by Deb Marlowe
Cotwell’s righteous anger was a sight to behold, but James knew how to scuttle it. “Please,” he scoffed. “I knew you were in Town. I’d heard the rumors, the laughter, the complaints that your neighbors feared you would blow them all to pieces in their beds.”
But Cotwell ignored him. He stared at Lisbeth now. “Friend, you said? Friend? Do you mean to say that he was also the one who abandoned you? Who left you alone and waiting at the museum?”
Lisbeth bit her lip, but she didn’t need to answer. Silent communication flew between them, thickening the air. The sight of it hurt—and fired James’s own fury to another level.
“And just how did you get word of that?” he demanded. “Have you been keeping tabs on me, Cotwell?” He eyed the man with the kind of derision that he knew would infuriate him. “You surprise me, Sparsebrow. I recall you being too proud and fastidious to partake of my leavings.” He raised a brow. “Changed your mind about that, have you?”
This was all moving so fast—but no one could have predicted the speed with which Cotwell launched at him. James flew backward before he even registered the attack, his jaw erupting in pain. He knew the full measure of true fear too, when he shook his head, sat up, and saw the baron advancing on him with hurt, fury and hate in his eye.
Lisbeth disentangled herself from the girl—and dealt James another blow when she rushed to press herself against Cotwell’s chest. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Leave him.” She didn’t even turn to look at him. “He’s not worth it.”
Cotwell looked down at her—and calmed. “Damn him,” he answered. “It’s you and Aurelia I don’t want to hurt. Take her home now. I’ll be along shortly.”
Lisbeth stayed a moment, staring into the baron’s eyes, then moved to gather up the girl. One last look she cast in James’s direction—and it was utterly devoid of any emotion at all.
He felt broken all over as he watched her go. He only fingered his jaw, though, as he rose to his feet and contemplated the man who’d been one of his closest friends.
“She deserves better than you,” Cotwell said quietly.
James nodded. “I failed her. God knows I’m sorry for it.” He fixed the baron with a glare. “Don’t dally with her, Cotwell. She might be different, but she’s also . . .”
“A treasure,” Cotwell finished softly.
“Precisely.” He stared off in the direction she’d taken. “I hate to say it, but she deserves better than either of the likes of us.”
“I know.”
It was said so quietly, James almost missed it. There was nothing to say in response, in any case. Picking up his hat, he turned away and started for home.
* * *
Lisbeth couldn’t stop looking out of windows. She’d been distracted and in mental disarray since all of yesterday’s revelations in the park, but it had just got worse with the delivery of the post. From the small, high window in her bedroom, to the schoolroom, to the nursery playroom she wandered, staring blankly out while her mind whirled and her fingers crushed the letter just delivered.
It came from Mrs. Hollandale. She’d written with what she obviously considered unexpected good news: she’d found Lisbeth a position.
The house in Shropshire is massive—an old castle with multiple additions. The housekeeper there means to retire. She wants an apprentice to learn the job, but she does not wish to hire from within the household. I’ve put you forward and she likes the sound of you. I admit I did not think to find something to suit you so easily. Just bring your recommendations by the office and I’ll forward copies and finalize the arrangements.
Likely she was ruining the note, so tight did she hold it with her moist, relentless grip, but she couldn’t seem to set it down. It was perfect. It was exactly what she’d hoped for.
Except, perhaps it wasn’t.
There could be no recommendation from James, no help from him or his mother. Not for a hundred perfect positions would she ask him now. She wondered that she wasn’t more disappointed—in him and for herself. There still did exist the possibility of going to Mr. Thorpe, but the chances of an offer of help were slim—and there were so many other things occupying her mind just now.
That kiss. She could still feel the press of the baron’s thighs, recall the hard expanse of his chest and the warm sweep of his tongue. Such a simple, everyday thing, a kiss. Yet it held the power to shift destinies and change lives. When she put it together with his words—You are the lady that she is not—and with his compliments—Those girls do not have your grace or generosity—then it allowed her to think of possibilities she would never have contemplated before.
She’d arrived at this house with gratitude, but with one eye on the door. She’d convinced herself it was best for her, best for Aurelia. But Aurelia and her guardian, they had burrowed inside of her and begun to change her. She’d learned to trust a little, and she’d learned to see herself in a new light. Here she was more than just a drudge, a family joke, good only for maintaining the comfort of those around her. Here she felt appreciated as much as her work. For the first time, someone listened to her.
More than that, for the first time, she’d begun to imagine more for herself. She realized how much weight she’d leant her stepfather’s judgment that she would never fit into society, never appeal to any man who did not labor from dusk to dawn. She flushed. That kiss, those words—they made her question that certainty.
A knock sounded behind her. Startled, she crushed the letter further. Turning her head, she found Lord Cotwell hovering in the doorway.
He stomach flopped. “Good afternoon, my lord.” With short, nervous moves she folded the letter away. “Have you brought Aurelia back to me?”
“No, she left me a bit ago, at Cook’s invitation. It seems she’s to learn how to make muffins for tea. By now she’s likely covered in flour and pounding dough.”
