“Oh Bea. I’ve made such a mess of things.”
Beatrice crossed the carpet to her, gripping her by the upper arms. “Yes you have, but you can fix them, you know.”
Raising her gaze, Octavia stared into her cousin’s kind, dark gaze. “How?”
Beatrice’s lips tilted at the corners, as though she found it amusing that Octavia didn’t know the answer already. “By being honest with yourself and with Spinton and Mr. Sheffield.”
Oh God. That meant telling Spinton the truth. That meant telling North the truth. “I do not wish to injure Spinton.”
“I think we both know you are more concerned with yourself than any injury to Fitzwilliam.”
So Beatrice was not as naive as Octavia had once thought. “Ever since my grandfather brought me to live with him, I have known Spinton was intended for me. He has always been there. Someone has always been there. If I lose Spinton I will be alone.”
Beatrice rubbed her hands on Octavia’s arms. “You have Mr. Sheffield.”
“No,” Octavia shook her head. Her heart hurt. “I do not believe I do.”
Beatrice’s gaze was sympathetic, as though she understood, although Octavia didn’t know how she could. “Then you will still have me.”
A rush of emotion, powerful and raw, swept over Octavia. She seized her cousin in another embrace. For the first time she felt the strength in Beatrice’s arms, the steel in her spine, and she knew that no matter what happened to either of them, the other would always be there.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Beatrice patted her back. “You are welcome.” Then, pulling away, she smiled. “All right. Find me another one of those awful gowns and let us get to work. It is going to take the both of us to make this place happy again.”
As she and her cousin and Mrs. Bunting worked side by side cleaning the downstairs rooms of North’s house, Octavia wondered if perhaps she shouldn’t be honest with Spinton.
Perhaps he would decide he didn’t want to marry her after all, she thought, as she gathered the holland covers draped over a sofa in the parlor. She would be free to tell North how she truly felt about him.
But she had told North how she truly felt about him and he either hadn’t understood or he’d purposely pretended not to. Either way, she wasn’t so certain she wanted to attempt it again in the near future.
Still, wouldn’t being rejected by North be preferable to wondering what might have been for the rest of her life?
Not really, no.
And what kind of future could they possibly have? She liked to go to parties once in a while. He seemed to despise them. Most days he couldn’t even be bothered to shave. How would he feel about having to pretty himself up on a regular basis?
More importantly, how would he feel about the fact that society would always accept her more readily than they would accept him? That the
ton
would always consider her a lady while he couldn’t aspire to gentleman without at least one meanspirited person saying he was trying to ape his betters?
Was she a good enough person that the gossips wouldn’t bother her? Was she a good enough woman that she could leave her house in Mayfair and return to this piazza where she’d spent so much of her childhood, dreaming of a better life?
“Well la, would you look at this?”
Mrs. Bunting’s voice jerked Octavia from her thoughts. The older woman had found something beneath one of the many protective linen veils draped through the room.
Setting her own bundle of dusty cloth aside, Octavia drew closer, curious to see what treasure the housekeeper had found. As she peered over Mrs. Bunting’s round shoulder, her heart skipped a beat.
It was a cushion. Bright and garish, it stood out like a wound against the subtle colors in the room. Shades of violet,
wine, and russet velvet, embroidered with gold thread, sewn with uneven, painstaking stitches.
“Good heavens, that is awful!” Beatrice remarked. “Whoever could have made such a thing?”
“I did,” Octavia whispered. “I made it.”
Her cousin was instantly contrite, not that Octavia paid much notice. Mrs. Bunting turned to her with a sweet smile. “You were a wee girl of ten I believe.”
“Eleven,” Octavia corrected, her voice still damnably hoarse. “It was a birthday present for Nell.”
Her fingers trembled as she reached out and took the cushion from the older woman’s hands. The velvet was soft to the touch, the irregularities in the stitches distinct. Beatrice was right. It was awful.
But that wasn’t why it made her feel like weeping.
