He closed his eyes again.
Her gaze went out onto the countryside. Leave him in peace.
Her still tongue only lasted for two minutes. “But why are you certain? The note you sent that reported you found them was short with no details. Not even a surname.”
His eyes stayed closed for three long breaths and just when she thought he was going to completely ignore her, his eyes opened. “Did you want a book on their history that you would have to explain to the Flagtons, or did you want a discreet note slipped into your palm by the collier?”
She bristled. “The note. It was sufficient. But that does not stop me from wondering what you’ve learned.”
His look slid downward and he plucked invisible lint off the knee of his trousers, stalling like he was pondering how much to tell her, how delicate her constitution was.
“You have the name—Willington, of your father—I remember my father mentioning that once when we were small and I was trying to understand why you didn’t share our surname. Whether it was the truth or not, he said your mother and father were married in Scotland and then set off on a ship to the Americas days later. Do you remember that?”
Her head tilted to the side, her look going to the roof of the carriage as she dove into her memories. Her cheeks scrunched up slightly and she looked at him. “I think—I think maybe that sounds familiar. But I’m not sure if you told me that or your father did, or maybe I just overheard you talking on it.”
“You overheard it. You were hiding under the desk in my father’s study. We were playing hide and seek and he came in and I wanted to torture you because I knew how uncomfortable it was to hide under there. So I made sure the conversation went on and on.”
She laughed, her eyes scolding him. “You would be so cruel.”
“You did the same to me. Remember the chicken coop? I couldn’t fully straighten my legs for days.”
She laughed again, harder, her hand going to her mouth to hide the guffaw of it. It’d been so long since she’d laughed, she apparently didn’t know how to do it anymore. “I do remember that one quite vividly. I took such pride in the pain you were in.”
“Now who’s the blackheart?”
A smile still wide on her face, she shrugged as she shook her head.
His hand flipped into the air, dismissing the lighthearted moment. “I thought to trace back to your mother through your father, as I could only recall the ‘Jac’ in reference to your mother. I believe I found the correct Willington—Rupert—he was a captain in the Royal Navy and I imagine the right age to be your father. But beyond that, there was no further record of him. He came into the navy with no family recorded, and then he just disappeared one day. He didn’t retire his commission or anything. Just disappeared. Presumed dead.”
“You’re saying my father and my mother ran off and disappeared together?”
“Quite possibly, given the timing. It isn’t hard to imagine the why if one traces back from the date we were both born to the eight months before that when he disappeared from service.”
“But my mother arrived in Belize alone. That was what Mama June always said. What happened to him?”
He shrugged. “I imagine their story is lost to time.”
She exhaled, sudden defeat looming in her chest. “What does all that mean?”
“Captain Willington was stationed for a short time in Bedfordshire—recruiting midshipmen—before his disappearance. And I presume you recall how my mother always said your mother was a fine lady? The dresses of hers that my mother kept for you—the quality of them?”
Pen nodded.
“So, I looked into the moneyed families that have residences in the Bedfordshire area. Families that would have had eligible daughters the right age to catch the eye of a captain in that time frame.”
She leaned forward slightly, her forearms resting on her knees. “Tell me you found some.”
“One family in particular. The ‘Jac’ part of the name matches, though it’s not a surname. Baron Jacobson had eight daughters, no sons, though not for lack of trying. The second eldest daughter married the cousin set to inherit the title and now has a slew of boys. The other daughters married off over time, except for several of the youngest ones that haven’t been mentioned or acknowledged in the last twenty years. Most just assumed the family couldn’t afford to send the last four daughters into the marriage mart. The dowries and many seasons of the older ones had run the coffers dry.”
“You think my mother was one of those four?”
“It would make the most sense. Even if these are not your mother’s people, someone in the family could possibly remember something of that year that could give us a new clue. The family is quite respected in Bedfordshire.”
Pen nodded, her shoulders pulling back, and she resumed her stick-straight posture. Her gaze moved to the window as her hands clasped together, her fingers curling into each other—her right palm facing upward, her left facing downward, until the fingertips of her gloves disappeared. Hidden away, her right middle finger started rubbing, scratching, at her left palm.
Unsettling, the whole of it. But it was hope. Hope she hadn’t had in a long time.
She glanced back to him. She had to hear it again. “The four girls—they are never talked about?”
His shoulders lifted. “They all could have died for all I know, Pen. Or they’re spinsters. Don’t set your hopes too high.”
She nodded slowly, the nail of her middle finger rubbing harder on her palm through her glove.
She was getting too excited. Too hopeful.
Hope had never turned out well for her.
But she couldn’t quite quell it.
It was easier to hope when she was sitting across from Strider.
And that was the most disconcerting thought of all.
{ Chapter 6 }
“You’ve never drunk anything stronger than tea, have you, Pen?” Strider’s eyebrows lifted high—so high they almost disappeared behind the rogue strands of his dark hair that dusted his forehead.
The pious scold on his face was comical. Almost like Mr. Flagton had come back to life and invaded Strider’s body to admonish her.
