by Ingrid Hahn
That he remembered. Not the breastfeeding, but the sleeping. He’d been five when the duke had forced him to take the bed in the nursery—a small bed, cold and alone. For months following, if he woke in the night, he’d reach for his mother to find cold bedding and air. He couldn’t smell her. Feel her. Find the comfort that only a mother could give.
Instead, he was alone in the pitch black, with naught but the sounds of a creaking old house for cruel company.
The next year, in a connection Giles hadn’t put together until adulthood, his mother had been with child again. There had been a little girl. Stillborn. The dead daughter of whom a word was never spoken. She didn’t have a grave, at least one that he knew of. He’d overheard his mother crying once and found her by herself with the tiny baby cap she’d made in her confinement. She’d shaken with the force of her sobs, struggling to silence them. He’d heard his mother whisper, “Louisa,” just before he’d touched his mother’s skirts. She’d pulled him into her arms and stroked his hair.
So far as he knew, there had been no other children, nor other attempts at them. That left no spare to take the Silverlund legacy if Giles died. And though Silverlund had kept a mistress these past twenty or so years, there were famously no Silverlund bastards, either.
The duchess indicated Giles should bend close. He did. She kissed his forehead. “I must go now, but I shan’t be long in returning.”
No sooner had she swept away than a footman appeared. “The lady has arrived, my lord.”
“And you’ve shown her into the drawing room.”
“As you’ve instructed, my lord.”
Giles almost clasped his hands together—but, of course, he couldn’t.
A minute later, he passed through the doorway, on either side of which was a footman in celery-green livery and white wigs. Their uniforms complemented the champagne-yellow walls, each panel of which was bordered with ornate white plasterwork.
Lady Sophie met him, fury made flesh, if her expression were any judge. She might not have been a full five feet tall, but there was nothing delicate about her. “I will never marry you.”
“Yes, I know.” Without blinking, Giles replied in a bare whisper, all but mouthing the words with slow care so the servants in the room didn’t catch the words. “I have all the wrong parts.”
Her eyes went wide with horror as she went a rather violent shade of red and turned her face toward the window. Her voice was strained, her lips white. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Pity. Miss Cartwright won’t be pleased to hear you say that.”
The room couldn’t have been more silent if all the occupants were dead. “I—”
Giles spun to face her. “Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t talk.”
He nodded to one of the young footman flanking the doorway. The lad stepped forward. Lady Sophie, all too used to the constant presence of servants, hadn’t looked at them. When she spun around to face him, her hand flew to her mouth to stifle a startled scream. There was Miss Cartwright, disguised as a member of the household in livery and a wig.
Giles nodded to the second footman, and he left, shutting the door behind them.
Lady Sophie ran to the other woman but stopped short of throwing her arms around her. She stood with her arms by her sides and tempered her smile, standing awkwardly and giving Giles a worried look.
He laughed and waved at them. “Go on then. I have no illusions about what you are and no scruples that will keep me—”
Cries of joy drowned him out. Lady Sophie and Miss Cartwright embraced. Their mouths met, and they drank each other deeply, with passion that would have driven Aphrodite spiteful with envy.
“Ah.” Giles found the packet of documents he’d stashed on the mantelpiece and crossed the room to hand them over. At the last moment, however, he held back. “You love each other?”
The two women shared a warm glance, their eyes glowing with hope and expectation. Miss Cartwright nodded. “We do.”
“Is that enough for you?”
“Enough?” Lady Sophie shook her head. “What else could there be in life but a companion to love and cherish?”
“What, indeed? All right, then, all right. That’s quite enough of that.” Giles stashed the packet on a nearby table, then waved them both to stand in front of him. “Now, Miss Cartwright, take Lady Sophie’s hands.”
She did so.
Giles stood straight, cleared his throat, and intoned in his best stuffy vicar voice, “I pronounce you married—”
Lady Sophie gave him a startled look. “Married? On whose authority?”
“My authority, of course. Pay attention. I pronounce you married. Simply because you prefer one another’s intimate company to that of a man doesn’t mean you’re exempt from the lot the rest of us suffer—the pity and spite that will overtake the first flush of love and bind you to one another for all your days.”
This jaunty reminder didn’t seem to drag second thoughts to the surface of either mind. On the contrary, they beamed at each other.
Apparently, they’d gone as mad as him.
The two women kissed again.
Ah, no. He was going soft in his old age. If love made them candidates for Bedlam, he should well crown himself king of the whole bloody asylum.
King himself, in all his feline glory—knowing how to work door handles and putting the skill to practice—padded into the room. He surveyed the scene disinterestedly, then hopped into a chair that sat soaking in sunlight.
After shutting the door again, Giles slid a glance back at the women and subtly cleared his throat. They broke their embrace. Lady Sophie inhaled. “I must own that I don’t completely understand what is happening.”
“Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Cartwright. You’re about to start your new life.” Giles grabbed the packet and handed it over.
“What’s this?”
“Tickets for your overseas passage, documents you’ll need to see you safely into America, and letters of introduction to prominent members of Boston society.”
