by Allison Lane
It was time to redeem himself. He was tired of living two lives. His alter ego could only skulk in isolated places, cutting him off from society. He had hesitated to reveal the truth for fear he would lose everything he’d accomplished, but until he did, both lives would suffer. And the need that had led to his alias no longer existed.
He smoothed the summons.
Ten years ago, his lurid reputation had made it impossible to find funding for his excavations. No one had believed Tony Linden was serious about anything but debauchery, so he’d invented Anthony Torwell. The antiquarian was now a renowned authority on Roman England, though establishing that expertise had been difficult. Too many people knew Tony Linden, so Torwell could only work in remote areas. He had to avoid sites owned by lords, for they might recognize him, even if they had not previously met – Lindens shared a strong family resemblance. And Torwell had to cultivate an image as a recluse. Even correspondence from other antiquarians went to an anonymous address. England had enough eccentrics that no one questioned his habits, but the stress of keeping his two lives separate made relaxation impossible.
It was time to live in the open. And the first step was to convince his father to cease persecuting him. Since Tony Linden could not disappear completely without raising speculation, he had to spend time in London and other gathering places. But his father encouraged his correspondents to report every hint of vice, keeping his reputation alive. Even impeccable behavior could not counter Linden’s constant reminders.
So he must answer this summons. Never mind that he needed to organize his summer notes and had promised The Edinburgh Review an article. He would go to Linden Park and try to make peace with his father.
But reading the summons one last time raised a frown. The tone was off. Something was wrong – very wrong.
Please don’t let it be Mother, he prayed before issuing a spate of orders to Simms, who doubled as his secretary and valet. His mother had kept him sane through his childhood. She was one of only two people he could count on for support.
Never had his isolation seemed so stark.
Chapter Two
A wave of excitement caught Tony by surprise when his carriage turned through the Linden Park gates for the first time in nearly a year. Shadows swallowed the hill beneath the manor, the sun’s last rays turning the house into a fiery castle that seemed suspended in the air. Magical. Otherworldly. He had long imagined that Avalon resembled Linden at sunset.
Its core was nearly ancient enough to qualify as Avalon. After centuries of alterations and additions, it now sprawled across several acres, but none had erased its brooding gothic look. Crenelated walls and an ornately arched entrance remained, though enlarged windows now allowed light into the ancient rooms.
The family occupied the baroque wing constructed more than a century earlier. Tony planned to add a new master suite when he came into the title himself. Recent innovations made it possible to set up bathing rooms with facilities for heating piped-in water. Years of digging up ruins in all sorts of weather made hot baths his most coveted luxury.
But that was for the future.
The house faded to sullen gray as the sun slipped below the horizon. The Park’s herd of red deer gathered near the stream. A stag nervously studied the coach clattering across the bridge.
Tony smiled. Linden was his favorite place in the world, despite his father’s antagonism. It was good to be home.
But contentment died the moment Pollard opened the door. The butler’s demeanor could not hide a gray face. “Thank God you came quickly,” he said, the lapse in formality raising new fears.
“Is Mother—”
“Lady Linden is quite well.” Pollard’s face twisted into apology.
Tony exhaled in sharp relief, though this second slip proved that something was seriously amiss. But he would deal with it. And doing so might even lead to peace with his father.
The house had been a battleground long before his own rebellion. Though never religious, Linden had adopted very puritanical notions. He refused to let his wife visit London or consort with those who did. He railed against most entertainments, prohibited wine, and even ale, from being served at his table, and complained bitterly when servants left for more congenial households.
Tony had rarely discussed Linden’s oddities with his mother, but to spare her, he often deflected the man’s wrath onto himself. She did the same for him, sharing a wordless understanding that they did not deserve such treatment. He never minded assuming her guilt. Taking the blame for her mistakes was easier than enduring lectures and punishment for his own.
Pollard’s words had eased his greatest dread. From the moment he’d realized that this was not the usual summons, he’d feared that Linden’s irritation had moved beyond tirades into the sort of brutality that could inflict physical damage on his wife.
“Is Father in his study?”
Pollard nodded. “But you would do well to change and take a bite of dinner before meeting him. Shall I send a tray to your room?”
Is it that bad? He suppressed a frown. This couldn’t be about his behavior. None of the crimes he had imagined during two days on the road necessitated fortifying himself before facing his father.
“I ate in Costerton. Tell Father I will join him shortly.”
Dread seeped into his bones. He had barely returned to London after a summer away from society, so there should be no new rumors. The two people who knew he was Torwell would never mention it. He was due for another lecture on securing the succession, but that would hardly account for Pollard’s gray face or the footman’s tension as he delivered warm water to his room.
Was his father ill?
He had not considered that possibility earlier. Linden had always been larger than life. But even the most stubborn man could fall prey to disease…
Twisting a clean cravat into an imperfect knot, he headed for the study. Please let this be another misunderstanding…
The door stood open. The usual footman was absent. Pollard must have sent him elsewhere. He shivered, forcing suddenly reluctant feet into the room.
