by Robyn DeHart
“Fletcher,” she whispered. Her heart began to thunder. What on earth was he doing here?
“I need to speak with you.”
“Gardens. I’ll unlock the gate.” She pointed to the right of her house so that he’d go around. She’d simply meet him outside. She wrapped her dressing gown around her, then slipped out of her bedchamber, silently closing the door behind her. Had he come to complete his seduction of her? The thundering of her heart was accompanied by a jolt of lightning to her senses. But when she opened the gate and took in his red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, her heart stuttered. She cupped his face. “Fletcher?”
“My father died.”
She pulled him into her arms and held him against her. He smelled faintly of liquor. She grabbed his hand, threading their fingers together and pulled him farther into the gardens. There was a patch in the darkest corner, where the gardeners never could get much to grow. Now it was covered in soft, thick grass. She pulled him down with her and they lay back and looked up at the stars.
“When I was a child, I used to lay out in the fields behind our country house and watch the stars. I always found it calming and it oddly made me feel less lonely,” she said.
They were quiet for several moments, merely lying next to each other, their hands linked together.
“I don’t even know why I’m upset,” he said. “We were never close. I don’t even have many memories of us living in the same house. After Jefferson was born, Mother got with child shortly thereafter.” He shook his head. “She and that baby didn’t survive the birth. Father sent us here to London to live with Grandfather.”
“That doesn’t matter, he was still your father. Grief does not need to be reconciled.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
She wished she knew the right thing to say or do to ease his pain. She’d never lost anyone close to her. “I do know what it’s like to not feel particularly close to your parents. My mother sees me as nothing more than a rival. As a child, the only times I ever saw her was when they’d have parties at the country house. She’d be so attentive and doting and I’d feel so loved. Then she’d leave with the guests. It took me coming here to realize those times had only been a performance for her. Pretending to be a loving mother. It’s not that she doesn’t care for me, she simply doesn’t know how to love. At least anyone but herself.”
“You deserved better than that,” he said. His hand squeezed hers. “I remember little of my mother except that she was beautiful and kind.” He exhaled slowly.
“Your grandfather, he’s terrible to you, isn’t he?” They’d spoken of him a few times before, but she’d never gotten any specifics about his nasty behavior.
He pulled her over to him so her head lay on his chest, then he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.
“He is. But it’s not just me. He’s hateful to everyone. Though no one has ever confirmed it, I’ve always believed my grandmother killed herself just to get away from him.”
His chest vibrated against her ear as he spoke. Her heart ached for him, for the boy he’d been and the man he was. It seemed they were both somewhat alone in this world.
“I stuttered when I was a boy. Badly. He teased me relentlessly. Eventually I stopped talking. Didn’t say a single word for over a year.”
She might not have had a loving mother, but she’d never been subjected to abuse from any other family member. She ran her hand over his chest.
“You deserved better, too, Fletcher. And I’m so sorry about your father.”
He kissed her head several times, but he didn’t speak again. At some point later, when the fingers of dawn were beginning to stretch across the sky, he woke her and sent her back inside.
Chapter Seventeen
Fletcher dropped himself into a chair at Benedict’s and ordered a drink. He didn’t come here often, but every now and then it was the perfect place. It wasn’t as if he could go home and drink in the comfort of his own study. Nothing in that townhome actually belonged to him. At least not legally. Not for the first time he considered renting a townhome of his own, but anytime he’d mentioned it, his grandfather had insisted that he needed him at the family address.
His father was dead now, which meant he was now the Marquess of Longley. In addition to the new title, he also inherited all of his father’s holdings. He didn’t want any of that. Perhaps he’d merely give it all to Jefferson. His brother preferred life in the country as their father had.
He hadn’t meant to turn to Agnes when he’d gotten word of his father’s death, but he’d immediately gone to her. A moth to the proverbial flame. A compass to true north.
Fletcher swore. All of this was his own damned fault. He should have known that agreeing to this foolish plan would bring him nothing but misery. Still he’d been unable to deny her request. He’d always wanted her. But he’d been content to want her from afar. Now he’d tasted her, felt her come apart in his arms. He wasn’t so certain he could walk away, even if it was the right thing to do.
Fletcher swore again.
Benedict Farrow stopped by Fletcher’s table and lowered himself into a chair.
“To what do I owe the honor of sharing a table with this fine establishment’s proprietor?” Fletcher asked.
“You’re scaring off my regular customers with all your cursing and glowering.”
Fletcher glanced around the room, which was elbow-to-elbow filled with people. “Evidently.”
“I think the more appropriate question is what do I owe the honor of your presence tonight? As well as three other nights this week. While I appreciate the business, you’re not actually doing anything here, save glaring at people from this back corner table.” Benedict leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. When Fletcher made no move to speak, Benedict merely nodded. “I should give you a key to my offices. At least you and Davenport could commiserate on your misery together. Should I assume your foul mood is also due to a woman?”
Fletcher’s brows rose, then glanced around the room. “Davenport is here?”
“Not at the moment, but he was.” Benedict shook his head.
