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Lex rode his horse to the arsenal. He’d invited Robson to ride with him, but the older man declined, intending to take a hackney and meet him there.
Though it might not have been meant as such, Lex took it as a slight, a rebuff for his dishonesty and subterfuge. A deserved one, of course. He’d been so intent on destroying Drummond—his horse shied at his tight grip on the reins—that he’d given no thought to the Robsons. Or Eleanor. He’d been so successful at isolating himself that he gave no thought to what his actions, his words, might do to those caught up in his scheme for revenge.
The crush of carriages and carts disappeared as he left London behind, and his horse settled into an easy trot, leaving Lex plenty of time to think. What a legacy his father had left him: a debilitating mental affliction that threatened to overwhelm his life at any moment and forced him to push aside those he might care for so that he couldn’t possibly hurt them. All well and good until someone like Eleanor thrust her way into his life. Or someone like Robson slipped in, quiet and steadfast.
Then there was Henry. His son, the future ninth earl. Would Lex leave him the same legacy? From what he’d seen he didn’t think so, but who was to say? If not for this need to get Drummond, he might have bequeathed Henry a life of bitterness and denunciation as well. A gaping opportunity to do otherwise yawned before him. But he didn’t know how to be a father.
Did I not love you, son? Was I not a good father to you while I lived?
The voice, solemn and low, drifted to Lex’s ears on the breeze, and Lex shuddered as the wind died and the air around him and the horse stilled. The answer to his father’s question wasn’t an easy one. Some days he’d been a great father, and some days he’d been a terrible one. Lex had never known which man he was going to see.
There was no one Lex had loved more, though. On good days, he and his father would ride around the Mayne Castle grounds, exploring every square inch from the meticulously kept gardens to the farthest tenant cottage. Belatedly, Lex realized his father had been tutoring him in estate management during those outings. They had seemed more like adventures than lessons. His father had even insisted, contrary to his mother’s wish, that Lex’s entry into Harrow be delayed a few years because surely he was learning all he needed by his father’s side. Often they had returned to the house and had tea and cake with little Portia in the nursery, Father entertaining them by reciting Shakespeare in a variety of silly voices.
Lex sighed and surveyed the pale blue sky. Did you know, Father? Did you know Portia wasn’t your daughter?
His horse had slowed to a mere amble, and a falling leaf fluttered past Lex’s face. The voice seemed to speak again and said, I loved her no less than you. She was mine in my heart.
Ha. Was that truly what his father thought, or was he just hearing what he wanted to hear for Portia’s sake? Because the girl didn’t deserve to be loved any less just because Lady Lexden and Robert Drummond were selfish adulterers.
It was like one of Gentleman Jackson’s punches to the stomach, the irony of that thought, considering his attitude about Henry over the last six years. He’d utterly failed his sister. He’d cared enough to give her a comfortable home and all the necessities of life. He’d cared enough to hire a capable governess. He’d cared enough to keep her from the alleged immoral influence of his wife. But he hadn’t cared enough to love her as a brother should love a sister. Just like he’d failed Henry.
Despite what he’d believed about the boy’s parentage, he shouldn’t have punished Henry for the sins of others. If what he believed now was true, even Lex’s addled father had been a better man in that regard.
The reins fell slack in his hands, and Lex’s horse, given his head, veered to the side of the road and lowered his head to the leafy vegetation sprouting there. Lex paid no heed. A noxious ball of rage was forming in his gut that soon overwhelmed his body. He shook in the saddle, his breathing grew louder and more fitful; his head ached. At last he could no longer contain the wrath.
Why, Father? he shouted inside his head. Why did you leave me? No, not just me. Portia too. If you loved us so much, why in God’s name did you leave?
His horse tensed beneath him but made no sound. All around Lex, silence pulsed. Hot, salty splashes fell onto the saddle as he strained his ears, listening, waiting. Foolishly. There was no answer. Not a single syllable in reply, wind or imagination.
Lex grabbed the reins and urged his horse forward, first into a trot and then into an all-out gallop. They broke through the stagnant air, creating their own wind. His face dried as they raced on and on, but the fury simmered in his heart.
His father had betrayed him, destroying him and his sister in the process. Lex himself had furthered that betrayal day after day after day by deserting Portia and likening Eleanor to his mother. Was the Mayne family truly so doomed? They surely were if he continued to hear voices in his head and respond to them in turn.
He had barely recovered his emotional equilibrium by the time he arrived at the arsenal, covered in a fine layer of dirt and his heart pounding through his chest. For once he wished he’d never hired Robson. He wanted to be alone to stew in his anger, his guilt and his madness. But Lex entered the building to find the ever-efficient American already inspecting the latest arrival: a boring machine.
