Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
R owan was rotting. Whether from the outside in or the inside out, he could not tell. It didn't matter which way it happened as long as it rotted away his brain first. Take the memories. Take the damn yearning. Take, please God, the knowledge that he was an ass. A fool of royal proportions. Divine proportions even. The clock in the hallway chimed twelve times, and according to the lines of light glowing around the edges of the closed curtains, those twelve chimes meant noon, not midnight.
He reached for the bottle of whisky on the table next to the chair he’d placed to face the windows he’d closed. Did it make sense? Not a bit. But it seemed to hurt the most, facing those closed curtains, remembering how she’d flung them open so easily. Seemed the best way to torture himself since his return from the ball two nights previous.
Chair, table, the curtains, the whiskey, and himself—the only remaining objects in the sitting room Isabella had so prettily decorated. No. His fingers twitched. Three other things on the table besides the bottle of whisky.
The flower he’d plucked from her hair that night.
Her hair pin .
And her stocking ribbon.
If only he could conjure an Isabella from her three possessions.
A knock on the door behind him.
“Go away, Poppins,” he groaned. “I’m busy.”
But Poppins did not go away. The door opened.
“Busy?” the admiral barked behind him. “Busy rotting?”
Rowan didn’t even flinch a muscle to face him. “Why, yes, in fact. Excellent guess.” Rowan fluttered his hand in the air above the almost empty whiskey decanter.
“No guessing about it. It reeks in here. How many days have you been pouring liquor into your body and brooding? If it’s as long as I think, not even fully two. Two , Rowan. And you’ve already sunk so damn low. Imagine what will happen once a week's gone by. Your guests will leave in droves, unable to stand the stench any longer.”
“Don't worry. I have allotted myself two point five days to wallow. At noon tomorrow, I will bathe, shave, dress, and rejoin life.” And more importantly, he'd put Isabella firmly behind him. Throw away the flower, the hair pin, the ribbon.
“I would pull up a chair and lend an ear, but there are none here but for yours. Bathe now, shave now, and come with me. The shaving is optional, but the bathing required. I know a coffeehouse where we can talk.”
“No.” Rowan downed the rest of his whiskey and snapped the glass to the table.
Heavy bootsteps, fast and loud, then the admiral was standing in front of him. “I do not particularly care for your insubordination. You will dress and come with me.”
“I'm not one of your sailors who must jump at your command.”
“You're not. You are my son, and while that does not mean you must obey me, I would hope you trust me enough to listen when I’ve your best interests at heart.”
“I'm not your son,” Rowan mumbled, hating the way the words sounded—petulant, childish, wrong.
“Of course you are. My blood may not run through your veins, and the man whose eyes you share was a good one. Brave and kind and he loved you well. But I defy the world to tell me I love you any less.” The admiral knelt in front Rowan, and it startled Rowan out of his haze of self-pity. Never had he seen the admiral kneel before another man. He'd knelt before his wife, a gesture of adoration and loyalty.
But now he knelt before Rowan. And he took one of Rowan's hands and folded it between his own. “Do you know why I brought you off that ship and into my home?”
He’d never thought about it. “My father asked you to, I suppose. Or you found me a nuisance on your ship. I was too young.”
“Wrong on both counts. Your father never once broached the subject. Why would he? He did not know he would die so soon. I took you because of your spirit, because when you first boarded the ship, fresh from the loss of your mother, you devoted everything you did to her. Everything was done to please the woman who had loved you. And to please the father who kept you by his side. You only pleased me to please them. Even though you were my cabin boy. And I admired you for it. You can tell much about a man by knowing whom he dedicates his life and actions to. And when your father died, I watched you break into a million pieces. I watched you lift your face to the stars, as if that's where all the pieces of yourself had gone, following your father to some inky, heavenly home.”
“You were dead in spirit if not in body, and I thought… this is a boy who needs softness. This is a boy who deserves a family. Lavinia and I could not have children of our own. We knew that by then. And from the moment I set you in front of her, she loved you as much as I did. So when you came home from school with your face ripped open and not even a single tear on your cheek, asking to stay home, we let you. A heart so young should not suffer so often as yours had.”
“It was fine. I survived. I could learn how and what I wanted to at home. The scar is nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. It goes much deeper than the skin. We should have pushed you. But we let you hide away in the townhouse with your tutors, going to Angelo's and Jackson's, no one knowing who you were, and you happy about that, you refusing to meet our friends or their children, refusing to meet anyone.”
