Chapter Seventeen
The waning sunlight stretched long, golden streaks across the rooftop of the Crescent Pavilion Hotel.
Adam stood rooted at the wrought iron railing, the cold of the metal biting through his gloves, though he barely noticed.
His gaze swept over Vauxhall Gardens, alive with murmurs of expectation.
The faint strains of music, the noise of the crowd gathering on the ground, the occasional trill of laughter—it all reached him, distant and diffuse, as if filtered through the fog of his thoughts.
Charlene should be here by now. She should be here.
Yet, he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.
He had sent a note.
He hadn’t seen her since they had escaped the garden of their last event.
Not for trying, however. Every time he left his damn study or his bedchamber in the mornings, Miss Martin would pop up like a rat.
Very well, he probably shouldn’t call the woman a rat, but rats also had a way of scurrying from the shadows and scaring the soul out of people, didn’t they?
But let’s not think about her.
Charlene.
She hadn’t responded to his note, but she never did so that couldn’t be used as an indication. He did, however, trust that she would show. She wouldn’t have trouble getting to the room, would she?
But her absence stung.
Where was she? Had something detained her? Had she changed her mind?
Behind him, the table was laid out just as he’d imagined.
He now regretted the prematurely poured white wine—it would be all right for red, but this was ruined by now.
Yet, two glasses gleamed with the amber tones of a heady liquid that had lost its sparkle; the chill of the bottle had left a delicate ring of condensation on the pristine linen.
Everything had been perfect. Ready for her.
Adam’s chest tightened. He wished he could see her weaving through the knots of couples and courting glances below. His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, a dying effort to keep composed, but the ticking of his pocket watch felt louder than both the scraping of his jaw and his heartbeat combined.
Adam closed his eyes for a moment. Steady, man. Patience was the best companion when it came to a woman. And courtship. And whatever this thing growing between them could be called.
His fingers eased off the railing, only to press into his palm.
He wanted nothing else tonight but to hold her gaze, hold her, and tell her that she meant everything.
Always had. Always would. He’d planned this carefully, as carefully as the running of an estate.
He’d gambled on the vision of the balloons soaring into the sky with her at his side, the colors reflected in her beautiful eyes.
He glanced up at the balloons before drifting down again. There was still time—or so he told himself.
And then a figure emerged amidst the crowd below.
Adam’s blood chilled.
Several foul curses lapped in his head.
The dip of the shoulders, the cocked head, the saunter far too self-assured—everything about that gait was familiar enough to burn.
His fists clenched as his gaze zeroed in on the ridiculous green feather swaying in time with the strut.
Rage flushed hot beneath his skin, surging, sharp and immediate, and he gripped the railing again barely keeping himself from hoisting himself over and causing a scene. And probably dying in the attempt.
His brother.
David Cross—a name like a bad omen…
If nothing else, that odd feather confirmed it, cheap as it was.
It mocked him in its absurd falsity, just as its wearer always had—parading a painted pheasant plume as some grand relic carried back from distant lands.
It was fitting, though. His brother had always pretended to be more than he was, fooling half the women in London in the process.
Women who would fall into his orbit and leave with their hearts in tatters. So it was true, then. He was back.
The roar of his pulse filled Adam’s ears, drowning out the soft music and laughter. He took a step back from the railing, the polished toes of his boots scraping against the stone.
Charlene.
He wasn’t ready for his brother.
Adam didn’t even tell her yet how he felt.
Or about the possibility that his brother was rumored to have returned.
Adam swallowed hard. He should have told her that night in the garden. It had been the perfect chance. But he hadn’t.
What if she forgave David?
He couldn’t fathom it, but the thought flared in his mind nonetheless, unwelcome, driving against the furious pulse throbbing in his throat.
He’d waited ages for her in every sense of the word.
He would’ve done anything to make tonight, no, every day of her life perfect.
And yet this—this affront to his goodwill, his dwindling patience, to his careful plans, to his family’s name—demanded something else entirely.
