Brook shook her head and looked away. “You asked me at the funeral to say your name. Say mine.”
The demand was unfair—his name hadn’t changed, only his title. Hers … “Elizabeth Brook. Sabatini or Eden, it doesn’t matter. You are my Brooklet.”
“I am your friend.”
“You are …” My heart. My soul. “So much more.”
Now anger sparked in the eyes she turned on him. “If I were still Brook Sabatini?”
“You’re not. Why are you dwelling on hypotheticals?” He motioned to the Ramsey barouche that crossed their path, to Melissa with her chin held high and Worthing with a laugh on his lips. “Do you think he would be your friend if you were still Brook Sabatini?”
Her words changed to Monegasque as they rose in volume. “I think I never would have known him! You … you are the only one I could carry from one life to another. The only one who ought to know me and love me for my past, not just my present!”
“I do.” He swallowed, held her sparking gaze. “That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for the way things are.”
“It isn’t enough.” Looking away again, she pulled her kimono tighter, even though the sun was gaining in warmth. “I need to know, Justin. You are trying to change everything—I need to know why. I need to know you would have pursued me in the same way even had you discovered my father was a penniless nobody instead of the Earl of Whitby.”
“Well, of course it wouldn’t have been in the same way!” How could it have been? He would have had to fight his family every step of the way, would have exchanged one set of difficulties for another. He certainly wouldn’t have rejected the idea of an engagement months ago in order to prove to her he wasn’t after her fortune.
Brook slid to the opposite side of the bench. “Take me home. Now.”
Blast. That probably hadn’t sounded the way he’d meant. “Brook—I didn’t mean I wouldn’t have pursued you, just that it would have been different.”
How could she look so dratted beautiful even as she snorted and folded her arms over her chest. “Oh, I’m sure, Duke. You would have found some suitable girl to court, and I would have been … What? Dismissed from your life? Or would you have tried to make a mistress of me?”
His blood ignited, and he gripped the reins tight. “How could you say that? You know me better than—”
“I know it’s how things are done in your family! Even your sainted Uncle Edward—”
“Don’t compare me to him.” His words sounded, oddly, cold rather than hot, despite the roar in his veins.
Turning her face toward him again, she lifted a brow. “And why not? You always idolized him. ‘If the shoe fits …’ as the saying goes… .”
He all but jerked the horses toward the nearest exit from the park. “I am not like him.”
“You are exactly like him!”
“He raped my mother!” He didn’t, couldn’t look at her as the words, still in Monegasque, pulsed around them. His nostrils flared. “Got her with child on purpose, thinking to make Aunt Caro raise me. I am not like him.”
“Justin.” Her voice went soft, filled with sympathy that did nothing to make his fists relax around the reins. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t know.” He directed the horses back toward her aunt’s, the fire only building. His words slipped back into English. “How could you? That would have required granting me ten whole minutes to speak of something other than you, wouldn’t it? Something other than your problems, your mysteries. Oh, but this is your turn. Your time. My apologies.”
Her fingers landed on his arm, though the touch was brief, quickly gone. “Justin …”
“Don’t.” For an eternity, he said nothing. He couldn’t work any words past his clenched teeth. Couldn’t dislodge those months of doubt, of wondering if she even cared or if she’d fallen for Worthing.
And now here she was, saying his feelings didn’t even matter. That what he may have done if she weren’t who she was outweighed what he had actually done to protect her.
He turned onto her aunt’s street and forced a swallow. “I love you.” The words, so long unsaid, nearly choked him. “Take your time. Decide if that’s enough. And let me know when you’ve figured it out.”
He pulled to a halt in front of Lady Ramsey’s and glanced her way. She stared at him, mouth agape, incredulity shifting to irritation before his eyes. “That is how you choose to tell me you love me? In the middle of an argument, followed by a statement that yet again you’ll retreat behind your wall?”
“When better? But if it’s charm and smooth words you want, then I guess we know where your heart inclines.”
