by Alec, Joyce
Lord Stevenson frowned. “Why?”
Michael studied his friend, a little surprised that the man had not looked inside. “You did not read it?”
“You told me not to do so,” Lord Stevenson replied with a slight shrug. “I did not, therefore.”
“That shows a good deal of trust in my words,” Michael replied heavily, reaching for his brandy. “And mayhap it would not be wise for you to do so now. I have only read it the once and already, the words are burned into my mind.”
Closing his eyes, Michael remembered everything that had led up to this moment in vivid detail. He had simply been enjoying the Season, not thinking that he would need to put any particular effort into pursuing a lady for he had not had any thought of marrying any time soon. At one of the balls he had attended, a ball thrown by the Earl of Brentwood, Michael had found himself a little worse for wear and so had gone wandering through the house in an attempt to sober himself up a little.
How he had managed to find himself in Lord Brentwood’s study, he was not at all certain. Nor was he certain how he managed to find the journal in the first place, for his mind had been addled by liquor and even now, he could not think clearly about what he had done.
However, reading those sobering words had brought him back to his senses more than anything else ever could. He had found himself growing chilled, fear rippling up his spine as he read how Lord Brentwood intended to ruin another family entirely, simply because he had taken a dislike to one of the family members. In another part of the journal, Michael had read Lord Brentwood’s account of how he had watched a gentleman beaten half to death—on his orders, of course—because the gentleman had refused to encourage his daughter to bring an end to her engagement so that the earl might court her instead. It truly was horrific and, for whatever reason, Michael had found himself picking up the journal and clasping it tightly to his chest. What he intended to do with it, he had not been sure, but had managed to wrap it in his handkerchief and then hurried from the room.
Handing the journal to Lord Stevenson had been another matter. It had taken Michael some time to get his friend’s sole attention and, being fully aware that the earl’s household staff would have seen him enter the study, knew that the package had to be given to another for safekeeping. Thankfully, Lord Stevenson had not drunk too much and had therefore been able to see the seriousness in Michael’s eyes as he had begged him to take the package from him for three weeks.
And now, Lord Stevenson had done just as Michael had asked and had returned the journal to him. Quite what he was meant to do now, Michael had no particular idea.
“The Earl of Brentwood is behaving just as he ought,” Lord Stevenson commented, looking at Michael steadily. “He does not appear to be distressed in any way and there has been no rumor or even mention of his journal.”
Michael nodded. “Of course, he would not mention it. He does not want the ton to know of its existence.” He shook his head, seeing Lord Stevenson frown. “There is so much darkness contained within that I fear for the company that surrounds Lord Brentwood. They may very well be in danger of his harsh ways but will not see it coming towards them until it is much too late. Lord Brentwood, it seems, does not do anything himself but arranges for others to do certain things on his behalf.” He touched his eye gingerly, aware that it had not yet fully healed. “I had two supposed gentlemen attempt to knife me in order to persuade me to hand over the journal.”
Lord Stevenson’s brows rose. “You were attacked with a knife?”
“Had it not been for the kindness and courage of a particular young lady, then I might now be closer to death than to life,” Michael admitted, seeing the horror cross his friend’s expression. “The knife wound was not meant to kill me, I do not think, but to serve as a warning that Lord Brentwood would do whatever required in order to retrieve his journal.”
“My goodness,” Lord Stevenson murmured, lifting his brandy glass and taking a long draught before setting the empty glass down again. “And you are hiding out here, then? Even though Lord Brentwood knows that this is your abode?”
Michael nodded, looking at his friend ruefully. “What other choice do I have?” he asked, spreading his hands. “The butler and my footmen know not to permit entry to a single visitor through the door, aside from those I have already told them to allow in.” He gestured towards his friend. “You, for example.”
Lord Stevenson got up to pour himself more brandy, evidently a little flustered over Michael’s current predicament. “What is it you intend to do now?”
“I do not know.” Looking up at his friend hopelessly, Michael tried to clear his mind in the hope that some idea would come to him at once, but his mind remained completely and utterly blank. “I have the journal, yes, and I know that, in some way, someone of import must be made known about it, but it cannot be someone that is acquainted with Lord Brentwood for fear that they will do nothing about it.”
Lord Stevenson nodded, his lips thinning. “And how shall you continue to guarantee your own safety?” he asked, a good measure of brandy now settling into the bottom of his glass. “After all, Lord Brentwood is determined to catch you and retrieve the journal, is he not?”
“Even if you were to return it to him, I do not think that Lord Brentwood has a forgiving spirit,” Lord Stevenson continued, grimly. “You would still be in danger, Glenister.”
Michael shook his head and ran one hand through his hair again. “I know,” he said despondently. “What is it I am meant to do?”
His friend frowned. “Do you intend to hide here for the rest of the Season?”
“Just until I can come up with an idea as to how to remove myself from this current predicament whilst ensuring that Lord Brentwood’s actions are made known to the rest of the beau monde, yes,” Michael replied with a faint hint of amusement in his voice. “Simple, no?”
