Chapter Twenty-One

Dinner with a Baron

My new spectacles made things very clear. Sitting in Wycliff’s carriage with our fingers entwined, I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was.

I’d never thought I’d like a beard. It tickled my cheek when he pulled me close. I was glad of it. It made me laugh. I needed to laugh, because Wycliff looked too much like Adam, an older, wiser one.

“Thank you for my spectacles.”

His eyes were shadowed by the darkness filling the carriage. The sun had begun to set. I wanted to know his thoughts. I wanted to believe he was happy with me now, as things were. Spending time together. A few stolen kisses. Though, nothing was stolen. I readily turned my face to the beautiful bear.

“You broke your lenses during the eviction, my dear. It’s the least I could do.”

“I need nothing more. You’ve been so sweet to Chris and me this week. Walks, teas. He’s still talking about Hyde Park.”

He lifted my hand to his mouth. I felt his furry jaw. I giggled a little.

“My pleasure, sweet Ruth. Thank you for allowing us to go. It would have been perfect if you’d come, too.”

“Knitting Tuesday.” I said the explanation fast, so he’d know I was well and not begging off from a fit. I needed him to know that I was good, better than ever. I felt like me again, the me before Adam’s death. Was it bad, to think that way?

“You love your knitting and your knitting parlor. Will I ever see any of this work?”

“I took apart a scarf I was making. I don’t believe in giving something that was promised to another.”

I meant the barrister’s scarf, but my mind twisted my words. Part of me feared I was still Adam’s.

Wycliff lifted my chin. “Did Mrs. Carter show? Is she still miffed?”

My mind couldn’t quite grasp the contrast of how rough his hands were to how gentle his touch was.

His business had violent enemies, and yet he was sweet and relaxed with me.

“Well, Ruth?”

I held on to his hands. My grip was tight. I wanted to enjoy Wycliff. “Mrs. Carter is still miffed at you and now at me.”

“What did you do, Ruthy?”

I let his raspy Ruthy wash over me and absorbed the intimacy, the closeness. “I asked for proof that she was from Jamaica to show you.”

“Wicked.”

He brushed those wonderful lips against my nose. Almost like instinct, my head tilted, and he accepted the invitation.

So gentle the pressure of his mouth on mine.

I opened for him, wide, almost wanton.

He caressed my neck, and I let him.

No squirming or wishing for his affection to pass.

I was present and enjoyed this man’s touch. I’d never thought it possible, but no one had kissed me this sweetly, not since Adam.

Adam.

The minute that name crossed my mind, I froze. I was heavy with guilt.

Wycliff stopped and swept me deeper into his arms.

And I felt warm and loved and guilty.

I didn’t want to make him Adam, but I didn’t mind Wycliff being so like him, the good parts. Was it possible for Adam to have a twin? A furry sweet twin? Why were they so similar? It often felt as if Adam were kissing me when it was Wycliff.

“I’m glad you are letting me take you to Blaren House. A proper tour.”

“A tour, my lord?”

“Yes, and dinner. I need your opinion on a few things. I do hope you don’t mind.”

I didn’t mind being on his arm, but I was tense.

He had me out of the carriage in a blink.

“You don’t need to fidget, Ruth.” Wycliff’s steps were unhurried, almost lazy, like he had no care.

I was torn between wanting to be through Blaren House’s entry and loving the feel of his hand heating my satin glove.

“Your ideas of color for my house are what I crave. Your thoughts and whims are for me. I’m yours to command.”

This joke, sort of serious, sort of sweet, sent a shiver down my skin. His graveled voice wasn’t a church hymn, but it meant seasoned and secure, even desire to my ears.

Security wasn’t the thing I knew I needed. Coming from the closely knit Croome family, it was the thing I didn’t know I’d missed.

Wycliff had his palms about my waist, tight and low, as he helped me up the steps. “My staff has prepared a feast for you.”

“I don’t need such trouble, and it’s getting late.”

“You need someone to make a fuss over you.”