“You’re an imbecile.” Gathering her skirt into hand, she leaped down from the landau. Stomped toward the door, but then halted at the base of the stairs and spun back to him, fury flashing in her eyes. “I’m not in love with Brice.”
For a moment, hope sprouted. But she didn’t follow it with anything, didn’t say she was in love with him. He breathed a laugh and lifted the reins. “At the risk of sounding like an echo, my lady—that isn’t enough.”
He was halfway down the street by the time he heard the door’s slam.
Twenty-Three
Deirdre handed the baroness the book she had fetched from her bedchamber, smiling at the yawn the lady tried to cover with a hand. “Perhaps you would adjust easier to the late nights, my lady, if you were consistent about them.”
Lady Berkeley sent her a tired scowl. “You sound like Aunt Mary, O’Malley. I have been to three balls and a soiree. That is surely enough for two weeks’ time.”
Lady Ramsey didn’t seem to think so—she and Lady Melissa had been out each and every night to something or another. Not that Deirdre could blame Lord Whitby and the baroness for staying in whenever they could finagle it.
And if the papers were any indication, her absences only increased her fame. Deirdre made no attempt to keep track of the flood of young ladies and gentlemen who swarmed the parlor and drawing room for Ladies Berkeley and Melissa. Which would be why Lord Whitby and his daughter were now hidden away here in the upstairs salon.
His lordship’s paper rustled as he turned another page. “We can go home whenever you’re ready, my dear. I have verified that the House of Lords cares no more for my opinion now than they ever did, so I’ve nothing to keep me here.”
Deirdre took a seat near to the baroness’s, to be at hand when next she needed something, and picked up last night’s ball gown. Some clumsy oaf had stepped on the train and caused a tear, and it would take all Deirdre’s skill with a needle to mend it without it being noticeable. She opened her case of thread and selected the closest match to the lavender silk.
A knock upon the open door earned a groan from the lady and brought Deirdre’s gaze up. The butler stood there, silver salver in hand.
“Not more callers, Mr. Vander. I’m not at home. I’ve run off on safari.”
The butler smiled and bowed. “A letter, my lady. Addressed to both you and his lordship.”
The baroness grinned, though sure and her smiles had none of them been very bright since she returned in a huff after her drive with the duke following her debut. “In that case, thank you very much.”
“And shall I tell your next callers you’re on safari, Lady Berkeley?”
She chuckled as her father stood to accept the thin envelope on the tray. “I leave that to your discretion.”
Deirdre threaded her needle and tied the end while his lordship picked up the letter opener from the salver and made a neat slit in the envelope. Putting it down again, he nodded his thanks and dismissal of the butler.
And frowned at the letter. “This looks suspiciously like … Brook, it is from Major Rushworth!”
Deirdre’s hands went still even as the baroness leaped to her feet. “What does he say?”
His lordship looked up from the page with wide eyes. “That he’s back in Town and will call tomorrow morning at nine o�
�clock. He requests a private audience with the two of us.”
“Back in Town?” Deirdre realized she had spoken only when the two looked at her. She drew in a quick breath. “Pardon me. I … my uncle usually travels with the major.”
Lord Whitby frowned for a moment, though it quickly cleared. “Of course, I’d forgotten his batman is the one who recommended you to us. How long has it been since you’ve seen him, O’Malley?”
She turned her gaze back to the gown. Sure and she hadn’t meant to steal the floor. “Many years, my lord. Not since I was a girl, though he is always most faithful in writing. He and my da were close, and he’s done his best to see to the family since …”
Lord Whitby’s warm smile reminded her of why Uncle Seamus had recommended his house to her. “The major is staying at the Hendon Hall Hotel, it seems. Why not take your afternoon off and see if your uncle is with him?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t felt such a swell of joy since Da yet lived—because seeing Uncle Seamus would be a bit like seeing her father again. Her gaze flew to the baroness. “May I, my lady?”
“Of course. Go.” Her ladyship made a little shooing motion with her hands.
