The Worthington Wife Read online

  She swallowed hard. “Perhaps I should return to my motorcar.”

  “You’re trembling and you’re pale. You need a drink, Julia. Something for the shock.”

  He hustled her into the Boar and Castle. He ordered a large brandy for her, an ale for himself. It was warm in the pub—despite being June, it was a cool, cloudy day and she felt cold through to her soul.

  “That was the man who hurt Ellen Lambert,” Cal said.

  “Yes, that was her pimp. How did you know?”

  Cal’s brows shot up under his blond hair. “Lucky guess. But I’m kind of stunned you know that word.”

  “Well, I do. I’m not completely naive. But you mustn’t tell my brother about this.”

  “I take it you mean you don’t want me to mention some thug threatened to hurt you. If I were your brother, I’d like to know that.”

  “You can’t. Please. He would use this as a reason to stop me continuing my work with women like Ellen. And Zoe might agree with him, if she thought I was in danger.”

  Their drinks came, served by Mr. Grey. As he set down Cal’s pint, he asked, “I’ve been thinking about that business with those missing girls, milord. Did ye talk to old Brown, who used to work at the house? Did he help you?”

  “Yeah, he did. Thanks.” Cal was attempting to sound offhand and casual. Then he asked about Ellen’s pimp—about the man who had just been drinking in there.

  “Aye. Don’t know his name. He’s only been in here twice for a drink. Usually drinks elsewhere, he said. I banned him for life this time—he wants to brawl and I don’t need the trouble.”

  “If he comes in again, would you find out his name before you toss him out? I’ll make it worth your trouble,” Cal promised.

  The man touched his forehead, a gesture of respect and agreement. “I will, milord.”

  After Grey left, Julia gasped. “Of course. I remember now. Brown is the former chauffeur at Worthington. When did you speak to him?” She had been hoping to get the name of Ellen’s abuser and hadn’t really thought about Brown until just now.

  “After you left today,” Cal said, “I drove over to the village where he lives with his daughter.”

  “What did you learn from him?”

  Cal took a long swallow of beer.

  Her heart dipped. He didn’t want to tell her.

  He set down the glass. “He said that he found Anthony in the garage one night. He was taking something out of the trunk, but when he heard Brown come in, he locked the trunk, then covered up the car with the white sheet. Brown said he looked upset, nervous. It was just the next day that Anthony volunteered and went to war.”

  “What are you saying? That he went to war to make up for—for taking those women?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why would he leave those things in the vehicle, where they could be found?”

  “Maybe he thought no one would touch his car,” Cal said. “Maybe he had no time.”

  Suddenly she realized the truth. Cal didn’t just want justice. He wanted Anthony to be guilty. She believed she knew why—that would prove the Earl of Worthington had been utterly wrong to condemn Cal’s family. That the wealthier, titled Carstairs had not been better or nobler people—since they had a criminal strain in their blood.

  She wanted Anthony to be innocent. She wanted to believe in the man she had loved deeply.

  They could not both get what they wanted.

  Cal set down his drink. His hand rested close to hers. She moved hers away. She couldn’t touch him.

  “You need to go home and forget about all this,” he said.

  “I won’t. I can’t let you make Anthony guilty, if he wasn’t. What will you do then—use that for justification to destroy Worthington? Hurt more innocent people?”

  “I’m not going to say he’s guilty if that’s not true. But if he’s guilty—”

  Panic rose. “But if you stop searching for evidence, you can justify calling him guilty.” She was sick with fear. “You can’t do anything until you have actual evidence. Irrefutable evidence.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What if I agreed to your bargain—that you won’t touch Worthington if I let you paint me?”

  “You were right, Julia. Portraits don’t seem as important now.”

  Her heart sank. Then she thought of Cal’s story. Of his mother dying and of him having to protect his younger brother and raise him—

  “This is your brother’s birthright also. How can you think of destroying his family home, when he has never even seen it? That is wrong, Cal. He should at least see his father’s home. Wouldn’t that be fair and just to him?”

  “The way I see it, this isn’t his father’s home. This is where his father grew up, before being disowned by this family.”

  “But it was still his home when he was a child, and it was a part of him. Your brother should see it,” she insisted.

  Cal gave her an almost sulky look. She knew she’d scored a point. “Did your father ever talk about Worthington Park?”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “What did he say about it?”

  “Said it was beautiful. That he was sorry we’d never get to see it. I knew we weren’t considered good enough for this place—we were the dirt that had to be kept out. But David was younger than me and he didn’t understand. He used to dream about seeing it.”

  “Then no matter what you do to Worthington, you must let your brother, David, see it first.”

  “You’re right. And I did plan to do it. I’ll send him a wire. Arrange his passage.” He sighed heavily. “I wouldn’t have sold the farm today because I know it would have hurt you. I couldn’t do that to you now, after you’ve been through so much. You know I don’t want to hurt you, Julia.”

  She knew the rest—the rest he left unsaid. That he feared he would have to. And inside she was in turmoil. To have a boy think he was dirt that should be kept out of a house...it made her blood boil in anger. But that was the past, and there had to be a way for Worthington and Cal to have a future together.

