by Sue London
So it was that less than an hour later Imogen found herself in a carriage with Charlie Bittlesworth and a maid that spoke no English while she spoke no real French. He had chatted amiably for a bit, but in the close confines of the carriage she was beginning to get a sense of him beyond the apparent. Imogen was sure that most people meeting the brothers would think them quite different. Where Robert was dark, Charlie was fair. While Robert bordered on brooding, Charlie was quick to smile. Most people, however, would be wrong. Imogen saw the same darkness, the same banked fury, that plagued Robert, and the same capacity for love.
She realized he had been staring at her for some time now, a pleasant expression on his face. A bit amused, a bit self-deprecating.
“What?” she finally asked, still feeling thorny and out of sorts after the last two days.
“I would say that you aren't what I expected, but that's most likely too mild a turn of phrase. I never expected Robert to fall in love at all.”
A fear began to beat in her chest, like a trapped bird desperate to escape. “Don't be silly, your brother is not in love with me.”
One blond eyebrow arched, saying more eloquently than words that he didn’t believe her. “I understand your reticence. The only thing that might be more dangerous than being hated by Robert is being loved by him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He will do anything for someone he loves. Not in the romantic sense, how the poets would woo you. In a very real sense, unbound by any restrictions of morality or self-preservation.”
“You make him sound very dangerous,” she said tartly. She was very well aware of precisely how dangerous he was. She was surprised, in fact, that anyone without her particular talents had been able to arrive at such an accurate description of Robert’s personality, even his own brother.
“He is very dangerous. Handle him as you would a loaded gun. Don't point him at anyone you wouldn't want to kill.”
“What do you know of it?” Imogen was truly curious. What had this brother seen that had made him say these things? As she looked more closely at him, she also sensed a fear he harbored. A fear of what sort of person she was.
He sighed and clasped his hands together. “I’ve always loved horses. As a child, I spent as much time as I could in the stables and fields. The summer I was ten, one of the stable boys took a disliking to me. He would push me or hit me if he thought he could get away with it. I tried not to let it bother me. Then one day he pushed me down into manure and that was apparently all that I could stand. Quite outraged, I complained to my brother about the treatment.”
Imogen had a horrible dread. “What did Robert do?” she asked faintly.
Charlie’s hands clasped harder. “The next day the boy, Sam, was in the loft forking down straw. Robert pushed him. Shoved him, really, right out of the loft. Sam landed badly and broke both of his legs.”
Imogen covered her mouth with her hand.
“My father wouldn’t send for a physician, not for a stableboy. When I asked Robert why he’d done it he only said ‘he pushed you’. As though harsh and overwhelming retribution were only fair. Sam’s legs didn’t heal very well at all. He still can’t walk without pain.”
Imogen could feel Charlie Bittlesworth’s sorrow, his sense of responsibility for things his brother had done. “How long have you been cleaning up his mistakes?”
He sat back. “I don’t clean up Robert’s mistakes. My brother is a very important and responsible member of our government.”
Imogen smiled. Yes, she very much would have liked to have a sibling if he had been like the warm and loyal Charlie Bittlesworth. “That may well be, but we aren’t talking about the government. We’re talking about you and your brother.”
She saw when it dawned on him that she had effectively turned the conversation from her relationship with Robert to his. He crossed his arms and looked at her anew. “George said she liked you.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“She said you’re very brave.”
Imogen smiled ruefully out the window at the passing forest. “It’s not brave to do the only thing that it occurs to you to do.”
“Sometimes it is.”
She looked at him again. “Let me be clear. I only wanted out of that abysmal place to resume my life of leisure. Let me also be clear that I have no interest in continuing a relationship with your brother, so you can stop worrying over what sort of woman I am.”
“I wasn’t-”
She cut him off. “They didn’t tell you about me, did they?”
“Tell me what?”
She leaned forward. “I see you, Mr. Bittlesworth. Where your brother is perfectly happy casting all of his darkness out in the world, using it as a shield, you keep all of yours inside. Your greatest fear is that it will overwhelm you someday.”
She would grant that he had a tremendous amount of resilience. His expression barely changed. “That's it, then.”
She sat back. “What is?”
“He finally found a woman who understands him.”
She gave a soft chuckle. “Seeing something isn't the same thing as understanding it. Your brother and I were lovers, there's nothing more to it than that.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
She leaned forward again, but this time curved her shoulders to enhance her décolletage and added a seductive smile. “What if you and I were lovers? Would that have you planning a wedding?” She felt the wave of attraction from him, accompanied by the thread of distaste that she had been trying to elicit. Charlie Bittlesworth was far too good a man. He seemed the only one of the siblings with an inherent moral compass. She sat back again with a sigh. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
“Not with the woman my brother is in love with, no.”
“He’s not in love with me, Mr. Bittlesworth. If he were, I would know it. He had some affection for me before he thought I was involved in kidnapping his sister, but now all he feels is anger.” Charlie Bittlesworth chuckled as though she had said something entertaining. Before he could speak again she said. “Isn’t there another topic about which we could converse? Hours more of this and I will be quite cross.”
