Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Beyond Clapham Common, Graham gave the horses their heads. Findlay and Fallon knew the way well enough by now. They’d made the trip to Brereton Cottage half a dozen times since Tetley had given him the key.
Beside him, Julia gasped. The wind whipped the rose-colored ribbons of her bonnet. One small hand slipped from beneath the heavy woolen lap blanket he’d tucked around her, protection against the bite of the November air. For a moment, it seemed as if she meant to urge him to slow down. He considered telling her she was in no danger.
But that wouldn’t entirely be true.
Her gloved fingertips settled lightly on his forearm, tracing the subtle movement of his bones and sinews, as if seeking a share of the power that flowed up through the reins.
He recalled their conversation about racing curricles the first time he’d driven her. She had come today of her own free will.
Perhaps she didn’t want to be perfectly safe.
Shifting the reins into his left hand, he wrapped his right arm around her shoulders, snugging their bodies closer still. Curving his fingers over hers, he pressed the reins into her hands. “Take them.”
She glanced up at his face. Astonishment flared in her eyes. But she didn’t refuse.
Once her grip was secure, he released her hands, though he kept his arm around her. Sensing the change in command, the horses shifted their pace. The reins slackened in her grasp.
“Oh,” she breathed, the sound hardly audible above the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels. But he’d heard that soft gasp of disappointment before, on the night they had met.
And he never wanted to hear it again.
“Did you wish them to run away with you?” he teased.
“Yes, please.”
Despite the chill wind, heat surged through him. “Then hold tight.”
With the toe of his boot, he rattled the whip, still in its socket on the dash. Fallon started, Findlay leaned into the bit, and the pair were off, running against nothing but the cloud-lowered sky.
Fields flew past, and soon the stone cottage appeared on the horizon. Taking her hands in his once more, he eased the horses to a trot.
“Are they tired?” she asked.
Findlay and Fallon touched noses—laughing together, he imagined. “Nay,” he said as he steered them onto the drive.
“Then why are we stopping?”
“Too many questions. You’ll have to be patient for the answers.”
The answering wrinkle that appeared between her brows revealed that patience was not one of her many virtues—as if he had not already guessed as much.
The horses slowed to a walk as they rounded the corner of the cottage and came to stand in front of the barn. He swung down, then lifted her from the curricle and nodded for her to take a seat on a nearby stump.
“Where are the servants?” she mused as he unhitched the pair and began to wipe the foam from their flanks. The tabby barn cat had emerged from one of its hiding spots, and she was trying to coax it closer, seemingly paying Graham little mind. But when he strode to the well to get fresh water, he knew that her gaze followed, as if she were intrigued by watching him work.
At last, he held out an elbow to escort her inside. As she came to her feet, she tilted her head, still inquisitive. “Aren’t you at least going to tell me whose house this is?”
He laid a hand over hers where it rested against his forearm, pinning her to his side, as much to keep himself steady as to keep her from flight. “I decided it was high time you met Ransom Blackadder.”
He had determined on this course of action a few minutes before the end of yesterday’s rehearsal, when he’d at long last allowed himself to get close enough to truly see Julia. To risk being seen. When he’d discovered that the yearning inside him was matched by the yearning written on her face. The moment when wanting her had overtaken every other thought—even the success of The Poison Pen.
For years, he had built walls: between Castle Dunstane and the London stage, between Perpetua Philpot and Ransom Briggs, around his own heart. But it was time for those walls to come down. And he must be the one to dismantle them.
This play would be the end of Blackadder. And, if Julia were willing, the beginning of something new.
But would she be willing, once she knew the truth?
“Notorious rake and ne’er-do-well Random Blackadder lives in a country cottage?” she demanded, incredulous.
Slipping free, she charged up the pair of oak plank steps, through the back door, and into the kitchen, where they were greeted by well-stocked cupboards and a clean-swept hearth. He shrugged out of his greatcoat and hung it on a peg. Everything was neat as a pin, not because he had left here the last time with any notion of returning with company, but because he wouldn’t have it otherwise.
He’d had enough messiness for a lifetime.
With the sweep of one arm, he waved her through to the sitting room. “I’ll make tea.”
While he lit the spirit lamp to boil the kettle and prepared a plate of bread and butter, he watched out of the corner of one eye as she tossed her bonnet and pelisse over the arm of a chair and began to inspect her surroundings, the questions continuing thick and fast.
