Nineteen
Lyman returned from the House of Lords that evening feeling exhausted. Though he’d been trying to lie low until talk about the court proceedings had blown over, he still took his seat for important matters, and the Mines and Collieries Bill was up for debate. It had been damnably awkward, though. Men he’d known for years eyed him warily instead of greeting him with warmth. One or two had offered their support, but it was of a repugnant flavor and brought him no comfort.
“You can never trust a woman,” Lord Esterhazy had told him, with a grave shake of his head. “Doesn’t she have any shame, dragging such business up in public for the whole world to see? It’s a wife’s role to stand by her husband through a few hardships.”
“I wouldn’t expect her to,” Lyman had replied coolly. “The fault was mine, not hers.”
This had provoked some awkward blustering and driven away the only sympathetic ear in the House that evening.
If that weren’t bad enough, Mr. Wood had seen the story in the paper earlier and offered him unsolicited advice about the conduct of the case for the duration of their breakfast. Even Lyman’s pointed reminder that Wood was training to be a solicitor rather than a proctor, and had thus never set foot in the ecclesiastical courts, failed to silence the man. The prospect of watching his fellow lodger endure real legal proceedings was simply too much for Wood to resist. He’d insisted on dissecting every detail he’d seen in the papers with Lyman, telling him where his proctor should have done more to defend his good name and what he would have done differently if it had been his case, until Mr. Hirsch had rapped his broom on the ceiling to signal that he’d been waiting on his apprentice downstairs.
When Lyman returned home, he tried not to let his steps make a sound on the creaking floorboards, lest the noise summon Wood once more, but he was relieved to discover the man was absent. Only Clarkson was at home, though he didn’t come out from his room to greet him. He must be busy with his own work.
Lyman set the kettle on to boil, seeking distraction in the familiar routine. Though the first step was over, the hardest part was still before them. The Consistory Court of London was less reticent to grant decrees of divorce a mensa et thoro in recent years than it once had been, largely because the parties remained bound not to remarry and the church didn’t have to worry about any new unions complicating things. Parliament would be another matter entirely.
A soft rap on the door interrupted his thoughts.
Please not Wood , he prayed. Lyman knew his absence had been too good to be true.
But when he opened the door, it was Della who stood on the landing. Though she’d wrapped herself in a cloak with a deep hood, Lyman recognized her short, plump figure even before she pulled it back to reveal her face.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “I told you not to come!”
“And I told you that I wanted a chance to explain myself. Why wouldn’t you just call on me like I asked? It would have been easier than making me ride all the way out to Pimlico unseen.”
“I didn’t make you do anything,” he pointed out, irritated at this intrusion. Hadn’t she learned anything from their near miss the last time? “It’s too dangerous for you to be here.”
Luckily for her, Clarkson was discreet enough not to come out to inspect the voices in the hall, but there was nothing to stop Wood from returning to find them at any moment.
“ Please , Ashton.” Della rested a gloved hand upon his forearm. “I won’t stay long. Only I can’t bear the idea that I’ll never see you again, and the last time we spoke ended in a quarrel. I hate making people angry with me.”
There was genuine remorse in her voice. Her wide brown eyes were liquid in the darkening room. It was well past sundown already.
Lyman felt his resolve waver. He hadn’t felt easy with the way they’d parted either, though he wouldn’t apologize for trying to spare Peter the same fate he’d endured. But being right wasn’t as much comfort as he’d hoped.
“Very well,” he relented. “But only a minute. I don’t know when Mr. Wood might return. He’s probably only stopped for supper somewhere.”
“Thank you,” Della said softly. She slipped inside and shut the door, bringing a faint hint of her lemon-tart scent with her. She didn’t remove her cloak or gloves, but drew a long breath and looked around the entryway, as if unsure how to begin. Lyman didn’t invite her to come to his rooms. Better to avoid the temptation.
“I do feel badly about Peter,” she began, her eyes downcast. “Maybe you’re right about him, and we shouldn’t have meddled. But I promise you, we were only trying to find a solution to a larger problem.”
