The Youngest Dowager: A Regency romance(69)

‘I warn you, Matthews, I know there is more to it. Tell me, or I shall go there.’

‘It’s a bordello for men who like – oh, gawd, my lady! – different things… er, whips… Oh, please, my lady, don’t ask me any more.’

Her knees gave way and she sat down on the sofa abruptly, but she kept her voice hard. ‘How do you know, Matthews?’

‘His late lordship…’ The man’s voice trailed off miserably.

‘Thank you, Matthews. You may go.’

The ice seemed to be spreading up her body from her toes to the top of her head. It was like doing a puzzle, and suddenly the last few clues fell into place. That was why when they had come up to London Charles had never troubled her: he had had this place to go to, to satisfy his taste for inflicting pain. And now Marcus. Was it in the blood? She could not bear to think about it. She loved him but now she could not bear the thought of seeing him again.

Marissa shuddered at the thought of how close she had been to once more placing herself in the power of a man. Wives had no choice other than to obey, but she was free and at least she could run.

Marissa got to her feet, hardly able to feel her limbs, but somehow they responded. She tugged the bell-pull and when the footman came ordered, ‘Send Mary to my room and fetch down two of my travelling cases and my dressing case.’ As the man turned she added, ‘And send to the mews for the light travelling coach to be ready as soon as possible.’

Within the hour all was prepared, the few cases loaded and, accompanied by Gyp and a bemused Mary, Marissa was on the road heading for Norfolk and sanctuary.



Marcus returned home to find Jackson shouting at the under-butler but ignored them and took the stairs two at a time up to his bed chamber.

Jackson came in as he was pulling off his shirt and calling for hot water. ‘Damn it, I feel as though I’m never going to be clean again. I’ve been – ’

‘I know where you’ve been, Marcus – and so does she.’ Jackson had no need to say who she was, his expression told it all.

‘How the blazes?’

‘She saw you. She made Matthews tell her what that place is.’

‘How the devil does Matthews know?’ Marcus’s head was whirling, but he snatched up a clean shirt and began to fasten it.

‘All the servants knew what your late cousin was,’ Jackson said darkly.

‘Oh, my God. What she must be thinking! I must go to her. What hell is she going through if she believes I’m like him?’

‘You can’t talk to her, Marcus, she’s gone. Two hours since.’

‘Where?’ he demanded, raking his hand through his already disordered hair.

‘Back to the Hall. One of the footmen overheard her orders to the coachman.’

‘No, she would never go back there. But she will go back to the Dower House, the only place where she has no memories of him.’ Marcus stopped, thinking. ‘Pack a saddlebag and send to the stables for the new bay. It is fresh enough to get me a good distance before I have to change.’

‘Yes, Marcus, but I’m coming with you.’ Jackson tugged the bell-pull with such force that three footmen arrived simultaneously and were sent off at the run to obey his orders.





Chapter Twenty Three


It was dark when Marcus and Jackson, stiff, tired and travel-stained, trotted into Newmarket and reined in in the yard of the Three Crowns. ‘Look, Marcus.’ Jackson pointed to the travelling carriage standing horseless, its empty shafts on the cobbles.

‘Thank goodness. This is a respectable house, she will be all right here tonight.’

‘But aren’t you going in to talk to her?’ Jackson furrowed his brow in perplexity as Marcus dug his heels in and trotted out of the yard.

‘Not here, man. This is hardly the place for the sort of conversation we are going to be having. Here’s the King’s Head, let’s hope they have beds for the night. Tomorrow we’ll follow, just out of sight.’



It was a long day, but Marissa insisted that her coachman keep going, changing horses whenever he saw fit, but she refused his pleas to stop and rest for the night. Even though it was June the sun had set before the Hall came in sight. Marissa averted her gaze and waited, with sudden impatience, for the Dower House to appear.

For the long journey she had sat silent, frozen and almost immobile, responding automatically to Mary’s worried attempts at conversation until the girl had finally given up and fallen silent. She supposed she’d had something to eat the night before, but could not remember what. Nor could she remember sleeping, although there seemed to have been moments of unconsciousness.

Lights were twinkling as though in welcome in the windows of the old house. At the sound of carriage wheels on gravel Whiting threw open the front door and when she saw his familiar, kind face Marissa felt the ice that had been covering her break. Life, and with it pain, flowed back into her limbs and mind. Seconds later Mrs Whiting appeared at her husband’s side, exclaiming with mixed worry and delight at the sight of her mistress.

Marissa half tumbled from the carriage into the housekeeper’s arms, hugging her convulsively, determined not to cry.

‘It is all right,’ she explained. ‘I have not been very well – London is so hot and noisy. I just need to be back in the country for a while.’