Chapter 13
Thirteen
No one has laid eyes upon him in weeks. Anne has put it about that the wounds he received from your brother have brought him to “the very threshold of death’s door” and that he tosses and turns in the agony of fever.
For my part, I wonder if his condition is truly that serious—the woman takes far too much delight in describing her brother’s sufferings.
I swear, Elizabeth, her eyes sparkle and she has more color in her face when speaking of it than a woman about to meet her lover.
And she makes herself seem a veritable angel of mercy!
More like a demon from the netherworld if you ask me.
And speaking of lovers, at some later point I simply must tell you of Anne’s latest suitor, Sir Edmund Bogglesworth.
But I will not digress since I know James must be much on your mind.
A rumor has sprung up, this one most definitely not spread by Anne.
According to my chambermaid whose cousin’s friend works in the Dinsmore kitchens, James’s face is frightfully scarred.
So ashamed is he that he will not venture out and has ordered all the mirrors removed from the house.
I would not have thought him so vain, but then I am little acquainted with the curious minds of men.
It would be a shame if this story should prove to be true.
Would you still love him if he were not so beautiful?
Elizabeth tucked the letter from Arabella back into her stays.
Thank goodness for Arabella! If it wasn’t for the notes she kept sending against her mother’s wishes, Elizabeth wasn’t certain what she would do.
Arabella’s letters always included all the latest London gossip, running commentary on the most outrageous fashions, and, most important of all, updates on James Dinsmore’s health.
She dared not ask anyone else about James’s condition, particularly since Rafe had become feverish from his wounds.
After her brother recovered and began to squire her about London, she did not want to be caught scanning the crowds, searching for a glimpse of James’s golden head.
Far too many people were watching her, just waiting for another hideous breach of decorum.
Truly, the duel had changed little. Oh, she was no longer cut directly; at parties she was invited to dance, led in to supper with suitable men.
But just below the polite surface, in the retiring rooms and cloakrooms, she was met with raised eyebrows, polite rebuffs, and barely concealed laughter.
Rafe finally decided they would leave London and return to their country estate long before the season was over.
And here at Moreham Hall, it was deadly dull, and no one spoke of James at all.
Was he seriously ill or had he truly become a recluse?
That had been her worry for weeks. She’d almost convinced herself this concern was simply because it was her foolish indiscretion that had caused the duel, caused his wounds.
But the last line of Arabella’s latest letter haunted her.
Would you still love him if he were not so beautiful?
James was handsome to look at, and her bones seemed to dissolve a bit when she thought of his body.
But was she so terribly shallow to be drawn to him only for his face and body?
It was his mind that drew her. When they were leaving London, as she watched the coachmen load all the trunks and valises filled with the gowns that were to make her first season a grand triumph, her most painful realization was how much she would miss his wit and his sharp, teasing humor.
Still. What if his face was marred? How awful were the scars?
Was he missing an eye? An eyepatch might be rather dashing so long as she didn’t have to look under it.
What if Rafe had cut off his nose? She winced.
Could she kiss a man without a nose? The contents of her stomach swirled, and she felt the blood leave her cheeks.
James was right; she was a child, petty and self-absorbed, and all the while he was suffering.
No matter what the state of his outward appearance, it didn’t change what lay within.
It was what she had believed all along, even though everyone else saw him merely as a beautiful, golden rake.
Deep inside was a sensitive man, a caring man, a man who could comfort his sister with words of magic.
If not for the awkwardness that had developed between them since the duel and the ban on James Dinsmore’s name, she’d have asked her brother and sister-in-law for their views on the nature of love.
Did they believe in love at first sight?
The idea you could lock eyes with a man and know you are meant to be together forever…
She considered James’s eyes, the brows that came to a slightly wicked point in the center, those brows that rose when he looked at her, as if to say, “I know what you’re about, Elizabeth Harcrest… ”
She shook her head, bringing her thoughts back to reality.
It was pointless to think about James.
And it was the purest torture to contemplate a future that could not—would not—be. He was in London and she was exiled to the countryside. Rafe would make certain their paths never crossed again.
