“Hard to say. I have moved so many things. Now shall we—?”
“I’d rather like to see it.”
“Sorry, Blake, I, uh, cannot recall where I put it.”
Blake swung his attention to his cousin, noting the redness of his face. “You know, I just recalled, I am meant to be meeting Ashford this afternoon.”
Foster’s brows rose. “Oh?”
“Forgive me, Cousin. I had better make haste.”
Blake ignored his cousin’s chatter of dinner parties and when they would meet again and bid him a vague goodbye, but all he could picture as he marched briskly down the road was that damned elephant.
It was foolish to feel hurt over an object. Ridiculous, even. But that elephant had been one of the first things he’d seen when he’d come to his aunt’s house after years of neglect, and it had always held a fascination for him. He’d admired the creature, rubbing it in a certain spot for comfort so often he wore it smooth.
The bastard was selling off his aunt’s belongings, he was certain of it and now he had to stop his cousin before more of Aunt Iris’s legacy vanished. As soon as possible.
It did not take him long to arrive at Demeter’s home, nor to concoct an excuse to visit again so quickly after their walk in the park.
The temptation to watch Demeter while she tucked a strand of hair behind her ears and perused a book, entirely unaware of his presence in the doorway of the room bore into him, however, did slow Blake down. He swore he could watch her for hours, especially when she nibbled on her bottom lip. His whole body tightened with need and he cleared his throat in a bid to rid himself of the sensation.
She jolted, her eyes going wide. “G-good Lord, Blake. What are you doing here?”
Demeter strode over to him, looked up and down the corridor and snatched his arm so tight her nails were going to leave imprints. She hauled him into the room, revealing it to be the music room. The late hour offered a dusky light through the windows, muting the pale greens and golds to a gray.
“I was speaking with your brother,” he explained. “But I wanted to see you.”
She frowned, set the book down on top of the piano and closed the door gently behind her.
“What were you speaking to my brother about?”
“Our engagement of course.”
“Oh Lord.” A hand to her chest, she sagged against the piano. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“The fact I even asked for your hand without speaking to your father or brother is not exactly the done thing,” said Blake easily. After all, it was not entirely a lie. “Anton let it be known he was not best pleased, so I thought I should have a word with him lest he do something drastic like call me out.”
“Anton is so old-fashioned sometimes,” she muttered.
“He’s a man with four sisters. I do not blame him for being protective.”
“Well, you should not have spoken to him. Now you are making it look even more real.”
Real. The word rattled around his mind. It didn’t just look real, it felt real. Especially now he had her alone. She wore her hair in a loose braid that draped over one shoulder. Clearly she’d dressed for comfort now dinner was over, wearing a plain muslin dress and a long cream wrapper, bound loosely at the waist. He could not be certain but he swore she wasn’t wearing stays. Without the blasted outer layer, he would know for sure and so much of him longed to tug her close, loosen the ties of the garment, then shove it from her shoulders.
Oh yes. This felt all too real.
“I wanted to speak with you too.” He clenched the brim of his hat tight. If he held onto it, he would not give into the need to touch her. Did she have to look so blasted pretty without all the gems and lace and curls?
“Oh?”
“You know I accompanied my cousin home today after our walk in the park.”
“You found something out?”
“He’s selling off my aunt’s belongings.” He couldn’t keep the bitter edge from his tone. They were only things and his aunt would remind him of that if she were still alive, but they were more than that. They were her belongings—things she adored.
Her brows lifted and she pushed away from the piano. “He’s just inherited a sizable fortune surely? Why would he do such a thing? Did he explain why?”
“No. In fact, I believe he did not think I would notice. But there were two paintings missing as well as some candlesticks she inherited from her father and...” He swallowed, feeling the break in his voice. “This ornament that...” He drew in a breath. “Well, it was important. The will would have stipulated it could not be sold, I’m certain of it.”
“This doesn’t mean anything, though, does it?”
He shoved his hand into his pocket, touched the tiny wooden shape there and eased out a breath. He shouldn’t feel attached to belongings—after all, he’d spent much of his life without a thing—but his aunt’s life being frittered away dug deep into his heart, leaving it tender and wounded.
“I spoke with the...woman of a certain reputation a few days ago.”
She folded her arms. “You can say whore to me. I am not completely ignorant, Blake.”
“Well, she claimed the men my cousin is supposed to be spending time with are after him for money.”
Tapping a finger to pursed lips, she kept one arm wrapped about her waist. “We know the men were furious about him not turning up to their meeting. What could he owe them money for?”
“It cannot be for some sort of false identity. I’ve already had his lineage verified by the midwife and a maid.”
“What else did the investigator say?”
“Only that he was indeed my cousin but his life before his arrival in London is vague. He lived near Devil’s Lane for a while.”
“Goodness.”
“He has had a sharp rise in circumstances.”
“Yet he is clearly an educated man. Your aunt did not neglect him.”
He scraped a hand through his hair. “I wish I could ask her about him myself. I wish she’d told me about him.”
