He released a long exhale and touched his hand to his brother’s watch pocketed safely away. Sorrow laced the motion. If only they’d had more time together.
“I believe you’ll find everything in order, Your Grace.”
Hamm’s baritone pulled Lunden back to the present and after sparing the paperwork a final glance, he stood and retrieved his greatcoat from the coatrack near the door. “Yes, I’m on my way to smooth the finer details now.” If the solicitor noticed his bruised face, he possessed enough good sense not to mention it.
“Then things will proceed as planned.”
Lunden repressed a bitter laugh. Rarely was the instance.
He bid the solicitor farewell and directed the hackney driver to Lamb Street, yet instead of considering the dossier of litigious paperwork clenched in his grasp, Amelia’s heartfelt admission replayed in his brain like a litany. She’d stated, no, actually she’d proclaimed, her heart’s affection. Amelia, who was all light and energy in his dark, dark soul. Somehow she’d managed to erode the mortar and topple his walls, leaving him in a pile of ruin.
And now she would be bartered to Collins, her brother the victor in his game of personal gain. Meanwhile Lunden had contributed to her misery. Had he not come to London, not appealed to Matthew for help, he’d never have intruded on Amelia’s life, nor instigated her misguided feelings.
Possessiveness, bold and virulent, swelled in his chest. How he wished for what he couldn’t have. Love, and the swath of complicated emotions intertwined with relationships, remained beyond his capabilities. Never mind Amelia would never experience the lifestyle she deserved.
Before Douglas’s death, he might have had a chance to win her hand, regardless of his birth order as a second son. His parents were favored by the ton, his father’s work in Parliament considered innovative and his mother revered as a benevolent volunteer to many charitable causes. When his parents died, London grieved for the loss of two respected peers, all perspicuity turned in the eldest son’s direction, intent he would honor their untimely passing by fulfilling the responsibilities expected by a man of his lineage. How would Lunden have evolved were his parents not taken so early? He’d like to believe his world would have included more than tomfoolery and brainless fabrication. But fate had the last laugh.
A spiral of grief twisted his soul. He once possessed the capacity to love. Perhaps he loved too deeply. Still, love meant loss. Deep wounds that never healed lest one stir up the past and destroy his family’s fine reputation. He wouldn’t expose Amelia to the threat of shame and embarrassment. Were Douglas’s preferences made known to the public, the extent of scandal would damage her beyond repair; and he cherished her far too much to take that risk, most especially when Nilworth threatened to exhume his past, his brother’s death, and the potential indignity, were he not to leave the city with haste. Resolve filled the hollow ache in his chest.
And what of Nilworth? What impetus, aside from his rampant appetite for gossip and desire to be favored by the ton, served him to threaten exposure? Did Nilworth know of his son’s arrangement with Douglas? Was his goal to rid Lunden of the city in order to conceal his son’s preference or coerce cooperation in obtaining the Lamb Street town house? Surely Nilworth couldn’t have known of Russell Scotts’s extortion. The man would never stand for such a thing. Yet why wouldn’t the son have confided to his father when the situation arose? Too many questions remained unanswered and Lunden could spare no further patience in seeking resolutions.
The hackney arrived, and he unfolded from the seat, paid the driver, and climbed the town house steps with solemn determination. The sooner he delivered the paperwork to Lord Gavin, the better. Then Lunden needed to make one final stop before ridding the city forever.
A butler opened the door with prompt attention and this time, Lunden was shown into the drawing room without delay. Gavin waiting inside and Lunden shrugged off his offer of spirits, intent on completing his business without lingering a minute longer.
“Good day, Gavin. I assume you’re well.” He rested the packet of documents on a nearby table.
“Yes, thank you.” Gavin indicated two wing chairs near the fire, but again Lunden dismissed the hospitality. He couldn’t sit, not with his nerves vibrating with impatience.
“I’ve signed all the documents necessary to secure this property in your name. It’s yours to enjoy for the length of your life, and then to bequeath thereafter.” And Lunden wouldn’t have to consider it ever again. Neatly done.
