by Carrie Lomax
Viola refused to acknowledge him. She lifted the knocker and let it fall again. Still, nothing happened. She did not turn as Dalton’s footsteps came up behind her. He stopped a scant inch behind her, and Viola’s breath caught at his closeness. Lord Dalton reached around her, his arm brushing past hers as he reached for the knob. The door swung open with a soft click.
“No one answers this door. Too many angry wives. You either go in, or you don’t,” he said smugly, his breath a warm puff against Viola’s ear. “There’s a guard just behind the door.” Dalton gestured into the gloom beyond the door frame.
Determined to retain her dignity, Viola gave Matthew a little push.
“Go on. I’ll step inside, and you can make your inquiries.”
“You’re sending him in alone?”
Viola shrugged with a nonchalance she did not feel. This was the last place in the world she wanted to send her son, yet it was only one question.
“No one will talk to me. As you say, too many angry wives. Any woman who comes here is suspect.”
“Let me go with him. What do you want with Rupert Alwin?”
“A conversation. Five minutes of his time, nothing more.” She kept her eyes on Matthew, who approached a surly‐looking shadow of a man within the building.
“He isn’t here. I can tell you where he is, but you have to be nice to me.”
“Define ‘nice’.”
Lord Dalton chuckled. Matthew shrugged and started back to them.
“Are you always so defensive, Mrs. Cartwright? By nice, I mean you must stop hissing at me like an angry cat. I only want to help you, and your sister.”
"Fine,” Viola bit out.
Her son’s face lit up. Though he badgered and pestered her from morning to night, Viola knew he loved her fiercely. She understood, too, how lonely he had felt living in the countryside, and how exciting a London adventure was for him. Viola ruthlessly crushed guilt. She should be taking her son to museums and entertainments, not on sordid errands about town. She promised herself that she would do just that as soon as their futures were settled. In one week, if all went well, they could afford to relax.
If they found Rupert Alwin.
If Harper could convince Mary Whitney to defy her parents and accept Rupert’s suit.
If Edward wasn’t disowned by his father.
If, if, if...Their lives were so precarious.
“You haven’t said why you’re searching for Alwin,” Dalton prompted.
“You know perfectly well why,” Viola said stiffly. “I don’t have to tell you the specifics. All you need to know is that I need to find him and quickly.”
“We can wait here on the stoop of the Polished Knob until someone comes along and sees us, or you can tell me the reason as we walk somewhere more savory.”
“You already know Harper’s plans,” Viola huffed, descending the stairs in a flurry of flounced skirts. “Surely you don’t need me to fill in the details.”
“True, I don’t, but I would like to hear them anyway.”
Matthew trailed behind them, clearly confused by the dynamic between his mother and the young lord. Viola stopped abruptly, tucking her son’s arm into her elbow.
“You lead. I’ll talk. It won’t take more than a moment to give an intelligent man like yourself the gist.”
Dalton nodded, and Viola succinctly described the evolution of Harper’s plans to disrupt the wedding to the greater happiness of all concerned.
“This is why I brought Matthew. And a footman,” Viola added virtuously.
“Yes, of course. Sending an eight‐year‐old boy into a club is a perfectly rational thing for a mother to do.”
Viola glared. “You’ve no right to judge, your lordship. For one thing, you are not a parent. For another—” She stopped midsentence.
“In fact, I am a father.” Lord Dalton’s tone was mild, but his expression was thunderous. “I am a brother, as well. My sister is my only living family. She is sixteen and in poor health. I most certainly would balk at sending my child into a place like that.”
“You are not a woman,” Viola replied stiffly. “You go where you please. I must have a male escort. You, sir, don’t count.”
“I am the perfect male escort for your mission. You should have thought to ask me first.”
Viola, mortified at having been taken to task over her parenting, resented Dalton’s intrusion. Yet the feeling warred uncomfortably with the sudden burn of curiosity. Who was this young man who seemed so different from the other London toffs she had met? The responsibility for his sister—and, if she understood him right, a child—must have made him more mature than the usual gentlemen. A feeling that was compounded when he turned to her son and asked, “Which subjects do you like to study?”
