“No,” Gertrude said slowly. “We are late for an appointment I’ve secured, not with your Mr. Seddon but with my fam—” He sharpened his eyes upon her. “My cabinetmaker,” she settled for.
Edwin remained frozen with his palms pressed to his desk. “Your meeting is with Mr. Thomas Seddon.”
Gertrude wrinkled her nose. “Who is that?”
“He is a cabinetmaker whose late uncle only employed more than four hundred—” A sparkle lit one of her eyes, the other curiously blank. And yet. My God, she was teasing him. The minx. “Thomas Seddon is the nephew of the late George Seddon. Their family has designed every piece within this townhouse.” And every piece that had been burnt at her ruthless father’s hands. Hatred for the man who’d sired her raced through his veins, burning him with its ferocity.
“I thank you for coordinating the meeting—”
“You are welcome.”
“However, you will have to send a cancellation around. Our appointment is scheduled with Mr. Gunner Draven.”
Gunner Draven? What kind of name was that? “I’ve never heard of him,” he said flatly.
“No worries,” Gertrude said, flashing a wide smile. It dimpled her cheeks and lit her face, transforming her from plain miss . . . into someone quite extraordinary.
He recoiled. “Good God.”
“Oh, come. Using a different designer will not be so very bad as all that,” she assured, mistaking the reason for his horror.
Then the implications of what she’d said moments ago registered. “Why . . . why . . .” He straightened. “You think I’m accompanying you?”
“No.” Her dazzling smile widened. “I know you are.” Gertrude fiddled with her pocket, searching her fingers around, and as she did, she started for the door. “As it is, we are late.”
She’d already opened it and stepped outside—before she noted him inside his office still.
Gertrude ducked back into the rooms.
“I’m not coming,” he said flatly. He’d made more concessions than he ought where this family was concerned: Gertrude’s presence here, his son’s name, the commissioning of new furniture. “That was never part of the discussion.” He drew the damned line at joining her and Stephen in broad daylight. Edwin avoided stepping outside during the fashionable hours because invariably stares and whispers followed his every movement. It had simply become . . . easier, following altogether different hours than those set by proper society.
“Hmm,” she said vaguely, chewing at the tip of her gloved fingertip, eyeing him like he was an exhibit at the British Museum. She could stare, barter, cajole, or employ whichever trickery she wished—he had no intention of accompanying them or rising to her bait.
“What?” he bit out, proving weak once more.
“It is nothing,” she said with a toss of her head. “I just had this silly idea that you’d”—she rolled her eye, the other remaining unaffected under that subtle movement—“insist on accompanying us out of some silly fear because I’m a Killoran.” Gertrude laughed, an airy and bell-like expression that pinged around the room. Enthralling as the blasted woman herself was. “Good day, Edwin.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched off.
Thank God, she was gone. Striding over, he kicked the panel closed with the heel of his boot. “Accompany her,” he muttered. As if he wanted to . . . or could reenter society. He wanted no part of the stares and the whispers that followed his every movement. Why . . . He stopped suddenly. She intended to go alone. Despite the orders he’d given her yesterday. She insisted you join them, and yet you urged her to go off by herself. “Over my dead body,” he seethed. Cursing roundly, Edwin yanked the door open and let himself out. “Miss Killoran—Gertrude,” he thundered.
The young woman stopped and turned back with an infuriating slowness. “Edwin?”
“I’ll accompany you.”
She smiled once more. “Splendid. Shall we go, then?”
And as he joined her and headed to the foyer to meet his son, Edwin could not help but feel he’d been tricked once more by the scheming young woman.
Chapter 10
The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rumble of the carriage wall added the only sounds to the otherwise tense carriage ride from Edwin’s Grosvenor Square residence to the streets of St. Giles.
Seated on the comfortable gold velvet squabs of the marquess’s black conveyance, Gertrude made a show of studying the passing scenery as stucco-and-brick townhouses with handsomely dressed lords and ladies eventually gave way to dilapidated buildings, narrower streets, and the squalor that had marked the whole of her existence. All the while, she attended the pair opposite her: Edwin and a glowering Stephen.
Father and son. They were a pairing of a blond, muscular, hulking bearlike figure of a man and a golden-haired child who was waiflike in his build. To pass them on the streets, even with their similar fine wool garments and gleaming black boots, by the aloofness between them, one would never venture the pair was related in any way.
Edwin and Stephen sat with their backs slightly presented to one another, stiffly impersonal, not touching, not looking at one another. Strangers, in every way.
And Gertrude’s heart cracked, broke, and then bled for the both of them.
She was not so very delusional nor naive to believe that a bond automatically existed between a parent and his or her child. She wasn’t. Somewhere between her own sire’s indifference and the beatings he’d rained down upon her, she’d learned that blood did not a bond make.
No, Mac Diggory could have seen Gertrude cut down in the street and would have stepped over her dead body without a backward glance, for as little as he’d cared about her.
But Edwin . . . he’d proven himself to be different. Oh, he’d been so very determined to be hostile and keep impenetrable walls around himself.
