by Sara Portman
Lucy had thought she wanted this with him—she had called it a gift. Since her life would be one of service and spinsterhood, she wanted to experience a romantic affair rather than live her life never knowing. And she had wanted him to be the man to show her these things. He had greedily grasped at the opportunity without ever letting himself dwell on what he knew to be true—her rationale had been horribly and devastatingly flawed.
She had not been doomed to a life of governessing and loneliness—not before she came to him. Then, her life could have taken any unexpected turn. She could have married, could have met a man worthy of her.
But he’d taken all of that away. He’d not given her a gift, as he’d so greedily let himself believe. He’d sentenced her to a life of atonement. He’d stolen her hope right along with her virginity.
She had not been his to take, but now that he had, she was his to protect.
He didn’t know how he would do it, but Bex knew in that moment that, with or without a marriage, this woman was his responsibility for the rest of her life. He would not allow her to pay for his weakness.
“Good morning, son.”
The voice jolted Bex from his thoughts and he sprang from his chair, turning to face his father. Just before he spoke, he caught himself and stopped. He released a long breath and spoke with outward calm, wary of his father’s game. “You have returned early, I see.”
Edward peered at him and pursed his lips as though considering Bex’s reaction to his return. “Yes. Yes, I have. What have you been doing in my absence?”
Bex returned to his chair, his mind already drafting the missive to Lucy that their afternoon plans had been quashed. “Not much of note. How could I when you’ve barely been gone two days.”
Before Bex could prevent it, his father reached over him and snatched from the table the letter he had placed there.
Edward studied the page, then, with a dismissive toss, returned it to the table where it landed atop the butter. “Ridiculousness,” he spat.
Bex’s jaw tightened. “It’s none of your concern.”
“You forget yourself. I will decide when I speak to you and you will listen.”
Bex rose and faced his father with an eerie calm. “No. You have no authority over me. I won’t listen to your tirades and I will not do your bidding.”
“No?”
“No. I will manage my own financial affairs.”
“With these ridiculous schemes?” Edward snorted derisively. “You are as foolish as the gamers who believe they will make their fortune at cards or dice. There is only one fortune made at the Birdcage and that is the one belonging to Archibald Gibbs.”
Bex had exhausted all stores of tolerance for his father’s lectures. “As my future will not rely upon any contribution from you, I will proceed without regard to your wishes.”
Edward stepped forward. “What about regard to your dignity? To your family name?”
Bex stared at his father, incredulous. “You accuse me of sacrificing my dignity?” Of all the accusations his father could have leveled at him, he could not have predicted such an absurd, hypocritical conclusion. The man was living off the charity of his cousin and could no longer support his family due to his own greed and shortsightedness.
Edward pointed at him. “You are descended from a duke. Your family are peers and landed gentry. You would lower yourself to tradesman and forfeit your right of birth?”
Bex shook his head in disgust. “My family used to be landed gentry,” he spat, glaring at the man he once sought to emulate. “They are now impoverished beggars with no right to hold themselves above any man able to support himself without charity from others.”
Edward’s eyes narrowed. “You could have changed our fortunes. You had opportunities. Real opportunities, not these silly schemes.”
“Do you mean Lady Constance? Yes, all of your problems would be solved if I would just marry a rich widow.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Well, I will not. You should know once and for all, Father, that I will not be a fortune hunter to support you. I never will.”
Edward lifted his chin in challenge. “I knew you wouldn’t. You have been chasing that vicar’s daughter, instead. That is why I’ve washed my hands of you.”
Bex paused. His father looked victorious. Too victorious.
“You’ve received a letter this morning,” Edward said tauntingly. “I intercepted it as I arrived.” His father produced a small, folded square of paper and held it aloft.
Bex glanced briefly at it. He wanted to grasp it from his father’s hands and learn what it said, but he was clever enough to understand the more he wanted that letter, the more power he would grant his father.
He did his best to ignore the letter instead. “What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “How have you washed your hands of me? Have you done what you threatened? Are the servants tossing my possessions into the street as we speak?”
Disregarding the letter proved a successful tactic. His father tossed it to the table. “It’s a letter from that chit. She was a mistake. You should have listened to me.”
A slow, sick churning began in Bex’s stomach, but he worked very hard not to show it. He desperately wanted to read the letter, to know what it revealed. “You didn’t answer my question,” he observed flatly. “How have you washed your hands of me?”
Edward smirked. “I know you’ve been sniffing around Lord Ashby, trying to get him to fund one of your schemes. I don’t expect he will be doing so after all.”
How had his father even known about Ashby? He stepped forward, unable to maintain his outward reserve. “What did you do?”
If his father was having him followed, if he’d read Lucy’s letter, then he knew everything. He knew too damn much not to ruin them all.
The twisting in Bex’s stomach stopped and sank instead as a dead weight inside him, chilling him from his core. He lunged forward, grabbing fistfuls of his father’s foppishly tailored coat, not caring that the man was his family, not caring if he harmed him, only needing to know the truth.
“What did you do?” he demanded again.
