by Darcy Burke
She went into her townhouse without waiting for the carriage to leave. She had no idea when she’d see him again, and it frightened her.
That night, she hardly slept. By the next morning she was restless. London seemed suffocating after the expanse of the countryside. Not that she was becoming a bumpkin in her old age—perish the thought.
She sent for Mrs. Dalton and after a quick change in gowns, they headed out for a stroll. It was early yet, barely afternoon, and the pathways seemed reserved for nurses and their small charges. Elizabeth and Mrs. Dalton paused every few feet to watch children chase barking dogs and wield sticks that had become swords and rifles in their imaginations.
But it was one particular woman sitting alone on a bench that made Elizabeth look twice. Before she could retreat, the woman turned her head.
In all of Elizabeth’s time as Nicholas’s mistress, she’d never come face-to-face with his wife before. But the way the air crackled with tension, it was evident neither of them required an introduction.
She could turn around and walk away. Not forcing an encounter with his wife was the polite thing to do. Or she could continue past at a hurried pace—an equally plausible choice. Her decision was dependent on whether she wanted to risk crossing paths with Mrs. Finn again.
She could imagine no scenario in which she’d ever want to exchange pleasantries with the woman. Touching Mrs. Dalton’s elbow, she silently communicated the need to turn about. As they did, Mrs. Finn called to their backs, “Wait! Please, may I see him?”
Elizabeth hesitated. The angst in Mrs. Finn’s voice spoke directly to her own heart.
“Please, I won’t harm him. I merely want to…I need to look.”
Elizabeth couldn’t pretend she didn’t hear Mrs. Finn’s torment. Nor did she pretend to understand it. But she pitied the woman she’d wronged for so many years. She gave a slight nod to Mrs. Dalton and the two of them slowly turned back to Mrs. Finn.
Mrs. Finn’s fragile-looking smile made Elizabeth feel all the worse for even considering walking away. She was a pretty woman, mayhap a decade or so older than Elizabeth, but still trim of figure. Intelligence sparked in her eyes. What if she hadn’t meant to marry a philanderer? Or worse, what if she loved her husband?
These types of questions—this sense of shame—was precisely why mistresses generally avoided their protectors’ wives. Elizabeth smiled ruefully at herself. Well, Mrs. Finn had called out to her, hadn’t she?
Elizabeth and Mrs. Dalton stopped just short of the bench. Mrs. Finn rose. She barely caught Elizabeth’s eye before turning her attention to Oliver. Then her face lit up with wonder. “He looks just like him.”
The pronouncement dropped into the pit of Elizabeth’s belly like a rock. “Like Lord Constantine, you mean?”
Mrs. Finn shot her an exasperated look. “My husband is beside himself. This is so clearly his son, I can see why.” She touched the tip of her finger against the fine hairs at Oliver’s temple. “Despite my pleading, he never brought him home, choosing instead to have one of his…” She cringed. “It doesn’t bear explaining.”
Elizabeth’s mouth fell open. In all the time she’d cursed Nicholas for taking her baby to be raised by another courtesan, she’d never considered that he might have taken her son back to his wife. How much more unbearable would it have been to know Nicholas and his wife were forming a happy family with her son?
At least he’d spared her that.
“A terrible thing has happened here,” Mrs. Finn continued, “and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. All I hear is his plotting to get the boy back, and a few choice names for you.”
Elizabeth let out a nervous laugh. “Oh?”
Mrs. Finn looked at her this time. “A sailor never runs out of foul words, I fear. I believe I could swear you into your grave. But I think I understand why you’re doing this to him. Motherhood…” She swallowed thickly. Her eyes fell to Oliver, who reached for the ribbon tying her bonnet on. “Is it beyond compare?”
The sincerity in her voice betrayed sadness so deep, Elizabeth’s contrition overwhelmed her. Was it not enough to have stolen Mrs. Finn’s husband from her bed? Had Elizabeth had to carry his son, too? And then drag the poor woman through the public details of a very messy separation, filled with lies and name-calling? All because Elizabeth had been too selfish to stay away from a married man.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said quietly. “So deeply, deeply sorry. Yes, it is more than I ever imagined it could be.”
