The Gamekeeper's Lady
Autor
Ann Lethbridge
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Chapter One
London—1816
Lord Robert Deveril Mountford propped himself up on his elbow in his bed. He brushed aside Maggie, Lady Caldwell’s waterfall of chestnut curls and kissed her creamy shoulder. ‘Two weeks from now?’
Dark eyes sparkling, she cast him a dazzling smile. ‘Evil one. Can’t you fit me in any sooner?’
‘Sorry. I’m going out of town for a few days. Hunting.’
‘Furred, feathered or female?’ She stood up, slipped her chemise over her head and reached for her stays.
He slapped her plump little bottom. ‘Whatever comes along, naturally.’ Pleasantly sated, he yawned and stretched.
Maggie sighed. ‘It is time you settled down, you know.’
Robert tensed. ‘Not you, too.’ He leaned across to lace her stays, then pulled the silky stockings off the blue canopy over the bed and tossed them at her.
She sat to pull them over her shapely legs. ‘Why not? There are all kinds of nice young things available. Take my niece. She has a reasonable dowry and her family is good quality.’
A sense of foreboding gathered like a snowball rolling downhill, larger and colder with each passing moment. It wasn’t the first time one of his women had tried to inveigle herself or a member of her family into the ducal tribe, but he hadn’t expected it from this one. He had thought he and Maggie were having too much fun to let familial obligations intrude.
He didn’t want a wife cramping his lifestyle, even if the ducal allowance provided enough for two, which it didn’t.
Dress on, Maggie went to the mirror and patted her unruly curls. ‘Just look at this mess. Caldwell will never believe I was at Lady Jeffries’s for tea.’ She gathered the scattered pins from the floor and tried to bring some order to her tresses.
Naked, he rose to his feet and stood behind her. Her eyes widened in the glass, the heat of desire returning.
He picked up the hairbrush, all at once disturbingly anxious for her to be gone. ‘Let me.’ With a few firm strokes, he tamed the luxuriant brown mane, twisted it into a neat knot at the back of her head, pinned it and teased out a few curls around her face. ‘Will that do?’
A lovely lush woman still in her prime and wasted on her old husband, she turned and laughed up at him. ‘My maid doesn’t arrange it half as well. If you ever need a position as a lady’s maid, I will be pleased to provide a recommendation.’
He gazed at her beautiful face, then brushed her lips with his mouth. ‘Thank you. For everything.’
He liked Maggie. Too bad she had to bring up the subject of marriage. He bent to retrieve her shoes and she sat on the stool. As he put them on her small feet, he caressed her calf one last time. A faint sense of regret washed through him. Too faint.
She sighed and ran her fingers through his hair.
The clock in the hall struck four.
‘Oh, botheration,’ she said, jumping to her feet. She took another quick peek in the glass. ‘I think I will pass muster.’ Her trill of laughter rang around the room.
He stood up with a wry smile. Maggie always maintained such good spirits. She never indulged in tantrums or fits of jealousy about his other women. She’d been the perfect liaison. Until now.
He’d send a token tomorrow, a discreet little diamond pin with a carefully worded message. No fool, Maggie. She’d understand.
She reached up and cupped his cheek with her palm. ‘One of these days some beautiful young thing is going to capture that wicked heart of yours and you’ll be lost to me and all the other naughty ladies of the ton, mark my words.’
Too bad she couldn’t leave well enough alone. He caught her fingers and pressed them to his lips. ‘What? Be tied to just one woman when there are so many to enjoy?’
‘You are a bad man,’ she said. ‘And I adore you.’
She whirled around in a rustle of skirts, a cloud of rose perfume and sex. She opened the door and dashed down the stairs to her waiting carriage.
Yes, Robert thought, he would miss her a great deal. Now whom did he have waiting in the wings to fill his Tuesday afternoons? A knotty, but interesting problem. The new opera dancer at Covent Garden had thrown him a lure last week. A curvy little armful with come-hither eyes. And yet, somehow, the thought of the chase didn’t stir his blood.
It wouldn’t be much of a chase. Perhaps he should look around a little more. Looking was half the fun.
He whistled under his breath as he readied himself for an evening at White’s.
