The Rogue You Know (Covent Garden Cubs) (18 page)

She touched her belly lightly. A child. She had not thought of that. “You’re protecting me.”

“No.” He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Don’t look at it that way. This doesn’t always work. If I really wanted to protect you, I wouldn’t touch you.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re not that cruel.”

“Your view will likely change.”

She drew back, pressing her arms stiffly to her sides. “It won’t.” She looked away, her gaze fastening on the matted straw where they’d slept twined in each other’s arms. She’d known the morning would come, and it would herald a farewell.

“Shall we pay our visit to Mr. Southey? I know you are anxious to claim your payment, but—”

“I’ll take you to Vauxhall.” He moved quickly away from her, bending to brush straw from his trousers. “I’d like to enter through the Proprietor’s House once instead of under the fence. Never had an invitation anywhere before.” His words were light and teasing, but his voice held a hint of bitterness.

She’d insulted him, and she’d done it to goad him. She wanted him to tell her he didn’t care about the necklace anymore. It was her he wanted, and the necklace be damned.

Unfair, she knew.

Of course the necklace mattered. It was worth more money than he’d probably ever imagined. She hadn’t asked his intentions, and she didn’t plan to, but she suspected he would sell it and use the money to leave Town. He’d want to start a new life.

She wanted that for him. She wanted him to have a future where he’d be safe.

She had wanted to be part of that future.

It took the better part of the morning to walk back to Vauxhall. The night before, Gideon had concocted a story about his pocket being picked and having no money to take the ferry back across the Thames. They’d secured a ride as far as the lodging house with an older couple whose eyes Susanna could not quite meet. She was certain they didn’t believe she was Mrs. Harrow and could somehow see she was no longer a virgin as clearly as if it were written on her face.

When they finally reached the gardens again, Susanna was desperate for a sip of water. Beauty had run through several marshes and was once again a dirty brown. Beauty’d drunk plenty of the water, but Susanna’s nose protested the stink. Her throat felt as dry as parchment.

Her hair clung damply to her neck, and her petticoat felt heavy with the last of the morning dew. Gideon rapped loudly on the Proprietor’s House, showing Southey’s card when the door finally opened. They were admitted, and Susanna studied the paintings they had seen the night before. Hogarth, she decided now that she saw them in the morning light. She breathed deeply of the fresh air in the Grove when they finally stepped outside.

A man carrying a heavy bag of what looked to be potatoes jerked his chin in the direction of the Chinese Pavilions, and Susanna and Gideon found Southey pruning a rose bush. Bullfinches and wrens sang cheerily in the trees, and Susanna lifted her face to the filtered sunlight streaming through the leaves.

Southey removed his hat and bowed. “Mr. and Mrs. Harrow. I hoped you’d come.”

Beauty yipped.

“You too, dog,” Southey said and tipped his hat.

“You couldn’t keep us away,” Susanna said with a smile.

Southey gestured to a nearby arbor furnished with a bench and a table. “Some lemon water to refresh you?”

“Thank you.” Susanna took the opportunity to rest on the bench for a few moments and drink while Gideon chatted amiably with Southey. “How long have you tended Vauxhall Gardens?”

“Oh, more than twenty years or so,” Southey said, leaning back on his heels. “I’m fortunate to be the second son of a viscount. I might have had to join the clergy or the navy, but when I was about twelve, I discovered a new method for farming that more than tripled the yield on my father’s land. A few years later, I wrote a paper about it, and now I travel the world showing gentleman farmers, and those who aren’t so much the gentleman, how to better work their land.”

“You must love it,” Susanna said. “You’re obviously very talented. It’s even more beautiful in the daylight.”

“Tending the land is in my blood.” He bent and plucked a weed, turning it between his fingers. “I must say, Mrs. Harrow, you do remind me of a woman I once knew many years ago.”

“You said as much last night. You seem to remember her fondly.”

He dropped the weed and rubbed his palms on his trousers. “That I do. Come, I’ll show you around.”

They walked, and he pointed out the Handel Piazza and the Rotunda, listing when each was added and the part he played in the landscaping. As they made their way back to the arbor, Susanna asked again about the lady he’d said she resembled.

“Whatever happened to the lady you mentioned? Was she promised to another?”

Southey’s long face lengthened. “She was the daughter of a duke, and I merely the second son of a viscount. Her family didn’t approve of the match.”

Susanna stilled.

“And this was your secret rendezvous?”

“Dorrie and I would meet here every chance we could. She came every night she could get away. We would talk until the sun rose.” He rubbed his hands on his trousers and led them on the path back to the arbor. “The days were interminable.”

