“Fair. And I need you to know that I don’t think I can live in a city.”
This was very much the opposite of structural soundness. He very much feared they were headed for another—emotional equivalent of a bridge collapse, he supposed. But standing here with her in the moonlight, he knew that nothing was going to stop him from seeing her. Nothing was going to stop him from falling further in love with her, and if he got his heart resoundingly broken at the end of it, he’d simply have to live with that.
Chapter Seventeen
In the morning, Sydney packed his bag. He had little to cram into his satchel, because most of his belongings were, naturally, in Manchester. That was his home and he would do well to remember it. He tried not to remember that he had somehow acquired two changes of clothes, a spare shaving kit, and a cake of soap, all of which sat in the wardrobe in his room at Pelham Hall, waiting for his return.
He heard footsteps and turned to see Lex in the doorway, holding his cane. “Carter said you’re packing your bag.”
“I have a meeting with the railway backers.”
“You told me that wasn’t until next week. Tell me you aren’t running away from the Allenby woman.”
“I’m doing no such—”
“I swear to God I can actually hear you blushing right now. You’re a terrible liar.” Lex tapped the ground with his cane until he found the bed, then shoved Sydney’s clothing aside and sat. “You’re smitten with her.”
“I am,” Sydney admitted.
“And she’s smitten with you.”
“I believe she is.”
“You sound unsure.”
Sydney swallowed. He thought of what she had said, and the way she looked at him and touched him. She was fond of him. That wasn’t news, precisely. It was just difficult to believe. “I’m trying not to be.”
“And so you’re running away.”
“I’m getting some space so I can think about this clearly.” After the previous night’s conversation, he needed to pause before rushing headlong into disaster. Maybe there was a way to mitigate damages, some way to take whatever they were feeling and shove it into a less dangerous shape. Maybe, with some distance, it could become a casual affair, a summertime romance, and they would only be slightly miserable at the end of it.
“As I said, running away. Of course you are. You’ll need time to come up with a better reason to drive her away this time. I doubt you’re up to the task, if I’m honest.”
“What on earth are you talking about.”
Lex arranged himself against Sydney’s pillows, his booted feet crossed on top of Sydney’s folded shirts. “When someone’s fond of you, you immediately stage a tactical retreat.”
Sydney opened his mouth to object but Lex carried on. “One,” he said, holding up a single finger. “You were terribly standoffish with both me and Penny. My God, the lengths we had to go to for you to join in our frolics. We asked Andrew if you hated us but he insisted that this was how you were. Two.” He held up another finger. “You ran off to Durham as soon as you and I became something more than occasional bedmates.”
“That’s not fair,” Sydney said hoarsely. But he remembered that summer, remembered the realization that he was in over his head, and wanting to get as far away from Lex as possible. “I had work in Durham.”
Lex ignored him. “Three. You jumped to the worst possible conclusion about Miss Allenby when she and Miss Russell visited. Surely you realize how irrational that was. You went so far as to insult the poor woman. I can only assume you were deliberately trying to alienate her.”
“I don’t need to try to alienate anyone,” Sydney said. “It just happens. It’s my nature.”
“Four. You didn’t come to me in London.”
Now that was simply going too far. “You didn’t ask me!”
“You were the only person who had suffered the same loss as I had. We were—we are—family. I needed you and I couldn’t tell you because my secretary doesn’t need to be privy to my every thought, and you didn’t come.”
Sydney clenched his fists in frustration. “Your letters were so chilly. And they were dictated, Lex. I thought you were trying to put me off.”
“You knew me. You knew better than to think that I’d shrink from telling you to keep away if that was what I wanted. I think that you didn’t want to see me because you were afraid.”
“What was I afraid of, Lex?” Sydney asked, exasperated.
Lex tapped his long fingers on the coverlet. “Of being liked and wanted. Of being loved. And I don’t mean in the carnal sense. You seem to have no difficulties understanding your appeal in that arena. You spent so many years in Andrew’s shadow. No, that isn’t right. As Andrew’s shadow. You were so different from one another, that I think you decided that since he was so likable, you must therefore be unlikable.”
“I’m really not particularly likable,” Sydney pointed out.
Lex groped on the bed, found a hair comb, and flung it at Sydney. “You’re surrounded by evidence to the contrary. Surrounded, you monumental lackwit. Nobody should let you build bridges if you’re this stupid.”
“They’re railways! Not bridges!”
“Bugger the entire lot of them. This is why you’re so devoted to duty, isn’t it? You’ve reduced all your relationships to duty, and it’s never once occurred to you that someone might want something else from you.”
“This is balderdash.”
“In any event,” Lex said, swinging his feet to the floor and rising. “When you come to your senses I will not be gracious about it.”
“You’re never gracious about anything!” Sydney called to Lex’s retreating form. The infuriating part was that Lex was right. When Sydney suspected someone was fond of him, his first thought was that there must have been some sort of emotional calculation error. Perhaps they hadn’t carried the one, perhaps they hadn’t noticed that he was gruff and abrupt and bad at friendship. But he also found it hard to believe that sharp-eyed, keen-witted Amelia saw him for anything other than who and what he was, and that she liked him anyway. And, yes, that made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite understand. All the more reason, then, for him to step away from the confusion in his mind and heart and see if he could make some sense of it at a comfortable remove. He told himself very firmly that this was best for both of them.
