He would have two superiors overseeing all his work, and he’d be subject to significant oversight. In other words, they would offer Lathan work, but neither was he entirely trusted by the agency.
A fair concession, given his past.
The best he could ever have hoped for.
Nay, it was better than that. It was the only dream he’d ever carried and the hope he’d long buried, redemption in the form of the role he’d again be entrusted with.
As such, there should only be a giddy joy.
He’d done it.
He had… everything.
Only, if that were the case, why, then, did this moment feel so very empty?
Why did he feel so empty?
The Marquess of Tennyson sat for the first time since he’d arrived and put the offer before Lathan. He settled himself into Lathan’s chair at the hearth, stretched his legs out, and folded his hands over his flat stomach. “You’re quiet.”
It wasn’t a question, so Lathan made no effort to answer.
Instead, he focused not on the man so deeply entangled with his past, the one who’d also come here with a future in hand for him, but rather, he fixed on the heavy leather folder Tennsyon had given him.
The scent of leather, the black material unblemished, unmarked… all familiar feels and smells from his time serving the Brethren. He briefly closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the earthy, rich smell. How many times had he walked into his clerical offices and been handed a like folder? How long had he spent missing everything about the Home Office, including the simplest of things, like the feel of a folder in his hand? He’d missed it all so much.
Or, he had.
Holding this file with his assignment and a future role at the Home Office, however, didn’t usher in the joy it ought. In fact, Lathan searched for some sentiment… anything. Something other than this odd nothingness. Feeling Lord Tennyson’s gaze on him, Lathan looked up. “I thought it might feel different,” he at last brought himself to admit. Seemingly of its own volition, Lathan’s gaze briefly moved from the folder over to the doorway that led to kitchens Francesca had broken into a lifetime ago.
Tennyson whistled through his teeth. “By God, you don’t want it.”
Lathan drew in a slow, deep breath. And at last, he owned his new reality… and understood just why it felt different. Because all of this… meant nothing if she was gone from his life. “I don’t want it,” he said quietly. I want her. I want what she held out when I was too much of a coward to leap. I want her as my wife. And children. I want them with her, too. A different kind of restlessness moved through him, a need to end this meeting and go to her. And offer her… himself.
Tennyson, however, wasn’t one to do anything but that which he wished. That was the way of the superiors at the Home Office. He stood and wandered over to Lathan. “Given my past, I trust she’s no one I know.”
Lathan started. “My lord?”
The other man chuckled and clapped him on the back. “The only reason a man born and bred to the Home Office would dare turn away from the organization is for the love of a woman.”
His throat worked. “Yes, I trust that is true. She’s entirely too good for me.” But God help him, he wanted her anyway. He wanted her smile to greet him every day. He wanted her laughter to keep out the dark and make the world light. At last, there came that lightening in his chest, a placid calm that swept through him and filled him with the absolute rightness that had been missing before.
“As is my wife. There’s no accounting for matters of the heart. As such, we do the only thing we can do, Holman.”
He’d always looked to the other man for guidance in work. Now, Lathan found himself desperately seeking this new knowledge: that pertaining to matters of the heart. Francesca’s, to be precise. And suddenly, there was nothing more vital. “And what is it that we do, my lord?”
The hint of a smile formed on the marquess’ lips. “We love them in return, all the while knowing we’ll never be worthy of them.”
And he wouldn’t be, but Francesca also had opened Lathan’s eyes to the truth that his mistakes need not define him. They’d shaped him into who he was, and this person he’d become, though flawed, was a better man than the ambitious, purpose-driven man he’d been.
“What of the work you’ve developed?” Tennyson’s query cut across those musings. His former superior sifted through the stack of books encompassing months’ worth of work. “What is to be done with it?”
“The Home Office is welcome to it,” Lathan said automatically. His loyalty and commitment to King and Crown remained, but his willingness to devote his life to those states was part of the past Francesca had spoken of. “I’ll even provide guidance to members within the organization as to how I designed it, so they might complete and enhance the system.”
“Can you not do both?”
Lathan returned Tennyson’s question with one of his own. “Is that what you do?”
Not so very long ago, the marquess would have snarled at Lathan’s daring to question him. Now, there was a calmness and control to him, the likes of which Lathan had never witnessed. The other man flashed another droll grin. “There’s no need to worry as to what I do. We’re discussing you”—he glanced around meaningfully at Lathan’s modest quarters—“and your circumstances. Your family, I know, isn’t one that would see you in poverty.”
“No, they’d rather see me in hell than in that state,” he drawled. Mayhap that was why it had been so easy for Lathan to revert to this new, less comfortable existence he lived here in the Kent countryside.
“And you’re too proud to take charity,” Tennyson murmured. “As such, I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out that there is a possibility for you to work for the Home Office and have the private life you wish to have. You can continue making yourself of service to the country, while retaining anonymity. There’d be a steady income and, of course, protections offered to your family.”
His family.
Francesca.
She was his family.
And the children they’d one day have.
