Forever Your Earl (33 page)

She stiffened. “You love your wife, do you not, my lord?”

“You shall not speak of her,” he ground out. “And love will not protect you. It cannot. Perhaps you've heard of Lord Fleming, and his reckless decision to marry an opera dancer? They thought love would shield them, but it didn't.” He peered at her. “I can see by the ashen color in your cheeks that you know exactly to whom I'm referring, and the ultimate end to their ill-­advised union.”

Eleanor tried to swallow, but nothing would go past the rock that lodged itself in her throat. “We are not those ­people, my lord.”

“You know I'm speaking the truth,” he countered. But his tone was almost gentle. “Ashford will not do his duty while you continue to remain in his life, yet there is nothing in the future for either of you but misery. He will have to leave you eventually. Would you rather you part ways now, before you can truly hurt him, or later, when he'll be devastated?”

She pressed her lips together tightly. Damn Lord Allam. Damn him. He understood her weakness wasn't herself but Daniel. And the marquess was perfectly willing to exploit that weakness.

“I know you care for my godson,” Lord Allam went on. “I also know you're a very intelligent woman. Which is why I believe you will do the right thing. Because you understand, in your deepest heart and intellect, that it must be done.” He nodded at her. “Good evening, Miss Hawke.”

She did not wish him a good night as he turned and left. Instead, she sank down, back into her chair. The clock chimed the quarter of the hour.

In less than fifteen minutes, her entire world had fallen apart.

H
ours later, the front door opened and closed again. Voices murmured in the foyer. Then a familiar tread sounded out in the hallway. The door to the study opened again.

Daniel peered in, frowning in concern as she now sat in one of the wingback chairs in front of the fire. “I thought you'd be in bed by now.”

She couldn't speak. Only shook her head.

He came inside, closing the door behind him. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” she managed. But it wasn't. It felt even worse when he came and crouched before her, taking her hands in his. He smelled of tobacco and the night, and all she wanted was to throw her arms around him. She didn't, holding herself still.

“I can see that it isn't,” he said softly.

She tugged her hands out of his and clenched them. Fear had been gnawing along her bones, and she couldn't keep it contained within herself any longer.

“I won't cry,” she said, focusing on her fists. “Not in front of you, anyway . . .” She looked at him. Her eyes did, in fact, burn, but she willed everything inside.

He wouldn't take his eyes from her.

“Why would you cry?” he asked.

She shrugged. As she spoke, her words felt like shards of ice. “Ever since we left Whitechapel, I could feel it.” She rose and stepped around him. “The chill of a door left open. You on one side, me on the other. And then the door closing.”

She could hear him rise to standing. “I don't want this to end.”

All she wanted was to rail and rage. Which would only shame them both. If this had to stop, she would try to console herself with clinging to scraps of dignity. Even if she might regret it later. It was like writing one's own epitaph.

“It's time. We both know it. It's always had a limited life span.”

He spoke behind her. “I've never said anything like that.” He gripped her arms and turned her around, but she focused on the loosened knot of his cravat rather than look into his eyes. “And I won't let you hide in some polished, brittle performance.”

“What do you want of me?” she demanded. “Hysterics? Hair pulling and begging?” She now tilted up her chin. “I don't beg.” Fractures spread through her. Yet she would wait until she was in the shelter of her own rooms to allow herself to fall apart.

“Then don't,” he countered. “You've decided what I'm going to say before a word leaves my lips. And the bloody last thing I want to do is end this.”

Relief almost made her sag. Yet her legs held her up as her heart careened toward the ceiling. “Ah.”

“Yes, ‘ah.' ” Wry humor glinted in his eyes. “The least you could do is fight for me.”

“And risk looking like a fool?”

His gaze turned melancholy. “Love makes us fools.”

Surely she hadn't heard right. Surely he hadn't said—­

“Yes, my lady scribe,” he said, taking another step closer, until they were chest to chest. “I love you.”

All she could do was stare. It was either that, or finally give in to the tears that threatened to burst forth. “How . . . ?”

“The poets say it's the usual turn of events when someone finds they can't live without another. You're the beat of my heart.”

Brightness expanded within her, radiating out like the dawn. It was a happiness so severe that she might not endure it. It could tear her apart. Accompanied by a limitless sorrow. She'd never known those two feelings could exist side by side—­not with such profundity. “Daniel—­”

“So don't tell me you're going to play this cold and noble,” he said with vehemence. “Because I bloody well won't have it.”

