by Juliana Gray
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Somerton. Roland couldn’t see his face, but his stance was all belligerence: legs spread, arms crossed, brow jutting forward like an ancient warrior.
The duke sighed. “Come now, my good man. I’m far too old and cantankerous for gamesmanship. When I agreed to clear the field for you, all those years ago . . .”
“What’s that?” Roland took a step forward. “What did you say? Clear the field?”
“Somerton?” the duke inquired, but the earl only shook his head in a brief violent motion.
“Somebody talk,” Roland said, in his most menacing growl: rather like his drawl, really, except in a much lower register. He glanced up the hill to see Lilibet kneeling with Philip in her arms, brow furrowed with worry. Could she hear them?
“Very well. If the earl is reluctant to speak of it himself.” The duke placed his other hand on top of the first, as if settling down for a long story. “I expect you’ll be rather cross about this, Roland, my boy, so spare me your imprecations until I’ve finished.”
“Talk, Grandfather.”
A shrug. “Quite simple, really. Somerton, my friend and colleague, approached me seven summers ago with what seemed, at the time, a fine proposal: that I should put your name forward to the Bureau as a recruit of exemplary promise. That he had a sensitive matter arising in Norway, in which the Navy must not, at all costs, appear to be involved, and for which you, Roland, were ideally suited.”
“By God!” Roland ground the words out.
Olympia held up one hand. “Old as I am, I’m no fool,” he said, “and I quite perceived the real motivation behind my colleague’s suggestion. But you see, I rather agreed with it.”
Roland’s hands balled into fists. The enormity of it all began to unfold before him, with all its consequences. “You agreed? You let me fall into his trap, let me leave, knowing full well that . . .”
“You were far too young for marriage, my boy,” the duke said sharply. “Far too young. You were idle, purposeless. Not a fit husband at all for a woman like that.” He nodded in Lilibet’s direction. “Within a year, you’d have become bored and restless. You’d have made her miserable.”
“Not so miserable as her husband did,” Roland bit out.
Somerton burst out at last. “Damn you for that!”
“It’s true! She’s had six years of hell, all because you thought I wasn’t ready for marriage! What the devil were you thinking, delivering her to a man like that? We were in love, we . . .”
“Yes, yes. In love and all that rot; quite moving. In hindsight, perhaps I might have done better. But you can’t deny, my dear boy,” the duke went on, his voice softening, “it’s been the making of you. You’re ten times the man you were before. You’d been indulged, had nothing but privilege and entitlement. You needed challenge. You needed hardship.”
“Who were you, to decide that for me? Who were you, to decide for Lilibet?”
The duke replaced his hands on the knob of his walking stick, curling them around each other. His blue eyes seemed to reach into the distance. “I was married at eighteen,” he said. “The results were not happy.”
“I am not the Duke of Olympia,” said Roland quietly.
“No, you are not.” The duke turned his gaze to Somerton. “And you, young man. You’ve made a regular botch of things, haven’t you? I lay a prize like that at your feet”—he waved his hand up the slope, toward Lilibet—“and you haven’t the faintest notion how to treat her. You and your damned whores, by God. Ought to have you thrashed.”
“See here . . .” began Somerton.
“And then there’s the matter of how you came to be plotting against my grandson.” The duke stabbed his walking stick into the ground with a violent thrust. “The same man you recruited for Bureau work; the same man from whom you had me steal your own bride! You’ve a great deal to answer for, by God!”
Roland’s hand smacked into his palm. “You’ve both a great deal to answer for! You!” He spun to Somerton, gathered the man’s shirt in his fist, and snarled in a most un-Penhallow-like manner. “You stole her from me, you filthy scoundrel! Wronged husband, my arse! She was mine!”
“Say that again,” Somerton said, in a menacing growl. His black eyes lit with fury. “Say that again, Penhallow.”
Roland tightened his grip, until his nose nearly touched the earl’s. “I’ll say it till doomsday. I’ll . . .”
