The Revenge of Lord Eberlin

by Julia London

  The touch of fingers to his was so startling that every muscle tensed. He knew instantly that it was Lily, that she meant to help him. To save him.

  “Ladies, you have discovered Eberlin’s secret,” she said in a stage whisper, and the soft lilt of her voice pierced the turmoil brewing inside him.

  “His secret? But we have no secrets in Hadley Green, we are a community of friends, are we not?” Mrs. Morton asked laughingly.

  “Please speak softly!” Lily said, laughing. “His sister is just there and you will ruin the surprise.”

  Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Langley exchanged baffled looks. “What surprise?” Mrs. Langley asked. “A surprise in London?”

  “I cannot speak for his lordship,” Lily said, smiling up at him, “but I will confirm that he has enlisted my help and I am sworn to secrecy. He must have Miss Scott believe he is returning to London. It’s all part of his surprise.”

  “But . . . what is the surprise?” Mrs. Morton asked in a loud whisper.

  Tobin tried to speak so that he would not appear as mortally wounded as he felt, but he could only cough.

  Lily had Mrs. Morton by the elbow and was turning her away from him. “If he told us, it would no longer be a surprise, would it? You shall have to endure the wait until Miss Scott has had her surprise. Have I ever told you of the great surprise I received once from my uncle Hannigan? It was quite dramatic, really, and I was not the least expecting it.”

  As Lily moved the women away from him, Tobin began striding for the doors that led to the terrace. But when he caught sight of MacKenzie with Miss Babcock standing at the doors, he dared not pass them and face another moment in which he had no control. He turned about, looking for an escape before he began to disintegrate. His fists clenched, his breathing short and labored, he spotted a pocket door that led to a small retiring room just off the ballroom. He’d deemed it too small to accommodate the number of guests he’d expected tonight and had seen to it that a larger retiring room was available upstairs.

  His head down, he quickly made his way there now, then stepped into the retiring room and quickly shut the door behind him. The room was dark, the only light filtering through the windows coming from the rushes in the courtyard. It was cold—good, he needed cold, something to sharpen his senses. He walked deeper into the room, braced his hands against the back of the settee, and leaned over it, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he fought the demon in him, straining to push it out and find his breath.

  His head was spinning, his skin clammy, his heart pounding. This debilitating madness was infuriating, and in a moment of frustration, he swiped his arm at the end table and sent a glass bowl crashing to the floor.

  A spill of light startled him and he heard the sounds from the ballroom seeping into the room.

  “Tobin?”

  He blinked; it was Lily, framed in the doorway, and he suddenly could not breathe. He clawed at his neckcloth and tried desperately to draw his breath, grabbing it in a shallow wheeze.

  “Tobin!” Lily cried and pushed the door shut behind her as she rushed to his side. She put her hand on his shoulder and cupped his face with her hand. “Dear God, are you all right?” she begged him, her eyes searching his face.

  He responded by fighting another paroxysm of breath. He tried to pull her hand from his face, but she refused to allow it and cupped his face with both hands. “Tell me what is wrong,” she said. “Tell me so I may help you.”

  “No.”

  Lily suddenly laid her head against his chest. “Oh, Tobin,” she said sorrowfully. “I cannot imagine the nature of your discomfort, but my heart aches for you. I have seen you struggle against this illness with great distress, and I want so desperately to help you.”

  Tobin managed a breath. He had to find his footing or he would shatter into a thousand tiny bits. He was perspiring, he felt ill, and he wanted to crawl out of his skin. Lily stroked his brow, her cool touch soothing him. “It’s all right,” she said softly. “Everything is all right.”

  That quiet promise of hope seared him. His fists curled against his sides, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, his forehead touching hers. Her scent filled his nostrils. He did not try to speak. He could focus only on her touch, on the softness of her voice.

  Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right. He tried to drink those words in, chanting them in his head over and over again until he felt the tightness begin to ease and he was able to breathe . . . but his breathing was deep, and his hands, he realized, were on her body, his mouth on her skin, fragrant, soft skin. His lips were on her mouth, in her hair, his hands on her hips.

