“Andrew?” Primrose’s head poked around the corner.
At the sight of her tear-stained face, his anger receded.
“What’s the matter, little chick?” he said with concern. “Another nightmare?”
“Y-yes.” Her voice hitched.
At three, the tot was having bad dreams with increasing regularity. He’d told Kitty that the girl needed a nanny to watch over her at night, to which Kitty had replied: And I need a proper mansion in Mayfair, but neither of those things are going to happen.
He patted the place next to him. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Primrose dashed over pell-mell, scrambling onto the bed and throwing her short little arms around his waist. “It was scary,” she sobbed. “I was scared.”
“Monsters again?” he said gently.
She nodded, her tears soaking through his robe. “Big monsters. Loud ones stomping through the house.”
He cursed silently. A brothel was no place to raise a child.
“There are no such thing as monsters,” he said.
Primrose looked up at him with glimmering jade eyes. “I s-saw some in the hall. Three monsters. So ugly they had to wear masks!”
He choked back a laugh. Out of the mouths of babes…
Lips twitching, he said, “You’re safe in here. I won’t let the monsters get you.”
“I know.” Her smile temporarily chased away his own demons. “Andrew?”
“Yes?”
“Are you ever scared?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“What are you afraid of?”
He thought of the faceless customers, the perfumed hellholes, the poverty.
“That things will never change,” he said quietly.
He’d never given voice to his worst fear before. Didn’t know why he would do so in front of Primrose, a bantling who couldn’t understand.
“I don’t like change.” Her bottom lip trembled. “I don’t like new things.”
“Some new things are good. Don’t you want a new dress, a nicer house to live in?”
She shook her head—then surprised him by throwing her arms around him again. “I don’t want anything but you.”
With those words, she reached inside him and touched his heart. Unlike others in his life, she didn’t try to take it or rip it out or mold it in any way. She just… held it. The way a child holds an injured bird, trying to coax it to fly.
His throat thickened. “You have me, little one.”
“Promise?” Her head tipped back, her eyes searching his.
“Promise.” He ruffled her bright curls. “Now time to get some sleep.”
He got under the covers. She followed him, cuddling up close. He watched over her until her lashes lay still against her small cheeks, her breathing turning deep and even. Then his own eyelids grew heavy, and he followed her into sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Rosie stood in the wood-paneled foyer of Daltry’s townhouse, conferring with Mr. Horton, a junior solicitor in the firm that handled her late husband’s affairs.
“The funeral procession is ready, my lady,” Mr. Horton said in discreet tones. “Shall I give them leave to begin?”
“Please do,” Rosie said wearily. “Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure to assist.” The young solicitor paused. “My firm extends its apologies again for Mr. Mayhew’s absence. Rest assured he is doing his utmost to expedite his return to London.”
Mr. Mayhew, Daltry’s executor, was on the Continent on business.
“You are doing a fine job in his stead, Mr. Horton,” she said gratefully.
With a bow, Mr. Horton left to orchestrate the transfer of the coffin from the drawing room to the conveyance waiting outside. The man was a godsend; she didn’t know what she would have done without him. He’d made all the arrangements for the funeral, including setting up the vigil at Daltry’s townhouse, which Rosie had never set foot in before today.
It was a testament to her wicked nature, she supposed, that she didn’t even feel sad… just numb. When it came to her union with Daltry, she’d never harbored any illusions. Their marriage was like a business that had gone bankrupt on opening day. In her mind, sending him off in style was better than any false manifestations of grief on her part, so she’d instructed Mr. Horton to spare no expense on this final tribute to her husband.
A part of her couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been born beneath some unlucky star. It was just so typical of her to fling herself out of the frying pan and into the dashed fire. After all the trouble she’d gone through to land Daltry and elope with him—not to mention the indignities of the wedding night (she ignored the uncertain flutter)—she was now worse off than when she’d started.
She was a countess, yes, but one whose marriage had started and ended with scandal. At the moment, her state of mourning put her in social limbo, but when that period ended, who knew what her fate would be? Would the ton accept her… or make her a pariah?