The duke’s walking stick poked sharply between them. “See here, you young fools,” he said sharply. “We’ll have none of this. Not in front of the women and children.”
Roland gave Somerton’s jacket another shake and released it. The men stepped apart, hackles raised, steps wary, like two dogs in a ring.
“The sins of the past are finished,” said the duke. “Irrevocable. Nothing to be done about them.”
“I’ll tell you what’s to be done about them,” said Somerton. “I’m going to tear his every bloody limb . . .”
“You won’t. What the devil use would it be? It’s finished, Somerton. You had your chance with her.”
“Honor, Olympia.” The earl sneered. “A foreign notion to the two of you, perhaps, but one I happen to prize highly.”
“Honor? You don’t know what it means,” said Roland. “What sort of honor demands ruining the lives of others in order to salve one’s wounded pride? An honorable man would do the opposite. An honorable man would allow his unhappy wife to make her own choice. An honorable man would act in generosity, not in meanness.”
“I . . .” Somerton faltered. He looked between Roland and the duke, shoulders braced as if under siege, and then glanced up the hill, where his wife and son stood huddled at the entrance to the maze, gazing down at them.
“Give up, Somerton,” said the duke, in a low voice. “Bow out gracefully, while you can. For if you don’t, you know . . .”
Somerton’s shoulders, improbably, relaxed. He straightened his legs and his back, and raised one thick eyebrow at the duke. “If I don’t? The so-honorable Penhallow, here, has already refused to fight for the woman he professes to love.”
“If you mean that I won’t face down the father of a five-year-old boy at twenty paces, you’re right,” said Roland. “But be warned, Somerton: If I must, I’ll defend Lilibet and Philip, by whatever means.”
His words dangled in the air, quiet and heavy.
“But there won’t be any need for that sort of thing, will there, Somerton?” The duke’s voice wrapped around them like velvet. He stared at the earl with eyes such a bright, clear blue they seemed to leap forth from his lined face. His hand tightened around the knob of his walking stick.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Somerton said, in a guarded voice that signified he knew exactly what the duke meant.
Roland shifted his stance, sent a lightning glance toward Lilibet and Philip, and returned his gaze to his grandfather and Somerton. Understanding began to dawn within him, that they’d only scratched the surface of what lay between these two. That in the endless coils of intrigue that made up Her Majesty’s intelligence services, the Duke of Olympia and the Earl of Somerton were deeply entangled.
And he wasn’t going to be told the least bit about it.
At last, as if by some predetermined agreement, the duke reached into his pocket and removed a roll of papers. “Do you know what this is, Somerton?” he asked.
The earl folded his arms. “I expect I do.”
The duke tapped the edge with his right forefinger. “You never contested it, did you? You never planned to contest it.”
“Of course not. Why should I? That wasn’t the point.”
“What does he mean?” Roland demanded. He took a step forward, reaching. “What is it?”
The duke shook his head. He looked up the hill to Lilibet and beckone
d with one finger.
“By damn.” Roland glanced at Somerton’s impassive face. He’d turned his attention to the river, where a boatful of tourists was passing by, laughing and raucous, their voices traveling with incongruous clarity across the still air. The water rippled behind them in silken brown waves.
Roland looked up the hill. Lilibet had risen and was bending down to instruct Philip. Stay here, he imagined her telling him. Don’t wander off. I’ll only be a moment.
Her arrival cracked the brittle silence among the three men. “Here you are, my dear,” said the duke, more kindly than Roland had ever heard him speak. He unrolled the papers and placed them in her outstretched hand.
She stared a moment, scanning the page before her, and looked up at Somerton, at the duke, her face helpless with shock. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand . . .”
“What is it?” demanded Roland.
Her blue eyes found his at last. “It’s the decree nisi,” she whispered.
“What’s that?”
“The preliminary decree of divorce,” said the duke. “Granted four days ago, at the court in London. I met privately with the judge, a right old fellow; my fag at Eton, as it happens. He’s agreed to issue the decree absolute in one month, if there are no objections lodged.”
