Chapter Twelve

“R emind me why we’re doing this?”

Lawrence glanced at his friend, who steered the cart toward the cluster of buildings that ran either side of the main street at Drovers Heath.

“You know why, Ned,” he said. “If it’s her , then Fate’s given me a chance for justice.”

“That’s vengeance , not justice,” his companion replied. “If it looks like horseshit, and smells like horseshit, then it’s horseshit—no matter how many flowers you sprinkle over it.”

“I can’t see the harm,” Lawrence said. “It’s not as if I’ll be holding her captive.”

“Not in chains, perhaps, but if she’s lost her memory, you’ll be imprisoning her by deceit and filling her mind with false memories.”

Ned steered the carthorse toward a small, neat building, a climbing rose framing the front door, where a coach-and-four waited.

“Whoa there!” Ned drew the cart to a halt. “This is Dr. Carter’s house.”

The carriage with a crest painted on the side, a driver, and two liveried footmen looked as out of place next to the tiny building as Mrs. Chantry would in a brothel.

Lawrence grinned to himself. Perhaps that prim schoolmistress needed a good, hard shag to loosen her character —then she wouldn’t be so ready to look down her crooked nose at him and his children.

“The children…”

He recalled their faces that morning—Bobby’s resolute look as she stuck out her lower lip and declared she didn’t want a mother; Billy’s intelligent eyes sparkling with the notion of the mischief he’d make. And Jonathan…

Lawrence’s resolve almost faltered as he recalled the eager expression in the sensitive little boy’s eyes.

“What did you tell your children?” Ned asked.

“That I may have found them a mother.”

Ned sighed. “The loss of a mother is not something a child can easily recover from.”

“Jonathan never knew Elizabeth,” Lawrence said. “The twins don’t remember her—heavens, I knew her so little that I struggle to recall her now.”

“Not something to be proud of.”

“Perhaps not,” Lawrence said, “but I’m not one for sentiment.

“What if they grow attached to her?”

“Ha!” Lawrence let out a bark of laughter. “Once you’ve seen her, you’ll understand how improbable that is.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because she wronged me, Ned, and she must pay. Too often the likes of them can do what they want, and the likes of us suffer for it. It’s about time one of them learned a lesson on what it’s like.”

“I only hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m gettin’ myself a housekeeper and cook,” Lawrence said, grinning, “and she’s gettin’ a taste of her own medicine.”

“ If it’s her.”

Lawrence eyed the carriage. Why did that crest look so familiar?

“Out of my way!” a voice cried—a very familiar voice.

The front door opened and a young man in a vicar’s dress appeared in the doorway, before being thrust aside by a portly figure dressed in ostentatious finery.

The vicar stumbled against the door. “Your Grace, don’t you want—”

“Don’t presume to speak to me! It’s not her. I’ve had a damned waste of a journey, and now you plague me with questions.”

The man strode toward the carriage, turning to glance toward the cart.

Lawrence froze. But the Duke of Dunton showed no sign of recognition. Doubtless, to him, the lower classes all looked the same.

A footman leaped to the ground and opened the carriage door. Dunton climbed inside, the carriage tilting under his weight, before righting itself with a wobble. The footman resumed his position, and, with the crack of the driver’s whip, the carriage lurched into motion and rolled away.

So—the woman wasn’t Lady Arabella.

Perhaps it was for the best. But Lawrence couldn’t suppress the shiver of loss, driven by the memory of kissing that wicked mouth of hers and holding that lush body in his hands.

“Ned, we should go.”

His friend snorted. “Conscience got the better of you?”

“Ah—Mr. Baxter, I presume,” the vicar said, approaching the cart.

“Y-yes.” Lawrence nodded.

“Reverend Gleeson wrote to say you’d be coming.”

“Yes, but…”

The vicar gestured toward the door. “Shall we?” When Lawrence made no move, the vicar frowned. “Aren’t you anxious to be reunited with your wife?”

“What of the man who just left? Did he think she was his…wife?”

“His sister. He spun some tale about her eloping with the gardener, but he seemed hesitant, as if concealing something. Then he caught sight of her through the parlor door and realized it wasn’t her.” The vicar cocked his head to the side and frowned. “I could swear he recognized her. But he said not. He wouldn’t even see her. It was as if he were desperate to leave as quickly as possible.”

