Page 44 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
When he had arrived back in town a week ago, he had promised himself not to burden her with his being any more than he had already. And so, he had tucked himself away in his townhouse. He had not answered a call in days. He had not replied to his uncle’s letters, past the first where he had conjured up some story to excuse himself from his wedding. He had barely eaten. He had barely slept.
And now his selfishness had damned him again. He had sought to visit the Bloomsday home to put an end to their business once and for all. If he could see her, it might make might sense of his mourning. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry for all he had said. That he had not meant it—that he had been afraid. He wanted her to know that it had notallbeen a ruse, but even he could not determine with any rightness just how blurred the lines between fact and fiction had become.
When he had arrived, he had been greeted not by the object of his whole affection—for that was undoubtedly what she was—but by her family. Her father had been less than inviting. Jonathan had ushered him out.
At the doorstep, he had dared ask, “And you haven’t an idea when she’ll be back?”
His uncle had sighed. “You know how women are with their gowns and hats and such. She’s out with a friend.”
“Which friend?”
“A Lady Janine, Violet’s niece. She has taken her to a seamstress on the lip of Five Fields. A Mrs.Lon-ge-vine, or some such thing.”
His heart had almost stopped in his chest. “You mean, Mrs. Langevin?”
“Aye, that’s the one. Why would a lad like you know of a shop like that?”
“God,” he had breathed, and then in answer, “On Avon. I know it all too well, for the shop is rented out by my father. You don’t suppose he lured her out there?”
His uncle had shaken his head so strongly italmostconvinced him. “Violet tells me Janine is a level-headed girl, a little ambitious, aye, but…” He had trailed off. “Don’t go bothering them, Albie. I know you.”
Clearly, he didn’t know Albert well enough.
“Faster, Rosie!” he cried against the wind as she turned another corner. His favorite mare. Her dark legs thundered against the near-abandoned streets. Albert could smell smoke in the distance, and he could hear the crying of babes from nearby windows. This was no district for a modiste’s shop. This was a place one caught a rat—not aratin this case but an angel plucked from heaven. His Blue if she would still answer to that name.
Whipping his head around to peer down every street they passed, he cried out to slow Rosie as he caught sight of a gleaming carriage. Two men were posted outside what looked to be a shop of some sort—a footman and a driver. Avon Road.
If they were still here on the lookout, it could only mean Edna and his father were within. The men pried themselves from the wall as Albert dismounted Rosie behind the carriage. He raised his hands to signal his compliance, but the men were in no way receptive. The first man, the taller of the two, stepped toward him.
“You’re not supposed to be ‘round here, my good man,” he protested. “Walk away, and we ain’t got to hear—”
“Oh, shut up,” Albert groused, pushing past the man. The second, a stouter sort, put a hand on his chest to bar his passage. “You’re going to regret doing that.”
Before the lapdog could react, Albert had smacked him in the face with his elbow. He doubled over, clutching his nose. The thinner man came up behind Albert, preceding his attack with a wild cry. A sorry mistake. As with the plumper cad, Albert lifted his arm to fend the man off. The willowy footman batted it away, counterattacking with surprising speed as he clipped Albert’s jaw with his fist. Albert recoiled but was up before his attacker could prepare another blow. With a growl, Albert pinned him against the boarded shop face.
“Your life is worth more than whatever my father is paying you,” he said through gritted teeth, taking the man’s stupor to grab him by the lapels of his coat and cast him to the ground. Dusting himself off, he turned toward the shop.
The door creaked solemnly as he entered. As expected, his father was standing at the far end of the room, his eyes set in dark provocation. Another lady he did not recognize was cowering in the corner.Janine. Both figures fell to darkness for the light that occupied the center of the shop. Edna, her face drained of all color. The door closed with a click behind him, and the room suddenly felt like a tomb.
“Son of mine,” he heard the Duke grizzle in that sea of darkness. “I wondered when next we would chance a meeting.”
The words drifted in the air. All he could see, all he couldhearwas Edna. He stepped toward her. She stepped away, and it damn near broke his heart.
“I’m not with him.Never, if that’s what you think,” he promised. He shot a glance at his father. “Why have you brought her here?”
“To show her the way of things.”
“And which way is that?” Albert’s heart ticked in his chest, and he could hear the sound of it in his ears. “All I can see is a man at the end of his tether—desperate, backed into a corner. I do not think much of you, father, though by now you will no doubt have assimilated the fact, but still…this is quite beneath what I thought you were capable of.” He scoffed. “And what were you to say to her father when he learned of your…what? Abduction?” Another word danced on the tip of his tongue:murder.Slowly or quickly, he would work his way into her like poison. As he did with Eugenie. As he did with his mother.
His father snarled, and all at once, Albert was nine years old again, daring to ask where his mama had gone. “You will not question me.”
“Not question, no. But I will tell you this—so long as I breathe, you will not touch a hair on Miss Worthington’s head. You will not do to another woman what you have done to too many already.”
“You would paint me the villain then? And by that same brush, cast yourself into rakishness? Lest you forget, my son, we are one and the same.”
Suddenly, Albert felt a small, creeping finger on his clenched fist. It was Edna, reaching out to him though she did not look at him. No doubt his father could not see from where he stood. It grounded him so much that he could speak again. “What is the point of this?” He held out his arms. “What is the point ofanyof this? Turn away! Dream of a life that is not so filled with torment.”
“This is nottorment!” his father bellowed. It shook the shop to its foundations. “This is but a hunt! And our Miss Worthington has proven the most exciting of sport. How can you not see?”
