Saving Persephone (The Haberdashers Book 4)

by Sue London

  “Yes, but the true detail doesn’t start until after I met you. People’s recall of events erodes quite quickly if you don’t capture it immediately.”

  “This is every man I danced with. Every person I talked to.”

  “Yes.”

  She set the papers down. “Robert. This is disturbing.”

  She could see him considering her words, deciding how he would deal with them. He thought so quickly that it was only a flash, a glimmer.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It will all be burned soon.”

  She looked around the room. “Although I’m glad to know that it won’t stay here, it is disturbing to know all of this existed at all.”

  “Why? They are merely facts.”

  She laughed. “Merely facts?”

  He grew silent and she could sense him trying to find the words that would make her understand. “Facts can help predict behavior, but they aren't- They aren't you. They're a reflection of you.”

  “Is that all you ever see, Robert? Reflections?”

  Imogen realized that Robert was now the one who felt like he was speaking a foreign language. He was a man quite used to order and control. Logic and consequences. Now he felt compelled to have her understand why he had gathered a mind-boggling amount of information about her, and he was unequal to the task. She sensed when he surrendered to his inability to express it. That was when she felt his loneliness, his desolation. She experienced a wave of sorrow for him.

  Beneath the darkness in him, she sensed that boundless love. He tried so desperately to hide it, even from himself. But that was what had driven him to Normandy, his love for the Haberdashers. He would do anything rather than face that truth. Even accuse his lover of betrayal.

  As he balanced on the precipice of emotional pain, she thought he would withdraw. She had never seen anyone willing to submit to the pain, to abandon themselves to it. She thought he would walk away. Instead, he pulled her close for a kiss. Like a drowning man desperate for air, he was desperate for her to be his balm. Her sympathy, her humanity, overwhelmed her.

  * * *

  Robert thought that Imogen would resist his kiss, but she didn’t, reminding him of those languid, sensual days at the cottage. It felt as though he had never known a time when he didn't recognize her taste, her scent. His hands roamed over her silk-clad body and she pressed against him. Not playing the wanton this time, but simply drawing closer to him as though what little separated them was intolerable. The kiss lingered, like enjoying the slow sips of superior liquor. Just as he recovered enough of his senses to consider how best to take her to his bed, she stepped away.

  “I must go. I leave for Scotland in the morning.”

  He didn't know what to say. Don't leave? Stay with me tonight?

  She shook her head and took another step back. “I know my way out.”

  She didn't flee. Imogen Grant was far too sophisticated, too worldly, to run from a lover she no longer wanted. He listened to the sound of her half-boots as she descended the stairs, then the sound of the door closing as she left.

  He built up the fire in the room. A room he had reserved for Charlie, in fact, that the man never used. Once the flames were sufficient, he set about fulfilling his promise to burn all the papers, with a bottle of Scotch to keep him company in his work. Reading each of them one last time before the flames ate them.

  * * *

  Imogen heard a knock on her door. Polite, but a bit hasty. She had been reading a novel and marked her place. “Yes?” she called out.

  “Im, there's a man outside in the street calling for you.” Her cousin Violetta sounded anxious. “Harold sent for the night watch, but I thought you should know.”

  There was only one man in London who came to mind, but the idea that Robert Bittlesworth would make such a fool of himself was so laughable that she did, in fact, laugh. She picked up her robe and called out, “I'll be right there, Vi.”

  Her cousin was still waiting for her in the hallway when she emerged, and they walked down the stairs together to join Harold Chester at the parlor window.

  Chester put an arm over his wife. “Deuced strange behavior,” he commented.

  Imogen almost couldn't believe what she was seeing. The night watch had arrived and Robert was struggling with them in the street. He broke free and shouted “Imogen!” as he ran in precisely the wrong direction. Imogen covered her mouth with both hands.

  “Do you think you should talk to him?” Violetta asked.

  “Of course she shouldn't talk to him!” Chester said in his typical gruff tone. “He's drunker than three cats.”

  “Isn’t that Bittlesworth? The one from that dinner weeks ago?” Vi asked. “I didn't realize he had a tendre for you.”

  “I didn't realize it either,” Imogen admitted.

  “You know this will be your last chance-” Vi started sadly.

  “I'm leaving in the morning,” Imogen interrupted. “My apologies for the disturbance he's caused, but the night watch seems to have it in hand. Good night.”

  She turned and walked back up the steps.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When Robert awoke it felt like his head was in a vise. He ached everywhere. Cracking his eyes open a bit, the light seemed blinding. There were noises everywhere, and each one of them impinged on his skull like a tiny anvil. He desperately tried to remember what he had been doing last, because he had no recollection of the torture that had rendered him insensate.

  “You had an eventful evening, didn't you?”

  The voice seemed louder than a thousand church bells, but he recognized it. His superior, Home Secretary Sidmouth. What on earth had he done that made the Home Office torture him for information? And what information had he given them? He finally pried open his eyes enough to look about. He lay on a bare cot. The walls were the dim, dank stone of any of a thousand rooms throughout the government, with the only difference being the door made up of steel bars that stood open behind the Secretary.

