The Dowager Marchioness of Faye was yesterday evening sighted at Vauxhall Gardens enjoying the fireworks with her ward, Mr Owen Tattershall, and her new lady’s companion, a Miss Smith of whom nobody who’s anybody seems to know anything. A mystery indeed.
— The Ladies’ Gazette
New plan: avoid Miss Ellen Smith at all costs.
Just to be on the safe side, Cal thought he’d better continue avoiding Lady F as well.
In fact, avoid everyone. The Season couldn’t last forever. As soon as July began to roll towards August and the true heat of summer hit Lady F would leave London, and so too would all the servants and, most importantly, the window adventuress, who he didn’t want to kiss and who wasn’t slowly but persistently pulling down the walls he’d built around his damaged heart for the last four years. All in just over a week, dammit!
He didn’t want to see Ellie. He didn’t want to think about Ellie. And he definitely didn’t want to strangle the person who’d struck her wrists black and blue.
Cal clenched his fists. Her secrets were her secrets. And he wanted nothing to do with them. Nothing to do with whatever she was keeping from him and the rest of the world.
He was standing by the front window in first-storey ballroom. In its heyday it had been a grand space with a moulded ceiling and a set of matching doors that led out onto a balcony. Now there was a wall down the centre, leaving Cal with half the space, half a window, and one of a pair of doors that had been boarded over since before he’d joined the Navy. It had been a long time since this ballroom had seen any dancing.
Nonetheless, the half-window offered a partially decent view of the front garden and the street beyond.
Tzar sat at his feet. He wagged his tail each time Cal glanced down at him. Relenting, Cal took the last treat from his pocket and tossed it down to him. Tzar gobbled it up without even tasting it. The only time he ever moved faster than the pace of a snail was when there was food.
‘Good pup.’
With one last tail wag, Tzar lay down, his head on his front paws. Cal could practically hear his old joints groaning. The poor beggar. When Pierce had rescued Tzar from the streets, he’d seemed old then, and that had been many years ago. Now Tzar was positively decrepit. Yet tough as old nails. He’d probably outlive them all. Well, except for Lady F, who’d probably live forever just from sheer force of will.
As though in mockery of his new plan, the front door opened and Ellie stepped outside, right into his line of sight. She was clearly heading out. There was a small reticule around her wrist again and her bonnet had been returned to its rightful place, looking no worse for wear after its encounter with the honeysuckle. She was chatting amicably to someone just out of his sight.
A moment later, the young butler followed her down the steps.
Cal had spent some time in India with the Navy. There they didn’t have to suffer through these wishy-washy springs. It had just been bloody hot.
Chakrabarti was wearing the new suit Lady F had bought him. The dark fabric suited his brown skin, and the overall effect of the dark on dark made the white of his necktie so startlingly crisp even the great leader of fashion, Beau Brummell, would be hard put not to be envious—that is, had Brummell not escaped to Paris to avoid paying his debts. Cal had no time for wealthy men who lived beyond their means nor those who gambled away their fortunes.
Ellen spoke, her voice muted to Cal by the closed window, and Chakrabarti laughed.
Jealousy reared its ugly head, sending pain spiking through Cal’s stomach with the thought of another man touching, kissing…loving Ellie.
Hellfire. What was happening to him?
More to the point, what was Ellie doing to him? It was bad enough he was lusting after her. Now he was jealous?
‘…told me how you locked up the cake. Wait, are you even listening to anything I’m saying?’ Owen pushed his way in between Cal and the dividing wall to claim the best view out the half-window, careful not to step on Tzar.
Cal ignored his cousin, resolutely not moving away even though Owen was standing much too close. Chakrabarti said something that caught Ellen’s attention for she turned back to look at him. The smile slipped from her face as the butler handed her a missive.
‘She doesn’t look happy,’ Owen commented. Ellen tucked the correspondence into her minuscule bag without breaking the seal. Then they moved through the unlocked gate and started down the street. ‘Maybe it’s bad news from her family.’ Owen pressed his cheek to the glass, trying to watch the two of them for as long as possible.
