by Megan Bryce
“Entirely likely.”
“And children? Not for your brother, not for the earldom. For you. Are you prepared to be a man with no children, no legacy, no future?”
Sinclair had never thought much about children before coming back to England, had always assumed that one day he would have them. And because the thought of not having any did prick him, he said flippantly, “Who knows, perhaps I already have a dozen. A man never knows, though he does try prodigiously.”
He smiled at St. Clair, who did not smile back.
“She’s not worth it, friend.”
“You can’t know that. Perhaps she is.”
“No woman is. No one is.”
“Oh, George. I wish upon you a love that is worth everything. A life that is worth losing. Passion and need and everything that makes our short time here worth it.”
St. Clair puffed. “I always knew you were a vindictive scab, Sinclair.”
Sinclair smiled and laughed. “I am many things you are not. Romantic, optimistic–”
“Silly, irresponsible–”
“But you’re the one who is vindictive. You who won’t forgive a woman because she was married to a man when the fates cut his thread. If they had asked dear Bertie to choose, don’t you think he would have chosen to spend that last year with her?”
“Are they asking you to choose?”
Sinclair thought of Lord Westin in the other room and wondered if perhaps he was being asked to choose. He wondered if perhaps he already had.
St. Clair leaned forward. “Truly, Sinclair. If the choice is one great year or a lifetime of good years?”
“It would be one marvelous year, a year worth a thousand lifetimes, and you already know what I would choose.”
St. Clair looked down at his boots, saying softly, “I know.”
“Bugger the fates, St. Clair.”
St. Clair sat back and stuck his cigar between his teeth. “If anyone can.” He raised his glass. “To Lady Haywood and her coup.”
“She’s not like that.”
“She is. We all are. It’s the way of the world.”
It was the way of the world.
But all he could think of was Elinor leaning over him and whispering, “It’s not the way of my world.”
It’s not the way of my world.
George had left his world once, been thrust into a place so foreign that nothing was familiar. His compatriots had tried to make that world into what they knew, what they’d left.
But George had loved it. Had loved finally realizing that the way of the world was really just the way it was here, now.
It didn’t have to be that way. It wasn’t that way, somewhere else.
If.
Eleven
Her dogs heard him first, their growling waking Elinor from an exotic dream where the day was too warm and all the ladies bared their midriffs.
She threw off the covers, the room still comfortably warm despite the gray of the morning filtering through the curtains. She’d built up the fire for Sinclair last night, thinking he would come. Thinking he couldn’t stay away after their dance.
She’d fallen asleep waiting for him and been woken only a few hours later by a visit from her brother.
What a perfect way to start the day.
She heard the shouting, heard the stones pummeling the bricks and windows of her home, and she slipped on her dressing gown and slowly opened her bedroom door.
Jones stood in the hallway, a lamp in one hand and a pistol in the other.
The dogs tore around him, racing down the stairs and barking wildly now that they were free of her bedchamber.
Jones pinched his lips together in disapproval, knowing she wouldn’t leave her brother to shout outside like the common folk they were.
“I will not hide from him, Jones.”
“Please, my lady. Some battles can not be won.”
She sighed, heading for the stairs. “I have never agreed with that sentiment before but I am beginning to think you are right.”
“Then let me and the dogs take care of him and you stay inside.”
She smiled a little, thinking there were so many ways a man could be taken care of. So much implied in one little phrase.
“I will take care of my brother. It is better to know what he wants, what is festering in his mind, than to pretend he is not hiding in the dark.”
Jones muttered, “He wants you as miserable as he is.”
That was true. That was as old as she was.
He also wanted revenge. He wanted to best her. He wanted to have more and be the name the ton whispered.
He didn’t want to be the widow’s brother. He wanted her to be Alan Rusbridge’s sister.
When they came to the front door, Jones gave her one last look, but she ordered the dogs to sit and nodded at him.
Her brother stopped shouting when the door swung open like he always did.
He hadn’t been home from the night before. His clothes were rumpled, his hat lost, his hair disheveled.
She could tell he’d been drinking from ten paces away, and the smell and the rage in his eyes reminded her of their father.
Dead, but not forgotten, and she wondered what parts of her were his legacy.
She who never gave anyone what they wanted unless it helped her somehow. She who single-mindedly charted a course to what she wanted. . . She knew what parts of her came from her father.
Retribution butted his head into her hand and she petted him, feeling the tension in his body. Knowing he wanted nothing more than to be let loose upon Alan.
She said, “Brother.”
A laugh cracked from him. “Oh, sister. I didn’t know what heights you aspired to. Didn’t know I should bow and mince around you. Didn’t know you had it in you to aim for countess. Viscountess not high enough for you?”
He threw a handful of stones onto the ground, startling both Jones and Retribution, and then smacked his hands together in a slow clap.
“But tonight, when I saw that buffoon dancing under your spell, I realized.” He stopped, his eyes focusing far away. “I realized, and I have come to accept my place.”
“I don’t think so, Alan.”