  * * *

  The day before Cal’s brother was to arrive, Mother held a dinner party. Zoe was the duchess, but Mother had actually arranged everything for the party, something she had not done in many years. Not since grief over Will had consumed her. It showed her mother was healing and that was good. Mother insisted it was to help Julia get over her sorrow from the Tofts’ losses.

  But when she went down for cocktails before dinner, Julia discovered Mother had invited the Duke of Bradstock and the Earl of Summerhay. Nigel had invited Dougal Campbell—he wanted to discuss some business about the hospital.

  She wanted to turn and run—she was so worried about what Cal might learn about Anthony she couldn’t bear to spend time fending off suitors.

  Mother, of course, arranged for her to sit between James—the Duke of Bradstock—and Summerhay.

  The electric chandeliers—installed by Zoe—sparkled on crystal and silver. Candlelight flickered on the table.

  As they reached the savory after dessert, James leaned toward her. At the exact same moment, the Earl of Summerhay leaned to her also. Both men said, at once, “Would you ride with me tomorrow?”

  They stared at each other as she said, “I am afraid I already have plans. But since you both want to ride, why don’t you gentlemen go together?”

  “We aren’t courting each other,” James said, lifting his brow in true ducal fashion. “Summerhay is courting you. And I want only to enjoy a ride with you.”

  But James was courting her, too, she saw. And she didn’t want to be courted. Why didn’t men listen? But then she felt guilty and softened the blow. “Though of course I am flattered and ordinarily I should love to...” She winced—she did not want to encourage either man, when she k
new she couldn’t love either one, but she had been trained to be so blasted polite. “But tomorrow I have plans to go to Worthington Park.”

  She could not wait to meet Cal’s brother. He could be a valuable ally and she was going to be there, under any pretext, when he arrived.

  “To see the American earl?” James growled. He gripped his wineglass so hard his knuckles went white. “You shouldn’t go there. There are rumors—”

  “Of an engagement,” Summerhay finished.

  “Not of an engagement. I knew that was rot,” James insisted. “The man’s behavior is notorious. I’ve heard stories about him in Paris, bedding all of his models.”

  “What is this? Are you speaking of bedding roses?” That was the dowager and Julia was quite sure she’d heard everything, and was stopping James before he said something even more shocking.

  “I am going to see Ellen Lambert’s son, who is staying there. And my good friend Diana.”

  “As long as it isn’t to see him.”

  Obviously James did not like Cal, but she couldn’t see how he had the right to dictate.

  “He’s also mentally unhinged,” James said. “Apparently he goes around the estate, digging in random places, or so I’ve been told. Is he looking for buried treasure?”

  She swallowed hard—she couldn’t say he was looking for the three women, not if there was a chance Anthony had been involved. “This is the first I’ve heard of that,” she hedged.

  “He must be looking for something—”

  Chairs scraped, interrupting James, signaling it was time to go to the drawing room. Julia sighed with relief. When the men joined the ladies, after having their port, Julia went over to Dougal. “I am concerned about Ellen Lambert.”

  His sensitive brown eyes showed surprise. “She is recovering well.”

  “Perhaps physically. I fear she is suffering from shell shock.” She did love to be able to speak to Dougal as a partner, to have a meeting of minds.

  “Shell shock?” he echoed. “Why do you think this?”

  “It was Cal—the Earl of Worthington—who suggested it. She suffers nightmares. She can’t sleep. Loud noises make her react in a panic.”

  “Some women who served at the front proved to be too delicate for the work—”

  “It’s not delicacy,” she protested. “Women witnessed the same horrors as the men. Ellen drove an ambulance, where she saw victims of the worst injuries. According to Cal, the ambulances were shelled and shot at.”

  “Medical practitioners have diagnosed such women as suffering from hysteria. They proved unsuitable for the work and returned home.”

  “Unsuitable for the work? Who would be suitable to drive a vehicle through a battlefield while being shelled?” She stared at him. “It is not hysteria. It’s shell shock.”

  “Shell shock is a different thing entirely. The problems that men experienced were different from those that women did.”

  “How could they be? They experienced the very same things.” She couldn’t understand him.

  “No male soldier would accept that his condition is like hysteria.”

  “Oh, that is it! You think the men would be ashamed to have the same problem as women. Well, they had best get over it. She has shell shock. And I fear she will not be able to improve her life until it is dealt with.”

  Dougal gave an awkward cough. “Julia, I would suspect Ellen Lambert’s troubles are due to her current...profession.”

  She could not believe she had heard such a thing from Dougal. “Her current profession is a result of ignorance on the part of the government and society. We have turned our backs on people like her. I thought you would champion her cause. There has been help for men with shell shock. Why shouldn’t women be helped? Really, Dougal, I cannot understand you.”

  “What do you want me to do, Julia? Even if I agreed, a diagnosis of shell shock would not be recognized—and would not help the woman in any way.”

  “But she could be cured.”