“History,” Matthew declared. “I like reading about wars and then acting out the battles.”
“Yes. Well. I recommend a visit to the British Museum to see the Elgin Marbles. A boy of your enthusiasms would certainly enjoy the battles depicted, and it would enhance your education tremendously.”
“Do you have a daughter or a son?” blurted out Viola, unable to restrain herself.
“A girl. Her name is Emily. She turns four next month,” Dalton replied tightly. Lord Dalton’s switch between encouraging Matthew one moment and mocking her the next left Viola off-balance. She bit her lip to prevent herself from asking what had happened to his daughter’s mother.
“How lovely for you.” The specter of her own dead daughter rose in Viola’s mind. Ruthlessly she shoved the ghost back into the locked chamber of her heart.
“Yes, Emily is charming and energetic and very dear. Perhaps one day you’ll meet her, unless we choose to stand here and freeze to death on a busy London sidewalk. Come.”
“Where are we going?” she asked meekly, taking her son’s hand. This once, Viola didn’t mind letting a man take charge—though Dalton had best not get used to it.
Half an hour later, as sunset began to drop London’s streets into deep shadow, the group disembarked before a lovely limestone building that showed its age. The windows were stained with smoke, and the bitter scent of roasting coffee hung over the place. Lord Dalton disappeared briefly into the establishment, emerging a few moments later with a stout man in a silk jacket that was ill-suited for the suddenly cool weather. Lord Dalton introduced him as the proprietor of the coffee house.
“You've come to collect Alwin, have you?” the man asked, peering at her. “You can’t be his mum, by my reckoning.”
“I’m not. I am someone else entirely.”
“Not the wife-to-be, are you?”
Viola laughed. “Not even remotely.”
“Alwin’s written endless odes to his betrothed’s fine eyes and glossy dark hair, so I’ll beg you to forgive my error, madam.”
“Do I understand you correctly to mean that Mr. Alwin is still in love with his lady?” Viola asked.
“He is if you catch him at the right moment. I can’t tell whether he wants to marry her or strangle her from minute to minute. All I know is, he’s been coming here for three days, has run up a tab I know he’ll never pay, and is arguing with any customers he can find. If you can talk some sense into the man and get him to go home, I have no objection to you coming in for a few minutes.”
“I will certainly try,” Viola replied, not feeling at all confident of her persuasive powers.
Despite the considerable commentary her presence attracted, Viola couldn’t help but glance around her in curiosity about a place typically restricted to men. Though everything had the appearance of having been soaked in tea and left to dry, there was no mistaking that the silk striped curtains and velvet chairs had once been opulent.
Men in drab suits of gray, brown and black held small cups of dark liquid that must be coffee, though it was unclear whether they were drinking the bitter stuff. Most men were engaged in active conversation with whomever they happened to be sitting near. Fifty years before, this might have
been a hotbed of intellectual debate. The London Stock Exchange had its roots in a coffee house in Exchange Alley, but the Red Brick was clearly a relic of its time. Tea was the favorite drink now.
The proprietor pointed them to a man slumped in the corner, conspicuously alone. He was better-looking than Viola had expected. His pale skin and dark eyes were moodily enhanced by a swooshing curl of dark hair that flopped over his forehead. Though to Viola’s eyes he had the air of a permanently sullen youth, it wasn’t hard to see the appeal of Alwin’s aquiline nose and sharp jaw.
“Hello, Mr. Alwin,” she said quietly, ignoring the murmur of curiosity caused by her presence in the smoke-filled coffeehouse. Dalton didn’t touch her, but his presence was a rock-solid support that Viola felt at her side. “I have come to speak with you about Lady Mary Whitney.”
“What about Mary?” sneered Rupert. “She broke my heart and left it tattered in the streets for any carthorse to shit on. Oh, that’s not bad,” he remarked, searching for a scrap of paper that wasn’t already covered in scrawl.
