Passions of a Gentleman (Gentlemen of Honor Book 3) (13 page)

T
he carriage ride
back to Crumbles was uncomfortable. There was no better way to describe it. Simon and Rae sat on one side of the carriage, forced to look at Drake and Juliet’s amused expressions as their three eldest daughters enjoyed one last lemon ice on the way home.

“Did everyone have a good time?” Drake asked to no one in particular.

“I’d say some had a better time than others,” Juliet said airily before turning to her husband and waggling her eyebrows.

Drake shook his head.

“I learned to shoot a bow and arrow today,” Rae announced to stem their obvious speculation.

Juliet wagged a finger at her. “You’re not threatening your favorite sister, are you?”

Rae widened her eyes and brought her hands up to her chest. “I’d never threaten Jane or Dara.”

“But I’m fair game,” Juliet retorted. She nestled closer to her husband. “That’s all right. I’ll have Drake close by to protect me, lest you get any ideas during the night.”

“You don’t have to invent reasons for me to invite you to my room, darling,” Drake said, leading Juliet to blush like an innocent rather than the increasing matron she was. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather that you be.”

There were certain things in this life Rae didn’t want to hear. This was one of them. If she were Jane’s age, she could get away with sticking her fingers in her ears and singing loudly.

Beside her, Simon sat stock-still seemingly unaware of what was going on around him. She nudged him.

Slowly, Simon looked over at her. Something was different. She could see it in his eyes when he’d come back from talking to Peter. She bit her lip. More than anything she wanted to ask, but now wasn’t the right time.

The perfect opportunity didn’t present itself when they arrived back at Crumbles, either.

Tomorrow, she promised herself as she slipped into her bed and closed her eyes content to dream about Simon’s powerful embrace and warm kiss.

* * *

S
imon had to leave
.

Clenching his teeth, he tossed the last of the meager items he’d brought with him into his travel bag. Keeping constant company with Rae, the way she felt in his arms—and on his lap, and how her soft lips yielded under his, he couldn’t think of anything else, and that must have been obvious or Peter wouldn’t have so bluntly asked about Simon’s love for Rae.

For a man who’d been thrown over twice in a matter of weeks, that was a dangerous situation in which to find himself.

No.
He blew out a deep breath and shoved his perfectly pressed lawn shirt into his travel bag. Though Isabelle and Lucy had both found their own happiness without him and hadn’t seemed overly distraught concerning him, Rae was different. She’d been hurt before and she was vulnerable. He had no business allowing them to become so close. Yes, they each needed the source of comfort the other provided: her with her bruised heart and him with his trampled pride, but he was wrong to encourage a closeness. The best thing for him to do would be to leave.

Which is exactly what he planned to do as soon as he shoved his dove breeches into his travel bag. There. He folded down the flap and quickly fastened it, then slung it over his shoulder, blew out the single candle in the sconce closest to the door and slowly pulled the door open just wide enough for him to slip out. In a place named Crumbles, squeaky doors were expected.

As were groaning floorboards.

Tap
. The toe of Simon’s right boot hit the floor in the hall. He pushed down with just a hint of pressure, praying no noise would emanate from the floor.
None.
Sighing with relief, he lowered his right heel down, then slowly eased all of his weight onto that one foot then extended his left foot forward. He poked the floorboard a stride ahead of him—
squeak
. He yanked that foot up—but not too high. It’d be damned awkward if he lost his balance and made all the floorboards groan in unison—a siren call for everyone to come see what he was doing.

Chancing a quick glance over his shoulder, he briefly contemplated an escape through the window. He quickly shook off the thought and brought his left toe down to find another board. He hadn’t bothered to open the window in his room during his visit, but he could only imagine what might happen if he did. Scratching. Glass shattering. Plaster crumbling…the whole wall crumbling. No, he’d stick with playing musical floorboards, thank you very much.

Ever so carefully, Simon crept down the hall at a snail’s pace.

“Not that one!” came a sharp whisper.

Simon jerked his head in the direction of the voice, his heart slamming against his ribs. “Lord Drakely,” he choked, his mouth dry.

The older man walked out of the shadows. “That one groans louder than Lady Olivia with a toothache,” Lord Drakely said.

