“I’ve seen nothing to suggest that there is any veracity to those rumors.” She tightened her stance and stared her father in the eye. “You’ve been with Mr. Truitt these past few weeks. You’ve spoken with him, lived with him, observed him. Have you seen any evidence to support them? Yes, he’s had many—” What was the word? She chewed on her lip. Right. “Paramours, but he’s not a callous or careless man. He has flaws—”
Her father snorted. “Really?”
Well, yes, but he didn’t have to say it like that. Her jaw popped. It shouldn’t matter, but the infuriating way everyone was friendly to Jay’s face, benefitting from him and his company, then turning on him when he was gone—she squeezed the fabric of her skirt.
“Many flaws. He’s indulgent. He’s often not responsible. He’s comfortable not being responsible, actually. He’s most comfortable with only the lowest of expectations. Those flaws are harmless flaws. Well, not harmless, not to him, but to everyone else. You see that, just as I do.”
How could she convince him? At least until they did a proper investigation. The sugar in her throat transformed into vinegar. He had to believe her, he just had to. Even if they’d never see Jay again in a few weeks’ time, the unfairness scalded.
Her father matched her posture. His dark eyes bore into hers for a long moment before his shoulders relaxed.
“I hope you’re right.” He ran his fingers through his graying hair. “I’ll admit he doesn’t seem like a man who’d ignore his children, legitimate or not, and he’s certainly amusing and entertaining. He’s also cleverer than he lets on. But how well do we really know him?”
“Still, we, of all people, know what it’s like to have spurious rumors spread about us, to have people believe awful things—” she started.
Her vision blurred as her father’s jaw softened further. He closed his eyes.
“And how even our successes, however hard fought, are maligned and spit upon.”
The lump swelled higher. The comments would never cease. Neither of them would even be in the room without Jay Truitt’s connections no matter how many times her father met with the same men on a regular basis.
“Jealousy or pettiness coupled with gossip can damage anyone, from Jay Truitt, to us. Plenty of people see our success and denigrate it, call it underhanded or immoral, but if we were poor, we’d be called a ‘drain on society.’” She dug her nails into her palms as the whispers and snide remarks that followed her throughout her childhood rang in her ear—the resentment of how her family “bought” their place in society. Of how the Nuneses forced themselves down people’s throats.
Her father waved a dismissive hand. “Fortunately, this is America, so there are limits on our exclusion, especially with enough capital. At least we’re well suited and shall be for some time, though your investment suggestions deserve some consideration.”
Her chest swelled. She forced herself not to clap. Good. He still listened to her and didn’t believe she’d gone entirely silly with the thoughts of marriage to Hugo.
“About those suggestions. I have some new ones.”
“New investment possibilities?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Only small stakes, and only a few new, mostly safe and stable.”
Her father stroked her cheek before taking her by the arm. She leaned into his body, stirring images of herself in his arms as a young child. He’d always made her feel so safe.
She might question his choices—Delaware, the estrangement, even what little of the relationship she’d seen with her mother, but she could never question how much he meant to her. Whatever reasons he had, whatever secrets he held were his business. Her mother was dead, the past was the past. The present was much more important. And in the present, with Jay and Hugo and being so muddled, she needed him more than ever.
“Come.” He beamed down at her. “We’ll discuss them more in the carriage.”
“Perhaps Jay has some thoughts too.” She squeezed her father’s arm tighter. He laid a kiss on the top of her head.
“Perhaps, perhaps.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ursula lay in bed, Arte’s warm fur against her neck. A breeze from the window lowered the temperature, but not enough to make wearing a living stole bearable. She rolled onto her back.
The door to the bedroom creaked and Hecate jumped from her perch onto Ursula’s lap. Arte fled to a corner.
A figure appeared at the foot of her bed.
“Ursula,” a young, male voice whispered.
She blinked as her eyes adjusted. Her cousin’s slumped shoulders and gawky form were unmistakable. She sighed. “Isaac? What are you doing in here? It’s the middle of the night.” She pulled the covers to her neck, even though he was still a child.
Isaac had no sense of propriety—must be a family trait. He sank onto the corner of the bed and pulled his knees to his chest under his dressing gown.
“Sorry. I know I shouldn’t be in here, but there’s something you must know.” Her cousin stared at his hands.
Beneath the sheet, she sat herself up and tucked her legs under her gown. Still no eye contact. Not a good sign. Not only shouldn’t he be there, but he didn’t want to be there. His behavior was reminiscent of her own, the time she fed her mother’s diamond bracelet to Peony, her favorite pony, when she was six. Who knew “carats,” and “carrots” were different things?
Her temples pulsed. Isaac better not have fed Hecate any jewelry.
“What would you like to tell me?”
Isaac poked his feet on the bed and picked at his bare toes. This was going to be worse than a marmoset with indigestion, wasn’t it? She rocked on her knees, so she could move closer to him.
“What is it, Isaac? You can tell me.”
