by Joyce Alec
Josephine did not know what to say, finding herself growing more and more astonished at the fervency of Lord Farrington’s words. To her eyes, it seemed that he was being very honest indeed, although, of course, she might well be mistaken in that assumption given the sort of gentleman he was.
And yet, the almost wild look in his eyes, the way he paced up and down the room, and the gesticulations he made as he spoke all put her in mind of believing him to be telling the truth. Josephine did her best to keep her considerations balanced, not to give in to that belief, but the more he spoke, the more she found herself wanting to do so.
“I made a foolish mistake,” Lord Farrington muttered, pushing yet another hand through his hair so that it sat in a most untidy way. “Some years ago, I made a mistake that was so shaming, so utterly mortifying, that I have, since that day, tried to forget all that followed.”
Letting out a small exclamation, Josephine managed to drag Lord Farrington’s attention back to her, seeing how he jumped as she spoke as though he had forgotten that she was present.
“Then might I suggest, Lord Farrington, that you begin there?” she said as gently as she could. “My uncle has, as I have said, been upset by this matter for some time but has done nothing about it until this day. Whether that has been because he wished to make certain that you did so yourself or because he believed the matter to be entirely closed—until it appeared otherwise—I could not say.”
Lord Farrington stared at her, his jaw slack and his eyes rounding. Josephine did not know what she had said to make him react in such a way but kept herself just as she had been, sitting quietly with her veiled face tipped up toward him.
“Pray tell me that your uncle is not Lord Kingston.”
The name on his lips sent a shudder of surprise through Josephine but she did not reply. Evidently, this was enough of a response, for Lord Farrington let out a loud groan and threw his head back, his hands pressed to his eyes. Josephine did not know what to do, watching Lord Farrington closely and wondering whether or not she ought to remain quiet or if she ought to confirm or deny what he had asked aloud.
“He is, he is,” Lord Farrington groaned, evidently coming to his own conclusion on the matter. “Your uncle is Lord Kingston. I had heard he was finally back in London but had not wanted to believe it.” His hands dropped to his sides and he turned to look at her, his shoulders slumped. “I should have known. I should have guessed.”
“Lord Farrington, precisely who my uncle is should be of no importance,” Josephine replied firmly. “Might we consider what it is that you are meant to be speaking to me of?”
Lord Farrington shook his head, let out another loud groan, and turned so that he faced the window, walking toward it and staring out at the darkening sky.
“Lord Kingston,” he said, so quietly that Josephine had to strain to hear him. “It makes sense, of course, for he was always furious even though I said I would make amends for what I had done. Of course, I have done no such thing and now he has grown tired of waiting.”
Rising to her feet and fully aware of just how hard her heart was pounding, Josephine looked directly at Lord Farrington through her veil. All she could see of him was his hunched back, his arms pressed out to either side of the window frame, and his head low.
“I think, Lord Farrington, that you should start at the beginning of whatever incident it is that you speak of,” she said with as much firmness in her voice as she could muster. “It is important that—”
“Tomorrow.”
Josephine blinked in surprise, seeing Lord Farrington turn slowly toward her, his face haggard. There was a heaviness about him that had not been there before, a deep sense of sadness and regret that seemed to pour from him like a river.
“There is much I must think of, my lady,” he said with a weary smile that brought no lightness to his dark eyes. “Might you come to speak to me of it tomorrow?”
Wondering if this was meant to be some sort of new trick, a new attempt to have her do as he asked so that he could find a way to keep the truth from her, Josephine did not immediately give her consent. Perhaps knowing what her hesitation meant, Lord Farrington let out a bark of laughter, but it was one tinged with sadness, one that spoke of nothing more than despondency and misery.
