by Sara Bennett
Her dark eyes were enormous, her face pale. He wished he could take the question back. Despite the rift between Patrick and himself he would never wish him ill. But he knew why he’d asked it. It was seeing the son he could never claim and the woman he loved and who had never really been his.
After a moment she recovered, smoothing her hands over her skirt and turning her head toward the window so she didn’t have to look at him. “If Patrick died I’d mourn him. He is my husband.”
As if he needed the reminder. But if he was dead then you’d be able to marry me. Sebastian thought the words but did not speak them aloud. He could not. He would not.
“And if I died?” he asked her instead, longing to take her hand in his, put his arms about her and hold her close, kiss her soft lips. He resisted. They were already close to breaking point.
Slowly she turned back to look at him. Tears filled her dark eyes. “Then I may as well be dead myself,” she whispered.
He took a step toward her and God knew what might have happened next, except that Patrick appeared through the doorway, his face tight with anger and suspicion.
What had his friend thought would happen when he made that request for Sebastian to father a child? Did he think they would all remain friends, return to what they had been before? Had he really believed such a thing possible?
Patrick’s eyes narrowed as he looked from Sebastian to Lavinia. Even though they were standing apart, not even touching, Patrick seemed able to sense the emotion in the room.
“Captain Longhurst,” he said sharply. “I didn’t realise you were planning to visit.”
He bent to his wife, resting his hand on her shoulder as if to stake his claim. The action sent a clear message, and Sebastian swallowed down his anger and jealousy. “I wanted to see the child,” he said, “and you had not invited me.”
Patrick nodded slowly, and suddenly there was no more pretence between them. “And I won’t invite you. Ever again. I want you to stay away from my son and my wife, Longhurst. Do you hear me?” He leaned closer and his voice shook. “Stay away.”
Now, on the battlefield at Waterloo, Sebastian took another step forward. “Patrick!” he called out, thinking he recognised the other man’s face despite the filth smeared across it. “Wellington needs you!” A cannon ball smashed into the ground, too close for comfort. “We have to go back,” he muttered to himself. But Patrick hadn’t moved and whatever bad feeling lay between them now, he had his duty to perform. Sebastian took a step forward and then another one.
A ball stuck so close to him that the earth rose up in a wave, splattering against his face and body. He shouted again, and this time he was certain Patrick heard him. An idea came to him, dark and sickening. If he left Patrick here to die would Lavinia turn to him? Could they live a happy life together, with him knowing how he had abandoned a fellow soldier?
No, he couldn’t do it.
“Longhurst!” Patrick called again. “Have you come to make sure I do not leave this place alive?”
What the hell . . . ! Sebastian wiped the mud from his mouth with an expression of disgust. Patrick was standing several yards away. “Patrick, we must go back.”
“I knew you would come,” Patrick shouted. “I was counting on it.”
“Do you think Lavinia wants a dead hero, Patrick? You have a son. Why are you risking your life out here when you have so much?” If Lavinia belonged to him, Sebastian knew he would do all in his power to return to her.
Suddenly Patrick was close enough to reach out and grasp his sleeve. “She loves you. Every time she looks at Oliver she sees you.”
“I only did as you asked,” Sebastian said bitterly.
“And I wish I had never asked.”
There was another explosion, much closer this time. It felt as if the whole world was being annihilated around him.
“If you die,” Patrick said, a strange smile on his face, “then she’ll still love you, but I’ll be there to comfort her. I will hold Lavinia in my arms and as time passes your memory will fade. You’ll be forgotten.”
Something hard pushed against his side. Sebastian looked down and for the first time noticed the cocked pistol in Patrick’s hand.
“What is this?” he said, lifting his eyes to Patrick’s.
The other man’s gaze held no pity. “Thank you for my son, Sebastian, I really am very grateful.”
A moment later everything went black.
Eight
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square
Her son’s smiles made Lavinia happy. He was walking now, in between falling over, and his words were still few and far between, mostly babbling. But he was healthy and he would grow into a strong man and despite Patrick’s death and Sebastian’s reckless decision that day at Waterloo, she knew she had much to be grateful for.
The nursery was decorated in cheerful colours, and the morning sun shone through the windows from Mockingbird Square. She spent as much time as she could in here with him, refusing to allow Mary, the nanny, to shoo her out, although she was fully aware the woman wanted to. Martin had employed her, with advice from their mother, and she was strict and old-fashioned.
Oliver was meant to have a wet nurse too—Patrick had planned for one to be brought in to feed his son—but when he was killed and Sebastian injured, Lavinia had been far too distraught to allow her son to be taken by a stranger. She had had the audacity to nurse him herself.
“Scandalous!” her mother had informed her, when she found out. “Disgraceful! Martin, did you know about this?” Since it was Martin who had taken over Patrick’s affairs his mother blamed him for the situation.
Martin had blustered. “Lavinia wouldn’t listen. You know what she’s like, Mother.”
“What does it matter anyway?” Lavinia had said. “Who is there to care? I am hidden away in mourning.”
