The Dark Affair

by Máire Claremont

  “‘Whatever I think.’ Such sweet words.” The sounds of spoons and porcelain followed.

  She waited patiently, determined not to be cowed by James or his father.

  The earl took a long swallow of his coffee. As he daintily set the saucer down, he said, “Your methods are most jarring.”

  She smiled patiently. He’d already given her a setdown the day before, and she was ready for another one. After all . . . She snuck a glance at the two large purple bruises dominating James’s jawline. The ice had helped. Perhaps later tonight, she could apply ice to the rest of his bruised person.

  His abdomen had been most abused.

  “Margaret?”

  She blinked. “Yes?”

  James coughed. “My father is actually complimenting you.”

  She blushed and turned to the earl. “I do beg your pardon. My thoughts were . . . elsewhere.”

  Leaning back in the carved mahogany chair, the earl rested his elbows on the armrests. “I was saying, I cannot deny that my son is awake before nine, capable of intelligent speech, has dressed himself, and is eating.”

  “You make it sound as if you’ve never seen such a thing,” Powers gritted. And as if to emphasize his displeasure, he slapped a kipper down on Margaret’s plate.

  “I haven’t,” Carlyle retorted. “Not in years.”

  “Trifles.” Powers strode behind her and carefully placed the blue painted porcelain plate on the lace place setting before her. “Would you care for anything else?”

  What else could she possibly need?

  Powers had put a mountain of eggs, sausage, kippers, and tomato before her. In addition to this, there was a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, several pieces of toast, and a virtual rainbow of jellies upon the table. “No, thank you.”

  James gave a bow so low, it was clearly facetious. “I will sit now, if madam permits.”

  “Madam will permit, if you agree to eat another helping of bacon. You need sustenance.”

  The earl guffawed. “My dear, are you his nanny?”

  “It would seem so,” she parried before reaching for the silver coffeepot. She was going to need more than her usual one cup. These two men were going to be the death of her. And she had quite a day planned.

  “If every boy had a nanny like Margaret,” James said, “we’d all grow up to be devils.”

  She plunked the pot down. “I beg your pardon?”

  The earl gave a long-suffering groan. “My son is, no doubt, being his usual asinine self.”

  James helped himself to the bacon. “I mean only that a lady of such patience would tempt little boys to be as bad as they might before being punished.”

  “Are you planning to try me?” she asked quietly.

  James’s mirth slipped away. “I don’t plan it.”

  More silence followed as he returned to the table.

  There it was. The truth of all their situation. At present, the Viscount Powers didn’t plan on ruining himself or making her endeavors nearly impossible, but when a man had walked a dark path a long time, he held an aversion to the light, no matter how beneficial it might be to him.

  She forced a smile. “Then we shall put our faith in your saintly intentions.”

  “Ha,” the earl barked.

  “A saint? What could possibly make you think I qualify?” James frowned, eyeing her plate. “You really should eat.”

  She forked up a bite of eggs. “Like Saint Francis, today you are going to eschew your comforts and give succor to the poor.”

  James blinked. “Succor.”

  “It’s a grand word,” she said brightly.

  “Why do I suddenly feel as if I’m about to be ambushed?” James reached for a slice of toast and buttered it absently, somehow managing to not spill a crumb.

  She eyed the pristine table beneath the bread. It didn’t matter how often she practiced, she’d never been able to manage such fastidious habits with anything that might crumble. And though it might be a silly thought, she always felt terribly embarrassed when she made a mess.

  “Would you care for my toast?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re staring at it.”

  “Oh. No. I was simply thinking we should ask your cook if she can spare any loaves.”

  “Are we going to go feed ducks?” James queried as he brought said toast to his lips. “The park has not been successful—”

  “No. We’re going to the East End,” she supplied gleefully.

  The earl sputtered, “I—I hardly think that a good idea.”

  “You’re sending me back?” Powers lowered his bread. “Margaret, I have so many experiences there—”

  “So, we must create new ones,” she assured quickly. “Ones that have nothing to do with your pain, but other people’s pain.”

  “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

  “I’m going to take you to a charity.”

  “Oh, God,” Powers groaned.

  “No, just the Irish.”

  Powers placed his elbows on the table and then propped his head in his hands. “I’m going to be surrounded by your lilting, damned people, aren’t I? That’s my punishment?”

  “Something like that, yes, and I’d like your father to come.”

  The earl pushed back from the table. “I hardly think that necessary.”

  “Don’t you wish to be a part of your son’s recovery?” she asked coquettishly.

  “I—I assumed you would arrange all of that, and then, when he was better—”

  “I would be presented to you?” Powers twirled his fork. “Just like when I was a child, so you can pat me on the head after ten minutes and then send me out of the room again, safe in the knowledge I was behaving as your heir ought.”

  “My dear boy, that’s not at all what I meant.”

  Powers leveled his father with a stare. “Wasn’t it?”

