Walter has returned?” John’s stomach dropped, kicking off a ringing in his ears. Thank God for the support of the wall or he might have fallen.
“It seems his death was not as reported, my lord. I mean Mr. Barnesworth.”
Bloody hell. Fuck. Jesus Christ. John had had his suspicions—the emptied bank accounts, the last-minute betrothal, the missing clothes in Walter’s wardrobe. But he’d become so entangled with Charlotte and their quest to save the estates that his brother had slipped his mind.
“Where is he?”
“In your study. I mean his—I mean the study.”
Damn. There was nothing for it. He would need to face his brother and find out what the fuck was going on.
The butler looked genuinely fearful. John couldn’t blame him. Walter had driven the estates into the ground, failing to pay his staff or provide proper accommodations for them. It was only natural Mosely be concerned about what Walter’s reappearance would mean.
John clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine. It will be well. Though, I would appreciate your discretion. If you could speak with Mrs. Blackheath and Mrs. Scott and ask they keep this information to themselves, just until I can work out what the bloody hell is going on.”
The butler nodded, and John strode down the corridor, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg. He pushed open the door to his—the—study. Walter had shoved John’s papers and books from the table in front of the armchair and had his feet resting on top of the lacquered wood. He had a decanter of whiskey next to him, one that Fiona had given to John “so that you can stop drinking pig swill.”
“This is a good drop,” Walter said. “Better than I got anywhere on the continent.”
“I thought you were d-d-dead.” Fuck. He crossed to the chair opposite Walter but couldn’t bring himself to sit.
“What have you done to my study?” Walter gestured to the devices that John had been working on that now lay scattered on the floor. “You’ve left silly little trinkets all over the place. It looks like a child’s playground.”
John worked his jaw, trying to loosen the muscles that had his entire mouth clenched. “I thought you were d-dead,” he repeated, still waiting for a Goddamned explanation.
Walter waved his hand. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding? The corpse was dressed in your clothing. Wearing your ring.” John tugged at the Harrow family ring until it slid off his finger and tossed it at his brother, who caught it and turned it over in his fingers a few times before putting it on. “Do you expect me to believe it was just a misunderstanding?”
His brother had played him. Whatever narrative Walter had concocted to explain the events would be just that—a story plausible enough that society would accept it and gripping enough to make them forget that when Walter had “died” he’d owed them money.
Walter shook his head as though it were a great shame, but the bastard couldn’t hide his smirk. “It was a terrible accident. The last thing I remember is hitting my head as I fell overboard. When I woke up, it was on the shores of France.”
“Right. And you stayed in France because?”
Walter shrugged. “I lost my memory. I did not know who I was until two days ago, when I slipped and hit my head again. I rushed home, obviously. I have responsibilities here that I must tend to.”
John wanted to cast up his accounts. “Then you’ve returned to London to take my place as viscount?”
A nasty look flashed across Walter’s usually charming face. “It was never actually your place, though, was it? Not if I was still alive. You were merely an interloper.”
Frustration coursed through John. No, it hadn’t been his place. He’d never wanted the position, but he’d turned his life upside down in order to do the job that was needed, and now his brother came swanning back home to take it all from him.
“You can have it,” John spat. “Take the title and the responsibility and the d-d-d—” Nausea whirled through his belly.
The estates were no longer bankrupt. The sale of the firm had wiped out the debt completely. There was no money from the sale left—every penny had been poured into an estate that John no longer owned. He held a hand to his mouth to keep from vomiting.
Walter hadn’t almost died. He’d left London because he’d had creditors breathing down his neck. If his brother reclaimed the title and everything that went with it, John would be penniless. He would be the one who couldn’t pay a household’s wages. Hell, he didn’t have the money to put a roof over his head, let alone purchase a home grand enough for Charlotte to entertain her friends in.
Once Walter reclaimed his position, John would be left with nothing.
“How are you going to explain it?” John asked, hating how his voice came out so strangled. “Do you understand how ridiculous your story sounds? No unconscious person floats to France. Unconscious people drown.”
Walter’s expression turned mean. “They will be so glad to see me home, they’ll believe every word. They adore me. I am the proper lord.”
It turned John’s stomach, but it was true. London would be in alt to have the favored son home.
“Please, give me some time,” John begged. “I need to settle my affairs. There are things I must do, conversations I must have, before your return is revealed.” He needed to talk to Charlotte, to warn her. To tell her that the life they’d planned together was no longer an option.
* * *
“Well, I am certain that if Lord Chester wishes not to be the subject of so much conversation, he should stop sneaking off with a different married woman at every gathering,” Charlotte said, taking a sip of raffia and feeling truly happy for the first time in weeks. John’s debts were settled; William was mending, cranky but blessedly sober; and tomorrow she and John would announce their engagement. Life was good. It was everything she’d dreamed of.
“Or at least he must be more circumspect about it,” Henrietta added. “It’s as though he doesn’t even try to keep his affairs secret.”
The girls watched as Lady Dunford exited the ballroom through the doors Lord Chester had used just moments before.
“I can’t truly blame her,” Josie said. “Could you imagine marriage to Lord Dunford?” She shuddered. Lord Dunford was nearly eighty and had a tendency to make what he thought were amusing double entendres that were, in reality, unamusing lewd comments.