Demeter put a hand to his arm. “An illegitimate child would have been the end of her—and him. You must understand why she did not utter a word.”
“I do. But it makes this whole situation impossible. Regardless of his circumstances of birth, he is not a good man. You and I know this.” He motioned between them. “For Aunt Iris’s sake, I must find out what truly happened.”
“Well, then we should go to Devil’s Lane.”
He imagined gentle Demeter in the middle of the poverty and vice-stricken area of London. Then he pictured stepping foot there and a shiver ran down his spine. “That is not a good idea.”
“What other choice do we have?”
“If I say I am going alone, what will you do?”
“Likely go with my aunt anyway.” She smiled.
“But of course.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wind whistled through the cracked window creating an unearthly whisper, as though the room was still haunted by the poor souls who had lived in it. A shiver tremored through Demeter, despite the warm day. Upon the floor, the remains of a few straw pallets lingered—nothing more than rectangular patches of straw and tattered fabric.
There was a fireplace but she doubted it had often been lit. The only concessions to comfort here in the lodgings in Devil’s Lane were one wall sconce, the candle long gone, and tattered curtains that might have been cream or white once upon a time but were coated in grime.
It was hard to picture Mr. Foster ever living here.
She twisted to look at Blake who had yet to follow her into the room. “Do you—”
His pale face made her pause. His gaze was locked upon a pallet but it did not look as though he was seeing it.
“Blake?” She hastened to his side and took his hand. “What is the matter?” His fingers trembled.
He jerked to attention, snatching his hand from hers. “I need to leave.” He twisted upon his heel and march
ed out of the building.
She had to move at a pace to follow him. At times like this she longed to be in men’s clothing. How much easier would it be to descend steps without the hinderance of skirts and petticoats?
“Blake?” she called, catching up with him as he paused some distance from the building, his back to it, shoulders slumped.
He shook his head and straightened, a hand to his gut. “Forgive me.”
His voice was husky, almost fragile. In fact, his whole appearance gave of an air of fragility and it scared her. She’d never seen him look anything other than strong and confident.
“Forgive you for what?”
“I cannot go back in that room.”
“But why?”
He shook his head and his chest rose and fell as he looked past her at the building. “I—” His gaze met hers. “It’s nothing.”
Titling her head, she placed hands to hips. “It did not look like nothing.”
He eyed her for a few moments. “It’s nothing,” he repeated tightly.
“Blake...”
“Damn it, woman, can a man not have his secrets?”
“Not when it makes them all...” She gestured to his face. “Pale and deathly looking.”
“Wonderful.” He grimaced. “My ego thanks you.”
“Clearly, that room had an impact on you. Will you not tell me why?” She took his hand again, grateful when he did not snatch it back. “I thought we were friends.”
“Friends?” he echoed. “Friends.” He nodded. “Yes. I suppose we are.”
“Well, it might surprise you to know that you can tell your friends when something is wrong. I know men are rather useless at such things...”
“I tell Ashford some things,” he protested.
“But not everything I would wager.”
He smirked. “I would never wager against you. I have seen you gamble.”
“Cease trying to change the subject.”
He heaved out a breath and took his hand back, removed his hat and shoved his hand through his hair. “That room...” He slung a glance toward the building. “It reminded me very much of where I grew up.”
“I thought you lived on your father’s estate in Herefordshire.”
“I did.”
“Then how—”
A dry smile appeared on his lips. “My father kept a room especially for me. Much like that.”
“On his estate?”
“Yes. Straw pallet and everything. It was up near the servant’s quarters where I wouldn’t bother anyone. The damned roof leaked and it stank of mildew and bird shit.”
She winced at the rough language but forced her posture to remain firm. The last thing Blake needed right now was to see her shock. “But why? Your father has wealth does he not? I mean, goodness, you hardly live the life of a pauper.”
“Whatever people say of me, I am a man of my own means. I made certain of that after I left for Eton.”
It didn’t surprise her. Once, it might have done, but not anymore. Not now she knew him so much better.
“So why did you live...like that?” She motioned to the sagging building.
“Because I was naughty.”
“How naughty could you—could any child have been to deserve such treatment?”
He lifted a shoulder. “My father has a quick temper. He didn’t like the sight of me for many reasons. Sometimes if I simply breathed too loud, I would be sent to bed without supper and not allowed out until the following evening.” A shudder wracked his strong shoulders and Demeter wanted to wrap herself about him and absorb the pain etched into his forehead.
“So he starved you too?”
“Indeed.”
“What of your mother? Could she not protect you?”
“My mother was a stranger to me for most of my childhood.”
Demeter frowned. She did not know much of Mrs. Blake but from what she had seen, she appeared to care for Blake. “Did your father drive her off?”
Both shoulders lifted. “Most likely. I did not make the connection when I was younger but the few times I saw her, her face was bruised.”
Her skin chilled. “He beat you both?”
“But of course.” His lips twisted. “I have long made peace with the fact my father was not a pleasant man.”
