by Anne Gracie
Thomas wouldn’t have minded a fire. His clothes were thin and he hadn’t yet acclimatized.
He wandered to the window and gazed out at the vista of roofs and chimneys, the faint haze of smoke, even in spring, a glimpse of waving treetops indicating a nearby park. In the street below, carriages rattled past, and a nursemaid strolled along with her two young charges, heading for the park, no doubt. Two servants bustled past, baskets in hand, heading for the market perhaps.
All perfectly ordinary sights, but not to Thomas, not today. London. England. Home. He couldn’t quite believe it.
“I thought we could trim your beard and cut off the worst—er, the better part of your hair before the bath, sir,” Enders announced from behind him. “Let the hot water soften the bristles.” He waved Thomas to the dressing table and opened a leather case containing shaving implements and scissors. Two footmen arrived carrying large cans of steaming water and began to fill the bath.
Thomas sat and for the first time in years saw his reflection.
Good God! Was this what he looked like now? He stared. Lord, if he’d seen a drawing of himself—one of those clever charcoal drawings that artists did in the marketplace for a few coppers—he wouldn’t have known himself.
No wonder Rose hadn’t recognized him. He looked like a wild man. A savage. He recalled the expressions of those people in the church when he’d turned and faced them down. He grinned. They must have thought him a barbarian come among them.
His grin faded. This was who he was now, who he’d been for most of the last four years. This grim-faced, barbaric-looking savage. And the change wasn’t only skin deep.
No wonder her family had banded around her. Protecting her from him.
She’d been about to marry a duke.
Did she love the fellow? Impossible to tell.
Irrelevant now anyway, now that Thomas had returned.
Her family wanted him gone, that was clear. Of course they’d want a duke instead of the man they saw now.
No matter. He’d fought tooth and nail to get back to England, and he’d fight tooth and nail to keep Rose—as long as she wanted him, that is.
And that was the question. Did she want him? Or would she side with her brother to have their wedding annulled so she could marry her duke?
If she didn’t want him, if she wanted her duke and all he could offer, did Thomas have the right to keep her? Legally, perhaps, but morally? Did anyone have the right to hold another person against their will?
But as well as rights, Thomas had obligations. And in his current situation he needed Rose—and her fortune—more than ever.
He stared again at the man in the mirror. He wasn’t exactly a bargain. The contrast between him and her duke couldn’t be stronger; the duke was rich, established and titled. Thomas was impoverished, homeless, forgotten and disowned—repudiated by his closest relatives.
And damaged, let’s not forget that, he reminded himself.
Was he even fit to live with her, after the life he’d lived?
Did he have a choice?
A different man, a better man would offer to release her from her vows, those vows forced by circumstance and youth and impulsive, reckless lovemaking. Let her go to her precious duke, who couldn’t even be bothered to fight for her.
Thomas was no longer that man.
He was going to fight for her. Her and her fortune.
Footmen came and went, emptying cans of hot water into the bath. Clean, steaming hot water. Thomas couldn’t wait to immerse himself in it. He was once fastidious, but that was in another life. In the last years he’d learned to be grateful for a dousing in cold seawater.
And if he smelled of fish afterward, it was still an improvement.
The valet picked up a small pair of silver scissors, ran his gaze over Thomas and pursed his lips distastefully.
“Sorry-looking specimen, aren’t I?”
The valet jumped, as if the table had spoken, and all expression dropped from his face. “Not at all, sir,” he lied smoothly.
“Been at sea a long time. Washing in cold seawater just doesn’t do the trick.”
“Indeed, sir.” Standing well back, the valet gingerly picked up a strand of Thomas’s hair between thumb and finger and snipped at it with a tiny pair of silver scissors. From his expression, he half expected Thomas’s thick bush of hair to attack him. Or perhaps it wasn’t the hair that concerned him.
“You need not worry,” Thomas said dryly. “I take good care to ensure I carry no . . . livestock on my person.”
In the looking glass, the valet’s gaze met his. “Sir?”
