Chapter Eighteen
Evelyn sat upon the chaise-longue in the drawing room.
She had spent most of the day in her chamber, avoiding everyone, but by three o’clock she felt certain that another moment of solitude would drive her entirely mad.
Outside, a soft drizzle soaked the lawns, dripping from the elms and bringing with it the sweet, slaked-earth scent rising from the paths.
She would have taken refuge in the rose garden had it been dry, but as it was, the only other place—besides the library—where she might go was the drawing room.
She had brought her sewing, though she found it impossible to concentrate.
Every sound in the corridor made her start, fearing the Dowager Duchess might be approaching.
Evelyn dreaded any confrontation with her; even the woman’s footsteps set her heart pounding, perspiration born of sheer terror trickling down her spine.
The dowager’s barbs, her cold disdain, her outright hostility—they never failed to shake her.
She lifted the Shakespeare volume she had also carried with her.
It served almost as a talisman, reminding her not only of Lucy and her mother’s love, but of that first moment in Birdcage Walk when she had looked into Sebastian’s eyes and felt something strike her—first in her body, then far deeper in her heart.
Her gaze drifted down the page, not truly reading, only remembering.
“Let me speak to her! I need to speak to her!”
A man’s voice, furious and unmistakable, shouted from the hallway.
Evelyn shot to her feet, hurrying to the door.
“My lord! This is irregular…” the butler murmured as James pushed past him into the drawing room. He came straight to his sister.
“James?” Evelyn gasped. “Whatever is the matter?” A spike of fear shot through her. Her first thought—her worst thought—was of their mother. Something had happened to her.
“Evelyn. I must speak with you. Privately.” James cast a dark look at the butler, who glanced helplessly at Evelyn.
“Please have tea brought to the Small Parlour,” she told the butler. If James wished for privacy, it was one room the Dowager Duchess seldom used at teatime.
“There is no need for tea,” James blustered, but the butler had already fled, grateful for the errand.
“If he goes to fetch it, we shall have a little peace,” Evelyn said gently. “Come—there is somewhere we may talk without fear of interruption.”
James stepped back, allowing her to lead the way.
She guided him to the Small Parlour, her heart thudding.
It was scarcely more than an antechamber—three upholstered chairs, a fireplace, and a low table prepared for the tea service.
Evelyn entered, waited for James to follow, then closed the door behind them.
“What is it, brother?” she asked at once.
“Sister—I need to hide. I need your help. It is Stannard—the owner of the gentleman’s club. He will kill me if I cannot pay him. I need help.”
His face had gone chalk-white; his dark eyes pleaded with her, and a tremor passed through him.
Evelyn stared. “But—James!” she managed. “Wasn’t the money already paid? Sebastian told me the debts were settled. What has happened?”
A knock sounded. Evelyn shut her eyes briefly, steadying herself.
“Come in,” she called.
The butler entered, carefully ignoring the fear stamped upon their features as he arranged the tea-things and withdrew. Evelyn turned back to James.
“Tell me what happened,” she said, her stomach tightening with dread.
“I did not mean it, Evelyn—I swear I did not,” James burst out. His expression was one of raw, unguarded horror. “I thought I could repay him. I wanted to repay him. I wanted to prove myself—to you, to him. I could not bear the sacrifice you made for me. I had to set it right. I had to…”
Evelyn pressed her hand to her brow. His words made little sense—and yet, because she knew him, they made a terrible kind of sense. She staggered back, reaching for the wall.
“You lost it?” she whispered.
“I thought I could win twice as much!” James cried, voice tight with unshed tears. “And I did win—a great deal—but then I lost it all. Every last pound. I thought I could repay him.” His voice cracked. “I only wanted to repay him—and you—for everything you did for me.”
Evelyn’s knees weakened, and she leaned against the wall.
Her brother had gambled away the entire three thousand pounds—risked it all in a desperate attempt to double it and repay Sebastian.
It was so tragically like him. James was the best of men—loving, loyal, warm-hearted.
His great weakness was his need to please, to be worthy.
It had driven him to gambling in the first place—a hopeless bid to earn their father’s approval—and it had clearly driven him again, to risk everything, even his life, to repay Sebastian and Evelyn.
“James…” Evelyn whispered. She reached for him, tears blurring her vision. He could not die. She would not allow it. Yet with Sebastian away, she had no idea how to save him.
“Hide me, sister,” James begged, desperation tightening his voice.
Evelyn bit her lip, looking away. How could she hide James at Brentfield Manor? The Dowager Duchess made it painfully clear that Evelyn was only a guest in her own home. Even if that had not been so, the guilt of involving Sebastian’s household weighed heavily on her.
