Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(98)

“Some bastard tried to shoot Mr. Scott!”

Logan crouched by Andrew once more. “It was an accident. No harm was done. Gather up Lord Drake and have him sent to my home, in my carriage. And be careful with him. He's ill.”

“stinking bloody soused is what he is,” some-one muttered as they obeyed his directives.

Logan threw a hard glance at Madeline. “He'll stay in our guest quarters. Do you have any objections?”

She shook her head briefly, her face suddenly infused with scarlet. “Why bother to ask? You've made it clear that my opinion means nothing to you.”

She sounded and looked different than he had ever seen her. Without thinking, he placed a hand on her back to guide her from the stage, and she jerked away from him. It was the first time she had ever rejected his touch.

“I don't need your help,” Madeline said stiffly. “All I need from you is the one thing you're determined never to give.” She walked away before he could reply, her spine rigid with an anger that disconcerted him. Had he ever seen her angry before? Damn her for making him feel somehow that he was in the wrong, when she was the one who had put herself in danger!

There was silence between them on the way home. Once there, Andrew slept soundly as the servants assisted Logan in assuring that he was clean and comfortable in the guest quarters. After sharing a hasty supper with Madeline, Logan prepared to return to the Capital for the scheduled performance that evening.

“Will you be all right?” he asked her tersely. “I can send for one of your family or friends to keep you company while I'm gone—”

“I'll be fine,” she replied, not meeting his eyes. “The servants will be here if I require anything, and I don't expect Lord Drake will awaken before tomorrow.”

“If he does, don't go near him.”

“Very well. When will you notify Lord Rochester that his son is still alive?”

“I'll let Andrew make that decision when he's able.” He stared at her assessingly. “Go to bed early. You've had a shock today. You need to rest.”

“You needn't be concerned,” Madeline said coolly, determined to match his brusqueness with her own. “The baby is fine.”

Scowling, he left without another word.

Madeline tried to summon her usual patience, remembering the wrong she had done him, her vow to earn his love slowly over time…but instead she experienced a new burst of anger. It seemed that her love and patience had gotten her nowhere. If this was how Logan wanted things between them, so be it! She was tired of being a martyr, tired of waiting and hoping. Clenching her fists, she went upstairs for a lengthy bath, hoping to soak away her tension in the hot, scented water.

Before retiring, Madeline went to her bedroom window and pushed the velvet curtain aside to glance out at the formal garden and the guest quarters in the other wing of the house. There was a light in the window of Lord Drake's room, and a flicker of movement within.

Lord Drake was awake, she surmised with a frown. No doubt he was guilt-ridden, drunk, and in pain. Madeline thought of ignoring the light in the window and letting him suffer alone. After what he had done that day, threatening her husband's life, he didn't deserve compassion. Moreover, Logan's edict to stay away from him still rang in her ears.

On the other hand, she wasn't a child or a servant to be ordered about. She was an adult, with the right to follow the promptings of her own conscience. Troubled, she rang for her maid and went to her armoire.

The maid appeared in a minute or two. “Yes, Mrs. Scott?” she asked, seeming perplexed by the sight of Madeline pulling a day gown from the armoire.

“Please help me change.” Madeline said. “I believe Lord Drake is awake. If so, I would like to speak with him.”

“But Mrs. Scott, the master told everyone—”

“Yes, he made his wishes clear. But there's no need to worry. I will be perfectly safe, as I intend to have someone accompany me to his quarters.

“Yes, Mrs. Scott,” the maid said doubtfully. “Though I don't think the master will be happy once he hears of this.”

As it was, Madeline was escorted to the guest quarters by a footman, Mrs. Beecham, and the butler, all of whom made their disapproval quite clear. “There's no need for such a crowd,” Madeline protested, but they were determined to protect her from a man they considered dangerous.

Lord Drake was rummaging through the cabinets of a mahogany sideboard in the guest parlor when they arrived. Swaying unsteadily, blinking like a child who had been awakened too soon, he stared at the four of them, his bloodshot gaze fastening on Madeline's small face.

She was amazed by the contrast between his usual appearance and the way he looked now. The mocking, carefree degenerate had been replaced by a stranger with matted hair and a sickly gray complexion. He had dressed himself in the fresh clothes that had been set out for him: a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a vest that had been tailored for Logan's leaner frame. Buttons and fabric strained to contain his bloated waistline.

“If it's alcohol you're looking for,” Madeline said softly, “Logan made certain that it was removed from the guest rooms. Would you like me to send for coffee?”

He gave her a look of horrified shame and seemed to slink to the corner of the room. “Please go,” he muttered. “I can't bear to face you. What I did today—”