Deeper Than Desire Read online

  "Was that Mr. Blaine?"

  Penny shrugged, neither confirming nor denying who it was.

  "Oh, Penny," Olivia admonished, clucking her tongue in dismay. 'Tell me you haven't been out here with him."

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  "What I do isn't any of your affair."

  "Oh, but it is. Would you embarrass your mother? And me? At the earl's house? We're his guests. What's come over you?" She stared into the darkness, as though she could behold Freddy's retreating form, but he was long gone. "Promise me that you won't speak with him again."

  Penny remained aggravatingly, doggedly silent.

  "If you won't give me your word," Olivia threatened, "I'll go to your mother."

  A wave of fury swept over Penny. Who was Olivia to be issuing orders and chastising? It was irritating enough to listen to Margaret's incessant harping. She wasn't about to tolerate it from her whiny, mewling sibling.

  "No you won't."

  "I will," Olivia insisted.

  She and Olivia were the same height, the same weight. She advanced until they were pressed up together, their skirts tangled, and she captured Ohvia's forearm and pinched as hard as she could, causing Olivia to lurch away.

  "I know about you and the stablemaster," Penny informed her.

  "What?"

  "I have some of the pictures you drew." She retrieved them from under her cloak and brandished them. "If you tattle about Mr. Blaine, I'll show them to Margaret."

  Olivia blanched, fading to a ghostly white. "Penny!"

  "We'll see who's in the most trouble then, won't we?"

  Visibly afraid, Olivia studied her. "You could never do anything so wicked to me."

  "Couldn't I?" She moved nearer, and her timid sister flinched. She liked the power she wielded, enjoyed witnessing Olivia's fear. "I don't care about you. I've never cared about you."

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  Appalled, aghast, Olivia recoiled. "You're mad."

  Penny laughed, a low, malevolent chuckle that boded ill for any person foolish enough to cross her, then she turned and sauntered to the mansion, leaving Olivia quaking out on the lawn.

  ******************

  Jane peeked around the large chamber where the girls gathered to do their sewing. There were only a few left who hadn't finished their allotment, and she was one of them. With her benefactor having cut off her stipend, she had to earn her keep, and she spent many hours every day completing the required pieces.

  Frantically, she stitched, panicked over her fate and what awaited her on the streets of London when she was ousted at age thirteen.

  If she didn't accomplish a sufficient quantity, that dreaded moment would arrive even sooner, and she was desperate not to let it happen. Among the orphans, there'd always been rumors as to the horrors on the outside, and Jane believed every story.

  She simply did not know how she would survive once she was handed her small bag and told to go.

  Without warning, tears flooded her eyes. Throughout her stay at the orphanage, she'd dreamed that her mother and father would come for her. Mrs. Graves contended that her parents were deceased, that she was truly an orphan, but Jane had never been persuaded. If she had no family, who had paid her board for twelve years? A grandfather? A compassionate uncle?

  She'd developed many romantic notions about who that individual might have been, and what had transpired to stop his routine support. Mrs. Graves asserted that her benefactor hadn't been her kin, but had made

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  payments as a charity, had been sustaining an indigent girl as his Christian duty.

  Jane hadn't accepted that folderol, either.

  In her heart, she had felt that her parents were out there, hoping and searching, that they'd lost her and had been trying to find her all this time. But as her thirteenth birthday approached, she was forced to conclude that she'd been wrong. There was no one to save her, no one who would rush to her rescue.

  She was all alone in the world, and the realization was too sad to bear, so she shook off the doldrums that had swamped her.

  With so much work to do, she couldn't waste a single second bemoaning her fate. Even with her patron's support, she'd had sewing to do, and she had more now, plus she'd acquired the burden of doing it for Helen, as well. She'd tried and tried to explain the chore to the girl, to teach her to focus on the needle and thread, but Helen couldn't concentrate.

  Jane couldn't account for why she was so fond of Helen, but she couldn't let her blunder through the perils at the orphanage on her own. She was so defenseless, so pitiful, and Jane was terrified that she'd be expelled for some misdemeanor, or that she would be given to those men who were interested in very young children.

