“Rebecca. It’s all right. Sit.” He motioned toward the settee, which held her discarded embroidery hoop, the threaded needle dangling from the linen. “It is all right,” he repeated again, as she stared up at him with wide, worried eyes. “It is not your fault.”
“Yes, it—”
“No, it isn’t. It is not your fault Amelia is the woman she is. In any case, it was bound to come to this point sooner or later.” He moved the embroidery hoop to the side table and sat next to her, took her hand in his. “I’m sorry you had to hear our argument.”
“She hates you,” she said, shocked and astonished.
He tipped his head. “Now so more than ever. But do not fret over it. I certainly do not plan to. Amelia is leaving tonight, so you needn’t even worry about having to speak to her. And I’ll hire you a chaperone. Someone who can secure you the necessary invitations for the rest of the Season.” There had to be some older matron who would be willing to take on Rebecca. The girl had already started to establish herself, so it wasn’t as if he’d be asking someone to take on an unknown entity. “It may take me a couple of days to see the task done, but I will do my best not to have this matter with Amelia disturb your stay in London for any length of time. I want you to have every opportunity to find a husband who suits you.”
“Oh, James.” She gave him a teary smile and then threw her arms around him. “I cannot believe what you have done for me. You did not have to do it, you know that? You did not have to marry that foul woman.”
“I didn’t have to, but I wanted to see you happy,” he said, rubbing her back. “And I hope you can still find someone who will make you happy.” Someone who could make her as happy as just the thought of Rose made him.
“You are the dearest of brothers,” she said against his chest, her arms gripping him tight. Then she sat back and wiped her eyes. “I believe I already have found someone.”
“Really?”
“Do you not have an appointment with Lord Brackley tomorrow morning?”
“Brackley? Isn’t he a bit old for you?” And dull, but he kept that to himself.
“No. Not at all.”
“He’s older than I am.”
“For a man, you’re not very old, James.”
He certainly felt old.
“Lord Brackley is only three and thirty. The perfect age for a man to marry. He is settled, established, ready to take a wife. And he meets your requirement.”
“And what is that?”
“That he adore me.” Tipping her chin to her chest, she giggled. “And he does.” She peered up at him, imploring. “Please say you will accept him if he asks for my hand? He will make me happy.”
“Are you certain?” He wouldn’t at all have thought to match the two up, but Brackley was a good man. Decent and kind. Rebecca could choose far worse. And as an earl, he was respected enough to be able to shield her from any of Amelia’s spite, in the event the woman was dim enough to still make an attempt to ruin her.
“Yes, I am certain.”
“Then if he asks, he is yours.” He gave her hand a pat. “Now I want you to retire to your room for the rest of the evening. Get some rest. I need to go have a word with the servants, make sure Amelia’s trunks are packed. If you hear her shouting again, just ignore her.” He highly doubted she’d leave peacefully, but he didn’t want her antics to upset Rebecca. “And never fear, I will be in my study tomorrow at ten, awaiting Brackley’s call.”
With that, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. He saw her safely to her room, had the necessary conversation with the staff (which resulted in more than one sigh of relief), sent off a quick note to his solicitor requesting the man’s immediate presence, and then stood by the front door, arms crossed over his chest. To her credit, Amelia didn’t dally nor did she rail or scream. Clearly trying to retain as much dignity as she could, she came down the stairs, her maid and three footmen in tow lugging her trunks. She looked right through him, as though he wasn’t even there, and sailed out the front door and into the waiting carriage.
She wouldn’t be able to ignore him for long.
Thirty minutes later found him in his study, assuring his shocked solicitor that he did know exactly what he was about.
“Yes, I need you to have criminal conversation charges brought against Lord Albert Langholm, and I want the process expedited as much as money will allow. He is the son of a peer, not a peer himself, so there is no need to wait until Parliament retires in the summer. I do not want him to have the opportunity to flee to the Continent. I want him charged, found guilty. At the same time, I need you to start the process so that I can obtain a legal separation from Amelia on the grounds of her adultery.”
