Hadrian

by Grace Burrowes

  There it was, the pity Avis detested more than she detested the scorn that had come her way—though Hadrian served up pity with an edge of challenge.

  “I’m running to a home, or as close to my own home as I’m likely to find in this life. Besides, Lily and I are having great fun refurbishing the place.”

  Lily was having great fun.

  “You look like a lady anticipating great fun,” Hadrian countered dryly. “About like I’d look, if you told me we had five more days of shearing.”

  “It will be fun,” Avis said as they arrived to the front door.

  Hadrian glanced around, though his staff was nowhere in evidence.

  “This is fun.” He kissed her on the mouth, lingeringly, his fingers trailing over her cheek, but not the lavish undertaking of the previous night.

  “Shame on you.” Avis stepped back—when she was sure he had finished.

  “You have the right of it, Avis. Shame on me, not on you. I kissed you—again.”

  “So you did.” She couldn’t help but smile.

  “And I enjoyed it again,” he whispered, leaning closer, “and I will enjoy it next time too, and the time after that, and the time after that, and the time after—”

  “Good-bye, Henry.”

  She swept out the door, knowing that however much fun it might be to select drapery fabric with Lily and the mercer, flirting with Hadrian had been more fun still.

  Much more fun.

  * * *

  “Read this.”

  Harold passed Hadrian’s first letter to Finch, then handed over his reading spectacles. He and Finch lounged on deck chairs at their berth in the Copenhagen harbor, and though they were on the lee side of the yacht, a cool breeze stirred the air.

  Finch squinted against the brilliant sunshine bouncing off the water. “Your vicar brother misses you. This surprises you?”

  “It does not. Now read this.” Harold passed along the second letter, for both had been waiting for him when they’d docked.

  Finch scanned the letter, his eyebrows—blonder than they’d been upon leaving England—rising.

  “You introduced me to this Lady Avis. She was pretty, quick, and going to waste in the wilds of Cumberland every bit as much as you were.”

  “She has an unfortunate past.” A pair of gulls wheeled overhead, the sun sparkled on the water, and old scandals in Cumberland seemed lifetimes away.

  “A failed elopement? A child out of wedlock?”

  “A rape,” Harold said flatly. “She was engaged to Hart Collins, but at the point of breaking things off, and Collins decided if he forced matters, crying off would be removed from consideration, for no one else would have her.”

  Finch stretched out long legs encased in the loose white trousers sailors favored. His feet were bare, and for the twentieth time, Harold fell in love with the look of him, lounging in the Danish sun.

  “Rape isn’t something anybody forgets,” Finch said. “Would the malefactor be the Baron Collins?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Hence your inquiries in Amsterdam and Calais. This misbehavior had to be some time ago. The man hasn’t set foot in England for years.”

  Finch was a treasure trove of gossip, one of his many endearing traits.

  “Collins slips in, harasses his solicitors for money, then slips out. Vim and Ben promised him a slow, painful death if they caught him underfoot.” As had Harold.

  “Why not provide him a quick, painful death over pistols or swords?”

  Finch also had a protective streak Harold quite simply adored.

  “Avis begged them not to make a greater scandal.” Harold fell silent a moment as the gulls rose higher on the brisk shore breeze. “Her brothers felt guilty enough without putting her through the ordeal of a duel.”

  Finch propped his bare feet on the railing, the way Harold often propped his feet on the corner of his desk. “There’s another daughter, isn’t there?”

  “You do keep up, don’t you?”

  “Not any more, love.”

  “The younger sister, Lady Alexandra, was riding with Avis when Collins and his merry men accosted them. Alex won free and jumped on the first horse she could reach. She wasn’t used to riding astride, her feet didn’t quite reach the stirrups, and she was dumped, dragged, and nearly lost the ability to walk.”

  “The brothers didn’t tie Collins behind a horse for similar treatment?”

