“That the man she loved considered her unworthy of marriage. She had been raised in the country. It was her first visit to London. Terribly unsophisticated, you know. He worried she might sully the exalted Blackmore legacy.”
Victoria shook her head in confusion and glanced at her brother, who stared back with an equally puzzled expression. “She mentioned Harrison by name?”
“Blackmore, yes. Still convinced your brother is so bloody pure and righteous?”
Just then, the clack of boots on marble floors sounded from beyond the open doors of the parlor. Colin’s voice, slightly slurred, could be heard in the entrance hall, echoing as he spoke a bit loudly. “Digby, old boy. The library is appallingly bereft of brandy. Be a good chap and fetch me a bottle, would you?”
Forever afterward, Victoria would wonder what made a prickle of suspicion race through her head in that exact moment. It was two puzzle pieces fitting together precisely. It was a voice whispering, “Not Harrison. Colin.”
And when she once again met Harrison’s eyes, she could see the same voice had spoken to him. Almost as one, they turned toward the doorway through which Colin could be seen clapping Digby on the shoulder.
Not Harrison. It was Colin.
It had been Colin all along.
~~*
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Some secrets are better left undiscovered. Not by me, of course. But generally speaking.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Lord Wallingham, upon learning of his remarkable cache of French cognac.
Lucien watched his wife turn pale and wide-eyed. Both she and Blackmore were staring silently through the open door at Colin Lacey, who chuckled at something the butler had said. What the bloody hell had them so riveted? Victoria glanced back at Lucien, a stricken expression in her eyes. The dawning horror and sadness he saw emerging there caused a chill to run through him.
“What is it?” he demanded.
Her gaze dropped, briefly met Blackmore’s, then returned to Lacey. Her hands twisted at her waist, a clear signal of her distress. “Please don’t hurt him, Lucien.”
Every muscle in his body tensed. She was begging him not to harm her brother. There was just one problem—she was referring to the wrong brother. And she appeared genuinely anxious, as though at any moment, he would discover a devilish secret about Colin Lacey and explode in rage.
A dark suspicion seeped along his mind’s lower edge. Instincts honed on the battlefield drove him to contemplate the notion that his true enemy was not the one he had been targeting, but another entirely. One he had not previously considered. Part of him protested, remembering Marissa’s final letter in which she mentioned Blackmore. But as he stared at Colin, her precise wording echoed in his head.
Marissa had discussed her lover’s concern over the Blackmore legacy, which was more characteristic of the duke than his brother. That was why Gregory had assumed Harrison was her seducer, and Lucien had not questioned it. But she had never written or spoken the man’s name.
And if it truly was Colin, rather than Blackmore …
The very thought sickened him, his gorge rising, the room receding, Colin’s laugh becoming muffled and faint. Lucien wrestled with this new possibility, wondering if he was slipping back into madness. But no. Victoria and Blackmore remained fixed, frozen in an odd tableau. It seemed they were all caught in the same sticky web, and it was up to him to untangle the mess. For his sister’s sake, for all their sakes, he must learn the truth.
Within seconds, he had crossed the parlor, entered the foyer, and without slowing, drove Lacey backwards until he was pinned against a wall, his forearm braced across the younger man’s throat. Lucien watched as he struggled and shoved, his face growing red.
“Did you know my sister?”
Choking and gasping, Lacey managed to wheeze, “You’ve gone mad, Atherbourne.”
Lucien clutched fistfuls of cloth and slammed Lacey against the wall. “Answer me, damn you,” he gritted. “Did you know Marissa Wyatt?”
Lacey coughed roughly, sucked in a deep breath, and muttered, “Mind the waistcoat. It’s new.”
The flippant response caused black rage to engulf him. His fists instantly tightened and, almost of their own volition, shoved Lacey violently upward until the man’s toes barely touched the floor. “You will pray your waistcoat is the only thing torn asunder.”
Distantly, he heard Victoria say his name. Face reddening alarmingly, Lacey sputtered for several seconds, then nodded. Lucien loosened his grip and allowed him to slip down onto his feet.
