by Gayle Eden
Still for all the brawn and distinct bones, Van Wyc had the straight nose and strong brow of a man who exuded confidence, strength, and yes—something both fearless and brave. Edmund liked that, and compared it to what he remembered of the handsome Leland.
On the surface, Lord Leland was the blond Adonis, but having seen him foxed, a fractious drunk, who gambled in hells and in the slums for weeks on end, Edmund had never particularly wanted to make his acquaintance. He had heard little good about him, and observed a certain selfish petulance in him that should have long passed for a man of his age.
Van Wyc said, “I had unknowingly let myself be used by cousin in ways I cannot discuss here. The only reason I did not give testimony was that Lady Valerie would not benefit from having more of Leland’s sins aired than was necessary to obtain the divorce. Since Leland pretended to care for her, and to be her friend for years before she wed him, I returned the amount of the dowry—over her protestations and refusal—because he wed her to obtain it, and was no husband to her afterwards.”
“I’m sorry.” Edmund looked at the Marquis who had remained impassive through the telling. “That’s far too common amid the titled.”
Lord Alex said, after dipping his head to acknowledge Edmund’s words, “Just to clear up one rumor, my daughters always knew who their father was. It was not until their parent or guardian died, however, that I was allowed to personally know them. It was their mother’s conditions. I had to accept it. Val’s mother wed a man who died when Valerie was fifteen and left her a respectable widow. She was betrothed to him when we…knew each other. Without going into details, the arrangement was mutual. I was in no position to demand anything. It would not have served anyone.
Val could have told me, came to me, at any point, in the two years she was wed to Leland. However, all my daughters are unique, and Val is the more reserved and private. Though she has been broken, humiliated, she only allowed me to interfere as far as the divorce went. By that time, Leland could not juggle his debts, mistresses, scandals, and worse. This must remain between us, gentlemen—Valerie was pregnant, Leland consenting to it in hopes of getting some monitory gift from both myself, and the Van Wyc side of the family, who customarily does so. Naturally, Val had confided in him whom her real father was…”
Edmund knew what was coming by the sinew tightening in the Marquis cheek.
Lord Alex uttered, “But Leland could not play the part of the suddenly devoted husband. He resented my daughter for reasons only he knows. I suspect because Val had more sense, pride, and courage, than himself. He grew so cold as to mock her with his indiscretions, and during some heated fight admitted why he had wed her, the money. He also admitted that he had children enough to have an heir but condescended to give into her desire for children, for the monetary endowment he knew I would bestow.”
“What a bastard. He is bloody worse than came out in the trial,” Sascha muttered.
“Yes. Nevertheless, the worst is that after the money was given, Leland slipped something he had gotten from one of his mistresses, or some village quack, into Val’s drink. She nearly died.”
“…And lost the child?”
The marquis nodded.
Edmund uttered, “That is near to murder as I ever heard, Alexander.”
“I agree. Anyone would. My daughter only has her pride left. Despite the divorce freeing her, she has lost so much more than most understand.”
Van Wyc intoned quietly, “Our family is incensed at Leland. This appalls them. I cannot undo the damage, but neither can I let the whole of our family be defined by my cousin, either. Lady Valerie is doing us all a favor we do not deserve, by keeping that quiet. As much as it torments her, she is not bitter—indeed, she is too devastated to be so. And she cares for the family and in no way blames them for what he has done.”
Van Wyc looked down at his cup and sipped before murmuring, “She blames herself that Leland fooled her with friendship for years before he asked for her. I will not leave until I have somehow made amends… God knows how.”
Edmund nodded, he understood that. He also discerned that he and Sascha were being given these confidences for a reason. He merely let the conversation flow, until the Marquis was ready to say what they were.
Van Wyc spoke of his country, and Lord Alex spoke of Hawksmoor, which Edmund had heard was a wonderful old estate, a gray stone manor house with woods, streams, and a bit wild. There were things a man could not fault the Marquis for, his taste in hounds and horses were as impeccable as his taste for beautiful women. He was an avid sportsmen, fencer, and much more.
Listening to him talk, having much in common, though few would believe it, Edmund found that his thirty years and the Marquis’ fifty, did not present any great gulf in the things they enjoyed. The great difference was that Edmund put a wall between himself and others at a young age. He kept his private self, separate from the title.
The only time he let himself slip was that evening at his sister’s house on Regent Street. He’d never in his right mind have an encounter with a young woman—then nineteen—that was so sexually raw and erotic. There was nothing in his carefully controlled life, including mistresses, that was not prudent and calculated, to avoid any messy business.
His sister, a widowed duchess, was the exact opposite, but he fully understood Sonja’s reasons for it. Although privately they were very close now, publicly she refused to mingle their lives. Her reasons and his own went back to their parents, the disillusionment that happened far too young.
He had an open invitation to her house and usually entered via the back, going to Sonja’s private quarters when she had people there or some party going on, some powerful and some not. Those who used her house to conduct trysts and affairs depended upon discretion. Edmund did not care to know their names. He had just arrived for a private chat with Sonja—
The Marquis, at one point, said to Sascha, “I knew your older brother. He did you no good and left you in a mess after his death. What you need, Auttenburg, are friends that the duchess recognizes are among those who are familiar with her manipulations.” He glanced at Edmund. “You have done well with this friendship between yourself and Sotherton.”
