Chapter Nineteen
18 May, 1811
How did it come to this? How did I make such a mull of things that I cannot see the way out? I truly believe he must despise me now, and all for something I do not understand. Perhaps I should never write again. Perhaps I should not even write these silly journal entries, which only prove to me how unhappy and how lonely I truly am when I read through them again. Pitiful. Pathetic. No wonder Quin wants nothing to do with me.
~From the journal of Lady Quinton
Aurora was too stunned for tears. She bent down to pick up her journal, but her hands shook so badly she dropped it again almost immediately.
“Allow me to get that, Lady Quinton,” Sir Jonas said.
She nodded and stood while he bent to retrieve it.
“Why don’t you sit?” he encouraged, guiding her to a nearby sofa and helping to lower her down. “You’ve had quite an ordeal just now.”
His voice was soothing. Calm. So very different from her husband’s.
Everything about him was different.
Sir Jonas placed the journal on the table before her and left for a moment. When he came back, he said, “Your housekeeper will be in shortly with tea, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she managed. Aurora doubted she’d be able to drink any tea without spilling it all over. She certainly couldn’t serve it.
Sir Jonas took a seat across from her. “I owe you an apology, Lady Quinton,” he said, leaning forward over his knees. “I brought your husband some news, and he didn’t let me get the whole of it out before he flew into a fit of pique.”
“That’s a rather common problem of his, it seems,” she quipped. Perhaps the shock was beginning to wear off, if she was able to make a joke of things. Aurora looked down at her hands where they were clasped in her hap. Still quavering, but not quite so visibly.
“Yes,” Sir Jonas replied. “A rather unfortunate one, at that.”
Mrs. Marshall came in with a maid carrying the tea service. “Would you like me to serve, my lady?” the housekeeper asked. The maid scurried away once she delivered the service.
“That would be lovely, Mrs. Marshall.”
Sir Jonas must have told her of Aurora’s state. She supposed it was for the best, though. She couldn’t be angry with him for such a thing.
The housekeeper served first Aurora, then Sir Jonas, and actually poured a cup for herself as well. “If I may be so bold, my lady,” she said and settled onto the sofa beside Aurora, “his lordship is a good man, underneath all the bluster. He would never intend to hurt you.” Mrs. Marshall placed a hand on Aurora’s and looked into her eyes with a steadfast gaze. “Never.”
Oh, dear good Lord. Did the servants know everything here? It hadn’t seemed like bluster after all, like he would never mean to hurt her, when he had launched her journal at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Marshall. That will be all.”
The housekeeper squeezed her hand and smiled, then took her teacup and left.
“She’s right,” Sir Jonas said. “I know you don’t want to hear it right now, and you probably don’t believe it, but she’s right.”
Aurora absolutely did not want to hear it. She did, however, want to know more about this news. “Since the news you brought him apparently affects me and not only my husband, may I ask you to tell me as well?”
Sir Jonas dragged a hand across his face. “It seems I must, now. Where to begin?” He stood and walked to the window, as though searching for answers.
Answers he should be giving her. “I find that the beginning is typically a good place to start,” she said, trying and failing to keep the facetious tone from her voice.
“Indeed, you are right. Very well. I assume you know of the gossip article about you and your…um, your story, shall we say, that was printed in the society pages?”
When Aurora nodded, he proceeded to tell her of a ghastly new gossip periodical that was printing stories—claiming them to be her stories.
“Oh, gracious heavens,” Aurora breathed. “I swear to you, Sir Jonas, I did not write them. Well, I did write the first one I would imagine,” she said with a violent blush, “but I haven’t written anything at all since we left London, save letters and random thoughts and tidbits about my days. Blast, and I started to write another story today, but it was hardly illicit.” She didn’t want to reveal quite what she’d been writing. Not to him. Not really to anyone.
He looked across at her with a pitying expression. Blast him for that. She hated to be pitied. Hated it with the fire of a thousand suns.