Mrs. Finn sighed. “I may be sheltered compared to you, but I know it takes two to make these things happen. I only wish I might have conceived before he…” She smiled softly. “There’s no sense in being indiscreet, even if you’ve no doubt heard much worse.”
She caressed Oliver’s dark head. “May I…?”
“Certainly.” Elizabeth indicated to Mrs. Dalton to let Mrs. Finn hold Oliver. Not long ago, an encounter such as this would have sent her into a panic. She might have been inclined to snub Mrs. Finn, or worse. For some reason she couldn’t quite identify, she felt benevolent today. And terribly, terribly guilty.
“He’s so big.” Mrs. Finn cooed at him. Delight transformed her face when he cooed back at her. What unfairness existed in the world that her husband could beget children she would never see?
After a time, they moved as an assembly to sit on the bench, passing a comfortable, if strange, hour cozed in the obscurity of the small park. Then, as the hour grew late and the pathways clustered with people, they tacitly rose and went their separate ways. There was no plan to see each other again, but Elizabeth felt deep in her bones that this was not the last time she’d encounter Mrs. Finn here.
After the past hour, she didn’t expect to be surprised again. But when they turned around a tree and crossed the pathway to evade an oncoming carriage, Elizabeth was heralded a second time. As strange as it had been to be waved down by her former lover’s wife, the society matron rushing toward her took the cake. With her bright blue eyes and slight frown between her eyes, it could only be Lady Montborne.
Con’s mother.
This time, walking away wasn’t an option. She could never be so rude to his beloved mother. Conversing with the marchioness was equally out of the question, at least from the point of view of propriety. But the marchioness seemed not the least concerned with what was proper. She hurried to Elizabeth, leaving her footman to trail her, and clapped her hands together at the sight of Oliver. “Imagine meeting you here!” she said with a warm smile. “Con has been absolutely awful when it comes to bringing Oliver to visit. When I saw you from across the way, I knew it was my good fortune to have found him myself.” She tore her eyes away from the baby to address Elizabeth. “Tell me, you don’t have anywhere to be now, do you?” She didn’t pause long enough to let Elizabeth answer. “You must drop in for tea. I insist. Con is—” she waved her hand errantly “—out, wherever these sons of mine go when they want to escape their mother’s pleas for attention. But I thrill at the opportunity to speak frankly with you, and to see my grandson again. Please, do come, and your nurse, too.”
Mrs. Dalton bobbed a curtsey in response. Elizabeth could only gape. “My lady, I hardly think it’s proper—”
“Pooh. If I concerned myself with that, I wouldn’t be on speaking terms with any of my boys. But if you care, then let’s be off before we draw attention.” She raised her brows. “Hmm?”
Elizabeth smiled despite her misgivings. But what would Con have to say about this? She wouldn’t be accused of inserting herself into his family life.
“I won’t tell him,” Lady Montborne offered, accurately interpreting Elizabeth’s reservation. “We’ll adjourn to my sitting room and close the door.”
As with Mrs. Finn, it seemed cruel to deny this woman time with a child she felt connected to. And Elizabeth was curious. What was Con’s life like at home? How did he get on with his mother? Who was the man she’d given her heart to?
Thus continued what would sur
ely be the strangest afternoon of her life. An hour with her former protector’s wife and an hour taking tea with her current lover’s mother. There was one thing to be said for following Society’s rules, and that was that it would be deucedly difficult to be in such a muddle if she followed their dictates like she was supposed to.
Then again, her afternoon wouldn’t have been nearly as interesting.
