Lady Wrotham's shoulders stiffened at the sound of Julian's voice. Being caught didn't seem to faze her. Not once did she glance back at him while he spoke. Her immobility only seemed to anger him further.
The large windows in the library had framed Lady Wrotham's tryst as if she were an actress on stage. Julian had seen it all. Fist clenching and unclenching at his side, he awaited her answer.
"You may stop asking that question," Lady Wrotham addressed the landscape before her. "It was but a singular indiscretion, and I hope never to lay eyes on their father again." Proclamation uttered, she descended the stairs, then walked the opposite direction the footman had gone.
Confronted with another example of his unfaithful wife's nerve, Julian's jaw tightened. With a swift motion, he jerked on the bottom of his coat, then followed her. He was not willing to let her have the last word and end the discussion. Especially not after having witnessed her tête-à-tête with a servant. Passing love notes and trinkets in the light of day? After he'd ordered her to end things with her lover? Such behavior was too much to be borne.
"I did not give you leave to go." Julian reached forward and caught his adulterous wife by the elbow. Although his hold stopped her, she would not turn to look at him.
"Very well, say your piece," Lady Wrotham told the unkempt grounds before her. "But do be quick, as I have plans," she fairly spat.
Julian's teeth clenched tight. Did this distasteful woman not feel shame, he wondered? "At least do me the courtesy of looking at me when I speak." The words were forced past his locked jaw.
Slowly, Charity turned her head, then her body followed. Keeping her gaze away from Lord Wrotham's, she faced him. Her gaze landed somewhere over his right shoulder. She couldn't bring herself to meet the disgust she knew she would find etched on his features. It had been a constant expression she'd witnessed from afar these five days past.
Lord Wrotham's rough treatment of Charity stung. It was unfair. How she wished she could tell him the truth. But she couldn't. Not if she wanted to be free of him and keep her daughters.
"Better," Julian murmured even though Lady Wrotham still would not look him in the eye. As her intriguing green-gold eyes were sparking with anger, he felt the wisest course was not to push her for more.
Dropping Lady Wrotham's arm, Julian moved back a few steps. He didn't want to find her eyes fascinating. There was nothing about her person to recommend her, he firmly told himself.
"Now," Julian continued sharply, "allow me to be more clear. You will cease all extramarital activities." The last two words were clipped and precise. There was no room for misinterpreting his orders.
"Jimmy is not the father of my daughters," Lady Wrotham interrupted hotly.
"Or so you believe?" It occurred to Julian his wife could have taken more than one lover.
Charity rolled her eyes at Lord Wrotham's inane suggestion. Jimmy only had eyes for Emma. Besides, he hadn't been employed at Shepridge End until after the twins were born.
"You will not have secret assignations with your lovers," Julian snapped having witnessed Lady Wrotham's rude gesture. "It ends. Now." When his wife shook her head at him, Julian bit out, "Yes, madam. No more love letters passed, or trinkets of affection given."
"Love letters and trinkets?" Charity repeated incredulously.
Julian reached down to reveal the damning proof Lady Wrotham denied having. He was finished with her betrayal and lies. From the window, he'd witness her hiding the gift from the footman in her skirts. When a wooden duck and a small rag doll tumbled onto the grass, he couldn't help but blink at them stupidly.
"You sir are an ass," Julian's wife hissed between clenched teeth. Those fiery green-gold eyes finally met his stunned expression. Surely, he couldn't have been so wrong in what he thought he'd seen.
With jerky motions, Charity clutched her skirt in one hand and bent down to pick the toys up off the ground with the other. A loud crack sounded from the tree line, and she raised her eyes thinking it came from a rogue storm cloud.
"Get down!" Lord Wrotham yelled and bore Charity to the lawn. As air flew from her lungs, she noted his hard, lean body atop hers. It formed a protective shell about her. Bracing himself with his elbows, he lifted his upper torso off her. Stunned, she watched as he turned his head to look at some unknown point behind them.
