Mills, Anita

by Autumn Rain

  "Oh, Papa—I cannot! I—" As the earth was shoveled over the wooden box, she lost her composure completely. "No! Not yet!" she cried hysterically, pulling away. "Not yet!"

  Lucien, who'd watched such scenes a hundred times and more, moved between her and the grave, blocking her way. Catching her with his good arm, he held her apart from him, pushing her back. She struggled, and for a moment, he reeled, then righted himself.

  "There's naught more you can do for him, Lady Kingsley," he said. Despite the gruffness, there was a measure of sympathy in his voice. "Go with your parents."

  "But—" Her lower lip quivered and tears spilled freely from her eyes.

  "Go on—I will see it done." His black eyes met hers for a moment. "You don't want to remember this." When she did not move, he added gently, "He'd have you think of him as he was, you know." Looking past her to her father, he nodded. "Take her home, will you?"

  With her father pulling, she half-stumbled away, and Lucien could hear Ashton muttering, "Don't know who the devil he thinks he is, telling me what's right to do, puss."

  Bellamy Townsend started after her, but Lucien stopped him. "Leave her to grieve alone a bit, Bell."

  "It's none of your affair!" the other man retorted. Then, he turned back apologetically. "Sorry—you been through hell also, haven't you?"

  "Something like it." They faced each other across the open grave. For a moment, Lucien looked down as a laborer tossed a shovelful of earth over Charles Kingsley's casket, obscuring a corner of it. "Something like it," he repeated softly.

  "She took it hard, you know," Bell murmured. "Boy meant a lot to her. Children together, I guess."

  "She meant a lot to him also."

  Bellamy's gray eyes rested on the bulky bandage that stretched the shoulder of Longford's regimental jacket. "Heard you'd nearly bought the beyond yourself."

  "So they tell me."

  "Heard it was the lung—that you were spouting blood."

  "Bell"—Lucien growled uncomfortably, then relented enough to tell him shortly—"it seems to have healed itself once it filled with air again."

  "Cool about it—say that for you. Ought to earn you another medal from Prinny, from what I hear—wouldn't even surprise me if you were to be received now."

  "I don't mean to put it to the touch," Lucien muttered dryly.

  "Thinking about rusticating, are you?"

  There was no mistaking the disappointment in the other man's voice, for it was obvious Bell wanted no rival, no matter how unlikely. Lucien smiled faintly and nodded. "Let us just say I mean to rest awhile."

  "You going to be at home this afternoon?" Leighton asked, interrupting them.

  "I can scarce go anywhere," Lucien retorted, then sighed. "I suppose you were thinking of visiting me?"

  "Only if you are up to it."

  Lucien looked down to where the box was nearly covered now. "My dear Leighton, I am going to get myself utterly, totally foxed—so disguised that I do not mean to know my own name," he declared flatly, "but you and Bell are welcome to join me in the enterprise."

  "Man ought not to drink alone," Leighton murmured solemnly. "Bell?"

  Townsend watched Thomas Ashton help his daughter into a small, open carriage for the ride back to the house. Behind them, Elinor's mother and sisters mounted a larger conveyance. If he visited her today, he would be intruding, and he knew it. Besides, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he also knew Longford was right-Elinor Kingsley needed time, and in putting himself constantly forward, he was probably making her heartily sick of him.

  "Might as well—got nothing else to do at the moment."

  Lucien followed his gaze, thinking that he ought to take Charles Kingsley's journal to her. On the morrow, when he felt better perhaps...

  It had been a long time since Bell had been in any of Lucien's houses, not since the affair with Diana. He looked around the elegantly appointed saloon approvingly. "Surprised me to hear you'd bought an estate in Cornwall," he murmured.

  Lucien shrugged. "It was Langston's—poor fellow was quite run off his legs—and I could not complain of the price. But let us move to the bookroom—it's better suited to the sport of drinking." He held the door open, and as Bellamy passed, he said, "I rather favor the wildness of the coast, you know. When it storms, the waves beat upon the rocks with a fury you cannot imagine. It rather soothes one's soul."

  "Thankfully, I cannot say it has stormed since my arrival."

  "Bell prefers only the maelstroms of his own making," Leighton observed, dropping into a leather-covered chair.

  Townsend took a chair opposite, and twisted his head to look back to where Lucien's shaking hand poured port. "Actually, I have been thinking of settling down."

