But then she thought of Madeline and how terrible Lucien felt about how she had been treated; the dowager duchess and the crippling jealousy that had caused her to act as she had; how torn his father must have been, knowing he had hurt so many of those he loved. Lucien could never be happy playing his father’s role in a similar situation.
“I love you enough to want you to be proud of yourself,” she told him. “To be everything you can be—and you could never become that man if I was always tucked away somewhere, waiting for you, dividing your loyalties and your heart.”
He kissed her softly, meaningfully. “I’m afraid I will never get over you.”
Abby had her own fears. She was afraid they wouldn’t actually give each other up, which was why, after spending the next five nights in his bed, she packed her clothes and, without telling him for fear he would talk her out of it, left London.
Chapter 30
“What do you mean ‘she wasn’t there’?”
Rufus, the footman who had been escorting Abby back and forth from the college, shifted on his feet. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. She . . . she wasn’t waiting when I arrived. But . . . I found this envelope under a rock where she normally stands. And, although your name isn’t on it, I presume I was meant to find it and deliver it to you.”
Lucien felt sick as he accepted what the footman handed him. Each night he had anticipated Abby’s arrival even more than the one before. With Hortense gone and his health back, he could almost pretend they had forever. He had been so happy—except that he had been getting the itch to take Abby out to enjoy the many things he could show her and had begun to feel stifled by the secrecy.
Rufus bowed slightly. “Will that be all, Your Grace?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Lucien didn’t open Abby’s note even after he was alone. If it was good-bye he wasn’t sure he could bear to read it. Instead, he stood drinking a glass of brandy and staring out at the moon. It was going to be a long night.
Without Abby, his whole life might feel like this night, he realized.
Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, he sat on his bed and unsealed what his footman had brought him. Abby had sent him only five words: I will always love you.
Except for her aunt, who was every bit as prying and intrusive and bossy as Abby feared she would be, Ewyas Harold turned out to be a respite. She missed the college and how productive she had always felt there. She missed the dream she had once held of becoming a surgeon. And she missed Lucien a million times more than all of that. But at least she was safe from her weaker self. There was little question she would have given in and continued to see him if she had remained in London. How did a woman go about giving up a man she loved that much?
She could only put physical distance between them and hope that, when her pregnancy became obvious to her aunt, Emily wouldn’t toss her out in the street. Abby hadn’t yet told her father about the baby, either. Doing so was going to be the hardest thing she had ever done, especially now that he was so happy she had quit pressing him to admit her to the college and had taken up more womanly pursuits.
“Abby?”
At her aunt’s sharp tone, she glanced up to find Emily holding a tea tray.
“Could you move that book from the table so I can set this down, please?”
“Of course.” Setting aside her needlepoint, Abby did as she was asked. She really should have noticed that her aunt needed help. She would have, if not for how dreadful she was feeling. Since Christmas, she had been so nauseous she could scarcely swallow a bite of food; it took all of her willpower and focus just to keep herself from being sick on the rug. Although there was no other evidence of the baby yet, besides the soreness in her breasts, she feared her inability to eat normally—and how difficult it was to keep what she did consume down—would give her away.
“I swear, sometimes I wonder if that father of yours ever taught you anything,” her aunt grumbled.
Abby had been treated to other such comments, but because she had nowhere else to go, she smiled politely and ignored them. Her aunt had never approved of her. Now Emily was getting the chance to express that—and to try to remake her into a better version, something far more similar to what a young Englishwoman should be.
“We have been invited over to the Nesbitts’ for a gathering come Saturday,” Emily announced once she had poured them both some tea.
With effort, Abby managed to keep a pleasant expression on her face, but she couldn’t have had less interest in social gatherings. That included this one. The Nesbitts had two unmarried sons, and Emily had made no secret that she hoped one of them would take a liking to her “odd” niece. “How nice.”
Her aunt leaned forward to peer into her face. “You are pleased, then?”
Abby placed a crumpet, the very sight of which turned her stomach, on her plate. “The Nesbitts are a very nice family.”
“Yes, they are, but I have told you of their sons.”
“Indeed.” Countless times.
“Wait until you meet them. I think either would be the perfect match for you.”
Either. As if it were that easy. One could replace the other. Abby had mentioned that she didn’t want any suitors, had indicated that she had no intention of marrying. But her aunt wouldn’t acknowledge those statements. It was her goal to see Abby with a husband and a family, and she wouldn’t rest until that happened.
“You don’t want to wind up alone like me, do you?” she always said. Emily had lost her husband to a carriage accident shortly after the birth of their only son, who had joined the navy and died, at nineteen, in the battle of Trafalgar. “At least I didn’t ask for this kind of life,” she would often add, as if Abby would sorely regret her choices.
Fortunately, Emily didn’t take the conversation in that direction today. Battling nausea was bad enough; Abby didn’t want to fight tears at the same time, and she had no doubt she would break down at the mere mention of having a family.