“One month?” Lilibet asked. Her eyes went round, staring at the duke as if he were mad.
“What does that mean?” asked Roland. He grasped her shoulder. “What does that mean?”
She looked at him. “Six months. It’s usually six months, except in extraordinary circumstances.” Her eyes returned to the duke. “How did you . . . ?”
“My dear,” he said, looking wise, “don’t you think these circumstances are extraordinary indeed?”
“And you . . . you spoke to him . . .”
He took her hand. “I had a word with your husband’s solicitors, my dear. With my old friend, the judge. He kindly agreed to move the suit through as quickly as possible, to spare both petitioner and respondent any unnecessary pain.”
She turned to Somerton. “And you agreed?” she asked, in a hoarse voice. “You allowed the petition to continue, unchallenged?”
Somerton made a mocking little bow. “As I believe I informed your ladyship, I had no objections to the divorce itself. Your facts were all quite in order. I have committed adultery. I have, I suppose, been cruel.”
“You only object to me, then,” said Roland sharply.
“Yes.” The earl met his gaze, and the hatred in his eyes seemed to scour Roland’s face, pure and ruthless. “Lord Roland Penhallow. Pretty, brilliant Penhallow, born under Fortune’s star, adored by all England. I saw her first, did you know? At the river party in Richmond, dazzling, outshining everyone else in her beauty and innocence. A rose unplucked, its petals yet unfurled. But before I had the chance to beg for an introduction, you’d swept her away into the shrubbery, with your damned golden smile and your charm.” He said the word charm with a snarl, as if it were an obscenity.
“You’re mad,” Roland said.
“She hadn’t a chance, after that. I watched her fall under your spell, you silly ass, all summer long. Do you know how close I was to murdering you? I might have done it a hundred times, as you walked back from your club, from a ball, from a dinner. No one would have known.”
“I would have known,” said the duke, “and by God I’d have seen you hanged for it.”
Somerton didn’t seem to notice. “Until I hit upon the perfect scheme. The Norway caper fell into my lap like a ripe plum, and your grandfather”—he spared a sneer at the duke—“went along with things more easily than I might have dreamed.”
“What’s this? The Norway caper? I thought . . . But he was fishing for salmon!” Lilibet’s voice was incredulous, desperate. She said again, in a whisper: “Salmon.”
“Fishing for salmon!” Somerton laughed. “Good God, madam. Haven’t you discovered it yet? It only took you a month or two, with me.”
Roland put his hand on her arm. “Darling, I couldn’t tell you . . .”
Her white face turned to his. “You can’t mean . . . all this time . . .” Her stammering voice, the disbelief in her eyes, cut Roland to the quick.
“It’s what I’ve been trying to explain. That my conduct, since that summer, since your marriage, was all part of the disguise. To cover . . .”
“To cover, or rather to excuse, his activities as an agent for the Bureau of Trade and Maritime Information,” said Somerton, in a bored voice, staring at Roland. “An inferior organization, of course, but I could hardly propose an untried boy for anything more sophisticated. But Sir Edward took him in, at His Grace’s urging. It all went exactly according to plan, except . . .” He shrugged, his mouth curling with disgust.
“Except?” demanded Lilibet, hands on hips.
He turned to her. “Except he wasn’t supposed to survive it, my dear. I must admit, I gave the boy too little credit. I forgot that Fortune forever smiles on the Penhallows of the world. Yes, he outwitted Europe’s most deadly assassin, rot him, and returned home in triumph, the Bureau’s most promising new agent in years. And not a moment too late.”
Quick as a flash, Lilibet’s hand struck Somerton across the face, nearly knocking him sideways with its unexpected force. “Damn you!” she hissed.
Roland stepped before her, shielding her with his body before Somerton could strike back. But the earl merely touched his finger to the corner of his mouth, wiping away the tiny smear of blood that appeared there, and smiled at her. “I suppose I deserve that,” he said, looking not at all penitent. “In any case, I had you. He was too proud, or too cowardly, to attempt to win you back. Yes, I had you first,” he finished softly.