Kent—1816
It was almost perfect. Wasn’t it? She just wished she could be sure. In the library’s rapidly fading daylight, Frederica Bracewell narrowed her eyes and compared her second drawing of a sparrow to the one in the book. The first one she’d attempted was awful. A five-year-old would have done better. Drawn with her right hand. She sighed. It didn’t matter how hard she tried, right-handed she was hopeless.
Devil’s spawn. An echo of Cook’s harsh voice hissed in her ear. Good-for-naught bastard. She rubbed her chilled hands together and held the second drawing up to the light. It was the best thing she’d done. But was it good enough?
The door opened behind her. She jumped to her feet. Heat rushed to her hairline. Heart beating hard, she turned, hiding the drawings with her body.
‘Only me, miss,’ Snively, the Wynchwood butler, said. A big man, with a shock of white hair and a fierce bulldog face, but his brown eyes twinkled as he carried a taper carefully across the room and lit the wall sconces.
Her heart settled back into a comfortable rhythm.
‘I didn’t realise you were working in here this afternoon or I would have had William light the fire,’ the butler said.
‘I’m not c-c-cold,’ she said, smiling at one of her few allies at Wynchwood. She didn’t want him losing his position by lighting unnecessary fires.
She picked up her rag with a wince. She’d completed very little of her assigned task: dusting the books. Uncle Mortimer would not be pleased.
In passing, Snively glanced at the pictures on the table. ‘This one is good,’ he said, pointing at the second one. ‘It looks ready to fly away. People pay for pictures like that.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I do.’ Snively’s face hardened. ‘You ought to have proper lessons instead of copying from books. You’ve a talent.’
Always so supportive. Sometimes she imagined the starchy butler was her father. It might have been better if he was. Who knew what kind of low man the Wynchwood Whore had bedded.
‘It is not s-seemly for a woman to d-draw for money,’ she said quietly, ‘but I would love to go to Italy and see the great art of Europe. Perhaps even s-study with a drawing teacher.’
His mouth became a thin straight line. ‘So you should.’
‘Lord Wynchwood would never hear of it. It would be far too expensive.’
Snively frowned. ‘If you’ll excuse me saying so, the wages you’ve saved his lordship by serving as housekeeper these past many years would pay for a dozen trips to Italy.’
‘Only my uncle’s generosity keeps me here, Mr Snively. He could just as easily have left me at the workhouse.’
He glowered. ‘Your turn will come, miss. You mark my words. It will.’
She’d never heard the butler so vehement. She glanced over her shoulder at the door. ‘I beg you not to say anything to my uncle about these.’ She gestured at the drawings.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, miss. You keep it up. One day your talent will be recognised. I can promise it.’
She smiled. ‘You are such a d-dear man.’
The library door slammed back.
Frederica jumped. Her heart leaped into her throat. ‘Uncle M-M-Mortimer.’ The words came out in a horrible rush.
The imperturbable Snively slid the book over her drawings and turned around with his usual hauteur. ‘Good evening, Lord Wynchwood.’
Uncle Mortimer, his wig awry on his head, his cheeks puce, marched in. ‘Nothing better to do than pass the time with servants, Frederica? Next you’ll be hobnobbing with the stable boy, the way your mother did.’
Beside her Snively drew himself up straighter.
She trembled. She hated arguments. ‘N-n-n—’
‘No?’ the old man snapped. ‘Then Snively is a figment of my imagination, is he?’
‘My lord,’ Snively said in outraged accents, ‘I was lighting the candles, as I always do at this time. I found Miss Bracewell dusting the books and stopped to help.’
‘I’m not chastising you, Snively. My niece is the one I need to keep in check.’ Frederica wasn’t surprised at her uncle’s about face. A butler of Snively’s calibre was hard to come by these days.
‘S-s-s—’ she started.
‘Sorry? You are always sorry. It is not good enough.’ He frowned. ‘Didn’t you hear me ringing?’
She took a quick breath. ‘N-no, Uncle. You asked me to d-d-dust the books in here. I d-d-did not hear your bell.’
‘Well, listen better, gel. I’ve some receipts to be copied into the account book. I want them all finished by supper time.’
Frederica hid her shudder. Hours of copying numbers into columns and rows. Trying to make them neat and tidy while not permitted to use anything but her right hand. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Yes, Uncle.’
‘Come along. Come along, don’t dilly dally. It is cold in here. My lungs cannot stand the chill. Snively, send word to Cook to send tea to my study.’