Her throat tightened. Why, oh why, had she run off with Daltry?
You know why.
Regret seeped painfully through the numbness. She’d neither seen nor heard from Andrew since his abrupt departure from Gretna, and she… missed him. Somehow, through the chaos of the past month, she’d grown to rely on their unexpected encounters. On the fact that he was watching out for her like some brooding guardian angel. Now that she knew more about their prior connection, she yearned to excavate the artifacts of their history...
Did he feel the same way? Was he staying away because he truly thought he wasn’t good enough for her? Or had he realized that she was damaged goods and washed his hands of her?
A spasm gripped her heart. Regrets piled up like dirty laundry, if onlys joining the heap. If only she hadn’t acted so recklessly and out of wounded pride. If only she’d tried to discover the truth about Andrew—why he wouldn’t marry her, why he felt as essential to her as breathing—instead of eloping with another man. If only she hadn’t acted like the flighty, wicked girl that she was.
“Rosie?”
She turned to see Polly coming down the corridor, followed by Aunt Helena, the Marchioness of Harteford. Like Rosie, both wore black. They had provided immeasurable support, staying by her side throughout the day as visitors had come to pay their final respects.
“Is everything all right?” A curvaceous brunette, Aunt Helena was sweetness itself, concern radiating from her hazel eyes.
“Yes… No.” Sighing, Rosie stowed away thoughts of Andrew. “The procession’s getting ready to leave.”
The men—including Mr. Peter Theale, Daltry’s heir, and Mr. Alastair James, the stepson of Daltry’s aunt—would be accompanying the body to the churchyard. To give her lord his proper due, Rosie had asked Mr. Horton to arrange a stately night march that included a dozen black horses with feathered headdresses and professional funeral attendants to swell the ranks.
“That’s just as well.” Polly squeezed her hand. “It’s been a long day for you, dear.”
“I don’t know how I would have survived it without the two of you. But it’s not over yet.” Lowering her voice, Rosie said, “What is the state of affairs in the drawing room?”
The look exchanged between Polly and Aunt Helena spoke louder than words.
Today had been Rosie’s first official encounter with Daltry’s relations. As a whole, they had not greeted her with what one would term enthusiasm. Peter Theale, Daltry’s cousin and heir, had been the sole exception.
Ginger-haired and possessed of an awkward stammer, he had expressed his condolences and assured Rosie, “You n-need not worry about you future comforts, my dear.”
She wasn’t worried—not about money anyway. That had never been her reason for marrying Daltry. She knew her parents would continue to provide for her, and, moreover, she didn’t want to receive handouts from the new earl.
Nonetheless, Mr. Theale’s kindness had been comforting, especially compared to the coolness
she’d sensed from her dead husband’s female relatives. At present, four of them awaited her in the drawing room. Daltry’s aunts—Mrs. Antonia James and Lady Charlotte Daltry, the dowager countess—had greeted her with a touch of frost, and his cousins, Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey, had taken their older relatives’ lead.
“Mrs. James has been complaining about the, um, odor,” Polly murmured. “The dowager countess, for her part, appears to have an issue with the lateness of the hour.”
“Everyone knows night funerals are all the rage.” Rosie’s hopes sank even further. In order to have any hope of salvaging her reputation, she would need the support of her husband’s formidable aunts. “And given that Daltry had to be brought back from Gretna, it was inevitable that he’d be a bit overripe. It’s not my fault; I couldn’t have done any better for him!”
“You’ve done your best,” Aunt Helena said firmly. “Given the circumstances, the last thing you need is to fret over impressing his relations.”
Rosie bit her lip. “But I need them, Aunt Helena. You know I do.”
Her aunt sighed but didn’t disagree. “Your mama would know what to do. You should really talk to her, Rosie. This rift between you two—it hurts Marianne dreadfully, you know.”
