“You tell me nothing I haven’t berated myself with a thousand times. The damage is done, and can’t be undone.”
“There ain’t many ties can’t be untied,” she said, her tone brisk, “if a body’s willing to pay. I’d not give you a groat. But an annulment of this abominable marriage I’d consider a wise, very sound investment.”
His fingers tightened about the crystal stem. “That is out of the question.”
“Why? Don’t tell me the poor child’s breeding already?”
“Good God, no!” The glass jerked in his hand, splashing brandy onto the carpet. Only a few drops. A few tiny blots, that was all. Varian drew a steadying breath. “I mean that’s not the reason. I mean I should never consent to such a thing.”
She watched him with hard, pitiless eyes. Not that he’d expected or wanted pity. Nothing she’d said was truly unjust. “Poor child,” she had called Esme. That was what mattered. Like the bath and the food, it meant there was hope. A chance.
“What do you want from me?” she demanded. “Tell me straight. I won’t be sweet-talked to the point. I’ve never cared for roundaboutation, and I’m too old to learn to like it now.”
He met her gaze straight on. “I want you to look after her for a while. I want her safe and—and well. I can’t risk taking her to London. My title protects me to some extent—from the sponging house, at least. But I don’t want Esme exposed to harassment. That’s why I brought her here.”
“I won’t support an idle rogue, I tell you.”
“Only Esme, only for a while,” he said. “I must go to London, bailiffs or not. There’s no other way to deal with my affairs.”
“And just how do you propose to deal with ‘em?”
“I don’t know.”
The dowager leaned back in her chair and heaved a sigh. “Ain’t that just typical? Men never know, but they always ‘must,’ mustn’t they? They never know, not one blessed thing. Not a prayer of coming to the rightabout, yet you won’t let the poor girl go, will you?”
“No.”
“Want to have her safe in the country with her old grandmama, do you? For how long? Weeks, months, years? The rest of her life? No Season for her, no beaux, no chance for a proper match. Damnation, Edenmont, if you had to bed her, why couldn’t you have left it at that? I’d have found her a mate. Not every man has to have a virgin bride, whatever they say. Not that they’ve any business saying it, selfish hypocrites.”
Varian rose. “It’s no good telling me,” he said coldly. “She won’t wed another while I’m alive. If dissolving the marriage is your condition, then say so, and I shall take my offensive self—and my wife—out of your way.”
“You’re a base and selfish man,” she said, rising as well. “But I won’t have Jason’s girl starving or sleeping in alleys. She’ll stay. And you, my lord, may go to blazes.”
The bath was everything Varian had described to Esme that morning so many months ago: the great, steaming tub, the scented soap, the soft towels. Even the servant.
In response to Drays’ summons, Mrs. Munden had come chugging down the hallway like a tugboat, aimed straight for Esme, and towed her away, all the while tooting orders to various lesser servants who came rushing in from every direction. The halls quickly began to resemble the River Thames, with a host of vessels coming and going, carrying their diverse goods: buckets of coal for the fire, buckets of steaming water for the bath, valises, linens, and heaven knew what else.
All the bustle made Esme dizzy, tired, and anxious. Everything was done for her and to her, and nothing was under her control. From the moment she had entered this house, she’d been swept into its power. Her grandmother’s power.
The feeling did not lessen at dinner, though Varian was there, regaling the dowager with gossip from Corfu and Malta, Gibraltar and Cadiz—all the places they’d so briefly stopped at on their hectic voyage to England. Less than two months it had taken them. But that was because the schooner was racing a sister vessel.
The owners of both were rich, idle lords—Varian’s former schoolfellows. They had been touring the Greek islands when they heard the rumors of Lord Edenmont’s marriage. One believed it, the other didn’t. The result was a wager—and a mad dash to Corfu to settle it. The result of that, for Varian and Esme, was free passage to England.
As Varian was now pointing out to Lady Brentmor, his rakehell reputation had rescued them. Had he lived a life of rectitude, he and Esme would probably be in Corfu yet. The old lady was amused. She laughed loudly, as she had at the gossip he’d shared—in between berating Varian for proceeding in such a lackwit, harum-scarum way with a new bride.