“You needn’t curse in front of a woman,” Viola rebuked the man mildly. Both she and Matthew had heard worse. That was why Matthew had been made to stay inside the carriage, under the footman’s watchful eye.
“This would be easier in a quieter setting,” Viola complained to Dalton. “Can’t you take him back to your townhouse?”
“I could,” replied Lord Dalton. “But I’m not sure I want him there. What if he drinks all my brandy and litters my library with risible rhymes?”
Viola shot Dalton an exasperated look.
“If you can convince Rupert to leave, he can stay with me until he sobers up,” Dalton relented. “I’ve plenty of room, after all.”
After considerable argument, punctuated by frequent stops to record whatever thoughts passed for genius at the moment, Lord Dalton settled Alwin’s bill and led the way to his carriage. Alwin staggered into a table on the way out, prompting Dalton to leave an extra guinea for the coffeehouse owner. Viola hoped Alwin woke to a wretched headache tomorrow. It was the least he deserved.
“Thank you,” she said as Lord Dalton’s coach stopped a block from their grandmother’s townhome, to preserve discretion. Alwin glowered at her, realized that she hadn’t spoken to him, and resumed staring out the window while clutching an untidy portfolio in his lap.
“You’re welcome,” replied Lord Dalton, following her out of the vehicle. “I am the one who should thank you. It has been a diverting afternoon.”
“What will you do with him?” Viola asked worriedly.
Lord Dalton shrugged. “I have no idea. Feed him, I suppose, and let him sleep it off. Shall I send Mary a note or leave that to you?”
“Leave it to us, for now. I shall be in touch tomorrow morning.” Viola offered a gloved hand. Lord Dalton lifted it, holding her gaze with as he pretended to kiss her knuckles. Viola’s stomach flipped. Then, Dalton straightened and bent close enough to brush the softest of kisses on her cheek. He smelled faintly of bay rum and wet wool. Her heart raced, and butterflies took flight as Viola stood there, stunned. Before he could move away, Viola turned her head and returned the gesture. Then, she stepped backward a few steps and shook a finger at him.
“This afternoon was much improved by your presence.”
Dalton smiled a little and touched the spot where she had kissed him before getting back into the coach without a word. Viola took a wide-eyed Matthew by the hand and led him up the street to convene with her family.
Chapter 24
Edward burst through the door with hardly a pause for a lanky footman's attempt to stop him.
"Where is she?" he demanded. “Where’s Harper?”
Harper heard him from the parlor, flew down the front stairway and threw herself into Edward's arms. Harper buried her face in his shoulder and hugged back with all her might.
"You're here," she gasped.
Despite the growing audience, Edward kissed her furiously. Harper met his embrace with equal passion. The baroness fanned herself.
"Dear me. I'm beginning to see what all the fuss has been about. The two are as batty as a church steeple for one another.”
"Grandmother, may I present Lord Edward Northcote?" asked Harper a bit sheepishly, finally realizing that they had an audience.
"I am pleased to officially make your acquaintance, however unconventionally," Gran replied.
“Edward Northcote.” He looked tired as he extended a hand, grasped the baroness's gloved one and bent to kiss it.
“No 'lord'?” the old lady asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I don’t need it,” he responded acidly.
"So, you are willing to forsake all to be with my granddaughter. You are fortunate she feels the same way you do. It is most unfortunate that your father does not feel similarly."
"You’ve spoken with him."
"Yes." The baroness gestured to the front parlor. "Do let's sit somewhere away from the drafty foyer before we get into details. As anxious as you may be—”
“There’s no time for that. Harper must come away with me now.”
Harper’s grip tightened on Edward’s arm. “Edward—”
He pulled her close, as though afraid that letting her go meant losing her forever. Perhaps it did. Edward kissed her forehead reassuringly. Harper curled into his embrace as though she could meld her body to his.
