by Burke, Darcy
He shook his head. None of it really mattered. Except she had made a difference with him. Perhaps she’d been precisely what he needed at that moment.
Anthony took another sip of coffee and redirected his focus to the correspondence. The next letter, drafted in familiar handwriting, made his breath catch. He tore it open and read the words quickly, then went back and reread them. His sister had given birth. He was now an uncle to a baby girl. Named Marianne for their mother.
A riot of emotions tumbled through him, none of them worth exploring—or feeling. Clearheadedness suddenly seemed an awful idea.
Lifting his gaze from the letter, Anthony stared at the portrait of his grandfather that hung on the wall opposite his desk. Now that Anthony was viscount, he should replace it with a portrait of his father, but he hadn’t been able to do it. Almost a year had gone by since his father had been murdered, and Anthony still couldn’t bring himself to look at his face.
The letter from Sarah dropped from Anthony’s fingertips. He blinked and looked down at it. She’d given birth five days ago. The letter had likely been sitting here for at least a couple of days. She would have had it delivered as soon as possible to share the news. And she would be expecting his response, which was now delayed because he hadn’t been here.
Self-loathing tore through him. He glanced toward the sideboard where bottles of port, rum, and gin beckoned. His foot twitched, and he nearly stood. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to pour a drink. More specifically, not to succumb to the desire to be numb. It was so much easier than this. Than feeling.
With Herculean effort, Anthony pushed Sarah’s letter aside. He’d somehow find the courage to write her back later. He would. His gaze drifted to the sideboard once more.
Cursing, he ripped open the next letter. The words chilled him to his very soul, or rather, what was left of it.
Colton,
I know what you did, how you killed your parents. Unless you want everyone to know your sins, I require two hundred pounds, delivered to the barkeep at The Stinking Sheep in Blackfriars. You must deliver the funds personally on the seventeenth of May, or everyone in London will know the embarrassing and tawdry details of your transgressions—gambling, debt, drinking, womanizing, but most of all, murder.
Air fought its way into his lungs. He wasn’t a murderer.
Yes, you are. They wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t gotten into trouble and if you hadn’t refused your father’s request.
Fuck, what day was it? He scrambled to think. He’d lost track of time while he was at Jane’s. At last, he realized today was the seventeenth. If he hadn’t come home today, he would have missed this entirely.
Clutching the letter in his hand, he stood and walked around the desk. Did that mean he was going to pay it? Two hundred pounds wasn’t a paltry sum. And yet, if he didn’t, everyone would know the specifics of his crimes, just how far he had fallen. His friends, his sister, Jane…
Anthony crumpled the parchment and threw it across the room. He stalked to the sideboard and poured gin into a glass, then tossed the entire contents down his throat. Welcome heat snaked through him. He closed his eyes to savor the taste and the sensation that all would soon be right.
No, not right. Never right. Only better. More tolerable.
Numb.
He poured another drink and swallowed it down too. Filling the glass a third time, he went to the settee against the wall and lay down upon it, waiting for the apathy to take over. To immerse himself in comfortable darkness.
He couldn’t bear anything else.
* * *
“He’s the worst, isn’t he?” Jane asked the kittens who’d awakened her rather early that morning with their antics. They hadn’t done that before. Presumably because they were typically in Anthony’s chamber. That should have been her first inkling that something was amiss. Then, later that morning, when she’d gone downstairs to breakfast, Culpepper had handed her the note from Anthony informing her that he’d left.
My dear Jane,
Words cannot adequately convey my gratitude for your care this past week. I hope that I have repaid your kindness in satisfactory measure, but I daresay that will never truly be possible. You were a light in the darkness when I needed guidance most.
Thank you.
Colton
He hadn’t even had the grace to sign his given name. After everything they’d shared! Last night, he’d indicated she would see him today, and the whole time, he’d known he wouldn’t be here.
Unless he’d awakened this morning and decided to go. He had suffered a headache last night. Perhaps he was regressing in his recovery.
Or perhaps she was making excuses for him.
Jane paced the garden room, and the kittens batted at her skirts until Fern jumped on Daffodil, and they somersaulted across the carpet. “Well, at least you don’t seem too upset,” she murmured. “But then you did wake me at an ungodly hour this morning. Was that because you were missing Anthony? Did you wake him up at that time every day?” Savagely, she hoped they did. He deserved that much.
The kittens ceased their wrestling and looked up at her. Daffodil mewed, then walked over to nuzzle her face against Jane’s slipper. Jane bent and scooped her up. The kitten began to purr as Jane cuddled her and scratched her head. “How could he just leave like that? The least he could have done was to say goodbye in person.”
Daffodil nudged her head into Jane’s hand as if she agreed.
“Thank you, Daffodil.” Jane looked down at Fern, who was now pulling on a thread from the carpet. “What do you think?”
Fern sat back from the thread, then wiggled her behind before launching forward once more.
“I should go after him?” Jane asked. Of course she should. She would go to his house right now and demand to know why he’d left so covertly. “Thank you, girls.” Jane dropped a kiss on Daffodil’s head before depositing her on the carpet next to her sister.
