James chuckled and sat down. “I did none of that. I just asked the man some questions, and he denied ever saying anything ugly about you—which was complete rubbish of course—and claimed he had nothing to do with the gossip. Like I said, he cowered like a baby.” James raised his glass and took a drink.
Martin gazed into the fire. “You didn’t need to do that, James. He’s a cheat and will hang himself with his own rope eventually.”
“That might happen sooner than you think,” James said.
“What do you mean?”
His brother crossed one leg over the other. “Hatfield still wants to beat you. He is claiming that the
Endeavor
would have triumphed over the
Orpheus
if she’d only had the chance, and he wants to prove it.”
“How the hell does he plan to do that?”
“He has just purchased another yacht—the
Endeavor II
, an exact replica of the first. He asked me to deliver the challenge to you personally. He is suggesting another race in six weeks to end all speculation about who would have taken the trophy if the accident had not occurred.”
Martin tipped his head back and sighed wearily. “Bloody Christ. His friend has been dead little more than a week, and that’s all he can think about?”
He felt his brother’s speculative gaze boring into him. “I’m surprised,” James said. “This is just the sort of thing that would have invigorated you a month ago. What has changed? You have not been yourself since Cowes, and it’s not just the accident. There’s something else. Care to tell me about it?”
Martin lifted his head off the back of the chair and gazed intently at his brother. “How much do you know?”
“Not a lot. Only that she is very rich and impossibly lovely.”
“Who said that?” Martin asked.
“My impossibly lovely wife.”
Martin said nothing for a moment, then set his glass down on the side table and leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. “She is lovely indeed, but she has ruined it for me.”
“Ruined what?”
“My superficial life. The temporary excitement of meaningless affairs and the fleeting triumph of crossing a finish line. All of that used to be my salvation, but now it has lost its appeal. I’m spending far too much time fighting against the pathetic urge to go soul-searching and settle myself down with a woman who understands me and everything that torments me—as well as everything that exhilarates me.”
“Maybe it’s time you stopped fighting it,” James said in a low voice.
Martin glanced up irritably. “You think I should go and propose to her? That if I stick a ring on her finger and make myself a husband again, all will be well after the wedding night?”
“No, I don’t think anything of the sort. I think if you married her or anyone else tomorrow, it would be a mistake and a dismal failure.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence.”
James stood up and walked around the back of his chair. “Let me ask you this. What did you do four years ago after you buried your wife and son?”
“I came home,” he replied. “There was certainly nothing to keep me in America. I had no home, no belongings. Everything was gone.”
“So you boarded a train the very next day and were steaming across the Atlantic before a week had passed.”
“That’s right.” He paused. “Then you bought me my first yacht.”
“Which you promptly wrecked,” James said. “I remember it all very clearly. Now, however, I fear that gift from me might have been a mistake.”
“Why? It took my mind off what happened.”
“Precisely, which is why you need to do what you should have done four years ago, Martin.”
“Which is what?”
“You need to grieve for your wife and son.”
A
few days later, on a sunny afternoon while strolling in Hyde Park, Evelyn encountered the Duchess of Wentworth, who was also out walking with a friend.
“Mrs. Wheaton,” the duchess said cheerfully as she approached. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Your Grace,” Evelyn replied, lowering her parasol and pulling it closed. “How lovely to see you.”
She had not called on the duchess since her visit, though she had every intention of doing so before ten days were up, as she admired her very much.
The duchess gestured toward the woman at her side, who was tall and strikingly beautiful
with brown eyes and hair the color of mahogany. “Clara, this is Mrs. Wheaton, whom I mentioned to you last week? Mrs. Wheaton, this is my sister Clara Wolfe, the Marchioness of Rawdon.”
Ah yes, one of the duchess’s American sisters. If she remembered correctly, the marchioness had married Seger Wolfe, one of the most notorious rakes in London, though he was now a respectable husband and father who took his seat in the House of Lords very seriously. “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Rawdon.”
“Would you care to join us?” the duchess asked. “We are walking to the lake.”
“I would be delighted.”
