Forbidden Fantasy Read online

  “You there, boy!” the Countess summoned the butler who was hovering in the hall. “Pour us both a sherry. Your mistress is going to need it.”

  Georgie smiled at him, acting as if liquor had been her own idea.

  “Yes, Arthur, please pour us a drink.”

  Arthur stumbled in, his hands shaking as he went about his business. Once he’d finished, the Countess glowered at him.

  “You may take to your bed. What I’m about to say to your mistress is nothing you should overhear.” He didn’t move, and the Countess snarled, “Go away, you foolish oaf. I won’t tell you twice.”

  “You may leave us, Arthur,” Georgie added more gently.

  “If you’re sure, Miss?”

  “I’ll be fine.” He hesitated, and she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He put the bottle on the table between them, then he raced out, and Georgie sat, frowning at the Countess, till his footsteps faded.

  The Countess reached for her glass and gestured for Georgie to do the same, and Georgie seized hers and gulped down the contents. She’d meant to daintily swallow, but she was so nervous that she craved its instant effect.

  The Countess was silent and dour, which rattled Georgie even more, though she strove to hide it. If the Countess wanted to glumly tarry, Georgie would, too. Georgie could tarry all night.

  Locked in a taciturn battle of wills, she found her glass quickly emptied, and she helped herself to a second serving, then a third. As she swilled them down, the Countess smirked—as if Georgie was behaving exactly as planned.

  “I’d been informed,” the Countess said, “that you’re powerless to resist an alcoholic libation.”

  “Were you?”

  “Actually, I know quite a bit about you.”

  “How interesting.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? I like to learn as much as I can about my enemies.”

  “Why would you presume us to be enemies, Lady Derby?” Georgie was all wide-eyed innocence, all sweet, youthful sincerity. “We both want the same thing.”

  “And what is that, Miss Lane?”

  “Why, we both want Bernard to be happy.”

  “No, we don’t,” Derby scoffed. “I don’t want him to be happy, at all. In fact, if he fell over dead, I’d be delighted. I hate him. I’ve always hated him.”

  Georgie was frightened by the woman’s vitriol, and she regretted having come downstairs. There were limits as to what she’d endure in her mother’s scheme to snare Lord Derby, and Georgie’s having to dawdle in the parlor with his surly wife was more than she could abide.

  “Why are you here, Lady Derby?” Georgie grouched. “It’s two o’clock in the morning, and I’m exhausted.”

  “Are you? Poor dear. It must be so draining to constantly frolic with my spouse.”

  “It’s obvious you know where I’ve been and who I’ve been with, so let’s not play games.”

  “No, indeed, let’s not.”

  “If you’re begging me to desist, you’re speaking to the wrong person. He pursued me, Lady Derby. He chased after me every step of the way, so if there is something you need to say, I suggest you say it to the Earl.”

  She deemed it an excellent speech that had put the lofty lady in her place, and she had every intention of storming out in a huff, but though she ordered her feet to depart, she couldn’t rise.

  “I’m fully cognizant of the Earl’s despicable tendencies toward pretty girls,” the Countess said, “and I will deal with him at the appropriate moment. In the meantime, there’s you to consider.”

  “I keep asking you what you want, but you won’t tell me.”

  “Won’t I? How remiss of me.”

  “Please get it all off your chest. Insult me in every manner you can, then go away and don’t come back. I detest scenes, and I’m eager for this one to be over.”

  “Would you like some more sherry, Miss Lane?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, but I insist.”

  The Countess refilled the glass that Georgie still held in her hand, but she didn’t need more wine. The container slid from her fingers and thudded to the floor, a dark stain spreading on the rug. Georgie recognized that she should bend over and blot up the mess, but she couldn’t.

  She wasn’t feeling very well. Her head was spinning, her stomach queasy. The room had grown overly hot, the air stuffy, and she had the oddest choking sensation in her throat, as if it was beginning to close.