  Harold resisted the urge to kiss Finch’s imaginative cheek. “Collins decamped post-haste when I paid a call on him the same day.” The gulls flew directly toward the sun, forcing Harold to drop his gaze.

  “I hope you at least beat him within an inch of his life.”

  Harold remained silent. He’d beat Collins within half an inch of his life, and it hadn’t been enough.

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Something like it. The young ladies were at Landover, with no one but Hadrian to see to them, so I couldn’t protract the exercise as much as circumstances deserved.”

  “Hadrian took the ladies in hand? He had to be just a stripling.”

  “He was eighteen and every bit as tall as he is now, though not as muscled. He was the one who came upon Avis first, and for a week at least, she wouldn’t let him out of her sight.” How awkward that had been, and how proud Harold had been of Hadrian for his patience with young and distraught Lady Avis.

  Finch tapped the letter against slightly sunburned lips. “I’ll bet that caused some talk.”

  “Not as much as you’d think. Landover’s staff is both loyal and discreet.”

  “That they are,” Finch agreed, lashes lowering, “thank ye gods. But what eighteen-year-old is equipped to deal with a woman who’s been through that kind of ordeal?”

  “I was ready to pounce,” Harold said. “Ready to step in and start giving orders, though what I would have ordered, besides tea and sympathy, I know not.”

  Hadrian had known what to do, though, had known when to remain silent, when to tease, when to hug.

  “Hadrian was unbelievably patient with her.” Harold gently removed the spectacles from Finch’s patrician nose, which was also unfashionably sunburned. “They went for long walks, he read to her, they planted flowers, he found her a flute and some lesson books. I’m not sure what all they got up to, but gradually, Avis came back to us.”

  “You’re not sure what all they got up to?” Finch lifted a perfectly arched blond eyebrow. “He wasn’t a vicar at eighteen, Hal. Nobody is.”

  “She was hurt. Hadrian would not have taken advantage.”

  Finch passed the second letter back over. “Not then, but what about now?”

  Harold folded the letter. “Now, it’s twelve years later, and Hay is damaged goods too, as we all are, after a time.”

  Though Harold was feeling his own damage less and less.

  “I dearly hope our Hadrian hasn’t been raped.”

  Hadrian would faint at the least to know Finch considered him “our Hadrian.” “Hay was taken advantage of by that woman he married, though he won’t admit it.”

  “Many people would say I took advantage of Louise,” Finch said quietly. “They wouldn’t be wrong.”

  “You gave her a lifetime of security, three wonderful children, and a choice, Andy.” They would go over this ground as often as necessary, for Andy and Louise had been married by parental arrangement, and she’d loved another even while reciting her vows. “She chose her freedom, and you chose me.”

  “I did. I have no regrets, and Louise assured me she hadn’t any, either, but I think you do.”

  For a moment, Harold let jealousy tear at him. Louise and Finch had made children together, they’d endured an arranged match together, and planned their respective escapes from it—together. Such closeness had a lasting, unassailable quality that Harold envied.

  Then he saw how the breeze snatched at Andy’s hair, and let the jealousy flutter away on the morning sunbeams.

  “I have no regret
s,” Harold said. “Hadrian would no more approach Avis while I was on hand than you’d approach me with him looking on.”

  “I love being able to approach you,” Finch said, covering Hal’s hand with his own. “I love not having to lock doors and wait for the servants to go to sleep, or having always to make certain I’m back in my own rooms before the chambermaids stir.”

  “I can’t believe it’s real,” Harold said, closing his fingers around Finch’s.

  Finch smiled the smile of a beloved conspirator. “It’s real, but you’re worried for your brother.”

  “No, actually.” Harold had to look away from that smile, much as he’d had to look away from gulls wheeling in the direct path of the sun. “I was worried, when he went haring back to university, no longer set on a cavalry commission, but spouting fancies about the church.”

  “One can see how that might cause you to worry.”