“I’m very particular in that respect.” He couldn’t blame the man. Anyone would expect a man of Thomas’s current appearance to be slovenly in his personal habits. But despite his current appearance, Thomas was as clean and vermin-free as he could possibly make himself.
Enders seemed to accept the assurance. He moved closer and snipped at Thomas’s hair and beard. Clumps of sun-bleached hair dropped to the floor. It was dark underneath.
The valet stepped back. “There, that will do for now. I’ll trim your hair properly and give you a nice close shave once you’ve had your bath, sir.” He frowned, as if to say something, then closed his mouth.
“What is it?” Thomas said, and when the man didn’t answer, he said, “Spit it out, man, I’m beyond being delicate about my situation.”
“Well, sir, I just wondered, wouldn’t you be more comfortable if we sent for your own clothes? I mean, Mr. Galbraith is about your height, but you’re a good deal thinner than he is, except across the shoulders. And what about shoes?” He looked doubtfully at Thomas’s tattered canvas shoes.
“Everything I own is at the bottom of the sea.” Thomas stood and stretched. “I’ve been wearing borrowed clothes ever since.”
The valet’s eyes widened. “Oh, so you were shipwrecked, sir.” His tone was relieved, as if Thomas had achieved a sudden respectability he had hitherto lacked. “In that case, I’m sure Mr. Galbraith’s wardrobe will do very nicely.” He bustled about, pulling out underclothes, stockings, an immaculately pressed white shirt, breeches, a waistcoat, a starched muslin cravat and more, draping them carefully on the chair beside the window in the order in which Thomas should don them.
He eyed Thomas’s feet with a worried expression. “I’m not sure what we’ll do about shoes for you, sir . . . There’s a pair of boots that I think might fit you. We bought them last year but the leather stretched and they’re now a little loose on Mr. Galbraith. We’ll try them on after your bath, sir.” Now that he knew the reason for Thomas’s ragged appearance, he seemed to regard him as a worthy challenge, rather than an unpleasant duty.
He fetched towels, sprinkled some bath salts in the bath, swished the water around and indicated a little stool on which sat a dish with soap, a sponge, a little nailbrush and a back scrubber. He reached for Thomas’s coat to help him out of it.
Thomas stepped back. “That will be all, thank you, Enders.” He had no intention of letting Enders or anyone see him naked.
Enders looked puzzled. “But do you not wish for my assistance, sir? Your back scrubbed, or—”
“No. I shall ring for you when I’m ready.” He waited for the valet to leave. Let the man assume he was overly modest or religious or something.
“Very good, sir. You might want to make use of this on your hands.” Enders handed him a pumice stone, bowed and departed, closing the door behind him.
Thomas looked down at his hands. Not the hands of a gentleman. Scarred and callused; the nails were clean but broken. These hands had held Rose. The rough paws of a bear, handling a . . . a butterfly.
He stripped quickly and stepped into the hot water, sinking into it as deeply as he could. The tub was large but not quite large enough to sink his whole body in. Still he wasn’t about to complain.
He lay there soaking up the delicious sensation of clean, hot water for several minutes, then picked up the soap, lathered himself all over and scrubbed himself from head to toe. Then he applied the pumice stone.
By the time he’d finished he’d scrubbed his skin almost raw. He gave a distasteful glance at the murky bathwater, then saw that an extra can of hot water had been left beside the bathtub. He stood and rinsed himself down with the clean water, and finally, for the first time in God knew how long, he felt clean again. Better than he had in weeks. Months. Years.
Feeling like a new man, he dried himself and dressed in the drawers, undershirt, shirt and stockings that Enders had laid out for him. He found a tin of tooth powder and rubbed it on with his fingers, then rinsed. Picking up a small looking glass, he examined his teeth. Still all there and in good order—a legacy from his father.
Seamen were notorious for bad teeth—mostly a result of scurvy—but Thomas’s father had taught him young to care for his teeth as well as his diet, and showed him how to make an emergency toothbrush out of a chewed twig. It had served him well these last years.