When Amelia and Georgiana arrived at Pelham Hall, Sydney was waiting on the drive for them, a satchel in his hand. Amelia’s heart sank.
“I’m headed to Manchester for at least a week,” he said. His voice was pleasant. Detached. She hated it. “Are there any errands or services I can perform for you?”
“You’ve had me longing for French cheese all day,” Amelia said, striving for the same level of detachment. “A round of Camembert would be delightful with the berries we’ve been gathering.”
“Eight yards of nankeen,” Georgiana said promptly.
Amelia blinked. “Are you going to recover all the furniture at the cottage?”
“Leontine needs new clothes. The dresses she arrived with are already too small and can’t be let out any further. Some pretty ribbons for her hair would not go amiss. The mercer on the high street doesn’t have anything suitable. And she needs books. Not copy books or primers—there will be time for that later—but stories to read in French and English. I would know where to get them in London but the stationer in Bakewell doesn’t have what I need. I can make a list,” Georgiana offered, when Amelia and Sydney both continued to stare at her.
“No, quite all right,” Sydney said, removing a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”
“And while you’re at it, you need a proper governess. Your niece is a lady, whatever her origins are. Especially given what her origins are, in fact. She mustn’t be raised in a slipshod manner. It’s all well and good to be camping here for the time being, but if you mean for Pelham Hall to be her home, you must hire a full staff and see that she has other children o
f a similar station to play with.”
“When she goes to Manchester with me, she’ll go to school,” Sydney said.
“You might want to confirm those details with His Grace,” Georgiana said. “Because he’s laboring under the impression that Leontine will continue to live here with him. They’re exceedingly fond of one another and given that they’ve both had recent losses, you certainly wouldn’t want to separate them.” With that, Georgiana bid Sydney farewell and went inside.
“What just happened?” Sydney asked, passing a hand over his face.
“I think Georgiana has decided to manage your life,” Amelia said. “It’s really not a bad thing. She’s quite good at managing. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her lift a finger that I forgot what it’s like when she decides to take matters in hand. I didn’t know she still had it in her.” Amelia swallowed, not certain how to approach the topic diplomatically. “Also, she is entirely correct that your niece needs to be raised as a lady if you intend for her to be a lady. Georgiana helped my mother in that regard. She is an expert in tricking society to accept baseborn children.”
Sydney’s jaw tensed. “I’m not certain I like hearing you refer to yourself or Leontine as baseborn.”
“It’s a sight nicer than the alternatives,” Amelia responded. “Illegitimate sounds like I’m a grifter. Bastard is unconscionable. By-blow is crass. Born out of wedlock is entirely silly, as it makes it sound like the child was born in an improperly fastened jewelry case. As for natural, what on earth does that make the rest of you? Unnatural?”
“Maybe it’s not a concept we need to dignify with a word.”
“Well, when everybody stops treating it like the gravest error a person can make is to be born to an unmarried parent, then we’ll stop needing a word for it,” she said crisply.
“I see,” Sydney responded. “I defer to your greater wisdom in this area.”
“However,” she said slowly, not sure if she were intruding too much into an area that was not her concern, “you do need to settle this with the duke.”
He frowned. “I’m aware that taking Leontine away will distress Lex, but I haven’t a notion of what else to do. She’s my niece. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does it’s clear that she was passed from pillar to post after her mother died. I’m her only blood relation in England, and it’s my duty to look after her.” He stopped, as if his thoughts had snagged on one of his own words. Then he swiftly shook his head. “She’s my only family as well. And that matters, Amelia. You have scores of relations but she and I haven’t.”
“Blood isn’t the only thing that makes a family,” she observed. “I have blood relations who pretend I don’t exist. Until I was eighteen, my eldest brother was one of them. My father’s sisters won’t even look at me. There are things that matter so much more than blood.”
“Damn it. I know that. I’m sorry. I keep saying the wrong thing.” He stood up straight and hefted his satchel higher on his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have bothered you with all my domestic troubles. They’re my own responsibility to sort out.”
That was too much. She was not letting him part from her like this. “You aren’t bothering me,” she said. “I care what happens to you.” Well, wasn’t that about as tepid a declaration as a woman could produce from the bottom of her heart. “I care about you,” she tried again, and no, that wasn’t much better. It didn’t help that Sydney was staring at her as if she were speaking in tongues.
“I care about you too,” he said. “That, if you’ll forgive me, is the problem.”
“You have a funny understanding of what constitutes a problem.”
He let out a choked laugh and kissed the corner of her mouth.
“Write to me,” she said, and hastened up the stairs into the house.
Sydney found Leontine thoroughly caked in filth, and only vivid memories of her father having been similarly muddy stopped him from grabbing her out of the mud puddle and delivering her directly to the tender mercies of the bathtub.
