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An eerie prickling skirted across Vangie’s flesh. Shivering, she wrapped the shawl tighter around her shoulders as Ailsa muttered a prayer under her breath.
“Ian, there you are. I apologize for keeping you waiting.” The dowager’s chilly voice floated across the clearing.
He was meeting with her? Why? He’d said he wanted nothing to do with the vile woman and that he intended to send her far away. Actually, Vangie was somewhat surprised he hadn’t done so already.
After throwing a fleeting look behind him into the stables, he faced her. His long legs eating up the distance between them, he strode to where she waited in the oaks’ shade. “Lucinda?”
With his back to Vangie and the increased distance between them, it made hearing him difficult.
“It was wise of you to suggest meeting here, Ian. It’s unlikely your, ah, bride will interrupt us.”
At the coldness in her voice, Vangie shuddered again. There was something oddly disconcerting about Lucinda’s appearance today as well. Trailing her gaze over the dowager, she couldn’t determine precisely what the peculiarity was. Dressed impeccably in mourning weeds, the woman hadn’t a hair out of place. Loosely clasping a fringed jacquard shawl against the persistent breeze, she seemed composed. But…
Vangie flicked her attention to Ailsa, still muttering prayers beneath her breath. Lips pinched tight, she returned her regard to the dotty dowager. An icy shiver washed over her, and her breath caught. Oh, my God. Her ladyship knew she stood there.
The woman stared straight at her, her eyes empty, vacant pools; the eyes of a dead person. No soul remained. Another shudder rippled across Vangie, causing the hairs on her arms and nape to stand on end.
Voice quivering, Ailsa shakily whispered, “Lawks. That addled fly-by-night witch is off her broom and abroad in daylight. Gawd save us all!”
“Hush, Ailsa.”
Vangie scrunched the shawl in her hands. Should she make her presence known to Ian or retreat and allow him privacy with his stepmother? Another swift glance at the dowager decided the matter for her. She touched Ailsa’s arm to turn her about, but her ladyship’s words rendered her immobile.
“Your diligence in seeking that gypsy’s undoing is truly admirable.”
Ailsa’s horrified gasp didn’t muffle the gloating triumph in the dowager’s voice.
Diligence? Undoing? More lies?
“When we plotted your trip to London, after what that slattern did to my poor, dear Charlotte—oh, and Geoff, of course—I thought you only sought to tarnish Miss Caruthers’ reputation.” Brushing a hand down her arm, she cut another sideways glance to Vangie.
Charlotte? Geoff? Whatever have they to do with me?
Ian answered his stepmother, though it was difficult to hear him clearly. Vangie strained to understand his indistinct words.“Liar…vulgar…Vangie…immoral light skirt.”
He didn’t believe that of her, did he? Dizziness battered her. No, he couldn’t. Could he? But if he did, that would explain his loutish inferences during their wedding reception. And what came after too. She trembled, though whether from nerves, anger, or cold she couldn’t be certain.
Ailsa laced her fingers with hers. “Your hand is freezing,” she whispered. “That witch could turn the devil’s blood to ice, she could.” She tugged on Vangie’s hand. “Let’s go, my lady.”
Vangie shook her head, shushing the maid with a stern look. She ventured forward several steps. What was Ian saying?
“Bringing her to Somersfield was absolutely brilliant.” Looking past Ian’s shoulder, Lucinda met Vangie’s eyes with her shrewd stare. “When are you going to tell her the marriage is a sham? That the rector was a drunkard? A boosey retained to perform the vows?” She smiled nastily. “I must say, it was a stroke of genius hiring Reverend Tipsyton. He could never resist a bribe or a bottle.”
The blood roared in Vangie’s ears, and her breath left her lungs in a loud, painful hiss. Was Tipsyton the reverend’s name who’d performed the ceremony? Had she even been told his name? She couldn’t remember to save her soul. But Lucinda hadn’t attended the ceremony and had no way of knowing the cleric’s name. Unless they’d conspired together.
She stood horror-struck, unable to draw in even a wisp of air.
The marriage was a sham?
The rector had reeked of spirits. Oh dear, God. The ground wavered, undulating alarmingly. Her pulse slowed to an irregular tempo, and her head began to spin. She shook it fiercely. Not now. She couldn’t—wouldn’t by all that was holy—have a damned episode now.
Her gaze riveted on Ian, she murmured through stiff lips, “Ailsa, have a horse readied for me, not a sidesaddle either.”
“But, my lady.”
“Now, Ailsa!”
The firm resolve in her tone brooked no argument.
