by Ava March
“Perhaps.” She gave a little shrug.
“He gave you a reason, didn’t he?” Though they couldn’t be more different in personality, she and Simon had always been close.
She rolled her eyes at him. “No, he did not.”
“Did he tell you why he didn’t want to return to Oxford?”
“He said he preferred London and wanted to remain in Town.”
The same answer Simon had given him. “Have you written him back yet?”
“I plan to do so after breakfast.”
“See if you can find out why he’s developed such a taste for London of late.” To Anthony’s knowledge, Simon had not developed a fondness for carousing about with his fellows. If his brother had been seen at any brothels or any other places he shouldn’t be frequenting, word would have reached Anthony’s ears. And Simon had never shown the slightest inclination toward a card room at any of the functions they’d attended over the years. So no worries Simon had joined Gabriel at the tables.
Likely the boy had merely decided he preferred the comforts of home to the austere rooms at Oxford. Simon had always been on the particular side.
“You know, if you wrote him, you could ask him yourself, Anthony.”
“I don’t have time for letters.” He flashed her a smile. “And why bother, when you can simply add my regards to yours?”
“Ah yes, ever the busy viscount.” She dropped her napkin on the table and pushed up from her chair. “And this busy sister has a letter to tend to.”
“Thank you,” he called after her as she left the dining room.
“You are very welcome.”
Thank heaven for Penelope. If it wasn’t for her, Simon would expect Anthony to correspond with him while at school, and Simon would end up sorely disappointed and convinced his older brother cared nothing for him.
Anthony speared a sausage, lifted the fork to his mouth then went utterly still.
No.
Gabriel wouldn’t have...
No, he wouldn’t possibly have...
But... But Gabriel didn’t know, and he’d have no reason to have guessed. Anthony hadn’t given him a hint. Well, Bourne had bushed up against it that one evening, but Gabriel hadn’t picked up on it. Anthony was certain.
A chill swept over his skin.
Oh, bloody goddamned hell.
Heart in his throat, Anthony left the breakfast table. Doing his best not to actually run—for he didn’t want to overtake Penelope on the stairs, as that would lead to questions—he made his way up to his study.
A tidy pile of letters was stacked on the silver tray situated on the corner of his desk. But he ignored those—they were only a day or two old—and rounded the desk. Dropping into his chair, he yanked open one of the drawers. Inside were letters. A damned lot of them. He grabbed one, and not bothering to glance at the sender’s address, tore it open and studied the contents. Numbers. He was certain of it. And too many numbers to have come from Gabriel. He tossed the note onto his desk then pulled out another. Then another, and another. Oh hell. Grabbing handfuls at a time, he transferred the contents of the drawer onto his desk. They all looked the same yet different. Folded paper with writing on the outside. He yanked open another drawer, revealing more letters crammed inside. How the hell was he to—
“Anthony, will you be available for supper this evening?”
He looked up. Clad in a violet day dress, his mother entered the study, a crisp white card in her hand. An invitation, no doubt. Her gaze stopped on the mass of letters scattered across the surface of his desk. A little curious furrow wrinkled her brow.
He did his best to school his expression into something that approached easy and carefree. “Just organizing my desk. The drawers were getting a bit untidy.”
The explanation must have sufficed, for she didn’t question him about his sudden need to organize. “Your Aunt Margaret’s invited us to dine this evening.”
“Could you give her my regrets? Unfortunately, I won’t be available this evening.” At least he hoped he wouldn’t be available.
Disappointment touched her gray eyes. “Are you certain? It’s been some time since you’ve seen her.”
Some time was less than a fortnight, as he’d accompanied his mother on a call to said aunt’s home more than a week after Gabriel had slammed the door on him. “Yes, quite certain. It won’t be a bother for you and Penelope to attend without me, will it?”
“Well, no. We’d prefer your company, but I understand.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Before she could ask, he added, “And I will do my best to pay Aunt Margaret a call in the coming days.”
She gave him a smile. “I shall leave you to your tidying then. Penelope wishes to stop at the modiste to be fitted for a new pelisse, so we shall be out later this morning.”
The mention of another bill to soon make demands on his bank account didn’t cause him the usual pinch of worry. As soon as his mother left the study, he turned back to the open desk drawer and pulled out another lump of unopened letters.
If Gabriel had indeed sent him a personal letter, he likely would have sent it to the bachelor apartments, where there was no chance it would have been opened by anyone but Anthony. Still, Anthony refused to take the risk that a note from Gabriel could be somewhere in the pile that currently resided on his desk. And quite the pile it was. If he had any sort of organizational system, he’d know which were the older letters and which had been received within the last few weeks. But as he’d never bothered to do more than shove the day’s post into a drawer, he would need to examine every last one.
And he couldn’t do it here. Not at the town house where his mother or sister were apt to walk into the study at any moment.
He glanced about the room. He needed a bag. Something large.
Reaching behind him, he gave the bellpull a tug. A moment later, a footman entered the study.
“I am in need of a valise. I believe there is one in my closet.”
“Yes, your lordship.”
As he waited for the footman to return, he collected the letters into something that resembled a pile.