“I cannot believe she kept it.” She could not believe North kept it. He’d had no compunctions about telling her just how ugly it was at the time. Nell had cuffed him upside the ear and told him to mind his manners. Then she gave Octavia a hug that smelled of powder and roses.
It is lovely, darling. I shall treasure it always.
Fourteen-year-old North had snorted.
That’s the kind of treasure that should be buried.
His mother raised her hand again and he ducked, grinning.
Nell hadn’t lived to see her next birthday. By that time Octavia and North had started to become friends, and after his mother’s death, he’d gone to live with his father and brothers. He returned to the Garden often, however, just to make sure Octavia was all right. He had appointed himself her protector. Maybe being there with her made him feel as though his mother was still nearby. Maybe he had known even then that his father’s world wouldn’t accept him.
Maybe he simply couldn’t bring himself to say good-bye.
“Would you like to have it, my dear?” Mrs. Bunting inquired. “I am sure the master would not miss it.”
That is where the old woman was wrong. North would miss it. She’d wager ten shillings that even though this room had been hidden from view for years, North knew exactly where everything—including this cushion—was.
God, was there nothing about him that didn’t have the power to break her stupid heart?
“No. Leave it where it was.”
She had envied North having a father. Envied him a mother who only had one lover. Envied him his oh-so-close-to-perfect family life. It never occurred to her how much it must have hurt him to have that taken away. He’d gone from that loving world—his mother, father, and the theater fold—to one that didn’t want him no matter how hard he tried to fit in. No wonder he’d eventually fashioned his own. It must have been so much easier than constantly fighting for acceptance.
No, she could never ask him to live in her world. It would be too cruel to expect him to make himself so vulnerable again. How could she even ask it of him? She couldn’t. And if she did, he wouldn’t do it. Not for her, not for anyone.
“Do not change anything,” she instructed, handing the cushion to Mrs. Bunting. “Put everything back exactly as it was after you have cleaned.” She wanted North to see that she did not expect anything of him, that all she wanted was to give him a little bit of that world back again. It wouldn’t be easy for him to accept, not after hiding from it for so long.
Mrs. Bunting regarded her with watery eyes. The old woman understood.
“Aye, dearie. Don’t you worry.”
Her throat and chest tight, Octavia glanced around the room as Beatrice and Mrs. Bunting resumed their work. With a little effort, the house could be almost exactly as it once had
been, with bright, open windows, gleaming furniture, and the scent of beeswax in the air.
Perhaps then North could remember the love he’d been given in this house. Perhaps it would feel like home again.
And maybe, just maybe, Octavia herself would remember that old longing, remember the things that had once been so important to her. All she had ever wanted was a family, to feel as though she belonged—that she wasn’t alone. Her mother had been too busy, too popular with her admirers and her protectors to give her the attention she craved. Her grandfather had tried, but the old man had thought gifts and expectations were adequate ways of showing affection. And Spinton—dear Spinton—he had so much affection to give, in his smothering, condescending manner. None of it was want she wanted—what she still so desperately needed.
The only place she’d ever felt that acceptance, that love, had been in this house, when Nell would try to teach her how to sew, or when North pulled her hair or teased her. This house felt like home to her.
North felt like home to her. And if her time with him was running out, she was going to enjoy it as much as she could.
For as long as she was able, she was going to pretend this was her house—hers and North’s. That this was their home. And when it was time to leave, she would go with a heart full of memories, and the realization that she had found where she belonged.
North wasted no time getting to the point when Merton’s butler showed him into the earl’s study. He refused to sit and he refused a drink, and when Merton fixed him with a haughty, yet curious stare, North refused to back down.
“I know you have been sending letters to Octavia Vaux-Daventry.”
Whatever Merton had been expecting, this obviously was not it. “I beg your pardon?”
“The lady has been getting annoying letters from a lovestruck swain. You.”
Merton looked outraged. The earl was one of London’s wealthiest and most highly respected citizens. He was certainly not accustomed to people accusing him of anything. “I most certainly am not! Why, I knew her when she was but a child.”