Lord Stevenson did not smile. “I would put that journal somewhere for safekeeping, Glenister,” he said firmly. “Somewhere so hidden that not even your maid or footman would be able to find it.”
Michael nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“And thereafter, I think you should return to society,” his friend continued, holding up one hand as though to stem the flow of questions and frustrations that would come from Michael’s lips. “If your home is truly as secure as you believe, and if your staff are vigilant, then there is no need for you to hide within your house. After all, Lord Brentwood is probably reveling in the fact that you are doing so, for if you do not mingle with society, he will believe that the journal is quite safe and that you shall not speak of it to anyone.”
Shaking his head, Michael tried to protest. “But in returning to society, I will be putting myself in danger,” he said weakly. “Lord Brentwood will know that I have the journal still and will fear that I will do just as you have said and speak to someone within the ton about it.”
“But that should be precisely your aim!” Lord Stevenson exclaimed, as though he had hit on some wonderful idea. “You should be attempting to seek out someone able to assist you with this matter, Glenister. The only way you can do such a thing is to return to society and be as you once were.”
A flood of warnings cascaded into Michael’s mind, but he set them aside one at a time until he could truly consider the idea. To return to society would mean the opportunity to meet with, and mayhap dance with, Miss James again. That was a rather pleasant idea, he had to admit.
“You cannot, of course, show any particular preference towards anyone,” Lord Stevenson continued slowly, pacing up and down in front of the empty fireplace. “You shall have to be jovial and the like, but not particular. That would not do.”
Michael nodded slowly, the idea of courting Miss James going from his mind almost at once.
“But it may be that, in doing so, you will be able to find the assistance you need and Lord Brentwood might also, in that time, manage to reveal himself to you and to the beau monde in a way that will mean you do not
even have to do anything with that journal.” Lord Stevenson finished, now looking hopeful. “What say you?”
“I will consider it,” Michael said slowly, not wanting to commit himself. “I have already felt the ill effects of being on the receiving end of Lord Brentwood’s displeasure and I fear that if I traverse society once more, he might actually choose to do me in!”
Lord Stevenson considered this for a few moments and then blew it aside. “I hardly think so,” he stated firmly. “No, indeed, Lord Brentwood would not have you killed, otherwise the journal could be discovered by those clearing out your home. And besides, there are many things you can do in order to be cautious, Glenister. Take a different hackney every time you step out of doors. I shall call for you this evening in my own carriage, so that you have nothing to fear. Ensure that you hire men to stand at the front door and at the servants’ door and pay them handsomely for the trouble. They will ensure that your house is well protected.”
Michael could not quickly find a reply, his head spinning with all of his friend’s suggestions. “Tonight?” he said, a little confused. “Did you state that you would come by with your carriage this evening?”
Lord Stevenson grinned. “Indeed, I did. Lady Wimple is hosting a musicale evening and I know she would be delighted to see you. We shall go together and I shall make sure that you are returned home with all of your limbs intact.” His grin spread as though this was, in some way, enjoyable. “I do not know if Lord Brentwood will be present, but if he is, then you shall appear to be amiable and unafraid in his presence. It will unnerve him.”
“I am still not quite certain that that is what I want to do,” Michael replied weakly, but his friend was already walking towards the door.
“This evening, then,” Lord Stevenson said grandly, with a sweeping bow in Michael’s direction. “And do make sure your valet sorts your cravat, Glenister. It is ridiculous.”
Michael looked down hastily, realizing that his cravat was misshapen and entirely out of place. It was not his valet’s fault, for Michael had urged the fellow away, stating that he could very easily tie his cravat on his own.
It seemed that he could not.
Ringing the bell, Michael rose to his feet and poured himself another brandy, which he threw back quickly. The door opened and Michael turned to face his butler.
“I am to go out this evening,” he announced quickly. “Lord Stevenson will be calling by the house with his carriage. Have my valet prepare my things for a musical evening, or some such thing.” He waved a hand in the butler’s direction. “Oh, and I shall need to hire two—or mayhap even four—strong, broad men to stand guard at the front door and at the servants’ door. Might you know where I could hire such men?”
The butler’s lips twitched but his face remained entirely impassive. “I have an idea, my lord,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. “When will you require them?”
Michael sighed. “By this evening,” he said, not wanting to show the butler just how unwillingly he was going to be in attendance at this evening’s event. “No longer shall I be hiding, Mr. Matthews. I intend to revel in society as I have done before.”
A flash of relief came over the butler’s expression, although he hid it from Michael almost instantly. “I do hope that you find some enjoyment this evening, my lord,” he said, bowing at the waist. “I shall go and inform your valet of your intentions and then find those men you seek to guard the house.” He backed away towards the door, leaving Michael standing alone.
Turning around sharply, Michael looked down at the bound journal. It was still wrapped in his handkerchief, but Lord Stevenson had bound it tightly together, so that the journal could not be opened. He picked it up gingerly, as though it might flip open in his hand and emit such a loud, piercing scream that Lord Brentwood would appear in a moment.