A short time later, Jane was in Phoebe’s coach on her way to Anthony’s house on Grosvenor Street. A dozen things went through her head as to what she could say, none of them very polite.
As the coach stopped in front of the house, her ire wilted. She’d never been here before, but she knew it had been his parents’ house. Was it hard for him to live there? She knew from their conversations—or rather his reactions to some of their conversations—that the loss of his parents still weighed heavily on him. As it should. They were his parents, after all, and it hadn’t even been a year since they’d died.
It’s been nearly a month since you’ve seen your parents.
Yes, it had been, and they hadn’t written or paid a call. She, on the other hand, had written to them. She’d asked how the wedding plans were coming and whether they would soon forgive her. Jane had hoped it would be in time for the wedding, but they hadn’t responded. Her sister Anne had, however, saying that they needed time and for now, Jane just needed to be patient.
The coachman opened the door and helped Jane out. She went up the steps and was greeted immediately by the butler.
“Good afternoon.” Anthony’s butler carried an air of austere dignity. He was not at all what she might have expected. But then, he’d likely been Anthony’s parents’ butler. She wondered if that was painful for him too.
The anger she’d felt upon learning he’d left sputtered and died.
“Good afternoon,” Jane said warmly. “Miss Pemberton to see Lord Colton.”
A single crease marred the butler’s forehead, and only for a moment. “I’m sorry…miss, but his lordship is not at home. I will tell him you called.”
Jane noted the way he hesitated before stressing that she was a miss. Who should never call on a gentleman, let alone without a chaperone. Being a spinster was bloody difficult. And not nearly as wonderful as she’d hoped.
Except she had been able to take care of Anthony, something that never would have happened if not for her chosen situation. Or the ruin she’d never
been aware of. Had that rumor never started five years ago, Jane would undoubtedly be married to some other gentleman, with children to boot.
The thought of never having come to know Anthony as she had, without sharing that wonderful evening of bliss…
“Good afternoon,” the butler said, closing the door.
Jane frowned. The butler’s attitude chafed, but what did she expect?
Frustrated, she turned and went back to the coach but didn’t direct the driver to go home. Perhaps a stroll along Bond Street would drive her doldrums away.
A scant five minutes later, Jane walked into one of her favorite shops. She adored their embroidery on things as varied as pillow slips and stockings.
“Miss Pemberton?”
Jane turned to see Lady Gresham. “Good afternoon, Lady Gresham. How lovely to see you. Allow me to apologize for the brevity of our meeting last week. I need to convene another very soon.” Perhaps she’d do that later in the week. It wasn’t as if she was occupied with anything—or anyone—else.
“That would be delightful,” Lady Gresham said with a smile. “I’m quite keen to continue our discussion regarding a charitable endeavor we might support—something to aid women in need. That is a cause for which my sister and I are strongly in favor.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I wonder if we should find a hospital or a workhouse we can help, somewhere that is specific to women?”
“There is a hospital in Whitechapel that provides reformation for former prostitutes. Perhaps we can help there somehow?”
Prostitutes? Jane wasn’t sure what she thought of that, but if a woman wanted to change her fortunes, she could certainly support that endeavor. “I’ll consider that, thank you.” Jane’s attention was drawn to the window through which she saw a woman walking outside the store. Not just any woman—Lady Satterfield.
Jane resisted the urge to rush outside and speak with her about the rumor. What if she didn’t get another chance? Phoebe was hosting a dinner, but what if Lady Satterfield didn’t attend? Jane would have no occasion to see her at another event because Jane wasn’t invited to any.
Ice crept through her like a glacier moving over the earth, chilling everything in its path. Had she made a terrible mistake moving to Cavendish Square? She’d ruined any chance she had at making a match in Society.
You didn’t have much of a chance anyway after that rumor started.
Yes, but if she was able to somehow undo the damage now, to convince people that she’d never behaved improperly, perhaps she could have salvaged her reputation enough to secure a match. But that wasn’t possible now.
Did she even want it to be? She’d found most men on the Marriage Mart tiresome or disgusting. Not one had sparked her interest, her affection, her desire.
Well, there had been one…
“Miss Pemberton?”
Jane pulled herself from her reverie. “My apologies, Lady Gresham, I’m afraid I was distracted.”
“I could tell.” Lady Gresham’s brow creased with concern. “Can I help somehow?”
“No, this is an old problem, something not worth worrying about.” Jane was parroting what Anthony had said. Was he right? Should she let the rumor go? It was, as she’d just deduced, too late to change anything.
“I find old problems sometimes have a way of resurfacing when we least want them to,” Lady Gresham said softly. “Best to eliminate them completely. If you can.”
“Excellent advice.” Jane didn’t know if she could eliminate the problem, but she could certainly seek justice and right the wrong that was done to her—to the extent that she could find the person who’d started the rumor and exact an apology, preferably a public one. “Thank you, Lady Gresham.”
“My pleasure, Miss Pemberton. My offer for assistance still stands.”
“I appreciate that. Now, let us discuss when to hold our next meeting.” Jane’s day might have started poorly, but renewed purpose gave her hope.