His smile turned rueful. “My manners dictate I can’t make you so cross. And you are in luck! As the shiftless younger son of a British noble family, I’m ideally equipped to speak at length about absolutely nothing in the most entertaining way.”
True to his word, Charlie Bittlesworth spent the rest of their trip back to London entertaining both she and Claudette by telling stories in a mix of English and French. He had all of the easy charm that his brother lacked. Sadly, the restoration of her spirits only made her think more on the injustice of Robert’s judgment. Even this man, his brother, who loved him, also found him frightening. Yet Robert thought to judge her guilty of perfidy? Perhaps she was entitled and a bit selfish, she wouldn’t deny those things. But she had never terrorized her family, her friends. If she weren’t leaving soon she would tell him precisely what she thought.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Robert had grown tired of Sabre’s lecturing on the way home. He shouldn’t have surrendered to sentiment and accepted her offer to ride in their carriage. After a time he had stopped listening to her words, however, and simply stared at her. She had wounds, but nothing she wouldn’t recover from in time. If he had the capacity for it at the moment, he would be angry with the Dragon for touching her. But the Dragon was dead, so it didn’t matter much now. She was as safe as she was going to be. Telford, it was clear, was even more the angel for his wife than he was for the earl. Watchful, indulgent. Safe. It was satisfying to know that she was with a man who was annoyingly protective, and would probably feel justified being even more so in the future. He expressed his protectiveness in a far different way than the earl, but it was clear to anyone who was perceptive.
Sabre was being the very definition of vivacious today. It didn’t seem to bother the duke in the least. If Robert had to li
ve with a woman who chattered as much as she was doing, he would have throttled her by now. But Telford just looked, well, happy. Perhaps the duke’s happiness was at least partially built on the fact that Sabre had seen fit to lecture Robert about that woman. Miss Grant. There were few things that entertained a man more than seeing another being upbraided by one woman about another. And few things that irritated a man more than being the object of such an upbraiding.
Thus why Robert was now ignoring her words and observing his sister.
She was lovely, like her mother. Her Bittlesworth blood showed in her chin, her eyes, and, of course, in her intelligence. A clever lot, the Bittlesworths. But she also had her mother’s determination. The viscountess, Robert’s stepmother, was one of the most gracious women he had ever known, yet also blessed with an iron will. Sabre had seemed to inherit the will, but not as much of the graciousness. She knew her manners, but used them judiciously.
That led Robert to wonder, briefly, what he had inherited from his mother. He had the Bittlesworth chin, eyes, and cleverness. Charlie was the one who had their mother’s fair hair, and her kindness. Robert had few memories of her, but knew she was kind. Loving. That brought him around to considering Miss Grant’s assertion of his capacity for boundless love. Was that what he felt for Sabre? He wasn’t a man given to warmth or sentimentality. But what would he do for her? Charlie said he knew Robert would tear apart England brick by brick to find her. At the time it had seemed a fitting description. But that was anger, wasn’t it? Not love.
Sabre’s tone changed. “You aren’t listening to me, are you?”
Robert smiled. “No, not for some time now.”
Sabre rolled her eyes. “I wish I could tell the difference between your stern ‘I don’t like what I’m hearing’ look and stern ‘I’m not listening to you’ look.”
“Apparently you can.”
“Not until ‘some time’ has passed.”
The duke, blessedly, diverted the conversation to the Harringtons’ newborn and Robert was able to spend the remainder of the carriage ride in relative peace.
Once at their destination, however, Robert was in for one more surprise when his sister hugged him fiercely. “I knew you would come for us. Don’t tell Charlie I said it, but you’re the best big brother.”
“He would have come with us if I’d let him.”
“I know. But today you’re my favorite.”
After twenty years, to have even one day as the favorite felt surprisingly good.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Imogen realized she was flinging clothing into her trunk and Claudette was doing her best to tidy behind her. One of the first things Imogen had decided, while down in that damp, disgusting dungeon, was never to travel alone again. Claudette had been the first good and kind person she had come across. Using George as a translator, she had hired the girl. Although not ideally suited as a lady’s maid, she knew that they would find some way to manage until Imogen learned enough French and Claudette learned enough English. Then she would need to find a coachman. And outriders. She wasn’t sure how many people she needed around her to feel safe, but suspected it would be quite a few. Meanwhile, she needed to stop throwing clothes around her room or she might drive Claudette mad.
“La douleur exquise?”
Imogen stopped. She truly had no idea what the girl might be saying. But the polite thing to do would be to allow Claudette to pack while Imogen took herself off elsewhere. Imogen pointed from her armoire to the trunk and Claudette nodded. Well, then. Now she just needed to find something to do with her time until she left in the morning.
She attempted reading, embroidery, and even playing with her cousin’s sons. Her mind, however, kept returning to Robert Bittlesworth. To the injustice of being judged. How dare the arrogant bastard accuse her of causing all the troubles that led to four women being held in a dungeon? To a baby being born on that awful floor? The blame clearly lay at his feet. Had no one ever called him to account? Had no one ever made him accept the blame for his behavior?