“But isn’t he Scottish? Why would he take a place in Surrey? Do you visit him here often? Where is he now? Wasn’t he expecting you today?”
Just before he went in with the tray, she finally fell silent. He found her seated on the horsehair sofa, staring fixedly at the sheaf of notes on the low table in front of her. She might recognize the hand, he supposed; she’d seen the revisions he’d claimed to be delivering on behalf of Blackadder.
But these papers were pinned in place by a crystal paperweight in the design of a thistle, superimposed with the letter D—Dunstane’s seal, and the one ornament he’d brought from the house in Half Moon Street.
“Oh. How silly of me.” She darted a glance in his direction, then focused once more on the paperweight, which magnified the words beneath it. “You’re—”
“Yes.”
“I thought . . . perhaps . . . brothers . . .”
Ah.Like Reginald Briggs and his hapless sibling. But why should he be surprised that she’d worked it out thus? He’d known from the start that she was clever.
“I haven’t any brothers.” He filled a cup with steaming brew and passed it to her. “At least, not anymore.”
The cup rattled in its saucer as she accepted it from him. “Wh-why are you telling me this?”
He couldn’t say what reaction he’d expected to his revelation. Anger, perhaps. But not this. Not something that might too easily be mistaken for . . . fear?
“Because once I’d entrusted you with my play, it seemed a rather pointless secret to go on keeping.”
“Eh-en-entrusted me?” She struggled to frame the word, then tried to disguise her bewilderment by taking a sip of tea. She gasped as it scalded her throat.
He sat down beside her on the sofa, lifting the saucer from her trembling fingers and returning it to the tray. “Surely you’ve noticed that I didn’t allow Fanshawe or the others to have their way with the script.”
She gnawed on her lower lip, then nodded.
“And how did you explain such unaccountable behavior to yourself?”
“I, uh,” she rasped, then swallowed and squared her shoulders and met his eyes with a steadier gaze. “I assumed at first it was a sort of . . . flirtation. Because you believed I would be flattered and let you have your way with me in turn.”
She wasn’t far wrong. Turning slightly, he stretched his arm along the back of the sofa without touching her. “Why ‘at first’? Do you imagine my motives have changed?”
“Haven’t they?” She jerked her gaze to the far corner of the room. “After the first rehearsal, when I . . . but you didn’t—”
“Kiss you?”
“I decided I had misunderstood.”
He slid his hand down the sofa’s slick back. At the nape of her neck, a single dark curl had sprung from her coiffure, teased loose by the wind perhaps. He twined it around his first finger. “I would no’ have wanted to stop at kisses. And Covent Garden is no place to—”
“Speaking from experience, I suppose.” She spoke over him, turning back to face him even as she tried to slip free from his touch.
But the lock of hair only wound tighter. “Aye,” he agreed with a leering grin.
Her whole body went still, and the spark in her eyes was suddenly cold, ice rather than fire. “So. You’ve brought me all this way because ‘Ransom Blackadder’ wants to make a conquest of me. I take it you’ve decided that ‘The Playwright and the Actress’ will draw bigger audiences than ‘The Poor Lady’s Companion and the Earl.’ ”
“Julia,” he chided, releasing the curl. “I would never—”
“You would,” she countered, her dark brows dipping into a frown. “You have. Perpetua Philpot is modeled after an actual critic of your plays.”
“That’s hardly the same.”
“Is it not?” She jutted out her chin, narrowing the scant distance between them. The posture reminded him of the night they’d met, when what he’d taken for apprehension had been quickly replaced by audacity.
“You take a keen interest in the fate of some anonymous hack.”
“Anonymous hack? That’s rich, coming from—”
He silenced her the best way he knew how, by covering her mouth with his. She gave no sign of resistance to his kiss. But neither did she relent. Her posture remained perfectly straight, her lips pliant but still.
When he pulled back, he met her wounded gaze. “The whole world knows Blackadder is cruel and heartless,” she said flatly. “The more fool I for hoping you might be the better man.”
Those words brought him to his feet. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry for kissing you against your will. Sorry I cannot be the one you need.
Desperate for something to do with himself, he plucked up her outer garments from the chair where she’d casually discarded them and carried them into the kitchen to hang beside his. “I revealed something to you I’ve never told another soul. What more do you want from me, Julia?”
