by Kelly Boyce
And while Margaret bore no resemblance to the man who had sired her, her resemblance to the man standing before him could not be denied, should anyone think to look for it. It was for this reason that Alex needed to speak with Hawksmoor, to determine if he planned on making any claim toward her. If he did, the truth would be revealed and any hope the girl had for a proper future would be ruined. Not even Alex’s lofty title would be enough to save her then.
Hawksmoor sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before his hand dropped away. The expression left behind did not give Alex any hope that he would like what he was about to hear.
“My brother murdered your wife because he was a sick and twisted individual with no moral compass whatsoever. Despite having broken off the affair with her and denying any claim to the child, he couldn’t leave well enough alone. You see, my brother took great pleasure in causing pain and could never pass up an opportunity to do so. He took what he wanted, then, when the game became tedious, he disposed of his latest toy to find another. That is what he did to anyone who caught his eye and that is why your wife is no longer with us.”
The chilling truth turned the blood in Alex’s veins to ice. “Why was I never informed?”
Hawksmoor raised one dark eyebrow. “You were, if I’m not mistaken.”
Alex didn’t answer. He had been told by a mutual acquaintance that the previous Lord Hawksmoor had murdered his wife, but he’d had no idea the man’s reasoning had been so dark and sinister. The acquaintance had then blackmailed him to keep the matter private, forcing Alex to buy him off with favors that saw him advance in Society and politics, though he hadn’t gotten far. As for the late Lord Hawksmoor, he had died six years previous in a riding accident.
“If you have brought me here to ask if I plan on making my relationship to your daughter known, then rest assured I do not. My brother was a disturbed bastard and I’m glad he’s dead. He wrought enough pain in his life and I will not be one to perpetuate it.”
“And your parents? Lord and Lady Ravenwood?”
“They are unaware of Lady Margaret and shall remain so for the time they have left on this earth, which in the case of my father shall not be long.”
“My sympathies.”
“They are not required.” Hawksmoor’s words came clipped and cold and a hardness invaded the man’s enigmatic face before easing away as if it had never been there. “Now, is there anything else, Rothbury? I would like to get back to my wife. Take no offense, but I find her company far more companionable than yours.”
Alex hid a smirk. If anyone amongst the ton had guessed The Hawk would find such happiness and contentment in marriage—and with a woman so far beneath his station—Alex would be surprised. It was an odd thing to see a dark heart turned so brilliantly toward the light. Hope sprung in his chest, but he quickly pushed it down. Happiness was not his goal. All Alex needed was a proper wife of good family and connections, who would take over the raising of Lady Margaret and curb her out of control behavior before it was too late.
“One more thing.”
Hawksmoor sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes?”
“What do you know of Lord Walkerton’s intent with respect to courting Lady Henrietta?”
“Of what interest is that to you?”
“Her brother is a close friend and I have known the girl most of her life. I want to ensure his intentions are as they should be. She has had enough turmoil after the debacle with Lord Pengrin, as I’m sure you are aware.”
Hawksmoor reached his hand to a spot near his temple where a scar had left its mark. “Indeed, all too well. As for Walkerton, his intentions are honorable, I suppose. My understanding is he wishes to remove the stain of his father’s past deeds by doing good. He views marrying Lady Henrietta as one such good deed. Given Society’s narrow-mindedness, her options are somewhat limited. They consider her scars to be the only fact of interest about her.” A hint of bitterness twisted around Hawksmoor’s words, surprising Alex.
“Do you have a close acquaintance with Lady Henrietta?”
“She and my wife have grown quite close. I find her a lively and intelligent young woman.”
“I understand she held you at gunpoint.”
Hawksmoor flashed a rare smile. “But she did not shoot me. Which is more than I can say for her former paramour. Regardless, while I think Walkerton a good fellow, I do not think he is the right one for her.”
“And why not?”
“He does not love her. Nor she, him.”