Lyman must have looked skeptical, for she flushed pink as she added, “We were .”
“I don’t see what problem could be worth trading your brother’s future.”
Della sighed. “Can you promise never to breathe a word of this to a soul?”
“Very well,” Lyman replied, a little uneasily. He would have preferred it if the explanation didn’t involve dire secrets.
“I can’t go into all the details without betraying a confidence, but Miss Greenwood needs to marry.”
There were only a few reasons that could provoke that particular sense of urgency, and he didn’t think poverty was the cause, given how finely dressed the woman had been the other night.
“So she’s in a family way,” he guessed. That did change things. If Peter had been careless enough to ruin the girl, he owed it to her to provide for their child.
“No, no, no!” Della clapped a hand over her mouth, as if she wished she could seal the words back inside. “That’s not what I meant to say at all. Oh dear, this is so difficult. Let’s just say that her father believes Peter compromised her, even though the truth is a bit more complicated than that. Regardless, you see why he can’t just walk away from the engagement now, don’t you?” Her warm brown eyes pleaded with him for understanding, but Lyman couldn’t grant it.
“What do you mean, ‘he believes Peter compromised her’? Did he, or didn’t he?”
Della looked as if this were the last question she wanted to answer. “He didn’t, but he’s already confessed to the deed, so it’s as good as if he had.”
“Why would he confess to something he didn’t do?”
“Please, let’s not go into all that. I’ve already told you more than I should have.”
Very well. Maybe he didn’t need to know all of the details. Peter Danby’s engagement would have been of no concern to him if the young man hadn’t pulled him into his confidence. He rather wished he could turn back time and never have been drawn into a conflict that would sour his last days with Della.
“I’ll take you at your word that the situation is quite desperate for Miss Greenwood,” he conceded. “But I still don’t see why your brother should have to sacrifice himself over it. If he isn’t responsible for her current situation, then it isn’t for him to set things right.”
“I wish it were so simple.” Della bit her lower lip. “We thought he would come out well by it. He could have used the dowry money to settle up some debts, and she’d be a perfectly good match for any man.”
“It takes more than that to ensure a happy union.” Ellen had been a “perfectly good match” by any objective standard. They should have been happy together. But even knowing what she did about his experience, Della didn’t see the danger that awaited her brother. How could she be so naive as to think that she could simply push two near-strangers together and expect the rest to work itself out?
Lyman’s thoughts must have shown plainly on his face, for Della spoke in a careful tone. “I know that your marriage caused you a great deal of suffering, but surely you can’t think that it will end that way for everyone?” Her voice rose with doubt on the last words.
Lyman held his tongue, unable to find an answer that would satisfy Della. He suspected she wasn’t only asking for her brother’s sake.
“The first time we met, you joked that no sane person should ever seek to marry,” Della continued. “At least, I’d assumed that it was a joke. But now I wonder, did you really mean it?” She seemed suddenly vulnerable as she looked up at him, and Lyman suffered that familiar, maddening fear that he might hurt her with his answer. Surely she couldn’t hold out any hope for him in that respect. Why couldn’t she have a care to guard her own heart?
Lyman’s throat was dry. He couldn’t find the right words to walk the line between honesty and kindness.
“I wouldn’t presume to judge that for anyone else,” he finally said. “But it seemed to me that in your brother’s case, the match would be a mistake.”
Della winced. “There’s no chance of persuading you to talk to him then. Even if it were the only way to help Miss Greenwood.”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
He was sorry. Not for following his conscience, of course, but for the pain it caused Della. He’d wanted to part on good terms. To preserve what they’d shared as a bright memory to look back on when he needed it. Now he would always remember that he’d hurt her at the end, just as he’d known he would.
Della nodded sadly. She seemed resigned to his decision—an unexpected blessing, given how headstrong she could be. He’d half expected her to argue with him. But she only said in a soft voice, “And for yourself?”
“Pardon?”