“I believe you, ma’am. Truthfully, I do.”
“But my husband does not.” Why should he, after all, when he knew so much of the stories she had written?
“No, and he would not allow me to tell him why I think someone else responsible.”
“And why would that be?” Aurora inquired.
Sir Jonas shifted his feet. “I do apologize for having this discussion with you, as it is highly irregular. But I have read them all. When I learned what was being said of you, I wanted to know if it was true.” At least he had the courtesy to look embarrassed. “The other stories tell of depraved acts. They’re written in a much more forceful tone, and about things I cannot believe Quin would ever do to you—things he’d never ask you to do.”
Aurora closed her eyes. They’d done countless things she could have never imagined. If these stories even remotely resembled the actual events that had gone on behind their closed doors, Quin would never believe she wasn’t responsible for it all. “Such as?” she asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“I’m truly sorry, ma’am,” Sir Jonas said, “but married or not, these are things I could never discuss with a lady.”
“How can I convince Quin I didn’t write them if I don’t know what they are?”
“I’ll talk to him after he’s calmed down,” Sir Jonas said. “I’ll make him listen to reason. I promise you, he will believe me.”
She could only hope he was right. After all, Quin would not believe Aurora about anything.
Sir Jonas headed for the door, but then stopped and faced her again. “Give him tonight. He’ll be more reasonable in the morning.”
“Pardon? Give him tonight for what?”
“Before you go looking for him. He’s gone.” Sir Jonas gave her that same pitying look again. “If you will agree to wait until tomorrow, I’ll tell you where he went. And if you refuse to wait, I’ll be forced to come with you for your safety.”
~ * ~
Quin slammed closed the door of the hermitage by the river, ignoring how the glass of the window panes shuddered from his violence.
He couldn’t stay there, at the abbey. He couldn’t be in the same room as her.
Not anymore. Not after what she’d done. Not after what he’d done.
He ripped back the doors to cabinets and closets, looking for the brandy he’d asked Forster to stock. Not that he had intended to use it quite so soon.
Some things couldn’t be helped though. Finally, he found the proper compartment and pulled out a decanter. No point in bothering with a glass. He intended to drink the whole damned thing. He pulled out the cork and took a long, full swill.
If anyone held any doubts that he was his father incarnate, Quin had now well and truly disabused them all of their skepticism.
He had nearly struck his wife with her own bloody journal. And he couldn’t even deny he’d done it, since Jonas was there as a deuced witness. Sure, there were no laws against it.
What did that matter? There ought to be. There should have been all along.
But no one bothered to protect women from men like him. Or children, for that matter. Quin took a bigger drink, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. One thing was certain. He couldn’t allow Aurora to have his child. His child wouldn’t suffer like he had. It was bad enough he’d roped her into marriage, forced her hand. He couldn’t undo it now, not even to protect her from the monster he was. It was too late.
Damn Rotheby and his ideas!
If it wasn’t for the earl’s illogical need for Quin to reproduce, none of this would be happening. Quin would be happily off on the coast of Spain or in Athens, drinking and gambling—and Aurora would be some other sod’s problem.
Bloody hell. The image of Aurora with any other man did not sit well with him. He took another swig.
If he and Aurora didn’t have a child, Rotheby would take the abbey. All they’d have left would be Aurora’s dowry. It was a reasonable amount, but not enough for them to keep separate quarters—which would be the only safe option.
He’d have to either take a bloody profession or return to his ways of cheating at the gaming hells. Neither of which sounded like a good choice at the moment.
Quin needed to think. There had to be a solution. He just hadn’t found it yet.
A horse’s hooves sounded in the distance, coming up along the pea-gravel outside the hermitage. It had to be Jonas. None of the staff would dare to interrupt him. Not here. Not now. And Aurora wouldn’t have the first clue where to find him.
Quin staggered out through the door and stared at the approaching sounds in the empty darkness. “What do you want, you horse’s arse?”
