She eyed him warily. By the resignation he spied there, she expected him to doubt her. He sighed and dusted a hand over his face.
“Who is your family?” he asked again, quietly. Were they people he’d hosted at balls or conducted business with? His stomach churned at the prospect.
Bridget’s face crumpled and she dropped her gaze once more. It was the second time he’d put that question to her and the second she’d evaded answering. Hugging her arms to her chest, she looked up, and held his stare. “My brother is the Marquess of Atbrooke.”
The Marquess of Atbrooke.
Atbrooke.
More slimy than the worms he’d used for fishing as a lad, the man had been run off the Continent a couple of years earlier and had since returned. His love of whores, drink, and wagering was the only thing that called him to London. He’d not, however, been a man Vail had ever done business with. The man also had a sister—
All the air exploded from his lungs and burst from his lips. He jumped up. “Lady Marianne Carew.” Huntly’s former lover. A viper who’d attempted to kill Lady Justina. His stomach lurched. “This is your family,” he repeated, sick, struggling to divorce who she was from the people whose blood she shared. He’d brought her into Nick and Justina’s home as a guest. On the heel of that was shame. I am not my father and neither is Bridget her family and yet… He closed his eyes briefly, hating her connection to those fiends, anyway.
Bridget winced, saying nothing.
Struggling under the weight of all she’d revealed, Vail pressed his fingertips against his temples. What if they were just more lies? What if she were, in fact, as evil as her brother and sister and this tale was nothing more than a ploy to weaken him? He’d been made the fool two times now where a woman was concerned.
“Will you not say anything?” she pleaded.
“What would you have me say?” He no longer knew which way was up, down, or sideways, anymore.
Tears spiked her thick auburn lashes. “Anything. Tell me you hate me. Or tell me you believe me. Just say something.”
In the end, he gave her the truth. “It is a lot to take in,” he confessed. And accept.
Her lower lip trembled and she caught that plump flesh between her teeth, steadying it. “I know.” She shoved to her feet. “I should see to Virgil.”
“Of course.” Bridget lingered, opening her mouth as though she wished to say more, but then left.
As soon as she’d gone, he unleashed a flood of curses. Bloody, bloody hell. This was who her family had to be? And yet, that would have mattered less had she come to him without lying about her identity…and a mountain full of secrets.
In desperate need of a drink, Vail stalked to his sideboard and poured himself a tall snifter. He took a long, slow swallow.
“So, you’re my mother’s husband.”
He choked on his swallow, until tears streamed down his cheeks. Glass in hand, he spun so quickly, sending liquid spilling over the side and splashing the floor.
Bridget’s son slammed the door behind him and came rushing forward. “Look up,” Virgil ordered. He took the snifter from Vail’s grip and slapped him on the back with what he suspected was all his strength.
“L-Look up?” he managed to rasp out between choking, gasping breaths.
The small boy shrugged. “My mum always says it helps.”
After Vail’s paroxysm dissolved into a manageable, occasional cough he retrieved his drink and took another, smaller sip.
“My mum also says to drink a bit of water, but I expect that should do, as well.” The little boy eyed the glass in his hand curiously. “Is that good?”
“Honestly?”
Virgil nodded.
“It’s rot. But the more you drink it, the taste eventually grows upon you.”
His nighttime visitor grunted. “Mum said that men who drink spirits aren’t to be trusted and said I should never, ever drink it. Ever.” By the rote-like deliverance, it was a familiar warning the boy had heard frequently uttered.
The glass trembled in Vail’s hands as the solemnity of that boy’s tone pierced the brief camaraderie. For with a handful of words, Virgil had offered an unwitting glimpse into Bridget’s life. He searched the boy for some indication that he’d heard the discussion on his origins at the doorway but found none. Having only found his siblings when they were all largely grown, he’d little familiarity with children being underfoot and listening at keyholes. With Erasmus’ difficulty comprehending and his struggle to hear, there’d been not even a thought that he might hear something he ought not. Searching for ground around this new person, he finally said, “Not all gentlemen who partake are bad. It is the ones who are unable to moderate themselves, who overindulge and let it consume them we should be wary of.”
“Like my uncle.”
It was a statement of fact. Vail stiffened.
The boy stuffed his hands inside his pockets, bringing Vail’s attention to those modest, threadbare garments. They spoke to how this child and his family had lived. Vail tightened his grip around his snifter, hating the signs of struggle Bridget had known. “He drinks a lot,” Virgil clarified.
“And does he come ’round a lot?” he asked, unashamedly pulling whatever he could from Bridget’s son. Only more than wheedling information, there was a genuine need to know.
Virgil flattened his mouth into a hard line; that flash of cynicism counter to his otherwise innocent transparency. “Sometimes.”
“And is he—?”
“You’re looking for me to tell you about my family,” the child said bluntly, with a shocking candidness and intuitiveness.
Vail blinked slowly.
“You want to know about my uncle? Why?” he asked, narrowing his eyes into thin slits.