  Lucien's eyebrows raised. "You? I shouldn't think the life would suit you, Bell."

  Townsend nodded. "I'm thinking of marrying Elinor Kingsley," he admitted. "Getting too old for the pursuit—pretty soon I'll be an old roue. Nothing worse than that, you know—always hate to see the old gents in their corsets trying to play the lover."

  Lucien's hand stopped midair. "I was under the impression that Kingsley was merely indisposed—not dead."

  "He ain't going to last forever—can't. Besides, nobody's seen him since word came about the boy."

  "My dear Bell," Leighton advised him, "those kind do last forever—think of our poor king. How long has he been mad this time?—nearly two years, I think—and that does not count—"

  "It's not your affair, George! Besides, the old gent's sixty-five if he's got a day on him."

  "It's my affair if you mean to set up a flirtation from my house," George retorted. "I'll not countenance it."

  "The honorable Leighton." Bellamy sneered. "Tell me—are all the Maxwells so devilish straitlaced? Must be that dour Scots upbringing, I suppose. I always heard that the Presbyterians were a bloodless lot."

  "He hasn't been to Scotland in years, Bell," Lucien murmured, carrying three big cups and two bottles of the fortified wine to them. "He doesn't like the cold."

  Leighton took his and stared at the cup for a moment.

  "Not too elegant, Luce. Must be two glasses' worth in here."

  But Bell took his and grinned. "Man's into some serious drinking, George—when he says he means to get foxed, he means it, don't you, Luce?"

  "Precisely."

  "Shoulder paining you?" George asked Longford.

  "Yes. Interminably." Lucien pulled a chair up between them, then reached for his own cup, wincing. Leaning back, he lifted it, murmuring, "May Russia swallow Boney before the year is out. Pray for a hard winter, gentlemen."

  Bell snorted. "Don't you have anything but the war to think on, Luce? It's over for you, you know." Nonetheless, he drank to it.

  "I should like to see you go there," Leighton observed.

  "Me? Un-uhhh. I should not be able to take my tailor, I'm afraid. Besides, I don't want a ball in me. Look at Luce—fellow's deuced peaked—and dashed fortunate to be breathing."

  "Your patriotism overwhelms me, Bellamy," Lucien observed sardonically.

  Thinking that the other two might get into it over the war, Leighton tried to turn the subject back to Elinor Kingsley. "So you came in pursuit of the baroness," he murmured, sipping of his port. "And I thought it was my friendship you courted. I agree with Luce, you know—you are better advised to wait for the old gent to pass on."

  "Going to steal the march," Bell insisted. "Bound to be a passel of fortune hunters after her when he's gone. Besides, the woman's an innocent, George—an utter innocent! She won't know the bad ones from the good ones."

  "And you mean to be there to help her sort them out?" Lucien queried incredulously. "My dear Bell, who's going to warn her about you?"

  "She cannot be a complete innocent," George decided.

  "Oh, I own that I thought Longford—that there was something there—but I have since concluded I was mistaken. Devilish straitlaced female, if you would have the truth of it." Townsend looked at
Leighton over the rim of his cup. "If I'm not mistaken, I don't think she even knows how it's done."

  "Don't be absurd, Bell—the gel's been wed an age," George retorted.

  "Look, I've been flirting with her for months—and she can't even get those interesting entendres a man throws out to show his intentions."

  Lucien shrugged. "Maybe she's stupid—or wise. If she pretends not to understand, she doesn't have to answer-did you never think of that?"

  "She's not stupid," Bell insisted truculently. "Got brains to match the beauty—spouts Latin and Greek as good as old Master Downey in grammar school. But—" He fixed his eyes on the earl, who now appeared more absorbed in his port than anything. "But I would like to know what she was doing at your house that time, you know—and you ain't fobbing me off that it was Harriette Wilson I saw."

  For a moment, Lucien stared into the dark wine, remembering how she'd stood there when he'd removed her bonnet, not knowing what he was about. "She came to ask me to look after the boy," he answered simply. "I did a miserable job of it, didn't I?"

  "Then you know she's an innocent!" Bell crowed.

  "Yes, I know." He sat up and reached for one of the bottles of port. Pouring himself another cup, he regarded it briefly, then met Bellamy Townsend's eyes. "There is still Arthur Kingsley, Bell—and I fail to see how you mean to get around that."