“There is a woman,” Fletcher finally said.
Benedict chuckled. “There is always a woman. In fact, it seems to be an epidemic as of late.”
“I want her, but I cannot have her.”
“She is already married then?” Benedict asked.
“No. Her brother made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that I am not worthy of her attention. And he’s not wrong. I don’t deserve her. But he also threatened to end my job if I so much as touched her.” He took another swallow of his drink. “Still, there is more at play than even her brother knows, and she’s in danger without the protection of a husband.”
“You require her brother’s blessing?”
“No, of course not. But he holds my future position with our organization in his hands. And I am supposed to be protecting her, ensuring her safety while he is away. Instead, I have taken liberties.” God, he was a bastard.
Again, Benedict nodded. “If being married to you would protect her, then it seems her brother has no legitimate argument.”
“She could marry someone else, though she insists she has no want of a husband.”
“Well, that’s ridiculous. All chits want to get married. They’re taught that from when they’re in short dresses.” Benedict scraped his hand over his whiskers. “Perhaps she only told you that because she wants someone else. Consider that?”
She wants me. God, he hated that his heart seemed to grow beneath that thought. “Another man is likely a better choice. I have nothing to offer her.”
“That did not answer my question.”
“It matters not. Marriage in this town doesn’t work as such, you must know that.”
Benedict nodded. “Doesn’t mean it can’t.” He threaded his fingers through his hair. “I’m going to start charging a fee for all the relationship advice I’ve given as of late.”
“If you are so unworthy, tell me, who does deserve this lady of yours?” Benedict asked.
Who deserved Agnes? With her incomparable beauty and clever mind and generous spirit? No one did. Fletcher shook his head. “No one deserves her.”
“Then you are no worse a choice for her than any other man.” Benedict leaned forward. “If you want the girl and she’ll have you, you should marry her. It’s as simple as that.” He stood. “Now I shall leave you to it. Try not to throw my decanters at anyone. They’re expensive.”
If you want the girl, you should marry her. Simple.
He was ridiculous. Nothing was ever that simple.
…
With the exception of Fletcher’s midnight visit to her the other night, Agnes hadn’t spoken to him in days. She knew he was here; that he’d followed her to Brookhaven. She’d seen him at the previous night’s ball. He’d stood, on the perimeter, watching, but he’d made no move to engage with her.
She’d figured out why he was avoiding her. They’d been intimate, though her virtue remained intact, he’d touched her, kissed her. He’d made her want things she knew she couldn’t have. Perhaps now he was worried that she would try to force his hand to marry her.
She needed to speak with him, assure him she’d never do such a thing. She glanced down at her breakfast plate and pushed it aside. Harriet, who sat next to her at the table, was staring blankly at her own untouched plate of food.
“Harriet, are you all right?” Agnes asked.
“Of course,” Harriet said, her tone uncharacteristically sharp. She met Agnes’s gaze and slowly exhaled. “My apologies. I’m afraid I didn’t get much sleep last night. I shouldn’t have been cross with you.”
Agnes hadn’t gotten much sleep herself, but then she often didn’t like staying in a new place. “You do look a little flushed. Is that headache still pestering you?”
“Sorry?” Harriet asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Last night,” Agnes said. “You left the ball early because of a headache.” Though now that was seeming an unlikely reason for her departure from the party.
“Yes, yes, my head has been aching terribly.” She rubbed at her temples. “So much so that I’m afraid it’s affecting my cognitive abilities this morning.”
Harriet was behaving strangely. Agnes was almost certain her friend was lying, but about what, she had no notion. She could pry, but if Harriet wanted Agnes to know something, she would simply tell her. More than likely this had to do with Lord Davenport’s proposal.
Harriet smiled. “Were you able to ask Justine and Tilly anything last night about whether or not they’d received any messages from Lady X? Lady Somersby informed us in the most recent meeting that she had gotten one.”
“Yes, neither of them had. I didn’t mention mine.” Agnes shook her head. “I trust them, truly I do, but until this mess is cleaned up, I want to be certain before divulging certain information.” She did trust her friends so much so that she didn’t want to burden them with anything new. Fletcher had called them in to help identify her secret suitor. Harriet wanted to investigate the mysterious Lady X. Agnes could manage it all—divide her focus, as it were.
Her life had nearly revolved around the Ladies of Virtue for the last few years. They were as much a family as her blood.
“That’s perfectly understandable. They haven’t been members as long as we have.”
They were just leaving the breakfast room when a servant came to them and bowed. “His lordship has requested you meet him in the armory.”
“Me?” Harriet asked.
“Both of you,” the footman said. “You are Lady Harriet and Miss Watkins?”
They nodded in unison.
“His lordship instructed,” he said. “Please follow me.”
They followed the servant to the opposite end of the house. They had all been instructed, upon arrival, that the wing was under construction and would be off-limits to all guests. It would seem that such rules did not apply when the lord of the manor wanted to wed you.
The servant stopped once they’d reached a pair of double doors. “Inside. But this is where I leave you.” He bowed, then left them.