And the man I loved is now forbidden to me.
She’d had her way, they’d left her alone, but now everything was about to change. She was returning to her place in Society for the sake of her son’s future, and her family were riding on the Richmond coat-tails. All these years they had been miserably poor with only their illustrious past to sustain them, and now they had their sights set on a bright new future.
Martin had continued the allowance given to her mother by Patrick, and taken one for himself—payment for his services, he’d said. Previously Lavinia had been too bound up in her own grief to ask him questions, but she knew she should be asking them now. She had fully intended to, but since her visit to the theatre two days ago, she was finding it difficult to focus her thoughts on anything but Sebastian and the beautiful courtesan.
She brushed her fingers over her son’s chubby cheek, smiling into his ocean blue eyes. Sebastian’s eyes. Would anyone else notice? Patrick’s eyes had been blue too. She suspected that if Patrick had lived he would have completely ignored Oliver’s parentage.
When her son was born, when she looked at Patrick across the baby’s head, she’d wondered what she would see there. An acknowledgement that this was not his flesh and blood? Beaming paternal pride? Instead she had seen something hot and angry. Patrick was burning up inside, he was full of jealous rage. She had seen that rage again when Sebastian came to visit and Patrick had warned him away.
If Patrick had lived, would he have been able to overcome his feelings, and love his son as he should be loved? Lavinia knew that no matter what she would have had to continue playing her part as the loving wife and mother. Perhaps it would have grown easier as the years went by.
Perhaps, but she didn’t think so.
Every single day she’d have felt as if she was living a lie, and that at any moment it would all come undone. That someone would find out the truth, or she would give herself away. And then she began to wish that someone would discover the truth. Because then she could walk away from Patrick’s house of cards and go to the man she was aching for so desperately.
When the news was brought to her that Patrick
was dead, in that instant, she had been relieved. Even as guilt swamped her, and she felt disgusted with herself, there had been no denying it. Some secret part of her was glad because the pretence was at an end, and she and Sebastian could be together. And then when she learned he was injured and dying, it felt like a judgment upon her. She was an evil woman and now she would end up with neither man, and it served her right.
After Martin had spoken to her at the hospital, when she learned what Sebastian had done, then her punishment had been complete. She could never allow Sebastian back into her life again, not in the way she had dreamed. They must spend their lives apart and alone, and that was exactly how it should be.
“My lady?”
She hadn’t noticed the maid hovering in the doorway.
“There is a gentleman here to speak with you. I did not know if you were at home to him or not?”
“What gentleman? Did he send a card?”
The maid shook her head and Lavinia could see she was a little bemused by the gentleman in question.
“Who is it then?” she asked with impatience.
“Captain Longhurst, ma’am.”
Lavinia looked away. Her hands were shaking but she clenched her fists. She didn’t want to see him. It was too soon after their last meeting.
“What does he want?” she asked herself but the maid answered her.
“He won’t say, my lady.”
“Then tell him I am indisposed.”
The maid curtseyed and disappeared, and Lavinia breathed a sigh of relief. What could he want from her? After the theatre she had spent a restless night imagining him with that courtesan, kissing her and fondling her, doing all the things he had done with her. It seemed she was really a very selfish person because although Lavinia knew she couldn’t have him, nor did she want anyone else to.
The maid was back. “I’m sorry, my lady, but he is insisting you see him. I-I told him you were indisposed but he said it is very important he speaks to you and it cannot wait until you are . . . more willing.”
The girl’s face was flushed and she fidgeted uneasily. It seemed that Sebastian was determined to have his way.
He was being a bully, Lavinia told herself, and she should refuse and sent him away, but at the same time she was aware that she could no longer hide from him. She’d hidden at Monkstead’s and then the night at the theatre, scurrying away, refusing to face him. Being a coward. Hadn’t she decided that she needed to be braver?
Perhaps Sebastian still believed she would change her mind about opening her heart to him? Well, it was time she told him that was never going to happen.
“Show him in to the parlour,” she told the maid.
She closed her eyes, and suddenly she was back in the hospital, Sebastian’s hand in hers, and her brother was standing at her side saying the words that had ended all her dreams of a happy ending . . .
“Let me tell you about the rumour, Lavinia, before you make a complete fool of yourself and ruin everything.”
“What rumour?” She knew her eyes were wild. Distraught. Sebastian lay on the narrow bed before her, his head swathed in bandages, while what little she could see of his face was as white as death. And now her brother was saying something about rumours.
“The good Captain was sent to find your husband during the heat of battle. They were seen together just before Patrick was killed.”
“They were together?” she whispered. Her fingers were tangled in Sebastian’s, heavy and warm.
“Yes. When the cannon fired its fatal shot, Captain Longhurst was seen to push Patrick, as if in the way of it. As if he wanted to injure him.”
She shook her head.
“The two men had fallen out. Over you, Lavinia. Everyone guessed that you and Captain Longhurst were lovers.”
He must have seen in her face that it was true, and he shook his head at her. “You are a fool, Lavinia.”
