by Cheryl Holt
His relationship with his father had always been tenuous, and he didn't know how they'd ever surmount this latest adversity.
Edward was now thick as thieves with Angela, so he missed his mother, too, since he never saw her anymore, either. In all this, she'd become Abigail's silent ally. Furious that he had refused to ask for Abigail's hand, she wouldn't speak with him or receive him at the hotel. In all his years, he'd never endured any type of ongoing upset with his mother, and he had absolutely no idea how to repair their rift.
He couldn't convince his parents that he'd acted appropriately, that he'd done what was best for Abby. The bottom line was that she could have married him, but she hadn't wanted to, so he didn't care how often or how loudly Edward and Angela screamed their opinions. Abby had chosen the only workable option.
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She was tough, a survivor. The humiliation and disgrace would eventually fade, and she'd move on with her life. In the not-too-distant future, he'd be but a bothersome memory, a foolish indiscretion from her past. If that notion was disturbing, so be it. He had no claims on Abigail Weston, or her affection, and never had.
A female voice hailed him from one of the immobile carriages, and he instantly recognized it as belonging to Barbara Ritter. Once he'd gotten over the initial shock created by Jerald Weston's discovery, he'd agonized plenty over how he'd brought such shame down upon Abby. It hadn't taken long to conclude that Barbara had been the one to report their indiscretions. Abby had hinted at a conversation with Lady Newton that made no sense unless Barbara was already aware of their liaison.
While he was acquainted with many women who were sufficiently vicious to effect the damage Barbara had wrought, she was the only one with sufficient gall to carry on afterward as though she'd done nothing. Since that fateful day, she'd been unsuccessfully trying to arrange a tryst, which would have provided him with the perfect opportunity for a showdown, but his fury over her duplicity was so enormous that he'd been uncertain he could control his formidable temper if they'd crossed paths. He'd hoped the passage of time would coo! him down adequately so that he could break off their association with some semblance of civility. However, upon hearing her coo and prattle, he realized that courtesy was not a possibility.
Why was she sitting outside his club, waiting for him to arrive? Perhaps this was how she'd learned of his amour with Abby. How often had she followed him about? Surely she understood that he was not a man to be trifled with in such a fashion.
"James," she gushed through the window as he neared, and she held the door to the carriage, obviously expecting him to climb in, "how nice that we've run into one another."
"What are you doing here?"
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"I was just passing by."
"Really? On your way to what destination?"
The question stymied her, but only for an instant. "You've caught me out, I'm afraid." She blushed appropriately. "I wasn't 'passing by.' I'm attending Lady Carrington's house party. Would you like to join me?"
"Is there some reason I might wish to accompany you?"
"Well, I haven't seen you in ages." Just then, two drunkards stumbled out of the tavern next to them, and lamplight flooded the vicinity, clearly illuminating his face. She was finally able to distinctly read his disposition, and she hesitated. "I wondered ... ah ... if you might. . ."
"Might what?" he asked disdainfully, tilting into the doorway, granting her a close-up view of his mood, letting his ire fill the small space in which she was enclosed.
"Darling . . . what is it? What's happened?"
"It appears, madam, that you have involved yourself in my personal affairs."
"What? Who told you such a lie?" She shifted uncomfortably. "Despite what anyone has said to you . . . it's entirely false! I swear it!"
"No one had to tell me anything. Your deeds were quite easy to deduce on my own." Intending to frighten, he seized her by the front of the neck, pressing slightly, though not enough to cut off her air.
"James ... please . .."
She squirmed, her eyes wide with dread, and he could feel her alarmed swallow against his palm. "I've warned you before, Barbara," he threatened quietly, "but you have a terrible habit of failing to listen. I am not yours to command about." He gave her a shake, then released her, and she shrunk against the squab, massaging her throat. "Never accost me in the street. I don't like being propositioned as though you are some sort of Covent Garden harlot."
"There's no need to be crude." She pretended offense.
"On the contrary, Barbara, crudity seems to be the only commodity you understand. So understand this: Do not solicit my company on any subsequent occasion."
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"James... what are you saying?”
" Tis over between us. Don't bother me. I won't stand for it."
"You're not serious!"
"Oh, but I am," he assured her, "but I doubt you believe me, so I've purchased a bit of insurance to guarantee your future conduct." He searched his pocket, retrieved a notebook, and waved it under her nose. "I've been a busy boy the past two weeks. I've gone 'round Town and bought up all your markers."
Startled, she bluffed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Unable to stay away from the dicing tables, she was a regular customer at those seedy establishments that allowed women to play. "If you ever accost me again"—lest anyone passing by identify the name he was about to utter, he stuck his head inside the coach and whispered—"if you ever so much as speak Abigail Weston's name to another person, I shall demand recompense on all your notes. You don't have enough to pay, my dear. I'll gladly have you tossed into the streets, and I won't expend a single second worrying about your fate."
"After all we meant to each other! How could you behave so despicably!"
He scoffed then stepped out of range. "It would be such a shame for you to lose your pretty house . . . your pretty clothes . . . your pretty things. . . ."
