“I had my supper,” he jeered, “but obviously, I missed my dessert.”
More rapidly than she might have imagined possible given his size, he trapped her against a cupboard, his body squashing hers into the oak cabinetry.
His beefy arms encircled her like a vice as he fought to kiss her. His lips were sloppy and wet, and she was so disgusted that she worried she might swoon, but if she fainted, there was no telling what he might do.
She knew what happened between men and women. The other maids had educated her in the facts of life, and she had no illusions. Bentley would hurt and humiliate her, might even impregnate her, and then what would become of her?
Through every hazard and storm of the prior four years, she’d protected her virginity like the fussiest debutante. She’d presumed that someday, somehow, she’d return to the world into which she’d been born, that she would marry a man who loved her, that she would be a chaste bride.
Though she was cynical and jaded, she still had dreams, still pretended they could come true, and she wasn’t about to let Bentley have what wasn’t his.
She bit him as hard as she could, and he squealed like a pig and lurched back, lashing out with his fist and catching her alongside the head. She staggered into the baker’s table, pots and pans crashing as she fell to the floor, dazed, on her hands and knees and trying to crawl away.
Not this! she seethed. You will not do this to me!
He seized her ankle, wrestling to pull her to him, and blindly, she groped about for a weapon. Her fingers found a heavy frying pan, and she clutched tight and swung it at him with all her might.
The first blow merely grazed his shoulder, but it was enough to knock him away so she had more leverage. She swung it again, whacking wildly, causing him to yelp with pain and release her. Struggling to her feet, she smacked down again, not certain where the clout landed, but hearing bone crunch.
He collapsed in a heap, silent, bleeding, unmoving.
She tarried in the quiet kitchen, trembling, her heart pounding, her stomach roiling. Her dress was ripped, her torso bruised and battered, but she was very much alive while it was frighteningly apparent that Bentley might not be.
“Oh my God...” she wailed. “Oh my God...oh my God...”
She dawdled, terrified, her mind reeling over how to proceed.
“Have I killed him?” she inquired of no one in particular.
Was there no justice in the world? Was there no luck to be had? What had she ever done but work hard, try hard, do what she ought? Why couldn’t anything be easy? Why couldn’t anything go right?
She’d simply wanted to retrieve her hairbrush. Was it too much to ask that she be able to do it without being molested?
She was fatigued and angry and afraid, and she glanced down the hall, knowing she should awaken the butler, that she should confess her crime and take her punishment, but considering Bentley’s behavior, it seemed grossly unfair.
“I’ll be damned if I will,” she said aloud, her temper flaring.
She placed the frying pan on the counter, then tiptoed to Bentley, who was still as death. Squatting down, she fumbled through his pockets, delighted to find a purse of coins. Without hesitating, without a ripple of remorse, she clasped hold of it, turned, and ran out into the cold, dark night.
“Are you sure about this, Phillip? Are they the correct two girls?”
“Yes, Fanny.”
“You have no doubt?”
“None. When she was pregnant, their mother wrote Charles several letters, begging him to come back.”
“But he didn’t.”
“You’ve met our father. Of course he didn’t.”
Fanny Carrington Wainwright, Viscountess Henley, peered at her half-brother, Phillip Sinclair, and sighed.
She’d only known him a few months, having stumbled on him by accident on her rocky road to matrimony with her husband Michael. From the very first, her connection with Phillip had been potent and undeniable.
They were now so close that they might have grown up together in the same house. It was as if they’d been together since they were babies, and with their golden-blond hair and striking green eyes, there was no question as to their being siblings.
She’d known her father, Charles Sinclair, Earl of Trent, for a few months, too. He was a renowned debaucher of innocent maidens, and his sexual exploits were legendary.
At age forty-six, he was an amazingly handsome man who exuded sophistication and charm. He had a manner of looking at a female that made her feel unique and cherished. His lovers all assumed that the look was original, that it was bestowed on them alone, and it never occurred to any of them that he gazed at every woman the same way.
