The Duke and the Lady in Red (19 page)

He snatched his dressing gown from the floor at the foot of the bed. “I don't like this part of our arrangement.”

Grabbing a ribbon, she pulled back her hair, secured it, and faced him. “Regardless, it is part of the arrangement. If you want me to return willingly this evening, you will hold to it.”

She saw the familiar fury, wondered that it failed to frighten her.

“God help me,” he snarled, “I should have had enough of you by now but I haven't.”

With that he left to see about a carriage. After she fetched a pelisse to protect her from the rain, and her reticule, she followed him out.

She arrived at her residence to discover her worst fears realized: Harry was gone.

 

Chapter 12

A
vendale sat sprawled in his library, slowly savoring his scotch, watching the clock on the mantel, listening to the chimes of the one in the hallway as the minutes dragged by. One hundred and twenty of them. Double what he had allotted her for the afternoon. The only reason that he was still here was because he was allowing for the rain and the likelihood that the carriage would be forced to travel more slowly.

It irritated the devil out of him that she was not with him for every hour of every day while she was supposed to be in his company. He had told her that she had to be with him for a week. He would deduct these hours when she was away from the total hours found in a week and insist she not leave until he'd had that many hours in her company. Perhaps he would deduct the time she was sleeping as well.

With a growl, he shot out of the chair, crossed over to the fireplace, pressed his forearm to the mantel, and stared into the fire. What was wrong with him? Why was he so bothered by her leaving for a spell? She would return and they would carry on. They'd dine, then tumble onto the sheets—­after he'd stroked every inch of her body. He had some oils from the Orient. Perhaps he'd use them. Drive her mad first.

It was only fair, as she was doing the same to him.

Why hadn't she returned? His driver had specific orders not to take any detours. What if she had slipped out through the back garden? She'd been unduly put out with him because he hadn't woken her in time to keep her appointment. How was he to know that the specific hour was so crucial? Why was it? Why would the little man or the giant care?

Everything within him stilled. He assumed the little man and the giant were the only ones in the residence now. Stupid assumption on his part, just because they were the only ones he'd seen. What if there was someone else? Someone she loved?

Just because she'd been untouched the first night didn't mean that she had no other man in her life. He lifted his gaze to the clock. Ten more minutes had passed. Suspicion reared its ugly head.

He wanted to trust her, but he didn't. She was a swindler. She'd lied, deceived him before. Why was she so secretive about her blasted hour that had now evolved into more than two?

He heard a soft knock and spun on his heel to find his coachman standing in the doorway, looking as though he were about to put his head on the chopping block. “Your Grace, I waited far longer than I should have and I apologize for that. Eventually when the lady didn't come out, I knocked on the door only to be told by that small gent that the lady wasn't about. I decided it best to let you know. The rain slowed my journey.”

“We'll be going back out in it.”

“I suspected as much, sir.”

She had broken the terms of their agreement. He should not have been surprised, but he was not going to let her get away with such treachery. He was well within his rights to seek her out, demand an explanation and the return of his money.

Even though in truth he didn't give a damn about the money. He wanted retribution for yet one more deception. She would have to give him a month this time, a month without an afternoon trip to her residence.

As he journeyed through the streets, rain pelting his coach, he held on to his anger, refusing to acknowledge the disappointment because she was untrustworthy, because she would leave him so easily. He despised himself for enjoying her company so much, for worrying about a possible mishap. How many times would he fall for her lies?

His carriage had barely stopped in front of her residence, when he leaped out. He barged up the steps, threw open the door, and strode in. The little man—­Merrick, as he recalled—­stepped out of the parlor.

“You can't just come in here,” he stated.

“I pay the lease on the damned place. I can do anything I want, including kick you out into the street. Where is she?”

He jutted up his chin. “Went for a stroll.”

“In this weather?”

“She favors the rain.”

It occurred to him that perhaps whoever it was she needed to see this afternoon didn't actually live in this residence. That she was delivered here and then snuck out to go wherever it was she wanted to go. He started off down a hallway.

“See here now, you've got no right to be going through our home!” Merrick shouted.

He did and he would. He realized it was the first time he'd been inside her residence. It was not lavishly furnished. No portraits, no paintings. Nothing in the hallway. He paused outside a dining room. No sideboards, no hutches, nothing save a small square table covered in a white cloth. It sat four.

