If only he’d not looked at the newspaper as Effie had advised. He’d have had one last night of blissful, ignorant sleep.
Was the engagement announcement the reason Caroline was anxious enough to make Josephine think he needed to talk to his housekeeper before going to bed? Or had the article he’d had Greene print hurt her or her sister?
Since she wasn’t home, he’d likely find her wherever Moira was.
With the loss of Lydia’s help—for surely Sebastian wouldn’t let her volunteer in his orphanage in light of all the fines he’d jealously piled on him—he’d need help with the children.
He couldn’t afford to lose Caroline, and it wasn’t like he’d be going to sleep anytime soon.
With a groan, he got up to retrieve his shoes.
However, getting the knots out of his laces still proved difficult—about as difficult as keeping the moisture from his eyes, the hurt from constricting his chest, and the dry ache from overwhelming more than just his throat.
45
“You know,” Henri said as he hiccupped and swayed, weighing Nicholas down until he was sure they’d both topple to the ground, “I never thought she was that pretty anyway, and I never really . . .” Henri’s speech slurred into something unrecognizable.
Nicholas really didn’t need a drunk friend to take care of—though becoming a drunken fool himself sounded perversely more appealing than it ever had. He had as many heartaches and problems he’d like to drown out as Henri. Maybe more.
He yanked on his best friend to get him to stand straighter. The heavier man was killing his neck. “Just keep walking. One more rise to climb, and then I’ll get you settled in the green room.”
Henri looked up and narrowed his eyes as if he hadn’t noticed the massive mansion as they’d struggled up the driveway over the last several minutes. “Why are we at your house?”
“Because I’m not about to haul your sorry hide across the rest of town.”
“Send me home with your driver.”
“It’s two in the morning. Everyone with a brain is asleep.”
“Not everyone.” He pointed at the house.
Every room in the lower level of the mansion was lit. He’d found Henri while he’d been looking for Caroline and had spent over an hour convincing his friend to leave his whiskey behind. His housekeeper must have returned while he was gone, but why would she have turned on all the lights? And he really needed to tell her to stop going out so late. Sometimes she helped a woman in great pain or in labor in the red-light district into the wee hours, but walking through that section of town in the dark was asking for trouble.
He was tempted to drop Henri and let the drunk man crawl his way up to the porch so he could run to the house to check if there was a problem, but he couldn’t leave him out in the cold. “Come on. Faster.”
“I’ll get there when I get there.”
Ignoring the man’s inebriated protest, Nicholas half dragged Henri the remaining distance and dropped him at the door. He fished for his key.
Henri slid down the wall. “Hey, just because I’m no fun doesn’t mean you should leave me outside.”
“You can crawl in by yourself once I get the door open.” Where was his key? He checked his coat pocket a second time.
“It’s not nice of you to leave me. It’s not a good night to do that.” He mumbled a curse. “If Moira hadn’t left me for a bunch of johns, I wouldn’t even be here. It’s all her fault.”
Well, being left for a bunch of johns was probably worse than being left for someone willing to buy a woman unlimited fripperies. But then, what reason for being abandoned wouldn’t hurt?
Nicholas slapped his breast pocket, relieved to feel the key’s outline under his hand. “My brain is as befuddled as yours.” Women. Always women to blame.
He frowned at his friend still sitting on the porch. “And Moira didn’t leave you. She’d need to have accepted you first to be able to reject you.”
“And why wouldn’t she have me?”
They’d talked circles around this topic on the way home. “How am I supposed to know? You haven’t accepted any of my theories.” When, after the fiasco at Queenie’s, he’d asked Caroline about what had gone wrong with Henri and her sister years ago, she’d stuttered an excuse about floors needing to be dusted and dishes needing mopped.
And it wasn’t like he understood women himself. How could Lydia have missed his regard when everyone else seemed to have seen it?
He had more money than Sebastian, plenty to tempt her or any other woman wanting to get her sticky fingers on some misfortunate man’s wallet.
Snarling, he forced his key into the keyhole. One day he’d probably thank God for saving him from the likes of Lydia King, but at the moment, all he felt was hurt.
The door flew open before he even turned the knob.
Caroline’s shadow blocked the light, and she held out some envelopes. “I didn’t open these because it’s not my right, but you need to read these now. Effie came up and told me you came in earlier, but you didn’t even touch your mail.”
“I had better things to do than sift through mail.” He didn’t care a whit for anything right now anyway. It was two in the morning, for pity’s sake. All he wanted was to shove his friend into one room and disappear into his own. Then he’d scowl at the ceiling for the rest of the night—er, morning.
She forced the envelopes into his hand, but the moonlight was too dim to make out anything. They should all be asleep, not reading mail.
“Let’s get Henri inside before he freezes.”
Henri grunted. “Maybe I want to freeze. Then my heart could be as cold as Moira’s. That . . .” He mumbled off a few unpleasant monikers for a woman he claimed he still loved.
Nicholas would have kicked him if he thought it would’ve done any good. He shot Caroline the most apologetic look he could muster up at the moment. Though she knew what her sister had become, she shouldn’t have to hear Moira degraded so.