  "Wait for him to die."

  Devil of a coil, ain't it?—a man waiting for his own grandfather to die. Charles Kingsley's voice echoed once again in Lucien's ears. He lifted his filled cup, spilling a little of the wine onto his buff breeches. "To Arthur Kingsley's long life," he murmured before tossing the contents off.

  "Well, I won't be drinking to that! You hear him, George?" Bell demanded plaintively. "Wantin' to drink to the old gent's long life!"

  "She deserves better than a rake."

  "Since when did you appoint yourself the protector of decent females? I ain't the only rake in this room, you know! Besides, I told you—reformed rake."

  "And I can tell you from bitter experience that rakes do not reform, Bell—they merely age," Lucien told him tiredly. "Whether you have a wife or not, when you are fifty, you will be chasing females less than half your age. Until your corset creaks," he added significantly.

  "Don't know how you'd know," Bell muttered. "Since Diana, you aren't chasing any of 'em as don't want to be caught. Nothing but demireps and fashionable impures— like you aren't wanting a lady. Threw away Diana—tossed her my way, in fact."

  "Diana wasn't a lady!" Lucien snapped "At least with the demireps, one knows what one is getting, which isn't much—but the arrangement is an honest one—one does not have to pretend what one does not feel. Not that you would know about that, Bell."

  "Whatever happened to Diana, by the by?" Leighton asked.

  "I neither know—nor do I care."

  Bellamy shook his head. "Named the brat after you, you know. Made me nervous for a while—thought she meant to lay it at my door."

  "Bell—I have no wish to discuss Diana."

  "All right—all right." He ran his fingers through his blond hair, ruffling it, then dared to meet Lucien's eyes again. "But I don't know why you got to blame me, why you think I cannot change. Dash it, but Elinor's all a man could want! It isn't like you think!"

  "Elinor?" One of Leighton's eyebrows rose. "Elinor?"

  "Oh, I don't call her that to her face—not like we are familiar or anything. Not often, anyway—got to be careful, particularly after the thing about the bet."

  Lucien drained his cup and poured yet another. Staring hard at Townsend, he declared angrily, "You are like my father, Bell—you take what you want, then damn the rest to hell. Elinor Kingsley deserves better than that—you'd do to her what Jack did to my mother. A few years with you and she'd wither, waiting for you to give up your barques of frailty."

  "If she hasn't withered with Arthur Kingsley, she's not going—"

  "It was a long time ago, Luce," Leighton said softly. "You've got to forget about Jack."

  But Lucien had come to his feet, towering over Bellamy, weaving. "What you and Jack don't understand is that it's never over, Bell! Never! You wreck lives, Bell!" He started to cough, but his healing lung hurt too much. Pressing his balled fist against his side, he managed to hold it back.

  Stung, Bellamy pressed his body back against the tufted leather, and retorted defensively, "You said you did not care about Diana! You said—"

  "I had no wish to be a laughingstock! I had no wish to be pitied, Bell!"

  "Well, if I'd have known—dash it, but you made yourself the laughingstock! You wanted rid of her! I gave you the chance—that was all!"

  "If I had not, it would have been the same!"

  "You're disguised," Bellamy muttered. Ducking Lucien, he managed to rise. "As for Mad Jack, you are more like him than you would have us think! I don't see you riding to rescue any fair ladies yourself, Luce!" His face now red, he sneered, "You are as bad a fellow as he was, you know. Your neglect made Diana ripe for the plucking."

  "Leave Elinor Kingsley alone!"

  "Aha! You got designs on her yourself, don't you? Well, there you are out! I've not played Galahad so's I could step aside! You hear me, Luce? She's mine!"

  Leighton threw himself between them. "All in our cups, that's all. Come on, Bell—got to go before you regret it."

  "If you think I mean to let him insult me—to tell me—"

  "Fool if you was to try to do anything about it." Leighton caught Townsend by both arms, forcing him back. "For God's sake, Bell—let's leave it. Luce's wounded—daresay it's affected more'n his shoulder, that's all."

  "I meant what I said."

  "Coming it too strong, Luce!" Bell shouted. "You got no right—you haven't even been here!" Shaking free of Leighton, he faced Lucien angrily. "And I'm not afraid of you—I don't care if they do call you Lucifer!

  Throw a spoke in my wheel where she is concerned, and before Almighty God, I'll call you out!"