  Whenever Jane was advised the peculiar fellows were on the premises, she concealed Helen in a wooden chest. Jane had described the bad men, and Helen seemed to understand the danger. Without a fuss, she would climb in, and Jane would sit on the lid as though it were her customary perch, for she never wanted any of them to see Helen's amazing white hair, or her big blue eyes.

  They had a habit of picking the fairest ones, and Jane was certain that they would select Helen, despite her

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  abnormality. She was too fetching to escape their notice.

  Toiling on, Jane stitched far into the evening, until it was too dark to continue. Mrs. Graves wouldn't let them use valuable candles, so she had to quit. She'd missed the bell to supper, but the cook was a kindly woman, and she would have hidden some bread and cheese for Jane in the kitchen.

  She packed up her supplies, then went to locate Helen so they could sneak down to eat. Mrs. Graves was already gone, but Mr. Sawyer would be lurking about. Usually, he was napping, or indulging in spirits in Mrs. Graves's office, so Jane didn't need to worry about being detected.

  In the girls' common room, she'd anticipated that Helen would be on her bed, but she wasn't there. Jane had escorted her to breakfast, and had ushered her back, counseling her not to go anywhere. On all other days, Helen had obliged. She could dawdle forever, not talking or noting the activity around her.

  Jane hunted for her, peeking under beds and behind dressers, but her alarm escalated.

  Had one of the sinister men abducted her without Jane's being apprised? Had she wandered off? She was so quiet, she could slip out the door without anyone's being aware.

  She hastened down the stairs, as another girl was climbing up. "Have you seen Helen?"

  "Who's Helen?"

  "Martha," Jane amended. "The mute."

  "The imbecile?" The other girl snickered.

  "Yes," Jane said, biting down a scathing retort.

  "She was with Mr. Sawyer."

  "Where were they going?"

  "How would I know?" The girl shrugged and kept on.

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  Jane's heart plummeted to her feet. Mr. Sawyer was a queer, skulking swine, the exact sort Jane avoided at all costs. Once, he'd tried to drag her into a closet. She wasn't sure what he'd meant to do to her, but she'd fought like a cat, scratching and clawing at him, until she'd managed to flee, and he'd left her in peace ever since.

  But he'd done the same with other girls, who hadn't been fortunate enough to get away, and they whispered about what had occurred.

  What if he'd maltreated Helen?

  She never enmeshed herself in the affairs of others, particularly now that she had to pay her own way. Her situation was too precarious, and if she angered Mrs. Graves, she could be tossed out in the time it took to pack her meager belongings.

  Yet, she felt as if God had placed Helen in her hands, that Jane had been chosen to watch over her and keep her safe. Helen couldn't fend for herself. Jane had to be responsible for her, and she couldn't fret over the consequences.

  If she didn't protect Helen, who would?

  She tiptoed down to the kitchen where she obtained a broom and a knife. She tucked the knife into the pocket of her pinafore, then walked toward the front of the building.

  No child was allowed on t
he main floor this late, and if she was caught, she'd be in dire trouble.

  At night, the hallways appeared more grim and dingy than usual. She peered into the main parlor, the cozy, pleasant salon, where Mrs. Graves met with visitors so they would have the impression that the remainder of the facility was equally cheery.

  The room was empty.

  Trudging on, she examined one room after the next, slowly moving toward the rear. As she converged upon

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  Mrs. Graves's office, the door was ajar, and the dim glow from a candle glimmered through the crack. She crept closer. Halted. Listened.

  There was a long silence, then Mr. Sawyer's evil chuckle wafted out. "You're a pretty, pretty girl, Martha," he said, "and you'll be my special friend. We'll have such fun."

  Jane stepped up and peeked in.

  Sawyer was in the chair behind the desk. Helen was on his lap, her ivory hair shining like a halo as he stroked it. She was solemn and motionless, staring into space, not seeming to be cognizant of his touching her.