“How intriguing,” Agnes said.
Harriet took hold of the door handles and pulled. They entered a small outer chamber and found another group of doors. Once inside, Lord Davenport turned from the window where he’d been standing.
“Splendid. I’m glad you both were able to come,” he said. He leaned on his cane as he walked toward them.
Agnes scanned the room and saw that Lord Davenport had done to this room what Harriet had done to a makeshift meeting room for their group. Once Lady Somersby had put the Ladies of Virtue on hiatus, Harriet had felt strongly about them having a place where they could still practice their skills. Remain physically fit.
All of the women in the group had been taught various fighting skills, with the primary goal of them being able to defend themselves should the need ever arise. It was something that had motivated Lady Somersby when she’d created their group. The women taking on petty thieves had been an aftereffect.
Mattresses, positioned side by side, padded the floor. A myriad of weaponry graced the top of a table. And then it hit Agnes. Lord Davenport knew about their group. Agnes smacked Harriet on the arm. “He knows?” she hissed.
Harriet grimaced. “I’ll explain later.”
“Miss Watkins, have no fear, your secret is safe with me.” He walked toward them, then his wintery eyes settled on Harriet. “You may continue your training here without the concern that anyone will discover you. This area is off-limits to everyone save the two of you,” he said.
Despite her initial caution, Agnes could not hide her glee. “This is marvelous, my lord. Thank you.” Besides, she couldn’t chastise Harriet when Fletcher also knew of their group.
“Now then, I shall leave you to it.” He stopped right next to Harriet. “Know that when you are my wife, you will have access to this and any other resource you need. I wish not to change anything about you.” Then he whispered something for only her ears.
Harriet stared at the closed doors, her mouth gaping open.
Agnes bumped her friend’s hip with her own.
“Why would he do this?” Harriet asked.
“Because he quite obviously likes you,” Agnes said.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, you’re ridiculous.” Agnes slipped off her shoes and bounced a bit on the mattresses to test their give. This was precisely what she needed. A physical outlet that might help her overcome her obsessive thoughts about Fletcher. Or at the very least, keep them at bay for an hour or two. Then she remembered something she’d overheard the night before. “Do you know that I heard the most extraordinary thing about Lord Davenport?”
Harriet’s eyes widened. “And you haven’t told me yet?”
“I haven’t had a chance.” They sat facing each other on the mattresses. “His overspending serves a greater purpose.”
“That makes no sense.” Harriet shook her head as if to shake off the words themselves.
“Actually, it does. His ties to Benedict’s. Rumor has it that they grew up together and lived near each other. Oliver’s father, a marquess, convinced Benedict’s father, a baron, to make a certain investment. They lost everything. Benedict’s father had to sell the title and small estate. Davenport is reported to have funded Benedict’s gaming hell and then ensured it became the most popular club so that his friend would regain his own family’s lost fortune.”
Harriet sucked in a breath.
“They also said that he did the design of this house, to rebuild it, and did much of the labor himself,” Agnes continued. Her friend’s cheeks had turned a pretty shade of pink.
“Perhaps I have misjudged him,” Harriet whispered.
“Perhaps. Do you want to talk about it?” Agnes asked.
Harriet shook her head.
Agnes sprang to her feet. “Shall we practice then?”
“Yes.”
“Should we invite Justine and Tilly?”
Harriet shook her head. “I can’t imagine that they would be upset, but I’d rather they not know that Lord Davenport is aware of our group. So many members blamed Iris for the exposure in Lord Ashby’s newspaper.”
Agnes hid a wince considering both of their friends knew that Fletcher was in on their secret. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”
After warming up, Harriet and Agnes sparred for several moments before either of them spoke again. “I have missed this,” Agnes said. “I do hope we uncover Lady X’s identity soon so that we can return to our duties.”
“Indeed. That woman has ruined everything for us. Before we know it, pickpockets will have the run of Bond Street,” Harriet said.
“Perhaps Iris and Lord Ashby are having some fortune uncovering the woman’s identity,” Agnes said.
“Or they’re busy planning their wedding.”
“As you could be planning your own,” Agnes said.
Harriet scoffed. “He doesn’t truly want to marry me.”
She wondered how her friend could be so very blind. It was quite evident that Lord Davenport was rather smitten with her, but Harriet refused to see it. If there was enduring love, she knew her Harriet would be the one to find it. No one deserved it more.
Agnes felt a pang of jealousy. A ridiculous feeling since she didn’t even want to get married. Still she wanted to know what passion felt like. Unrestrained, unguarded passion. She was likely a fool that she was considering her mother’s advice. She wanted one night in the arms of the man she desired more than anything.
Chapter Eighteen
Later that evening, Agnes took a shuddering breath and opened the door. The dressing gown rubbed against her naked skin, making her aware of every part of her body. Fletcher sat in a chair by the window, his attention focused on a book in his hands. He wore no shirt, only his trousers and his feet were bare. This was right. He was right.
“Fletcher,” she said his name softly, softer than she’d intended. She cleared her throat and called him again.