“If Lady Ashton gets her bill through Parliament, would you ever wish to remarry one day, or have you concluded that it’s out of the question?”
Lyman sucked in a swift breath. He hadn’t expected her to come at him so directly. Surely she could never have imagined that they might have a real future together, with his circumstances being what they were?
“I wouldn’t have anything to offer a wife,” he said. “I have a title, but no country house, a meager income, and if my reputation isn’t already in shambles by now, it will be by the time Parliament is done with me.” He paused, wanting to be sure Della understood him. When she met his gaze, he added deliberately, “Any woman I might admire enough to contemplate marriage with, I wouldn’t insult with such an offer.”
A pucker appeared between Della’s brows to mark her disapproval. “If you truly care for someone, their character matters far more than any of those things. And plenty of ladies have wealth of their own to support—”
“Della,” he interrupted, not wanting to hear her reasons. It was plain that they weren’t speaking in hypotheticals. “You know why I can’t offer you more.”
Her cheeks grew very red. Any other lady would have been too embarrassed to press the matter further, but Della, with all her stubborn courage, was undeterred. “No, I don’t know,” she said, her voice trembling. “Because we haven’t had a conversation about it. Not really. I don’t want to be presumptuous if you simply don’t feel that strongly about me. But I—” She broke off here, twisting her hands nervously. “Well, I suppose I have come to feel rather strongly about you . Far more than I intended at the outset. And I know that my club must pose an obstacle, but I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve decided not to be quite so involved now as I was before…” She let her voice trail off, appearing unsure.
Had she done that for him?
Something twisted in Lyman’s chest. How had they come to this point? He should never have let things go so far. He should have ended their connection ages ago, before he could get close enough to break Della’s heart. But he’d been selfish and weak, as usual, and now she would pay the price for it.
Lyman took her hands into his, stilling their nervous movements. Della looked up at him with eyes that were far too bright. “It isn’t only your club,” he said slowly. “And it isn’t you. You are everything that’s bright and wonderful, Della. Any man would be lucky to have you.”
She blinked, not fooled by this opening.
Lyman pressed on. “You know what’s coming next for me. Even if you didn’t read what they printed in the papers—”
“I did.” At his wince, she added, “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do otherwise.”
He wished she hadn’t seen all that. He hated to imagine Della poring over all the sordid details, trying to separate truth from fiction. But at least she should understand why he had to reject her.
“Then you must realize that things will only get worse from here on out. Don’t you see how uncomfortable your friends are around me? They all think I’m a danger to your reputation—”
“They don’t know you yet. Jane is just a bit slow to warm up, that’s all. Once she has a bit more time—”
“ They’re right. ” Lyman’s voice was sharp enough to cut through Della’s excuses. She stiffened at his tone, but he pressed onward. Better to hurt her now if it meant that she finally understood. “I’m poison to you. To anyone who intends to maintain their good name. If they had reason to worry when my transgressions were a decade behind me, how much more so now that everything is being aired out in public?”
But Della hadn’t understood anything, it seemed. “I don’t care what they think of us,” she protested, her jaw jutting out in defiance. “I’ve never worried about public opinion before. What kind of life is it when you let fear dictate your choices?”
“You think everything is a grand adventure.” Lyman sighed. “I don’t want to be the one to make you realize how painful it can be to become an outcast.”
“Why should you decide what’s best for me? Just because you’re older and more worldly doesn’t mean you know better than I do. If your biggest concern is truly my reputation, then it should be for me to decide what risks to run.”
Lyman bit back a strangled noise of frustration. Couldn’t she see that he was only trying to protect her?
“It’s for me to decide because I can’t bear to see you hurt on my behalf. I can’t destroy another woman’s life.”
They were both silent for a long time. Lyman had spoken the words without thinking, fueled more by emotion than reason for once, but he felt their truth in his bones.
If he stayed with Della, he would destroy her. It was only a question of time.