Why? The immediate answer for Vail should be: that he didn’t trust Atbrooke, Bridget, or any of this family. “Because I care about your mother,” he said quietly, instead. Because I love her. I loved her since the moment I came upon her in my office and she blurted out every last thought upon her lips. The enormity of that hit him with the force of a fast-moving carriage. He didn’t know if he could trust her. He didn’t know if there were other lies that would come to light between them. But there was no understanding the heart.
Virgil spoke, breaking through that tumult. “You believe you can keep her safe…us, safe?” Color splashed the boy’s cheeks. Was he ashamed in needing help? The sight of his pride and that devotion to his mother settled like a weight on Vail’s chest.
“Do you believe you need to be kept safe?” he asked instead.
“Everyone does.” Virgil rolled his small shoulders. Then, he glanced about, his eyes lighting up as he took in the shelving units. “Are these all your books?” he asked, as only a child was capable of moving off topic.
Vail followed his stare about the room. “Some of them.”
The little boy wandered away from him and picked his way around the perimeter, going from shelf to shelf. “My mum loves to read.” He paused beside one title and looked back. “She’s always working and has to give them back afterward, but when Mr. Lowell brings them to her, I’ll find her reading the passages at night, and not just evaluating the condition.”
Vail didn’t know who Mr. Lowell was, but the images the boy drew forth, squeezed at his heart. Imaginings of a tired Bridget, sitting by a dying hearth, and reading, until that book was eventually taken back.
A memory slid forward of how Bridget had been her first day here, wholly captivated by the titles in his office. Her eyes had glowed with the same joy most women would have in looking upon a fine diamond.
“Can I look at your collections?” Virgil asked, the question emerging reluctantly.
“You have freedom to use whichever rooms you wish. My home is yours now.” There was a lightness in his chest that came from that admission. “There’ll also be tutors,” he murmured, more to himself. He made a silent note to have Edward find the best for the lad. And in time, there would be Eton
and Oxford…or Cambridge, should he wish it. He’d have every opportunity Vail himself hadn’t.
Virgil shifted back and forth on his feet. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
If he couldn’t do right by this boy’s mother, at least he could do right by the lad himself.
Chapter 21
“I have information.”
Seated in his office, head bent over his ledgers, Vail looked up. Having revealed all Bridget had shared about Atbrooke, his brother had begun searching for the man’s whereabouts and locating his contacts in London. And Vail, unsure how one was supposed to be around one’s wife after everything she’d revealed, he had also steered clear of her.
Colin stood in the doorway, a grim set to his mouth. Vail slowly released his pen and urged him forward. He made to rise, but Colin waved him off. Gavin closed the door, leaving them alone.
“What is it?” he asked as Colin claimed one of the winged chairs opposite him.
“I’ve found a good deal about the family and their connections here in London.” Flipping open his book, he turned it around.
His stomach muscles knotting, Vail had to make himself look at those pages. He reluctantly dragged his gaze over Colin’s illegible handwriting, grateful when the other man turned it back to read from.
“She’s lived in Leeds for nearly ten years.” The year she’d taken in Virgil. That had proven accurate. “Prior to that, she lived in Yorkshire. The parents hired a nursemaid,” Nettie, “to care for her and washed their hands of her. All of that proved accurate.” She’d not been lying on those details. Ironically, after every fabrication and his own desire for the truth, he wished this had been one more falsity she’d fed him. Because he’d rather have found more lies than the truth of the agonizing existence she’d lived.
With every detail confirmed and with every new revelation, a boulder-like weight settled on his chest, restricting airflow and making it impossible to draw forth an even breath. Loathing for the parents who’d sired her and then forgotten her gripped him so strong he gave thanks they were dead and already writhing in hell for their sins against her.
“There is more,” Colin, said, that somberness driving a wedge into Vail’s tortured musings.
“Atbrooke secured work for the lady evaluating old texts. A…” Dipping his gaze, he searched through his notes.
“Mr. Lowell?”
“Yes,” his brother confirmed. “In exchange for securing her work, Atbrooke received a portion of her payments.”
A murderous rage simmered hot in his veins. It was fortunate for both him and Atbrooke that the bastard wasn’t present for he would have run him through, and then gladly gone to Newgate for it.
“He’s been on the Continent for two years, after he was run off by Viscount Wessex.”
“Wessex?” Vail creased his brow. One of the most affable gents in London, the viscount never had a bad thing to say to anyone and there certainly weren’t any dealings those two should have together.
“I haven’t been able to find the connection between them, just enough to know there is no love lost between them.” His brother proceeded to read methodically from his notes. “Recently returned from the Continent, he’s been taking up residence at his various properties but there’s nothing left to sell or wager. No one will extend him credit.”
Which is why he’s hatched the scheme to steal from me. It was a natural connection. Send him a young woman capable and skilled with antique texts, and she’d have access to a fortune at her fingertips.
“Which is why he could have hatched the scheme?” Colin murmured, snapping his book closed. “Perhaps.”