Snively bowed. ‘Don’t worry, miss, I’ll return everything to its proper place.
He meant he’d put her drawings in her room. If Mortimer found she’d been wasting her time drawing, he’d probably lock her in her chamber for a week. Which might not be so bad, she reflected as she hurried out of the room. She threw the butler a conspiratorial smile.
Without Snively and her impossible dream of travelling to Italy and learning from a real artist, her life would be truly unbearable.
Refreshed and relaxed after his afternoon with Maggie, Robert strolled through the front door of White’s and handed his coat and hat to the porter. ‘Lord Radthorn here yet, O’Malley?’
The beefy red-haired man blinked owlishly. ‘No, Lord Tonbridge.’
Robert didn’t bother to correct the fool. It never did any good. Only close family, friends and the odd woman could ever tell him and Charlie apart.
He took the stairs up to the great subscription room two at a time. The dark-panelled room buzzed with conversation and laughter despite the youth of the evening.
A group of gentlemen crowded around a faro table, the game in full swing. Guineas and vowels were heaped at the banker’s elbow—Viscount Lullington, a fair-haired Englishman with thin aristocratic features whom many of the ladies adored. He had a Midas touch with gambling and women. Only Robert had ever bested him on either count—something that did not please the dandified viscount. But that wasn’t the reason for the bad blood between them. It went a whole lot deeper. As deep as a sword blade.
The one Robert had put through his arm dueling for the favours of a woman. Robert glanced around the panelled room. No sign of Radthorn amongst the crowd, but a glance at his fob watch revealed he’d arrived a few minutes earlier than their appointed time. He drifted towards the faro table.
‘Who is in the soup?’ he asked Colonel Whittaker as he took in the play.
‘Some protégé of Lullington’s,’ Wittaker muttered without turning. ‘The young fool just bet his curricle and team.’
Lullington smoothed his dark blond hair back from his high forehead, his intense blue gaze sweeping the players at the table. A clever man, Lullington, his fashionable air a draw for unwary young men with too much money in their pockets.
Too bad the man had chosen tonight to play here.
As if sensing Robert’s scrutiny, Lullington glanced up and their gazes locked. His lip curled. Slowly, he laid his cards face down on the green baize table.
‘Mountford?’ Lullington never confused him with his twin. ‘How did you get into a gentleman’s club?’ he lisped.
Robert recoiled. ‘What did you say?’
The viscount’s lids lowered a fraction. He shook his head. ‘You never did have a scrap of honour.’
All conversation ceased.
The hairs on the back of Robert’s neck rose. Fury coursed through his veins. He lunged forwards. ‘You’ll meet me on Primrose Hill in the morning for that slur. Name your seconds.’
The young sprig to Lullington’s right stared opened mouthed.
‘Gad, the cur speaks. Does it think because it is sired by a duke, it can mix with gentlemen?’
An odd rumble of agreement ran around the room.
Robert felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest. ‘What the deuce are you talking about?’
Lullington’s lip lifted in a sneer. ‘Unlike you, I would never sully a lady’s reputation in public.’
Robert felt heat travel up the back of his neck. So that’s what this was all about. Lullington’s cousin, the little bitch. He should have guessed the clever viscount would use the incident to his advantage. ‘The woman you speak of is no lady,’ he said scornfully. ‘As you well know.’
‘Dishonourable bastard,’ Wittaker said, turning his back.
‘No,’ Lullington said softly, triumph filling his voice. ‘Mountford is right not to bandy the lady’s name around in this club. Mountford, I find the colour of your waistcoat objectionable. Please remove it from our presence at once. None of us wants to see it here again.’
One by one each man near Robert turned, until Robert stood alone, an island in a sea of stiff backs. Some of these men were his friends. He’d gone to school with them, drunk and gambled with them, whored with them, and not a single one of them would meet his eye.
One or two of them were the husbands of unfaithful wives. The triumph in their eyes as they turned away told its own story.
Good God! They’d decided to send him to Coventry, because he’d refused to marry a scheming little bitch.
The only man who remained looking his way was Lullington, who lifted his quizzing glass as if he had spotted a fly on rotten meat.
‘It is a lie and you know it,’ Robert said.
‘Cheeky bastard,’ Pettigrew said.
