Return of the Viscount

by Gayle Callen

  “I had not realized,” she murmured. “My mother was devoted to my father and did not like to be long parted from him.” That sounded so . . . innocent, so simplistic, when the truth was more complicated. Instead, she thought about how Michael had tried to make things easier by not mentioning Gabriel. But her brother deserved to be remembered. So she told them about her little brother’s bravery in saving her life, and the loss of his own.

  By the end of Cecilia’s story, Lady Blackthorne was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief drawn from her sleeve. “Oh, my dear, I cannot imagine how your family coped. You poor little things—and your poor parents. There is nothing worse than outliving a child. But ah, your Gabriel had such heart.”

  Cecilia nodded. “My mother was never the same,” she admitted, thinking back. “Yes, she came back to England with us at first, but it was so obvious she feared for my father, and that she longed to be with him. And from what my father used to write, when she was with him, she lived in fear for Oliver and me. It was as if she couldn’t decide where she needed to be.” But being with her father had won out because of all her mother’s insecurities. She and Oliver had both needed her, but it had not mattered.

  “India killed my mother at last,” she heard herself say.

  There was a pregnant silence, and she looked around in surprise. Lady Blackthorne’s soft eyes were full of sympathy, Mr. Blackthorne’s with interest. Michael seemed . . . distant.

  “It was a fever,” Cecilia explained, spreading her hands. “She was always susceptible to the illnesses there, but she wouldn’t leave. I was with her.” Now that she’d started, it was as if she couldn’t stop, and she knew it was all aimed at Michael, so he’d understand. “I nursed her, and she suffered terribly. My father felt that India and even his career killed her in the end. He was never quite the same after that. He wanted me home with Oliver, where I could take care of him, and we’d have each other.”

  Michael had known she’d suffered in India, but as they stared at each other, he knew in his heart what she was saying—that she had too many terrible memories of India, that she needed him to know she wouldn’t change her mind. He saw India as a country of promise, a way for him to know success he’d never had before, and to her, it was about death and loss. Three members of her family had died there—and he’d been the cause of the last. If he told her . . . she’d include him in all that loss, and their marriage might never recover.

  Withholding his past hadn’t seemed so important, but he’d realized, after she’d mentioned his dreams, that he was almost lying by not telling her. Could he continue to do that if he loved her? He still remembered how tenderly and sweetly she’d watched him as he talked of her father’s bravery, but that tenderness wasn’t for him.

  Chapter 19

  It rained most of the day, and Cecilia fully expected to find indoor amusements for Michael’s family, but to her surprise, he took the lead, playing billiards with his brother, then the both of them teaching her to play, while their mother laughed and made her own suggestions. Oliver stopped in for this, amused but not sarcastic, and for a brief time, Cecilia forgot her worries and simply enjoyed having family around her again.

  Even as Michael made plans to visit his family soon, and she was included, she didn’t know if it would work out that way. Perhaps he still thought he could make her fall in love with him, make her lose every dream she had for herself and the estates. That simply wouldn’t happen.

  And they got through another day without an attack, and she thanked God fervently.

  That night, she reminded herself to keep her distance from Michael, that they couldn’t ever have the different types of marriage they each wanted. But she still ended up in bed with him, exploring new ways to pleasure each other, turning off her thoughts and just letting herself feel.

  He fell asleep first, and she lay wide-awake, aching over the future. She knew when he started to dream, felt him twitch in his sleep, heard mumbling she couldn’t decipher. She turned up the light on the lamp. His face was etched with anguish, and she gently shook his shoulder. He came awake so fast, she gasped and gave a little jump.

  “Is something wrong?” he demanded, sitting up with a pistol in his hand.

  She stared openmouthed. “No . . . no, nothing’s wrong with me. W-where did you get that?”

  He exhaled, then slowly slid the gun back beneath his pillow. “I was hardly going to leave you unprotected,” he said mildly. “I didn’t think you needed to see the weapon.”

  She swallowed and stared at his pillow, reminding herself that he probably spent much of his life with a weapon close at hand. He saw nothing wrong with it—but for her, it was a scary reminder of how dangerous her life had become.

  “Cecilia?” he said curiously. “You woke me for something?”

  She dragged her gaze from the pillow and met his. “You were dreaming again.”

  He seemed to search her face, his expression one of hesitancy and sorrow.

  “What is it?” she whispered, touching his arm. “You can tell me.”

  He closed his eyes. “I didn’t want to burden you with any of this.”

  “How could your dreams be a burden?”

  He shook his head. “The dreams are only a result. I’ve told myself over and over that we made the best decision we could, the honorable decision. And I’ve lived with it, as I’ve had to live with so many things done in war in the name of England.”

  Still holding his arm, she felt his tension. He covered her hand with his own.

  “But a decision made in battle impacted so many lives, including yours and your brother’s. I thought I didn’t feel guilty because I helped make the best decision we could at the moment. But we were wrong, Cecilia, and lives were lost—including your father’s.”

  She inhaled even as she felt the pang of loss.

