Of Valor & Vice: A Revelry's Tempest Novel

by K. J. Jackson

  And he couldn’t give her that.

  Especially if his lies were revealed. They would destroy her, and in the process, destroy anything she’d ever felt for him.

  She would hate him.

  That he was sure of.

  { Chapter 15 }

  The letter that had just arrived tapping on her thigh, Adalia walked along the path through the rose garden, the abrupt, heavy scent of newly opening rosebuds filling her head. Her feet slowed as she looked into the flower beds. A slew of rosebuds, with petals of white streaking into tips of pink, had bloomed this morning.

  The coloring of the petals was both odd and enchanting. She stopped to stare at them. She hadn’t noted this set of roses was near to blooming, as she had with all the others since Mr. Fredrick started working on the rose garden two months ago.

  She hadn’t, in fact, noted anything in the last week since her trip to the coaching inn with Toren.

  Laughter flitted along the breeze, reaching her ears, and she looked toward the stables. Laughing, Mary leaned forward as she set her pony into a fast trot around the field in front of the stables. Strong, determined, Mary’s posture emanated full control over her speckled pony. Adalia’s heart swelled. Mary’s learning how to ride had given her such confidence, it had been magical to see the transformation.

  Not to be outdone, Josalyn set her pony onto the worn track, her own laughter ringing into the air. And there at the bottom of the field, clapping with the widest smile, stood Toren.

  Pride. Pure pride beaming from his face.

  He had shed his tailcoat and waistcoat and walked about the field in only his buckskin breeches and a white linen shirt open partway down his chest. Easy. He looked easy. Relaxed. Comfortable. Happy.

  The swell in her heart grew heavy, weighing down her chest. He was so good with the twins—patient, unfailingly fair with his attention. Each girl thought she was Toren’s favorite—and that alone was an astonishing feat.

  The letter she clutched in her hand crumpling, her chest tightened so violently her breath stuck in place. Toren had convinced himself in some long-ago world that he wasn’t capable of love. That he could not feel it, live it. And she could not convince him otherwise.

  Yet there he was, doing that exact thing for the twins.

  He did know how to love.

  He loved those girls as if they were his own. There was no denying it.

  He just didn’t know how to love her.

  The breath lodged in her chest loosened, leaving her body in a long exhale as she watched Toren motion to Mary, having her slow. Mary smiled, breaking into giggles as he exaggerated a whistle at her and waved her down with windmill arms.

  Adalia’s heart cracked—long and jagged—splitting her chest as she stared at the scene.

  She could do this no longer.

  She spun and retraced her steps quickly back through the gardens.

  She needed to pack.

  “Adalia, did you need me?” Toren walked into her chambers without knocking and stopped in the middle of the room as he glanced around. “I saw you walking up to the castle from the gardens, but did you need to speak to me?”

  Adalia motioned for the maid to excuse herself and waited until the woman left the room before turning back to her travel writing desk and setting a crisp stack of vellum into the box. “Where are Mary and Josalyn?”

  “Digging weeds around the rose bushes with Mr. Fredrick.”

  She nodded, picking up the inkwell and making sure the stopper was secure.

  “Adalia, why are you are packing?”

  Holding the inkwell in her fingers, Adalia took a steadying breath and turned to him. “Since I was able to finally write to Lady Vandestile and Lady Desmond about where I was, I just received a return letter from Violet. That was what I came out to talk to you about.”

  A frown had settled onto his face. “Bad news?”

  She nodded, her bottom lip stiffening. “Yes. Her husband died seven weeks ago. Seven weeks, and I did not know. She needs me, and I need to go to her.” She turned back to the travel writing desk to set the inkwell in its compartment. “But I do not feel it is safe for the twins to be away from the castle yet, so I would like to leave them here with you, as I know you will protect them.”

  “Yet leaving is safe for you?”