The three of them lifted their parasols and started off along the path and spoke about the weather, light politics, the social events of the upcoming week—the usual light fare that was considered polite and acceptable conversation for a stroll in the park.
Then they entered a shady section of the path with trees and bushes on either side. Evelyn recalled what the duchess had said to her the other day—that she could only bear light conversation for so long before she had to speak her mind—and suspected they had a great deal in common.
“Your Grace,” she said. “May I inquire after your brother-in-law, Lord Martin?”
The duchess lowered her parasol as well and
turned her eyes to Evelyn. “Have you not heard what has transpired recently?” she asked.
“No, I’ve heard nothing,” Evelyn replied.
The marchioness, who walked at her sister’s side, was notably silent, and Evelyn wondered how much she knew.
“If you may recall,” the duchess carefully said, “the day I called upon you, my husband was paying a call at the same time to someone else.”
“Mr. Sheldon Hatfield,” Evelyn said. “Yes, I remember.”
She remembered everything.
“The good news is,” the duchess continued, “Mr. Hatfield retracted his accusations about Martin’s alleged role in the
Endeavor
’s tragic end. Or rather, he denied saying anything untoward in the first place.”
“That is indeed good news,” Evelyn said. “But I assume there is bad news to go along with the good—as there usually is when one opens with the good news?”
“Yes,” the duchess replied, smiling at Evelyn. “The fact is, I’m not sure I would call it bad news, exactly, but there is certainly new fodder for the gossips and their insufferable grapevine. Mr. Hatfield has purchased an exact replica of the
Endeavor
and has challenged Martin to a race as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Good Lord.” Evelyn squeezed the handle of her parasol. “Has he accepted this challenge?”
“Yes. The race is to take place at the Squadron six weeks from now.”
Evelyn looked down at the path and pondered this for a moment. He was going to return to Cowes to race against a man for whom he held no respect. Did he fear his honor was at stake, and that to refuse was to admit Hatfield had been speaking the truth—that he
was
afraid of losing when he had never been?
“That is most underhanded of Mr. Hatfield,” Evelyn said. “He is a wretched man. I hope Martin wins. I hope he leaves Hatfield bobbing up and down in circles in his wake. Then Hatfield will finally be forced to admit Martin is a better sailor and that he himself has been jealous and ungentlemanly all along.”
There was fire in her voice, she realized suddenly, and both her companions were staring at her with great surprise and scrutiny.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said, softening her tone and clearing her throat. “That was most ill-mannered of me.”
The marchioness spoke matter-of-factly. “You needn’t apologize to us, Mrs. Wheaton. We’re American.”
All the tension drained from Evelyn’s body, and she laughed. “Thank goodness for that.”
They all shared a smile and continued walking until they reached the lake, then left the path and strolled to the water’s edge. The marchioness
knelt, removed a glove, and dipped her fingers into the water, then flicked the drops away and pulled her glove back on.
“Mrs. Wheaton,” she said, rising again and facing Evelyn. “May I share something with you, and perhaps offer some wisdom? I assure you, I only want to help.”
Caught off guard by the woman’s forthright request when they’d only just met, Evelyn nevertheless said, “Of course.”
Lady Rawdon hesitated a moment, as if she weren’t entirely sure how to say what she wished to say, then she gazed out across the lake. “When I first met my husband, he, too, was grieving for a woman he’d lost years before, and for a long time it seemed impossible that he would ever let himself love again. But I did not give up, nor did Sophia under similar circumstances when her husband wished to preserve an emotional distance after they were married.”
“You are referring to my relationship with Lord Martin,” Evelyn said, just to be clear.
“Yes. We have put the pieces together regarding your acquaintance with him, which is why we wish to tell you that you, too, must not give up, at least not without a fight.”
Evelyn scoffed. “But what can I do? I cannot get down on my knees and beg and plead for his affections. My pride will not allow that. I have been hurt too may times by a father who pushed
me away and a husband who never really wanted me, and now Martin. I’m afraid I am not adept at this kind of thing. I am too careful with my emotions. I do not openly hand over my heart.”
“There is a very fine line,” the duchess said, “between pleading for what one wants and fighting intelligently for it. There are ways.”