His head remained down, focused on his work. She’d have to remember not to share any food he touched. She craned her neck and thrust her head in front of him.
“It has to be something important. You wouldn’t be here if not. I won’t be mad at you. I promise.”
He raised his eyes and blinked. “You might.”
Dash it. How did one respond to that? With an adult, blind assurances were customary, but with a child or someone particularly honest—she hugged her knees and shrugged.
“Maybe.” Ursula scooted closer again, the bedsheets rumpling. Confidence. She prodded her lips into a small smile. “But you’re my cousin. You’re family. I might be mad for a little, but I can’t stay mad long.”
Isaac rocked back and frowned, though he looked her in the eye, an improvement.
“Your father and my mother have been mad at each other for years.”
Fair point. If she’d had a sibling, she’d want to be with him or her all the time. Uncle Bernard was part of the problem. Why anyone would marry someone like that...she pulled her lips inside her mouth, so she wouldn’t voice her thoughts. That certainly wouldn’t help the situation. Best to keep it simple.
“But we’re not them. Besides, they still speak. Just with glaring.” She swallowed.
A lot of glaring.
Isaac stared at his toes again. She held her breath as he shifted and finally brought his chin up once more.
Ursula clasped her hands. What was so large and terrifying? She had to know now. She was going to die if she didn’t know. She spread her palms flat.
“Come on, Isaac. You can’t barge in here and not tell me.”
He faced the wall when he spoke, his words coming fast, but audible and distinct.
“Fine. Lydia said one of the Pierponts’ maids had Jay’s child. The girl and the baby left town, but his family is going to give properties to the Pierponts to keep the matter quiet.”
Her heart ceased to beat. The room grew silent. She didn’t dare breathe. She must be dead or a ghost—never, Jay would never. And Lydia said it, but it was so close to what her father hi
nted...
Blast, blast, blast.
Her mind sped and she clenched her fists.
No. He’d spent time with plenty of women, but not a maid, not a powerless maid. Nothing Jay ever did nor said suggested he’d risk damaging someone like that.
Also, convenient that the child was nowhere to be found and the nameless, supposed mother wasn’t the one asking for money. The accusation was, what, thirdhand? That didn’t make it untrue. The woman could be afraid for some reason, but the concept raised her hackles.
“Jay doesn’t even like the Pierponts.”
Isaac shrugged and picked at a thread on his sleeve.
“His family’s going to transfer the properties to them, for safekeeping for the woman and child. Lydia’s father said so. He knows the Pierponts’ lawyer and the Reeds’ lawyer. Lydia’s father knows all of the other lawyers. You know him, right? He’s done work for your father.”
Vinegar and sour milk.
No.
Regardless of what Lydia thought of her, she was a credible source of information.
But the rest wasn’t true. She sucked in a deep breath. It couldn’t be. It was too odd. Especially as neither the woman nor child would actually receive the funds directly. That should raise anyone’s suspicions.
“So Lydia told you?”
Isaac tilted his head to the side and offered a small smile.
“Not exactly. Lydia told Rachel and I overheard. Her father told your father.”
Her father. So these were the rumors. Ursula closed her eyes.
“Even if J.T. Truitt transfers the properties that doesn’t mean Jay has illegitimate children. It just means his father believes so. But it’s hard to imagine Jay’d risk someone less fortunate’s reputation and that he’d be on such poor terms with that person, that she’d leave town instead of well, marrying Jay or at least making arraignments for the baby. Or telling him about the baby. He’d want to provide for the baby.”
The words were jumbled, but Isaac nodded, his eyes wide.
“I hope so. I like Jay.”
Hope—just like her own. All her organs leapt into her throat. Her voice was soft and low, so different now. “I do too.”
Isaac took her hand and squeezed. “I know.”
He blinked his bright gray eyes, like his father’s, but kind.
“I like you too, Ursula.”
She worked to return the sentiment with her face. She came close. Words alone would have to do.
“Thank you, Isaac. You’re a wonderful cousin.”
Chapter Fourteen
When would he ever sleep again? Jay paced the space between his bed and the window, naked, the breeze drying the slick sweat on his body. He clawed at his skin before climbing back into his nightclothes. Nothing helped.
His stomach growled, yet another organ tormenting him. With a sigh, he pulled on a robe and made his way to the stairs. No use waking the servants. At least it would give his mind a momentary occupation. He scratched the skin on the backs of his hands.
He needed it. No, he didn’t. He could leave the room without—he halted just before the door. He wouldn’t use it but if he just held it for a few moments...when he held it, he was just a little bit more...well, himself. He rummaged inside his coat pocket and transferred the pipe to the robe. He’d just sit with it, have it, but wouldn’t use it. It was useless without the lamp anyway. Holding one item wouldn’t hurt.
He raked a hand through his hair, yanking the skin, the pain blocking the cravings for mere moments. He was weak, so very weak—worthless and useless like his father and his cousins told everyone in earshot.