“I shall not return to the gentleman I was before, if that is what concerns you,” he told her. “I am truthful when I state that there is a good deal on my mind that I must think through before I can speak of it.” His jaw worked for a moment and he turned his head away. “I fear that if I do so now, it shall spill out from me without coherence, dragged by emotion, and I will have to speak of it all a good deal more in order to explain everything to you.” Shaking his head, he looked back at her steadily. “I am sure now that this is precisely what your uncle wishes me to speak of,” he finished. “And I will do so, but only once I can be certain that everything I say will not need repeating or further explanation. “Swallowing hard, he ran one hand over his eyes. “It is all very painful indeed and something that I have pushed from me for a long time.”
“Very well.” Josephine made her way toward the door, taking her dinner tray with her, fully aware that she had not eaten a single thing. “Until luncheon tomorrow, Lord Farrington.”
He did not answer her and when she turned her head to look back at him, she saw a slumped figure in the chair, his head in his hands. Still a little confused as to whether this was true grief and genuine sorrow or if it was merely a fiction dredged up to make her trust him, Josephine held her gaze steadily for a moment, daring him silently to look up so that she might see that flicker of a smile on his face or the hope in his eyes that he had succeeded in his intentions.
There came none.
“Lock the door at once,” she instructed, handing the tray to the waiting butler before turning back toward the door. Watching the footman lock it carefully, she quickly bent down to look through the keyhole, fully expecting to see Lord Farrington rising from his chair, that familiar jaunty expression on his face. Perhaps an expression mixed with triumph, given all that he had achieved.
Instead, however, Lord Farrington remained precisely where he was. His head still in his hands, she heard him mutter something she could not hear, saw him rub at his eyes with one hand before shaking his head heavily. Slowly, she straightened, her mind heavy with thoughts and a slow certainty beginning to fill her.
“Is everything all right, my lady?”
She nodded. “It seems so,” she replied as the butler began to walk with her down the hallway. “I believe that Lord Farrington might, finally, be willing to speak to me about the secrets of his past.”
“That is excellent, my lady,” the butler replied as Josephine preceded him down the staircase. “Might I fetch you another dinner tray, my lady? This one is much too cold.”
Josephine turned and nodded, a small smile on her lips. “That would be most welcome,” she replied, thinking silently to herself that she had a long night ahead of her, for she was quite certain that she would not sleep at all, given what had just passed between herself and Lord Farrington. “I will be in the drawing room.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Josephine made her way into the drawing room and sat down, grateful for the small fire that was burning to chase away the summer’s evening chill. Her smile remained, a fresh hope beginning to beat in her heart as she considered Lord Farrington, considered all that he had said and all that he had promised to say. She had never intended to pretend that her uncle was Lord Kingston but, in refusing to deny it, she had evidently implied that it was as Lord Farrington feared. For whatever reason, that had upset him more than anything else Josephine might have been inclined to say and, whilst she did not have any wish for Lord Farrington to suffer, she prayed desperately that he would now, finally, speak the truth.
“I have to know,” she whispered to the empty room. “I must know what occurred. There is no other choice.”
10
The night
had passed with such slowness that Thomas had felt himself almost desperate for the morning to come. He had attempted to sleep but it had evaded him no matter how hard he tried, for his mind was filled with so much trouble that it was almost impossible for him to even close his eyes.
Lord Kingston.
The moment he had said the name aloud, something within him had told him he was correct. Lord Kingston had been furiously angry with him back at Lord Stevenson’s house party, the house party that had changed the course of his own life and of so many others at that. He had always assured Lord Kingston that he would make amends, that he would make certain that there was no lasting trouble from the matter that had come to light, but the truth was, he had done very little of that.
Lord Morton had faded away from Thomas’ life and he had never once written to him or made any attempt to see the fellow again. And, of course, when he had heard of Lord Morton’s passing only last year, a note of fear had captured his own heart but, in his desperation to keep all that he knew pushed from the front of his mind, he had simply ignored the news. That was to his shame, but it was little wonder that Lord Kingston was so upset now—and quite understandable that he should wish to punish Thomas now.