“So what will you wear?” Emily asked.
“My best dress, of course.” Abby provided what she knew to be the appropriate answer and pretended to sip her tea but dared not actually swallow. When her aunt wasn’t looking, she would slip her crumpet into the folds of her dress or her needlepoint and feed it to the pigs outside. They had consumed her food on several other occasions already.
“I wish we could afford the fabric for a new one,” Emily lamented. “Maybe I will write your father and see if he will send the funds.”
“Please, don’t bother him about that!”
Emily blinked in surprise that Abby would be so forcefully opposed. But Abby would not fit into anything Emily sewed for very much longer and couldn’t bear the thought of Edwin sacrificing while she was keeping something so important from him. She needed to figure out a way to tell him, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it quite yet. She needed some more time to cope with her heartache and sickness before tackling that obstacle. “There’s no need to put any more pressure on him,” she added in a far less strident tone.
“Pressure!” Emily echoed. “Your concern for him does you credit, my dear. You can be very sweet when it comes to Edwin. But he is your father, and he should provide for you a bit better than he does, I dare say. How will you ever catch a husband otherwise?”
She could have said she didn’t want to catch a husband. No one else could compare to the man she loved. But she had stated her position on marriage before, and Emily wouldn’t accept it. So what was the point? “The dress I have is fine,” she said instead.
“We’ll see how this first outing goes.” Emily gestured toward her plate. “You’re scarcely eating a thing. Are you not hungry?”
“Not particularly.”
“You’re never hungry,” she complained. “You eat like a bird—and are far too thin. That won’t be a good thing when you start bearing children, le
t me tell you. You’ll need your strength then. So many women die in childbirth. It’s tragic.”
Abby pretended to knock her needlepoint to the floor to create a diversion so that her aunt wouldn’t see the tears that welled up. Her predicament frightened her enough without hearing about the physical danger, which, like everything else with this child, she would face on her own. But when she bent over, matters only grew worse when the necklace Lucien had given her slipped out from under her dress, because Emily spotted it right away.
“Where did you get that?” her aunt asked, jumping up to take a closer look. “It looks very expensive.”
Abby’s breath stuck in her throat as she searched for an acceptable response.
“Abby?”
“It was a . . . a thank-you gift,” she said.
“From whom? Who can afford such a fancy bauble? I dare say that must have cost fifty pounds.”
“It came from the Duke of Rowenberry.”
“A duke? No!”
“Yes, Aunt, it’s true.”
Emily studied it skeptically. “And how would you come to associate with such a powerful man?”
“Quite by accident.” She pressed a hand to her stomach as she fought off a fresh wave of nausea and told her aunt a far more innocent version of how she and Lucien had become acquainted.
“He was pretending to be a resurrection man?” Emily finally let go of her pendant, but she remained where she was, standing over Abby, only inches away. “And you bought a . . . a corpse from him? How terribly sordid!”
Abby could understand her horror and distress. But the parts of the story she held back would have shocked her aunt far more. “For the sake of the college, yes.”
“Lord in heaven, child!” she cried. “No wonder your father sent you to me.”
“Coming was my decision, Aunt Emily,” she responded. “I am one and twenty, after all.”
Her aunt ignored that. As long as she was financially dependent on her father, it didn’t matter how old she was. “You really must remember to leave such issues to the men who should be taking care of them in the first place.”
It was so tempting to argue, to tell Emily that she would have done exactly that—providing someone else had stepped forward to save Aldersgate. But she bit her tongue. She would be far wiser to do all she could to smooth this over. Then maybe she could come up with an excuse to return to her room.
“I have learned my lesson,” she said, choosing to appease her aunt.
Fortunately, that had the desired—and calculated—effect. “I wager you did!” Emily said. “How frightening it must have been, coming into direct contact with . . . with body snatchers!”
Abby took a tiny sip of her tea, but held her breath as she did so. The smell alone could be her undoing. “My father didn’t tell you, then?” she asked when she had managed—successfully—to swallow.
“No. But you know how reticent he can be. When he does write, I get barely a few lines and it’s months between letters.”
“Perhaps he thought my little adventure was of no consequence—since there was no harm done. It was kind of His Grace to keep me safe.”
“Indeed! But the duke is obviously very grateful to you, as well—if he would give you such a gift. Perhaps I should write to him and express my concern for your future. With his patronage and connections, he could see to it that you strike a far better match than any I could arrange.”
Abby nearly choked on another sip of her tea. “He is barely a . . . a distant acquaintance. And he has compensated me with this gift, Aunt Emily. That is the end of it. I would never impose on him further.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, dear. But, after an experience like that, he has to understand how it could hurt a young woman’s prospects. One must do what one must do.”
“Please! Do not contact him,” she pleaded. “I am . . . I am excited to meet the Nesbitts.”