All his plans for romance were momentarily eclipsed by the desire to throttle his brother for real this time.
David was here to play his games, ruin lives, and spread his vile influence in the serpent’s pit that was London’s social set. No one could tell him otherwise.
No one could tell him otherwise.
And Adam could not allow it.
He spun on his heel and marched toward the stairs that led directly from the rooftop to the ground.
His boots struck marble in hard steps. He refused the greetings of the staff in clipped waves, his mind fixed and his hands trembling with more than exertion.
Emerging onto the cobbled front courtyard of the hotel, the evening air rushed at him, thick with the smell of damp stone, roasting chestnuts, and the faint sharpness of coal ash from the passing carriages.
His eyes cut through the milling servants and the finely dressed guests descending their steps.
No sign. “No,” he muttered under his breath.
His brother had a knack for creating the worst surprises.
Did he know he was meeting Charlene here?
Or was this but a mere coincidence?
Across the street, a crowd surged toward the gates of Vauxhall Gardens, the gates lit with elaborate lights spilling warmth onto the froth of activity.
For a moment, Adam’s heart sank into the churn of figures, hats, and parasols jostling against one another.
And then he saw it—the cursed hat, green feather bobbing jauntily over the messy, rakish lower brim, his brother moving into the press of evening revelers with his head tilted high.
Adam clenched his teeth so tightly his jaw ached.
His hands balled into fists at his sides as he stalked forward, his boots catching briefly on the uneven cobblestones before finding momentum through the street.
He barely registered the exclamations of those he nudged aside.
The lanterns of Vauxhall, the sounds of a string quartet beginning their prelude—the world you might have called magical only minutes ago seemed to twist into something else entirely.
He pushed through the crowd, intent on catching that nasty rat of a brother and—
He cut off whatever thought threatened to follow.
This wasn’t just about a man. It was about what he represented—the shadow, the stain, the awful pull of hostility when Adam wanted nothing more than freedom from this… from him. Freedom for her.
*
The smell of lantern oil and crushed grass hung heavy in the air as Charlene stepped hesitantly from the packed thoroughfare onto the loose gravel near the hotel.
Her skirts drew close around her legs with every rushed step, and her gloves clung uncomfortably as she dodged another stranger pushing past. She despised the way people pressed too near, their voices rising into one cacophonous roar that made her temples throb.
Tonight, though, she had no choice.
The carriage could only get her so far before the throng became unbearable even for the horses. Running late to meet Adam—again, no less—she had hurried on foot through the swelling tide of revelers gathering for the balloon ascension.
By the time she caught sight of the Crescent Pavilion Hotel, her breath came in quick pulls, her chest too tight with worry.
It wasn’t like her to be tardy, though these delays seemed cruelly ironic given how much this evening mattered.
Adam had been such a gentleman to send a carriage.
However presumptuous it might have been.
And yet, here she was, scrabbling to reach him because she was late.
Her heart leapt when she saw him—or, at least, she thought it was him.
He stood across the street, sharp even in profile, the set of his jaw unmistakable.
The faint tilt to his head was familiar, though the slightly crooked top hat gave her pause, odd in its imperfection.
Adam rarely looked unkempt. And she didn’t quite know why her breath hitched as his tall frame began moving purposefully through the shifting crowd.
His broad shoulders cut a clear path, his coat emphasizing the rigid determination in his gait.
But… why was he leaving the hotel?
She frowned. They were supposed to meet there, right?
Had something gone wrong? Was there something urgent that needed his attention?
Her fingers clutched at the folds of her cloak as a flicker of worry pricked her thoughts.
She stole another glance at the rooftop, but she couldn’t glimpse anything.
Whatever had drawn him away, she couldn’t just let him be swept into the festival without a word.
Charlene squared her shoulders and pushed forward, weaving through the crowd. Her boots scuffed against the dirt path, and twice she stumbled as someone stepped into her way. She pushed past the person.