  “Let me help you, Tobin,” she whispered in the dark. “Whatever it is that ails you, let me help you.”

  His anxiety and fear were evaporating, and in their place was desire. The arousing thrill of her body was something Tobin felt powerless to resist. The desire made him feel like a whole man again, and he straddled her skirts with his legs, kissed her so ardently that she was bent backward at the waist until she put her hands between them and turned her head, drawing a breath.

  “What are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.

  “Kissing you,” he muttered, and nipped at her lips.

  “Tobin,” she said, as if he’d not been quite awake. “Let me help you. No matter what has happened, I will help you.” She was speaking strangely, as if she was uncertain what to say. “If this is all there is between us, a physical attraction, then you may go to Perdition,” she whispered. “But if there is more—and God help me, Tobin, there is more—then I want to help you.”

  He was not prepared for this. So many things whirled in his head, so many cautions. He knew only that he wanted her, every luscious inch of her body, every moment of her breath. “You don’t know what you ask—”

  “If there is any hope that you love me as I love you, Tobin, then let me help you.”

  Love! The word sent him into a tailspin. He could scarcely face his feelings, much less put a name to them. He’d spent years pushing away anything close to tenderness and burying it in the mud, and now she would speak to him of love? He closed his eyes. He tried to steady himself, to find his way back to that safe place of not feeling, of not caring. “You do not understand what you are asking me.”

  “I understand very well. Do you think me blind or unfeeling? Do you think I didn’t see the change in you when we last met? You may pretend that your feelings do not exist, but I have felt them.”

  No, no, he could not have this. He could not have this. His chest began to constrict. “I . . . esteem you,” he said.

  Lily clucked and looked away.

  “Lily . . . darling. You know who I am,” he said hoarsely.

  “I do,” she said, folding her arms. “I know that you have been gravely wounded. I know that you suffer a debilitating malady that you hopelessly try to mask. I know that you would like all to believe that you are a man hardened to the softer bits of this world, but I know that is not true.”

  “I am the son of a thief,” he said sternly. “I trade armaments of war for my livelihood. I have lived a very mean life—and you would pretend that I was born to this manor? I suspect there are others in your life who would not be as quick to ignore these things. And neither would I.”

  “I do not care—”

  “I do care,” he said and put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to look at him. “You deserve better.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what I deserve!” she said sharply and pushed his hand off her shoulder. “Do not presume that you suddenly know what is best for me, not after what we’ve been through, not after the dancing around this past of ours as we have done!”

  “I do not want to ruin you,” he pleaded, and turned away—from her, and from the fact that until recently, he had very much wanted to ruin her. He watched the light of the torches flickering against the panes of glass, wondering how this had happened, when he had gone from wanting to ruin her to wanting to protect her from harm?<
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  “Am I to believe now you have had your way with me, that you plan to return to London because you have had your revenge?”

  “That is not true,” he said. He kept his gaze on the torchlights, and away from the green eyes that had haunted him every moment of chopping down that bloody hedgerow. “Things are much more complicated than that, and I think you know that they are.”

  “I cannot do this any longer,” Lily said softly. “I cannot play this game.”

  He heard the rustle of her gown. She was leaving, and he felt a moment of panic.

  But a tiny voice told him that this was the only solution. Let her go. Let her flee him and his illness and his past.

  He heard her go out, and still he did not move. His fists clenched so tightly that his fingers ached. A ribbon of sweat slipped down the back of his neck. Tobin willed himself to be stronger and held it back. He could feel the mud deepening and swallowed down his revulsion to it. Rise up. Press on.

  But for the first time in his life, he questioned what he was pressing on toward.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Lily’s heart felt as if it were cracking and splintering as she wandered through the ballroom in a daze. As the evening wore on, she saw Tobin only once, when she somehow felt his presence and turned around. He was standing a few feet away, his gaze burning her up.