She opened her mouth to tell him everything but stopped herself. Oliver’s parentage was a secret she could not share.
“You were lovers and Captain Longhurst wanted Patrick dead. And now he is.”
She stared up at him with her thoughts racing. She remembered the last conversation they had had, Sebastian asking her how she would feel if Patrick died. Was this her fault? Had she led him to believe she would welcome such an action? In her guilty heart she wondered if perhaps Sebastian had read her mind.
She shook her head violently. Her thoughts had been her own. She may have wished for a happy outcome between herself and Sebastian, but she would never have wanted Patrick’s death as part of the deal. And neither would Sebastian.
“No,” she said. “No, no! I don’t believe it. Sebastian would never . . . he is an honourable man . . . he and Patrick were friends, Martin!”
“Friends who refused to speak to each other. The Duke of Wellington had to pull them aside and reprimand them. Patrick had everything Longhurst here wanted, so he took it.”
She shook her head.
But Martin was determined and his voice went on and on, and though she continued to argue, her guilty conscience caused her to begin to wonder and then to doubt, and then to believe. He took her arm and helped her up and she went with him, and left Sebastian in the hospital alone.
Nine
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square
Lavinia was taking her time coming downstairs. Sebastian knew he’d pushed her by insisting she see him, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she sent him another excuse by way of her maid. It wouldn’t have mattered. Whatever she said he was determined to see her, even if he had to force his way into the house and search every room until he found her.
Thankfully it hadn’t come to that. The door to the parlour opened and he looked up. She stepped into the room and closed it behind her, not once meeting his eyes. Her simple pale mauve gown clung to her hips and thighs as she walked, and her hair was not so elaborately arranged as it had been the other night at the theatre. In fact she was a little untidy.
He remembered making her untidy. He remembered all too well how she could look when he had her in bed with him.
His throat went dry and he had to force himself to recall why he was here.
He bowed. “Lady Richmond.”
Her face was still and calm, not a ripple of emotion. Nothing like it had been the other night when he’d thought she might faint. Some ruthless urge to test her made him say abruptly, after they were seated, “Are you well? I noticed at the theatre you seemed . . .” upset “. . . indisposed.”
“I have been living a cloistered life, and I am still not used to crowds,” she said, as if her answer was planned and ready. She straightened her shoulders and looked at him at last and he searched her face, trying to see what she was thinking, what was going on in her mind, but she was wearing her Ice Maiden mask.
He wished he could reach out and shake her until the mask crumbled and the real woman, the woman he had once thought he knew so well, appeared. The Lavinia he’d held in his arms must still be there, somewhere, inside the mask.
Frustrated, he ran a hand over his head, trying to calm himself, to find the words he needed to say. “Lavinia . . .” he began.
“Lady Richmond.”
Formality was another mask she hid behind.
“Lady Richmond,” he corrected himself patiently. “I have something I need to tell you. The reason why I was at the theatre . . .”
Her eyes flew to his, only to retreat again. “Captain, I don’t think I want to know about your visit to the theatre with your-your companion. I wish you every happiness with her. I know we once had reason to be close, but that time is passed. I allowed you into my home today to remind you of that. Please do not visit me again.”
He frowned. It took him a moment to hear what she was saying, to digest it. Did he believe it? He blinked away the pain and took note of her unease, the way her eyes flickered from his, the way her fingers plucked at her skirt. She could be uncomfortable in his company for the reaso
n she had just outlined. And yet, if she was truly indifferent to him, why mention Mrs Chandler? And despite her saying she wished him happy, he did not believe her.
“My companion?” he repeated.
She straightened her shoulders, and he could see the tension in her neck. There was a pulse beating there, and he wanted to lean forward and press his lips to it, run his tongue over her warm creamy skin. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at her with the disinterest she seemed to crave.
“The way you live your life is nothing to do with me,” she went on, again not looking at him. “We are near enough to strangers.”
That made him angry. So they were strangers? Was that what she had told herself when she didn’t come to visit him in the hospital or return his letters? It still hurt.
“My visit today has nothing to do with you and me, Lavinia. I’m not asking you to revisit old times. I am here about Patrick’s money. Your son’s inheritance. Your brother is spending it hand over fist. That is what I’ve come to tell you. At the rate he is going through Patrick’s money there will be none left by the time Oliver is of age.”
She was staring at him now, her eyes wide in her horrified face. “Martin is what?”
“My brother heard the story from someone who knows your brother, and when he told me I decided to test the theory for myself,” Sebastian said. “I asked around. Martin is gambling, he spends most nights at the tables, and he has a mistress called Mrs Chandler. A very expensive mistress. I believe he’s recently bought himself a matching pair of greys to pull his new phaeton.” He paused and his voice dropped. “You are very pale, Lavinia. Would you like me to ring for some restorative?”
She shook her head, her lips almost white as the words tumbled from them. “Martin wouldn’t . . . I don’t believe . . .” And yet he saw the growing belief in her dark eyes, and the fury. Her cheeks turned from white to pink and she stood up, marching back and forth in front of him, so angry he wondered if she would combust.