“Good. She’ll enjoy that. She’s been a little out of sorts.” Since yesterday. She didn’t say the words but yesterday hung between them all the same.
He crossed the room to glance out the window she’d been staring out of. “I thought we might talk.”
“Of course.” There were no adult sized chairs here save for the one at the desk. She should ask him to retire to the playroom where a pair flanked the hearth. But she couldn’t seem to speak, or move. Only her gaze wandered, taking in his calm expression, the casual way he leaned against the sill.
“I was thinking of all that you said yesterday.”
She nodded breathlessly. She’d done little else herself.
“I think it’s clear that you should abandon the plan of hiring yourself out as a housekeeper.”
He heart pounded. She gave him a quick smile. “I was just thinking the very same thing.”
He didn’t respond right away. Her heart lifted as she realized his gaze had locked onto her mouth. She hated to think she was the only one affected by the memory of what they’d done together. But he appeared to be caught, intent, and she felt . . . strange. Empowered. As if she could, at last, ask for what she truly wanted.
“I was thinking,” she began.
“As was I.”
Heart light, she surged ahead. “I thought perhaps I might stay on.”
“We’ll have to step up the search for a new governess,” he said at the same time.
She froze. Prayed he could not hear the sound of her heart shattering into pieces. “Oh.”
He blinked. “I meant only that it’s clear that you don’t belong in this position.”
Grief and embarrassment held her locked in place. She fought the horrid rise of tears.
He huffed out a breath. “I’m expressing myself badly. What I mean to say is that clearly you are entitled to a Season of your own.”
Her muscles unlocked. She drew herself up and stepped away. “That is no longer possible.” It had been ruled out the moment she entered his house as a servant.
“Perhaps if I spoke to your stepfather—”
“No!�
�� Her eyes widened, but before she could panic at the thought of what mischief such a thing would bring, one of the maids knocked at the door.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord, but Cook sends her regards and asks if she should continue on with the muffins without Miss Aurelia? If they are not in the oven right soon, they won’t be ready for tea.”
Lisbeth spoke sharply. “Without Miss Aurelia? Do you mean to say she’s not in the kitchens?”
“No, Miss. Cook’s been waitin’ on her.”
She looked to Lord Cotwell. “How long ago did she leave you?”
He looked grim. “An hour ago, perhaps less.” They shared a glance.
“I think we know where she’s gone.”
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
* * *
They found her in one of the natural history rooms. One of the big glass cabinets had been shifted to make room for a pair of stuffed antelopes. Aurelia sat on the floor beneath the belly of the male. She spotted Lisbeth and the baron as they walked in, opened her mouth, then closed it and promptly burst into tears.
Lisbeth flew to her. Kneeling down she took her hands and cradled them to her middle. “Oh, my darling,” she crooned.
Aurelia tried to speak, but the force of her sobs prevented it. Lisbeth let her go for several minutes, but when she showed no signs of stopping, she tugged her out and gathered her close.
Gradually the storm lessened. “I’m sorry, sorry,” Aurelia gasped.
“Don’t be sorry,” Lisbeth whispered. “Let it out.”
The baron crouched in front of them, awkward but well meaning. “But I don’t understand. What is wrong?”
His question brought forth a fresh spate of sobs. “Wrong? Nothing is right! Everything is all mixed up.”
“In what way?” he asked simply.
“In every way,” she blurted wildly. I am afraid.”
“Why, dear?” Lisbeth held her tight.
“Because I’m always angry. Or sometimes I’m not—and I’m afraid that is wrong. Sometimes I am happy—helping you in the attics or exploring in the laboratory or sketching insects—and then I am afraid and angry at once. For how can I be happy? My mama is dead! My papa is dead!” She began to sob again, as if her heart would break.
“There is more, is there not?” Lisbeth asked.
Aurelia nodded, wiping at her eyes.
“Tell us. All of it.”
The little girl sniffed. “I hate that man. I never want to go and live with him.”
“You’ll never have to,” Lord Cotwell assured her.
“Never?”
“Never. Not if I have to go to the highest Chancery court in the land.” He regarded her solemnly for a moment. “Aurelia, there is a bench in the next room.” He began to climb to his feet. “Let’s go in there and sit.”
He helped his ward to her feet and held a hand out to Lisbeth, but she acted as if she did not see it. She stood on her own. As she must, from here on out. She followed as the baron led Aurelia to the bench and took up a position behind it.
The sight of them—the broad shouldered man taking up most of the bench, his head tilted toward the little girl who, for perhaps the first time, leaned trustingly into him—nearly broke her heart.
“There’s something that I think it will help you, if you understand,” Lord Cotwell said to his ward. “There are some people who come and go in our lives, and there are some who will always be with us.”
Aurelia looked up at him, frowning. “How do you know which is which?” she asked.
“Love,” he said simply. “Love is a . . . connection, Aurelia. One that can never break. Wherever your parents are, they still love you. You are still connected to them. Your love for each other will bind you forever.”
Aurelia nodded. “Miss Moreton told me.”
“Do you recall when you first came to my home?”
Cautiously, she nodded again.
