by Julia Quinn
“Have you ever met Lord Ramsgate?” Daniel asked her.
“I’m sure I have, at some point,” Sarah said, her eyes flicking nervously from Hugh to Daniel. “But I—”
“He’s a rat bastard,” Daniel snarled.
“Daniel!” Sarah had never heard him use such words. Or such a tone. She looked to Hugh, but he only shrugged and said, “I have no objection to such a characterization.”
“But . . .” Sarah fought for words. She didn’t see her own father very often; he rarely left Devon, and more often than not Sarah found herself toted around the south of England by her mother, in the endless pursuit of a suitable husband. But he was her father, and she loved him, and she couldn’t imagine standing by while someone called him such awful names.
“We don’t all have genial and benign fifty-three-hound fathers,” Hugh said.
Sarah hoped she was misinterpreting the note of condescension that sat upon his words.
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked testily.
“It means that my father is an ass. It means he is a sick son of a bitch who hurts people and rather enjoys doing so. It means”—Hugh stepped closer, his voice growing cold with fury—“that he is stark raving mad no matter what sort of face he puts on for the rest of humanity, and there is no, I repeat, no reasoning with him when he’s got his teeth stuck into something.”
“Into me,” Daniel clarified.
“Into anything,” Hugh snapped, “but yes, you’re included. You, on the other hand,” he said to Sarah, his voice turning uncomfortably normal, “he’d like.”
She felt sick.
“Your family’s title dates to the Tudors, and you probably have a decent dowry.” Hugh leaned one hip against the arm of the sofa and extended his injured leg in front of him. “But more to the point, you’re in good health and of childbearing age.”
Sarah could only stare.
“My father will adore you,” he finished with a shrug.
“Hugh,” Sarah began. “I don’t . . .” But she didn’t know how to finish her statement. She didn’t recognize this man. He was hard, and brittle, and the way he described her left her feeling soiled and wrung dry.
“I’m not even his heir,” Hugh said, and Sarah could hear something stirring in his voice. Something angry, something ready to strike.
“He shouldn’t even care if my bride can reproduce properly,” Hugh went on, each syllable more clipped than the last. “He’s got Freddie. He should be pinning his hopes there, and I keep telling him—”
He turned suddenly away, but not before Sarah heard him curse under his breath.
“I’ve never met your brother,” Daniel said, after nearly a minute of silence strangled the room.
Sarah looked at him. His brow was knitted, and she realized that Daniel was more curious than he was surprised.
Hugh did not turn around. But he did say, in a strange monotone, “He does not move in the same circles that you do.”
“Is-is there something wrong with him?” Sarah asked hesitantly.
“No!” Hugh thundered, whipping around so quickly that he lost his footing and nearly tumbled to the floor. Sarah shot forward to steady him, but Hugh thrust out his arm to push her away. “I’m fine,” he grunted.
But he wasn’t. She could see that he wasn’t.
“There is nothing wrong with my brother,” Hugh said, his voice low and precise, even as he caught his breath from his near fall. “He is perfectly healthy, perfectly able to sire a child. But”—his eyes flicked meaningfully toward Daniel—“he is not likely to marry.”
Daniel’s eyes clouded, and he gave a nod of understanding.
But not Sarah. “What does that mean?” she burst out, because bloody hell, it was like they were talking in a different language.
“It’s not for your ears,” Daniel said swiftly.
“Oh, is that so?” she demanded. “And ‘rat bastard, sick son of a bitch’ is?”
If she hadn’t been so furious, she would have taken some satisfaction in the way both men flinched.
“He prefers men,” Hugh said curtly.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Sarah snapped.
Daniel let off a bitter curse. “Oh, for the love of Christ, Prentice, she is a gentlewoman. And my cousin.”
Sarah couldn’t imagine what that had to with anything, but before she could ask, Daniel took a step toward Hugh and growled, “If you say another word, I swear I will have you drawn and quartered.”
