by Renee Ryan
A fire was lit in the great fireplace, flicking shadows across the intricate designs of the rugs and the portraits of prominent members framed on the walls.
Bertie’s friends were already gathered haphazardly in chairs facing the marble hearth. The sound of their laughter told Luke they’d continued their evening revelry with more drinks.
Fortuitous. In vino veritas. In wine, truth. This was the exact chance Luke had been looking for to uncover information about Simon.
The group welcomed Bertie, all but cheering his arrival.
Luke sat in an empty chair and looked at the assembled gathering. He knew every man by name. They ranged in ages from twenty-four to thirty-five, two younger than Luke, the rest older. Though each came from a background similar to his own, and all had attended Harvard, he would call none of them friends.
“My good man, you’re back.”
Luke knew the reference wasn’t to his return to the country but to this depraved circle. “Not permanently.”
“Pity.”
The speaker sat directly across from him. Silhouetted by firelight, Benjamin Carlton’s face was all planes and hard lines. He was the oldest of the group. A banker of wealth and some renown, Ben was a genius with numbers and had a strong taste for Scotch. In lucid moments, the man lamented his inability to avoid overindulging. If the dark hollows beneath his eyes and his bloated cheeks were any indication, he’d lost the battle for sobriety. Luke felt sorry for Ben. The man was caught in a vicious cycle.
“We knew you couldn’t stay away.” This statement came from Kelvin Grimshaw, a man whose penchant for decadence was rivaled only by Bertie’s.
Luke looked at the remaining three men, an unholy trinity of debauchery. Each had his own vice of choice, and each face held a decidedly more wicked smile than the last.
I spent six miserable months with these men.
He’d like to blame his lack of judgment on his father, but that wasn’t true. Luke was accountable for his choices, including his time spent with this sort.
Awake to righteousness, and sin not.
He had much to answer for, including his worst sin—hurting a woman who’d been a temporary part of this group. Abigail, a freethinking artist and poet, had fallen for Luke. He hadn’t realized how hard until it was too late.
In his defense, he’d done nothing to encourage her affection, except insist she be treated with kindness and respect. Something the others rarely did where women were concerned. Thinking this meant he shared her feelings, she’d declared herself. He’d let her down as best he could, but there had been witnesses, the men in this group among them.
Abby’s devastation over being spurned in so public a manner threw her into a deep melancholy. Her downward spiral was the final push Luke had needed to change his ways. He’d been hovering at a crossroads, knowing if he didn’t make a complete break he would become as cold and unfeeling as these men. He’d left the country, hoping his absence would not only help Abby recover, but also prevent his own heart from growing as callous as Bertie’s.
Luke recently got word Abby was living in Paris with a colony of fellow artists. He prayed she was happy.
The waiter came with another round of drinks.
“Now that the gang’s all here, it’s time for our weekly review.” Bertie pulled out a slim black leather-bound notebook.
The others followed suit.
Luke’s shoulders bunched. He should have expected this. Why had he not expected this?
Bertie and his cronies kept a running tally of their conquests through the year. They assigned a point system to certain types of women. A woman with questionable morals was worth one point, and a virgin was worth twenty. Points were assigned at varying degrees to women between the two opposing spectrums. On New Year’s Eve, the man with the highest total score won the sum of $500.
Luke stood, bile rising in his throat. He would find out about Simon from another source.
Slicing a sly glance in his direction, Bertie opened the book to a page near the center. “Don’t you want to know which lovelies are on my list this year?”
“Have you no shame?” Luke leveled a crushing glance at the other man, then turned it on the others.
Red-faced, Ben and Kelvin looked away. The other three held his gaze, bold and unflinching, with just enough meanness in their eyes to warn Luke their hearts were even harder than he remembered. He’d been right to distance himself from this group. He regretted only not doing so before hurting Abby.
“Still squeamish, old boy?” Bertie released a low, wicked laugh. “Still touting the virtues of integrity and the fair treatment of women?”
“Every woman deserves respect, no matter her station in life.”
Bertie sneered.
Luke wasn’t through. “You treat women as if they’re possessions that you can buy and sell and then discard when you grow bored.”
“What can I say? I like their company, but especially the pure and untouched.” He winked at his cohorts. “Corrupting an innocent is a powerful temptation I simply cannot resist, hence the reason I win this game every year.”
Luke stiffened at the words. He didn’t miss Bertie’s sarcasm or the calculating glint in his eyes. The man was as bad as Warren Griffin.
No, he was worse.
At least Warren considered himself in love with his mistresses, fleeting as the feeling proved to be. Bertie didn’t care about the women he ruined. He cared only about the points they represented on his list.
Luke thought of Elizabeth and her very different, far more innocent list. She was precisely the type of woman Bertie couldn’t resist. Proper and perfectly bred, with her quiet smiles and impeccable manners, she was all that was good in their dark world. And she was looking for a man to help her taste adventure. If she approached Bertie . . .
