He’d fallen in love with his wife....
—from Iron Heart
When Rebecca descended the stairs the next morning, she startled two maids. They had been standing, heads bent close together, whispering furiously. At the sound of her footfall, they leapt apart and stared up at her.
Rebecca lifted her chin. “Good morning.”
“Miss.” The older one recovered first, bobbing a curtsy before hurrying away with her friend.
Rebecca sighed. The servants were naturally excited about the events of the night before. Samuel had awakened the entire household when he’d stumbled in the front door with blood streaming down his face. He’d been adamant that she not send for a doctor, but for once Rebecca had overridden her older brother. The blood and his apathy had frightened her half to death. She hadn’t seen Lord Vale, but from bits and pieces she’d gathered from the doctor and the servants, the viscount was in even worse condition.
Rebecca wished desperately that she could tiptoe next door and just talk to Lady Emeline. Sit and commiserate with her. Lady Emeline always seemed to know exactly what should be done in any given situation, and she was the type of woman who could set everything right. Always assuming that this problem could be set right. But Rebecca very much feared that she might never talk to Lady Emeline again. She doubted that there was an etiquette rule that covered this situation. How to approach a lady whose fiancé your brother has beaten into a bloody pulp. It was very awkward.
She wandered into the dining room, her brows knit. Samuel had hardly spoken the night before, and she knew from the servants that he hadn’t stirred from his bedroom this morning. She had the dining room to herself and her worries. Actually, she felt the most lonely since she’d set foot in England. She rather wished that there was someone she could confide in. But Samuel wasn’t talking, and everyone else in the house was a servant.
Rebecca reached for a chair only to find a masculine hand pulling it out for her. She looked up—far up—into the face of O’Hare the footman.
“Oh, I didn’t see you.”
“Yes, miss,” he said as formally as if he’d never talked to her so casually just a few weeks ago.
There was another footman in the room, of course, and the butler lurked somewhere about. Rebecca sat in her chair feeling a bit deflated. She looked down at the tablecloth in front of her and struggled to hold back sudden tears. Now, that was silly! To go weeping like a baby just because a servant didn’t acknowledge one as a friend. Even if one could really use a friend right now.
She watched as O’Hare’s big, reddened hand poured her tea. “I wonder...” She trailed off, thinking hard.
“Yes, miss?” His voice was so nice, with that bit of a burr softening it.
She looked up and met his green eyes. “My brother’s very favorite sweet in all the world is crabapple jelly, and he hasn’t had any in ages. Do you think it might be possible to purchase some?”
O’Hare’s green eyes blinked. He really did have the most lovely, long eyelashes, almost like a girl’s. “I don’t know if there’s crabapple jelly at the grocer’s, miss, but I can go look—”
“No, not you.” She smiled sweetly at the other footman, a bowlegged fellow who’d been watching their conversation with wide, not-too-bright eyes. “I’d like you to go.”
“Yes’m,” the second footman said. He looked confused, but he was well trained. He bowed and exited, presumably in search of crabapple jelly.
Which left Rebecca alone with O’Hare.
She took a sip of her tea—too hot, she usually let it sit for a minute to cool off—and set the teacup down precisely on the table. “I haven’t seen you since our return from the country.”
“No, miss.”
She twisted the teacup a bit. “I just realized. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s O’Hare, miss.”
“Not that one.” She wrinkled her nose at her teacup. “Your other name. Your Christian name.”
“Gil, miss. Gil O’Hare. At yer service.”
“Thank you, Gil O’Hare.”
She folded her hands in her lap. He stood behind her like a proper footman, ready to serve her anything she might need. Except what she needed wasn’t on the table or sideboard.
“Did...did you see my brother last night?”
“Yes, miss.”
She looked at the basket of buns in the middle of the table. Really, she wasn’t hungry at all. “I suppose they’re all talking about it in the kitchens.”
He cleared his throat but said nothing more, which she took as a resounding affirmative.
