“Well, he is the sort of man who is excellent at making one feel liked. I should not read anything into it.”
“So if it was assumed that maybe your attachment to him had grown and that perhaps you had spent, um, time with said man, I would be wrong.”
“Mother!” Joanna clapped hands over her ears and rose from the chair, resuming her position at the escritoire. She tore out a sheet of paper and jabbed the quill in the inkpot. Aware of her mother’s gaze still on her, she turned briefly. “I do not know what Aunt has been saying and I am sorry if you think me wrong in any of my behavior, but you do not need to worry, I promise. I think it likely I shall never see him again.”
Joanna turned her attention back to whatever letter it was she was meant to be writing. Eyeing the list of correspondents, she had to re-read it three times before figuring out it was Lady Heseltine who was next due a letter.
“Joanna...”
“I have a lot of work to do.” She scratched the first line of the letter and resisted the urge to curse when her shaking hand refused to write neatly, not to mention she had overloaded the quill with ink. However, if she added foul words to the news her mother had received from Aunt Liza of her nighttime antics, she feared she would send her mother into a fainting fit.
“Joanna...”
Huffing out a breath, she swiveled to find her mother having shuffled forward on the sofa, hands clasped in her lap. “Yes, Mother?”
“If you did spend time with Lord Newhaven, I do not think it would be an awful thing...”
Joanna was grateful for the firm back of the wooden chair behind her or else she might well have fallen backward off the thing and ended up with her ankles in the air. She eyed her mother for some time, noting the red splotches still in her cheeks and the slightly trembling hands. For as long as she could recall, she had been her mother’s perfect child. As her mother liked to tell everyone, she never did anything incorrectly and always made her proud. She doubted spending the night in Lord Newhaven’s bed counted toward those feelings.
“No awful thing?” she repeated, in case she had misheard.
“You are nearly out of mourning and goodness knows, you are beautiful and deserving of someone’s attention.”
Joanna held up a hand. “Mother, are you saying that you think I should have a...” She couldn’t bring herself to say lover. She cleared her throat. “That I should, uh, spend more time in a gentleman’s company?”
Her mother leaned farther forward, tightening her hands until her knuckles blanched. They talked about a great deal of things, but she could not recall them ever having such a frank conversation, even if Joanna could still not say lover aloud.
“Your father and I, well, we have been concerned over you.”
She waved a hand. “You have no need to worry. I am perfectly well.”
“You have kept yourself so busy, first with your friends, and then with this charity business. I have no doubt it was hard to see your friends so happily married.”
“Mother...”
“Let me finish,” she said with surprising firmness.
Joanna blinked a few times then clamped her mouth shut.
“I wonder perhaps if I should not have taken you in. If I should have let you be after Noah’s death.”
“Not at all.” She leaned forward and clasped both her mother’s hands in between hers, smoothing her fingers over her cold knuckles. “You looked after me.”
“I made you into a child and now you have been busying yourself with everyone else’s concerns and not thinking of your own.”
“I like being busy, you know that.”
Her mother nodded. “You were always an active child, but I think after Noah died, you might have benefited from not being busy.”
Joanna scowled. “What is so awful about busy?”
“It is awful if it does not give you time to grieve.”
She resisted the desire to roll her eyes. Why was everyone so concerned over how she grieved? First Ambrose, now her mother... “I do believe you brought me here in tears. What is that if not grief?”
“Grief takes time. I have lost two parents, so I know.”
“I know you have,” she said softly. “But perhaps I am different.”
“I do not think you are. You need to stop for a moment and think what you want for your future.”
Joanna pressed fingers to both sides of her head. “If this is about Lord Newhaven...as I said, I do not think I shall see him again.”
“But you should see him again.”
“Mother, you are confusing me.”
“Let him help you, let him take away some of the busyness, and take some time truly for yourself—with him,” she urged.
Joanna’s throat tightened but she could not be certain if it was from the thought of never seeing Ambrose again or the image that fluttered through her mind of spending more time with him.
Her mother’s gaze softened, and she patted the back of her hand. “You have never worried me, not even after you were widowed. I always knew you would thrive once more. But, please, allow yourself a moment or two and open yourself up again. You have been so shut off these months passed.”
Were it not for her mother’s gentle tone or the way her eyes were filled with genuine concern, Joanna would have been tempted to snap back. She thought she was doing a fine job of being a widow, actually.
Well, with the exception of not being able to visit her old house.
So, perhaps, just perhaps, she was not doing as fine a job as she thought.
Chapter Twenty-One
Why the devil was someone trying to stab his eyes with toothpicks of light? Ambrose groaned. At least, he thought he did. Unless there was some other creature in the room. The noise hadn’t sounded all that human. He made a hum in the back of his throat and confirmed, yes, indeed, it was he who had made such a noise.
He rolled over and immediately regretted it when his head pounded as though someone was banging a drum inside his skull. He smacked his dry lips together. Ah yes, too much whiskey. Or brandy. Or some other concoction. He couldn’t quite recall.