Struggling to find the breath Lord Wrotham had knocked from her, Charity noticed an intense sting along her right cheekbone. Dazed, she brought her fingertips to the injury. When they came back covered in blood, she frowned in incomprehension.
"Bloody bastard!" Julian shouted over his shoulder. He was no stranger to gunfire, and even though he hadn't been to war in a few years, his reflexes were still quick. Perhaps some poacher had fired a stray shot? That thought was quickly discarded as unlikely. No poacher would have risked coming so close to the house. Nor would he shoot in its direction.
Looking down, Julian met his wife's green-gold eyes. They were wide with shock as she stared at her hand. He swatted it away to get a better look at her cheek.
"It's just a graze." Julian levered himself up, then knelt beside Lady Wrotham. From his breast pocket, he produced a handkerchief. The snowy-white cloth turned red as he pressed it firmly to her wound.
"From lightning?"
Julian let out a humorless huff of laughter. "No madam, from a bullet fired from a gun."
"I've been shot?" Quick, shallow breaths escaped Lady Wrotham's lips as her gaze darted left, then right. The memory of finding her in his bed all those years ago rose in his mind.
Banishing it, Julian answered. "Yes, but it's just a graze. Nothing serious," he added. Yes, it was deep, but he doubted there was any damage to the bone beneath.
"Here, hold this." Julian placed his wife's hand on the cloth and pressed it down firmly. "I'll be back in a moment."
Feeling numb, Charity nodded. Taking a deep breath, she held it before letting it out slowly. Too many emotions were trying to bombard her at once. Fear, disbelief, panic, and even anger clambered for the top spot.
"Wait!" Charity called when Lord Wrotham rose to his feet. As he made to leave, fear came to the fore, settling the rest of her rioting reactions. "Where are you going?"
"To find those responsible." After barking a command to, "Stay down," Lord Wrotham was gone. Wisely, Charity followed his order, too shocked to do anything else.
Julian crouched low, making his way toward the tree line. The urge to find the shooter before the bastard could reload pushed him onward. He hoped Lady Wrotham did as he said. Just because the would-be assassin missed once, didn't mean they weren't even now preparing to try again. Another stray bullet could find his wife instead of him.
A soft curse escaped Julian. It was difficult to ascertain from whence the real danger came. There was no doubt in his mind that the shot was meant for him. He'd made some enemies while in the King's service. At the top of that list, he'd place Captain Reynolds, a man he'd seen dishonored and stripped of rank. It was justified, for his former commander treated civilians, especially women and children, poorly. One incident had been especially unpleasant, and Julian brought it to their superior's attention.
The last Julian had seen of Reynolds was on the Peninsula. It was shortly after the court-martial. Surely, he would've been informed if the disgraced former captain, now back in England, were released from prison.
Thought that the attack could have come from his political opponents crossed Julian's mind. There were some within the House of Lords that didn't wish to see the bill he sponsored progress further. They argued against setting aside funds to give financial aid to war widows and their children.
With a shake of his head, he dismissed that thought as unlikely. He couldn't bring himself to believe any would go this far in their opposition. Some had the guts to make such a move, but he didn't think any in the House of Lords would want to risk his grandfather's retribution. Although they'd once been estranged, that was no longer the case. More often than not, they worked toward the same goal in Parliament. No, it didn't fit.
Regardless of motive, Julian was confident the bullet was meant for him. Lady Wrotham was but the unintended victim. He wished he had his own weapon at hand to return fire once he came upon the culprit. Unfortunately, this wasn't the first time he'd faced danger unarmed. Thanks to his training in the war, he knew what he was about.
Once he reached the relative safety of the trees, Julian looked over his shoulder. Lady Wrotham still lay on the ground. For the moment, she was doing as told. A sneaking suspicion that she wouldn't continue to do so for long rose to the fore. Obedience didn't seem to be a facet of her nature.