Edmund got a glimpse of that shrewdness at work, listening and watching Ramsey, and saw it in play when the Marquis spoke to him next…
“How does your sister, the duchess, these days, Edmund? I regret I have not made her acquaintance.”
“Very well, thank you.” Edmund reeled inwardly. Even though no one could possibly know something that took place four years back—in Sonja’s private sitting room. No of course, no one did. Sonja, even if she knew everything, would never say anything.
His older sister was forty, treated so insignificant by their father in their household, that he, the heir and golden child, did not even know she existed until the day their father married her off to an elder duke. Kept in private quarters, raised by servants and nannies, until she was fifteen, Sonja’s life was in stark contrast to his own, though he had not known it.
He had not known his birth, after numerous miscarriages, only pushed his parents to get her married off so that they could focus on the heir—not that they had anything to do with Sonja beforehand. No debut, no parties, no life, before or after.
Edmund still shuddered as he thought of the day he had watched the beautiful and delicate black haired girl standing beside an aged and cruel looking Duke of Summerton. He remembered the old sod did not allow her to eat the wedding supper, but as soon as vows were said, carried her above to the bedchambers to rut.
The first time Edmund spoke to her, was that night—when he found her weeping and bleeding, in the hall.
It changed his life, his idea of his parents, forever.
Sonja’s life got worse. Whilst he was groomed, educated and given freedom, she had lived a hellish existence with a sixty-year-old man, perverse in his demands, not above giving her a whip across her shoulders. Worse came out when old Albert died. He left no
thing but a rundown estate, scandal, and a broken wife.
Edmund was aware that few recalled the old scandal when Albert died in bed with several male and female servants. His family made Sonja’s life a further hell when she spoke about her years with him at last during the inquest.
Sonja had healed from it. That had been 10 years ago. She would take no help from Edmund even after the family plucked everything clean and left her with nothing. Still beautiful, she came to London and suffered through one season of whispers and gossip. After that, she purchased a house on Regent Street where she gathered a circle of friends who knew little about her private past, but enjoyed her company—and her sense of discretion.
She did not make a point of telling people Edmund was her brother, and she insisted it would somehow hurt his rep if he did so. Rubbish, Edmund said many times. Since the parents never mentioned her, having no season, nothing of society with Albert, who was too busy in his warped little kingdom to invite outsiders— no one knew they were siblings. When he could take her to the opera, most assumed she was his mistress.
At present, Edmund did not look away from Lord Alex.
He heard the man say, “I am arranging a private gathering at my house this weekend—a sort of pre-season party. I shall send a card for her, to your address. I hope that you and Auttenburg will attend?”
“Yes. Of course,” Edmund nodded, wondering still what was really behind it all. He needed to think, to replay something he had pushed out of his mind, long ago. His gut cinched. He was aware that Alexander was too shrewd to not pick up a tension in him.
The lunch hour was approaching. The Marquis said something about being expected at Lemmers Hotel in a bit. Before leaving their table, he told Edmund, “My daughter Johanna’s mother, was the only woman I asked to wed.”
“Was she a Campbell?” Sascha asked.
The Marquis nodded and glanced at him. “Yes. She was wed to a childhood friend, whom she loved. He had had an accident that rendered him impotent. We met by chance, at Bath. It was a torrid affair and I am convinced that he was aware of it. I begged her to run away with me.” The Marquis laughed and then sighed. “She was—incredible, a woman of life, spirit, and strength. Her death a few years ago shook me to the core.”
Edmund found himself saying, “And the Lady Alexandria?”
“Ah. Her mother was a balm after my rejection by Johanna, who had returned home and lived her life with James, raising Jo to be as free a spirit as herself. She would write me, but I realized she would never be mine. Alexandria’s mother was the opposite, the daughter of a professor and plain spoken—she died when Alex was born. Her father was devastated by it.
He did not think me the right sort to raise Alex. I, having no plans to wed, he convinced me to allow him to keep her. In truth, I could not refuse. He loved her and did as well with her as he had raising her mother. He had too much pride and instead of taking the money I sent, he put it away for Alex. Alexandria knew of me, whom I was, but she shares some of his traits. She had thought he passed on with only the small house and few possessions—and only discovered the account for herself after he died. I was out of the country. When I returned, she was in mourning.
One of her cousins, on her mother’s side, brought her to London when her own daughter had a debut. I was not pleased that Alex refused one. She was still stubbornly refusing anything from me—just like her grandsire had. It has taken me some time, having her come and stay at Hawksmoor, to mend that relationship. Alexandria is very much her own person. As are all my daughters. Intelligent and strong, they spared me no quarter in questioning me. I am bluntly honest with them.”