Dragging open his eyelids, he kept them at a squint, able to spot a vague shadow fussing around by the curtains. A vague, Bram-shaped shadow. Ambrose grunted and lifted his head briefly off the arm of the chair then dropped it again when it all became too much effort.
The wood of the arm pressed fiercely into his skin, forcing him to maneuver himself fully upright. He rubbed the side of his face, feeling the indents that the wood had left in his skin. He scrubbed a hand over his face and his palm met stubble—several days’ worth. He could have a wash and a shave...
Or he could have another whiskey and say farewell to this awful hangover. What was it about thirty that meant one suffered so much more than in one’s twenties?
Bram moved around the room, his footsteps unusually loud. “At least there are no ladies’ garments to deal with today,” the butler muttered.
“What was that, Bram?” Ambrose demanded, his voice croaky.
Behind him, the footsteps stilled. Bram cleared his throat. “I said, at least there are no ladies’ garments to be dealing with today.” Glasses clattered behind him and Ambrose resisted the desire to clamp his hands over his ears. “There are, however, plentiful glasses. Precisely how many guests did you have in attendance last night, my lord?”
“Exactly none, as you well know.”
“Hmmm, well, one could not tell from this collection.” Bram swept past him with a tray of empty glasses.
“You are unusually forthright this morning. Can you not do something useful and fetch me a drink?” He moved his jaw experimentally—his mouth was as dry as the desert.
“I shall ring for a non-alcoholic one.”
Ambrose glowered at the butler but hardly had the energy to say anything scathing so he sank back into the chaise and pressed fingers to either side of his head. Bram continued to busy himself, gathering and tidying whatever mess Ambrose had made the
previous night. He did not think it could be much. After all, he’d only spent the evening drinking and, well, drinking some more. How much mess could one man make? But by the sounds of Bram’s tutting and generally disapproving noises, it was a huge amount.
“Out with it,” Ambrose demanded.
“Out with what, my lord?” Bram paused by the door.
“With whatever is causing you to tut and mutter so much.”
The butler’s spine stiffened. He cleared his throat. “I am saddened to see you resorting to such ways.”
“Such ways?” Ambrose scowled. “I am a gentleman about Town. A little drinking in one’s home is hardly anything to be ashamed of. After all, I could be cavorting with whores or frittering away my inheritance in a gambling den.”
“Simply because some choose to spend their time frivolously does not mean you should too.”
“If it is because I did it alone, fine, I shall simply invite a few friends over tonight.”
Bram’s spine grew so straight that Ambrose feared he would snap in half. “That is not what I meant, my lord.”
“What then? Speak plainly?”
He lowered the tray of glasses onto a nearby table and clasped his hands behind his back. “You were searching for something fulfilling, my lord, and I had thought you had found it.”
“But?” Ambrose waved a hand for the butler to continue.
“But I believe you merely played at philanthropy. You did not commit. And that is why you did not find the fulfillment you wanted.”
“Played?” Ambrose scoffed. “Did not commit?”
God damn, he was ready to commit. Commit in a way Bram would never know. He’d been ready to settle and play husband and never drink alone again. He’d been prepared to follow Joanna around like a little lost puppy and do whatever she bid.
“I cannot be certain what has driven you to return to old habits but I have an idea, and I think you would not be doing such a thing were you satisfied with the path you have trodden of late.”
He inhaled deeply, preparing to serve Bram a tongue lashing. But perhaps that was it. Maybe that was why she doubted him. He had never had an idea of his own about the charity, never fully committed to ensuring the success of the hospital. Indeed, he helped where he could but, in truth, he did the bare minimum.
No bloody wonder she’d been uncertain about him. Hell, he hardly knew who he was anymore. He’d been searching for something and had assumed it was her but what right did he have to ask this of her? To request that she be the making of him?
None.
Ambrose rose to his feet and winced. “Bram, have a bath poured for me, will you? And brew a strong coffee.”
Bram’s lips quirked just the tiniest bit. “Of course, my lord.”
“There is no need to look so damned smug.”
“Smug, my lord? Never.”
He didn’t argue, but as the butler turned there was certainly a hint of a smug smile creasing his eyes. Ambrose shook his head to himself. If he couldn’t find the answer to what the devil he wanted out of life at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, he’d have to look elsewhere. And he had an excellent idea of where to start.
Having washed and consumed some coffee strong enough to make his hair stand on end, he almost felt human. At least human enough to withstand seeing people. Ambrose wasn’t certain how Mr. Bartlett would take him intruding on his time, but he suspected the man would not much mind. Despite him being in charge of the family charity for some time, Ambrose had not spent time with him on many social occasions mostly because he took his work seriously and devoted a lot of time to it. However, by Ambrose’s watch, he would be at Boodle’s later this afternoon—something Mr. Bartlett had mentioned he enjoyed doing after rising early and putting a day’s work in.
He took the carriage as close to the gentlemen's club as possible and walked the rest of the way. The red brick exterior stood out amongst the other white buildings on the row though the club bowed to the architecture of its neighbors with white columns over the door and a huge arched window in the center.
