The Bluestocking

by Caldwell, Christi

  Gertrude Killoran was tenacious. However, she also possessed an innate ability to draw forth admissions and secrets a man wished to cling to but simply couldn’t where she was concerned.

  He was the first to glance away, shifting his attention onto Stephen, still engaged in a lively discourse with the Gunter’s worker. “Because I know what it is to feel . . . and to be . . . powerless. To crave some control of one’s life and happiness, while all the while having nothing,” he said, his voice fading to a whisper.

  He’d said too much. Grimacing, Edwin smoothed the fabric of his cravat and then with quick, jerky movements, proceeded to tie a suitable if haphazard knot. Gertrude reached over, covering his hand with hers, staying his movements. Edwin distantly registered that tinny bell announcing another patron, but he couldn’t care who walked through that damned door.

  For Gertrude didn’t offer words or platitudes. She didn’t attempt to fill his ears with tales of her own tribulations and struggles, of which there were surely plenty. Her touch indicated greater than any word, however, could: that she heard him, that she understood, and for the first time, he was not alone. He was . . .

  “Maddock.”

  . . . jolted viciously away from that powerful connection by a once familiar, now foreign voice.

  My God.

  Wordlessly, Edwin sat immobile, the shock in his own gaze reflected back in the eyes of his former best friend, Lord Charles Taylor. Friends since Eton and then at Oxford, they’d once been inseparable . . . until they hadn’t been. Guilt. Regret. Shame. Sadness. All of it found a place in his chest, those sentiments roiling together. Ones that would forever be with him.

  Under the table, Gertrude nudged Edwin with the tip of her boot.

  “Charles,” he greeted, and belatedly came to his feet. “Tenwhestle,” he amended. They’d lost the right to casual forms of address.

  The marquess yanked his hat off as they both recalled the years of propriety drilled into them. They dropped perfectly matching bows.

  Mirror images of one another, like the brothers they’d once been.

  And now we’re greeting as strangers in public.

  Tenwhestle’s eyes, harder, more cynical, emptier than they’d ever been, found Gertrude. And yet again, Edwin was reminded of all the ways that this man had changed. Nay, they’d both changed. They’d both been forever altered.

  Gertrude proved completely in control in ways Edwin was not. She stood and dipped a flawless curtsy.

  “Tenwhestle, may I present . . .” Gertrude stared at Edwin, a question in her eyes. Edwin clenched and unclenched his palms and forced himself to complete those introductions. “Miss Killoran. Gert—Miss Killoran, the Marquess of Tenwhestle.”

  All the color bled from Lord Tenwhestle’s cheeks, leaving his expression sallow. “I . . .” He shook his head slowly, backing away like he’d stumbled upon a Medusa. “I don’t . . .” And without another word, the other man spun on his heel and fled. Tenwhestle slammed the door hard behind him, sending the bell into a feverish jingle.

  Edwin stared after that swiftly retreating form, following him as he collected the reins of his mount from a street urchin outside.

  And then, he was gone.

  What did you expect? He told you precisely what he thought of you long ago. He’d blasted Edwin with a deserved blame that should be heaped on his shoulders, and then, just like the rest of the world, had left Edwin in exile to suffer for mistakes he himself could never forgive.

  “Edwin?” Gertrude urged in gentle, calming tones that were so at odds with the tumult left in the marquess’s wake.

  “I’m fine,” he barked, even though she hadn’t asked. Even though she was undeserving of those harsh tones he leveled on her.

  Gertrude recoiled and took a step away from him, putting the chair between them.

  The pit of guilt only intensified in Edwin’s belly. He scraped a trembling hand through his hair. “My apologies, Gertrude.”

  Stephen sidled up next to Edwin. “Is there trouble?” he asked with entirely too much relish, like one spoiling for an altercation.

  “There is not,” he assured the child beside him, just as the marquess wheeled his black stallion around and caught sight of Stephen.

  Tenwhestle’s entire face contorted into a paroxysm of grief. And then a moment later, he was racing his mount recklessly down Curzon Street . . . until he was gone.

