by Darcy Burke
He set out at a brisk pace into the park across from Merritt House, taking the same route he’d taken the day before. Too early to encounter anyone he knew and at too fast a pace to be required to make conversation even if he did. He used his long legs to his advantage, intending to clear the park before anyone had a chance to even know he was there. He needed time to think about Elizabeth. His wife. He’d yet to see her, though he wanted to hold her so badly, he could weep for the wanting.
He knew she’d had him set free. He was so very, very glad for it. He’d been on the ship only a month and already, he could barely recall his life before that hell. But in spite of knowing she’d faced the earl for him—her own personal demon, and Con’s—he hadn’t completely forgiven her for using him. He couldn’t, not until he knew the reason why she had risked her pride for him.
He may be under the spell of a practiced seductress, for all he knew. Because she hadn’t been there for his release. And she hadn’t come to see him since.
He stopped suddenly at the sight of a familiar little boy pulling himself at a crawl across a white blanket. His heart felt as if a fist squeezed it. Oliver.
He wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t leave.
There was no walking away, not from his son.
Con scanned the cluster of people hovering around the crawling child. He identified a pretty woman who was obviously a nursemaid. A gently bred woman who must be Finn’s wife. And Finn.
Con’s teeth ground.
No. He was done being angry. In all fairness, there was no right or wrong person in this fight. Both Finn and Elizabeth wanted nothing more than custody of their child, a natural inclination Con now understood.
Con was only a pawn. An incidental victim of their war. Still, he couldn’t turn away. Finn felt like the enemy.
“That’s my boy,” Finn said proudly to his wife, causing Con to tense muscles toughened by hard labor.
“There’s a good lad. Come over to Papa.”
Con tore his gaze from Finn to look at the baby he’d missed more than he’d thought possible. Oliver was so big now. He was crawling. He pointed with a chubby hand toward a dog playing fetch across the lawn. “Pup-pup!” His little hands and knees stumped toward the animal. The dog was leagues away at Oliver’s disjointed pace, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. “Pup-pup! Pup-pup!”
Con turned away. He shouldn’t be watching. Oliver seemed happy. Finn wasn’t a monster, just a father who wanted his son. Observing them tortured only one person: Con.
It would have been easier if Finn were a true enemy. Elizabeth was slowly dying of heartache, according to Con’s mother, while Finn was tottering after his boy with a smile on his face. The lack of a villain made it all the more complicated.
Con’s conscience nagged at him. Certainly, people had been hurt. People had been wronged. Was there a victim in this war, besides himself?
Without pausing to think, he walked up behind Finn. Finn’s wife turned in time to see Con’s approach. She reached a hand toward her husband, causing Con to remember how naturally he’d once reached for her Elizabeth. But he didn’t have time for those thoughts now.
“Finn,” he said, then waited for the man to turn. “There’s something I owe you.”
He felt the tiniest bit of satisfaction when Finn flinched, as if expecting a blow. But that wasn’t what Con had in mind.
He continued, “My apologies. I wanted what was best for Elizabeth. Really, I shouldn’t have involved myself at all.”
Finn’s brows rose in surprise. “Thank you for saying that.”
Con nodded once. No need to drag this out. “Well, then. I’ll be off.”
Mrs. Finn turned as he started to walk away. “My lord, wait! How is she?”
She was a miserable, disconsolate wreck, according to his mother. She hardly left her house. She barely ate. Why haven’t you seen her yet? his mother had asked. Elizabeth loves you. You need to go to your wife.
He couldn’t. He wanted to. Had thought of nothing else during the long weeks of hauling rocks on the bank of the river. He’d wanted to blame her for his fate, but he couldn’t. Yes, she’d withheld information from him. But would it have changed anything?
After the trial, he’d said yes. After weeks of considering the question, he wasn’t so sure. It was he who’d elected to keep his shiftless brother from being sent to prison. He was the one who’d made a wicked bargain with an infamous courtesan, then promptly broken the terms of their agreement by adopting Oliver as his own. He was the one who’d stood at the bar of the Central Criminal Court and entered a plea of not guilty, perjuring himself for her. It was he who’d married her…and more importantly, fallen in love with her.