Aha! “So you admit to knowing her mother.”
“Of course I do.” There would be no point in denying it, Merton had to know that. “Her mother and I were together for some time. I was very fond of Octavia—not that I saw her very often.”
No. It wasn’t very romantic having a child about.
“I knew your mother as well, Sheffield.”
The best way to piss a man off was to insult his manhood or his mother. Merton knew this as well as any other man. “But not in the biblical sense.”
“Of course not.” The earl affected a shudder. “Creed would have called me out.”
North’s lips curved, but not in amusement. “He was funny that way.”
Straightening his shoulders, Merton rose to his full height. He was a tall man and impressively built for a man of his station. No doubt he’d “known” many women in his day. “I do not like your attitude.”
North shrugged. He was hardly intimidated. “And I do not like men who try to kill my friends.”
Merton’s jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”
He’d had enough of this dancing around. North went straight to the point. “Who pulled the trigger at Vauxhall last night, Merton? Was it you, or did you hire someone to do it?”
Shaking his head, Merton looked every inch the indignant peer. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
North struck him in the left shoulder with the flat of his hand. The earl grunted in surprise—not pain as he had expected. He wasn’t the man North had shot.
He didn’t bother to apologize for his assault. “You hired someone then.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Merton rubbed his shoulder. “I didn’t shoot you!”
“How did you know I was the one shot?”
“Everyone knows!” Merton backed away as though he were nervous. “Half the
ton
saw you after it happened.”
Right. Christ, he was losing his touch.
“And you claim to have nothing to do with it?” He didn’t want to believe, but there was nothing guilty in the earl’s demeanor.
The earl stared at him, his eyes wide. “Of course I did not. Why would I?”
North tilted his head to one side. It was time to call Merton’s bluff. “Because you use the same writing paper as the person who has been sending threatening notes to Octavia. Because you are the only person with that writing paper who knows about her past. Because you had the mother and now you want the daughter. You want her badly enough that you would have me shot just to get to her.”
Merton’s face turned bright red. “By God, you have a lot of nerve coming into my house and making such allegations.”
The earl had no idea just how much nerve he had. If he proved that Merton was behind the letters—and the shot—North was going to make him suffer like no man had suffered before. “Or perhaps she was your target. Couldn’t have her so you decided no one else could either?”
“You are mad! I would never hurt Octavia!”
North actually believed him. “But you would hurt those who do not ‘deserve’ her. Is that it?”
Merton was furious now. He took a step forward. “Get out of my house.”
North moved to meet him in the middle of the floor. “Not until you tell me the truth. I can make you tell me the truth.”
“He is telling you the truth.”
Both North and Merton turned toward the door. There stood Merton’s oldest son and heir, Robert.
“This does not concern you, son,” Merton growled.
Young Robert stepped into the room, his boyish face pale. “Yes it does. My father did not write any letters to Lady Octavia, Mr. Sheffield. I did.”
North’s jaw dropped before he could stop it. “
You?
But you are just a boy!” Hadn’t Octavia herself maintained that the letters were written by a lovestruck youth?
“I am not. I shall be nineteen soon.”
North knew what it was like to be nineteen and under Octavia’s spell. Something told him the boy was telling the truth. Still, he had a lot to answer for.
Were it not for the boy’s father being present, North would have grabbed him and slammed him against the wall. He settled for prowling closer, backing the young man into a corner instead.
“You could have killed someone, you little bounder.”
“I did not try to kill anyone!” Robert’s expression was one of panic. “I swear! It was not me!”
The boy was so afraid, North could practically smell it. It was the terror of confusion, and it told North he was not lying.
“You had Lady Octavia’s fiancé very concerned.”
Robert snorted at that. North raised his brows.
“So you do not believe Lord Spinton good enough for her, eh?”
Robert stiffened. “Of course not. Neither are you.”
“You are right. I am not.” The boy seemed surprised that he didn’t argue that fact. “You insinuated knowing a secret of Lady Octavia’s. What is it?”