“You knew Marissa,” Lucien barked.
Lacey coughed and eyed him balefully. “Yes. What of it?”
Stunned, Lucien gradually released him and staggered back several steps. The pale green walls seemed to shift and waver around him as he absorbed what he now knew to be true.
Marissa’s seducer had not been the Duke of Blackmore. It was Lacey.
Gregory had fought a duel with an innocent man, and had died because of it. Lucien himself had attempted to punish Blackmore, who had only sought to defend himself. A part of him wanted to laugh at the absurdity, the farcical nature of such a grievous misunderstanding. Another part wanted to roar in an agony of guilt.
Lucien’s eyes drifted to Victoria. She stood strangely still, white and tear-stained, her eyes awash with sadness, sympathy, and shock.
He had wounded her. His wife. The one he should have protected from all harm.
He had been wrong. So very wrong.
Blackmore, who had been silent and remote, now stood before his brother, firing questions crisply and coldly. “When did you first meet Miss Wyatt?”
Lacey ran a finger between his cravat and his throat, wincing as he tried to loosen the cloth. “Last year. Early spring, just after we arrived in London.”
“Where?”
Lacey frowned mutinously and crossed his arms over his chest. “What does it matter?”
Blackmore inched forward until he stood intimidatingly close. “Because, dear brother, you have disguised the truth for long enough. Explain what happened,” he snapped. “It is the least you owe Atherbourne. And me.”
For a full minute, Lacey glanced at each of them, his expression shuttered. At first, Lucien was certain the man would refuse. Then his eyes met Victoria’s for a long while. Shame slowly crept over his face like a shadow. All resolve seemed to leave him, and his back slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, his arms propped limply on his knees, his head bowed in defeat.
“Hyde Park. We met in Hyde Park.”
His voice was subdued, almost expressionless, as he told the story of his relationship with Marissa. How she had been strolling with the sister of Lacey’s friend, how he had been enchanted by her beauty, and she had been charmed and flattered by his attentions. Soon, they’d begun writing to one another, arranging secretive assignations, and sneaking her into and out of his rooms at Clyde-Lacey House.
“At first, we were both simply enjoying ourselves. Nothing serious. I liked her very much. So pretty and fey, like a woodland sprite.”
Lucien ran a hand down his face then threaded it through his hair. Marissa had always been rather fairy-like, with her delicate features and enormous brown eyes framed by ink-black curls. Her smile had beamed with innocent wonder, her rare heart open and exposed. She had been so vulnerable. It was one of the things that drove him, his failure to protect her.
“But then she began talking of marriage, assuming we would be wed at the end of the season. I didn’t know what to say.” Lacey glanced up at Blackmore, his expression as tortured and confused as a little boy’s. “I could not marry her. I was too young to marry anyone. So I lied. I told her you would never approve of the match.”
“Oh, Colin,” Victoria whispered.
Both of Lacey’s hands gripped his head as it dropped forward again. “Her letters kept arriving,” he mumbled hoarsely. “She begged to see me. Said over and over that she loved me and did not care if Harriso
n cut me off. I—I stopped responding. Stopped reading her letters. They had become unbearable. She wanted me to love her, and the simple truth was I did not.”
Before Lucien could interject, Blackmore responded, his voice cutting like an ice-encrusted whip. “Your feelings for the girl were entirely irrelevant. You should have offered for her the moment your relationship moved beyond propriety.”
Lacey eyed his brother resentfully. “Is that what you would have done, your grace?”
“Yes,” Blackmore hissed. “It is the only honorable course.”
Lacey snarled bitterly, “Well, I leave honor to you, brother. I was not about to toss away my remaining youth for the sake of a girl who, I daresay, would have been fine had she merely accepted our parting gracefully and waited for her first season to trap another poor sod in her leg shackles.”
Nausea churned in Lucien’s stomach, his throat clenching hard in an effort to contain it. “You bloody whoreson,” he growled, his voice rising quickly to a roar. “Was she to bear your bastard before or after this phantom suitor offered for her?”
