by Darcy Burke
His lips pressed into a hard line.
Realizing she was being a bit harsh, she sighed. “He needed someone to talk to.”
“He could have talked to your brother.”
“You know how Alex is. He doesn’t take anything seriously.” She panicked. “Papa, you have to help him.”
He strode toward her. “And what makes you think I have ten thousand pounds to toss at a man who was thick-witted enough to invest everything into the breeding of racehorses?”
“Things were going well for him, which is why he invested what he did. It wasn’t his fault, nor was he reckless. The stable he rented had caught fire and killed every last horse. Can’t you—”
“No. It’s a ridiculous sum of money. He would never be able to pay it back.”
She kept her voice steady. “Mama informed me last month of my financial worth.”
He paused. “And how does that play into this conversation?”
“I am asking to borrow ten thousand pounds against my inheritance to assist him.”
He lowered his chin. “I’m not dead yet.”
“Papa, please. You know full well that isn’t what I meant.” She placed both hands together and shook them, ensuring the coin in her hand didn’t fall. “This is me begging for him in a way I have never begged before. He means everything to me.” She pleadingly held his gaze. “He is the only friend Alex has ever had. The only friend I have ever had. You know how the aristocracy is. They treat us with disdain because of Mama’s lineage and only ever judge us. But Caldwell never judged us. Not once. We need him just as much as he needs us. You and his father were once friends, were you not? Does that mean nothing? Knowing the man looks down upon his son from the heavens and sees this?”
The old earl muttered something. Scrubbing his thick, white hair with a hand, he eventually supplied, “If you knew Caldwell’s father the way I did, you would damn well know Jacob isn’t looking down on us. He is looking straight up at us. From hell.” He glanced down at the floor. “Sorry, Jacob.” He sighed. “Everything I own is heavily invested. I could give him six thousand, at most, but not much more. It would be enough to bide him time to pay off the remaining sum and ensure he doesn’t end up in prison. I can also speak to whichever gentlemen he owes.”
A breath escaped her. That meant Caldwell would only have a debt of three thousand. And while that was still substantial, it wasn’t quite as staggering. She hurried toward her father and flung herself into his arms. “Thank you.” She clung to him, her limbs trembling at the realization that Caldwell was going to be all right. “I don’t understand why he has such burdening debts. He is a titled gentleman. He—”
“A title doesn’t pay bills, Caroline. In fact, a title disillusions a man into thinking he has more than he does. And Caldwell has never had much to begin with. His father became irresponsible to the bone after Caldwell’s mother had died and had left a pile of debts no one man could ever pay. Aside from his uncle, everyone in that boy’s family is ruined. And the worst of it? Caldwell is constantly paying their bills. His generosity is killing him.”
Anguish overwhelmed her. Caldwell never spoke of his past to her. Even when she had tried to get him to speak of it. And now she knew why. “Talk to him about it, Papa. Tell him to take better care of himself. He will listen to you. I know he will.”
“I will speak to him when I deliver the money.” He smoothed her hair against her head. “You love him, don’t you?”
She nodded against him. “Yes. In the way that you love Mama. Passionately. Ardently. I can barely breathe.”
His hand stilled against her head. He was quiet for a moment. “I have been meaning to speak to you. In the way we always do when something needs to be explained.”
She pulled away and glanced up at him. “What is it? Did I do something wrong?”
He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “No.” He hesitated and then said, “What I’m about to tell you, I don’t want you sharing with your sisters. This is something only you and your brother are old enough to understand.”
Oh, no. It was one of those talks. Something that involved family business too risqué to discuss. “I won’t say anything to them.”
He sighed. “I wanted you to know that I plan on moving into our cottage in Surrey.”
Her breath hitched. “What? Why?”
“Your mother asked me to move out for a few months.”
She stared. “What do you mean? She can’t— You and she are married.”
“I violated an agreement she and I made. As such, I have to honor that. It will only be a few months.”
She squinted. “An agreement? I don’t understand. What sort of agreement?”
“That neither of us would hurt our family or anyone else during the pursuit of our passions.”
Startled, she edged away. “Passions? As in…?”
“Yes. As in.” He cleared his throat. “I uh…I involved myself with a young woman who—” Emotion stripped his face. “I met her a few months ago when I had gone out riding and it…it got out of hand. I was irresponsible. She…” His voice cracked and tears streaked his eyes. “She died last week right along with the babe she was carrying. The doctors couldn’t stop the bleeding when she miscarried.”
Her eyes widened. A part of her soul cleaved into half and shattered on the floor at her own feet. She always thought her father’s curt honesty and the discussions they openly shared, in which he never shielded her from anything, were a blessing that allowed her to understand the real world and life. But that blessing had just turned into a curse.
Tears overwhelmed her as they streamed down her face. “How could you destroy a woman like that? And what of Mama? Your wife of thirty years? Dearest God, how could you—”
“Caroline.” He blinked rapidly but wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Your mother and I were never monogamous. Neither she nor I were capable of it. Which is why we promised never to hurt anyone during the pursuit of our passions. Hence why your mother is upset and wishes me to move out for a few months. I have to give her time to sort this out.”