  “Not for me.” The gulls were back, flapping to a landing on the gunwale, then folding their wings as if settling in for a listen. “I was worried for Hay. He’s too genuine for the church, too uncomplicated, unsubtle, and yet he’s smart enough to put those qualities on for a time, as needs must.”

  Finch kissed Harold’s knuckles. “Nobody gets through life without a little dissembling.”

  “A little, maybe, but we both know what a steady diet of pretending to be something you’re not does to a person’s soul.”

  Finch studied their joined hands. “We do.”

  “I thought Hadrian would offer for Avie before he went back to finish his studies, but something happened, I know not what, and they parted company.”

  “Sometimes it’s life happening.” Finch closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun. “I shall become as sunburned and wind-chapped as all these Danish sailors, and swill good beer, and sing like they do.”

  “You’ll get wrinkles.” Harold would adore those wrinkles too.

  “Character lines.” Finch opened his eyes and grinned. “They’re good-looking fellows, those sailors.”

  “Tramp.” Harold couldn’t keep the affection from his voice.

  “Just making an observation.” Finch closed his eyes again. “What will your vicar do?”

  “What he’ll probably do is be a perfect gentleman. I raised him to be a perfect gentleman.”

  “Probably?”

  “What he ought to do is dally with a willing lady, assuming Avie has as much sense as I think she does, and see where matters go.”

  “He might hurt her. Badly.”

  “He might get hurt, badly, and he might not. Avis can tell him she’s not interested, and then he can do that perfect-gentleman business.”

  “So write to him, Harold. You warned him about Collins, now write him something to remind him his big brother is still on the job.”

  “Write him about the dallying?”

  “Romance, my love, is romance, and loneliness is loneliness, and sex is sex. He’s your brother, your only family, and he’s asking for your guidance.”

  “I suppose he is. Fancy that.”

  “The vicar is trying to stray.” Finch crossed his arms and settled back against his chaise. “You’ve given him a clear and worthy example—once again.”

  Chapter Six

  Fenwick glared from the back of his unprepossessing horse. “It’s your fault my hands have been smelling like bloody damask roses and comfrey these three days and more. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, Bothwell.”

  “My fault?”

  “Avis and her salves and liniments and whatnots.” Fenwick’s mount stomped a back hoof, as if in sympathy with his owner. “Next she’ll have me carrying a fan.”

  “She sent some salve over to Landover,” Hadrian countered, while Caesar stood like a perfect gentleman. “Considerate of her.” Though who was considerate of Avie, besides Fenwick in his backhanded way?

  “She’s kind. But roses, Bothwell? You might have kept your gloves on when she came calling and spared us both.”

  “She likes roses, and writing letters while wearing gloves is awkward.” Caressing a woman’s cheek while wearing gloves would be awkward too.

  “She likes you, and fussing.”

  Avis probably liked Fenwick too—as did Hadrian. “Let her fuss. I’ve something to discuss with you.”

  “My petty complaints and indignities can be cast to the wind while I await your every word, fairly panting to know what I might do for you.”

  Nobody talked to their vicar that way, more’s the pity.

  “As you should be,” Hadrian rejoined, “humbly awaiting. I wish I did not have to raise this topic, for your complaints are always at least colorful, but the discussion is necessary.”

  The bantering light died from Fen’s dark eyes, and he nudged his horse forward. “Say on.”

  Hadrian let Caesar fall in step beside Handy. “My brother has made inquiries on his journey regarding Hart Collins.”

  “The sodding bastard who raped Lady Avie?”

  Blunt masculine speech was also something Hadrian hadn’t heard much of while tending to the Lord’s flock. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d missed it.

  “That would be he. Collins decamped to the Continent on the end of Harold’s boot twelve years ago, though Harold never said as much, but the baron slinks back occasionally, or so Harold says.”

  “Harold has kept track of Collins all these years?”

  “He has, or he, Benjamin, and Vim have between them and their various correspondents. According to Harold, Collins is pockets to let and reported to be on his way back into the country.”

  “This is good news,” Fenwick said, sitting up straighter in the saddle. “Now we can kill him.”

