Balthazar paused, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Your silk banyan it is," the gentleman's gentleman said brightly, and in a short while Robert was dressed in a comfortable white shirt and buff breeches, with his banyan thrown over them.
Bless Balthazar, he thought as he made his way to the library, if Robert was going to wallow, the valet was ensuring that he did it in style.
In the library, Robert opened a bottle of brandy, as well as some of the ledgers for the estate, lest anyone interrupt him. He passed a few hours merrily wallowing in his own self-pity before a knock on the door interrupted his party.
"Robert," a voice called, "Are you in there?"
Lud, Rob swallowed a groan; the last person he wished to see, when his spirits were so low, was his father, and yet he was the very person who appeared.
"Drinking before luncheon?" Staffordshire tutted, as he bounded into the library.
"Before, after, during," Rob replied, raising his glass of brandy in salutation, "It is amazing how many minutes there are to drink during the day, if one just puts one's mind to it."
"Ah-ha," Staffordshire replied, so cheerfully that Rob knew he had not been listening.
"Where have you been, to return so cheerful?" Rob asked, though he momentarily wondered if he really wished to know the answer.
"Out," his father replied, striding toward the desk where the brandy bottle and decanter lay, and pouring himself a generous measure.
"Busy trying to dethrone Satan, no doubt," Rob muttered under his breath, but again, his father was not listening.
"Do you know, lad," the duke said, as he took a seat on one of the leather Chesterfields, "I think that I have underestimated you."
"Er?"
Had Robert consumed more brandy than he had realised? For it sounded as though his father had offered him a compliment.
"I heard word that you were involved in a kerfuffle at Cavendish's masquerade—what you were doing at that, I do not know—from my chums in Boodles."
"Oh," Rob closed his eyes; yet another false tale of the Marquess of Thornbrook's excesses was now in circulation.
"It is not what it seems, father," Robert began to protest, but the duke cut him off with a lazy wave of his hand.
"Imagine my surprise—and just when I was readying myself to be enraged—to hear that you were not the instigator, but that you tried to play peacemaker."
"Oh."
Rob glanced up to find his father watching him with a look that could almost be described as affectionate. But surely not? Perhaps he had something in his eye.
"Then," Staffordshire continued, "Lord Laurence arrived, full of tales of his son's good deeds. I was half tempted to shut my eyes and take a nap whilst he droned on, but then he mentioned you."
"It's not what it seems," Rob began to protest, certain his father would find a way to take umbrage with his charitable deeds.
"So, you have not offered your time, money, and patronage to help the reverend build a school?" Staffordshire queried, raising one bushy brow.
"Well, yes," Robert mumbled, preparing himself for a lecture, "I suppose it's exactly what it seems."
"My boy," Staffordshire slapped his knee with glee, "I can't tell you how proud I am of you."
"Er, you could try," Rob suggested, inwardly marvelling at having his father utter the word proud in a sentence involving his only son. And, not only that, he had also used the possessive "my boy", instead of his usual "that boy", which he trotted out whenever he wished to distance himself from Robert.
"Immensely proud," Staffordshire beamed, "You have finally cast off your irresponsible youth, and have decided to embrace your future. The only thing that could make me more proud is if you were to tell me you had secured the hand of that chit you've been chasing."
The duke looked at Rob in hopeful expectation, who gave a sigh in return.
"Well, the world has not tilted completely on its axis," he said with a grin, "I can resume disappointing you. I am afraid that my chit refused me; my reputation came back to bite me in the bottom, as you had so often said it would."
"Ah."
Staffordshire did not look at all happy to be proved right, in fact, he looked rather concerned as he peered across at Robert. Perhaps there was something in his eye, Rob thought, for that was twice that he had looked at him so unusually.
"'Tis better to have loved and lost, and all that," Rob replied glibly, as his hand reached for the brandy bottle.
"Poppycock," Staffordshire growled, with some enthusiasm, "There is no pain worse than lost love."