Linden sat behind his desk, as usual. It was his favorite position for handing down punishments.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” His voice was somber, but bore no hint of censure.
Startled by the unprecedented greeting, Tony mentally revised his own opening. He leaned casually against the mantel, ignoring the miscreant chair facing the desk. “Is Mother well?”
“Quite.”
“And you?”
“As usual.”
He could think of nothing further to say. Conversation was alien to their relationship.
Linden rose, pacing as if he were also at a loss for words. “A problem has arisen,” he said at last, swallowing hard as he resumed his seat.
Tony thrust down the familiar mixture of helplessness and fury, noting the man’s appearance for the first time.
White face.
Sunken eyes.
Disheveled hair.
Grease spots on coat and waistcoat.
Shaking hands.
Linden looked old – or mad. The realization severed the last link to past confrontations. Something was seriously wrong. Stepping closer to the desk, he rested his hands on the back of the chair.
Again Linden swallowed, finally forcing out words. “We must leave the Park.”
“Leave the Park?” Tony repeated slowly. “Why?”
“I—” His voice broke. Licking his lips, he tried again. “I lost it.”
This cannot be happening.
Tony ran shaking fingers through his hair, his eyes never leaving his father’s ghastly face. “Start at the beginning.”
“What is there to say?” demanded Linden harshly. “The Park was mine. It was unentailed. Now it is gone.”
No!
Inhaling deeply, he fought to awaken from this nightmare. “How?”
“A wag—”
“You wagered the estate?” He near
ly shouted the question. “You? Mr. Holier-than-thou Puritan?”
“How dare you question me?” roared Linden, rage turning his face red. “Your betting is notorious.”
Tony lunged, leaning across the desk to glare into his father’s eyes. “I have never wagered anything I could not afford to lose.” The words hissed through gritted teeth. “What devil possessed you?”
Linden recoiled.
“Can’t you buy it back? You’ve enough in Consols—”
“No.”
His breath froze, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You lost everything?” Only his hands atop the desk kept him from collapsing.
“I wouldn’t have if you weren’t such a debauched fool!” snapped Linden, rising so his face nearly touched Tony’s. “The man needed a fortune to dower his deformed daughter. I tried to talk him into taking you instead of the estate – it would have amounted to the same thing – but he wouldn’t hear of it. Your reputation has ruined us.”
“Your gaming has ruined us!” Fury shattered Tony’s fragile control. Linden had actually offered his son’s hand to save himself from his own stupidity. For the first time in his life, he blessed his reputation. “How dare you preach about the evils of gaming, then throw away the family fortune on the turn of a card?”
“It was dice.”
“You bet the roof over your family’s head on an idiot’s game like hazard? You’ve been impersonating God’s deputy for so long you think you are God himself. What possessed you?”
“I was drunk!”
Tony’s knees gave out, dropping him into the punishment chair. “Did you decide to commit every one of your infamous sins at once? How stupid can you get? Don’t you know enough to cut your losses while you still have a shirt on your back?”
“Lady Luck always returns,” swore Linden. “In the end, she is always there.”
The gamester’s creed. Shock doused Tony’s fury as the ramifications of those words registered. “Do you mean you have wagered the estate before?” His hands shook.
The whisper sliced through Linden’s shout like a sword. He paled, collapsing into his own chair.
“How many times have you risked it?” Tony asked.
“Only once—”
“Did you learn nothing from the experience?”
No response.
Tony paced the room as he tried to come to grips with the catastrophe. The how and why made little difference. What mattered was recovering as much as possible. The money was gone, but perhaps Torwell could buy back the estate. It would require a bank loan, but Torwell had sufficient assets to impress a banker. His cousin Jon could act as go-between for the reclusive antiquarian.
“Who won it?” he asked, hoping it was someone who might be reasonable.
“Sir Winton Vale.”
“Dear God!” Temper engulfed him. “How could you be so stupid? Sir Winton is a dedicated gamester! Even you must have heard of him. He wins and loses at least a fortune a month.” Running his hands through his hair, Tony stalked to the window, no longer able to look his father in the eye. “He has probably already lost the Park to someone else.”
“No. I transferred ownership to his daughter’s dowry trust. It will go to her husband.” He slammed his fist onto the desk. “You are the fool. If you hadn’t turned yourself into a pariah, we would not be in this fix. His daughter is a deformed freak who has reached the advanced age of six-and-twenty without a single offer. But he would rather she wed a gazetted fortune hunter than you. I’ve warned you for years about your vices.”
“You are in no position to cast stones.” He fisted his hands against the window casing to keep from smashing the glass. “If anything, your sins exceed my reputation. I’ve never lost an estate at the tables. I’ve not even lost enough to postpone paying my tailor. Haven’t you noticed that not once have I asked for an advance on my allowance? And not once have you received duns on my behalf. You sit in that chair with a sanctimonious sneer on your face, casting aspersions at anyone who refuses to kiss your feet. Yet you never question whether your charges are valid. You would rather cling to your prejudices than admit you might be wrong.”