  How refreshing. “As simple as that?”

  “Among some indigenous peoples, when a woman is violated, her community considers itself violated, and the entire village is justified in seeking revenge. A quaint concept, but it effectively discourages that particular trespass against women.”

  “Alas, there’s that bit about thou shallt not kill among my people—another quaint concept. Even if the Almighty didn’t take a dim view of murder, Avie would hear of it, and if one of us stood trial for it, she’d suffer.”

  Fenwick shifted his gaze to the heavens as if praying for patience. “There you go again, thinking things through when what’s wanted is a little spontaneous violence.”

  “Spontaneous violence is how Avie was hurt in the first place.”

  Fenwick drew his horse up. “Choir Boy, you are in error. She was hurt as a result of premeditated violence, planned, complete with accomplices, and executed in cold, if semi-inebriated, blood.”

  Fen’s characterization was accurate. “She’s spoken to you about it?”

  “Never once, and yet it’s present at many points in our conversations.”

  From what Hadrian had observed, the past loomed over Avie’s every waking moment, and probably her sleeping moments too.

  That was untenable, and yet, Avie could not remedy matters on her own.

  Fenwick went ahead where the path narrowed, held a branch back, then let go so it smacked Hadrian in the chest. “She danced with me at the shearing party.”

  “One noticed this. You dance well.”

  “For a lumbering ox? A person can’t survive in the Scottish Highlands making a racket the game will hear a hundred yards off. But yes, I danced with her. Did you notice how all eyes followed us and how that Prentiss creature fretted?”

  “I did. You and Avis are a handsome couple and Avis is the lady of the manor.” Hadrian wasn’t entirely sure what Lily Prentiss’s function was.

  “We’re handsome friends,” Fenwick said, allowing Hadrian to take a turn going first. “That one dance will cost her months, possibly years of gossip.”

  “Because she danced with somebody who works for her family?”

  “Because she danced at all. She deserves to dance as much as you, me, Gran Carruthers, or old Sully, but she hasn
’t, not a waltz, not since I’ve known her. The Prentiss woman can dance with you all night, and she’s simply being gracious to a widower, but if Avie dances, she’s thrown herself at her partner, shown a lack of restraint, and flirted with ruin all over again.”

  Placed as he was, above the menials, below the best society, Fen would hear the talk, and his words confirmed Hadrian’s sense of the situation.

  Hadrian held a branch back for Fen, and did not let it go until Handy had passed before it.

  “The small-minded few will always find someone to prey on with their gossip,” Hadrian said. “I am more concerned with the threat from Collins, should he decide to destroy Avie’s peace.” Hadrian was concerned about Avie’s reputation and her safety, in truth, and the solution to those problems lay within his grasp.

  “Collins won’t show his face around here.”

  “His seat is not five miles distant, Fenwick.” More significantly, if Harold had charged Hadrian specifically with protecting Avie from this threat, then the threat was real. “You are not to do anything rash without a choir boy at your side.”

  “What would the bishop say?”

  “He’d say, ‘Pray devoutly, but hammer stoutly.’”

  “Smart fellows, those old bishops.”

  “Some of them, at least when sober. I haven’t joined you on your morning ride for the sheer pleasure of your company, Fenwick.”

  Fenwick batted his lashes. “How you do flatter a fellow. I take it you’re on your way to call on Avie?”

  “I am.” Despite the knowledge that while Avie had danced a ländler with Hadrian, she’d danced the waltz far more publicly with Ashton Fenwick—who viewed avenging her honor with reckless glee.

  Fenwick gave his horse a loud, whacking pat. “About time you showed the colors, Choir Boy. I’ve told Avie my money is on you. You’ll do her a power of good, if she allows it.”

  Hadrian certainly hoped so. “You aren’t concerned about gossip, old scandal or worse?”

  “You’ll be discreet or I’ll cut your balls off,” Fenwick said easily. “Word of friendly warning, though?”