He nodded. “I have. Brother to a countess? I accept. I bow down before you. I beg for your favor.”
But there was no begging in his eyes, only hate and anger. And Elinor didn’t know why she’d allowed herself to feel some kind of connection to him. Why calling him brother had to mean anything to her when all it meant to him was hate and jealousy and revenge.
Jones was right. Some battles could not be won.
Elinor said, “Firstly, Mr. Sinclair is not an earl; he may never be.”
If Sinclair had his way, he never would be, and Elinor hoped with all her might that he would not have to take on that responsibility. Hoped that he could live out his life carefree, a bright and joyous light shining upon everyone he met.
Her brother shrugged carelessly. “Only an accident away. But you’re right. Must snag the brother first, before anything can happen to the earl.”
Elinor thought it was no wonder that she’d become witless over Sinclair. Because when compared to her brother, when compared to most men, George Sinclair stood head and shoulders above the rest.
She said, “Secondly, no one in their right mind thinks he’ll marry me. Including me.”
“We all saw, Elinor. Last night, the two of you.”
Everyone had seen. And yet, she’d woken alone this morning.
They’d see Sinclair engaged to Miss Westin, too.
She patted Retribution, gave him a hand command to stay, then walked down the short stairs to her brother.
“And thirdly, there is no place for you. Whatever blood we share is worth nothing, whatever history we have is a nightmare better left forgotten.”
She stopped on the bottom step, keeping her eyes level with his.
“You’ve got what you wanted, Alan. You’re no longer the widow’s brother.”
He shook his head. “I won’t let you take this, not when we’re so close. You and me together, think what we could do with an earldom. Think what Father would have done.”
“I know exactly what Father would have done. He would have come to my house and screamed and threatened. He would have told me I owed it to him.”
“Yes. You owe this to me. You’ve taken everything from me.”
She laughed. “I’ve stolen it, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve stolen nothing. Whatever I had that was yours was because you lost it. And everything else I have is in spite of you, not because of you. And that’s exactly what I told Father when he saw that I had something he wanted.”
“You killed him. You took him from me just like you took Marcus.”
It was possible. Her father had died the night she’d thrown him out of her life, his face purple with rage. He’d screamed and threatened. Hit her.
But she’d hired very good solicitors and they both knew he’d never touch her merchant husband’s money.
She’d never seen him again and she’d always wondered if the rage had killed him.
Rage and drink, and she didn’t think she should shoulder any guilt for his death.
“No more, Alan. I’ll take nothing more from you.”
“That’s because I have nothing left to steal!”
“It’s because you’re nothing to me. I won’t open the door again. I won’t humor you anymore.”
“Humor me. . .” His face turned purple, his hands squeezed into fists. And then he laughed. A maniacal sound that made her ears hurt and her dogs jump and bark.
He sing-songed, “He’ll never marry me, Alan. I won’t steal from you again, Alan. Acting like a countess already, sister. I can taste it just as well as you can.”
He grabbed at her, digging his fingers into her arm and jerking her from the step. “You won’t be getting rid of me, Countess.”
Jones shouted and Retribution lunged through the doorway, and before she could do anything to free herself from Alan’s grasp, she was thrown to the ground as he tried to defend himself from Retribution.
Alan shrieked as sharp teeth pierced his leg and Elinor screamed, grabbing at her dog. She jerked at his collar and shouted her command to release.
When Retribution let go, Alan stumbled, still shrieking, and Elinor hung on to the collar, falling backward and using her weight to drag Retribution with her.
Alan grabbed his leg and when blood coated his hands, he raised his head to meet Elinor’s eyes. She nearly let go of her dog’s collar at what she saw in Alan’s eyes. It wasn’t hate or jealousy, but madness, and all directed at her.
Jones stepped between them, his gun cocked and pointed at Alan’s heart.
Alan stopped shrieking. Elinor started breathing again.
Jones said, “Leave. I won’t say it again.”
Retribution growled, echoing those sentiments, and Elinor tightened her grip on his collar. Her view was blocked by Jones and she stayed on the ground behind him.
Huddling. Hiding.
She lifted her chin.
I will not hide from him. I will not hide ever again.
She said, very quietly and very calmly, “Jones.”
It took him a long minute, and she knew he wanted nothing more than for Alan to make a threatening move, but eventually he took a half step to the left. Enough for her to see Alan’s face.
She stayed on the ground, still using her weight to keep Retribution from attacking again, and said nothing more. There was nothing left to say.
She met her brother’s eyes for the last time.
Alan gripped his leg and looked between her and the gun and the dog. He smiled mockingly and took a deep breath.
“Sister. Au revoir.”
He waited until she knew he meant it. I will see you again. Then he turned and hobbled away until he was swallowed by the small crowd that had stopped to watch.
Later, Elinor was sure, she would be happy this had happened so early in the morning.
Later, she was sure, it wouldn’t make any difference. All of London would have nothing else to talk of.
Jones turned, holding a hand down to help her up and she shook her head.
“A leash. I don’t want to let go of him until he is inside.”