Inside, cigar smoke mingled with the scent of leather. Decorated in a suitably masculine manner, the club was already busy despite it still being relatively early. Ambrose found himself a seat by the fireplace, nodding briefly to a few faces he recognized but forgoing any conversation. He could not claim the effects of last night were entirely gone and thus, he was hardly in the mood for bland conversation or a game of cards, however, if he didn’t take some bloody action now, he’d be cursing himself for the rest of the day and into tomorrow.
By the time Bartlett entered the club, he had consumed several coffees and suspected he didn’t have a chance in hell of sleeping tonight. He waved a hand and the man’s brows rose. Ambrose had been a member of Boodle’s for some time but found the dry talk of the place a bore and rarely visited so he did not blame the man for his surprise.
“Lord Newhaven, I did not expect to see you here,” he said as he ordered a drink from the waiter and seated himself opposite.
“I came to speak with you.”
Bartlett waited until his drink was in front of him, took a sip, then pressed his hands together upon the table. “If this is about Mrs. Lockhart...I know that she is organizing the fair without you, but please, let me assure you, my lord, she is doing a sterling job and you need not concern yourself. The fair will be a success, I have no doubt, and the charity shall retain its excellent reputation.”
Ambrose shook his head and peered at the man. Did he know of their relationship and how Ambrose had ruined it? Or did he assume that the Earl of Newhaven had simply tired of being a philanthropist and returned to his former ways? It was most likely the latter.
And not far from the truth, unfortunately.
“I will leave Mrs. Lockhart to the fair. I have every confidence she is doing a fine job. However, I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“Anything, my lord, you only need ask.”
“I think my aid could be used elsewhere.”
Bartlett stilled, his drink to his lips. “If you are talking of your funds, you are welcome to take a look over the accounts. I assure you they are being used where they are needed.”
“No, that’s not it. I want to be of use. Real use.”
He frowned. “As in...you wish to help? Physically?”
Ambrose chuckled. “Precisely.”
Bartlett rubbed his forehead with two fingers. “Well...” He paused. “Are you certain, my lord? I mean, if you wish to have more input in the day-to-day runnings, I can spare time to meet with you.”
“You are a busy man, I know that much, and I doubt you really have time to pander to an earl’s desires to interfere. However, I was hoping you might have some suggestions and can direct me as to where we are investing our funds in London.”
“We have a hospital and several orphanages throughout the south—Moorfields Hospital is only on the other side of the river.”
“Perhaps I should visit some of the sites?” Ambrose leaned forward. “Heck, I could mop a few brows if nothing else.”
“I am certain that the children would enjoy a visit from an earl and the staff would welcome a chance to show you what they do with your money and suggest ways you can further help.” Bartlett took a long sip of his drink and cocked his head. “Forgive me if this seems bold, my lord, but I had thought you were more than happy to remain merely a figurehead.”
“I was content perhaps. But now I realize I do not wish to be content.” Ambrose shook his head at himself. “If that makes any sense.”
Bartlett nodded slowly. “I have my own fortune, you know, Lord Newhaven. It would be easy for me to do little, but the charity, well, it keeps me young and busy, and I would have it no other way.”
“You are a fine man, Bartlett, and the charity is lucky to have you.”
He waved away the words. “As I say, it keeps me young.”
“Well, hopefully it will do the same for me.”
“If
you’re truly keen to take a hand in the charity, I’m visiting one of the orphanages on Wednesday. It’s only an hour or so by carriage. Perhaps you might like to accompany me?”
Ambrose had a mild suspicion the question was a test—to see if he was true in his intent to help. He didn’t blame Bartlett. It was clear the charity meant a great deal to him, and even if it was his family’s charity, Ambrose could not claim to have had more of a hand in it than Bartlett.
“That sounds a fine idea. The sooner, the better.” He motioned to the waiter for two more drinks. After today, he was going to do his best to avoid alcohol, but for now, he wanted to toast this new start.
And proving to himself he was more than just an aimless rake.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Joanna stilled just outside the garden gate. Running her gaze over the patchy paint, she blew out a breath. Her heart thudded hard in her chest and she had to resist the desire to bend double and retch.
If she was to ever move on with her life, she had to do this. All it would take is a few little steps. She’d push open the gate, follow the path, and open the door to the house. Inside would be some of Noah’s things. His clothes, his pocket watch, the book he never finished reading.
Tears tingled behind her eyes and she inhaled, holding the breath in her lungs before her throat could tighten. She could do this. She had to. Even if she never saw Ambrose again, she could not let herself be cut off from the possibility of love forever.
Just the thought of never feeling warm kisses—Ambrose’s kisses—or sensing his heated gaze upon her was enough to propel her forward. She shoved open the creaky gate and paced down the path toward the front door. Sliding the heavy key from the pocket of her cloak, she slipped it into the lock and turned it before she could change her mind. As she released the air from her lungs, she pushed open the door and stepped into the hallway.
The air smelled of neglect—of damp and dust. No wonder. The furnishings were dusty, and when she touched one of the curtains, it was cold.
“Forgive me, house,” she murmured.
Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3) Page 13