She staggered. It was as if he were admitting that she or her sisters or even her brother were not his. Oh God. She felt as if she was about to retch. “I’m staying in Bath with Grandpapa from here on out. Because I’m not coming home to this. I’m not.”
His aged features crumbled. “You shouldn’t stay in Bath. Your sisters will need you. You know how they depend on you and look up to you.”
“Are they my half sisters?” she choked out. “And is Alex my half brother? Do you even know?”
“Cease. We didn’t engage others until we were done having children.” He reached out. “Now come here. I need to know you aren’t angry with me and that you will visit me at the cottage out in Surrey. Say you will. It will only be a few months.”
A sob escaped her as she dodged his hand. “What will happen once society knows of this? What will become of us?”
His hand dropped. “No one will know. I paid her family well and moved them outside of London. They are well cared for.” He lowered his voice. “As for my leaving to the cottage, everyone, including the servants, will be led to believe my health is failing, after which I will recover. So you needn’t worry. Because we are still a family and will always be. We will simply go about this differently for the next few months. You and your sisters can visit me out in Surrey whenever you want.”
She couldn’t see past her tears anymore. She had always thought her parents were outré in society’s eyes because of their grand passion for each other, and their outlandish approach to everything in life. It had always made it easier to swallow society’s disdain knowing her parents loved each other, but now? They didn’t even have that.
A sob escaped her.
She darted out of the room, the corridors blurring as she ran down them. Finding her only haven in the house, she threw open the doors to the library. It was achingly obvious her parents were outcasts, not because of her mother’s lineage or their gra
nd passion for each other and life, but because of their grand passion for others.
Grabbing Persuasion from the shelf, she tucked herself against the ladder where she and Caldwell had first met and, with trembling hands, set Caldwell’s sovereign against the first open page and started to reread the book, trying desperately to remind herself that real love and real passion could never be corrupted by anyone or anything. Love was not meant to be shared with the world. It was a secret romantic language between two willing hearts and two willing souls that only needed each other to survive. And one day, she would know of such a love with Caldwell. One day. After all, who else in London would accept her and her family for what it was? No one but Caldwell. And for that, she knew she had to love him in a way no one had ever loved him before.
Lesson Two
Be prepared to kneel should you want to see change.
-The School of Gallantry
Almost three years later
The opening of the Season
April 4, 1830 – 2:20 A.M.
St. James’s Square
Ronan Henry Dearborn, the fourth Marquess of Caldwell, shut the entrance door behind him and leaned against it, savoring the blessed silence of his house after countless hours of clattering wheels on uneven roads.
He paused, noting all the candles in the wall sconces were still lit. Pushing away from the door, he puffed out almost every candle, save one. His uncle had promised to keep household expenses to a minimum, but Ronan knew all too well that the man was like a rabbit in a vegetable field. Never to be entirely trusted.
But at least the field remained.
Meaning, the house.
Carefully removing his leather traveling gloves and hat, Ronan pushed away from the door and set both onto the side table in the foyer. He sighed, thankful to have arrived at an hour that forced him to go straight to bed. Having traveled well beyond what he’d originally planned, the time he’d spent with his aunt and her children made him realize how much he missed belonging to a real family. She reminded him so much of his mother. They looked alike. When Aunt Beatrice laughed and her dark eyes lit up, it was like his mother was coming back to visit.
It was like being nine again.
God how he missed those days.
Bolting the door, so the few servants he did have needn’t be bothered with his late arrival, he turned and paused, his gaze falling to the floor before him. A set of large muddy boot prints on the wood floor, leading from where he stood, ascended the main stairwell. Only one person ever sauntered around his house with mud on his boots without bothering to scrape them on the doorstep.
His uncle.
Ronan swiped his face. That mud covering the floor represented his entire life.
Eyeing the smeared large prints, Ronan grudgingly followed the sludge up, up the stairs and into his living quarters. The faded muddy prints disappeared within an open doorway leading into…his bedchamber.
A pair of black leather riding boots had been carelessly removed and left outside the door, toppled onto their sides on one another. The glow from the burning hearth beyond the open door shifted light and shadows across the floor and walls.
“Turn,” a deep male voice commanded from within the confines of Ronan’s bedchamber. “Glorious. Now don’t move. You wouldn’t want me to miss.” The resounding hard thwack of a riding crop soundly hitting a derriere cracked in the air.
Ronan bit back a riled curse and refrained from punching the air. The son of a bitch had brought a woman into his house and was entertaining in his bed. God only knows what the neighbors were thinking. They probably thought Marquis de Sade had risen from the dead right along with his father.
Not wanting to see any of it, Ronan turned back toward the corridor and yelled out, “Have you been using my bed the entire time I was gone? Because I’ll damn well never sleep in it again knowing it! In fact, I’ll take an ax to it and deliver the pieces to your house. Would that suit you?”
There was a notable pause, followed by the frantic rustle of clothing and a solid thump against floorboards as if someone had launched off the bed. “Ronan?” his uncle belted out, thudding his way over. “Are you back from France? Already?”