For the first time in a long time, Con knew exactly what he needed to do to put his financial affairs in order. He spent the morning interviewing solicitors. While he couldn’t afford one today, he felt confident enough in the canal’s imminent success to begin thinking about the future. And while he was feeling rather pleased with himself for identifying the canal project in the first place, and having the sense to invest in it (even if he ought to have pulled out when it almost buckled several years ago), he wasn’t so cocky as to think he had discovered a hitherto unknown talent for investments.
He meant to be successful this time around, and to do that, he must have his own advisor.
Not because he didn’t trust Elizabeth’s—he was past Montborne’s ominous warning—but because he wanted to be his own man. Only then could he think of the next step, though it was clear in his mind what he must do there, too. But there was one more change he must see to, one more important than any other. He could never be his own man so long as he hefted Darius’ obligations as well as his own.
Hiring a solicitor was how he spent his morning. Tracking down his erstwhile twin so he could unburden himself of the responsibility of keeping Darius out of gaol, permanently, was how he spent his afternoon. It was no easy task. He searched high and low, from the upscale tables at Crockford’s to the worn wooden benches of Covent Garden’s seedier taverns, all to no avail.
“Constantine!”
He’d just given up and stopped to refresh himself with a dish of coffee and a scone at Will’s when he heard his name called across the room. “Constantine! Don’t move.”
Con sat up straighter at the sight of Darius making his way over from a nook in the corner. His twin looked like he’d slinked from a rathole. His hair stood on end. His blue eyes were bloodshot and he’d dropped a quarter stone since Con had last seen him.
Darius cut through the crowded room easily, as few men bothered to turn their attention from their debates and those who did scooted in to offer him a wide berth.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” he said, dropping into a wooden chair. He ran his hand through his blond hair, further mussing the short locks, then wiped his hand down his face. He blinked and looked about the table. “Do you have any whisky?”
“Of course not.” Con reached for his coffee and brought it closer to his side of the table. His fingers, which had gone cold at Darius’ ominous approach, rested against the warm porcelain dish. He didn’t truly want to know what had his twin resembling Death, but he couldn’t ignore the distress on the face so precisely featured like his own.
He’d only just resolved not to be involved again, yet here he was, asking, “What’s gone wrong?”
Relief passed over Darius’ face. He should be handsome, but he was too distraught and half-starved, consumed by too many late nights and the scorch of cheap drink. “It’s the same as always,” he started, but Con cut him off.
“If it’s the same as always then for God’s sake, stop it now.”
Darius looked stunned. Then he recovered and grinned. As though Con had been ribbing him. “My losing does get old, doesn’t it? I’m so close this time, though. I just need another two hundred—”
Con slammed his hand on the tabletop loud enough to cause a startled silence in their corner of the room. “No! When are you going to learn? You’re never going to win. You have a problem. Just like our father did. And I can’t keep bleeding myself dry trying to keep you from hurting yourself.”
Darius stared at him in horror. Then his eyes narrowed. “You sound like them.”
Con hated the comparison. Not so long ago, that would have been enough of an insult to make him leave off. Not anymore. He leaned closer so Darius couldn’t miss his resentment. “Because they’re right. The more I bail you out, the deeper out to sea you drift and the easier it is for you to drown. I can’t keep doing this. It’s not fair to me and it’s not helping you. Not another farthing. You have no idea what lengths I’ve gone to for you.” And the future that he risked.
Darius went white. “You’re serious.” He leaned forward on his elbows. Fear hollowed out his eyes and exacerbated his already-sunken cheeks. “Please, Constantine. Don’t give up on me yet. It’s worse than I made it sound. Do you remember the six thousand I owed a few months ago?”
How could he have forgotten? Those six thousand quid were what had made him desperate enough to accept Elizabeth’s bargain. Her sudden appearance had seemed a godsend at the time. And it had been. Just not the way he’d thought. “Go on.”
“Well, you gave me the blunt and I took it to Baines…” He paused and Con knew, without a doubt, he wasn’t going to want to hear what his brother said next. “I gave him enough to get him off my back. The rest went to…an investment.”
