by Lenora Bell
He left her then.
Tall and strong, walking away in the rain.
Back to the carriage. He’d go to Balfry House, maybe.
Or he’d go to the devil.
The barricades he’d erected were too high and too thick. And she had walls of her own to blast apart. They waited for her back in the parlor.
She was not going to cry.
She had her own battles to fight and she needed to be strong and uncompromising to withstand the maelstrom of censure that would attempt to bend her back into obedience.
She’d stand firm. She wasn’t going anywhere. No one was going to control her anymore.
The dowager’s steely tones met her at the door. “Well? What happened, child? Did you accept the duke—”
“Stop!” Thea walked into the center of the room, planted her muddy boots on the blue-and-white carpet, and clenched her fists. “Not one more word.”
“Lady Dorothea,” hissed the countess. “You forget—”
“You can’t speak,” Thea interrupted. “For once in your lives, you’re both going to sit there and listen!”
“Well!” The dowager fell back in her chair.
“I’ve refused the duke,” Thea announced.
“Pardon me? Did I hear that correctly? Refused—”
She raised her voice, nearly shouting to be heard over the dowager. “I choose to live the rest of my days as a spinster here in Ireland rather than marry someone who doesn’t love me.”
She whirled on her mother. “I don’t want a loveless sham of a union such as yours.”
“You ungrateful little fool,” the dowager spat. “You don’t know what you’re speaking about.”
“This is what I will say, whether you hear me or not,” Thea said, struggling to keep calm. “I’m a woman. Not a marionette dancing to your whims. I have needs and thoughts of my own. You’ll never control me again.” She glared first at the dowager and then at her mother, daring them to disagree.
The room filled with a charged silence.
Aunt Hen and Aunt Emma stared at her with the exact same befuddled expression, the lace on their caps wobbling, plump hands folded in their laps.
The dowager thumped her cane on the floor. “What a world! Young ladies speaking so to their elders. This is insubordination. Mutiny. It will not be tolerated.”
“Oh, hush, you domineering tyrant,” said the countess. “This isn’t mutiny. It’s truth.”
Thea swung to face her mother. “Why, thank you, Mother.” How unexpected that her mother would rise to her defense.
The countess rose from her chair and advanced on her mother-in-law. “You raised an egotistical, profligate son, indulging his every whim as if he were Julius Caesar. I don’t think Lady Dorothea needs your guidance. If she doesn’t want to marry the duke, then she shan’t. And that’s the end of it.”
Thea felt like cheering.
“But you heard what he said,” the dowager said coldly. “She’s ruined. Damaged goods.”
Thea lifted her chin. “By my own choice.”
“You little fool,” hissed the dowager.
“I understand why she doesn’t want a marriage like mine.” Thea’s mother slashed an elegant hand through the air. “Desmond neglects me. He makes a fool of me. He takes a new mistress every month and flaunts her around town. I’m sick of it, I tell you. I’ve had enough.”
Thea experienced the strangest feeling of admiration for her mother. For the first time she saw the vulnerability beneath the cold, hard surface.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” Aunt Emma agreed, with a decisive nod.
The dowager’s nostrils flared and her mouth snapped shut with an audible click. “I’ve never been so mistreated in my life. I advised Desmond not to marry you, you . . . harpy.” She grasped her cane and jerked to her feet. “Come along, Henrietta, we’re leaving this very moment.”
Aunt Hen glanced up from where she and Aunt Emma had been watching the exchange from their armchairs by the fire.
“You know?” She cocked her head. “I think I’ll stay here with Emma, Mother.” She lifted her soft, round chin. “She needs help tending her bees. I should be inured to stings by now.”
The dowager blinked. “That’s completely absurd. You can’t stay here. Who will prepare my tinctures?”
“Why, I don’t know.” Aunt Hen’s lips curved in a half-guilty, half-gleeful smile. “And to be completely honest, I don’t much care.” She half jumped out of her chair, as if she couldn’t believe she’d said the words.