“Yet it still haunts you.”
“Very well, perhaps I have not made complete peace.” He met her gaze with a half-smile. “Why is it I find myself confessing my every sin to you, sweeting? It makes it exceedingly difficult to charm you.”
She lifted her brows. “You wish to charm me?”
“All the time.”
Her throat tightened and she struggled for a response. Jacob Blake was known for so many things—scandals, debauchery, a manner of talking that could sway even the staunchest spinster into bed. Yet during their time together, he’d never been anything but honest and frank. She found that more charming than anything else he could do.
She wasn’t certain who the man she fell in love with was. An impression of a man perhaps, or even a fantasy. Unfortunately for her heart, the real man was so much more than a rakish, charming, handsome man. He was one of depth, caring, with weakness. He was human and it made him far too easy to love.
“Do we need to go back in?”
Demeter smiled at the hint of boyish vulnerability. “I do not think so.”
***
Despite the air being thick with smoke, Blake forced himself to keep breathing deeply as they moved away from the building his cousin had lived in when he arrived in London. The tight alleyways and wretched poverty still made his skin crawl. Hungry children sat in doorways, too tired to move, accompanied by mothers with faces carved with hopelessness. Thin scraps of laundry hung from building to building creating banners of pale, tattered fabric overhead. He stopped to give a child a coin and she acknowledged it with a weak smile.
If this was how his cousin had grown up, he could almost excuse any lies he told. Almost.
“It makes no sense,” he murmured to Demeter.
“What doesn’t?”
He was going to tell her more. He couldn’t help himself around her, it seemed. Though even recalling his wretched boyhood years tugged at a part of him he’d buried under alcohol, fine living, and beautiful women, something about Demeter pulled it to the surface and begged him to set it free.
“Why would Foster live this way? Keeping him secret, I could understand. As much as my aunt was a modern woman, her reputation would never withstand a child out of wedlock.”
“To be certain. Few women could withstand the ordeal.” She sighed. “Unlike my father.”
“Eleanor?”
“I wonder what happened to Foster’s father that he did not claim him like my father did Eleanor. Of course, his rank helped in ensuring Eleanor was accepted as his natural daughter but I was old enough when Eleanor came into our family to witness the matter. No woman could do the same for their child, to be certain.”
“Despite my aunt’s inability to truly claim him, I could not see her abandoning him to poverty.” He shook his head and drew her close when they walked past a cluster of men, gathering in the corner of the small courtyard between houses. “She was a generous woman.”
“She must have had her reasons, surely? Your aunt was kind, and I know she donated heavily to the foundling hospital.”
He scowled and kept her held close while they wound down another tight alleyway. “She was more than generous. Without her, I suspect I would have died.”
“How...?”
“She visited when she could, ensuring I had warm clothes and food in my belly.”
Demeter swallowed. “How could a father treat a boy so?”
“It is still a mystery to me and will remain so forever, I suspect. I haven’t set eyes on the man since he decided to enjoy the warm weather in Italy seven years ago.
“He does not deserve such a life,” she muttered.
“Perhaps, but there is little I can do ab
out it.” He shrugged. As far as he was concerned, so long as he did not have to look the man in the eye ever again, he’d be happy.
“So how did you aunt save your life?”
“I was gravely ill when I was nine years of age. She visited and demanded my father treat my illness. He claimed it was punishment for bad behavior and only what I deserved.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, still able to recall the stench of illness and sweat surrounding him, of being wrapped in his aunt’s warm embrace and placed in a soft, feather filled bed.
“My aunt took me then, against my father’s wishes, ignoring his every threat.” He let a smile curve his lips. “I might have barely been lucid but I never enjoyed a moment in my life so much as when my aunt swept past him and told him he would have to duel her if he wanted me back.”
“Clearly, she did not have to follow through on her threat.”
He shook his head. “She nursed me back to health and my father forgot about me. I lived with Aunt Iris until I went to Eton.”
“She was an incredible woman.”
“Which begs the question, why would she do such a thing for me yet subject Foster to a life no better than what I was living?”
She stopped and put a hand to his arm, meeting his gaze. “What does your instinct say?”
“That there is more to this than meets the eye.”
“Precisely.” She looked toward a group of women leaning over basins of soapy water, beating garments vigorously against the ground with such aggression, the slap of the fabric cracked through the air. “I think I should speak with some of his neighbors.”
“The private investigator did the same, much good it did him. No one could tell them anything of Foster. What his life was like before London, no one knows.”
“Yes, but you are forgetting one thing.”
Blake eyed the determined point of her chin. “That you are utterly bewitching and will encourage anyone to tell you anything?”
“Be serious.”
“I am! Only Ashford knows about my childhood and even then, just barely.”
“I am grateful you shared, Blake. Why men are so insistent on keeping secrets I do not know.”
“You are hardly one to talk, sweeting. If I recall, you have one rather large secret...”
Wagers of a Duke's Daughter (The Duchess's Investigative Society Book 3) Page 15