She stared at the crumpled heap on the porch that was Henri and hugged herself. “I’ll go get him coffee.”
“All I need is sleep,” Henri grumbled.
If only Nicholas would be getting some himself.
Caroline turned for the stairs. “I’ll go ready a room.”
“Henri doesn’t deserve your kindness. Besides, you should be in your own.” He needed to get his friend in and the door closed before he let all the warm air escape. “I can open the vents in the red room for him.”
“No, I’ll take care of Mr. Beauchamp while you read those letters.”
“I have to at least get him up to the room first.” Nicholas draped Henri’s arm across his neck and heaved him up by planting his shoulder in the man’s chest.
“Hey, I can get up myself, cause I feel . . .”
And then retching noises followed by an acidic smell wafted up from behind Nicholas’s back. He cringed. Holding his breath, he slid the man off his shoulder. “Fine, get upstairs on your own.” He thrust his handkerchief at Henri and pointed inside as if he were sending a scolded puppy outside.
“I’ll do that.” The man took a wide circular step to the left, then stumbled to the right, smashing into Caroline, who thrust out her arms to keep him at bay. “And I can open my own vents. I know where they are.” He straggled over to the stair rail and grabbed on with both hands, grumbling curses as he began a laborious ascent.
Nicholas shucked his coat and left it out on the porch.
Caroline stared at the mess, her face slightly discolored.
“I’ll clean it up.” He shut the door. “You should already be asleep.”
“No.” She pointed at the letters again. “You need to read those. They’re from Miss King, and I didn’t like how she was acting when she wrote them. She wouldn’t tell me what she wanted any of the times she came by.”
She was likely writing him some sorry excuse for why she couldn’t be involved in his orphanage anymore. “I don’t see how waiting a few ho
urs will make a difference.”
“Please.”
He chucked the notes back atop the mail pile. “And it’s not like I can do anything now.” Except fume some more while lying awake in the dark trying not to think about her.
“She came right after you left and has been back twice since. She clearly needs help.”
“Which would be her fiancé’s job now.”
“Read them, Nicholas.”
He huffed and retrieved them. As he ripped off the first one’s flap, he looked up toward where the boards were creaking in the hallway above. “I’ll read them if you make sure Henri gets to the right room.”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t want my help.” Her voice turned rough, making Nicholas cock his head. Was she more emotionally involved in the spat between Henri and her sister than he’d thought?
He stared at her until she turned pink. When had she ever refused a request? Sure, her position in his employ wasn’t normal—she was more a coworker than a servant, but even in the off hours, she’d played the part.
He forced his muscles to relax and his jaw to unclench. The lateness of the hour and his mess of emotions weren’t her fault. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to deal with my poorly behaving friend if you don’t want to. Are you sure you can’t tell me why your sister refused him? If I could enlighten him, he might be less apt to—”
“You’re right, it’s late.” She breezed past him. “Read the letters.” And with that, the basement door slammed behind her.
He lifted his head toward the ceiling. “What did you do to annoy them both so much?”
Shaking his head, he slid his shoes off his feet and unfolded the top letter, lest he have to listen to Caroline lecture him in the morning. Why hadn’t Lydia just told his housekeeper what she wanted so he’d not have to deal with this?
He skimmed through a note about Lydia needing to see him.
Well, he didn’t want to see her. Not right away if he could help it. Maybe he could find himself a reason to take an urgent business trip.
The next envelope contained another of his fancy sheets of stationery filled with disastrous penmanship, much unlike a woman’s. Lydia’s handwriting wasn’t that poor. Was she so upset she couldn’t write straight? He squinted, trying to decipher the script:
Sebastian and his family are profiting off the red-light district from both sides. And I need your help to somehow prove it. He’s intending to ruin my family if I speak up. He’s threatened me, and considering what he and his father said, I bet they’d hurt you too if they knew I was telling you. I told him I’d marry him to buy myself time, but I don’t even know if that will help. I’m hoping you might steer me in the right direction, but I can’t anger them until I have something that will keep them away from me and my mother and everyone else I hold dear.
His throat worked and bobbed. A bout of lightheadedness took over, and he clasped the arm of his chair.
She wasn’t engaged. Well, she was, but not because she wanted to be.
He blew out a breath and shook himself. Not that it meant she had feelings for him, but at least he was back to where he started after he’d gotten off the stage with the children.
The weight that had clamped around his lungs fell off. He could pursue her, though she needed to be rescued first. He ripped open the third letter.
I think I found proof they aren’t the upstanding individuals they want the community to believe them to be. But I’m not sure. I want you to look and tell me if I’m right. I need you to be back! If you make it home, please stop by the house before noon Sunday. The engagement party is at four. I’m not even sure this will turn out to be as incriminating as I think it is. If you don’t want to risk being involved, I’ll understand. Just burn these letters. But I hope this ledger I found is enough to get him in trouble so they can’t do anything more to anybody. I can’t marry him. I just can’t.
I guess you’ll find out what happens if you haven’t arrived in time.
I just hope I don’t make things worse.