Thea gave her an encouraging smile. She’d always felt sorry for poor, cowed Aunt Hen.
“We’ll travel back together,” the countess said to the dowager.
The dowager narrowed her pale eyes. “I won’t travel with you.”
“You’ve no choice.” The countess gave Thea a brief flicker of a smile. “You’re saddled with me now.”
Instead of continuing to Balfry House, Dalton had the carriage drive back to the quay. He didn’t want to visit Balfry yet. Maybe he wouldn’t visit at all.
Everything there would remind of Alec . . . and Thea.
The quay crawled with merchants disgorging their cargo and fishmongers loading carts in the gray, misty afternoon.
Not even a hint of roses here. Fish guts and salt brine. Hot tar and seagull droppings.
The Rambler was gone, of course. Alec had sailed back to New York, taking young Van with him, keeping him safe from the dark legacy of the Osborne family.
Couldn’t blame him, really.
Thea thought he should have fought harder, but if Alec didn’t want to be his brother, he couldn’t force him.
He should go find Con, tell him the news.
There was no killer to find. No killer at all.
Alec was alive and well. And the man who stole him dead and gone.
Nothing to wreak revenge upon. No more searching and plotting and running.
There was an odd feeling in his chest. An emptiness, as if there had been a heart there and it had been wrenched out, leaving him concave and hollow.
All the emotion leached from his mind.
Only observations now.
I’m walking along a quay.
Thea’s with her family and she’s angry and hurt.
I hurt her. Just as I knew I would.
But what else could he have done? It was wrong to mail that letter, probably, but he hadn’t known her very well at that stage and he’d thought he was doing the right thing.
He hadn’t wanted to limit her options. Give her regrets.
Christ, you really made a mess of things, didn’t you?
No woman wanted a forced proposal flung at her like that. Of course she’d refused him. And the suffering in those wide, stormy eyes.
She’d wanted him to beg her forgiveness, give her all the pretty words she needed to hear and he’d been . . . empty. Reeling from the knowledge that he’d built his life around a lie.
As long as we draw breath we can change. Until we’re only bones resting in a crypt we have the power to shape our own destinies.
Something about her words struck him then, and he stopped walking, staring out over the bristling masts and choppy gray ocean.
She thought he could change.
Could he? With time, could he become the man she needed him to be?
Mitigate the threat of Trent somehow. Find other ways to fight for justice.
Less dangerous ways. So that she would never be a target.
And if he changed . . . then would she have him?
“Hello!” a small voice shouted.
Dalton turned his head.
Alec walked toward him along the pier, holding Van by the hand. The boy waved and called to him again. “Hello!”
Tentatively, Dalton raised his hand. Then, when his brain began to process what his eyes saw, he waved his hand harder.
“Hello,” he shouted, striding toward them. “I thought your ship sailed,” he said, when he reached them.
Alec grunted. “There’ll be other ships.”
“Hello Van,” Dalton said.
Van tugged on his father’s hand. “What do I call a duke?” he whispered.
Dalton glanced at Alec.
“You can call him uncle,” Alec said in a tight voice.
The empty place in Dalton’s chest began to fill.
What did that mean? Was Alec willing to hear his side of the story?
He didn’t dare hope too much.
Alec’s eyes softened a fraction. “Is it true what the lady said about our mother?”
Dalton nodded. “Losing you fair killed her. She’s afraid to leave the house.”
“Why’s she afraid?” asked Van. “Is there a bad man outside the house?”
“She thought there was,” Dalton said.
Alec met his eye. Dalton saw a tentative understanding there.
“O’Roarke was an orphan,” Alec said. “We’ve no family in New York.” He straightened. “My wife died in childbirth and her parents are gone.”
Poor Van. “You have a mother,” Dalton said. “And Van has a grandmother. Her name is Abigail. She lives at Osborne Court in London.”
Van cocked his head. “Do I truly have a grandmother?”
“You do.” Dalton dropped to his knees on the muddy quay. “She has your father’s same green eyes. And she owns at least five fluffy cats. Ten maybe. I dunno.” He scratched his head and made a face. “All look the same, those fat orange tabbies.”
