by Darcy Burke
He should say something. Help her deal with her pain, too. But he could not think of a single word that would give her comfort. He was too broken, too lost, too dark. He could not bring her light.
“Rarely does anyone ever speak of the survivors,” she continued. “I think that is a mistake. It is left to us to fight for justice for the departed. To seek revenge against those who took them from us.” She drew herself up to her full seated height, and her chin lifted.
This diminutive beauty became quite intimidating when she turned her cold, unwavering gaze upon him. He knew the haunted look in her eyes too well—the same look he’d worn when tracking Nicodème that fateful night.
So her next question did not surprise him, though he wished so badly that she did not have to share this kind of ache.
“Did you catch the blackguard who killed her?”
His hand shook as he reached for the glass of brandy. He remembered the last breath escaping from Nicodème’s throat, a winter wind roaring in the relative quiet. “Yes. I made sure he could never hurt anyone again.”
She gave a perfunctory nod, signaling her approval. “Then you have done your duty to your sister.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she had no idea what she’d said. She was a gently bred lady who should have no acquaintance with such brutal bloodshed. But he stopped; reminding himself that in her eyes, ‘revenge’ probably meant arresting the man seemingly responsible for his sister’s death. It did not mean a righteous execution. Or a heinous, grisly death.
He reached into his desk drawer, bringing out two more glasses. Pouring brandy into it, he passed the snifter to her.
She did not take it, staring at him as though he’d lost his mind.
Perhaps he had. In the last year, he’d existed in halves, never complete. But he could not shake the feeling that tonight was a new beginning.
“To us.” He motioned for her to lift the glass, raising his own. “For we have survived when we wish we had not. We are too strong for our own good, but we cannot change.”
“I appreciate your sentiment, Your Grace, but you cannot expect me to drink that.” She eyed the glass, then him, seemingly tempted but unwilling to chance such scandalous behavior.
“I can and I do.” He kept his glass level, again indicating she should lift hers. “Tonight, honor the dead. You are not just a governess. You’re a sister who lost her brother.”
She hesitated for a second more. He watched her make up her mind, a definite shift passing over her face. Swiftly, she grabbed her glass and clinked it against his. “To Evan.”
“To Louisa.”
She knocked back a quarter of the glass in one gulp. He blinked, startled by her alacrity.
And then, slowly, surely, she winked at him. “I did not say it was the first time I have honored the dead. Only that I was not sure it was proper, given my station.”
As he drained his snifter, he was left wondering just how improper Miss Loren could be.
Chapter 2
She was a terrible person.
She had to be. Because only a truly terrible person would sit there for an hour with the Duke of Abermont, listening to him pour his heart out, and still lie to him.
Vivian could almost still taste the brandy on her tongue from the finger they’d taken together last night. To survivors, he’d said, but she didn’t feel like a survivor. The life she’d known—the stability she’d once prided herself on—had disappeared the night she’d had to identify his mangled body in the coroner’s office.
Smoothing a hand down her walking dress, she took a seat on a bench in the rambling garden of the Abermont estate. A few paces in front of her, her young charge Thomas Spencer squatted down on the ground, picking up various small pebbles that made up the rocky path. Every now and then, he looked back at her, as if needing confirmation that she was still there. As if somehow, even at the tender age of five, he still could sense that her time here was limited. That she was poised to flee at any moment.
This was all a ruse, and she had no right to dream about it becoming permanent.
She didn’t deserve the easy affection of a young child, who now expected her to guide him through life. How could she help instill good morals in him when she belonged in gaol for what she’d done, was trying to do, to his family?
Six months of spying on them. Six months of reporting anything they said, did, or even thought about doing to a mysterious benefactor she knew only as Sauveterre. The French term for “safe haven” had given her hope—perhaps finally, after a year of wondering and grieving, she'd find respite. But the information Sauveterre had promised to reveal about her brother’s death had not been forthcoming. After half a year of following the shadowy éminence grise’s every direction, all she knew was that her suspicions had been right: Evan had been murdered. When he’d been stabbed in a fetid rookery alley, it hadn’t simply been a botched robbery. He’d been specifically marked for an untimely death.
No matter how many letters she’d written to Sauveterre, begging for more information, he hadn’t revealed the identity of Evan’s killer. She’d begun to doubt if he even knew the truth. Had she given up everything she knew, lied to the very people who had shown her kindness, all on a false promise? The appalling likelihood of this made her stomach churn.
The Bow Street Runners claimed it had been a robbery gone wrong. Evan had been on the wrong side of Westminster, in the heart of the Seven Dials rookery. Supposedly, he’d resisted when the footpads had stolen his purse. He’d been found on Monmouth Street, his body so badly beaten he was almost unrecognizable. Only the label Vivian had sewn into his coat kept him from being listed by the coroner as a vagrant. “Made for Evan Loren with love,” she’d embroidered; never thinking it would someday become the key clue to his identity.
She still couldn’t look at her embroidery basket without thinking about that gruesome coat.
“Look, Miss Loren,” Thomas called, gesturing to the tower he’d made out of the pebbles and a few twigs.