Silence fell between the two men, as Rob nervously wondered if he should probe further. As a rule, his father never discussed Robert's mother, and should anyone mention her, he was liable to be in a foul temper for weeks.
"Do you miss her?" he ventured, and Staffordshire nodded, closing his eyes against the pain.
"Every day," his father mumbled, "Every morning I wake hoping to see her, every morning I am faced with the crushing realisation that she is gone."
Lud. Rob blinked; as well as feeling great pity for his father, he also began to feel tremendously sorry for himself. Would this pain be with him for life? Would he spend every morning ruing the loss of Lady Julia?
"I am sorry for your loss, my son," Staffordshire offered gruffly.
"Well, the lady is not dead," Rob replied, hoping to lighten the mood, "I might see her if I choose. From far away and with a telescope. Very far away, mind, she is quite an accomplished young woman, and I don't doubt that her aim is true."
The duke gave a surprised guffaw and leaned over to clasp Robert's shoulder with genuine affection.
"She might have disappeared," Staffordshire said, "But in her wake, she has left a man that any father might be proud of."
"Truly?" Rob raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, most definitely," Staffordshire grinned, "I used to change the subject when people brought you up. Now, I shall raise you as a topic of conversation myself."
"Charming," Rob returned, unsure if he should be mildly insulted.
In the end, he decided against it. His father was not a man of great emotions, and it had taken recognising his own pain reflected in his son for him to finally see Rob properly. He had taken a great leap, even if from the outside it only looked like he had budged an inch.
"Care for another tipple?" Staffordshire asked, as he noted Rob's empty glass.
"No," Rob shook his head and set his tumbler aside, "I have work to do with Laurence, and it is probably best done with a sober head."
"Suit yourself," Staffordshire replied, pouring himself another generous measure, "I shall see you later."
"Indeed," Robert smiled, before taking his leave.
He walked out the door with a broken heart, but his head held high. He was a better man for having loved Lady Julia, and one day—perhaps a lifetime away—he might finally recover from the pain of losing her.
Chapter Eleven
In the day that followed the disastrous masquerade, Julia decided that she could not face the world. She stayed in bed until after late evening, resisting all calls from her mother to waken.
"I don't know why she is playing at being disappointed, when it is my heart that is broken," she heard her mama wail outside her bedchamber door to poor Maria.
"The duel," the lady's maid replied, her voice carrying, "She is upset about her poor cousin."
"Thomas will be fine," Lady Cavendish snapped, "'Twas just a graze, the doctor said he will be right as rain in a few weeks. You tell my daughter that if she does not appear for dinner, she will be packed off to Aunt Mildred's by morning."
"Yes, my lady," Maria said, and a few seconds later she was beside Julia, urging her from her bed.
"A bath and a walk shall lift your spirits," the maid whispered in her ear, "We might wash those silly ringlets out."
"My hair does not matter," Julia sighed.
"Hair always matters," Maria replied grimly, and with a firm hand, she tugged Julia from b
eneath the bedsheets.
Julia was silent as Maria assisted her with her toilette and dressed her into a fine walking dress.
"A jaunt around the park," the maid said cheerfully, "That will blow the cobwebs away."
"There are no cobwebs in my heart, it has simply turned to stone," Julia retorted, but she allowed herself to be led downstairs, and out into the gathering dusk.
It was nice to be out in the fresh air, Julia thought, though she was no t about to admit as much to Maria. They walked in silence, taking in two loops of the gardens, before they decided to return home.
"Cook has made lamb," Maria offered, and Julia's stomach grumbled treacherously in reply.
The pair quickened their step, but as they reached the gates, they were greeted by the sight of a familiar figure.
"Lady Havisham," Julia called in greeting to Aunt Phoebe, who was accompanied by Dorothy, and a large mastiff.
"Isn't she a pretty thing?" Lady Cavendish queried, as the dog barred its teeth at Julia.
"Delightful," Julia whispered, not even daring to look at the beast.
"A present from Violet," Lady Havisham laughed, "She thinks that I will be lonely without her and Sebastian to keep me company."