  “Safe enough. There has never been a direct threat upon me—you know that. And I will take however many men you think necessary. It is just to the Vandestile estate in Derbyshire, where Violet currently is. That anyone would even guess I am traveling to her is impossible. Plus, you yourself said that the debt to Mr. Trether was paid in full—that he was forced to accept it. So while I imagine he is irate, I do think the threat from him is passing. Yet I cannot be positive, which is why I would like to leave the twins here for a few weeks, just to make sure.”

  His mouth tightened into a hard line as his look landed on the open trunk at the foot of her bed. He glanced up at her. “I will accompany you.”

  “No. It is not necessary.”

  “When will you be back?”

  Her hands needing to be busy, she turned around and picked up the inkwell again, reassuring herself the stopper was tight. She took a deep breath. “I will not.”

  “Adalia, what are you talking about?” His words were slow, measured, hinting at the firestorm she was about to create.

  As much as she didn’t want to, she turned back to him, forcing her look upward to meet his brown eyes. “After I can make safe arrangements for the twins, where we will live, I will send for them. I will find a nice cottage to rent near the Vandestile estate. It is close to Glenhaven House, and I may be of assistance to the new Earl of Alton once they determine the heir. I did oversee the estate for two years, mess that it currently is.”

  “What?”

  Her lips drew inward. He’d heard every word she said perfectly well, and she was not about to repeat herself.

  He strode across the room and ripped the inkwell from her fingertips, then set it into its compartment within the travel writing desk before grabbing her shoulders. “What the hell are you talking about, Adalia? Why would you even contemplate not coming back here?”

  Refusing to meet his eyes, she stared at the bare skin of his chest framed by the cut of his white linen shirt. “You know why.”

  “Dammit, Adalia, I bloody well don’t. Whatever it is that you are thinking, you need to tell me.”

  She chanced a glance up to his face, debating. It would be so much easier if she left, faded into the past without a word. Easier for her. But Toren would never let it be without an explanation. He needed facts, and he would badger her until he got them.

  Her look dropped back down to the dip in the center of his collarbone. “I cannot do this again, Toren. I went through this once with my first marriage—constantly questioning myself, my worth—my soul withering until I felt like I was nothing. Just something to be dismissed. I cannot—will not do it again. I cannot live wanting more, every day, every second, from you. It is not fair to you—not fair to me.”

  His fingers dug into her shoulders. “I thought we were past this, Adalia. That this was settled as it needed to be at the coaching inn.”

  She gave a slight shake of her head. “I said I would try, Toren. And I have.”

  “No, you haven’t. It has been a week, Adalia. You are rushing into this.”

  “No, I am rushing away from this. This last week has proved nothing to me except that I need to leave this place. I need to leave before I lose my soul.”

  “Your soul?” His eyebrows shot up, his hands dropping from her shoulders as he took a step away from her. His fingers ran through his hair as he looked out the window, the bottom pane lifted to let the breeze into the room. His voice went low, barely restrained. “Dammit, Adalia, I have done everything—everything possible—what else can I give you?”

  She had to hold in a bitter laugh as she looked up at his profile. “You know exactly what I want, Toren.”

  H
e sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Love.”

  She stared at him, her bottom lip slipping under her teeth to hide her gasp. He said the one word so dismissively it sent a dagger into her chest, stealing further words from her tongue.

  His look whipped to her. “You know I am not capable, Adalia.”

  “Yes, as you have told me.” She tried to smile. Tried to make this easier for him, so it would be easier for her. Her lips managed only to pull into a frown. “And that is why I have to leave. You would know. If you could ever love me, then you would already know what love is and you wouldn’t question it. Wouldn’t deny its existence. And that was what I had been holding on to, the hope of it. But no more.”

  “So you will just leave this house, leave our marriage?”

  Her eyes shifted to the open window. It took her a long moment to nod.

  “This is not fair, Adalia.” He stepped in front of her, blocking her view. “Have I ever mistreated you? Ever disappointed you? Made you feel like less than a respected wife?”

  “No.”

  “Then what—what, Adalia?”

