by Lauren Smith
Horatia didn’t know what to say. For the past seven years she had believed herself solely responsible for what had transpired that awful day. The view of her world tilted on its axis like a wobbly globe and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was one awful spin away from careening off her stand.
Lady Rochester came over to Horatia and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “I will make it right. I’d had such high hopes you’d marry one of my sons and I’ll be damned if I just sit back and not correct my mistakes. You and I will show Lucien how wonderful you are and I promise he will come to his senses. Then I might have grandchildren to dote upon in my old age.”
Horatia blinked black tears. Lady Rochester had said this with such conviction that for a moment Horatia completely and totally believed she could do exactly that.
“Now, let us dry our eyes and find your sister. I’m sure what we all need is a good outing. To Hexby, perhaps. There is a decent modiste’s shop and a talented milliner that I’m sure your sister will approve of.”
Lady Rochester escorted Horatia into the main hall and insisted she wait there until Audrey could be located. Quite alone now, Horatia had a moment to compose herself. She listened to the distant sounds of Lucien and Cedric laughing as they played their game. It was so good to hear them both enjoying themselves.
Chapter Sixteen
In a private room of the gentleman’s club Boodle’s, Sir Hugo Waverly lounged in a chair, swirling a glass of brandy as he listened to the report from Daniel Shefford. Shefford had been his man for years now. Loyal, highly skilled, and one who would do anything he asked for king, country, or his more…personal whims. Shefford stood in front of Waverly, calmly narrating the events that transpired the morning before last when Lord Lennox had narrowly escaped death.
“I managed to track down the man you sent me to meet at the Garden. He said Lord Lennox was waiting in the Garden. He suspected it was because you had been overheard last night. Our man there confirmed that Rochester was at the Garden last night. It seems a likely scenario.”
“Rochester was there?” Hugo frowned. Was there no place in London he could find refuge from those damned rogues? How was he supposed to conduct his business without tripping over one of those men?
“And what did he do when he saw Lennox?”
“He took a shot at him. I was told by the Madame of the Garden, acting as a concerned friend of Lennox, that he was shot in the arm. It did not appear to be fatal, but it was no scratch either.”
It was fortunate that Lennox had suffered only a minor wound. It was only a matter of time before Lennox and his friends were rotting corpses in the ground. But not before the proper time.
Shefford crossed his arms over his chest. “I returned to my station outside the Sheridan house. It seems the Sheridans have left London, and my source there informed me that their destination was Rochester Hall in Kent.”
“Lord Rochester was awarded the honor of playing nursemaid to Sheridan’s sisters? How amusing. I daresay that makes things much easier, having the League divided. Did one of your men secure a position?” Waverly asked.
Shefford nodded.
Two months ago, Shefford had acquired five men to infiltrate the League’s ranks. Most had already done so and were already feeding him valuable information, and unless told otherwise, that was all they would do. One, however, had so far only been able to find employment at the gentleman’s club they frequented, but that particular person had unique potential and, unlike the others, just the right amount of desperation. “Excellent. Now I should like for you to send a message to Sheridan and Lonsdale. I think it is time we leave them both a little gift.”
“Do you wish to send this message to Lonsdale’s house on Curzon Street?”
“Yes. I’m sure that fool Lennox is watching the Sheridan townhouse carefully, since it is close to his own. I want you to get inside both houses and do what you do best.”
Everything was falling into place. In time, the center of the League would be destroyed and their power disbursed to weaker men and less unified heirs. Then? Then the rest would be easy.
“I will deliver an appropriate message, sir. Will that be all?”
“Yes, on that matter. We still have more serious matters to discuss.” Waverly returned his attention to his drink.
Killing the League would be easy, though he could never do so in haste without risking exposure. But haste was not his goal. He had more pressing concerns, such as protecting England, it was how he had earned his knighthood. Running spy rings across the continent was no easy feat. Even one of Rochester’s brothers was involved in the various tentacles of his operations. The irony of this was not lost on him.
It was what truly mattered to Waverly, protecting the things he cared about. The League had taken so much from him. Two lives were gone because of them. He considered them a threat to himself and therefore a threat to England.
Normally a threat to the nation would be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. But that was not his intention here. These men deserved…special attention. He knew it was a weakness to indulge in such melodrama and subterfuge. Worse, it was reckless. But then, such risks made life worth living. They were a vice, but one that had sustained him, gave him purpose. A tree of hatred grew inside his heart and would soon bear bitter fruit.
He turned his attention back to Shefford. “Now, where are we on the Spanish matter? It’s been almost a month since Panama declared its independence. We need to know what repercussions this will have across Europe. I want men in every court and noble household we can reach. If Spain wishes to go to war to reclaim Panama, we might have an opportunity to pry loose Spain’s grasp on their other colonies and destroy their strongholds.”
“Of course.” Shefford changed topics effortlessly, but Waverly was barely listening. Already his mind had returned to thought of the League and his plans for them.
Cedric bent over the billiard table and aimed at a ball. “Tell me the truth, Lucien.”