  She was panicked, but couldn’t act on her terror.

  “Would you go?” she inquired, her words slow and slurred.

  “But I haven’t finished what I came to do.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I’m here to kill you. Didn’t you know?”

  Georgie should have leapt up and run away, but her pulse had escalated to an alarming rate, and the obstruction in her throat was strangling her. She was paralyzed in her chair, not able to talk, breathe, or move.

  “How … did … you…” was all she could manage.

  “It was simple. I’d heard you were a drunkard, so I poisoned the sherry.”

  The Countess was puttering about, cleaning up after herself. She opened the window and dumped the remaining liquor into the yard.

  “We can’t have any evidence lying around,” she explained, “although I doubt your demise will be investigated. The tincture I utilized is extremely lethal, but it leaves no taste or odor. It will be assumed by all that you over-imbibed to the point of mortality. Given your passion for strong spirits, no one will be surprised.”

  She flashed a malevolent grin. “Who will miss you, Miss Lane? Will anyone?”

  Georgie thought that the Earl might, and Maude would be distressed, but only because the flow of money and gifts that the Earl had showered on them would cease. Sadly, she couldn’t think of anybody else who would be concerned.

  In an excruciating daze, she watched as Lady Derby lifted her and carried her to the sofa. Georgie was laid out, arranged as if for her funeral viewing, her arms over her chest, her toes sticking up. Then the Countess positioned several empty bottles on the floor so it would look as if Georgie had consumed the entire amount.

  The pain in her stomach was agonizing, and she felt as if her belly were being stabbed by sharp knives. She couldn’t swallow, and her tongue had swelled to a ghastly size.

  Help me! she mutely implored. Do something!

  The crazed Countess seemed to heed her plea. She reached for a knitted throw and tucked it around Georgie’s torso, but the thin blanket was useless. Georgie was shivering so hard, freezing and burning up at the same time.

  Convulsions racked her, and through it all, the Countess calmly observed.

  “Don’t worry,” the older woman soothed. “The poison works very fast. It will be over before you know it.”

  She clasped Georgie’s hand and took the ruby promise ring that the Earl had placed there.

  “I believe I’ll keep this as a souvenir.” The Countess slipped it onto her fat finger. “You don’t mind, do you? You won’t be needing it.”

  She blew out the lamp, turned, and left, so Georgie had to suffer to the end all alone.

  Georgie imagined herself rising up and hurrying after her. She’d advise the Countess of all the ways she was stealing her husband, which had been easy since Lady Derby was an obnoxious shrew whom the Earl hated.

  But the reality was that Lady Derby had been correct: The poison did indeed work very fast. After a few more desperate minutes, death was a welcomed relief.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  “I tried to explain to your father about your whoring, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Caroline stared at her mother, wondering how someone so obviously crazed could appear so sane. A hint of madness glowed in her eyes, but other than that abnormal glimmer, she seemed as fussy and straitlaced as she’d always been.

  Caroline was sitting in a chair, pretending to be very meek, when, in fact, she was terrified and confused and angrier than
she’d ever been.

  She wanted to scream for help, to bring the servants running, but as she’d discovered from her long night of pounding on the door, they wouldn’t cross Britannia. She’d trained the staff well. If she locked Caroline in a closet, if she beat and starved Caroline, nary a one would intervene.

  Caroline couldn’t count on anyone but herself, so she was alert for the slightest inattention by her mother. The minute Britannia’s back was turned, Caroline would sneak out and race to Ian. He would protect her.

  After he’d received her letter but she hadn’t arrived, what must he have thought? Was he panicked and fretting? At any moment, would he rush to her aid?

  Or what if the footman hadn’t delivered the note? What if Ian didn’t know she’d been intending to come? If she never had another chance to speak with him, if he went on assuming she’d chosen Mr. Shelton, she’d never forgive herself.

  She had to get away!

  “Your father couldn’t focus on business,” her mother was saying, “so he told me to handle everything.”

