The Earl I Ruined

by Scarlett Peckham

  She gasped and dropped to her knees. “Oh, a puppy!”

  Laughing musically, she lifted it from the basket. “He’s so small!”

  The puppy yelped, as if in protest of this assessment.

  She grinned and tucked the furry creature up against her face. “Oh, is he for me?”

  Apthorp cleared his throat. “If you like him. I thought you might.”

  What he had actually thought was that he wanted her to have something that would not fail her the way he had. He wanted her to have something that adored her without condition.

  “That beast shan’t be staying here,” Rosecroft drawled. “My children will persecute it mercilessly.”

  “I will protect him,” Constance said as the puppy cuddled into her neck. “I will keep him in my bedchamber and then he will come to live with us at Apthorp Hall.”

  Come to live with us at Apthorp Hall.

  That sliced through him—reminded him that she was acting, even now. For she had no intention of ever living at Apthorp Hall.

  The puppy licked her face. “Oh, what a forward little shrimp you are!” she murmured, burrowing her nose into its fur.

  “Don’t call him a shrimp,” Rosecroft objected. “He’ll likely be as tall as you one day.”

  “He won’t grow to more than two stone,” Apthorp corrected.

  Constance scratched the puppy behind its ear. It twitched with pleasure.

  “Oh, Shrimpy, I am going to take wonderful care of you.”

  Westmead winced. “I forbid you to call him Shrimpy.”

  “Too late,” she said firmly. “It’s his name and now he’s attached to it. Aren’t you, Shrimpy, my love?”

  “He’s going to piss on the bloody carpets,” Rosecroft grumbled.

  As if on cue, a stream erupted from the puppy.

  Constance yelped. “He’s wet on me! Shrimpy! How could you?”

  Apthorp leapt forward to take the writhing dog from her arms and put him on the floor.

  “I’m covered in mess!” she cried, seeming more amused than bothered. She shrugged the soiled dressing gown from her shoulders, revealing a long, chaste muslin night rail with a lace collar that went up to her chin.

  “Constance!” Westmead sputtered. “You’re indecent! Even for you.”

  “You prefer me covered in piss?”

  The outcry excited the dog, which ran about at Constance’s feet.

  Apthorp grabbed a blanket and rushed forward to drape it over her shoulders, pausing to tighten it just so.

  “There. Now she is decent.”

  He could not help noticing how dainty she looked, without all her usual boning and pads. His hands wanted to linger at her slightly rounded arms. To draw down and circle the indentation of her waist with his hands.

  Stop it, cretin.

  She looked up at him with big, guileless eyes. “Thank you.”

  “You look like a little frosted cake, all wrapped up,” he blurted out.

  He could not believe that had just come out of his mouth in front of Rosecroft and Westmead. Both men groaned.

  Constance only gaped at him. “A cake?”

  He felt his cheeks blooming warm. “Yes, er, I mean with all the lace, like icing.” He grimaced. “Forget I said it.”

  She raised her brow in an expression of extreme distaste. “I shall try.”

  “So will I,” Rosecroft said. “My God, man, I should have believed Hilary when she said you were hopelessly besotted. Take that dog out to the terrace before it shits on the rugs.”

  “Yes,” Apthorp said, taking up the leather lead, desperate to change the subject from his supposed state of sottedness. He whistled for the dog to follow him and escaped out the terrace doors.

  “May I lead him?” Constance called, trailing after him.

  “Stay where I can see you,” Westmead called from his berth by the fire.

  Apthorp handed her the leather rope and stood back by the door. He both wanted her company and did not want to have to look at her after the inanity of what he’d just said.

  She led the puppy around, murmuring to him. “Ah yes, that, you see, is a fish pond, Shrimpy. Must be a good dog and not ever eat the fish.”

  The dog leapt up and splashed a paw in the shallow pool, and he heard the soft sound of Constance’s indulgent laugh.

  “He likes you,” he called out at her.

  She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Do you think so? You know, I rather like him too.”

  He closed his eyes. This was what he had pictured when he’d believed himself to be on the cusp of declaring his affection. Calm nights, soft laughter. A budding friendship that he would nurture until it blossomed into something more. And then, when she was ready, he would tell her how he felt.

  How had he let it go so bloody wrong?

  And was there any way to fix it?

  “You’ve seemed upset this week, Constance,” he ventured, moving closer, so as not to be overheard. “And I know we said we would pretend, but since tomorrow is the vote, and we may not have a chance to be alone together, I just wanted to make sure that you—”

  “I’m very well,” she said, in a tone she herself would have once condemned as bland.

  “Are you? Because if you need anything from me at all, you need only ask.”

  She looked up into his eyes. “Thank you.”

  She turned to the dog and began to pull his lead back in the direction of the house.

  “You’ve had your fun, young man,” Constance said to Shrimpy, moving toward the doors. As she passed, she reached out and brushed his hand.

  “Thank you. It shall be nice to have a friend to take with me when I go.” She paused and glanced up into his eyes. “I shall think of you whenever I am with him.”

  What did that mean? Did he dare ask?

  “Wait,” he said.

  She turned, and her eyes were once again blank. He lost his nerve.

