Chapter Twenty
Miss Frances Habersham’s gloved hand gripped Ambrose’s arm like a grappling hook as the Theatre Royal audience spilled out onto Drury Lane.
And for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, it irritated him.
Maybe his mood was due to the play, a five-act tragedy about love lost, with the lead male character finally sinking into madness and despair.
A bad choice of entertainment, in hindsight.
But then, he found little enjoyment in most things, these days.
“What did you think of the play, Miss Habersham?” he asked, feigning interest even as he steered her, rather unsteadily, toward her carriage.
“Enjoyable, my lord,” she said. “Perhaps a little Byronesque, but enjoyable.”
“A fine summation, Miss Habersham. Enjoyable, indeed,” Ambrose said, as the lady stepped into the carriage, followed immediately by her aunt, Lady Asher, who had served as chaperone for the evening. “Good evening to you both, ladies.”
Miss Habersham smiled, whereas Lady Asher arched a brow and gave him a look of matronly disapproval. “May I suggest, Pendlewood,” she said, “that the next time you escort a young lady to the theater, you do so while sober and after taking time to tidy yourself.”
Ambrose hiccupped and looked down at himself. “Am I not tidy?”
“You are not,” she replied. “You need a shave and haircut. A bath wouldn’t hurt, either. Please close the door.”
Rubbing his bristled jaw with one hand, he closed the carriage door with the other, using a little more force than necessary.
All right, so perhaps he’d practically ignored Miss Habersham for most of the evening.
And maybe he was slightly in his cups, but not even close to slurring his words or staggering.
At least, not noticeably staggering. As for his hair…
Ambrose ran his fingers through it. Perhaps a haircut wouldn’t go amiss. Lydia liked my hair. Said it felt like…
“Damn you,” he muttered, and attempted to clear his traitorous mind as he walked to his carriage. He needed a distraction. Fortunately, the night was yet young.
“Home, milord?” Hulme asked, opening the carriage door.
“No,” Ambrose replied. “Not yet.”
“Then where to, milord?”
Ambrose pondered for a moment, unsure of what he wanted.
He wasn’t hungry. Didn’t feel like discussing political views with his peers.
Was a tad too drunk for billiards, or soon would be.
Wasn’t in the mood for bawdy female entertainment.
He needed a place to divert his thoughts and drown his sorrows.
Perhaps throw some money down on a gaming table.
His family crest on the carriage door caught his eye. Specifically, the lion rampant.
“The Lyon’s Den,” he said.
Hulme gave a nod. “The Lyon’s Den it is, my lord.”
Bessie Dove-Lyon sat back in her chair and blinked several times in an effort to ease the dryness in her eyes, which were strained from poring over her bookkeeper’s meticulous reports.
She glanced up at the wall clock as it struck four.
It had been a long night, one where darkness was best avoided, given the sadness she felt.
Another hour and the sun would be up. A little over two hours hence, Lydia Page would be looking back on London as the Lydia Jane made its way along the Thames to open water.
The mere thought drew a sigh from Bessie.
She shifted her thoughts back to the Lyon’s Den and wondered what kind of night it had been. After closing the ledger and tucking it into a drawer, she dropped her veil over her face and headed to the gallery that overlooked the main gaming hall.
Tobacco smoke cast a haze over the space, adding to the usual mélange of odors, some more agreeable than others.
It had been a trouble-free night, so far at least. From her place in the gallery, Bessie swept a satisfied gaze across the busy tables.
Most of the patrons were known to her, but one man in particular, seated at a card table, snared her attention.
It took her a moment to assure herself of his identity.
Of all people, he was probably the last she’d have expected to see beneath her roof at this time.
“Well, well, well,” she muttered, and then smiled as she dared to allow herself a moment of fancy, telling herself Fate had surely dragged the wretched fellow through her door.
Glancing over her shoulder, she beckoned Duncan, one of her men, over. “Has Lord Pendlewood been at the tables all night, Duncan?”
“Not all night, ma’am,” Duncan replied. “He arrived shortly before midnight a wee bit the worse for wear. Been keeping an eye on him since. He’s had a few more drinks, and he’s not having much luck at the tables.”
“I see,” she said, quietly acknowledging a tingle of anticipation beneath her ribs. “Ask him to come to my office, will you? If he resists, tell him it’s urgent. If he still resists, let me know and we’ll go from there.”
Duncan nodded. “Understood, ma’am,” he replied, and went off on his errand.
Bessie, meanwhile, returned to her office, drumming her fingers on her desk as she waited.
“Come on, my lord,” she murmured, glancing at the clock and then at the door, “we’re wasting time.
” She was still drumming her fingers ten minutes later when a knock came to the door.
“Come,” she called, crossing her fingers beneath her desk.
The door opened to reveal the Earl of Pendlewood as she had never seen him.
Fortunately, the veil she wore served to hide her shock at his appearance, which had not been evident from the gallery.
With gaunt cheeks, shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes, and an unshaven jaw, he looked like a man haunted.
Haunted by what? A decision recently made, she suspected.
One that simply didn’t make sense. Might she be able to exorcise whatever ghosts were responsible for that decision?
“Lord Pendlewood,” she said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for coming to see me. May I offer you a drink?”
“Oh, so this is a social occasion? Not the impression I was given.” Scowling, he glanced about. “I was informed you wish to see me about a matter of some urgency, but I now question the truth of that statement. Or perhaps a drink is merely the precursor to whatever nonsense you mean to impart.”
Bessie gave a soft sigh. Her instincts were apparently correct. She needed to fix this, if possible, and time was of the essence.