“But I don’t know what to do other than to go and knock on his door and tell him I love him. That is the truth, and I cannot pretend otherwise. And I told him as much that final day in Cowes, but it didn’t make any difference. He left anyway, confirming what I have known all my life.”
The two women glanced uneasily at one another. “The fact is,” the duchess said, “you wouldn’t be able to speak to him now even if you wanted to, because he is not here.”
A heavy sense of dread settled over her. “Where is he?”
“He left London two days ago and has returned to America.”
Evelyn digested this news with a painful stillness of heart, as if all her hopes had just drained out of her. She felt the distance between her and Martin stretch even wider. “Is he coming back? But of course he must be, for the race.”
“Yes. He’ll be back for that.”
“Was he so very miserable here?” she asked, trying not to feel hurt that he had not been missing her or hoping they might see each other again,
as she had been hoping. He had left the country entirely, and had not even said good-bye.
“Contrary to what the world thinks,” the duchess said, “that he is a lighthearted, cavalier charmer without a care in the world, he is in fact the opposite. He is a deeply passionate man. He cannot love halfway, nor can he easily let go once he has allowed someone into his heart. So yes, he has often been unhappy over the past four years.”
But Evelyn knew that, didn’t she? She had experienced his fiery passions and recognized the depths of his grief for the loss of his loved ones.
Inhaling deeply, she wandered away from the duchess and marchioness and watched a blackbird fly from one of the treetops out over the water. She recalled the night she and Martin had sailed together by moonlight back to Cowes. He had not seemed so unhappy then, nor during the days and nights that followed when they stole every opportunity to be together. He had seemed genuinely content, and she was certain it had not been an act.
“Why did he go?” she asked as she turned to face the ladies. “What does he hope to accomplish?”
“He intends to visit the place where he lived with his wife and child, and see the friends they had made there. My husband encouraged him to do it, Mrs. Wheaton. He felt it was necessary.”
She sighed. “There was a brief time in Cowes
when I thought I could make him forget about all that. I thought I alone could make him happy, that I could be the cure to what ailed him.”
“But you
were
the cure,” the duchess said, striding forward. “You pulled him out of that false life he was living. He has gone back to America to face the past and lay it to rest. He would not be doing that if it weren’t for you. So we are all very grateful to you, Mrs. Wheaton. What ever it is you did,
thank you
.”
Evelyn felt a strange inner satisfaction spread through her. “I don’t know what I did—except to love him.”
Both her companions looked at each other and smiled brightly, then the duchess approached and took her by the arm. She led her back onto the path while Lady Rawdon followed.
“First of all,” she said, “from this moment on, you must call me Sophia.”
“And me, Clara,” her sister added.
“But before we talk about anything else,” Sophia continued, “we must return to our earlier conversation about not giving up and not being afraid to risk your emotions. My brother-in-law is worth it, Mrs. Wheaton, and I hope you will return to Cowes for the race and see him again. Not on your knees, but on your feet, looking very beautiful in just the right gown and shoes, and charging forward, swinging your sword in all your feminine glory.”
Evelyn felt an indefinable lightness lift her spirits suddenly. Sophia was right. Evelyn was not the same woman she had been before that magical week in Cowes, and she could not go back to being afraid. She had already learned to take risks. She’d entered into an affair with Martin, the man she’d always loved from afar, and she’d survived the loss of him, hadn’t she? She’d also survived a sinking yacht on stormy seas. If she could do all that, she could do this, too. She’d come too far to give up now. And she loved him.
“
Yes
, Sophia,” she said with a smile. “I believe you are right, and thank you for saying it. Perhaps it’s time I took charge of the situation and finally got behind the wheel of my life. He is worth it. I have no doubt of that.”
“That’s what we were hoping to hear,” Clara cheerfully said.
Evelyn turned back and linked her arm through Clara’s as well. “But I might need your help. Both of you.”
“Of course,” Sophia said. “Anything. What can we do?”
“You can come shopping with me for my arsenal of weapons,” Evelyn replied. “And I think we should definitely begin with the shoes.”