He carried on down the hallway until he spotted another door. He closed his fingers around the handle.

“You can't go in there.”

He glared at Merrick. “It would give me unbridled pleasure if you try to stop me.” He didn't know why it was imperative that he saw every inch of the dwelling. Jerking open the door, he marched into what was obviously the library. A dozen or so books adorned shelves. A large desk and chair occupied a space near a window. A sofa rested before the glass, and he imagined sunlight streaming in over Rose as she sat there. A comfortable sitting area was arranged in one corner near a fireplace. On the opposite side of the room was an immense bed, neatly made. Did the giant sleep here? No, it wasn't long enough for him. It was more suited to a man Avendale's size. He'd ask Merrick but the indignant fellow hadn't followed him in. He doubted her man would tell him anyway.

Slowly he walked through the room, trying to get a sense of it. He noticed a tall stack of papers on the desk. As he neared he could see ink bleeding through but the paper was turned so he couldn't make out the words. A rock, like one might find in a garden, was on top, as though that were enough to keep anyone from prying.

Avendale was too angry with Rose to respect the privacy of anyone living here. Setting the rock aside, he turned over the first page.

The Memoirs of Harry Longmore

Who the devil was Harry Longmore? Why did he live here? What was he to Rose?

Moving that page aside, he began reading the second.

My story is as much Rose's as it is mine. We were inseparable . . .

Clenching his jaw with the thought of another man having such importance in Rose's life, Avendale wanted to crumple the paper, set it afire. Instead he very carefully returned it to its place before striding out of the room. He took no satisfaction in the knowledge that he had separated her from this Harry Longmore. She obviously cared for him or she wouldn't come here every day. Once her time with Avendale was done, she'd continue to carry on with this beastly fellow, leave the city with five thousand quid, and laughter echoing between them. What a fool he was to give in to this damnable craving he had for her.

“Happy now?” Merrick asked as Avendale started back down the hallway.

“Hardly.”

A commotion in the entryway, door closing, voices, had him quickening his pace, lengthening his stride until Merrick couldn't keep up.

“It's all right, my dearest,” he heard Rose's voice say sweetly, encouragingly. He could not make out the words that followed but they were deeper, obviously male, and his anger boiled anew at the thought of her with another man. She might have been a virgin, but she obviously had a love. He was more than ready for a heated confrontation that might even involve fisticuffs. He stormed into the entryway—­

Staggered to an unsteady halt as though he'd slammed into a stone wall.

If he'd not spent his life conditioning himself to never reveal what he thought, what he felt, he might have gasped, recoiled, scrambled back. Instead he gave no reaction at all. Merely studied the tableau as though it were something he saw every day.

Rose and the giant stood there, between them supporting—­he wasn't certain what it was. A man perhaps. Almost certainly. But grotesquely misshapen. His head far too large for his body, a body that had obviously betrayed him as it dipped, bent, jutted out in ways that should have been impossible.

Had he been in an accident? Blood poured from a gash in what might have been his skull and dotted his clothing. Scrapes and discolorations marred the skin of a hideously distorted face.

For some reason, his right hand and arm—­which Rose clung to—­appeared normal. The other was shaped more like a seal's flipper, the fingers barely recognizable as such.

Rose didn't appear horrified that Avendale was there but then she was obviously concerned with the fellow she was trying to help across the foyer. Avendale suspected her anger would arrive shortly enough. Without thought, he crossed over to her. “I'll relieve you of the burden of assisting him.”

“He's not a burden,” she snapped, and he realized he'd misjudged. She was furious.

And reluctant to trust him. It stung. It also hurt to see the bruise forming on her cheek, the sleeve in her dress torn at the seam. Her hair was loose, the ribbon gone. Someone had hurt her, and he hadn't been about to protect her. “It'll be easier for him if someone closer to his height is providing the support.”

She hesitated but a heartbeat before saying, “Yes, all right. Just take care that you don't hurt him.”

As though it were even possible not to cause him pain. Avendale slid his shoulder under this . . . person's arm. The man grunted. “Sorry, old chap,” Avendale said, as Rose eased off to the side.

“This way,” she said, and began leading them down the familiar hallway.

“What happened to him?” Merrick asked as he came forward.

“He was set upon by ruffians,” Rose said.

Avendale understood her unkempt state now. She would have charged into the fray. He had a need to pound his fist into something, someone.