  The earl squared his jaw.

  For several moments, Margaret was certain the old man was going to stand and leave the room, washing his hands of such a sordid proposition.

  The earl nodded. “If it will help, son, then of course I shall accompany you.”

  “Brilliant,” Margaret said, clapping her hands together. It was going to be quite a day, two English lords in the East End among nests of starving Irish street sellers. And she was looking forward to every moment of it.

  Somehow she knew that with father and son there, neither man would back down or give up, and then she’d see just what they were truly made of.

  Chapter 18

  James was exceptionally familiar with the East End. At night. During daylight hours, he had primarily been incapacitated and indoors, recovering from the previous night’s events.

  The murky daylight London’s coal-stained sky had to offer didn’t improve this part of the city. In fact, the watery light spilling over everything left a deeply depressing lump in his throat. At night, it was rough, but at least there was merrymaking, music pouring out of the public houses, and the general wild disorder that came with people living as if they might be dead in a few hours’ time.

  And in the East End, they just might. Despite his own financial blessings, he’d chosen to spend his nights just like the people now doing whatever they might to earn the few pennies that would secure the night’s gin.

  “Why, pray, could we not take the coach?”

  Margaret took his father’s arm. “A coach in these parts is most inadvisable. First, it would draw far more attention than we already do, and second, they cannot maneuver the crowded streets and rabbit warrens that we are traversing.”

  The earl gave a tight nod, then pressed a gloved hand to his nose.

  The old man was trying. James had to give him that. He doubted if his father had ever set a toe past Drury Lane in this entire life. Covent
Garden was probably as daring as the man had gotten.

  The thought gave him pause. What would his father think of some of the pits he’d lain in, waiting for everything to go black?

  He’d be horrified. Many had no idea of the half-life lived by so many in the empire’s greatest city.

  “Besides,” Margaret added, “when you take to the street, you can truly see the suffering about you. No glass windows and posh velvet to mask it.”

  “And that is a good thing?” the earl queried, his gaze darting side to side.

  “I suppose it all depends,” James intervened. “If you wish to know the reality of this world and do anything about it, you best know what’s happening about you.”

  Margaret beamed. “And isn’t that a fact?”

  He wanted to preen like a schoolboy under her praise. Instead he scowled, refusing to let her see that her opinion meant a jot. “We’ll never truly be able to make a difference. Misery has existed since the dawn of time.”

  That radiance that had sent her pale skin glowing dimmed. “You’re right, of course.”

  “I am?” he teased. “Could it be?”

  She snorted. “Don’t be letting it get to your big head.”

  “I shan’t. My hats barely fit as it is.”

  She rolled her eyes, but he didn’t miss the slight twitch of her lips.

  “I’m surprised you agree with me, Maggie,” he said. “You strike me as an idealist.”

  She shook her head, the soft curls teasing her face beneath her coal-gray bonnet. “I’m a realist. It’ll take generations to change things. But if we can help just one person, for one moment, and not think only of ourselves, I’ll say that’s a good day spent.”

  Powers frowned. “It sounds tiring.”

  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t assisted people before, though while he’d occasionally lent financial support, generally his assistance was the martial sort. Something he relished.

  “It is,” she confirmed, striding along, picking her way through the street sellers with ridiculous ease.

  His own father, on the other hand, kept halting and then jerking as he attempted to avoid running into the raggedy people of London’s poor district.

  “But it’s worth it.” She picked up her pace, swerving around a matchstick girl.

  Generally, people got out of his way wherever he went. Something about his bearing sent them scattering. And when on a bender, it was easy to ignore these people or to just drink and fight with them.

  Now, unswayed by any substance and in Maggie’s presence, he couldn’t ignore the poverty around him. Especially since with each step, she was taking them farther and farther away from the glittering wealth and safe streets of the West End.

  The stench alone was overpowering. He’d never noticed before, not when he could reach into his pocket and take out a flask of gin. Now the tide of unwashed humanity and the scent of daily living wafting up from the pools in the muddy streets hit him as hard as any brick wall.

  And the clothing?

  James clapped eyes on a young boy of no more than ten. His bare feet were so blackened James couldn’t spot the no doubt bluish toes. Dirt streaked his face and hands and his shirtsleeves were worn, ending just below his elbows. His short pants were worse, the fabric torn at his thighs, hanging like scraps.

  When he met the child’s gaze, the boy stared back, cold and hard, not a hint of youth about him. James’s own usually silent heart let out a cry that it wasn’t right. He blinked and forced himself to look away. If he started giving out coin right now, they’d be swamped. And if he were on his own, he might risk it. But he wouldn’t, not with Margaret beside him.

  James forced his feet forward as an uncomfortable sorrow scraped at him. He hadn’t let himself feel much of anything in years, not counting the emotions Maggie had provoked. He was shocked how suddenly that boy’s state had touched him.

  He thought he’d long ago hardened to such things.

  “Are you off with the sheep?”