Rosie did know, and her misery grew. Yet every time she thought of the past Mama had kept from her—of what Coyner had intended for her, even if he hadn’t carried it out—her insides crawled. Walls sprang up in her mind; she just couldn’t cope with it. Not yet. Not with everything else on her plate.
Thus, she had been avoiding her mother and had gone to stay with Polly. Today, during the funeral, she and Mama had exchanged a few awkward words, their interactions stiff. Her parent had eventually left to tend to Sophie.
“I’m not ready to talk to her,” Rosie said, staring at her black slippers.
“Everything Marianne did, she did out of love.” With a finger, Aunt Helena tipped up Rosie’s chin. “You do know that, don’t you?”
“I love her, too. I just can’t…” To her horror, Rosie felt her voice crack.
“All right, my dear. One thing at a time.” Her aunt took her hand and squeezed it. “For now, what do you say we face the dragons together?”
Rosie nodded. Accompanied by her aunt and Polly, she returned to the drawing room.
The coffin was gone, and servants had tidied up. Mrs. Antonia James, Daltry’s dark-haired aunt, paced by the shrouded window, her tall, thin frame bristling with suppressed energy. In her forties, she was a striking woman with slashing cheekbones and feline features. In contrast, Lady Charlotte Daltry, whose husband had been the earl before Rosie’s, was a plump, hen-like woman with feathery silver curls and shrewd eyes.
Flanking Lady Charlotte were her protégées, Misses Sybil and Eloisa Fossey. The dowager had no children of her own, and she’d taken her husband’s orphaned nieces under her wing. The sisters were both unmarried. The younger sister, Miss Eloisa, was in her twenties and a beauty with chestnut hair, alabaster skin, and sapphire eyes. Miss Sybil, the older sister, was a spinster and muted version of her sibling. Her hair was a dirty blonde shade, and her skin had a sallow undertone. Her light blue gaze peered out timidly from beneath straight brows.
All eyes turned to Rosie: some wary, others hostile.
Daltry was right about his family, Rosie thought with an inward sigh. And if they hadn’t respected him because of his connections in trade, what hope did she have that they would welcome his bastard bride of less than a day into their fold?
Yet she needed their support. If her late husband’s relatives did not take her side, then her position would be more precarious now than before her elopement. They held the key to her social survival.
She summoned a smile. “Pardon my absence. I was making final arrangements for the procession. Shall I ring for refreshments?”
“I’ve already done so.” Mrs. James’ eyes glittered like jet beads. “Since I and my stepson Alastair—he was a great favorite of your late husband’s—have been so much in this house, the servants naturally looked to me to play hostess. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” Rosie said politely. “I wish only for your comfort.”
In the stilted silence that followed, Aunt Helena came forward.
“Lady Daltry,” she said pleasantly to the dowager, “it has been quite some time since we have met. I regret the circumstances, but may I say how well you are looking?”
“Thank you, Lady Harteford.” The dowager inclined her head graciously. “I trust your husband and sons are well?”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Aunt Helena took a seat, and others followed suit.
The ticking of the ormolu clock soon became deafening.
“I wanted to express my gratitude,” Rosie said. “For your support today—”
“You misunderstand,” Mrs. James said coldly. “We are not here to support you.”
“Now Antonia—” the dowager began.
“You may choose to pretend that this is some cozy family affair, Charlotte, but I’ll not.” Mrs. James crossed her arms over her scant bosom, directing a livid glare at Rosie. “Not after this chit has brought scandal down on our heads. Why, she’s made poor George a laughingstock—the punch line of a vulgar joke.”
Heat scorched Rosie’s cheeks.
“What happened wasn’t Rosie’s fault,” Polly said staunchly.
“Perhaps your notion of wrongdoing and mine are different… Lady Revelstoke.”
Before his marriage, Polly’s husband had been an infamous rake, his presence deemed unwelcome by certain sticklers. Mrs. James’ snide emphasis reminded Polly of the fact.
Seeing Polly’s bottom lip quiver, Rosie felt a rush of anger. “Speak to me any way you like, Mrs. James, but you will not speak to my sister that way.”