And yet, at every turn, he’d proven himself a man able to set aside his own resentments and hatred in the best interests of his son. That sacrifice for another was one she and her siblings knew all too well. They would have killed or taken the fall for one another. But never had she known a parent capable of that devotion or love.
And something in that . . . in seeing the battle he fought within himself while ultimately always putting Stephen’s well-being first, sent warmth spiraling in her chest.
The carriage hit a broken cobble, and Edwin cursed. He finally released the brocade curtain and looked forward. “Where in hell are we going?” As soon as that profanity had left him, he glanced over at Stephen. “I . . .”
For the first time, the child looked upon the marquess with something other than disdain. A blend of curiosity and amusement filled Stephen’s eyes. “You curse?”
Edwin tugged at his slightly wrinkled cravat. “Occasionally.” Stephen’s face fell, and he started to look away. “Regularly,” the marquess corrected, and his son froze, glancing back. “All the time.”
Stephen gave an approving nod, and at that small but meaningful moment of bonding between father and son, a sheen of tears dusted her vision. Gertrude blinked them back. Both Stephen and Edwin would be repulsed by that expression, taking it for weakness, and it would only shatter the moment.
The tension Stephen had been carrying in his small frame eased as he shifted on the bench. “You curse in front of women?” He pointed over at Gertrude. “I mean . . . it is just Gertrude, but my brother says a man shouldn’t curse in front of a woman. Says it ain’t polite.”
Edwin blanched. To his credit, the marquess swiftly schooled his features so that his face remained a careful mask. “Killoran . . . was correct. I will strive to use more care in my speech around women.”
Stephen sat upright and glared daggers at the man next to him. And just like that the shared moment between father and son . . . was shattered. “That is Mr. Killoran to you. Broderick to me. Because he is my brother.”
“Stephen,” Gertrude warned, giving her head a firm shake. “Enough,” she mouthed.
Edwin st
iffened.
“Well, he is.” Stephen turned tauntingly back to the marquess. “Broderick made his own fortune and protected me and the women he was responsible for.” He sneered. “Which is more than I can say for you,” he spat.
Edwin’s entire body recoiled like he’d been punched in the belly.
Gertrude gasped and sprang forward in her seat. “Stephen,” she hissed, at last managing to silence the boy. Belatedly.
With a go-to-hell shrug, Stephen offered his back up toward his father once more and looked out at the now-familiar streets of St. Giles.
Biting the inside of her lip, Gertrude stared hopelessly at the marquess.
His chiseled cheeks a ghastly shade of grey, motionless, he was a man who’d been wounded . . . and badly. Long before this latest vicious verbal assault carried out by his own son, and an inadvertent product of the man the same child now defended. Stephen might not remember the mother or life he’d had ripped from him, but those losses were real and no doubt raw for his father.
Gertrude stared at the mutinously silent pair. Blast. This was not the way she’d imagined the day going for Stephen and his father. They were to have come together and slowly begun to learn about one another. Her visions of the day had certainly not included Stephen throwing his mother’s death in the widowed marquess’s face.
And for the first time since she’d crafted this scheme on her own to join Stephen in his new household and help smooth his way, easing the tense relationship between father and son . . . she wavered.
Ya’re nothing but a failure, girl. No reason to keep ya around, ya blind bitch . . . If it weren’t for Broderick, I would have knifed ya in yar sleep long ago . . . done ya a favor . . .
Gertrude’s fingers twitched with her need to clamp them over her ears and blot out that hated Cockney. She focused on drawing in slow, steadying breaths through her nose. All the while, she fought her past and the oldest insecurities she’d carried about her own self-worth.
Or, rather, the lack thereof.
Gertrude reached inside her pocket and found Sethos there, taking some comfort in that small, soft creature. To no avail. A panicky laugh swelled in her chest and caught in her throat. What had made her think she, of anyone, could help in any way . . . Her, the weak, pathetic, pitiable Gertrude Killoran?
Stop. Do not let him in. Do not let him win. Do not . . .
The carriage slowed, pushing the past out and the present thankfully forward where it belonged.
“We’ve arrived,” Edwin murmured.
“Finally,” Stephen muttered. And not even waiting until the conveyance rocked to a complete stop, the boy shoved the door open and leapt out, leaving Gertrude and Edwin . . . alone.
From the doorway, she followed his quick steps as he darted along the pavement and up the handful of cracked stone stairs of Mr. Gunner Draven’s establishment.
Edwin made no move to climb out. He remained fixed to his bench, his cheeks ashen, the muscles of his face tense. He didn’t wish to be here . . . but was his response a product of where they’d gone? Or of a man rumored to have lived in isolation, fearful of reentering the world of the living?
As if he’d followed the questions running through her mind, Edwin stiffened. Without sparing her a look, he started for the doorway.
“I wanted to apologize,” she called out, staying him.
He sat back on the bench and arched a cool blond eyebrow.