"And shall you?" Julia enquired politely.
"Heaven's no," Aunt Phoebe laughed, "Don't tell her, but I am planning a jaunt around the continent, now that I am free of my duties. This little lady is going to the Earl of Allen, he has more need of her than me—truly terrible at whist, I'll have you know. He needs some protection from the creditors who bang upon his door, and Tiny shall do the job nicely, won't she?"
"Er, yes."
Not for the first time, Julia wondered at the life that Lady Havisham led. A peer in her own right, who could do as she pleased including gambling, cavorting, and lording it over the Earl of Allen.
"And what is the matter with you, my girl?" the Scotswoman enquired, "You'd give a gravedigger a sore heart. Does it have something to do with Lord Montague?"
"W-w-what?" Julia whispered, astounded that, of all people, Aunt Phoebe was the one to recognise her plight.
"When you have been around as long as I have, you recognise love when you see it," Lady Havisham sniffed, "Nor were you very discreet. I saw that dolt climb up to your balcony, and you have been making moon eyes at each other at every event since. Unrequited love is most nauseating—I insist you requite it, dear, before I cast up my accounts."
"But, the duel," Julia protested, "How can I be expected to marry him after that?"
"I did not think you silly enough to find duels romantic, my girl," Aunt Phoebe said, sternly.
"I do not, I abhor them," Julia said, her brain all a muddle.
"Then why on earth are you castigating Montague, for trying to break it up? Crockford assured me, over tea this morning, that the marquess was merely there to try and end the fight, not partake in it."
Aside from wondering how on earth Lady Havisham knew William Crockford, Julia was also wondering how she could have been such a fool. How could she have thought, after everything, that Montague would fall at the final hurdle?
"I have to go," Julia said, as she began to rush toward home.
"You're welcome," Lady Havisham bellowed after her, before moving along with Dorothy, grumbling audibly about the ingratitude of youth.
Once inside, Julia rushed to the dining room, where her parents and Thomas were seated at the table.
"Oh, there you are, dear," Lady Cavendish sniffed, "Would you like some lamb?"
"No," Julia shook her head, "I need to speak with Thomas."
"Come to ask about my health?" her cousin queried, giving an exaggerated groan of pain as he shifted in his seat.
"No," Julia frowned, "I could not give tuppence for the graze you suffered whilst playacting at being a man. I need you to tell me, was Lord Montague involved in the duel?"
Thomas glanced at her from across the table, his eyes cold and dismissive.
"No," he spat, placing down his fork, "Montague's turned yellow. He was clucking about like an old hen, trying to convince us both to back-down. He would not even stand as second for Lord Michaels; that Benjamin fellow had to stand instead. There's nothing worse than a coward."
Julia's heart had near stopped, as Thomas explained what had happened. How foolish—and cruel—she had been, to not believe Montague when he swore his innocence.
He had not taken part in the duel—he had attempted to stop it! It was Thomas, hot-headed Thomas, who had been the instigator of it all. And out of familial loyalty, Julia had refused to see the truth.
"I find it rather confusing," Julia said, as she stepped backward toward the door, "Why men so often confuse courage with taking up arms, and cowardice with leaving them down."
"Eh?" Thomas had resumed eating, but her sharp tone caused him to slop gravy all down his pristine cravat.
"I said," Julia repeated, feeling stronger now that she finally knew her heart, "That Lord Montague is far braver than you, for he tried to make peace, when you were intent on breaking it. He is far greater a man than you can ever hope to be and I—"
Julia hesitated, as she took in the shocked expressions her parents wore.
"—and I love him," she said simply.
"Oh," Lady Cavendish held a hand up to her mouth, while beside her Lord Cavendish turned puce with rage.
"Shall I have Maria brew you a nostrum, dear?" Lady Cavendish suggested brightly, as though that might solve everything.
"No, Mama," Julia gave her mother a withering glance, "Love cannot be cured."
"Love?" Lord Cavendish was on his feet now, and near apoplectic with rage, "I will not hear you say you love a Montague whilst you are under my roof."