The other’s brows arched. “I’ve said nothing that isn’t true.”
“As I’m sure everyone is quite peaked,” Aunt Helena intervened, “I think it best that we defer this conversation. Until everyone is in a better state of mind.”
“I quite agree,” Lady Charlotte said. “The funeral is no time to delve into family affairs.”
“Are we certain we are discussing family affairs, Aunt Charlotte?” Miss Eloisa’s delicate inquiry was girdled with steel.
“Hush, girl.” Lady Charlotte clucked at her charge. “Mind your manners.”
“But everyone is saying it,” Miss Eloisa protested. “You know they are, Aunt Charlotte. It is better for her sake that she knows.”
“Eloisa,” Miss Sybil said timidly, “perhaps this isn’t the best time—”
“Did anyone ask for your opinion, Sybil?” her younger sister shot back.
Miss Sybil fell silent.
Rosie swallowed. “What are they saying?”
“How do I put it politely?” Miss Eloisa tapped her chin. “That your marriage is a sham.”
A fist of panic pounded in Rosie’s chest. “It isn’t. I have papers—”
“Papers don’t mean anything.” Mrs. James stood.
Aunt Helena and the dowager rose as well.
“Now, Antonia, I must insist—” the latter said.
“Do you want to be recognized as a part of this family?” Mrs. James demanded.
“Yes,” Rosie whispered. “I do.”
“Do you wish to have our backing through the scandal that you’ve caused? To be lifted onto our shoulders rather than be fed to the wolves of ruination?”
Rosie gave a mute, desperate nod.
“Then you shall have to furnish proof.”
“Of… what?”
The fires of judgement blazed in Mrs. James’ gaze. “Consummation.”
Chapter Fifteen
“We’ve got a problem,” Horace Grier declared.
A common refrain of late, Andrew thought wearily. The afternoon was his time to get work done before the club opened its doors to the usual mayhem. On his desk, he had a stack of ledgers that he’d inten
ded to review, but Grier and Fanny had burst in, facing him across the desk, hostility crackling between them.
He set down his pen, his gaze taking in the pair. “What now?”
“Malcolm Todd, that’s what,” Grier said.
At the mention of his rival, Andrew’s jaw clenched. “I just met with the bastard. Made it clear that Nursery House is no threat to his business.”
Three days ago, he’d had a parley with Todd. He preferred to avoid bloodshed whenever possible, and thus he’d taken pains to quell any rumors concerning his venture. He’d informed the other of Nursery House’s purpose—and that it posed no competition to Todd’s brothel two blocks away.
“Todd didn’t get the message, apparently. Got his men surveying that damned nursery of yours,” Grier said. “He’s spread the word that you’re encroaching on his territory.”
Andrew slammed his fist on the desk. “The lying bugger. He’s been spoiling for a fight, and now he’s using this as an excuse to start a war.”
“Choose your battles,” Grier advised. “This one ain’t worth it.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting that he shut down the place to appease Todd?” Fanny crossed her arms beneath her bosom, which was generously displayed by her scarlet gown. She wore paint, and her lashes were sooted; on the nights she worked, she looked the part of Abbess Fanny. “Why should he kowtow to that bastard?”
“Because he wants to keep his head on his neck, that’s why,” the Scot growled.
“I thought it was your job to keep it there,” she shot back. “Not up to the challenge?”
“I swear to God, woman, if you push me—”
“Devil take it, that’s enough.” Andrew rose, and the pair swung to face him. “You’re both right. I have to choose my battles—but I’m not bloody going to back down, either. To do so would be a show of weakness. Once the bastards smell blood in the water, they’ll all come circling.”
“What do you want me to do, sir?” Grier said.
“Todd is powerful,” Andrew said grimly, “but even he must tread carefully. He was part of the Accord, like the rest of us. He has no legitimate reason to strike out against me; any violence he incites violates the terms we all agreed to. He’ll have to answer not only to me but to the King.”
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 11