“About?” Lucien lounged back against the table’s edge, arms crossed.
“Are you quite all right with Horatia being here? I know I have been pushing you to accept her into your life again, but I can stop. I had hoped enough time had passed and perhaps we might put this all behind us.” Cedric pursed his lips as he took the shot. He pocketed the green and grinned. Cedric was competitive and excelled at nearly all games and sports.
“You have every right to push me. I’m being obstinate and foolish.” After everything they’d been through, resisting Cedric’s sister was not going to break them apart, not if he could help it.
“I am relieved to hear you say that,” Cedric admitted.
Neither man spoke, both lost in thought. Lucien was visited by the awful memory of the day when Cedric’s parents died.
Lucien knew that Cedric had been watching over Audrey at the Sheridan townhouse on Curzon Street when a footman had come running. Cedric once told him that everything seemed to slow from that moment on. The footman was flushed and sputtered about a carriage accident and finally blurted out, “Dead, sir. Both Lord and Lady Sheridan are dead. Your sister suffered a broken arm, but is alive. Lord Rochester was nearby and helped in rescuing your sister.”
Lucien would never forget that moment when he’d brought Horatia home after the accident. Cedric had taken two steps towards the door and his legs gave out, sinking to his knees. Lucien had seen to Horatia’s care then went back to the accident to see to the care of the bodies.
The bodies…no longer were they Lord and Lady Sheridan. He couldn’t allow himself to think of them as such. Not until later.
When Lucien had returned, he found Cedric sitting in the drawing room on a brocaded couch, a favorite place of Lady Sheridan’s when she used to embroider or read. He held a tiny, ten-year-old Audrey in his arms. She’d said nothing, would say nothing to anyone for a full three months after
. The light in her little brown eyes had dimmed so much that they’d feared daily she might slip away.
He would never forget holding Horatia in his arms. She cradled her broken arm, which had been splinted and bandaged. She cuddled up to him, and would not let go of him until Cedric began to whisper to her softly to comfort her. Horatia had never told him from that day to this what had happened in the carriage before or after the accident. Some memories should never be remembered, and Lucien hadn’t pushed her.
Cedric had been lost himself, so young to become the head of his household. He knew nothing of raising children, and poor, sweet Horatia had abandoned her childhood the day after her parents’ funeral to help Cedric raise Audrey. Lucien had been at Cedric’s side, helping him get his father’s estate in order and taking over the title and the responsibilities. No one else save his sisters had ever witnessed his grief. He’d borne it well to his other friends, but Lucien had seen Cedric cry as though he were a boy barely out of leading strings. That bond, that strength of their friendship had to withstand everything. If it couldn’t… He would not entertain such dark notions.
Lucien’s thoughts returned to the present, though not to the game. “Horatia has grown up these past few years.”
“She’s not the child she once was,” Cedric agreed. “Not for a long time now.” The melancholy note in his voice made the air in the room heavier.
“She’s certainly not. Old enough to consider marriage. Has no one asked for her?” Lucien attempted the casual question and lined up and took his shot, sinking a red.
Cedric’s head shook. “No. There were a few at first, but she has that quiet way about her, you know. Most men find the idea of a woman with her own thoughts off-putting. They didn’t continue to court her. I didn’t have to scare them off as I do with Audrey’s. I know too many men who prefer agreeable chatterboxes for wives. What about you? I know you haven’t asked for a woman since Melanie Burns. Have you given up?” Cedric abandoned his cue and turned his full attention to Lucien.
Lucien cleared his throat. “You know… After September…”
“After Emily Parr, you mean?” Cedric supplied with a low amused chuckle. “We should mark a new calendar with that date—Before Christ, Anno Domini, and now After Emily Parr.”
“Quite. But after watching Emily and Godric fall in love, I realized that I had never loved Melanie. We simply played our parts exceedingly well. The charmed and the charming. I think I loved the idea of being in love with her. Does that make any sense?”
Cedric laughed, fixing his brown eyes on Lucien, eyes that reminded him so much of Horatia just then. It was more than familial resemblance alone. Both Cedric and his sister often smiled with their eyes, it was in their natures.
“All too much sense. You were besotted with an ideal, a woman raised on a pedestal. One can worship women on pedestals, but those women can never love one back the same way. A flesh and blood woman on the other hand is another matter entirely, or so I’m told.” Cedric’s wry chuckle spoke volumes.
Lucien nodded. “Once I realized that, it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to be more thankful to Horatia for her timely interference.”
Cedric grinned. “That is perhaps quite the most intelligent thing I’ve heard you say.”
The two men finished their game in companionable silence. It was one of the things Lucien liked best about Cedric. He was not a man who over-talked. Charles was prone to narrating fantastical tales, Ashton always waxed the philosophical. But Godric and Cedric were more often quiet, either lost in whatever game was being played, or consumed by thoughts of their own. Lucien valued that, the gentle support of good friends. One did not need to be wining and wenching to enjoy oneself. Those days were long past and he was glad. He was grateful to have such good friends.
A commotion from the hall alerted them to the presence of others.