  A few weeks ago, she would have expected to see a look of triumph, or cold satisfaction on his face. But tonight, Tobin’s gaze was full of longing.

  She turned away.

  Lily had known that she’d fallen in love with him, but she did not understand what had possessed her to say it tonight. She imagined what Keira would say to her now: Never tell a man you love him, goose! She imagined the faces of her aunt and uncle if they believed she intended to—to what, marry the son of the man she herself had condemned to the gallows? A man who had purchased his title with the money he made selling arms? A man whose sister clearly loathed her, who had been shunned by the society to which she aspired?

  Tobin was right. Lily’s burning disappointment began to turn to anger at her own stupidity. She wandered about, oblivious to the people around her. But when the snow began to fall from the ceiling, she looked up—and saw Tobin watching her again.

  She retreated to the ladies’ retiring room.

  Inside, she looked at herself in the mirror. She supposed she thought she might see something different in her expression, something wiser, some sign of worldly understanding. But she looked precisely the same as when she’d left Ashwood: young and foolish. Lily smoothed her gown and pinched her cheeks. When she thought she looked as best she might, given the circumstances and the lack of a smile, she started for the door, where she encountered the cool, almost porcelain face of Charity.

  Charity’s cool gaze ran over Lily. “Quite recovered, have you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What is that you want from him?” Charity asked pointedly.

  Lily felt herself go cold.

  “I cannot guess what you are about, Lady Ashwood, but if you think to harm my brother any more than you already have, you will have me to face. He has worked very hard to overcome the hell you banished my family to when you insisted you saw my father at Ashwood.”

  Lily’s ire soared. “I find it remarkable that you and your brother lay blame for your father’s sins on an eight-year-old girl,” she said. “The fact is, Miss Scott, that your father put you in that hell quite all on his own. But by all means, blame me if that makes it easier to bear.”

  Something flashed in Charity’s eyes. “He is toying with you,” she said. “He makes a game of it. Don’t fool yourself into believing differently.”

  Lily stepped around Charity before she did or said something untoward, and left the retiring room. Outside, she paused to press a hand to her churning stomach.

  “Lady Ashwood, are you all right?”

  Lily did her best to summon her composure before turning with a smile. “Miss Babcock. How are you enjoying the ball?”

  “Very much indeed,” she said, sidling up to Lily. “There are so few ladies in attendance that I’ve danced all night.” Her eyes sparkled as she playfully tapped Lily with her fan. “But you are quite the admired one. The count has scarcely taken his eyes from you.”

  “You are mistaken—”

  “I am not,” Miss Babcock said gaily. “Mrs. Langley and I saw him watching you as one dance had concluded, and on my word, his gaze did not leave you for as much as a moment until he could see you no more.”

  That was it, then—Lily could no longer bear her sorrow. It was now an ache that sank painfully into her marrow. She had to leave. She had to be away from these people and the sight of Tobin and Charity.

  “Supper is to be served soon,” Miss Babcock said. “Will you join me?”

  “In a moment,” Lily said. But as soon as Miss Babcock had moved on, Lily walked to the foyer, where two footmen were on hand. “The Ashwood coach, please.”

  “Aye, madam,” the young man said and darted out the door.

  “My cloak,” she said to the other footman.

  He nodded and stepped into an anteroom. He returned with her cloak and held it open so that Lily could step into it. She felt it settle on her shoulders and fastened the clasp at her throat. As she moved away from the footman, she saw a movement from the corner of her eye.

  Tobin was standing at the edge of the foyer, his expression pained. He moved slowly forward, his gaze moving over her as if he was seeing her for the last time. “You are leaving.”

  “There is nothing left for me here.”

  His gaze bored into hers. “I wish that you would stay.”

  Lily could scarcely look at him, and averted her gaze. “I do not see a reason to stay.”

  The footman who had gone to fetch her coach startled them both as he entered the foyer. “Your coach, madam.”

  “I will see you out,” Tobin said. His hand closed around her elbow, and Lily felt a jolt that snatched the air from her lungs.

