by Darcy Burke
Bart shook his head no. His lips thinned. “You know how the public is. Voracious. Horror-mongering journalists only feed their hunger. I don’t know the whole of it—yet. I’m sure it will make fine fodder for the Times.”
“And every other paper.” Con laughed bitterly.
Bart didn’t smile. “What else has transpired?”
Must there be more? But there was. “After I was interrogated, I was poked and prodded by the surgeon.” Another hollow, hopeless chuckle. “I’m in good health. For now.”
Silence clogged the tiny room. That was his real fear: gaol fever. It had killed their father. Lord Montborne hadn’t even been inside the prison walls at the time. One didn’t have to be; merely standing in the surrounding streets was enough to have a person covered in red spots and languishing with fever in days.
“I’ve come to post bail,” Bart said abruptly, giving Con the first reason to feel better he’d had all night. “They are marking it in the books now. You should be free very soon.”
Con tried to smile but he couldn’t feel the proper level of relief. He would be free of this place, but only for a time. He should be so lucky to be sent back here after the trial. What if they found somewhere even more horrible to take him? What if he ended up in the hulks?
“I thought you’d be happier,” Bart said. “You must have known I’d come. Even if I didn’t have your bail, I’d have found enough for easement of irons.” He glanced at Con’s chains. “They don’t look well on you.”
Con also looked at the thick bands encircling his scuffed boots. As if he’d try to escape. “No?”
Bart didn’t crack his barrister’s façade. “You’re going to have to tell me what happened. I hope to God what the governor told me isn’t true.”
Con went to a tattered green chair and sat heavily on it. Its wooden slats squeaked under his weight. Who knew how many doomed men had sat in just this spot?
He didn’t really want to know. Instead of thinking about it, he told his brother the whole, sordid tale. Of his losses with the mill and the canal. The downtrodden young children who’d been days away from being put out on the streets. His coddling of Darius, though this admission came the hardest.
He closed with his eventual realization that he’d made a commitment to Elizabeth’s son, and indeed had come to think of the boy as his own. That he loved her. Even sitting here in this godforsaken place surrounded by the most heinous of London’s criminal class, doomed to who-knew-what fate, he loved her.
Bart hadn’t taken a seat. He’d paced. His hands were clasped behind his back and he seemed to be deep in thought. “You should marry her.”
Con startled at that. But then he knew. Yes, he should. He needed to. He needed her. He’d been days away from accepting it, himself. And if he were going to spend the rest of his life—or any time at all—confined in a place like this, he needed to be able to see her. Not just through the iron grates, but in the private room where a husband may see his wife. His wife.
Bart nodded, seemingly confirming whatever idea he had in his head. “Marry her and it all won’t seem so underhanded.” He slid Con a sardonic glance. “You should have done it to begin with.”
Con agreed. Not because of the circumstances—he truly hadn’t known her then, and Oliver hadn’t been his concern at the time—but because looking back, he wished he’d have spent the last few weeks getting to know her even more intimately. Building a life with her. “I will. As soon as you post my bail. Bart,” he said, feeling a bit lighthearted given the awfulness of his incarceration and the indeterminate future that awaited him, “would you mind very much finishing it now?”
Chapter Twenty
ELIZABETH AWOKE the next morning, her cheek was pressed against the desk. No, not the desk. A folded parchment that must have been there the night before. She peeled it from her cheek and looked at the address. Then she fumbled with the seal, opening it as fast as her stiff fingers would fly.
Miss Spencer,
I thought you would want Lord Constantine Alexander to know that a significant deposit of granite has been found on his family’s property. The Company has tried to keep the find a secret as there appears to be some question of the boundary line, with one cartographer claiming the quarry is on open farmland and one claiming it to be on the home farm. I advise Lord Montborne to become involved immediately. It is not a situation he will want decided without his input.
Your faithful servant,
Thomas Cartwright
Elizabeth’s hands trembled. This could change Lord Constantine’s tides permanently. Assuming his brother was able to clear the charges—and she couldn’t let herself think anything else—this could be the windfall his family so desperately needed. At least it must be enough for a living, if not a fortune.
She ought to be overjoyed for them. Instead, it scared her to death. This was the finishing touch. The last puzzle piece he needed to distance himself from her permanently. She’d cost him his manhood, then his freedom. He’d been exposed for a liar in front of his entire family. It was only a matter of hours before the gossip spread and everyone in London knew of the charges against him. Then it would be not just his freedom he’d lost, but his reputation.
She gripped the parchment until it crackled. Oliver was less than hers in the eyes of the law. She couldn’t be imprisoned for stealing her own child, but she also had no right to take the child from his father. The law didn’t even consider her a threat; that was the insignificance of her role in the eyes of the men who’d drafted it.
There was no doubt in her mind that Oliver wouldn’t have been with her this last month without Con’s claiming him. If she were to have any hope of getting him back, it would only be with Con’s help. If he continued to hold up his end of the bargain.
She clapped a hand to her mouth. Was she asking him to perjure himself during the trial? He was already charged with fraud! What kind of woman would ask that?
The answer was simple. A mother who desperately, desperately wanted her child.