“But the nights passed all too quickly.”

Southey smiled at Gideon. “I see the fellow knows just what I mean. You’re lucky to have found a lasting love,” he said. “Don’t let it go. If I could go back, I would do anything and everything to keep my Dorrie. I’d never let her go.”

Susanna wanted desperately to look at Gideon, to see his expression. Instead, she kept her gaze on the gravel path before her. Dorrie, a duke’s daughter, Vauxhall Gardens…

Susanna’s head was down and her gaze on her worn, ill-fitting boots, so she didn’t see Southey abruptly halt in front of her. She was almost on top of him when Gideon grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking around at the trees and the path dappled with sunlight.

“Dorrie?” Southey said, his voice hoarse with emotion and disbelief.

Susanna jerked her attention to the arbor they’d occupied earlier. She hadn’t realized they were so close, and for a moment she was cheered at the prospect of more lemon water. And then she felt as though she’d been struck in the chest by a low-hanging tree limb.

Her mother stood in the arbor, eyes wide with shock.

Dorothea stared at her daughter as she moved past the trees shading the arbor and into view. She could hardly believe the girl coming toward her, a dirty mongrel trailing behind her, was her own daughter. Susanna’s hair fell in long, tousled curls down her back and framed her face, softening the angular cheeks and chin. Heavy as it was, her hair shifted as she walked, making her hips seem to sway provocatively. Had her daughter always walked thus? Or was it an illusion of the unbound hair and the ghastly dress she wore?

Her lovely daughter—the child she’d always kept neat and clean—had dirt smudged on one arm and straw in her hair. The skirts of the gown were covered in mud and grass, and her boots!

Dorothea could not bear to look.

She made the mistake of looking past her daughter, to the man at her side. He was a ruffian if she’d ever seen one. He had two days’ worth growth of beard and a lean, hungry look. The scar slashing across his temple proved his propensity for mischief.

She opened her mouth—she knew not what she would say—when a voice broke the twitter of bird song.

“Dorrie!”

Dorothea stilled, wondering if her mind played tricks on her. She’d come to the arbor because it was the place they’d always met. She’d wanted to see it again, see if it had changed, if her memories of it were accurate. Brook had wanted to go to The Dark Walk, and she’d assured him she could find her own way. Now she heard the voice she answered to in her dreams.

Her gaze fastened on the older man preceding Susanna. His once-bright red hair had faded and the temples were streaked with white. His beard was still a vibrant red and his eyes bright blue. His skin had been darkened to a rich gold by the sun, and his broad shoulders spoke of long hours of hard labor.

“Don’t you know me, Dorrie?” he asked. “I’d know you anywhere.”

“Robert.” She breathed the name like a prayer. Perhaps it was a prayer. God knew he’d been her salvation all those years ago. And now he stood before her, in the flesh. She would have known that slightly drooped mouth and those bright blue eyes anywhere.

Before she knew what she was about, before she could countermand her baser impulses, her feet moved toward him. She ran, feeling twenty again instead of her five decades, and fell into his arms, laughing with abandon. She buried her face in his coat, inhaling deeply the scents of grass, leaves, and soil. She knew his scent, even after all these years. His smell had not changed. Neither had the feel of his arms around her, the softness of his lips when he brushed them across her forehead, her cheek. His beard tickled her lips, the rough hair brushing across her sensitive skin.

She met his kisses with her own. Part of her mind was appalled. She knew she should stop. She knew she must not behave so.

But propriety and rules be damned!

That was what she should have said all those years ago. Why had she wasted her life outside the circle of Robert’s arms?

“Mother?”

The shocked voice of her daughter barely penetrated her haze of emotion. She would not have ceased covering Robert with kisses except that he pulled back and glanced at Susanna.

“What did you say?” Robert asked Susanna.

“Unhand her.” Ever stealthy, Brook entered the arbor, looking directly at Robert.

Dorothea pressed closer to Robert.

“What is this?” her son asked.

Dorothea couldn’t think how to respond. It was as though two very different worlds collided, and the impact had rendered her speechless.

“Mama is kissing Mr. Southey,” Susanna said to Brook matter-of-factly.

“This is your mother?” Robert asked, his voice incredulous. His gaze met Dorothea’s, and she nodded.

It would all come out now. There was no hope of concealing the truth.

“And this is your Dorrie,” the ruffian added, glancing at her in Robert’s arms.

“That can’t be,” Susanna whispered, her gaze wide and confused. “I thought… I knew… But he’s…”

The ruffian cleared his throat. “If I’m not mistaken, Lady Susanna, he’s your father.”