  Jane was so furious, she thought she might explode with rage, and she gave herself no chance to calm or come to her senses. Bursting through the door, she pushed it so hard that it swung open all the way and slammed against the wall With a sharp clack.

  Mr. Sawyer whipped around so rapidly that Helen fell onto the floor, and she whimpered in dismay as she landed on her knees.

  "What the hell...?" he barked.

  Before he could protect himself or react, Jane rushed over and hit him with the broom handle. She raised it to administer another blow, but he grabbed the end before she could smack it down.

  "I'll kill you for that!" His cruel eyes narrowed as he jerked the broom away and flung it into the corner.

  "I'm not afraid of you!" she declared, though she was shaking.

  Helen glanced up.

  "Run away, Helen!" Jane urged. "Run fast! Hide till I come for you!"

  Helen responded to Jane's urgency and scampered off, her tiny feet retreating down the hall, and Jane stood

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  blocking the threshold, a speechless bulwark of wrath, until she was positive the girl was away.

  Mr. Sawyer advanced on her, a large, violent drunkard, but she bravely confronted him. When he lunged for her, she pulled out the knife and brandished it at him. From the astonishment and fear that swept across his harsh features, he didn't doubt she'd use it, and he leapt out of range.

  "If you so much as look at her again," Jane warned, "I'll wait till you're down here, passed out. Then, when you least expect it, I'll murder you in your sleep."

  "That's mighty ferocious talk for a spit of a girl."

  "I'd be very careful if I were you." She inched away, intent on departing before he recovered his mettle and charged her.

  "Catty little strumpet." His foul breath washed over her, making her want to retch. "You think you're so tough? So smart? I'm straight to Mrs. Graves, I am. You'll be out on the streets like that!" He snapped his fingers.

  "She'll never believe you over me."

  "I wouldn't be too sure if I was you."

  "I'll tell her what you do to the girls."

  "As if she'd do anything about it." He laughed, the sound of it sending a chill down her spine. "Maybe I'll convince her she ought to sell you to Mr. Aires, whether you agree or not. I'll persuade her to sell your idiot chum, too. We'll see who's afraid then."

  "She never would."

  "Hah! Miss Priss, aren't you the know-it-all? You deserve to be brought down a peg or two." He bolted toward her. "Threaten me, will ya? How's 'bout I give you a taste of what's in store for you at Mr. Aires's house.”

  Jane spun and fled, knowing she'd used up whatever advantage she'd gleaned through her surprise entrance.

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  She sped down the hall and up the stairs, to the shelter provided by the other orphans whose presence would prevent him from committing mayhem.

  She didn't pause till she was at her bed, and she slumped down onto the lumpy mattress, where she struggled to compose herself. A few of the older girls studied her, but posed no questions as to her disheveled state, and she was glad for their distance.

  Panicked, forlorn, she was awhirl with dreadful speculation.

  Sawyer was correct in everything he'd uttered. The cards had been dealt, and she'd played her hand the only way she could. The consequences, however disastrous they might be, would begin to rain down very soon.

  Terrified, devastated, she started searching for Helen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Edward stood at the fence, his forearms braced on the top rail, observing his handsome, dynamic son out in the field with a mare and her colt. With the grass so green, the sky so blue, and the fluffy clouds floating by, it was like a placid scene out of a fairy tale.

  Who could guess that so many undercurrents were rushing through the tranquil setting?

  Since that dreadful afternoon they'd fought behind the barn, they hadn't spoken, and he felt terrible about the horrid comments Phillip had hurled. How he wished there was some way to bridge the gaps that divided them.

  Would Phillip always loathe him? Would their relationship remain that of employer and employee—two men who had nothing to discuss but horses? Could he repair the damage he and his wife had wrought?

  For a long while, he'd deemed they were progressing. When Phillip had returned from his stint in the army—half-starved, partially crippled, and looking like death warmed over—Edward had been so relieved that he'd taken one of the few brave steps in his life: he'd begged Phillip to move into the manor. Much to Edward's dismay, Phillip had declined, but as a compromise he came for supper every evening.