Lex nodded, muttered “good morning,” and moved to the drafting table. Robson returned the greeting and then went back to his inspection. But soon the silence was not just stifling Lex but reminiscent of the echoing deafness of the road. His father was dead, inaccessible despite the voices in his head. And Robson...Robson was still here. And he’d been kind. He hadn’t given up on Lex. Yet.
Dropping his pencil, Lex approached the American. “What do you think? Will it suffice?”
“It’s a fine piece,” Robson said, running his hand along the steel edge. His tone was clipped, businesslike. “I have a suggestion for modification, however.”
Taking an unsteady breath, Lex caught the man’s eye. “I humbly accept whatever advice you care to give.”
One side of Robson’s mouth curved up. “Humbly, eh?”
“I’ll try. It might take a few attempts. I appear to require as much patience as a puppy in training.”
Robson laughed. “Oh come now, give the pup a bit more credit.”
The tightness in Lex’s shoulders eased. Breathing seemed more effortless too, and he finally smiled. His guilt and anger hadn’t disappeared, but simply knowing that Elliot Robson wasn’t set against him caused his blackened heart to fade slightly to grey. He waved to the machine and said, “Show me what you mean.”
They worked companionably for the next hour, speaking of nothing more meaningful than rifles, bores, and locks. As the day wore on, the arsenal heated up and soon they were forced to remove their coats. Sleeves rolled, Robson continued to modify the mechanical auger. Lex returned to the drafting table, intent on finalizing the layout of the arsenal so they could begin moving equipment in the hopes of starting production.
Robson tinkered without speaking, metal pinging against metal the only sound from his side of the room, and with no idle chatter to distract him Lex’s thoughts turned back to his family. Of course, just acknowledging that he had a family made his gut burn. For so long he’d convinced himself that he owed them nothing more than a roof over their heads and food on their tables. Giving them anything more would only result in disaster for all concerned.
But wasn’t he in the midst of a disaster anyway?
Are family really worth it?
Robson’s clanking continued to echo around the mostly empty workshop, but after a moment the man answered. “Absolutely. They will bring you immeasurable joy and love.”
Lex sighed. He hadn’t realized he’d asked the question aloud.
He heard Robson set the tool down with a soft clink and then the tap of footsteps.
“Did Andrew ever tell you about his sister Hannah?” When Lex shook his head, Robson continued. “I’m not surprised. Even I don’t speak of her very often, though I think about her every day. Hannah was our oldest, and she was quite stubborn to say the least. She wanted to go to Philadelphia and become an actress. Not possessing the wisdom I now do”—he flashed Lex a melancholy smile—“I told her she wasn’t going to the next village, let alone Philadelphia, and to stop being silly. She insisted she was going anyway. I told her if she disgraced the family in such a manner, she would no longer be welcome in our home. Mrs. Robson nearly left me herself after that edict, especially when Hannah did run away.”
Lex had no idea what to say. Robson had said Hannah was the eldest?
Robson swiped a hand across his mouth. “Two months later, we received word that Hannah died of a putrid fever in Philadelphia. She’d been ill for weeks and could have sent word to us. But I had said...” Breaking off, the American aged visibly.
Nothing Lex could say would have any meaning, but he tried. “I’m sorry. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Robson smiled weakly. “But of course I do. It’s human nature. Thank you, though, for your kind words. Now, surely you must be wondering why I am telling you this maudlin tale when I just extolled the joys of family life.”
“To politely inform me that I’m not the only one with family problems?”
“No, no.” Robson shook his head. “As you’re all too aware, family will also bring you sorrow and heartbreak. However, here is what I don’t think you understand: Yes, you are beholden to your family. You owe them your love and support. But they owe you the same in return. You need the love of your family to get through the sorrow. After Hannah died, when I was feeling so wretched and low that I wanted to crawl into the grave with her, my saving grace was Justine. Though she could have blamed me, as I blamed myself, though she was suffering no less grief than myself, Justine loved me, cried with me, and never wavered in supporting me. Not long after the funeral I realized how much she needed me. As did our other children. As I needed—and need—her. I regret Hannah’s death every day, but I’m also grateful every day for the love of the others. And so I make sure they know.”
Lex wanted to stare out the high window or at the dusty floor, but the American’s watery yet piercing gaze held him captive. He’d had no one like Elliot Robson, or Justine, to lean on after the death of his father. His mother left for Italy a week later, ostensibly to grieve. Portia, still so young, had been taken to Somerset by their guardian, and Lex had been enrolled at Harrow. With no one for comfort, he’d turned inward. And he’d become accustomed to the isolation. Craved it. Thought nothing else would make him happy.