She rose up onto the tips of her toes, then took his mouth with a hunger that surprised even herself.

A long while later, she said, “You've a peculiar way of showing a woman you love her.”

“Never done it before,” he answered. “Going to make a few mistakes.”

“You're forgiven.”

He held her closer, his long, lean body enfolding her. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“You know.”

She did. And it would ruin her to speak the words aloud—­yet she couldn't stop herself. “I love you.”

He had the look of a man enormously relieved, deeply satisfied. If possible, he seemed to grow even taller, broader. He cupped her head and kissed her once more. A thorough, delicious ravishing.

She'd never known pain like this. Hadn't comprehended it was possible. Because
they
were impossible. And his declaration of love only made it worse. Love couldn't hold out against the reality of their situation. Lord Allam's visit had only confirmed what she already knew.

Breaking the kiss, she gasped. “I . . . have to go.”

“Eleanor—­” He reached for her.

But she'd already turned and fled. It would never be far enough.

 

Chapter 25

Forgiveness is an uncommon and precious quality, and its origins begin with the ability to forgive one's self before it can be extended to anyone else.

The Hawk's Eye
, May 30, 1816

T
hough he burned to clutch the reins tightly, Daniel was careful to keep his grip on them loose. His horse was already finely tuned to the commands he sent through the ribbons, and he didn't want to communicate his nervousness to the animal.

But Eleanor, perched beside him on the seat, shifted for the dozenth time and tapped her foot without seeming to realize it. She kept glancing around at the small crowd that had formed in this corner of the park. Others had deduced the location of the “race” and were eager to join in the fun—­though there was, in truth, no fun to be had. As Mrs. Delamere might say, it was all set dressing. Pretend revelry in order to lure Jonathan out of hiding.

What wasn't pretense: the strain between Daniel and Eleanor. It hadn't abated. A day had passed. Then, last night, she hadn't waited for him in his bedchamber. Any written communication that had transpired between them had been terse, with her claiming to be too busy for anything but an exchange of a few hastily penned words. And when she'd appeared in his study this evening, ready to accompany him to the race, they'd been as stilted as formal acquaintances. Certainly they hadn't acted like two ­people who'd declared their love for each other.

The churning in his stomach thus had a dual origin as he stewed over the consequences of this trap for Jonathan and also brooded about Eleanor. It felt as though everything hinged on the next few hours. They could be triumphant, or disastrous.

He didn't try to break the fraught silence. He wasn't certain what he'd say. How could he close the gap between them? He didn't even know what had caused it. One moment, they had been confessing their feelings for each other, and the next, she'd fled. Yet every moment with her now was time spent in an unknown country, where he didn't know the language or customs.

And he needed his focus to remain on looking for Jonathan, though everything in his life was in complete chaos.

Glancing over his shoulder, toward a pathway surrounded by trees, he spotted the outline of a fine—­but not too fine—­carriage. Inside was Catherine, who had returned from the country only that morning. The plan to draw out Jonathan had been met with her approval, and she'd even brought a pair of opera glasses so that, from her vantage in the carriage, she might be able to search the crowd for a glimpse of her brother.

To disguise himself, Daniel wore a greatcoat with the collar pulled up high to cover most of his face. Eleanor needed no hiding from Jonathan, though she was also bundled against the cold. Together, they watched a small parade of phaetons slowly collect in the park, along with two dozen hardy souls willing to brave the unusual chill in order to watch the competition.

“Any sign of him?” Eleanor whispered, breaking the silence between them.

He scanned the spectators. Earlier, Daniel, Eleanor, and Catherine had agreed upon a whistled signal should any of them spot Jonathan amongst the crowd. Thus far, they were silent. “Not yet.”

“The crowd is getting restless,” Eleanor noted, glancing at the waiting phaetons and onlookers. An impatient, excited energy hummed through them. Money changed hands as bets were placed. “They want the race to start.”

“We need more time,” Daniel gritted. Damn it, was this whole scheme a false hope? Had Jonathan even seen the announcement of the race? And would he even show up?

Every male face seemed to belong to Jonathan. The more Daniel looked at them, the more they blended together into one endless blur. Those could be his old friend's hollow eyes over on that thin man by the shrubbery. And that chap there near the tree, his drawn mouth and sunken cheeks could be Jonathan's.

Daniel was a powder keg, on the verge of exploding. He'd never known such tension. Eleanor's nerves added to his own. He was certain that he couldn't contain himself much longer and would level the park with the force of his detonation.