“I told him not to go out but then he snuck out when I wasn't looking,” the dwarf muttered.

“It's all right, Merrick,” she said. “Fetch some towels and warm water. We need to get him into dry clothes.”

She guided them into the library. With as much gentleness as possible, Avendale and the giant eased the man onto the bed. Against the head of the bed, the giant leaned a walking stick he'd been holding in one skeletal-­like hand.

“He needs to sit up against the pillows,” Rose told them. “He can't breathe well if he's lying down.”

When the man was situated, Rose sat on the edge of the bed and gently cupped what at one time might have been a cheek. “Everything's going to be all right, sweetest.”

The man didn't say anything, but his blue gaze, one similar to Rose's, was homed in on Avendale. It was unsettling, the intensity of his scrutiny. “I'll have my coachman fetch my physician,” Avendale announced. “He's one of the finest in London.”

She looked up at him. “I can't afford the finest.”

“Our time together is not yet over, Rose. They are my expenses to cover.”

“This isn't what you bargained for.”

“I bargained for whatever would keep you with me for a week. Don't start splitting hairs now.” He felt an irrational need to claim her, to ensure she understood things between them were not yet over. That the man in the bed understood that she was his.

“All right, then, yes, thank you. I suppose introductions are in order.” She wrapped both her hands around the man's good one. “Your Grace, allow me the honor of introducing you to Mr. Harry Longmore.”

The man to whom she was supposedly inseparable.

“My brother.”

 

Chapter 13

R
ose sat on a sofa in the parlor, one of Avendale's large hands covering both of hers as they rested in her lap. How she longed for a bench in the hallway outside Harry's room. The physician was with him now. A Sir William Graves. Apparently, he was not only the best but he served the queen. He also had a very quiet, yet confident demeanor. Harry was not usually comfortable with strangers, yet he had seemed so with Sir William.

“Is your name Longmore as well?” Avendale asked quietly.

She'd known he'd have questions. That his first was about her name took her by surprise. “Yes. Rosalind Longmore. I change the surname, never the first. It's easier.”

“I want Sir William to have a look at you when he's finished with your brother.”

“I'm fine.”

“You have a bruise forming on your cheek. I daresay you'll have a black eye by tomorrow. You have scrapes, your clothes are torn.”

“I'm fine,” she insisted.

“Could you find them again?”

She stared blankly at him. “Find whom?”

“The ruffians who accosted you and your brother.”

“What are you intending?”

“To have them arrested after I give them a sound pounding.”

No, not at all the conversation she'd expected. “They were cruel idiots. I didn't pay much attention to their features. Harry knows the dangers of going out. Even when he wears a hooded cloak ­people won't leave him be. He was out searching for me, because I was late. He was worried that I was in some sort of trouble. I don't know how he thought he would find me.”

“Why didn't you tell me about him, tell me why you had to come here?”

She shook her head. How to explain? “I didn't know how you would react.” He was a powerful man. He might have tried to take Harry away, to use him for his own gain. Others had. She trusted only Merrick, Sally, and Joseph with Harry. “I was trying to protect him.”

“Has he always been like that?” Avendale asked.

She'd been surprised by the gentleness with which he'd helped Harry into the bed, more surprised by his lack of reaction when first catching sight of her brother. Most were appalled, afraid. A good many struck out at him.

“No,” she said softly. “He was perfection when he was born. I was four, but I still remember the wonder of him. My father worked the fields, my mother had her chores, so I was left to care for him. He was around two when my mother noticed the first . . . lump on his head. My parents thought I'd been careless and dropped him. My father took a switch to my bare backside and legs until he drew blood, until I couldn't sit down.” Avendale's hand flinched around hers, and she imagined the anger sparking in him because she'd been mistreated. “My father was so proud of having a son, a male. He thought it made him more of a man, I think.”

“You don't know where he is now?” Avendale asked flatly.

She peered up at him. “My father?”

He gave one brusque nod.

“No. He can be rotting somewhere for all I care.”

“I'd like to take my fist to him.”

“No sweeter words have I ever heard.”

Tenderly he skimmed his finger over her swollen and bruised cheek. “Do you know what caused your brother's condition?”

“No. Other lumps began to appear. Portions of him began to grow oddly. His jaw twisted, his body became misshapen. My parents took him to a physician. He had no answers. My father decided my mother had consorted with the devil, because surely nothing like the creature my brother was would come from his loins. He had her placed in an insane asylum. She died there.”