Seated in the leather chair opposite his desk, Milton pursed his lips and then shrugged. Highly competent and trustworthy, the man had served James well since he had hired him a few years ago, and he didn’t doubt Milton would see to the tasks with his usual efficient attention to detail. “As you wish. Is there an amount you are looking for in damages from Lord Albert?”
“It matters not to me. I don’t need or want his money. Whatever sum you settle on is acceptable. I just need him to be found guilty so I can petition Parliament for a divorce.”
“You will have to give testimony. Provide details that could prove to be . . . uncomfortable.”
“I am aware of that.” Certainly not something he was looking forward to, but a necessary step.
It took another hour to answer all of Milton’s questions, providing the necessary information for the man to start what was sure to be just the beginning of stacks of paperwork. He didn’t envy the man the task, but he paid him quite well, so it shouldn’t be much of a hardship.
With a tip of his head and his assurances the charges against Lord Albert would be filed tomorrow, Milton gathered his leather bag and left James alone in the study.
James tipped his head back against his chair. The desolation that had once settled about him like a damn suffocating cloak whenever he was in this house was now gone. For many long moments he merely stared at the ceiling, smiling, simply reveling in the feeling of . . . lightness.
He had just started what would be a long, arduous, and costly process, but the end result would be more than worth it. He wanted to tell Rose now. This moment. Needed to be able to take her in his arms, whisper in her ear that they could always be together, pledge his heart and his name to her forever.
But he had to wait. She would not return to town for six more days. It would be better this way, though. Better that he could present her with concrete proof of his intentions to free himself from Amelia to wipe away any doubts that may form.
On that sixth day, however, he fully intended to present himself in Rubicon’s office at promptly eight o’clock. Perhaps he could coax Rose into taking another walk with him about the park. He could tell her there, along the bank of the Serpentine, on the same spot where she had first given herself to him.
The plan fixed in his mind, he pushed from his desk, suddenly hungry. He found a servant in the corridor and requested supper. After a bite to eat, he retired to his bedchamber. And as he lay down he found that even though he was alone, even though Rose was not beside him, his bed didn’t feel as lonely as it once did.
Twenty
“WHY
couldn’t I find a groom in the stables?”
Empty plates in hand, Rose turned toward the kitchen door. Dash stood in the doorway, saddlebag in hand. The dark waves of his hair appeared windblown and his black coat held a bit of dust from the road. Judging from the lethargic slouch of his shoulders, he had ridden straight from London, which accounted for why he had arrived a day earlier than she expected.
“Good evening, Dash. Welcome home.” She was genuinely happy to see him, but she couldn’t deny the trepidation seeping into her stomach.
Sarah took the plates Rose had been clearing from the plain wooden table in the corner of the kitchen. They had just finished supper. “I’ll finish up here,” she said in an undertone, and then added, with a smile directed at Dash, “It is good to have you home, Mr. Marlowe.”
Dash stiffened. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson.” He declined Sarah’s offer to cook him something for supper, claiming he’d stopped at an inn along the way.
“Come along, Dash,” Rose said, leaving the kitchen. “I’ll show you to your room so you can clean up after the long journey.”
“I remember where my room is located. You needn’t show me,” he said, trailing a couple of steps behind her. “Rose, why couldn’t I find a groom in the stables? I had to unsaddle the horse myself.”
“Because he had already gone for the night. I don’t have a need for a stable full of horses, and therefore the groom does not need to reside on the property. He comes up from the village in the mornings and departs well before supper.”
She rounded the banister and started to go up the stairs but stopped when she realized his footsteps were not following her. She turned.
He stood at the foot of the stairs. “I told you, you don’t need to show me to my bedchamber.” A pause. “So what is this matter of great importance? You appear in good health, so I’m assuming it does not relate to that.”