There was a small jar of cloves, and he chewed one to sweeten his breath while he finished dressing. The buckskin breeches were loose around the waist, and he adjusted the buckle at the back to tighten them. The coat, however, was too small across the shoulders. He set it aside. In stockinged feet and shirtsleeves, he rang the bell.
Enders arrived almost instantly, bearing a tray with a steaming jug of water, a shaving brush, razor and leather strop. He nodded at Thomas with brisk approval. “Ready for your shave now, sir?” He shook out a large sheet and draped it around Thomas to protect his clothes.
As he lathered up the soap, Enders said with barely repressed excitement, “They are saying belowstairs that you are Lady Rose’s long-lost husband, sir.”
“That’s right.”
“Lost at sea, were you, sir?”
“Correct.”
“They’re saying you burst into the church just as—” A hard look from Thomas stopped Enders in midstream. He had no intention of providing further fuel for servants’ gossip.
Enders bit his lip and set about shaving him. “Terribly romantic for you and Lady Rose, sir,” he murmured after a while. “We’re all very fond of her here. Such a beautiful young lady, and she and Lady Lily are so close. Don’t worry, I’ll do my best for you, sir. You won’t believe the difference.”
As the valet shaved him, Thomas watched his face slowly emerge. He still looked strange to his eyes—older, thinner. Harder. For the first time he saw the resemblance to his father that people used to comment on—apart from the broken nose and the thin silvery scar that curled down the side of his face and around the jaw.
He stared at his reflection and knew that the relatively civilized man he saw there was just as much a lie as the savage. The truth was somewhere in between. Years of being treated as less than human. Could a man ever really come back from that?
Did he have any choice?
“A regular application of lemon juice will help fade that unsightly tan,” the valet assured him. He wiped Thomas’s face clean with a hot, damp towel, then patted on a fresh-smelling cologne that left his skin tingling. “Now for your hair, sir. The Windswept do you think, or the Brutus? Or perhaps a Bedford Crop—you certainly have the bone structure for it.”
Thomas wasn’t listening. He was thinking of the way Rose’s family had looked at him, the way Rose had looked at him. That whole congregation clad in silk and satin and lace, smelling like a garden. And him in rags, looking like a savage and smelling of fish.
“The Brutus, perhaps, sir, with just a hint of the Bedford?” the valet continued. He considered Thomas’s reflection. “No, your hair is lovely and thick, with just that hint of curl that other men envy. I think we’ll create a style of your own, sir.”
Thomas didn’t care. He let the fellow get on with it. The valet snipped busily. Thomas, deep in thought, stared unseeing at his reflection.
What was he going to do? For the last four years he’d had a single goal in mind—getting back here. And now that he’d achieved it, he felt strangely hollow. It didn’t feel like a victory at all.
“There you are, sir.” Enders fetched a hand mirror and held it for Thomas to see his head from all angles. “Perfect.”
Thomas eyed his new haircut sourly. “What the devil is that supposed to be?” His hair was all curled and puffed up. He might as well be wearing a bird’s nest.
Higgins chuckled indulgently. “Oh, you navy men. I assure you, sir, this style is all the crack. You look quite dashing, if I say so myself—or you will once you are fully clothed. Lady Rose will be all admiration.”
Thomas doubted it. He scowled at his reflection. Fashionable or not, he’d rather look like a savage than wear a bird’s nest. He raked his fingers through his hair, ignoring the valet’s whimpers as his fashionable arrangement was ruined. He grabbed a handful of artistically arranged curls. “Cut all this off.”
“Oh, but—” Catching his eye, the valet broke off. “Very good, sir.” Dolefully the man chopped away under Thomas’s supervision, until all the feathery bits were gone, and Thomas had a plain, short, rather brutal-looking haircut.
“That’s better.” He was what he was, and the sooner people realized it the better.
