The Heir and the Spare (23 page)

Clarice's icy voice ended our standoff. “I think we're done here.” She rang a small bell and called, “Denby.”

Jeeves appeared at the door. “Your Grace?”

She gave the butler a stern look. “Please show Miss Gray and
Prince
Edmund out. That is all.”

I rose from my chair, Edmund trailing behind me, and stopped at the doorway. This was the only time I'd ever set eyes on this woman. I needed to get this out, for me and for Mom.

“There's something you should know. Up until the very end, Mom never lost hope that one day you'd try to make amends. But, I get it now; you don't know how to love. You care nothing for me or her.” A dry laugh left my lips. “She hoped her death would finally bring us together.” I had to pause and take a deep breath. It was a struggle to speak past the lump of emotion in my throat.

How can this woman be related to my mother?
I hovered in the doorway, my knees shaky.

“How could you not say goodbye to your only child? I was so young when she died, but I still knew you weren't there. That's when I started to hate you. My mother was a wonderful woman. How that happened with you for a mother, I'll never understand. But let me be perfectly clear when I say I'm ashamed of you.”

I hate you. I wish I'd never met you.
I sucked in a raspy breath. Why had I listened to Edmund?

“I have no desire for the world to know our connection. As far as I'm concerned, you're dead. You don't exist. Enjoy what's left of your lonely, hollow life.” Spinning on my heel, I ran out of the room, not caring if Edmund followed or not.

I didn't wait for Jeeves. Instead I made a mad dash for the front door. Jerking it open, I slammed it behind me. My heels clacked against the paving stones in an angry cadence. I didn't care where I went, just as long as it was away and I was alone.

Why did you do this to me, Mom?

“Evie. Stop. Wait up,” Edmund called, trying to catch up.

I winced.
Oh God, he witnessed all that.

The blue skirt of my dress bounced as I stomped away. I'd blown out of Clarice's townhouse in a whirlwind, leaving everything behind. This had been a monumental disaster. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

His hand clasped my elbow. “Evie, slow down. Talk to me.”

I turned to face him, my temper masking the embarrassment in my watery eyes. “I don't want to talk to you.” I tried to pull away, but he held firm.

“Don't let her get to you. She's clearly not right in the head.” He wrapped my coat around my bare shoulders.

His arms enveloped me in warmth, but I pushed hard against his chest. I didn't want to hear his voice or feel his hands on me. I wanted to be far away from him and the rest of the world.

“You're not mad at
me
, are you?” Dropping his hands, he took a step back. Worry lines etched on his forehead.

“I'm mad at her, I'm mad at myself, and yes, I'm even mad at you.” I put another step between us.

“What did I do?” He held his hands up in surrender.

“You talked me into this whole mess.”

Edmund's brows knitted together. “Rubbish, I was trying to help. I knew how nervous you were and that you wouldn't come if I hadn't prodded you to. I care about you, Evie, a lot.” A strange wistful look crossed his face.

“I don't need your prodding and I don't need you pushing me into something that I don't want to do.”

Edmund kicked a rock off the pavement, pinging it off one of the iron fences. “You're mad, I get that, but I stand by the importance of you meeting her. Now you know. You told her off and you don't have to wonder anymore. She's officially done in your life.
I don't get why you're so bloody mad at me. Cross her off, move on.”

“That's beside the point!” I stamped my foot. The realization that I might be being ever so slightly irrational hit me. Only problem, I was too upset and humiliated to back down.

Edmund turned away from me with an irritated sigh, then froze. I followed his gaze, dreading what I'd see.

“Ah, that's just bloody brilliant.” He gestured toward the park, where men with cameras stood. “I'm calling for the car.”

“I'll walk.”

“All the way to Oxford?” With a laugh of frustration, he grabbed my hand. “Come on, be reasonable.”

“Of course I'm not walking all the way to Oxford. I'll catch the train.” I met his gaze with a challenging stare.

“Evie, I'm not just going to leave you in London. Where do you want to go? I'll go with you.”