Hugh ignored him, his eyes never leaving Sarah’s. “The way I prefer you,” he said with slow deliberation, “my brother prefers men.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending, and then: “Oh.” She looked to Daniel, although she had no idea why. “Is that even possible?”
He looked away, his cheeks burning red.
“I do not profess to understand Freddie,” Hugh said, each word deliberately chosen, “or why he is as he is. But he is my brother, and I love him.”
Sarah wasn’t sure how to respond. She looked to Daniel for guidance, but he was facing away.
“Freddie is a good man,” Hugh continued, “and he was—”
Sarah turned back to him. His throat was working convulsively, and she did not think she’d ever seen him so undone.
“He was the only reason I survived my childhood.” Hugh blinked, and then he actually smiled wistfully. “Although I imagine he would say the same thing about me.”
Dear God, Sarah thought, what sort of man was their father?
“He’s . . . not as I am,” Hugh said with a swallow, “but he is a good man, as honorable and kind as you will ever know.”
“All right,” Sarah said slowly, trying to take this all in. “If you say he is good, and that I should love him as a brother, I will. But what does this have to do with . . . with anything?”
“It was why my father was so hell-bent on revenge against your cousin,” Hugh replied, motioning with his head toward Daniel. “It is why he still is.”
“But you said—”
“I can hold him in check,” Hugh cut in. “I cannot change his mind.” He shifted his weight, and Sarah thought she saw a spark of pain flash through his eyes. She followed his gaze to his cane, lying on the carpet near the sofa. He took a step toward it, but before he could do anything more, she rushed to retrieve it for him.
The expression on his face when she handed it to him was not one of gratitude. But whatever he wanted to say to her, he swallowed it bitterly down and said instead, to the room at large, “I’m told that the day of the duel, it was not known whether I would survive.”
Sarah looked at Daniel. He gave a grim nod.
“My father is of the belief, and . . .” Hugh stopped speaking, and he let out a weary, resigned breath. “And he may be right,” he finally continued, as if he was only just accepting it himself, “that Freddie will never marry. I’d always thought he might, even though . . .” Again, his words trailed off.
“Hugh?” Sarah said softly, after nearly a minute had passed.
He turned and looked at her, then his expression hardened. “It doesn’t matter what I thought,” he said dismissively. “All that matters is what my father thought, and that he is convinced that I must be the one to provide an heir for the next generation. When Winstead nearly killed me . . .” He shrugged, letting Sarah and Daniel come to their own conclusions.
“But he didn’t kill you,” Sarah said. “So you can still . . .”
No one spoke.
“Er, you can, can’t you?” she finally asked. This was no time to be missish and demure.
He chuckled grimly. “I have no reason to suppose otherwise, although I will confess to not having assured my father to that fact.”
“Well, don’t you think you should have done?” she demanded. “He would have let Daniel alone, and—”
“My father,” Hugh cut in sharply, “does not easily let go of vengeance.”
“Indeed,” Daniel said.
/>
“I still don’t understand,” Sarah said. What did any of this have to do with how Hugh brought Daniel back from Italy?
“If you want to marry him,” Daniel said to her, “I will not stand in your way. I like Hugh. I have always liked Hugh, even when we met on that damned dueling field. But I will not permit you to marry him without knowing the truth.”
“What truth?” Sarah demanded. She was so bloody sick of them talking around the issue when she didn’t even know what the issue was.
Daniel stared at her for a long moment, then turned his attention to Hugh. “Tell her how you convinced your father,” he said in a clipped voice.
She looked at Hugh. He was staring at some point over her shoulder. It was like she wasn’t even there.
“Tell her.”
“My father loves nothing so much as the Ramsgate title,” Hugh said in a strange monotone. “I am nothing but a means to an end, but he believes I am his only means, and thus I am invaluable.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He turned back to her, blinking as if he was bringing her into focus. “Don’t you understand?” he said softly. “When it comes to my father, the only thing with which I have to bargain is myself.”