“America? Boston society?” Lady Sophie stared at the packet tied with twine, blinking rapidly as if she didn’t comprehend.
“Don’t be so shocked.” Giles wandered over to the chair where King had curled and bent to stroke the silky fur. “I have it on good authority that they do have something akin to Society over there.”
“That’s not what I meant.” She raised the packet. “How did you do this?”
He tossed his right shoulder. His whole damn right side had started to chronically ache from overuse. “I’m the Marquess of Ashcroft.”
How good it felt to say those words again.
“Oh, forgive me, my lord.” Lady Sophie laid heavy sarcastic emphasis on her words. “That explains everything.”
“I’m the Marquess of Ashcroft.” There again—a shiver rode down his spine. That’s who he was. Commanding. Self-assured. Confident. “What I want, I get. Within reason. What I’d like to give you most is the ability to live your lives without apology or regret. I can’t. So I do what I can with what I can. If that doesn’t explain it all, I can’t help you.”
“But—”
“You’re going to Boston because I know people there. You’ll be starting life together as…” Wife and wife? Spouse and spouse? “A married couple, and you will be hiding in plain sight.”
Lady Sophie’s cheeks flushed. “I still don’t understand.”
Miss Cartwright interjected. “Don’t you see, my love? We’re leaving England and starting life together. Because we’re both women, I have to present myself as a man so we can be together without censure.”
“A damn rotten thing. People are loutish oafs.” Giles hated that Lady Sophie and Miss Cartwright had to hide.
They ignored him. By all appearances, they didn’t mind in the least. They couldn’t wait to find utopia together. Trying to interject would be foolish.
A servant arrived. The lovers jumped apart. “Another visitor, my lord.
A woman.”
So soon? Mr. Leland had done quick work, getting the message delivered with admirable promptness. Giles was going to have to raise the secretary’s wages. “Send her in.”
He turned to the two women. “The last thing I wish is to cast you out prematurely, but I have something of exceptional importance that I must attend without delay.”
Miss Cartwright nodded. “You have nothing but our gratitude, my lord, and shall have it forever and always. If there is anything you ever…” Her lip trembled, and her eyes filled.
“I understand completely.”
They left, and Miss Emery was shown in. She wore an unadorned cream muslin day dress, badly crumpled. Her hair was pinned up in a practical manner, without a nod toward fashion. Dark circles ringed her eyes.
Giles let his shoulders soften. She was here. “You came quickly. Thank you.”
Her brows went up, and she cocked her head to one side. “Quickly? You sent for me?”
They were prevented from further conversation by an announcement of another visitor. One Mr. Kelly. Miss Emery started at the name, and her gaze flew to Giles, expression incredulous. “Mr. Kelly? The bonesetter?”
At Kelly’s name, no small amount of wild panic flew loose within Giles’s rib cage. He’d thought about it extensively. Imagined what it would be like. How he would feel. All with a cool and rational head.
Now it was here, however…it was different.
“Will you stay?” Giles nodded. “If you weren’t here with me, I wouldn’t be able to see this through.”
Her hesitancy visibly melted away. “And so I shall.”
He paused. A peculiar smell lingering about her suddenly consumed his attention. “Is that…smoke you smell of?”
“Don’t think about that.” With her free hand, she stroked his brow with tender intimacy. “I’ll tell you everything later.”
“What does that mean?” He tensed from head to toe. The duke was capable of dark deeds. There was no telling what he could have done. Giles’s imagination didn’t run in the same heinous direction as the duke’s—fortunately—and he couldn’t speculate. Fire, obviously. But beyond that… “Something’s happened. Tell me at once.”
“Later.”
“No. Tell me.”
“Later. Nobody’s hurt, that’s the important thing. Now we’re going to do this for you.”
“Like hell.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ashcroft called for his carriage and paid the bonesetter to wait. A quarter of an hour later, in the glowing sunshine of the busy street, the marquess handed Patience inside the conveyance. A footman emerged from the house with a large, slim leather portfolio tied shut with ribbon. Ashcroft indicated where the item should be placed.
With a quick “The duke’s club, please, good man,” to the coachman, Ashcroft followed her and took the opposite bench. The door shut behind him. He tucked his ruined arm protectively close, wincing a little.
So far, he’d said nothing. The servants and Mr. Kelly had left them no opportunity to speak privately.
“Please tell me what we are doing.” Hearing him say “the duke” set her on edge.
Patience sat upon the thickly stuffed cushions of the carriage and arranged her skirts. The first time she’d been in the Ashcroft carriage, she had deliberated about whether or not to agree to his proposal. In retrospect, it seemed shocking she’d hesitated. But she didn’t know him then like she did now.
Grim determination set in Ashcroft’s features. He gave the signal to the driver, and they set out. “When I left the church the other day, I was only thinking about myself. About making myself whole for you…in a…in a…” He cleared his throat. “In a bodily fashion.”
“That’s not—”
He held up his right hand, expression stern. “There are certain compromises I cannot and will not make.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He inhaled a lungful of air, then seemed to change his mind about whatever it was he’d been about to say, shook his head, and let the breath out again. “Let’s leave that be for now. Mr. Kelly will wait for us while we attend to a more pressing matter.”