Simon moved his foot over a few inches and placed it down without further care of the noise it might make. “Er…how long have you been watching me?”

“Long enough to hear you curse me in three different languages.”

“You should invest in a better floor.” Simon scowled down at the offending wood beneath his feet. “Or at the very least a hammer and a bucket of nails.”

“Not while I have a house full of daughters. Creaky floors are better than a night watchmen in a bell tower,” he said with conviction then crossed his arms, his face hardening and his eyes narrowing on Simon. “It also tattles on suitors who are sneaking around the house.”

Simon squared his shoulders. “I have done nothing wrong.”

Lord Drakely arched a brow. “No? Then why are you trying to escape in the dead of night as if you were a criminal?”

If only Simon
were
a criminal. That’d make things so much easier. “I think it’s best I go back to London,” he said quietly. “Lord Norcourt will be getting married in a matter of days and I need to be there.”

Lord Drakely waved his hand through the air. “Your leaving tonight or tomorrow won’t matter.” He folded his arms across his chest. “What’s the real reason you’re leaving like a bandit?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Lady Drakely said, emerging from her husband’s study. Her dark hair was all affright and her gown was slightly askew around her shoulders.

“Darling, perhaps you ought to wait…” Lord Drakely trailed off with a hard swallow.

Lady Drakely didn’t budge. She implored Simon with her grey eyes for a moment, a thin smile playing on her lips. “Come now, Patrick.” She reached for her husband’s elbow. “Let’s go to bed and I’ll explain it all to you.”

An uncomfortable feeling swept over Simon, but he didn’t dare question it—or Lady Drakely. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please, tell Rae…” Tell her what? That he snuck out of her house like a coward? His throat worked. “Please tell her I shall see her when she returns to London.”

* * *

“
H
e’ll see
me when I return to London?” Rae echoed. Every drop of blood in her body drained to her toes. She knew something was amiss with Simon in the carriage last night, but just assumed it was a mere discomfort at Drake and Juliet’s glib remarks. Surely, that wasn’t enough to cause him to leave, was it? She attempted to swallow the hard air bubble that was clogging her throat, but it didn’t move.

She tried to swallow it again, desperate to dislodge it and be able to take a deep, calming breath. Perhaps then the painful squeezing in her chest would subside.

No such luck. The air bubble remained as did the near intolerable pain in her chest, and now there was an intense burning in the backs of her eyes.

“Do you wish to talk about it, dearest?” Juliet’s sympathetic tone only intensified her body’s reaction.

“No,” she croaked. She cleared her throat and stretched her lips into what she hoped was the semblance of a smile. “I don’t feel so well. I should go lie back down.”

“Oh, all right.” Juliet’s compassion caused Rae’s stomach to knot. “If you’re ill you should have stayed in bed.”

“Yes, I should have,” she agreed vehemently, inclining her chin. “I only came down because I was merely afraid of leaving our guest to his own devices. But since he’s already seen to his own needs—”
without bothering to bid me goodbye, mind you—
“I shall be off to bed to rest.”

“Very well,” Juliet said, reaching for her tea saucer. “But as you’re contemplating how to flay him, you should know, the last time I saw Mr. Appleton, there was a heavy dose of love and torment swirling in his eyes.”

“Yes, I’m sure there was,” she said airily. “Apparently, the thought of loving me brings about great torment.”

S
imon had never known
torment akin to what he’d been experiencing since leaving Crumbles without first talking to Rae.

It’s better this way
, he whispered to himself for no less than a hundredth time since his travel coach left the property. If he’d stayed at Crumbles to talk to her and explain why he was leaving, his resolve would have crumbled.

She didn’t deserve that. She deserved a man who wasn’t tainted by scandal or plagued with black thoughts. Rae deserved better than that. She should make a match with a gentleman she knew loved
her
and never wonder if his interest in her was only to fix himself.

With a sigh, he banged his head against the velvet squabs. That was the crux of it. While he’d certainly never felt that all-consuming, addicting heat when he’d touched or kissed or even been close to either Isabelle or Lucy, how could he know for sure he wasn’t attracted to Rae as a means to fill the void Giles has inadvertently created. Rae
was
the only lady who’d responded to him, after all. Who was to say his attraction to her was entirely pure? Not him, therefore, he had indeed made the right decision to leave under the cloak of darkness.