  “Who in hell was that?” his son asked, glancing up at Edwin.

  “That was Lord Charles, the Marquess of Tenwhestle,” Edwin said quietly. “Your uncle.”

  Chapter 14

  “Meoowwww.”

  Seated on the Empire-style, carved-and-painted chaise, Gertrude glanced over the lessons she’d designed for her time here with Stephen, then at the grey cat. “Passing judgment, are you?” In a display of his usual feline fickleness, Gus leapt onto the pink, floral-embroidered jacquard upholstery. “But not too proud to seek my attentions, I see.” She softened that chastisement by stroking him between his ears.

  Closing his eyes, he purred long and low and then stretched out, curling beside her.

  “Though in fairness, you are correct,” she conceded. “I am deserving of that.” Abandoning all attempts at work, Gertrude closed the leather journal on her lap with a decisive click and set it aside.

  She, Stephen, and Edwin had returned from Gunter’s more than ten hours ago, and Edwin had immediately sought out his library . . . where he’d been closeted away ever since. And she, despite working with Stephen on his lessons and designing future ones, had thought of no one except him—Edwin.

  That was Lord Charles, the Marquess of Tenwhestle . . . Your uncle.

  Edwin had been a man . . . haunted. Having herself battled—and often been crushed by—her own demons, she easily recognized them in another.

  Nor had he been the only one discomposed. The stranger who’d interrupted that all-too-brief moment she and Edwin had shared had possessed a like grimness.

  With a groan, Gertrude flung herself back in her seat and glared at the cheerful mural painted overhead. “I’ve never considered myself self-absorbed.” Gus lapped at his right paw with his small, coarse pink tongue. “And that is precisely what I’ve been,” she said into the void, owning that admission. Self-absorbed, singularly focused . . . ultimately, she’d not thought enough of what it would mean, her coming here. Of her forcing herself on this household, and on Edwin.

  She had been so insistent on accompanying Stephen to his new residence in Mayfair that she’d not fully considered the implications of her being here on anyone . . . except Stephen.

  Because truly, no one’s happiness or well-being meant more to her—anything to her—except Stephen’s. Gertrude, Cleo, Ophelia, Reggie, Broderick . . . they were each grown-ups, capable and able to now take care of themselves. Stephen, however, was just a child. One she yearned to see restored to the innocent child he’d once been. And so she’d forced herself inside Edwin’s household and maintained her commitment to remaining until someone suitable could be found for her brother.

  “But that was before,” she whispered, stroking her fingertips along the silken softness of Gus’s fur. That was before the Marquess of Maddock had been . . . a living, breathing man capable of great love and great suffering and hurt. Prior to these past days, Edwin had existed only in her mind.

  The extent of her understanding about him as a person had been confined to their family’s discourse—he was the madman who’d sent a threatening letter to Broderick that promised their demise. Yes, it had been all too easy to see Edwin as a shadowy figure, more fiction than real.

  Until she’d come here. Until he’d agreed to accompany her and Stephen to the cabinetmaker’s and Gunter’s and allowed himself to be blindfolded in plain sight of all his peers, with Gertrude, a bastard born to the streets.

  Nay, she’d not fully registered what her being here would mean to anyone else—until today.

  Now there was Edwin. And Stephen’s un
cle.

  And her—Gertrude Diggory. For that’s who she truly was—Mac Diggory’s daughter. That truth of her birthright could never be scrubbed from her identity. Coming face-to-face with a man whose sister had been killed by orders given by Gertrude’s father only served as a reminder of Gertrude’s ugly past.

  Gertrude forced herself to look at that imprint upon the edge of her palm, that mark worn by every Diggory, one she had, over the years, stopped bringing herself to look at. But not now. Now she owned the mark of her name and birthright. Her father had wrought suffering upon Edwin and his family. Her father had denied Stephen of his mother. And in the wake of that fire set and the series of treacheries enacted that night, lives had been upended.