  When they reached the coach, Preston hopped down, opened the door, and lowered the step for her.

  Lily looked at her coach. She had every intention of stepping inside, of never looking back . . . but she suddenly stepped back, away from the open coach door. She looked up at Tobin. “I do not . . . I do not know . . .” She was grasping at words, trying to explain the myriad emotions she was feeling. “I do not know what to do,” she confessed in a whispered rush. “I do not know what to make of it all.”

  Tobin’s throat bobbed on a hard swallow. He looked as if he wanted to speak, but his fists clenched and he swallowed as if he was swallowing down his words. “I understand. Perhaps better than you will ever know. Perhaps,” he said, his voice rough, “this is for the best. Goodnight, Lily.” He stepped back, his jaw clenched tightly shut.

  There were no words to describe how Lily felt in that moment. She turned almost blindly to her coach. Tobin did not help her into it. He did not stand by and watch her go. He turned away and strode back into the foyer, disappearing into the bright light spilling out of it with his fist still clenched tightly at his side.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Tobin was aware of light coming from somewhere and the briny smell of the sea. He was reluctant to open his eyes; the slightest movement exacerbated the brutal pain just behind his eyes. His throat felt parched, his mouth tasted of dirt.

  Someone nearby cleared their throat. Tobin opened his eyes and winced at the blinding light. In the next moment, a cold rush of water hit his face. With a choking sputter, he shot up so quickly that he almost heaved the contents of his belly. “What in blazes!” he said hoarsely.

  “I would assure myself that you are indeed alive,” MacKenzie’s voice said.

  Tobin wiped the water from his eyes and then blearily looked around him. As his eyes focused, he took in rough-hewn walls, a bare floor. He was lying on a bed that creaked and groaned with every movement. “Where am I?”

  “Southampton,” MacKen
zie said and tossed a dry cloth to him. “The Spotted Owl Public House, to be precise. No’ as grand as Tiber Park, mind you, but a room with a view.”

  Tobin wiped his face and squinted in the direction of MacKenzie’s voice. His old friend was leaning casually against the recess of a cracked dormer window, one foot propped against the wall. The window was open, and the sounds of the sea and those who made their living from it began to filter into Tobin’s consciousness. He could hear the calls of the fishmongers, and the dockworkers shouting back and forth as they handled cargo.

  Tobin slowly moved his legs over the edge of the bed, cautious that any sudden movement could have an adverse effect on his stomach. “How have I come to be here?”

  “Do you no’ recall, then?” MacKenzie asked, a little too gleefully to suit Tobin. “It was too much of the inferior Irish whiskey and a determination to leave Tiber Park. That, and a horse willing to take you—bareback, naturally, until I made you stand still for the horse to be saddled. I came along to ensure you didna’ harm yourself. As for this particular establishment? You examined them all, lad, and decided this one had the best lassies about.”

  “Lassies,” Tobin said thickly.

  “Aye. You were quite determined to find a pair who would appreciate your natural talents, as it were.” MacKenzie chuckled.

  Tobin buried his face in his hands. He had a vague recollection of two women in nothing but stockings, their hands and mouths on one another, and he . . . he what? “How long have I been here?” he asked, fearing the answer.

  “Ach, donna fret, old friend. You’ve been here only two days.”

  Tobin lifted his head so quickly that an excruciating pain shot down his neck. “Two days?” he repeated as he rubbed his neck. “Where are Charity and Catherine?”

  “Oh, tucked away at Tiber Park, I suspect.” MacKenzie sat next to the bed, propped his ankle on his knee, and shoved his hands into the waist of his trousers as he leaned back. “But it wasna your sister’s name you called out in your sleep,” he added with a grin. “And it wasna your sister who kept you from enjoying the attentions of those two lassies. They were determined to make you forget your sorrows, and you’d no’ have it.” MacKenzie casually studied his cuticles. “Naturally, as your friend, I thought it me duty to stand in for you. No need to thank me.”