His threat to her valued material possessions poked a hole in her smooth demeanor, and her true personality was revealed. "What do you care if others know about your little fling with her?" she implored bitterly. "Why is she so special? She was ashamed of her acquaintance with you! The little bitch couldn't lower herself to say hello in a public place! I was with you! I witnessed all!"
The cut was an excellent one, digging brutally at his vulnerabilities, but he was an expert at hiding how thoroughly acrid articulations could wound. "Good-bye, Lady Newton."
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"She doesn't deserve your loyalty!" Barbara shouted. "She doesn't deserve you!" He took another step back, and she leaned out for a second, calming herself and attempting to seem more rational. "Don't do this, James. We belong together!"
"Never, milady," he declared evenly. "We've never belonged together."
He started to walk away, and she shrilly called his name. Passersby had noticed their spat and were tarrying to watch. "Pull yourself together, madam!" he ordered, then he glared at her driver. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
"Aye, sir. You'd be Master James Stevens."
He nodded. 'This woman"—he gestured toward Barbara—"has been hanging 'round the front of my club. She's pestering me and my customers. If I observe her in the neighborhood again, I'll confiscate the rig and horse of the chap who brought her." The man gulped in dismay. "Spread the word to the other drivers for me."
"Will do, Cap'n," the driver said. He flicked the reins and forced his way into the line of carriages, relieving James of Barbara's unwelcome presence as quickly as traffic would permit. Many blocks later, she was still screeching epithets.
Disgusted and disturbed, he traveled the remaining distance to his club, used the back entrance, and headed to his private rooms. Already, business was thriving; employees were rushing past in the corridor, and he couldn't help but wish that Michael had returned to London. If ever there was a night when he didn't relish having to supervise the running of the ga
mes, this was it.
Without success, he tried shifting through paperwork but couldn't concentrate. Staff members continually interrupted, seeking advice or asking questions. Surrendering to the inevitable, he went to the public rooms, where he arbitrated two disputes between customers, evicted a brawler, and removed a dealer who was having problems with a rude group of gamblers.
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Discontented and out of sorts, he circled back to his office, poured himself a brandy, and relaxed in his chair with his feet up on his desk, savoring the amber liquor and wondering if his father might appear- Thinking about Edward caused him to think about Angela, then Michael, then Abby, then the whole sordid mess, which was asinine all the way around, but he got himself so immersed in the miserable loop that he didn't heed the door until it was too late.
Since one never knew what might be occurring in his office, everyone was trained to knock first. It was an unbreakable rule, so one of his crew was in for a serious dressing-down. Irritably, he glanced across, and when he realized the identity of his guest, he nearly fell over in shock.
His half-brother, Charles Stevens, stood there, proud as you please, staring at him with a mixture of trepidation and offense. He was tall, thin, good-looking, with dark hair and eyes, and James recollected that he'd looked much the same when he was twenty.
"My name is Charles Stevens," he said succinctly, introducing himself and offering a slight bow.
"Yes, I know," James replied, struggling for composure, while frantically contemplating what could possibly have drawn the lad into the building against Edward's explicit instructions. Edward had always contended that the prohibition was because he hadn't wanted Charles to grow addicted to the games, but, James had also supposed, Edward had hoped to prevent any cultivation of familiarity with his two older, more world-weary brothers. "Won't you come in?"
He entered and closed the door behind him.
"Have a seat." James gestured to one of the chairs.
"This is not a social call."
"Still, would you like a brandy?" He indicated his glass sitting in the center of the desk.
"No."
"Very well." Slowly and deliberately, he tipped the legs
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of his chair to the floor, lowered his feet, and steadied himself for whatever disaster was about to present itself. "What can I do for you?"
"I demand to know"—Charles's fury was barely suppressed—"what injury you committed against Lady Abigail Weston."
Abby was the last topic James had expected Charles to raise. Vacillating, he kept his expression carefully blank while a thousand questions raced through his mind. What had Charles been told? What had he gleaned as gossip? What sorts of comments would Edward want James to provide? There was also Abby's reputation to consider. Through close monitoring, he was certain that no rumors had slipped out, so discretion remained imperative.
He decided to let Charles take the lead until there were more facts on the table. "Why do you ask me about Lady Abigail?"
"Don't play dumb. You were having an intimate affair with her."
James didn't acknowledge or deny the charge. The silence lengthened.
"What did you do?" Charles shouted.
James rose and rounded the desk, hoping to ease the lad's distress while he stalled and grappled with untangling a suitable response. Obviously, his younger sibling had garnered some information—none of it good—and he would insist on explanations.
"Won't you sit, Charles?"
"No!"
"All right," he soothed, and he leaned a hip on the edge of the desk, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to seem unperturbed. "I'm extremely surprised to find you here. What brings you?"
"For the past two weeks, I've been striving to ascertain what transpired between our father and Jerald Weston, the Earl of Marbleton, that has precipitated the untimely termination of my courtship of Lady Caroline Weston."
"I see."
