Chapter Twenty

Does London always smell like this?” Valentina asked, wrinkling her nose as they exited the first-class carriage and stepped onto Euston Station’s busy platform.

“Oh no,” Lottie replied. “It’s usually quite worse.”

Valentina’s horrified expression inspired Lottie’s first genuine laugh in days and reconfirmed that hiring her had been an excellent decision. Her previous maid had left service to marry last year, and Lottie hadn’t been in a hurry to find a replacement. But the vibrant young woman had proved to be a more than capable lady’s maid—and an even better traveling companion. Without her, Lottie doubted she would have ever made it to England, let alone remembered to change her undergarments. Valentina had appeared in Alec’s flat shortly after he left and found Lottie in a heap of tears. After letting loose a string of insults directed at the absent Alec, Valentina took charge and had her changed and packed in less than an hour. The journey home had passed by in a blur of European landscapes while her battered heart and mind replayed her last moments with Alec.

What we had was not a true friendship. It was an obligation. And I was glad when I could finally be rid of it.

Just as Lottie began to sink into that familiar pit of despair, a tall, slender man appeared before them, having shoved his way through the crowded platform. It was Mr. Wetherby, her uncle’s secretary. The man had the ear of Sir Alfred and far too many opinions about her life. He was also the nephew of her erstwhile chaperone, Mrs. Wetherby. He shared his aunt’s pallid complexion, light blue eyes, and sharp nose, along with her penchant for criticism and Lottie as a favored target.

“Miss Carlisle,” he said, bowing from the neck. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.” He looked past her. “Where is Mr. Gresham?”

“He stayed in Venice. My maid accompanied me.”

Mr. Wetherby barely acknowledged Valentina and didn’t bother to hide his relief. “Might I ask why Mr. Gresham did not accompany you?” he asked after a moment.

She lifted her chin. “No, you may not. Where is the coach? I’d like to see my uncle as soon as possible.”

Mr. Wetherby gave her a wide-eyed stare, then quickly recovered. “This way.”

He escorted her and Valentina to a hackney carriage. “Your uncle did not want anyone to see the family crest,” he explained once they were inside. “So far we have been able to suppress all news of your little diversion.” His lips curved ever so slightly on the last word.

Blast.

Yet another failure. At least she had been properly ruined. Uncle Alfred would learn the truth soon enough. Or most of it.

Lottie looked out the window. Nothing but swarms of people, polluted air, and a dull, gray sky. She hadn’t missed this one bit. “I hope your aunt enjoyed the rest of her trip.”

Mr. Wetherby clicked his tongue. “She is happy to know that you are safe, Miss Carlisle. She is an old woman and you gave her quite a scare.”

Lottie bit her lip. Now that there was some distance between them, she was feeling a little more charitable toward her chaperone. “I am sorry for that. I would like to write to her and apologize, if you think she will welcome it.”

She cast a cautious glance at Mr. Wetherby. His usual expression of contempt had softened to something that looked an awful lot like interest. “Yes. I think she would appreciate the gesture,” he murmured. Lottie was the first to break their gaze.

The silence stretched as they inched toward her uncle’s South Kensington town house. She let out an impatient sigh. London traffic. Another thing she hadn’t missed.

“I trust Mr. Gresham was a gentleman?” Mr. Wetherby asked as he leaned toward her. “I know of his reputation,” he added in a low tone so Valentina wouldn’t overhear.

Lottie’s eyes snapped to his. The man was serious. “If you harbored such doubts about his character, I wonder why he was even sent to fetch me in the first place.”

Mr. Wetherby sat back against the seat. “I wanted to go myself, but your uncle thought Mr. Gresham would find you faster. That took precedence.” His mouth set in a grimace. “I suppose he was right.”

“You wanted to assist your aunt?” It was the only reason she could think of. As far as she knew, Mr. Wetherby had never left England.

He stared at her with those unsettling blue eyes. “If that is easier for you to accept at the moment, then yes. I wanted to travel a thousand miles in order to escort my aunt home.” Then he turned away.

Could Mr. Wetherby really be insinuating that he had feelings? For her? It wasn’t anything she wished to confirm.

The carriage then mercifully arrived at the imposing town house. It was merely one of several Uncle Alfred owned. The Lewis family coffers were quite sizable, but it was the business of secrets that kept him in such luxury. A shiver rippled through Lottie as she crossed over the threshold. She had never liked this house and vastly preferred Haverford, with its lush grounds and warm furnishings. It was there that she had first met Alec, where they spent holidays, and it had been the setting for so many of her happiest memories.

The town house was made to cater to the London social set. Remarkable objects from Uncle Alfred’s priceless collection amassed over his lifetime could be found in every room announcing to all who entered that its master was powerful. Important. Irreproachable. But the house had always felt cold to Lottie. Even at the height of summer.