The doors opened before he touched the knocker.

The vile scent of fresh paint hit my nostrils. I brought a hand to my nose. “Paint fumes don’t smell like a roast. It’s quite the opposite.”

“No. They don’t. This is terrible. We won’t dine down here. But…” He drummed his boot. “The smell is indicative of the choice you must make.”

I fanned my face. “The choice to be sickened by fumes or to leave?”

“No, the choice of color you want in this grand hall.”

“Color is a personal thing, Lord Wycliff.”

“Blaren House is personal. I want the hues of the walls to be something that inspires you. I want to induce you to consider a more permanent friendship. I’m getting a bit old to be a bachelor.”

“You’re not old. What are you? Thirty, thirty-two?”

“Twenty-eight.”

The same age as Adam. I crossed my arms to block the memories. The hopes of what could’ve been paled to what Wycliff promised.

“At such an age, I should be married. What do you think, friend?”

“I don’t want to talk of this tonight.”

He bent and picked up a brush from a bucket. “What of this?” He slathered creamy beige paint onto the wall.

I held my nose. The stench was strong. “Rather dull.”

He stopped again, creasing his elegant buff breaches, and stirred a second bucket.

“Dull. I hate being a bore, but when do we discuss things?”

I stepped back and realized he’d painted an R onto the wall. “I exchanged letters with Mr. Marks for months before we met in person. I wish to take things slowly.”

Tugging at his jade-green waistcoat, he bent to the second of the three buckets. This one was dead-salmon pink. He slapped a heart underneath the R. “Six months is about the time you were secretly engaged to Adam. That’s a long time to wait. This is our third week.”

“You can’t count any but this week. I was also being courted by Mr. Marks.”

Stirring the third, he whipped up an olive green. “True.”

“No to that color. Do not waste your time with it.”

He smiled and eased the dripping brush back into the paint. “I believe you are right.”

I whirled away from the mirth in his eyes. I tweaked my lenses and enjoyed how white and fresh the hall looked.

“So clean, Lord Wycliff. No overturned gaming tables, no broken furniture. Does this place need anything? It is so tidy and bright. No place for shadows to hide. Leave it fresh and white.”

“Tidy is important. It’s not the feeling I want to evoke. But Blaren House needs color. It needs you.”

I wasn’t ready.

Not for his hands to slip about my waist.

Not for the rasp of his beard along my throat.

Not for him to move away and stand so far from me.

My hand rose, and I almost clutched his arm. Instead, I wrapped my arms about me. “You had the sconces cleaned. I don’t remember them being so clean.”

“Doesn’t look the same? I’m surprised you noticed. The last time you were here, you missed quite a lot being tossed over my shoulder. Maybe a reminder is needed.”

“Being tossed over your shoulder? Never.”

“No, a new tour with you on my arm, inspecting things as Lady Wycliff should. It would be a very proper thing.”

“Why do you tease me? I’m not Lady Wycliff.”

“Ruth, this is no tease. I want you to love Blaren House. It’s quite large. The upstairs is fine, with many bedrooms for you to choose from, a nursery and schoolroom for Christopher, and a lonely chamber where I lay my head.”

He took my hand and led me to the stairs. “Everything is up this way.”

It was a grand thing, the curved staircase before me. Painted white and glistening with wax polish, every tread had been lit with beeswax candles set in bronze holders.

“The upper rooms, a stairwell to heaven, Ruthy. I’m a bridegroom preparing Blaren House for its bride. That bride would be you.”

“I’m not your bride.”

“A fixable mistake.”

When I frowned at him, he lifted his hands in the air. “I only mean a special license and a quickly summoned vicar solves all ills.”

My stomach had butterflies, not the kind that floated in love but the ones that fled in terror of little children with nets.

“The paint fumes have gone to my head. I think we should leave. I’m not dining upstairs.”

His loud sigh was humorous. He kissed my hand right above my knuckles. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t.”

He twirled me a full rotation and then guided dizzy me down the hall.