“You’re making it sound more dramatic than it is. I’m a simple fellow, not made for social life. Even if I was, I don’t belong in the circles you frequent, but my education puts me out of reach of the circles I used to belong to.”
“Seahorse shit, my boy. Some people are not made for social life. I myself am not made for bows and curtsies and cravats.” He tugged at his own. “I thought buying the hotel was your own way of joining the world. It wasn't, was it? It was just another way to disappear farther into the shadows. No more. Get dressed. You stink like a day-old fish in the sun. You're coming with me to Fredericks.” The admiral pushed to his feet and braced his hands on his hips.
Rowan held his gaze steady on the older man as he stood, yanking the bottle off the table. “Yes, sir.” He retreated to his bedroom and slammed the door shut.
“Excellent!” the admiral called cheerfully from the other side of the door. “I knew you would see reason. I'll call Poppins for a hip bath.”
Rowan slammed the whiskey bottle down on the table beside his bed without taking a sip. He hadn't really wanted it, had taken it only as a show of defiance, only because he knew the admiral was right.
By the time he finished the hip bath, dressed, and met the admiral downstairs in the coffee room, he felt very much like the fool he was.
“Looking much better,” the admiral said. “Feeling it?”
“Not a bit.” Rowan scratched the back of his neck. “I am grateful to you.”
The admiral led the way out of the hotel, speaking only once his first foot hit the street. “I don't want your gratitude. Neither does Lavinia. We simply want you happy.”
That was likely no longer possible. Clouds hung low in the sky, dark and obscuring the sun’s light. Thank goodness. If he sneezed, he’d think of Isabella, how cute she looked when he did so. Sneezing now made him think of kissing.
Damn. He hadn’t even sneezed, and he was thinking of her.
When wasn’t he thinking of her?
He followed the admiral down the street, sinking his hands deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders, trying to figure out how to say the words without saying them. Nothing for it. “I think… that I have been afraid to think of you as my father. I thought it might displace my father. ”
“Never. I am simply one of the two you have been blessed with.”
“ Blessed . You think highly of yourself, sir.” He managed a weak laugh, then dug deeper. “I think highly of you as well. I…” He swallowed. “I love you.” He smashed the last two words together.
The admiral blushed. “Don't make me cry, Son.” He slapped his cheeks, making them redder, and blinked quickly beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Now tell me all what happened.”
And Rowan did, each footstep that led him closer to coffee relieving him of some of the soil-heavy weight he’d carried the last few days. “I pulled out the gun. Unloaded. And I demanded he let me check his pockets. I had a cravat pulled up high, a great coat on, and my hat down low, hiding well enough. He did not recognize me, though we’d spoken mere minutes before. I knew exactly where he had hidden the damn thing because I'd seen him hide it there. But I had to pretend to search his other pockets first. He tried to stop me when I put my hand in his waistcoat pocket, where he kept the letter, but I grabbed it and lunged away. That's when he got bold. I suppose he would have preferred to be shot rather than lose that letter. When I didn't shoot, he slung a fist at me. I ran. Thankfully, he's not very fast. Mr. Haws is not injured. Neither is his daughter. Scared, though, likely. He probably considers the loss of the letter the biggest blow. The letter is where it belongs now. But… I cannot feel as if I’ve done right.”
“He may not be injured, but your eye is black. Come, Rowan… you could have injured him a little bit. After that.”
“I just wanted the damn letter. Nothing else.”
“The man was scheming against someone who did not deserve it. He would have bought higher status for himself and his daughter at the happiness of another man and by threatening to ruin that man’s sisters. Do those with money and titles, like Clearford, often abuse their power? Yes, unfortunately. But I have known the young duke to be a good lad if misguided at times. He’s carried much responsibility on his shoulders and from a young age. I think you did right.”
The admiral had a finely tuned sense of justice. He would not lie or soften the blow if he’d thought Rowan had done wrong.
“Now.” The admiral stopped and glanced at a sign hanging over the street. “Here we are at Fredericks. Best coffee in London. You know”—he pushed open the door and let Rowan enter the large, raucous room first—“it's owned by a lord. A duke’s second son, in fact. Maybe we'll see him here tonight. He’s a jolly fellow. Likes to rub elbows with the clientele. Unlike you at the Hestia.”
Rowan stopped just inside the door. “That’s not true.”
“It is. You keep yourself locked away up top and only come out when you must. Almost as if you think you're too good to say good morning to a guest.”
“That's not true. I inhabit an uncomfortable position in society.”
