by Kelly Bowen
“Avoiding you? Why?”
“Because I don’t think he liked what I had to say after his theatrical entrance into that studio. And his subsequent exit.”
“Whatever you said, I’m quite sure you were justified.”
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean he agreed.”
Anne looked down at her book. “He’s so stubborn sometimes. So unbending. Unwilling to look beyond the gilded box he’s built for himself. I find it maddening.”
“I can see that. But he cares a great deal for you, you know.”
Anne flushed slightly. “I know. I’m sorry. I do him a disservice by speaking of him like this. I just don’t know what to do sometimes. He refuses to listen. He refuses to see me. The real me. Not the person he thinks I should become.” She was twisting her skirts in her fingers, and with her hair pulled back in a simple braid, she looked painfully young.
Clara was silent for a moment as the horse and rider disappeared from view. She reached out and snapped off an errant rose that was pushing up against the side of the bench seat. “Why?” she finally asked.
Anne looked over at her, her forehead creased. “Why what?”
“Why does your brother not listen to you? Why does he think he knows what is best for you?”
Anne’s pretty blue eyes skittered away.
“You don’t have to answer me,” Clara said gently.
Anne put the sketchbook in her lap and smoothed her palms over the cover. “My father was incarcerated in debtors’ prison.”
“I know.”
Anne’s head snapped up, and she met Clara’s eyes with startled surprise. “You know?”
“Yes.”
Anne looked down again, her fingers worrying a loose thread on the binding that ran along the top of the pages. “My father was a wastrel. After my mother died, he was thrown into Marshalsea because the only thing that had kept him out up till then was what my mother had managed to earn sewing.” She hesitated. “I lived there too, when he was there. In Marshalsea.”
Clara felt the breath leave her lungs, even as understanding dawned. She should have guessed that. “For how long?” she asked carefully.
“Five years.” Anne’s fingers stilled on the edges of the book. “It’s not as if I weren’t free to come and go as I pleased during the day,” she said. “And August somehow managed to scrape up enough to pay the gaolers to ensure I didn’t end up in a workhouse. He managed to make sure that my father and I were fed, at least most of the time. And the roof over our heads may have sheltered more rats and flies than people, but all together, we didn’t freeze in the winter. Which was more than August had in those years.”
“Is that why you stayed with your father? And didn’t live with your brother?”
Anne shook her head. “August never talks about it. But I know he had nothing, and anything he could spare went to us. I know he endured at least one winter on the streets, though I suspect it was two. And had I been left on the streets with him…” She trailed off, not needing to finish that thought. “After August managed to get my father out of prison, we all lived in a single room just off Fleet. August was barely there, and Father wasn’t well, so I looked after him. There was a woman in our building who took in laundry, and I would do deliveries for her for whatever coin she could spare. We still had nothing to our name in those years that wasn’t begged or borrowed, but I had everything. Everything that mattered.” She looked down. “I know that doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Clara told her.
“I owe my brother everything,” she said after a moment. “And I know that. And I’m grateful, and I want to make him proud of me. But now that he has power and a title and more money than we could ever spend in five lifetimes, he wants…” Anne stopped.
“He wants you to have all the things you didn’t have before. He wants to make sure that you will never want for anything ever again,” Clara finished for her quietly.
“He wants to put me in a safe cage with golden bars where the unpleasantness of life might never have the chance to touch me ever again. This is what he believes will ensure my happiness.”
Clara ran the tip of her finger along the soft pink petals of the rose in her hand. “Have you told him this? What you just told me?”
“I’ve tried. So many times. He insists he wants me to be happy. I’ve tried to tell him that my happiness cannot be bought with silk gowns and strings of pearls. That my happiness cannot be guaranteed simply because I marry a man with just as much money as August.” She tipped her head back and looked bleakly up at the sky. “He just won’t listen.”
A silence fell between the two women, Clara considering very carefully what Anne had said. “Knowing what I know of your brother, I suspect he feels guilty for every day that you were in that prison.”
“That’s absurd. I don’t blame him. None of it was his fault. He did everything he could and has absolutely nothing to feel guilty for.”
“Did you tell him that?”
Anne straightened and blinked. “I’m not sure.” She was frowning. “But August is one of the smartest people I know. He must know that.”
Clara tipped her head. “What if he doesn’t?”
“I’m not sure it would make a difference.”
“There is a singularly easy way to find out.”
“Perhaps.” Anne sounded thoughtful. “Do you know the funniest part about this all? And by funny, I don’t mean humorous, but ironic. The time I spent in Marshalsea is what taught me about accommodating large quantities of people. How to feed them, how to house them, how to provide the necessities. Granted, it was a cruel and desperate education, driven by corrupt and greedy gaolers, but an education nonetheless. And one I haven’t forgotten. One I want to be able to use. I want to be able to manage a real inn or a hotel, because I love the logistics. And I’m good at it. And the profits can outweigh those of a prison, if one does it right.” She caught Clara’s look. “Prisons are a thriving business that revolves around profit.” She made a face. “I’m surprised August hasn’t bought one.”
“A prison? Surely not.”