  Then, stupidly, Edward had canceled their arrangement so as not to embarrass his current guests. At the time, the request had seemed prudent, but he'd made a

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  huge mess of it, insulting Phillip and hurting him, when he'd never meant to. He'd merely wanted an easy solution to where Phillip belonged.

  Edward could never quite decide, and therein lay the crux of the problem. Where did Phillip belong? What role should he assume? It was unfair to treat him like a member of the family when it was convenient, but to hide him when it was awkward.

  He was ashamed of himself, and the result—which served him right—was that he needed Phillip's advice and wise counsel, but he wasn't entitled to receive it. An enormous quandary was plaguing him, the answer impossible to glean on his own, yet his demolishing of their cordial association ensured that he dared not seek Phillip's guidance.

  Should he marry Olivia? Could he marry Olivia? The recent letter from his solicitor was filled with rumors about the Hopkinses' finances, so how could he refuse? Was he so callous that he could send the women home to fend for themselves?

  He didn't think so.

  A proposal would ameliorate their fiscal predicament, and his wretched pursuit of a bride and heir could be concluded.

  Olivia was a sweet, amiable girl, and he presumed they could trudge through matrimony together. There were many worse choices.

  As he thought about it, he shook his head. Why was he willing to settle for so little? Decades earlier, he'd made the sensible selection, had followed the proper course, in picking his first wife. Their union had been ordinary, conventional, all that he'd expected and nothing more.

  He'd been bored to tears. Each and every day.

  Perhaps it was advancing age that made him restless

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  and dissatisfied, but the notion of enduring another such humdrum partnership left him weary and annoyed. He didn't want monotonous and mundane; he craved fire and spice and excitement.

  Vividly, he could picture Winnie, dancing in the rain in the yard, her robe plastered to her skin, her breasts outlined whenever lightning had flashed. He could feel her mouth on him, her damp, luxurious hair brushing his thighs. Why was he so attracted to her? They were barely acquainted, and he knew nothing of significance about her save that she'd lost he
r virginity to an old love, but just from his recalling their wild encounter, his pants were growing tight.

  They'd rutted like a pair of animals. Gad, but in his passionate frenzy, he'd ripped off her nightgown, had actually torn it down the center and tossed it away! He still couldn't believe he'd acted so savagely. In all his previous sexual trysting, he'd never been spurred to such ardent agitation. The woman goaded him beyond reservation or restraint.

  Meeting her, knowing her, fornicating with her, had altered something deep inside, had him pondering his beliefs and convictions.

  Another staid, tepid match was pointless and unpalatable. He wanted what he'd shared with Winnie. Why couldn't he have it? He was like a petulant child, denied his favorite toy. What was the benefit of his fortune, his status and power, if he couldn't possess his heart's desire?

  Ever since he'd arisen, alone in his bed, to find her gone, and the minx having tucked her ruined negligee under his pillow, he hadn't seen her, but that hadn't prevented him from obsessing over her. He couldn't get her out of his mind, and he kept flirting with the most dangerous question: What if?

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  What if he cast off precedent and tradition? What if he abandoned his search for an aristocratic bride, and married Winnie?

  The thought was so outrageous and so reckless that it had been keeping him awake, causing him to pace in the dark of night. To throw off societal shackles and wed a female of her station was asinine, scandalous. It was like demanding he agree that the earth was square or the ocean yellow. Yet the idea had his pulse pounding, his hopes soaring.

  Could he? What if?

  It went against every tenet that had been drilled into him from birth. Bloodlines mattered above all else. Position and rank determined one's path. No other option was available.

  He couldn't marry her, but he couldn't conceive of how to forge on with a marriage to Olivia, either. In light of the uncontrollable ardor he harbored for Winnie, he saw naught but an interminable string of miserable social situations, with Winnie seated at his table, the two of them disconcerted and unspeaking.