Lacey paled until he resembled a fish’s belly, his mouth gaping wide as he stared up at Lucien. Dead silence fell over the room, the only sound the faint patter of rain outside the front door. Finally, Lacey whispered, “She was with child?”
Lucien’s dark glare was the only answer he was willing to offer.
The other man looked sickened, shaking his head absently. “I never knew. If she wrote to tell me, I did not read the letter.” He glanced at Blackmore, whose face had hardened in disgust. “I would have offered for her, Harrison. I swear I would have done, had I known.”
Saying nothing, Blackmore simply shook his head, then turned away from his brother, his nostrils flaring in obvious revulsion. “Atherbourne, may I presume you intend to demand satisfaction?”
The remnants of Lucien’s rage shouted, Yes! I will annihilate him. He must be punished. But the greater part of him slumped in exhaustion, wrung out and spent after everything that had been revealed. He was tired. Too bloody tired.
Without thinking, he sought Victoria. Her face was streaked with tears, her little nose reddened, her arms hugging herself for comfort. It was painful to see. He should be the warm, safe place for his wife. But, as their earlier argument played again through his mind, he was forced to acknowledge how profoundly he had erred.
She had trusted him. Had, for all intents and purposes, offered him her heart. And he had chosen vengeance instead. He had not intended to do so, had wanted both. Expected both.
How could she ever forgive me? he wondered.
At last, he gave Blackmore the only answer he could summon. “Right now, my intention is to leave here and return home. The rest will keep.” Turning to Victoria, he asked, “Will you come with me?”
The raw agony he felt as he awaited her answer nearly brought him to his knees. Her eyes searched his face, briefly visited Blackmore and Lacey, then returned to him. She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again. Finally, she looked down at her hands and nodded silently. She moved toward the front door.
He followed helplessly, knowing it might well be the last time she agreed to accompany him anywhere, the last time she thought of his house as her home.
Over the past two years, he had faced French cannon fire, the deaths of his sister and brother. He had taken on one of the most powerful peers in England in a bid for vengeance. He’d thought fear had been burned out of him. So foolish.
Losing Victoria was an abyss from which his soul would never return. He presently stood reeling at its edge. And nothing had ever terrified him more.
~~*
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“How dare you, sir! One may only be considered an ‘interfering busybody’ if one does not possess judgment superior to all others. Which I, of course, do.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duke of Blackmore, upon being accused of overstepping her bounds most egregiously.
Four days later, Wyatt House felt like a funeral—Mrs. Garner’s staff went about their duties as usual, but they were slow, hushed, morose. “Haven’t seen such a pall since Master Gregory’s passing, God rest his soul,” the housekeeper commented to Cook as they broke their fast.
“Eh?” Billings shouted from his end of the table in the servants’ hall. “There’s to be a ball, you say? Why was I not informed?”
Mrs. Garner sighed in exasperation. “A pall, Billings,” she bellowed. “Been quiet as a tomb ’round here of late.”
The butler nodded somberly and resumed buttering his roll.
Cook leaned toward Mrs. Garner and muttered, “It’s to be salmon again tonight. Her ladyship came to the kitchen to inform me herself. Looked like a cat poked with a stick, all bristles and outrage.”
Mrs. Garner tsked. “Men. Did ye know he ran off to White’s yesterday? She was tryin’ to speak to the man, and he gets this panicked look in ’is eyes, turns tail and bolts fer the door.” She sniffed. “Poor thing was left standin’ there, fightin’ back tears. Such a shame.”
“Seems to me the boy’s got the wrong end of this thing. Why does he not just tell her he regrets what he’s done?”
Mrs. Garner gave the other woman a wry glance.
Cook’s mouth quirked. “You’re right, o’ course. Some men would sooner be parted from their heads than their pride.”
Taking a sip of tea, Mrs. Garner tidied the crumbs on her plate into a small pile in the center. “This is the fourth mornin’ I had to clean the yellow chamber. I tell ye, such is not a sign of a marriage on the mend.”
“Still sleeping apart, are they?”