* * *

Susanna’s hand reached for an object of support. She felt nothing and faltered slightly before Gideon caught her in his arms. Immediately, she was wrenched away to Brook’s side.

Beauty jumped and barked, dancing between Gideon and Brook.

“And you, hands off my sister. How dare you insult her so?”

Susanna looked from Brook to Gideon and then back to her mother, who was still clutching Mr. Southey tightly.

Gideon gave his best cocky grin. She had almost forgotten it, forgotten how much she wanted to poke him when he flashed it. “I’m only commenting on what I see.” He gestured between Susanna and Southey. “The likeness is uncanny.”

Brook stiffened, looking from their mother to Susanna and back again.

“I’m sorry,” her mother said, her eyes pleading for understanding. Susanna stared at her, at this woman who had rarely shown any emotion other than pride. Suddenly, she seemed so vulnerable and frightened.

Southey pulled back. He didn’t release her mother. He kept hold of her shoulders, but he held her at arm’s length and studied her eyes. “Is it true, Dorrie? Is she mine?”

Susanna shook her head, even as her mother’s mouth worked to form a response. It couldn’t be true. She was the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Dane. She was not the child of a horticulturist.

Her mother looked at her, and Susanna saw tears sparkling in her brown eyes.

“No,” Susanna whispered. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m so sorry, Susanna. I should have told you. I feared something like this would happen. It’s why I kept you away—”

Now Southey did release her, and her mother almost stumbled. To Susanna’s shock, Gideon caught her arm. Instead of thanking him, her mother snatched her arm away.

“Allow me to explain.” Lady Dane held a hand out to her daughter.

“Oh, I think I understand well enough,” Southey—her father—said. “You didn’t want me to know. You were embarrassed you’d birthed the child of a lowly second son.”

“No!” Susanna’s mother turned to him, then back to Susanna. She seemed not to know which foe to take on first. “That wasn’t it at all. I didn’t want to hurt you.” Her gaze was on Susanna, but she glanced at Southey, seeming to encompass him. “She could never acknowledge you. You could never be part of her life.”

“That was my decision to make!” Susanna cried out, surprised at her own vehemence. “Mine, Mother!”

Lady Dane’s eyes widened, but she clamped her lips shut without objection.

“Susanna.” Brook put a restraining hand on her arm.

Susanna rounded on him. “Don’t tell me to calm down, or I swear I will punch you.”

“I think she’d do it too,” Gideon said. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed over his chest, looking very much like he enjoyed the drama unfolding. She nodded at him in silent thanks, then looked back at Brook.

“All my life I wondered why I was different. Why did my father ignore me? Why did Mother watch me like a hawk? I thought it was because I was a girl and you and Dane were boys. But that wasn’t it at all.” She glanced at her mother. “It’s because I wasn’t one of you. I’m not a Derring.” Her voice rose shrilly. It seemed almost out of her control—along with everything else in her life at the moment.

“I only wanted to protect you.” Her mother’s voice broke, but she held her head high.

“This changes nothing, Susanna,” Brook said. “You’re still a Derring. And you will come home with me now.”

Lady Dane cleared her throat and straightened her thin shoulders. “That’s Susanna’s choice, Brook. I’m done protecting her now.”

Susanna’s jaw dropped. Never once had her mother used the words
Susanna
and
choice
in the same sentence.

“Do what you want with this knowledge, Susanna. I would ask you to think of your family and your future and to act discreetly. I protected you too much. I see that now. It was only one of my many, many mistakes.”

Southey put a hand to his heart, as though she’d mortally wounded him. Susanna watched in astonishment as her mother took Southey’s hands and pressed them to her heart.

“My mistake was letting you go. I never should have listened to my parents, feared the censure of the
ton
. I’m so sorry, Robert. Can you forgive me?”

He cradled her face in his hands and kissed her lips. “I can forgive you anything.”

Susanna wanted to look away, but the sight was too strange. Her mother was kissing a man. Her mother was smiling, crying, acting almost human!

“Please tell me we can start again. Please tell me you still want me after all these years.”

Brook made a sound of disgust and pulled Susanna aside. “I don’t know what this is all about, but I’m taking you home. I told Harrow if he didn’t have you home by noon, I’d come for you.”

“Harrow?” She peered back at Gideon, still reclining against the tree as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “Gideon? When did you speak to Gideon?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you? I had a conversation with him last night at the Three Ducks. I could have searched the place and ruined you in one fell swoop, but I wanted to give you the chance to return quietly. That looks to be all but impossible now.” He spared a glance at their mother, whose head was close to Southey’s as they whispered.