“I’m going to be away for a fortnight,” he said.
“Uncle and mademoiselle will take care of me,” she said, not looking up from her twigs.
“What are you making?” he asked, thinking she’d tell him about fairy houses or mud pies.
“A road,” she said. “For shipments of cheese.” She indicated a leaf that was laden with acorns.
“Very sensible,” he said solemnly. “Why must the cheese be delivered across the mud puddle?” he asked, crouching down to her level.
She cast him a pitying glance. “So the lutins—the . . .” She broke off, plainly searching for an English word. “The creatures who live in the woods? Little magic people?” Her tone was serious, as if she spoke of trestles and railway gauges.
“Fairies, or maybe brownies,” Sydney supplied with equal gravity.
“So the brownies or fairies can get the cheese quickly. They do not care to wait for the cheese to go around the bog.”
“Entirely practical,” he said. “Your papa would have caused the bog to be dredged and a canal to be built.”
“Ça c’est stupide,” she said. “Then the boxes have to be hauled from cart to boat and back again. People will steal the cheese, then, and say it fell overboard.”
“Precisely how much of my conversations with your uncle Lex have you overheard this summer?” Sydney asked.
“Enough,” she said with a shrug.
He leaned closer, entirely aware that the hem of his coat was going to get muddy, but he wanted a closer view of what she was doing. “Are you building a bridge across the bog?”
“Not a bridge. A road, like I said.” She gestured at the twigs that lay across the surface of the puddle. Then she placed the leaf—already laden with its acorn cargo—on top. “See, it does not sink. It floats.”
Sydney stared at her. “You are very much like your papa, you know. He had the cleverest ideas. Did you know that a man once built a road like that across a bog, just like you’re doing now? He was blind, like your uncle. Anyway, he made the road out of rush rafts, all tied together. It was strong enough to support horses and carriages, because the weight of anything that traveled across it tightened all the rafts together.”
“Naturellement, like ocean ships can hold horses and great cannons,” she said pityingly, as if she were now going to have to explain the most rudimentary principles of flotation.
“Chat Moss,” Sydney said. “No need to go around it. No need to risk lives trying to lay pylons in the bottomless muck. The road floats right on top, and disturbs nothing at all.” He got to his feet. “Leontine, my love, you are a genius.”
He needed to get to Manchester, and he needed to do it right away. He repeated to himself: no need to bypass the bog, no need to plow through it, just float lightly over the top of it. It was elegant and practical and probably half the cost of circumventing the bog. He’d be awarded this contract and then he’d be near enough to Amelia to at least make things work in the short term—stolen days and rushed meetings.
Except that was just circumventing the problem, and it was as short-sighted and inefficient as circumventing the bog. A better solution wouldn’t treat his friendship with Amelia as a problem, but as a part of the landscape.
After kissing Leontine’s head, he rose to his feet.
“You have to take Fancy with you,” she said, pointing at the terrier who had appeared at Lex’s side. “Or she will be so sad.”
“Fancy?” Oh, Francine. And sure enough the dog did look like she would pine away if he didn’t bring her. She was doing something reprehensibly manipulative with her eyes, and her ears didn’t even bear thinking about. “Fine,” he said. There was no use fighting. He scooped the dog up and made his way to the inn.
Chapter Eighteen
1 September, 1824
Dearest Amelia,
I shamelessly stole your most recent book from Lex’s bookcase and left Moral Tales in its place. I stayed up unconscionably late reading it.
I found myself wishing that Mary, Queen of Scots really had killed all those people. Unfortunately, this means I’ve now read all your books. When will the next be finished?
Yours,
Sydney
3 September, 1824
Dearest Sydney,
The next book is still in its larval stages and we won’t speak of it. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I can tell you that I have written another book, but I couldn’t put my name on it for reasons that would make themselves abundantly clear as soon as you saw it.
You may be interested to know that I have not had a single blackberry in over a week because Georgiana has brought them all to the duke and Leontine. First the strawberries, and now this. It’s nothing less than robbery. This might seem unremarkable if you did not know how jealously Georgiana guards her sweets.
Yours,
Amelia
5 September, 1824
Dearest Amelia,
Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me? Give me the title. I promise I’ll destroy the letter immediately upon receipt.
Yours,
Sydney
7 September, 1824
S—
A Princely Imposition.
—A
9 September, 1824
Dearest Amelia,
If you had told me two months ago that I would have had occasion to visit the sort of bookseller that carries obscene literature behind the counter, and would look forward to it, I would have assumed I had run mad. Booksellers of illicit material are very warm and welcoming, as it turns out. I only blushed the color of a tomato and stammered four times before I could utter the title aloud. The engravings are very educational and I’ve also learned a good deal about history.
Ever yours,
Sydney
11 September, 1824
Dear Sydney,
I’ll regret to my dying day that I wasn’t present to see you blush and stammer at the bookseller. I ought to tell you that I didn’t write the entire book. I was responsible for the historical content while a friend wrote the more interpersonal segments.
A Delicate Deception Page 18