“To start,” Jonas drawled, “you could tell me how many more bottles you have in there so I know how many I’ll have to dispose of before I leave.”
Fat chance in hell that would happen. “Go away.”
Jonas and his horse finally appeared in the moonlight, calm, in no hurry. He alit from his horse and tied the reins to a post beside the building. “Care to invite me inside?” he asked, letting himself into the hermitage before Quin had the opportunity to refuse.
“I told you to get out,” Quin half-shouted. God, it rang in his ears something awful. Another swallow would help. He downed some more as he followed Jonas back inside. The bastard had already settled himself into a chair by the window by the time Quin came through the door.
“Have a seat,” Jonas said, acting as if he owned the place and indicating the chair next to him. “We need to talk.” When Quin didn’t comply, Jonas roughly pulled on Quin’s arm until he sank into the chair.
Christ, that left his arse hurting. “Have a care, will you?” Quin said.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.” Jonas pried the bottle free from Quin’s grasp and tossed into the hearth. It shattered, sending tiny splinters of glass flying through the small room. “Now cork it and listen.”
“I’ll plant you a facer, for that.”
“Later. You can do anything you want later. But right now, you listen. Your wife didn’t write the damned stories they’re printing in the new rag.”
“Bloody balderdash, she didn’t,” Quin mumbled. All of a sudden, Jonas thought he knew everything.
Jonas pulled a stack of papers from inside his coat and thrust them before Quin’s nose. “You don’t have to take my word for it. Read them for yourself. Draw your own conclusions.” Jonas moved a lighted candlestick closer before he stood and paced.
“I don’t want to read the bloody”
“Read them,” Jonas interrupted. “I don’t want to hear another word from you until you’re finished with the entire lot of them.”
Who had died and made Jonas king? Prinny would never stand for it.
Still, he ought to read them. He needed to know how bad it was—how soon he should expect Rotheby to toss them out. His eyes scanned the top page, devouring the words as he had so often devoured the pages of Aurora’s journal. It was a perfect sample of her writings, exactly like all the ones he’d read before. He might even want to try this particular one with her. “You’ve lost your blasted mind, Jonas. This is clearly Aurora’s writing. Strawberries and clotted cream in bed”
“Close your mouth and read the next one,” Jonas snapped. He used the same tone that had been so common amongst Quin’s tutors over the years—every time he was caught neglecting to work assiduously at his studies. Which, of course, was a rather frequent occurrence. Even more frequent after his father’s death, when Quin had started to raid the man’s ever increasing supply of brandy, kept so well hidden from his mother. He half expected a rap on his knuckles or a rolled piece of parchment to swat against his head.
With a scowl, Quin turned to the next sheet of foolscap. He read, expecting more of the same. But within moments, the words on the page scorched his eyes. Aurora’s fantasies had always been so innocent, so tentative. A blindfold here, strawberries in bed there. Perhaps making love in the middle of the day instead of the dark of night.
Quin flipped through the stack as fast as he could while still allowing his mind to register what they contained. Tying her and using a horsewhip on her until she bled. Mass orgies. Putting her on naked display before a room full of lusty men. And somehow, those were the tamer stories of the lot.
Aurora could never have written such things. She could never have imagined them either, for that matter.
What a fool he had been. He was so bloody dicked in the nob, he should be carted off post haste to Bedlam. Or maybe Newgate would be a better option, given his present murderous state.
He felt ill. So ill in fact that he rushed from the tiny building. Quin barely made it to the side of the river before casting up his accounts.
“Do you believe me now?” Jonas asked quietly from behind him.
There could be no more question of belief. “Christ, who’s behind this?” Quin asked so softly he almost didn’t recognize his own voice. He had to know. And he’d find the bastard and rip his head free from his shoulders, amongst other things.
“Does Aurora have any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?”
Who could possibly want to hurt her? Save Quin, of course, each time he lost his mind and blamed her for something ridiculous, something for which he was far more likely to hold the blame. “None that I know of. I can’t imagine she has any.”
