Chapter Twelve

Grace walked along the corridor to the bedroom. It wasn’t her bedroom, it was his bedroom but he usually referred to it as the bedroom. Julius wasn’t in the bedroom very much anymore. Lately he had been holing himself up in his study, at times falling asleep on the couch and not bothering to come to bed at all.

And tonight, as she passed the study along the corridor, the door was closed. The pale glow of light within bled through the sliver of space between the door and the floorboards.

She had no idea what kept him up until all hours of the night. He hadn’t been doing any experiments but perhaps he was planning new ones. Perhaps it had something to do with Mrs. Chadbourne’s visit as he had been spending a great deal of time in his study since. Perhaps the medicine he gave her needed to be perfected. He had said it tasted bitter.

She pressed her ear to the door, not quite sure what she hoped to hear. There was nothing but silence.

The angle of her vision pointed down toward the knob, under which more light came through.

The keyhole. Julius must have taken the key from the keyhole.

Grace got on her knees, thankful the hall carpet extended almost to the wall. It would muffle any sound on her side of the door. She peered through the hole, her gaze darting about to take in the unusual perspective.

He was behind his desk, reading, the halo of a lamp illuminating his somber countenance and the document he held in his hand before him. He may have been crying, she couldn’t be absolutely sure.

He lay the document down on the desk and stared at it for a moment before covering his face with both hands. He rubbed his eyes then speared his fingers through his hair, gripping the strands as if he wanted to pull them out at the roots.

And then he sucked in an audible breath and his body shook as he sobbed.

Bad news. He had received bad news. A death maybe.

Grace stood with effort and continued to the bedroom. He wouldn’t want to talk about such things but she could be there for him with a smile and a gentle touch.

Whatever it took to make her Julius happy again.

* * * * *

Arthur stared into his teacup, the delicate white bowl half-full of tea edged by the blue and gold of the saucer underneath. If he blurred his eyes just a little, the set would appear as two concentric circles, brown within white within blue—

“You’re being far too introspective, my lord. It is distinctly out of character.”

Joseph’s voice tinged with playful mocking took him out of his reverie. He refocused his eyes on his friend sprawled out on the sofa in his drawing room. “Sorry. I should pay more attention to you.”

“I can amuse myself. Your father, however, will not stand for such disregard.”

His father. That’s why Arthur was in a mood. Father was expected at any moment. Arthur had invited him and Joseph to tea at his Belgravia house. He had a proposition.

“Until Richmond arrives tell me how the Season has been. Surely you’ve been dancing with plenty of lovely young ladies.”

“Girls, Joseph, girls. They practically left their pinafores at the coat check.”

Joseph chuckled.

“Although there was one young woman. Hardly the sort my mother would choose for me. But she was older at least. Well into her twenties. Miss Penelope Hardcastle. Mother pointed her out while she was dancing with Ravensburgh. They looked as if they were flirting quite heavily.”

“Interesting. Could he be looking for a wife?”

“Possibly. But when the young lady in question was introduced to me I realized it was rather what she did.”

Joseph shot him a querying look.

“Flirting. Heavily. I recall her words as I danced with her, ‘Lord Petersham, I do believe the third floor has some amusements you might appreciate’.”

Joseph grinned. “No subtlety there. And how was the third floor amusement?”

“You’ll have to ask her. I declined the offer, although I let her know I was utterly flattered. I said something poetic like the affections of another was the wax in my ears to her siren song.”

Joseph groaned a laugh.

“She was really quite charming. I dare say were my heart not occupied she would have easily seduced me, and I wondered if my mother had put her on my dance card for that very purpose. But during the whole incident Lavinia was dancing with Ravensburgh. I could barely keep my eyes off them.”

“Was he flirting with her as well?”

Arthur smiled. “She was rather talkative. I suppose she knows about him and Norrington.”

“Undoubtedly.”

A light rapping resounded on the door before it opened and Wittering stepped through. “My lord,” the butler began, “the Marquess of Richmond.”

Joseph sat up and straightened his clothing.

Father entered, surveying the drawing room with a critical eye.

“Thank you, Wittering. A fresh pot of tea, if you will.”

“Good, my lord.” Wittering bowed before he left.

“Good afternoon, Father.” Arthur led him to an armchair.

“You’ve changed the decor since last I was here.”

“Fashions change in twenty years, Father.”

