Chapter Seven
B lake scowled. “Stop laughing.”
“How can I when it’s just so funny? You and Lady Rosilee... siblings .”
His lip pulled up in a sneer. Around them, the low murmur of voices, clinking glasses, and the faint shuffling of cards filled the suffocating atmosphere of White’s. Gentlemen in finely tailored coats lounged about, discussing everything from politics to the latest gossip, but none caught his eye as a possible match for Lady Rosilee.
But that wasn’t why he was here.
“You’ve been cast in the dry category of siblingship,” Bishop jabbed on.
Blake felt an ache in his temples coming on. “Could you please shut your mouth?”
“And sit in silence? No, thank you.”
“What are you even doing here? Butlers don’t belong in gentlemen’s clubs.”
“Why not? We are all gentlemen after all.”
“Not titled ones.”
“Butler is a title, is it not? And I’m not a real real one, you know.”
He did know, or else he wouldn’t have tolerated this man’s tongue for so long. Annoying as the fellow was, Blake was still slightly grateful—generally—for his company.
“Just what is your plan here?” Bishop asked.
His gaze swept the room again. “Secure an invitation to a ball.”
“How? By just sitting here?”
“Yes.”
Bishop leaned back in his chair, surveying the room with detached interest. Blake often wondered how he managed to blend into any situation. The man wore his confidence like a second skin.
“And let’s say you secure one, what then?”
What a ridiculous question. “We attend the ball.”
“And then?”
Was it not obvious? “Look for a suitable husband for Lady Rosilee.”
“And then?”
Blake wanted to kick the man. “What else? She marries him.”
“And then?”
His jaw clenched. “I return to my home.”
“You mean your dreary castle in a moat?”
“The very one,” he bit out.
Bishop scoffed. “You’ve got it all mapped out, haven’t you?”
Not all. As plans went, this was more of an outline, but in essence, this was what he had agreed to do.
“You do realize that all the best plans go awry. To start with, Baston is here in London, too.”
Blake hadn’t forgotten about that wretched creature. Which reminded him, “Any word on the viscount?”
“Not yet.”
Damn it. He had still been holding out hope that they could retrieve the lord and dispatch Baston without influencing Lady Rosilee’s future, without her having to get married. Hope was a damnable thing.
Bishop crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you really plan to marry the woman of your dreams off to another man?”
“Who says she is the woman of my dreams?” She was. But why did it sound so grating coming from this man?
“You don’t dream about her?” Bishop asked. “Aren’t there hundreds of journals in your study with sketches of her as a child?”
“There aren’t hundreds.”
“But there are journals,” Bishop said. “Just marry her. You’d solve all your problems and hers.”
“I wouldn’t be solving anything. I’d only be adding to her troubles.” His dukedom was a monster after all. And so was he.
“You and this beastly title of yours. You do know that it doesn’t make you a beast.”
“The title is part of me as I am part of it. What the one is, so is the other.”
Bishop gave a dramatic sigh. “Nobles, I shall never understand your attachment to the unattachable.”
That was unfair. It wasn’t that he wanted to be attached, after all. If he could rid himself of his noose, he would. But he couldn’t. The Crown didn’t just take back the titles the lords didn’t want. If that were the case, he’d have given it back the moment he inherited it.
“Excuse me,” a man said, stopping by their table, staring at Blake intensely. “Are you the Duke of Crane?”
Blake glanced over at the man and nodded. “I am.”
“Well, I never!” the man exclaimed. “Forgive me for intruding. I am John Stone, Marquess of Southby. I was quite shocked when I overheard the Duke of Crane had graced White’s.”
Yes, well... “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh, the pleasure is all mine. I would love to join you for a drink, but unfortunately, I have another engagement.”
Also, I didn’t invite you for one.
“This might be a bit bold,” the marquess continued, “but my wife and I are hosting a ball the day after tomorrow, and I hope you shall make an appearance.”
Blake wanted to smirk at Bishop. See? He inclined his head at the marquess. “Of course.”
“Then I shall look forward to seeing you again soon,” the man said with a grin, excusing himself.
“What the hell just happened?”
“The power of titles.” Blake did send a smirk at Bishop then.