Sarah’s uneasiness began to grow.
“I drew up a contract,” Hugh said to her, “explaining exactly what would happen if your cousin met with any harm.”
Sarah’s gaze slid to Daniel, then back to Hugh. “What?” she said, the dread in her voice threatening to drag the very breath from her body. “What will happen?”
Hugh shrugged. “I kill myself.”
Chapter Seventeen
“No, really,” Sarah said. Her voice was forced; her eyes were wary. “What did you say would happen?”
Hugh fought the urge to dig his thumbs into his temples. His head had begun to pound, and he was fairly certain the only remedy would be the cheerful strangulation of Daniel Smythe-Smith. For once, everything in Hugh’s life was looking up—looking bloody perfect—and Daniel had to butt his head in where it was not wanted. Where it was not needed.
This was not how Hugh had meant to have this conversation.
Or maybe he hadn’t meant to have it at all, a small voice within tried to say. He hadn’t so much as thought about it. He’d been so infatuated with Lady Sarah, so utterly entranced by the bliss of falling in love that he hadn’t given a thought to his “agreement” with his father.
But surely—surely she could see that he’d had no other option.
“Is this a joke?” Sarah demanded. “Because if it is, it’s not funny. What did you really say would happen?”
“He’s not lying,” Daniel said.
“No.” Sarah shook her head, aghast. “That can’t be true. It’s preposterous. It’s mad, it’s—”
“The only thing that could ever convince my father to leave him alone,” Hugh said sharply.
“But you didn’t mean it,” she said, desperation in her voice. “Because you lied to him, didn’t you? It was just a threat. An empty threat.”
Hugh didn’t answer. He had no idea if he’d meant it. He’d had a problem—no, he’d been battered by a problem—and he had finally seen a way to solve it. In all honesty, he’d been pleased with himself. He’d thought his plan was brilliant.
His father would never risk losing Hugh before Hugh could see to it that a new generation of Prentice men roamed the land. Although once that happened, Hugh mused, all bets were off. If the marquess had a healthy grandson or two under his power, he likely wouldn’t blink if Hugh went and offed himself.
Well, he might blink once, if only for the sake of appearances. But after that Hugh would be just so much water under the bridge.
Oh, it had been grand when he’d presented his father with that contract. Maybe he was a sick son of a bitch, but the sight of his father so poleaxed, so utterly without recourse or retort . . .
It had been magnificent.
There were advantages to being thought such a loose cannon, Hugh had realized. His father had ranted and railed and upset the tea tray, and all the while Hugh had just watched him with that detached, almost clinical, amusement that never failed to infuriate the marquess.
And then, after Lord Ramsgate declared that Hugh would never go through with such an absurd threat, he’d finally looked at his son. He’d really, truly looked at him for the first time in Hugh’s memory. He’d seen the insolent, empty smile, the steely resolve in the set of his chin, and the marquess had gone so white that his eyes seemed to shrivel in their sockets.
He’d signed the contract.
After that, Hugh hadn’t given the matter much thought. He might make the occasional inappropriate joke (he always did have a dark sense of humor), but as far as he was concerned, he and his father were at a stable impasse of mutually assured destruction.
In other words, there was nothing to worry about. And he did not understand why no one else seemed to realize that.
Of course the only ones who knew about the contract were Daniel and Sarah, but they were intelligent people, rarely illogical in their decisions.
“Why aren’t you answering me?” Sarah asked, her voice rising with panic. “Hugh? Tell me you didn’t mean it.”
Hugh stared at her. He’d been thinking, remembering, and it was almost as if a part of him had left the room, found some quiet corner in which to ponder the sad state of his world.
He was going to lose her. She was not going to understand. Hugh could see that now, in her frantic eyes and trembling hands. Why couldn’t she see that he had made a hero’s choice? He was sacrificing himself—or at least threatening to—for the sake of her beloved cousin. Shouldn’t that count for something?
