Rosalind entered, her innocent expression proof she knew little of what had transpired the day before, as it should be. Instead of taking a seat on one of the upholstered chairs as was the child’s habit, she came to Gemma and climbed upon her lap in a surprising show of affection.
Gemma pressed Rosalind’s head to her shoulder and stroked her sister’s hair, content to absorb her warm company. They stayed that way for several minutes and, with her sister’s head tucked below her chin, Gemma was certain Rosalind knew nothing of the tears streaming down her cheeks.
‘I love you, Gemma.’
Rosalind’s arm tightened around her middle, the surprising words dispersing Gemma’s melancholic considerations. Great wracking sobs erupted, clogging her throat with emotion as she returned Rosalind’s embrace with desperate relief and miraculous gratitude. Nan appeared at her side and, under the maid’s gladdened tearful observation, Gemma rocked Rosalind closer, unwilling to let go of the sound of her sister’s voice. At last she released her with enough space to press kisses to Rosalind’s face, her cheeks pulled high in a wide smile mirrored between them.
‘I have waited so long to hear you, Rosalind. I’ve missed you with a hole in my heart I thought never to be restored.’ She waited, anxious for any scrap of language, though the first words were heavenly.
‘I missed you as well.’ The child shook her head and burrowed further into Gemma’s embrace. ‘I haven’t missed speaking much until I heard you crying through the night. I know your heart aches and wanted to tell you how much you are loved.’
‘Thank you.’ Fresh tears stung Gemma’s eyes. ‘But why, why have you remained silent so long? We pleaded with you to speak, then left you alone in hope time would heal your sorrow. It has been so very long, Rosalind. I feared you would never talk again.’
‘I knew if I uttered one word it would all come spilling out. Sometimes I’d sing secret songs in bed when everyone else went to sleep.’ Her childlike answer reminded she was young and sheltered from the harsh realities of the outside world. ‘I didn’t want to share pain and make everyone’s life worse because of it.’ Rosalind lifted from the embrace and matched Gemma’s wondering stare. ‘Now, with our brother gone, I can speak of that night. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the study. I shouldn’t have gone in there at all, but I wanted to find a quiet space to hide from my lessons and I knew my governess would never find me in Kent’s study. Except Lord Winton arrived and he and Kent argued terribly, and all the while they never knew I hid on the overstuffed wingchair in the sitting area. I heard too much, all of it, how Father died and why Father died. Most of all I remembered our brother’s words to Lord Winton.
If anyone learns of this, speaks one word, we are all ruined. Gemma will never have a husband. Rosalind will have no hope of normalcy and I, no future at all. If you hear of one person, any person, they are to be silenced permanently for the sake of Gemma, Rosalind and the duchy.
I was frightened. I could never hold a conversation with you without telling everything so I chose not to speak at all. After one day, one week, then months, the solitude became a safe, comforting place. I preferred it much of the time.’ Her smile resurfaced. ‘And I escaped my tutors for a long time too.’
Wrapping her in another tight hug, Gemma whispered words of love and comfort against her sister’s hair, distraught the child had overheard her brother’s selfish plotting, despaired she’d chosen silence to cope with the horrid circumstances. Yet there was a glory in the realisation Rosalind wished to bring Gemma peace, her life broken from the reality of her choices.
‘I think it best if we all put hardship behind us.’ If only she could convince herself in truth. ‘We have so much to discuss. I believe we’ll need another tea tray with extra sweets.’ Gemma eyed Nan who scurried from the room, mumbling a prayer of gratitude under her breath. ‘Where shall we begin, Rosalind?’
‘Oh, I’ve already waited far too long to hear of your kiss. Tell it again as you did in the garden weeks ago. I must know every romantic detail.’
Rosalind settled within her embrace with a great exhale and Gemma wondered if her sister could hear the sound of her heart breaking.