  A chill shivered down her spine, demanding she crumble, demanding she alter course.

  No. She had to do this.

  Distance from him was the only way. And she wasn’t about to let him stop her.

  Her look lifted, pinning him. “Respect is cold, Toren. Maybe you will never understand love. But I do. I had love—my brothers loved me, the girls love me. I know what it is. And I cannot continue to give you my heart when what I receive in return is distant respect.” Her hand flew up to thump on her chest. “You cannot imagine how that breaks me every day—every single day—knowing that I am not enough for you to love.”

  “Adalia—”

  “No. I need to leave, Toren. I need to come to terms with . . . with what is expected of me. To come to terms with being near you and not wanting you to love me. I will still strive to give you an heir. I will. But that time is not now. I cannot have my heart broken every time you roll away from me in bed. Every time you insist you are incapable of love. You aren’t incapable of love, Toren. You are incapable of loving me.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. You love the girls. I see it.”

  A growl, and his fingers curled into fists. “I told you I would treat them as my own, and now I am vilified for it?”

  “No. Not vilified.” Her head trembled as she shook it, a broken smile curving her lips. “It has only made me love you more. It is the only reason I am trusting you to keep them safe.”

  “No. I do not accept this. Don’t go, Adalia.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. She pushed past it. “Is there a reason for me to stay?”

  His chest lifted in a silent sigh, his mouth opening slightly.

  In the next instant, his lips clamped shut.

  No. No reason at all for her to stay.

  “I thought not.” She turned and slammed the lid of the travel writing desk closed, the sound of the snap vibrating through her body, a shot to her own soul.

  But she could not collapse.

  Not now.

  In the carriage, yes. But not now. Not until she was out of Toren’s sight.

  “I will send for the girls as soon as possible.” Her hands went flat, smoothing the front skirt of the dark carriage dress she had already changed into. “Now if you will excuse me, I must go tell the girls of my plans.”

  { Chapter 16 }

  Adalia surveyed the busy crush in front of her.

  This felt good. For the first time in the last five weeks, she felt as if the weight of the thousand stones pressing down on her chest had lifted.

  This, she knew how to do. This, she was good at.

  The Revelry’s Tempest was open again.

  Once she and Violet had convinced the current Lord Pipworth to lease the dower house to them, it had taken only three days of preparations to get the first night of gaming under way.

  It was none too soon; Violet needed the money—needed it desperately.

  After stopping at Glenhaven House to visit Theo’s grave site, Adalia had traveled on to find Violet broken, near a nervous collapse at the Vandestile estate, attempting to hide from the long line of creditors banging at her door. That most of the creditors had traveled from London to do so was highly unusual, and evidence that the debts were bone crushing.

  Reopening the Revelry’s Tempest, now with Violet as the proprietress, was the quickest and easiest solution. Violet had been vital in helping Adalia run the business before, as her prowess with bookkeeping had filled in for the skills Adalia had lacked.

  They had opened the Revelry’s Tempest two nights before, and what they had planned to be a small event, meant for only the most loyal of patrons, had turned into a crush that had the ton on its ear.

  Not one to let time cool the strike, Adalia had pushed Violet to open again this evening to a much wider list of players.

  It had worked splendidly. So much so, that the night was two-thirds over before Adalia was able to enjoy her first moment of proper breath as she appraised the scene. Proof of how valuable this evening would be to Violet sparkled in front of her. Table after table was alive with clinking coins, laughter, held breath, and the general din of money being made. From the first night’s profits, Violet had been able to pay down a third of her late husband’s debts. Tonight alone would allow her to pay at least the first installments of the rest, if not more.

  Best of all, there hadn’t been the slightest peep from Mr. Trether.

  “You’re a mad old bat, woman.” The yell came from the drawing room attached to the bustling ballroom, and Adalia quickly scanned the crowd, trying to find the source of the anger.