  “I brought something else for you.” He took the small wrapped package from his coat and slid it into her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. “Open it in private.”

  Constance put the puppy in his basket beside her in bed and stroked him as she thought of Genoa. She’d visited her friend Maria many times there, waking up to the fragrance of bitter lemon trees wafting through the windows. Gazing over the cliff tops at the white sails of passing ships on the turquoise sea. Purchasing sacks of pine nuts in dusty, quiet squares at sunset.

  You’re happy there. Sunshine. Salt air. Peace to decide on any future you imagine.

  Any future except this one.

  Someone knocked at her door.

  “Yes?”

  “May I come in?” her brother asked.

  “Of course,” she called, surprised he was still here. For a man who despised socializing, he’d lingered at the Rosecrofts’ all evening for no good reason, as though he was reluctant to let her out of his sight.

  He sat down at the end of the bed and looked at her like he was trying to make sense of a puzzle.

  “You don’t have to go through with it, you know,” he said.

  She looked up at him, startled. Could he somehow know what she was planning?

  “With what?”

  “Marrying him.”

  Oh. For a moment she’d thought he’d sensed she meant to run away.

  “Don’t be silly, Archer,” she said lightly. “I want to marry him.”

  Saying the words sent a chill down her spine.

  It made her realize they were true.

  Her brother looked deeply unconvinced. “Then why have you looked so miserable all night? Hand to God, Constance, if you’re having second thoughts about this, just say the word and I swear to you I’ll make it right. We’ve overcome worse scandal.”

  She twisted her fingers with her hands. “You misunderstand,” she said. “I don’t wish to call it off. I’m only a bit misty tonight because I am so in love with Julian.”

  To her horror, the trick worked again. It was the truth.<
br />
  She was so in love with Julian.

  She loved him.

  She did.

  She bloody, bloody loved him.

  Her brother stood and hesitated, then patted her awkwardly on the head.

  “Then I hope you will be very happy together,” he said finally.

  She could barely get the words out, knowing he would look back on this moment and perceive acutely that she’d lied to him.

  “I’m sure we shall.”

  He nodded and left.

  Alone, she sank back against her pillows and wondered if she should have said something more to Julian. What would he think if she told him she was revisiting a thousand moments, regretting half her life?

  She removed the wrapped package he’d given her from her drawer and stared at it, unsure if she could bear another touching gift from him.

  Slowly she unwrapped the paper to find a leather box. Inside, nestled within velvet, was a smooth marble ornament, like the priapic carving she’d seen in his trunk, only daintier, prettier, and attached to an orb. A note in his script was tucked inside the box.

  For your pleasure, on nights when you want someone to touch you.

  I’m sorry I wasn’t the man to do it. I’ll never stop wishing that I could be.

  All my love,

  Julian

  Chapter 15

  Apthorp paced outside the Commons Chamber in St. Stephen’s Chapel. The third reading of his bill was due to happen in a quarter hour—the series of ayes and nays that would decide the rest of his life. And yet, somehow, he didn’t care about the outcome.

  What had felt so vital now felt utterly beside the point.

  All he could think about was Constance.

  He could not shake the feeling that he was letting her go too easily. He replayed her words in his mind. I’ll think about you whenever I am with him.

  Had she been telling him she didn’t want to leave? Or was he merely torturing them both by scouring her every turn of phrase for hidden shades of meaning?

  He did not want to trap her in a future she would hate. But perhaps together they could create a different future from the one that she envisioned. One in which they lived primarily in London. They could renovate his house on the Strand, and she could host salons and write plays. Perhaps, once he was free, he could shed his stiff exterior and welcome her friends and her ways and show her the side he’d been so careful to hide.

  The side that had existed only on Wednesday nights, wearing a mask.

  “Apthorp.” From around the corner, a tall figure loped into view.

  Henry Evesham.

  “Ah, Mr. Evesham,” he said, straining for a pleasant tone. It would not do, in these halls where anyone could overhear, to imply he was anything other than friendly with the hack. “Or should I say, Lord Lieutenant. Congratulations on your new office.”

  “Why, thank you, Lord Apthorp.” He lowered his voice. “Or perhaps you prefer to be called Master Damian.”

  Apthorp’s heart ceased beating.

  Feign bafflement.

  “Pardon?”

  Evesham gave him a long-suffering smile. “You can pretend not to know of whom I speak, but we both know that you do.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

  “If that is the line you’re taking, one hopes you have a strong constitution for the next story I’m reporting. London may think itself incapable of being further shocked by you, but we both know the truth is sensational.”

  Apthorp strove for a bored tone. “One would think, given the weight of your newfound responsibilities, you would lack time to pursue slanderous rumors.”

  “My newfound responsibilities enshrine in law my mission to ensure that vice and corruption are eradicated—from the top of this city to its gutters. And to those rare places, like Charlotte Street, where they so curiously intersect.”

  He smiled at Apthorp like he had just beaten him at chess.

  “Come, now,” he said. “We needn’t be enemies. I will ensure your name is not among those sullied. Your peers—not to mention your future wife—will never know of your transgressions. If you help me.”