A week had passed since Gemma hugged Rosalind like a thankful miracle, another piece of normalcy returned. So much had changed in the span of seven days; she had at last restored peace to Stratton House. With Kent residing in the country, the most aggressive talk against Poor Law reform died, unfuelled and unpopular. She learned through Sophie and Vivienne that Second Chances was nearly back to order and, with the help of Mr Goodworth and the Salvation Saviours, there was hopeful speculation another lodging house would open before the end of the year.
That left only one unresolved issue in her life. A rather important one at that: her lingering broken heart. She and Cole may have come together under the most unusual circumstances, but there was no denying her love for the man. His bravery in saving her brother and protecting the tenants of Second Chances was too heroic to comprehend. She sipped her tea and replaced the cup in the saucer.
But why had Cole arrived at Second Chances? She hadn’t messaged him. Had Sophie or Vivienne called upon him for help? No one mentioned doing such. She truly doubted their interference. The niggling contradiction stayed with her all week despite her effort to push it aside. Still the question of his timely appearance and amazing courage continued to pester her intellect. She shied from receiving callers, wishing to avoid gossip and spend as much time as possible with Rosalind. Only Sophie and she had exchanged messages where she explained the same.
That said, there was no valid explanation for Cole’s presence at Second Chances that day. Perhaps she should call on his home on Wigmore Street. There was little to lose by taking the chance, and if it provided the needed answer, it was worth the risk of further heartache. At least she could put the whole ordeal to rest. And, too, she wanted any excuse to see him one last time.
Entering his home meant confronting the passionate remembrance of their intimacy, no matter how overwhelming, and would possibly result in a setback of mending emotions. In truth, her heart hadn’t mended at all. And there was the business of why he hadn’t sought her out? Not even to enquire of her welfare and the nasty episode at the lodging house. Could it be he held no tender feelings? That when she left him that evening he’d promptly dismissed her? That suggestion shook her to the core and she refused to accept the possibility.
Perhaps her tainted history, ugly in the light of day, proved too distasteful for his attention, her brother the biggest hypocrite of all. She wrung her fingers in distress. A troubling ache bloomed in her chest whenever she thought of Cole, which was every waking minute. But she didn’t care about labels, titles and perceptions. She knew Cole for the man he was, filled with generosity and kindness, unable to abandon those less fortunate than he, and with love in his soul for all those forgotten by respectable London. Likewise she would never feel comfortable with her privileged lifestyle again, not after understanding the world beyond her protected view. It would always trouble her. But what was the correct decision? Silence, as Rosalind had chosen, didn’t sit well. Gemma wasn’t that strong and, too, she needed to know.
Life had changed. Not for the better. When Cole considered his past and the hardship it wrought, the pain of years ago compared poorly to his heartache now. As he had done all week, he dressed and worked, going through the motions, logging time and stifling unanswerable questions. Keeping late hours at the Underworld, sleeping as an attempt to ward off despair, and missing Gemma more than words could explain.
He’d known little love in his lifetime, abandoned by his mother, discarded by his father, but Gemma had gifted him with an intimate understanding of the emotion and true knowledge of why love was cherished, protected and rare.
Today he would visit Second Chances to supply funds for Maggie’s expansion and secure all progressed smoothly. The trauma of the violence now passed, those living at the lodging house accepted the
circumstances with little upset. Life in the rookeries prepared one in a way no ballroom could.
Still, love lost was all the same.
Donning a plain linen shirt and buff trousers he rolled his sleeves and threaded the sparest amount of bootblack through his hair, yellow strands tinted black in less than a minute, the image of a new identity and old friend, the luxury of being disguised in plain sight. He set to work next on the moustache and spectacles, eschewing the dark pallor on his skin, the ashen face in the mirror already sorrowful without a layer of dismal colouring.
A week had passed in his goal to allow Gemma a chance to adapt to her new position: Kent taking refuge in the countryside, the dramatic unfolding of the circumstances surrounding her father’s death and brother’s deceit. Trauma affected people in strange ways. He’d seen an assortment of maladies through the years. He wouldn’t crowd Gemma when she most needed time to adjust. Yet when he walked home during the wee hours of the morning, or punished Charlatan with another demanding run down Rotten Row, he wondered at her silence.
