A Sinner No More

by Kelly Boyce

  Granted, Hawksmoor wasn’t necessarily his true name, but it was a title and that was good enough. Though, it did beg the question, as a titled gentleman, why was he not convalescing within the walls of his own estate? Good Lord, was he impoverished? How positively ghastly! He didn’t feel impoverished. Then again, he was laid out in a room that, while clean and well appointed, did lack a certain opulence.

  Did he like opulence?

  An aggravated breath huffed out of him. It was anyone’s guess, wasn’t it? Perhaps he did. Perhaps his own estates—wherever they may be—were draped in rich velvets and gilded in gold. Maybe diamonds dangled from the chandeliers and exotic fruits filled the orangery.

  Maybe. Speculation was all he had. Whenever he searched for something more concrete, the drafty corners of his mind gave up nothing. He had hoped Rose would return, so he might ask how she knew him. Why she had kissed him and then run off.

  He touched his fingertips to his lips. It had been an innocent kiss. Inexperienced, yet soft and sweet, touching a place deep inside of him that he had been unable to access before. How did she know him? Or he, her? And what was this pull he felt whenever she was near?

  His questions remained unanswered, festering the frustration building inside him. He banged his head once against the mahogany headboard, instantly regretting his action as pain throbbed from his wound.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. The damnable headache had finally started to ease and now he’d brought it back with a vengeance.

  “Bugger it,” he muttered.

  “No, thank you.”

  Hawksmoor opened his eyes to find Mr. Bowen standing at the foot of the bed, a letter held between his index and middle finger. The man moved with the silence of a shadow. It was rather disconcerting.

  “And how are we feeling this morning?”

  We. As if this gentleman suffered along with him. More irritating than that, however, was the fact this man likely knew more about him than he did. An imbalance Hawksmoor did not much care for.

  He scowled. “I am feeling perfectly well. I see no reason to extend my stay much longer. It is high time I return to my own estates, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Indeed. And to which estate do you wish to be conveyed?”

  His jaw tensed. Was he being tested? Mr. Bowen had a habit of asking cryptic questions, probing without being direct. A tactic Hawksmoor found annoying as hell. Well, two could play that game.

  “Which do you think would be best, given my current condition?”

  It occurred to Hawksmoor he didn’t even know which county he was in. Or if he still resided on British soil, although given the dismal mix of rain and snow and overall dreariness on the other side of the window, he considered such an assumption a rather safe bet.

  Mr. Bowen gave a non-committal shrug and crossed the room to peer out the window. The letter he held twitched between his fingers. “The closest one, I suppose.”

  If there had been something large and heavy within reach, Hawksmoor would have thrown it at his host. They’d danced around this pretense for a fortnight now and he grew weary. They both knew he had no memory. Why his pride insisted he pretend otherwise, or why Mr. Bowen continued on as if his mind had not turned into a sieve, he could not say. Nor did he care.

  Hearing his name spoken, the sweetness in Rose’s voice as it whispered off her tongue, had created a deep longing within him. Though what, in particular, he longed for remained as mysterious as the woman herself. Regardless, he was done playing games. He wanted answers.

  “Why don’t you tell me as we both know I haven’t a bloody clue,” he said, failing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. This entire situation was an odd predicament to be in. To require that someone else tell you who you were, where you came from, what your life was. Hell, he was a lord, and yet had no idea of his rank. Was he a lowly baron? A duke? A duke would be nice. He’d make a rather good duke. But surely a duke would not need to be given shelter by a gentleman of no rank whatsoever.

  Mr. Bowen turned to face him, lowering himself to the windowsill whereupon he stretched out his legs and crossed his arms over his chest, in no hurry to relay the information Hawksmoor requested. If Mr. Bowen was surprised by the admission that he required assistance in this regard, it did not register on his expression. The man was an enigma.

  “Have we finally tired of the ruse, then?” Mr. Bowen asked. “Truth be told, I’m amazed it took this long.”