  Stephen was the most important person to her. But others mattered, too. They mattered as much. Yes, it had been wrong to fail to consider how cruel it would be to force her presence upon Edwin. It was even more wrong to remain in his household when he’d proven to be a man who loved his son and yearned for the time they’d lost.

  Gertrude trailed a jagged fingertip along the misshapen D. It was wrong for her to stay here, but shamefully, she would anyway—for Stephen.

  She curled her fingers and ceased that distracted movement.

  A faint whirring sounded atop her bureau. A moment later, the makeshift miniature roulette wheel she’d had specially designed began turning. It spun in a quick circle, set to motion by Sethos.

  Gus lifted his head. His ears pricked upright, and his small body tensed as he went on alert.

  “Enough,” she scolded, eventually resting a warning hand atop his back until he again sat beside her.

  Gertrude stared absently at that silver wheel spinning in dizzying circles.

  With every encounter, she was forced to see Edwin—as a person. He was a gentleman who would have been well within his rights to throw her out on her arse for her relation to Diggory, but who’d allowed her to stay. He was a man who allowed himself to be blindfolded in public and take part in a child’s game, all to earn a smile from his lost son. A man who’d purposefully lose a wager, just so that same child might have some manner of control over an untenable world.

  Her heart did a little leap in her chest.

  For where she was from, people did not willingly relinquish control. Victory was everything and superseded all. But Edwin had willingly done so for Stephen. And that sacrifice, a devotion to the happiness of another, before one’s own pride and power, was heady stuff. It was foreign to all she knew and perilous for how it held her so wholly captivated now.

  Nor is that all that captivated you . . . You’re still thinking of the moment he sat beside you on the hammock, your knees touching, your lips close.

  She briefly closed her eyes. So close that for a moment born of madness, she’d believed he intended to kiss her, and she’d wanted it. Craved it. Thought of what it would have been nearly every moment since. “Don’t be a blasted fool.”

  The door burst open, and she gasped as her brother barged in.

  With a squeal, Gus jumped down and darted under the chaise.

  Brandishing his knife in one hand, Stephen did a sweep of the rooms. “Who you talking to?”

  Her cheeks exploded with a mortifying heat. Calm down. He doesn’t know that you’ve been sitting here mooning over a man who hates you for the blood that flows in your veins. “No one.” Stephen narrowed his eyes in challenge. “Myself,” she brought herself to admit. “I was just thinking aloud.”

  “That’s dangerous and stupid,” Stephen warned. He sheathed his dagger and then closed the door behind him.

  “Yes, well, I trust my peculiar habits aren’t what have you visiting my rooms at this hour,” she muttered.

  “No.” Stephen opened his mouth and then did another search. When he spoke, he did so in conspiratorial tones. “It was strange.”

  Swinging her legs over the side of the chaise, Gertrude stood. “I’ve already told you. I was—”

  “Not you.” The boy shot a hand out. “Well, sometimes you. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Him.”

  She shook her head. “Him?”

  Her brother tossed his arms to the ceiling. “Bloody hell. Cleo and Ophelia wouldn’t be this obtuse. I’m talking about the marquess. I’ve been thinking all day about the favor I want to put to the nob.”

  His father. She opened her mouth to correct him but called those words back. Neither she nor Edwin could force him. “And you’ve decided?” God help Edwin. He couldn’t have understood the danger in offering a boy like Stephen a carte blanche favor.

  “Something doesn’t add up,” Stephen said bluntly, misunderstanding her question.

  Nothing, to borrow Stephen’s terms, added up anymore. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  His little, freckled brow creased with confusion, Stephen started across the room and then stopped in front of the roulette wheel. “If it was the parmesan ice he didn’t guess? I’d understand that, Gert. But muscadine?” He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Muscadine?” he repeated. “I think he let me win.” Stephen stared expectantly back.

  Gertrude measured her response by turning a question on him. “Does it matter if he did?”

  “Absolutely, it does,” he shot back. “You don’t do that. We don’t do that.” His jaw hardened. “It’s weak.”