“Do you believe she consorted with the devil?”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not. I think nature is simply cruel. It picks ­people at random and bestows upon them horrors they don't deserve. I don't believe in a god who punishes ­people. Harry was a babe. What could he have done to anger a god? Why was he made to suffer and not me? It makes no sense.”

“There are many cruelties in the world that make no sense. I assume your father's anger didn't diminish once your mother was locked away.”

“On the contrary, it seemed to flourish. He hid Harry away for a time, but still ­people heard about him. They would journey to the farm, offer to pay a penny for a look. Eventually my father decided he could make a fortune on Harry's oddities. He began to exhibit him. ­People would pay tuppence to view the Boulder Boy. He would be dressed in a loincloth, so they could see the full extent of his deformity. Harry would stand there as proudly as he could while ­people gawked. Broke my heart. ­People see a curiosity, something hideous. I see a gentle soul who deserves so much more.

“Eventually we joined a tour of oddities, which is where I met Merrick and his wife, Sally—­the Tiniest Bride and Groom in the World, they were called. And Joseph, the Stickman. When I was seventeen, I told Harry I was going to take him on a grand adventure and we ran off. The others came with us.”

“You've been taking care of them ever since.”

In his voice, she thought she heard admiration tinged with sadness. “It's easier for me. I'm the least odd.”

His brow furrowed. “The least odd? You're not odd at all.”

Her smile was self-­deprecating. “My face is plain. It does not hold a man's interest, but my rather large bosom does. I learned early on how to use it to my advantage. It's the first thing men notice about me. It's where their gazes linger. They don't pay attention to my eyes so they miss the shrewd calculations going on in my mind as I measure their worth and gullibility. I miscalculated yours. It stung my pride.”

He squeezed her hand just before he began stroking his thumb over her knuckles. She wanted to weep at the kind gesture.

“I didn't notice your bosom first,” he said quietly. “What caught my attention was the way you walked into the room as though you owned it.”

Her gaze captured his, and within his eyes, she saw the absolute truth. All along she'd assumed he was like all the others, fascinated by an aspect of her body over which she had no control. But as she thought about it, truly thought about it, she realized he never lingered overly long there. He spread his attentions over her entire person. Even her toes did not go unnoticed.

“I didn't think you were nobility,” he continued, “yet you had such a regal bearing. I was quite entranced and I hadn't been in a good long while. It felt good to be curious, to be intrigued. Like me, you seemed to be hiding something. That intrigued me all the more.”

“What are you hiding?” she asked.

He merely shook his head. “Does your brother never leave here, then?”

She realized he wasn't going to share, at least not now. It was probably for the best. Her focus should be on Harry, had always been on Harry. “No. He doesn't even go out into the garden during the day because our neighbors might catch a glimpse of him from their upstairs windows. We don't want to attract the curious. He travels in books. Reads voraciously when he's not writing. He likes to write as well, but won't share his endeavors with me. Ever so private.”

Hearing footsteps, she rose as Sir William walked into the room. Avendale moved in to stand beside her, placing his hand on her lower back as though she needed to be steadied for what was to come. She wondered briefly if he was even aware how often he touched her.

“Let's sit, shall we?” Sir William said.

That start didn't portend well. Still, Rose returned to her place on the sofa, with Avendale at her side. Sir William took a plush chair opposite them. For the briefest of moments, it seemed he was studying Avendale intently, as though the duke were suddenly unfamiliar to him, which seemed odd considering he was his physician. Clearing his throat, he shifted his attention to Rose. “The injuries your brother sustained during the brawl are quite minor. A few cuts, scrapes, bruises. Nothing that won't heal on its own with time.”

Relief swelled within Rose. “Good. I was quite worried. He seemed to be finding it more difficult to breathe than usual.”

Sir William nodded slowly. “He mentioned that he was finding a few things more difficult.”

Rose smiled. “You understood him? Most ­people can't because of the way the shape of his mouth causes him to mumble and slur.”

“There are also growths within his mouth, within his body. He may have as many inside as he does out.”

“But you could remove them,” Avendale said.

Within Sir William's blue eyes, Rose saw a well of sadness. “There are so many. The risks involved . . . I would hardly know where to begin. To be quite honest, I doubt he would survive any surgery—­even at the hands of the most skilled physician.”