She didn’t need to be told again. Smiling her thanks, Deirdre put needle and dress aside and dashed from the room.
She changed quickly into a matching skirt and jacket, grabbed her handbag, and fastened a hat over her chignon. Then it was down the stairs with her, and to the kitchen, where she found Lady Ramsey’s housekeeper. “Pardon me, ma’am. Do you know how to get to the Hendon Hall Hotel?”
The woman pursed her lips. “They’ve turned Hendon Hall to a hotel, have they? Pity. But yes, I know it—it’s in the north part of the city. You’ll want to take the tube.”
New excitement joined the flutter in her stomach. She had yet to have cause to use the underground railway. “How much?”
“Two pence is all.”
“Thank you.” Her grin felt as though it would split her cheeks. “Have you need of anything while I’m out, ma’am?”
The old woman returned her smile. “No. Go on with you.”
Letting herself out the back door, Deirdre circled around to the street and all but skipped toward the heart of London.
And screamed when a hand closed around her mouth and tugged her into an alley, though her cry was muffled behind the fingers.
“Quiet.”
Pratt. Shuddering, she nodded.
He let go her mouth and spun her around. His eyes were two black slits. “Where are you off to so merrily, my lovely?”
Why was he always there to spoil everything? She backed into the brick wall behind her. “To see my uncle is all, my lord.”
“Uncle.” Pratt lifted a single brow.
She swallowed and pressed her hand to the cool bricks. “Aye. My da’s brother. If you’ll excuse me—”
“Not so fast.” He shifted when she did, to block her from making an escape back to the street. “I have missed her at every turn.”
Deirdre lifted her chin. “And why should you care? You’re betrothed.”
“And will be married within a fortnight by special license, if Rush has anything to say about it.” He put on a cold, unfeeling smile. “Which is why I must act now.”
“Special license?” Deirdre felt her eyes widen. “Is Lady Catherine—”
“A liar? Most likely, but her brother believes whatever she tells him. I’ve a task for you, Deirdre.”
For a moment she could only stare. He had gotten Lady Catherine with child and still he meant to pursue Lady Berkeley? Deirdre’s breath shook when she released it. “What?”
Pratt withdrew a bundle of envelopes from his inner pocket, secured with a feminine-looking ribbon. “It’s very simple. You aren’t to open them; you aren’t to glance at them. You’re just to put them in the bottom of Lady Berkeley’s trunk, where she’ll not see them. Do you understand? Under something, hidden away. And whenever you return to Yorkshire, put them away with all the correspondence she’ll have collected in London.”
Her hands shook as she took them and slipped them into her handbag. She pressed against the wall again when he loomed nearer. “What are they?”
He backed away a step. “No questions—or your family goes up in flames. I’m watching you, my lovely.”
She shivered, closed her handbag, and said no more as he turned and strode away. It took her a long moment to push the fear down and convince her feet to move. Forward, she must go forward. She must push down the question of what he meant to do. Soon she handed over her two pennies at the tube station and climbed aboard the electric train with all the other passengers.
Pratt’s black eyes kept flashing before her, sapping the joy from the experience. When she finally climbed off in north London, she had only a blurred memory of the stops and starts, the small windows, the tunnel walls hurtling by outside them.
The sunlight near to blinded her when she stepped back outside and asked a tube worker for directions to the hotel. It took her ten minutes of striding, then wandering, to find the columned exterior of what had so recently been a family’s mansion.
She stood on the street and stared up at it. Once a grand home—now open to strangers to sleep and dine in for a price. Heaven help her, she hoped such a fate never befell Whitby Park. Shaking it off, she followed the walk toward the back entrance and knocked on the door.
A harried woman in a white cap and apron answered. “Yes?”
“Good day, ma’am. I’ve come inquiring as to whether Major Rushworth has an O’Malley with him as batman.”
“And who’s asking?” The voice boomed from behind her, deep and displeased.