  “I’m not interested in your amazement. I’m interested in answers. Where am I and, more importantly, who am I?” His fingers twisted into the blankets as he braced for the answers. He was in no mood for bad news.

  “Your name is Thomas Fitzgerald.”

  He sighed. “Thomas. How positively ordinary.”

  Mr. Bowen almost smiled. “Your title is Viscount Hawksmoor.”

  “Only a viscount?” That was a bit disappointing. He’d really been hoping for a duke.

  “It is a courtesy title. You will become Earl of Ravenwood upon your father’s passing.”

  Ah, well, that was somewhat better. Not his father’s passing, obviously, but that he had just been elevated in the ranks.

  Mr. Bowen continued. “The few who know you well often refer to you as Hawk.”

  “Hawk.” He liked it. It sounded positively dangerous.

  “Those who fear you, often refer to you as The Hawk.” Feared him? That was rather ominous, but he did not have the opportunity to inquire further, as Mr. Bowen kept talking. “As to where you are, you are at my estate, Northill Hall.”

  “Why here and not at my own estates?” Good Lord, was he impoverished after all? Had his estates fallen into ruin?

  Mr. Bowen unfolded one arm and pointed at Hawk’s head wound. “You required care.”

  “Would it not have made more sense to return me to my family and have them care for me, rather than bring me here?”

  “Such an option was not available.”

  “And why not?” If he was not yet earl, his father was obviously still alive.

  “They refused to take you.”

  “Refused?” His stomach burned as if he’d swallowed hot coals. “Why would they refuse?”

  “They did not say. You have been estranged from them for many years, to the best of my knowledge.”

  Estranged. The word had a hollow feel to it. “I see.”

  Except that he didn’t. What had occurred to cause such strife within his family? Strife that went so deep that even as he hovered on the precipice of death, his family had refused to care for him. Such did not bode well.

  Would Rose know of the estrangement? She’d known his given name, after all. And where was she? It had been two days since he’d seen her. Since she’d said his name, then run off. Truth be told, he missed her. Which was silly. Beyond silly. It was the height of absurdity. He did not know her, not really. Yet with one small touch and a whispered name—even a plain one such as Thomas—she had made him feel human again. Connected.

  But to what? To have Mr. Bowen tell it, he had little in the way of connections. His family had all but disowned him, for heaven’s sake.

  He cleared his throat and pushed away the growing unease building inside of him. “Are we friends then, you and I?”

  “I suppose. As much as you consider anyone friend, that is.”

  Lovely. What a prize Mr. Bowen’s description made him out to be. “Then why did you take me in?”

  “I was with you when you were shot.”

  “Shot?” He straightened, at least as much as the feathered mattress and plush pillows would allow. When he first awoke, he had believed—hoped—the wound had come about by accident. To discover someone had intentionally tried to end his life by putting a bullet through his brain left him cold.

  “Yes.”

  Had he been in a duel? Was it over a woman? Had he been protecting her honor against some rogue who thought to disparage her?

  “Who would have wanted to shoot me?”

  The
corner of Mr. Bowen’s mouth quirked to one side, and he tapped the letter against his square chin. “Any number of people, I would assume.”

  So much for the heroic image of protecting a damsel in distress. “Wonderful.”

  Perhaps he should stop asking questions. He had yet to hear a single answer that made him feel happy he had asked.

  “But in this particular situation, it was Lord Pengrin who shot at you.” Mr. Bowen continued. “The bullet grazed your skull, rather deeply, and you lost a great deal of blood. I kept you at my townhouse until the worst of the danger had passed, then brought you here.”

  “After my family refused to take me in.”

  “Yes.”

  Hearing of his family’s refusal a second time did not make the situation sit any better. What had happened between them to bring their relationship to such a state? He did not care for how all of Mr. Bowen’s answers only led to more questions.

  “Where is this Lord Pengrin now?” He would make it his first order of business to ensure the man hanged for this. Lord or not, he could not be allowed to get away with—

  “Dead.”