“I told you then that I loved your papa. Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“ I knew then that I would love you, because of him.” He ran a finger along her tear-stained face. “Even if you were a horrid child.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m not!”
“Thank goodness, you are not,” he agreed. “And even though we have not been together for long, still, I’ve grown to love you. So we are connected. And we always will be. Things will change, with time. But that will not. Not ever.”
And Lisbeth ached, because she’d poked and prodded the man and he was responding, opening up—but only far enough to let Aurelia in. An accomplishment she could take the greatest pride and relief in, to be sure, but it wasn’t enough. She wanted in, too.
Aurelia glanced at Lisbeth. “What will change?” Tears welled again. “Miss Moreton is leaving, isn’t she? I don’t want you to leave!”
“Miss Moreton will leave,” Lord Cotwell said baldly.
So easily said. As if it meant nothing to him. As if the words did not rip a jagged hole in Lisbeth’s heart. Ruthlessly, she shut an internal door on the pain. Later she would suffer. Now she must reassure Aurelia. “But we are connected as well, Aurelia. Even if I cannot stay on as your governess, I will always be your friend.” She reached down and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We will write, and visit when we can, if Lord Cotwell permits.”
“There will be other changes to our household,” the baron continued. “I will marry eventually.”
“When?” Aurelia interrupted.
“When I find the right lady.” Lisbeth felt the weight of his gaze on her, but she could not acknowledge it or shift her own. “Miss Moreton assures me she is out there somewhere.”
Blow after blow he destroyed her with light words and casual disregard. He waited a moment, as if inviting her to comment. Perhaps he suffered a twinge of conscience after that kiss. Well, she’d be damned before she eased it.
“In any case, I will marry and likely will have children. They will be new connections for me, but they won’t change the one I share with you. And you will make new connections too, but I will feel safe, knowing you will still feel the same for me.” He held up a finger. “And another thing. Anyone who has this sort of connection with you wants only what is best for you. They want you to be happy. Imagine your parents. You have mourned them, as is right and proper. We will continue to do so and we will continue talk about and remember them. But do you think that they want you to be forever sad and full of despair?
She shrugged.
“They don’t. I feel sure of it. They would want you to gradually learn to be happy again, to go on building a new life.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am positive. I knew your father, remember? Even longer than you did.”
“That’s right,” she said slowly.
“So, let us do as he would wish and go home to begin our new life.” He stood. “In fact, I’ll share a surprise with you. It’s in my laboratory. I’ve been making something for you, but perhaps you might like to help?”
Nodding, Aurelia stood beside him. The poor child looked exhausted, but also clear-eyed and lighter, somehow.
“Shall we go home, Miss Moreton?” The baron pitched his tone to be soft and soothing.
She knew, suddenly, that she could not. Staying in his home longer would only hurt Aurelia. It would only prolong her own pain, kill her aching heart with a slow bleed instead of a quick stab. She reached suddenly into the pocket folded into her skirts and found Mrs. Hollendale’s letter.
“No, thank you. As you two will be occupied, I think I will seize the opportunity to take care of some business.”
Lord Cotwell objected. “It’s growing late.”
“It’s important.”
“Very well. You take the carriage and we’ll walk.” He grinned. “Aurelia knows the way.” Taking Aurelia’s hand, he started downstairs.
And she followed, just a step behind.
* * *
They trooped through the entrance hall, all thre
e of them, while James’s gut churned.
He’d come today, to the spot where he should have met Lisbeth, because he could not erase her from his mind. Because he’d been sober now for more than a few hours straight and because he could not quite believe what he’d done, what he’d meant to do, what he’d allowed himself to become.
He’d been on the wide landing, staring out the window, as Lisbeth must have done on that day. Was he punishing himself? Looking for answers? He scarcely knew. But then she’d come tearing by, with Cotwell beside her.
They hadn’t noticed him. Swept right on by as if he didn’t exist. Anger tore swiftly through his veins, though he could not summon a good reason for it. He’d descended to the entry to await them, though he could not think what he wished to say.
God, but he was a mess.
Now they passed him by again, with the girl this time, thoroughly caught up in their private drama—and anger punched him again. It fled swiftly this time, though—leaving him empty, aching and longing for . . . something.
He took a step in pursuit, not knowing whether he intended to make mischief or ask for help—when a feminine voice, very low and close, said his name.
“There are better ways to get what you are looking for,” it said.
He spun around. A woman emerged from the shadows behind Roubiliac’s Shakespeare.
He knew her, of course. Everyone in London and most of Europe knew Hestia Wright, the breathtakingly beautiful Courtesan Queen.
He was in no mood, however. “How could you know what I want?”
She smiled, a predator’s expression full of wisdom and certainty. “I know because I’ve been where you are. I know what it is to want to destroy someone so badly you’ll sacrifice anything—even yourself.”
Shocked, he stood silent.
“There is a better way.”
“Is there?” He could not suppress the weary bitterness that seemed to have invaded his soul.
She laughed. “Oh, yes. Do you not see? The greatest triumph lies in surviving. Thriving. Imagine your father’s fury when his predictions do not come true. When you do not perish in the flames of your own making, but you grow strong and successful in your own right, instead.”
