James closed his eyes tight, feeling her fear, feeling her pain as he wrapped his arms all the way about her trembling body. “You’re here with me, and I will never let anything happen to you.”
“I—I can’t stop crying,” she sobbed as hot tears spilled from her eyes over his skin.
“Cry for them,” he said gently. “Cry for yourself. I’ll cry with you too, Margaret, but know I will always be here for you.”
And as she allowed her grief to pour out onto him, tears did slide down his cheeks. For her suffering. It was such a harsh world, but at least they had found each other. He’d meant every word, after all. He was always going to be there to protect Margaret. She deserved it. Finally, it was something he could truly do for her, as clearly no one else had done.
• • •
Matthew stood outside the towering town house by Green Park as dawn rose and felt his insides turn to knots. How could Maggie have done it? How could she?
He’d been in hiding the last days, but finally, he’d had to come see for himself.
His face twisted, and he sucked in shuddering breaths of foul London air.
Patrick darted across the bustling street, his long dirt-stained black coat swaying about his body as he loped forward.
A hard look lined the older lad’s face. “It’s the honest-to-God truth.”
“Shite,” Matthew swore. Then he whipped his gaze away, unable to face his comrade-in-arms. “I didn’t believe she’d go through with it.”
“That she did. Not even a week ago. The servants are all agog about it. Young Katie Donaghue, a friend of one of the underhousemaids, couldn’t wait to spill the infamous news.”
Matthew’s stomach lurched. He braced his hand on the nearest tree, digging his fingers into the rough bark. She’d said she would. To save him. But he’d prayed and doubted. There was no denying she’d betrayed them now. She’d married an Englishman.
“Ah. Steady on, lad,” Patrick hissed. “You’ve got to keep it together.”
Shivering, Matthew wiped his hand over his mouth. “I still can’t believe she turned traitor.”
“But she has.”
“You have to believe she’s dead to me,” Matthew spat, his heart breaking. He’d loved his sister, his big sister, idolized her, but he’d never imagined she could do such a heinous thing. He’d rather be caught and shot to death than see her wed to one of the enemy. “I’ll never speak to her again.”
Patrick’s hand darted out and cracked against Matthew’s cheek, the force of the blow nearly knocking his head off. “You shut your cakehole. You’re not the thinker here, and your sister is bloody breathing and living right in the midst of the enemy.” Patrick leaned forward, his clear eyes narrowing before he placed a reassuring, heavy hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Forget her, boyo.”
“I miss her.”
Patrick’s lips curled into a disgusted snarl. “She’s lucky we don’t kill her for the traitor she is.”
Matthew swung his gaze back to the house. All he had ever wanted was Margaret by his side, pursuing the cause. He could never wish her dead.
Suddenly, he found himself wishing he could be a boy again, when things had still been free of the taint of death. If only Ireland hadn’t suffered so much. If only . . .
He cursed the ache in his heart, hardening it to the only course left for him to take. With one last glance at the great house, he slunk away, back to the dark part of town that his pursuit of justice had condemned him to.
Chapter 24
James stopped before the Duke of Fairleigh’s house. It stood, an impressive edifice overlooking the small gated park at the center of the square. He’d been in it many times. In fact, a little more than a year ago, he and the duke had been nigh inseparable in their pursuits. One might say he’d been his only friend.
But Edward Barrons, Duke of Fairleigh, was a married man now. Married to a woman who had been as enraptured with opium as James had become. Mary. Wild, nearly broken, and lost to the drug of the East, they’d understood each other in a way that no one else could have done. But Mary had been right. The feelings he’d had for her had not been anywhere close to the affections between a man and a woman. They had simply been the recognition of one opium-hooked soul to another.
He knew it now because nothing could compare with the terrifying way Margaret made him feel, as though he might conquer worlds but could lose it all at any moment. Never in his life had he felt more exposed yet at one with any human as he had last night.
Even recognizing this, he felt a moment’s hesitation, pursuing this course of action, but it was necessary. If he was going to be the man Margaret needed, he had to swallow his pride.
It no longer mattered that long ago he’d made the decision to stay away from Mary and Edward. His pain hadn’t belonged beside their happiness.
But something had pulled him here this morning. A need to be strong for his Maggie.
It had been a cruel twist to find Margaret had slipped away in the middle of the night. After they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Lingering in his arms might have meant she felt something more for him than desire or her need to set him on the path to righteousness. He didn’t deserve that yet, but he would. He would make himself worthy.
Squaring his jaw, James did the formerly unthinkable. He strode across the cobbled street and up to the porticoed doorway. Without ado, he pounded on the carved mahogany paneling. He’d kept away for long enough.
The door opened, and the never-changing butler, Grieves, eyed him, nose slightly lifted. “My lord, it has been some time.”
“It’s been more than a year, Grieves,” he drawled. “How ever did you manage without me?”
“One does one’s best to rise above disappointment,” he replied, his face perfectly serious.