If he were offered the chance to do it all again, would he make different choices? Perhaps. But he’d still make the one that kept his brother out of gaol. He’d still do everything in his power to reunite a mother and her child. He’d give his utmost to be a model husband…for her.
Had she been there at his release, he’d have clutched her to him and never let go. But she hadn’t been there. It threw everything into question. Why hadn’t she cared enough to come?
Both Finn and his wife were regarding Con with pity. “She’s as well as can be expected,” Con replied stiffly. “I fear she will never completely recover.” Nor would he.
Mrs. Finn’s expression grew troubled. “How can she?”
It was his deepest fear echoed back, the taunting question that had haunted him that interminable month on the river. She’d betrayed him, but that was on her head. He’d failed her. He’d given his word that he’d keep Oliver safe and he hadn’t. Even if he could forgive her, he couldn’t forgive himself.
He clutched his fist, wishing it all had stayed as simple as he’d first thought it would be the night she’d whispered in his ear, “Lord Constantine, how do you feel about becoming the father of my child?”
“Well, then,” he said again, pointlessly, and turned away on one leg. With a last, longing look at Oliver, who’d sat on his bottom and was now shrieking gaily at clumps of grass raining from his little fists, Con left.
A yawning ache opened in his chest as he walked away. He could never bring Oliver back. He couldn’t forgive himself for that. But perhaps there could still be children in their future.
If only he could find the courage to go to her.
Chapter Twenty-Five
THERE WAS A TIME not so long ago when the sound of the knocker would have caused Elizabeth to look expectantly at her door. She cuddled deeper into one corner of the sofa and rested her cheek against a cushion. For weeks, she’d come to be skeptical of the sound of the knocker. In the last few days, she’d come to despise it. Each clink against the metal plate teased her hope that her husband would come. That Prinny would have commuted Con’s sentence after all, or some other miracle had occurred and she was not doomed to spend the rest of her life without him.
Below stairs, someone was being let in. Lady Montborne—Clara, as she’d begged Elizabeth to call her, or Celeste or Trestin. Elizabeth’s callers were limited these days. She hardly had the time. When she wasn’t at Nicholas’s house begging to be let in, she could barely muster the energy to see even those she held dear. All her reserves were held for surviving the cold stone steps of the service entrance to her son’s prison.
Nicholas always knew she was there. But he didn’t care.
Mrs. Dalton appeared at the bedchamber door. A flurry of hopefulness buoyed Elizabeth enough to sit up. “What is it? Who’s come?”
The nurse’s eyes shone but her mouth pursed tightly, as if she feared she’d explode with the answer. “You must come quickly, madam. Here, this wrap will suffice.”
Elizabeth looked at the flimsy wrapper and shook her head. “I must dress first.”
Mrs. Dalton didn’t voice her obvious disapproval. She wound Elizabeth’s dark tresses into a quick bun and dusted loose powder across the bridge of her nose, then helped Elizabeth into the many layers re
quired of a proper morning dress. “There,” Mrs. Dalton said, without pausing to look at her handiwork. “Now, go!”
Elizabeth almost tripped over her hem in her haste to get to the door. The few minutes needed to perform her ablutions had been enough time to let her imagination get ahead of her. Her heart was already skipping. She was afraid to speculate. Was it Constantine? Had he come for her?
When she saw her visitor she stopped so suddenly at the base of the stairs, she almost tripped. She caught herself on the banister. “Nicholas!” she said, then clamped her hand to her mouth. “That is, Captain Finn.” And Captain Finn’s wife.
She gaped at them. Nicholas regarded her solemnly, with a touch of pity, but his wife smiled warmly. “We shouldn’t have come, of course. Still, I could even less imagine a scenario where you were invited to our drawing room, instead.” Mrs. Finn squeezed Nicholas’s hand. “We should have, though. We ought to have let you in, and not left you to sit on the stoop like a beggar.”