“How did you manage? I believed Douglas had the property tied in knots.”
“Not difficult to untie once the circumstances were understood and that scoundrel Scotts fled the premises. I regret we can’t pursue the thief and prosecute, although I’m not fool enough to trust he wouldn’t ingratiate someone to assist in slandering our reputations.”
“I agree.” Gavin nodded, his expression relieved.
“And your father? He knows of your residence here?” Lunden skimmed his eyes along the room’s perimeter while waiting for a response, uncomfortable with the queries no matter the questions needed to be asked.
Gavin examined the tips of his boots a long moment. “My father and I haven’t spoken in many years. There was a time when I sought his help, but the result was less than favorable. We had a falling-out that has yet to be repaired.”
“I see. Your answer explains much, although it does present me with yet another matter to resolve. On that note, I’ll take my leave.” He turned away, making quick strides to the hall before he realized Gavin meant to continue their conversation. The sincerity in the man’s farewell gave him pause and he reentered the room.
“I can’t express my gratitude well enough. This home, the one Douglas and I created here, was our sanctuary. By returning it to me, you’ve brought peace to my soul and restored Douglas’s final wishes. I hope you realize your act of good faith has honored your brother’s memory.”
Words seemed unnecessary and Lunden nodded his acceptance, clasped Gavin’s extended palm in a firm handshake, and hurried to the waiting hack. He barked Nilworth’s address to the driver and the horses took office, their hooves beating an impatient rhythm in kind to Lunden’s continued unrest.
* * *
“I’m sorry, milady, but you’re not allowed entrance.” The stoic doorman managed to peer down his nose regardless she stood as tall as he. “Perhaps you’d enjoy a visit to the tearoom on the corner while you await the gentleman in question. You may also leave a message for Lord Collins if—”
“I’ve no time to stand on formality. This is a matter of great importance.” Raising her chin, Amelia employed her haughtiest tone, one that usually achieved the desired outcome, but this servant remained steadfast, barring her entry with his body and inflated self-importance.
“Again, my apologies. Females are not welcome at the society. It’s a long-standing policy that I enforce. Let me provide paper and pen for you to write your missive.”
He turned to a small writing desk near the wall and Amelia pushed past, bounding up the staircase and into the meeting hall foyer. Aware the doorman shadowed her, she followed the cacophony of baritone conversation and bolted into the second room on her right. She penetrated the double paneled doors, the force of her sudden entry enough to cause each to bank against the wall with a resounding thud. Silence blanketed the room as every male head swiveled in her direction.
Her eyes darted left and right, taking quick inventory of the gentlemen inside, thankful her brother was not in attendance.
“See here, miss, you’re not allowed in this portion of the building. Didn’t our doorman inform you of the rules? You must wait in the hall if there’s some sort of emergency.”
A tall, overbearing sort was the first to break loose from the pack, lurching forward on long strides as if her very presence would contaminate their intellectual discussion. Amelia stood undaunted, her eyes glued to Lord Collins where he waited at the podium. She noticed his Adam’s apple bobb
ed with a sudden case of angst.
“Back away.” Surprised by her bold command the forthcoming gentleman stopped in his tracks. “I’m here to speak to Lord Collins and believe me, it’s quite the emergency.” His voice echoed with seething determination and a deep murmur rode out over the crowd. All eyes riveted to the front of the room where Collins inched backward as if to disappear without notice.
“Good luck, old boy. You’ll have little peace until you get this one in hand, although in hand might be her most useful place.”
The crude comment was a slap in the face and, momentarily distracted, Amelia speared the outspoken heckler with a glare meant to convey she considered him a nodcock. She quickly regained her purpose, no longer affected by the swell of disrespectful tripe rippling throughout the chairs. She gathered her skirts and strode farther into the room, but when she flicked her eyes to the podium, Collins had disappeared. Her shock must have shown on her face, evident by the harsh swell of laughter that filled the room.
