Page 93 of Miss Dauntless
“You, sir, meant to bilk me and my son out of our only security. Then you would doubtless have set about blackmailing me to keep word of your resurrection from becoming known. I married you—more’s the pity—but you willingly took on responsibility for Tommie, and you betrayed that trust. One day, you will have to explain to Tommie how you could contemplate wronging a small boy so grievously.”
The parlor door clicked open, and somebody cleared his throat.
Tremont, and thank heavens he’d arrived, because Matilda, for the first time in her adult life, was on the verge of flying into a rage.
“You’re free of me,” Harry said in a voice without inflection. “I cannot imagine anything I could say or do would improve upon that result in your eyes, Tilly.”
“Matilda. My name is Matilda, and unlike you, I do not duck behind aliases at the first sign of difficulty.”
“I apologize,” Harry said, with some force. “I abjectly, endlessly apologize, Matilda, but I was raised to be a gentleman, which is the same as saying I was raised to be useless. I can spout Shakespeare and Etherege and Sheridan by the scene because my sole rebellion was an interest in the theater. I can do sums in my head correctly to the penny because my father was an abacus. That is the totality of my accomplishments. My esteemed father did not allow me into the family business, and my mother would never have gainsaid her husband. If Ihave descended into vice, I am merely living down to Octavian Merchant’s prophecies for me.”
I will not feel sorry for him. I will not feel sorry for him. I will not…“Your apology is rejected. Words are too easy for you, Harry. The question becomes, how do you intend to show me—and Tommie—that your words mean something?”
“I will leave you alone, Matilda. I promise that. I vow that. Send me to New South Wales, to darkest Peru. I will stay the he—the blazes away from you and the boy.”
“Not good enough,” Matilda said, rising. “Not nearly good enough. You ran from us before and hadn’t the courtesy to stay dead. Running away is your third skill, Harry—after sums and a taste for the theatrical—and I can tell you from experience, running creates as many problems as it solves. I want you to put right what you have put wrong.”
Harry ran a hand through immaculately styled hair. “Till—Matilda, they’ll kill me. The law won’t come into it. In Dublin, Manchester, York… There’s a price on my head even if the reward isn’t offered by the crown. If I try to pay back what I’ve earned through my confidence games, I won’t live out the month.”
“What you mean,” Tremont said, from his place by the door, “is that Harry Merridewet aliahas a price onhishead. Harrel Merchant, long-lost scion of a respected Bristol family, carries no such burden.”
For the first time, Harry looked afraid. “You cannot expect me to go back to Bristol, Tremont. Anything but that. The piety alone will strangle me as effectively as any noose. I’ll choose Newgate over Bristol, gladly.”
A tallish, dark-haired woman swept past Tremont, who closed the parlor door behind her. She looked to be shy of thirty and was attired in subdued azure fashion that brought out theblue in her eyes. She advanced on Harry and delivered a sharp crack to his left cheek.
“I’ve been read out of meeting,” she said as Harry’s cheek turned crimson. “The stated reason was my unseemly lack of humility in the face of guidance from my elders—meaning I would not allow our uncles to steal you or me blind—and apparently, I have a propensity for violence as well. I’ve missed you, Harry.”
Tears glistened in her eyes, and yet, she stared at Harry without flinching.
“Esther?” Harry touched his cheek. “Esther?”
She nodded. “I am worldly now. All tarted up and fallen into wickedness, to hear the aunties tell it. I understand why you left, Harry, but I cannot understand why you never wrote to me. You disappeared in a cloud of righteous fury, and for years, Papa refused to speak your name.”
Harry blinked at the curtains. “If I’d written to you, you might have tried to find me. You were safe in Bristol, and I wasn’t managing all that well. I’ve gone some better than you in the wickedness department, Esther.”
“Lord Tremont has implied as much, but, Harry, that’s all behind you.”
Matilda’s heart hurt to hear the hope and determination in Esther’s voice. “Tell your sister she’s right, Harry. You are turning over a new leaf on a new branch on a whole new tree, aren’t you?”
Harry met her gaze for the first time since he’d entered the room. “This is my penance? To go back to Bristol?”
Matilda’s hands bunched into fists. “This is your salvation, you dolt.” As Harry’s wife, she would never have addressed her husband so disrespectfully. As his not-quite-widow, she barely refrained from profanity. “Esther never gave up on you, Harry. She would not allow your uncles to declare you dead and divideup your share of your father’s estate. You are a wealthy man by most people’s standards, and you have at least a sibling willing to claim you.”
Harry, glib under all circumstances, was quiet for a moment. “Papa mentioned me in the will?”
Esther Merchant shifted to stand before her brother. The resemblance was strong, though Esther radiated hope, while Harry seemed genuinely bewildered.
“Papa eventually regretted the rift between you. He put notices in the paper, Harry, and I have a letter he wrote to you on his deathbed. He blamed himself, and rightly so, in my estimation. You were little more than a boy, and he was all stubbornness and pride dressed up as moral conviction. I’ve managed your share of the estate, and you are indeed quite prosperous.”
Tremont took the place at Matilda’s side. “Prosperous enough to buy yourself a theater, Merchant, if that’s what you please to do, and to produce all the bawdy farces and comedies you please.”
“The tragedies have the better speeches,” Harry murmured.
“Harry,” Matilda said, wanting to shake him until his teeth rattled, “you can write whatever blasted speeches you please. You can hire London’s finest thespians to give benefit performances. You can do as Mr. Sheridan did at Drury Lane and pay urchins and pickpockets to be your extras. You have a prodigious imagination, and now you have an equally impressive opportunity to use that imagination for worthy purposes.”
“Come home,” Esther said, taking her brother’s hand. “Please, Harry, come home. I’ve missed you and prayed for you and cursed you, but I need you to c-come home.”
“Don’t you dare cry, Esther,” Harry said, eyeing the door. “Don’t you dare, don’t you even think… Blasted hell.” Hewrapped Esther in his arms and buried his face against her hair. “I’ll come, just don’t cry. You’ll hate me for it, but I’ll come back to Bristol.”