With his eyes, Julian tracked the approximate path the bullet would have taken. Angling his way toward the most likely origin, he stealthily walked toward that point. Remaining low, he kept as much thick vegetation between him and another shot as possible.
It didn't take Julian long to find an unattended fire built of dead brush and leaves. Glancing about, he made certain he was alone before approaching. Judging by the fact that mostly glowing coals and ash remained, the fire had been lit some time ago. It could have been made by a groundskeeper clearing brush. If Shepridge End had such a man, that was.
Julian's eyes narrowed as he studied the impressions on the ground. One set of tracks could be seen in the dirt. They went to and fro from the fire. However, what appeared to be the outermost, deepest set of boot prints led further into the trees. These had a wider, deeper stride. As he stared off into the distance, Julian concluded that the fire starter had left in a hurry, likely after seeing his quarry was still upright and coming for him.
A glint of metal caught Julian's eye before he gave chase. Breaking off a green stick from a nearby tree, he crouched before the fire. Careful not to singe his coat, he nudged the metal fragment from the glowing coals. It quickly became apparent that what he'd spied was an unfired lead ball.
Squinting, Julian looked at it and mulled over the possible meaning behind its presence. Was he supposed to think the bullet hadn't come from a gun but had somehow accidentally fallen into the fire? An unexpected shot would have sent the man running. The lead ball's presence might mislead an untrained gunman from the scent of his prey, thinking it no more than an accident. But it didn't fool a former soldier who'd also spent his youth hunting.
Glancing over his shoulder, Julian gazed in the direction the bullet must have traveled. He saw Lady Wrotham's form still lying prone on the ground. From this location, her position was on slightly lower ground than this grove. The trajectory seemed far too coincidental for a misplaced shot hit a human target.
The idea of an accidental shot was ridiculous. As any man familiar with firearms knew a lead ball did not fire itself, even when heated in a blaze. This meant the piece of evidence Julian still held was left behind. The shooter could have tried to reload, only to have the ball fall into the fire. It was likely discarded in hopes the heat of the blaze would destroy said evidence.
Attention returning to the fire, Julian pondered all he'd learned. Were he reading the signs correctly, it all spoke of an amateur. A professional hunter or soldier, such as Captain Reynolds, would have known that glowing coals with a little flame wouldn't erase proof of his attempted assassination. It didn't burn hot enough.
A third possibility was that the ball had accidentally fallen into the fire and the shooter hadn't enough time to fish it out before being discovered. He likely hoped such a mistake would be overlooked, perhaps that it would become buried in ash. It was pure luck that Julian had found it lying there.
"What are you doing now?"
Julian had heard Lady Wrotham's approach. The woman was not stealthy. The only thing that surprised him was that she'd stayed put so long. "Looking for our shooter," he answered.
Charity's free hand rose to her throat. The other still clutched Lord Wrotham's handkerchief to her cheek. "You mean he was here?"
The blonde head below Charity nodded once toward the ground, and she spied the lead ball. "Oh my!" Only one thought screamed in her mind: My daughters!
With numbed fingers, Charity dropped the blood-stained piece of linen and grabbed hold of her skirts. Without another word, she raced toward their favorite spot in the grove. It lay only a few hundred feet away. She didn't pay Lord Wrotham much mind as he cursed, then followed her lead.
"Milady!" Miss Hollings called as Charity came rushing into a small clearing. The maid had the twins clustered close around her skirts and looked down at them terrified. "I heard the shot and couldn't tell from which direction it came," she said without preamble. "Then a man came running by and made to grab for the babes." Emma's words came so fast they were hard to understand. "Then I bashed him on the head with a rock, and he left. I swear he had murder in his eyes when he looked at me then."
Miss Hollings sucked in a breath as she looked at Charity. "Oh, but you've been injured!" she exclaimed on the exhale.
"'Tis only a graze." But it burned like the dickens.