  Shaking his head, he dropped his gaze to Margaret. “The only sheep in London are in Smithfield, thank you very much.”

  “And they’ll likely be in our stew before the week’s out,” she replied.

  “Exactly.”

  “You looked quite far away.”

  “It was nothing.” He focused ahead, spotting his father just a few feet in front of them, peering into a smudged storefront window.

  He refused to let her see he’d been bothered by the scene about him. He had a strange feeling his father felt the same way, which was why the old man was so fixedly staring at secondhand tatting.

  She gently placed her hand on his forearm. “All those nothings? They destroy you. If you don’t ever say what upsets you, you will drown.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that that was utter shite, that every good Englishman knew you kept your mouth shut. But so many good Englishmen were indeed drowning. He gritted his teeth before stating lowly, “I saw a boy back there; he looked at me as if he were half dead already.”

  “And it bothered you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because no one should have to suffer like that. It’s wrong,” he spat.

  Margaret nodded. “Lord Carlyle, did your son’s nanny read him a good many fairy tales?”

  His father snapped his gaze away from the window and gave Margaret a look to say she was utterly bumble brained. “How should I have any idea? Most likely.”

  “Well?” she asked, looking now to him as they strode along.

  “As I recall”—and usually he tried not to recall his relative happiness as a child lest he long to regress—“there were many stories involving St. George.”

  “Aha,” she exclaimed.

  “Is there something inordinately profound about St. George?” he mocked.

  “Yes. He defeats the dragon and saves the maiden. All works out. Good triumphs over evil.”

  “Who ever said that poor dragon was evil?” James insisted, not really caring for where she was heading with all this. He’d much prefer a lecture on the statistics of the place they were heading. Wherever that was.

  “Well, in the story, he’s evil,” she huffed. “And when we’re children, we’re taught that good always wins. It’s very hard for us to learn as adults that’s not true. Not true at all. Frankly, evil seems to win far more often.”

  “Life should not have so much suffering,” he said firmly.

  She stopped in the street and grabbed his arm. “It is that expectation that breaks our hearts.”

  “Are you saying we should all fall down and accept this world is full of suffering?”

  Those damned indigo eyes of hers darkened with intensity. “Yes.”

  “If that’s the case, tell me why I shouldn’t just go to the nearest opium den and smoke my brains away.”

  “Son,” his father cut in, his voice strained. “Now, you mustn’t—”

  “No, my lord, your son has a valid question.” Margaret licked her lips. “You may do as you choose, of course. You can see all the suffering and go and smoke your brains away as you say, or you can accept that there is suffering, but know there is also pure joy all about you. That joy makes the suffering bearable.”

  “And they tried to say I was the one acting without sense. You’re speaking balderdash.”

  She smiled. “Am I?”

  “What joy is there?” he demanded.

  Maggie shrugged. “It is not my fault if you cannot see it.”

  “Whose fault is it, then?”

  She lifted both brows and said simply, “Yours.”

  He opened his mouth to retaliate but then quickly shut it. He longed to shout that it was his father’s fault, the world’s, anyone’s and anything’s but his own. He refused to accept that kind of responsib
ility. Didn’t he?

  “Shall we continue?” she asked. “We’re in the way here.”

  “Lead on, my dear,” his father said. “This is turning into a most interesting morning. Your philosophies are rather shocking.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  James tugged at his coat, frustrated, suddenly wishing he could head off to a boxing match. “Of course you would.”

  But he couldn’t help wondering if Margaret followed her own advice. For all her teasings and bravado, there was a hollowness in her own eyes, a fear even. Somehow, she managed to hide it behind her perfect facade. In his experience, anyone who pretended to be as perfect as Margaret was hiding a wound that had never healed.

  Perhaps he and Margaret were far more alike than she’d ever cared to admit. Only they had handled their wounds with far different methods. He’d tried to drown them, and she’d simply pretended they weren’t there at all.

  And if that was the case, someone needed to rip that facade away from her if she was ever truly to live.

  She lifted her hand and pointed. “We take a left there.”

  Clamping his mouth shut, James took a step back and followed his father and Margaret.

  To his utter amazement, the two leaned their heads together. They chattered away as they continued to the crossroads.

  A growing sense of irritation rubbed at him. How was it possible that such a small woman could say things that shook him? It didn’t seem like much, but in fact, when one analyzed it, she had thrown his years of unhappiness at his own feet. Nowhere else.

  And if there was no one else to blame?

  Such a thought couldn’t be contemplated. He’d clung to his fury at his father and the unfairness of life for years. Granted, he took his fair share of the blame in what had happened to Jane and Sophia. But he’d never considered that he might be responsible for his own misery, not circumstance.

  She had to be mistaken.

  This whole venture was likely a mistake. But he wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Oh no, he wouldn’t give up until at least in this he could prove that she was wrong.

  There was no joy in this world. At least, not enough to counter the suffering that inundated it.