Pain of The Marquess: (The Valiant Love Regency Romance) (A Historical Romance Book)

by Deborah Wilson

  Her eyes snapped back to him. She stared at him, smiled sadly, and then stepped closer. Her face rested on his chest, and he felt her shoulders shake before the crying came.

  He held her silently and shielded her face from those who passed. Her pain allowed him a respite from his own grievances with men long gone or out of his life. Irene was real, there in his arms, and in need of him in a way that few others were.

  He didn’t know how he felt about that, just as he wasn’t sure how he felt about the woman in his arms.

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  2 0

  * * *

  Irene wiped her eyes as she pulled away. “You shouldn’t have let me do that.”

  “Do what? Weep?” Clive’s arms fell from about her.

  “No.” She pulled in a breath and lifted her gaze. “You shouldn’t have allowed me to use your shirt as a handkerchief.”

  “Ah.” He smiled. “Well, it’s just a shirt.”

  How could something so simple make her feel so pleasant?

  “I’m ready to brave what I must,” she said. She was ready to brave many things, including her assailant. Now that she knew the truth about the orphanage, she would not, in good conscious, seek out refuge at Cecilia’s or even an inn. She had to work through her fears and pain and dismantle all the corruption that her father had caused.

  It was her mission now. First, she’d deal with the children and then she’d find Mr. Crow and vanquish the sickness in her father’s companies, even if it destroyed her.

  If her assailant didn’t get his book, he’d likely kill her.

  Clive inclined his head and held out his arm. Love was another hope she’d likely have to let go. But not now. She’d hold on to Clive for as long as she could and enjoy the time she had. He was all she’d ever wanted. He was finally coming into his true feelings for her.

  Irene looked at the greenery once more before she took his arm and was led to the carriage. “I didn’t ask before, but at the shipyard, you tossed your walking stick across the warehouse and struck a man right on his head. Where did you learn such aim?” She wanted to know everything there was to know about him.

  He shifted in his seat. The stave in question was leaning by the door. “It was part of my training.”

  “You mean Lord Edmund taught you to throw?”

  He nodded. “Sometimes when I stole, I would need to make a distraction. If I broke a glass or knocked a gentleman’s hat off, eyes would be looking one way while Lord Edmund and I were busy fleecing the crowd.”

  “How terrible,” she said, turning away. “And yet, it’s a wonderful skill.”

  “It has helped a time or two. My precision with blades is just as good. Picking a pocket might sound simple enough, but there is an art to it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  When he didn’t respond, she looked at him. He was watching her.

  “Does the truth bother you?” he asked. “Does knowing…?”

  She frowned. “Does knowing do what?”

  He frowned. “Have I made you uncomfortable? This conversation is not the sort discussed in ballrooms.”

  “And I’d never tell anyone what you’ve told me.”

  “I know. I… trust you in that regard, but I mean… Does this not disturb you?”

  “That you were a child who was abused by a man who should have protected you? Of course, it bothers me.”

  “And my part? I did it for years. I knew it was wrong.”

  She stared at him and then blinked. “Honestly, I’m horribly intrigued by this topic.”

  He chuckled. It was a welcoming sound. “I must admit, it had its moments.”

  She caught his eyes again. “Was stealing my hairpin one of those moments you treasure?”

  His smile fell. “No. I actually regret stealing your hairpin.”

  Irene blinked and wished she could take back the question.

  Clive leaned forward. “It never should have happened. Before that night, I hadn’t committed a crime in years. I’d found work teaching a few young lords to fence. It wasn’t great work, but it was enough. That night changed my life.”

  Irene leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee. “That night changed my life forever as well.” It had brought her Clive and now, for a short time, she did have him. He was perfect for her. They were both haunted by their past. He’d done wrong and she felt the same. She’d been blind to the truth of her father for years. How was that possible?

  It’s the same trip every year.

  Even though she hadn’t been in charge the last time the children had been boxed away, those words would haunt her for the rest of her life, however long that would be.

  Her father was dead. Her brother was dead, and she wondered if he’d really been killed during a robbery like had been reported. Perhaps, he’d not been a good man either. It was as if God was wiping out her family line. It seemed only right. Her blood would never equal the amount of the children who’d already been sold.

  Her home was full when she arrived but not of the children. They’d been taken to the back garden with the servants. Clive’s friends and their wives were present. Also, the constable was there.

  Clive left her side to stand by James and whispered something to him.

  Lucy stood, walked over to Irene, and grabbed her hand. Her smile was reassuring.

  “Let me start by saying how terrible I feel that you are forced to go through his alone, Lady Irene. As a woman, you must be dreadfully tired and fearful about this situation.”

  “Thank you,” Irene whispered.

  “This matter is completely out of your depths, and I feel improper for even speaking to you, a lady, about such a foul subject.”