Susanna couldn’t take her gaze from Gideon. His own eyes met hers, and he raised his brows in question. Susanna swallowed. Her mother had told her to make her own decisions, her own mistakes.

“I don’t know if I want to go home with you,” she said. “Do I even belong there?”

Brook grabbed her chin, forcing her gaze from Gideon’s. “What nonsense is this? Dane is there. He arrived late last night, and he’ll tell you what I told you. You’re a Derring.”

“But I’m not. Not really. I don’t know where I belong anymore.”

Brook snorted. “Do you think you belong with him? Think of your family and the scandal, Susanna.” He jerked a thumb at Gideon. “Do you think he’ll marry you? Take care of you? He can’t even take care of himself.”

Susanna looked at Gideon, searched his face for some indication of his emotions. Dane would help her—help them—if she asked. He’d never allow her to starve, but Gideon had to want her.

Gideon pushed off the tree and sauntered toward them. “Sir Brook is right. You’re a Derring, Strawberry,” he said. “All I want is what’s mine. Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

“What’s
yours
?” Brook’s hand rose, but he clenched it before clutching Gideon’s throat. “I think you took more than what’s yours.”

“Stop,” Susanna said, as much to herself as the two men. Tears threatened to fall, but she wouldn’t allow it. She forced them back, took a deep breath. “He comes with us, Brook. I owe him an item, and then we’ll never see him again.”

She started away, Beauty at her side. She didn’t want to look at Gideon. She wanted to remember the man she’d known last night—the man with the light of exploding fireworks limning his handsome face. She didn’t want to see the arrogant man who smiled as though he were the cat who’d run away with the cream.

* * *

The carriage ride back was interminable. Brook had forced Gideon to ride with the coachman, while her mother and Mr. Southey—she could not think of him as her father yet—shared one side of the coach, and she and Brook the other. Beauty had ridden in the coachman’s seat with Gideon.

Southey asked her dozens of questions. He seemed inordinately pleased to know he had a daughter, which was truly very sweet. He seemed a sweet, kind man. Susanna tried to answer him, but she couldn’t think. Her words echoed in her ears, doubling back on themselves until the sound of her voice was magnified a hundredfold.

When she entered Derring House, nothing looked as she remembered it. The chairs, the vases, the paintings were in the same spots, but it didn’t seem like home to her anymore. It was the home of the girl she’d been. She’d never be that innocent girl again. She’d never truly belong here again.

Had she ever?

Dane and Marlowe rushed to greet her. Marlowe embraced her, then drew back.

“What is it, Susanna?”

“I…”

“Sit down.” Marlowe tried to lead her to a chair in the parlor, concern etched into her pretty features. Susanna still wasn’t used to seeing Marlowe dressed in silks and muslins, her hair coiffed high on her head. She wondered—if Gideon had chosen her—whether she’d have become used to seeing him in a cravat and coat.

Brook pulled Dane aside, and Susanna pushed past Marlowe. “I’m fine,” she said when Marlowe protested.

“You don’t look fine. You look half gone to Peg Trantums.”

“I don’t know what that means, but I assure you I’m well enough to walk upstairs.” Her feet moved until she was in the vestibule at the base of the stairs. “Do you remember our wager, Marlowe?”

Marlowe gave her a puzzled look. “I’m not certain.”

“You owed me an adventure.”

A smile turned up the corners of Marlowe’s lips. “Ah, yes. I should say you’ve had one.”

“More than one.” Susanna lifted her skirts and looked up the daunting stairwell.

Marlowe put a hand on the banister. “I’ll go with you. You should lie down.”

Susanna nodded and started up the stairs. “I will. First I have to fetch something and give it to Gideon.”

“Gideon!” Marlowe raced after her, thundering up the stairs in a most unladylike fashion. If her mother had not been so preoccupied with Mr. Southey, she would have chastised Marlowe.

“What are you doing with Gideon? Where is he?”

Susanna turned and stared at the vestibule. Only Crawford peered up at her.

Where
was
her mother and Southey? Oh dear. Did she really want to know the answer to that?

Crawford cleared his throat. “The young man was sent to the servants’ entrance. He’s waiting for you in the kitchen.”

Susanna gave a brittle laugh. “Why would we treat him any differently?”

“I’ll see to him,” Marlowe said, starting down the stairs. “He won’t wait long otherwise.”

“He’ll wait,” Susanna said. “I have the one thing he cares about.”

She continued upstairs, opened her bedroom door, and stared at the small, feminine room. It was a child’s room, full of frilly pillows and pink upholstery. Her sketchbook and watercolors lay on the desk where she’d left them. She peered at the drawing she’d been working on—a horse with flowers in its mane. A child’s drawing.