‘Keep it,’ Daizell said, not looking round. He fastened the bag.
‘I owe you—’
‘Yes. You do. And I’m not having you tell yourself it’s all right because you gave me money.’ He hoisted the bag and walked out. The Duke stared after him, hand over his mouth, and as Daizell slammed the door behind him, he crumpled to the floor.
He left the Green Lion an hour later, when he was sure Daizell had gone, sped on his way by an extremely unfriendly look from Forster. He’d stay in a different place tonight, and leave Coventry in the morning, he decided, although he had no idea where he’d go.
He ought not stay in a place with a reputation for mollying, even if that reputation was confined to people who wouldn’t object. He was, after all, a duke. He went instead to one of the better hostelries Coventry had to offer, and commanded a room of his own, a bath, and the cleaning of his linen and boots, and sat in one of the public rooms afterwards with a book he didn’t want to read, alone.
If he’d been in the Green Lion, he could have talked to the casual friends he’d made. Except they all liked Daizell,and he’d hurt him, so none of them would have talked to him any more. If he’d been in the Green LionwithDaizell—
If he were there he would be happy. As it was, he was as lonely and miserable as he’d been in his life.
He had some ten days left of his holiday, which felt more like an exile. He ought to make use of it somehow, though all he wanted to do was curl up on his empty bed. Leamington Spa was south of here, but his married cousin Louisa lived there with her husband, a solicitor, and there was too great a risk he might bump into her. He adored Louisa, who came between Leo and Matthew and had grown up racing around Staplow with the boys, and he would have liked nothing more than to stay with her now, the bet be damned.
But if he did that he’d have to talk about how he was. That meant lying, if only by omission, and he couldn’t stomach any more lies to people he loved.
Not Leamington Spa, then. He flicked throughPaterson’s British Itinerary, and saw Kenilworth. It was only a single stage away. He’d go to Kenilworth because it was somewhere to go, and because moving was better than staying still, and because he had absolutely nothing better to do with his stupid ducal self.
He went the next morning, after a mostly sleepless night in an excessively large bed. He found where the stage went from and took a ticket and claimed his place, wondering as he did it how this had all seemed so daunting just a few weeks back. Because he’d been inexperienced, of course, and because he’d been alone. Everything was worse when you were alone.
Kenilworth proved to be a pleasant market town. It wasn’t hard to find the ruins of the castle: a great mass of red stone, still standing tall, its bones bare and magnificent. The Dukestrolled around, trying to make himself be awed by the history. Here Simon de Montfort had besieged Prince Edward, unless it was the other way around; here the Lancastrian kings had plotted in the Wars of the Roses. Here Queen Elizabeth had stayed, entertained and courted by Robert Dudley while he concealed his illicit marriage. That had ended badly, for everyone: Dudley’s tragic wife, and Dudley who was suspected of her murder, and the Queen herself, who had died a virgin, or at least unwed.
He didn’t care. He’d have cared if he was telling Daizell all about it, and Daizell would have cared while he listened, but they weren’t doing that, and the misery of that fact left him too exhausted to walk further. He plodded to a grassy bank that seemed reasonably dry, and sat on it. It was another thing dukes didn’t do, and he didn’t care about that either.
He’d wanted to be a nobody, and now he was and he hated it. He’d liked being Mr Cassian very well indeed, thanks to Daizell, but having nowhere to go and nothing to do and nobody to do it with – one couldn’t enjoy that. That wasn’t leisure, or holiday: that was just filling time to get the day over with.
Was this how Daizell felt, drifting around in constant purposeless movement? He’d said he was lonely, but he’d never really elaborated on it, and Daizell elaborated on most things, except the ones that hurt. That urgency to talk, the readiness to fall in with any plan as long as it was a plan – the Duke could understand those things, given the sense of yawning purposelessness he felt after a single day without Daizell.
Daizell needed company, and he thought he’d found it in Cassian. And the Duke had seen that, and let him believe it and go on believing, never admitting that Cassian didn’texist, because he’d put his own selfish wants first. Because dukes always came first.
He hadn’t meant to abandon Daizell. He clung onto that fact as if it was some sort of argument in his own favour. He had truly intended to find a way forward and – what, present it as a fait accompli?I’ve lied to you, but to make it better, I’ve decided your future for you as well.
Daizell might not even have minded that so much: heaven knew he was easy-going. If the Duke had told him the truth and offered him some sort of future, or even if he’d said,Help me think of something, Daizell would have come to terms with it, he was sure. If the Duke had just told him.
But he hadn’t. He’d let Daizell hope and care under false pretences because he’d been enjoying the pretence. That was what it came down to, and the shame made him writhe.
‘You shit, Severn,’ he said aloud. It seemed the only possible word in the circumstances. ‘You utter shit.’
He could have explained it. If Daizell had given him a chance to talk it out, he could have persuaded him, made him understand. Except that he’d had that chance every second they’d spent together, and hadn’t taken it until his hand was forced.
No wonder Daizell had walked out. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to hear any more. Lord Hugo had told the Duke a hundred times he needed to be more determined, more forthright. If he’d spoken up when he should have, he wouldn’t be moping round a ruin, and Daizell wouldn’t be—
He tried to think of what Daizell was doing, and could only see his face, red with anger, glistening with tears. Was he alone? There had been no sign of the man Martin Nichols and they’d been lovers once: would Daizell have gone with him, for lack of other comfort? The Duke almost hopedso. He couldn’t bear the thought of Daizell alone again. Betrayed again.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just sit here and let the man he loved drift away; he would not. He’d find some sort of answer to how they could be together that didn’t founder on the rocks of his dukedom and Daizell’s shoddy, shabby reputation, and he would find Daizell and present it to him. Just as soon as he thought of what it would be.
Restlessness propelled him to his feet. He marched around the picturesque scene, cudgelling his brains. He cursed Daizell’s father, the wretched villain, and the damn fool position it had left Daizell in: notorious, barely educated, at once too much a gentleman and not quite enough of one. Could he be a permanent guest at ducal Staplow, when his own family didn’t count him worthy? Would he evenwantto live at Staplow, with Lord Hugo and Aunt Hilda and probably their strong opinions on George Charnage? The Duke very much doubted it. Sometimes a hundred rooms didn’t feel enough.
He had to find an answer of some kind. He couldn’t let this go. Even if they couldn’t be together, he couldn’t let Daizell be lonely. It wasn’t fair.
He strode forward, brow ferociously knit, and almost collided with a tall lady.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said briskly.
‘Not at— Oh! Mr, uh . . .’
The voice was terribly familiar. The Duke actually looked at her, and saw, with a sinking feeling, Miss Beaumont.