Don’t bother, Tony. He’s not listening.
It was true. When he turned back to the room, Linden’s head was in his hands. And sniping at each other was pointless. Sir Winton never gave up an advantage, so redeeming the estate was impossible. “How long do we have?”
“Wh-what?”
“When – must – we – leave?” He spoke each word with deliberation. Why was Linden moping? At least four days had passed since that fatal meeting. Shock should have given way to planning by now, yet the man had obviously done nothing but brood on his woes and twist the blame elsewhere.
Linden’s mouth worked soundlessly.
“When must we leave?” he repeated.
“A month. Less. Where will we go?”
The plaintive voice was the last straw. “You should have thought of that before risking the roof over your head.”
Unwilling to remain, Tony stormed out. Most of his possessions were already in London. The rest would easily fit into his coach. He would survive. He might even prosper. There was a small estate in Somerset he had his eye on. The grounds contained a mound that might hold an ancient tomb. He would look into buying it – but he’d be damned if he would offer a roof to the hypocritical fool seated in the study.
How many times had Linden ranted about the evils of gaming, accusing him of throwing his money away through reckless wagers? Yet all the time, he was hiding his own weakness. What could have prompted him to drown himself in wine, then offer his entire fortune to a known gamester?
And why had none of their ancestors entailed the estate? It had been in the family long enough.
The questions circled uselessly through his head. But the biggest one of all stabbed new pain into his heart.
What would happen to his mother?
Linden’s punitive orders had hurt her enough already. She had ceased corresponding with school friends years ago, ashamed to admit that she was a virtual prisoner at Linden Park, yet unwilling to lie. Her local friends were wives of other rigid moralists, who would repudiate the connection once Linden’s gaming binge was known. Not that Linden would remain in the area. He would move to a place where no one knew of his stupidity. How would she cope with a dour husband and no friends? Could she manage without servants, possibly without even a home?
She was waiting in his room. “He told you?”
He nodded. “How could he—” He bit off the words when he spotted her glittering eyes. Drawing her close, he let her cry against his shoulder. Several minutes passed before she pulled herself together.
“I thought I was past that,” she said, sniffing into a handkerchief.
“Did he mention that this is not the first time he has wagered the estate?”
She swayed, making it to a chair only with his help. “So that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“He was not always like this, Tony.” The barest hint of a smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “During my Season, he was the gayest of my suitors, always laughing, or flirting, or reciting extravagant poems to my beauty. His wit made him welcome everywhere, and there wasn’t a gentleman in society who did not envy his flair for dress. Half the girls were in love with him, but I was the one he stole kisses from in the garden.”
“Father?”
She blushed. “My parents thought him a trifle brash, but he was considered a good catch. I had no regrets until you were two years old.” Pausing, she dabbed once more at her eyes. He handed her a dry handkerchief. “He loved society as much as I did. Our balls were always squeezes, and we received invitations to everything. You wouldn’t believe the prince’s gala when he moved into Carlton House back in ’84. And the month we spent in Paris – salons, balls, the court at Versailles…”
He choked, failing to picture Linden at the French court.
“I don’t know what happened
in the end,” she admitted, her momentary excitement gone. “We’d been in London only a fortnight when my maid woke me at dawn. Linden announced that we were leaving. We never returned. I learned a month later that he’d sold the town house. And from that day, he changed, growing dour and disapproving, forbidding all the activities he used to love, locking himself away until he no longer recalled those days.”
Tony said nothing as she again dissolved in tears. Her memories bore no resemblance to the man he had known all his life.
“Forgive me,” she begged. “I cannot quite believe we must leave.”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t think he knows. We have not spoken since he informed me that he no longer owns the estate. You must help him, Tony. At least make him decide something. For four days he has done nothing but brood – and drink.”
“Drink?” So the departure from abstinence had not been a one-time event.
She nodded. “I was hoping that he would tell you something.”
His laugh contained no trace of humor. “He blames the loss on me.”
“What?”
“If I were less notorious, Sir Winton would have agreed to shackle me to his deformed ape-leader of a daughter instead of demanding the estate. Apparently Sir Winton wanted a dowry for the girl.”
“Linden would have done that to you?”
“My refusal would have given him a new complaint. He must be mad.” He paced the room, trying to find words of comfort in a situation they both knew was hopeless. He couldn’t invite her to live with him without also inviting Linden – another impossibility. Even doubling the amount of time he spent on excavations would leave months when he must be home. They had no relatives who might take them in – he discounted his cousin Jon, for the vicarage was only a mile from the Park. Linden’s pride would never consider it.
Absently bidding his mother good night, he continued pacing. Fireplace to window. Window to washstand. Washstand to fireplace. His thoughts followed the same path, around and around. Reliving the confrontation in the study. Naming every friend and relative they had, with all the reasons why each could not help. Balking at any suggestion he share his roof with his father. He needed a drink.