Unaware he’d uttered those earlier words, he looked up. “Do you have proof linking him?” Anything that Vail could coerce the man with and see him in prison over. The threat needed to be gone. Atbrooke needed to be gone. Until he was, there could never be any peace for Bridget and Virgil. Nor could he and his wife move forward as long as her brother lingered in the shadows, prepared to use her like a pawn. And having learned of the sacrifices she’d made and witnessing her love for the child, he’d no doubt she would make the same decisions she had—even if it involved stealing from him. Nor, if he were being honest with himself, could he hold that against her. Then Colin’s earlier words registered. “Which is why he could have hatched the scheme? What are you saying, Colin?” he urged at his brother’s silence.
The other man tossed his notebook down on a corner of Vail’s desk. “I’m sorry, Vail. Thus far, all I have is Atbrooke’s name. I have a motive, but I can’t locate any people connecting him to the attempted theft.” He paused, holding his stare. “There’s only her.”
There’s only her.
Those three words lingered in the air, both damning and warning. Why…why…Colin was suggesting Bridget was guilty? Impossible. He shoved forward in his seat. “What about the two gentlemen meeting at the Coaxing Tom?” Someone had to know something. “Did you interview Tabitha?”
Colin frowned. Vail, however, had larger concerns than Colin’s bruised ego at having his work questioned. “Numerous times. She provided descriptions which I’ve circulated to the men who were in the club that night. No one had names.” Colin stared back, pityingly. “No one.”
Vail thinned his eyes into narrow slits. “What?” he growled, at the suspicions there.
“Vail,” he began.
“Just say it,” he snapped. Say what I’m already thinking.
“The fact that her brother was a rotter,” And she took his child in. “And the fact that she’s been treated equally rottenly by her family doesn’t mean anyone but the lady herself orchestrated the plan.”
He sank back in his chair. “You’re wrong,” he said hollowly.
Colin dragged a hand through his hair. “If you were another client, I’d tell you to open your damned eyes. I’d not spare you from details or tolerate your questioning. But you are related to me and the career I have is because of you, but neither will I lie to you.” He scraped his green eyes over Vail’s office and then looked to him once more. “I’ve caught all manner of people, guilty of crimes: men, women, children. Lords, ladies. All of them,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Do you know what I discovered in every case, from every person I apprehended?”
Unable to form a verbal reply, he shook his head woodenly.
“That desperation will make a person do desperate things.”
…The story is of a girl who never knew loving parents, who were wholly incapable of sacrificial love…
It had been her, in every way. She’d been trying to tell him. He pressed his eyes closed. Did it even matter knowing? Did it matter what…rather, who had brought her into his household?
“I understand you care for her,” Colin said gravely. Love her. I love her. “But sometimes the world is just black and white.”
…One might see red and green and yellow and purple, but sometimes buried within are other shades… “Mm. Mm,” he said, giving his head another firm shake. “You are wrong on this.” Because what was the alternative? That even her love had been a lie? “You are wrong.”
He wanted his brother to fight him. Wanted to pound his fists and drive out the uncertainty. Instead, Colin merely inclined his head. “I’m never wrong.”
A knock sounded at the door and they looked as one.
“The Duke of Huntly,” Gavin announced, letting Vail’s best friend in. He’d arrived, Vail having put aside this task for two days now.
“I’ll leave you to your visit,” Colin said, collecting his items. “If you’ve need of me, send word.”
“Of course.”
Huntly claimed the seat just vacated by Colin. “What was that about?” he asked, astute when most lords would have missed the underlying tension between Vail and Colin’s parting.
Needing to have it said, he spoke without preamble. “My wife is the sister of Lady Marianne Carew.”
Huntly may as well have turned to stone. He sat, carved of granite, his eyes unblinking. �
��What?” that terse question emerged through tightly clenched lips. Did he expect the other man to be as forgiving of Bridget’s crimes when he learned her true identity?
“She is Lord Atbrooke’s eldest sister. She’d been shut away in the country.” His hands formed involuntary fists on his lap. As he concluded the telling, he kept a careful eye on his friend’s response. But for a slight paling of his skin, he gave no outward indication to the revelation.
“I…see,” Huntly finally said. “It’s a vile family.”
He managed a jerky nod, hating that Bridget was part of it.
“My father killed himself.”
Vail went still.
“Lord Rutland called in his loans and debt and my father? Hanged himself from above his desk. I concealed that from the world,” he said quietly, unexpectedly.
My God. “I…I had no idea.” These were the demons that had driven him to exact revenge on Lord Rutland.
“Your father? Some might argue is even more of a disgrace in how he cares for, or rather does not care for his offspring.”
The other man was correct on that score.
“We’re not our blood. We are our actions.” There should be something freeing in that pardon but given Colin’s visit and revelations, there could not be.
“Colin believes she acted without influence. That she’s now passing blame to her brother.”
“And what do you believe?” Huntly asked hooking his ankles together.
“I don’t know,” he confided, in pained tones. “I want to trust her. But had I not discovered her in the act and demanded her marriage, she’d be gone even now.”
His friend grimaced. “In that, it is more complicated, and I can only—unhelpfully—say, that you have to trust what you know in your heart about the lady.”
Shouts sounded in the hallway and the rapid beat of footfalls. The door flew open with such force it nearly slammed into Edward. Framed in the entrance, out of breath, a paper in his hands, he dropped his hands atop his knees. “Vail,” he got out. “The Chaucer is gone.”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 167