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Because of your father’s death, you’ve had to leave behind the life of a woman and take over for your brother. Appertan no longer has his father’s guidance to grow into a good man. And when I saw this, I realized that my actions affected so many things. I’m so sorry, Cecilia.” He whispered the last in a husky voice full of regret.

  She had to swallow the lump that seemed to grow in her throat. “Tell me, Michael. I want to know, even if it hurts us both. But wait.” She slid from the bed, no longer quite so embarrassed at being nude but not wanting to be so while hearing whatever terrible thing Michael blamed himself for. Once she donned her dressing gown, she turned around to find him buttoning his trousers, then limping toward her.

  “Do you need your cane?” she asked.

  He shook his head as if in irritation, but she knew him well enough to know he simply wanted to tell her the truth immediately, now that he’d made up his mind.

  He stared down at her, his expression serious rather than containing his old impassivity. “We were escorting prisoners, Rothford, Knightsbridge, myself, and a small contingent of soldiers. At the time, we were told our prisoners had been thieves, men, women, and even children, and we saw how hungry they were, thought they were trying to save their families as best they could. But others in command believed they knew more information than they were letting on. We were ordered to escort them to a compound, well hidden from most of the world, a place where secrets were . . . extracted.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a chill raise gooseflesh. “That sounds ominous.”

  “It is, but sometimes one must do unsavory things in pursuit of justice. We didn’t feel that this band of several dozen, half-starved villagers posed any threat—and that was our first mistake. They deceived us, Cecilia. They deceived us, and we made the decision to let them go.”

  She didn’t say anything—what could she say? She saw how he regretted the mistake, knew it had been made to the best of his ability.

  “Those ‘starving villagers’ came back with reinforcements and attacked. Three good men died—including your father.”

  She
bowed her head, and in some ways, it was as if the grief was fresh again. But she knew it was fresh for Michael, too.

  “Rothford and Knightsbridge are back in England to make amends to the families of the other two dead soldiers,” Michael continued softly. “They felt a debt of guilt, while I told myself it was one of honor.”

  A debt? Even now, was she simply a debt to him? But she couldn’t want more.

  “Everything I’ve ever learned told me that guilt is a wasted emotion on the battlefield, that decisions have to be made without overthinking them, or lives would be lost. I told myself I would never let emotion hold sway over me. Yet I couldn’t watch women and children disappear into that compound. Men died because of my decision, Cecilia, and I see the impact on you and your brother. I thought I kept this secret to protect you, but I realized that if I didn’t want to speak of it, there must be a reason. And it’s guilt and shame. I’m so sorry, Cecilia. Words are inadequate to what I’ve cost you.”

  He gripped her upper arms and stared down at her with the naked emotion of regret and sorrow etching lines in his face.

  She wondered if she should feel angry or affronted, but nothing could replace her terrible sadness. “You were fighting a war, Michael,” she said tiredly. “You made the best choice you could. Could you control everything that happened afterward, every choice other men made during battle? If you think so, you’re arrogant as well as proud.”

  He slowly sank down onto the chaise longue, and she did the same, so that side by side they stared into the gloom and shadows, into the past. She knew that Michael was a man who grew up learning to hide his emotions, and he’d become a master at it. Somehow, being there with her and Oliver had raised his doubts to a new level, giving her the chance to see into his very soul.

  She turned on the chaise until their knees touched and she could look into his face. “You can’t blame yourself for Oliver’s behavior.”

  He thinned his lips. “And why can’t I? He was forced to become the earl at eighteen.”

  “His behavior started long before my father’s death. In some ways, Gabriel’s death changed everything. It was hard enough for me to accept, but when a twin dies, half of the whole . . . it made him alone in the world for the first time. I think Oliver was overly determined to have his own way because now he had to do it all himself. And our mother was no use to him.”

  “Why not?” Michael asked.

  “If anything, she drove Oliver into selfishness because she was so very good at it. Everything in her life was about her need to have Papa nearby, whatever the consequences. She seemed to think she would lose him otherwise though he’d never given her reason to believe so—or so I’ve assumed.” She regarded him thoughtfully.

  Michael shook his head. “I never saw your father even look at another woman.”

  Cecilia tried to smile. “I knew that. But my mother could never believe it, and that is an insecurity that Oliver shares, and selfishness is his way to overcome it.”

  “Could selfishness drive your brother to do things he’d never considered before?”

  She shivered, knowing what Michael was asking. “I just don’t see why,” she whispered at last. “I’d give him control of anything he wanted.”

  “Does he know that, Cecilia?” Michael asked gravely. “Or would he be justified in thinking you don’t trust him.”

  “Trust him?” She stood up swiftly. “Of course I trust him! I’m the one telling you he’s innocent.”

  “But maybe he feels you don’t trust him, that you’ll spend the rest of your life looking over his shoulder.”

  “That’s not true,” she said, feeling almost queasy. But was it? “I’ve told you I’m going to have nothing to do with the estate for a day after your family leaves. But I want him to know he can ask me questions. Is that wrong?”

  “Though I wish I could tell you, Cecilia, it’s obvious my judgment is as flawed as the next man’s. But I think you’re doing the right thing beginning to step back.”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes I wonder if Oliver is . . . hiding something that’s affected him more than he could ever tell me.”