Nicholas pursed his lips as if tasting something very sour. “I should have done.” His voice was almost a grumble, but there was a touch of chagrin in it, too.
No apology could have shocked Elizabeth more. She didn’t know what to say.
And then, without her baby, nothing either Finn or his wife did say truly mattered. All she wanted was Oliver.
Mrs. Finn stood close enough to Nicholas to nudge him with her shoulder. As if they were the picture of domestic tranquility, rather than a scorned woman and her lecherous husband. “Will you ask her, or should I?” she asked him.
Nicholas grunted. Then he cleared his throat. He shifted his broad shoulders in a weary shrug. “I can’t.”
Mrs. Finn’s sympathy was expressed in a manner as calm and stately as the woman herself. She slipped her hand into his. “My husband’s fleet is readying to sail for America. We don’t know how long he will be away.”
Or if he would return. Elizabeth’s gaze shot to the man she’d once thought she loved. She knew painfully how hard it was to wait for him to return. Not knowing if he’d already died. There was no requirement for the Navy to inform a mere lightskirt of an officer’s passing, and certainly she wouldn’t have expected to receive the news from his wife.
Nicholas squeezed Mrs. Finn’s hand. He looked no warmer than he had a moment ago, but it seemed he did have at least a drop of sentimental feeling for her.
She drew a restorative breath. “I almost can’t say it, myself. One of us must, however. Here it is. If little Oliver is to be left without a father, then it’s only right for you to care for him along with Lord Constantine. He quite tugged on my heart with his unwavering commitment to the boy, and then there is what my conscience tells me is right.” Her complexion waned. “Every day, I see you approach the house. I already love this little boy like my own. But I ask myself, how would I feel if I were you?”
Elizabeth blinked back a tear, moved by Mrs. Finn’s understanding. “It’s horrible,” she whispered. “Wretched.”
Mrs. Finn nodded. She pulled her hand from her husband’s and took a step toward Elizabeth. “I simply cannot be the one keeping your child from you. I’d feel selfish having him with me if Finn isn’t even here. He’s your son, though I love him very much.”
Elizabeth couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’d allow me to have him for a time?” Even a few months…a year…she’d accept any length. It was more than she’d ever hoped to have again.
Nicholas’s answering scowl left no question whose doing this was. “It began that way. Then I could see I was far outgunned. I ought to have left him with a mistress, as I did before, rather than my wife—”
“Mr. Finn!” his wife hissed sharply.
Was there more? Elizabeth held her breath. She was coming to realize how much she’d underestimated the slight woman who’d always seemed her nemesis.
“Yes, woman, I know,” he said, batting her hand from his arm. “No doxies.” He faced Elizabeth and held his arms akimbo. “Beth, see for yourself: I’m a changed man. One woman from now on. I suppose that must be my wife, but God knows I can’t live with her harping. You must take Oliver or I shall never have any peace.”
“But you were so adamant,” Elizabeth said on a breath. His about-face left her disembodied. It was too much to hope she was hearing him correctly. Was this the same man who’d fought with her, pursued her, and had her husband imprisoned?
Nicholas sighed deeply. “If I were you, I wouldn’t ask too many questions. This isn’t because I want to. She has convinced me it is the thing I must do.”
Elizabeth’s faith threatened to take flight. She was still too afraid to believe this was happening. What if he had another change of heart when he returned? In two years? Or five?
“I’ll have a contract drawn up,” he said, correctly interpreting her skepticism. “She says you can be left with no cause for worry, as it isn’t healthy for my boy to have a mother who always frets.”
Elizabeth’s lips formed a small O. No sound escaped her, though she wanted to sob and laugh at the same time. She reevaluated the woman she’d never expected to have as her ally. Mrs. Finn smiled at her kindly and nodded her head slowly. She must be the best woman in the world to have sided with her husband’s former mistress.
Elizabeth battled an overpowering need to embrace her. If she were given the smallest indication her thanks would be welcomed, she would. But Mrs. Finn seemed to hold herself away, and the time to do so passed. Nevertheless, Elizabeth hoped she knew how deeply her selflessness was appreciated.
