As for her father’s bedchamber, she had never sat in such an impressive-looking room in all her life, and she felt smaller than ever beside the earl’s massive canopy bed. Fine paintings hung on the walls in gilded frames, making her feel like such an outsider.
The earl was much smaller and frailer than she had expected, clearly the victim of a long illness. His body looked thin beneath the bedclothes, and he did not look like he belonged at Linfield any more than she did in such a weakened physical state. Her first instinct was to reach for his hand and hold it, wishing to give him some sort of physical anchor to this world.
He smiled at her when she did. “My sweet, kind girl,” he said. His voice was as weak as he looked, so she listened carefully, moving her chair closer to him. “You are more beautiful than I ever imagined.”
“Thank you, Lord Bolton, but you mustn’t waste your words complimenting me,” she replied, flushing, wondering if he was somewhat delirious. “Tell me how you feel. Is there anything I can do to help you?”
He patted her hand. “You have already helped me. I could not have rested peacefully without seeing you and saying goodbye.”
Bolton coughed violently, bringing a handkerchief to his mouth with a shaking hand. August couldn’t help but recoil from him, noticing the bloodstains on the small piece of fabric right away. She had seen this illness before. One of the girls at Hardbury died of it not so long before August left. She had been thankful she and Jane had remained untouched at the time.
“What a sorry state I am in,” her father said once his coughing fit had subsided. She noticed the faintest twinkle in his blue eyes as he turned to look at her. “You must be wondering how this old man could be your father. I swear I was as spry as someone your age only three months ago.”
August shook her head, frowning. “Oh, no, Lord Bolton—I am not wondering that at all. If anything, I am wondering why you have asked me to come here.”
Her father’s brow wrinkled. “Didn’t Mr. Brooks tell you? I mean to leave you twelve thousand pounds when I die, which could be any day now by the looks of it.”
“Do not say that,” August murmured. She sighed, unsure of how to say what she was feeling without offending him. “But you did not have to bring me here, revealing my existence to your entire family, who I am sure will hate me.”
Her father’s eyes widened. “They will not!”
August hushed him. “A man in your condition should not be shouting,” she said as kindly as she could. He glared at her, the twinkle in his eyes gone. So he had a temper. Perhaps that was where she got hers.
“Father,” she continued more resolutely, “I will not delude myself into thinking I am more to you than what I am. I know you wish to ease your guilty conscience, but you could have told Mr. Brooks to write me a letter about your passing. You could have opened an account in my name without ever revealing who you were. Wouldn’t that have been enough for you?” He made a sound of protest, but she continued anyway. “Instead, you have shocked your entire family—and for what? I would have been more than pleased to rent a set of rooms in Wilton to live out the rest of my days as an old spinster, with no one ever knowing how rich I was.”
After Brooks grew tired of speaking to her the day prior, August had spent much of the carriage ride yesterday wondering what she would do once she saw her father. She finally decided that she must convince him to let her live a quiet life, away from her family and society. Regardless of her wealth, she would never be accepted.
“Wilton?” he echoed incredulously, and the thought occurred to her that he may not know where that was.
“The village closest to Hardbury, where you sent me to school.” Her father still stared blankly at her. “In Hampshire.”
Bolton huffed. “You do not belong in a country village,” he said, uttering the last two words with disdain. “You should go to London and find a husband like all the other young girls your age.”
August shook her head. She had no interest in the ballrooms of London, preferring the idea of a quiet, peaceful existence. “And who will be my chaperone? Your wife?”
“Of course!” the man exclaimed.
August couldn’t believe her ears. He shouldn’t expect such a thing from Lady Bolton, not after he only just revealed August’s existence to her, especially with August being a physical manifestation of his betrayal of their marriage.
“What about my real mother?” August asked suddenly. “I always thought you were both dead, but now that I know you are alive, perhaps she is as well. Is she?”
Bolton grew paler than he already was. “Forget your mother. She is no one important. Lady Bolton will be your mother now.”