Groaning, Thomas rubbed both hands down his face. The veiled lady’s lack of interest in him and her clear disapproval of his behavior had been the catalyst he needed to allow the truth to push back into his mind, the memories and the emotions to flood back into his heart, but he had hated every moment of it. He wanted desperately to return to the cocoon of his own safety, where he could pretend that he felt no such emotions, could remember nothing of such gravitas. But it was much too late for that.
If he wanted to return to society and make his way back to some semblance of his life, then he would have to speak openly. He would have to confess that he had done nothing when it came to Lord Morton and that he ought to have done so before the gentleman had passed away. He would have to state that he had been arrogant and selfish, considering only his own needs rather than the promise he had made. It would all be spoken aloud to the veiled lady and, no doubt, she would part from him and return to her uncle in order to speak to him, to repeat all that he had said.
“Perhaps there will be some relief in that,” Thomas muttered to himself, turning onto his side as he lay in bed, the shutters and the drapes pushing aside any hint of morning light. He did not want to acknowledge it, did not want to even pretend that it was morning, and so he remained as he was for a long time until, finally, his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep.
Waking was painful. Thomas’ head pounded the moment he opened his eyes, his brow furrowing hard as he pushed one hand over his eyes, blocking out the light that came rushing toward him. Someone had been in his room, for the drapes were pulled back, the shutters wide open, and sunlight had begun to stream into the room.
Normally it would have been a very welcome sight, but today, Thomas felt nothing. He was numb, his feelings pushed aside so that he might speak without hinderance. Rising from his bed, he quickly washed and changed into his own clothes, noting how they had been laundered and pressed. Lord Kingston was, at least, making certain to take care of his guest.
Sitting down to wait, he looked at his cold breakfast tray without interest. He had no need to eat at present, no need to have sustenance of any kind. All he wanted now was to pour out every part of himself, every word of memory, every expression of regret. The veiled lady would hear it all and he would be glad to have purged himself of it.
There came a scraping of a key in the lock and Thomas lifted his head. He did not move as the door opened and the veiled lady came in, and he watched the door close behind her and heard the familiar click that told him he was once again shut in tightly.
“I heard that you have not eaten or drunk thus far today, Lord Farrington,” the veiled lady stated. “Here now. We shall not begin until you have done so.”
He shook his head. “I do not want it.”
“And I do not want to be burdened with a gentleman who is too fatigued to complete anything that he wishes to say,” the veiled lady replied, her voice sharp. “You will eat something, Lord Farrington, and I will pour your coffee. Then, we shall sit and discuss matters, whatever it is on your mind, until I am quite satisfied that I understand it all and can report it back to my uncle.”
Thomas frowned. “To Lord Kingston,” he replied, wondering why she did not simply acknowledge the name, since he was certain he was correct. “As I have said, I have no desire to eat or drink but…” He shrugged, reaching for a small honey cake. “I shall do so because you ask.”
The veiled lady sat down quickly and immediately poured them both something to drink. “That is very wise, Lord Farrington,” she replied, handing him his coffee. “If you do not mind me saying so, you appear to be rather haggard and distressed this morning.” There was no sympathy in her voice; it was simply a statement of fact. “Did you not rest?”
“I could not sleep,” Thomas grated, wondering why she was foolish enough to ask him such a thing when she must clearly be aware of the mental anguish that troubled him ever since he had realized the truth about her uncle. “And is it any wonder I could not?”
She shook her head, her veil lifting for a moment and revealing flushed cheeks and a delicate nose. “No, indeed not,” she answered, pulling the veil back into place. “I did not mean to insult you, Lord Farrington.”
Recognizing that it was his own struggle that made sharp words come from his mouth, Thomas let out a long sigh and sat back in his chair. “The sooner I speak to you of this, my lady, then the better I shall be for it, although it will bring its own form of difficulty with every word I say.”
She spread out one hand, her other holding her teacup. “Please, Lord Farrington,” she said quietly. “Whenever you are ready to begin.”