  “I see. By my hand?”

  “No. You were busy bleeding on the floor of The Devil’s Lair.”

  “The Devil’s Lair?”

  “It’s a gaming hell. Your gaming hell, to be more specific.”

  “I own a gaming hell?” What kind of lord owned a gaming hell? It was hardly the type of thing an upstanding gentleman of quality would possess. Then again, how many men of upstanding quality had a list of people wishing to put a bullet in them?

  Hawk fell back into the soft pillows. His head throbbed mercilessly. He rubbed the spot between his brows. “I think I’ve heard enough for now.”

  “Very well. The doctor indicated it would be best if you recovered your memories on your own. If they are recoverable, that is. I should warn you, it’s possible they may not be.”

  Hawk gritted his teeth. Mr. Bowen really needed to stop talking.

  His host pushed away from the windowsill and strode toward the door, stopping at the side of the bed on his way. “Shall I send supper up, then?”

  Hawk waved a hand in the air. “Sure. Why not?” He had little appetite left, but perhaps he would get lucky and choke on a succulent piece of meat, thereby putting an ignoble end to what appeared to be a rather miserable existence.

  “Very well, then. And here, this came for you.” Mr. Bowen held out the letter he’d been holding. Hawk reached out and took it.

  “Who else knows I’m here?”

  “Any number of people, I suppose. It wasn’t a well-kept secret. Perhaps the letter is from someone wishing you a speedy recovery.”

  He doubted it. “Given what you have told me, I suspect it is more likely someone wishing I had bled to death on the floor of The Demon’s Lair.”

  “Devil’s Lair,” Mr. Bowen corrected.

  Like it mattered. Hawk waited until his host left the room before breaking the non-descript seal on the letter. He unfolded the vellum paper. The handwriting did not look familiar. Then again, why would it? He skimmed the short note.

  Lord H—

  I was dismayed to hear of your recent injuries. How unfortunate it would be if you were unable to see the final outcome of the game, to see what true victory looks like. I look forward to your return to London with great anticipation.

  ~ T.

  What the hell did any of that mean? Hawk re-read the letter a few more times, waiting for something in his memory to jump out and reveal the meaning of the words written on the page. Nothing came.

  He crumpled the note in his hand and let it fall onto the mattress next to him. The mystery of who he was, the life he had led, remained lost somewhere in the darkness of his mind.

  * * *

  “Miss Cosgrove, there you are.”

  Madalene turned to see Lady Rebecca’s approach. Winter brought early nights and while the wall sconces burned brightly, they could not chase away all the shadows that lurked in the hallway. The display of light and dark cascaded across her employer’s royal blue gown as she made her way down the hall.

  “Good evening, my lady. Is there something you need?” Madalene had developed a true affection for the lady of the house. They were of a similar age, though the daughter of the late Lord and former Lady Blackbourne had an energy and boldness about her that commanded one’s respect. Only now that she found herself with child had a little bit of uncertainty crept in. Madalene had no doubts Lady Rebecca would dispatch such in short order, however, once the initial worry wore off.

  “It is not so much for me, as it is for Lord Hawksmoor.”

  “L-Lord Hawksmoor?” She stumbled over his name.

  Lady Rebecca smiled and her face brightened with energy, bringing a sparkle to her silvery eyes. “Indeed, it appears as if my dear husband may have upset our guest somewhat.”

  “Upset him?” Heavens, when had she become a parrot? Not to mention, she found it difficult to imagine Mr. Bowen upsetting anyone. He was the kindest of men and had been especially generous to her and Father.

  “It appears Lord Hawksmoor inquired about his current situation and did not care for the answers he received. I’m afraid our fears have been confirmed—the poor man has no memory of who he is.”

  The words sank in, slowly. One by one. No memory. Which meant—

  She closed her eyes. Which meant he did not know who she was or how they were acquainted. Or he wouldn’t have, if she had not seen fit to awaken him by saying his given name and kissing him.