Was she done with him then? She must wonder at his appearance at Second Chances that day. Would she not at least voice the question? Had she washed her hands of the entire situation? He pondered these concerns as he cleaned off the last traces of bootblack and replaced the supplies.
Nabbing his hat from the hook near the door he took the stairs to the first level. He’d walk to the livery at the corner and from there hail a hackney. Perhaps the fresh air would dissolve the morose layer of regret that shadowed his soul with no relief. He needed to push Gemma from his mind, focus on things within his control and build a better life. What was it Maggie often said? When you’re in a hole, stop digging. Yes, that’s what he needed to do. He scoffed, full knowing he’d never accomplish the feat. Best he get on with his day and distractions.
He had his hand on the doorknob when the knocker sounded.
Deuces. Who in all London was on his stoop at this hour? Aside from the fact he received no callers, the runners and messengers from the Underworld were too short to reach the brass. Unless it was Ace.
Swinging the panel wide, he swallowed a series of curses hot on his tongue. Lady Amberson stood on the stoop.
Gemma.
‘Mr Goodworth. Oh. You look…’ She hesitated as if she searched for the appropriate descriptor. ‘Better. Your complexion has improved.’
He canted his head in deferential inclination. Damn him, if she looked directly in his eyes. The woman possessed shrewd intelligence.
‘I hoped to visit Mr Hewitt. He must be in since you’re taking your leave.’ The latter was both statement and question. ‘Would you be so kind to inform him of my arrival?’
With a held breath, he lifted his eyes but her guileless expression revealed little. Then one slim brow arched in challenge and the silence lengthened.
‘Of course.’ Had he disguised his voice upon their first meeting in Charing Cross? He couldn’t remember. Time seemed to blur, no recollection clear enough to grasp with surety. ‘Wait here.’
He shut the door, aware it was a bald act of rudeness to leave the lady waiting outdoors, but his usual cool composure was absent, replaced by a unique combination of panic, hope and randy desire. He frantically tamped down the rush of emotions and considered his options.
Less than five minutes later he reopened the door and admitted her into the drawing room. She followed in silence. One glance confirmed her mind worked feverishly. She was far too clever by half.
‘It’s pleasant to see you again,’ he said sincerely.
That same narrow brow rose and this time her lips twitched. What did she wish to say? His conscience knocked on his brain. How could he add lies to deception? Hadn’t she experienced enough disappointment this last week? He couldn’t imagine any woman who would forgive being made to appear the fool repeatedly. He should have removed his disguise when he shut the door. Bad decision. Poor choice. Deuces.
‘Mr Goodworth.’ She stepped closer, her head tilted at an adorable angle, her bottom lip caught between her teeth in thoughtful consideration.
Blood began a familiar race to his groin. He cleared his throat. It would serve no good if Mr Goodworth’s trousers tented with a raging erection.
‘I didn’t realise you were acquainted with Mr Hewitt.’
‘For several years now.’ It was a vague and less than polite reply, but the way she continued to study him, her green eyes brilliant with curiosity, warned him to tread lightly.
‘Mr Hewitt is here, isn’t he?’
Damnation. He’d played this all wrong. His first thought, to come clean and reveal his dual identity, had evaporated when faced with her trustful gaze. He couldn’t be the cause of her tears. She’d suffered so much recently. ‘Mr Hewitt will return shortly.’ Should he offer her tea? Did people who were guests in someone’s home avail themselves of the tea service?
‘So, we are alone?’
Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper that had the hair on the back of his neck raised and prickly. He adjusted his stance in an attempt to relieve the growing problem in his pants, but it was of no use. She stepped nearer. Too near. Was she hoping to inspect him at closer range? ‘At the moment.’ He turned away, busying himself with a quick show of tidiness, shuffling papers and books into piles on a nearby table.
‘Excellent.’
The three syllables whispered past his ear, confirming she shadowed his back, incredibly close. He caught the light scent of honeysuckle and his every muscle tensed.