"What did the man look like?" Lord Wrotham was calm. But then, why would he care that his wife had been shot and her babes nearly stolen? With that thought, Charity knelt and hugged her daughters close. His lordship's questions and Emma's answers washed over her as she made sure the twins were truly unharmed.
"He dressed like a farmhand," Emma answered after taking a moment to gather her thoughts. It was apparent from Lord Wrotham's tone that he wished Nurse to be as descriptive as possible. "He may have been young, but it was hard to tell with all the dirt on his face. He also wore a kerchief around the lower half. He was near to my height and ran in a funny way."
"Funny how? Was he injured? Did he have a limp?" Lord Wrotham shot his questions.
"No, my lord. He didn't have a limp, just an odd gait." Nurse Hollings' eyes screw up and then a moment later she shook her head. "I can't explain it better."
"You've done a fine job, Miss Hollings." Julian was impressed by her. She hadn't dissolved into a fit of vapors as most women of his association would. Nor had Lady Wrotham, come to that. He briefly eyed her crouched form and couldn't help feeling intrigued. What had she endured to become so strong and unlike the ladies he'd known in London? She hadn't been this way on their first meeting that he did recall.
Quashing the impulse to learn about Lady Wrotham's life, Julian reminded himself he didn't care. He didn't wish to hear of her past, what changes experience had wrought.
A squeal brought Julian's focus to the bald girl. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the babes with their mother. Indeed, he didn't wish to hear all that Lady Wrotham had been up to since last he'd seen her.
Turning his attention back to Miss Hollings, Julian asked, "Can you recall anything else?"
"His eyes." Miss Hollings shuddered thinking of them. "They were a cold blue with a hard glint. When he looked at me, it was as if I could see my own death in them."
So much for not being overly dramatic, Julian thought. But the former Captain Reynolds, although near to Miss Hollings' height, had brown eyes. The description fit no one of his acquaintance. It could have been a hired thug, he mused.
What Julian didn't understand was what part the babes played in the man's plot? Perhaps they were to be taken for ransom? That too didn't sound like Edwin Reynolds. However, his political opponents could have expected to barter the girls' safety for a promise to pull the bill that had found favor in the House of Commons. With a mental shake of his head, he dismissed the notion. He couldn't see the lofty lords stooping so low as attempted murder, however.
None of this fitted wholly with either known faction. Julian needed to give the matter more thought. That could be accomplished once home. For now, he needed all four females secured behind the walls of Shepridge End. After assured of their safety, he could better explore the identity of the shooter.
Julian reached down to help Lady Wrotham to her feet. Her hand was fine-boned and delicate, he noted. This past week, he'd seen her roll up her sleeves and work alongside the servants. He hadn't expected it to feel like a lady's and he held it for a moment longer than needed after she regained her feet. The wound was still bleeding, and he realized she'd dropped his kerchief.
His eyes flicked from the welling blood on her cheek to her eyes. Against Julian's express wishes, the thought that they were lovely persisted. Lady Wrotham's eyes were a true green; a color that was at home amongst the surrounding foliage. In the dappled light of morning, he could see they were ringed with a light brown. It was so bright a shade as to appear golden.
They widened as Lady Wrotham returned his gaze. Julian's stomach tightened in response. That made him come to his senses. He had no wish to let this moment continue. Dropping Lady Wrotham's hand, he looked away.
Although he planned to bring his wife back to London, Julian didn't wish for a real marriage. Lady Wrotham was but a tool to advance his political career. He'd use her and her daughters as he saw fit. Stiffening his jaw, he vowed he would not allow any of these females to weaken his resolve. And what was more, he would not find any bit of his deceitful wife lovely.
With more strength than necessary, Julian jerked at his cravat. Pulling it free with enough force to leave a mark, he held it out to Lady Wrotham.
For her part, Charity was still in somewhat of a daze. Neither she nor Lord Wrotham had worn gloves. The feel of his warm, firm flesh pressed against hers was unsettling. Of course, she'd had an alarming start to her day, and it was playing havoc with her thoughts and emotions. With a shake of her head, she reached out to retrieve the cloth Lord Wrotham offered.
