Chapter Twenty-Three
Sandcombe, Lincolnshire. October 1817
T he chief benefit of liquor was its ability to dull the senses and numb the pain. But, as all topers must come to learn, an excess of liquor placed a man in danger of acknowledging the absolute truth.
“Foolish nonsense,” Andrew muttered as he refilled his glass then took another mouthful of brandy. The liquor burned the back of his throat and he swallowed quickly. Then he tipped his head back, drained the glass, and slammed it on the table.
The absolute truth of the matter was that she didn’t deserve him.
He filled the glass once more, then clicked his tongue in frustration as he tipped the now-empty decanter up, shaking the last droplets out.
He took another mouthful.
I’m well rid of her.
He swallowed once more and winced at the sharp spike of pain between his eyes.
“I’m better off without her!” he declared to no one.
No, you’re not—and well you know it.
Bloody hell—liquor was supposed to dull the senses. But where his conscience was concerned, it only seemed to sharpen with each mouthful until it jabbed at his mind in its relentless determination to thrust a mirror before his soul.
He lifted the glass to his lips, then set it aside. An empty glass was a sign of a man who lacked self-control. Whereas a man capable of leaving a glass half full demonstrated that he did not need liquor to survive the day.
He needed nothing to survive the day.
Not even her .
Curse it! Could he not have a single waking thought unviolated by her? His dreams he’d long since surrendered to, with her soft voice whispering to him while he slept, tempting him, deceiving him…
But she had left him, abandoned him, taking Frannie Gadd and Loveday Smith with her, leaving the Gadds without their daughter—and leaving Andrew to deal with the fury of Ralph Smith and the outrage of Sir John Fulford, who had suffered a seizure shortly after he visited Andrew, for which Lady Fulford and most of her acquaintance placed the blame on Andrew’s shoulders.
Any moment now, a letter would come from the bishop ousting him from his position.
Let it come.
He reached for his quill and knocked over the decanter, which fell to the floor with a crash.
“Shit!”
He winced at the profanity. Another sin to pray forgiveness for at night. Not that any of his prayers were ever answered. Had his prayers been answered, then she would not have…
Curse it! There she was again. And now his head hurt.
The door opened, and he jerked upright, wincing at the pain in his head, to see the blurred outline of his housekeeper standing in the entrance, holding a cup in her hand. Her keys jangled on her belt, and the grating metallic sound pulsed in his head.
“What is it, Mrs. Clegg?”
She tilted her head sideways.
“ Must you do that?” he snapped.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like I’m a belligerent child and you’re my nursemaid.”
He blinked, focusing on her, his head throbbing. She lowered her gaze to the remnants of the decanter, then resumed her attention on him, her expression that of a disappointed parent.
“Why should I not look at you as one might a belligerent child ?” she said. “I see not the actions of a man.” She gestured to his half-empty glass. “A man who loses himself in liquor is no man at all.”
“Got that from the Bible, did you?” Andrew sneered, wincing with regret almost as soon as the words left his mouth.
“From my father, actually,” she replied tartly. “He spoke a good deal of sense, he did. You’ve only to look about the village to see the creatures who call themselves men who have turned to liquor. Men such as Ralph Smith, Sir John Fulford. But you, vicar—I thought you better than that.”
“Then I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You don’t sound sorry,” she replied. “At least not for that .”
Another spike of pain pulsed behind his eyes, and he lifted his hand to his head, pressing the fingertips against his temples.
She approached the chair opposite his desk and sat—without asking for leave, but he hadn’t the strength to admonish her.
“You’re hurting, vicar,” she said. “And I’m not referring to your headache—for which, truth be told, I have no sympathy, given that it’s self-inflicted.”
“I’m fine.”
“If you say so. There’s no shame in regret, you know.”
“Regret?” he asked. “I’ve no regrets.”
The lie clung to the air, and she let out a sigh. “To heal our pain, we must first accept the truth.”
“And the truth is?”
“That not all sins deserve punishment,” she replied. “When we’re entrusted with a sinner’s confession, we must show compassion for the sinner and honor their trust.”
“What nonsense you speak, Mrs. Clegg,” he said. “Where did you hear that from?”
“From one of your sermons,” came the reply. “The very same sermon where you declared that a woman’s misfortune is to shoulder the blame in a world ruled by men.” She leaned forward and placed the cup on the desk.
“You brought me a cup of tea?” Andrew asked.
“Coffee, actually.”
“What for?” He peered into the cup at the black, steaming liquid within. “I don’t take coffee at this hour.”
“Neither do you reduce yourself to a state of inebriation,” she replied. “But needs must. You have a guest, and judging by the look of him, I’d recommend receiving him with at least a semblance of sobriety.”
“A guest?” Andrew gestured toward her. “Send him away. He can wait.”
“I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why? Who is he?”
His stomach spasmed and he swallowed a bolt of nausea. Was it Sir Leonard Howard, come to challenge him to a duel for dishonoring his daughter?
The housekeeper pulled a card out of her pocket and placed it on the desk. Andrew picked it up, his head throbbing as he focused his gaze on the inscription.