  Irene sighed around her indignation. “Thank you, Mr. Hull. Now I—”

  “I must thank you, my lady, for giving me the time to see you this day,” Mr. Hull said. “You are very fortunate to have the friends that you do. The men, the Earl of Ganden and the Marquess of Denhallow, have both pledged to be my contact on this matter after today. That way I will not have to bother you about this again.”

  Irene blinked and looked at Kent and James in surprise. She’d feel more insulted if she weren’t so very busy with the children. They were her first concern.

  As if reading her mind, James bowed. “Allow us to help you, my lady, as it is what friends do. The children you took in will need you now more than ever after this tragedy.”

  “The children.” Mr. Hull nodded in agreement. “That’s a woman’s concern.”

  Irene ground her teeth. “Well, if Lord Ganden and Lord Denhallow have already given you everything you need, what would you like from me?”

  “We arrested Mr. Hemmish and his crew,” Mr. Hull said. “Mr. Crow has yet to be found. Can you tell us where he might have gone?”

  Irene looked around the room. “I don’t. Though I saw Mr. Crow almost every day of my life, I didn’t know him well. My father kept me out of his business.” At the time, she’d thought it was because she was a woman.

  She still didn’t know why her father had left her half his business if it contained all of this.

  She wondered about her cousin’s half. Did his businesses hide other terrible works? He was rarely in England; he likely didn’t know.

  Perhaps, her father had left her this half because he knew she’d work to save his reputation. A week ago, Irene would not have allowed her father’s name to be soiled.

  But that had been a week ago. “I know Mr. Crow has a daughter in Southampton. I’ve met her a few times over the years.”

  Hull bowed. “I will have my men look there. Thank you, my lady.” Mr. Hull left after that.

  Irene turned to James. “What was discussed before I arrived?”

  “We’ve decided to keep the matter as quiet as possible,” James said. “We’re putting all the blame on Mr. Crow for now. Your father is not being mentioned. We hope you’re all right with this?”

  Irene fought her shock long enough to nod.
<
br />   “Then we’ll take our leave,” Kent said. “Unless you need anything else?”

  Irene found it hard to read his expression. He still didn’t look happy to see her, but it hardly mattered anymore. “Thank you, Lord Ganden. Lord Denhallow. You have been most helpful.”

  Kent nodded before he started toward her. He stopped just long enough to take his wife Lucy and depart.

  The others felt as well. The women all stopped to promise to aid Irene in any way. Clive was the last to depart. He stopped at the door and asked, “Where will you take the children?”

  “I’m considering taking your advice,” Irene said. “I’m going to move into a smaller home. I shall leave this one to the children.” They needed the space more than she did.

  Clive looked appalled. “This is one of the most coveted addresses in London. You wish to leave it to orphans?”

  She straightened. “Do you not think them good enough for it?” She certainly wasn’t.

  “No, forgive my reaction.”

  “Why were you disturbed?” she asked.

  He grinned. “I supposed it disturbs me just how much a better human being you are than me.”

  “You’re perfect, Clive.”

  “I’m not.”

  “There is nothing you can say to change my mind.”

  His eyes flashed with astonishment and then softened. “When shall you move?”

  “As soon as possible. Tomorrow.” Once the children were situated, and she was in her own place, the assailant would return, and she would hopefully have another chance to right a wrong.

  “Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  “You can kiss me before you go.”

  He smirked. “Good day, Irene.”

  ∫ ∫ ∫

  2 1

  * * *

  Clive knocked on Irene’s door two night later.

  A maid opened it. A small maid who would have easily be frightened away.

  She looked terrified as she stared at Clive.

  He frowned down at her. “Where is her butler?”

  “She doesn’t have one,” the woman whispered.

  “Are you the housekeeper?” He was certain she’d say no.

  “Yes,” the young woman said. “Only me and Thomas work here.”

  “Thomas?” he asked as she walked into the terrace Irene had moved to and looked around. When she’d suggested the woman get something small, he had expected something far grander than what he was looking at. The space was terribly small. One could not host more than a few people at a time in the drawing room. The open door on the other side revealed a kitchen. The heat from the fires made the air full and moist. Another door was past that, likely the servants’ room.

  The kitchen made the air hard to breathe, but he didn’t ask the maid to close the door that divided the area.

  “Thomas is the footman,” the maid said. “I’m Mary. Oh! I should tell Lady Irene you are here.” The girl moved in the other direction. She disappeared and returned a second later. “I didn’t get your name.”

  He glared at the empty walls, spartan furniture, and then at the maid who’d let a man she didn’t know enter her mistress’ home. “It’s Lord Clive.”

  “A lord,” the girl said with wide eyes.

  “The Marquess of Fawley.”

  The girl’s mouth fell open then she whispered, “I better go get my lady.”

  “Yes, you should.” The faster she did, the sooner Clive could get them all out of this place. What had Irene been thinking to move here?

  Irene came out a second later. She wore black. Not a single flower adorned her head.

  “Did someone die?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Since I’ll never see any of the children my father had sent to only heaven knows where, I will never know if any of them are dead. However, I would imagine that children who’d been packed into wooden boxes would not all make it to their destination.”