“If he thought he could profit from it, he would.” Anne pressed her sketchbook to her chest. “There is no amount of money that will ever make my brother feel worthy. Or safe,” she said a little sadly.
Clara felt her heart ache. “He certainly seems…driven.”
“He’s had to be. And I’m well aware I’ve benefited from all his determination and brilliance and ambition.” Anne glanced around her at the lavish gardens. “But I can’t change who I am simply because our circumstances have altered.”
“Be patient,” Clara said. “Rome wasn’t built in a day. Keep talking to him. Tell him what you’ve told me.”
“Thank you, Miss Hayward.”
“For what?”
“For listening. Not judging. Understanding.”
“You’re welcome.” Clara smiled at her. “Your brother is a good man, and I think he’ll come to understand too.”
Anne opened her mouth to answer, but her eyes suddenly flickered over Clara’s shoulder. “I think you have company,” she murmured.
Clara turned to find Mathias Stilton at the far side of the garden, walking toward them down the manicured path, his step jaunty and his smile wide. He waved, and Clara lifted her hand in greeting.
“Ah. Mr. Stilton. Early as usual, come to collect me for a drive.” Clara tried to drum up some more enthusiasm.
“Why are you going if you would rather not?” Anne asked.
Apparently Clara’s manufactured enthusiasm had failed to convince. She sighed. “Because I promised I would. He’s harmless, if a little long-winded. Though I confess I might have been provoked into accepting Mr. Stilton’s offer by your brother.”
“August has that effect on people,” Anne stage-whispered. “Provoking them, that is.”
“You have no idea,” Clara murmured. “Do you wish an introduction?” she asked Anne.
“By all means,” Anne replied. “I do not want to appear rude.”
Clara pasted a wide, welcoming smile on her face. “Mr. Stilton, how lovely to see you,” she said as he approached. Good God, but it almost hurt to look at the chartreuse-and-burgundy-striped coat he wore.
“What a glorious day, is it not?” he asked.
“It is,” Clara agreed. “Lady Anne, may I present Mr. Mathias Stilton. He’s the gentleman who oft accompanies Rose and me to the British Museum while we’re in London. Mr. Stilton, this is Lady Anne, the Duke of Holloway’s sister.”
Stilton stared at Anne almost a second too long before he bowed low. “A great pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”
“And you as well,” Anne replied.
“I do hope I am not interrupting,” Stilton went on. “Lady Theodosia was kind enough to tell me that you could be found out here enjoying the splendid gardens. I almost think that perhaps we should simply tour the grounds of Avondale together as opposed to driving.”
Clara kept her smile firmly in place, all the while envisioning Stilton and herself running into August somewhere along the way. No, it would be much more prudent simply to leave. “I’d prefer to drive, if it’s all the same to you,” she said politely. “The wildflowers at this time of year are truly a sight to be seen. I thought we might head up towards the castle where the views of the sea are best.”
“Of course, of course, Miss Hayward.” He smiled broadly at her. “Your wish is my command.”
“Shall we?” Clara rose and Anne with her.
“Good day, Mr. Stilton, Miss Hayward,” Anne said. “Enjoy your afternoon.”
“Thank you.” Clara watched Anne wander back in the direction of the house.
“I didn’t realize that the duke’s sister was also in Dover,” Stilton said.
“Yes. Lady Anne is one of my students.”
“Of course. How delightful.”
They made their way around the side of the house, Clara’s eyes sweeping the rolling fields one last time for a dark-haired rider but finding the horizon empty. They reached the front drive of Avondale, where a hired carriage sat, the team waiting patiently. Clara allowed herself to be handed up and settled back, determined to enjoy the outing and put all thoughts of a sulking, brooding, and provoking duke out of her mind.
* * *
August drew the winded mare to a stop, nearly as out of breath as the horse.
It would seem that no amount of galloping or trekking did anything to improve his mind-set. He was well aware he was acting irrationally and discourteously, but dammit, nothing had gone as he had planned since the day he had arrived in Dover.
To start with, he hadn’t had a decent sleep in four nights. He was tormented by dreams of Clara Hayward and his distracting, all-consuming need to have her. Teased by images of everything that he had planned to do—with her, and to her, and for her—until that damn conversation in that damn hallway had suddenly gotten away from him. He had not appreciated her words, nor her pointed questions.
You’re making me wonder why you think Lady Anne should apologize for who she is.
He’d never asked his sister to apologize for who she was. He loved her too much for that. But it wasn’t unreasonable to ask that she alter her behavior and her expectations, was it? Which wasn’t the same thing at all, was it?
Whenever it is that you find answers to those questions, you may take me out to dinner and share them with me.
He did not appreciate her ultimatum either.
Clara hadn’t apologized. In fact, he had seen neither hide nor hair of her since that afternoon, though it might have something to do with the fact that he’d avoided Avondale completely. Which, after his ill-advised entrance into the painting studio, made him wonder whom he was trying to avoid more—a coolly critical Clara, a hopefully clothed Lady Theodosia, or his undoubtedly furious sister. Regardless, this…cowering avoidance was very, very un-duke-like behavior. Hell, it was very un-August-like behavior, and it made him want to cringe as much as it made him want to curse.