Gerard Turnbull
Watkins, Turnbull & Grimley
Chancery Lane, London.
“He said you’d know who he was,” she said.
Andrew nodded slowly. “He’s my father’s solicitor.”
“I thought as much. I took the liberty of giving him tea while he waited.” She pushed the cup toward him and gave a soft smile. “I told him you were resting after a busy day visiting the poor of the village.”
“An untruth, Mrs. Clegg?”
“With the most noble of motives, vicar. And you have engaged in several busy days visiting the poor of the village, so it’s not a complete untruth. Mr. Turnbull was happy to wait. As long as need be, he said. He’s taken a room at the Sailor for the night.”
So, it wasn’t a fleeting visit. Apprehension churned in Andrew’s gut, and he picked up the coffee cup and took a sip, then wrinkled his nose.
By heaven , that was strong!
“I told him you’d be with him in thirty minutes. Will that be enough time to make yourself presentable?”
Andrew nodded meekly. There was no defense against a strong-willed, determined woman—particularly if she was in the right.
“Good,” she said. “I have some feverfew tea infusing, which I’ll bring along in a moment. For your head.”
“Yes, Mrs. Clegg,” he said, fighting the urge to say, Yes, Nanny .
She arched an eyebrow, then gave a smile of indulgence. “You may try my patience, Mr. Staines, but I shall miss you when you leave the parish.”
“I’m going nowhere,” he replied.
“Perhaps.” She rose and approached the door. Then she turned and fixed her gaze on him. “May I speak out of turn?”
“When do you not, Mrs. Clegg?”
She rolled her eyes. “Very well. I just wanted to say that you were wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“When you said you were better off without her.”
He winced. “Eavesdropping at my door, were you?”
“When one’s employer makes a declaration at the top of his voice, one cannot help but hear it,” she said. “You may have believed the liquor to assist you in securing your conviction when your heart speaks to the contrary, but I’ll wager all it has given you is a sore head. Perhaps the time has come to take heed of your own sermons. The trust of another soul is a gift—a precious gift to treasure.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Now, you’re not going to disappoint me again, are you?” She folded her arms. “Have you never stopped to consider the amount of courage it takes to defy convention and stand up for what is right? A woman—with little power over her fate—must choose her battles wisely. You may view her as an incomer who disturbed the peace of the village, but that peace came at a price. That price was innocent souls such as Freda Gadd and Loveday Smith. And Mrs. Ward was the only one of us brave enough to stand up and put a stop to the payments. Yes, it’s come at a cost to those who believed in the perfection of village life. But that cost is better borne than the suffering of innocents.”
He stared at her—the prim housekeeper always ready to maintain convention and order. Where had that impassioned speech come from? Did every woman conceal a warrioress beneath her subservient exterior?
He swallowed another mouthful of coffee.
“Good,” she said. “Now, drink it all up, and I’ll be back with your infusion.”
He drained the cup, and she gave a satisfied nod.
“Men!” she huffed. “They never know what’s best for them.”
“I don’t know how I’d manage without you, Mrs. Clegg,” he said.
“Perfectly fine, I assure you,” she replied. “When faced with adversity, the finest of characters will always find the resources to survive.”
“And you think me a fine character?” he said. “You’ve never said as much.”
“I’m not a flatterer, vicar. But perhaps what you should ask yourself is if another exists without whom your life is incomplete.”
“Is that—”
“From one of your sermons?” She shook her head. “No. But it’s the best advice I can think of to give to a man in love.”
He opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. Mrs. Clegg was the kind of woman who had the ability to sniff out an untruth as a pig sniffed out a prize truffle—though doubtless she’d clip his ear at the analogy.
She smiled, then nodded and exited the study.
*
By the time Andrew approached the parlor, his headache had lessened a little, though whether that was due to the restorative properties of feverfew or the distraction brought about by its bitter taste, which still lingered at the back of his throat, he knew not.
He pushed open the door. A small, neat, balding man sat in an armchair beside a round table laden with tea things. As Andrew entered, he rose, clicked his heels together, then issued a stiff bow.
“Mr. Turnbull,” Andrew said. “A pleasure. Forgive me for not waiting on you when you arrived.”
He extended his hand, but the man merely stared at it. Then he bowed again. “Viscount Radham.”
Andrew froze. “Wh-what?”
“Forgive me, your lordship. May I be the first to—”
“No,” Andrew whispered. He stumbled forward, and the lawyer grasped his hand. The strength of the man’s grip belied his diminutive appearance. Perhaps he was in the habit of propping up clients at risk of swooning, given that much of his occupation would necessitate the imparting of bad news.
Viscount Radham .
Shit.
That meant only one thing.
Robert…
Andrew’s gut twisted with horror, and he drew in a deep breath to swallow the ball of nausea sticking in his throat. “I—I…”
The lawyer tightened his grip, then steered Andrew toward a chair. “I deemed it appropriate to tell you in person, your lordship,” the lawyer said. “Forgive the manner of my intrusion. I came as swiftly as I could. Your father asks that you return with me posthaste.”
