Cheryl Holt (31 page)

The three-story row house, tucked in along the narrow lane with scores of others that were nearly exact copies, was a cozy, comfortable abode, just the type of place he’d always imagined Angela would select for herself. Only three blocks from the theater, a few more from James’s and Michael’s gaming house, it was conveniently located and set smack in the middle of all the hustle and bustle he used to share with her when they were so young, so foolish, and so madly in love.

Their world had been exciting, enchanting, filled with gaiety and pleasure, their home always overflowing with her friends and coworkers—of whom she’d had so many. People constantly gathered around her. She had a sparkle and charisma that made you long to be close, to bask in her glow and energy, to have some of her attention focused in your direction.

James had acquired her natural flare, and, from what
he’d gathered, Michael had received a healthy dose of it, too. While they were both handsome lads, endowed with his height, masculine physique, and intellect, he had no illusions about why they were so sought-after by those who occupied their demimonde. It was their inheriting of Angela’s seductiveness that had turned them into the forceful, admirable men they had grown to be.

Women flocked to their sides, aspiring toward liaisons and more. Men clamored to be their associates, their partners. It was simply impossible to be in the same room with one of them and not be drawn in. They both maintained a heavy measure of Angela’s allure, and as he himself had learned from the first, her enticement was irresistible.

Oh, what a lucky, unlucky man he was! To have sired such magnificent, strapping sons! But to have witnessed only the smallest part of their development, so that now, watching them from afar, all he could do was lament over what might have been.

What was he going to do about James? After their quarrel the previous night, with all of fashionable London looking on, he didn’t know what would become of their intermittent, strained relationship. If they never spoke again, he wouldn’t be surprised. James was so regularly angry, either unwilling or unable to forgive the sins of the past, and with their latest exchange of bitter words, Edward saw little chance of them ever gaining any ground.

Throughout the last decade, he’d endeavored unsuccessfully to be James’s friend, and an occasional father figure, even though James stridently insisted he didn’t need one, but it was too difficult to pretend they were anything more than strangers feigning an affection James plainly didn’t feel. Edward was unsure of what had transpired in James’s early years to make him so virulent in his dislike. No matter what Edward attempted, he was unable to bridge their gaps.

To be loathed by his oldest son was burden enough, but his second son appeared to despise him, as well, creating a load that was doubly cumbrous to bear. Michael obviously
harbored an intense antipathy of his own that he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—put aside.

What a mess he’d created, by forsaking his children, by severing his connection with Angela. At the time, it had seemed the only appropriate and logical step, but who could recognize the proper course at such a young age? He’d been little more than a child himself and incapable of foreseeing the unending sorrow and distress his flip decision would cause. His behavior toward the three of them remained a brewing cauldron of guilt and shame that he couldn’t tamp down.

“Oh, Angie,” he whispered, sending his lingering affection winging to her doorstep. His transgressions were weighing heavily, and he felt such a tremendous desire to atone. Especially after fighting with James again, he desperately desired the opportunity to confer with her, to share some of his anguish, for she was the only person to whom he could go with his worries and discouragement.

But if he approached her, what would she say? Would they be able to take up again, just like the old days? She’d been his only constant, the other half of a whole, the part that was missing. Would that still be true? Or, would he only become further disheartened because, just as with his sons, too many wounds had been inflicted that could not be healed?

From the very first moment he’d laid eyes upon her, he’d been smitten. Over the intervening months, and the handful of too-short years, his ardor had bloomed into a full-fledged love that, apparently, had endured through the twenty-five years in which they’d been separated. He’d tried to deny it, tried to tell himself that he’d built a good and solid life without her and their sons. That he’d moved on—as had she—and it had all turned out for the best.

But he didn’t really believe it.

He still vividly remembered every aspect of that longago Wednesday when he’d returned to London, only to discover that his small family had vanished without a trace. Upon the death of his older brother, Edward had become
the earl and thus required to marry. In her head, Angela had rationalized his newly earned responsibility, but in her heart, she’d never come to terms with it.