  “He wouldn’t want you to be so cruel, Mother.”

  “Wouldn’t he? Do you really suppose he cares? He’s been so preoccupied, sticking his rod in that harlot’s hole—”

  “Mother!”

  “—that he won’t notice how I treat you.”

  “Perhaps we should ask Father to come upstairs,” Caroline coaxed, anxious for him to see what had happened.

  Britannia gave a sinister laugh. “We don’t need your father to solve our problem with Ian Clayton.”

  “We have no problem with Mr. Clayton. I scarcely know him.”

  “I understand your attraction, Caroline. He’s a rugged, handsome sort, and after the Wakefield debacle, you were humiliated. It was only natural that you would seek inappropriate comfort.”

  “I didn’t misbehave with Mr. Clayton,” she insisted.

  As if she hadn’t commented, her mother continued, “I, myself, sought physical consolation in the arms of another man when I had my own pathetic fling.”

  Her mother had had an amour? How very peculiar!

  “Did you love him?” Caroline probed, trying to find common ground, trying to lower Britannia’s guard.

  “Love, bah!” she sneered. “He never came for me, even though he swore he would. I was increasing and frightened and alone.”

  Britannia talked as if she’d been pregnant with her paramour’s child. Had Britannia met him before marrying the Earl? Was she claiming that the Earl wasn’t Adam’s father? Or had there been no child? Was Britannia so deranged she simply imagined there was?

  “It must have been awful,” Caroline soothed. “I’m sorry for you.”

  “Why would you be sorry? I learned a valuable lesson—as you have not—that there is nothing but treachery in the world. Now as to how we’ll proceed…”

  She walked to the window and peered outside, studying something only she could see. She held up her hand, and she was wearing a ruby ring on her smallest finger. Grinning, she looked at it like the cat that had eaten the canary; then she whipped around, her expression cold and stony, once more.

  “The wedding will go forward, and your indiscretion will remain our little secret.”

  “I can’t do it for you, Mother.”

  “Your opinion is completely irrelevant.”

  “But I—”

  “Be silent, Caroline. I’m weary of your protests. I selected Edward for you, and there’s no use quarreling.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll murder your beloved Mr. Clayton.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me: I shall kill Mr. Clayton. I would rather see him dead than let you defy me.”

  “What an absurd threat.” Caroline scoffed. “I’ve known you all my life. As if I’d believe you’d … you’d … kill someone.”

  “You presume I wouldn’t?”

  “I’m positive you wouldn’t. You seem to be experiencing some type of noxious spell, and so far, I’ve humored you, but I won’t listen to any more of your ranting. It can’t be healthy. I have to advise Father that you’re ill.”

  Britannia chuckled. “You won’t have to notify Bernard. He’ll be apprised soon enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I killed his mistress.”

  “You did not.”

  “I did.”

  “When?”

  “Last night, while you were locked in my dressing room. I went to her home and murdered her.”

  “With what?”

  “With poison—the spurned woman’s weapon. What would you expect? It was extremely satisfying, too.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am. He’ll stop haranguing about a divorce, and when the next pretty girl catches his eye, he’ll think twice about becoming involved with her.” She gazed at the ruby ring, twirling it round and round on her finger. “If I’d been aware of how easy it was to accomplish, I’d have started doing it years ago. It would have saved me so many headaches.”

  Caroline’s mind reeled with questions: Could her mother actually have done such a terrible thing? Could she have stooped to homicide? Did Caroline know her, at all? From where had this bloodthirsty stranger sprung?

  “You’re stark-raving mad,” Caroline murmured.

  “Yes, I suppose I am,” Britannia agreed, which made it so much worse. “Now then, let’s go down to dinner. After, I’ll lock you in again, which is where you will spend every minute until the ceremony.”

  “I have to tell, Mother,” she declared. “I have to tell everyone what you did.”