I closed my eyes, trying to rein in my anger before I said something I'd regret. When I looked at him again I said, “I really don't want to be around you right now, Edmund. I need some space.”

“Let's get back to campus; you can be alone then. I promise I won't even talk to you in the car. It'll be like I'm not there.” He was mad, but trying to smile it off for the cameras.

I looked to the trees lining the opposite side of the street. I wasn't ready to play nice. “Look, I already had a mother. I don't need you trying to take her place by smothering me. Just back off, would you?”

A flash of pain seared his face; he thrust my clutch in my hands, then tucked his hands in his pockets. “Fine, do whatever you want, Evie. I'll see you back on campus.” Face like a mask, he turned away and walked off.

Way to go, Evie. You made him as mad as you are
.

I watched as he left me behind without a backward glance. A small smidgen of relief swam in my mind, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the regret surging through me. I'd let my emotions overpower me.
Why didn't I stop?
Unsteady breaths burned my chest. I turned away, unable to watch his back any longer.

Arm outstretched, I hailed a taxi. One of London's famous black cabs pulled up to the curb and I hopped in.

“Where to, Miss?” The driver boasted a thick accent I couldn't place. He stared at me in the rearview mirror like he recognized me and was trying to sort out how.

“Victoria and Albert Museum, please.” The cab jolted from the curb before I could buckle up. I grasped for the seatbelt, breathing a sigh of relief when I heard it click into place. The cab darted in and out of traffic. Just looking out the windows made me anxious.

We pulled up to the curb with a sudden lurch. “Your stop, Miss. That'll be a fiver.”

“That was quick.” I don't know if it was his driving, or the fact that I probably could've walked here, that made the trip feel like I'd been in warp speed.

He smiled as I handed him six pounds and jumped onto the curb. Behind me I heard him speed away.

Looking up at the large white stone entrance, I took a moment to just enjoy the beauty around me. I needed to get myself in a better mood.

Most of the building was red brick. Rows of windows glistened in the sunlight. With a contented sigh, I walked up the small flight of steps and through one of the large doors. Breathing in a deep breath, I thought,
this is exactly what I need
.

Inside, a massive rotunda greeted me. Suspended in the center was a chandelier. Not just a simple chandelier, oh no, it was an original Dale Chihuly. And it was breathtaking. Delicate blue-and-green tendrils of blown glass curled over, around, and through each other. It had to be at least thirty feet long.

A pang of homesickness hit me square in the chest. Chihuly was a Seattle artist. I loved his museum and gardens nestled under the Space Needle. I sighed, wishing I were home with Dad and Abby.

My hand slipped into my clutch, searching for Mom's letters as I set off to explore. This morning I'd grabbed them on my way out. I needed her with me. Now, here, I was doubly glad.

Wandering around the museum, I tried to push the hellish morning from my mind. I wanted to forget all about Clarice and my fight with Edmund.

Clarice, I easily chucked aside. Edmund, not so much. He stayed in the forefront of my thoughts.

Just being in a museum reminded me of him
.
The weekends we'd spent traipsing through other museums swam through my memories. Being here alone didn't feel right. It was too quiet. I was lonely without him.

I missed him.

I looked at the ceiling and I sent up a silent apology.
Edmund, I wish you were here.

I explored and admired paintings by Botticelli, Rembrandt, Tintoretto, and numerous others, marveling at the artists' overwhelming talent.

But after only an hour I was ready to leave.

Edmund probably would've had some interesting facts to share. He always did. I imagined him standing beside me. I could almost feel his hand in mine. We'd stare at the Botticelli and he'd lean a little closer and whisper some obscure fact in my ear.

How could I have been so awful to him?
My breath hitched in my throat. He'd only been trying to help, looking out for my best interests. He was right, meeting Clarice was closure.
Oh, God,
the way I behaved.
I cringed. Bet he wasn't having any trouble seeing the family resemblance.