Powers was more than aware that Grieves had likely been most glad to see the back of him and his dissolute ways.
“His Grace is not in.”
Powers smirked. “It’s a good thing, then, that I am here to see Her Grace.”
Grieves’s nose twitched, but he stepped aside.
One would have thought he was allowing for a common chimney sweep to walk across the threshold.
“If you will follow me, my lord?” Grieves intoned before he solemnly embarked toward the sprawling staircase.
James followed, forcing himself to keep his pace slow. Much to his displeasure, his heart began to race and his stomach twisted.
And it was not an effect of his opium withdrawals. Of that he was certain.
He had no idea what sort of greeting he was about to receive. For all he knew, Mary might give him a cold stare and send him packing.
After all, it had been he who had ignored her letters and the copious invitations from herself and Edward.
Perhaps she wouldn’t wish to be reminded of the horrors she’d faced a year ago, and he would certainly bring those memories to the surface.
“Grieves,” he began, “perhaps this was a mistake—”
At that, Grieves stopped on the landing, his usually unreadable visage softening. “Though it is not my place to say something shocking, I must. You are not my favorite person, my lord, and yet you assisted in the rescue of my mistress, and I know she has worried over you. Don’t you dare run from her now.”
With that, Grieves turned and began his solemn, silent ascent.
James ground his teeth down. He loathed the implication that he had been running from Mary and Edward, but there really was no other way to look at it. He’d flung himself away from them in sheer need to be away from their love and happiness. He’d been unable to face it when his own marriage to Sophia had ended so tragically.
Now he was here only out of complete desperation.
When he’d awoken this morning, alone in the dawn light, he’d kno
wn he had to find a way to keep on the path free from opium.
He needed Margaret’s respect, and there was only one way to achieve that. He could never return to the bottle that he’d picked up after Sophia had died. It was hard to believe that it had all begun so innocently, a sip here and there from his wife’s laudanum bottle to help him sleep through the pain of her death. But there was no innocence to it anymore. If he turned back to opium, he wouldn’t survive. He could finally admit that at least. And he wanted to survive.
He wanted a life with his infuriatingly marvelous wife, Margaret.
Grieves turned to the right and stepped through an arched doorway. “Your Grace, Viscount Powers.”
There was a soft exclamation and the rustle of skirts.
James squared his shoulders and forced his legs to move. It was only three steps into that damn room, but each one felt like slogging through mire.
There she stood. Gaping at him.
Proud, strong, still a wild glint in those violet eyes. Her mouth opened slightly, and her hands fell to her verdant, belling skirts.
His voice failed him. She looked so different and yet the same. A year had seen the gauntness vanish from her frame. Soft curves rounded her body and face, and her black hair was carefully pinned back and curled. A rosy hue lit her once bluish white skin.
And there was something else. The cut of the little jacket she wore, covering her belly, declared one thing. She and Edward were to become a family.
He inclined his head. “Your Grace.”
“You bloody ass,” she breathed before she ran across the room.
His entire body froze as she threw her arms around him, hugging him as if he might abruptly disappear.
As that small body of hers grabbed hold of him, he stood astonished. He’d expected cool civility at best.
Awkwardly, he kept his hands down at his sides.
She squeezed once more, then stepped back. Narrowing her eyes, she proclaimed, “You have a great deal of nerve, sir, appearing after all these months without a word.”
At this very moment, he considered casting down his gaze and mumbling. But as Margaret might have said, he didn’t need to whip himself with guilt. He was just a man who’d made decidedly bad choices. “I don’t know what to say.”
She arched a black brow. “You could apologize. Over tea. Grieves, please see to it.”
The butler bowed and silently left them.
Feeling terribly exposed, James looked about the room.
Once it had been dreary, everything dark or cast in shadow. Now light spilled in through the tall windows and delicate drapes, bouncing off furniture covered in rose brocade and massive mirrors framed with soft gold.
The entire room seemed to glow with content. Much like the woman before him.
Mary folded her arms just over her breasts and over the slight, barely visible roundness of her belly. “Now, as much as I should like to believe that you came merely to see an old friend, there must have been something that finally drove you to Edward’s and my door.”
“You are direct.”
She smiled slightly, retracing her steps to the two chairs nestled by the window. Placing a hand on the rose brocade, she gestured to the chair opposite. “I’m afraid you’ll disappear unless I make good use of our time.”
Everything felt so strange. Their roles were completely reversed. When he’d met Mary, she’d been addicted to laudanum, beaten and abused by the keepers of an asylum, and deeply mistrusting of men.
Then he had assisted her. Now . . .
Silently, he crossed the room and took the offered chair, shocked by a wave of gratitude, an emotion unfamiliar to him.
An emotion that only could have been brought to the surface by Maggie’s constant ministrations.
“You’re smiling,” Mary said.
He snapped his gaze to her face. “Am I?”