“I’m not your first wife,” she finally ventured. “I’m made of sterner stuff than that, I daresay. And you aren’t the same man you were back then either.”
“Aren’t I?” he retorted. “All of London thinks me a monster, after what they’ve read. You’re the only one who insists on believing otherwise.” This wasn’t technically true, but Lyman refused to count Lord Esterhazy. He had some standards.
“But they haven’t printed the full story! It’s unfair to you.”
“Of course they have,” he snapped. Why wouldn’t she see what was right in front of her? “I did everything Lady Ashton accuses me of. I gambled away our home, I left her destitute, and I haven’t been able to provide for her properly since that day. I did commit adultery, even if we’d already separated by then. I can hardly use that as my excuse when my own conduct is the reason she couldn’t stand to live with me.”
“You know my feelings on that already. I wouldn’t fault you for it while you and your wife were living separately. And as for the house, that was nine years ago.” Della’s voice had taken on a pleading note. “You make it sound as if you’re an awful person, when you’re not. I know you’re not. You made a terrible mistake, but you’ve tried your best to set things right since then. That counts for something.”
“Not enough,” he said softly. “I’m still the man who did those things.”
Della shook her head, her chestnut curls bouncing out an echo of the movement after it was done. “ No . You’re a man who’s decided to remain trapped in the past instead of letting himself move forward.”
Anger flared hot in his chest, threatening to spill out from his lips. How would she know what it felt like to live with that responsibility? It wasn’t just something you could walk away from. But Lyman bit his tongue, not wanting to lash out at her.
Della might have sensed some of his turmoil, for she reached out a hand to touch his forearm. “I should go,” she said softly. “I promised you I wouldn’t stay long.”
She looked at him with a question in her eyes, as if she hoped he might say something more. Ask her to stay, perhaps. For the night, or forever.
Both options were impossible.
Instead, Lyman nodded curtly. “You can still write if you need any help for the book, though I’ll understand if you decide not to.”
Della slid her hand up his shoulder to find purchase upon the back of Lyman’s neck and pull him down for a long kiss. He didn’t hold back, tasting her too deeply for his own good. If this was to be the last time, he would make it count.
But another moment revealed his mistake, for Della had no intention of holding back either. She molded herself against his body, pulling him close. A little whimper escaped her mouth. Always so eager.
Lyman devoured it.
Someone has to stop , he reminded himself. Someone had to break this moment of pleasure so that it could turn into longing, regret, and then one day, into nothing but a memory.
It would be him, of course. Lyman pulled back, tilting his face upward and beyond reach. He listened to the sound of Della’s breath as it slowed back to a normal pace.
“Please take care of yourself,” she whispered. “Whatever happens, I’m glad that I met you.”
Then she tiptoed away, leaving nothing but a faint trace of her bright scent behind to fill the empty room.
***
Della didn’t see Lord Ashton again for two months. Apart from a package that came for her a week after their last meeting with some comments on the draft chapter she’d sent him on charities, there was no word from him again. Nor did she take advantage of his offer to provide further advice. Though she’d started more than one letter, she couldn’t seem to get past her salutation. It was too painful.
She attended the club three nights a week to carry out her duties as hostess, a role that was now divided between herself and Cecily, who took on the remaining evenings. Much as she hated to think that it might be this easy to replace her, Della was forced to acknowledge that Cecily did a more-than-adequate job of keeping everyone happy, well fed, and supplied with champagne. Besides which, she seemed utterly thrilled with her new role and loved to recount every detail of gossip from her evenings, so that Della never really felt that she was missing anything.
Even if she hadn’t quite decided what the future would hold, it was nice to have room to breathe again. She spent her newly discovered free time focused on her writing and visiting friends that she’d neglected over the past three years. It felt a bit like emerging from a long dream. Without the club taking up nearly every evening, Della was able to make swift progress on her manuscript. Every time she thought of Lord Ashton and felt the melancholy creeping up on her, she threw herself into her work. Before she knew it, she’d finished.