After dinner, they returned to the green and gold room. The drawing room it was called. There Varian gave an edited account of their adventures in Albania. Lady Brentmor did not laugh so much then, or scold as much either, but stared into the fire, shaking her head from time to time. At last she called for her port and brusquely sent Varian and Esme away.
Though the dowager had made it clear she disapproved of Varian and viewed the marriage as an unmitigated catastrophe, she’d assigned the couple adjoining rooms.
The maid, Molly, had just left when Varian entered through the connecting door. He took up the brush Molly had minutes before laid down upon the dressing table, stared at it for a long while, then put it down. He placed his hands on Esme’s shoulders and gazed at her reflection in the looking glass. Then, in a few quiet sentences, he told her what he’d arranged with her grandmother.
When he was done, Esme jerked away from him and walked stiffly to the window.
“There’s no alternative, Esme,” he said. “If there were, I swear to you—”
“There’s no need to make vows,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I understand. I believe you.”
“You’re distressed all the same.”
“Only for a moment. It is not agreeable. My grandmother is a cross, rude old woman, but I have met worse, and worse could befall me. In Albania, the bride goes to her husband’s kin. As the newest of the family, she is lowest in precedence. All the women—mother, sisters, aunts, grandmothers—order her about. If they wish to be disagreeable, they can make her life wretched, and she must endure it, because she is outnumbered. Here, it is only one vexatious woman—and the maid tells me my cousin is coming.”
She had managed to compose herself while she spoke. She turned now, able to meet Varian’s anxious gaze with a reassuring smile. “Percival has been expelled from school—again—and my uncle is banishing him to the old lady, because he cannot be bothered with his troublesome son.”
“Esme, it’s not like that with me. You must know that, surely.”
“I know. I was not comparing you to my ignorant uncle. I only tell you I am glad Sir Gerald is so, for Percival will soon be here and I shall have an ally. You may go about your affairs with an easy heart. He and I shall outnumber her.”
Varian came to her then, put his arms about her, and crushed her close. “I’m sorry, darling. You can’t know how sorry. But I’ll be back soon. A few weeks. No more.”
A few weeks. In London. Among his old friends, like those idle men who’d brought them to England. Laughing, gambling, drinking, whoring.
Esme closed her eyes.
“Only a very short while,” he said.
She believed he meant it, for now at least, and now was all that mattered to him. Now, this night, was all she had. Then he’d go, and all would change. She’d not quarrel or complain, not this last night, the last one in which she might be sure of him.
Because she was sure, for this moment, she eased back in his arms and reached up to cup his beautiful face in her hands.
“Make love to me,” she said. “Enough to keep me these few weeks…until you come back…and make love to me again.”
It was still dark when Varian left the room. Esme was asleep, deep in dreamless sleep, he knew. He had shared her bed long enough now and lain awake often enough-watching, listening, thinkin
g—to know. He left while she was sleeping because he couldn’t bear a farewell. They’d said it without words last night, in those long aching hours of lovemaking. Then he’d drunk in her scent and her soft cries of passion, and loved her. Needily. And angrily. And desperately. He’d wanted to memorize her. He’d wanted to burn her into his heart, not so he wouldn’t forget, but that he might take her with him in some way.
He not been able to let her go since the night he’d first touched her. This time, he must let go. That “must” meant he dared not wake her, dared not say goodbye. If he did, his resolve would fail…and he’d fail her.
He’d made everything ready in his own room the night before, while the maid had helped Esme prepare for bed. He’d even written the note.
Varian had only to dress, take up his bag, and leave. He did so without looking back.
Eager to be rid of him, Lady Brentmor had apparently sent word to the stables. Though the sun was only beginning to rise, Varian found one stable man brightly awake and prepared to accommodate his lordship.