“Disgusting thing,” he muttered to himself, holding the journal in one hand. “But I must hide you. And I must hide you well.”
Looking about the study, Michael set his jaw and shook his head as he took in every nook and cranny. His study would be the first place any man would look when it came to searching for a missing item. Therefore, he would have to find somewhere else to hide it, somewhere where his staff would not so much as think of looking.
His heart lifted just a little as Michael walked out of his study and along the hallway towards the staircase. There was something wonderful about the idea of returning to society, although he knew that it came mostly from the idea of being back in the company of Miss James. He wondered if she would recognize his voice, even though he had attempted to disguise it somewhat by lowering it to a slightly deeper register. The thought of holding her in his arms again sent a flurry of heat rushing over him, his heart quickening as he held that image in his mind.
What are you doing?
A pang of guilt crashed loudly in his mind.
You cannot court her, not when such a situation as this has you in such a tight grasp. That would be foolishness indeed.
Michael sighed heavily, his heart sinking towards the floor as he continued up the stairs. The warnings in his heart were correct. He could not simply go to Miss James and seek to court her even though that was all he wanted to do. She had to be protected. She had to be kept safe. If he showed her particular favor, then Lord Brentwood might easily use her to his own advantage—and the last thing Michael wanted was for Miss James to become involved in any way.
“Foolish man,” he muttered to himself as he walked into the small library, his eyes roving about the room and taking in the great many books within. Surely, here he could hide the journal without it being easily detected. There were a good many books and those on the very top of the shelves had not been read in near a decade.
“I must forget her,” he told himself loudly, looking up at the books and trying to work out where he could place the journal so that it would not be seen. But no matter how hard he tried, the memory of Miss James smiling, laughing, and talking with him continued to burn into his mind. The softness of her skin, the gentleness of her lips, the warmth of her embrace… those thoughts would not leave his mind no matter how sternly he told them to flee. It was as though she had become desperately dear to him, even though he had known her for such a short time. Perhaps it was because she was so unusual, so distinct, so different from every other lady of his acquaintance. Perhaps it was because she had stood up for him and protected him even when she was in danger herself.
Whatever the reason, Michael found that the urge to see her again was growing strongly and steadily within him, as though it would not be kept silent and pushed down by his fierce determination to forget her. Would she be there this evening? What would he say to her if she were present? As yet, they had not been formally introduced, which meant that there might be no particular need whatsoever for them to speak to one another.
“I must keep her safe,” he told himself, looking down at the journal in his hand and feeling his stomach twist in a tight, tense manner. If Miss James knew of this, if she knew of the Earl of Brentwood, then things might become very difficult for her. She did not need to be involved in this. It would be all the worse for them both if she did. Therefore, that meant that Michael had to turn his mind and his heart away from her entirely, no matter how difficult that proved to be. It was the only way to ensure that Miss James was kept from the darkness that encircled Lord Brentwood.
7
“I do not think that Miss Davies can sing particularly well.”
Charlotte stifled her laugh and shook her head at Emily as they sat together at the very back of the room. Miss Davies had, unfortunately, no singing voice whatsoever. It sounded as though a creature were in the last of its death throes.
“Let us hope she does not choose to do another,” she whispered back, making Emily grin. “Else I fear that I might faint from the horror of it.”
This evening was going rather well, Charlotte had to admit. She had not been inclined to attend at first, but
Emily had been so persistent that Charlotte had found herself agreeing that she would come along. After all, now that she had endured her ball and all that went with it, she was free to do as she chose. That meant that she could choose to attend a musical evening or choose to stay at home and read, if she felt so inclined. Her brother, Wickton, had been deeply frustrated over her lack of interest in any of the gentlemen who had sent her such beautiful bouquets and sonnets after their ball, but she had gently reminded him that she now expected him to remain entirely silent on the matter.
It seemed that things had not gone the way that Wickton had planned, but Charlotte had not felt sorry for him at all. Surely, he must have known that she would not have been inclined towards any gentleman who sought her out for her dowry alone. That sense of freedom that she had woken with the morning after her ball had not yet left her—and Charlotte reveled in it.
“Is your brother here this evening?”
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said as Miss Davies, unfortunately, began to tear apart another aria. “But I do not see him. Mayhap he has gone out to the balcony for a time, to prevent his ears from bleeding.” She winced as Miss Davies attempted to hit a high note but failed miserably, her voice fading away as the pianist struggled on regardless. “I did notice that you enjoyed a conversation with him some days ago.”
Emily’s smile faded. “It was not particularly long, nor did it contain anything of note,” she said, turning her face away from Charlotte’s and looking towards Miss Davies. “And we have not spoken since.”
Charlotte patted her friend’s hand. “Well, I am certain it will not be long until my brother fails in his agreement, Emily,” she said with a good deal of certainty. “If you are certain that you wish me to push him in your direction, then I shall be glad to do so.”