  “Sir?” he rasped out.

  If possible, Sidmouth's expression soured even further. Having worked for the man for three years now, Robert knew what he liked and disliked. Sidmouth liked results. He avidly disliked embarrassment. The man seemed driven not to repeat the embarrassment of his removal as Prime Minister some years ago. “I believe you meant to address me as 'my lord.’”

  If Sidmouth was emphasizing his title, then things were dire indeed. Robert tried to sit up. “My lord, if I have a moment to get my bearings.”

  “That won't be necessary,” Sidmouth said. “I came to confirm that you were indeed in as bad of shape as they reported. As of this moment you are on indefinite leave. Turn over your work to Cottswold.”

  Robert wasn't sure if the sense of the world going sideways was more due to his struggle to rise or the Home Secretary's words. “Sir. My lord. If you grant me a moment.”

  “No, Bittlesworth, we are long past that. Good day.”

  The Home Secretary walked out before Robert had even risen to his feet. He finally made it up, leaning on the wall for support. As no one had closed the door to his cell, he determinedly tottered toward it, gaining strength and steam as he went. Once out in the hallway he saw Charlie rushing toward him.

  “They wouldn't let me back here until Sidmouth left,” his brother said in a rush, looking over his injuries.

  Robert saw that Charlie had a violent red mark across his cheek, indicating there had been a scuffle. “Not that you didn't try, eh?” He went to pat his brother's shoulder but his balance was such that he had to hold on instead.

  Charlie slipped an arm under Robert's and took on a good bit of his brother's weight. “Let's get you out of here, shall we? Then I'll take a look at these injuries.”

  “What happened?” Robert asked.

  That slowed Charlie's step for a moment. “You don't remember?”

  “No. The last thing I remember was Imogen leaving and then burning some papers.”

  Charli
e snorted and said under his breath, “You might want to add this morning's paper to it.”

  “What happened?” Robert asked again, more urgently.

  “Do you remember the time that Gideon was so drunk he challenged Lord Pemberly to a duel with carrots?”

  Robert had a sinking feeling. “Yes.”

  “It was probably on the order of a thousand times worse than that. You went looking for Miss Grant last night and woke the entire neighborhood.”

  “I need to sit down.”

  “You'll sit when we get to the carriage. Do you need me to carry you?”

  “Good God, no.” Robert struggled against his brother to stand on his own two feet. Whatever it was, he would face it. He had always faced everything in life, even as a child. He was strong. He would recover from this embarrassment. He hurt from head to toe, but walked out to the street with his head high, his bearing erect. Once in the carriage, however, he hunched over with his head in his hands. His brother left him to his silence on the ride home.

  * * *

  Imogen was happy to be home. She teased her father about the few silver hairs that now peppered his hair and beard. She reminisced with him about his eccentric Irish mother and they held something of a small wake together, just the two of them and some of her father's finest Scotch. He apologized for not sending word to her in London, not wanting to cut her visit with Violetta short, and she didn't mention that she already knew. She enjoyed the sense of belonging that came of being the descendent of a clan, people who believed that familial connection was more important than anything else. She explored all of her favorite parts of the keep and walked along the highlands where cold winds were already blowing spits of snow showers.

  It was, to her satisfaction, everything she had hoped for. Her heart was full and it was healing. When she thought of Robert Bittlesworth, it was with a fond regret. He had much to recommend him as a lover, but she never again wanted to be subject to the danger inherent in associating with him. If at times she awoke reaching out for someone who wasn't in her bed, if she still slept with a pillow over her side in the absence of an arm, that wasn't too surprising, was it? Someone else would come along who would distract her from the man she still fancied but couldn't have.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  That first day, Robert had nursed his wounds. Or rather, he let Charlie do so. The man was second only to a physician when it came to cuts and bruises, although he usually plied his skills on horses. Bobbins hovered worriedly. Sabre had, of course, descended on the house and fussed over him. She seemed to feel freer in expressing herself since returning from Normandy, something that was both amusing and infuriating. Perhaps facing her own potential death had left her thinking that she never wanted to go a minute without expressing her opinion. It was difficult not to turn on her like a wounded dog, but he was still pleased with the fact she had lived through the recent ordeal.

  The next day, he made his way to the Telford household. This time he followed the formalities, with all the requisite waiting and announcement to his grace in the library.

  The duke looked at him curiously. “Your sister isn't here. Should I be worried?”

  Robert more than understood the duke's inherent distrust. “She and George are shopping, with three footmen and four outriders. I assume they are fine.”

  The duke nodded. “Drink?”

  Had he more natural levity, Robert would have chuckled. Having never before suffered the ignominy of such drunkenness or a hangover as he had the previous day, he found it hard to believe his friend Gideon had the tendency to imbibe as he did. He wasn't sure he would ever want a drink again. “Whatever you're having,” he said to be polite.

  The duke turned to the sideboard and waved a hand to the nearby chairs. “Take a seat, Bittlesworth.”

