Chapter 16
Edward left Portman Square before Isla woke.
He told himself it was necessity, not cowardice, that the solicitor’s appointment was urgent, and he was doing what any responsible husband would do when confronted with a spiraling family disaster.
But as he walked down the steps into the cold London morning, he knew the truth.
He was glad to escape the room where she had slept inches away from him.
Glad to escape the faint impression of her lips on his hair that he had half-imagined when he stirred toward dawn.
Glad to escape the warmth of the quiet little makeshift parlor where, for a few hours, they had almost been something other than wary strangers.
Distance was easier. Distance let him think like a duke again. The hansom rattled through the waking city. London in the early hours possessed neither glamor nor menace. It was simply alive, heedless of dukes and their doubts.
By the time he reached Lincoln’s Inn, the fog had begun to lift.
His solicitor’s chambers sat in a tall brick building near the square, brass nameplate which had been polished to a shine.
Edward climbed the steps with the old familiar tightness in his chest, anticipation mixed with that prickle of dread that always preceded the uncovering of unpleasant truths.
Mr. Latham greeted him in a modest but well-ordered office. The man was thin, neat, exacting. His appearance was every inch the trusted adviser his father had sworn by.
“Your Grace,” Latham said, bowing. “You wished to hear the latest.”
“Give it to me plainly,” Edward said.
Latham motioned him to sit and opened a folder with a kind of solemnity that made Edward’s stomach turn.
“I have received a written response from Lord Deverell,” the solicitor said. “His lordship was, at first, unwilling to put anything to paper. Embarrassment, chiefly. He feared any written indication of the matter might become fodder for public gossip.”
Edward’s jaw flexed. “But he wrote.”
“Upon assurance of confidentiality,” Latham said. “And, I regret to say, upon the promise of a small payment.”
“How small?”
Latham quoted a figure. Edward did not flinch, it was barely more than one tradesman’s bill.
“And the substance?”
Latham hesitated. For a solicitor, that was telling.
“Speak,” Edward said.
“The trap,” Latham said carefully, “appears to have been quite real.”
Edward felt the world tighten around him, like a ship’s mast creaking before it splinters.
No.
“Describe it.”
Latham consulted the papers. “Lord Deverell was approached last year by a Scottish lord and his sister. They met him in town. Conversation was struck. A certain familiarity encouraged. The young lady was charming, by his account, and her brother … persuasive.”
Edward’s mouth dried.
“He believed the pair to be of respectable lineage—indeed they spoke of an old family seat in Perthshire and Deverell, being impressionable, perhaps overly romantic, formed an attachment. Before he could determine their intentions, the brother hinted that certain small debts weighed on them, the sort which might easily be settled by a gentleman of means.”
“How small?” Edward asked.
“Fifty pounds,” Latham said. “Not insignificant but not ruinous to a man of comfort.”
“And Deverell paid it?”
“Partly,” Latham admitted. “A mere ten pounds before he began to suspect something amiss. He overheard, quite by accident, the brother urging the sister to press the acquaintance further, to ensure a proposal, lest scandal arise from their private walks. Deverell, mortified at the idea of having been manipulated, left London that very night.”
Edward’s stomach twisted.
“Did he give names?”
“Yes,” Latham said. “The brother. The Duke of Strathmore. The sister, Lady Isla Drummond.”
Silence, thick as fog, filled the room. Edward stared at the blotter on the desk. The familiar weight settled at his shoulder, his father’s phantom presence, savoring every humiliation.
You trust too easily, boy. You trust where you should calculate. You let softness steer you, and look now, look what it buys you.
“Your Grace,” Latham ventured, “I am very sorry.”
“Is there …” Edward cleared his throat. “Is there any chance Deverell was mistaken?”
“He seemed certain of the names,” Latham said gently. “And his embarrassment was genuine.”
Edward rose too fast, the chair scraped. “I need air.”
He gathered the written statement hastily, folding it without reading more than necessary. The paper felt heavier than it should, as if some unspoken accusation clung to the ink itself.
Latham bowed. “If I may be of further service …”
“You will hear from me,” Edward said, voice hollow, and stepped out into the crisp morning.
He walked without destination until the familiar facade of his club loomed ahead.
He climbed them, nodded absently to the porter, and sought the reading room.
He had not been fully conscious of choosing to sit; he only realized he had when the leather creaked under him.
He produced the papers. The damning lines swam before his eyes.
Charming … impressionable … debts … trap … the sister was agreeable but clearly part of … left London in haste to avoid entanglement …
Names given: Drummond. Strathmore.
He had been taken in. Isla. Warm, fierce, passionate Isla had played him for a fool. And he had fallen eagerly, like a deckhand on his first trip out of the Solent. His throat tightened. He felt, with horrible clarity, the ghost of his father’s laughter at his shoulder.