Less than half an hour after he’d left the warmth of his wife’s bed, Varian was on his way to London.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Varian made a detour round Eden Green, deliberately avoiding its homey public house. He was in no mood for local gossip, especially when he would be the focus of it. The afternoon was waning under thickening gray clouds, and his horse was tired. Mount Eden’s stables were merely two miles away, and the deserted estate would offer all the privacy one wanted. Unfortunately, it would offer nothing else.
He headed down the overgrown path that skirted the village and ended back on the main road a safe distance away. As he rounded a turn, he saw smoke rising from the chimneys of the Black Bramble inn and breathed a sigh of relief. Unlike Eden Green’s Jolly Bear, the Bramble catered to travelers. On this bitter winter day, the yard was empty of carriages, as he’d hoped. Few would journey on such a day if they could help it.
Upon giving his mount into the hostler’s care, however, Varian saw the stables were not entirely empty. Two sorry-looking hacks were munching disconsolately in their stalls.
Moments later, he found their riders in the public dining room. They, too, were eating, but with greater enthusiasm.
One was a slim, dark-haired fellow who talked excitedly in between stuffing hunks of meat pie into his mouth. The other said little, only nodded now and then while he applied himself to his plate with steady determination. He was bulkier in build, and his light brown hair was not so fashionably styled as his companion’s. Though their backs were to him, Varian recognized them quickly enough.
By the time they heard him enter and looked round he’d already collected himself.
Two pairs of eyes—one brown, one dark blue—widened. Varian calmly crossed the room to them.
“If you must gape, Damon,” he said, “you might at least swallow your food first. What a rude fellow you’ve become.”
The younger of the pair, whom he’d addressed, leapt up. “I say, it is you, isn’t it? By heaven—of all that’s—but I said so, Gideon, didn’t I? Didn’t I say we’d find him?” He started to move toward Varian, then hesitated and stood, unsure, looking at him.
Gideon had risen as well, but with more dignity, first putting his utensils aside. “Sir, I am delighted to see you.” He held out his hand. “Welcome home, my lord.”
A mist obscured Varian’s vision for an instant, but he blinked it away and grasped his brother’s hand. “Well, met, Gilly.” He turned and gave his hand to Damon. “And you, too, Dervish.”
Damon’s uneasy expression brightened into a grin. “There, isn’t it just like him?” he asked Gideon. “Walks in cool as you please and tells me to mind my manners—as though he’d last seen us four hours ago, not four years. But come, you’re right. I’ve no manners. Do sit down. You look fagged to death. No, there, closer to the fire. We’ve had hours to warm up. I was all for keeping on to Mount Eden, but Gideon still keeps country hours and must have his dinner, and we couldn’t be sure to find any there, not on short notice. But now I’m glad he’s such a piece of clockwork, because we might have missed you—” He broke off. “But you’re alone. Where is she?”
While Damon had been chattering, Varian had taken off his cloak and put on his guard. He was preparing for the “she” before the question was out of Damon’s mouth. Now their hostess bustled in and curtsied herself breathless. While she regathered her wind, Varian calmly ordered his dinner. Not until she’d left the room did he return his attention to Damon. “Where is whom?”
“Oh, don’t tease, Varian. We’ve—”
“Damon refers to Lady Edenmont,” Gideon interrupted, flicking a warning glance at their youngest sibling. “At least, we were informed there exists such an entity.”
“I see,” said Varian. “Lackliffe and Sellowby made direct for London, I take it?”
“I’m told they did not even change out of traveling garb, but raced to Brooks’ club. Within two hours, the news was all over the west end. It was the talk of Almack’s that very night, and the next day I was summoned to Carlton House to satisfy His Highness’ curiosity.”
“I do beg your pardon, Gilly. My mind was taken up with other matters, else I’d have given you some warning. I’m sorry I placed you in so awkward a predicament.”
“Oh, Gideon wasn’t the least discomfited,” said Damon. “He gave one of his explanations, and by the end of it, Prinny no longer cared what day of the week it was. He sent for his physician and demanded to be bled. But you have returned, Varian, so that much of the tale is true. Not that I doubted them. It was only the rest that was so hard to take in. But you will tell us, won’t you? Have we got a sister at last, and is her hair truly red, and are her eyes as green as Lackliffe says?”