“Most of us do.” The admiral slapped his back. “The trick is learning to be comfortable in it.” He raised his other hand high in the air and waved. “Here you go, boys. I got him here. Now you must do your best to keep him.”
A group of men sitting at a table in the back stood as one. They were dressed, mostly, in fine, well-tailored clothes, and they immediately made their way toward Rowan, the Duke of Clearford leading.
“What is this?” Rowan demanded.
“A surprise. An ambush,” the admiral said, slipping out the door.
“And an apology.” The Duke of Clearford stood right before him, bracketed by two men at each shoulder.
“Now,” said a blond man to Clearford's right, “will you come of your own accord, or will we be forced to escort you?” He cracked his knuckles.
Rowan was tempted to test them. A duke would never make a scene in a public house. That’s what Rowan would have thought thirty seconds ago. Also, thirty seconds ago, he would not have thought to even see a duke in a public coffee house in Cheapside. Perhaps he should see what other surprises remained to be discovered.
“Put away your fists.” Rowan pushed right through the line of men and made for the table they’d been sitting at. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table where the duke had been sitting and occupied it himself. The duke didn’t seem to care, spilling himself into another seat without hesitation.
When everyone had settled, Rowan asked, “What's good?”
“The Turkish coffee,” a man with sandy-brown hair said. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and ink splattered across his knuckles.
The other men grinned at him with wide, white teeth showing.
“What's wrong with the Turkish coffee?” Rowan asked.
“Nothing,” the blond man said. “Perfectly lovely stuff.”
“Best thing on the menu,” the man with ink stains said.
Clearford wrapped his knuckles on the table. “I'm apologizing. We can't poison him. Don't get the Turkish coffee. Never had a brew more filled with grounds. You'll have grit in your teeth for weeks.”
“You are absolutely no fun,” the blond man said. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm Quinton Chance, Viscount Noble. You know Clearford. The man with the scruff is Mr. Benjamin Bailey. Yes, you may tease him about the unfortunate alliteration. As well as his lack of style. And that man”—Lord Noble pointed to the man with the ink on his knuckles—“is Mr. Tristan Kingston.”
“We’re acquainted,” Rowan said.
Mr. Kingston inclined his head. “You’ve improved the Hestia significantly. I am glad to see the old girl in good hands. I do not possess a talent for hotels.”
“No need to inflate the fellow’s ego.” Noble waved at the only other unnamed man at the table. His light-yellow hair and merry countenance looked vaguely familiar. “That is Viscount Norton.”
“Do I know you?” Rowan asked.
“I stayed in your hotel for some time a few years back,” Norton said. “The wife and I enjoy taking rooms there occasionally even now. I’d prefer you call me Liam.”
“Well, Liam, what am I supposed to drink if not the Turkish coffee?”
“Fredericks’ special.” He waved a hand in the air, catching the attention of a maid across the room. The maid appeared, and Liam ordered the same drink for everyone.
“What is it I’m about to imbibe?” Rowan asked.
“A standard coffee so far as I can tell,” Mr. Bailey said. “But with no grounds at all in the brew. It’s the smoothest coffee I’ve ever had.”
“It’s made using Lord Devon’s device,” Mr. Kingston added .
“Lord Devon’s device?” Rowan twisted sideways and hooked one elbow over the back of his chair. He wasn’t falling for anything these men tried to sell him. “Is that a euphemism? Does this Lord Devon chap piss it out?”
Silence, then an explosion of laughter that stole the attention of every person in the coffeehouse.
“God, that’s good.” Lord Noble wiped a tear from his eye.
“Can the lot of you let me do what I came here to do?” The duke’s cold, sharp voice cut through the clamor. “Mr. Trent, I know what you did for me. And I treated you coldly when you did it. I was an arse.”
“A donkey’s arse,” Ben Bailey said.
“More like a monkey’s arse,” Kingston said. “One of those with the vibrantly colored backsides.”
“Yes.” Liam wagged his finger at Kingston. “Just that.”
“Will you fools let me speak?” Clearford grumbled.
Noble slapped him on the back. “You’re just too easy to tease, my friend. But do go on, and we’ll hold our japes for later.”
The duke sat tall, and his cravat bobbed, as if his throat worked through something difficult behind it. His eyes darted about the room, then settled hard on Rowan. “I apologize. It is no excuse for terrible manners, but I was rather…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Distracted the night of the ball. Distraught, even. You ended what was rather a nightmarish time for me. I do not think I can thank you enough.”