Her stare shifted down to the glass sitting in front of her and then back up to his furrowed brow. She hadn’t sipped away all of it. There was still a sliver of red at the bottom of the glass.
Strider had ordered it for her when they sat down at the secluded table in the back of the tavern that anchored the coaching inn they had stopped at. Her room had not been ready for her—there had been a lot of harsh whispered tones between Strider and the innkeeper about the rooms. Then Strider had turned to her and ushered her into the tavern. The innkeeper had scurried off like a demon was on his back.
Her focus went back down to the sliver of red in the glass just waiting to wet her tongue. How long did politeness dictate she pause between sips? What had Strider called it? Ratafia. Funny name, that.
But she knew full well what it really was.
The devil’s drink.
That’s what Mr. Flagton would have called it—called anything that even had a whiff of alcohol in it. The devil’s drink.
So now she was the devil’s mistress. She’d not only drunk it, but had imbibed a full glass within ten minutes. Enjoyed it, even, with the cherry taste to it.
But no, to her credit, she had resisted a full glass of it. There was still that sliver of red.
From the way her head was bobbing about, her skull not keeping up with her skin, she suspected that Mr. Flagton had been correct about the liquid all along.
“Pen?”
Her look lifted to Strider. It took long seconds to get from the rim of the glass to his waistcoat to his lawn shirt to his cravat to his chin to his lips. His lips were pretty, even in the angry line that they were always set in. Angry. So angry all the time. Upward. His nose. His eyes. The light brown honey. There they were.
It took an inordinate amount of time to find him. Hopefully he didn
’t notice.
“Pen?” The brown in his eyes steeled as his gaze pinned her, his irises now looking like hard, brittle honey that would crack apart if she tapped her fingernail hard enough at them.
He noticed.
She nodded, hoping to hide the fact that her head was quickly floating away from her body. “What was your question?”
He leaned forward, squinting at her. “Blast it, you need food in you now—fast—before you’re retching all over the place.”
“Strider—”
“No, don’t say another word, not until you eat and drink tea and can focus on me without your head flopping about in a circle.” His head shook, a snarl on his lips as he muttered under his breath. “Bloody Flagtons.”
Bloody Flagtons indeed.
The guilt—the shame of drinking what she just had—should be building in her, she knew, but there was not a shred of it. Not the crushing, soul-burning remorse over the hell-driven path of sin she had just embarked on with her tongue.
She was only warm. Her cheeks flush, even. And the constant edge of fear and uncertainty that she balanced on seemed to have just widened into an unending field where she couldn’t even find fear or uncertainty looming about, no matter how hard she looked.
Rather pleasant, all in all.
His head shaking, Strider waved his arm at someone behind her and food suddenly appeared on the table before her. Roasted grouse, the skin of it juicy and hot. Stalks of asparagus and potatoes that were small and round.
She picked up her fork, stabbing at the meat again and again but not getting any of it to stick on her fork.
“For bloody Hades’ sake.” Strider reached across the table with a fork and a knife and began to cut up the meat on her plate.
A knife. That made sense.
“Eat the blasted bread first.”
She did as told and picked up the hunk of bread, tearing into it with her teeth. There was a much more proper way of eating bread. She knew it, but couldn’t quite remember exactly what it was at the moment.
Strider made quick work of her grouse, bite-size pieces now littering her plate. She shifted the bread to her left hand and picked up the fork, stuffing bite after bite into her mouth. Heaven. Each bite heaven.
If she ever got meat from the Flagtons it was hard, crunchy. This meat on her tongue was a memory from another time. The time before the fire. She’d long ago convinced herself that the food that Strider’s mother had made wasn’t any good. But that had been a lie she’d told herself so often that she’d believed it as the truth.
Even this bread was soft.
Her head down, she ate so quickly she didn’t once look up at Strider. Only when her plate was empty with only a few rogue crumbs of the bread latched onto her fingers, did she look up.
He sat there. Not eating. His plate still full of food.
She looked from his plate to her surroundings, her head swiveling.
All seemed to be the same as when they had walked through the dining area. Men and women at tables. The murmur of many conversations. Most of the people in finery that was common in the London parks. None of the diners looked rushed or seemed to pay her and Strider any mind in the dark corner they were ensconced in.
What was it that was amiss?
Her eyes went wide as her gaze shot to Strider. She was amiss. She had just eaten like a rabid dog. He had to be horrified at her manners. Mama June had instilled proper manners in them when they were very young, and her manners were one of the few things Mrs. Flagton had always complimented her on.
The flush on her cheeks deepened to the bone. “Are we done? Do we need to leave?”
“Not by far. I’m having more food brought out. You clearly need to eat more—that dress hangs on you.”
Rude.
But that was what Strider was now. Rude.
Rude to her, any chance he got.
Her back stiffened, the ratafia no longer softening her bones to jelly. “I apologize, my manners seem to have escaped me for a moment. If someone can show me to my room, I can leave you to dine in peace. I will search for the innkeeper.” She shifted, her palms flat on the table as she scooted along the bench to remove herself from the table.
