Lord Darlington fumed to himself as he paced from wall to wall in his study. He had never thought his past mistakes would come back to haunt him in this most egregious manner. What if that little French girl was bluffing? She must have been. Also, his wife would never dare lie to him like that… and what’s more, his daughter, though so often reckless, had matured and would have never have been so careless with both her own body and the family name!
He had to confront Lady Darlington. But he needed to wait to make sure Therese was gone first.
Once Gerald returned to the study and nodded that Therese had left, Lord Darlington stalked out, slamming the thick mahogany door on his way out. He walked quickly to the garden hothouse, where his wife was so often to be found.
Lady Darlington stood there, sunbonnet over her dark salt-and-pepper hair, trimming a small rosebush. She hummed softly to herself as she snipped at the pungent red flowers. She wore a flowing yellow dress that covered her, yet gracefully clung to her figure. Lord Darlington stopped at the entrance and studied his wife’s body.
Although she had a mature frame, one that had produced three children, it was not the body of a woman who had just brought a newborn into the world. He had seen his wife post-child—her hips appearing wider, breasts plump with milk, and face fuller from nine months of providing food to her baby within. Besides a few extra wrinkles upon her face, Lady Darlington possessed none of these postpartum traits.
Pursing his lips, he spoke out, “Tell me the truth.”
Surprised, Lady Darlington jumped, and in doing so, snipped a rose too short and caught her finger in the process. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, brows furrowing as she turned quickly to see who had spoken. Putting her damaged finger to her lip, blood seeping down the side, she mumbled back to her husband, “About what?”
“The baby,” he replied flatly, looking stiffer than ever. His hands stuck to his hips and his face exuded irritation.
“What about James?” she asked, moving to find a bandage for her finger.
“Who is his mother?” Lord Darlington responded, not moving, flinching, or hesitating.
Lady Darlington stopped searching for the bandage, her back to her husband. Pausing, trying to think of the best words, she stammered out her answer, “What… whatever do you mean?”
Lord Darlington stepped forward. With wide, meaningful strides, he walked up in front of his wife. Fear entered her eyes as she watched him forcefully grab her wrists and hold them up beside her face. His body quivered with rage, his face turning a deep red. Lady Darlington’s eyes widened, her husband’s face not inches from hers. She glanced up to see a vein in his temple throbbing. She had not seen him this angry in years, and possibly ever.
“Don’t play coy with me!” he snarled, enraged spit flying from his lips. “Who. Is. The. Baby’s. Mother?” he said, punctuating each word, his voice reaching a crescendo of rage.
Trying to wriggle out of her husband’s grip, Lady Darlington winced at the pain coming from her wrists. “Unhand me!” she cried, twisting her face away from him.
“No! Not until you tell me the truth!” he spat, his grip tightening over his wife’s petite wrists.
Lady Darlington stared at him, pupils dilating out of fear. She took a quivering breath, trying to regain her composure. She looked her husband square in the eye. “You’re hurting me.”
He paused and gave her wrists one last meaningful squeeze before tossing her aside. “Well, you’ve hurt me. How could you lie? Why would you lie?” he asked, turning his back to her.
Lady Darlington massaged her wrists, brows knit together in pain, her finger still bleeding. Blood gently seeped down her hand and onto the floor. Realizing Lord Darlington had already come to the conclusion in his own mind, she fought back tears of fright, anger, and humiliation.
“To save the family name and Maggie’s future. You know just as well as I do that if she had a child out of wedlock, the papers would run our name through the mud. She’d never be able to find a suitable husband, and maybe even little Lila would be adversely affected,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“Who is the father?” Lord Darlington asked, hands balling into fists.
“I don’t know,” she replied, her back still to him.
“Who is the father?” he asked once more, wheeling on his heel and facing his wife.
“I. Don’t. Know,” she responded, watching as Lord Darlington walked back over, quickly closing his proximity to her.
“Who is the father? Stop covering for her!” he shouted into her face, so close that she could smell his breath.
Palm out, she pulled back and with a quick smack, slapped Lord Darlington across the cheek. Eyes boring into each other, they waited for the other to make a move. Afraid, Lady Darlington wondered if she had made a dreadful mistake.
With a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I told you. I don’t know. Maggie refused to tell me who the father is.”
A handprint was slowly beginning to form in red over Lord Darlington’s already crimson face. “And this is the truth?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.
Lady Darlington nodded and recommenced massaging her bruised wrists. “I wish I knew who the father of my first grandchild was as well, but Maggie absolutely will not speak of him.”
Lord Darlington nodded slowly. “I see. Well, I am sure I can find a way to make her speak the truth.”
“She’s liked a locked safe. You’re not going to get anything from her. Believe me, I’ve tried,” replied Lady Darlington.
Lord Darlington shifted and began to walk from the room, his voice thick with emotion. “You haven’t tried like I will. Oh, she’ll speak. She’ll speak if it’s the last thing she does.…”
Lila jogged across the expansive green lawn toward Wentworth Hall. This plan was going to work. It had to work. It was the last chance for Maggie, Michael, and baby James to be together, to be a happy family with a new start.
She stopped and considered what she was about to do. It was such a bold move. And it would cost her. Her parents would probably be furious. They might never even forgive her. But Wes would be onboard. She could count on him, and even if they never forgave her, Lila knew Wes wouldn’t turn his back on her. He’d make sure she’d never be left penniless.
It had to be done. It was the right thing to do.
It was the only thing to do.
Wiping the sweat from her brow, Lila took a deep breath as she pushed open one of the heavy doors leading into Wentworth Hall. The last piece of the puzzle to her plan lay inside. Before going to Maggie, she had to convince one last person of this plan. She had to find Ian, and she had to find him fast. Time was of the essence—if she didn’t move quickly, all could be lost in a matter of moments. Hopefully, Ian and his motorcar would be willing to be of help.