Van laughed delightedly. “That’s a lot of cats. Does she have sweets to eat?”
“Cupboards full.”
He nodded decisively. “I’d like to meet this grandmother.”
“Well, I don’t know. That’s up to your father.”
Dalton stood.
“I think it could be arranged,” Alec said gruffly. “And what did the lady mean about you avenging our father’s sins?”
“Now that’s a very long story,” Dalton said. “One that involves sword fighting. And dark alleyways.”
Van’s eyes lit. “Like Rob Roy?”
“Something like.”
“Sounds interesting,” Alec said, a tentative smile playing across his lips. “Care for a pint?”
Dalton nodded. “I might at that.” He glanced down at Van. “May I?” he asked Alec, holding out his hand.
Alec grunted. Dalton clasped Van’s hand.
They walked along the pier, two men and a boy.
Thea had been right again about Alec being able to give Dalton a chance.
She was always right, damn her marmalade curls.
But she was wrong about one thing.
The instant he took Van’s hand, he’d had a sudden, blinding realization.
He loved Thea. Deeply.
Irrevocably.
He’d leave her for a time, as she’d commanded, but damned if he wouldn’t fight to have her back in his arms.
With his brother striding next to him, and his nephew’s hand in his, anything seemed possible.
And the world agreed. The driving rain had been chased away by brave sunshine and the world was sharp-edged and saturated with light.
And damn if there weren’t faint, shimmering bands of color across the sky like the memory of Thea’s smile chasing away the darkness in his heart.
His heart.
The one beating wildly inside his chest, pumping hope through his body.
If his brother could begin to forgive him . . . if they could talk about the reasons O’Roarke stole him, maybe Dalton could convince Thea to give him another chance.
He wasn’t going to let this be the end.
“Look,” said Van, pointing at the sky. “A rainbow.”
Chapter 25
“Wake up, dearie. Wake up now.” Aunt Emma bustled into Thea’s bedchamber, followed by Aunt Hen, the two of them rustling about, drawing drapes and poking grates.
A shaft of sunlight flitted across the cheerful red-and-yellow quilt.
Thea rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Half ten, you lazy thing. And you’ve a visitor. Hurry now,” Aunt Emma urged.
“A visitor?” Thea sat bolt upright, her mind racing ahead to the duke in the parlor, pacing back and forth, very much the handsome rogue in that dark blue coat that matched his eyes.
“Oh yes, sweetheart,” said Aunt Hen. “A big brute of a fellow carrying the most enormous parcel.”
Thea thrust off her covers and jumped out of bed.
Aunt Hen smiled indulgently. “Only he’s not the duke, dearie.”
“Oh no, not the duke. Says he’s the duke’s manservant,” Aunt Emma said. “Though he doesn’t much look like any manservant I’ve seen.”
Thea strove to hide her disappointment. Why was Con here? Had Dalton sent him to talk to her? Her heart sped again as she quickly ran a soft-bristled brush through her curls.
She scrubbed her teeth at the washbasin as Aunt Emma and Aunt Hen fussed about, laying her gown out on the bed and fetching her stays.
“No time to waste, dearie,” Aunt Hen said, clucking her tongue against her teeth when Thea was dressed. “Lace up those smart red boots now.”
“Did you clean them? Oh, how kind of you.” Thea gulped back a jag of emotion when she saw those brave boots, all the mud gone, glowing strong and red yet again.
Thea flew down the stairs. “Con!” Dear old Con, ducking his head and tugging on his gray beard, hiding his pleasure behind a gruff façade.
“Grand day, isn’t it, my lady? I brought you something from the duke.” He hoisted a large, flat package in his hands. “He said you’ve been looking for this.”
It couldn’t be . . . was it the self-portrait? It was wrapped in white linen. Tears pricked her eyes. Thea was fairly certain what lay beneath that linen and twine.
Con set it against the wall. “I told him he should come himself but he was that set on leaving for London today.”