  He moved toward her. “You’re mourning the children?”

  She nodded. “I’ll mourn them for the rest of my life.”

  He looked her over before meeting her eyes again. “Don’t mourn them in black. They’re children.”

  “But it’s custom—”

  “You should wear color. You, especially, should always be in color. Children like colors. Colors make them feel warm. Black… you shouldn’t wear black.” Black was a lovely color, but he detested that if stood for mourning. “Celebrate their lives, not their deaths. Remember their smiles, not their tears. It is how I hope people will think of me when I’m gone.”

  She took his arm and smiled. “That makes sense. Yes, I shall do that. Give me a moment.”

  The maid placed tea on the small tea table in the room and then followed her mistress to the room again.

  Clive settled into one of the few chairs present and poured himself some tea. Irene returned sooner than he’d been prepared for. She wore blue, a bright and vivid color that transformed the space around her.

  He stood. “Better.” But there were still no blooms in her hair.

  She smiled and approached him. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to ask you the same. Why are you here? It’s too small.”

  She looked around and then at him. “I’m but one woman. I don’t need more than this.”

  “It’s not safe. There are other people in this building, and you’ve no one but a maid who clearly has no idea what she’s doing.”

  “I have Thomas as well. He’s my footman.”

  “Where is Thomas now?”

  “Home, I imagine,” she said. “He comes during the day and leaves at night.”

  Clive’s rage scorched his chest. He had to move away in order to pace, but there was hardly anywhere to go. He felt closed in. He placed his hands on his hips and took a breath.

  “Are you all right?” Irene approached.

  “It’s too small.” It was hardly bigger than the size of the room he’d been chained in at Mr. Goody’s home. The maid had closed the door to the kitchen and the one to Irene’s room.

  “Clive?” Irene asked, panic edged in her voice.

  “It’s too small.” He swallowed. His breaths were short. He’d not felt an attack rise within him in years. He began to yank on his cravat, but it wouldn’t come off. He fought down the panic, but it only beat back against his efforts. He struggled to breathe. “Too small.” He grew dizzy.

  Irene went and opened the lone window in the room and then she returned and moved his hands out of the way to remove his cravat. She undid the first few buttons as well and Clive took a deep breath.

  “How is that?” she asked.

  He pulled in another breath and then focused on the room again.

  He was sitting now. Irene was at his side. Had she sat him down?

  “How do you feel?” She ran a cool cloth over his face. When had she gotten a cloth? How long had he been in his head? He hated that she’d seen him that way.

  She looked worried. “Clive?”

  Anger made him bark his words. “I said small, I didn’t mean you should move into a terrace half the size of a woman’s closet.”

  “Well, on my new budget, I can’t afford much else. I’m no longer taking money from any of the companies my father had a hand in until I know there is no corruption in them. When I run out, I’ll begin selling things, the paintings first, especially the ones of me if anyone cares to have them. Of everything, they were what my father wanted me to keep most. He said it over and over again. I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps, because he wanted you to see yourself as he saw you.”

  She shook her head. “If I can make money from them, I want them gone.”

  “You have those paintings here?” he asked.

  She nodded. “All except for the one it would take five men to carry. It’s one of my father and me. That one is at the house still.”

  “I’ll buy what you have.” He would not let her suffer. Once she was back into a n
ormal residence, he’d return them.

  When she didn’t move, he glanced over to see her grinning at him.

  “What?”

  “You wish to buy all the paintings of me?”

  “Only the ones you wish to sell.”

  “I plan to sell all of them.”

  “Then I shall take all of them.”

  “They were done by master painters,” she said. “They could be quite expensive.”

  “I’ll give you whatever price you set.”

  “A kiss,” she said as she placed the cloth on the tea table.

  He should have known. “I’ll write you a bank note.”

  “I only accept kisses from you.”

  * * *

  Irene smiled and waited for his response. She kept her distance but only because she didn’t wish to crowd around him. She wasn’t sure what had just happened, therefore she wasn’t sure how Clive felt at the moment. Was he in pain? She wanted to ask him, but instead, she teased him, kept him talking.

  It was better than the nothing she’d gotten before.

  His eyes were on her, which was good.

  He even wore a handsome expression that was a mixture of annoyance and humor. She didn’t understand why he continued to pretend that nothing was going on between them. There was no one else in the room.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me,” she told him, teasing him further. “I know you want a kiss.”

  “You’re a lady,” he said. “You can’t exchange favors for art.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve made this exchange.” She regretted the words immediately as she recalled him saying that he regretted stealing her hairpin.

  But instead of cooling the mood, the air seemed to shift and become warmer.

  He leaned in the corner of her couch. One of his arms rested on the chair arm, the other was at his side, inches from her. His shirt was slightly undone. She watched the muscles in his throat and then his mouth as he spoke. “I’ll write you a banknote.”