‘Not happy’ was an understatement. Ellie had looked downright terrified when she’d seen the letter. Her eyes had widened and her features had frozen. He’d practically heard the breath catch in her throat.
Not that it’s any of my business.
Owen’s spectacles tapped against the window. He looked ridiculous with his face scrunched up against the glass. Hell, he looked ridiculous in his bright orange waistcoat.
‘Did you bring that cane with you just because you know it annoys me?’
‘Of course.’ Owen flashed him a classic Tattershall grin—genuine happiness with a sparkle of disarmingly white teeth.
‘And the orange waistcoat?’ Cal couldn’t help himself.
Owen’s smile faltered. He pressed a hand to his chest. ‘You don’t like the waistcoat? It cost me five guineas. It’s silk. Here, feel it.’ And he puffed out his chest.
Cal didn’t move.
Owen straightened with a shrug. ‘You’re no fun anymore. I don’t know why I bother coming to visit you.’
‘Neither do I.’ Cal strode away from the window, wanting to put as much distance as he could between himself and Ellie, even though she was well out of sight. ‘Can you hurry up and get this visit over and done with? I’ve got work to do.’
‘Actually, today I came to see Lizzy. She wanted to talk to me about Grace.’
‘What about Grace?’
Owen gave him a startled look. ‘You do know Grace hasn’t spoken to Lizzy since Pierce’s funeral.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course you didn’t.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean? Grace hates me. It’s not like we’ve kept in touch.’ These days contact between himself and his stepmother was strictly through their lawyers, who ensured Grace was provided with a generous allowance, part of the proceeds of the ducal estates.
‘It means in the last four years have you ever bothered asking Lizzy how she’s coping?’
Guilt tasted bitter. ‘She’s a tough old bird, and she’s coping just fine.’
‘You’re so caught up in your own world you can’t see what’s right in front of your eyes, Wood. She’s not fine. She stood up for you when everyone else thought you were responsible for that fire. And Grace has never forgiven her for it.’
Cal blinked. It took a moment for Owen’s words to sink in. ‘They’re fighting because of me?’ Fan-bloody-tastic! Just another nail in his coffin.
‘They’re fighting because they’re both heartbroken and because Grace isn’t thinking straight.’
‘Elizabeth shouldn’t have taken my side.’
‘Of course she should have.’ Owen raised his voice. ‘You didn’t start that fire. You didn’t kill Pierce. She did what was right and what she knew to be true.’ He sighed. ‘If only Grace would forgive her.’
If only he’d never been promoted to Captain.
If only he’d never joined the Navy.
If only his father had never brought him to London.
If only his mother had never run back to Scotland.
If only— If only— It was a dangerous game to play.
He turned his back on Owen. ‘Maybe I did kill Pierce.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
Even without looking, Cal knew Owen had just rolled his eyes. ‘Pierce died helping me put out the fire, on my ship.’ He hit his fist to his chest, relishing the second of pain.
‘You didn’t start the fire. I read the report. I know it was an accident.’
‘He should never have joined the Navy. This should all be his!’ He threw out his arm, waving at his house, at his title—his entire inheritance.
‘You’re the first born.’
‘Am I?’ The question burst out. It was the first time he’d even spoken his worry aloud. It was like a boulder on his chest, slowly crushing the breath out of him. ‘I don’t look anything like Hammond.’
‘Lizzy says you look like your mother.’
‘My mother,’ Cal spat. He couldn’t remember a thing about her, but he was acutely aware of the decision she’d made to abandon her husband and return to Scotland. A decision he didn’t have the luxury of making.
‘Hammond loved—’
‘But she didn’t love him. Not enough to stay. We all know there’s a possibility she lied about me. We all know there’s a possibility I’m living a lie. But Pierce wouldn’t have been.’ Pierce had unmistakably been Hammond’s son. They could have been brothers, they’d looked so alike. He raked a hand through his dark hair, such a contrast to Pierce and Hammond’s blond hair.