  Yes, that is how Broderick, Cleo, and Ophelia would see it. It was how Gertrude herself would have seen it, as well. But that was before Edwin. Before he’d made that sacrifice on behalf of his son and she’d come to understand what appeared a weak decision hadn’t been. For it had brought another person joy and, through it, happiness to Edwin. Therefore, she’d rather say the marquess had the way of it. In fact, the Killorans could learn far more from him in that regard. “Do you know what I think?”

  Stephen didn’t move for a long moment, and then slowly, he shook his head.

  “He didn’t hurt you. He didn’t belittle you. He took part in a game of which he was an outsider, which is all more than Mac Diggory ever did.” For me, or any of us. “And so, I’d say whatever his reasons, there was honor to them, and honor is something we as Killorans respect.”

  “I still don’t like it if he let me win,” he insisted with a grudging obstinacy only he was capable of.

  “Ah,” she said, stretching out that syllable as she joined Stephen at the roulette wheel. She caught him by the shoulders and squeezed. “But we don’t know if he did, so it would be a shame to not relish in your triumph because of something you fear might or might not have occurred.”

  He wrinkled his small nose. “Fair point. It would be a waste to not call in whichever favor I wish. I mean, after all, it wouldn’t be that different from stealing.”

  It would be more like when they’d stood on corners and begged for coins outside of the London theatres. That more accurate analogy, however, would never sit with the boy more stubborn than the London day was long.

  “There’s the spirit.” Gertrude winked.

  He grinned. “I have an idea of what I might ask him for.” And as he rubbed his hands with a dangerous slyness, Gertrude groaned.

  “Be good,” she called after him as he started for the door.

  “I always am.”

  Gertrude snorted.

  “I’m jesting. But I will . . . this time.” Still, her brother did not leave but hovered at the front of the room.

  She waited in silence, not able to bring herself to ask what troubled him, which would only send him fleeing.

  After several long moments, he spoke. “He came with us today.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, not pretending to misunderstand.

  He pondered the tips of his worn shoes again. “I didn’t expect that. For him to join us at Draven’s . . . or Gunter’s. I mean, I might have expected if he did come to one place, that it would be Gunter’s because it’s fancy and respectable. I still, however, didn’t think he’d come with us there.” Stephen brought his ramblings to a cessation.r />
  Gertrude carefully considered her response. “Sometimes, Stephen, people surprise us.” She drifted closer to him. If she made too sudden a movement, he’d bolt. “You and I?” Gertrude gestured between them. “And other people born in the Dials? We’re so accustomed to all the bad ways in which those surprises come that we fail to see the wonderful ways that a person might surprise us, too.” And that was what Edwin had done . . . what he’d been for her brother that day.

  “Like . . . my father did today?” Stephen was too clever to miss the different meanings layered within her words.

  Gertrude made to speak when two words reached out from all the others and held on: “my father.” Oh, God. Why could she not have the strength that Cleo and Ophelia possessed? The one that made tears impossible. Gus knocked into her ankles, and she made a show of bending down to scoop him up. Stephen couldn’t see her tears. He’d balk and then take flight. “Just like”—Edwin—“His Lordship did today,” she said hoarsely. “He’s not one accustomed to being amongst the world, and yet he went out twice today”—at my request—“for you.” The marquess might hate her. He might treat her and her family with disdain and carry a seething resentment, but he’d always shown his heart to be open. He’d shown himself capable of great love, and a piece of her heart would forever belong to him for those gifts.

  Her brother’s throat bobbed. “If that’s true, then why did he run and hide the minute we came home? He didn’t take meals with us. Hasn’t said a word since we returned.”

  “He has his reasons, Stephen,” she murmured, absently stroking Gus’s back. The grey tabby nestled against her chest. “I don’t know what they were.” She didn’t know why seeing his former brother-in-law had brought about such a collapse in Edwin’s emotional state that day. Was it simply the reminder of the wife Edwin had lost? Or was it more? “But I trust seeing your uncle had something to do with the reason he’s been so . . . quiet since our return.”