“What caused his condition?” Avendale asked.

Sir William shook his head. “I've no clue. I've never seen the like. I would like to examine him more thoroughly at the hospital, consult with a few of my colleagues.”

“Because he's a curiosity?” Rose asked. “Because you can't cure him, can you?”

“I can't cure him, no.” He leaned forward. “There might be something we could learn.”

Tears burned her eyes. “No. He's been stared at, poked and prodded enough. I won't put him through that again. Even for medicine.”

“I can hardly blame you, I suppose.” He released a long, slow sigh. “You should probably begin preparing yourself, however, as I don't think he's long for this world.”

The words were like a solid blow to the center of Rose's chest. She was astounded her lungs could still draw in breath and that her heart still pounded. The tears she'd been holding at bay broke free and rolled along her cheeks. “I could tell he was worsening. They keep growing, don't they? Those things.”

“I believe so, yes, based upon what he told me. I could feel some inside him, but to know the full extent I would have to cut into him. I don't think we'd gain anything by that, based upon what I can see on the surface.”

“Do you know how long before . . .” She couldn't bring herself to say the words. He might be a monster to everyone else, but to her, he was her brother.

“I'm sorry,” Sir William said, “but that is not in my hands. I can leave some laudanum to help ease his discomforts. I can come to check on him every few days. The more I observe, the more light I might be able to shed on the matter. I want to discuss his condition with other physicians I know.”

She started to protest.

“I won't be obtrusive,” he assured her quickly. “I will be circumspect and not mention that I am seeing him. I'll make discreet inquiries, and perhaps I'll learn something to ease his suffering.”

“Yes, all right.”

Sir William got to his feet. She and Avendale did the same.

“Thank you for coming,” Avendale said.

“I appreciate your sending for me. It meant a lot to your mother.”

“Be sure to send me a billing for your ser­vices.”

“Now you've insulted me.” Sir William turned his attention to Rose. “I'm sorry we couldn't have met under better circumstances.”

“I can't thank you enough for everything you've done.”

He jerked his head toward Avendale. “Keeping him out of trouble is a good start.”

With Avendale at her side, Rose accompanied Sir William to the door, watched as he strolled down the path, and climbed into a small, simple one-­horse carriage that he could drive himself.

“What would it matter to your mother that you sent for him?” Rose asked, closing the door and turning back to Avendale.

“Because he is her husband.”

Angling her head, she studied him. She'd sensed some tension between the two. “Has that anything to do with your secret?”

“Has everything to do with it, and that's all I'll say on the matter. I assume you want to stay the night.”

“I do, yes.” She wanted to be angry with him for coming here uninvited, for forcing himself into her life, into Harry's but she had nothing within her with which to fuel her anger. Stepping into him, she wound her arms around his waist, drew immense comfort from his enfolding her in his embrace.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I'm not the caring sort so I'm at a loss here, Rose. Tell me what I can do to make it better.”

She merely squeezed him all the harder, because his presence at the moment was enough.

I
f Avendale had any doubts that Harry was indeed a man, they were put to rest when Rose and he entered the library to find Harry sitting in a chair near the fire. He shoved himself to his feet. He had to have known Rose would come in to see him before she left, that Avendale might be with her. Pride had hoisted him out of the bed. His clothes were similar to the almost sacklike apparel he'd been wearing before only they weren't wet, torn, and bloody. They hung rather loosely, but then how would one go about fitting clothes to that misshapen form? Leaning on a cane, he mumbled something. Avendale couldn't quite distinguish the words.

“Harry wondered if you'd join him in drinking some whiskey,” Rose offered as though she understood his inability to decipher the words.

“I'm a scoundrel,” Avendale said. “I never turn down drink.” He thought the man's lips twitched, and Avendale realized Rose's brother was hindered from forming a proper smile because of the shape of his mouth, but his eyes twinkled with amusement.

“I'll pour,” Rose said. “Avendale, will you fetch the chair from behind the desk so I have a place to sit?”

He did as she asked, but he had no plans to let her sit in it while the other chair appeared more plush and comfortable. She brought over the glasses on a small tray. Avendale took one, then watched as Harry did the same with a hand that was beautiful and elegant, and he wondered if it might have been kinder if there was nothing about him that was shaped to perfection.