Already? The man made it sound like he’d left yesterday as opposed to the thirteen months it had been. Ronan veered toward the outer wall of the corridor, away from the open doorway and flopped himself against the wall. “Yes, it’s me. And yes, I’m back from France.”
“How is my sister?” his uncle called out.
“Better situated and fortunately, no longer ill.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I haven’t received a letter from her in over two months.” His uncle peered out from the open doorway of the bedchamber, a riding crop still in hand. That gray hair, which was usually brushed back with tonic, was well-mussed, and his embroidered waistcoat flapped wide open. Fortunately, his trousers were affixed. Barely.
Shutting the door behind himself, his uncle strutted toward him and swept out both arms, sending the linen sleeves of his shirt swaying and the crop jiggling. “By God, did I ever miss you. I wish you would have written more. How have you been? Come. Come give your uncle a much needed embrace.”
Ronan popped up a halting hand, trying not to be too annoyed. “Not tonight and not whilst you’re half-undressed and still entertaining in my bed. I told you not to bring these women into my house when I was gone.”
His uncle dropped his arms to his sides. “Sophie called on me when I was tending to some of your correspondences and ledgers. She needed attention. What was I to do? Tell her no? I didn’t know you were coming back tonight. You weren’t expected to arrive for another two weeks.”
Ronan glared. “I’ve spent well over fourteen days in a coach coming from the coast, stopping only at inns to sleep. Which I barely did. I need sleep. So I suggest you carry her out the door and whip her elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere? As in her husband’s house? Oho. I don’t think so. The man works for Scotland Yard, and I haven’t lived this long to end up in a ditch.” He glanced toward the closed door of the bedchamber and lowered his voice. “Can’t you take the guest quarters? For tonight? In return for the fact that I’ve ensured your house didn’t burn down?”
Ronan lowered his chin. “Are you bargaining for the use of my own bed?”
Hughes sighed, tucked the crop beneath his arm and scanned the length of him, letting out a whistle through his teeth. “You look good. Fit. Strong. Still fencing, are you? I have no doubt you turned every female head in Paris, didn’t you?”
Why did he feel like he was being measured for yet another escapade? The man usually only ever complimented him when he was about to impart bad news. “If you have something to say, say it. What else don’t I know?”
His uncle hesitated. “Lady Danbury called on me.”
This could be good or this could be bad. “And?”
“She asked a lot of questions about Lady Caroline.”
His heart skidded knowing Theodosia was digging into Caroline’s life. That wasn’t good. “What? Why?”
Hughes shrugged. “Hell if I know. She must have heard you two were close.”
Ronan paused. He never discussed Caroline with anyone other than his uncle. Hell, he didn’t even discuss Caroline with Baxendale. “And how would she have known Caroline and I are close?”
Hughes shrugged again. “She wasn’t ruffled about it. More like intrigued. You know how women are.”
Yes, he did. But when Theodosia was intrigued, that usually meant more. The woman was notorious for tinkering with other people’s lives. She used her wealth and her name to ‘right’ things. She was the fairy godmother no one wanted in their lives. “I hope you limited your answers.”
“I did the best I could.” His uncle elbowed him hard and smirked. “I have no doubt Lady Danbury will be infinitely pleased to have you back. I could tell she missed you.” His uncle pumped his hips twice to insinuate what was really missed and chortled.
This is wh
at happened to a man who played mistress. His own uncle made fun of him. “At least I get paid. You’re stupid enough to do it for free.”
With a dismissive grunt, his uncle said, “No woman could afford me if I were to set a price on it and then I’d be one lonely son of a bitch.” He paused and then imparted through the side of his mouth, “The reason why I even brought up Lady Danbury is because I’m a touch worried about the woman. And you should be, too.”
Ronan paused. “Worried? Why? Is something amiss?”
“There could be. She started calling on Lord Spencer’s bastard child, Mister Evan Ridley, a few weeks ago. Ridley. I didn’t comment to her about it, as it wasn’t my place, but you and I both know what they say about that man. His head isn’t right.”
Ronan stared. Yes, he knew full well what was said. There were whispers Ridley had spent years in a madhouse as a child for reasons never specified and had emerged at the age of seventeen ‘sane’ but never ‘the same’. Now almost thirty, Ridley had a vicious temper, was a recluse who never left the house and whose mother had tried in vain to bring society to his door in the hopes of having him take an interest in a woman. Any woman. It always resulted in chairs being flung and people hobbling out, dusting off splintered furniture. “Are you certain she is calling on Ridley? Did she tell you that?”
His uncle used the crop to scratch his chin. “Yes and yes. Her lips moved in unison to say she is assisting his mother in managing his affairs.”
Ronan scrubbed his hair. “God only knows what that means. What is she doing? Ridley is a loon. I should probably call on her. Before she gets herself into trouble.”
“About that. She insisted you not call.”
Ronan blinked and a part of him was so relieved he almost sagged. He hadn’t quite figured out how to end things with Theodosia. “She had asked to end things?”
“Oh, no, no. It isn’t like that. You won’t get off that easy. She still preens over you. She merely insisted that you leave a card with her butler when you do arrive into town. You know how she is. You don’t contact her, she contacts you.”