Her heart fell. “He’s gone?”
“Afraid so, my lady. He left with Alec . . . Mr. O’Roarke . . . and his young nephew only an hour ago.”
“With his brother? And his nephew? Are you sure?”
Con grinned. “Sure, and I’m sure. I don’t know what you said to that duke, but he told me he turned right back around after he left Ballybrack and returned to the docks. Convinced that brother of his to go with him to London and meet their mother.”
“Oh, Con, that’s wonderful!”
Thea just knew that discovering her son was alive, and meeting her grandson, would heal the dowager duchess of her ailment and free her from her self-imposed prison.
“But . . . you didn’t go with him, Con? Does that mean . . . Mrs. Barton . . .”
His whiskers retreated into his collar as he smiled shyly. “Well now, Bronagh didn’t try to kill me with her bare hands. It’s a start. And she did allow me to sleep on the sofa instead of putting me out to pasture with the cattle. A very hopeful sign, if you know Bronagh and her ways.”
“And Molly? Is her mother very angry with her?”
“She came round. Even ate some mussels after I steamed them in beer the way she used to love.”
Thea clasped her hands together. “I’m happy for you, Con.”
He cleared his throat. “There’s something else. Nearly unbelievable ’tis. The duke’s appointed me landlord at Balfry House. Going to see about leaving it to me, permanent like. We’re to restore the tenancy. And ensure rich lands for the farmers to till.” He blinked rapidly. “And Molly’s the proud owner of a library-full of books. She’ll never read them all.”
“Won’t she love that?” It was Thea’s turn to blink back tears.
“And this isn’t the only gift for you, my lady. He said the entire contents of the attic were to come here, to Ballybrack.” He glanced around the small room doubtfully. “But the Lord only knows where you’ll put them.”
“How magnanimous of the duke.” A small voice in Thea’s head couldn’t help but wonder . . . w
ere the paintings a parting gift?
Thea turned away from the concern in Con’s kindly blue eyes.
“He only pushes you away because he cares for you,” Con said. “Think back on your childhood. Did you ever have a lad pull on your plaits? He only did it because he fancied you.”
Thea shook her head. “I never had any playmates.”
Con frowned. “Well, trust me when I say we men are a heathen lot. Undeserving of your sweet smiles. And the duke more heathen than most. Don’t give up on him, my lady.”
“I told him to leave and never come back.”
Con tugged at his beard. “And did you mean it?”
“I . . .” Thea closed her eyes. “No,” she finally whispered.
“Well then, it’ll all work out, I’ve no doubt. Just remember, my lady, sometimes the good Lord reveals his plan in his own time. To make life more interesting like.”
“Will you stay for tea, Con?”
“Nah, I’ve got to get back to Bronagh before she changes her mind.” He set his cap back on his head. “I’ll be seeing you soon, my lady.”
“Goodbye, Con.”
Watching him leave, Thea realized the journey was truly over. Dalton had gone back to London and she was here, where she’d wanted to be, with Aunt Emma in Ireland. She should be happy.
Aunt Hen and Aunt Emma hurried into the room.
“What did he want?”
“Did he give you a message from the duke?”
They fluttered around Thea, fluffing her hair and guiding her toward the package.
“Unwrap it, dearie!” Aunt Hen said.
“It’s a love token.” Aunt Emma sighed. “Oh, this is all so romantic.”
A love token . . . or a parting gift, to assuage his conscience. Thea hesitated in front of the package, reluctant to unwrap it.
“Where’s my mother?” she asked her aunts.
“Abed with a headache. I still can’t believe what she said to the dowager,” Aunt Emma breathed.
“I know,” Aunt Hen agreed. “It was magnificent.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” Thea had been very proud of her mother for taking a stand . . . and for defending Thea.
“I’ve scissors for that twine somewhere,” said Aunt Emma, eyeing the linen-wrapped parcel. She searched through the sewing basket that perched on a table near her favorite armchair by the fire. “Ah-ha!”
