Forever Your Earl (26 page)

Goddamn Eleanor and her continuing insight. It was one of the parts of her he admired, but right now, he wished she could be a little less perceptive.

Uncertainty brimmed in Catherine's eyes as she looked up at Daniel.

He muttered a curse under his breath. What could he do? Continue to hide his real mission from Eleanor? He'd already revealed it. And she might learn more on her own. It would be far better if she heard the facts from him rather than from another source.

Hell. This was no easy decision. Yet at the heart of it, sudden understanding struck him. He trusted Eleanor. Trusted her enough to grant her the truth.

Somberly, he contemplated the task before him. But it wasn't just his secret to keep.

“You'll have to tell her,” Catherine said, as though reading his thoughts. “Or else there's no knowing what she'll publish in that paper of hers.”

“She's standing right here,” Eleanor interjected, planting her hands on her hips. “And, depending on whether you're honest or not, that will certainly affect what I decide to print.”

Still, he continued to hesitate. He'd never made such a momentous decision before.

“Tell her, Ashford,” Catherine said, weariness making her sound far older than seventeen. She dropped into one of the chairs. “I cannot keep the weight of secrets to myself any longer.”

There seemed to be no other option. Catherine had given her permission. And, if he wanted to be honest with himself as well, he, too, felt the strain of carrying the burden. A heavy load that was always with him. At least speaking of it might release some of the pressure, like a valve.

So, taking a breath, Daniel revealed the grim details to Eleanor. Jonathan's return from the war. His decline and descent. His ultimate disappearance, and his family's inability to do anything about it, even after his elder brother passed away.

“Upstanding ­people,” Eleanor said under her breath. “I knew about them, of course, but only the superficial elements. Never the . . . darker details.”

Catherine reddened. “Undoubtedly, my family isn't of much use when faced with, ah, difficulties.”

“A deeply troubled son isn't a difficulty,” Eleanor said. “It's a call to duty.”

Daniel said, “The Duke of Holcombe doesn't have an expansive imagination when it comes to duty. Not even when it comes to his son and heir.”

He detailed his and Catherine's quest for her brother, unproductive though their searches had been. He even revealed the true reason why he'd approached Eleanor to write the articles in the first place—­as a means of throwing her off the trail so that he might continue to track down his old friend without her eyes upon his other activities.

It felt like a purge. One of those old medieval cures. Or even a bleeding. An attempt to balance the humors. All the darkness and uncertainty of the past few months spilled out upon the plush carpeting.

When he was finished, he felt worn out, spent. Catherine, too, looked pale and drawn, as though hearing her brother's story again brought on fresh pain. He crossed the room, took her hand in his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze, though he felt anything but certain.

“And there it is,” he said, his voice hoarse. “The whole of it. It would be worse than catastrophic should anyone find out about Jonathan's descent and disappearance. Even a dukedom has its limits to scandal. You remember what happened to the Duke of Sawfort's son last year when it was discovered he lived at a brothel and frequented opium dens? He and his family became pariahs. His sisters cannot find men willing to be their husbands, and the sons have fled to the Continent.”

“I recall.” Eleanor's glance toward him was opaque, but her gaze softened, turning sympathetic as she addressed Catherine. “I'm heartily sorry, Miss Lawson, for all that you and your family have endured.” Sincerity marked her words and shone in her eyes.

“Thank you.” Catherine produced a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes, though she seemed almost too weary for tears.

“There haven't been enough men in Parliament arguing for the welfare of veterans,” Eleanor said darkly. “Former soldiers see and endure such horrors. That changes a man. Yet they're expected to return to civilian life as if waking from a dream, leaving all that behind them. An unfair demand.”

“It is.” Catherine sighed. “And I'm afraid that what my brother woke to was even more of a nightmare. I hope—­we hope—­that he can be brought back from those shadows. If it isn't too late.”

“You'll find him,” Eleanor said with conviction. She looked as though she was going to stride across the room to Catherine, but her gaze snagged on Daniel, and she stayed on the other side of the chamber. “And with your care, he'll be brought back to himself.”

“Again, that is my hope,” said Catherine.

“You're very young to be so courageous,” Eleanor said, warmth in her voice.

“There wasn't much choice,” the girl answered.

“There was indeed a choice,” Eleanor returned stoutly. “Most girls, most
­people,
would hide from or crumble beneath such a burden. But you've done admirably.”

Though she still looked exhausted, Catherine smiled with appreciation at Eleanor's praise. Kindness and sympathy continued to radiate from Eleanor.

When she turned to Daniel, however, her expression was as impenetrable and unreadable as midnight.

