Secrets of Surrender

by Madeline Hunter

  “Here to see his lordship, are you?” Lizzy halved and quartered a huge pile of bread dough. “Here for one of those money things you do that no one understands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like gambling, some say.”

  “A bit like gambling, except I get to decide where most of the cards will be in the deck.”

  “Still, one wrong deal and—”

  “That is possible.”

  “Not so much for you, I’ll say. You have always been smarter than most, so you probably stack the deck better than most.”

  Usually. Normally. The risk was still there. The thing about any gambling was you couldn’t care overmuch if you won or lost. A nervous or desperate man always played wrong.

  His own success depended on his firm belief that if it all went to hell, he could always come back, and that a few years’ setback would not make much difference in his life.

  Marriage changed that. He had realized it as soon as he spoke the vows. His responsibility for Rose meant that he might never be fearless again, and others would sense that no matter how he tried to mask the truth.

  That was why two days ago he had established a trust for his new wife.

  Two bank drafts had been waiting upon their return to London. One, from Cottington, was a wedding gift.

  The other draft had been much larger. Easterbrook’s ten thousand had come with no note, no letter.

  If Rose learned about that money, she would think it meant someone had paid him to marry her, which in a manner of speaking someone had. Looking at the draft, he had realized he did not want her believing that. She refused to lie to herself and build any romantic illusions about this match, but it would not be good for her to have no illusions at all.

  Cottington’s gift alone pulled him back from the brink, so he took enough of Easterbrook’s settlement to pay for Rose’s jointure, then put the rest of it in trust for her. She would be provided for, should the deck ever play against him in the future.

  “Any word from Teeslow, Lizzy?”

  She was not above gossip, which was one reason Kyle liked to visit. She learned all about Teeslow from her family’s letters, in much more detail than he ever received from his aunt.

  “Well, that Hazlett girl got herself with child and the father is nowhere to be found. Peter Jenkins passed away. It was a mercy, he was so ill. And there is talk of reopening that tunnel in the mine. You know the one.”

  He knew the one. He had heard that rumor when he visited in December. Now it seemed it had not died the way an untrue rumor would. “How is Cottington faring?”

  “Not well, I fear. That household will mourn the earl bad when he goes, I tell you. Too much will change with his passing.”

  “More than the household will mourn. All will regret his heir taking his place.”

  Lizzy checked the cook’s proximity before allowing her expression to concur with the part about the heir. She turned her strength to kneading the dough. “I don’t suppose the viscount was at your wedding.”

  “Hardly.”

  Her glance spoke volumes. That of course Norbury would not inconvenience himself even if he had been invited. That of course Kyle’s bride would not want her past lover at her wedding anyway.

  “It was good of you, Mr. Bradwell. How you helped that poor woman, and what you now do for her. That is what everyone says.”

  “Unfortunately I could not thrash him again like I did the last time, much as I wanted.”

  He watched for her reaction. Lizzy had been in service with Cottington back then. In such a household the servants often knew everything.

  She appeared surprised by the allusion. Her gaze locked on his, then fell to her bread dough. She kneaded with vigor.

  She acted as if the entire event had been shocking, and its details understood to be a secret.

  Mere bad behavior by some youths—the story that he knew—would not be either.

  “I still say the houses do not have enough servant chambers.” Norbury issued the complaint after ten minutes of perusing the drawings.

  Up until now, things had been going well. Norbury’s reception had been coolly indifferent and the project had occupied their attention. Norbury appeared to be making an effort to act like a gentleman, but Kyle sensed the viscount constantly swallowing a fellow far less civilized.

  “These will be bought by families with incomes of several thousand a year. Five servant chambers, plus those in the stable yard for the groom and coachman, should be more than adequate.”

  “Several thousand. It is a wonder how they do it.”

  It was a stupid statement by a stupid man, intended to emphasize how he was above such petty concerns as a thousand more or less. Norbury bent his tawny head over the drawings some more.

  “My solicitor says that my father intends to sign the papers on the land.” Norbury’s lower lip pulsed. “He is out of it all, and has not seen these drawings, but he sent word anyway.”

  Fine, we will go forward, but it is the old man’s choice, not mine. I will see a fine profit off you, but I will not be choosing this association.

  Kyle did not care how it happened. He resented this project now, and how it required that he accept Norbury’s company. If the earl did not recover and take up the reins of his affairs again, this would be the last partnership with this family.

  “I will call on your solicitor tomorrow.” He collected the drawings. “Work on the roads will begin soon, and the timber and supplies ordered. The first estates will be available by midsummer, I think.”

  His host examined his preparations for departure. An icy gleam entered his eyes. “Felicitations are due.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I was not invited.”

  “It was a village wedding, not in London.”

  “I read that Easterbrook attended.” The idea annoyed him. Kyle did not know if it was because that lord had been invited, or because Easterbrook’s attendance made Norbury’s absence irrelevant.

  “His county seat is nearby, and my wife is related to him through marriage, of course.”

  Norbury’s eyes narrowed. “You have done well for yourself, Kyle, in marrying my whore.”