‘Oh, it’s cheeky all right.’ Lullington’s lisp seemed more pronounced than usual. He gave a mocking laugh like splintering glass. ‘It remains. Pettigrew, will you have O’Malley throw this rubbish out, or shall I?’
One of the men—Pettigrew, Robert assumed—left the room, no doubt to do the viscount’s bidding. Robert stood his ground, forced reason into his tone. ‘I didn’t touch the girl.’ Damn. If he said any more, he’d be playing right into Lullington’s hands.
Ambleforth, round and red about the gills, a man Robert had known at Eton, shuffled closer. He caught sight of Lullington’s glass swivelling towards him and stopped, shaking his head. ‘’Fore God, Mountford,’ he uttered in hoarse tones. ‘Go, before you make it any worse.’
Worse. Heat flooded his body, sweat trickled down his back. How could this nightmare be worse? Lullington had turned every man in the room against him for a crime he hadn’t committed. The girl had brought it on herself.
‘If you’ll just step outside, my lord?’ O’Malley grasped his elbow. ‘We don’t want no unpleasantness, now does we?’
Robert yanked his arm away. ‘Take your greasy paws off me.’ He swung around to leave.
‘Thank God,’ Lullington said into the heavy silence. ‘The air in here was becoming quite foul. Did you hear gall of the fellow? Actually had the nerve to challenge me. I wouldn’t let him lick my boots.’
A ripple of uncomfortable laughter followed Robert down the stairs. He clamped his jaw shut hard. He wanted to ram his fist through Lullington’s sneering mouth, or bury his sword, hilt deep, in the man’s chest.
He certainly wasn’t going to marry Lullington’s scheming little cousin to please them. Charlie was the only one with the power to get him out of this predicament.
He snatched his hat from O’Malley and stormed out onto the street, almost colliding with someone on the way in. He opened his mouth to apologise, then realized it was Radthorn. He reached out and pressed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘John, thank God.’
‘Mountford?’ Embarrassment flashed across John’s handsome face. ‘You’re here?’
What the devil? ‘We had an appointment, remember?’ Robert dropped his hand. Had John joined the rest of them in sending him to Coventry? It certainly seemed so.
‘Damn you,’ he said. The curse made him feel only marginally better as he barrelled up St James’s Street.
Charlie was his only hope, because the duke had long ago washed his hands of his dissolute second son.
Mountford House was no different from all the other narrowly sedate houses on Grosvenor Square. A spinster on a picnic couldn’t be more externally discreet and so seething with internal passions. These days Robert only visited the Mountford London abode in Father’s absence. He might not have visited then, if it weren’t for Mother. He certainly didn’t visit Charlie who grew more like Father every day, only interested in his estates and the title and the name.
The door swung open. Robert ignored the butler’s hand outstretched for his hat and coat. ‘Is Tonbridge home?’
‘Yes, Lord Robert. In his room.’
‘Thank you, Grimshaw.’
He took the stairs two at a time and barged into Charlie’s chamber. A room with all the pomp and circumstance required for the heir to a dukedom, it was large enough to hold a small ball. The ducal coat of arms emblazoned the scarlet drapery and every piece of furniture. It always struck Robert as regally oppressive. Charlie took it as his due.
Charlie, Charles Henry Beltane Mountford, named for Kings and Princes, the Marquis of Tonbridge and the next Duke of Stantford, neatly dressed, his cravat pristine, his jacket without a crease, sat at his desk, writing.
He looked up when Robert closed the door. ‘I’ve been expecting you,’ he said coolly.
Robert rocked back on his heels. ‘You knew? You bastard. Why the hell didn’t you give me some warning?’
Charlie’s mouth flattened. ‘I sent word to your lodging. My man missed you.’
Robert ran a glance over his older brother. It was like looking into a distorted mirror. He saw his own brown eyes and dark brown hair, his square-jawed face and the cleft in the chin that made shaving a chore. He saw his own body, tall and lean, with long legs and large hands and feet, but he hated the rest of what he saw. The weary eyes. The lines around his mouth. He looked like their father.
He looked like a man who had given up the joy of life for duty and honour.
‘I need a loan so I can pay the girl off. With enough of a dowry, she’ll soon find a husband willing to hold his nose and that will be an end to it.’
Charlie tipped his head back and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. ‘I’m sorry, Robin. I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘Ask Father for a loan. He never refuses you anything.’