Thomas drew in a long breath, finding himself suddenly reluctant to speak. It was not as though he did not want to do so but rather that, now that the time had come for him to do so, he could barely find the words to say.
“It—it was many years ago,” he said, aware that his voice was a little hoarse. “I was in London and had become acquainted with a gentleman who soon became a close friend.” One shoulder lifted. “His elder brother was a marquess and he himself was Lord Timothy Telford.”
Upon saying those words, the lady shifted violently in her chair, her tea spilling over the side of her cup as she hastily placed it back upon the saucer. She said nothing by way of explanation but instead gestured for him to continue, making Thomas frown. Shaking his head, he wondered if she knew what he was about to say and thus, with no other choice before him, he continued.
“Lord Timothy and I became very closely acquainted, as I have said,” he said, now watching the veiled lady carefully for any sign that she knew of what he was speaking. “There were, however, foibles on Lord Timothy’s part that could not be ignored.”
The lady held up one hand to him, her palm outwards. “Foibles?”
With a shrug, Thomas tried to recall precisely what Lord Timothy had struggled with. “Most of the time, he behaved just as any normal gentleman would,” he said slowly. “However, when it came to an evening’s entertainment, he would find himself at a gambling table or a playing a game of cards and would do all he could to win as much coin as he could.” A heavy sigh left his lips as Thomas recalled just how often Lord Timothy had been in a foul mood given his lack of success. “And when he did not win, he would spend whatever coin he had left on…” He did not quite know how to express it, for the lady before him was precisely that—a lady. Struggling to find the words, he was all the more astonished when she spoke for him.
“You mean to say that he sought out and paid for the pleasures of the night,” she said in a practical voice. “Is that not so?”
“It is,” Thomas replied, aware of heat climbing up into his face and telling himself that he had no need to feel any sort of embarrassment. “I am sure that he was struggling for
coin by the end of the Season. His own estate was neglected and I believe he sent away some of his staff so that he could continue living as he pleased.” He cleared his throat and shook his head. “However, when Lord Timothy wrote to his brother requesting financial help, none was given.” A wry smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “This only made Lord Timothy a good deal angrier and I believe many a letter was exchanged. In the end, the promise was given to Lord Timothy that, should he go to the continent and seek to improve the assets there, then Lord Rutherford—for that was the gentleman’s name—would improve Lord Timothy’s estate and would put money into that rather than into the hands of Lord Timothy himself.”
“And I presume this was agreeable?”
Her question came with a certainty in her voice that Thomas wished he could consent to. Hesitating, he brought his cup to his lips and drank a little coffee, finding it refreshing him as he fought to find the right words to speak.
“Lord Timothy appeared to be in agreement,” he said without saying anything further at present. “I believed him to be so, also. Thus, we said our farewells and from what I understood, he set sail for the continent.”
The veiled lady took another sip of her tea and Thomas noted, to his surprise, that she was trembling just a little. Was there something wrong? Or was she just relieved that this was soon to come to a close and that she could return to her uncle with the news that he had said all?
“That does not seem to be anything at all, Lord Farrington,” she said, her voice strong. “Why does Lord Timothy’s actions have any bearing upon you?”
A sigh ripped from his mouth as he rubbed one hand over his eyes. “Because I was convinced that there was no need for any further anger or upset between the brothers,” he said slowly. “The following Season, when Lord Stevenson made his intention to have a house party, at the very same time, I received a note from Lord Timothy informing me that he was back in London and had been for some time. I, believing that he had done all that his brother had asked of him—albeit in a very short space of time—was greatly pleased to hear from him again. When he heard that I was attending Lord Stevenson’s house party in a fortnight’s time, he begged me to convince the fellow to extend him an invitation also. Thus, without even considering why such a request might have been made, I urged Lord Stevenson to include Lord Timothy among the guests, even though I was already aware that Lord Rutherford would be present also.”