God, he’d been a fool… and a coward where she was concerned. Too afraid to accept the future she’d offered. But no more. Joy spread through him, filling every corner of his person. “I am grateful for the opportunity you’ve presented, and I shall think on it.” His mind was already set in terms of what he wanted. Nay, what he needed.
Lord Tennyson studied him for a moment. “Holman.” Dragging his gloves on, his former superior made for the front door, but suddenly stopped. He faced Lathan once more. “Oh, and, Lathan?”
Lathan inclined his head.
“I forgive you,” the marquess spoke in solemn tones. “I’ve come to appreciate that mistakes are a mark of human nature. I’d not have you forget everything you did right for that one decision that was… wrong.”
Emotion tightened in Lathan’s chest as, at last, the final chain binding him to that one decision broke free. “Thank you, my lord.”
Without another word or a backward glance, his superior officer left, and Lathan found himself… alone.
Only… he wasn’t alone.
Nor had he truly been before. There’d been Ewan. Lathan, however, had been the one who’d found it safer to shut the world out, including the brother who was loyal and loving, because of a fear that he was somehow unworthy.
That was just one more truth Francesca had helped him to see.
Lathan took off running. His leg screamed and strained under the pace he set. “Francesca,” he called as he entered the kitchens.
Empty.
Making his way to the hall, he climbed the narrow stairwell and limped toward her rooms.
He stopped halfway to her door. What in blazes was he going to say? He should have put some thought into what words he might give her. Words had always made sense. No longer. Now, he couldn’t find a single string of words to capture everything he was feeling for her. For their future.
If she’d have him in it,
still.
Lathan resumed the slow walk toward her chambers. Her door hung agape, and he lifted his hand to knock. “Fran…” His voice faded as he registered the eerie silence, the absolute stillness. Dread slithered around his belly. “Francesca?” He made himself say her whole name, as though that might somehow change that which he already knew to be the truth.
With a quick-moving terror, he did another sweep of the tidied chambers and limped forward. “Francesca,” he echoed for a third time. His hoarsened voice crept up, panic lending it an extra octave. Lathan headed for the crude wood armoire and yanked the panels open.
The shelves hung bare… of everything.
With a black curse, he spun around and then saw it.
His gaze lingered briefly upon the note resting on her night table. Striding with a speed he’d believed himself incapable of, Lathan dived for the note and read.
Dear Lathan,
You have taught me that I am worthy of living for my own happiness. It is my dearest wish that you, too, have every happiness you deserve. Every wish. Every…
His fist closed around the note, wrinkling the remainder of those words and crumpling the page. Numb, he sank onto the side of the mattress and sat there, motionless, afraid that if he so much as moved he’d splinter apart.
His breath came, quick and ragged, in his ears, and he struggled to make himself draw slow, even breaths.
She was his every happiness. She was his every wish.
And she’d gone.
He froze.
She’d gone off… alone.
Cursing roundly and blackly, Lathan scrambled to his feet and sprinted from the rooms.
She’d have gone out the back.
His heart thundering, Lathan rushed down to the kitchens. Tossing the door open, he raced out. As he took off down the graveled path, the snow long shoveled off, he searched for footprints and found them. Damning the injured limb that slowed his pace, he followed those tracks deeper and deeper…
He didn’t stop until her smaller tracks met up with those of a group.
The marquess’ men.
She’d sought out and found the gentleman’s escort.
The effects of his efforts won out.
Lathan fell to his knees.
Stretching a trembling hand out, he traced his fingertips over the indentation her boot had left upon the snow.
She was gone.
His chest ached. His entire body hurt with the force of the agony cleaving away at his heart.
How could she have left?
How could she not know what she meant to him?
And yet, how would she have known? How, when he’d failed to tell her all the ways in which she mattered? All of the ways in which he loved her?
His eyes slid closed, and his entire body slumped.
“She is gone, and she is better for it,” he whispered. He’d asked for this moment, because he’d known he was unworthy of her. And yet, knowing that did nothing to dull the pain of having lost her.
She would go off and marry her marquess and have her babes and—
A curtain of red-hot rage fell over his eyes, briefly blinding.
“Over my dead body,” he seethed.
Coming to his feet once more, Lathan set off with one intention—winning Francesca Cornworthy.
Seven Hours Later
The Duchess of Sutton’s House Party
Physically exhausted from the exertions riding had placed upon his nearly useless limb, Lathan arrived, sweaty, hot, and smelling of horses, at the Duchess of Sutton’s home.
And yet, as he struggled up the twenty-something steps leading to the palatial estate, never had Lathan felt so very much alive either.
The moment he reached the door, he pounded the knocker, hard.
The winter wind howled loudly and forlornly, a perfect mournful cry from Mother Nature to match Lathan’s misery.
Bloody hell.
He checked his timepiece.
One o’clock in the morning.
The guests would likely all be sleeping, the main servants in the country given a respite at this juncture of the day.
Lathan gritted his teeth. Restless, he grabbed the knocker and pounded harder. Over and over.
He’d not come this whole damned way to have a damned door and conventionality keep him from Francesca. Nay, he’d be damned if the Marquess of St. James would have her. Even if he was the better man. He would never love her as Lathan did.
Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.