He couldn’t help it. His seductive appeal seemed as ingrained as his need to breathe.
Fanny’s own mother had been a naïve debutante who’d fallen under the earl’s spell, then died in childbirth. Before Phillip had introduced Fanny to her father, she’d intended to not like anything about him, but he’d been so amiable that she found it difficult to detest him. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.
“Let’s knock and see what we can learn about them,” she said. “What are their names again?”
“Helen and Harriet.”
Phillip went to the door of the country manor where they’d stopped. A butler answered, and they were shown into a parlor and informed that their host, Nigel Stewart, would attend them shortly.
“Are you nervous?” Phillip asked.
“Yes,” Fanny admitted. “Do you suppose they’re here?”
“I don’t have any idea, but we’ll soon find out.”
Phillip was their father’s oldest, though illegitimate son, and it had become his life’s quest to locate Charles’s cast-off children. He was especially apprehensive about Charles’s daughters.
There were at least six girls sired the year Charles was twenty-five—Fanny being one of them. Phillip was determined to confer with all of them, to be certain they were safe and secure. If not, Charles had agreed to see them situated in better circumstances.
Fanny hadn’t met any of her other half-siblings, and as they waited for Nigel Stewart, she was consumed with equal parts curiosity, excitement, and concern.
Were her half-sisters aware of the identity of their father? Would the revelation be welcomed or discounted? Would Fanny’s visit be a blessing or a curse?
Footsteps sounded, and a dapper, attractive gentleman entered. Fanny had been expecting someone older, but he appeared to be her age of twenty-one. He was thin and slight, with white-blond hair and bright blue eyes.
He was dressed appropriately, and he seemed cordial and gracious, but Fanny didn’t like him. She couldn’t have described why, but her initial instinct was to not trust him.
“Hello,” he said, smiling, “I am Nigel Stewart.”
They stood, shook hands and bowed all around, then he motioned for them to sit.
“A viscountess!” he gushed in a fashion Fanny loathed. “My goodness! Our humble abode will never be the same.”
“I’m recently wed to Viscount Henley,” she explained, “so it’s a new title, and I’m still not used to it. I’d be happy if you would call me Fanny.”
“I would be honored, and you must call me Nigel.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“My butler informs me,” he said, “that you’re actually here to speak with my cousins, Helen and Harriet.”
“Are they at home?” Phillip asked.
“No. They haven’t lived at Brookhaven for several years.” Nigel’s smile slipped and worry creased his brow. “I hope they’re all right. You haven’t come with bad news, have you?”
“No.”
“I’m so relieved to hear it.”
“Do you know where they are?” Fanny inquired. “Do you know how we might contact them?”
“No.” Nigel’s cheeks flushed. “It’s a bit of sad family history, I’m embarrassed to say.”
“Perhaps it’s best that they’re away,” Phillip said. “Is your father here? Might we talk to him?”
“My father passed away last August. I was the eldest and only son, so Brookhaven is mine.”
“I see,” Phillip murmured.
He paused, critically assessing Nigel, and Fanny sensed that Phillip was having her same vague misgivings. With their discovering Helen and Harriet to be absent, there was no reason to remain. They could conclude their business and go.
Phillip would be anxious to return to London and his wife, Anne, who was very pregnant and about to give birth to their first child.
Fanny was eager to get home, too. Her baby daughter, Elizabeth, was two months old, and Fanny’s trip with Phillip was the sole time they’d been separated. Her husband, Michael, was extremely protective, and he’d be fretting. He’d been irritated over her traveling—even though it had involved a journey of only a few hours.
“Might we be frank?” Fanny said.
“Yes, of course,” Nigel responded.
“Our father”—Fanny gestured to Phillip and herself—“is Charles Sinclair, Earl of Trent.”
Nigel narrowed his gaze, studying Fanny, then he declared, “Ah...I see it now.”
“What is that?” Phillip queried.
“Helen and Harriet are your half-sisters. The two of you look just like them.”