“Thank your sister, Lady Isabella.”
The duke’s gaze wavered. “Yes, she told me of her part in the scheme. She told me a little about how she is acquainted with you. I suspect there is much more to the story. She seems… lost these last few days. Sad and… angry.”
Nobel whistled. “The Merriweather sisters know how to do anger.”
The maid brought a tray of mugs and left them on the table.
Rowan snapped one up and inhaled the rich, steaming scent. “You’re all married to Clearford’s sisters? Is this… a club?”
“I’m not.” Liam raised a finger. “I’m actually not quite certain why I’ve been dragged along.”
“Because Cora might as well be one of them.” Mr. Bailey leaned back, stacking his feet on top of a chair on the other side of the table. “Now remain seated and show support for the duke.”
“Supporting Clearford is not why we’re all here, though, is it?” Liam said. “We’re here to test this fellow, to see if he’s worthy of Lady Isabella.”
“Don’t you already know enough about me to know I’m not?” The words like gristle between Rowan’s teeth.
“We don’t know you at all,” Kingston said. His half lowered eyelids and deep voice should have comforted if it hadn’t made him seem like the most dangerous among them. “In most cases, knowing the broad bits and pieces of a man isn’t enough. You run a successful hotel, and Admiral Garrison speaks highly of you. That’s something.”
“But you seem to have shattered my sister’s heart,” Clearford growled.
Liam leaned over and whispered much too loudly, “Don’t worry, he’s stopped with the knives.”
Rowan almost spit out his coffee. Knives? Isabella had mentioned them, too… “I wasn’t worried until you said that.” He rested his cup carefully on the table. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you love my sister?” Clearford would not accept a lie or even a half answer.
“What does it matter if I do? She’s your sister, and I’m a sailor’s son with mud on his boots.”
The men laughed again, all but Clearford.
“I see nothing amusing.” Anger simmered in his chest, and his fingers bounced on his thigh.
“How many men are around this table?” Kingston asked.
“Six. I may be low, but I know my sums.” Simmering anger began to boil.
“Out of those six,” Kingston said, “only two are who might be considered proper ton . Not only am I a bastard, but I work in my print shops. So does Ben. Liam wasn’t even supposed to inherit his title. Was a vicar before he was a viscount. And of those two with proper pedigree, one of them’s an arse and the other a fool. I’ll leave you to decide which is which.”
Noble shrugged. “I’ve been both in my lifetime. ”
Clearford’s lips thinned, and he leaned forward, pressing his palms into the table. “My sisters get to choose who they wed, Trent. My mother insisted on it, and I’ll honor her wishes, no matter what manner of man they choose, as long as he be good and kind and know full well how lucky he is. Having been so damn close to marrying for reasons other than affection, I can assure you I will never wish them any other fate. If you love Isabella, don’t be a coward about it. I do not like to see my sisters in misery. I like even less those who put them there. I do still know where my knives are. Do you understand?”
He did. Not necessarily about the knives, but about Isabella… he quite understood Clearford’s homicidal reaction to her sadness.
The men regarded him coolly while pretending not to regard him at all. Noble had his arm draped over the back of his chair as he looked out over the crowd. Bailey and Kingston traded some comments about their work. Liam realized he had finished his brew and called out for more.
Only Clearford watched him with unwavering intensity.
And only Rowan could change his future by stepping out of his scar-shaped past and into the future. Where Isabella waited patiently with a tear-streaked face.
Probably a romanticization, that. More likely, she waited not at all patiently with anger turning her tiny fists into mighty weapons.
But perhaps, most importantly, she did wait. For Rowan to realize what a nodcock he’d been. Hadn’t she told him her brother didn’t care? Hadn’t she told him she had three rather unconventional brothers-in-law? Men who did as they pleased and loved their wives the way Rowan loved Isabella. Men who admired strength and loyalty and protected those weaker than themselves. None of these men would have been in the circle at Rugby, cheering as another boy slashed through Rowan’s skin.
Rowan straightened and rested his forearms on the beaten table. “Your sister deserves the very best of men.”
“Glad you recognize that,” Clearford said.
“But I want her to love me anyway.”
“I understand that well,” Noble muttered.
Rowan ran a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face for the first time in days. “She deserves to be adored and courted in front of everyone, so everyone knows how perfect she is. But I… I have very little idea of how to court a lady.”
“Well then”—Bailey slapped Rowan on the back, the entire table suddenly paying attention once more—“you’re in luck. Because the duke here just happens to be an expert.”