His bachelor apartments weren’t far from the town house. A ten—or fifteen-minute walk, depending on the time of day and congestion in the streets. But that was ten or fifteen minutes too long. With the valise stuffed full, he hailed a hackney cab and gave the jarvey a few extra coins to be quick about it.
As the hackney wound its way through the streets of Mayfair, he continued going through letters. The ones with too many numbers were balled up and stuffed back in the bag. The ones with mostly words were set at his hip. The hackney had barely rolled to a stop before his building and he was already stepping out of the cab.
The valise was dropped beside his desk chair, the opened letters tossed onto the desk. Digging into the valise, he continued the process from the hackney. Letters that contained a good amount of numbers were crumpled up in a ball and thrown aside. Crisp white cards were thrown to the floor, as well. Potential Gabriel letters went on the desk’s surface. Once the valise was empty, he yanked open the three desk drawers. And once he’d sorted those drawers, he turned his attention to the open letters covering his desk.
How the hell was he to know if one of them was from Gabriel? Just the possibility Gabriel had written him and the note had been in one of his desks unread for God only knew how long...
What if Gabriel had apologized to him? What if Gabriel had written asking for help? What if—
With effort, he put a stop to the questions and focused on the task before him. He grabbed an open note from the pile and tried to force his brain to work properly. But the letters on the page jumbled themselves. He gave his head a frustrated shake. Maybe if he only focused on the signatures. Gabriel. He repeated the name in his head, slowly sounded it out. Gabr
iel started with a G. Yes, a G, and he could identify one of those. He knew his alphabet, knew his numbers, even knew that two and two was four. He just could never get his idiotic brain to make any sense of them together on a page.
He picked up an open note at random from the pile, his gaze going immediately to the last words on the page—a name would be capitalized, the first letter would be taller than the others in the jumble. Why the hell couldn’t people write in a tidy fashion? Was that a G or a C? With a short growl, he set that particular note on his lap for further examination later.
One after another, he checked the signatures on each open letter. After a dozen or so, he noticed handwriting patterns repeating themselves. Likely notes from the same person. It made his task easier, as he could immediately discard those when he came upon them. The floorboards around his feet and desk became littered with letters, some open, some left closed, some crumpled into balls. But the mess he was creating mattered not.
As the pile on his desk dwindled, so did his hopes. Perhaps Gabriel hadn’t written him. Perhaps this exercise was all in vain. With a disgusted huff of breath, he chucked another letter onto the floor. He grabbed another, skimmed to the bottom, and paused.
That was a G. And the writer had signed one name. It was either a surname on its own or the individual’s given name. Anthony flipped the note over, studied the first line of the sender’s address. A G and then a T. His heart slammed against his ribs. Had to be from Gabriel Tilden. Tilden started with a T.
Gabriel had written him. Had actually written him a letter. It had to be from after their argument, for Gabriel had never mentioned having written him prior.
Hands shaking, he turned the note back over. Handwriting covered the paper from top to bottom. The neat lines of tidy, incomprehensible script swam before his eyes. He gave his head a firm shake, squeezed his eyes closed then opened them again.
Start at the top, he told himself.
But try as he might, it was no use. Gabriel could be professing his undying love or begging for Anthony’s assistance, and Anthony couldn’t get his damned idiotic brain to make sense of a goddamned word. Not a single one.
“Fucking hell!” The curse burst from his mouth.
He wanted to rip the bloody piece of paper into a thousand bits. Vent the frustration tearing him up inside. Why did he have to be such a useless dimwit? Why the hell couldn’t he be like other men? The disappointment and pain from years ago, when he had first come to realize he was too stupid to learn, was nothing compared to now. Never in his life had he so hated himself. Hated that sense of utter helplessness that came from being illiterate.
Shame slid over him, a thick film of self-loathing. Clutching Gabriel’s letter in his hands, Anthony bowed his head.
“What is wrong with you, Mr. Hawkins? Read the words on the page aloud.” The old headmaster stabbed a finger at the open book on Anthony’s desk.
Anthony kept his head down, tried to keep the trembles from seizing his entire body. He could feel the gazes of his Eton classmates, all centered on himself. Could smell the headmaster’s rancid breath as the old man hovered over him. His stomach turned over on itself, a wave of bile filling his throat. And before he could stop it, a spasm clutched his gut and his breakfast splattered all over that page.
He had feigned illness for days, then done everything in his power to avoid that particular headmaster. Even went so far as to accept punishments for missing lessons. He was branded a rapscallion, a boy who cared more about playing with his fellows and getting into spots of trouble than about learning. And as heir to a viscounty, the school never contemplated sending him home. Anthony had been trapped at school, all the while doing his best to hide his shameful secret.
With a hard shove, he pushed the memory aside. He wasn’t ten years old anymore, yet he still couldn’t read a word on a page.
But he needed to know what Gabriel’s letter contained. The unknown... Hell, he’d only been trapped in the unknown for a quarter of an hour, and already he wanted to scream under the force of it.