“Intellectually advanced, indeed.” She spun on her heel, straightened her shoulders, and leveled each occupant with a condescending stare that soon held the room quiet as a church.
“Add this to your inventory of facts, gentlemen. Women are not possessions. Nor do we wish be toyed with or treated as decorations. Our opinions, thoughts, and most of all, feelings, matter. Trifle with the wrong woman, show her disrespect, and you’ll find you’ve unleashed a force undefeatable.” She paused to take a deep breath before moving closer to the doorway, though she didn’t leave yet. “When Lord Collins skulks back to this place, this sanctum of high intelligence, inform him I understand his motive and he needn’t pursue his offer of marriage. The answer is a resounding no.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lunden reined Hades to a stop and dismounted, handing the straps to the conscientious footman outside Nilworth’s estate. Situated on the outskirts of London, the bucolic property was miles from the city center, but offered access to the social Season while still withstanding a conservative level of privacy. The redbrick residence wasn’t what he expected, and while the reason for his visit was unpleasant, the rustic landscape reassured he would soon return to Beckford Hall where his life could regain predictability.
Somehow he’d managed to complicate his problems. A talent fast becoming second nature. Amelia’s intention to marry any available feather-wit in order to thwart her brother’s efforts, burned like an acid in his gut. No matter the candidate she chose, the fool didn’t deserve her. Nor did Collins. No one did. Least of all, he. His behavior could only be labeled reprehensible. At the end of the day, he was a gentleman, no matter his code of honor evaporated whenever he caught sight of those midnight curls. Better to distance himself from the reality as soon as possible, considering he could offer no solution, regardless their time together was the most peaceful he’d experienced since choosing isolation a decade ago.
Foolhardy hope dared him to envision a pleasant future. A noisy household filled with mischievous children possessing brilliant green eyes. For a reason he could never explain, a smile curled his lips, despite he’d made the difficult decision to squelch the unattainable daydream. It would prove, undoubtedly, another poor choice sure to haunt until he knocked on death’s door. Best he mastered his misplaced lust and reordered his life.
Shaking away the bitter considerations, he approached the wrought-iron gate and followed the inlaid slates to the grand entry. He dropped the brass knocker and gained admittance upon offering his card. The foyer was dimly lit and Lunden noted the furniture appeared a bit worse for the wear. He was shown into a drawing room done in celadon green and ivory, the curtains drawn to brighten the room where a pair of French doors led to manicured gardens at the rear. He walked to the glass and looked out, uncomfortable with the confrontation he would instigate, although necessary as a means to an end. He didn’t relish the unpleasantness of his business though he yearned to shed the last vestiges of guilt. Perhaps then he would possess the strength needed to live out the rest of his days with a modicum of peace.
“Lord Nilworth will receive you shortly.”
The butler’s reserved tone, a mixture of stricture and displeasure, roused his attention and Lunden nodded acknowledgment before opening the French doors, anxious for fresh air to alleviate the stifling weight of the anticipated conflict. The insufferable sun lazed high in the sky, birds sang, a ladybug landed on a delicate white rose growing on a trellis covered with ivy. Still, the air hung heavy and suffocating. Restless, he advanced from the stone-laid terrace into the modest walled garden, his feet moving along the path without reason, as if pulled from the distasteful subject he must broach inside the house toward the respite of nature. But the cobbles ended abruptly and a feeling of unfulfilled expectation blanketed his already overburdened spirit.
To the right, under an aged yew tree and nearly swallowed by overgrown weeds, a marble bench sat sentry, for what purpose he could not know. Without heed for his expensive boots, he pushed through the brush to investigate. A marker appeared within the small clearing. Something sharp twisted in his chest as he recognized the plaque as a headstone, similar to the three placed at Beckford Hall in loving memory of his parents and brother. Unbidden, the sound of his mother’s sweet voice and his father’s baritone bubbled to the surface, but he shoved them away. Now was not the time for sentimentality, the opportunity to beg for forgiveness out of reach. He’d never said good-bye. Not to his parents or his brother, and worse, he’d failed by instigating the circumstances causing Douglas’s death. A sigh of wistful sadness escaped and he fisted his hands near his thighs, steeling against the lapse of self-loathing. He’d matured without a father’s firm hand or a mother’s gentle touch, nurtured by survival and self-reliance. Pity that, but he would forestall his review of failures until he recovered his country existence.