The housekeeper nodded. Just then, Emily entered the room, her usual sunny smile nowhere in sight. “Beg pardon,” she said, her voice muted and solemn as she took her seat.
“See?” said Mrs. Garner. “Gloomy as a rain cloud, it is. Fixin’ to send Ol’ Mrs. Garner to purchase a few yards of black bombazine.”
Emily sent her an apologetic glance. “Her ladyship awoke early so she could see Lord Atherbourne at breakfast. When she discovered he did not intend to partake, she was gravely disappointed. She dressed for visiting and said she was headed to Clyde-Lacey House.”
A trill of alarm struck along the back of Mrs. Garner’s neck. “Did she ask ye to pack ’er trunks?” Relief filled her as the girl shook her head.
“But she is most unhappy, Mrs. Garner. What shall we do if …?”
Silence fell over the table. Emily had just asked the question none of them wished to contemplate, but all of them feared the answer to. What if Lady Atherbourne left him? Could the master survive it? Would he revert to the tormented man who had arrived in London six months ago?
Billings cleared his throat. “I find one makes the best decisions when one has all the facts at one’s disposal.”
Everyone blinked at the aged butler.
“Perhaps her ladyship could be assisted in that endeavor.” With that, Billings calmly sipped his tea and retreated into his customary deaf bubble.
Cook nudged Mrs. Garner’s arm. “He’s right, you know.”
Eyebrows raised, she looked askance at her friend.
“She should know the truth.”
“She does,” Mrs. Garner retorted. “Tha’s what’s got ’er so torn up.”
“Not all of it.”
Cook was right. Lady Atherbourne knew the bare bones of the tragedy that had struck the Atherbourne family last year, but not the depth of it. And she seemed wholly unaware of the difference her presence had wrought in Lord Atherbourne and, indeed, in Wyatt House.
“It wouldn’t be proper to hear such tales from Mrs. Garner,” said Mrs. Garner.
Cook strummed her fingers on the table. “No,” she mused. “But from somebody of her station. Someone who knows the master, knows what happened.”
Mrs. Garner blinked, her eyes widening as they met Cook’s. At the same moment, they both said, “I have an idea.” Then they grinned at one another.
Two h
ours later, Mrs. Garner waited for her ladyship to arrive home. Her key ring jingled as she shifted restlessly, her eyes peering through the front window of the parlor yet again. At last, she saw the Atherbourne carriage pull up in front of the house, Connell’s ginger hair gleaming from beneath his cap.
Geoffrey, the footman, opened the door and assisted the lady down onto the cobblestones. Beautifully dressed in a dark blue spencer and lighter blue walking gown, Lady Atherbourne carried herself with dignity and grace, almost floating as she ascended the steps. But Mrs. Garner could see the strain of sadness around her eyes, the dark circles and pale complexion signs of sleepless nights. It was like looking upon a room that needed cleaning—as far as Mrs. Garner was concerned, it was her mission to see the thing set to rights. No housekeeper worth her salt would do less.
“Ah, Billings,” she heard the mistress say upon entering the house and removing her bonnet. “Would you be so kind as to ask Donald to assist Geoffrey? I retrieved a trunk from my former residence, and it is quite cumbersome, I’m afraid.”
“Of course, my lady,” Billings said, his voice soft and gentle. He was ever so solicitous with her these days. Old, deaf, and sometimes forgetful, the butler had nevertheless fallen under her spell, the same as the rest of them.
Mrs. Garner breathed deeply and took this moment as her cue. She entered the foyer to see the mistress absently removing her gloves. Her expression was forlorn, her eyes distant. “My lady, shall I fetch ye some tea? Nothin’ soothes the spirit like a nice cup or two.”
Lady Atherbourne stared at her for a moment as though trying to determine who she was and what language she spoke.
“Tea, my lady?”
Finally, she smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. Those remained hollow. “That would be lovely. Thank you, Mrs. Garner. I shall be in my sitting room.”
Donald entered, bowing as he passed through the foyer on his way outside. Lady Atherbourne nodded to him and moved up the stairs, her gait diffident and slow.
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