His hand reached across the table and clamped onto her wrist, stopping her escape. “No, you need to stay right where you are, Pen.”
“Why?”
“Because more food is coming, you drank none of your tea, and I don’t want to have to traipse after the soused stumbling you’re about to embark upon.”
She suddenly found it incredibly easy to focus her glare on him. The food in her belly must already be working.
His fingers released her arm and he nudged the cup of tea toward her. “Drink.”
She sighed, picking up the cup and sipping the lukewarm tea. The fine china so delicate, she imagined it would crumble if she set her lips to it too hard. Ignoring her glare, Strider cut into his grouse, deliberate in bite after bite. His manners were still in place.
Surprising, for what she’d surmised of his life since they were separated so many years ago. She would have guessed him a heathen at the table. At least his mother still lived in him through the politeness he was able to show while dining.
That fact alone heartened her. Maybe all was not lost where Strider was concerned.
She took another sip of the tea. “What is it, exactly, that you do?”
He chewed on a bite of asparagus, not hurrying and not talking with his mouth full. Not until he swallowed did he look up at her. “I import things. I export things. I offer services.”
“Services like gambling and whores?”
“Among others.” His look went back down to his plate.
She fingered the lip of the teacup as she stared at his dark hair. “People are afraid of you, Strider.”
“And well they should be.”
“You kill people, don’t you?”
His brown eyes, but not his face, lifted to her. “Yes. Though not in a long time.”
She blinked hard.
She’d suspected it, knew it deep down by the way people reacted when she said his name. But she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Hadn’t wanted to know for certain that he’d traded his soul for what—money? Set himself on the pathway to hell. Mama June would be devastated at what had happened to her son—at the evil that had invaded him.
Pen was devastated.
And Strider had said it so casually, like it was an everyday occurrence.
She swallowed hard, not wanting to believe his words. “But you have.”
“Of course I have.” His face lifted to her, his head tilting to the side, his words cold. “I have done what I’ve needed to, Pen. I’ll make no apologies for it.”
Her tongue went dry. “But…but why?”
“Do I need to explain survival to you, Pen? Kill or be killed. That is the world I have lived in for a long time. Ever since you were taken in by the Flagtons.”
“But...” She paused, her head shaking. “What of your father’s family? When you made it to England, did you never approach them? I had always imagined that you would. That they would take you in.”
He picked up the tankard of ale in front of him and took a long sip. Setting it down onto the table, his fingers sank to the bottom of the tankard and adjusted the turn of it precisely to his satisfaction. “I did approach them. It was ugly.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think? They refused to acknowledge me. Without any proof of who I am, I am nothing. Just a rogue ruffian with wild claims of parentage. I am nothing to the bloody lot of them.”
She blanched.
Proof.
He needed proof to take his birthright.
She recalled his father’s family was powerful—but had only heard hushed murmurs of it from his parents when they didn’t think she or Strider could hear them. Not that she’d ever fully understood what they were talking about when she and Strider were children. She hadn’t realized how important the
proof was for him.
She cleared her throat, her look darting away from his face. “What did you do after they denied you?”
“I made my own way in the land. Made my own money. My own empire. And I’ve been doling out to the family exactly what they deserve. I’ve been running them into the ground—in every way I can, since they tossed me into a snowbank seven years ago.” His head shook. “They literally had three footmen grab me and toss me out their back door and into the snow. Not even the front door. They dragged me through the house to make sure I could see everything that I would never have.”
His hand on the table curled into a fist for a mere second before spreading flat and then picking invisible dirt out from the wood. His voice dropped to a deadly rumble. “I won’t rest until everyone in that family is a pauper.”
“How—how could you…” Her voice drifted off as her stomach churned, the quantity of food she’d just stuffed into her mouth expanding as it settled. His voice vicious, she had to take several breaths of air against the sudden fury in the air about him. The hatred in his face.
This wasn’t the person she knew.
Yet she was trying to understand. Understand exactly how Strider’s life had taken such a turn into darkness. Understand so she could find the boy—somewhere within his eyes—that she had once known.
A barmaid approached the table, another plate balanced on her arm. She set the food in front of Pen.
A moment ago Pen had felt like she could eat three more platefuls. Not now.
Not when everything Strider was telling her was threatening to heave the contents of her stomach upward. He was a murderer. Out for destruction. His soul lost to hell.
“She wanted more for you.” She could barely crack her lips open, the words coming out in a whisper.
“Who?”
Her eyes closed. “Your mother.”
“Is dead.”
“Do you remember what she always used to tell you?”
“I try not to.”
“I remember.” Pen opened her eyes to him, watching his face, searching his brown eyes for some spark of salvation—anything that would turn him back into the boy she’d once loved more than anything. “She said you were going to be the best of men. That was one thing I always remembered. That you would be the best of men.”
Exiled Duke: An Exile Novel Page 5