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"No, you don't! You don't see anything." His fists clenched with hostility; his cheeks burned with rage. "I had learned, in confidence, some time ago, that Lady Abigail might be having an affaire d'amour. . . ."
James stiffened. "Who spread such a vile rumor?"
"I would never say," Charles remarked tersely. "Just today, however, I learned that you were involved in whatever had ensued in the Weston home, and in my pursuit of the details, I now have an answer. You compromised Lady Abigail, didn't you? And Lord Marbleton uncovered your misdeed. 'Twas you who destroyed my chances with Caroline."
To James's great dismay, tears welled into Charles's eyes, bald evidence of how much he loved the girl and was shattered by the turn of events.
James vividly recalled every excruciating word his father had recited during the tense carriage ride they'd endured after leaving the Weston mansion on that horrid day.
If you won't think of yourself and your future happiness, Edward had chided, if you won't think of Abigail and hers, perhaps you could think of Charles and what you've just done to your brother's life.
Are you proud of yourself ? his father had goaded.
Charles, this prized son, who looked so much like James, but to whom he couldn't even be introduced, had hovered over all of James's musings since then. He truly, truly had not intended harm to anyone. Especially not his younger brother, who must now hate him as others did. The idea troubled him exceedingly.
"Yes,'' he amazed himself by confirming, "I am completely responsible."
"At least you're man enough to admit it," Charles noted scornfully. "Why haven't you married Lady Abigail as duty and honor would require?"
"I had no desire to marry her," James said quietly, for once putting the entire blame squarely on his own shoulders. Evidently, Charles hadn't had the story related in any other fashion, so James opted to paint himself as the villain.
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"I had always been told that you were a bastard, but that the designation had nothing to do with your birth status, but I hadn't wanted to believe it. Now I am forced to concede that the label is too true. What leaves me curious, however”—he advanced until they were toe to toe and eye to eye—"is why Lord Marbleton hasn't demanded satisfaction from you."
"The subject never came up." Showing absolutely no emotion, he added insolently, "Even if he'd thought to instigate a duel, he wouldn't have obtained much redress. His aim isn't that good."
"Well, mine, I assure you, is excellent."
Before James realized what he contemplated, Charles slapped him across the face, hard, with one of his leather riding gloves. James's head snapped to the side; his cheek stung. "What the hell . . ."
"As Lady Abigail apparently has no champion to assist her," Charles harshly pointed out, "I am more than happy to be the one who acts in her defense. Choose your seconds."
"You can't be serious."
"I've never been more serious in my life. We meet at dawn."
Brimming with consternation, James balanced on the balls of his feet, distending to his full height, finding that he was two or three inches taller than Charles. Needing occasion to reflect and process, he casually moved to the sideboard and refilled his brandy.
"Don't be absurd," he urged. “I’ll not meet you at dawn or at any other time."
"I'm not surprised that you refuse," Charles declared. "A man who would ruin a woman such as Lady Abigail, and then have no compunction to rectify his conduct, clearly has no sense of decency. Perhaps you're simply a coward."
James sighed dolefully. "You don't know anything about me to make such claims."
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"Your repudiation of my challenge provides the necessary indication."
"I could no more murder you than I could our father."
"Why are you so certain," Charles taunted caustically, "that your aim would be superior to mine?"
"I'm a marksman, Charles."
"So am I."
"I could neve
r raise a weapon against you. No matter my feelings, no matter the particulars. I can't credit that you'd even ask me to consider it."
"Is that your final decision?"
"Yes, it is."
"Fine"—Charles nodded amicably, a strange, fiery gleam in his eye—"then I shall kill you here and now."
He reached under his cloak and retrieved a pistol. The barrel was long, black, and highly polished, the handle a pearl color with fancy scrollwork carved into it. The weapon looked heavy, expensive, loaded, and leveled with deadly purpose.
"Are you mad?" James was astounded and dismayed. Leaving nothing to chance, he reacted quickly, tossing his drink in Charles's face as he leapt to the side and grabbed Charles's wrist. He squeezed tightly, driving the barrel down toward the floor, and they battled, but Charles was strong as an ox, limber and wiry, and he wouldn't relinquish his grip. James began to worry that he'd have to break Charles's arm in order to compel him to release his hold.
"Let go!" he commanded.
"Never!"
"Let go!" he repeated, yanking strenuously, and he ultimately managed to wrestle it away without its discharging. "Sit down!" he decreed, and when his brother didn't comply, he shoved him toward a chair. "I'm not asking you; I'm telling you! Sit!"
Warily scrutinizing Charles, he stalked around the desk, opened a drawer, and locked the gun inside. "For pity's sake, you could have shot me!"
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"I wish I had!" the younger man contended, men his legs folded, and he slid into the chair and perched on the edge. More tears swarmed. "Lord Marbleton is supposed to announce Caroline's engagement tomorrow afternoon. I'll never forgive you for what you've done."
He choked out the last, and a few tears overflowed. As he swiped at them, James observed his suffering, and the ice encasing his heart started to melt.
"I'm sorry, Charles," he murmured. "I didn't mean to hurt you or Lady Caroline. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."
