Chapter 10 Jealousy and Pride #2
James turns to the footman behind him. I had not even seen the man. “See to it.”
The footman vanishes.
Kitty stares at James as if he has sprouted a second head.
“Your Grace,” she says cautiously.
James inclines his head to her. “Miss.”
Kitty’s brows shoot up. Apparently being called miss by a duke is more alarming than illness.
In the narrow hallway outside the room, the argument finally finds us.
“You cannot keep doing this,” James says, low.
“Helping sick children?”
“Vanishing into dangerous neighborhoods without telling anyone.”
“Why do you care what I do?” I demand. “You’re marrying Victoria.”
The words land hard.
James goes pale beneath the dim light.
“That is duty,” he says.
“No,” I say, voice shaking. “That is a choice wearing duty’s coat.”
His jaw clenches. “You think I do not know that?”
“I think you know it perfectly and choose it anyway.”
He steps closer. The hall is too narrow. The air is too cold. I can smell smoke on his coat and soap on his skin.
“You think Weston offers you freedom,” he says.
“He offers me a life.”
“He offers you himself.”
“At least he is honest about it.”
James’s eyes darken. “Do you love him?”
The question rips through me.
“You do not get to ask me that.”
“No,” he says, voice rough. “I suppose I do not.”
Neither of us moves.
Then his hand lifts, not quite touching my cheek. The same hesitation. The same ruin. I hate him for it. I hate myself more for leaning toward it.
His thumb brushes my skin.
I inhale.
“Emma—”
“Miss Hartford!”
Kitty’s voice cuts through the hall.
James drops his hand as if burned.
I step back, heart pounding, and hurry into the room.
Ned is coughing again.
Of course he is.
The body has no respect for romantic timing.
* * *
Ned survives the night.
By morning, his fever is not gone, but it is lower. Coal burns in the grate. Broth simmers in a borrowed pot. Kitty sits slumped in a chair, asleep with one hand on her brother’s blanket.
James is gone.
He left before dawn without saying goodbye.
That is probably wise.
It still hurts.
When I return to Ashbourne House, Beatrice is waiting in my room with the expression of a person who has been holding a secret so long it has begun to ferment.
“You look terrible,” she says.
“Thank you. I was worried no one would mention it.”
“Sit.”
“Is this medical?”
“No. Worse.” She pulls a folded note from her reticule. “I have something to tell you.”
The note is creased, the paper fine. A masculine hand slants across it. No address. No signature beyond a single initial.
Six weeks is too long. If he delays, everyone will count backward. Once the duke gives you his name, Hartwick cannot stop us. I will be waiting, as always. J.
I read it twice.
Then a third time, as if pain improves comprehension.
“Where did you get this?”
Beatrice twists her fingers together. “It fell from Lady Victoria’s reticule at Lady Sefton’s. I meant to return it, truly, but then I saw…” She swallows. “Emma, she has a lover.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Do you know who?”
“Captain Julian Harrow. Everyone knows he is handsome and useless. No one says it aloud because his family is poor and hers is terrifying.” Beatrice leans closer, eyes bright with fury. “Victoria is using James for the title. She does not love him. She does not even want him.”
I sit down because my knees have become theoretical.
James does not love Victoria. Victoria does not love James. This should simplify everything.
It does not.
If I tell him, I look jealous. Vindictive. The spurned, scandalous woman trying to ruin the bride. If I stay silent, he marries a lie in six weeks.
Beatrice grips my hand. “We have to tell him.”
“Do we?”
She recoils. “Emma.”
“Think,” I say, though my own thoughts are a stampede. “If this comes from me, what will it look like?”
“Like the truth.”
“Truth is not enough in this world. It requires witnesses, rank, timing, and a man to repeat it.”
Beatrice’s anger falters because she knows I am right.
“Then what do we do?” she whispers.
I look at the note.
The paper trembles in my hand.
“I do not know.”
* * *
The summons arrives that afternoon.
Not an invitation. Not a note. A summons.
Lord Hartwick requests Miss Hartford’s presence at Hartwick House at four o’clock.
Requests. The word sits on the page with all the softness of a loaded pistol.
Mrs. Finch reads it and goes very still.
“You need not go,” she says.
“That means I do,” I reply.
Beatrice wants to come. Mrs. Finch forbids it. James is not at home, which feels either convenient or engineered. I go with a footman and the note hidden in my reticule like a sin.
Hartwick House is grander than Ashbourne House and less alive. Everything gleams. Nothing welcomes. A butler leads me into a study lined with books that look untouched and weapons that do not.
Lord Hartwick stands by the fireplace.
He is tall, silver-haired, and built like a man who has never needed to raise his voice because other people do the trembling for him. Victoria’s coldness is not an invention. It is inherited.
“Miss Hartford,” he says.
I curtsy. “My lord.”
He does not invite me to sit.
“You have caused considerable disturbance.”
“I have been busy.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Do not mistake impertinence for courage.”
My pulse beats hard in my throat, but I keep my face still.
Lord Hartwick walks to the desk and rests one hand on a stack of papers.
“You are a woman of uncertain origin, no fortune, no family, and no legal standing that I can discover. You have attached yourself to the Duke of Ashbourne’s household and made yourself conspicuous in every vulgar way available. ”
Each word is precise. Each one is meant to strip.
“If this is about His Grace—”
“It is about my daughter,” he cuts in. “And her future.”
Ah.
So that is the blade.
He steps closer. “You will stay away from Ashbourne. You will cease whatever little performance you are conducting in drawing rooms and alleys. You will not speak to my daughter, of my daughter, or against my daughter.”
My hand tightens around my reticule.
His gaze drops to the movement, then lifts. He smiles without warmth.
“If you do not, I will see you ruined so thoroughly that no door in London will open to you. I will have physicians declare you unstable. I will have magistrates ask where you came from and why no one claims you. I will make certain Lord Weston understands that marriage to you would contaminate his name beyond repair.”
The room seems to tilt, but I do not move.
Hartwick’s voice softens, which makes it worse.
“You have survived this long because men of rank have found you interesting. Do not confuse interest with protection.”
For a moment, I cannot breathe.
Then I think of Kitty’s brother gasping in a freezing room. Lady Markham’s daughter bent double with pain. Augusta turning blue under chandeliers. Whitechapel’s pump boarded shut.
I think of James, standing in a hallway, asking a question he had no right to ask.
Do you love him?
I lift my chin.
“Are you finished, my lord?”
Hartwick’s smile disappears.
“Not nearly,” he says. “But you should be.”