Dalton, the ancient butler, offered them a characteristically stoic greeting. “Miss Carlisle. I trust you had a pleasant trip to the continent. Lovely to have you home.”

“Thank you, Dalton,” Lottie smiled. “I’ve acquired a maid along the way. Can you send Valentina to Mrs. Houston?”

Before the butler could answer, Mr. Wetherby pulled her aside. “Mrs. Houston remains at the house in Surrey. Only a skeleton staff has been kept on. Your uncle did not want his illness to become known.”

Lottie could not hide her shock. Her uncle was normally so exacting that he insisted Mrs. Houston keep house wherever he was in residence. That he would send her away now, when he was in such a state, was unimaginable.

“I will gladly show the young lady to your room, Miss Carlisle,” Dalton intoned behind them.

“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder. Mr. Wetherby was already herding her toward the stairs. She briefly exchanged a glance with Valentina, whose worried brow only unsettled her further.

“Mrs. Houston should be here. Forgive me, but this makes no sense.”

Mr. Wetherby didn’t even look at her. “That isn’t your concern.”

Lottie gritted her teeth. This cloak-and-dagger business was becoming ridiculous. Over the last few years, Uncle Alfred had constantly worried about his influence. If it were anyone else, they would have been called paranoid. But not Uncle Alfred. He merely claimed to be cautious. It was exhausting.

They made their way down the darkened hallway toward her uncle’s suite of rooms. Mr. Wetherby paused by the door. “You should prepare yourself, Miss Carlisle,” he warned. “By all accounts your uncle has made a remarkable recovery, but he is still much changed. He has lost the use of his right arm and his speech is slurred at times, particularly in the evening hours.”

Guilt swelled in her chest. Over the last few days she had barely thought of her uncle with anything other than anger. “I see.”

Mr. Wetherby began to soften ever so slightly, but then he caught himself and stood even straighter. “I’m afraid I can allow only a short visit today. The best time to speak to him is in the mornings, as that is when he is most alert.”

Lottie bristled at his high-handedness. Mr. Wetherby was her uncle’s secretary, a trusted employee, certainly, but here he was acting like the head of the family. Like Uncle Alfred’s heir. “I have no desire to exhaust him, sir. I myself have had a tiring journey.”

Mr. Wetherby’s face remained hard, but his words were oddly gentle. “Of course you have. I’ll see to it that your maid has everything you require.”

Lottie nodded. “Thank you.”

Mr. Wetherby gave a soft warning knock and entered the suite’s sitting room. All the curtains were drawn and a fire was lit in the hearth, while a gas lamp provided a warm glow. The air was stifling and filled with a familiar medicinal aroma. Lottie instinctively held her breath. Once as a child she had spent weeks in the sickroom while ill with a fever. The smell of astringent still turned her stomach. An older nurse sat in a rocking chair leafing through a magazine. The door to Uncle Alfred’s bedchamber was open, and Lottie caught a glimpse of his massive four-poster bed.

“Mrs. Ragmoore, I’ve brought Sir Alfred’s niece.”

The nurse smiled at Lottie and rose from her chair. “Oh, the famous Lottie!” she said in a thick northern accent. “I’ve heard plenty about you. Your uncle will be so happy to see you.”

Lottie returned the woman’s infectious smile. “It’s very nice to meet you. Thank you for taking care of him.”

Mrs. Ragmoore glanced back at the doorway. “He’s just woken from a nap. He might be a little spotty, but he’ll be wanting to see you. Make sure to talk loud and slow. And don’t worry if he doesn’t respond right away. Give him time and he’ll get the words out.”

Lottie pressed her hands against her stomach to settle her nerves. “I understand.”

Mrs. Ragmoore turned and led the way into the bedroom. Uncle Alfred was propped up in his bed resting against a mountain of pillows. The nurse approached his bedside. “Your niece is here, sir,” she practically bellowed. The old man turned toward her, but Lottie stood frozen in place, trapped in the doorway.

Mr. Wetherby had to guide her toward the bedside. As she drew closer, she inhaled sharply. Uncle Alfred, usually the most commanding presence in any room, was now a shadow of his former self. He had lost a great deal of weight and looked so frail in his buttoned-up nightshirt that Lottie found herself blinking back tears.

“It’s all right,” Mr. Wetherby murmured. “He wasn’t eating very much at first, but now his appetite has begun to return.”

She was suddenly very grateful for his presence. Without thinking, she gripped his arm. “Thank you,” she whispered. As Mr. Wetherby’s gaze took on an unfamiliar intensity, Lottie turned away and moved beside Mrs. Ragmoore. “Hello, Uncle Alfred,” she said with a watery smile. “I’ve heard you’ve fallen ill.”

The old man stared at her with crushing relief. “Lottie.” His voice was low and hoarse. He reached out his trembling left hand while the other lay motionless on his chest.

Lottie immediately gripped it in both her palms. “I’m here.”