“For Stephen,” she added lamely, her mind still jumbled from her latest haunting by Mac Diggory. She forced herself to focus, owing it to Stephen and this man before her. “Stephen is an angry boy,” she explained, braced for the usual—and deserved—blame he’d shower upon her. That this time . . . did not come. Encouraged by his silence, she slipped through the crack he allowed her. “He is angry because of what he’s seen and done. And yes,” she put in before he could and they dissolved once more into hated foes, “it is my family’s fault—even inadvertent though it may have been.” Gertrude stretched a hand out. “But there is so very much good in Stephen. He is loyal and loving, even if . . . there is just an odd way in how he shows it. And he’s clever, not only in matters of survival but also in his schooling.” A wad of emotion stuck in her throat, and she laughed around it. “Though he’d fight anyone for daring to call him a scholar. He’ll come ’round,” she promised. “Someday.” Hopefully soon. But with his streak of Killoran stubbornness, that day might well come when he went on to meet his maker, many, many years from now. An awkward silence met her telling. “I just wanted you to know that,” she added, when Edwin still made no attempt to reply.
“Apricot tarts.”
Gertrude angled her head and sought to understand that random statement, not even a sentence. “I don’t—”
“It was his favorite treat. Cook made it daily for him, and there was always additional left in the kitchens because without fail, August would awaken in the dead of night. Always past two o’clock. Always before five o’clock. He would creep to the side of my bed, and at those times, we’d sneak down to the empty kitchens and eat one together.”
Once more, her vision blurred from another sting of tears. From the tale Edwin shared, he presented an image she couldn’t understand in life but had always dreamed of . . . a loving father and his cherished child. Not a babe turned over to the care of a nursemaid, but one who’d loved his father so dearly he’d sought him out first when sleep eluded him. And his father had not sent him on his way. Rather, he’d joined him. And in that moment, she had the answer to the question that had riddled her mind since she’d arrived—the marquess hadn’t been mad prior to losing his family. She’d venture he wasn’t insane now, but instead a man so consumed with grief he’d forgotten how to be around anyone.
“You’ll not ask why we should only have one?” he asked, calling her back from that cogitation. Placing his palms on his knees, Edwin leaned over, erasing the space between them in the carriage.
She gave her head a hesitant shake. “I . . .” It wouldn’t have come into her head to ask as to why there’d been only one when for her there had been none.
“Because the tray he asked Cook to make . . . wasn’t for him. It was for each of the horses in the stables. On those nights, Gertrude,” Edwin went on, “we’d visit the stables and pass those treats on to the horses because Stephen insisted they worked so very hard during the day and should be mightily rewarded.”
He described a child so unlike Stephen. A stranger, in every way, a boy who’d deserved the life this man painted in heartbreaking strokes with every word that left his lips.
A tear slid down her cheek. Followed by another, and another.
Edwin flicked his gaze over her face, taking in those useless expressions of her misery. “Therefore, do not seek to convince me of the reasons I should love my son.” Pain blazed within his eyes, piercing her from the intensity of the emotion there. “I loved him long before you knew him,” he said hoarsely. “I loved him when your family ripped him from my life, and I love him even now, angry and hating me as he does.”
She slid her eyes closed; his paternal love, his broken heart, and his tangible grief all slammed into her, stealing the air from her lungs.
All along she’d believed she needed to be here with Stephen and Edwin so that she might help the marquess to understand his son and show him all the good that existed within the boy. Only to find that hers wasn’t a matter of teaching Edwin to care for Stephen but rather of helping her brother see that he was loved by the marquess. That he always had been and always would be.
Gertrude patted her cheeks. She could do this. She owed it to both Edwin and Stephen, and the task before her was certainly a good deal more favorable than had the marquess proven to be a heartless noble who’d merely wanted his heir back for the sake of lineage.
Fueled with a new purpose, Gertrude gripped the sides of the carriage to hand herself down.
Edwin stood there, a hand stretched out. Even hating her as he did, he was still a gen
tleman in ways that neither she nor her siblings could understand. The velvet collar of his fine wool overcoat marked him here in the streets of the Seven Dials as a foreigner.
“Miss Killoran?” he urged, alternating his stare between her and the truculent child waiting on the steps.
He feared he’d again lose him.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, placing her fingers in his. He curled his palm over hers, enveloping hers. Her glove proved little barrier against a wave of unexpected warmth that sent small shivers of awareness radiating through her.
And this time, not a word passed between them as they found their way over to the steps where Stephen waited.
Chapter 11
Standing in the streets of the Dials with his arms folded before him, Edwin flicked his gaze around the whores and drunkards who cluttered the pavement. He did a continuous sweep, his eyes taking in everything.
Having been burnt every way in which a man could be by the Killorans, he’d be mad to trust there was anything aboveboard in . . . any of this.
“Mayhap he’s not here,” Stephen muttered as Gertrude knocked for a third time on the door of the establishment.
“I am sure he’s here. I sent word ’round yesterday after I spoke with your father,” she murmured, a frown in her voice.
Stephen glowered back at Edwin. “You. Are . . . My. Fath . . . ,” he mouthed, the clarity of words lost to the length of that statement, but Edwin would wager his title and every property attached to it that the sentence contained the word “not” somewhere in there.
Gertrude shoved an elbow into the boy’s side.
“Oomph.” Stephen rubbed at the wounded flesh. “What in hell was that for?” he groused.
“Behave,” she warned.
“I didn’t say anything,” the boy whined.
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