Edward’s initial shocked expression gave way to a slow, sinister spread of lips and teeth. Even as Bex held him in a vice of strength fortified by fury, the man smiled and Bex had his answer.
Bex hated him then. He hated that they shared a name. He hated that his blood was this man’s blood. He tugged harder, bringing his father’s face to within mere inches of his own and glared, letting loose all the venom and hatred boiling inside him. He needed to hear it still. “You will tell me now what you have done, or I will tear each appendage from your body, one by one, until you do.”
“You are a waste of a son,” Edward spat.
“Now,” Bex thundered, pulling upward until his father’s feet began to lift from the floor and his face registered genuine alarm. Edward Brantwood had been strong in his youth, but he was no longer a young man. Bex was, and he had spent years on an estate farm, sometimes working alongside tenants and stable hands. Bex would have no difficulty in causing serious harm should he choose to do so, and his father knew it.
“I knew you wouldn’t do what needed to be done. I knew you would make our situation worse because you refused to make it better. You gave me no choice but to go to Ashby.”
Bex’s voice barely escaped, low and thick, through his clenched teeth. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him I had lost control of you. That you are a disgrace to the family. That I could not, in good conscience, allow him to lend you funds when you had taken his children’s intended governess as mistress.”
Bex threw him then. Through his rage, he did not know where or how the bastard landed and did not care. If he’d held a knife, he’d have used it.
He snatched Lucy’s letter from the table and left the room, unfolding the paper as he w
ent.
Mr. Brantwood,
While I am sincerely grateful for your offer to accompany me to the museum, I am afraid I cannot leave the duchess as she nears her time. Regretfully, I must postpone any such outings indefinitely. Please know that I am sincere in my disappointment, as you have proved to be a most knowledgeable guide.
Your pupil,
Miss Lucy Betancourt
Chapter Thirty-One
Lucy awoke to a knock on her bedchamber door and looked up to see Emma stealing into the room and closing the door quietly behind her. Lucy was immediately disoriented. What time was it? She didn’t usually oversleep. She shook her head to clear her bleary mind and focused on Emma.
Emma was still in her night rail and wrapper.
Lucy sprang from the bed in a single, clumsy motion and rushed to her friend. “Is something the matter, Emma? Is it time? Should I get the duke?”
Emma shook her head silently in response, but her lips were pressed tightly and her eyes were troubled. Something was the matter.
“Emma, sit, please,” Lucy said, guiding her to the bed. “Tell me what the trouble is.”
Emma’s hand reached out and gripped Lucy’s arm with surprising strength. “You should sit,” she said firmly. “The trouble is yours.”
Lucy’s eyes flew to Emma’s, saw the betrayal there, and knew already. She sank to the bed and sat. “You know,” she said quietly.
“Is it true?” Emma asked.
There was so much Lucy wanted to explain—to clarify. She wanted to ask exactly what Emma knew and correct any misinformation, but in the end, the details were unimportant, so she said, “Yes.” She could not stop herself from adding, “I’m sorry.”
Emma sighed. “I wish you had confided in me, Lucy. I blame myself.”
She turned to see Emma’s golden brown eyes bright with tears. “No,” she said, taking Emma’s hand. “You should not be feeling guilt. I am the guilty one. You should be angry and disgusted with me. I should have told you. You should have found out…”
A small thread of panic wound its way through her. “How did you find out?”
Emma closed her eyes. She sighed heavily before opening them again and turning to Lucy.
The duke knows. Somehow the duke knew and Bex would be homeless and it was all her fault.
Emma squeezed Lucy’s hand reassuringly before breaking the news. “From Lady Ashby.”
Lucy shot up from the bed. “What?” She shook her head. “That can’t be right. How could she? I don’t understand.”
“It’s true.” Emma’s voice was steady and calm, while Lucy’s heart raced.
Panic unfurled inside her, eclipsing everything else save the last remnants of her denial. “How can that be?”
“According to Lady Ashby, her husband was approached by Mr. Brantwood regarding an investment. He was cautioned against it by Mr. Brantwood’s own father who claimed his son was a man of loose morals who had taken as mistress the very woman the Ashbys intended to hire as governess.”
Lucy stared. “How could he?” His own father? It couldn’t be true. She threw her hands up. “I am not his mistress,” she shouted, as though somehow that signified, which she knew it did not.
“So, it’s not true?” Emma asked, brow knit in confusion.
“No. Yes. Oh, God.” Lucy collapsed back onto the bed and covered her face with her hands. “I am an idiot,” she said into her palms. “And I have ruined everything.”
“I think you had better explain it all to me, Lucy. We shall decide together what to do next.”
Her quiet words, spoken firmly, penetrated Lucy’s lament, and slowly Lucy lowered her hands. Everyone will someday test the loyalty of their true friends. How wise Lady Constance was. Lucy was unfairly testing Emma’s loyalty now, but here Emma was, offering quarter, remaining by her side.
Lucy’s eyes lifted to Emma’s. She saw the love there before her own vision blurred with tears. “I believe, Emma, you are the dearest person who has ever lived.”