August furrowed her brow. “What do you mean she is no one important? Who is she?”
Before he could answer her, the door to his room swung open. “August,” Brooks said from the doorway, watching her with a concerned look. Charles was nowhere to be found, and the solicitor gave a sidelong glance at the man in bed. “You should let your father rest. Lady Bolton and your sister will return from Sedgewick Park soon. We can wait for them in the drawing room.”
Reluctantly, she said goodbye to her father and then stood up, following Brooks out into the hall. She spoke as soon as he closed the door behind them. “I was just about to find out who my mother is,” she said, annoyed.
He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “She was most likely a courtesan that society has since forgotten. I could have told you that.”
August’s face fell as Brooks began walking down the hall toward the main staircase without her. She scampered to keep up with him. “If that’s truly the case, then it supports my belief that none of this is a good idea. I have seen him, he has seen me, and now I should go. You will open an account for me when he dies, and I will use the money to live peacefully in Wilton.”
“Wilton?” he asked incredulously.
She glared at him. Didn’t these people know there were places in England other than London? “Yes, Wilton. The village near Hardbury, my old school. I could rent a set of rooms there and be near friends.” She shook her head. “I do not wish for Lady Bolton to embarrass herself as my chaperone in London as my father wants.”
Brooks stopped in the middle of the hall, looking at her curiously. “What about that family you wanted?” he asked. “I hardly doubt there are any eligible bachelors in Wilton.”
August thought of Henry. No, she supposed Brooks was right. There were no eligible bachelors in Wilton. Her nostrils flared, and she continued down the hall. “Regardless of that, Wilton is the best place for me.”
“I agree that it may be difficult to convince Lady Bolton to accept you,” Brooks said, following her. “But allow me to speak to her before you resign yourself to a life of spinsterhood in Wilton. You are far too pretty and rich for that.”
August flushed, avoiding his gaze. Was he flirting with her? She did not dare ask, too afraid of the answer one way or another. It didn’t matter anyway, as Brooks would be leaving soon. “When do you return to London?” she asked.
He paused. “I thought I would stay until I was certain you were safe. Charles has not given me much faith in his ability to look after you.”
August frowned. So they had quarreled, and that must have been why her brother was not with them as they entered Linfield’s cavernous drawing room. A pink-and-cream carpet covered the floors, and they sat on chairs with golden feet. She admired the painting over the marble fireplace, a cherub surrounded by flowers. But then August glanced down at her dress, noticing the frayed hems at the sleeves and feeling embarrassed. When Lady Bolton and Rosamund entered the drawing room soon after them, August became even more uncomfortable.
“Perfect timing,” Brooks muttered, standing up and smiling. August stood as well, turning to face her sister and her father’s wife with a deep breath.
They were both tall women, each towering over August, though she didn’t consider herself that short. Rosamund almost reminded her of hersel
f, with her fair hair and angular features. August was relieved that she smiled unreservedly, grinning until her cheeks rounded and her eyes squinted.
Lady Bolton, meanwhile, stood as still as a sculpture, chin upturned as she regarded August. She couldn’t have been older than fifty, her hair still a brilliant red piled on top of her head. August almost died of shame standing next to her father’s beautiful wife in her outdated clothes.
Before Brooks could say anything, Rosamund approached August directly, taking her sister’s hands into hers. August was sure her sister felt her tremble. “You must be August,” her sister said anyway, smiling. Slowly, August nodded.
Rosamund squeezed her fingers slightly. “I am your sister, Rosamund. It is lovely to meet you finally. I have always wanted a sister.” She turned back to her mother. “Isn’t that right, Mama?”
“Indeed,” Lady Bolton said, taking a seat in one of the armchairs with an irritated look on her face.
Rosamund turned back to August. “How was your journey?” she asked with the ease of an old friend. “I trust that Brooks has taken good care of you.”