“I-is my father well?”
“As well as can be expected under the circumstances. But the earl, naturally, is in need of you, given that you are now his—”
“Yes, yes,” Andrew interrupted. He had no wish for the man to voice it.
His heir .
“I quite understand, your lordship.”
Andrew winced. Must the man address him so?
“You don’t look at all well, your lordship,” Mr. Turnbull said. “A brandy might be in order, if you have any?”
Andrew shook his head. More liquor was the last thing he needed right now. No, what he needed was now irrevocably beyond his reach.
His freedom.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Your brother was involved in a riding accident.”
“In the country?” Andrew asked. “I cannot believe that. Robert always detested the country.”
“It happened in London,” the lawyer said. “Hyde Park. He was racing his carriage and it overturned.”
“Sweet Lord!” Andrew whispered.
“I have it on good authority that he didn’t suffer,” Mr. Turnbull continued. “Broke his neck, apparently. Killed instantly.”
Andrew drew in a sharp breath and lifted his hand to his mouth as the nausea threatened to spill over. “When?”
“Two days ago. Just before dawn.”
“Was he alone?”
Mr. Turnbull’s cheeks reddened. “Your brother’s—ahem— companion was in the carriage with him. She survived only a few hours after the accident. The gentleman he was racing came to his aid, but it was too late.”
Companion . Mistress, more like, given the expression in the lawyer’s eyes.
“The gentleman he was racing?” Andrew asked.
“His Grace, the Duke of Sawbridge.”
Definitely a mistress, then—or, more likely, a whore.
Sawbridge —a man whose reputation as the most profligate womanizer alive had reached even Andrew’s ears. Sawbridge and Robert had been at Eton and Oxford together. He had a reputation for spending a veritable fortune on women, liquor, and wild parties, and he was the man whom Robert had always aspired to be—the epitome of the soulless, amoral rake.
“When he has recovered, His Grace will be writing to you to offer his condolences,” Mr. Turnbull said.
“I’ll bet he bloody will,” Andrew muttered.
The lawyer’s eyes widened at the profanity.
“Wait, what do you mean—when he’s recovered?” Andrew asked.
“The duke broke his leg in the accident. His companion survived unscathed.”
“Well, I’m glad for that , at least.”
Mr. Turnbull raised his eyebrows but had the sense not to ask Andrew whether he was glad that Sawbridge’s doxy had survived, or glad that Sawbridge had broken his leg.
I bloody well hope it hurts him. A lot.
“What about my brother’s…companion?” Andrew asked. “Has Sawbridge sent her family his condolences?”
“I believe she has no family, your lordship,” Mr. Turnbull said, his cheeks reddening further. “I believe she is—was—a woman of…” He made a random gesture, his blush extending to the tips of his ears.
“I understand,” Andrew said.
Given Sawbridge’s—and, if Andrew were honest, his brother’s—reputation, Robert must have indulged in a drunken carriage race after a night’s drinking and whoring.
Sweet Lord Almighty! Pain hammered at Andrew’s mind, and he leaned forward and placed his head in his hands.
“I trust you understand the necessity of attending your father,” Mr. Turnbull said. “I have taken a room at the inn here and shall await your instructions when you are ready.”
Andrew nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“Then I shall trespass on your time no longer.” Mr. Turnbull rose to his feet and extended his hand once more, and Andrew took it. “Please accept my condolences for your loss, Lord Radham.”
Ignoring the pain in his head and his heart, Andrew took the proffered hand. “Thank you. If you would be so good as to remain at the inn for another day to give me time to settle my affairs here, I shall be ready to depart this time tomorrow.”
“Very good, sir.” The lawyer gave a neat bow. “If I may be so bold as to venture an opinion, I believe that the viscountcy will be in good hands.”
After Andrew had ushered the neat little man out, he returned to the parlor. His gaze fell upon the decanter, its rounded belly filled with dark brown liquid—and with it, the potential to bring forth oblivion.
He picked it up.
Please accept my condolences for your loss, Lord Radham.
A mirthless laugh rose in Andrew’s chest, and he surrendered to it. His voiced swelled with a crescendo until, with a final roar, he threw back his arm, then flung the decanter at the door, where it shattered on impact, exploding into shards, issuing a thick mist of brandy that clung to the air momentarily before falling to the floor.
“Loss!” Andrew cried. “You cannot comprehend what I have lost !”
That bald-headed harbinger of doom had uttered all the appropriate words in the appropriate place. But Andrew had lost more than a brother. He’d already lost the woman he loved. And now, he had lost his vocation. All hope for a quiet life away from the demands of Society had gone—and with it, his freedom.
He sank to his knees, shaking as he fought to conquer his despair. Only now, as everything he valued had been stripped from him, did he fully understand the despair that she , his Etty, must have felt, the fortitude with which she had fought against her fate, the strength with which she had fought for those whom she loved.
He’d been waiting all his life for a sign from the Almighty, an answer to his prayers for peace and salvation. And today, he finally understood that an answer would always be forthcoming at the end.
Even if that answer was no .