Deirdre spun, hand splayed over her heart, and spotted who could only be the major striding her way from the garden. He was in uniform, but for the missing hat. His head gleamed bald in the sunlight, his drooping moustache accentuating his frown.
She dipped a curtsy. “Major. I’m Seamus O’Malley’s niece, Deirdre. Please, did he come with you? I haven’t seen him in ages.”
“I should think you haven’t.” His scowl didn’t lessen. “No one was to know we were here now. How did you learn of it?”
He looked as though he would as soon toss her into the shrubs as listen to her answer. She let her gaze fall to his boots. “I’m in service to the Baroness of Berkeley. I was there when she and Lord Whitby got your letter, and they—knowing as they do that my uncle is your batman—said I might come looking for him.”
“Whitby.” The major spat it out like a curse. “Naturally he would ignore the part that said to tell no one where I was staying, or that I was even in Town.”
Her shoulders went tight. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to step into a family quarrel. I only want to see my uncle.”
The moustache twitched. “Not at the moment, you don’t. Old boy is ill—he’s resting now.”
“Ill?” All her hope sagged within her. “Mightn’t I see him, Major? Make sure he’s comfortable?”
“I said he’s resting.” His nostrils flared, but then his eyes softened. A mite. “Come back around tomorrow, girl. Or the next day. We’ll be in Town for the week—then it’s home to India.” He turned back for the garden. “Too dratted cold and rainy on this godforsaken isle.”
With no other recourse, Deirdre gripped her bag in both hands and dragged her feet back the way she’d come. She’d go home. She’d put Pratt’s envelopes in the baroness’s trunk. And she’d wish she’d never stepped foot outside today.
Brook wished, as she paced to the far corner of the music room, that they were at home. In their library. Books surrounding her instead of instruments. She had tried to play to soothe her nerves, but soft music wouldn’t come—and she couldn’t very well play thunderous songs while Aunt Mary and Melissa were still abed.
She paused beside the window and looked out at the rain-soaked city. As always, her gaze sought a familiar form, a familiar car, and she chided herself for it. Justin wouldn’t come any more today
than he had the last fortnight. Apparently when he said she could let him know when she’d made up her mind, he meant he wouldn’t grace her with his presence until she did so.
How, then? How was she to apologize for comparing him to his uncle? How was she to tell him how miserable she’d been without him? How was she to tell him that she was sure, so very sure now, that she loved him?
“Major Rushworth, my lord.”
Brook turned but didn’t advance. Better to stay where she was, half-hidden behind the harp, and put Justin from her thoughts before she focused on the major.
He strode in. Dressed in uniform, his skin was tan and leathery. His bald head gleamed in the chandelier’s light, his moustache framed his mouth, and his brows were furrowed. He halted a few steps inside the door and glared at her father. “Whitby.”
“Major.” Papa had stood to greet him, though he didn’t move forward to offer a hand. “Kind of you to finally reply—though a letter would have sufficed.”
Major Rushworth snorted. “I think not. If I learned anything eighteen years ago, it is that letters are not secure.”
Papa darted a glance her way. They had learned that truth as well. Otherwise she’d have sent one to Justin. “Did you have a safe trip from India?”
“I arrived, didn’t I? And I’m eager to get back, so if we might dispense with the pleasantries—you said you found a letter I sent Lizzie in your name. What else did you find?”
Papa’s expression barely flickered, but Brook could read the frustration in his stance, and in the way his hands curled. “Mysteries.”
Brook edged out from behind the harp. “What are the Fire Eyes?”
They both looked at her when she spoke, but it was the major she watched. He washed pale, his eyes bulged, and his larynx bobbed as he swallowed. “Lizzie.”
A corner of Papa’s mouth tugged up. “We call her Brook.”
“Your daughter.” He shook his head, though his gaze didn’t shift. He still looked at her as though she were a phantom. “She is the exact image of …”
Papa motioned her forward. “Not quite. Her nose is narrower, her forehead not so high. And their chins—they have very different chins.”
The Lost Heiress Page 27