Edmund noticed Lord Alex looked proud of it, so it was obvious he admired his daughters. Odd how they came to be with him, but Edmund gave him credit because most men would not dare do as he had done. He could wager a guess that the “claiming” had something to do with Johanna’s death. Which one would likely find coincided with his three years from London and break with the lovely Constance.
Edmund had gone through his disillusionment with his own parents—his father—until the day the man died, over the contrast in his life, and Sonja’s. He and Sonja had written all those years. He had begged and pleaded with her to leave Albert and come to him. She had endured because, by law, Albert owned her, and because their father had some power, and would have disapproved and demanded, she go back, no matter what Albert did to her.
It made Edmund loathe his father. Moreover, the late earl knew it. He did not understand Edmund’s bother with his sister, or any female. Jason departed this world with he and Edmund having not spoken for three years. His mind and heart no more changed than it had been before. He left nothing to Sonja. She was not even mentioned in the will.
Edmund said, as they all stood to take their leave and make their various appointments, “I am flattered by your confidences, my lord. You can be sure it goes no further.”
“I’ve lived my whole life with talk and assumptions,” Lord Ramsey replied. “I’ve lived it openly and fully, without hiding or pretenses. Nevertheless, I realize it is different with daughters. I know society too well to believe that they care for any truth at all, or care to recall their own sins. My daughters can take up for themselves I think. However, there is a select group of people I have admired over the years, despite whatever mistakes or flaws they have. You, Edmund, are among them.”
He glanced at Sascha. “And you, Auttenburg, are another. Some may look at the surface, but I like the way you’ve both handled intolerable and trying circumstances.”
Edmund shook his hand as he offered it, also Van Wyc’s.
The two left. Edmund and Sascha were not far behind. They arrived at their coach, just as the Marquis’s black and burgundy one passed by.
Seated inside, and on their way to Jackson’s to expend some energy boxing, Sascha shifted his long legs out, and elbow propped on the door window, murmured, “I should not go. I know I shall not be able to keep my eyes off of her, and if Edith even smells a hint—”
“I have a feeling Ramsey, in his way, is offering to help you. Trust his instincts, my friend. He knows this game of chess far better than you.” Edmund was hearing in his head, you Edmund are one of them…People I have admired…people I have admired…
Raking his hand through his hair, Sascha’s lime green eyes narrowed. “I envy you your cool and aloof nature, Edmund. You’ve a rep nothing can touch or shake.”
Edmund muttered, “Don’t envy me anything, old man. Rage and pain either burns hot or turns one cold. Looking at my family, my parents, my sister, the way it all ended, there’s absolutely nothing a man could covet in it.”
Sascha’s eyes turned to him, so Edmund glanced out at the crowded streets. Heartless. That is what he called his parents. His father. That was what his father had been. He was aware people called him cold and aloof, but he was nothing like Jason and Elizabeth De Forrest.
He had the advantages, because he was male and the heir. There was nothing of love or affection, and nothing to be proud of in the end. Edmund fashioned his existence, as did Sonja, and very few people would ever understand or see the private and personal side, of either of them.
Alex…Christ.
No one made him feel before or since, as she had. …Alex, who made him feel like his skin was on fire, intoxicated him, in a way that put a tremble inside him. Edmund’s mind drifted back when he had first noticed her standing by the window. She had obviously observed him from the time he had entered Sonja’s residence, taken off his jacket, cravat, and poured a drink.
“Do women tell you how beautiful you are?” her voice whispered over to him.
He had jerked his gaze from the fire to see who had spoken.
“Like a great cat, sleek and graceful. Now that I see your eyes—amber, jasper? It fits. And that hair, coal black.”
He had moved slowly toward her. “You look rather young to be one of my sister’s guests.”
“I am not. That is, I am leavin
g London and having heard a great deal about Lady Summerton—I was curious to meet her.”
His brow rose. He took in her cloaked figure, petite and lithe. The hood was back, enough to show a riot of soft caramel curls. Her face was exquisite, with those big sherry eyes, a straight nose and slightly full mouth. He had murmured, “A Lady’s chances for marriage can be negatively altered should she be seen by the wrong people at this address.”
“I don’t want marriage. I want passion.”
He had grunted, intrigued. “A romantic?”
“Not at all. What does marriage give one? A title perhaps, money mayhap? A cold bed and non-identity. No, thank you. I want passion and honesty, life that I can feel.”
He’d found himself lost in those eyes, and murmured next, “What exactly did you think to gain by meeting my sister?”
“Is she—your sister, then? How famous.” She smiled. His knees went a little weak, whilst hearing her say, “Gain? I am not sure, the acquaintance of an interesting woman, after months of being around uninteresting ones. She is somewhat independent. Though what I heard were whispers, not meant for the ears of the unwed, I am fully aware that unwed females have affairs also. I suppose… I thought… if I ever came back to London, she might be a valuable friend to have—one that I could trust.”
Edmund heard his own voice go rough. “Come back—for an affair?”
“Well. Affair seems so binding and long term. Don’t you think? I was rather hoping for the experience itself.”
“Good God.”
She had chuckled and tilted her head. “You have a certain cool arrogance about you, my lord. Tell me you are not a prig as well?”