"Fine," Julia shrugged, feigning bravery, though she felt far from it, "Then I shall leave."
"If you walk out that door, there will be no coming back," her father threatened, whilst her mama wailed beside him.
It took all of Julia's strength not to buckle under such a threat, but then the memory of Montague's hurt eyes reminded her that she had a debt to pay.
"If you care for your hate more than my happiness, then so be it."
Julia did not raise her voice, or scowl, or offer threats of her own. She was a woman grown, who had made her own decision and she would follow through with grace.
With a cool glance to her parents, and a short glare at Thomas, Julia took her leave of the dining room. Once out in the hallway, she kept walking, sweeping past confused servants, and the footman who leapt to open the front door for her.
Outside, she tripped down the steps of Cavendish House, not quite able to believe what she had done.
She had walked out on her parents. Defied her father. Denied her family in the name of love.
And she had not even remembered to bring a pelisse.
Shivering slightly in the early evening air, Julia made her way across the square, determined to find Montague, and beg his forgiveness. But when she reached Staffordshire House, she found it empty, and the stuffy butler was unable—or unwilling—to tell her where she might find her marquess.
"Lord Montague keeps his own hours," the man said, as he closed the door on Julia, "Perhaps try again in the morning—at a more civilised hour."
Lud.
Julia turned back to face the square, nervously aware that her parents might be watching her from the window of Cavendish House. In all her life, she had never once acted on impulse, or without a plan, and she was beginning to realise why.
Fear and dread filled her stomach, as doubt began to creep over her. What if Montague had no wish to hear her apologies? What if he denied her an audience—what then would she do?
Panic rose in her throat, and for a moment Julia felt as though she could not breathe, but then the sound of laughter drifted across to her from the square's gardens.
Charlotte!
Julia hitched up her skirt and ran, as fast as her slippers would take her, toward the gardens. She slipped through th
e gate, searching for her friend, and spotted Charlotte, arm in arm with Penrith, taking an evening perambulation.
"Julia," Charlotte waved as she sighted her.
Penrith, stuffy as ever, merely inclined his head in greeting, as aloof and ducal as ever.
"What are you doing out without so much as even a shawl?" Charlotte tutted, as Julia reached her, "Heavens, Shuggy, listen to me. I sound like an old, married lady."
"Not in public, dear," Penrith replied in a strained whisper, before gallantly asking Julia if she required the use of his coat.
"No," Julia stammered, before remembering to add a thank you, "I do not need your coat, what I need is your help. You see, I am hopelessly, completely, and irrevocably, in love with Lord Montague."
"I knew it," Charlotte thrilled, before falling silent as her husband did some elbow poking of his own.
"I love him, but I have hurt him greatly," Julia continued, before explaining to the pair of what had happened with the duel between Thomas and Lord Michaels.
"Oh, dear," Charlotte sighed, as Julia finished her tale.
"All is not lost," Penrith responded, his blue eyes offering Julia hope, "Montague is not the type to withhold forgiveness, when it is asked for. Though he does appreciate..."
Penrith trailed off, and looked momentarily pained, before he continued, "He is the type who appreciates a grand gesture."
"A grand gesture?" Julia mused, before she made the connection in her head between Penrith's words and his momentary look of mortification—The Proposal in The Pond.
Penrith's own grand gesture was so well-known, that it now even had an official name. The papers referred to it often, much, according to Charlotte, to Penrith's embarrassment. Julia had witnessed the duke's sodden declaration of love, and at the time had thought him fit for Bedlam. Now, here she was, standing in his metaphorical shoes, and she would gladly throw herself into the nearest body of water if it meant that Montague would forgive her.
"I do not know where he is," Julia whispered to Penrith.
"I do," the duke replied, "And, if you like, I may take you to him at once."
"We may take you," Charlotte interrupted, keen to be included in the fun.
"What—" Julia began, as fear overtook her, "What if he says no?"
The Rake and Lady Julia (Wilful Wallflowers Book 3) Page 14