“So, the Harcrests are long gone, left London for the remainder of the season,” Lord Grenville said casually, though his eyes, as they studied James, were anything but.
“So Anne told me.” James sipped his wine, then held the glass upward, examining its color in the light of the candles that lit the tables of the exclusive private club. His wounds had healed sufficiently, and he had rejoined society, though nothing was the same. “An excellent vintage—1768?”
Grenville’s nod indicated agreement not just of the year of the wine, but of James’s obvious wish to change the subject. “You always did have a fine palate for wines,” he said, then added, “you and Anthony.”
“Your son had the finer palate. And the finer heart.”
“He was a good man, my son.”
“I think of him often, and of our last year of university together.”
“He was a serious lad; he didn’t make friends easily. It did my heart good to see you together.”
“Those were happy times.” James traced the fine line his sister had sewn.
Despite his scar women continued to cast him admiring looks, but where once he’d found wicked pleasure in them, now he found only boredom.
He had begun to withdraw from female company, seeking solace in books, brandy, and clubs where only the forthright talk of men could be heard.
Which is why he’d accepted Lord Grenville’s invitation this evening.
“It would have been better had the fever taken me.”
“The fever took you both,” Grenville reminded him. “But Anthony’s lungs were never strong. The Lord saw fit that you should survive.”
A curious smile, drawn down by the taut scar, flickered across James’s face. “You still believe in God?”
“I do,” Grenville replied. “I believe He has plans beyond our understanding. We must have faith.”
“And is this why you continue to have faith in me?” James glanced about the room; several men who had been staring at him dropped their eyes. He turned his gaze back to Lord Grenville. “Do you imagine I survived as part of some greater plan, that my life has some larger purpose?”
“It might have, if you wish it to be so.”
“Have you some position for me amongst the clergy, then?” His voice filled with amusement. “I suspect I should make a poor priest.”
“I have in mind to invite you to join a brotherhood of a different sort.” Grenville gestured discreetly toward the quiet clusters of men seated around the room and lowered his voice. “Are you aware of the nature of this club?”
“It’s an oasis, a safe haven, a precious refuge where for a brief moment in time, men can escape the relentless machinations of women.”
Grenville pursed his lips like a disappointed schoolmaster.
“Some sort of philosophical society, isn’t it? Membership by invitation only?”
Grenville nodded.
James studied the soberly garbed men scattered throughout the room. He flicked a wrist encircled in simple but crisp white lace at them. “I assume fashion is not an issue here, and that gambling is not part of the appeal.”
“Not for money,” Grenville said softly, “no.”
James cast him an inquisitive glance.
He continued. “You are correct in assuming that this is an exclusive club and that membership is not extended lightly. We have an interest in philosophy, yes, and in affairs of state. We are affiliated, though not directly, with His Majesty’s government.”
James was silent for a full moment. “You are spies?”
Grenville nodded slightly.
James’s fingers slid down his scar. “And you think I’ve fallen far enough to join your…brotherhood!”
Grenville’s eyes blazed within their wrinkled settings, though he kept his voice low. “Though you and others might consider our work ungentlemanly, we do not. Nor do we consider ourselves fallen men. Far from it—”
“Listening at doors, reading other men’s correspondence…wouldn’t you consider that ungentlemanly?”
“Lying about drinking, gambling, spending money on clothes you cannot hope to pay for, seducing women…”
James flicked his finger up the scar. “Touché, my lord.”
Grenville pressed his lips together. “I had not meant to say that, to lose my temper like that, James. I apologize.”
“You only spoke the truth.” He folded his hands upon the table.
“In all this time you have not said a word against me; you have stood by me”—his voice softened—“like a father might stand by his son.” Grenville made as if to speak, but James raised his hand.
“It is I who ought to apologize. You have not judged me; I should not presume to judge you.”
“It is true we do those things which you have described, but for a purpose, a noble purpose—to guide His Majesty with knowledge of his enemies’ intentions, to protect our country, to protect our sons.”
“But we are not at war—”