“It seems the shopping party has returned,” said Lucien. “I daresay we should make ourselves scarce.” But before either man could scamper to a more hidden location, Audrey came barging in, with a disgruntled Linus in tow.
“Cedric! You must correct Linus and tell him that my new bonnet is fetching. He says it looks like a poorly constructed bale of hay.” Audrey pointed to her rather broad brimmed hat that used a most peculiar style of thatch work.
“I believe my exact words were ‘a hastily gathered haystack.’” Linus grinned at Audrey’s flabbergasted expression, but his amusement was short lived. Audrey grabbed the pool cue from Lucien’s hands and jabbed the fat handle into Linus’s ribs, causing him to double over.
“And that is my cue to leave.” Lucien chuckled and slipped out, leaving Cedric to handle his sister and Linus.
“That’s awfully rotten of you, Russell, to abandon me to death by billiard cue!” Cedric called out as he dodged the stick Audrey swung around, attempting to impale Linus with the pointy end.
Lucien expected to find Horatia somewhere in the hall, but it was his mother who was lying in wait for him. She looked more dangerous than a cobra nestled in a basket.
“I should like a private word with you, Lucien.”
Her tone did not bode well. It was too close to the one she used to lure him into a false sense of security before he was paddled as a child. He was well beyond his paddling years, but should his mother entertain such thoughts again he would most assuredly escape out the nearest window or door before she could get her hands on him.
He’d often wondered if perhaps there was some secret pamphlet that a mother received upon the birth of her first child that bore instructions on how to instill fear in one’s child with only a look. If there was, his mother had been a quick study. Perhaps she had written the latest edition.
“Lucien, don’t dally. Attend me now.” His mother proceeded to her personal rooms. She seated herself and waited for him to follow suit. He did so, reluctantly eyeing the door he’d foolishly shut behind him.
“What is it, Mother?” A nervous churning settled over him as he recognized the determined look on her face.
“It has come to my attention that I’ve made a grave error. One that has had unseen ramifications for the past several years.”
Lucien was dumbfounded. His mother was admitting to a mistake? Surely cows were hurtling over the moon and pigs were discovering the luxury of wings. He eyed his mother cautiously, waiting for her to continue.
“On the day that you proposed to Miss Burns—”
Lucien was on his feet, not wanting to hear his mother say another word.
“On that day.” Those were the words she said. The tone, however, said, “Sit down.”
Lucien glared at her and returned to his chair.
“I encountered Miss Burns after the accident in the gazebo. Linus saw her and began to tease her with an empty bucket. She struck him, Lucien. She struck your brother, and it was not the first time she’d done this. I informed her that she was to refuse to marry you or I would make sure she would regret it. She was unkind to those beneath her and especially cruel to children. I would not tolerate such a match, nor such a woman to bear my grandchildren. I am telling you this now because I’ve only just discovered that you’ve blamed an innocent party all these years.”
Lucien felt as if he’d been shot as her words sank in. You’ve blamed an innocent party all these years. Miss Burns had rejected him, told him if he couldn’t stand up to a mere child to defend her, then he wasn’t a man worth marriage. He’d been furious at the time, but he’d seen the truth of Miss Burns’s character later when she’d married Waverly.
He couldn’t tell his mother that Miss Burns barely mattered anymore. He dared not confess it was a convenient excuse to keep him away from temptation, though one that had become ineffective as of late. The pain his mother’s words struck was entirely his own fault. He’d only just begun to try to undo the wrongs he’d done to Horatia and to have his mother throw his s
ins back in his face was worse than he could have imaged.
“I can see that you need some time to come to terms with what I’ve said.” She got up. “I will leave you now. But Lucien, do not postpone your apology to her.”
Lucien looked up at his mother. “What could I ever do to make right seven years of coldness?”
Lady Rochester’s eyes were softer and more motherly than he’d seen in years.
“A kind word to begin with. Despite your attempts to drive her away, she has clung to the memory of your kindness like a piece of driftwood in a storm. The fight has worn her down, but some tenderness will ease her suffering and strengthen her faith in you again.”
Lucien realized, not for the first time in his life, that his mother was well and truly wise. For all her obsessions over the latest fashions and horrifying attempts to marry off her children, she was a woman of great understanding and intelligence.
“Thank you, Mother,” he whispered.
Lady Rochester inclined her head, put a soft hand on his cheek and then left him alone. Lucien collapsed back into his chair. What was he to do? Where was he to start? But before he could ponder his course of action he was arrested by a distracting and ludicrous sight out the nearest window overlooking the expansive gardens.
“What in God’s name?” he muttered and stepped closer to the window.
Chapter Seventeen
The afternoon seemed to stretch for hours. Linley’s back ached from hiding in the mews outside Jackson’s Salon. The dark suit he wore was borrowed and slightly too big, as were the waistcoat and breeches. The entire ensemble was nearly threadbare and didn’t keep out the chill of the winter wind. With each gust, he hastily gripped the edges of his white-powdered wig on his head, keeping it secure.