"You're still bleeding." Charity noted his lordship's voice held an almost soft tone. It seemed richer, deeper.
At that moment, their eyes met again. Charity recalled overhearing an old sailor telling of his travels. It was a few years back, on one of her trips to Belford. The craggy man had a group of patrons enthralled as they supped at the tavern. The tar was explaining how beautiful the Mediterranean Sea could be and how in parts it was truly breathtaking. He'd described these waters as being a clear, light shade of blue with enough of a hint of green to change them from being truly one color. At the time, she couldn't imagine what he meant by that. Now, looking into Lord Wrotham's eyes, she thought she finally understood.
A stray breeze blew past, bringing to Charity Lord Wrotham's scent. It was a potent mix of sandalwood and male. She found it alluring.
Letting out a breath Charity hadn't realized she held seemed to bring them both to their senses. Lord Wrotham rubbed his neck where his cravat had left a mark and turned away. With amazing speed, he brought himself under control. When he turned back, the cold mask she knew so well was back in place.
Charity's lips flattened as she recalled her reaction to him. Lord Wrotham was anything but alluring she told herself firmly. She needed to keep her head on her shoulders when dealing with him if she wanted her freedom.
Gathering her daughters close as Lord Wrotham began to bark orders, Charity remembered reading that he'd been in the Peninsular War under then Sir Arthur Wellesley who was now known as the Duke of Wellington. It had been like reading of a stranger. It was early in their forced marriage and her banishment had embittered her by that time.
"It's best we find the safety of Shepridge End. Come now, all of you." With that, Lord Wrotham gathered them up and led the way out of the grove. Catherine was brave enough to cling to his hand. With a surprised glance, he looked down at her. After a few moments, likely tired of the slow pace, he bent to pick her up. The sweet toddler went willingly into his arms.
Charity shared a look with Miss Hollings, then lifted Phoebe onto her hip. She did not go into her mother's arms as quietly as her sister and pushed against her hold. With an admonishment, the babe settled but was still unhappy with being carried. There was a sense of urgency in the air, and Charity wanted to see them all home safely.
Once the side door off the patio closed behind them, Charity let out a breath. It was a relief to be back within the house where bullets were unlikely to fly past. She put Phoebe down and flexed her arm. Holding her for so long made it ache fiercely.
Lord Wrotham handed Catherine to Nurse Hollings. "Take them upstairs and see that they are settled," he ordered.
"Yes, my lord," Emma obeyed as she reached for Phoebe's hand. "I'm certain they'll be ready for a nap after all the excitement."
Charity began to follow, but Lord Wrotham stopped her. "One moment," he said shortly. "We need to tend that wound."
Bewildered at his offer to help, Charity turned. "I can manage," she assured him. "'Tis but a scratch, is it not?" It felt like more. Glancing down, she looked at the stained cravat in her hand. She'd left off pressing it against her cheek when she picked up Phoebe. It looked like more.
His brows dipped, forming a deep v. "It may be deeper than I initially thought. We need to clean it in order to see."
That Lord Wrotham bent his icy demeanor so far as to show concern for Charity was worrisome. The need to ascertain how bad the wound was for herself welled inside. Against his wishes and protests, she went to the closest mirror. It was in the front hall. Perhaps her stubbornness was a mistake, for Rogers took one look and bellowed, "What in t' bloody 'ell 'appened t' yer ladyship?"
Mrs. Rogers came running and stopped in her tracks, a horrified look on her craggy face. This did not fill Charity with confidence. Now she was uncertain whether she wished to view the damage.
As Charity waffled, she felt a drop of blood make its way down her cheek. With widened eyes, she tilted her head and watched it join others on the bodice of her gown. She'd been too distracted with seeing that her daughters reached safety to notice she still bled. "How could yer lordship allow this to 'appen to his lady wife?" Cook charged down the hall, a jar clasped in her hands. "The lad I once knew would've done better to protect his womenfolk."