“I suppose.” He glowered then softened. “You have fine taste, son.” He nodded to Joseph. “Mr. Phillips.”

Joseph nodded back. “Lord Richmond.”

Wittering came in with the tea and tended to Father’s cup.

“Arthur, what’s this all about,” Father asked after Wittering had left.

Arthur breathed in fortitude. This was not going to be easy. Neither man before him knew what he was about to say.

“Father, Joseph, I would like to propose we seek a special remainder for Henry Abraham Phillips to be placed into the line of succession as my heir to the marquessate.”

The oppressive split-second of stillness was shattered by “What?” squawked simultaneously by both men.

Father looked askance at Joseph. “Arthur, you can’t be serious.”

“I can, Father, and I am being serious.”

“The boy is half American.”

“The Phillipses have only been an American family since the eighteenth century. Prior to that they were English.”

Father grunted. “Can you prove this?”

“Wait a minute!” Joseph stood. “My ancestors did not fight a fucking revolution so my son could become a peer of the realm!” He threw his hands in the air. “This is preposterous.”

“You forget that my grandson has noble blood in his veins, Phillips.”

Joseph rounded on him. “You forget, my lord, that my son’s veins also course with the blood of freedom-loving patriots and honest laborers.”

“Gentlemen, can we please refrain from such grotesque metaphors?”

Father and Joseph both aimed their ire at him.

“You’re asking the impossible, Arthur.” Father’s tone was implacable. “You know damn well the letters patent stipulate succession through male heirs born from my body. Which means you had better produce one yourself. Collateral heirs cannot be considered. It would take an act of bloody Parliament to make such a change.” He scowled. “You’d need a damn good reason and not wanting to get married is not a damn good reason.”

“Father—Papa, I know you married for duty. But I cannot do that. I’ve danced with every young woman Mother has chosen for me. Not one of them excites me—”

“Arthur, this is not about sex.”

“But it very definitely is!” Arthur balled his hands and ground them into his hips. “Even if I were to marry one of these young women, I would have to perform with her—”

Father snorted.

“I would have to care for her, care for our children. I don’t want to be in a marriage with a woman who, whenever I look at her, dredges up regrets. Or, to look at other women and wonder if that one would have somehow been a better match.”

“A man can take a mistress, Arthur.”

Arthur stared at him incredulously. “Did you?”

Father paled in shock. “Of course not.”

“And I don’t doubt that. I’m tired of mistresses, Father. Believe you me. After a spell it just becomes…rote.” The last thing he wanted was an inexperienced debutante supplemented by a mistress who refused to suck his cock, much less perform anything more deviant. “That is exactly what would happen in a loveless marriage such as you are expecting for me.”

“I wouldn’t say my marriage was loveless, Arthur.” Father’s tone was edged with vulnerability.

“Allow me this. The first time around you were willing to let me marry for love.”

“Henrietta was young with a fine pedigree.”

“But I was in love with her. Let me marry for love. You have your grandson, Father. Why not make him your heir?”

Joseph barked a complaint. “I’ve already done my duty to this family. I gave you Helena. I would like Henry to make his own way in life. Like I did.”

Arthur sighed. Joseph was shocked and upset. It was too much of a surprise. “I need not remind you that Helena married for love, Joseph. It just happened to be with a peer of the realm.”

“And that marriage healed the festering wound killing this family.”

Arthur locked eyes with him. Obstinacy from shock was one thing. But forgetting all Arthur had done for him was quite another.

“Isn’t there a blasted cousin somewhere?” Joseph growled.

“No,” Father snapped.

Arthur bit back a retort. There probably was, somewhere, maybe even in America. God that would be ironic. But Father was adamant the line go through him. Stubborn pride ran deep in Harwell men.

Father caught his eye. “There’s a woman, isn’t there?” he asked quietly.

Arthur had hoped to keep the conversation general and not bring her into it.

“Arthur.” Joseph’s tone was admonishing.

“Yes, Father, there is a woman.”

“Who is she?”

Arthur ran his palm down his face. “Lady Foxley-Graham.”

Father frowned. “So what is the problem?”

“She’s unable to have children.”

“Ah. I see.” Father sipped his tea thoughtfully. “You’ve defied me at every turn, Arthur.”

“You’ve forced me to, Father.”

“It’s time you thought about the family and not about yourself.”

Joseph plopped back down on the sofa and shot him a sympathetic look.