“And never will again,” she whispered.
He looked on her a moment longer, his expression inscrutable, his eyebrows drawn together as if in deep thought. The blood coursed angrily through Roland’s veins. What was he thinking? Of his wedding night? Of all those other nights with Lilibet, with his stolen bride? Roland’s fingers itched to close around the earl’s thick throat, to strangle the life out of him. Only the thought of Philip stopped his hands. Philip sitting cross-legged on the lawn, picking idly at the grass, glancing up at a passing cloud. Had he seen his mother strike the earl?
Roland closed his arm around Lilibet’s shoulder, drawing her next to him, and took a step backward. “Stay out of our lives,” he said. “I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want to see you near Lilibet, or the boy.”
Somerton’s face flashed awake. “Spirited words, my boy. But you forget, we have a score to settle, you and I. Perhaps I won’t have our dear Elizabeth again, Penhallow. But neither will you.”
“I believe the score’s already settled, Somerton. And you’ve lost. I shall have her, if she’ll have me. Shall have her and hold her, with all the love you’ve denied her, all these years.”
“Will you?” Once again, his eyebrow lifted. Roland felt an urge to pound it off his face. “Must I remind you that the document in her ladyship’s hands is merely a decree nisi? A month remains, before our union is dissolved. A month in which new evidence can be brought before the court, to dismiss the suit out of hand.”
“There is no new evidence,” said the duke, a little too sharply.
“Isn’t there?” Somerton turned to him with an air of surprise. “Why, I have Lord Roland’s own assurance of carnal knowledge with my wife. I have her corroboration. Adultery by the petitioner nullifies any claim of matrimonial causes against the respondent, does it not?”
“Hardly admissible proof, a private conversation,” said the duke.
Somerton’s eyes narrowed. “I say, Your Grace. I believe I detect a certain air of unease.” He looked back at Roland, at Lilibet. “Is there something the three of you wish to disclose?”
“No
thing,” Lilibet said, too swiftly.
“Don’t talk rot, Somerton,” said Roland.
Somerton spun back to the duke. “What is it, man? What are you hiding? This haste of yours. Special circumstances, you said. What are they, then?”
“Nothing!” Lilibet snapped.
Roland could feel her rising panic. He squeezed her with his arm, trying to reassure her. She’d give them away, if she didn’t calm down. Somerton would look at her closely, would search her . . .
But it was too late. The slow rake of Somerton’s eyes began at her forehead and worked slowly down, noting (how could he not?) the bloom in her cheeks, the fullness of her bosom, the strain of her jacket buttons over her rounded middle. Roland tried to turn her away, to spare her the inspection, but it was the sort of thing one couldn’t hide. To a suspicious eye, the evidence was obvious.
“By God,” whispered Somerton. “By God.”
The duke’s cane interceded just in time, pushing him back. “You’ve no right, Somerton,” he said quietly. “Penhallow, my boy, keep her back!”
Roland turned her about, keeping her shaking body under his arm, urging her back up the hill to make her safe, out of Somerton’s reach. He could deal with the earl later.
“Is it mine?” Somerton demanded, behind him. “Is it mine, by God?”
Roland felt the change in her body an instant too late. With sudden resolution, Lilibet ducked under his arm, before he could grab her back. “No!” she screamed. “It’s mine! It’s mine and Roland’s, our baby, and you shan’t have it! You miserable beast, you . . . you . . .” She heaved for breath, as Somerton’s face grew purple with rage. “It’s Roland’s baby, you cuckold, you monster! Roland’s, do you hear me? And every baby after it, every one, will be his, and you can take that knowledge to hell with you!”
The duke stood before Somerton, holding his walking stick at each end, pressing it against the earl’s burly chest in an effort to restrain him. Roland started forward, just as the duke gave way, slipped in the grass, and Somerton burst free, his black eyes wild.