Her sister shot Brooks a playful look, and the three of them joined Lady Bolton in sitting, with Rosamund and August on one settee and Brooks in one of the chairs across from them. “It was not too terrible,” August said, forcing a smile. A heaviness hung in the room as they all fell silent.
“Will you stay a few nights with us, Brooks?” Rosamund asked after a while. At least someone was brave enough to make conversation with Lady Bolton looking as wretched as she did. August tried to think of something thoughtful to say to the poor woman. “You must be tired from being in a carriage for so long. I know how ill they make you.”
Brooks nodded. “I will stay a few nights, but then I must return to London. My mother must be worried about me by now.”
“I already wrote to her,” Lady Bolton drawled. “She is aware of the whole sad affair.”
Lady Bolton and Brooks exchanged a look that August couldn’t quite read. Another uncomfortable silence filled the room until Charles entered a few moments later. Brooks looked as if he was ready to pounce, carefully watching him.
“I see that everyone has met,” her brother said, slurring his words while holding a glass of brandy. He haphazardly slumped into a chair beside Brooks, his long legs spreading in opposite directions. He looked at August. “My mother has not scared you off yet, has she?”
“Charles!” Rosamund exclaimed.
“Do you often find yourself drinking before noon, Charles?” Brooks asked.
August ignored them, answering her brother directly. “Lady Bolton has been nothing but kind.” She offered a small smile in her direction, though the countess appeared unmoved. “You have all been nothing but kind, welcoming me into your home.”
Charles looked unimpressed by such sentiments, while Rosamund reached out and patted her sister’s hand, still smiling. She tried not to feel too much glee over such a simple gesture of comfort. August could still hear the voice of Brooks, telling her not to hope for too much.
“How was Sedgewick Park?” Charles asked. “Have you and Rutley made up after your most recent squabble? I won’t have any more of this talk about you two not marrying this summer.”
August raised her brow, turning toward Rosamund. Was her sister engaged? That was something Brooks hadn’t mentioned.
“My feelings have not changed,” Rosamund said. She glanced at her mother, who nodded at her. Rosamund turned back to Charles. “I would like to break off the engagement.”
Her brother’s eyes turned dark. His head snapped toward his mother. “Are you condoning this?”
“Rosamund is free to marry whomever she wishes,” the countess said, her voice unwavering despite the intensity of her son’s gaze. “Her father and I have always agreed on that. If she does not wish to marry—”
“Father will be dead soon,” Charles snapped, “and what will matter is my opinion, not yours.”
Everyone in the room looked at him, equally horrified. August was beginning to realize her brother was a downright bounder, and she didn’t blame Brooks for their growing apart. Charles and his behavior must have been to blame for any quarreling.
Her brother turned back to Rosamund, his face pinched with displeasure. “If you wish to keep your dowry, you will marry Rutley. I will hear no more talk of you breaking off the engagement.”
Rosamund defiantly lifted her chin. “I do not need a dowry. I’m sure I can find someone who doesn’t care—someone far better than Rutley.”
Charles rose. “You will marry Rutley if you expect to continue living in this house!” he yelled. “I will turn you out of Linfield if you break your engagement.”
“Charles!” Lady Bolton and Brooks cried in unison. August could only look upon the scene with wide eyes, suddenly realizing she was not the only issue this family faced.
Rosamund did not shout, only rose as well, her chin still defiantly high. She brought August with her, pulling her up by the wrist to stand beside her. August nearly yelped at the sudden movement.
“I will not entertain this conversation any longer,” Rosamund said firmly, wrapping her arm around August’s. “I am going to show August to her room. We will talk about this later—in private.”
Rosamund turned on her heel before their brother could say anything else, practically dragging August with her. She looked back over her shoulder at Brooks, who was saying something to Lady Bolton. Soon they were back in the entry hall, heading up the marble staircase.
Rosamund eventually let go of August’s arm, shooting her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry about that,” she said, her voice suddenly demure again. “Sometimes Charles and I do not always see eye to eye.”