‘It’s all over town. Do you think he won’t know why I’m asking for such a large sum?’
‘Tell him it’s a gambling debt.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘You play, you pay. You know the rules. It’s time you settled down, anyway. Take some responsibility. Father will think the better of you for it.’
Robert clenched his fists at his side in an effort not to smash his fist in Charlie’s face. He took a deep breath. ‘What the hell, Charlie—do you think I’m going to marry a girl who was prepared to sacrifice her reputation for the chance of becoming a duchess? I did you a favour.’
Charlie’s gaze hardened. ‘Don’t bother. I don’t need your kind of favours.’
‘What if it had been you she’d lured into the library? Would you have married her, knowing she trapped you?’
Charlie curled his lip. ‘Come on, Robin, we both know there isn’t a female alive who can lure you if you don’t want to go. But if it had been me, I would have offered for her immediately. It would be my duty to the family name.’
Robert swallowed the bile rising in his throat. ‘I won’t be blackmailed into wedding a scheming little baggage.’
‘Marriage wouldn’t hurt you one bit.’
A sick feeling roiled around in Robert’s gut. ‘I’m not getting married to a woman who wanted my brother.’
Charlie looked at him coldly over the rim of his brandy glass. ‘Then you shouldn’t have kissed her.’
‘Damn it.’ Robert felt like howling. ‘She kissed me.’
‘You’ve been going to hell for years. Marriage will do you good. It will please Father.’
Robert’s gaze narrowed. He suddenly saw it all. The glimmer of regret in Charlie’s eyes gave him away. ‘You have already discussed this with Father. This is a common front, isn’t it?’ He balled his fists. ‘I ought to beat you to a pulp. How dare you and Father play with my life?’
Charlie’s mouth tightened. ‘No, Robert. You did this all by yourself. Even though I agree with you, it was her bloody fault, you ought to offer for the girl or you’ll leave great blot on the family name.’
‘That’s all you bloody well care about these days.’
‘It’s my job.’
They used to be friends. Now they were worse than strangers. Because Charlie disapproved of everything Robert did.
Robert stared at his older brother. Older by five minutes. Three hundred seconds that gave Charlie everything and left Robert with a small monthly allowance courtesy of his father. And because he’d thought to do his brother a favour, thought it might restore their old easy fun-loving companionship, he’d been cast adrift on a sea of the last thing he wanted: matrimony.
Hot fury roiled in his gut, spurted through his veins, ran in molten rivers until his vision blazed red. ‘No. I won’t do it. Not for Father and not for you. She made her bed, let her lie on it.’
‘Don’t be a fool. Lullington won’t forget this. You’ll never be able to show your face in town again.’
‘I’m a Mountford. With Father’s support…’
Charlie shook his head. ‘He’s furious.’
Bloody hell. Cast out from society, perhaps for all time? It wouldn’t be the first time the ton had discarded one of their own. Robert felt sick. ‘He’ll come around. He has to. Mother will make him see reason.’
‘Never at a loss, are you, Robin?’ Charlie frowned. ‘But I won’t have you upsetting our mother. I’ll talk to Father. Convince him somehow. It’s going to cost a lot of money and if I do this you have to swear to mend your ways.’
Ice filled Robert’s veins. He wanted to smack the disapproving look off his brother’s face. ‘What makes you a saint?’
Charlie gave him a pained look. ‘I’m not.’
‘I don’t suppose you could lend me a pony until quarter day. I’ve some debts pressing.’ Inwardly, he groaned. At least one of which was Lullington’s. Not to mention a diamond pin to present to Maggie.
‘Damn it, Robert.’ He got up and went to a chest in the corner. He unlocked it and pulled out a leather purse. ‘Fifty guineas. If that’s not enough I can give you a draft for up to a thousand. But that’s all.’
‘A thousand?’ Robert whistled. ‘You really are dibs in tune.’
‘I don’t have time to spend it.’ He looked weary, weighed down. Robert didn’t envy him his position of heir one little bit.
Sure his problems were solved, Robert grinned. ‘You need a holiday from all this.’ He waved a hand at the cluttered desk. ‘Want to exchange places again?’
‘You will not,’ a voice thundered. ‘And nor will you give him any money.’