She’d firmly declared that she couldn’t stay to watch, but he hadn’t listened to her blaring insistence that she would leave England. He’d never taken her anguish seriously, never aided her in her efforts to find a workable solution. Naively, he’d simply assumed her love was so vast that she would never go.

Many months later, after an extensive investigation, he’d learned their whereabouts, and he’d initially planned to rush to Paris to bring them home, but he’d listened to older—seemingly wiser—counsel. From his uncles. From his father’s associates.

With his wedding only weeks away, they had argued, what was to be gained? Why inflict the humiliation on his bride, especially when he would have presently sired his heir? They’d maintained that Angela and the boys were better off away; that they had been naught but a youthful indiscretion. With his destiny at hand, they’d contended, he’d grown beyond illicit relationships and bastard children. The opportunity was ripe to establish himself as a man of consequence among his peers.

Disgustingly, he’d let them convince him to do nothing—a failure to act that had haunted him now for nearly three decades. Because deep in his soul, his great love for Angela had not been immature or wrong. Despite the fact that he’d never married her, he’d considered her to be his wife in every way, and he’d never deemed his children to be illegitimate. They’d been born to devoted parents, wanted and adored, an immense joy.

To his undying shame, his sole response had been to set up a trust account for her. His solicitors had contacted her, and then he’d waited impatiently for news that she’d extracted some of the funds he’d so callously imparted, but she never had. Never so much as a single farthing, and he was compelled to confront the fact, on a daily basis, that they’d gotten along perfectly fine without him. His tough,
capable family, the one he’d produced with such delight and impetuosity, hadn’t really needed him. It was a bitter tonic to swallow.

Over the years, he’d kept tabs on them, uncovering the details of how they were faring, and of course acquaintances were ever eager to mention when they’d seen her on the stage in Paris. She’d flourished there beyond her wildest dreams, so it had been a wonderful shock and surprise to find out that she had returned to London. But he’d been married, raising his other children, so he’d never visited her, but he’d immediately sought to correct some of his earlier misdeeds.

He’d attempted to establish an association with James, which had never been easy. The boy remembered too little of the fondness that had once bound them together. Yet he was a dutiful and loyal son, a hard worker, who was bright and energetic. Edward had given him the gaming house, knowing that James would thrive at the business, that he’d earn a lot of money, and that he would judiciously use it to care for Angela.

His financial support of his mother had allowed her to continue her acting without the stress over her income. Her passion for the theater had never diminished, and she was as involved as ever, able now to do it for fun instead of as a method for putting food on their table.

Watching her the previous night . . . as she’d captivated and vamped, twirled and floated across the stage . . . That voice! Those eyes! It was as though not a day had passed since he’d last seen her, and he couldn’t fathom why he’d delayed so long in dropping by.

What would she say
, he tortured himself for the hundredth time,
if she opened the door and saw me standing there?

Tired of debating over what the answer would be, he forced himself from the carriage and sent the driver on his way. Resolutely, he marched down the block, then climbed the steps. With a shaking hand, he rapped loudly. No sounds emerged, so he knocked again and was rewarded
by footsteps. A lock grated, a handle rotated, a door swung back, and . . .

There she was, every bit as vibrant and lovely as he recalled. Her hair had some added strands of silver, and there were a few wrinkles around her beautiful eyes and mouth, but to his uncritical eye, she was as stunning as she’d been on the morning they’d met when she’d been just a seventeen-year-old girl, a struggling, unknown, talented actress with big plans and high hopes, and a zest for living he’d never found matched in another.

“Eddy?” She smiled in that ravishing manner she had. “Is it really you?”

“Yes, Angie.” He paused, suddenly shy as a green lad with his first crush. “May I come in?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

She stepped aside to allow him entrance, then closed the door and gave him a tight hug and, easy as that, it was as though he’d never been gone a single day.