Slightly mollified that Abby was at last showing some enthusiasm for her matchmaking efforts, her aunt patted her hand. “Perhaps one of them will strike your fancy.”
“What has been wrong with you these past few weeks?”
Lucien scowled at his mother, who was sitting across from him at breakfast. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I have never seen you in such a foul mood. You were so happy to be recovered. Then the holidays arrived and you couldn’t seem to say a civil word to anyone.”
Because he was miserable. Since Christmas he had been spending a great deal of time with Madeline’s son. He was becoming quite enamored of the boy, but he felt terrible that he was the reason Byron didn’t have his mother. He had failed Byron and Madeline. He had failed his fiancée, too—by giving his heart to someone else. Maybe he had even failed himself, because he had destroyed his own chance at happiness by falling in love with the wrong woman. “I’m fine.”
He hoped that would be the end of it. He had nothing to say to his mother or anyone else. But, of course, she wouldn’t let it go.
“You tell me that every time I ask, but you are obviously not fine.”
“Mother, I will take my breakfast elsewhere, if you insist on badgering me.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but he waved her off. “Enough! I am trying to eat!”
Her eyebrows lifted at his imperious tone, but he was so angry he didn’t regret how he had acted. Indeed, he was tempted to go much further. It was all too easy to blame his mother for his predicament, since she was so eager for him to wed Hortense—and had, indeed, been the one to arrange it.
“It has nothing to do with that little strumpet you were having Rufus bring to your bed right after you sent your fiancée away, does it?” she asked.
When his eyes flew to her face, she put down her fork. “What? You think I didn’t know?”
“Rufus told you?”
“No, he is far too loyal to you for that. But there are other servants who see him coming and going—maids who smell the perfume on your linens as well as . . . other scents.”
“And they come and tell you? Then perhaps I will sack the entire staff, except Rufus, and protect my privacy by sending you to the country before I hire more.”
She stiffened. He had never threatened her with anything, let alone banishment from London.
“Perhaps you believe yourself to be in love with her,” she started, but he cut her off immediately.
“Do not presume to tell me how I feel. And if you ever call her a strumpet again, you can pack your bags and leave for good.” With that he got up and strode from the room.
“Lucien, stop,” his mother called after him. “You are overreacting. You will get over her, with time.”
He ignored her. He had to get out of the house, away from her, away from the staff, away from every reminder of his duties. But Maurice, the butler, caught him on his way out.
“Your Grace, there is a woman in the parlor who claims she has information you would like to receive.”
Lucien couldn’t imagine what information that would be. “Who is she?” he snapped.
Hearing his tone, the butler stood taller but, unflappable as always, he allowed no change in his expression. “Mrs. Agnes Hurtsill, the wife of the body snatcher who was hanged recently, I believe.”
What could Agnes want from him? “If she needs more money, give it to her,” he said and brushed past, but when Maurice spoke, he stopped again.
“Your Grace, she says it’s about Madeline.”
The anger that had been pumping through his blood was suddenly replaced by curiosity—and maybe even hope. “Have someone bring tea,” he said and switched direction.
He found Agnes standing in his drawing room, looking nervous and pensive and out of place. She smoothed her dress when he walked in and managed an awkward curtsy.
“Your Grace, I-I wanted to thank you for the m
oney you sent. You didn’t have to . . . to take pity on me, but I don’t know how I would have survived these weeks without it.”
“I don’t blame you for the mistakes of your husband, Agnes. You or the children.”
“I’ve made my own mistakes. I admit that. I knew Jack and Bill weren’t doing right. And to think they almost killed you . . . I miss Bill, but I feel bad for everything. I do.”
“Thank you. We can agree that they have had a destructive influence on us both.”
“When I learned who you really are, I couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe I know a duke.”
He hoped she hadn’t merely used what she had told Maurice as an excuse to gain an audience with him. “My butler tells me that you have information on Madeline.”
“It’s true. I . . . I should have told you before, but . . . I didn’t, and my conscience has been troublin’ me a great deal since, what with you being so kind to me and all, despite . . . despite the fact that I don’t deserve it.”
He had helped her mostly because of the children, but he didn’t say so. “What do you know of my half sister? What can you tell me?”
“She’s alive, Your Grace. Or she was last I saw her.”
Lucien couldn’t believe his ears. He’d finally convinced his stubborn heart that his half sister was lost to him—and to Byron—forever. “Where?”
She stared down at the rug. “Jack was so unkind to me and Bill, to everyone. We all hated him.”
Lucien stepped toward her. He didn’t care about that. He knew how difficult Jack had been. “Where is she?”
“Probably in Australia.”
He stared at her, searching her face for any sign that she might not be telling the truth. “What could she be doing there? She would never leave her son. I can’t believe she would take Jack’s money and run away, if that’s what you are about to tell me.”
A Matter of Grave Concern Page 31