She felt another reassuring squeeze at her hand as Emma said, “Tell me everything.”
And she did. She told her all of it, from the very first meeting, and apologized profusely for every time she’d been too ashamed or too frightened or too selfish to confide in her.
“The absolute worst part, Emma, is what I’ve done to Bex. If the duke refuses to help him, he’ll be without a home. And I didn’t know he had approached Lord Ashby, but I knew he needed funds for his investments and I’ve ruined that as well.” Lucy buried her face in her hands again. “I convinced him to do this and it cost him everything,” she said miserably.
Emma’s hand ran soothingly back and forth across Lucy’s shoulders. “You care very deeply for him, don’t you?” she asked gently.
It was a pointless question. She loved him. Of course she loved him. She had for some time and she’d known it, but it didn’t matter when they couldn’t be together. It surely didn’t matter now that she was responsible for destroying him. “I care enough that I regret the harm I have done,” Lucy said, knowing it was not the confession Emma sought, but she could not voice it, not when the emotion was so foolish and so wasted.
Emma sighed. “I will concede his chances with Ashby are lost, as are yours, but John is not an ogre. We shall discuss this, all of us, and decide what is to be done.” She rose then. “I don’t think you will be calm until we’ve settled this, dear, so we should not delay. Dress, compose yourself, and come to my room. We shall talk there.”
“Thank you, Emma,” Lucy said, and because she was overwhelmed with the need to do so, she threw her arms around her friend and hugged her the best she could despite her protruding middle. Emma returned the hug and left with her best attempt, no doubt, at a reassuring smile.
Lucy released a tremulous breath into the empty room and said a prayer of gratitude for the gift of Emma in her life. She donned a dress quickly and went to the dressing table for her hairbrush. She spied the ecru card there for Mr. Archibald Gibbs. He had been right to caution her. He had been a friend to Bex, after all.
But he had been too late.
Her recklessness had already ruined Bex’s chance to gain an investor. She picked up the card and toyed with it as she considered. Why hadn’t Bex confided that he did have a plan beyond the weaving operation in Hertfordshire? She supposed he may have kept it from her because she’d demonstrated such an aversion to his risk taking. Gaining an investor in Lord Ashby would have provided funds, but not ensured success.
But these calculated risks—these opportunities to change his fortune—they were his purpose. And she had taken that away. She had cost him an investor.
A thought took hold of Lucy. She owed Bex an investor.
She looked at the card in her hand. Clearly Archibald Gibbs would not be extending any further credit.
* * * *
“Well,” Emma asked when the three of them were assembled in her chamber, “what shall we do?”
Lucy swallowed. She looked to where Emma sat upon her bed, her husband standing beside her. “Please allow me to apologize for my reckless behavior and the tarnish it has brought on your household.”
Emma shook her head. “You are not here for a scolding, Lucy. You are a grown woman. We are here to discuss what can be done.”
Lucy nodded, appreciating her friend’s continued support, but she looked next to the duke, not expecting to see the same absence of censure.
“I agree,” he responded, much to her surprise, but then added, “I will deal with my cousin another day.”
Lucy shook her head. “No, please, there is no need. He has been punished more than he deserves already.”
“I had thought better of Bex Brantwood,” the duke said, his expression darkening. “I suppose I knew enough not to expect better of his father.”
Lucy fumed at the menti
on of the man who had ruined his own son. “Edward Brantwood is an awful, scheming man. Why do the Ashbys believe him?”
“He is the man’s father,” Emma said. “And even if he is wrong, there are other investments and other governesses. The Ashbys will not embroil themselves in scandal, and their decision will guide the view of many others.”
Lucy sighed. “So I am ruined.”
“It depends upon your definition of ruination,” Emma said with a weak attempt to appear hopeful. “Even a hint of scandal means you will never be a governess, sadly, but many a tarnished reputation has been resolved with a firm denial and a well-timed wedding.”
Lucy shook her head. “There are no marriage prospects for me.”
“I will provide a dowry,” the duke said. “That will alter your prospects.”
Lucy did not want prospects. She wanted Bex, and he would not want her with the duke’s charity. He might not want her at all, now that her recklessness had destroyed his plans. “No,” she said. “I will not marry just to save myself. My reputation is insignificant. I will return home to my parents.” She turned to direct her entreaty to the duke. “My future plans were not the great loss in this circumstance. Bex…Mr. Brantwood had very few avenues by which to reverse his ill fortunes, and I have taken those away from him. I have…stolen his purpose.”
“I don’t see that you are the one who has stolen from him,” the duke scoffed.
“No,” she insisted, rising from her seat, tears of frustration pooling. “Why will no one understand? Why do you insist upon declaring me the victim, as though I do not know my own mind? My liaison with Mr. Brantwood was my own choice. More than that, it was my proposal, and when he refused, I persisted. I have ruined him.”
The duke quieted in response to her outburst. He watched her for a moment before looking to his wife, his expression softening as he reached to take her hand. “I can understand,” he said finally, “that a pair could be so overcome with affection for each other that they could be moved to recklessness.”