Michael walked slowly toward their house, relieved when he viewed their stoop. He stunk like the dockside tavern where he’d finally located James. Retrieving his older brother from the place had been difficult, however, so he was covered with grime, his jacket sleeve ripped, his shirtfront speckled with some unlucky fellow’s blood. His fingers ached from the punches he’d thrown, and his ribs hurt where he’d caught several blows. He yearned for a hot bath, then he would fall into bed for a few hours of mindless oblivion before he had to be back at the club for the beginning of the evening of play.

James was lagging somewhere behind, but Michael refused to look over his shoulder to see if his incorrigible sibling was following. At the moment, James could stumble off the face of the earth and Michael wouldn’t care overly much about the loss.

The Saturday night debacle at the theater had dispatched customers and acquaintances to the gaming house, eager to relay all the sordid particulars. That James had had a public
encounter with Edward Stevens was bad enough, but that he’d aired so much of their family’s private business in such a common fashion was unforgivable. Their continuing conflict with Edward was nobody’s affair, especially not those toplofty bastards—the lowlifes and slackers of High Society—that Stevens called his peers.

James was the only person who grasped how deeply Michael loathed their father, for the simple reason that James had also survived Edward’s abandonment. Though Michael always insisted he didn’t recall Edward from their childhood, he was lying. He had several precious and distinct memories of the father whom he had loved beyond imagining, which only served to increase his current level of disregard for the man.

James knew—he knew!—how horribly upsetting any sort of altercation would be, yet he had forged ahead and involved himself in a spat. Michael’s opinion was that they should keep Edward Stevens out of their lives, proceeding as though they had no father. After all, it was what Edward had intended, yet James persisted in imposing the blackguard into their peaceful existence at every turn.

Michael didn’t know what Edward had privately said to James after they’d removed themselves from all those gawking onlookers in the theater lobby, but whatever his comments, they had sent James into an appalling decline. When he hadn’t returned to the club Saturday night, Michael hadn’t worried. Sunday morning hadn’t caused much concern, either. But as Sunday night had approached and there had been no word, Michael had begun to fret, and he’d dispersed several of their most discreet employees onto the dark streets, but James hadn’t been at any of his usual haunts.

It had taken most of Monday to ferret him out. Drunk and raging, he’d been wagering at a seedy tavern notorious for its despicable clientele and the disgusting pastimes that were practiced in the back rooms. With a whore on his lap, and having lost several thousand pounds to an Italian sea captain who was probably cheating, he had refused to vacate
the premises, and his fellow gamblers hadn’t been content to see him go until his debts were squared. With assistance from the three employees who’d accompanied him—and none from his brother—Michael had forcibly dragged James out, even as he wondered why he didn’t just leave James to his own devices.

All the while, he couldn’t help pondering what had really happened to James. His brother had suffered through previous antagonistic disagreements with Edward, too many to count, so his condition had been far beyond that which Edward’s reprimand would have induced. Something else was eating at him, something that had him delirious with frustration and completely out of control.

It was the woman’s fault, Michael suspected. That Abigail Weston. Since the theater debacle, the bloody female had dared to relay five unsigned messages for James to the club. Though they contained no signature, Michael was well aware of who had authored them. In each, she begged and pleaded with James for a rendezvous.

James continued to fabricate and lie, but Michael had worked out the truth: James was involved with her, yet she was prancing about London on Edward’s arm and rumored to be his new lady love. Without a doubt, she was the underlying explanation for James’s recent breakdown, and Michael planned to deal with her as soon as he could get his brother into some kind of stable situation.

If the blasted woman didn’t have the good sense to leave James alone, Michael intended to see to it that she recognized the error of her ways. No way in hell was his mother going to endure a repeated calamity like the occasion when James had married his spoiled little
ton
princess. There were numerous methods Michael could devise to ensure that Lady Abigail listened to reason, and he would try all of them until he achieved his goal. The idiotic noblewoman needed to scurry back to her ivory tower before her irresponsible behavior perpetuated any more chaos.