  Kyle forced himself to continue with the drawings but he barely controlled the urge to strangle Norbury. This was how duels got fought. Stupid men said stupid things because pride or pique got the better of them. They said things that another man cannot allow to stand.

  “Call her that once more, or anything like it, to me or anyone else, and I will thrash you. If I hear that you even hint at your dishonorable behavior toward her, I will not finish with you until you cannot move for a fortnight.”

  Norbury flushed so red that Kyle expected him to throw the first punch right then. He sorely wished he would.

  “Thrash me, hell. I box twice weekly.”

  “That only helps if your opponent uses Queensberry’s rules. You will be fighting a collier’s son, and your soft, useless hands can’t stand against me.”

  Kyle walked to the door. Norbury’s snarl followed him. “My solicitor said that my father sent you a wedding gift.”

  “He did. He was very generous.”

  “How generous? How much was it?” Animosity poured off Norbury, as if this were all that really mattered.

  Maybe it was. Maybe Cottington’s patronage had never been swallowed by Norbury. Bad enough the ignoble beating had happened. Worse that it meant his father had learned of his dishonorable behavior that day, however bad it had been.

  “How much? An astonishing amount, just fifty shy of a thousand.”

  Kyle took satisfaction in Norbury’s expression as he left. The man was stupid, but not too stupid. In a few minutes Norbury would realize that Cottington’s gift came out of the estate that his heir would soon own.

  Which meant that Norbury had indirectly paid back the auction price, and that his father had learned about the auction itself.

  Henrietta looked different today. Roselyn sat in the drawing roo
m at Grosvenor Square and tried to determine why.

  The hat’s effect could not be discounted. An Arcadian bonnet over a lace cornet, it looked much more restrained and tasteful than her usual millinery. And now that Rose noticed, her pale hair had been dressed differently and in a manner more suited to her fine-boned face.

  Mostly, however, the change lay in Hen’s expression. Her airy vagueness made her appear youthful instead of dotty this afternoon. Nor had disdain crimped those features that, unexpectedly, appeared almost girlish in this light.

  They talked about fashion and society and speculated on the upcoming season. Alexia was with them. So were three other ladies, all of good social standing and generous disposition. Alexia had dragged Rose on calls to these ladies the last week, with their permission presumably. Now they in turn had called on Henrietta on a day that Alexia had designated so that Rose would be present too.

  It was all part of a little campaign in which, wonder of wonders, Henrietta had agreed to participate. If Hen were not acting her part so well, were not being so gracious and helpful, Rose would wonder if Alexia had found a way to blackmail her husband’s aunt.

  Their callers did not stay long, but they stayed long enough. They might never call on Rose herself, but by the time they left she had taken another stride toward some level of acceptance.

  That road would be a circuitous one. Her choice of husband would create detours and blocked lanes. Her own scandal would provide others. Alexia’s campaign, however, looked to be succeeding more quickly than anyone could hope.

  “That went well,” Hen confided when the three of them were alone again. “I think that Mrs. Vaughn will be inviting you to join her at the theater soon, Roselyn. It sounded that way when she conversed with you about favorite plays and such. Since her aunt did marry that importer, she is probably not too particular about a man being in trade and may even welcome your husband too.”

  Rose bit her tongue. Hen did not intend to be provocative with that comment. There was no point in resenting the truth, either.

  She did resent it, though. Much more than she expected. Kyle accepted how things were, but increasingly she rebelled against them.

  She did not understand how anyone who saw him, who met him, could object to his presence in their drawing room. Even his trade was not the normal sort, but one that combined finance and art and investment. When her brothers became bankers some doors had closed to them, but most had not.

  It came down to blood, of course. To family and ancestors. To the family Kyle would never deny. He had warned her about that.

  While they strolled to the library, Alexia explained the next phase of the war, one that involved a dinner party at her house. These three ladies would be invited, along with two others who were their friends. She counted on their callers to convince the others to attend. All five had husbands known to be pliable. Once a few husbands allowed their wives to associate with Rose, other husbands would be more likely to as well.

  While they discussed strategy, Easterbrook entered the library. He excused his interference and took a position near the cases, examining bindings. His presence kept distracting Henrietta, whose curiosity got the better of her.

  “Are you intending to go abroad, Easterbrook? That is the case with travel memoirs and such.”

  He pulled out a book and flipped through it. “I am not going anywhere. I am doing some research for my young cousin.”

  “Oh, my, are you going to send Caroline on a Grand Tour? I had so hoped—she must go to Paris, of course, and—”

  “No, not a Grand Tour,” he muttered. “I am looking for information on very specific kinds of places where young girls sometimes visit, but it appears that none of these writers report on them with any particulars.”

  Hen frowned. “What sorts of places?”

  He returned that book to the case and pulled out another. “Convents.”

  “Convents!”

  Rose thought Hen would need salts. Alexia soothed her, then addressed the marquess. “That is a joke, I am sure. Please tell your aunt that you are teasing her again.”

  “I wish that I were. In fact, I wish Hayden would take up his role as guardian again instead of leaving me to fumble along with matters not of my interest or expertise.”