Jonas moved beside him and sat at the base of the great oak leaning out over the river, tilting back to rest against it. “I assumed as much. So then the question turns to you. Let’s make a list. Who would want to hurt you?”
Quin laughed. “Where should I begin?” Cuckolded husbands, cheated gamblers, scorned mistresses, Phoebe and her family…
Wait. Phoebe’s family. Now there was a real possibility. He’d run off to the Continent after that foolhardy engagement, without giving her father or brothers a chance to defend her honor. Not that she had any more honor to begin with than he did, but that was beside the point.
Could it be Laughton, hoping for retribution? No, this felt too underhanded for Phoebe’s father. The marquess had never been one to mince words. The same could be said for Darlingshire. Laughton’s heir would be far more likely to call Quin out, challenge him to a duel, than to launch an attack against his wife and cast aspersions upon her character.
But that blunderbuss Griffin would take the back door out of a tavern before being caught with his breeches down. The lout had never liked Quin to begin with. It would be just like him to seek revenge through such despicable means.
He’d have to question Aurora about Griffin. If she would even allow him near her person again.
Quin took a seat on the ground next to Jonas, draping an arm over a propped up knee. “I’ll sort it out. I’ll take care of it.” Somehow. Good God, everything about his life had become a blasted nuisance since Aurora came into it. “You know, I’d rethink the whole idea of finding a bride, if I were you. They’re often more trouble than they’re worth.”
“Says the man who’s done everything in his power to avoid his wife,” Jonas came back with. “You’re neglecting her, Quin. She deserves better than that, despite the mistakes she may have made along the way.”
“What would you know of it?” Quin barked. “You should mind your own affairs.”
As expected, Jonas failed to even flinch from the rebuke. “I’ll mind mine when I’m satisfied that you’re not going to ruin what could be a very g
ood thing. I spent the afternoon with Lady Quinton. She really is rather delightful to be around. You should try it sometime.”
“I’ll take your marriage advice when you’re married. Until then, keep your opinions to yourself.” Quin ground his teeth. What did Jonas know of it? The baronet was almost thirty and had never seriously entertained the notion of marriage. At least not that he’d let on to Quin. He’d kept the same damned mistress for at least the last six years. “And stay away from Aurora,” he added as an afterthought.
“She’s lonely. If you don’t spend any time with her and you keep her virtually imprisoned here with no interaction other than with servants, she’ll go mad within the year. Your wife was not built to be idle, Quin.” Jonas faced him, his eyes holding a serious glow in the moonlight. “So either you start paying attention to her, or I will.”
“You’ll stay away from her or you’ll answer to me.”
“You’ll uphold your responsibility to her or you’ll answer to me,” Jonas said, his voice holding a quiet threat. “And you’ll damned well learn to stay away from the brandy or I swear to you, I’ll take her away from you and put her somewhere you’ll never find her. She deserves better.”
“Of course she deserves better. My mother deserved better! I deserved better. But we didn’t get it.” Quin pushed off the ground and stalked to the riverfront. “And instead, I turned into him. I became an exact replica of my father, and there is nothing I can do about it. Every day, I am more like him. Every moment, I feel more of him creeping through my soul, coaxing me to drink, driving me to strike something.”
“If you strike her, I promise you that you will never see her again. Mrs. Marshall and Forster have already sworn their assistance. They won’t sit by and watch you lash out against that girl the way your father lashed out against you and your mother. Going through that once was more than enough for this lifetime—for anyone.” Jonas came up alongside him and skipped a stone across the placid surface of the river. The ripples danced in the light of the moon. “But you are not your father. You don’t have to be like him. You are your own man, Quin, and you make your own decisions in life. Right now, you’re choosing to follow his path.” He turned and walked back toward his horse, pausing before he mounted. “I’m asking you to choose a different path. I don’t want to lose a friend. But it is your choice.”
Twice a Rake (Lord Rotheby's Influence, Book 1) Page 22