“I have to go,” she said. “It's late, and I need to get to work.”

“And we need to go, as well,” Catherine added. She released Daniel's hand. “One of my informants told me someone closely matching Jonathan's description was spotted in Wapping early this morning. He has a limp now, but the hair color matched.”

Eleanor walked quickly from her side of the chamber to the drawing room door. He caught up with her.

His hand threaded with hers. In a low voice, he asked, “What will you do?”

He'd just entrusted her with his most guarded secret, but he had no idea what she would do with it. Had last night changed anything for her? And what about now? She'd finally learned the truth he'd kept concealed from her, and now knew why he'd approached her for the articles in
The
Hawk's
Eye.

But they'd had no time to talk of last night. Or anything else.

Was she angry at his concealment? Could he rely upon her to keep the secret of Jonathan's disappearance? And what was this ache he felt when he beheld the distance in her gaze?

Damn, he'd never thought much about the feelings of his lovers. They would use each other for mutual enjoyment, and part ways as impersonally as business partners ending a corporation.

Yet he needed to know what Eleanor thought, what she felt. They'd only just begun to forge a bond between them—­was that all gone now?

Everything was in bloody chaos.

“I don't know,” she answered simply. Then slipped from his grasp. He would not grab for her again—­if she stayed, it would be by her choice. And if she left . . . that was her decision, too, much as it sent a wrench of pain through him. She might never return.

He could only watch as she walked out of the drawing room. Then out into the foyer. She stepped across the threshold of his home. Morning sunlight swallowed her. She disappeared.

He turned back to Catherine, who now stood and paced the room. She stopped and took one look at his face. A new sorrow filled her gaze. “Love is terrible, isn't it?” she murmured.

Daniel started. “Who said anything about love? And what do you know of it?” he asked, his words edged with anger at the whole bloody situation. “You're only a child.”

Her smile was rueful. “I lost my childhood when Jonathan returned from the war. And I know enough about love to realize that it mostly brings pain.”

He rubbed at his forehead. Was this love? He had no experience with it.

He was raw and aching, uncertain in a way he'd never experienced before. He wanted nothing more than to retreat like an injured animal to lick his wounds. Wounds that had been caused by the most delightful, maddening knife.

But Jonathan might be out there. Whatever he might or might not be feeling for Eleanor, he had his duty to his friend, and to Catherine. He was torn, a new sensation for him. Whatever happened today, the echoes of this morning with Eleanor would continue to reverberate—­for a long, long time.

 

Chapter 19

It is a common enough assertion that one demands honesty exclusively in one's dealings. After all, who does not desire to know the truth? Yet the desire for perfect transparency and the actual practice of it can be received with wildly differing responses.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 18, 1816

E
leanor sat in one of the velvet-­lined boxes at the Imperial, arms propped on the railing. She watched without seeing as the theatrical troupe rehearsed Maggie's latest play—­something that involved many doors, and the opening and slamming of those doors. The actors stood with pages of the script in their hands, posing, always posing, as they called out their lines. Maggie herself hovered at the edge of the stage, though the manager, Mr. Courtland, seemed to have things well in hand as he maneuvered the actors like chess pieces. But Maggie always watched rehearsals. She'd confessed to Eleanor that she could never allow her work fully to be handed over to someone else. Eleanor understood that impulse very well.

Even now, Maggie stepped forward, gesticulating as she suggested a particular piece of stage business. Courtland shook his head. Maggie ignored him, moving one of the actresses into position. Courtland moved the actress back to where she'd been before. The poor performer looked mystified as the writer and the manager squabbled over her like a contested toy, tugging her back and forth. The orchestra held their instruments at the ready, in case anything should be resolved and they could actually perform their jobs.

The ghost of a smile touched Eleanor's lips. Yet her heart twisted with indecision and worry. She'd written her latest article about Daniel two days ago, and today would see the piece distributed in the latest issue of
The
Hawk's Eye
. He'd read it. All of London would read it.

She'd given back the gown. In return, he'd sent her a plain but excellently made quill sharpening set.

For the first time in her life, she wondered if she'd made the right decision with an article.

That wasn't the only doubt tormenting her. It had buried like brambles beneath her skin, until she'd had to take refuge away from the paper, somewhere that might offer her a measure of distraction. So she'd come here, to the theater. Yet despite the dramas occurring on the stage, she thought of nothing but Daniel. Of them.

He'd bravely revealed much about himself that night, leaving himself open and exposed. An act of profound trust. He'd protected her. Then tried so very hard to make her comfortable in his home.

They'd finally made love. And it had surpassed her every experience. Not merely because the physical sensations had been sublime. But because it had been
him
. Because he knew her, and had striven to give her pleasure at any cost.