She sighed forlornly. “It was rather spectacular, how he staggered in and collapsed in the hall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood in my life. I’m sure his shirt is quite ruined.”
Behind her, there was a rustle, and then his arm appeared, clothed in a green coat. He reached for the basket of buns. “Would you like a bun? Cook made ’em fresh just this morn.”
She watched as he picked one out for her and put it on her plate. “Thank you.”
“Yer welcome, miss.”
“It’s just that I have no one to talk about it with,” she said in a rush, staring down at the lone bun on her plate. “For my brother to brawl with Lord Vale like this...It’s very confusing.”
Gil walked over to the sideboard and brought back a dish of coddled eggs. “You made some fine friends at that house party you went to, didn’t you, miss?”
She twisted to look at him as he spooned eggs onto her plate. He didn’t meet her eyes. “How do you know that?”
He shrugged. There was a wash of red high on his cheeks. “Talk in the kitchen. Have some o’ that.” He handed her a fork.
“I expect they were referring to the Hopedale sisters.” She absently ate a bite of eggs. “They probably won’t ever want to see me again after last night.”
“Are you sure?”
Rebecca poked at the mound of yellow eggs and then took another bite. “I doubt anyone in society will be receiving us.”
“They’d be right lucky to have you at one of them fancy parties,” Gil said from behind her.
She twisted to look at him.
His brow was furrowed, but he smoothed it as she watched. “If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, miss.”
“No, I don’t mind.” She smiled at him. “It’s rather sweet of you.”
“Thank you, miss.”
She turned back to the table and took a sip of tea. It was cooler now. “It’s just that even if they would see me, I don’t know if I could talk to the Misses Hopedale about this. When we converse, it’s usually about the weather and types of hats, which I don’t know that much about but seems to be a subject they enjoy. And once in a while we discuss which is better, lemon custard or chocolate pudding? It’s rather a leap to go from puddings to my brother attempting to murder a peer.”
“Yes, miss.” He left her side again to walk to the sideboard. “There’s a lovely herring here and some gammon.”
“But maybe that’s what London ladies always talk about.” She took her fork and prodded the bun on her plate. “I wouldn’t know. I’m from the Colonies, and there’s lots that we do different there.”
“Is there, miss?” Gil hesitated, then picked up the plate with the herring on it and came over to her.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Why, in the Colonies, a man’s birth isn’t nearly so important.”
“Is that so?” He placed a portion of the herring on her plate.
“Mmm.” She ate a bite of fish. “That’s not to say that people don’t judge other people. I think that happens everywhere. But it’s more a matter of what the man has accomplished in his life and if he has money. And you know, anyone can earn money if he works hard enough. I say, this herring is very good.”
“I’ll tell Cook you said so,” Gil said from behind her. “But any man, miss?”
“What?” She was rather enjoying the herring. Maybe all she’d needed was a proper breakfast
.
“Can any man become successful in America?”
She paused and glanced over her shoulder. Gil’s expression was tense, as if her answer mattered greatly to him. “Yes, I think so. After all, my brother grew up in a one-room cabin. Did you know that?”
He shook his head.
“It’s true. And now he’s very respected in Boston. The ladies all want him at their parties, and many gentlemen consult him on business. Of course”—she turned back around to fork up a bite of fish—“he started out with Uncle Thomas’s importing business, but it was a very small company when Samuel inherited it. Now it’s quite the biggest in Boston, I believe, all due to Samuel’s hard work and quick wits. And I know many other gentlemen in Boston who had humble beginnings and have become very successful.”
“I see.”
“I’m not really used to people like the aristocrats here. People who are so bound by the past and expectations. For instance, I don’t understand why Lady Emeline has decided to marry Lord Vale.”
“They’re lords and ladies, miss. Stands to reason that they’d marry one of their own.”