  Michael studied her in surprise. “And you’ve never asked him?”

  “I’ve only recently had this nagging thought, and I can’t shake it. I—I didn’t tell you because part of me feared he was hiding his involvement in the attacks on me. But now . . . I don’t think so. It’s something else. And I’m going to discuss it with him.” She lifted her chin resolutely.

  Michael frowned. “I’m not certain it’s a good idea to antagonize him.”

  “I won’t do that. I will simply ask as a concerned sister. Maybe he’ll tell me something that will convince me he’s innocent of attempted murder.”

  “I’d like to be there.”

  “No.”

  “Cecilia, I’m not leaving you alone with him.”

  She closed her eyes, wondering how her life had become so warped that even her own brother might be a danger. “We’ll see. Or maybe you can be nearby on the terrace, as you were that day the ladies from Enfield visited.”

  He nodded, and they remained quiet for several minutes, both thinking their own thoughts.

  “I can’t believe you have no harsh words for me,” he said at last, lifting both her hands in his.

  “You have punished yourself enough,” she answered. “My father loved you like a son, and he would be the first to understand.”

  Gently, he drew her into his arms. “Cecilia—”

  He said her name with aching tenderness, then simply stopped.

  “Yes?” she whispered.

  He turned his head until they were face-to-face, then kissed her softly. “Thank you.”

  When they returned to bed, he fell into what seemed like a dreamless sleep, while she lay awake, wondering what he’d meant to say, feeling both relieved and mournful that he hadn’t said it.

  But Michael didn’t fall asleep as quickly as he’d wanted. He could not believe how easily Cecilia had taken the news that her father had died because of his poor decision. In some ways, he didn’t feel he deserved her understanding, and in others, he was so grateful as to feel ridiculously weak about it. He’d almost shown his gratitude by confessing his love for her, and that would have been a mistake. Their relationship was yet fragile, and its continuation in no way certain. So much depended on the resolution of who was trying to harm her. Michael couldn’t hurry that along without going to the constable, and she would have none of it, not if there was a chance her brother—or even his reputation—could be harmed.

  That left Michael feeling frustratingly on the defensive, never on attack, forced to ask inadequate questions and simply wait, hoping to intercept the next attack and discover the truth.

  In the morning, he saw his family off and was glad they seemed in good spirits at the thought of exchanging visits. He didn’t discuss his eventual departure for India since so many things were as yet unresolved. But he wouldn’t be having a country squire’s marriage of parties and balls and land management. He and Cecilia both knew it.

  When they returned to the house, they discovered Oliver about to leave, as if he could escape his agreement to assume his duties for the day. He complained he was invited to a race, and Michael remained silent, watching with relief as Cecilia held firm in her resolve to begin handing over control of the estate.

  “Now I have a meeting with Mrs. Ellison in regard to some renovations in the bachelor wing,” Cecilia said. “You’ll be hosting plenty of house parties when you marry, Oliver. Penelope will want the old castle ready.”

  And then she left, escorted by Talbot, who’d already promised Michael he would remain near Cecilia at all times.

  Michael turned to Appertan. “Your steward would like to meet with you, my lord. Also, a petty session will be held in Enfield this afternoon, and you can see how the local magistrates handle their duties, for you should be assuming that role as well. Would you like me to accompany you?”

  �
�How else will you report to Cecilia?” he asked grimly.

  Appertan followed him to the study, where his steward and secretary waited. The morning went well, and Appertan seemed in decent spirits at luncheon. Cecilia didn’t ask any estate questions, and neither did Appertan, as if a truce had been declared on business discussions.

  Michael studied his wife, knowing how difficult it must be for her to relinquish the work she had such pride in. He prayed that she’d be able to find her own useful life when Appertan no longer needed her. Michael thought of the adventures they could have together in India with a sadness that took on more and more resignation.

  It was the afternoon in the magistrate’s petty session that turned everything on its head. He and Appertan were observing several cases, and the younger man yawned occasionally to get his point across, though he seemed interested in spite of himself. But during the case of a young husband taken to task for failing to support his wife and child, Appertan suddenly said he’d had enough and left. Gritting his teeth, Michael followed the earl, seeing the looks from offended townspeople, hearing the whispers. As they rode their horses home, he tried to engage the young man in conversation, but Appertan appeared deep into his own troubled thoughts. There could be so many reasons for his behavior.

  Back at the Hall, Talbot nodded as they came through the main door. Miss Webster emerged solemnly from the drawing room along with Cecilia, who glanced at Michael with concern. Appertan swore softly under his breath.

  Miss Webster, pale and distraught, dropped into a stiff curtsy. “My lord, it seems you have once again forgotten an appointment at my home. My parents were expecting you.”

  Appertan smiled briefly at her even as he moved past her into the drawing room, directly toward the decanter of brandy on a sideboard. Cecilia opened her mouth as if to protest, then slowly closed it. Michael hoped she was starting to realize that by trying to be everything to him—sister, mother, guardian—she wasn’t helping.