But he’d never been happy. Not since he lost his father. He’d lost Portia too, and any sense of purpose he might have had. She’d needed him that horrible day, whether she knew it or not, but he’d done to her what had been done to him: shut her out.
Shame clogged his throat. Still, he didn’t think things could ever be truly righted. Portia would never forgive him, and Eleanor... She could never, should never, forget how abominable he’d been. Besides, the madness would rear its ugly head again soon, and then where would they be? Right back where the Mayne family always ended: broken and splintered.
He must have made a sound, because Robson’s gaze softened and he reached out a hand. Lex instinctively took a step back.
“I... Thank you. I just— It’s quite close in here. I need some air.” He turned halfway toward the door and then stopped. Fighting against his instinct, he caught Robson’s eye. “Would you care to join me?”
Robson, generous as he was, nodded. “A walk along the river sounds like a capital idea.”
They walked in silence for several minutes, enjoying the mildness of the day. Then Robson spoke up. “Have you heard anything about my country’s reaction to repeal of the Orders in Council?”
“No, I’m afraid it’s too soon. The news hasn’t reached the United States yet that the British Navy will let American ships go about their business without interference.”
“Let’s hope that’s an end to the nonsense,” Robson said with more feeling than Lex thought warranted.
“Sir?”
Robson waved a hand. “Oh, you never know if politicians will react with any sense. We do not plan to return to America before next year, but it would be nice to have the matter settled and our countries on friendly terms again.”
“True, but why do I sense concern over something more?”
The man stopped beside the gently flowing river that would power the arsenal, and he said, “My concern is more to do with my return to America. I was told in quite strong terms that my government might look upon me with suspicion if I return to the States while we are engaged in war.”
Robson’s loyalty would be questioned because he had come to help Lex? It couldn’t be borne. “Why did you not tell me this sooner?”
“The matter is at an end. Your government has seen to that.”
“But there is no guarantee—”
Robson settled a hand on Lex’s shoulder. “There are never any guarantees. I made the choice to come here—and not just for you, Lex. Justine and I wished to visit our son. Now, let us head back. The work will not do itself.”
They turned back, but Lex was still concerned. He’d come to value Elliot Robson’s friendship and couldn’t bear for the man to suffer any ill consequences because Lex had asked him to come to England.
They managed to finalize the plans for the delivery and installation of the last pieces of equipment in the remaining hours of the day, but it was a struggle with Lex’s mind focused on the upcoming confrontation with Drummond and what Robson had said—not to mention the urgent desire to speak with Eleanor again, to tell her of all that had transpired. He and Robson parted that evening on good terms, boosting Lex’s mood even higher, and by the time he arrived back at Hereford Street he was almost looking forward to facing Drummond.
More than anything, though, he just wanted to see his wife.
Bickley opened the front door and Lex swept inside. “Where is her ladyship?”
The servant just barely hid his surprise. “I believe she’s in the drawing room, my lord.”
Lex hurried up the stairs and found her there penning a note. He paused in the doorway to stare. With her honey-colored hair swept atop her head, and her neck elongated as she bent over the escritoire, she was so damned beautiful, inside and out. How had he unerringly chosen such a wife when he’d been so young and idiotic? The thought made him momentarily unsure of his welcome. Everything with Eleanor was so new, so fragile. How easy would it be for him to say the wrong thing and destroy the tentative connection between them? Too easy, and yet he couldn’t stay away from her. Had no desire to.
He stepped into the room, drawing her attention. Hesitation skittered through her eyes, but he couldn’t blame her after his thoughts a moment ago. He crossed to her and sank down on his haunches beside her chair. “Good evening.”
She scrutinized his face and must not have found it lacking, for she smiled. And that put an end to any control he might have pretended to possess. He reached behind her neck and pulled her head close for a kiss. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, so he rose to his knees to spare her back. This kiss was less frantic than usual, but the slower, more sensual pace lanced a scorching heat through his veins nonetheless.
He trailed his lips up the line of her jaw to her ear and whispered, “I think I missed you.”
She drew back and stared at him, and Lex’s brain finally registered the words that had spilled from his mouth.
“Oh goodness, Octavius.” Eleanor’s eyes turned soft and delightfully green. She pressed her lips to his. “If you had a charming bone in your body, I might think you were flirting with me.”
He took no offense—the thought of trying to be charming made him nauseous—but he was curious. “Since I haven’t one, what do you think I’m doing?”
She pushed her fingers through his hair and cupped the back of his head. “I think you’re being honest, and the effect is much more powerful.”
“If I’m to continue being honest, I’m not certain I want to know what effect I’m having on you.”