Father. Robert whipped his head around. The brown-eyed silver-haired gentleman framed in the doorway in sartorial splendour glared as Robert rose to his feet. Rigid with anger and pride, Alfred, his Grace the Duke of Stantford, locked his gaze on Charlie. ‘He has brought dishonour to our name. He is no longer welcome in my house.’
Robert felt the blood drain from his face, from his whole body. He couldn’t draw breath as the words echoed in his head. While he and Father didn’t always see eye to eye, he’d never expected this.
Charlie’s eyes widened. ‘Father, it is not entirely Robert’s fault.’
Mealy-mouthed support at best, but then that was Charlie these days. ‘The woman—’
‘Enough,’ Father roared. ‘I heard you. You are not satisfied with being a parasite on this family, a dissolute wastrel and a libertine. No. It’s not enough that you drag our name through the mud. You want your brother’s title.’
The taste of ashes filled Robert’s mouth. ‘Your Grace, no,’ he choked out, ‘it was a jest.’
Stantford’s lip curled, but beneath the bluster he seemed to age from sixty to a hundred in the space a heartbeat. In his eyes, Robert saw fear.
‘You think I don’t know what you are about?’ the old man whispered. ‘An identical brother? I always knew you’d be trouble. You almost succeeded in getting him killed once, but I won’t let it happen again.’
Nausea rolled in Robert’s gut. The room spun as pain seared his heart. ‘I would never harm my brother.’
‘Father,’ Charlie said. ‘I wanted to join the army. I convinced Robert to take my place.’
The duke’s lip curled. ‘I expected he needed a lot of convincing.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Robert said. ‘I thought it was a great lark. How would I know what a mess Waterloo would be? Napoleon was a defeated general.’
They’d all thought that and Charlie, desperate to join the army from the time he could talk, saw it as a chance to fulfil his dream despite Father’s refusal.
Robert had avoided the family while he played at being Charlie for weeks before Waterloo. Had a grand old time. Until he’d felt Charlie’s physical pain in his own body. He’d known something was wrong. But when the lists came out announcing Robert Mountford’s death and the family started to grieve, they thought he’d gone mad. He’d insisted on going to the site of the battle. When he finally found Charlie, one of the many robbed of his clothes and out of his head in a fever, the truth had to come out. After that, Father had refused to have anything to do with Robert. Until today.
‘You are not my son,’ the duke said.
Charlie stared at Father. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You are going too far. I won’t let you do this. Robert will marry the girl. Won’t you?’
Reeling, Robert almost said yes. His spine stiffened. He would not be blackmailed, forced into a mould by his father or anyone else, especially not Miss Penelope Frisken. ‘No. I did not seduce her and I won’t accept the blame.’
‘You idiot,’ Charlie hissed.
‘I want that cur out of my house,’ the duke commanded. ‘I won’t see the name of Mountford blackened any further by this wastrel. He’ll sponge on me no longer.’
Sponge. Was that how he saw it? Without his allowance, he wouldn’t be able to pay his debts. Any of them. He had debts of honour due on quarter day, as well as several tradesmen expecting their due. He’d gone a little deeper than he should have this month, but then he’d expected to come about. And there was always his allowance.
‘You can’t do this.’
His father glared. ‘Watch me.’
A horrid suspicion crept into his mind. Was this Lullington’s plan all along? He was clever enough. Devious enough.
How else had the information about what had happened at White’s reached the duke so quickly? Now Father had the perfect opportunity to be rid of the cuckoo in his nest.
He’d always been inclined to laugh off matters others thought important, but when Charlie had almost died on the battlefield at Waterloo, he knew he should have thought it out a bit more carefully. He never expected this as the end result, though, and he wasn’t going to beg forgiveness for something he hadn’t done.
His stomach churned. He gulped down his bile and drew himself up straight. His face impassive, he stared at his rigid father. ‘As you wish, your Grace. You will never have to set eyes on me again, but first I would like a few minutes alone with Lord Tonbridge.’
The duke didn’t glance in Robert’s direction, addressing himself only to Charlie. ‘There’s nothing for him here. No one is giving him money. I mean that, Tonbridge. Tell him to be out of my house in five minutes or I will have him horsewhipped.’ He wheeled around and shut the door behind him.
Charlie fixed his tortured gaze on Robert’s face. ‘I’ll talk to him. I had no idea his anger went so deep.’