That clipped, derisive sound he had not heard since the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Did I not teach you? Did I not tell you sentiment is a weakness no Duke of Wexford can afford? You are an embarrassment.
Edward shut his eyes and pressed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. A decanter sat on the table beside him. Not what he wanted. Not what he should want. He reached for it anyway, poured a measure of amber liquid, and drank without tasting.
“Wexford?”
The voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like a rope thrown from a passing ship. Edward looked up. Henry Ashford stood over him. His coat was buttoned poorly, one glove shoved hastily into a pocket. He looked like a man who had been seeking someone with purpose.
“Henry,” Edward said, keeping his voice steady. “What brings you here?”
Henry cast a glance at the papers on the table, the half-empty glass, then slid into the chair opposite. “I was hoping you might … advise me. Or knock sense into me. Either would be welcome.”
Edward raised an eyebrow. “Advising you seems ambitious. Knocking sense into you is more realistic.”
Henry gave a thin, humorless smile. “It is Libby.”
Edward blinked. “Who?”
“Elizabeth,” Henry said, looking down at his gloves. “Libby. The only woman I have ever cared for.”
Edward frowned. “You have not mentioned her.”
“No,” Henry said. “Because my parents have chosen to pretend she does not exist.”
Edward leaned forward, grateful, almost shamefully, for the distraction.
Not that I need the excuse. He is my closest friend and he is in need. Honor dictates my actions. Just as honor dictated my actions in the stables. At least Henry will not take advantage of my honor.
“Explain.”
Henry exhaled. “Libby is … she is clever. Kind. A friend of my sister. She is no heiress. No titled lady. No fortune. She is a school mistress. Daughter of a greengrocer.” He broke off, swallowing hard. “She is the one. And now my father has decided I am to marry the Earl of Wrexham’s daughter.”
“A respectable match,” Edward said, without much conviction.
“A dead one,” Henry corrected. “No affection. No hope for it. Merely duty. The Earl of Doncaster believes I owe duty my entire life.”
Edward grimaced. “He must enjoy punching the word into the air like a cudgel.”
Henry huffed. “He told me last night, if I refuse the marriage he and my mother have arranged, I may consider myself cut off. No allowance. No inheritance until he dies. And even that he might tie with enough strings to strangle a man.”
Edward felt something in him soften. Of all the men he knew, Henry deserved straightforward happiness. He had fought for his country, served with honor, taken no glory in the doing of it. He had earned, more than most, the right to choose one good thing for himself.
“What does Libby want?” Edward asked.
“She wants …” Henry stared into the middle distance. “Me. Damn it all, she wants me. Does that not seem astonishing? And I …” His voice broke. “I cannot lose her. But I cannot bear to be severed from my family either.”
Edward reached for his glass, then set it down again untasted. “You must follow your heart.”
Henry blinked. “You? Saying that?”
“If one of us is to be happy,” Edward said, “it ought to be you.”
“And you?” Henry asked quietly.
Edward looked down at the folded statement on the table, the damning names inside. “I must follow my head.”
Henry followed his gaze. “This is about your wife.”
Edward tensed. “It is about her brother. She is …”
He stopped. Isla’s face rose before him, lighting candles in a cold kitchen, telling stories of the glens with starry eyes. Her head on the table as she fell asleep. The warmth of her breath near his skin.
“She is not the woman described here,” he said, low. “She cannot be.”
Henry nodded slowly. “Then do not judge her by it.”
“I must,” Edward said. “I cannot ignore what is in front of me.”
Henry reached across the table and covered Edward’s hand briefly. “Then at least speak to her before you hang the verdict.”
Edward withdrew his hand, gently. “I cannot, not until I know what I am asking.”
Henry watched him with sober understanding. “Do what you must. But remember that you have a heart too. Use it, or it will rot.”
Is that what happened to my father. Lying there in that bed while sickness hollowed him out. Did I do the right thing, running away? Did I abandon him? Abandon my duty?
Edward pushed back his chair. “I must go.”
“To her?”
“To the truth,” Edward said, though the words stung.
He folded the statement carefully, slid it into his inner pocket, and left the club before other members could corner him with meaningless conversation. London’s air bit at his face as he emerged. He hailed a hackney and climbed in.
“Portman Square,” he told the driver.
The horse lurched forward. Edward clenched his fist over the papers, over the names, over the fear that he was about to shatter what little had begun to grow between himself and Isla. He would confront her. He would demand answers.
And if the answers damned her, then … He shut the thought down. stared hard out the carriage window, jaw tight. The city blurred past, but he saw only one thing clearly. Isla’s face when she woke in a barren room and found him watching.
He prayed, silently and fiercely that what waited in Portman Square would match the woman he had tasted in moonlight. Because if it did not he was not at all certain what would become of him next.