“Brother… if he goes to the townhouse…” Her voice faltered.
Their mother was alone. Evelyn imagined Stannard’s men descending upon the house, finding an unprotected older woman.
The least they would do was hold her hostage to force James’s surrender.
Hiding James at the manor would not save her. And Mama had no one to defend her.
James stared at her in dawning horror, tears welling.
“What have I done?” he whispered.
“Hush, James,” Evelyn said gently, though her mind raced.
“Mayhap nothing is lost. We must think.” She looked around the small room, thoughts tumbling through her head.
If Sebastian were here, he would know what to do.
He would send the coach to fetch their mother, hide James on the estate, and dispatch his solicitors to negotiate with Stannard.
But he was not here. She had to find a solution herself.
“I will return,” James said suddenly, rising in panic.
Evelyn turned sharply. “You will stay here, James.” She summoned all the authority she possessed.
She remembered Lucy’s words. Gemma’s words.
She was brave. She was strong. She had the strength to protect James, whatever it required.
“You cannot ride back to London. If any of them sees you, they will kill you. It is a wonder you escaped from London as it is,” she added; her voice softened.
She could not imagine the danger that he was in. Stannard was a dangerous person, with links to criminal activity all over London—if even half of what the whisperers said was true. He could have spies everywhere. He might even have had James followed to Brentfield.
“What can we do?” he whispered. “Mama...”
Their mother was one person who meant the world to him. James and Mama had always had a special connection, and, like Mama, James was emotional and gentle, and they understood each other better than anyone.
“Hush, James,” Evelyn said gently, resting her hand on his shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. “All will be well.”
Her mind raced. She could not send a rider to London with instructions to bring Mama back to Brentfield, for there was no conveyance to fetch her, and Mama could not ride. Nor could Evelyn command the barouche unless she used it herself; she had no authority simply to order the coachman to London.
She glanced around the room, desperate for some spark of inspiration. Her eye fell on the Shakespeare volume, and two memories rose up—first, the reckless dive that had led her to save Sebastian the day they met; and second, an older, fainter memory of her father.
You are such a good girl, he had said, praising her after she took a dangerous turn at speed on horseback to rescue a fledgling bird from the grass. You are a courageous girl.
The words had been like warm honey—a soothing balm she had carried for years.
“I will go,” she said suddenly.
“Sister… no.” James lifted a hand in protest, but she shook her head. She was certain—more certain than she had ever been of anything except pushing Sebastian out of danger on Birdcage Walk.
“Listen,” Evelyn said gently. “I will take the Brentfield coach. It bears Sebastian’s crest, and it will be travelling toward London. What reason would Stannard have to attack it?” she asked, forcing herself to breathe steadily.
In truth, she knew exactly how dangerous her plan was. If Stannard had already learned that James had fled, he might very well know where he had gone. They were all in peril. But she had to convince James. It was the only course she saw—the only action she could take.
“But…” James faltered, his brow furrowing as he tried to muster another argument.
“James, it is the only way to ensure our mother’s safety,” Evelyn said softly. “You must stay here. I will ask my maidservant to help conceal you. Perhaps she knows of some place where you might safely hide.”
Her thoughts flew. She knew so little of Sebastian’s house—no hidden rooms, no seldom-used passages.
She had no idea where she could shelter her brother.
She bit her lip, wishing she could ask someone in the family for help, yet unwilling to place any of them at risk.
The less anyone knew, the safer they all would be.
“Evelyn! Would you truly do that?” James breathed. His eyes widened, astonished—so much so that her heart twisted at the thought that he had expected nothing of her.
“Of course I would,” she replied softly. “Did you think I would let Stannard kill you? You are my dearest brother.”
“You only have one brother,” James teased faintly—an old childhood refrain that nearly brought her to tears.
“Yes, but you are still the best,” she whispered, giving the familiar response she had offered since childhood.
“Thank you, Evelyn,” James whispered. He reached for her and pulled her into a fierce embrace that drove the breath from her lungs.
“James—you are hurting me,” she managed. He released her at once, and she looked into his frightened eyes, feeling the same fierce protectiveness she had felt her entire life.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Now, I am going to find my maidservant and ask her to show you somewhere to hide,” Evelyn told him firmly. “Stay here until I return.” She fixed him with a steady look.
James nodded. Evelyn squeezed his hand—reassuring him, and reassuring herself—and slipped from the room.
As she hurried down the corridor, her thoughts were already turning to the next step.
She would hide James, order the coach made ready, and drive to London herself.
It would take about three hours—however fast the horses—but it was a chance to save their mother.
She had to try.