Nicholas read the note three times, then growled at the time on the clock. If he read this right, whether he stopped by her house in a handful of hours or not, she was going to accuse a rather influential family of things he only knew by hearsay.
Hearsay and a suspicious ledger weren’t enough to make the Littles squirm. He needed to find more substantial evidence.
He flew up the stairs to his room, grabbed his thinner wool coat since he couldn’t fathom putting the other back on, then ran downstairs and out the door, leaving all the house lights ablaze.
46
“It’s time to go.” Lydia’s mother stood by the front door, leaning on her cane.
Lydia pulled aside the front room window’s curtain. The carriage outside was Sebastian’s, not Nicholas’s. Though she’d looked a minute ago and about every minute before that, Lydia couldn’t help but hope Mr. Parker was just around the corner, bringing Nicholas to catch them before they left.
But the street was empty except for Sebastian’s carriage and a stray dog nosing through some trash.
She dropped the curtain and stared at the ledger on the table, its contents her only hope now. She’d marked all the names she believed might belong to prostitutes, and last night, she’d asked her father for the names of Teaville’s saloon owners and found a few scattered throughout the book. The entries were certainly transactions between them and Sebastian, but what kind?
They were so vaguely written he could claim they were legal fees. Could this sorry piece of evidence and what she’d overheard be enough to convince anybody the Littles were working the system?
If she accused Sebastian and he lied well enough that no one believed her, all his promised wrath might fall quickly upon her and her family.
Miss O’Conner had knocked on her door sometime around nine o’clock this morning, informing her Nicholas had returned and wanted a list of names from the ledger. His housekeeper had had no idea what Nicholas’s plans were and had left within minutes with a short list.
But what could those two possibly do to save her anyway? And why hadn’t he come to see her himself? Her head pounded. “How I wish I could get out of my own engagement party with an excuse of a headache.”
But Miss O’Conner had said Nicholas planned to meet her at the engagement party, and so she’d go.
“If you don’t want to go, Mama, I’ll understand.” She rubbed her temples.
“I won’t let you go alone.” She nodded her head toward the ledger and looked over her shoulder. “Are you going to say anything? Your father won’t like it.”
“He’ll more than not like it. If he knew what I planned to say, he’d tie me up and plead my headache excuse himself.”
The back bedroom door opened, and her father hustled out, the knot on his tie horrendously done. No wonder he’d taken so long.
“Do you want me to redo your tie, Papa?”
He shot her a glance that would have scared an egg into cracking itself.
Fine. She pursed her lips. He could look off-kilter if he wanted. If she ended up having the guts to accuse the Littles, no one would remember how his tie looked anyway. She snatched up the ledger and shoved it into her large knitted bag.
“You do what God wants you to do.” Mama squeezed her hand shoulder.
Papa scowled. “God says honor your parents. You do what’s best for the family.”
What he meant was “You’ll do what’s best for me,” but Lydia let it slide. What use would it be to argue with him now?
She led the way out the door and glanced down the street to the south, one last futile attempt at hope. But there was only one vehicle waiting for her this gray Sunday afternoon.
What if the information in the ledger was worthless? What if the Littles really did use the people they blackmailed to hurt the uncooperative? She put a hand to her head and followed her parents, despite the overwhelming desire to run inside and hide in her room.
Papa nodded at the dr
iver and helped Mama inside. Though they were traveling to an engagement party, the silent ride would’ve been more appropriate for a funeral procession. Her father’s constant throat clearing, and her mother’s painful inhales at every jostle, only made Lydia’s nerves jump even more.
What would God have her do? She hadn’t sensed an answer, though she’d prayed plenty—mostly for Him to send Nicholas to her, but God’s answer to that had been no.
She’d wanted Nicholas to save her . . .
Not God.
Oh, Lord, I’ve got my eyes on the wrong person. You know how I feel about Nicholas. How I despised him at first, then doubted his motives and ruffled at his pretentiousness. How I fought against having any admiration for him whatsoever. Then how I tried to deny how terrible I looked in comparison. And how I love him . . .
She pulled aside the buggy’s curtain a little, hoping the cold air would freeze her hot eyes and warm cheeks.
She loved him. How stupid of her. She’d been awed that Sebastian would stoop to marry her—and now she knew why he had. But Nicholas would never be desperate enough to look her way. Sure, he might have developed some concern for her over the last ten weeks as she’d grown into someone he could respect, but why must her heart leap so audaciously toward a man like Nicholas?
Those romance novels had gotten her into trouble, just as Papa always said they would.
And how the plot had thickened. She certainly had gotten herself into a scrape worthy of any dime novel. If only she could turn ahead several pages to see how she would get out of this . . . or find out if she’d only dig herself in deeper with the wrong move.
But the Littles should have to answer for their wickedness. Couldn’t you have provided me with more evidence or helped me figure out an easier way . . . ?
She closed her eyes tight and her heart plummeted.
She’d twice attached herself to a man she didn’t love because she didn’t trust God to save her. She couldn’t let fear that He would not help her the way she wanted Him to keep her from doing what was right.
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