Rattled by the thought, Luke snatched the book out of Bertie’s hand, looking for her name. She was listed halfway down the back page with other untouched debutantes Bertie had been unable to conquer but still considered fair game. Penelope was on the list as well.
Violence moved through Luke. “You’re done, Bertie.”
“On the contrary, I’m only just getting started.”
“If you continue with this despicable game”—Luke tossed the book at him—“I’ll make sure the good people of New York know who and what you are.”
“Go ahead and do your worst.” Bertie waved off the threat with a contemptuous flick of his wrist. “It will be my word against yours.”
A valid point. Luke hadn’t been as proficient at covering his tracks as Bertie. Though few people knew the particulars of his wayward activities, it was no secret that he had a questionable past. Conversely, almost no one knew the depths of Bertie’s depravity.
“One more thing.” Bertie smirked. A viper poised to strike, he met Luke’s gaze and said, “You attempt to reveal my game to anyone outside this circle, and I will go after your sister.”
There was a collective gasp at the threat. To target a man’s sister was the highest form of treachery, even for this bunch.
A flood of hot fury coursed through Luke. Controlling his temper, barely, he gave Bertie a small but deadly smile. “Touch Penelope, go within ten feet of her, and I will kill you.”
He meant every word.
Bertie blanched, then recovered quickly, the viciousness in his eyes turning the irises black as hate. He cut a look to his friends. “I do love a challenge.”
“She’s engaged to your cousin,” one of the others reminded him, looking as uncomfortable as a man with his lack of morals could.
“Simon is a prig and a prude. He won’t be able to satisfy her, anyway.”
Luke reached down, grabbed Bertie by the lapels, and yanked him to his feet. “You touch my sister or try to ruin her engagement,” he growled in a voice only the two of them could hear, “and you will regret ever knowing me.”
Bertie must have seen the truth in Luke’s eyes, because he raised his hands, palms facin
g forward. “Hey. Hey, now. I was only jesting.”
“Stay away from Penelope.”
“I heard you the first time. Besides”—Bertie shrugged, no small feat considering his position—“she’s too bland for my taste.”
Luke dropped the man back in his chair.
Now that there was a safe distance between them, Bertie called him a vile name. Luke sneered in return.
“You know as well as I that my birth was legitimate.”
A snicker came from one of the minions.
Making a show of straightening his coat sleeves, Luke turned on his heel and exited the building. He did not look back. Considering his foul mood, he thought this best. One look at Bertie’s smirking face and he would punch the man, hard. A show of violence would only encourage him.
Out on the sidewalk, Luke glanced to the sky.
While he’d been in the club, the weather had taken a turn for the worse, as had his day. Gray, squalid clouds rolled in from the east. They moved at a slow, lazy pace, and were too pale to be holding significant amounts of water. There was plenty of time to get to his office before the rain let loose. Or . . .
With lists on the brain, Luke took a detour.
Chapter Fifteen
Late last night, flushed with success after crossing an item off her list, Elizabeth’s thoughts had turned to her father. She spent several restless hours turning their quarrel over in her mind, trying desperately to see his side.
By the time dawn spread weak tendrils of light into her bedroom, she’d come to the conclusion that she owed him an apology for her angry words. She might not believe that Katherine St. James deserved a second chance, but her father did. Arguing with him had only served to make him more determined. Like father, like daughter.
Elizabeth loved him too much to let him leave New York thinking she didn’t support him. She went in search of him early the next morning, desperate they reconcile their differences before he boarded the train to Florida.
It took searching the entire mansion, gardens, and carriage house before she finally found him. He was in his dressing room, packing for his trip. He must have moved up his departure. Elizabeth stood on the threshold, clutching the locket holding the piece of Hester’s shawl for courage.
Now that she’d found her father, she struggled with what to say, how to tell him she understood why he’d agreed to meet with her mother.
Problem was, Elizabeth didn’t understand, hence her sleepless night.
Holding the locket gave her added strength, enough to swallow back the tidal wave of powerlessness that crashed over her as she watched her father direct Aldrich and two of the other servants through the room. Marcus didn’t snap out the orders, not precisely, but there was a decided lack of warmth in his voice.
The man who’d always been so patient, so levelheaded and self-possessed, was gone. She blamed her mother for the change, which made forgiving her practically impossible.
She is your mother. There is good in her.
Elizabeth wanted—needed—to believe her father’s claims. She wanted the woman from her happy childhood back, the one who’d given her no reason to doubt she was treasured and loved.
Please, Lord, help me . . .
The rest of the prayer wouldn’t form in her mind. Apparently, her stubborn streak ran deep.
Sighing, she focused on her father once again. The mid-morning light streaming through the window at his back showcased the changes in him.
He was still a striking man. But his once-dark hair now had thick strands of gray threaded through it. The laugh lines around his mouth held a hint of strain.
His perpetual grimace told its own story.
Marcus St. James was suffering. Not solely because of her mother, but because of Elizabeth’s lack of understanding. Why couldn’t Elizabeth find it in her heart to forgive like him? What hidden flaw in her character made her so pitiless?