“Don’t make me cast up my whisky. You either hate your title or you love it. Choose one.”
“Just because I hate it doesn’t mean it’s not useful. Besides, even though I’m invited, I more than anyone know that I shall only be on display there as would a bearded woman in a circus. I’m a novelty.” And he hated it, but he would go if it meant helping Lady Rosilee.
Bishop held his gaze. “There is no going back after this, after you introduce Lady Rosilee into society.”
Blake clenched his jaw. “She deserves the best.”
“I suppose you are right. No woman would voluntarily live in such a dreary castle you call home anyhow.”
Blake’s jaw tightened, the truth of the statement gnawing at him. He had enjoyed a simple life up until now. After he left London for the castle all those years ago, he’d left his father, stepmother, and those nightmares behind. And no one had ever troubled him there. He had certainly made the best decision for himself. Yet lately, it felt as if every single choice he made led him deeper into the mire, no matter how hard he fought to stay in control.
He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore,” he admitted. He was pushing forward and yet somehow pulling away at the same time—caught in a battle he wasn’t sure how to win, or if he even could. A deuced uncomfortable feeling.
Bishop tilted his head to the side. “That’s a dangerous place to be.”
“I know.”
Bishop leaned forward slightly, his tone lower than usual. “What are you after, Blake? Truly?”
He tensed at the question. What was he after? Was he trying to repay a debt? To prove something to himself? To find a glimmer of hope in an otherwise hopeless desert? The late duke’s voice echoed in his head—calling him a monster of a monster’s seed—a cruel reminder of the life he’d been shackled to for so long.
No, what he wanted above all . . .
“I thought I wanted to prove something,” Blake said slowly. “To show that I’m not him. That I’m not the madman he was.”
Bishop’s eyes flickered with understanding, though he said nothing. He simply waited.
Blake exhaled sharply. “But every decision I make feels like it’s dragging me closer to his shadow, not farther from it.”
“That’s the trap, isn’t it? Trying so hard to avoid becoming one person that you end up losing yourself in the attempt.”
Blake turned over the thought in his mind. Was that what had happened? Had he become so obsessed with avoiding his father’s legacy that he was, in some twisted, unwelcome way, perpetuating it?
Wouldn’t that be a savage turn?
“You’re not him, Blake,” Bishop added after a moment. “No matter what anyone says or what you think, you’ll never be him.”
That remained to be seen. Still, Bishop wasn’t the type to offer platitudes, and Blake suspected the man’s words came from a place of experience. “Perhaps,” he said. It was the only concession he could make.
Bishop sat back in his chair again, his smirk returning. “Well, it’s not a direct no. I suppose that’s something. And I’d hate to think you’re dragging me to London just to wallow in self-pity.”
Blake snorted softly. “No one forced you to come.”
“Someone has to keep you from spiraling into madness. But I think,” Bishop said, tapping the side of his glass, “that you’re far too stubborn to wallow in anything for too long. Besides, I’m your right-hand man, and the ball should be entertaining enough.”
Blake drained the last bit of his tea, setting the cup down with a final clink. “Entertaining? That’s not the word I’d use.”
Bishop shrugged, grinning. “Oh, I have a feeling it’ll be far more entertaining than you think.”
Blake glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “What makes you imagine you would be joining us?”
The man blinked. “I’m not?”
“No, you are not.”
Bishop pulled a face. “You are no fun.”
“And you are ridiculous.”
“I do try,” Bishop said, lifting his glass in a mock toast.
For the first time since they arrived in London, Blake felt a flicker of something close to ease. He could do this.
He hoped to God.
Rosilee stepped through the doors of the drawing room at Crane House, her heart pounding in her breast as though it were trying to escape. She hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something about this house was...
Familiar.
Her breath hitched as she took in the sight of the maze, twisting and turning with its high hedges and paths that could seem endless to a child’s mind. Beyond it stood the large tree, towering and old, its roots as deep in the ground as her memories were in her heart.
Her chest tightened.
She knew this place.
But she also didn’t.
Yet there it was—the same maze she had played in all those years ago, and the same towering tree that had provided shade when she needed a moment’s rest from her explorations. She had thought those days lost to time, to the haze of childhood, but here they were, rushing back at her in a blur.
