Page 23 of Unmasked by the Marquess
He needed air, though. There had to be a way to exercise himself without encountering another human being. He could pace through the gardens, perhaps. Decided, he flung open the library doors and descended the stairs, causing duster-wielding housemaids to scatter like bats. His servants were all even more timid and apologetic than usual. It was never a good sign when the master of the house holed himself up for days on end. Some of these servants had served the family long enough to know precisely how bad it could get. Well, then, he would show his face among them for long enough to make it clear that at least this Marquess of Pembroke was sane and sober.
He cast his mind around, looking for something to say that would reassure them. “The... ah... carpets look very well beaten,” he tried.
Wide eyes, hasty curtsies, a flurry of milords, and he was in the garden. He took a deep breath, the first fresh air he’d had in days. There was nothing much in the garden yet, it being only April. And he’d be well out of here by the time the place was properly in bloom. He’d be in Kent, or perhaps Shropshire, where he’d stay until he could trust himself to behave reasonably.
Charity Church.He kicked some gravel off the path. Why even bother naming a child if that was the best one could come up with? She had been a foundling, she said. Presumably one found at the door of a church and committed to the charity of that institution. Charity Church, indeed. Not that he could manage to wrap his mind around the idea that his Robin was in fact this stranger with the dreary name.
A part of him, the part he had failed to silence with brandy and righteous anger, shouted that he’d be willing to call this person by any name he or she wanted as long as he got to hear that laughter, see that welter of freckles.
But no. His mind was playing tricks on him, as surely as it had when he let himself overlook the impossibility of his father’s attending Miss Selby’s christening. He was... bewitched. There was no other word for it, even though the unreason behind the sentiment was something he’d expect from his father or Gilbert or the madwoman who told fortunes at the Crown and Lion. He held himself to a higher standard, but he had let himself be brought to the edge of madness—for what was it but madness to overlook facts that ought to have been as plain as day? Enchanted by their friendship and intoxicated by an attraction that seemed to be mutual, he had managed not to notice that the person in question was not what he seemed to be.
He found that he didn’t care terribly much whether Robin was a man or a woman. That was quite secondary, compared to the fact that Robin was a fraud and a cheat.
Surely the fact that he didn’t care spoke badly of his faculties. There were men who preferred other men, and kept damned quiet about it, and there were men who preferred women. To not take a stand one way or the other seemed wanton. Greedy. Not at all like the sober, measured gentleman Alistair wanted to be.
He kicked the gravel again, only to realize that this would likely cast the undergardeners into frenzies of confusion. In preparation for the damned ball, they had raked the gravel so evenly that the tiny stones looked like butter neatly spread on scones.
Kneeling, he tried to smooth the surface. But he didn’t have the knack of the thing. No matter what he did, he kept exposing patches of soil, bald and forlorn. A gentleman’s hands were not meant for setting such earthy things right.
“No need for that, my lord,” said a voice behind him. It was the gardener.
Alistair was mortified to have been caught, although he wasn’t sure what his infraction was. Kicking the gravel in the first place, demeaning himself by attempting to remedy the situation, or having made such a poor job of it?
“Ah, yes,” he said, as if he had behaved quite normally, in a manner befitting a marquess. “Thank you, Grimes.”
In a manner befitting a marquess. Yes, that’s what he’d hang on to, that’s how he would get through the painful atrocity that would be this ball. He was a bloody marquess. If he held a ball, it would be, by definition, everything that a ball ought to be. He would cling to the dignity of his station, to his birthright.
A marquess, as long as he behaved like one, could not be diminished by any grasping charlatans or shameless frauds. Or penniless foundlings driven to extremes to help their friends—
He would not let his mind travel down that path. No more would he indulge in this sort of sentimental flight of fancy. He would not tarnish his standing out of misguided sympathy for the criminal classes.
Alistair brushed the dirt off his gloves and went back inside.
Charity had retreated to the tiny, musty study at the rear of their rented house, the room where Louisa wrote letters to the Fenshawe steward and Keating hid from the rest of the staff. For days now, Charity had avoided the drawing room. She couldn’t bear to face anyone. Leaving the house and risking running into Lord Pembroke was entirely out of the question. Aunt Agatha, grumbling but compliant, had risen to the occasion and accompanied Louisa to the park and on afternoon calls.
The door creaked noisily open, revealing Lord Gilbert standing on the threshold. Some confused servant must have sent him back here, to what had to be the shabbiest room he had ever graced with his aristocratic presence.
“This is dashed awkward, but can I ask you a favor, Selby?”
“Of course,” she managed, attempting what she hoped might pass as a smile. “Anything.”
“It’s my brother. He’s a... well, you know.” He fidgeted uncomfortably on the hard chair. “I hardly need tell you. On the best of days he’s a bit hard to take. All grimaces and lectures, you know.”
She did know. Only a few days ago she had found it charming, possibly because it was so plainly a front, and who better than she to know a front when she saw one? The real Lord Pembroke wanted to read lurid novels and cuddle on the sofa. All this lord-of-the-manor business was because he was embarrassed by his father’s excesses and anxious about providing for those who would have been cut off without a groat if he hadn’t stepped in to shore up the estate’s finances. And one of those beneficiaries was none other than Lord Gilbert, who surely ought to know better than to complain about the brother who kept him in shiny boots and ample brandy.
“He has high standards,” she said, knowing full well that the cause of their rift was the fact that she did not meet those standards and never could.
“Of course,” Gilbert said quickly, his handsome face contrite. “But I don’t reckon he needs to be quite so insufferable about them. This morning he threatened to stop my allowance if I don’t take holy orders and move to Kent.”
Charity privately thought that nobody ought to be a clergyman if they didn’t feel called to it, but at the same time considered Gilbert a total ingrate. If he couldn’t put his mind to making himselffeelcalled, surely he could figure out some way to earn a living without his brother’s money. “And what can I do to help?” she asked, not sure where she came into this.
“Well, like I said, it’s an awkward business.” He gazed around the room, as if his surroundings would offer some clue as to what to say, some path through whatever doubtlessly minor awkwardness was troubling him.
Charity knew the exact moment he noticed the peeling plaster, or maybe it was the faded draperies or threadbare carpets, because he snapped his gaze back to her. He was embarrassed to be here—he was embarrassed to have noticed what kind of place this was. He only tolerated the drawing room because Louisa was in it, a sufficient ornament to compensate for acres of worn upholstery.
“Whatever falling-out you’ve had,” Gilbert continued, his cheeks reddening, “do you think you could see your way to patching it up?”
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