  “Why are you pursuing this? To sell newspapers?”

  “On principle,” Evesham said. “I believe the public has a right to know what their supposed betters are involved in. The same men who blame them for their gin holes and molly houses and bastards are guilty of vices that could make a madam blush. The sun shines on all men equally, my lord, as does God’s forgiveness. So should earthly justice.”

  “I am as fond of justice as the next man, but needless persecution of those pursuing harmless pleasure does not equate to me with honor. I have nothing more to say to you.”

  If Evesham wanted to destroy an institution that stood out as a rare sanctuary, then he would have to do his dirty work himself. Apthorp would take his chances with ruin. Having already braved it twice, he found that he was becoming rather used to it.

  “Very well,” Evesham said. “But don’t forget that you had your chance. I genuinely shudder to think what Lady Constance will think of you when she finds out she married a whore. And she will find out, Lord Apthorp. Her skill for locating inconvenient truths is well known on Grub Street.”

  “Bugger off, Evesham,” he sighed, dropping all pretense of politeness. “I have work to do.”

  He leaned against the wall and watched the man retreat, feeling like he was watching his future recede with every footstep.

  Whore. He preferred to think that he provided a service that was mutually enjoyable.

  But it was true. For five years he had fucked for money. Fucked in ways that could probably get him hanged.

  And if the truth came out, there would be no feigning Christian virtue or political blackmail to temper the force of public shame. Aristocrats were not meant to have professions. They certainly did not debase themselves by plying the oldest trade of all. He was already regarded as being less than an earl; in the eyes of society, this would make him seem less than a man.

  If there was any mercy in the fact that he was going to lose Constance, it was that it would spare her being pulled down into the muck. He knew that she would try to find an angle that might preserve his dignity. He knew that she would fight for him.

  But she didn’t deserve to have to try.

  He knew what he must do.

  He had to let her go.

  For it was no longer a question of if the full truth would be exposed.

  It was only a question of when.

  “Good morning,” Poppy, the Duchess of Westmead, said as she greeted Constance and Lady Margaret in the towering entry of Westmead House, ushering them through air heavy with the scent of flowers.

  Constance was immediately beset by an attack of sneezing. “Blasted lilies,” she gasped.

  “I did try to warn you,” Poppy laughed, offering her a handkerchief. Behind her, the entry hall was festooned with forty feet of white flowers woven through floor-to-ceiling trellis panels that had taken the duchess’s florists all month to design and days to install.

  Constance had hoped the effect would be a stunning assault on the senses. The visual senses. She regretted ignoring her sister-in-law’s warning that the primary assault would be upon her guest’s ability to breathe.

  “Oh, Poppy,” she wailed. “What are we going to do? The papers will write I gave the entire peerage hay fever.”

  “We’re trimming the pollen from the flowers to reduce the effect,” Poppy said. She gestured at a row of footmen armed with scissors, who were going from flower to flower on step stools and ladders, carefully snipping the anthers off each lily and collecting them in glass jars. “But I daresay that if you do give the entire peerage hay fever, everyone will assume it was only because you wanted them to weep at the sight of you in your gown.”

  Constance sighed. “At least we have the acrobats. Perhaps the guests will be so overawed by Catrine Desmurier’s debut performance that they will assume it is shoc
k that has stolen their breath away rather than a heavy hand at floristry.”

  Margaret laughed. “Don’t worry. When they see this, I don’t think they will be concerned about respiration. It is breathtaking in more ways than one.”

  “Oh, Margaret. You are kind. But you only say that because Julian keeps you ensconced in the country and you never get to see my stunning works of scandal.”

  “He doesn’t keep me there, you know,” Margaret said quietly. “I don’t like it in London.”

  “Oh?” Constance asked distractedly, examining the gold wires that had been hung for the performance. “Why is that?” She should not speak poorly of Apthorp to his sister. Her judgment was compromised by her low mood at realizing her final act in London society was going to be a mass crime of asthma.

  Margaret shook her head, as though embarrassed to have spoken. “Town life doesn’t suit me.”

  Constance did not entirely agree, given that Margaret’s pale beauty and polite manners had won her obvious admiration in the short time she’d been in town. Particularly from Cornish Lane Day.

  But before she could engage the girl in argument, Alfred, Westmead House’s butler, came into the room with a calling card.

  “My lady,” he said, handing it to Constance.

  “Miss Gillian Bastian?” she said, reading it aloud. “She’s here? How very odd.”

  “Miss Bastian,” Margaret repeated in a tone of alarm. “Is that the young woman who is engaged to Lord Harlan Stoke?”

  “Yes, God help her,” Constance said. “Alfred, please seat her in the parlor. The small parlor. I shall receive her. Eventually.”

  “Is she your friend?” Margaret asked.

  Constance exchanged a look with Poppy, who had never cared for Gillian, and who had witnessed their last exchange at the opera.

  “I truly haven’t the slightest idea,” Constance said.

  Margaret seemed uneasy, so Constance patted her shoulder. “Darling, creatures like Miss Bastian are what make London interesting. Don’t worry. Valeria is awaiting you in the drawing room for your fitting. Go along and I shall join you when I’m done.”