He had brought Daniel back to England, he had ensured his safety; for this he would be punished?
“Say something, Hugh,” Sarah begged. She looked to Daniel, then back to Hugh, her head moving in awkward jerks. “I don’t understand why you won’t say something.”
“He signed a contract,” Daniel said quietly. “I have a copy.”
“You gave him a copy?”
Hugh wasn’t sure how that changed anything, but Sarah looked horrified. The color had drained from her skin, and her hands, which she was trying so hard to keep still at her sides, were shaking. “You have to tear it up,” she said to Daniel. “Right this moment. You have to tear it up.”
“It doesn’t—”
“Is it back in London?” she cut in. “Because if it is, I leave right now. I don’t care if I miss your wedding, it’s not a problem. I can just go back, and I’ll get it, and—”
“Sarah!” Daniel practically yelled. When he had her attention, he said, “It wouldn’t make a difference. It’s not the only copy. And if he’s right”—he motioned to Hugh—“it’s the only thing keeping me safe.”
“But it might kill him,” she cried.
Daniel crossed his arms. “That is entirely up to Lord Hugh.”
“Actually, my father,” Hugh said. Because really, that was where the chain of madness began.
Sarah’s body went still, but her head was shaking, almost as if she were trying to jog her brain into understanding. “Why would you do this?” she asked, even though Hugh felt he had made his reasons perfectly clear. “It’s wrong. I-i-it’s unnatural.”
“It’s logical,” Hugh said.
“Logical? Logical? Are you insane? It’s the most illogical, irresponsible, selfish—”
“Sarah, stop,” Daniel said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “You’re overset.”
But she just shook him off. “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. She turned back to Hugh. He wished he knew what to say. He’d thought he had said the right thing. It was what would have convinced him had their positions been reversed.
“Were you thinking of anyone but yourself?” she demanded.
“I was thinking of your cousin,” Hugh said quietly.
“But it is different now,” she cried out. “When you made t
hat threat, it was just you. But now it’s—”
Hugh waited, but she did not finish the sentence. She did not say, It’s not. She didn’t say, It’s us.
“Well, you don’t have to do it,” she announced, as if she’d just solved all of their problems. “If something happened to Daniel, you wouldn’t have to actually go through with it. No one would hold you to such a contract, no one. Certainly not your father, and Daniel would be dead.”
The room went still until Sarah clapped a horrified hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, turning frantic eyes to her cousin. “I’m so sorry. Oh, my God, I’m sorry.”
“We’re done,” Daniel bit off, shooting a look of near hatred at Hugh. He put his arm around Sarah and murmured something in her ear. Hugh could not hear what he said, but it did nothing to stem the flow of tears that were now pouring down her face.
“I will pack my things,” Hugh said.
No one told him not to do so.
Sarah allowed Daniel to lead her from the room, protesting only when he offered to carry her up the stairs.
“Please, no,” she said in a choked voice. “I don’t want everyone to realize how upset I am.”
Upset. What a pathetic excuse for a word. She wasn’t upset, she was wrecked.
Shattered.
“Let me take you back to your room,” he said.
She nodded, then blurted, “No! Harriet might be there. I don’t want her asking questions, and you know she will.”
In the end, Daniel took her back to his own bedchamber, reasoning that it was one of the only rooms in the house in which she could be guaranteed privacy. He asked her one last time if she wanted her mother, or Honoria, or anyone, but Sarah shook her head and curled up in a ball atop his quilts. Daniel found a blanket and laid it over her, and then, once he was assured that she did indeed wish to be left alone, he exited the room and quietly closed his door behind him.
Ten minutes later Honoria arrived.
“Daniel told me you said you wanted to be alone,” Honoria said before Sarah could do more than look at her with an exhausted expression, “but we think you’re wrong.”
The very definition of family. The people who got to decide when you were wrong. Sarah supposed she was as guilty of this as anyone. Probably more so.