  “Miss Cosgrove? Are you quite all right?”

  She snapped her eyes opened. “Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me. I simply…well, his condition is quite distressing news, isn’t it, my lady? Losing one’s memory and all that is familiar.” She couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t fathom waking up and not recognizing her face, or her name. Or Father.

  Her employer smiled gratefully. “Yes, exactly. And given that Lord Hawksmoor has already had a rather difficult day, I wondered if we might take extra care with him this evening. Perhaps Cook could make some of her delicious butter biscuits to send up? And some of that warm chocolate you claim is comfort in a cup?”

  “I see no difficulty in doing so. Of course.”

  “Lovely.” Lady Rebecca smiled gratefully and rested a hand upon her belly, a reminder of the life growing inside. A strange hollowness filled Madalene. As a small child, she’d often imagined having a home filled with children and a loving husband. But such dreams fell to the wayside as real life intruded. She soon realized not everyone received a happy ending such as Mr. Bowen and Lady Rebecca.

  So caught up in her own disappointment, she almost missed her employer’s next request. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My goodness, Miss Cosgrove, your mind is somewhere else today, isn’t it? You haven’t found a gentleman you fancy and not told me about, have you? Is it Mr. Greene from town? I think he was quite sweet on you when we went to the market last week.”

  Madalene’s cheeks burned. How she loathed her pale complexion and its inability to disguise her feelings! “No, my lady. I…I suppose I am simply excited about meeting with Miss Caldwell tomorrow.”

  The lie staggered off her tongue. As significant as the opportunity being offered her may be, she feared leaving the first place in years that had made her feel safe. To step back out into the world, a world she knew to be cruel and unforgiving. And dangerous.

  Lady Rebecca reached out and touched her arm. “You will be a wonderful addition to our enterprise, Miss Cosgrove. You have nothing to worry about at all. And if the position is not to your liking, you are welcome back here at any time. Do not worry yourself over it. Think of the position as a new adventure.”

  The thought did not inspire her. Experience told her that not all adventures were worth having. “I will do my best, my lady.”

  “I have no doubt. Now, as I was saying, I thought it might be helpful if you delivered Lord Hawksmoor’s meal to him.”


  “M-me?” Oh no. She definitely did not want to do that.

  She had purposely avoided his lordship’s room since blurting out his given name as if they were well acquainted. They were not. Not anymore. She owed him a great debt, without question, but what his family had done afterward erased that debt to some degree in her mind and she was willing to call things even and try to forget that horrid period of her life.

  “Yes. Dr. Bartlett has indicated we should not disclose too much about his past to him, but that anything familiar might help him rediscover the information on his own. I understand you were once employed by his family, were you not?”

  She swallowed. She did not want to think about that time. She definitely did not want to speak of it. “Yes. Briefly.”

  “Then perhaps laying eyes on a recognizable face might help. Seeing Marcus and me has done little, I’m afraid. My brother, Lord Blackbourne, has promised to visit upon his return from London to see if he might be of assistance, as well as Lord Huntsleigh, but in the interim, I think we should bombard him with as much familiarity as we can. I fear if we do not, his memory may fade to such a degree he will never be able to retrieve it, and I cannot think of a more horrible thing than that. Can you?”

  Madalene shook her head, though given the chance there were some things she would prefer to forget completely.

  “I knew you would understand. Thank you for doing this, Miss Cosgrove.”

  Lady Rebecca reached out and squeezed her arm once more, a friendly gesture that reached beyond the bounds of their relationship, yet offered a sense of comfort nonetheless. But all too soon, she found herself alone, left in the hallway to watch the shadows taunt the light.

  Chapter Three

  For a fleeting moment, Hawk thought her an apparition brought on by his stressed mind. She walked toward him with complete grace and set his dinner tray across his lap, enveloping him in the sweet scent of roses. Surely apparitions did not smell of flowers. Or possess such beauty and refinement. Or blush quite so prettily.