“I’m not certain you do either,” she answered with a wry smile. “How was your day?”
That was the opening he needed. “I realized something.” Though, that sounded so innocuous considering the consequences of his past actions.
“I did too.” She waved toward him. “But you go first.”
Lex paced to the far end of the room, his mouth dry. Then, remembering what Eleanor had said the night before about his refusal to look at her when he spoke of trying subjects, he turned and strode back. “May we sit?”
Eleanor nodded, so he took her hand and led her over to the sofa. When they sank onto the cream damask, he didn’t let go. He needed her support even if he deserved her censure. Yet, where did he begin? He opened his cracked lips but nothing came out. Stomach clenched, he shot her a brief glance and tried again.
“Ask me what I did after discovering my father’s body.”
She inhaled sharply, and he could feel her intense gaze upon him. “What did you do after you found your mother and father in the sitting room?”
“My mother continued screaming. Everyone in the household came running, including the nursery maid, who promptly fainted. I knew Portia had been left alone, and my greatest fear was that she would come downstairs to see what all the fuss was about.” He paused as Eleanor leaned her head against his shoulder, looping one arm beneath his coat and around his waist. His muscles loosened at her touch.
“She was standing in the middle of the nursery, her eyes so big and terrified. My mother would not stop wailing, and the sound carried all the way upstairs. When Portia saw me, she ran to me and clung to my legs so tightly that I fell over. We sat on the floor for what seemed like ages. My arms ached from holding on to her. When the screaming stopped, Portia finally relaxed a little. I distracted her by playing games and reading stories, all the while trying to listen to the goings-on downstairs.” He could feel Eleanor looking at him, and Lex drew in a ragged breath at the memory. “I wanted to be down there, to know what was happening with my father, to make my mother be quiet, but everyone had forgotten us. I couldn’t leave my sister; she was too young to even understand what death meant.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall forward. “She was three years old, and that was the last time I ever took care of her.”
Eleanor pressed herself against his side, which inexplicably made him feel even worse.
“I’ve neglected Portia terribly. At first I didn’t have much choice, as I was sent off to school and she was sent to the country. But after I gained my majority and guardianship of her, I closed myself off, never giving a thought to whether she needed me or not. I have no more right to claim to be her brother than Drummond.”
Eleanor pinched his arm. “Enough. I’m not going to disagree with you on how you’ve treated Portia, for it is true, but there’s no need to continue berating yourself. Interestingly, our minds were working in the same direction today. I realized the similarities between my younger self and Portia. She just wants to have your attention, to be loved, much as I wanted the same from my mother. With the loss of both her mother and father, you became her parental figure. She’s such a lonely girl, Octavius.”
“I can see that now, but it’s years too late.” The obstinate words came out unbidden, but he had no time to retract them.
“No, it’s not. She needs you more than ever.” His wife swung off the sofa and settled in front of him, hands on his knees. “Octavius. She may not remember that day in the nursery, but I think in her heart she remembers the way you loved and protected her. You are all she has left.”
“She has you and Henry.” Resisting came so naturally, so habitually.
“You are not going to escape this,” Eleanor said, her voice hard. “It is not too late. She is your sister, and only you can give her the love she deserves. Otherwise she’ll keep trying to find love in some man’s—any man’s—arms.”
“Eleanor!”
Her eyes flashed. “Mr. Semple. William Drummond. Now Andrew Robson.”
Lex fumbled for words, but all his protests died on his lips. Eleanor was right. She was always right. He needed her to push him, though. “She will rebuff me. As she’s done by refusing to come home.”
“Yes, she will. But you will continue to show her you care nonetheless. You can be relentless. I know it for a fact.”
That spark of humor brought the green back into her eyes, and he wanted to pull her onto the sofa, stretch out and stare into their emerald depths forever. Why did she have such faith in him? No one else did, himself included.
Bickley knocked on the door, so Lex helped Eleanor to her feet and then bade the butler enter.
“Dinner is served, my lord, my lady.”
Lex nodded.
After the servant left, he back turned to Eleanor. “Is Portia coming on our outing to Astley’s?”
She nodded. “Yes, she and all three Robsons.”
“I should speak with her beforehand then.”
It was a question disguised as a statement, for he really didn’t know what course of action was best. Luckily, Eleanor understood and said, “Excellent idea. You should also consider telling her about her parentage, especially since we are divulging that information to Drummond after dinner.”
Absolutely not. But he tempered his reply to Eleanor. “Not yet. I would like to re-establish my relationship with her first.”
She looped her arm over his. “Thank goodness I still have time to convince you of the imprudence of that decision. Now, shall we fortify ourselves before meeting with the dreaded Drummond?”