The line between writer and subject had been irrevocably crossed. It had some time ago, but that night was the sun setting on any prospect of objectivity.

Especially after he'd told her about his missing friend, Jonathan Lawson. A highly esteemed, powerful family's darkest secret. Entrusted to her.

She'd always known that he'd had an ulterior motive. No one would willingly offer themselves up to that kind of exposure and scrutiny without having some rationale. And his had been a strong one.

She couldn't muster any anger at being used. Had she been in Daniel's place, she would have done the same. At the beginning, especially, there had been no connection, no bond, between them. They'd been mutual exploiters.

All that had changed. They were so much more to each other now. Whenever she thought of him—­which was constantly—­her heart throbbed, and electricity danced through her body. She'd alternate between waves of inexplicable happiness and grayest melancholy.

What was it? How to explain these feelings?

The action onstage had degenerated into a full-­fledged yelling match between Maggie and Courtland. Their voices bounced off the empty walls of the theater. Actors clustered in groups, watching the action, though they seemed quite familiar with these confrontations between the writer and the manager. An older actress even yawned into her script. Yet no one was foolish enough to step between Maggie and Courtland. The actors and orchestra seemed resigned to waiting.

Maggie had warned Eleanor about becoming involved with Daniel. And, imprudently, Eleanor had assured Maggie that nothing would happen. That she'd remain aloof and untouched by Daniel's charm. Had it merely been a matter of magnetism, glib compliments, and rakish charisma, Eleanor would have been safe. But, damn it, there had been so much more than that.

The revelation had come as an intriguing surprise.

He'd shown himself as he truly was. A man of strength. Honor. And uncertainty.

Though he'd hidden it behind a veneer of nonchalance, she knew he cared about her work. He hadn't been able to disguise his respect and admiration when she'd shown him the paper's operations. Even seemed to appreciate the mountain of work she'd put into the paper, that it was her creation alone. What other man—­especially of his station—­would ever feel that way about a woman's efforts?

And what was she supposed to do now? He'd read the article soon, and know what she'd done. But what did it all mean?

She rested her forehead on the railing, closing her eyes.

Had she gone and fallen
in love
with him? Despite all precautions? And knowing that love between a man of his station and a woman of hers could only end in disaster?

As a journalist, she had to question everything. Investigate.

What did love feel like? That, she didn't know. Yet when she thought about Daniel, her heart leapt. Time apart from him made the world seem gray and wearisome. Her mind constantly strayed to him like a ship upon a current. And when she thought about her life without him, everything within her grew heavy and dull.

If this isn't love, I don't know what is.

Disaster. An unmitigated disaster. Even if, by some act of God, he returned her feelings, they couldn't do anything about it. An earl. A woman of no name, no blood. ­People who would, under most circumstances, have no truck with each other. Yet she and Daniel had come to know one another through the articles. They knew their innermost secrets and selves.

Perhaps they might enjoy each other as lovers for a time, but it could never be anything more. He was an earl. She was not just a commoner but a woman who worked. They had no future together. She'd read—­and written—­accounts of noblemen and women who'd dallied with those not of aristocratic blood. It never worked out well for the commoners. They were often disgraced, cast aside by their lovers as well as their friends and families. Left alone and humiliated.

At the thought, the animal of her heart snarled and slunk. It didn't like being denied. But what choice was there?

She thought again of his friend. Daniel risked everything to find the missing, fallen Jonathan Lawson. A man lost to himself after the horrors of war. Daniel could have turned away from Miss Lawson's plea, concerned about the scandal to himself if he went in search of the disappeared man, but he hadn't. And that made the ache in Eleanor's chest grow, like a dark star.

She knew one thing: sitting here at the theater, lost in her thoughts, would only generate more confusion and doubt. She needed to
do
something. To move. To act. How? She didn't know. This was virgin territory.

For years, she'd reported on the actions of others, observing the world but not being fully part of it. Then Daniel had come into her life, and all that had changed. She was in the world now. There was no hiding, no turning away.

And there was something she had to do.

D
aniel had never respected the power of a newspaper before. They were only ink and paper, after all, and his social position was largely untouchable. The prerogative of the aristocracy. He hadn't cared—­not very much, anyway—­what the papers said about him. But it wasn't his own reputation he was concerned about when he picked up the latest issue of
The
Hawk's Eye
.

It was Catherine and Jonathan's.

He'd revealed their deepest secret to Eleanor. True—­it was at Catherine's urging, but the damage, whatever it might be, was done. The truth was out.