“The front parlor is being painted, too. It was ghastly yellow and red. Dinner is next door in my study.”

A table draped in a white cloth stood in the center of the room. A silver candelabra burned brightly with two branches and two candles on each. Daisies were strewn about the base and atop the napkins.

Right now, the spot where my heart had gone missing didn’t feel so empty. Gads, I couldn’t stop the smile bursting upon my lips. “Your patience is a wonder.”

“I can be patient if I think I might win.”

I couldn’t be mad at the smidgeon of condescension in his tone. Wycliff was winning. He continued to prove he’d be gentle in everything.

The truth. I should tell him of what had happened after Adam had died, about Madame Talease. I’d written to her for proof about what Mrs. Johnson had said, proof of what I did remember. Madame’s words on paper were what I needed to tell Wycliff everything.

He helped me into a seat then clapped his hands. Servers in icy-gray mantles, bearing shiny silver trays, came into the room.

As if they were timed to a minuet, one unveiled a plate of roasted oysters in their shells. Another, a fish grilled in herbs. A final dish, a platter of beefsteaks with onions caramelized on top, scented the air.

Crispy rolls that smelled of creamy butter and rich yeast were set in front of me.

“Ruth, I heard you were an excellent cook with choice ingredients.”

I smiled, but I stared at the bread. The crusty golden goodness called me.

A last silver dome lifted, uncovering sliced tomatoes and potatoes.

All hearty dishes with such flavor.

The anticipation made my mouth water, especially the rolls.

“Is this good, Ruth?”

His voice broke the trance of the heavenly fragrance of the fresh-baked bread. I lifted my gaze to him. “Yes, it is.”

I allowed my eyes to fully notice Wycliff, to admire the sheer masculine beauty of the man.

Trimmed beard.

Well-muscled in his dark tailcoat, his crisp white shirt and cravat. His collar reached high on his neck, high like the dandies wore, but he wasn’t enslaved to fashion. Everything seemed normal and in place.

I was glad that I’d worn long sleeves, an evening gown of indigo with ebony embroidery about my waist and hem. I looked a match to his style.

My hope was that I pleased him, for he pleased me.

“Your study looks no different.”

“Is that a problem? It’s very much how the last Baron of Wycliff kept it. The fool, Cousin Nickie, didn’t tamper with it.”

That name burned my insides, but I wouldn’t let him steal this moment. “I like this room, the desk, the settee, the odd marble statue on the desk. Is that woman trying to get away from that marble soldier?”

“Yes. Not the most romantic image, but her shape is quite fine. Your shape is quite fine, too.”

“You know your planned seduction is not winning. You’re not upset?”

He sat across from me and twiddled his thumbs against his napkin. “Is it called seduction if you are legally my wife? I’m curious.”

“I’m not your wife.”

“But you are considering it?”

I dipped my chin and studied my empty plate. “Of course I am.”

“I’m not the diligent barrister. I might fight injustice during the day, but I’ll be home fighting for my family, you and Christopher.”

“That still does not explain all of your teasing and romantic gestures.”

“Can’t a man be romantic?”

“I suppose. Adam used to sing to me.”

“That’s not a gift I possess. You’ll have to make do with my ragged voice.”

He took my hand and called for blessings on the food, upon me and Christopher. He wished me peace from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet.

The gravel and gravitas of his desires for us pimpled my arms with fright, delight, and even a sense of discovery. Then those blessings hit me in the pit of my stomach. They were Adam’s words, the way he’d ended each day, that one week of our marriage. I looked down at the perfect snow-white tablecloth, then right in those dark eyes. “Adam.”

He didn’t say a word for at least a minute, long enough for me to hope and then dread my wish, that Adam and Wycliff were one and the same.

“Yes, Ruth. What did you want?”

I rose to my feet to look for an exit, but there was none, not without Wycliff’s help. “You’d answer to a dead man’s name? Are you trying to confuse me on purpose? Why do you want me to think about him and not you?”

He stood behind me and put his arms on mine. My thin sleeves ensured I’d feel the roughness of his palms on my skin.