“Quite impressive,” she praised, glad he’d found something to occupy him. Her head was far too muddled today for clear instruction. She’d suggested this jaunt in the garden for that exact reason. Here, Thomas could run and play free, as long as she was close by to supervise.
Thomas grinned at her, and went back to his building. He placed another rock on top, adding in an alternative layer of leaves and twigs. The gardener would deplore the clutter he’d made, but for now, she’d let him enjoy his game.
With one hand holding her straw hat upon her head, she leaned her head back, staring up into the brilliantly blue, cloudless sky as though it might provide her with all the answers. But even the beauty of the blooming Kent countryside in spring could not lessen her dread, her guilt. She’d accepted this governess position under false pretenses, and she continued to tread on the trust of the very people who’d offered her shelter.
A home.
Because no matter how many times she told herself this was all going to fade away, she could not deny the pull Abermont House had on her. Not only were the grounds gorgeous, but the family had surprised her with their generosity. The sisters were always kind to her.
And then there was the duke himself. Sauveterre had claimed that James Spencer must have ties to British intelligence. Given Sauveterre’s last missives had asked for financial information, she gathered he suspected that Abermont was funneling money to Bonaparte’s supporters. Vivian had seen no indication of that, and certainly nothing to support the idea that Abermont was an active spy. She’d always assumed spies were closed-off creatures, with a hundred different aliases and no steady home. James Spencer was simply too entrenched in his life here for that to be true.
The duke disconcerted her, but not because she felt endangered by him. Rather, the easy comfort his presence offered her was the cause for her concern. When she’d originally sat down in his study last night she’d had two goals: tend to his self-injured hands, and solicit his con
fidence in hopes he’d reveal something she could send to Sauveterre. But the longer they’d talked, the less she’d thought of Sauveterre. She’d lost herself in the weight of his gaze, the pain in his voice.
His soul was as wounded as hers was.
Thomas scampered by, his pockets bulging with stones he’d collected. She might not be able to solve her own problems, but at least she knew what to do with Thomas. Vivian flipped open the guidebook she carried to the tabbed page. She pointed toward the Grecian bust on their right. “Tell me what that statue is constructed of, Master Spencer.”
“Lime, of course,” Thomas stated in the condescending way only an erudite five-year-old with far too much fortune could manage.
She consulted the guidebook, more out of routine than any doubt that he was correct. Thomas loved geology. “Very good.”
Thomas grinned. “That was too easy, Miss Loren.”
Vivian mock-sighed. “Pert boys do not get rewarded. Perhaps we should return inside? You haven’t finished your arithmetic lesson. Don’t think that I haven’t noticed.”
Thomas was quick to protest, shaking his head vigorously. “But it’s so nice outside.”
There was a light breeze wafting through the air, while the sun had finally managed to peek through the clouds after several days of rain. It was beautiful, but none of it belonged to her.
“I suppose we could stay out a bit longer,” she proposed. “If you promise to finish your arithmetic tonight.”
“I swear,” Thomas vowed, making a cross over his heart with two fingers.
He looked so solemn she couldn’t help but laugh. “Lord Thomas, I will know if you are bamming me. Besides, your tutor won’t be very happy with me otherwise, so we must be sure you are caught up on your schooling.”
Thomas stopped in the middle of the path, giving her a disbelieving look. “Mr. Martin likes you. Everyone likes you. You are much better than nasty old Mrs. Garring, who always smelled like stinky cheese.”
Everyone likes you.
Little comfort, as no one would after they discovered her spying.
“That’s not a very nice description,” she said.
“It’s true,” Thomas retorted. “She does smell like cheese, and you always tell me not to lie.”
She was saved from a response by the sight of Abermont coming up the path. Suddenly, it was as if a hundred butterflies had set upon her stomach, flapping their tiny wings. Oh, no, this could not continue. She would not harbor feelings of an intimate nature for her employer. The man she’d been hired to spy on, for heaven’s sake.
But she could not deny how powerful, how utterly masculine he appeared. He was tall, long and lean. His jet-black hair was kept close-cropped. His brows were thick, his chin more rounded than sharp, and his nose had a deliberate hook to it that made him appear quite imposing. There was a sternness to his face that almost overshadowed his attractiveness.
Yet it was his eyes that arrested her every time she saw him. Gray-blue, reminding her of waves rushing against the shores of Deal. She could lose herself in his eyes.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Last night, for the first time since Evan’s death, she’d felt found.
“Jim!” Thomas cried, running to his brother.
Abermont caught the boy in his arms, lifting him up effortlessly as though he weighed as much as a newborn, not a strapping youth. He whirled Thomas in a circle, and the boy’s laughter echoed through the garden until Abermont put him back on the ground. Thomas leaned against his brother’s side as they both waited for Vivian to approach.
“Miss Loren.” Abermont greeted her with a nod, the same polite incline of his head he always did, that indicated he saw her but did not feel her presence honored him in any way.
She’d glimpsed a different man last night, one of deep feeling, but perhaps that man only appeared once a year.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied.