And well he might, given that Dunton would consider the house beneath his dignity to enter. Come to that, so would Lady Arabella.

Pity it wasn’t her—there’d have been some small satisfaction in knowing that she had to suffer the discomfort of a house so far beneath her dignity.

Then his conscience pricked at him. His obsession—and there was no other word for it—was eliciting a mean-spirited side to his nature.

“Come in,” the vicar said, “and you can see if she’s your wife. It’s a mercy she didn’t drown in that river. Dr. Carter wasn’t certain she’d regain consciousness at first.”

“We should go,” Ned said.

“What about your friend’s wife?” the vicar asked.

Lawrence frowned at Ned. They had to at least make a pretense of looking at the woman, whoever she was. It was too late to turn back.

He climbed off the cart and followed the vicar inside.

Unlike his home at Brackens Hill, the house was clean and bright, filled with light rather than dust and cobwebs. Muffled voices came from behind a door, then it opened, and a woman burst into the hallway. With wisps of hair peeking beneath her cap and wearing a bone-white lace-trimmed apron over a pale blue gown, she looked every part the efficient doctor’s wife. No doubt the state of the cottage was down to her touch—a loving wife who undertook her housekeeping duties with vigor and enthusiasm.

She let out a huff. “I swear, vicar, the Almighty has given me a test beyond the endurance of the stoutest of men. Do you know what that unpleasant harpy—”

She broke off as she caught sight of Lawrence.

“This is Mr. Baxter,” the vicar said. “Come from Brackens Hill.”

“Oh! Begging your pardon, Mr. Baxter.” She glanced toward the door through which she’d just come, a flare of hope in her eyes. “Are you come to…”

“No, I’ll not take any more of that disgusting medicine!” a sharp voice cried. “Get it away!”

Sweet heaven! There was no mistaking that voice.

The woman behind the door was Lady Arabella Ponsford.

“Mr. Baxter? Are you all right?”

The vicar’s eyes shone with hope.

No—not hope. Relief.

“You know her,” the vicar said.

It wasn’t a question.

A fork in the road stretched before Lawrence. Withdraw and leave her to her fate, or…

Or what? Leave her in the care of people eager to be rid of her? When their patience ran out, where would she go? Dunton had abandoned her to the mercy of the Carters—mercy that was, by the expression on Mrs. Carter’s face, rapidly diminishing. With no means to support herself she’d end up begging on the streets—or in service, if some wealthy family took pity on her.

And a life beholden to the charity of others was not to be borne.

By executing his plan, he was not only meting out justice for the wrongs she’d done him. He was giving her a better life than the alternatives.

“Yes,” he said, nodding. “That’s my—my Bella.” Then he grinned. “Speaks her mind, doesn’t she?”

“A little too much, if you ask me,” Mrs. Carter said.

“Mrs. Carter, you shouldn’t speak ill of the young woman,” the vicar said. “It’s not your place to criticize her behavior—it’s her husband’s. Isn’t that right, Mr. Baxter?”

Lawrence nodded. “I apologize for any trouble she’s caused.”

Mrs. Carter smiled. “You’re a fine young man. She’s a lucky lass to have you. Would you like to be reunited with her?”

“No—I won’t, I say,” Lady Arabella yelled from the room, “you vile peasant !”

Lawrence suppressed a snort. “Forgive me—she has a wicked tongue sometimes. Rest assured, I’ll teach her the error of her ways.”

“I’m glad of it,” Mrs. Carter said, and she opened the parlor door.

“Why have you come back?” an angry voice demanded.

“I’ve good news, my dear,” Mrs. Carter said. “Your husband has come to take you away.”

This was met with a sharp intake of breath, followed by silence.

Lawrence entered the parlor.

There she was—Lady Arabella Ponsford—reclined on a sofa. She looked up, and bright sapphire eyes met Lawrence’s gaze without a flicker of recognition. Undeterred, he opened his arms and passed the point of no return.

“Thank heaven!” he cried. “I’ve found you—my Bella!”