Ten
Keats leaned against the window, looking down the drive that eventually met a road, which eventually led to London. To his old life. To the Marquess of Rainsly’s new life. It looked like his father’s life—cold and empty, a series of young wives whose bodies gave way, meetings where you sold off your daughter to the highest bidder, raucous laughter and winking when your son acted like a cocksure arse.
Made Keats sick. He stabbed his elbows into the windowsill and dropped his head into his hands. “I want to do something of substance with my hours. I want to protect those in my charge, not neglect them. I want… God, Griff, I wanther.”
“The vengeful Venus?” Griff said from the bed where he lay stretched out, counting the cracks in the ceiling. “Who exactly is she, other than the woman most likely to put a bullet through your heart?”
“Miss Lucy Jones. Farmer’s daughter, viscount’s granddaughter, daughter of a lady who caused quite a scandal in her own time, heroine in her own right, and, I hate to say it because it sounds maudlin as hell, but she’s the woman I love.”
“You can’t marry her. She sounds entirely improper as a possible marchioness. Besides, she said quite forcefully she will not marry you.”
“I lied to her.” But at the same time, he’d been utterly truthful with her, never more himself than these last weeks. Imagine growing up an earl and finding, after a small amount of time in the country, that you prefer being a stable hand. Because Miss Lucy Jones respects you. Because you respect yourself.
Could he convince her to respect him once more?
“You know,” Griff said, “you could always court her properly. If you’re set on her, and I don’t think you should?—”
The door swung open, and Keats and Griff bolted to their feet.
Lucy stood wide-eyed in the doorway. She’d looked lovely and tumbled this morning when he’d left her at the cottage, and she’d looked regal and distant when she’d found him out. Now, she looked as if the ground was opening up before her, and she had no choice but to stagger forward into the abyss. The hem of her skirt was dark and wet, and grass clung to her boots like desperation clung to her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” He made it to her in two long steps.
She lurched away from him. “Everything, my lord. Two?—”
“Nomy lordingme.” Grated on the ears like the wail of a cat in heat when you’re trying to sleep off too much drink. “‘My dear.’ ‘My darling.’ ‘My God, Keats, it’s so big.’ All of those are acceptable.”My lord?Anything but that.
“We’ve no time for your absurdities.”
“He’d lost all of them a minute ago,” Griff said, plopping back down to the bed. “You brought them all back with you, Miss Jones.”
“Some help you are wooing a lady.” But Keats did feel better. Lucy needed help, and she’d come to him. He risked a step closer to her, and she did not shy away this time. “You will hear truth.I saw my sister being swept away to devil knew where, and I followed her. I held a pistol to Mr. Sacks’s ribs and threatened to put a hole in his heart if he gave me away. I didn’t pull the trigger. I gave the man—and you—time to prove you workedformy sister and not against her. I stayed here, leaving behind all the comforts of my London life to sleep on a pile of blankets in a hard corner of a cottage and shovel shit every day to ensure my sister’s safety and happiness. I lied to you. What choice did I have? You would have set your violent footmen on me. I would have run back to London and returned with reinforcements, the exact kind of men you do not want gaining knowledge about Hawthorne. I have kept your little enterprise safe. And I was…am… glad to do so. I am not your enemy. I wish only to be your protector.”
“You have endangered us all. Not only did you bring that man”—she pointed at Griff without looking—“here, you’ve brought another two. They are in the village looking for Alex. You must get rid of them. And you as well.” She nodded at Griff. “You brought them here. Make them go away. If they find us out, if they spread word…”
Where would those who needed Hawthorne House go? How would they disappear?
Bloody hell.
“It’s Palmerson, isn’t it?” Alex stood in the doorway, Fred and Pat hovering behind her, shifting side to side, clearly unsure whether to let the lady do as she pleased or haul her away from the imprisoned rogues and out of danger.
They should take her away from him. Keats had no power, no ability to keep her safe. Shame was a heavy cloak, rough and suffocating, and it enveloped him thicker than the morning fog. “I did not mean this to happen, Alex.”
Her feet came into view, practical little half boots that had been quite fine once, but that now were dusty and cracked andwell-worn. Her skirts rustled. “Do you mean what you said, about dissolving the marriage contract with Palmerson?”
“Yes.” If only he’d done something sooner.
“Then go now and do it.” Her hand found his, her grip strong and pleading.
And he finally found the courage to look into her eyes, so like his own. But better because the gaze there was stronger, braver, than he could ever be. “Yes.”
“My brother,” Lucy said, “says Palmerson’s queries regarding Alex have already resulted in talk. About Hawthorne.”
“But the villagers think it a school, yes?” Keats said. “Training for working women?”
“And that will make him curious, won’t it?” Lucy stepped to the side of the door, clearing the entry, making way for him to act. “Why would your sister be training for something? He’ll come here. He can’t come here.”
Griff pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not as if you’ve done anything wrong. A few months’ sojourn to the country is hardly a scandalous crime.”