It was a bittersweet moment. She would have liked to share it with someone, but the only person who could truly appreciate what she’d accomplished was gone.
“Do you think I should send Lord Ashton a copy?” she asked Annabelle one morning. She was loath to turn to her sister for advice, but there was really no one else who understood the complexities of her situation.
“Of course you should! He’s to be your co-author, isn’t he? Doesn’t that mean he needs to agree to the text before you can print it?”
“He’s already seen most of the chapters back when he was still calling on us to help me,” Della explained. That might be an exaggeration, but never mind. He’d seen enough to have a general idea what the rest would look like. “And I hate to write him now if it might be a bother.”
She’d been reduced to scouring the papers every day for news of his divorce (another good distraction from tragic feelings), but the months that had followed the Consistory Court’s decision had been largely silent. Until last week, that is. There had been a prominent headline and a much smaller text beneath proclaiming the arrival of Lady Ashton’s divorce bill before the House of Lords, who were to hear the evidence next Tuesday.
Della suffered a nervous flutter in her stomach just thinking about it.
“You’re being silly,” Annabelle scolded. “Are you afraid that he won’t want to hear from you just because you got angry at him for scaring Peter off of marriage and ruining Miss Greenwood’s life forever?”
“Something like that.” Della sighed. “How is she faring, anyway?”
“She’s to be shipped off to an aunt in Paris, last I heard.” Though Annabelle had the decency to look regretful as she imparted this news, they both knew it could have been far worse. Although Peter had stubbornly maintained his refusal to go through with the marriage, Miss Greenwood must not have confessed the truth to her family, for no one had come to lay any accusations at Annabelle’s feet.
“That’s not so bad, is it?” Della could think of worse places to spend one’s life, at any rate. “I wouldn’t mind seeing Paris.” There would be art galleries, all the latest fashions, and high society in abundance. What more could anyone want?
“Her French is atrocious.”
An awkward silence descended over the room at this assessment.
“Do you suppose there’s anything we can do for her?” Della asked. There was really no reason to send the girl away when no one else knew of her indiscretion and it must be obvious to her father by now that she wasn’t in a family way. If only the man were more forgiving, he might have chosen to forget the whole incident and let Miss Greenwood go on with her life.
“Not unless you can find her a replacement husband before then,” Annabelle replied in a grim tone.
Della was halfway through drafting a mental list of potential candidates before she stopped herself. Had she learned nothing from the disaster of Peter’s engagement? Better not to meddle any further.
“To return to our earlier conversation,” Annabelle said briskly, eager to turn the subject away from her ruined lover. “Yes, I think you need to write your viscount to share a copy of your book, and no, I don’t think you’ll be bothering him. Isn’t he divorcing his wife? I would’ve thought you’d have secured yourself a place as the next Lady Ashton by now.”
“Don’t tease me,” Della replied glumly. “We haven’t spoken in months and I miss him.”
Every time a caller came to the door, she knew a foolish hope that it would be Ashton, come to say that he couldn’t do without her another day.
But of course he could. Of course she could too. They’d led separate lives before they’d met and now they would do so again, only a little lonelier for the experience.
She missed talking to him. She missed his gorgeous, understated green eyes and those adorable wire spectacles. She missed his scolding tone, and the fun she’d had trying to persuade him when he was wrong about something.
“Why can’t you be together once he’s free?” Annabelle asked, while gazing back down to a book she’d had in her lap, as if she hadn’t yet decided whether it might prove more interesting than their conversation. “What did he say about it?”
Della scoured her memory to produce a faithful transcription of the essentials: “Something, something, he made a terrible mistake nine years ago. Something, something, something, he’s determined to be miserable forever now. I believe that’s more or less how it went.”
Annabelle buried a laugh in her palm. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m really not! I’ve never met a man more averse to joy in my entire life.”
“He wasn’t averse to you , though,” Annabelle observed, “and you tend to make other people joyful, so he can’t have been quite as austere as he seems.”