Con knew exactly what kind of investment. “You despicable, sniveling rotter. You lost it?” He didn’t care that his voice carried through the room. He stood, towering over his seated brother, and balled his hands into fists. Six thousand blasted pounds. Gone. In the blink of an eye. “I’m going to beat some sense into you for once—”
“Wait!” Darius threw his hands up in supplication. “It’s not all gone. And I don’t need it all at once. Just a few thousand to keep them from killing me—”
“I’m going to kill you!”
“Gentlemen,” a voice said behind them, “it’s time to become scarce.”
Fuming, Con barely turned to acknowledge whoever had the balls to kick him out when he was about to bring down a chair on his own brother’s head. “Look at that,” he said to Darius, “I’m suffering from your selfish, irresponsible, unbelievable abuse of my good nature. Again.”
“Please,” Darius said, looking pathetic and weak, “they’re really going to kill me. It won’t be a dark cell in King’s Bench. It will be my corpse in a hole in the ground.”
As much as Con wanted to grind out, “Good!” he couldn’t. Not to his own brother. If anything ever happened—really happened—to Darius, he’d never forgive himself.
“Gentlemen,” the proprietor urged, “be off before I call the constable.”
“Where do you think I get the money to pay your bloody debts?” Con hissed, grabbing the back of his chair and leaning into to his brother’s petrified face. “Why the hell would you think I want to spend every last coin in my pocket covering your idiotic wagers?”
Darius’ lip trembled. “Please. Just this once. Last time, I swear.”
Con growled and flung the chair in the direction of the empty aisle. He grabbed the hair at his temples, as if he could physically yank his brother’s pathetic plea out of his head. Then he kicked at the empty chair, sending it skidding a few more feet, and turned and stormed from the coffeehouse.
All because his bleeding little brother couldn’t be trusted with a single guinea.
He didn’t remember the walk home. All he remembered was his brother’s face, so identical to his own, looking as feeble and heartrending as a young lad’s. How the hell had he managed to grow up, and not Darius? How was it that he had finally figured out what to do with his sorry, empty sack of a life, and his brother was always going to be there, bleeding him dry like a fat little leech he couldn’t pry off? And how was it that he was the only one in their family who cared that Darius was about to be folded in half and shoved under six feet of earth?
He finally saw the brick outer walls of his family’s townhouse. It was little relief. For some reason, tonight it looked like a cage. Four walls with a lock on the door. You can’t escape.
Every light in the house seemed to be lit. Even in the first shadows of twilight, he could
see the faint glow of candles in all of the windows. Large, unfamiliar silhouettes passed across curtains that had been drawn. Upstairs, a window fell closed. The snick of a lock being sent home clicked.
Con’s belly tightened. He quickened his pace even as time seemed to slow. He took the steps two at a time. No one opened the door, turning his trepidation into outright alarm. Where was Mr. Benjamin? Why were all of the candles burning?
He opened the door slowly. Suddenly, it flew back as someone on the other side whipped it open. Con stumbled forward into the entryway. When he looked up, it was to see four men in dark coats. The first one stepped forward while two others came at him from the sides. The fourth disappeared into the house.
Before Con could ask what the hell was going on, his mother appeared in the foyer. Her eyes were red and weepy, and her fists were pressed to her mouth. “He’s innocent,” she sobbed, her shoulders shaking. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” he started to say, but the tallest of the body snatchers said, “Take him in.”
Con drew up taller. The men at his sides jostled toward him, though they didn’t touch him. “Don’t do what?” he asked again.
His mother shook her head in horror, as if she couldn’t even contemplate it.
His alarm turned to dismay.
One of the men—likely the bailiff, given his sense of authority over the others—took another step forward. “Lord Constantine Alexander, you are hereby charged with child stealing and fraud. If you’ll come with us peacefully, I see no reason to restrain you.”
“What?” Terror gripped his belly. It rang in his ears and turned the room black. Oh God, oh, God, oh God. He couldn’t go back to the gaol. What was happening here?