Hen smiled. “There is one man to whom marriage might be rather pleasant, if only someone would snap him up.” She inclined her head toward the ballroom entrance.
Charlotte followed her gaze. The sight of John framed by the doorway made her insides fuzzy. “Excuse me,” she said to her friends, not waiting for a response. She could feel their amused stares on her as she left.
She wove her way through the crowd until she was standing before him. She itched to take his hand or to rise on her toes and kiss him. Tomorrow, they would tell Edward. After that, they could announce their engagement publicly. Until then, she would have to be satisfied with a smile and a slight brush of the hand.
He didn’t return her smile though, and on closer inspection, his face was pinched, his body tense.
“John, what is the matter? What has happened?”
“We must speak privately,” John said. “Now.” His tone set alarm bells ringing.
“Very well,” she said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come outside.”
She led him through the foyer and out the front door, waving off the butler as he offered to retrieve her coat. “Are you well?” she asked, turning to face him when they reached the front landing.
“Walter has returned.”
“What? Your brother is dead. His body was recovered from the Thames.” It had been the talk of London. There had even been a sketch of it in the papers, though she’d avoided looking at it.
John tugged at his hair, an anguished expression on his face. “He lied, Charlotte. He faked his death and disappeared just long enough for me to drag the estates out of trouble, and now he’s returned. He probably had someone at the bank waiting to notify him the minute the accounts were replenished.”
A horrified bubble of laughter escaped her and she slapped a hand to her mouth. This was absurd. It beggared belief. “But he drowned,” she said. “You are the viscount.”
John shuffled his feet, toying with the lone pebble that had somehow made it to the polished landing. “But I’m not, though. I never was.” He kicked the pebble back to the drive.
Charlotte shook her head, pulling away from him. That dastardly fiend. “No. No, this is not right. He can’t be allowed to get away with this.” What could they do? There had to be something they could do.
“He can’t get away with what? Taking his rightful place? Faking his death was a bastard act, but we’ll never be able to prove that it was intentional. And he’s not doing anything wrong by returning. He’ll have to answer some awkward questions, but my brother is nothing if not charming. Whatever story he weaves, people will accept.”
Charlotte paced the landing, mumbling to herself as she sifted through this new information, trying to understand the implications. Her fingers worried at the lace of her neckline. “What of the estate?”
“It belongs to him. It always has.”
Drat. She spun to face him. “But, John, what of the money? The title is neither here nor there but the money, that was all yours. That was your life’s work. He has no claim to it.”
John swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “The money is gone, Charlotte. The debts are all paid. What little was left is in a bank account that belongs to Walter. I have nothing. Not even a roof to put over our heads.”
“I…” She couldn’t form words. She didn’t even know what to say. She always had something to say.
John ran his hand through his hair.
“Good God.” She sank down onto the steps, pressing her fingers to her lips. John sat next to her, hip to hip, and dropped his head in his hands.
There had to be a way out of this. There had to be a fix. “My dowry,” she blurted.
John laughed darkly. “Your brother didn’t approve of our union even when I had a title and the firm. He’ll hardly approve of it now that I have nothing.”
That was true. Ned had his own notions of what would make Charlotte happy, as ridiculous as those were. “We’ll go back to the gaming rooms.” Perhaps they could eke out a living that way, as much as she hated the idea. As much as it terrified her. But even if they managed to live that life without another beating, how long could she pretend to be Mrs. Brown without her ruse being discovered?
John turned to her, took her hands in his. “Come with me back to America. I still have my cottage there. It’s not a London town house, but it’s something. I can find a job in Boston. It won’t be the life you’re used to, but at least we will be together.”
She blanched. Surely he didn’t realize what he was asking? “Leave London? My family? My friends?” The very idea set her heart racing. Spending time in the country was one thing; it was only for a few weeks at a time and usually with one friend or another. Moving to America was something else entirely. To be separated from her loved ones by an entire ocean?
She would know no one. She’d have no one other than John, and while she loved him with her whole body, she’d be a fool to think that he could be everything for her. She loved him, but she needed other people in a way that he couldn’t understand.
“I can’t.”
His grip on her hands tightened. “You can. I know it’s not what we discussed and naturally you’d be apprehensive, but you could come with me.” His expression was so earnest, so hopeful. He truly thought it was a good idea.
She pulled her hands away. “But I don’t want to.” It hurt her to say it, but she would be miserable alone.
His face twisted, as though she’d stuck a knife in him. His eyes shone with tears. “I can’t stay in England, Charlotte. There is no life for me here. I gave that up. I sold it to save an estate that isn’t even mine.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so, so sorry. I love you, but I can’t leave.”
He swallowed, nodding along as though the truth of her words was wending its way through his mind. As though this moment was finding its place in the vault of his memories and cementing itself there.
“Very well.” He stood and then offered his hand to her, helping her stand. She gripped his fingers as hard as she could. He was slipping away from her. What they had, this morning so tangible, now felt as amorphous as a foggy breath on a winter morning.
“John.” Her voice cracked, and her throat closed up completely.
He twisted his hand out of her grip. “I love you, and I’ll wait a week before I leave, just in case you change your mind.”
She wouldn’t change her mind, though. She couldn’t bear the thought of the life he proposed. He seemed to sense that, because he stepped back and bowed coldly. Already something between them had broken.
Then she watched him walk down the drive and out of her life.