Chapter 8
The subscription room at Brooks’s was lively two nights later as Anthony sat in the corner nursing a brandy. The last two days had passed in a comfortable blur as he’d returned to the embrace of his best friend: alcohol.
Perhaps not comfortable. Tolerable was more accurate. And it would do.
It had to, because the alternative was sobriety, which he’d accidentally awakened to that morning. For an hour, he’d been tortured by thoughts of the extortion note he’d received, the fact that he was two hundred pounds lighter, and, of course, images and memories of Jane. Those were by far the worst.
And it wasn’t as if he didn’t think of those things in his inebriated state, it was that he was less tormented by them. He could think of Jane and her sweet scent, her inquisitive touch, her delicious mouth and not fall into a pit of despair.
“Anthony!”
He hadn’t heard that voice in weeks. Anthony sat up straighter as Marcus approached the table. Tall and muscular, with dark hair and dark blue eyes, the marquess was an attractive fiend. He was also a good friend, despite his scandalous reputation. Most of the time.
“Ripley.” Anthony raised his glass. “Join me.”
Marcus did just that, taking the chair to Anthony’s left so they both faced the room with their backs to the wall. “Brandy?” he asked, glancing at the drink as Anthony set it back on the table.
Anthony nodded.
“For the eye? No, it looks like an old injury. When did you get into another fight?”
“Last week. An aggressive goat.” Anthony smiled. The lie never got old. Because it always reminded him of Jane. Of their time together.
Marcus snorted. “Horseshit. What really happened?” He inclined his head at a passing footman.
“Don’t press me,” Anthony warned, thinking of their last meeting at Marcus’s wedding breakfast.
Marcus arched a dark brow at him. “And here I thought you might apologize for stalking out of my wedding celebration.”
“I will when you apologize for—and stop—meddling.”
“I’m not meddling,” he said quietly. “You’re my friend, and I care that you don’t overly abuse yourself or find yourself in a situation from which you can’t recover.”
It was far too late for that.
“Anyway,” Marcus’s tone turned bright. “Let us speak of pleasant things.”
“Marriage has ruined you.”
Marcus let out a laugh as the footman delivered his brandy. “Not at all, but I can see why you’d think so. I’m disgustingly happy, if you can imagine. Marriage is not at all what I expected.”
“You were fortunate to meet Phoebe.”
“Indeed I was, and I will be grateful for her every moment of every day of my life.” He tapped his glass to Anthony’s and drank.
Anthony, of course, didn’t need the excuse to drink too.
“Has your sister delivered yet?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, last week. A girl.” Anthony had written back to her with congratulations but hadn’t asked to visit. He wasn’t sure he was ready to meet his niece who was named for his mother. Anthony’s gut clenched. His dead mother.
“Wonderful news. I’ll tell Phoebe. She’ll be thrilled.” Marcus sipped his brandy. “Can we expect you for dinner tomorrow night? You didn’t send a response. If I didn’t see you here tonight, I was going to hunt you down.”
Anthony hadn’t responded because he hadn’t decided. He wondered if Jane had been invited, but couldn’t ask. Marcus would want to know why, and there was no explanation that wasn’t soaked in scandal. Besides, he’d asked Jane to keep his visit a secret with her friend, so he couldn’t very well share it with his. Furthermore, Marcus, in his offensive happiness, would certainly tell his wife, and that could cause strife between her and Jane. Anthony had committed enough transgressions without adding friendship killer to his list.
Killer.
The word pounded in his brain. He finished his brandy and stood abruptly. Suddenly, his friend’s compan
y was more than he could endure. Not his company, his contentment.
“Where are you going?” Marcus asked. “I just got here.”
“Sorry, I’ve somewhere to be.”
“Mrs. Alban’s?” Marcus gave him a knowing look. That had been Marcus’s favorite brothel, and Mrs. Alban was his close friend—or had been before he wed Phoebe. They hadn’t been lovers, but she made sure Marcus was always well cared for by her employees. As his friend, Anthony had received the same attention.
But Anthony hadn’t been there since before his fight. Perhaps he should go there. He’d likely feel a hell of a lot better if he did. “Yes. I’d ask you to join me, but I daresay your days there are over.”
“Quite.” Marcus shook his head. “It’s a bloody reversal, isn’t it? If someone had wagered on this happening, I would have told them that they’d lose their fortune.”
Anthony clasped his friend’s shoulder. “You deserve every bit of it.” More than Anthony ever would.
“You’re coming tomorrow night, then?” Marcus asked, narrowing his eyes up at Anthony. “I won’t take no for an answer. You owe it to Phoebe to come and apologize for leaving her wedding breakfast early.”
Damn, had he hurt her feelings? “I hope I didn’t upset her. I never meant to.”
“Of course you didn’t. She cares about you too. Just come. I promise it will be diverting, and I won’t harass you about what you drink, all right?”
“But will there be anyone for me to fight with?” Anthony asked, grinning.
Marcus cocked his head to the side. “I’m afraid not, but I’ve time to fetch an aggressive goat or two. Will that suffice?”
“Brilliant. I’ll be there.”
Anthony left the club and caught a hack. Only he didn’t go to Mrs. Alban’s. He ended up in Cavendish Square, staring at Jane’s house.