Of course now that Lord Ashton was no longer a regular fixture at their town house Annabelle would decide she liked him. The contrary little imp only wanted to disagree with whatever view Della expressed.
But the truth was plain enough. Ashton wasn’t here. He’d chosen to go through his present troubles alone, believing it to be some sort of noble sacrifice rather than a disguised cowardice. However much he might have cared for Della, it hadn’t been enough to make him stay.
“Did you see his new book yet?” Annabelle was still talking, though Della had been too lost in her own thoughts to follow.
“Hmm?”
Her sister had already left the room. A moment later, she returned with a small volume in hand. It wasn’t a new book at all, but rather, the second edition of his guide to London.
“When did you get this?” Della snatched the guide and began flipping through it, her face turning hot. She’d meant to keep better track of the date, but it had entirely slipped her mind. How embarrassing that Annabelle should have to remind her.
“Only two days ago,” she replied. That wasn’t so long. “I tried to tell you, but you were at Bishop’s when—”
But Della’s relief was short-lived, chased swiftly by a new worry.
“Don’t you think that if Lord Ashton wanted to hear from me again he would have sent me a copy himself?”
“You’re so rude! You don’t even let me get a word out before you’re off on whatever you’re thinking of.” With a fierce glare, Annabelle plucked the book from Della’s hands and began turning to the page she wanted before handing it back. “I was trying to show you this, before you interrupted me.”
Della glanced down. It was the chapter on night life and gambling clubs. There was the text on White’s and Brooks’s that she’d read often enough to have nearly memorized. And beneath it, in little black letters, was something unexpected.
Our readers will be surprised to learn of a new addition on Piccadilly, which caters to ladies. Bishop’s Chocolate Emporium is open from Tuesday to Saturday evenings, and promises to offer its members an incomparable experience.
He’s added us.
Della placed a hand to her breast, unsure whether the feeling in her heart was joy or pain.
“Why should he have done it, after he swore he wouldn’t?”
“Because he loves you, probably.” Annabelle snorted, making the pronouncement seem more like an annoyance than a blessing.
You’re wrong there. Or rather, if she was right, it wasn’t the sort of love that was strong enough to act on. What good did it do either of them?
“I feel guilty,” Della confessed. “I’d already accepted that he wouldn’t include us. I hate to think I made him compromise his principles for me.”
“Oh, don’t get so worked up. He kept the men’s clubs in, didn’t he? It’s only fair to have yours alongside them, if you ask me.”
This made Della smile to herself. Perhaps it was only fair. And think how happy Jane would be when she saw it! An incomparable experience. It was everything they could have asked for.
“You’re right,” she conceded, turning back to Annabelle. “It was kind of him to include us. I’ll send him a copy of my manuscript before I turn it in.”
It would take her ages to write it all out again, but it probably wasn’t a bad idea. She could check for any last errors while transcribing the text.
“There’s one more thing,” Annabelle said. She’d suddenly lost her teasing tone. “I wondered if you might let me add a few lines of my own to your book.”
“You?” Della frowned. Except for the occasional love sonnet to a hapless debutant, Annabelle had never written anything in her life. She had no business cluttering up the guidebook with her own comments now that it was finally finished. “Why should you want to write anything?”
“It isn’t for myself,” Annabelle explained. “It’s for others like me. I just thought…if your book is a guide for ladies, it should include all of us.”
Oh. Perhaps she shouldn’t be quite so quick to dismiss her sister’s request. After all, Della had just included an entry on a place where one could watch surgeries performed on the principle that if even a handful of readers might be interested in it, then it belonged there.
“What would you put in?” Della asked.
“Just places where we could find one another. That sort of thing. Don’t worry, I’d be careful to use language that wouldn’t be too obvious to anyone who wasn’t looking for it.”
“Very well.” Della agreed. “But you have to get it to me soon. I don’t want to delay things.”
“Thank you.” Annabelle clapped her hands, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. “It won’t take me more than a day or two. I already know just what to write.”
Della wished she knew just what to write to Lord Ashton.