"Cook, please," Charity pled softly. "His lordship is not at fault." She didn't know why she took his side, other than because it genuinely wasn't. Lord Wrotham hadn't fired the shot. Besides, she didn't wish to waste time with laying blame. There she stood, bleeding all over her best gown for goodness sakes!
"No, she's right," Lord Wrotham interjected. "I am at fault." The man looked guilty.
"Oh pish." Charity's eyes rolled, and she gently wiped away another drop of blood with her fingertips. She didn't care for his repentance for something he hadn't done.
"Come, we'll go someplace more private, so I can explain and clean the wound." Lord Wrotham cupped Charity's elbow in his hand, wishing to steer her back toward the kitchen.
Julian recalled Cook's diatribe. He grimaced when he realized the rotund woman had a point. Whether wanted or not, he was still responsible for his wife's safety. Besides which, that bullet was meant for him. At the very least, Lady Wrotham deserved to know why she'd been shot.
"Very well," Julian's wife agreed. Lady Wrotham's color had not come back. Worryingly, her pallor was more pale than usual.
A maid rounded a corner and took one look at his lady wife, then promptly screamed in horror. Julian opened his mouth, bent on telling her to stop being such a goose when he felt Lady Wrotham's elbow grow suddenly heavy. Before she crumbled to the floor, he shifted his hold and caught her about the waist.
"Her ladyship never faints," Mrs. Anders, who'd been following closely behind accused. "Just what did happen out there?"
"She was shot." Julian's tone was deadpan. He felt as if he deserved every bit of derision the older woman laid upon him. The rest of the staff stood mute and frozen as they looked on with wide eyes. Gathering his wife into his arms, he made his way to the second-floor landing. Once there, he went to Lady Wrotham's door. She was light, and he could feel through her clothes, far too thin. An unbidden memory of what she'd felt like under him as he bore her to the ground came to him. She did possess a pleasing plumpness in some areas.
Mrs. Anders was there to open the door for Julian. Cook recovered enough from her shock to say, "Certainly there are those around these parts what bears her ladyship a great dislike, thinking her a fraud, but none would stoop so low."
Although Julian was curious as to what Mrs. Anders could mean, he kept his questions to himself. Gently, he lay his wife on her bed. Now was not the time to dig for answers to enigmatic statements uttered by servants.
Straightening, Julian looked about the room as Cook set about cleaning his wife's wound. It was sparsely furnished, and the coverlet had been mended often. Lady Wrotham's chamber was in the same state as the rest of the house. Again, he found himself wondering where all the coin he'd given toward its upkeep had gone.
Suddenly, Cook let out a gentle gasp of despair. "Look at her dress!" she clucked. "We'll never get those stains out. Such a pity too as it was her best."
Even as Mrs. Anders glowered at Julian, her look full of accusation, he made plans to rectify the matter. He couldn't have his wife going about looking like a beggar, as her "best dress" made her appear. There were some on the opposite side of him in the House of Lords who dwelled nearby.
This self-martyrdom had gone on far too long, Julian surmised. Looking at Lady Wrotham's "best dress," he thought it was no wonder that according to Cook, others thought his wife a fraud. He resolved that she would no longer go about in rags and embarrass him. There was little doubt in his mind that she'd done it on purpose, fashioning herself after a martyr who donned sackcloth.
The motion of Mrs. Anders dipping her fingers into the jar of salve caught Julian's attention. As the older woman spread it over his wife's cheek, he vowed to put things right at the End.
Julian's wife should never have taken a bullet meant for him. His jaw firmed. The time had come. They needed to put their pasts behind them and move forward. The road to forgiveness for his wife's indiscretion would be long. He didn't know if he was even capable of reaching such a state where Lady Wrotham was concerned. But watching as Mrs. Anders covered the wound, he resolved to try. It was the least he owed her.
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