shaped like a figure-eight, and she and Harriet both had one in the exact same spot. He traced his finger over it.

“I have no idea if he’s your father,” he ultimately responded. “I suppose anything is possible.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

For an eternity, he stared at her, then he asked, “Would you like to visit Brookhaven?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It might be stressful for you.”

“It might be.”

“Or it might be beneficial. You might come to terms with what happened. You might find some peace in your heart.”

“I might. I can’t decide right now. I’m too overwhelmed.”

He assessed her again, and he seemed to be taking her measure, calculating the odds for a gamble she couldn’t fathom.

“If I agree to let you go”—he smiled his lazy smile—“would you promise to come back?”

She chuckled. “Yes, I’d come back.”

“I’d hate to have to travel there and fetch you home. I’d be very irritated.”

“You wouldn’t have to.”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes. It was very helpful to talk about everything. I never have before.”

“Then I’m glad I could be the one in whom you finally confided.”

He released her hand and stood, and she stood too, and he drew her into his arms, kissing her very sweetly, very tenderly.

“I don’t like your cousin,” he said.

“He’s harmless, and he means well.”

“I don’t care. I still don’t like him. I don’t understand why he came to see you.”

“He told you: He wants to make amends for how his father treated me.”

“Maybe,” James grumbled. “Or maybe he has some ulterior motive.”

“Such as?”

“I couldn’t begin to guess, but he seemed the type who would have all sorts of plots hatching.”

“It’s less sinister than that. He’s full of himself; he always was. He’s inherited the estate, and he’s playing lord-of-the-manor. He’s trying to impress me with his generosity.”

“And are you impressed?”

“Not yet.”

It was his turn to chuckle, and she sighed and snuggled nearer. She felt so safe, so adored.

“May I ask a favor of you?” she inquired.

“Anything.”

“May I leave for a bit?”

“Leave?” He glowered. “Where do you need to go?”

“Now that I’ve seen Nigel, I would like to speak with my sister.”

“She’s here in London?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“She’s working as a housemaid for a man named Bentley Struthers.”

Westwood wrinkled up his nose. “He’s an ass.”

“So I’ve heard, and I worry about her. I haven’t visited her in weeks, and I’d like to check on her. I’d like to tell her about Nigel.”

He frowned and dithered, then said, “Two hours. And you’ll go in my carriage and take a footman with you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

“I realize that, but you’ll go in my carriage or you won’t go.”

She glared at him, but she knew she couldn’t change his mind.

“All right,” she relented, “but not one of the grand coaches. Something small, so I won’t have people staring at me.”

“What’s wrong with having people stare?”

“I hate being a spectacle. I’m a normal person.”

“And I’m not?”

“No, you’re definitely not normal.”

“Ha!” he huffed. “I believe I’ve been insulted.”

He looked so petulant that she laughed, then rose on tiptoe and initiated a kiss of her own.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For being kind to me.”

He was embarrassed by the compliment, and it occurred to her that perhaps he wasn’t praised often. She thought he led a lonely life, that he had many acquaintances, but no genuine friends, and while she had found a friend that day, maybe he had, too.

He went to the door, instructing the butler to have a carriage brought round, to have a footman accompany her.

As the vehicle arrived, he escorted her out and helped her in himself. He dawdled, silently gazing at her, and she suffered from the most burning urge to touch him. She stuck her hand out the window, just the barest amount so that—if they were being observed—no one would see. He reached out and gave her fingers a quick squeeze, then stepped away.

“Two hours,” he said, “and if you’re not back, I’ll come for you.”

He signaled the driver, and the coach lumbered off.




Miranda glanced out an upstairs window, and the sight that greeted her was alarming.

James was standing in the drive and chatting with Helen Stewart as if they were bosom companions. He assisted her into a carriage, without waiting for a footman to do it for him.

Miranda had a clear view of their faces. Their expressions were filled with such painful longing that there was only one inference to be made: They were in love.

How could it be? How could it have happened? They were never alone; they hardly socialized.

She had to be mistaken!

She continued to spy on them, stunned as Miss Stewart reached out and James gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. He murmured a private, tender comment, then moved away.

Shocked to her core, Miranda bit down a gasp and stumbled off.




Nigel strolled slowly toward his cab that was parked down the street. He was fuming, but in case anyone inside Westwood’s house was watching, he didn’t want them to notice.

With the best of intentions, he’d called on Helen to propose marriage. She’d have been mistress of Brookhaven—in line of authority after his mother of course—and what did he get for his effort?

He’d been insulted by Westwood and snubbed by Helen.

Westwood had treated Nigel as if he was a buffoon, and he’d shown no deference to Nigel’s position or family.

Helen had been even worse. Though she hadn’t seen Nigel in years, she hadn’t evinced the slightest excitement over his appearance.

If he couldn’t lure her away from Westwood’s employ, if he never had the opportunity to flirt and coerce her, how would he convince her to be his bride?

He needed the money Trent would bestow on her, just as he needed the dowry her grandfather had provided. He needed it!

There had to be a way to get her off by herself. He merely had to find it.

He approached the hackney and was about to climb inside, when he noted a handbill nailed to a lamppost.

WANTED, the paper said in big letters, information regarding the whereabouts of VIOLENT FELON, Harriet Stewart.

The name was common enough, so it might have been any woman, but there was a good sketch of her, along with a physical description that matched Harriet exactly. She was being sought on numerous charges including theft, assault with a deadly weapon, and... attempted murder?

Agog and fascinated, he read the document over and over.

Harriet had always been a troublemaker, so he wasn’t surprised by the allegations, but even for Harriet, it seemed rather excessive.

The words on the bottom were most intriguing: LARGE REWARD OFFERED!

Nigel grinned, tore the poster from its mooring, and tucked it in his coat.




“Excuse me,” Helen said. “Might I ask you a question?”

“Harriet! What are you doing?”

Helen pushed back the hood on her cloak. “I’m not Harriet. I’m her twin sister, Helen.”