“Ahem. As I said, you may be anxious to be away, but you can sit with an old lady for ten minutes before absconding with her granddaughter.” Gran gestured behind her. “The foyer is no place to debate strategy.”
“Ten minutes,” he growled as they settled into the uncomfortably fashionable furniture of the parlor. “Then we leave.”
“How will you go? Is there a conveyance waiting outside?” Gran asked practically, looking stern. Harper curled her fingers into Edward’s palm. He swept one arm around her back and tugged her closer.
“More importantly, where will you go?” chimed in Viola.
“We could take a boat to France, or to Ireland. Anywhere other than England.”
“How would you live? Do you have funds?” asked Viola.
“I have a little. Remember, I have slept out of doors almost my entire adult life. It isn’t so bad.”
“Edward, dear, you were in a much warmer country. Autumn nights here are quite cool, never mind winter. Besides which, I have never slept out of doors and can’t imagine it being comfortable.” Harper tried to be gentle but felt the tension vibrating through Edward’s body.
“What is your plan, then?” he demanded harshly. “Sit and wait for Saturday to come?”
Harper met his gaze, startled. Edward squeezed her hand and his brows knit in a silent apology.
“Mary is equally unhappy at the prospect of marrying you,” declared the baroness. “There is the possibility of working with her, and her lover, Rupert, to arrive at a mutually satisfactory arrangement that does not involve sleeping beneath hedgerows in October.”
“Mary’s lover?” Edward repeated.
“Mary Whitney is with child,” Viola said calmly.
Edward ran a hand through his hair and was silent for a moment.
“I suppose I was not to know until the wedding was over and done with,” he said, bitterly.
“Probably not.” Harper held his hand with gentle strength. “If I may hazard a guess, Edward, Lord Briarcliff is forcing this marriage because he knows how little hold he has on you. He hasn’t given up on making you into the son you would have been if you had never been lost. The more you resist, the harder he tries to hold onto his imagined version of you. We must take a stand. If we show him that you have made a choice of wife that is not subject to your father’s direction, he will find a way to make peace with it.”
“Or, he’ll banish me from his sight forever.”
“In which case, we still have time to run away, but with a little more time to plan for that eventuality,” Harper said with a confidence she didn’t feel.
"We have a few options," Viola said determinedly, ticking them on her fingers. "One—we can convince Mary and Rupert to run away together before Saturday. To do so, we need a cottage in the country, some source of income for the couple to subsist on, and Rupert needs to woo Mary again posthaste.
"Two—we obtain a second special license and marry Edward and Harper before Saturday. The disadvantage is that the earl would likely challenge the legality of the marriage. I don’t fancy going head to head with an earl in chancery.
"Three—we attempt to substitute Harper for Mary on the day of the wedding. This is the most complicated approach but perhaps likelier to succeed on our terms. Or," she said grimly, "it might just fail the most spectacularly."
"What if," Harper began slowly, thinking as she spoke. "What if we did all three?"
"All three?" Edward stared in astonishment. "One of those choices is difficult enough!"
"Hear me out, darling. If we attempt one and it fails, we lose any opportunity to try another path. But if Lord Briarcliff sees his plans fail so spectacularly, it drives home the point that Edward and I will accept no other spouse. We will be busy, but we could do it. Except for the part about a second special license."
“There, I believe I can be of some help,” their grandmother interrupted. “Your uncle, Harper, is a vicar at Chiswick parish. It is but an hour's drive from the city. He can give Edward a common license, as he is of age. We will need a bond and someone to vouch that there are no impediments to the marriage.”
“Technically, that would be lying as he is presently engaged to Lady Mary, which constitutes an impediment to contracting another marriage.” Harper sighed and looked worriedly at her beloved.
“I never agreed to the marriage. In my view, it was never contracted,” Edward replied, his agitation lessening by the moment.
“Do you know anyone unscrupulous enough to fib to a vicar?” asked Gran.
Three voices spoke as one. “Richard.”
“The brother? Well,” the baroness said after a moment of silence. “That will be an awkward discussion.”