Chapter Twelve

Located in what remained of the original castle, Edward’s study door loomed, ominous and medieval, much like the duke himself. Phoebe dragged a long breath into her lungs, squashing the overwhelming desire to flee. This must be done. She couldn’t hide her secret from Edward forever. Best to have it out now—or so she was trying to convince herself.

Sarah grabbed Phoebe’s hand and squeezed hard. “I am coming with you. There is no way I am leaving you to speak with Edward alone.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Condon interjected. “His Grace is a good man, but he has the devil’s own temper.  I’ll come as well.”

Phoebe nodded weakly, unable to conjure even the shadow of a smile at their show of support. She’d spent the last hour telling Sarah and Mrs. Condon the whole sordid tale of her affair with James. They’d been compassionate and supportive—as friends should be—but Phoebe could well imagine Edward’s murderous tirade. Steeling her courage—fallen woman or no, she was still a Landon and refused to cower—she rapped on the study door. “Edward,” she called. “It’s Phoebe. I need to speak with you right away.” Without waiting for an answer, she swung the door inward.

Edward slouched over his desk, pouring over an overwhelming stack of documents, brow furrowed in concentration. He glanced up with a look of mild irritation, but bade her enter anyway. “What is this about, Phoebe? I am extremely busy.” He turned back to his document, dipping a quill in ink and proceeding to sign his name to the bottom of the page.

Trembling with shame and fear, Phoebe clutched Sarah’s hand so hard the other woman winced. “Edward, I…” the words escaped her, leaving her voice a mere rasp. She cleared her throat, steeling her courage. “Edward, I-I am with child.” There. She’d said it. The truth was out—most of it in any case. She resisted the urge to look away, and braced for the tirade to come.

Dead silence ruled the air.

Drawing a tentative breath, Phoebe debated repeating herself. Had Edward even heard?

He finished signing the document and proceeded to sand the ink. The line of his jaw set like concrete and the muscles in his neck tensed like iron. Phoebe gulped. He’d heard, and he was practicing a great show of restraint. He set his work aside and stood, striding to the window at the far side of his study.

The silence ensued. It was more than she could bear. She’d prepared herself for anger. She wanted anger—deserved anger. Anything but this deafening quiet.

“Edward?” Phoebe asked softly.

“Has a physician confirmed your condition?”

“No.”

“The signs are unmistakable, Your Grace,” Mrs. Condon interjected, her tone matter-of-fact and soothing.

Edward nodded, continuing to stare through the window. After a moment he glanced down at the floor, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I am afraid to broach the next question.” Finally he faced Phoebe, sadness and hurt brimming in his dark eyes. “To whom should I defend my sister’s honor?”

Phoebe faltered. Whatever calm façade her brother managed to cloak himself with would dissolve the moment he learned of her intimacy with James.

Edward’s mouth hardened to a grim line as black fire lit in his eyes. “No. Anyone but Witherspoon.”

Phoebe shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Edward. I thought—”

Her brother roared with fury. “Witherspoon! Sweet Jesus, Phoebe, how could you? The man murdered our brother.”

“No he didn’t,” Phoebe defended. “Tell me, Edward, what proof do you have of that?”

For the first time Edward hesitated. Phoebe capitalized on it.

“No one knows the facts of Patrick’s death. We all mourn him, but he is gone and his death should mean more than hatred.”

Edward’s face turned to stone. “Patrick is irrelevant. We are here because of your monstrous indiscretion. Your supreme ruination.” Edward fell to cold silence, but Phoebe could see the fire and rage roiling in his gray eyes. “I’d bloody well murder that womanizing bastard with my bare hands, but he’s quite conveniently left the country. Has he made you promises?”

Phoebe looked away, shame spurring yet more tears to her eyes. “No.” She held her breath, forcing herself to regain control. Edward would tolerate no show of weakness.

“Of course not. How like a Witherspoon to use a woman and cast her aside for revenge.”

Revenge? “No, Edward, it wasn’t like that.”

“Enough. I will not hear you defend him to me again.” Her brother paced the length of the room, brow furrowed in deep thought. Finally he faced her again. “Go to your room,” he ordered. “I need time to consider our options.”

“Edward—”

“Go!” he thundered. “I will summon you when I am prepared to discuss this further.”

Mute, Phoebe acquiesced with a stiff nod. Numb, she backed from Edward’s study and retired to her room.

Sarah and Mrs. Condon followed in silence.

Once back inside her bedroom, Phoebe stopped in the center of the room, simply staring at the cream colored wall. What would Edward do? What could her brother do? He’d spoken of options, but what options did she have? She was a ruined woman. Fallen. Utterly tainted in the eyes of society. Would he shut her away in a small cottage? Would he claim her dead and shun her completely?

Phoebe shivered at the prospect.

Perhaps… A foolish kernel of hope lit within her… Perhaps Edward would force James to marry her. Edward was one of the most powerful peers in Britain, if anyone could move heaven and earth to make a marriage possible—even a marriage by proxy across continents—it was Edward.

She turned to Sarah and Mrs. Condon. “I suppose I should pen Colonel Witherspoon a letter.”

Sarah nodded. “Probably wise. I will send one to Nicholas as well.”      

*          *          *

Nerves beat back the overwhelming nausea that continued to assail Phoebe when her brother called her to his study an hour later. The hope Edward would force a marriage between she and James had grown from a foolish whim to full-on daydream. She’d even begun to think of baby names.

Any fantasies drifting about her mind whisked away the moment Edward’s chilly gaze leveled upon her. “You will go to the country,” he began, voice terse with barely concealed rage. “I’ll tell everyone you’ve taken ill. Once the child is born it will be given to a suitable family. You will then return to Corsair and marry a man of my choosing.”

Phoebe gasped, an inadvertent hand flying to her abdomen. “Y-you can’t take my baby.”

An icy, murderous gleam roiled in his eyes. “Yes, you little whore, I can.”