Sadly, the expedition he and Catherine had undertaken to Wapping had been unsuccessful. If Jonathan had been there, he'd vanished again by the time they'd arrived. They had combed through taverns and cheap lodging houses. To no avail. The whole of the day had been one exercise in frustration after another. His heart had been divided in two, thinking about both finding Jonathan and seeing Eleanor again. And Catherine had been too upset afterwards for Daniel to leave her on her own. By the time he'd seen her settled, it had been too late to go to Eleanor.

Sitting now beside the fire in his study, he had the most recent issue of
The Hawk's Eye
on his lap. Unread.

Could he truly, fully trust her, even after everything they'd had together? And what did it say about the nature of their . . . association . . . that he now questioned her?

Every moment of wakefulness had been spent in edgy contemplation of Eleanor. What she meant to him. And he to her. How they could navigate the rocky shoals of social position, duty, and honesty.

There was only one way to know for certain whether or not he'd made a mistake in trusting her.

So he picked up the newspaper. Began to read. The only sound in the room came from the patter of rain against the windows and the pop of the fire behind its grate. And the crinkling turn of pages as Daniel read the latest
To Ride with a Rake
article.

At great and detailed length, she reported on the masquerade, and he nearly smiled at her descriptions of the outrageous evening. It
had
been outrageous. Her sharp and observant eye had picked out details he'd forgotten about or hadn't noticed, down to the overabundance of Cleopatras, and the steps of the scandalous dances. The wild, unbridled atmosphere was captured with expressive language, though she named no names.

However, she described her near assault in cold, brittle words, not hiding her anger and contempt for the man who'd tried to hurt her. Daniel found the paper crumpling in his hands as he went over the account, his own rage boiling up again like a flame brought higher beneath a simmering pot. He'd let the bastard off too easily. If Daniel ever encountered him again, he'd be certain to beat him thoroughly, until breathing became an agony.

No one
hurt Eleanor. And if they were fool enough to try, Daniel would make them regret it to the end of their days.

Had he hurt her with his own deception? If he had, he'd do everything in his power to make things right between them.

He kept reading. After the description of her assault, she wrote a little more about the masquerade.

The article came to a close. It said nothing about the kiss he and Eleanor had shared, which didn't surprise him. She'd only harm her own reputation by admitting it. And she certainly omitted them making love.

But . . . there was naught about Jonathan. Not a word about Catherine. Or the Duke of Holcombe. That whole sordid, sad tale was omitted.

Daniel pawed through the paper, searching other articles for mention of the family's secret. Nothing. It was as if Eleanor hadn't heard the most hidden, darkest confidence. As though the conversation, and what it revealed, had never happened.

Slowly, he lowered the paper. It drifted to the floor, released by numb fingers.

She'd kept her silence. Shown herself to be trustworthy, honorable. A stab of shame lanced him, that he might briefly doubt her. But there'd been no cause for his doubt.

That swell of emotion filled him again—­the emotion that Catherine had been so quick to name, and he feared. But there it was. Making him feel both enormous and small. But mostly powerful. Potential thrummed through his veins.

God—­was it true? Did he love her?

The word didn't terrify him this time. Instead, it felt profoundly right. The cornerpiece to a structure, making it stronger, more stable.

He loved her. The thought rocked through him, pinning him in place, as though stuck through with a knight's lance. But it was a good wound. An injury that healed more than it hurt.

A small whisper curled through the back of his head.
What if she doesn't want me?
He'd caught her trying to sneak out of his house, after all. And earlier this morning, her masquerade dress had been delivered to him without a note. He'd actually held it up to his face and inhaled, trying to catch her scent.

But was it all delusion? A one-­sided madness? God—­could he bear that?

He shot to his feet. He had to see her. Talk to her. Tell her . . . he wasn't certain. But the need to be with her burned him like the urge itself to live.

She hadn't responded to the quill sharpener he'd sent her. But she hadn't returned it, either. That itself was a good sign. He had to seize whatever possibilities he could.

After he pulled the bell, his butler appeared.

There must have been a look of urgency on Daniel's face, because the butler asked, “The carriage, my lord?”

“Have the grooms saddle Winter for me,” he directed. “No, I'll take Dame. She's the fastest.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler bowed and disappeared.

After hurrying upstairs, Daniel dressed for a fast, hard ride through the streets of London. He'd see Eleanor within the hour, but even that wasn't soon enough.
See her. Be near her.
These thoughts drummed through his blood.

What would he say? At the least, he'd thank her for her discretion. Apologize for ever doubting her. Tell her . . . God . . . he didn't know. Reveal his feelings? Yes. No.

Or he could show her. Shut the door to her office, pull the blinds, and hold her close.