  “See, he still has not forgiven her that flirtation with Suttonly last summer,” Hen cried. “She has accepted your authority on the matter, Easterbrook. She has not uttered his name in weeks.”

  “Henrietta, last summer was bad enough, but I regret to say that we have another one of those dramatic disasters that young girls cause. Anticipating one duel a year would be more than enough, thank you. To prepare for two tries my patience.” He frowned at the books, and slid another one out. “I will make short work of this annoying duty. I will fight the fellow, wound him good, send Caroline to a convent, and be left in peace for a few years at least.”

  Hen wept. Easterbrook calmly perused the books. Alexia tried diplomacy. “Neither your aunt nor I know of any current suitor who addresses Caroline. I think that you are mistaken.”

  He snapped the book shut. “This man is not a proper suitor. He is a seducer. I am not mistaken, Alexia. I regret to say that I am convinced Caroline’s virtue is lost already.”

  That caused alarm all around. Hen’s shock left her breathless and openmouthed. Then she wailed.

  “Pray, who is this man?” Alexia demanded.

  “That French chemist. Bradwell’s friend.”

  Henrietta stopped crying. Her eyes grew large. She glanced to the side to see the proximity of the man behind her at the cases.

  “I am sure that you are wrong,” Alexia said.

  “I saw him just this morning. As dawn broke I was at my window overlooking the garden, and he was there. Leaving this house.” He shot an annoyed glare at his aunt. “Must I now play nursemaid too, Aunt Hen? That you would be so careless with her appalls even me, and I don’t much give a damn about such things.”

  Hen had gone very still. Easterbrook stood behind her, so he did not see what Rose and Alexia saw. Her face kept getting more red.

  Rose looked at Alexia just as Alexia looked her way too. They both stared at Henrietta.

  “Easterbrook, I still think that you are mistaken,” Alexia said. “If it was the break of dawn, you could not be sure what you saw, or whom. Perhaps one of the gardeners was up and about.”

  “No, Alexia. It was he.” He gave up on the books. “Unfortunately, there are no references to convents. I will ask the solicitor to make some discreet inquiries. One in France, I think, so Hen can visit her once a year.”

  As Easterbrook walked to the door, Alexia blocked his path. “Even if you are correct and he was in the garden, that is no proof that he was in the house. Nor that he sought Caroline. It could have been one of the servants, after all.”

  He looked on her kindly, as he always did. “I saw him flirting with her at your cousin’s wedding. I was remiss in not issuing warnings, but Hen was with them and I assumed—”

  They all froze in a tableau vivant while his memory hung in the air. Rose could almost hear the marquess reviewing, wondering, rejecting…reconsidering.

  Easterbrook turned and looked at his aunt. He angled his head and studied her. She squirmed while he eyed her new hat, her new hair, and her new youthful glow.

  “Alexia, your estimable good sense spares me from unwelcome obligations. I have probably been too rash in assuming the worst about Caroline. Perhaps it was not M’sieur Lacroix in the garden.”

  He excused himself. From the door, before he departed, he spoke again. “However, in the event it was—Henrietta, please speak with the servants. If one of them is entertaining a man I wish them both nothing but pleasure. However, it might be better if he left while it was still dark so no one else misunderstands.”

  Rose padded through her dressing room to the door that connected with Kyle’s chambers. He would not come to her tonight. She had her flux. Finding a delicate way to inform him of
that today had taken considerable ingenuity. He had appeared amused by her euphemisms, but he had understood.

  She heard the sounds of undressing, and Jordan’s low mumbles. Then all fell silent. She opened the door. The dressing rooms were not elaborate and large, and the doorway to his bedchamber was only eight feet away. The lamp in there had not been extinguished and she could make out the shadows of his dressing table and brushes and looking glass.

  She went across and peered in. The bed drapes had not been closed. He lay on his bed, in a nightshirt open enough to reveal his strong chest.

  Her gaze lingered. She had not seen him undressed since their wedding night. She always snuffed the candles and lamps, even when she went to him in Oxfordshire. The dark made that bed mysterious and otherworldly and negated a lot of awkwardness. It helped her to surrender to the abandon.

  His arms were bent so his head rested on his hands. He appeared very serious, as if his gaze perceived some pattern on the canopy that required analysis. Then again, he lay so still that perhaps he was not even awake.

  “Kyle, are you asleep?” she whispered.

  He sat up. His gaze swept her, taking in her nightcap and undressing gown, neither of which was especially new or pretty.

  “Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “No. I was thinking about some matters that I dealt with today.”

  “Land and syndicates and such?”

  “Yes.”

  She ventured into the room. “Alexia arranged for some ladies to call on me. Well, not me, but Henrietta. They knew I would be there, however, and they did call.”

  “Come and tell me about it.”

  She climbed up on the bed and described her little victory.

  He seemed very interested. “Lady Alexia is moving fast.”

  “She still believes there is a chance for Irene this season, I think.” Irene had not left Hill Street. Everyone agreed that the only hope was if Alexia launched her.

  “When she has this dinner, you must have a new dress,” he said. “I will send you off as the most fashionable woman to sit at that table.”