Arthur drummed his fingers on his thigh before seeking solace in his teacup. Was he defeated? Poetic words haunted him—

’Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days, Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays.

No. Destiny would not win. He made his move. It had been simply unexpected. He would have to give Father and Joseph time to think about it.

“Yes, sir.” He would wait.

* * * * *

Lavinia knew she shouldn’t continue her affair with Nicholas. But there he was, draped over her bed, naked, slumbering, an occasional snore the mark of his utter relaxation and lack of concern that his wife was about to give birth thirty miles away. Of course, his wife probably knew exactly where he was and what he was doing and didn’t give a fig herself. Not even a year since their wedding and already theirs was an exceptional marriage.

Nicholas stirred, tangling himself in the sheets. Lavinia watched from her vantage point seated at the dressing table, a smile curling her lips. Since he had been spending time with her after Parliamentary business, she had finally found a peaceful resolution to the disquiet over her foolishness of falling in love with him a year ago. She still loved him and he her, but it was different this time around. Instead of a love fraught with anxiety over its finality, their relationship had moved forward in an unexpected direction. He would always want her, always desire her, always love her. Most importantly, he would always be there for her.

It was so much better this way. And surprisingly there were no regrets.

Their relationship had matured. No longer was she the experienced paramour instructing him in the ways of the heart and the bedroom. Instead they shared frustrations and needs. He had eased her guilt over the furtive fuck with Arthur the other night, had listened to her pour out her emotions over her infatuation for the man, had sympathized with her reticence of falling further into love’s oblivion.

But there was one secret from her past she could not confide, for which she could not seek his counsel.

What really happened with Julius.

Not because of Nicholas’ twisted history with the man, but because even Nicholas could not offer any real consolation. What she needed only Julius could give.

She needed his sincere apology and remorse. Until then, there could be no resolution to their affair. That was why she couldn’t let him go, why she kept allowing him to torment her, perpetuating the endless cycle of their unsatisfactory tumbles stained by bitterness and sorrow.

Why she kept seeking the comfort of the one memento she held on to. Perhaps she hoped every time she looked at it she would see something different. That the past would somehow be changed.

It was hidden under lock and key in a jewelry box her husband had given her, a gift, once presented, he had never inquired about again. Lavinia went to the wardrobe and took the rectangular box from the shelf at the top. She smoothed her hand over the buttery-soft vermilion calfskin and drew a finger over the gilt-bronze studs lining each edge. She sat at her dressing table to fish the key out of the small drawer on the right. She kept it on a red ribbon.

She unlocked the box.

The rumble of a groan emanated from deep within Nicholas as he turned onto his stomach. Late nights with peers were exhausting him. No one would think to find him in her bed though. He was safe for the moment from politics.

As long as he slept she could be alone with her memories.

The box held no jewelry. Instead it held a slim volume of verse and a letter.

A love letter.

Her husband had fallen ill—the beginning of the end of his life although she hadn’t known it at the time. His doctor—Julius—recommended a holiday to the seashore, that the viscountess should join her husband to nurse him as only a wife could. Richard had no idea she and Julius were lovers. Ingenuously, Richard had invited Julius to accompany them. Richard decided upon a cottage owned by a friend along the coast near Penzance, as his own at Exeter was too far inland.

She and Julius were almost never separated. They were young, brimming with a surfeit of insatiable passion. As doctor and patient’s wife, no one questioned their continued society. They were audacious and imprudent, sharing a bed at times across the hall from Richard’s room while he slept under the spell of laudanum. At the end of the fortnight, they made love utterly nude on the shore at midnight.

And when they returned to their dull lives in London, Julius wrote her his only love letter. Poetry was not a talent but the fervency was clear.

She unfolded the paper, taking care with the creases.

Vinny, my love,

The memory of you plagues me, your sighs in my arms, your eagerness for my touch. The taste of you lingers on my lips, your fragrance is the air I breathe. A zealous ardor swells my heart, my soul to bursting. The unrequited fire of my desire consumes my very being. I long for the next moment we are together.

Yours,

Jules

Three months later, he would renounce every sentiment. And Lavinia would come face-to-face with hate and fear.

She couldn’t do that again. She couldn’t fall in love with a man, knowing it would destroy her.

And a continued affair with Arthur would most certainly be destructive.

The purr of Nicholas’ snoring revived her. She would have to be content with the occasional romp with Nicholas. Possibly seek out someone new.

And before she ever fell in love again, she would make certain there were no impediments.