The valet sighed, folded away the protective sheet and fetched a pair of braces to hold up the too-loose breeches. Next he produced a shining pair of boots that he assured Thomas were too big for his master and therefore surplus to requirement—besides being insufficiently stylish. These boots, the valet confessed apologetically, had not been made by Mr. Hoby. They were, he confided, A Mistake.
Thomas pulled them on, then stood and took a few paces around the room. It felt odd to be wearing boots after all this time, but they fitted perfectly.
Enders then tied Thomas’s neckcloth in a complicated knot, buttoned him into a waistcoat, squeezed him into Galbraith’s coat—apparently it was all the crack to wear your coat skintight, as long as you didn’t split the seams—handed him a handkerchief and a hat and sent him on his way.
Clean, close-shaved and well-dressed, Thomas felt up to anything. He walked downstairs to join his brothers-in-law, one at least of whom seemed to want to kill him, and both of whom wanted to be rid of him. He didn’t care.
They could do no worse to him than had already been done. And he’d survived.
* * *
* * *
If Thomas had expected Lord Ashendon and Galbraith to compliment him on his transformation from shabby seaman to well-groomed gentleman in breeches and gleaming boots, he was doomed to disappointment. Both gentlemen looked up as he entered. Galbraith scanned him briefly and gave a brisk nod.
Ashendon’s expression was ice cold. “A thousand pounds.”
Thomas curled his lip. “Paltry.” Assurances or explanations would never convince Ashendon that Thomas hadn’t married his sister for the money, so why not make her high-and-mighty brother stew? Besides, now he did need her money.
Ashendon swore under his breath, then continued his interrogation. He didn’t even offer Thomas a seat but prowled back and forth in front of the fireplace, hurling questions at Thomas.
Thomas was soon fed up with it.
“Yes, I knew who she was—the beautiful Lady Rose Rutherford, daughter to the Earl of Ashendon and heiress to a considerable fortune—of course I did. Her aunt Dottie made—”
“Lady Dorothea to you,” Ashendon snapped. Thomas’s transformation had apparently exacerbated an already bad mood. Or maybe he was always a bad-tempered bastard.
Thomas eyed him coolly and continued, “She made no secret of it. She was bursting with pride in her lovely niece—and why not? But that wasn’t why I married Rose.”
“It was out of the pure, disinterested goodness of your heart?” Ashendon said sarcastically.
“Of course it wasn’t. I wanted her.”
“And had no interest in her fortune.”
Thomas shrugged carelessly, knowing it would annoy Ashendon. But then he was annoyed, too. The reason he’d married Rose in a hurry and in secret four years ago was not one he was proud of—but what did it matter now? The world—and Thomas, and no doubt Rose too—had changed, but the fact was they were married.
“Of course her fortune will come in useful. I’m not a wealthy man. My father was a younger son and died at sea when I was a boy. I was raised on the goodwill of my uncle, but he sent me to sea when I turned sixteen. I’ve known all my life that I must make my own way in the world.” He let that sink in, then added, “But her fortune was not why I married Rose.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Believe what you like, it makes no difference. But it’s no compliment to your sister to assume a man would only marry her for her money.”
“I don’t. But a naval officer who would coax a schoolgirl into a clandestine marriage without her family’s knowledge?”
“I was twenty-three, a mere boy.”
“You were an officer. You should have known better.”
He should have, of course. An officer, yes, but at the time he’d thought himself a man, fully grown and mature. Now with the hindsight of experience he could see he’d been a boy, but a boy full of good intentions, just the same.
He’d been young, and relatively inexperienced in the way of women, and Rose had been so ardent and eager and lovely. He’d been dazzled, entranced, and unable to resist her, even though he knew she was too young and innocent to know the possible consequences of what they were doing.
And once the deed was done . . . well, Thomas knew his duty. “I married her for her own protection—giving her the protection of my name. In case.”
Thomas saw the moment when Ashendon realized what he was admitting to. “You filthy, lustful swine!” Ashendon’s fist slammed into him.