“Are we going to run this bloody race or not?” one gingery man atop a high-­flyer demanded to the crowd.

A noise of assent rose up from the onlookers. At the same time, a sharp, high whistle sounded.

The signal.

“He's here,” Daniel said lowly to Eleanor. “Somewhere in the crowd.”

“I can't see him,” she muttered.

Daniel jumped down from the phaeton and began pushing his way through the assembled ­people, staring intently into each face. Frustrated by the collar obscuring his sight, Daniel shoved it down. Where the hell was Jonathan? A moment later, someone cried out.

Whirling around, Daniel spotted a man being dragged down off a phaeton. The assailant was a tall, angular bloke in a set of clothes that had seen its glory come and go. The attacker picked up the high-­flyer's reins.

Daniel finally recognized him. Jonathan. Looking like a twisted ghost of himself, pale and worn almost to transparency. He must have spotted Daniel and was now attempting to flee.

Jonathan's gaze locked on Daniel's. A fleeting moment. And in that moment, Daniel saw the shade of his friend. His eyes pleaded with Daniel.
Help me. Stay the hell away from me. I am lost.

Someone jostled Daniel, and the moment broke apart. Jonathan snapped the reins, and the phaeton shot off. Its owner shouted for the thief to stop, but the vehicle sped off into the dark streets.

Daniel ran back to his own phaeton, where Eleanor anxiously waited.

“What now?” she cried.

He vaulted up into the driver's seat, greatcoat billowing around him. “We give chase.”

T
he last time Eleanor had sat beside Daniel in a phaeton, it had been a mad, thrilling gallop through London that had set her blood afire. Now, they careened through the streets in pursuit of Jonathan Lawson.

She clutched the seat tightly, her knuckles aching, her heart threatening to tear a hole in the front of her dress as Daniel drove after his friend. Glancing quickly behind her, she saw Catherine's carriage valiantly attempting to keep pace, though the larger, heavier vehicle kept falling behind.

Up ahead, Jonathan drove like a man pursued by demons—­which he was. The demons of his past. He made reckless turns, almost upsetting his stolen phaeton, and nearly ran down several pedestrians. ­People leapt out of his way as he rushed down the street, cursing him, then Daniel, then Catherine's carriage as they shot past.

Though the night and the speed made it difficult to know exactly where they were, the quality of the neighborhoods grew rougher and rougher as they sped eastward. Twice, Jonathan rounded a corner and seemed to disappear, but Daniel managed to catch up.

“Jonathan!” Daniel shouted. “Stop, goddamn it! We want nothing from you!”

But Jonathan only threw one terrified look over his shoulder before turning forward and urging his horse on harder.

Suddenly, Jonathan's phaeton skidded to a stop outside a tenement. He jumped from the driver's seat and ran inside.

Daniel pulled his horses to a halt just behind Jonathan's vehicle. The building into which his friend ran had boarded-­up windows and a look of aggressive neglect. But there was no time to consider any of this as Daniel leapt down and ran toward the front door. He tried the knob, but it must have been locked. Then he pounded on the door.

It swung open suddenly, revealing a squashed-­faced hulk of a man. Without a word, the giant man threw a punch at Daniel. Daniel ducked and landed his own combination of blows. One to the stomach, which made the big man double over. Another to the chin. The bloke staggered. Daniel pushed him, and the man stumbled backward, dazed.

Eleanor leapt down from the seat, taking the whip with her—­just in case she needed a weapon. She followed as Daniel barreled inside. A miserable room awaited them, bare and dimly lit. A door was at one end of the cramped chamber. Jonathan must have fled through it. Then it opened, and another man appeared. He was burly, with a coarse face and shaggy, straw-­colored hair. And he looked determined to keep Daniel out of the other room.

“You ain't getting him,” the blond bloke snarled, raising his fists.

So this was the “bad man” Mrs. Irving had talked of. The one who fed off men like Jonathan, taking everything until nothing was left. And he didn't seem ready to let his prize go.

“You won't stop me,” Daniel growled back.

Without another word, the man charged. He slammed into Daniel, and the two lurched back into a wall. Eleanor could only stand by and watch as the two men exchanged punches, the bully clearly using moves that one learned on the streets, not a boxing salon. But Daniel fought back well, nimbly dodging blows and landing his own so that blood sprayed from the mouth of the blond man.