‘He wanted to join up.’ Owen squeezed his shoulder again. ‘I was there, remember? You bought your commission, and Pierce was so excited by the idea of an adventure he decided to come along too. You never pushed him into it.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘If only I’d joined up too. Maybe…’
Cal turned back to face him. ‘You were much too young.’
‘Younger men than I was joined.’
‘It would have broken Elizabeth’s heart.’ He’d been at sea for ten years—and Pierce for eight. Eight long years of their family not knowing if they were alive or dead. If Owen had gone too…if Owen had died… Thank goodness one of them had sense enough to have stayed behind.
‘Hammond was an extraordinary man,’ Cal continued. ‘He donated to countless charities, raised money for numerations organisations. And he was smart. He knew how to look after his tenants and manage his investments. Everyone loved him. And Pierce…’ He could barely form his thoughts into words. ‘He would have outshone even Hammond. Now, look at me.’ Cal waved a hand at himself. ‘I’m not half the man Pierce was. I don’t look like a duke. I don’t sound like a duke. And I certainly don’t behave like one.’
‘I disagree. What about all the documents I moved off the dining table the other day? They looked like estate papers, and you’ve clearly been working hard.’
‘You moved them?’
‘And from what I hear, the Woodhal empire is as prosperous as ever, for all that you run it from the comfort of your London dining room. Imagine how successful you could be if you actually stepped outside your front door once in a while.’
‘Tried that. It didn’t work.’ A while after Pierce’s death he’d made a gallant effort to rejoin Society. He’d attended the opera and more than his fair share of boring music recitals and dreary theatre performances. That was until he realised the ton would never again welcome the Duke of Woodhal into their company without remarking on his scars or his limp or his possible illegitimacy.
He might hold one of the most powerful titles short of royalty, but he’d quickly learned even his ducal inheritance wasn’t enough to save him from the vultures of Society, not when he presented them with so much to gossip about.
Ellen tucked the book more firmly under her arm as Chakrabarti opened the front door. He stepped aside, letting her enter first.
Lady Faye had requested scandalous, and Ellen had taken the dowager at her word. She now held a rather explicit romance the bookseller had slipped to her from behind his counter. She was pretty sure it was banned book, or at least it would be banned if the authorities ever got their hands on a copy.
She also had a letter that was burning a hole through her reticule. For the umpteenth time, she glanced down at the small bag looped securely around her wrist. Why had Verity written when they’d agreed it would be safest to keep correspondence to an absolute minimum? If Geoffrey had laid a finger on Gwen… She ground her teeth. He would live to regret the day he decided to bully an innocent child.
‘Miss Smith,’ Lady Faye stuck her head around the door of the drawing room as Ellen and Chakrabarti entered the hall. ‘My lawyer has just arrived. Apparently we have much to talk about.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘My lady,’ came a harrowed voice from the room behind her. ‘This is your first visit to London in four years. Excuse my impertinence, but I intend to use this time wisely.’
‘He’s always going on about leases and payments and whatnot.’ She rolled her eyes again, indicating that she considered his presence more hindrance than help. Ellen put the book on the small table by the front door and started shedding her gloves, bonnet and borrowed pelisse.
The dowager’s eyes lingered on the leather-bound book. ‘My toes are tingling in anticipation. Unfortunately they’re going to have to wait a few minutes.’
‘At least an hour,’ called the lawyer. ‘Or three!’
‘As you wish, my lady.’ Ellen curtsied, trying not to look relieved, and Lady Faye disappeared back into the drawing room.
The door shut behind her, not quite cutting off Lady Faye’s remonstrations. ‘I pay for your services, and you should be good enough to remember that next time you decide to come barging into my house during reading time…’
‘Poor man,’ Chakrabarti whispered with a wince, before hurrying down the passage towards the kitchen, the tails of his black coat tapping gently against the backs of his legs.