  She found him almost instantly. The comically foppish fellow she had wrinkled her nose at earlier—the first son of Baron Mallsen, Mr. Jawlton—had stood from his card table, the arm in his purple coat flung out across the table at a lady with white hair and a mess of multicolored ostrich feathers sticking up from her drooping cap.

  Adalia searched the room. Logan and another guard were in opposite far corners, both searching for the source of the sudden commotion. She was the closest one to the fop. And she could move far faster through this thick crowd than Logan.

  “Cheater. I call cheater on you, you decrepit old hag. You yanked that card from your sleeve. I saw it. Saw it with my own eyes.” The high pitch of the idiot’s voice screeched over the crowd.

  Blast it. Moronic fop. Unable to see the face of the woman he was pointing at, Adalia sped across the ballroom, weaving in between the jostling bodies angling for a better look at the sudden fracas.

  She was too late.

  Already pushing his way to the fop, Captain Trebont was far too quick for a man his age. And he was barreling down on the screeching Mr. Jawlton.

  The devil. That meant the old woman was Lady Whilynn. And Captain Trebont was about to defend her honor.

  Why Adalia was so blessed—or, at the moment, cursed—as to have Lady Whilynn and her devoted captain attend every one of the Revelry’s Tempest events, she would never know. But the woman was elderly. And harmless, for the most part. She had more money than most in the room combined and usually cheated only when she was bored. Or when someone annoyed her at the tables. Or when she had an itch and a card fell out.

  Uncannily spry for his seventy-plus years, the captain had the young fop by his purple lapels in an instant, shoving him away from the table. “You, sir, had better rethink your blasphemous words and apologize to my Buttercup.”

  “How dare you, sir.” Mr. Jawlton flung his hand over the captain’s shoulder, still pointing at Lady Whilynn. “The crazy old crone just yanked the queen from her sleeve—she even laughed when she did it. I will no sooner apologize to the hag than eat dung.”

  Foolish boy. Foolish, foolish boy.

  “We will take this outside immediately, you sniveling whelp,” the captain barked.

  Adalia pushed past the last person in her wa
y just as the captain’s hand landed on the hilt of his saber. She grabbed his elbow to still his motion and wedged herself around him, squeezing herself between the two men. The stench of rum emanated from Mr. Jawlton, making her eyes water.

  A hand up to each of them, Adalia raised herself onto her toes, looking between the two, buying time until Logan could reach them and handle this. “No. No one is dueling. I will not have it as a result of my tables. Sheathe your sword, Captain.”

  “You have no control over it, Your Grace. I am not afraid of this old codger.” Mr. Jawlton barreled into Adalia, his arms outstretched for the captain’s throat as he shoved her against the table.

  Her left hand flailed and landed under her side as she crashed onto the table, a stemmed glass crunching into her skin. The pain instant, a yelp escaped her just as Mr. Jawlton went flying through the air in front of her—a mass of a man in a black coat rushing past with him.

  The captain didn’t move like that.

  Her toes scrambled back onto the floor to right herself as a primal growl filled her ears. Logan didn’t growl. His men didn’t growl.

  She searched, trying to see the face of the man in front of her.

  Toren.

  Toren had just ripped Mr. Jawlton off her and sent him flying into the wall.

  And he was not done. Gripping the fop by the scruff of his purple coat, Toren yanked Mr. Jawlton to his feet. “But I have control over it, Jawlton. And if I hear the slightest whisper of your foppish arse attempting to retaliate against Captain Trebont, I will ensure your father cuts you off completely. The title is not yours to squander quite yet, boy.”

  The crowd parting in front of him, Toren dragged the fop through the drawing room and to the stairs.

  Shock stilled her, holding her in place for long seconds, but Adalia finally managed to move, rushing after him.

  By the time she got to the top of the stairs and could see into the foyer, Toren was shoving Mr. Jawlton out the front door. Her butler ran down the front steps as the fop landed on the sidewalk, rolling in pain next to one of Logan’s guards. Her butler and the guard would see Mr. Jawlton properly to his carriage.