Alex shook his head in an attempt to settle what Hawksmoor said with the man the ton believed him to be. “What does love matter?”
Another smile, but this one held a far sight longer than the previous one. “Spoken like a man who has never experienced the difference. And as such, it would do me no good to explain the matter to you. Suffice to say, it does matter,” he said and then his tone softened. “It matters very much.”
Alex shifted his feet, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. If, as Hawksmoor indicated, Walkerton was a good man with good intentions, then that should be that. Except that it wasn’t. At least not according to the strange sensation in his gut that roiled and churned and prodded him to act upon the fact that Lady Henrietta was little more than a charity case to Walkerton. The earl considered her a good deed, not a person in her own right, worthy of love and happiness. It didn’t sit right.
“If that is all, Rothbury?”
Hawksmoor’s question pulled Alex back to the matter at hand. “Oh, yes. Of course. I thank you for the information. And for your continued discretion in the matter of Lady Margaret’s origins.”
Hawksmoor gave a brief nod and turned on his heel, becoming lost in the shadows of the room until he reached the door of the library. Light spilled inward from the hallway as the viscount slipped out of the room and disappeared, leaving Alex alone with his thoughts now mired down by truth and guilt. Could he have done something to prevent Ruth’s death? Had her despondency over the loss of Edward set her on a path that led to her ultimate destruction?
When she had told him of her pregnancy, he had gone into a rage, unable to handle any more hurt and loss. Her betrayal cut deep and in retaliation, he’d avoided her and the babe as much as possible, going months without having any contact with either. He thought he’d done so to punish her, but maybe…maybe he’d also done so because the idea of a child in their home that was not Edward had been too much to bear.
Had his absence forced Ruth to reach out to the late Lord Hawksmoor once more and set off a chain of events that would leave her dead and Margaret in his care? He would never know. Likely, not even the current Lord Hawksmoor knew the answer to that question.
And what would it matter if he did? It wouldn’t change anything. Ruth would still be dead, Edward long buried and Lady Margaret’s parentage unchanged. No answer Hawksmoor could give would alter the debris of the past that lay strewn about the present.
If he remarried, would that change? Or was he simply setting himself up for a dismal failure once again? Alex pushed the question aside and found the Lindwell’s supply of brandy. He poured himself a healthy dose and let the aged liquor burn away the doubts he did not care to grapple with.
Chapter Eight
Hen watched as Lord Rothbury and Miss Temperance Lindwell started off the evening’s event with the first waltz. Even though it was standard practice for the highest-ranking member of the ton present to dance with the daughter of their host, Hen could not deny the two made a striking couple. Miss Lindwell, the eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Lindwell by only a few moments, carried herself with a confidence worthy of envy. Her dark hair shone in the candlelight and her lithe figure gave one the impression of strength, rather than the fragility many of the ladies preferred to emulate.
If Hen had half of Miss Lindwell’s self-assurance, she would consider herself quite fortunate. Did such confidence come as part and parcel of being American? As it was, Mis
s Lindwell danced about with Lord Rothbury and Hen was, well, she was in her usual spot, wasn’t she? Lurking in the shadows, hoping not to be noticed by Lady Susan’s eagle eye. She’d already seen the woman scouring the outer edges of the ballroom after spying Lord Huntsleigh escorting her off the dance floor following their quadrille. If her plan to have Lord Walkerton issue a proposal was to come to fruition, she must be diligent in avoiding Lady Susan’s attempts to ruin her. Although, how she proposed to do such a thing, Hen had no idea. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything worthy of ruination. But she didn’t rule out her nemesis conjuring something out of thin air to achieve her goals.
“My word, Lady Henrietta, do you plan on dancing with the plant this evening?”
Hen jumped at the unexpected intrusion into her sanctuary, but relaxed once she turned around to find Charles and Patience Elmsley. She smiled with relief to see such friendly faces. “I have considered it, but the foliage has determined we are not a good match.”