Robert tried to smile. ‘If you try to defend me, it will only make things worse. He’s suspicious enough. He’ll think I have some hold on you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll manage.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll find work.’
At that Charlie cracked a painful laugh. ‘What will you do? Find a woman to employ your services in bed?’
Robert’s hand curled into a fist. He smiled, though it made his cheeks ache. ‘Well now, there is an idea. Any thoughts of who? Your betrothed, perhaps?’
Colour stained Charlie’s cheekbones. ‘Damn it, Robert, I was joking.’
‘Not funny.’ Because it came too close to the truth. He’d prided himself on those skills. Bragged of them. He stared down at the monogrammed carpet and then back up into his brother’s face. ‘You don’t think I planned to take the title?’
‘Of course not,’ Charlie said, his voice thick, ‘but damn it. I should never have gone.’
‘I’d better be off.’ Robert straightened his shoulders.
Charlie held out the bag of guineas. ‘Take this, you’ll need it.’
Pride stiffened his shoulders. ‘No. I’ll do this without any help. And when the creditors come to call, tell them they’ll have their money in due course.’
Charlie gave him a diffident smile. ‘Stay in touch. I’ll let you know when it is safe to return. I’ll pay off the girl. Find her a husband.’
Even as Charlie spoke Robert realized the truth. ‘Nothing you can do will satisfy Lullington and his cronies. I’m done for here. Father is right. My leaving is the only way to save the family honour.’ A lump formed in his throat, making his voice stupidly husky. ‘Take care of yourself, brother. And take care of Mama and the children.’
An expression of panic entered Charlie’s eyes, gone before Robert could be sure. ‘I don’t want you to go.’
Puzzled, Robert stared at him. Charlie had always been the confident one. Never wanting any help from Robert. In fact, since Waterloo, he’d grown ever more distant.
Wishful thinking. It was the sort of pro-forma thing family members said on parting. He grinned. ‘I’d better go before the grooms arrived with the whips.’ Just saying it made his skin crawl.
Charlie looked sick. ‘He wouldn’t. He’s angry, but I’m sure he will change his mind after reflection.’
They both knew their father well enough to know he was incapable of mind-changing.
Robert clapped his brother on the shoulder. The lump seemed to swell. He swallowed hard. ‘Charlie, try to have a bit more fun. You don’t want to end up like Father.’
Charlie looked at him blankly.
Robert let go a shaky breath. He’d tried. ‘When I’m settled, I’ll drop you a note,’ he said thickly, his chest full, his eyes ridiculously misted.
He strode for the door and hurtled down the stairs, before he cried like a baby.
Out on the street, he looked back at a house now closed to him for ever. Father had always acted as if he wished Robert had never been born. Now he’d found a way to make it true.
He turned away. One foot planted in front of the other on the flagstones he barely saw, heading for the Albany. Each indrawn breath burned the back of his throat. He felt like a boy again pushed aside in favour of his brother. Well, he was a boy no longer. He was his own man, with nothing but the clothes on his back. Without an income from the estate, he couldn’t even afford his lodgings.
All these years, he’d taken his position for granted, never saved, never invested. He’d simply lived life to the full. Now it seemed the piper had to be paid or the birds had come home to roost, whichever appropriate homily applied. What the hell was he to do? How would he pay his debts?
Ask Maggie for help? Charlie’s question roared in his ear. No. He would not be a kept man. The thought of servicing any woman for money made him shudder. If he did that he might just as well marry Penelope. And he might have, if she hadn’t been so horrified when she realised he wasn’t Charlie.
Father would scratch his name out of the family annals altogether if he turned into a cicisbeo. A kept man.
It would be like dying, only worse because it would be as if he never existed. The thought brought him close to shattering in a thousand pieces on the pavement. The green iron railings at his side became a lifeline in a world pitching like a dinghy in a storm. He clutched at it blindly. The metal bit cold into his palm. He stared at his bare hand. Where the hell had he left his gloves?
Gloves? Who the hell cared about gloves? He started to laugh, throwing back his head and letting tears of mirth run down his face.
An old gentleman with a cane walking towards him swerved aside and crossed the street at a run.
Hilarity subsided and despair washed over him at the speed of a tidal bore. He’d never felt so alone in his life.
God damn it. He would not lie down meekly.
He didn’t need a dukedom to make a success of his life.