  Robert sat as the duke set to his task of pouring their drinks. Neither of them were the type to fill the air with empty words, so Robert looked around the room. He was quite familiar with it, but often looked at things with new eyes on purpose. There was a soaring ceiling and lovely scrollwork moldings set onto the plaster. Of particular entertainment to him, as this was one of the duke's favorite rooms, were the scenes of cherubim painted on the ceiling within scroll frames. Gideon's Angel, indeed.

  The duke handed him the claret that Robert knew the duke preferred, and sat across from him, swirling his own wine in the glass. After a long enough silence that most people would begin to squirm, the duke finally asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “I find myself in need of some advice.”

  The duke's brows rose and he took a sip of his wine. “I would think that you would turn to Gideon for that.”

  Now Robert did smile. “Gideon has a practical soul, and what I have to ask is remarkably impractical.”

  “Well,” the duke said drily, “I'm glad you think to turn to me for impractical things.”

  “I know you well enough to know that you value art over money, people over objects.”

  “And that makes me impractical?” The duke sounded dubious.

  “In this world it does.”

  “Well, then ask me for this remarkably impractical advice.”

  “How did you know you were in love?”

  The duke laughed and looked towards the windows. “I doubt that my experience will be any more insightful than Gideon's.”

  “But you have the language for it that he doesn't have.”

  The duke looked at him again. “I didn't know that I was in love, not for the longest time. Nothing in my poetry, my art, had prepared me for it. It's not, for me at least, something that can be defined with even the most carefully chosen of words. It's far more elemental than that. More necessary. I know when she isn't in the house. I feel everything about her, like you might experience a breeze or the shining of the sun. I can't tell you how to know if you're in love. It was, for me, something I deduced.”

  Robert tried to absorb the duke's words. On one level, they made a certain sense to him. But he struggled with the emotional timbre of the words. Perhaps he would have been better off asking Gideon.

  The duke sighed. “It's simple in some ways. A terrible day with her is better than a good day apart from her. She means everything to me. I offered to give up my ducal seat so that we might marry.”

  Robert was surprised. “She wouldn't want that.”

  “So she said. But she knew I was determined not to give your father the satisfaction of his daughter becoming a duchess, so she offered to be my mistress instead.”

  “She wouldn't like that role so well as being the duchess.”

  The duke smiled again. “No, she wouldn't, would she? But ashamedly, I considered it for a moment. That was when I realized that nothing was more important to me than her. Not my pride, not my anger, certainly not my title.”

  Robert rubbed his temple. “Thank you for being so forthright, but I think perhaps your relationship is different than mine.”

  * * *

  Quince had known Robert Bittlesworth for years, but he had never seen the man seem so young and out of his depth as he did right now. The confident and jaded young man that had first begun trolling the back alleys with Gideon years ago now seemed an innocent pup trying to solve a difficult math problem far beyond his ken. Quince had never thought that he would find himself in sympathy with the man, but apparently wonders would never cease.

  Quince changed tacks. “What makes you suspect you're in love?”

  That served to rouse Robert from his introspection. “I'm not acting myself.”

  How interesting. Not 'I feel' or 'I think', but an observation of his own behavior. “Well, then could there be any other explanation?” It felt suspiciously like tutoring one of the younger boys in school.

  Robert leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I thought of that. Perhaps Sabre's kidnapping was more upsetting than I'd realized, or perhaps even that business with Sims.”

  Quince recalled the name of the former British agent wh
o had tried to capture George Rokiczana for the Prussians. Upon mentioning Sims' name, Robert had begun rubbing his hands together absently, as one might do while washing them. “Whatever did happen to Sims?” Quince asked quietly.

  That drew the younger man's attention back to him and the hands stilled. The look on Robert's face was suspiciously blank, his icy eyes not giving any hint of emotion. “I dealt with him.”

  Quince almost shivered at the implications. Robert had once asked him if Quince thought that God judged more on intention or actions. It was clear that Robert had reason to wonder about it. “Did you speak to Miss Grant about Sims?”

  That sent Robert's dark eyebrows down into a furrow. “No, why would I?”

  Quince shrugged. “I am only trying to understand.”

  “Of course I wouldn't talk to her about that. Not that she didn't sense something. She asked me if I was a soldier.” Robert gave a hollow laugh. “As though regimentals make it permissible to kill others.”

  Quince needed very little reminder that Robert was a dangerous man. He wondered, in fact, if this was his role in life. To sit passively while violent, potentially mad men told him of their crimes. It was possible he was going to need another glass of wine. “Your sister said that Miss Grant has an uncommon insight into others.”

  “She has some other sense that I can't even fathom.”

  Quince suspected it was just called humanity, but held his tongue. Instead, he tried to see if the man was ready to see the truth of his heart. “But how do you feel about her?”

  Those icy eyes again. “I don't know.”

  Quince nodded and rose to his feet. “Give it time. It will become clear.”

  Robert rose as well. “Thank you, your grace.”

  Quince had only meant to fetch himself more wine, but it was clear that Bittlesworth was now avid to leave. As he wasn't entirely comfortable entertaining his sister's odd and dangerous brother, even if he was being more human that Quince had ever seen him, he nodded. “You're welcome.” Before his brother-in-law had quit the room he called, “Robert?”