Fluffing out her skirts, she sat across from him. “You are.”
“I was thinking of something.”
She cocked her head to the side, “Or someone?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Someone.”
Mary leaned back, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “Excuse me. I grow easily tired of late.”
James inched to the edge of his seat. “Then I shouldn’t—”
“If you leave, I’ll track you down with a pistol, and you know what a fine shot I am.”
He rubbed his hand along his jaw, recalling her perfect aim in that field so long ago. “I do indeed. Though your skill with a knife could never quite match mine.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “You are a very poor loser, sir.”
“Yes, I am,” he said quietly.
Her gaze shadowed. “I feel that we are no longer discussing our bouts with pistols and knives.”
“I—” He swallowed as shame, another emotion he’d never let rise to the surface, closed his throat. Forcing in a long breath, he balled his hands into fists. “I need your help.”
He waited for the mockery. That the mighty, arrogant Powers had come to her for assistance. He’d mocked her often enough in the past.
She sat silently for several moments. The silence stretched until he felt it grating along his skin.
The jangle of china broke it, and Grieves returned, his arms laden with a silver tray covered in the accoutrement of tea.
Mary said nothing as the older man placed the tray on a small table beside her chair. Seemingly aware that some sacred silence was occurring, Grieves said nothing as he exited.
Once again, the silence between them filled up the room, until the hushed ticking of the French clock on the marble mantel sounded as loud as the gong, gong, gong of Big Ben’s mighty bell.
At last, Mary took up the teapot and small silver strainer. As she poured, she said softly, “I have been waiting to hear those words ever since you stepped out of this house.”
She looked up, her violet eyes large and sad. “I was afraid I’d never see you again, that I would read in some paper that you were dead.”
“You didn’t have much faith in me, then?” he whispered.
She handed him the delicate blue painted china cup brimming with tea. “I know how powerful our master is. It has nothing to do with faith.”
Our master. Mary too had struggled to escape, and she had succeeded. “You are free, though?”
She gave a small nod as she poured her own cup. “There are times when it comes to me suddenly, a desire so completely irrational and compelling to go to the chemist and find a bottle of laudanum. I don’t understand it. I’m happy.”
“Memories?” he ventured.
She bit her lip. “Sometimes they are very bad. Edward is most understanding.”
“But he still doesn’t understand the laudanum,” James said flatly. They’d had a similar conversation more than a year ago, when Mary had been about to pick up a laudanum bottle. He’d helped her to turn away from it. Why hadn’t he been able to help himself?
“You were correct when you said Edward would never understand the strong need that attempts to rule me. He’s kind and caring, but he will never know the feeling of the devil that attempts to call us back.”
“I suppose we should be glad that he doesn’t.”
“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “I should never wish anyone to be closely acquainted with opium and its cruelty.” Mary sipped her tea, then carefully rested the saucer in her hand. “You are not chasing the dragon at present, I think. However . . .”
James sighed. He’d known it would be impossible to hide the effects from someone who had also suffered. “It has not been long since last I was under its spell.”
She nodded. “There is a look.”
He laughed. “Yes. A dead man’s look.”
“Well, you do not look entirely dead, so that’s something.”
“What? Only somewhat dead?” he teased.
“Exactly. Though, I think”—she tilted her head to the side, contemplating him—“you came far too close to shuffling off your mortal coil. If you begin again, you will die.”
“My God, you are direct.”
“If I recall, so were you. We must be if we are to save ourselves.” All teasing left her face. “What brought you here?”
James stared down into his dark tea, drinking in the perfused vapors. “There is a lady. She has helped me to cease, at least for now.”
Mary gasped. “You care for her.”
“Well, yes, but . . . it is complicated.”
“When is it not?” she returned. “Are you trying to leave the dragon for her?”
James couldn’t quite meet Mary’s eyes.
“I want her respect. I’ve only just recognized how important that is to me, and to have it, I must never touch the stuff again. If I do, I will never be her equal.”
She leveled him with a hard stare. “First you’re going to have to respect yourself.”
Her words smashed into him. God, he could hear himself saying almost the exact same thing to Mary when he’d told her she had to cease taking laudanum for herself and not for Edward.
His hand began to shake, and the damned tea leaped out of the cup. “I don’t think I can.”
Mary sat still, her face gentle. “Until you do, you will run to opium every time you feel pain or sadness.”
“But how?” he demanded. “How did you come to respect yourself?”
“Slowly. A little bit by a little bit, and I had the help of a friend,” she replied meaningfully. “I’d like to help him now.”
James choked back the sadness that was hurtling to his surface. He couldn’t break. Not here. Not now. “Thank you.”
“And I want to meet this lady.”
James smiled, a smile he couldn’t stop. “My wife.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He laughed this time, an incredulous but joyful sound. “Lady Margaret is my wife.”
Mary shook her head. “Good Lord, whatever have you gotten yourself into this time, Powers?”
The Dark Affair Page 21