‘I hope you don’t find me bold, but I’ve long hidden an infatuation for you, Mr Goodworth. I admit our time together was brief and I don’t even know your first name, but your heroic show of bravery on my behalf, how you chased that scamp through the streets of Charing Cross to recover my reticule, well, every time I relive the danger I fairly swoon.’
He swallowed, her lips against his ear, every word enunciated in perfect diction. Silky tones and soft puffs of breath caressed his cheek. He turned abruptly, her ripe mouth less than a lick from his.
‘Lady Amberson.’ The words croaked out as awkward as the condition in his trousers. Still, he needed to do something, object in some way, the situation well out of control. She reached towards his face. Did she think to place her finger across his lips and stifle his reluctance? Stroke his cheek? Even the lightest touch would cause his restraint to crumble.
She looked so beautiful. Deuces, he missed her. How he wanted to capture her sweet mouth in a long, lazy kiss. A familiar ache crowded his chest. He loved her. He needed to tell her. It didn’t matter if he was covered in bootblack, spectacles and a bushy moustache. His heart belonged to her no matter what identity he wore. ‘Gemma, I…’ Emotion gravelled his voice.
‘Hush. You forget yourself, Mr Goodworth. We haven’t been properly introduced.’ She brushed the tip of her pointer finger over his moustache in a delicate dash that reverberated through his whole body. Wait. Was that a spark of amusement in her eyes?
‘What? Hell…’
She grinned, his moustache held aloft, pinched between her fingers as one might remove a pesky rodent from a trap. ‘That’s better.’
He shot her a sidelong glance and rubbed the pad of his thumb over his upper lip, the gum paste easily removed with a bit of effort. ‘You could have asked. I would have obliged.’ He tried not to laugh, all at once relieved, though his mouth stung and she looked too gloriously triumphant.
‘Perhaps, but this proved more fun.’ She tossed the offending facial hair on a nearby chair and her smile dropped away.
True enough, her mind was far too nimble to overlook the unspoken explanation that begged to be confessed. He searched her face for any hint of feelings, her expression so serious he wondered what she considered and if he had any chance to convince her to love him, or, at the least, try to love him in the future.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A yawning silence filled the room as if the air ex
panded and contracted with each breath. A clock she hadn’t noticed on her previous visits chimed the hour. Still they stood face to face, measuring each other’s emotion, in wait. At last he broke the spell, stepping away to grab a towel, which he used to rub with purpose over his head, the spectacles shed a moment after.
It was a leap of faith, a combination of hope and wishful thinking, to visit Cole at his home. Nan would submit to the vapours had she any idea Gemma paid call to a bachelor alone in his home, a bachelor gaming hell proprietor, and apparently, bachelor charity benefactor. How noble and kind. Her soul flooded with gratification by way of knowing his good work.
When Mr Goodworth answered the door she was momentarily perplexed, but once her eyes took in the muscular ridges of his forearms where the shirt sleeves were cuffed to reveal a fleece of golden hair, the pieces snapped into place. One glance behind those spectacles into his warm, beneficent eyes and her heart knew as much as her brain. Appearances may be deceiving but true emotion could not be concealed. She couldn’t resist having a little amusement at his expense.
But now the laugh was over.
The awkward tension caused her to question whether she’d made the right decision. She may be the sister of a duke, but in so many ways this man was her better.
‘I wanted to see you one last time, to discuss and… I don’t know…’ She wasn’t explaining herself well. ‘I don’t know why I’m here.’
‘I know.’
He looked somewhat ridiculous, his lip irritated from her impulsive removal, his hair streaked black and blond, but in the depths of his eyes, where he tried to hide emotion, she saw the man who filled her soul.
‘You aren’t who I thought you were.’ Who I’ve come to love. Her lips curled in a soft smile. ‘You can fool the world but you cannot fool my heart.’
Something troubling and unnamed flashed across his face before she could fully recognise it.
‘Yes, I am. I’m Cole Hewitt and you are Gemma.’ His abrupt pause implied he had more to say.
Into the Hall of Vice Page 22