I walked a little farther and stood in front of a Tintoretto, my vision blurring. I put my face in my hands and pressed my palms against my eyes, attempting to turn off the tears without smearing the crap out of my mascara. Someone grazed my shoulder and stood beside me. I froze, wishing whoever it was would go away and leave me to cry in private.

“Did you know his father was a dyer? Which they would have called a
tintore
back then. That's how he got the nickname of Tintoretto; it means ‘little dyer.' His real name was Jacopo Comin.”

I dropped my hands and turned. A smile burst from my lips at the sight of him standing so close to me, hands clasped behind his back. Wiping at my eyes, I couldn't manage anything above a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I might find you here. There was no way I could just drive off and leave you in London. Especially not as upset as you were.” His eyes softened as he looked at me. “I had to make sure you were all right. You still mad?” He tucked his hands in his pockets, looking contrite.

I shook my head. “I've had time to calm down. I'm pretty sure I'm sane again. I can't believe I blew up at you like that.” My hands twisted together in front of me. I wanted to touch him, but I couldn't bring myself to reach for him. “I'm really sorry.”

“It's okay.” His hand caressed my cheek. I leaned into it with a small sigh. “This morning was a little intense. And maybe I shouldn't have pressured you. I just didn't want you to regret not meeting her while you had the chance.” He broke into a grin. “But honestly, the way you took her on was cracking.”

I chuckled, then scrunched my face, reaching for his hand. “She's awful, isn't she?”

“She is.” Edmund nodded and pulled me into a hug.

“I'm sorry you had to see that.” I curled into his chest.

“No worries. We all have at least one family member we'd rather not claim. I've got an uncle whose goal is to party it up and sleep with the entire female population of Britain. You don't want to know the problems he's caused.” He laughed, leaned back, and stared into my eyes. “So you've got a mean, old harpy for a grandmother. It could be worse.”

“Oh really?” I held onto his hands as we stood alone in the hallway. “How could it be worse?”

“Well . . .” He paused to think. “I suppose she could take up body painting herself and then go jogging in Kensington Gardens every Sunday.” He waggled his brows playfully at me.

“Touché.” I laughed.

“Come on.” He grabbed my hand, his eyes full of mischief. “Let's get lost together.”

When I hung up from talking with an apologetic Anton, I bundled into my blanket and went to the couch in my dorm room. Knowing I'd reached the destination of the quest letters made me miss Mom more. At least there was one final letter waiting for me, according to Anton. Staring out the window into the dark night, my mind wandered back to Clarice.

I've got to call Dad and tell him about her.
And I needed to do it before he read it in some sleazy tabloid. It'd be much better coming from me, but I really didn't want to do it.

With a deep sigh, I looked up at the stars. “I wish you were here, Mom.”

Scrolling through my phone to Dad's number, I held my finger over the call button. His day was just starting.
Maybe I should save this for after work?
The thought of shattering his image of Mom didn't sit well with me. Dread settled into my bones, making me feel heavy.

I tossed my phone on the black cushion next to me.

There was one positive in all this. I now knew for certain nothing would change. Having a duchess for a grandmother wouldn't make any difference to me. My life would eventually go back to normal, which was reassuring.

The sun was just starting to set as I walked back from the student bookstore. It was staying light longer now. A sure sign spring was on its way, which made me giddy.

“I have some interesting information.” Preston fell into step next to me, the dimple in his cheek coming out with his playful grin.

“Oh? And what would that be?” I zipped the front of my black, fitted fleece jacket.

“I overheard Chloe talking to one of her friends about you.”

“About me? Really?” I impatiently gestured for him to continue. “And?”

“Well, she was bragging about Jax. She's the one who told the tabloids about you and your grandmother.” His jacket flapped behind him in the wind.

What the hell?
“Jax? How did she know?” My face scrunched and I tucked closer to Preston as a large truck lumbered down the street, too close to the curb.

“Apparently she hired a private investigator to dig into your past.”

I stopped. “Ew, creeptastic much?”