“Isn’t it Shakespeare that goes on about a name, about the irrelevancy of it?”

“Sounds like it, but that’s something for my sister to answer.”

“I have a long formal name that I hate, so if you use another name and look at me the way you just called for Adam, I’ll answer. I know it’s me you want.”

“Wycliff, don’t you know how awful I feel, knowing that you are everything he was and wasn’t.”

“I don’t have the voice you loved.”

Guilt spun a heavy web about me. I drifted against him. “That doesn’t matter.”

“I’m me, Ruth. If that’s a blend of Adam, I don’t care. I know I can make you happy. You make me happy.”

“How? I haven’t done anything. I keep pushing you away.”

“But we end up here, with you letting me hold you. We are meant to be.”

“What if I disappoint you? What if you built up something in your head because of what Adam told you? I’m not that girl. Surely, you see that?”

“More faith, Ruth. That’s what you need. You dazzle me. I cannot stay away.”

I was glad of his persistence, but I still had a truth I hadn’t told anyone, not in a long time. I needed to tell him.

His lips sought the arch of my neck.

The thought of food and a confession disappeared. I wanted to be bold and turn to him, but my feet didn’t work.

My conscience weighed me down. I wouldn’t be free until I told him everything.

“Ruth, I lost everything once. I spent years struggling to understand why. I know what I need. It’s you. Since the first day I saw you, it’s been you.”

“So, you fell for a bed wench on your steps?”

“No, a friend that I needed and had missed for an eternity.”

I rotated like the hands on my watch face, ticking closer and closer to being consumed.

He nipped at my nose.

My head tilted up in response.

A double knock at the door made the bear growl.

“You should eat. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He took me to my chair, gathered his sjambok from the desk, then disappeared beyond the doors.

The sight of his weapon forced my rapid pulse to jitter.

Shouting erupted outside the door.

That voice.

I knew it, the tone of evil. Fear latched me to my chair. It was a heavy, invisible hand that clapped my mouth and punched at my bosom until all the air came out. You can’t scream when that happens. I needed to scream, to shout, and save my Wycliff.

One of the men who’d killed my Adam, who’d killed me, was in the house.

…

Sjambok in hand, Wycliff headed to the hall. Lawden’s signal meant trouble and he would return with bullets.

There was no time for guns with danger in his hall.

His heart pounded like a gong.

These two showed up at Blaren House uninvited?

A groom would be dismissed.

No one was supposed to visit while Ruth was here.

He entered the hall and saw them, Loftus Johnson and Nicholas. “Gentlemen, I am quite busy.”

Johnson wrinkled his nose. “You’re decorating while you destroy us.”

“Yes. Now leave.”

The portly gray-haired man headed toward a bucket of paint as if to kick it.

Wycliff couldn’t allow it. With his sjambok, he hit the man’s leg, toppling him over like Christopher’s frog toy. “It took forever to clean up after my cousin here. I don’t need you making a disaster, too.”

Johnson rolled around, grasping at his ankle.

“Are you much hurt?” Wycliff curled his whip for another strike.

“Yes, my ankle. My back.”

“Good. Cousin, drag Johnson from here.”

Nickie looked nervous and sweaty. His dark-blue eyes were beady, his sunny locks ruffled. The mole as hideous as ever. “Wycliff, things are out of hand. You’ve proved your point. You’ve outsmarted us all. Relent. Leave us something.”

“Like you all did me?”

“I let you live, Adam. I could’ve let the mob kill you.”

“Like you did to Steward?”

“That wasn’t my doing. You saved me from drowning when we were children. Can’t you have that kind of compassion upon me now? Please, Cousin. Tell me what to do.”

Wycliff shouldn’t be moved by this. He didn’t give a whit about his uncle or Johnson, but Nicholas, at times, had been like a brother. He snapped the sjambok to turn back the empathy he’d begun to feel. Weakness meant death.