Nicholas clasped his wife’s hand again. “That’s my son, make no mistake. I don’t want you to think I’m reneging. But this is best for everyone involved.” He grimaced. “To say I hadn’t counted on how many people would be affected, whether the boy’s raised in my home or yours, is a great understatement. Your father was so bullheaded about it, for example, I almost gave up. He was exhausting in his insistence that I not. The whole deal with Lord Constantine…well, I almost couldn’t look at him. Then Lady Montborne paid me a visit—” he grimaced again, “and chewed my ear off on the subject—”
Elizabeth’s lips parted in surprise. “When?”
Mrs. Finn’s soft voice held a hint of amusement. “Yesterday.”
Nicholas shook his head woefully. “This whole ordeal has been awful. For everyone. I love my son. The truth is, I’d never allow him to be raised under…” he glanced askance at his wife, “under the conditions in which he was conceived. Now, with Lord Constantine to watch over him—and you,” he added pointedly, “for I feel you’re not the same, either, I can have no objection on that front. I’ve never encountered a more devoted man, even if his involvement has never made sense from the first.” He sighed. “If only it were simple.”
She clutched the banister. He sounded earnest. This was real. It was truly happening. Please, don’t let it be a dream. “When will I see him?”
Now, she pleaded silently. She surely couldn’t countenance waiting even one more day.
Mrs. Finn’s soft smile widened. “He’s in the carriage. With his nurse. We really didn’t think you’d object.”
Object? Elizabeth hurled herself through the foyer and out of the front door. A carriage waited on the street, its horses stamping impatiently. The steps were still set down. Elizabeth raced to the vehicle and grasped the handle. She yanked the door open and tumbled inside.
Oliver looked up from the round wooden sucker he had clasped in his hands. He saw her and his face lit up. He grinned, showing her three perfect little teeth. “Goo!”
***
On the fourth day of Con’s freedom, he woke shivering. His head pounded and his limbs ached. He burrowed deeper into his coverlet and trembled with fever until he could no longer pretend he wasn’t nauseated, then lifted himself enough to turn over the edge of his bed and heaved sickly yellow bile onto the floor.
When it seemed he had no more in him to give up, he groaned. Then another wave of nausea hit him. He stru
ggled to contain what meager contents were left in his belly, but the feeling couldn’t be halted. He vomited again.
No one heard this weak moan, either. His brain pushed against his skull until his head could explode from it. He looked up carefully toward the bellpull. Too far. He’d never reach it.
His eyes closed halfway. His mouth tasted bitter. He was freezing. He looked down at his hand clenched on the edge of the mattress and a cold terror gripped him at the sight of speckled red bumps scattered across his skin.
Oh, God. Gaol fever.
He let out a wail of distress. A yell surely heard throughout the house. Then his head dropped against his pillow. Soft, cool fabric soothed his hot cheek but the embroidered coverlet pulled over his legs did nothing to quell the frigid knowledge that he was going to die. Just like his father had.
“No,” he croaked. He tried to say it again, louder, but he was seized by a petrifying torpor. His head lolled and rested listlessly to one side. His arms and his legs…God, he couldn’t feel them. His heart raced at this new symptom. It beat against the wall of his chest, but it was no use. He could see and hear, but his lips didn’t move. He was going to die, and he was never going to have the chance to tell Elizabeth that he’d forgiven her.
After what felt like years of paralysis, a maid entered. She walked toward him, hesitantly at first, mayhap confused by his unmoving eyes. Then she screamed. She spun on her heel and almost crashed into the open door as she hurried from the room, all the while screeching, “He’s dead! He’s dead!” at the top of her lungs.
He really didn’t appreciate that.
His mother ran in shortly after. He tried to smile at her, or reach for her, but he couldn’t. He was trapped. Panic overwhelmed him until he was barely aware of her touching his skin. He tried pursing his lips, blinking, anything to be able to communicate with her.