“Quite rude of it, I think,” Patience quipped, tossing the plant a distasteful look before letting a light laugh fill the air around them. “Charlie will have to take its place, won’t he? Here, give me your card.” She wiggled her fingers at the dance card dangling from Hen’s wrist.
“Bother it, Patience, I can write my own name on her card,” Charlie said, gently swatting his sister’s hand away and giving Hen a deep, courtly bow. “If you’ll permit me, my lady.”
“Your name is always welcome on my dance card, Charlie.” She slipped the card from her wrist and handed it to him. Patience glanced over his arm at the list of dances and pointed at a quadrille coming up shortly, then her eyes widened.
“Lord Rothbury? Good heavens, Hen, how did you manage that? I swear he is the most handsome of men.”
Charlie cleared his throat and gave his sister a pointed look that she waved off.
“Oh, Charlie, you’re passably handsome as well, don’t get yourself in a dither. But you’re not future duke handsome. There is something quite dark and mysterious about him, isn’t there? I have heard—” Patience leaned in closer to Hen and lowered her voice. “That he has permanent markings on his body.”
A blush crept up Hen’s neck at the thought of Lord Rothbury’s body beneath his very proper attire. The heat maneuvered around her scars and continued up to her cheeks. She should not ask, but curiosity loosened her tongue. “Permanent markings? Whatever do you mean?”
“My sister refers to the rumor that Lord Rothbury sports a rather daring tattoo, though where he would have procured such a thing and how much brandy must have been consumed in its attainment, I cannot say,” Charlie added.
How odd she did not know this. One would have thought James would have at least mentioned such a thing over the years, or Auntie at least, as she was far more likely to indulge in juicy gossip. There were not many gentleman of the ton who could claim to possess permanent markings that she knew of.
“Is that a common thing?” she asked. For some reason, the idea that Lord Rothbury bore a permanent mark upon his skin both fascinated and comforted her. Perhaps that is why he viewed her scars as of little importance, remarking upon them as he would the weather and not turning away in revulsion when he caught sight of them. Not that his markings and hers were the same. His were acquired willingly, while hers were anything but.
“Not to my knowledge,” Charlie said with a shrug as he wrote his name next to the quadrille his sister had pointed out.
“I rather like the notion,” Patience said. “It makes him seem quite dangerous, don’t you agree?”
“I hardly think he needs any help in that regard. His reclusive nature and stern countenance do that job with swift purpose,” Charlie answered then glanced at Hen. “Shall we do a waltz as well, or should that send tongues wagging?”
“A waltz would be lovely, Charlie.” If Lord Walkerton claimed two dances and Charlie his two, and she waltzed once with Lord Rothbury and once with James, she should be able to dance a good portion of the night away and surely Lady Susan could not attack a moving target.
“Ah, there you are. I thought I might find you in a corner.”
Patience let out a small yelp, stifled only slightly by the gloved hand she slapped over her mouth upon turning to find Lord Rothbury standing behind her. In response, he gave a short bow then nodded at Charlie. “Mr. and Miss Elmsley, I believe?”
“Indeed,” Charlie answered with an easy smile but his eyebrows lifted as if surprised the future duke would know of him by name. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening, my lord?”
“Not particularly,” Lord Rothbury answered, his tone changing little. “I am not fond of the crush of such events. I prefer more quiet pursuits in wide open spaces.”
“Ah.” Charlie’s response surprised Hen. She did not often see either of the Elmsleys at a loss for words, but in his defense, Lord Rothbury did not leave the conversation any avenue to continue.
“Our dance is not yet upon us, my lord,” she said, before the sudden lull turned awkward. A feat much more easily accomplished if Patience would stop staring up at Lord Rothbury in wide-eyed amazement. Heavens, one would think she’d never seen a future duke before.