Ignoring the way his gut fisted and roiled at his thoughts, he squeezed his eyes shut, praying for slumber.

None came.

“You look like you’ve traveled to Hell and back,” Father commented without ceremony, wrenching the door open to the coach that hadn’t stopped in front of his office more than fifteen seconds earlier.

“No, Hell would be just down the street and over a few blocks,” he said lightly.

Father frowned. “You aren’t referencing Giles’ house as Hell, are you?”

Simon jumped down from the carriage with a scoff. “Of course not,” he muttered under his breath.

“Good. Come on inside, I need your help,” Father said, gesturing to their office building.

Perfect. If Father had work he needed help with, it would be the kind hard enough to be the best distraction.

Gripping the bottom of his coat and pulling in a half-hearted attempt at straightening his clothes, Simon followed Father into their office.

Phew.
Simon let out a low whistle and shook his head. Stacks and stacks of papers covered the table in the side of Father’s office. “Have you forgotten how to do sums?” he teased his father, walking toward the overflowing table.

“No, I’ve been spending my time with something more important.”

“Lord Norcourt?” Simon guessed, waiting for that all too familiar bitter taste to flood his mouth at the mere mention of the man’s name.

Father sank down into his chair with a sigh. “I know you don’t like him, Simon, and—” something flickered in his green eyes— “whether you want to believe this, I do understand your dislike. But, he’s not going anywhere.”

“No, I suppose not. Mother is too attached.”

Father snorted. “As she should be. He is her child after all.”

“And you?”

Father started. “What about me?” he asked carefully.

Simon picked up a handful of papers and using his other arm, held them against his chest before reaching for another. “You’ve become attached to him as well, no?”

“He’s your mother’s son,” Father said quietly.

Simon twisted his lips and reached for another stack of paper. Since he'd first met Lord Norcourt, he’d suspected there was more of a familial connection that was being presented. Why didn’t his father acknowledge it? Did he not trust Simon enough to tell him the truth or did
he
not recognize the resemblance?

“Well, you keep finding ways to plump his coffers, and I’ll—”

“I’m not plumping his coffers,” Father said, a slight edge to his tone. “I’m trying to help him access them.”

Simon’s feet suddenly weighed a thousand pounds each, rooting him to the floor.

Sighing, Father tossed down the papers he was holding and then crossed his arms over his chest. “Son, for as much as you don’t like Giles’ mere presence, the man has enough problems without your disdain.”

“I don’t disdain him.”

“No?” Father’s sarcasm sliced Simon. “Your actions speak to the contrary.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, slightly surprised he didn’t choke on those words.

“As it would be, the previous Lord Norcourt has made it so Giles cannot have access to any of the funds due his title.” Pursing his lips, he shook his head. “Your mother had more of an allowance married to him than what he’s seen fit to give his heir.”

Simon knit his brows. “How is that possible?”

“He had a good barrister.”

“And a strong dislike for his…heir.”

Father nodded slowly, his lips twisting sourly. “Giles will have to prove he is competent enough to handle his money.”

A pang of sympathy for the man detonated in Simon’s chest. For the first time since Giles had appeared in London, Simon was able to think about Giles’ situation rather than his own. Shame ran over him in waves.

“All right, m’boy, I need to draw up some forms on Giles’ behalf and you need to bring to present the accounts both of us have neglected for the past week.”

Simon bobbed his head once, his trance suddenly broken. “Of course.”

Holding tightly to the heavy stack of papers in his hands, Simon went into his own office and lit a candle. There was more than enough work there to keep him occupied for a week.

Or there would be if memories of Rae and their time together hadn’t kept popping into his head.

Her dancing in his arms.

Her sweet, contagious smile.

Her collapsing against him in his embrace when he’d pulled her onto his lap.

Their kiss…

With a growl, he dropped his quill, then stood and rubbed his eyes. He needed to get some fresh air. Perhaps he could walk down to Nelson’s office and see how the search for his lodgings was fairing.

With a quick word to his preoccupied father, Simon set out in Mr. Nelson’s direction.

Simon didn’t make it to see Mr. Nelson, however, before someone else saw him.

“Where are you going, Uncle Simon?”

“Uncle Simon?” Simon asked the lad.