At last, the panel opened, and a bleary-eyed servant stared back.
At his back, a small contingent of guests, all in various states of dress and undress, had gathered.
“What is the meaning of this?” the Duke of Sutton barked, his voice hoarse with sleep.
“I… I am afraid I do not know, Your Grace,” the butler stammered, looking hopelessly between his employer and Lathan.
Taking advantage of the other man’s befuddlement, Lathan stormed past him. “Francesca,” he thundered. He did a sweep of the men and women present, many of whom he recognized. But he settled his stare on just one—the Marquess of St. James, unrumpled and appearing to be the only gentlemen of the lot who was fully awake. Lathan looked to the woman standing near his shoulder…
A woman who was not Francesca.
His heart lifted and then fell all at once.
She wasn’t among the just-roused guests.
“I beg your pardon. Coming in here and—” The duke blinked as if clearing sleep from his eyes. “Why are you…?”
Her Grace flared her eyes. “The Earl and Countess of Maldavers’ boy. Lathan Holman.”
Whispers went up around the expansive foyer. Once, that horrified recognition and reaction would have filled him with shame. No longer. He now knew Society’s opinions weren’t so very important after all. Only the man he’d committed himself to being was.
Hope sent his heart into a furious rhythm. “I’m looking for Miss Francesca Cornworthy,” he boomed, sweeping his gaze about for a glimpse of her. When no one immediately answered, he lifted his stare and considered the stairway… and storming the household in search—
The duchess took a bold, brave step toward him. When she spoke, she did so in hesitant tones. “Why… Miss Cornworthy is not here.”
“She’s not here,” he repeated dumbly.
His heart fell.
Chapter 16
In the three days since the marquess’ servants had escorted Francesca to her London residence, she’d devoted herself to completing the items upon her list.
She’d just completed reading her favorite book for a second time, just because every best book should be read twice.
She’d stayed awake the whole of a night and then gone to Hyde Park, just so she could watch the sun creep up over the Serpentine.
Francesca had even attempted baking. Granted, she’d cried her way all through the pie crust, recalling the production of a different pie crust, one that had never even made it to the oven, but had been forgotten as she and Lathan made love upon the kitchen table.
Later in the week, the stable master would provide her instructions on how to saddle her mount and begin the rudiments of riding.
Lying on the snow-covered grounds of her gardens, she stared overhead at the gray, cloud-filled skies. Her entire body chilled from the inside out, she stroked her arms and legs out and then in.
“Oh, dear saints in heaven, are you all right, miss?”
There came the sharp crunch of snow being ground up as her maid sprinted over. “I—”
Tess stopped over Francesca and peered down. “You fell,” she blurted. The loyal woman wrung her hands frantically. “I should have never let you out of my sight.” Again.
Since Francesca had returned, escorted by the Marquess of St. James’ servants, her maid had resisted letting Francesca out of her sight.
“I didn’t f-fall,” she said in soothing tones.
Beverly blanched. “Your voice is shaking,
miss. You’re hurt.”
“I-I am not hurt.” Liar. The moment she’d walked away from Lathan and left him to the future he wanted, agony had set up a permanent home in her breast. “I am c-cold.” Which wasn’t untrue.
Beverly continued wringing her hands. “You’re going to catch ill, Miss Cornworthy. You should let me accompany you inside.”
“I-I assure you, I’m just fine.” That was another lie. “I a-am frolicking.”
Beverly tipped her head. “Frolicking?”
Francesca might as well have said she was firing a pistol. Except, that only ushered in a reminder of her first meeting with Lathan, when she’d pointed a pistol at his chest.
Tears flooded her eyes.
“Oh, Miss Cornworthy. You are hurt,” Beverly admonished in accusatory tones.
“I-I’m not. I’m playing in the snow, and you may be rest assured th-that should I require a-assistance, I will come find you.”
Even with that firm directive, the other woman hesitated. “Very well, miss.” Beverly, however, made no move to abandon the spot she occupied alongside Francesca.
“Beverly,” she said gently, springing the maid into movement.
“Yes, uh… right. I shall be within earshot if you require.”
“I don’t,” she called after the maid as she hustled off.
The moment the door closed behind her, and Francesca was at last alone, she resumed her slow up-and-down arm glides. Her breath stirred a cloud of white.
Well, she’d done it. She had crossed off another item on her list. Her life should be full and joyous because of it.
She’d frolicked in the snow, only to discover that frolicking wasn’t so very frolicky or joyous when it was done alone. One couldn’t very well throw snowballs at oneself, nor have the wings of her snow angel touch the wings of another.
Francesca abruptly stopped her arm and leg glides and just stared overhead.
And yet…
The same melancholy that had dogged her the moment she’d left Lathan’s persisted through each item and activity.
Because, while she’d been with Lathan, she’d come to appreciate what it was to know the companionship of another. Only, being with Lathan had been about so much more than just companionship. They’d had a kindred connection. When she was with him, she could freely be herself, without fear of recrimination. She could dream of past times that brought her pleasure and be encouraged by another to see new dreams through.
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel (The Brethren Book 5) Page 16