“No, not as yet, but I thought you might like an escort to the refreshments room. It is rather warm and stuffy in here. A sweet drink might be just the thing. Or were you planning on hiding behind this plant all evening?”
Hen pursed her lips. Was it not just like Lord Rothbury to say something to pique her? “Given I have several dances planned for the evening, my lord, I daresay I will spend much time away from the foliage, but thank you for your concern and your invitation. Did you enjoy your visit with Lord Hawksmoor?”
His sudden interest in meeting with the man and the serious intent shown at the prospect of speaking with him had intrigued her. She was not aware the two men had an acquaintance, nor any business dealings that would require they meet privately. She had watched the two leave the ballroom and found the matter most curious.
“Does anyone enjoy a visit with Lord Hawksmoor?” Charlie asked. “Such usually only occurs when one owes the man money and that is never pleasant.”
“I find his lordship most amenable,” Patience said, contradicting her brother.
Charlie lifted one eyebrow. “You mean handsome, don’t you?”
Patience shrugged. “That too.”
Lord Rothbury interrupted the two siblings. “You have not answered my question, Lady Henrietta.”
“Your question?”
“About the drink?”
“Oh.” Lord Rothbury did not strike her as the sort to partake in sweet drinks. In fact—she leaned out of the shadows a few inches—if she wasn’t mistaken, she would swear his eyes had a bit of a glazed look about them. Perhaps he had been imbibing in a drink of a different sort. The Lindwells often set up a cards room. Was that where he and Lord Hawksmoor had disappeared to earlier? She hoped the viscount hadn’t fleeced him out of too much money if that was the case.
Lord Rothbury’s brow dipped downward. “You are not thirsty then?”
“Oh, yes, she is very thirsty,” Patience said, nudging Hen with her arm. “Why not two minutes ago, Hen—that is, Lady Henrietta—was saying how very parched she was feeling, weren’t you?”
“Oh, well, I don’t recall…” Hen stumbled and shot Patience a proper glare, though the expression appeared to have little effect, if the satisfied grin spreading across her friend’s face was any indication. She gave a small shake of her head. It hardly mattered. They were soon to dance either way. “Very well, Lord Rothbury. Yes, a sweet drink would be quite nice, thank you.”
Hen took his arm and they stepped out of the shadows.
“Good luck,” Patience whispered, though whatever for, Hen had no idea. Lord Rothbury had no interest in courting her. They could barely have a conversation without it devolving into a disagreement. Besides, she had set her cap for Lord Walkerton and he had accepted—more or less, after a proper court
ship was held to keep tongues from wagging and to ensure they were well suited. Perhaps Patience simply wished her luck in navigating her way through the ballroom to the refreshment room without running into Lady Susan and her acidic tongue. Though surely the woman wouldn’t cause a scene while Hen was on her brother’s arm. Would she?
They walked in silence for a moment, navigating their way through the edge of the crowd for a second time that evening as Hen attempted with little success to ignore the stares pointed their way. It was difficult to walk anywhere on the arm of a future duke without garnering attention. Perhaps she should have thought to decline his offer.
“Miss Elmsley called you Hen?”
“Oh. Yes, I suppose she did. It is what those closest call me. Certainly you’ve heard James refer to me as such.”
“I have. I was not aware, however, that you and Miss Elmsley were of such a close association.”
“Does that surprise you?” Not that his approval was necessary. Patience was a lovely, spirited girl and Hen appreciated the way she faced each day as if adventure awaited just around the next corner and she could not wait to embrace it. Oh, to be so free to see life in such a way, instead of peering cautiously around, worrying about who or what would come out of the shadows to stare or humiliate you.
“I am only surprised that Lady Dalridge would not bat an eye at you keeping such a close friendship with a lady who is known to fly from one embarrassing incident to the next. I heard”—Lord Rothbury leaned down with a gleam in his eye and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“that she poured a bowl of punch over my sister’s head at a party last year and was all but banned from Society for the remainder of the Season.”