And to top it all off, there had been no word yet from Duncan about any of the matters he had brought to the man’s attention in the missive he’d sent to London. August was frustrated, impatient, and completely out of ideas.
He cursed under his breath and dismounted, then led his horse toward the back of the house. A stable lad appeared with the seamless, brisk efficiency that he was beginning to associate with this place. August handed over his horse and stalked toward the dower house, yanking his coat off along the way. Clean clothes, a decent meal, and something fortifying to drink were in order. He banged into the hall, narrowly missing a footman who caught his coat without even blinking. A pile of objects in the center of the small, gleaming hall caught his eye and stopped him short.
A large, flat, square item wrapped in coarse burlap and rope was propped up against a portmanteau. A smaller case, one that might be used to hold documents, had been placed beside these. August spun to find Duncan Down coming across the hall, a biscuit in one hand and another stuffed in his mouth. The man’s clothes and boots were covered in dust and grime, and his hair and face hadn’t fared much better.
Hallelujah. Finally. He nearly gave in to the urge to hug the man.
“Where have you been?” August demanded, instantly regretting his tone. He hadn’t actually been expecting Duncan to come to Dover in person, only to forward him what he’d requested. But now that he was here, August was inordinately pleased to see him.
Duncan raised his brows above his spectacles and continued chewing. “Avondale House first, where a rather stodgy butler directed me in no uncertain terms to this dower house,” he said once he had swallowed. “But before that? Stuffed on a bloody mail coach.”
“I’m sorry.” August ran a hand through his hair. “It’s been a trying few days.”
Duncan glanced around him at the polished opulence. “I can see that. The mail coach, however, was nothing but sheer luxury.”
August scowled. “Point taken.” He gestured to the pile. “What did you bring me?”
“Everything you asked for. I wasn’t sure where you wanted everything or where you wanted me, for that matter, so I had the footmen leave everything here.”
“You can have your pick of rooms upstairs,” August replied, distracted, as he heaved the large, square bundle upright. “Is this the tavern sign?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And was it crafted as per the drawing?”
“See for yourself.” Duncan took a bite of his second biscuit.
August pulled at the knots and tossed the rope aside, unwinding the burlap. He let the fabric fall to the ground with an appreciative whistle. “It’s stunning.”
“It better be, given what it cost to have it completed in such a short time,” Duncan mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.
The sign stood a little taller than August’s waist and was about equally wide. It was painted a glossy ebony, a carved silhouette of a gliding swan dominating the center. The Silver Swan was carved in an elegant script just below the image, while whimsical curlicues stretched out from the center above. All the carving had been painted a brilliant white, flecks of silver embedded in the paint to give it a sparkling sheen.
“She’s going to adore it,” Duncan said, dusting crumbs from his hands.
“Who?”
“Lady Anne.”
August ran his hand over the top and fingered the two heavy hooks that had been mounted into the wood, one at each side. “And why would you think Lady Anne has any interest in a tavern sign?”
“Because that sign was her sketch,” Duncan said slowly.
“And how do you know that?”
“Because she showed it to me.” He was watching August a little uncertainly.
“When?”
“I’m can’t quite recall, Your Grace.”
August scowled again, wondering what the hell was wrong with him. He couldn’t truly be thinking what he thoug
ht he was. That Anne and Duncan— He cut that notion off. If his sister had been badgering Duncan about the hotel books and laundries and fishmongers, it was quite likely she had been badgering him about tavern signs and God only knew what else.
“Is something amiss, Your Grace?” Duncan was peering at him with concern.
Yes, there was a great deal that was amiss. Nothing that concerned his man of business, however. “What about the other two matters I asked you to look into?”
Duncan glanced around the hall, but it was deserted. He dropped his voice anyway. “As of two days ago, there was still no sign of Strathmore’s ships. However, his Lordship forwarded a payment on to his banker just before I left London.”
“What? How?”
Duncan shrugged.
“For how much?”
Duncan shook his head. “I wasn’t able to ascertain the exact amount, but it was substantial enough to prompt his banker to extend his loan an additional week.”
August stared at the swan frozen in graceful lines in front of him. Where the hell had Strathmore gotten capital like that? “And he has no other assets? Something we missed?”
“I looked again but found no record of anything,” Duncan confirmed.
“The man could have the map to El Dorado squirreled away, and I wouldn’t know it,” August grumbled.
“So it’s not going well? With the baron, I mean?” Duncan asked.
“I’ve managed to have a single conversation with him about business in the entire time I’ve been here. One in which he left halfway through, but not before he made it clear that he had no intention of selling Strathmore Shipping. Ever.”
“Your calculated charm has failed?”
August shot him a black look. His charm hadn’t failed. It had deserted him altogether to be replaced with acute need and want and longing and a muddled sense of direction.
“He might yet change his mind,” Duncan suggested.
“He will when his ships don’t return and he’s facing ruination. But maybe not even then if he’s got more tricks up his sleeve that we don’t know about.”