Page 65 of The Wedding Challenge

And what was Sinclair doing in Buckinghamshire, anyway? He had told her that he was going home to Marcastle, and though her geography was perhaps a little hazy, she was quite sure that they never passed through Buckinghamshire when they traveled from Marcastle to London. In any case, her brother had left far too long ago to have still been traveling home.

He could, she supposed, have been delayed somehow, but if he had been detained in London, he would have let her know. That did not make sense. Or he could have started toward Marcastle, then changed his mind and decided to travel somewhere else, though such impulsivity was not a mark of her brother’s character.

Sinclair usually did what he said, so the odds were that he had gone back to Marcastle and finished his business there, then left on some other sort of business. He had said that he would probably go to their house at Dancy Park, but, again, Buckinghamshire did not lie between the two places. There must be some other property that he had decided to visit; she supposed that if he had been going to his land in Cornwall, he could have traveled that way if he did not want to go through London. It would not usually be like Sinclair to avoid spending a few days in London on the way, so that he could visit with her. But perhaps, she thought sadly, he was still displeased enough with her for disobeying his orders that he had not wanted to see her.

But then again, maybe he had simply decided to visit a friend, or even look at a property to purchase. And, of course, it made no difference why he was there. The subject was, however, something that was far less worrisome than how bad his injuries were or how much pain he was in, or how long it was taking to get to Blackfriars Cope, which were the other things that occupied her mind throughout the afternoon and evening.

They broke their journey only to change horses, and on those occasions, Callie got out of the carriage to stretch her legs. At one of the inns where they stopped, she ordered a light meal of cold meats, cheese and bread, but she had little appetite for it and wound up leaving most of the food on the table.

She knew they were traveling as fast as they could, for they changed horses often enough that they were fresh, but still the trip seemed to take an eternity. It became even slower after it grew dark, because then she did not have the distraction of the landscape to look at from time to time. Time would have passed more quickly, she knew, if she had been able to sleep, but she could not manage even to doze off briefly. Her mind was whirling with doubts and fears and painful images of Sinclair lying in a bed, pale, bruised and bandaged.

More than once, Callie wished that Francesca had not gone away with Aunt Odelia today. Nothing would have been as bad if Francesca had been there to talk to and help her. She felt sure that Francesca would have come along to keep her company. But it was not just the company and the comfort she missed. Francesca was quite good at getting things done. She always knew just what to do, and with a smile and a few words, she could manage to get the best possible results out of people.

When the carriage pulled to a stop, Callie assumed that they had reached another inn and were about to replace their team, but when she pushed aside the curtain to look out, she saw that they had pulled up in front of a country house. It was not quite the little vine-covered cottage she had envisioned upon reading Mrs. Farmington’s note, as it was a sturdy two-story building with a stone lintels above the door and windows, but it was certainly no busy inn, and she realized that they must have reached their destination.

“Is this Blackfriars Cope?” she asked the messenger, who had ridden all the way on top of the coach and who now jumped down to give her a helping hand out.

“Yes, my lady. Looks like they’re still up waiting for you.” He looked toward the house, where the windows above the front door and to one side of it were bathed in a golden glow.

“Thank you,” Callie told the man, and though she felt sure that Sinclair must have given him money for the post chaise and the changes of horses, along with his own payment, she pressed a gold coin into his palm, as well. A light rain had begun to fall, chilling and sharp, and she pulled the hood of her cloak forward to protect her face as she hurried up the front steps and sounded the door knocker.

It was a few moments before the front door opened to reveal a short stout woman dressed in a plain muslin dress, with a white apron on top of it. “Aye?”

“Mrs. Farmington?” Callie asked eagerly.

“Aye, that it is.”

“I am Lady Calandra Lilles. Is he still awake? Where is he?”

“In the study, miss,” the woman replied, turning to point down the hallway to where light spilled out of an open door.

“Thank you.” Callie rushed down the hall, scarcely noticing the sound of the front door closing behind her. She pushed back her hood and took off her gloves as she went, tossing them onto a hallway table, then burst into the room Mrs. Farmington had indicated.

She came to an abrupt halt, staring at the scene before her, unable for an instant to make any sense of it.

Lord Bromwell was half reclining on a sofa, one booted leg stretched out in front of him on the sofa and the other leg bent, his foot planted on the floor. He was braced against the end of the couch, turned a little so that his torso was partly in the corner. His jacket and ascot lay discarded on the chair closest to him, and his waistcoat hung open, his shirt unbuttoned partway down his chest. Beside him on the floor sat a silver tray upon which stood a glass decanter half-filled with a dark liquid, and in one hand he held a glass containing the same liquid.

For a moment the two of them stared at each other blankly. He recovered first, exclaiming, “Callie!” He set his glass down with a thunk on the tray and rose to his feet in a smooth motion marred only by his swaying a little on his feet.

“What is it?” he asked, looking alarmed, and started toward her. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“What are you doing here?” Callie blurted out, finally recovering her wits enough to speak. Had Bromwell been involved in her brother’s accident? Had it not been an accident after all, but a fight between the two men? “I don’t understand. Where is Sinclair? Is he all right? What happened?”

“Sinclair?” he repeated blankly. “Who is—” His eyes widened. “You mean your brother? Rochford? Why the devil would he be here?”

“But the note!” Callie exclaimed and started to reach for her pocket to pull out the letter she had received, but she stopped in mid-action, her head suddenly whirling. Dozens of oddities tumbled in her mind, falling into place—the elegant handwriting on the note supposedly written by a country woman living in a cottage, the fact that this same woman had addressed the letter in precisely the correct way one addressed a letter to a duke’s daughter, the unlikelihood of her brother being in Buckinghamshire at this time, the fact that the journey had been so well-arranged and paid for, yet her brother had not even scribbled a note to her or written his name to assure her that he was well.

“You tricked me!” she gasped, feeling the blood drain from her face, leaving her light-headed and queasy.

Bromwell continued to stare at her blankly. “What? What the devil are you talking about?”

But Callie was no longer listening. She was realizing that she was miles from anywhere, alone, late at night, in the company of a man and without any chaperone except Mrs. Farmington—if that was even her name—who was doubtless in Lord Bromwell’s employ. Her reputation would be ruined. Then, on the heels of that thought came one even more horrifying—all this would not have been arranged only to ruin her reputation. He must mean to take her virtue, as well.

She thought she had reached the depths of emotion the other night when she realized that there was no hope for a future with Brom, but she found out now that she could feel far worse. Bromwell not only would not marry her, did not love her and would never come to love her, but he thought so little of her that he would callously ruin her. He had lied to her. He intended to use her to achieve some sort of twisted vengeance against her brother, without any regard to her pain and humiliation.

“Oh, God!” she choked out, tears welling in her eyes, and she raised her hand to her mouth, feeling sick. “What a fool I’ve been! I have been missing you, mourning you, when all the while you have been sitting here, plotting—”

She broke off and ran from the room. She heard him call her name behind her, but she did not stop or even glance back. Her only thought was to reach the post chaise before it left. She would tell them what had happened. Surely they would not callously leave her with him.