Her arms were beginning to shake, from the effort of holding her dog back, from the fear, and Jones only nodded before trotting up the stairs to get a leash.
Elinor murmured to Retribution that he was a good dog. He’d been protecting her, she knew, but the blood around his muzzle was disconcerting. She wanted him inside and cleaned up, and it wasn’t until Jones tied a leash through his collar and led him through the front door that she finally relaxed.
She saw a tall man break from the crowd and come toward her, and she thought seriously for a moment about calling her dog back. Or Jones and his gun.
And when the man stopped in front of her and held his hand out to help her up, she said, “And I thought the day couldn’t possibly get any worse.”
When she didn’t take his hand, preferred actually to sit in filth then to let George St. Clair help her up, he said, “Shall we have it out here in the middle of the street, Lady Haywood? Or have you given your neighbors enough of a show?”
She’d given her neighbors enough of a show for ten lifetimes. What was a little row with St. Clair in comparison?
But she was tired of being gawked at, tired of sitting on the hard pavement, and she lifted her hand to take his help. Then stopped.
“I have blood on my hands.”
Blood and dirt and unspeakable filth.
St. Clair grabbed and pulled. “It washes easily enough.”
“Does it? It’s only the metaphorical blood that just won’t come off?”
He didn’t answer and she looked down at her ruined dress.
“I look as if I’ve been dragged through the street.”
“You look bruised and like you need a good, stiff drink.”
She was bruised. She did need a good, stiff drink.
A bath, too.
“Then get on with it, St. Clair.”
He looked around, at the gawkers lining the street and then down at the muck and blood on her dress and nodded.
He said quietly enough that only she could hear, “I came to congratulate you. Another man willing to throw away his life on you.”
She sighed and closed her eyes. “Ah, yes. You and my brother. And like him, a bit premature.”
There was a long pause and Elinor kept her eyes closed. Her backside throbbed, her arm burned. She was in no mood to toy with St. Clair.
He said softly, “I will try hard not to be insulted by the comparison.”
She opened her eyes to find him glaring at her. It was a look she was quite familiar with.
“And like my brother, if you’d waited but a day you’d have seen that George Sinclair had not chosen me but a perfectly acceptable young woman. Your visit is wasted, St. Clair; I expect your dear friend spent the early morning getting himself engaged.”
“He was with me all last night, talking himself out of a perfectly good opportunity to do that very thing.”
She blinked and he continued, “And I have every belief that he’ll be here shortly instead.”
Elinor opened her mouth, then closed it.
St. Clair never stopped glaring at her. “You’ve won. Again, Lady Haywood.”
When she still could think of nothing to say, to think, St. Clair turned to study her home. Looking as if he found brick and glass absorbing, and studying the proportions as if it held the answers to all of life’s questions.
He whispered, “And I beg of you to turn him down.”
Another man begging her with hate in his eyes, but when he tipped his head to her, there was nothing but concern for his friend.
“Please. The earl won’t forgive him, and it will kill him as surely as putrid fever killed Bertie.”
“I thou
ght I killed Bertie,” she said, and even to her own ears sounded tired and defeated. George St. Clair was another battle she would never win.
“Sinclair says I am irrational on the subject.”
He was, but, “Grief is not rational.”
“He was a good man, was Bertie.”
Elinor nodded and St. Clair said, “George is the same. A good man.”
Too good for her.
She couldn’t disagree with him. Not after what he’d witnessed that morning. She wasn’t sure she’d ever disagreed with him, just hadn’t cared if he was right.
“You know it’s not in my nature to lay down my cards when I’m winning.”
“I know it’s not. I doubt it is in any man or woman. Except. . .I saw you dance with him last night and I think more than one heart has been lost. And I think someone who loves wouldn’t ask for such a sacrifice.”
St. Clair turned fully to her and bowed. Low and long instead of the disrespectful head nod he’d always subjected her to before.
He said not another word, and when he rose back up just looked at her and begged with his proud eyes.
He turned and walked away, leaving her to watch him disappear into the crowd again.
More than one heart has been lost, he’d said and he was right.
Who wouldn’t love George Sinclair?
She’d danced with him last night, knowing that he couldn’t marry her. Even if he wanted to, and she did think he wanted to.
She’d woken without him, knowing he hadn’t come because he was finally doing what he should have weeks ago. Knowing that Miss Westin would be the one to have his name and his future.
She’d stood in front of her brother, finally realizing that she’d never had any chance at catching Sinclair, knowing she’d been right to tell herself to steer clear of him.
Finally realizing that she’d never had any chance of that, either.
She wondered if she had any chance of staying away from him in the future and doubted it.
Doubted that she could say no to him, whatever he asked of her.
She’d loved only two people in her life. Marcus and her daughter, and Elinor hadn’t been sure there was room in there for anyone else. Perhaps that was why it hurt, just a little, to love Sinclair.
It could also be that she wasn’t going to be able to have him after all, that she thought St. Clair was right. Someone who truly loved wouldn’t ask for such a sacrifice.