“Yes, but what if they fall in love with someone who isn’t a lord or lady?” Rebecca scowled at her herring. “I mean, love isn’t something one can control, is it? That’s the wonder of it. That a person might fall in love with someone completely unexpected. Romeo and Juliet, for example.”
“Who, miss?”
“You know. Shakespeare.”
“Afraid I haven’t heard of them people.”
She twisted about to peer up at him. “Oh, that’s a pity; it’s a very good play up until the ending. You see, Romeo falls in love with Juliet, who is the daughter of his enemy, or rather, his family’s enemy.”
“Doesn’t sound very sharp of him,” Gil commented practically.
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? He didn’t have any choice in who he fell in love with, whether or not it was sharp of him.”
“Huh,” said the footman. He didn’t look particularly convinced about the overpowering nature of love. “So, then what happened?”
“Oh, there’s several duels and a secret marriage and then they die.”
His eyebrows shot up. “They die?”
“I told you the end wasn’t particularly good,” Rebecca said defensively. “Anyway, it’s all very romantic.”
“Think living might be better than bein’ dead and romantic,” Gil said.
“Well, perhaps you’re right. Love doesn’t seem to have made my brother very happy.”
“Is that why he attacked Lord Vale, then?”
“I guess so. He loves Lady Emeline.” She glanced at him guiltily. “But you shouldn’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t, miss.”
She smiled at him, and he smiled back, his lovely green eyes crinkling at the corners, and she thought about how comfortable he made her feel. With so many people, she spent all her time watching every word she said and constantly worrying over what they thought of her. But with Gil she could just talk.
She turned back to the table to finish her meal, secure in the knowledge that Gil was standing behind her.
EMELINE WAS IN the small sitting room of her town house, drinking tea, listening to Tante Cristelle, and wishing she could be just about anywhere else.
“You are lucky,” her aunt proclaimed. “Very lucky. I do not know how that man could hide his murderous habit so well.”
That man was Samuel. Tante Cristelle had decided by a logic understood only by herself that the terrible fight on the stairs the night before was the result of Samuel’s true violent nature breaking free from his control.
“Madmen are very cunning, I believe. And he did have very odd shoes,” Tante Cristelle said, and took a thoughtful sip of tea.
“I don’t think his shoes had anything to do with it, Tante,” Emeline muttered.
“But, yes, they must!” Her aunt stared in outrage. “A person’s shoes tell so much about them. The drunkard wears the shoes so dirty and worn. The lady of ill-repute has shoes too ornamented. And the so-murderous man, he wears the oddity—the moccasins of an Indian savage.”
Emeline tucked her feet beneath her skirts. The slippers she wore today were rather unfortunately embroidered in gold.
Hastily she sought to change the subject. “I don’t know how we will survive the gossip. Half of society was crowded into the upper hall last night, the better to see Mr. Hartley throw Jasper down the stairs.”
“Yes, and that is very odd.”
Emeline raised her eyebrows. “That everyone was staring?”
“No, no!” The older woman waved an impatient hand. “That Lord Vale allowed himself to be tossed so cavalierly.”
“I don’t think—”
“Mr. Hartley is not so big as milord Vale, and yet he was able to overpower him. It makes one wonder how he came by this strength.”
“Perhaps it was the strength of a madman,” Emeline muttered with dark humor. She didn’t want to think about the fight, the sight of two men she loved trying to kill each other, the look in Samuel’s eyes at the last...But it was hard to distract Tante Cristelle off the subject. “The wedding will be ruined, I know. We will be lucky to have more than two guests attend.”
Tante Cristelle immediately took the contrary opinion. “It is not so very bad, this gossip and excitement. One would think that gossip is always bad, but this is not so. The talk will cause many to come to your wedding. I think you will have quite the turnout.”
Emeline shuddered and looked down at the teacup in her lap. The thought of all those people coming to her wedding just to gawk, hoping perhaps that Samuel would make another appearance and disrupt the wedding, was terribly distasteful. And worse, she knew Samuel had washed his hands of her. The look of disillusionment, of disgust, in his eyes last night had felt like a physical blow. He would never want to see her again, she knew. Which was just as well, of course. Far better to make a clean break.