It was settled, then. Con couldn’t know about the granite deposit, not until after the trial. A quarry gave him the means to walk away from her. He could repay her and wash his hands of the whole, sordid affair. She couldn’t risk him doing so now. But the moment he was cleared of the charges, she’d fall to her knees and confess everything. She’d beg for his forgiveness and that of his entire family.
Until then, he mustn’t know. She couldn’t chance him deciding she wasn’t worth the price she’d paid him for his dignity.
She took the missive and haunted her hallways in search of a room with a fire. The one in the breakfast room had been stoked for the morning, but no other evidence of her servants was visible. She entered the small room, holding the paper between two fingers as if it were a disgusting bug. Then she dropped it into the crackling flames and watched as it singed into a brown, fluttering piece of ash.
Instantly, she feared she’d just watched her future burn with it. Shame overwhelmed her and she dropped to her knees on the floor. This time, the heat of the fire kept the chill away, but it couldn’t warm the empty hole in her heart where her betrayal lived. She was as manipulative as Roman had warned. She could barely stand to be alone with herself.
Hours passed after that. Con did not come. She barely dressed herself that morning, and her hair was still crushed to the side of her head where she’d slept fitfully, first on the floor and then on the top of her desk. At three in the afternoon, Mrs. Dalton, who’d returned earlier in the day, scratched at Elizabeth’s door. “Madam, perhaps you’d feel better after a hot bath?”
Elizabeth dragged her attention from the open window where she’d been gazing at the street for any sign of Constantine. “No, thank you, though.”
Mrs. Dalton’s brown eyes were full of concern. “I feel much better after mine. More myself. And Mr. Rand has already called for it to be drawn. It’s no bother for the staff.” When Elizabeth only stared blankly at her, she added, “We’
re worried about you, madam.”
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. She turned her face back to the window quickly, feeling the familiar sting of tears about to fall. With a shaky breath, she murmured, “How kind.”
Mrs. Dalton took several steps into the room. Her hands wrung together. Though she was young, she always carried herself with a mature air Elizabeth relied on. Today she fretted over Elizabeth as an older sister might, dropping to her knees beside Elizabeth’s window seat and resting her hands on the yellow cushion as if in supplication. “Lord Bartholomew seems very capable, and I have faith in Lord Constantine. They will find a way to get him back. I know it.”
Elizabeth’s arms wrapped around her body. Despite her shawl, she was just so cold. “They can’t change the law. It doesn’t even consider me.”
“They’ll find a way. Now, please, let us fuss over you. I promise, you will feel better after a hot bath and some toast.”
Elizabeth couldn’t smile, but she did feel less alone. “Now it’s to be a bath and toast?”
Mrs. Dalton’s lips quivered. “And…you must let me dress your hair.”
***
By five that afternoon, Elizabeth did feel more herself. But she was nowhere nearer to feeling better about Lord Constantine’s absence from her side. He’d had a long night. He and Lord Bartholomew must talk at length. Then there was his poor mother, who’d been heartbroken by the ordeal. But as the minutes continued to tick by, she couldn’t help but think he wouldn’t come at all.
At six, there was a flurry downstairs. Elizabeth half-rose from the couch she’d laid claim to since coming down from her bath. When Con’s familiar voice drifted down the hallway, she jumped up, dropping the lace-edged pillow she’d been clutching and setting out at a run. She met him halfway down the hallway and launched herself into his arms. Never had she been so glad to see a man in her life.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his collar. She sagged against him. He caught her weight easily and, murmuring soft nothings into her hair, carried her back to the sitting room she’d flown from. “Elizabeth, Elizabeth,” he said, holding her against him. “You must have known I would come.”
She hadn’t. But she wouldn’t cry, not now that he was here. Nonetheless, it took a moment before she was able to find her voice. “I’m just glad. I’m so very, very sorry. I never thought you’d be…” Her voice choked on the last word. “Arrested.”
His low laughter warmed her hair. “It’s just my luck. A little over a month ago, Parliament passed an Act making it a felony to carry a child away from its lawful parent. Though I think your father and Captain Finn would have found some other way to beleaguer me, even if it hadn’t. Bart suspects that’s what the fraud misdemeanor charge is for, to catch any loophole he might find in the felony.”
She pulled back to see him. His blue eyes were distanced, but he held her in his arms like a cherished woman. If he was angry, he wasn’t showing it. But nor did he seem particularly pleased. “What does Lord Bartholomew advise?” She wished she’d been included! How fitting for her to be barred from plans surrounding the trial concerning her own son.
Con set her away from him just enough to look into her eyes. His jaw set. His long, aquiline nose and blond brows were striking, a permanent mark of his proud lineage.
His lips stretched in a tight line. Her heart pounded. Oh, no. Lord Bartholomew—he hadn’t liked her. Whatever his advice had been, Constantine took it very seriously. She felt her mouth go dry. “What? What did he say?”
Con took her hand. Mrs. Dalton had dressed her with care, and she wore gloves despite the absurdity of such a small detail when her whole world was falling apart. Con dropped to his knee and pressed the top of her hand against his forehead. He leaned toward her so that all the many tufts and spikes of his blond hair stuck up, reminding her of the nights they’d made love.