Ellen took the stairs two at a time, hurrying to her bedroom. She could hear Pamela and Adelynn chatting in Lady Faye’s chamber next door. If she didn’t open the letter soon she just might die from the not knowing, but she couldn’t risk opening it in front of anyone. Despite Calum’s probing questions about her bruises, nobody else seemed to have noticed not everything was as it should be, and Ellen was desperate to keep it that way. She crept downstairs, seeking peace and quiet to read.
On the first floor, the stairs opened directly into a large room, and she stepped off the landing, hardly bothering to glance around.
With trembling fingers, she broke the seal.
Dearest Ellen,
Do not be panicked by my writing to you. I’m happy to report Gwen and Maggie are both safe. For now, all is well.
Geoffrey is more determined to locate you than we first suspected and is already on our trail. Maggie and I have decided we need to move Gwen to a safer location, somewhere that has no connection to either you or her. I fear it will take me some days to find a new place, but I am unwavering in my commitment to keep them both out of harm’s way. As an extra precaution, I will not disclose any more details in writing.
Your friend always,
Ellen let out a deep breath, tears stinging her eyes. Maggie and Verity had done more for her than she could ever thank them for. There was nothing—nothing!—she could ever do to adequately repay them for their kindness.
‘Ye’re crying.’ Calum’s voice was blunt. He stood in the middle of the large room. It was long and narrow, probably half its original size. Tzar was asleep near the window but otherwise the room was empty.
‘Have you been here the entire time?’ She hurriedly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Aye.’ He limped closer. His brow was furrowed and there was a darkness in his gaze that reminded of her of clouds right before a storm. He patted his pockets as though searching for a handkerchief but came up short. ‘Is someone threatening ye, lass?’
‘It’s nothing.’ She pulled out her own handkerchief from her reticule and discreetly wiped her nose.
The duke’s frown deepened. ‘Is the letter from the lout who hit ye? The one ye ran away from?’ His Scottish accent had returned. It made his voice somehow heavier, as though it held more substance than his English voice.
She narrowed her eyes, suspiciously. Why wasn’t he yelling or sulking or being just generally annoying? Was he actually…concerned for her? She didn’t want him to be concerned. She relied on him being infuriatingly miserable. She didn’t know how to deal with a concerned Calum, a caring Calum. If he kept this up, she might just find herself confiding all her problems to him and that would be disastrous. In London, nobody knew who Ellen Burney was. Her secrets were safe. Her reputation was intact. She had an opportunity to build a new life—a life of independence as Ellen Smith. A life where her self-worth came from her ability to support Gwen and not from who her brother was.
‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
She found herself leaning towards him, being drawn in by the worried tone of his voice. She pulled back, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘Please, just leave it, Your Grace.’ She turned away from him, but he caught her shoulder. His grip was feather-light. She could have easily pulled away, but his touch was more than just a physical bond. It was a touch of comfort, of solace, of solidarity. She looked at his hand. His fingers were mainly undamaged though a couple of smaller scars still crisscrossed his skin.
‘Ellie…’
What did he see when he looked in the mirror?
Crazy Calum. How could the newspapers have done that to him? He wasn’t crazy. Just sad and lonely and grief-stricken.
Her bruises were slowly healing, but Calum’s scars would always be a part of him. He could leave London, but the rumours and the speculation would always follow. Everywhere he went, Calum would always be known.
He turned her around to face him. He had that haunted look in his eyes that she had seen on the faces of parents who’d lost sons to the war or on the faces of son who had returned.
She didn’t resist as he tentatively pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist, careful to avoid touching her sore wrists.
He was so tall and broad and muscular. His embrace was a cage around her. But he wasn’t locking her away; he was keeping her safe. A moment in his arms couldn’t hurt. Just a moment, and then she would stand on her own two feet again.
She rested her cheek on his chest until all she could see and hear and feel and breathe was Calum.