Rosilee’s legs felt weak as memories pushed their way to the surface.
After the duke and Mr. Bishop had left, she had decided to explore the house that seemed too devoid of human warmth, only to find herself staring at the garden through one of the windows, her eyes drawn to the maze and the large tree in the distance with faint impressions of familiarity.
It couldn’t be . . .
And yet she was growing ever more sure. Her father had brought her here a few times, she was certain now. To one of the neighboring houses to be exact. She had been a girl, about six years old if she recalled. He had been calling on one of his friends, and while her father had conducted his business, she had explored outside, her curiosity leading her to the garden and, eventually, this maze beyond it. She had spent hours sneaking into it, exploring the twisting pathways, pretending she was lost in a magical land. It had all been harmless fun.
Except for that day. That day had been different.
That was the day she had met him —the boy.
The current Duke of Crane.
Blake Faithorne.
There was no denying, this was the same maze and the same tree. Was there any other place in England where a large tree of that shape stood at that exact spot behind a maze? He had been the young man of the house then, and now was master of it.
Lord.
How could she not have recognized him sooner? The strange warmth of her trust in him, the unnamable pull she had felt toward him, why he seemed so familiar to her—it all made sense now. He was the boy she had found being chased by his father in a rage, and who had looked so terrified at the time. They had shared something profound all those years ago, something that had bound them together in a way neither of them had likely understood at the time.
They were connected.
In a way.
Her legs seemed to move of their own accord as she descended the terrace stairs and made her way toward the maze, then around it. The closer she got, the more her memories stirred, thoughts flashing through their encounter. A big beast. A small boy. Courage. Running. Two gazes meeting...
Her feet sank into the grass as she padded over to the base of the oak tree, staring up at its thick branches stretching toward the sky. Her fingers brushed the rough bark of the tree, the same tree that had been their refuge that night.
The sound of oncoming footsteps snapped her out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Mrs. Prune, the housekeeper, making her way toward her with a nostalgic smile on her face.
“Ah, Lady Rosilee, I see you’ve found the duke’s tree.”
Rosilee arched a brow. “The duke’s tree?”
Mrs. Prune stopped beside her, her eyes softening as she looked at the great oak. “This was always his place, you know. When the master of the house was in one of his moods, the boy—Young Master Blake—would hide out here. This tree was his refuge.”
Rosilee swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t anyone stop it? His father?”
Mrs. Prune sighed, the lines of age deepening around her eyes. “There was no stopping the old duke. He was the worst sort—always in a drunken rage, and no one in the household dared intervene. Poor boy had no one. His mother died young, and with her gone, he had no one to shield him from the duke’s temper. Even after his father remarried, his stepmother had been of no help.”
Rosilee stared up at the tree again, her heart aching. “I met him once,” she said softly. “Eighteen years ago.” Had it truly been that long? “It was a rather terrifying moment, and we ran away from his father to hide in the tree.”
“I see,” Mrs. Prune said. “So that’s why.”
Rosilee blinked at her, startled. “Why what?”
“He chose this spot as refuge.”
Rosilee’s heart stuttered before a lump formed in her throat. “And I didn’t even recognize him. I even forgot...”
Mrs. Prune patted her arm gently. “You were both children. It’s not so strange, forgetting something painful. But he remembered you.”
But did he recognize her?
He claimed to be acquainted with her brother, but was that the truth? Her mind spun with so many questions. There were so many coincidences that she didn’t know what to believe anymore. Yet, even if he had deceived her about their connection, she found no anger in her heart. After all, it wasn’t hard to imagine that big, gruff man becoming inwardly flustered at her not remembering him but still trusting his word to the degree that she had.
She couldn’t explain it either.
She stared up at the tree again. They’d hidden there, among its branches. After she had returned home, they’d retired to Wiltshire, and they never returned to London again as her father passed away soon after that.
And over time, the memory had faded.
Before she could respond, a shadow fell over them, and she looked up to see the duke standing at the edge of the garden. His face was unreadable, but his eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on her.
“So,” he said, voice low, “you remember.”