“Elizabeth.” He looked up at her, rounding his eyes big and serious over her hand. Then he touched his lips against her knuckles. “Will you marry me?”
Her next breath came so quickly, it caught in her throat. Unlike the first time he’d proposed, her heart soared. She’d thought he wanted to leave her, but he was asking her to marry him!
Instantly, she knew she’d made a mistake. She should tell him about the quarry. This wasn’t a man who would abandon her merely because he’d found a way to satisfy himself elsewhere. To Constantine, family was forever.
He wanted to make her a part of his family. Forever.
He waited, seemingly patiently, but when she could barely get the words out to say yes he began to look worried. She nodded her head emphatically instead. Her free hand covered her mouth. “Yes, yes. Oh, yes.”
Relief washed some of the tension from his face. He still held her hand. He kissed it again and then, to her surprise, he edged forward on his knee and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her flat belly. Right then, she knew she should tell him about the letter she’d received. The quarry awaiting his brother’s claim. His shoulders heaved as he took several deep breaths. The bands of his arms squeezed her tight, and she felt tears come into her eyes. Happy tears this time. He seemed genuinely glad of her answer.
How did she tell him that she’d kept the news of his family’s potential fortune from him? He would assume she’d deceived him on purpose. And…she had. She’d have to admit it, for she couldn’t lie to him again, just to save her own hide from his contempt.
He rose and took her face in his hands. He kissed each of her eyelids, his lips brushing against her damp lashes, before sweeping his lips across hers. It was all more romantic than even the proposals she’d dreamed of since she was a little girl. And if she’d always imagined he’d say he loved her and couldn’t live without her, well, the fact that he’d ask her to marry him after all the trouble she’d put him through was enough.
He tasted her lips gently, then with more urgency. Suddenly he drew back, leaving her panting with want. “I do love you, Elizabeth. This isn’t just because Bart believes it’s our best chance.”
Icy water dashed across her.
“You do love me?” she repeated dully, feeling cheated. The right words, the ones she’d longed to hear her whole life, but said so…wrongly. “He did love her,” and “he hadn’t proposed because it might help him to stay out of gaol.” The way he’d said it, she wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.
Doubt crept back in. Perhaps he wouldn’t take kindly to her having kept the dispute over the quarry secret. Maybe this proposal had been provoked out of a sense of preservation, despite his assertion that it hadn’t. If that were the case, forgiveness wouldn’t be within his reach. Why should it, when he could just walk away?
He broke into a smile, seemingly oblivious to her guardedness. “It is unexpected, isn’t it? I had this feeling I couldn’t quite explain…right here.” He touched his belly just below his heart. “Montborne is always in and out of love, but not me. When Bart said we must marry or else no one will believe we’re the right parents for Oliver, I felt a conviction so strong, it must be love. I knew what I must do after that, and so here I am.”
She wanted to kiss him. Anything to make this feel more like a proposal and less like a confession. She didn’t regret turning his offer down just weeks ago, but today she knew him well enough to think they could be happy together. If only he would kiss her and make this real.
She loved him. If he thought he loved her, whether it was out of a sense of duty to Oliver or fear for his own skin, she should be pleased.
She turned slightly and sat on the couch, craning her neck to look up at him. “When?” If it wasn’t the storybook proposal she’d always wanted, at least it was built on friendship, a mutually satisfactory sexual relationship, and common goals. Many women had far less to look forward to in their marriages. She should be pleased.
He clasped his hands together and began to pace. “The trial is in two weeks. Any time before then, though it wil
l take a few days for me to procure a special license. The ceremony will obviously be limited, but if you’d like to invite certain witnesses, I see no reason to keep it exclusively to family.” He smirked. “I’d love to see your father’s face when we take each other as man and wife.”
She couldn’t even see the humor in such a statement. Con slid quickly onto the couch next to her. “I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t have teased. But wouldn’t he turn red? If he wasn’t already trying to lock me up, I’d say he’d try to ruin me for it.”
Her father did seem to have an unusually strong objection to Constantine. She supposed it was very male of Con to take perverse pleasure in provoking her father’s ire in return. “He’ll hear of it at the trial, and then you’ll see his reaction. But I would like to invite Lord and Lady Trestin.”
The conversation turned to making plans, and if it wasn’t entirely romantic, if a pall hung over them with the reminder that it might not be enough to bring Oliver back, their tentative plans to join their lives together gave Elizabeth a modicum of hope. For while she couldn’t see living without her son, Con’s proposal was the small miracle she must cling to. A glimmer of hope that Mrs. Dalton was right, and that Con and Lord Bart really could restore her only child back to her.
She must also hope they could keep Con out of the gaol.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Con still couldn’t credit his piss-poor luck. No, it wasn’t luck, if he were completely honest with himself. It was his own terrible judgment that had brought him to this point.
He took up a thin fold of notes and his black beaver hat from his dressing table and left the room. Inside the small wad of notes now securely contained in his coat were the five pounds that would procure the special license required to marry Elizabeth before the trial. God help him if that wasn’t the one good decision he’d made this week.