He nodded. “Miss Loren. Tom, why don’t you go inside?” Abermont stared at her still, his eyes never once leaving hers, as he spoke to his brother.
“But Miss Loren said I could play for a while,” Thomas protested. “Didn’t you, Miss Loren?”
“Ah,” Vivian began, struggling to find the proper words. “I did say that, Lord Thomas, but I should think your brother—”
Abermont gave a swift nod, this time one meant to silence her. Gracious, the man could say more with the tilt of his head than she could with five hundred words. He gave his brother a little push forward. “Lord Haley’s in the schoolroom with a new game he thinks you will like to play,” he said.
That was all Thomas needed. “Richard!” He took off at a gallop toward the house, his little feet kicking up gravel.
She made the mistake of meeting Abermont’s gaze after the lad’s swift departure. All rational thought departed. Instead, she wanted to run her hand up the smooth superfine of his coat to ascertain if his arms were truly as muscular as they looked.
“Miss Loren,” he said again, and in that moment she simply wanted to hear him say her name, over and over again.
She took another deep breath and regretted it. The air around them became charged, somehow thick with the very scent of him, pine and leather. He stepped toward her. Then again. He was so close to her now she could see the individual flecks of gray in his eyes. His buckskin breeches and black coat complemented his strong, athletic physique, and she could not help but remember all the times she’d watched him play tennis from the window in the nursery. Heavens, his broad shoulders filled out his coat far too well.
She swallowed. If she reached out her hand, her palm would rest easily on his chest. How she wanted to know if his muscles underneath the silk of his waistcoat would feel as hard as she’d always imagined.
“I was just—” No, that wasn’t right. Nothing was right when he stood here like this. It was all highly improper.
She stepped back from him, willing her capricious heart to stop pounding so swiftly. She should say something. Break the tension. Last night, she’d had a clear objective. Bandage his hand. Get information. He’d seemed to respond to the woman who knew how to take charge of a situation. The same woman she’d been when Evan was alive. Competent. Capable. Fierce.
Blast it all, she could be that woman again.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” There. She’d managed to keep her voice level. That was something, at least.
“I saw you outside from the window in my office. I wanted to thank you for bandaging my hand last night.” He held up his hand, showing her that the wound was but a scratch now.
“It was no trouble at all.” Her brows wrinkled as she examined his hand. “Just as I thought. The cut wasn’t deep, so it should heal up nicely.”
“Thanks to your expert bandaging. Shall we take a walk?” He extended his arm to her, motioning to the path in front of them.
Her uncle had always said not to refuse dukes, but Uncle Timothy had spent a large part of his adult life thoroughly foxed, so Vivian didn’t trust his opinion. How could she possibly focus when she was touching Abermont? When he stared at her so, as though his attention was completely upon her—as though they were the only two people in this garden, in this house, in this world.
But it was not as if they were truly alone. The estate buzzed with activity. A few paces to the right, a gardener tended to the rose bushes, while another pruned the trees. Everywhere she turned, someone else was near. Those were fears for nonsensical gels, not ape leaders like her.
She accepted his arm, her gloved fingertips barely brushing against the sleeve of his coat. A minimal touch that should not have resonated through her body as it did. Dash him and his infuriatingly good looks, the likes of which could make a woman on the cusp of spinsterhood believe in flights of fancy again.
Abermont slowed his ground-devouring strides to match hers. “I trust you are well today, Miss Loren?”
The duke had asked her this very same question at least twenty times in the past, whenever she saw him i
n the nursery. Before, she’d wondered if he really cared about her response.
This time, however, was different. His head tilted toward hers. His tone lacked distance; he spoke to her as though she were his peer. Maybe last night had begun a new bond between them, one forged in the sad kinship of mutual grief. Fitting, when the loss of Evan was one of the few things she’d been honest about in the last six months.
“I am well enough,” she said. Though the emotional quality of her life left something to be desired, she had ample shelter and food. She lived.
He caught her distinction, arching a brow at her. “Just enough?”
“As you said, sometimes the days are long and terrible. It becomes hard to see past the memories.” She focused on the path ahead, one foot in front of the other in a defined route. Certainty, when the rest of her life mired in shadows. “But sometimes, I remember what it was like before his passing, and I pretend that I feel like myself again. It’s easier on days like this, when the sun is bright and the heat leaves no room for the cold hand of death.”
She didn’t know why she spoke so freely around him, when she never talked about what had happened with anyone else. He, of all people, was the last person she should have confided in—yet the words spilled out before she could stop them.
He nodded, this time in solemn understanding. “On most days, I consider well enough an accomplishment.”
She bit her bottom lip, frowning. “I must believe that it will someday get easier.” When she finally looked Evan’s killer in the eye and exacted sweet vengeance, she’d begin again, her duty fulfilled.
Revenge was the most important thing. Perhaps the only important thing.
They’d reached a fork in the path. Would Abermont choose the sunny road to the left ending at the gazebo, or the more secluded stroll through the orchard? When he hesitated, Vivian took the decision from him. She started down the path most traveled. The safest path. Because this pull to him was dangerous, and she had enough danger in her life.