“I am fine, Dash.” As fine as could be, given the circumstances. “Let us go into the drawing room.”
Dash followed her inside, dropping his saddlebag near the door. She had been in the room before supper, reviewing the estate’s ledger and bemoaning the meager number under the latest entry, but the fire had since burned down to embers. Dropping to her knees, she added a couple of logs to the grate and then prodded the fire back to life.
“Where are the servants? And where is Gregory?” he asked, referring to the man who had once served as butler.
“I let them go, all except for Sarah.” She took a deep breath, laid a palm over the stone hidden beneath her bodice, the gesture now so innate the stone was pressing against her chest before she was even aware she had lifted her arm. Then dropping her hand to her side, she stood to face him. “Have a seat,” she said, flicking her fingers to the settee and chairs.
“Why did you let them go?” Reluctant suspicion laced his tone. “Rose?” he queried when she didn’t immediately answer.
“Well, I am going to have a seat.” There was no way she could stand through the conversation. Her knees already felt weak. She settled on the settee, taking much longer than necessary to adjust her skirt about her legs.
She had worked so hard to keep the truth from him, but she found success wasn’t always pleasant. She would have much rather preferred for him to have figured a bit of it out for himself.
“I let the staff go because I could not afford to keep them.” She smoothed a palm over her knee in a failed attempt to press out a wrinkle in the drab green dress.
He let out a little sound of exasperation. She could well imagine the roll of his eyes that would have accompanied such a sound.
“It isn’t necessary to be such a miser, Rose. Servants aren’t that large of an expense.”
She looked up, held his gaze. She could still see the boy he had once been. The boy who had tried so hard not to cry when she’d told him of their father’s death. His mouth stiff, his lean frame drawn tight, unable to stop that first tear from rolling down his cheek.
It was so very tempting to take the excuse he had just handed her. To claim she had merely been trying to be a prudent guardian of the estate. To turn the conversation to his gambling habit and give that as the source of her note. “Servants are a large expense when you have nothing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rose. We have plenty of money. Father left it to us. I read the will.” He ignored her arched brow. When had he read it? She had kept it locked in the safe behind Mother’s portrait in the study. In fact, it was still there. “Except for a bit for the staff, he left it all to us. This house, the property, and his accounts.”
“He had sold all of the property that generated income. All we have is what you can see outside the window.” Hands clasped tight, she swallowed hard. “He left us this house, and he left us debts, Dash. That is all.”
She could well understand the confusion flickering across his face. She had never given him reason before to believe they did not have more than enough, and certainly enough for him to squander on whatever caught his fancy.
“That can’t be correct.” He dropped down into the chair opposite her. “You paid for Eton, Oxford, my apartments, my d—” He broke off, then quickly added, “My allowances.”
“I did, and yes, I paid your recent gambling debts as well.” He had the good sense to avert his eyes. “But the funds did not come from Father.”
“Then where did the money come from?”
Her resolve teetered, her mind frantically searching for a plausible explanation. Anything but the truth. She had thought herself prepared for this moment. Had lain awake in bed for the last two nights, replaying the conversation in her head. But she felt not a drop of the calm, objective detachment she had planned to call upon when the time came to answer the question she knew he would ask.
“Where, Rose?”
Resignation and shame swept over her. Closing her eyes, she dropped her head. “It came from me.”
The logs in the hearth shifted, crackled. Then silence. She strained to hear, unable to even detect the sounds of his breaths. Head still bowed, she peeked up.
His face had gone stark white, all the blood drained from his features, his eyes wide. “No. You didn’t.”
Suddenly weary beyond measure, all she could do was lift a shoulder in a poor attempt at a shrug.
“No,” he said again, this time stronger, the word soaked in desperation.
“How else was I to come up with the money?”
He shot to his feet. “No!”
She let out a sigh. “What does it matter, Dash? I’m done with it in any case.”
“That’s why you’ve been in London. You were—”
His wince cut right through her. Yet she refused to crumble.