“In that case,” she replied, “before I impart my nonsense, might I offer you a cognac? Eighteen twelve.”
An eyebrow flicked upward for a moment. “An excellent year.”
“I shall take that as a yes,’” she replied, and poured two glasses, handing one to him. “Please sit, my lord.”
Heaving an exaggerated sigh, he settled into the chair by her desk, and took a sip of his drink. “So, what is this urgent matter?”
“How is the cognac, my lord?”
He muttered a curse under his breath. “Just get to the bloody point, woman.”
Under different circumstances, Bessie would have had the fellow thrown out of the Lyon’s Den for his rudeness. But Ambrose Michael Crossley, the normally gentle and well-mannered fifth Earl of Pendlewood, was obviously a man in pain.
Bessie cast a surreptitious glance at the clock and got straight to the point. “I want to know what happened, my lord.”
“With regards to what?”
“Your relationship with Miss Page.”
His subsequent laughter held not a scrap of humor. He downed the drink in one go, slammed the glass on the desk, and got to his feet. “The cognac was excellent, madam. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was enjoying a game of—”
“You broke her heart, my lord.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that. And even if I did, I’m certain she’ll soon get over it.” He shrugged and turned toward the door. “Probably already has.”
“Despite all my best efforts, I have yet to figure out why a man would break the heart of the woman he loves. What prompted it, my lord?”
“None of your damn business.” Pendlewood’s hand paused on the door handle. “And I do not love—”
“I only ask because Miss Page is leaving the country today, her luggage less of a burden, I suspect, than that of her broken heart. And no, Lord Pendlewood, she is not about to ‘get over it.’ Your callous withdrawal from the relationship made a mockery of everything she believed to be true.”
Still facing the door, a few moments of silence followed. Then, “Miss Page is leaving the country?” he asked, without turning.
“Today, my lord,” Bessie replied. “Her ship leaves on the morning tide.”
His body stiffened visibly. “Where is she going?”
“Saint John, New Brunswick.”
“New Brunswick?” He spun round, his face reddening as he spoke. “Why the hell is she going to New Brunswick?”
At last, Bessie had him on the hook. She only had to reel him in.
Steady, she told herself. Stay calm. “Because that is where her friend lives, my lord. Bertram Truscott is his name. A nice gentleman. Owns a shipping line. He landed in London a few weeks ago, here to do some business primarily, but has also spent some time visiting with Miss Page.”
Pendlewood scoffed. “Her friend?’
Bessie nodded. “They’ve known each other since childhood, apparently, but lost contact for a while. I believe Miss Page intended to introduce you to him, but never got the chance, regrettably.”
Lord Pendlewood fell silent for a moment, chest rising and falling as he appeared to ponder what Bessie had said. Then his mouth twisted in a sneer. “He must be more than a friend if Miss Page is willing to cross an ocean with him.”
Bessie closed her eyes briefly and offered up a silent, desperate prayer that the ship might be delayed. For she knew, in that moment, that she had discovered the reason for Lord Pendlewood’s agony. How it had all come about, however, she had yet to learn.
“Miss Page and Mr. Truscott do share a deep affection for each other, my lord,” Bessie replied, “but she is reluctant to sell any of her properties at this time, nor has she let all her staff go, which tells me she is not fully committed to this rather desperate venture. In my opinion, if Miss Page is willing to cross an ocean, it is not because of any special feelings for Mr. Truscott. It is because she hopes it might cure what ails her. She is mistaken, I fear.”
Pendlewood’s eyes narrowed. “What ails her?”
“I already told you, my lord. A broken heart.”
Frowning, Pendlewood glanced wildly around the room as if trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. “So, she and this Truscott fellow are not lovers?”
“No, my lord, they are not,” she replied, emphatically, “nor have they ever been.”
He shook his head as if in disbelief. “Are you sure about this?”
“I would bet my life on it,” Bessie replied. “However, once that ship sails, I fear Miss Page might, under the circumstances, find herself obliged to become Mrs. Bertram Truscott, which would be a pity, in my opinion, since her heart will always belong to another.”
“Who?”
Bessie huffed. “Do I really have to answer that? Surely, you must know.”
He blinked several times. “You mean me?”
“Of course. Only you.”
Pendlewood stared at her for a moment and then glanced away again. “But I know what I saw,” he muttered, apparently to himself as he ran a hand through his hair. “Was I wrong?”
Bessie’s throat tightened. “Wrong about what, my lord?”
“About what I…” Breathing hard, he regarded her once more, the agony on his face plain to see. “God forgive me, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, for I fear I’ve made a terrible mistake. Truly terrible.”
I knew it! Bessie barely stifled a sigh of relief. “If you are referring to your relationship with Miss Page, I believe your terrible mistake might yet be rectified. But time is running out.”
A glimmer of hope, and perhaps a touch of panic, came to his eyes. “The morning tide, you say? Do you know what time it peaks?”
“Around six o’clock, I believe.”
“Around six o’clock,” he repeated. “Which dock?”
“East India, Brunswick,” Bessie replied, glancing again at the clock. “But you’re going to have to hurry.”
“What is the name of the ship?”
“The Lydia Jane.”
He gasped. “He named a bloody ship after her?”
“And it was still not enough to steal her heart, neither before nor after it was broken,” Bessie replied.
“I suggest you make haste, my lord. To quote Chaucer, ‘time and tide wait for no man.’ And if I may give you some advice, it is this. If, God willing, you get there in time, to hell with decorum. In order to mend Lydia’s heart, you must speak from yours. ”