  “Not necessarily, and the forms of treatment are horrific, Julia. She would certainly be separated from her son.”

  She fumbled. She hadn’t thought of that. And she was startled by the way Dougal smiled slightly, as though he were being patient with her, as though he knew, of course, he should win the argument. “There must be a solution.”

  “There’s nothing more you can do, Julia.”

  “I thought we could work on this together. I have to help her—for her sake and for Ben’s. She served her country, just as bravely as any man. How can there be no help for her now?” Even as she spoke, she saw from his face that he would not help. She had thought Dougal was a wonderful doctor, a progressive, modern man.

  “The officials of her country would never call her condition ‘shell shock.’ And given what else she has done after the War, they would not help.”

  “But that’s wrong!” she cried.

  “What is wrong, Julia?” Grandmama asked, gazing at her with pursed lips.

  “Apparently quite a lot with our country,” she said. “But of course, nothing is ever solved at a dinner party.”

  She couldn’t explain why—but she felt deeply discouraged that Dougal had turned out to be a different man than she’d believed. Cal had turned out different, too—but in good ways.

  Without Dougal’s support, what could she do for Ellen?

  * * *

  Julia was still without a solution as she rode over to Worthington Park the next day. The day Cal’s brother was to arrive, being driven from the South Hampton docks.

  She found Cal pacing outside the front door, a cigarette clenched between his teeth.

  “You’re waiting for your brother?” She dismounted—it was so deliciously easy to do so in jodhpurs rather than skirts.

  Cal nodded, his face grim.

  “I thought you would be happy to see him again. He’s had a long journey. You will have to smile when he gets here,” she teased.

  “It’s hard,” he muttered.

  “Why is it hard?” She stood at his side, holding Athena’s reins.

  “He was wounded badly in the War.”

  Badly? Heavens, how badly? “I didn’t know that. Was the journey hard for him?”

  “Yeah, I imagine it was very hard. But he made it—to see this damn house.” Cal shook his head. “I told him not to join up. But once I went, there was no one to stop him. He followed me into battle, but I served as a pilot and he served on the ground. I didn’t even know he was there until we were in the same hospital together—”

  Cal had to stop talking. She saw tears in his eyes. He blinked hard and the tears were gone.

  “I am so sorry,” she said. “It must have broken your heart to see him wounded.”

  “It did. He was eighteen. A shell exploded under him after he shoved two men out of the way to save them. They had to take off both of his legs below the knee. At home, when he was a kid, I protected him. Kept him out of—” He broke off. Drew on his cigarette. “Kept him out of trouble,” he finished. “But he went to war and destroyed his life.”

  “He is still alive,” she pointed out softly.

  “He can’t walk and has to spend his life in a wheeled chair.”

  How hurt Cal looked—he was feeling a huge weight of responsibility. For something that had not been his fault. He believed in protecting people—she knew it meant these wounds went very deep.

  He kicked the gravel. “After the War, I hired a staff of nurses and servants to look after him. I went away to Paris. Sometimes I feel I was running away from my guilt. I tried painting it away, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t forget. So I tried to drink it away with good French wine and brandy. That didn’t work, either.”

  “It is not your fault. He was of age and it was his choice to volunteer
.”

  “But if you have someone you love, you want to protect them,” he said.

  “I didn’t want Anthony to go to War, but I knew I couldn’t ask him to stay. His father had not wanted him to go, since he was the heir. His father wanted him to wait until he was conscripted, but Anthony felt it was wrong to stay home when other men were doing their duty.”

  She expected him to dismiss what Anthony had done, but gently, he said, “You went through what I did. I wrote home and told David it was a living hell, but he ignored my letters. He thought I was trying to scare him away.”

  Cal’s fingers brushed hers. Just that touch made her gasp. Then he moved abruptly away. “He’s here.” He threw his cigarette away on the drive.

  The Worthington Daimler, large and black, drove into view on the drive.

  “I shouldn’t have brought him here,” Cal said suddenly. “He doesn’t need any of this. He has a home in America and people to care for him. The countess despises me. How is she going to react to my brother’s condition?”

  Cal was panicking, she saw. “It will be all right. I will not allow him to be hurt,” she vowed.

  The car stopped. Two footmen who stood on the front steps sprang forward. But Cal went forward, too, not acting like an earl, not waiting. He went to the boot of the vehicle where a wheeled chair had been folded and attached. After the footman took it off the motorcar, Cal took it from the young servant. With practiced motions he wheeled it to the passenger door on the far side, away from the house.

  Wait—she realized what he had said. He had hired a staff of nurses and servants. She had thought he was an impoverished artist before he became earl. That he had still been poor.

  But he could not have been impoverished to have spent so much money to look after his brother.

  The front door of the house opened and the countess marched out. Julia saw her mouth held firmly, her eyes blazing. “It is my duty also to greet guests,” the countess said to her. “Who is this man?”

  Cal hadn’t told her? “This is your nephew,” Julia said. “He was wounded in the War. You must be kind and welcoming to him.”