The next morning.
“Who the devil taught you to play chess?” Winsome demanded of his heir.
Bernard was all but eleven and the youngest of all the duke’s children. “I-I’m sorry, s-sir.”
Winsome swept his arm out over the board and sent the pieces scattering. “Where is your sister?”
“W-which o-one, sir?”
“Which one do I normally play chess with, you imbecile?” His voice bellowed against the walls, but with the tapestries the sound was unsatisfactorily absorbed. He knew he was being unreasonable. Winsome had never taken the time with his other children as he had with Alexandra. He refused to attribute it to guilt over forcibly removing her from Olivia’s home all those years ago. But he feared that was exactly what it was.
Alexandra had been so thin, yet tall, even at nine. That stiff upper lip of hers. Her stubborn ability to withhold tears when she’d eventually learned to bottle her anger. Still, after they’d reached London, he sat her down every day and taught her to play chess. In his own clumsy way, he tried to reach her, to show her he meant no harm.
All this business of having to present her as his ward was society’s necessary conundrum. It had never been about him. He’d presented Alexandra as his ward to protect her.
She came by her stubbornness honestly, as every day he sat with her with his own obstinate resolve. He’d been amazed at her comprehension of his favorite game, her ability to devise strategies. She watched quietly, unobtrusively, learning from situations and people way beyond her years. He’d never told her how he cherished those days. Now she wished to move away, and he was a brute to make her stay.
“A-alex?”
His son’s stuttering brought him up. “Of course, Alexandra.” All this introspection left him at odds and floundering for his footing. Things were changing and he would not have it. “Where the devil is she?”
The door opened and the duchess strolled in. “Run along, Bernard. I shall deal with your father.”
The boy scampered out, leaving Winsome scowling at his back.
“Quit yelling at him, Gareth. It only makes his stutter worsen.” She poured a cup of strong black tea, added a dash of milk, and handed it to him.
“Where is Alexandra?” he demanded. Everyone knew he required a decent game when he was overburdened or under such duress. Chess allowed him to take his mind from pressing matters that made him anxious, gave him a sense of… normalcy, of balance. He pinched the bridge of his nose. His own thoughts were driving him mad.
“Alexandra is staying a few days with Lady Ranstruther.”
“What the devil for? I thought I saw Lady Ranstruther last evening…” Well, he couldn’t very well tell his wife he’d visited London’s newest gaming hell. No matter how upscale la Sous Rose, it was still a gaming hell.
“Saw her where?” the duchess asked.
“Never mind. I must be mistaken.” He felt out of sorts. “How are the plans coming for Sophia’s come-out?”
Her eyes narrowed on him. “Is something wrong, my dear? You’ve never taken an interest in our plans before.”
Winsome pushed a hand through his hair then leaned back in his chair, eyeing his wife speculatively. “Perhaps you’d care to play a round with me?”
“I should say not. If you are going to chastise a young boy for not being able to keep up, I shudder to think of what I should have to endure. Besides, your three elder daughters have arrived for their annual visit. We are going shopping. Isn’t there someone at your club who will give you a game?”
“Yes, blast it.” His cup and saucer clattered on the tray. “’Tis exactly where I should have gone in the first place.”
Twenty minutes later, Winsome strolled into White’s and hunted about for a worthy partner.
“Winsome, seems a mite early for you here.” He looked down his nose to find, Baron Urvay with his nephew, young Millburn, headed for the gaming rooms.
“I needed out of the house. All those women running about taking care of the last of the details of next week’s ball.”
Urvay’s slimy grin was mostly hidden behind his massive moustache. The man reeked of social ineptness. Winsome turned to his nephew. “Mr. Millburn.”
Millburn’s lips tightened, his eyes burned with hate. He didn’t answer, just inclined his head.
Winsome didn’t blame the man. Deep down, Winsome feared he’d done the younger man a terrible wrong. But he had no notion how to right it. He gentled his tone. “Would you care to join me in a match of chess?”
“Thank you, but I shall pass.” Millburn turned to his uncle. “If you’ll excuse me, Uncle. I see Kearse is here.” He turned and walked away.
Not that Winsome could blame him. He hated thinking on those days. Almost thirty years ago he’d sent a man to his death even if he hadn’t slipped the noose around the older Millburn’s neck himself. Winsome hadn’t had solid, undeniable proof of the wrong that Millburn had been accused of.
That didn’t make the elder Millburn any less guilty if he’d committed the crime. But that was the issue—if he’d committed the crime. Winsome had been out of his mind with fury and guilt, determined to avenge himself on the blackguard who had assaulted and ultimately killed Elsa, Winsome’s first wife. They had been married barely a month.
He shoved a hand through his hair, watching the younger Millburn disappear down the hall.
This was exactly why he needed to play a game. The pressure in his chest tightened until he thought he would choke, realizing it wasn’t just anyone he needed to be with in that moment. It was Alexandra. Her calming presence always managed to ease his past mistakes.
Except he was inundated with memories from all sides. Arrogance, stupidity, remorse. Of taking Alexandra from Olivia. Olivia knew she couldn’t have raised his child in the manner she deserved. Olivia had been his mistress when he’d married Elsa. He hadn’t known of any of his cronies at the time who didn’t have a lovely piece on the side. In their set, being married didn’t mean having to change their wild-catting ways. Just because Winsome had been pressed into marrying, didn’t mean giving up his mistress. He’d married his first wife for property and her outstanding lineage.
He’d been with Olivia when Elsa had been murdered and the shame ate at him.
Guilt. He loathed the feeling. And nine years after Elsa’s death, he’d learned Olivia had born his child. He hadn’t known or even cared that she was female. He’d boarded the first boat to Calais and found Olivia and the child in Paris. When he’d seen the hovel they lived in, he’d offered Olivia money. And, by God, she’d taken it. He’d also seen the fury and the fear in her eyes. He had all the power, she had none. She’d pushed Alexandra at him—even through Alexandra’s screaming pain. They adored one another. And he’d ripped that love apart with all the power he possessed.
“I shall be happy to play a match with you, your grace.” Urvay’s voice startled Winsome from his musings.
Winsome’s desire to play dissipated in the thick overhead cigar smoke. “Thank you, Urvay, but I’ve changed my mind.” He spun on his booted heel and escaped out into the cold falling rain.