Still one razor-sharp emotion persisted, forcing him to submission. Amelia’s laughter, the saucy thrust of her chin, and taste of her kiss, now inured the comfortable loneliness that fit him better than his tailored coat.
Bowing his head, his eyes dropped to the marker at his feet. Sarah Nilworth. He did not know the name, but the year indicated she could only be a child, too young for a wife or sibling. With an abrupt snap to attention, he regained the path and strode to the house, leaving his memories behind on the smooth marble bench.
The drawing room remained empty long enough for him to close the French doors, but Nilworth entered shortly thereafter. His frosty demeanor implied his adversity to the visit, his belligerent gaze served as confirmation.
“It didn’t take long for you to find trouble, did it, Scarsdale?” Nilworth eyed his bruised face, his lofty countenance adding to the tension in the room. “What is your business here? I’m unaccustomed to entertaining purported criminals in my home.” Darkness hovered in the set of his brow and his mouth turned in an acerbic grin.
“Be wary of your tone and implication. Hiring an agent to meet me in the dead of night to issue threats and extort my cooperation falls into the same category. Or was that you inside the carriage, disguising your voice and attempting theatrics? To what end?” Lunden replied in a chisel-sharp tone no less uncompromising.
Nilworth stood silent a moment too long, his change of expression indicating an inner war waged. Then he strode to the brandy decanter, perhaps angling for time to assemble his reply. Lunden came back to the question.
“What is it you want from me? I’ve returned to London to conduct personal business with no intent to provoke your interest, most especially after the slanderous lies you’ve perpetuated in the past.”
“Your reputation has never been of my concern. My son . . .” He paused as if deliberating each word carefully. “Gavin is my heir, my only son. I buried one child and will not allow it to happen again. Protecting his interest is my priority. Your welfare became an unfortunate casualty of the situation, but that evening so long ago, Gavin acted without thinking. He came to me emotionally dis
traught and terribly confused, with an urgent appeal for help. Mentally disheveled, he blurted out his distress before I rid the hall of servants. I couldn’t allow a story that implicated my son to violence and sordid behavior to circulate throughout London, so help him I did, the only way I knew how, by instigating societal gossip and invidious suspicion of my own fabrication. It only took a few words of innuendo and unsatisfied curiosity led to rampant speculation. True, it cast you in a poor light, but the backlash didn’t befall my son, nor was his secret exposed.”
“You destroyed my future to preserve your son’s reputation.” He stared at Nilworth, a decade’s worth of resentment poured into his glare.
“It’s not so different from what you did for your brother.” Nilworth took a long swallow of brandy. “You shunned society, seeking the same result.”
“I had little choice.” Years of resentment and anger coiled in his chest and Lunden spat the words as if he needed to release them or he’d never breathe again. “I protected my brother with cost to no one but myself.”
“In reflection it would seem society served you a grievous indignity, but no one could predict you’d become a recluse. At worst, I assumed you’d weather the storm of inquiry and scandal. I planned to turn the tide of gossip once things settled, but you left the city and I saw no need to insight more discussion of the subject.” Nilworth released a bitter laugh. “Despite my efforts, Gavin and I had a falling-out concerning my handling of the problem. He suspected quite accurately that it was I who fueled the vicious gossip and thus, hasn’t spoken to me in years. Still, I’ve kept a close eye on his existence. When you returned I feared a revival of old trouble. The stories I could control, but what of your purpose? So I had you watched as well. Your everlasting friendship with Whittingham remains a curiosity as he’s the only other person who witnessed the tragedy of that night. I wonder still if he realizes who’s responsible for his disability.”
“You have the facts confused with your fiction.” Lunden’s voice dropped to a lethal tone and a prolonged pause ensued.
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