She whirled at a grunting sound behind her. The big man who'd guarded the door now roused himself, and he looked as though he was preparing to launch himself into the fray. Acting on impulse, Eleanor cracked the whip at him. The weapon lashed his arm. But it didn't stop him. He came at her, and she lashed out again, harder. The whip sliced through his shirtsleeve, and deeper, cutting into his skin. A stripe of red appeared on the giant's arm.

He looked down at the wound and grimaced. Yet he charged at her once more. And once more, she cracked the whip at him. Again and again, fending off his advances. He edged backward, held at bay by her strikes.

At last the giant decided he wanted no more of this. He bolted out the front door, almost flattening Catherine as she approached.

Daniel and the bully continued to fight. A gaunt shadow appeared in the entry to the other room. It took Eleanor a moment to recognize him as Jonathan.

“Stop it, Lyle,” he rasped at the blond man.

When Lyle turned his head to snap a retort, Daniel's fist shot out. Right into Lyle's jaw. The man stumbled. Daniel hit him again with a sharp, effective blow. Lyle fell to the floor, his eyes rolling back.

For a moment, nothing happened. Eleanor cautiously approached and nudged the prone form of Lyle with her foot. No movement. He was insensate.

She looked up at Daniel, then at Jonathan. The man they had been searching for came forward a little, stepping into the light. She fought a gasp. Now that she could see him more clearly, it stunned her that he managed to keep his feet.

Whoever Jonathan Lawson had been, it certainly couldn't have been this waxy, emaciated, dead-­eyed man, barely kept together by some force of will. Definitely not his own will, for there seemed nothing of any spirit or energy in his gaze. Not when he looked at her, and not when he stared at Daniel—­which chilled her a little. But when Jonathan saw his sister come into the room, he gave a sharp cry, like a man seeing his own soul. He backed up, retreating into the shadows of the other chamber, and slammed the door behind him. A click sounded when a key turned in a lock.

Daniel rushed forward and tried to open the door. To no success. He rattled the knob.

“Jonathan,” he called through the door. “Let us in.”

“Leave me alone,” came the muffled, forlorn wail.

“Help,” Daniel said. “That's all we're here to do.”

“I can't be helped.”

His shoulder pressed against the wood, Daniel shouted, “Bloody hell, Jonathan, open this door right now!”

Eleanor closed the distance between herself and Daniel. She laid her hand upon his arm and gave her head a gentle shake. Bullying and demands weren't the way to reach Jonathan. She wasn't certain
how
he could be swayed, but that seemed an unwise strategy. A man's strategy. Of a certain, Daniel was the sort of man who got whatever he wanted, and he thought he could use the strength of his determination to make it happen.

Stepping forward, Catherine said, loudly enough to be heard in the other room, “Jon. Won't you come home? I . . . I only want to take care of you.”

“Cathy,” her brother said, her name seeming to catch in his throat. “Please go. I can't . . . don't see me like this.”

“It doesn't matter to me,” she said, imploring.

“It matters to
me
” was the desolate answer. “Your brother died in France. I'm his ghost. You can't take care of a ghost.”

“But—­”

“I'm begging you. Leave.”

Catherine turned her desperate, bewildered gaze to Daniel and Eleanor. They were so close to their goal, but held back by the one man they were here to assist. Frustration and pity elbowed for position inside Eleanor.

“I could kick the door down,” Daniel said lowly. “Pull him out and drag him home.”

“Then what?” Eleanor asked. “Lock him in a room so he can't run away again? That's a shadow of a life. And he'll only try to escape. He's got to come out on his own.”

“I agree,” Catherine said. “But he won't listen to Daniel, and everything I say seems to drive him further away.”

“May I . . . may I try?” Eleanor asked.

When Catherine glanced at Daniel, he said, “The decision isn't mine to make.”

The girl thought for a moment. “We haven't many other options.” She waved toward the door.

Heart beating with the strength of her responsibility, Eleanor dallied for time by gently pulling Daniel back and guiding him to stand over Lyle's prone form. “In case he wakes up,” she cautioned. Daniel looked grim, but compliant.

“And Miss Lawson,” she said to the girl, “you might also want to give a little room.”

Catherine obeyed, standing in the farther corner, her hands clasped anxiously at her waist.

Slowly, Eleanor approached the door. She tried to marshal her thoughts. What could she say to make a wretched man without hope have some semblance of faith again? Nothing she had ever written held such significance.