She shook her head. “Which is?”
Ashcroft glowered, but the look was not for her. Whatever churned inside him was spilling out. “Silverlund.”
Patience’s mouth went dry. She’d faced down the duke not once, but twice. The first time at the Reyne ball. The second time, mere hours ago.
Weariness was clawing its way back into her bones. She hadn’t slept since the man had come to tell them about the fire, and the false stamina that had supported her through the crisis was beginning to fade. If she was going to see Silverlund again, a good sleep beforehand seemed in order. “Now?”
“It can’t wait.”
“It’s kept this long.”
“Precisely. And shan’t keep a moment longer. It’s been festering for too long.” The ferocity of his expression diminished. “Don’t worry, I haven’t the least intention of coercing you into playing the pawn like I did that night he intruded upon us at Glenrose. I deeply regret what I said and how I behaved toward you. You were right. And I never had the chance to apologize, so pray allow me to do so now. I am sorry.”
His earnestness settled into her heart. Yes, this man deserved her love.
She glanced out the window lest he read her thoughts.
Deflecting, she teased him. “You’re a bit of an ox sometimes, you know.” She sneaked a look back at him.
His mouth quirked. “Yes, I suppose so. But if anyone but you were to call me an ox, I’d have their spleen.”
“I’ll warn people.”
“Seems in the public interest that you do so.”
“The public? Are you going to spread yourself so wide?”
His grin turned cold. “For what I’m about to do, I do hope so.”
She went stern. “Please tell me what it is that you’re about to do.”
“I can imagine only one reason you’d appear at my residence at such an hour of the morning when you hadn’t received my request for your presence, and only one reason you’d be smelling of smoke. The duke tried to hurt you. And that I won’t tolerate.”
“What do you think you can do about it? A wealthy man of prominence isn’t easily hindered.”
“I don’t plan on presenting a mere hindrance. He cares about power. He cares about being a duke. He cares about control. What he doesn’t care about is people, except how they reflect upon him—or how he perceives that they reflect upon him.”
They came to St. James Street and stopped in front White’s. He descended to the street and took the portfolio awkwardly under one arm. “These are the drawings Holbrook saved. Though nothing about them will make the subject recognizable to others as you, the fact remains, they are of you. Therefore, you have complete control over them, and whatever you say shall be done with them is what I will do. If you don’t want me to take them—”
His words were painting a fair picture of how he was going to go about confronting the duke.
She reached out a hand to cover his. “Take them. You have my blessing.”
“Truly?”
“You’re going to confront him with who you are. Well, this is who you are. And I—well, I hope at least, that I have been a small part of your life. I’m not ashamed of you, me, or anything we’ve done together. Whatever you must do, you have my wholehearted support.”
“Have been and will continue to be a part of my life. If you’ll agree.” His voice fell by a few degrees, and his face shone with something utterly new. Something she’d never witnessed on the marquess’s face. “You’re the reason I’m fighting. You’re the reason I’m going to overcome him.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the building whose white stone was grubby with soot. When he looked back at her, his eyes gleamed in the same sort of way they had the night he’d first issued his proposition. “You could come with me.”
“In there?�
� She pulled back. He couldn’t be serious. Then again, this man wasn’t known for jesting…
“Yes.”
“White’s? You want me to come with you inside White’s? The White’s?” The audacity of such a notion was nothing short of stunning. It was outrageous. Scandalous. An idea only the marquess could ever advance. “I couldn’t possibly. It’s unthinkable.”
“It’s just a building.”
“It’s just nothing. It’s White’s.” She paused to take a breath and shook her head. “Maybe this is one place where your birth and breeding have blinded you.”
“Nonsense. I’m blind to nothing.”
“Because you’re the Marquess of Ashcroft, I suppose?”
“No sooner was I born than my father put my name on the list for membership. I know what it is and all it represents. I also know the rule prohibiting women is a rule of men, not God. Stuffy, pompous old men who see women as lesser and go out of their way to invent ridiculous methods of suppressing them.”
“Easy enough for you to say. You’re a man.”
“Fair point. But there will be no thunderbolt from on high striking you down should you go up those steps and cross the so-called sacred threshold.”
A nervous laugh escaped her. White’s. He thought she should waltz into White’s. She loved the man, but he was mad. “Next you’ll be saying women ought to vote.”
Ashcroft smiled like a cunning cat after devouring a particularly clever mouse. “Yes, now that you mention it, I think they should. Why men should force women to abide by laws women have been forbidden from speaking out upon? It’s barbaric. You’re not chattel. You’re as clever as men. Sometimes far more clever, I daresay.”
“But there are plenty of men who can’t vote.”
“Which is rubbish, isn’t it? We’re all governed. We all ought to have a say. Including women.”
She turned the concept over in her mind. Why shouldn’t women vote? It seemed reasonable. Embroider beautiful items in the drawing room by morning, brew dissent and reform in coffeehouses by day, dance holes in her slippers at London ballrooms by night.
