Chapter 9
Victor woke with the unwelcome heaviness of a man who had slept past his habits. Pale daylight crept between the edges of the curtains, too bold for the hour he preferred.
He rubbed a hand over his jaw, exhaled once, and swung his legs to the floor. He disliked sleeping in. It made the day feel already disordered, as if he had neglected some crucial machinery that depended on his precision to start.
He dressed quickly, selecting a dark coat and waistcoat without care for the subtlety of color. His valet offered to shave him, but Victor waved him off with a quiet instruction to prepare coffee.
The odd remnants of last night still clung to him, like threads caught in a cuff. He tried to push them aside. He had already done enough damage to his morning to disturb the balance required for the rest of the day.
Still, when he descended the staircase, he had not fully regained his composure. The scent of tea drifted from the drawing room, along with the unmistakable lilt of his mother’s voice.
Dorothea Stephens spoke in a manner that suggested perpetual delight in the world, though her eyes often carried a different story.
Victor paused at the threshold.
Dorothea sat on a settee upholstered in blue damask, her posture elegant, her expression animated. Beside her sat a young woman in a lavender gown, her hands folded with careful modesty, her hair arranged in soft curls that framed a round, hopeful face.
“Victor, darling,” Dorothea greeted, rising slightly. “You have finally decided to join the living.”
He inclined his head. “Good morning, Mother.”
“And a good morning, indeed,” she said, with a glance at the young woman that revealed more intention than greeting.
“May I present Miss Harriet Parsons. Her mother and I were acquainted in our younger days, and the family is in town for the Season. Miss Parsons has expressed great admiration for Greystone House.”
Harriet colored prettily. “Your Grace, it is an honor.”
Victor bowed. “Miss Parsons.”
Dorothea gestured toward the empty seat near her own. “Do sit, Victor. We were just discussing the charity ball Lady Ranleigh will be hosting next week. I thought it a fine opportunity for you to attend, since you have so dreadfully avoided your duties to Society of late.”
He knew that tone. Sweet as honey, sharp as a blade.
He sat down, because refusing would lead to an argument he had no interest in starting.
Harriet smiled, shy and eager. “Her Grace speaks very highly of you, Your Grace. She says you have the most admirable sense of duty.”
Victor felt the faint stir of impatience. “My sense of duty is directed toward my estates and tenants. Society receives the remnants.”
Dorothea laughed lightly. “Nonsense. A man can manage both. Or at least pretend to with enough polish.”
Harriet gave a nervous giggle.
Dorothea leaned forward with the deliberate grace of a general positioning her troops. “Miss Parsons plays the pianoforte beautifully and has a talent for embroidery. Her mother tells me she is fond of animals as well. A gentle disposition. A lovely temperament.”
Victor saw the shape of the battle then.
His mother had not chosen this morning’s tea by chance. She had been waiting for an opportunity. And now she pressed it like a hand against a bruise.
“Miss Parsons,” she continued without breath, “has been presented at Court and has already been asked to dance at several assemblies, though she prefers quiet evenings. She is also quite accomplished at watercolors. You adore watercolors, do you not, Victor?”
“I tolerate them,” he replied.
Harriet bit her lip. “I enjoy landscapes most. They soothe me.”
Victor felt sympathy for her innocence. She was earnest. Soft. Easily managed. She deserved a man gentle in manner, not himself.
Dorothea placed her hand atop Harriet’s in a gesture that was almost tender. “You see, my dear, Victor is shy in company. It is not disinterest. He was raised rather sternly, and any creature with warmth unsettles him.”
“Mother.” His voice cooled an inch.
Dorothea pressed on. “I only mean he would do very well with a kind wife. Someone gentle who can soften his sharp edges.”
Harriet looked uncertain now. “I would be honored to make any man comfortable, Your Grace.”
Victor stood up. “Miss Parsons, you are gracious. My mother’s compliments exceed my character. I fear I am not the gentleman she believes I am.”
Dorothea’s smile tightened. “Victor, do not be rude. Miss Parsons has been kind enough to call. At my invitation.”
“That, Mother, is exactly the difficulty.”
Harriet’s eyes widened, hurt flickering like a candle starved for oxygen.
Victor bowed again, not unkindly. “Miss Parsons. I am pleased to have made your acquaintance. There are matters that need my attention. Forgive me.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She rose and curtsied.
Dorothea rose as well, all graciousness and charm. “We shall speak later, Victor.”
Victor inclined his head to both ladies, then left the room with measured strides.
At the top of the stairs, he paused, closing his eyes briefly. He disliked causing discomfort, but he disliked being ambushed far more.
His mother’s matchmaking schemes were nothing new. She feared he would end up alone. She feared the legacy of anger his father had left like a stain on the estate.
He exhaled slowly. He had other matters to attend to. Matters he understood far better than courtship engineered in drawing rooms.
His thoughts, as unwelcome as they were persistent, drifted back to the previous night. A blindfold. A warm breath. A woman whose fear and resolve were woven together like threads he had yet to unravel.