  "That's enough, Bell!" Leighton insisted loudly.

  "Stay out of it, George! He's got no right—"

  He jabbed Lucien's left shoulder, and for a moment, the earl went white beneath his tan. Holding his shoulder, he closed his eyes against the pain and soreness there. A wave of dizziness, of nausea hit him, then passed. He ought to be beyond this by now, but he wasn't. He was far sicker than he wanted to admit.

  This time, Leighton moved behind Townsend, grabbing his arms, pulling him away from Longford. "I'm not burying either of you—d'you hear me? You've got to stop this—both of you!"

  Lucien caught his breath, then released his shoulder. "Leave her alone," he repeated evenly.

  "My intentions are honorable!"

  "Hell will freeze before I believe it!"

  With one arm still around Bellamy Townsend's waist, Leighton leaned to reach the hat on the table. Slamming it crookedly over Bell's disordered blond locks, he dragged him toward the door. "Got to sleep it off—that's the ticket—get you some air—"

  "She's mine, Luce—d'you hear me? When Kingsley's gone, she's mine!"

  "Shut up, Bell!" Leighton snapped. "I said I did not want to bury you—leastwise not while you are a guest in my house."

  "He can't—you saw him—I ain't afraid of him, I tell you," Bellamy protested.

  Lucien stood there, rooted to the floor, listening as the front door slammed. He wasn't foxed—he wished he were, but he wasn't. His shoulder throbbed like the very devil, and he was as weak as the proverbial kitten. If Bell had actually landed a blow, he'd have fallen. Damn! He ought to be better mended than this. But he felt ill, weak in spirit and body still. Maybe the damned doctors had been right—maybe he hadn't been healed enough for the journey, but he'd wanted to bring the boy home. It was a sort of atonement, he supposed, an atonement for what he had not been able to prevent.

  Holding his arm, which now felt almost too heavy for the shoulder, he returned to pour himself another cup of the port. As he sank
back into the chair, he waited for the weakness, the dizziness, the sweat that came with it to pass, then he wondered why he'd provoked the quarrel with Townsend. It certainly wasn't the obvious—no matter what either of them thought, it wasn't over Diana. They couldn't know that if he'd found her lying in a London gutter, he'd step over her, that he hated her almost as much as he hated Mad Jack.

  He supposed it might be a certain admiration for Elinor Kingsley. Even as he sat there, as sick as he was, he could still remember when she'd come to him in London. How she'd been surprised, shocked even, by his mistakenly amorous overture, how she'd only come to ask his aid for the boy. And having known Charles Kingsley, and having seen her at his grave, he was prepared to believe she'd loved poor Charley.

  He lifted his glass, mocking himself. Whether Bell mounted her or not ought to matter not one whit to him. But it did. She'd asked him to protect Kingsley, and he had failed so miserably that the boy had fallen in his first battle. Now it seemed as though Charley haunted his thoughts in turn, asking him to do no less for her, begging him to protect her from someone like Bell Town-send. It was a jest of sorts—rather like the wolf being asked to tend the sheep. But he had to try.

  He hadn't wanted to—and he'd not wanted to quarrel with Bell. Sitting there, he felt a surge of resentment. Neither she nor Charley had ever had any right to expect anything of him, to make him feel guilty for anything. And yet since the boy had fallen, he'd known no peace.

  His gaze moved around his bookroom, taking in the extraordinary library Langston had possessed and prized, then his eyes rested on the bound journal that lay upon his desk. Like a thief, he'd read it, sharing the dead boy's innermost thoughts, his hopes and dreams, letting himself forget his own cynicism for the moment, to live vicariously a youth he'd never had.

  At twenty, he was already living down his father's rep. At twenty, he'd already lost all innocence. Sometimes he wondered if he'd ever been green. Only when Jack had persuaded him to wed Diana, to give her nonexistent brat the family name. It was Dame Fortune's ironic jest—he'd survived while decent fools like Charles Kingsley had not.

  He sat there, drinking the port, striving for oblivion, for release from the physical and mental pain, telling himself that he would take her the boy's journal on the morrow, for it was not the sort of thing that could simply be sent. Somehow he thought the old man might keep it from her. Besides, he owed it to her to tell her how Charley had died honorably, doing what he thought he wanted, but in his heart, he knew that would provide little comfort.