  “Who will you tell, Caroline? Who would believe that I—the Countess of Derby—would bother with murdering a strumpet? Your father’s had dozens. And don’t forget: If you whisper a word of this, I will kill Mr. Clayton. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on it. So … you can marry Edward, as I’ve requested, and your precious Ian will be safe forever. Or you can tattle, and he will be dead shortly. The choice is yours. What will it be?”

  She opened the door, gesturing into the hall as if it were an ordinary day, as if they’d been having a pleasant mother-daughter chat.

  “Let’s go down, shall we? I’m starving.”

  She strolled out, fully anticipating that Caroline would tag along without argument.

  Shaken, stunned, Caroline rose and trailed after her.

  * * *

  “Bernard, this came for you. The messenger said it was urgent.”

  Britannia was holding a sealed note, and Bernard scowled.

  “Who is it from?”

  “Your latest trollop. Or perhaps her mother. I’m told something has happened and the girl was incapable of writing herself. Isn’t she a drunkard? She was probably too intoxicated to pick up a pen.”

  His heart skipped several beats. “Give it to me.”

  He snatched it away and tore at the seal. The sentences seemed to swim on the page, and he had to read it over and over before they made any sense.

  “Georgie!” he gasped, and he collapsed onto the nearest chair.

  “Are you all right, Bernard? Is it bad news? Oh, how I hope it is!”

  He skimmed the note again, the import sinking in. “You were there! You were the last to see her alive.”

  “Was I? How intriguing.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I tried bribing her to stay away from you—as any rich, sane wife would do. I offered her a fortune, too, but the stupid child refused it. It must have been true love, after all.”

  She giggled and fluttered her hand over her enormous bosom, and he was shocked to find that she was wearing Georgie’s ring. He was sure it was hers!

  Could Britannia have…? Oh, he couldn’t finish the thought!

  “Where did you get that ring?” he asked, aghast but struggling to remain calm.

  “This old thing?” She waved it about as if she’d forgotten she had it on. “You gave it to me ages ago. Don’t you remember?”
/>
  Speculating, horrified, inconsolable, he gawked at her.

  His dear Georgie! She’d brought him such joy! Had Britannia been so jealous that she’d been driven to homicide? Was it possible?

  “If I ever learn that you were responsible for this atrocity, I’ll … I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?”

  It was a valid question. What could he do to her? Who would believe that his countess, his spouse of thirty years, would suddenly commit murder?

  “If I discover that it was you,” he warned, “I’ll strangle you with my own two hands.”

  “You haven’t the nerve.”

  She spun and left him to stew and grieve all alone.

  * * *

  Ian paced across his parlor, his anxiety rising, his worry extreme.

  Caroline’s letter was clutched in his fist, and he’d read it a thousand times. She’d sworn she was coming so that they could elope to Scotland.

  Where was she?

  He’d waited all night. He’d waited all morning, but she hadn’t arrived, and he didn’t know what her nonappearance indicated or what he should do about it.

  Should he continue to wait? Should he storm to her father’s house and demand to speak with her? Or should he face reality and admit that she hadn’t been serious?

  Just then, carriage wheels sounded on the street. He raced to the window and peered out, delighted to see the Earl’s coach pulling up.

  She’d come! She’d come at last!

  On pins and needles, he tarried, much too eager for his first glimpse of her, but as the footman lowered the step, it wasn’t Caro who emerged.

  The Countess lumbered out, and as she approached, his dread spiraled.

  What did the visit portend? He steeled himself against disappointment, against the mortification and regret that he was certain the Countess would make him feel.

  He stood, gaping and frozen, curious as to how their liaison had been exposed. Had Caro confessed it? Had someone else? Did it matter how the Countess had been apprised? Probably not. The damage was done, and he could only move through the aftermath.

  “Hello, Mr. Clayton,” she said as the butler showed her in.

  “Lady Derby.” He tipped his head. “Shall we sit?”