* * *
Robert had promised Sabre that he would consider the possibility that Miss Grant was not the person he thought her to be. As such, he spent hours reviewing the files he had. Robert usually found facts much more trustworthy than people. He also, much to his surprise, had slept well since their return from Normandy. So he had even more equanimity than usual when he heard a voice in his front hall.
“I can find him myself, thank you very much.”
Miss Grant had returned. He unlocked the door to his study and resumed his seat. It sounded like she might be tussling with Bobbins in the hall, but clearly the bruiser wasn’t sure how she should be handled. Bobbins was more than capable of tossing unwanted guests out the door.
She burst into the room, Bobbins holding one arm, which she was yanking to be released. They spoke at the same time.
“Do you do nothing but sit behind that desk?” she railed.
“My apologies, sir.”
Robert looked from one to the other. Bobbins seemed at a loss. Miss Grant was angry. Her hair had fought loose of its pins and made an unruly mess atop her head, she was flushed, and her chin was firmed in the way of a woman determined to spew vitriol.
“That will be all, Bobbins,” Robert said.
Miss Grant teetered a bit when the large man released her arm, but soon enough squarely faced Robert. “I thought that I could leave tomorrow and not worry about your opinion of me. In fact, that’s laughable. I don’t care about your opinion of me. But I refuse, refuse to allow you to sit in judgment of me. You, who treats even those closest to you like pawns in a chess game? How dare you accuse me of being anything like you? I’m not the one who torments my family members. I’m not the one who lies and manipulates to get his way. And I certainly, by all that’s holy, don’t have any blood on my hands. What makes you think that you can judge me? And find me wanting? I am not a spy and I did not betray you and your sister.”
Assuming that she was done he opened his mouth to reply, but that seemed to only send her higher into the boughs.
“Furthermore, how do you even find it in yourself to treat your siblings as you do? I would give my eyeteeth to have siblings, much less ones as fine as yours. Your training for Sabre was brutal. And Charlie, my God, do you have any idea how afraid of you he is?”
Now she had gone too far. He stood. “Say whatever you like about me, but don’t talk about my siblings.”
“I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about you.”
“Charlie is not afraid of me,” he said softly. Even he wasn’t sure if it was a statement or a plea. “He would have no reason to be. I’ve never punished him or mistreated him.”
“Dammit, Robert, do you not even know? He’s not afraid that you’ll hurt him. He’s afraid that you’ll hurt everyone else around him.”
“What do you mean?”
“One of the first things he said to me was that the only thing more frightening than being hated by you was being loved by you.”
Robert leaned on his palms on the desk. He felt unsteady. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re dangerous. He doesn’t like seeing people hurt. He was deathly afraid that I was some sort of black widow that would make you even worse than you already are.”
“I’ve always kept him away from… from the darker aspects of what I do. I protect him.”
She threw her hands in the air. “I feel like I’m trying to speak French again!”
He looked at her as clearly as he could. She appeared tired. Disheveled. She was obviously put out with him.
“I reviewed your files.”
“What?”
“I told Sabre I would, so I reviewed your files again. Objectively. I believe you when you say you are not a spy, that you did not betray us.”
“Because some files told you? What on earth do you have in them?”
“Everything.”
She stared at him as though she wanted to tell him
he was speaking a foreign tongue again.
“Would you like to see them? I will dispose of them soon, so it will be your only chance.”
“Fine, yes, let me see these illuminating files.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Imogen’s temper had wound down, and she regretted her impulse to come here. Especially now that she was following Robert Bittlesworth up the stairs in his townhouse. She didn’t have any particular fear, it just seemed odd. He seemed odd, quiet and hollow on the inside. Before, she had found him relatively, for her, relaxing because he wasn’t given to emotional drama. But he had always seemed to be busy inside. Now, he wasn’t.
He unlocked a door on the second floor of the house and ushered her in. Her brief suspicion that it was a bedroom was quickly foiled. Well, it was a bedroom, but best of luck to anyone who wanted to use it for that purpose. Every available surface was covered over with crates and papers. She poked at one of the crates nearest to the door.
“Which ones are mine?”
“This is all yours.”
Imogen had seen the wonders of the world. She had traveled everywhere, meeting people from a dizzying array of cultures. She had seen nature in all of its spectacular and varied glory. She had not, until this day, had her breath taken away. She was nonplussed.
“That’s not possible,” she finally said. “There’s not this much to me.”
“Of course there is. This section is personal history,” he said, running his hand over one set of crates, “and this one is since coming to London. Well, coming to London this time. As I recall, you were also here in ’05 between terms at school.”
Now that he was warming to his topic, he seemed inclined to explain it all to her.
“All of this is about me since I came to London?” She asked, pointing to one section.
“Yes, well, those are the most detailed notes.”
She pulled out a sheaf of papers at random and began reading. Barely believing what she saw, she flipped through the pages. Then she pulled out another set, to see how they compared to the first. “Is this every ball I attended?”