August only nodded, afraid to say anything. She walked with Rosamund up the stairs in silence until they reached the third-floor landing. “I had the servants prepare a room for you down this hall,” Rosamund said, leading the way.
The room was nowhere as large as her father’s, but it was much more impressive than where she slept at Mr. Dunn’s. Curtains made of red velvet hung from the bed’s canopy, and a dressing table and a large wardrobe sat in the corner of the room. Her small trunk from Portsmouth rested at the foot of the massive bed; she supposed one of the servants had brought it upstairs when they first arrived.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything appropriate to wear for dinner this evening,” August said sheepishly after seeing the trunk.
“No matter!” Rosamund said with a wave of her hand and a smile. She went to the side of the bed and tugged the bellpull. “I will have my maid bring in some of mine. She can take your measurements as well. I will send them to London for new clothes for you.”
“Rosamund—”
“Or,” her sister interjected, suddenly pacing the room, “we could leave for London tomorrow. We have already stayed here too long this spring, and I admit I am growing quite bored of the country.”
August watched her sister curiously. She never thought she would feel sorry for someone like Rosamund—so pretty and wealthy, with a mother who loved her—but August found her mind changing. “You wouldn’t want to leave your father, would you?”
Rosamund sighed, sitting down on August’s bed. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t. We will have to send the measurements, then.”
August sat down beside her, putting a hand on Rosamund’s shoulder. The older girl turned to her.
“I’m sure Charles will come around,” August said, biting her lip. “And if he doesn’t, Mr. Brooks tells me that Father is leaving me enough money that I could buy a house of my own. Nothing quite so spectacular as this, but you are more than welcome to live with me.”
Tears sprung to Rosamund’s eyes, and August smiled at her. “You know, I meant it when I said I always wanted a sister,” Rosamund said. “I was not only trying to be polite.”
“I believe you,” August said, her grin broadening as her sister pulled her into a comforting embrace.
/> Chapter Eight
After August and Rosamund went upstairs, Brooks asked for a private audience with Lady Bolton in the garden. The day was warm enough, even if it was still April, and Brooks thought it was best if Charles was left to have his tantrum in the house by himself. The soon-to-be earl watched them go with a glare.
“I suppose you two are leaving to conspire against me,” he grumbled before finishing his glass of brandy. Brooks looked at him with disgust.
“We are going for a walk in the garden,” Lady Bolton said matter-of-factly. “You are welcome to join us, but I’m sure you would prefer to sit here and sulk and drink.” She turned on her heel, her skirts swishing behind her.
“You have always liked him better than me,” Charles said. Lady Bolton stopped, closing her eyes, her jaw tensing. “Ever since we were boys.”
Lady Bolton sighed. She turned her head, looking at her son over her shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous, Charles.”
Lady Bolton began walking again, Brooks at her tail. “How long has he been like this?” he asked when they were out of earshot of the drawing room. Lady Bolton turned and looked at him as if he were woefully ignorant.
“Hasn’t he always been like this?” Lady Bolton asked, an underlying tone of exasperation in her voice. “Isn’t that why you stopped coming to Linfield? You grew tired of my son’s antics by the time you turned eighteen.”
Brooks frowned. “Yes, but I have never seen him so unkind to you—or his sister. I understand he’s under a lot of pressure, but—”
“Ah,” Lady Bolton said with a nod of the head. “So he told you about his gambling debts, did he? Twenty thousand pounds! I can hardly believe it. I blame his father for always indulging him. He’s turned into such a spoiled, selfish man, just like my husband.”
They had reached the garden by then, a collection of gravel paths leading through hedges with flowers that had some weeks to go before finally blooming that year. Brooks could hear the faint sound of a fountain in the distance. He recalled summers where he happily played with Charles, when yes, his father did indulge him, but Lady Bolton did as well. Brooks thought his friend’s jealousy was utterly unfounded. Lady Bolton did love her son, and any affection she held for Brooks sprung from pity over his sad home life.
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