Her father gave Aldrich a curt nod. The butler shut the trunk’s lid and secured the latches, then directed the other two men as they lifted the large piece of luggage and proceeded to leave the room.
Elizabeth shifted out of their way.
Unaware of her presence, her father continued packing. In a small valise, he placed personal items from his dresser: a comb, a shaving kit, a handful of pressed handkerchiefs. Just how long was he planning to stay in Florida?
He probably didn’t know. His mission could take a day or quite possibly weeks. Elizabeth felt an undertow of yearning. She wanted to let go of the anger she felt toward both her parents. If only she could be sure her mother truly felt sorry for what she’d done to their family. If only she could comprehend her father’s need to take this trip. If only. If only.
“If only,” she whispered.
“Come in, daughter.” Her father didn’t look up from his task as he made the request. “And close the door behind you.”
Elizabeth didn’t move from her spot on the threshold.
There was unmistakable weariness in her father’s voice. Her dread for his well-being was palpable. A second time in two days, she’d come to make amends and found herself unable to say the words. “Please, Father, I beg you to reconsider this trip.”
He turned to face her, a patient look on his face. “You know why I have to go.”
“She’ll hurt you again.” And me. She’ll hurt us both if we let her back into our hearts.
“I promise you, Elizabeth, I will not allow your mother to return unless I’m confident she’s truly repented of her actions.”
He was already halfway to forgiveness, all because of a handful of carefully penned letters. They’d had this argument too many times for Elizabeth to think she could make him see reason at this point.
Still, she tried. “There is nothing I can say to change your mind?”
The question was the same one Luke had asked of her just last night. Like she had then, her father held firm now.
“My course is set.”
His eyes glittered midnight blue, nearly black. He was a husband determined to restore his marriage with the woman he’d pledged to love until death do them part. Evidently, he took his wedding vows seriously. There was tremendous honor in that kind of devotion, stubbornness as well.
“I will always love your mother. But that’s not the only reason I am making this trip now. I must—” He glanced around the room, then drew in a sharp breath and started again. “Even if I discover your mother hasn’t changed, even if she doesn’t ask me for my forgiveness, I must find a way to forgive her.”
It humbled Elizabeth that her father was right.
Why did he have to be so . . . good?
Why did she have to be so . . . unforgiving? This insight into her nature was painful.
“I have to find a way to forgive her, Elizabeth. Or I will never be able to live with myself.”
Marcus St. James had always been the obedient son, the caring, faithful husband, always doing the right thing, for all the right reasons.
Look how that turned out.
Elizabeth reached for the locket with a trembling hand, forced her breathing to calm. Twenty-five years from now, this could be her arguing with one of her children, struggling for a way to forgive her husband’s betrayal. It was the very worst outcome but also a very real possibility when two people married for the sake of money and status.
Her thinking wasn’t entirely rational, she knew. After all, she could end up marrying a good man, one full of integrity, who genuinely loved her, or at the very least liked her.
Then again, she might end up with a cold, hard-hearted man who cared about nothing other than his reputation among his peers.
There was yet another scenario. She could enter the marriage from a point of strength. She could go in with some experience behind her, a woman of substance, less obedient than her father. And more . . . jaded?
She was already more jaded, compliments of Katherine St. James. How does this end?
Her head grew dizzy, and the room began t
o swim before her eyes. She had an ally in this house, at least, someone with considerable influence in this family. Knowing her strategy was spectacularly unfair to her father, she let go of the necklace and pressed on, anyway. “You would defy Grandfather’s wishes and allow Mother to come home?”
Hands frozen over the contents of his valise, her father was silent for several long seconds.
Then, snapping the case closed with a hard flick, he shot Elizabeth a fierce glare. “My decision is made.”
Very well, Father, Elizabeth thought, if this is what you want . . .
For the duration of five heartbeats, there was no sound in the room but the shuffle of her father’s feet as he moved toward the door.
“The hour is growing late,” he said, drawing within a foot of her. “I don’t want to miss my train.”
His voice was unemotional as he spoke, but the pain in his eyes had Elizabeth holding her tongue. A sense of helplessness worked through her.
At a loss for words, she stepped aside. “Good-bye, Father.”
Reaching up, he cupped her cheek. “Good-bye, my dear.”
He entered the hallway and headed for the great staircase leading to the foyer below. Elizabeth couldn’t let him leave angry. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.
“Father, wait.” His long strides outdistanced her nervous little trots. When she caught up with him, she willed herself to smile. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Dropping the valise, he opened his arms wide.
She leapt into them without hesitation, clinging to his shoulders as if she’d never see him again.
“We’ll get through this, my dear.” He whispered the words near her ear, stroking her hair as he had when she was a girl.
Throat constricting, Elizabeth swallowed a sob. She would not cry another tear because of her mother. She would find the strength to put the past behind her. She would find the courage to forgive the unforgivable.
One small step.
Straightening her shoulders, she dug deep inside her angry heart and found a small, tiny spark of courage to say, “Give Mother my regards.”