Uncle Alfred then slowly glanced behind her. “Alec?” he asked as he turned back to her. The hopeful note in his voice was devastating.

Lottie had to swallow hard past the lump in her throat. She shook her head. “He stayed behind. In Venice.”

Uncle Alfred looked disappointed but gave a little nod. “I see.”

Though she had every reason to hate Alec, all she felt was remorse for his absence.

Whatever your issues with Sir Alfred are, whatever led you to do this, go to him now. Make your peace while you still can.

But Alec needed to make his peace with Uncle Alfred just as much as she did. If not more.

Lottie glanced at Mr. Wetherby. The earlier heat was now gone, replaced by an all-too-familiar frown of disapproval. Any talk about the past or Alec would have to wait for morning. “Alec kept me safe, Uncle. He did his duty. You should be very proud.”

But Uncle Alfred didn’t seem to be listening. He simply stared at her, as if she was some kind of angel. Then he squeezed her hand and pulled her closer. Lottie leaned down, so that he didn’t have to speak any louder. “I knew he would find you. The only one,” he said in his faint, trembling whisper. He then gave Lottie a broad smile. The kind she hadn’t seen in years. The tears she had been holding back spilled over her cheeks and she let out a sharp sob.

“Yes,” she managed to say. “You were certainly right about that.”

His gaze flitted behind her shoulder. “You will be safe now. Always.” He then exchanged a look with Mr. Wetherby, who stood a few feet away.

Lottie glanced back at the man, but her uncle said no more. His eyelids drooped heavily.

“Get some rest, Uncle,” she murmured and placed his hand on top of his chest. “I’ll see you in the morning. First thing.” But the elderly man was already dozing off.

“Come, Miss Carlisle.” Mr. Wetherby cupped her elbow and guided her out of the room and into the hall. “I’m sorry. That must have been terribly upsetting for you.”

Lottie allowed him to lead her to her room. Uncle Alfred’s last words were unsettling, but then he must be confused by so many things at the moment.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Al—Mr. Gresham seemed unaware of how ill he truly was. If I had known…” Her voice trailed off. She could not say for certain what she would have done differently.

Mr. Wetherby’s mouth tensed. “Mr. Gresham was not fully informed of the situation as a precaution. In case he decided to tell anyone of Sir Alfred’s condition.”

Lottie stopped in her tracks. “He would never betray my uncle.”

“I don’t mean to disparage him. As I said, it was merely a precaution.”

Lottie narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Mr. Wetherby’s flat stare betrayed nothing. “You’re tired, Miss Carlisle.” He then gestured toward her bedroom at the far end of the hall. “You need rest.”

When they reached her bedroom door, Lottie faced him. “I assume that once I enter this room, I will be able to leave freely?” She kept her tone light, but the question was serious.

He reared back. “I am no jailer, Miss Carlisle. Like you, I only want what is best for your uncle.”

“In that case, you wouldn’t object to me speaking to him in private tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Wetherby’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Of course not.”

Lottie gave him a beatific smile. “Wonderful. Have a good night, Mr. Wetherby.” Before he could say another word, Lottie stepped into her bedroom and shut the door right in his face.

  

Lottie slept fitfully, as she had every night since leaving Venice, with Alec’s dark voice echoing in her mind. But instead of his cruel dismissal of their friendship, she now recalled his words about Uncle Alfred.

I owe him everything…and don’t think he ever let me forget it.

How could you possibly understand what it’s like to be beholden to someone else? Someone who didn’t even want you?

Eventually she woke up with a start, tangled in the bedsheets with a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. Lottie pressed a hand over her eyes and sighed. She still could hear the raw pain, the shame in his voice. How she had longed to be enough for him this time. To believe that love could mend all those old wounds. But perhaps he was incapable of such attachments now, given all he had endured. Lottie took in a deep breath. She had lost him once before and could recover again.

But it would be so much harder this time.

Lottie’s eye caught on the small painting on the nightstand. She picked up the frame and brought her mother’s Tuscan landscape close. Lottie had imprinted this image in her mind long, long ago, but it was as if she was seeing it anew. Now she had been to that special spot herself and saw it with her own eyes. Lottie smiled and traced the edge with her finger. Her mother had done an excellent job capturing the clouds. Lottie always felt a dull ache for her lost parents, but it sharpened to a pinprick and threaded through her heart as she imagined them, so young and in love, spending long, hazy days in that sun-drenched little village.

She wanted to talk to her mother now—about the village, and Alec, and the mess she had made of everything—so badly it nearly made her sick.

Lottie placed the frame back on the nightstand and climbed out of bed. She couldn’t stand being in this house much longer. There were too many memories, too much pain lurking in every shadow. She would set things right with Uncle Alfred, wait until he recovered, and then go off somewhere else until her heart mended itself, or at least until the ache was slightly less devastating. It didn’t matter where, as long as it wasn’t here.