If only she could pick up her spirits a bit so that she could face her future. This path had been laid out for her before she was ever born. She was an aristocrat, the daughter and sister to earls, a woman of family and standing. All that was expected of her was that she make a good match, have children, and conform to society’s rules. It was not such a hard task, and until now she had never questioned it. She’d been a good wife and mother. Hadn’t she held the remains of her family together against all odds? Hadn’t she found a second husband as worthy as the first? And if there would be no fidelity in the marriage, if the love was a fraternal, rather than passionate one, that was only to be expected. Only a fool would balk at her path at this late date.
Only a fool.
Emeline bit her lip and gazed into her cooling tea as Tante Cristelle droned on across from her. Despite all the lectures she gave herself, she couldn’t stop mourning for a man not of her world. Samuel had looked at her and really seen her. He was the first and probably the last in her life to ever do so. And what was more miraculous, he’d not recoiled. He’d seen her awful temper, her unwomanly strength of mind, and he’d said they were good. No wonder she still mourned him. Such complete acceptance was intoxicating.
Still, she was a fool.
PEOPLE LOOKED AT Sam as he made his way through the London streets that afternoon. They would peer at him out of the corner of their eyes, then look quickly away again, especially if they met his gaze. He’d seen himself in the mirror this morning and knew what they gawked at: a blackening eye, a cut and swollen lip, and the bruises turning purple on his cheek and jaw. He knew why they looked, but he hated it nevertheless. He’d never been anonymous in a crowd—he wore moccasins, after all—but today they looked at him as if he were a lunatic.
That was the first difficulty. The second was that he wished Vale was making this trip with him. Stupid, he knew, but there it was. He’d become used to Vale’s banter and his sardonic view of the world, and even though he loathed the man, he missed him as well. Too, it would’ve be
en useful to have another at his back in this.
Sam glanced over his shoulder for followers and ducked into a narrow passageway. He had to pause a moment and lean against a filthy wall, holding his side. Something stabbed there. One or more of his ribs were probably cracked. Rebecca would have a fit if she knew that he was out of bed. His little sister had been surprisingly stubborn last night in her insistence that he see a doctor. In the end, he’d given in to her pleas. What did it matter when the world had fallen in on him?
He peered around the corner of the wall he leaned against and started out again, ignoring the continual pain from his ribs. There was only one thing he had to resolve, and then they could quit this damn island and go home.
This part of London was quiet and mostly clean, the odors assaulting his nostrils kept to a dull roar that hardly disturbed. Sam turned down Starling Lane. The buildings that lined the street were made of newer brick, probably built after the great fire. Small shops were at the street level, tiny, dark windows displaying wares. Above the shops were apartments, presumably for the shopkeepers.
Sam pushed open the door of a small tailor. The shop was dim inside with a low ceiling and a dusty scent. He didn’t see anyone else in there. Sam turned and locked the front door behind him.
“A moment’s wait, if it please you, sir!” a male voice called from somewhere in back.
The shop was actually quite shallow—presumably the bulk was taken up by the back where the work would be done. Bolts of cloth were stacked on shelves with a single waistcoat displayed on a tree. The waistcoat was well stitched and sturdy enough, but the material wasn’t of the finest. This led Sam to think that this tailor probably catered to merchants, doctors, and lawyers, instead of more wealthy gentlemen. There was a tall counter and beyond that an open doorway. Sam slipped behind the counter and peered into the doorway. As he’d suspected, the room behind the shop was much larger. A long table took up much of the space, with odd pieces of cloth, marking pencils, spools of thread, and paper patterns scattered along its length. Two young men sat cross-legged on the table, sewing, while an older, balding man bent over a swath of fabric, swiftly snipping with a pair of shears.
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