“Her eyes,” Varian said, “are quite…green.”
“I see,” said Gideon. He carefully lined up the handles of his fork and knife, then made a long, careful business of arranging his napkin.
Damon sat back in his chair, his deep blue gaze fixed on his eldest brother’s face.
“And so you set out from London in pursuit, I collect,” Varian said as the silence lengthened uncomfortably. “You thought I’d take Lady Edenmont to the ancestral…ruins.”
“I did not think so,” Gideon answered. “I only accompanied Damon out of concern that he’d otherwise wander about the kingdom for years, searching for his brother—as though you were the Holy Grail.”
Damon flushed. “We did find you, though, didn’t we? Dash it, Varian, I don’t wish to be indelicate—but where the devil is she?”
“With her grandmother.” There was a tightening in Varian’s chest, followed by a fierce shaft of pain. He stared hard at a gravy stain near Damon’s plate. “Don’t let your dinner cool on my account, gentlemen. I shall tell you all about it, once our hostess returns with the wine.”
They went with Varian to Mount Eden the next morning, despite his frigid objections. He’d thought he’d told his tale well, with just the right note of coolly detached amusement. Yet at the end, they’d both looked very grave, and he’d glimpsed something horribly like pity in Damon’s eyes.
Still, Damon was young and excessively romantic, and he’d always idolized his oldest brother—heaven only knew why. Gideon’s feelings were not so blatant. He’d always been the sober one. Quiet, occasionally priggish, but always thoughtful, calm…discreet.
Nonetheless, their feelings were plain enough to Varian. They didn’t think he could bear seeing Mount Eden without moral support, and that was unbearable: to find his brothers determined to support him in what they believed to be his hour of need…when he’d never, not once, given their needs, their problems, more than a second’s thought.
They stood at present in what had once been a sumptuous library.
Not a book remained, not so much as a tract. The walls were stripped bare, and the floors were thick with dust, debris, and mouse droppings.
It was an old house
, needing constant upkeep. Varian’s father had been conscientious in that regard—as in every other—until Varian had begun getting himself into difficulties, which soon mounted to tens of thousands in debts. Though the family was well off, their resources weren’t limitless. To rescue his heir, the late Lord Edenmont had to put off rescuing the house. After his death, Varian had abandoned the estate entirely.
What he now observed was the result of at least ten years’ neglect, all his own doing.
“There’s something to be thankful for,” Varian said as he looked up. “At least I can put a roof over my lady’s head.”
“Stewards are a selfish lot,” Gideon said. “They will insist on wages. Still, it might be worse, considering no one’s looked after the place these last years. There’s a great deal of dirt, certainly, and the paint wants to be renewed. It’s not nearly so bad as it appears, however.”
“Certainly not. All it wants is money—and a staff—and more money.” Varian moved to the fireplace. Broken bits of mortar lay within. “This chimney has its mind on tumbling, I believe.”
“It’s obliged to respect the laws of gravity.”
“You’d better tell me about the tenants,” Varian said, his eyes still upon the chimney fragments. “For your sake, I won’t visit them just yet. If I were stoned by an angry mob, you’d inherit, poor fellow, and I know you’d far rather be hanged.”
“Oh, Gideon’s lived in terror you’d get yourself killed on the Continent.” Damon was standing by the French doors, and his voice echoed across the cavernous room. “He’s so thrilled you’re shackled at last, I daresay he’ll rebuild the entire estate for you, singlehanded—and the nursery first of all.”
There was that cruel tightening again in Varian’s chest and the dart of pain.
“Excuse me,” he said.
They watched him leave, but didn’t speak or try to follow him. Varian heard no sound but his own footsteps as he left the library and climbed the stairs. He saw nothing of the stairs or hallways, thick with dirt and cobwebs. He heard nothing of the small, wild creatures scrambling in panic at the sound of human footfalls. Varian knew nothing of his surroundings until he opened the door he sought, heard it squeal painfully, and stood on its threshold, staring into the nursery.
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