His stomach wailed. Nothing about him was what it was supposed to be. At least though, food wouldn’t kill him.
He padded into the kitchen and scrounged around. Where did the cook leave edible fare? Finally, he located a barrel of apples. He grabbed three, held them to his chest and wandered into the library.
Jay sprawled on a chair and took a large bite as he stared at the location where a fire would burn in winter. He took another and another and another until the first apple was a core and made quick work of the second.
He pulled out the pipe and rubbed it against his fingers. That’s what he wanted, what he needed.
No.
Jay laid it on his lap. He could be strong. He could.
But, it would feel so good. Just once, just a little and the knots inside him—no.
He squeezed the third apple in his hand. He sank his teeth into it.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Jay whipped his head around and slumped farther. As quickly as he could, he stuffed the pipe back in his pocket before she was close enough to see over his shoulder.
Ursula yawned. “You should be asleep.”
“It’s too hot up there.” He drummed his fingers on the side table, its legs carved to resemble Greek columns.
She settled herself into the chair to his side and exhaled. “Are you going to eat all of that yourself?”
“I’ve already taken a bite. You’re able to get your own. Or you could call a servant.”
With a scrunch of her nose, she stuck out her lower lip.
“Well, you’ve already had two. And it’s dark in that part of the house and I don’t know my way around...”
When did her whining become so charming? It shouldn’t be, especially as she was frighteningly capable.
Dark and unfamiliar, my foot.
If Urs needed something bad enough she’d thrust herself down into a cave filled with bats to get her way.
“Why don’t we go together?”
Urs beamed at him and the nerve endings in his stomach danced. His muscles unclenched. How did she do that? She was pushy and bossy and rude, but so damned enjoyable. Even without the powder he could almost forget. His hand grazed his pocket.
Almost.
She didn’t notice though. She grabbed his hand, tugged and soon they were back before the large hearth and worktable, blinking to adjust in the dim, almost windowless room.
After pawing around, she made quick work of an apple and two peaches, blotting her face with a cloth when she finished. She passed the scraps to Hecate who dripped remnants into Urs’ hair. How many times did she need to bathe per day?
“I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as you.”
“My cousin Isaac does.” She knotted the cloth in her hands.
Jay thrust his hand into his pocket, running his finger against the burlap.
“He’s a growing, fourteen-year-old male.”
She leaned forward, giving him a desirable, but forbidden and dangerous view. He squeezed the pipe. Would he even remember she existed in the fog?
“My father’s appetite isn’t small.”
Jay itched. She had to leave. When she went to bed, he’d go outside. It was wrong but he couldn’t make it. He’d go mad without it quicker than he’d go mad with it.
First, though, she needed to go. She couldn’t know, couldn’t be a part of it.
“True.” He ran his shaking fingers through his hair, ripping at the roots again.
“Besides, aren’t I permitted one vice? Don’t you have a couple, Mr. Truitt?” Ursula raised an eyebrow and his breath stopped.
What did she just say? Was she a medium? Certainly not, given her performance with every other single person who ever lived and yet...
She cocked her head, as if to study him and his reactions. What did she know? Had she seen the bag or the pipe?
“The champagne I can pass on, too great a headache in the morning, but you said your other vice was enjoyable with at least one experienced party.” Ursula brushed a golden curl out of her eyes.
Wonders never ceased. At least this night was becoming interesting. So, she wanted to frolic in that territory? He could play that game,
and win. He leaned against a cupboard.
“But what?” Jay inched closer, so close the air moved when her breath hitched.
“I—”
He pulled his hand from his pocket and planted it right next to her elbow, millimeters from her skin. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes darted to the side—a tell.
She wanted something. What was this really about? Certainly not him.
“Come on, Urs, you broached this topic. I’m quite interested in what you have to say. Has Hugo shown any signs of life?”
Creases darkened between her eyes and she wrinkled her nose as if she’d smelled something awful.
Hecate screeched and turned beady eyes on him, as if in warning.
Urs drew back and shook her head. “What? No. No, I mean—he—no. He’s never suggested—”
Oh Hugo, you’re useless, aren’t you?
The man had really no sense. If anyone put as much effort into helping him with his family—Jay stuffed his hand back into his pocket and squeezed. Present. He needed to stay in the present.
“So, we’re only speaking in the hypothetical here?” He folded his arms.
Ursula held up a finger, before finding herself another apple. She chewed, offering pieces to Hecate. At least she broke them off. In between bites, she waved a hand at him.
“Yes, just the hypothetical. We were speaking of appetites and—”
She was endearing, especially when she was nervous. How more people didn’t adore her company—he shook his head. This is why he needed to find a new locale.
He invaded her space once more. “I believe we were speaking of vices.”
She paused and blinked her thick, black, sleepy lashes at him. How were they so dark when her hair was so light? They made her eyes glow. Smarter men painted or wrote sonnets about eyes like hers.
“Is there a difference? Between vices and appetites, I mean?”
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