Oh God. Oh hell. He was going to have to ask for help. That was his only solution. And in the process, he would have to admit he was a dim-witted fool. An idiot of the highest proportions. A viscount—a peer of the bloody realm—who couldn’t read a simple goddamned letter.
He would have to reveal the one thing he’d fought so hard to conceal since he was ten years old.
The prospect shook him to his very core. But the alternative—not knowing what Gabriel had written to him?
What if he never saw Gabriel again? What if this letter was the key? What if, by tossing it aside and keeping his pride intact, he would be throwing away his one chance at lasting love?
No, his pride wasn’t worth that price.
But whom could he ask for help? Not Penelope or his mother. Not one of his friends in Town. Not Mr. Shueler, his solicitor, who had likely written him countless correspondences since he’d inherited.
There was only one person Anthony could completely trust with Gabriel’s letter and also trust to hold his silence—both with the contents and why Anthony needed another to read it to him.
Anthony pushed up from his chair. Before he could think on his decision a moment longer, he went into his bedchamber to shove some clothes into a saddlebag.
Chapter Fourteen
Anthony pulled his horse to a stop. He threw his leg over the saddle, and before his feet touched the ground, a footman materialized to take his horse’s head. After grabbing his leather bag from the back of the saddle, he made his way up the broad stone steps.
There was no doubt about it—Pelham was a duke, and a very successful one at that. The massive manor house announced it clear enough so even Anthony understood it. The many chimneys scattered across the expansive roofline silhouetted by the night sky, neat rows of darkened windows on each of the three floors and large brass lanterns flanking the tall front door.
Stopping before that front door, he had raised his arm to set his knuckles to wood when the door swung open. Damnation, Pelham’s servants were a quick lot.
“Good evening. I am Lord Rawling. Is Pelham at home this evening?” he asked the butler.
Please, let Pelham be at home. The man had left London over a fortnight ago, and the Hampshire estate was the only other property Anthony was aware Pelham visited.
“Yes, His Grace is at home.”
Anthony waited a moment, the butler meeting his gaze with the sort of unending patience only servants seemed to possess.
“Would it be possible for me to speak with him?”
The staid butler inclined his head, then he took a step back, allowing Anthony entrance into the house. “If your lordship would please follow me to the study.”
But of course. Where else would Pelham spend his hours?
He followed the servant through an immense entrance hall, down a corridor and to a closed walnut door. When the butler made to reach for the knob, Anthony lifted a hand. “No need to announce me. He knows who I am.”
To which he received another obedient tip of the butler’s head as the man stepped aside, relinquishing the door to Anthony.
As Anthony entered the study, he caught sight of Pelham at the opposite end of the room sitting behind a large desk. Pelham’s dark head snapped up, one hand closing a ledger, the other reaching down toward what was likely a drawer. Then he went still. Blinked. And settled his hands atop the now closed ledger.
“Rawling?”
“Were you just going to hide that ledger?” For a moment there, Pelham had behaved distinctly like a child caught stealing tarts from the kitchen.
Pelham hesitated, as if on the verge of denying it, then his shoulders slumped. “Yes,” he admitted. The duke rolled his eyes, a very uncharacteristic gesture for him in its informality. “I’m supposed to be limiting the ho
urs I spend behind my desk.”
“Is this a new resolution?” Anthony asked, closing the door behind him and stepping into the study.
“I wouldn’t quite term it a resolution. More of an agreement.”
“An agreement with whom, may I ask?”
“The individual who was until recently my houseguest and who now resides not far from Arrington Park.”
The houseguest had moved to Hampshire? But Anthony resisted the impulse to nudge Pelham about his current lover. He hadn’t traveled all the way here to pepper the man with such questions. Though Pelham’s agreement would explain why he had been more social on his last visit to London. He had even invited Anthony to join him in a game of billiards at White’s.
“What brings you down to Hampshire? I’ll admit, this is an unexpected call, though not unwanted, of course.” The duke’s attention briefly fell onto the leather saddlebag in Anthony’s hand. “It’s good to see you, and you’re welcome to stay as a guest at the Park.”
“Thank you, Pelham. I will take you up on that offer, at least for the night. I made the journey to Hampshire because I am in...rather desperate need of your help.”
A concerned frown pulled Pelham’s mouth. “Please, sit.” He motioned to the chairs before his desk. “How can I be of assistance? Does it have something to do with the viscounty?”
Pelham was the only person to ever suspect matters weren’t swimmingly fine with Anthony’s estate. That his quick mind had immediately gone to that possibility did not sit well.
“No, that’s not what I’m in desperate need of help with.” Not at the moment, at least. Anthony paused. Took a deep breath. Pushed down that ugly feeling of shame, pushed it down so it wouldn’t push him out the door. He needed to know what was in Gabriel’s letter, therefore, he needed to sit in the damned chair and ask Pelham for his help.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew the letter. Lifting his chin, he held out the letter and met Pelham’s gaze, which had taken a decided turn toward worried. Yet very soon all he’d see in his friend’s dark eyes would be disbelief and pity. Anthony’s gut rolled in on itself. “If you would be so kind, I need you to read this letter to me.”