“I told myself I was coming here today because I wanted the satisfaction I’d been promised.” She was staring straight ahead, into the empty hearth, perhaps recalling their exchange in Clearwater’s study. “But the truth is . . . I would be satisfied with a genuine smile. Some hint . . . some proof that the man you really are, the man inside, isn’t colder and harder yet.”
He tipped his forehead against the glass door of a nearby cabinet and found it blessedly cool, a balm to his sudden fever. He’d thought himself prepared to be honest with her.
But his truths weren’t the sort a fellow delivered with a smile on his face—and they certainly didn’t inspire smiles in return.
Pushing away from the wall, he lurched back toward the sitting room, uncertain where else in the little cottage to go. She gave no sign of noticing when he threw himself into the chair closest to the fireplace.
“I wasn’t meant to be Earl of Dunstane.” He hoisted himself more upright, just enough to pour more tea, then dashed the contents of the delicate little cup down his throat, wishing it were whisky. “But if I’d never become the earl, ’tis likely I’d never have become Blackadder, either.”
Her posture stiffened still more. “You presume I care about your sordid past, my lord.”
“Aye,” he agreed. “I think you do. Leastways, no other woman has ever fussed over whether the smile I had for her was genuine.”
Their interest in his mouth had been far less innocent.
Her only response was a slight pursing of her lips.
“Iain was the eldest, the heir, and very like our father he was, too, though I had no notion how much at the time. Father was an old man when he married, older still when I was born, and it wasn’t until many years later that I had cause to discover what a rogue he’d been in his younger days, late to wed because he’d been reluctant to settle down.
“But old as he was, he fathered six children, the last of whom took my mother to the grave with her. She’d lost two wee girls already, sisters I cannot even remember. And though my father never seemed to miss them, so long as he had sons and to spare, the sorrow of it had left her weak.
“For a year, it was the four of us: my father; Iain; my younger brother, Rory; and me. Father hadn’t a prayer of keeping three boys in check, though, truth be told, he rarely tried. I was nine when he died of a heart complaint. Rory was a lad of five. And Iain was all of eighteen when he became the new earl.”
She blinked, twice. He went on. “Another year saw Iain off to—well, Oxford, he told his guardians and trustees, though it was London where he spent all his time. And I was sent to Harrow—to face the unending torment of my peers.”
“Why?”
Her quiet question—the first she’d asked in some time—was nearly lost beneath the sound of her movement as she rose and went to the window overlooking the drive.
“Why Harrow? Because my father had insisted upon it. Or do you mean to ask why they tormented me? Well, then, you may take your choice. Because I was a lanky, awkward lad, never one for a game or gossip.” He shrugged. “Or, more often, because I have red hair, a brogue when I’m not careful, a quick tongue, and an even quicker temper. I rose to the flimsiest bait, much to their delight. I fought—and nearly got myself expelled. Then one day, Iain took me with him to Drury Lane to see a play—Molière, it was—and I came to understand that words could do far more damage than fists. After that, instead of fighting, I wrote in secret. Fine speeches, bawdy poems—anything to make fools of the boys who had tried to make a fool of me.”
Her shoulders rose and fell on what he presumed to be a silent, wry laugh. “Ah. So that’s how Ransom Blackadder got his start.”
“Not exactly. That is when I first began to sharpen my wit. But Blackadder himself came along later. When I was one and twenty and Iain the age I am now, he was killed in a duel.” He paused to pour a second cup of tea and sipped from it more slowly, though it was now almost cold. “From my perspective as a younger brother, he’d always seemed a grand fellow. But from the perspective of a young man who now had the responsibilities of an earldom unexpectedly thrust upon his shoulders, Iain’s raking and whoring and drinking and gambling took on a decidedly different cast.
“After many years away from Dunstane, I returned to discover it in shambles. Iain had inherited an estate on the edge of ruin and had gleefully given it a shove. The title had been besmirched, the property mortgaged to the hilt. Thanks to feckless guardians, he’d squandered Rory’s tuition and allowance and left our little brother to fend for himself. The castle my ancestors had defended from invaders was crumbling away. In a moment of utter despair, searching for anything that might save us, I was rummaging through old papers and found those schoolboy scribbles. I remembered the power I’d felt when I’d held the pen, how writing had honed my anger like a blade. And, oh, I was angry. Angrier than I’d ever been in my life. So I wrote, intending to make men—myself included—see themselves for the knaves and fools they are. I invented Ransom Blackadder.”