He clenched his jaw and grabbed his hat and gloves before stomping out of his house.
This bloody day cannot end soon enough.
Gwen stood stiffly in the doorway of the morning room, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles blanched beneath her gloves.
She had made a quick visit to the modiste to put in another glove order and returned not moments ago. Yet, when Martha told her that Howard wished to see her, she had come at once.
One did not keep Lord Fenwick waiting, no matter how her stomach twisted at the notion.
Howard sat at the head of the table, a ledger open before him. He did not acknowledge her for a long moment. He enjoyed silence as a stage, and he was its only actor.
Cordelia sat to his left, her eyes downcast, her embroidery trembling faintly in her hands.
“Gwendoline,” Howard said at last.
Gwen curtsied. “My Lord.”
“You attended the Duchess of Bellweather’s garden party yesterday.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
He shut the ledger with a snap. “A waste of an afternoon.”
Cordelia looked up at once. “Howard, please. It was a private invitation. The Duchess herself extended it. Surely that must mean something.”
“It means the Duchess wishes to parade her charity,” Howard spat. “Gwendoline’s presence gives her an excuse to feel magnanimous.”
Gwen lifted her chin. “Your Lordship is mistaken. I was treated with—”
“With what?” Howard interrupted. “Civility? Pity masquerading as courtesy? Do not delude yourself.”
Her mother flinched. “Howard, she did nothing wrong.”
“You never believe she does, Cordelia,” Howard snapped. “Perhaps if you were less indulgent, she would show you greater respect.”
Gwen stepped forward before she could stop herself. “My mother has never lacked respect. It is you who—”
“Enough,” Howard barked.
Cordelia gasped, the handkerchief slipping from her fingers.
Howard rose slowly, his displeasure moving through his limbs like a storm beginning to break.
Gwen braced herself, instinctively placing one foot slightly behind the other to steady her stance. She hated that she knew this posture. Hated that she had learned it in her own home.
“Since you have no prospects,” Howard said, “and since the Season will offer you nothing but further disgrace, I see no reason to waste more money dressing you for it.”
Her heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”
“You will not accept any more pity invites. I forbid it.”
Gwen felt the room tilt. “But the Season has only just begun. I have scarcely had the opportunity to—”
“You have no opportunities,” he said coldly. “Your reputation is tarnished. This house is veiled with shame. Gentlemen turn away when your name is mentioned. No one will have you. I will not throw good money after a bad investment.”
Her mother rose slightly, her voice trembling. “Howard, she deserves a chance. She is young. She is—”
“She is a devastating burden,” he cut in.
The words struck like a slap.
Gwen kept her back straight, though her breath shook.
Howard continued, “Since you have wasted the past years with childish behavior, I have made a decision. In three weeks, you will be sent to St. Agatha’s.”
Gwen gaped at him. “The nunnery?”
“Yes. A place where silence and obedience are valued. Two qualities you lack.”
Cordelia covered her mouth with both hands. “Howard, please. She is my daughter. She cannot be sent away.”
“It is done,” Howard declared. “I have no interest in hearing more on the matter.”
Gwen’s heart throbbed painfully.
A nunnery. Three weeks. No Season. No opportunity. No escape.
Her entire plan crumbled like parchment in the rain.
She had counted on time. Time to gather money from Victor. Time to plan a route. Time to take her mother with her.
Without that time, she would be trapped. Worse, her mother would remain behind, with a man whose temper frayed like rope dipped in acid.
Her throat ached. “My Lord, I beg you to reconsider.”
“Begging does not suit you,” Howard sneered. “And I will not reconsider.”
Tears gathering, her mother stepped between them boldly. “Howard, she is innocent. Whatever rumors are circulating, she is innocent.”
“Innocent girls do not behave the way she has,” Howard grunted.
Gwen felt the sting of those words and forced herself not to flinch. “I have done nothing to disgrace you.”
He gave her a cold smile. “You do not know the repercussions of your ignorance. Your very presence is disgrace enough.”
Her mother’s stifled sobs stirred hot anger within her. Her hands curled at her sides, nails biting into her palms through her gloves. “I will not go quietly.”
“You will go because I command it,” Howard said. “Three weeks.”
She wanted to scream. She wanted to strike something. She wanted to run. Instead, she stood very still, because stillness was her only shield. Stillness gave her time to think.
Three weeks.
Three weeks until she was locked away and would lose every chance she had to save her mother.
Her voice came out low, steady, and frighteningly calm. “I will prepare.”
“See that you do without any further argument.” Howard dismissed her with a flick of his hand.
As Gwen left the room, she heard Cordelia whispering apologies through tears, but she did not pause. She did not trust herself to.
In the corridor, she pressed a trembling hand against the wall, steadying her breath.
She would not be here in three weeks.
She would not be here in two.
She would run. She would take her mother. She would find freedom if it cost her everything.
And if Victor’s money was her only chance, then she would go to him again.
Tonight.
No matter the cost.