“Please. You know I have a son. If you had one, you’d know how I can’t face not putting bread on his table. Johnson’s wife is about to have a baby. We repent of what we’ve done. Have mercy.”

A lightning bolt from the heavens should blow through Blaren House’s roof and strike Wycliff for even considering the notion. They were trying to use his beliefs against him. “I’m not the one who grants forgiveness for trespasses. Leave. Go pay alms to Steward’s widow.”

Nickie tried to grab his arm, but he bucked away and readied the sjambok to strike. This time he’d hit for blood.

“If my father lets you know how sorry he is, will that change things?”

“Nickie, don’t bring that man here or you all will be dead by morning. Go see to these children who’ve made you humane. But don’t fret. I take care of widows.”

Johnson stood but rubbed at his knee. “My wife says you are partial to a widow now. What if we make similar threats?”

“Then you die now.” He struck Johnson in the face with his fist and knocked him into Nicholas. “Lawden, let’s kill them and dump them in the woods.”

His man came from the top of the stairs with his blunderbuss loaded.

Nicholas’s eyes bulged. “This is too public. You won’t do it.”

“You don’t know what a dead man is capable of. You’re all being watched, and as much as I have enjoyed your squirming. This must end quicker.”

Nicholas tried to reach for Wycliff’s arm again, but a snap of the sjambok kept him away. “What do you mean?”

“Johnson, for mentioning my interests, your note shall be called in the morning. If you cannot pay, your bankers, who are my bankers, will send for the magistrate. You will be at Marshalsea before tomorrow nightfall.”

“Debtors’ prison. Wilkinson, you said you could reason with him.”

“Johnson, leave and go be with your wife. Your last night as a free man should be hers.”

The man shook his fists at Nickie and limped out the front door.

“Nicholas, you have something else for me? Shall I call for your father’s debts tomorrow?”

“No. No, Wycliff, but Father does want to see you. Let him plead with you. I’m doing for my father like you did for yours.”

“You? You’re protecting him from being convicted of a crime he didn’t commit?”

Nickie’s eyes went wide like Wycliff had lied. Maybe he was surprised that Wycliff had discovered the depths of his nasty deeds. “Out of my house, vulture.”

“Please give him this one chance. Just one.”

These fools would keep showing up and growing more desperate. “Fine. I feel like going to the theater. Come to Drury Lane Theater. We can meet ten minutes before intermission. But let Uncle Soulden know that this war is over. I’ve won. Ruin is coming.”

“Spare me, Wycliff. Let us start anew.”

“No.”

“I’m not the man I was.”

“But you’re still doing Uncle’s bidding. What good is it to cry for forgiveness if you haven’t changed your ways?”

“Sometimes mercy is given to those who don’t deserve it. You’re a fair man. I’ve heard how you’re taking care of Steward’s widow. I think Johnson had Steward done in for a lesson. Protect everyone around you.”

No, that was Uncle’s hand. Nicholas was covering for him.

“Please, Adam.”

Wycliff didn’t move, didn’t allow his eyes to drift. Nothing to indicate he cared for anything.

“Cousin, I know if you think about it, you’ll understand my choices.”

He’d had sympathy for Nickie…once. Uncle Soulden was a terrible man. He had to have been a terrible father, but there was a point when a son, a man, had to choose which path to follow. “When Uncle is in Marshalsea, I’ll see.”

Nicholas, fist bulging, mole bulging, slunk across the threshold.

Wycliff’s gut had been right about finishing off Johnson early. Mrs. Johnson was too close to the Croomes. He predicted she’d disclosed Wycliff’s attentions to Ruth.

He took deep breaths, stretched with his sjambok. He needed to be calm before seeing Ruth.

Would Uncle rotting in Marshalsea for the rest of his life be enough for Wycliff?

And what of Nicholas?

Could a man asking for a second chance with Ruth deny Nickie a second chance at being a better man, a father to his son?

Rubbing at his aching neck, Wycliff headed back to his dinner companion and hoped after tomorrow’s theater performance his business would never again come this close to Ruth.