Julia stood, staring outward, shoulders hunched inward and hands gripping her upper arms as if cold. He returned his cup to the table, heaved himself from the chair, and knelt to light a fire.
“I hadn’t any notion at first of making any money by playwriting,” he went on after a few moments, watching the flames devour the kindling and lick along the wood. “Certainly not sufficient funds to dig us out of the hole Iain had left. But it seems I’d underestimated English theatergoers’ eagerness to be mocked.” Getting to his feet, he returned to his chair. Julia turned at last and held out her hands to the hearth, though she was surely too far away to feel its warmth. “The first play’s profits were enough to shore up Castle Dunstane. The second and third paid down the worst of Iain’s debts. A few careful investments in other productions brought in still more. And the receipts from Vice Is Its Own Reward were to have brought Rory home.”
Having no prospects, Rory had joined the army and gone off to fight. Without the means even to buy his brother an officer’s commission, Graham hadn’t been able to stop him.
“I saw that play,” Julia said. “People came in droves.” Her reassurance—if indeed it was intended as such—was conveyed with a heavy dose of skepticism at the audience’s taste.
“Yes, it did well enough—it made Ransom Blackadder a wealthy man. But the earnings check arrived too late: a week after the letter from Rory’s commanding officer, telling me he’d lost his life in some pointless skirmish in this endless war. An honorable death for king and country, the officer had the nerve to write.”
Whose king?Graham had shouted, the words bouncing from the cold stone walls surrounding him. Whose country?
Words were powerful—he’d proven as much, time and time again.
But they hadn’t the power to bring his brother back.
Graham had been left utterly alone, with not even a picture to remember his brother by, Rory having been born after the only family portrait had been painted.
A cool hand caressed his cheek. He glanced upward. When had Julia crossed the room and come to stand before him?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So very sorry.”
The pad of her thumb brushed along his cheekbone, the gesture of one wiping away a tear, though he knew he hadn’t shed any. He’d been dry-eyed since the arrival of that letter, the day the last remaining bit of softness in him had turned to stone.
“Nay, lass.” He cupped her hand in his, turning hers slightly to press a kiss into her palm. “No Scotsman wants aught to do with pity. I only sought to help you understand how things came to be as they are.”
She gazed down at him, the slightest furrow between her dark brows. “Is that when you began writing The Poison Pen?”
“Aye—with poison flowing through my veins.” He gave her fingers a squeeze, still clinging to her as her hand slid from his face. “That’s why it’s no’ very good.”
“And this place?” she asked, glancing around.
“About a week ago, in a fit of frustration—”
“Over the play?”
He swept his eyes over her face. Was that a hint of mischief he saw there?
“Partly,” he answered, stretching out one leg so that she now stood between his knees. “Anyway, I went for a drive. I stumbled upon this cottage. And I decided to . . . write.” He gestured toward the papers on the table with a motion of his chin. “I set aside The Poison Pen, Blackadder, all of it. I let myself remember how it felt to make something new. I’d been so focused on the power writing gave me, I’d forgotten how humbling it could be.” Absently, he brushed his thumb over the thin skin of her inner wrist. “I’d been so caught up in my pain, I’d almost forgotten about life’s pleasures.”
Her expression solemn, she nodded as if she understood. “It’s a lovely, quiet spot,” she said, glancing about the room before returning her gaze to his face. “Perfect for starting fresh.”
“Aye. I’ve never liked London. Too many people. Too much noise.”
She tipped her head to the side, and her eyes twinkled. “But if you hadn’t come to London, you would never have met me.”
“Aye. That’s true.”
“So, what happens now?”
He managed a ragged breath. “Well, come opening night, I think Blackadder’s done for.”
Her brows rose. “Surely your adoring public will forgive one less-than-perfect play.”
“Perhaps. But I’m ready to be free of him. Especially if it means I could have—”
You.
One gentle tug of her hand pulled her off balance and sent her tumbling into his lap.
Rather than protest, as he had half expected, she slid her arms around his neck, her fingers toying with his hair where it fell over his collar.
And then she pressed her lips to his.