Seth shrugged. “What’s the difference of a few days?”

“Indeed,” Simon agreed with a chuckle. Not far from where they were was a small park with a nice pond and a handful of wooden benches. Simon steered them in the direction of one of the empty benches. “I’m not misjudging your excited about everything, am I?”

Shifting in his seat, Seth bobbed his head is if it were on a loosely coiled spring. “No, sir. I’ll get a grandmama, a grandpapa, an uncle and a—” the boy dug the toe of his worn boot into the dirt.

“Papa,” Simon offered.

The lad nodded. “I’m not sure if he thinks of that,” he said, his face paling as if this were the first time he’d considered Giles might not think of himself the same way as Seth did.

“Do you think he doesn’t want to be your father?” Simon asked quietly.

“Oh no, it’s not that at all.” A wide grin split the boy’s face. “We’ve already had man talks.”

“Man talks?” Simon said on a chuckle.

The boy lifted his chin and puffed out his chest. “You know…about man things.”

Simon bit the inside of his cheek so not to laugh and forced himself to give a stiff nod in the boy’s direction. “Men talking about man things is important between boys and their papas.”

“Did Mr. Appleton talk to you about…?” Seth wiggled his eyebrows.

“About what?” Simon asked when it became apparent that the boy wasn’t going to finish his sentence.

Seth’s mossy eyes grew large. “The hair growing around your tallywag?”

Simon choked and reached for the boy’s shoulder. That was
not
what he’d expected Seth to ask about. Horse racing, whiskey, gambling? Yes, yes, yes! His private parts? Not so much. “Well, there wasn’t much to tell me.” A chuckle lodged in his chest. “Except, he did warn me that when I saw a stray hair down there, be careful how I went about removing it— it might be attached.”

“That’s some good advice, Uncle Simon. I’m sure it’d hurt something awful to pluck a public hair,” Seth said heartily, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings.

Simon choked on his laugher. Then, throwing all caution to the wind said, “Actually, it’ll hurt a lot less to pluck one’s public hair than one’s
pubic
hair.”

Seth dissolved into laughter. “I can’t wait to tell that to Giles,” he said with a clap of his hands.

Simon shook his head ruefully. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” the boy said with another bob of his head.

Simon racked his brain for how to word his question, but nothing brilliant came. “You’re already calling me Uncle Simon and yet you’re still referring to Giles as Giles. Are you sure you’re excited about the marriage?”

Seth’s face went expressionless. “You’re not trying to steal my mama away from Giles are you?”

“No,” Simon said with more conviction than necessary. He raked his hand through his hair, an image of Rae formed in his mind. “If you must know, I have—” He closed his mouth with a
pop
.

“If I must know, what?” Seth goaded.

“You’re awfully chatty for a lad of twelve,” Simon said. He looked over his shoulder. “Say, where is your mama?”

“At the lending library. She said I could come for a walk.” He crossed his arms. “Now, what was it you were saying?”

“My interest in your mama is that of a friend only,” Simon assured the boy. “I merely found it curious that you’ve already started using your new name for me, but don’t seem to have the same ease when speaking of Giles.” He roughed up the boy’s hair. “He will be your papa, after all.”

“I know that.” Seth shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

“But?”

“That’s what I meant earlier. I don’t know how he feels about it.”

“I don’t think he’d have asked your mama to marry him if he didn’t want to be your papa.” Another pang of sympathy for Giles rooted itself in Simon’s chest. Though Mother had never spoken of Giles before, he’d heard enough since his arrival to know that Giles had been banned to an orphanage to grow up without a mother or a father.

“I know that much,” Seth said. He bit his lip. “I just don’t know if I should call him Papa.”

That brought Simon up short. Again. Seth was full of surprises today, it seemed. “Well, nephew,” he drawled, stretching his legs out in front of himself and crossing his ankles. “You’ll never know if you don’t ask.” He couldn’t speak for Giles, but his jaw would hit the floor if the man told the boy to call him Giles forevermore.

“Can we go get an ice?”

Simon blinked. “Pardon?”

“You just said I’d never know if I don’t ask,” the boy said with a mischievous smile.

“Indeed,” Simon agreed before pushing to his feet and taking the boy for a well-deserved ice.