And then Father had left to follow Mama back to London. He couldn’t live without her; they loved each other too much, the servants murmured when they thought the boys weren’t listening.
Nash learned that day: this was what happened if you loved someone too much.
As an adult he’d seen it ruin other people’s lives: marriages and families torn apart for what they called love, for a passion that could not be denied.
There was no longer a rose garden at Alverleigh. When Mama had died, Father had ordered all the roses ripped out of the earth and burned, the bowers and archways torn down, the garden put to the plough. Now only a sward of smooth green lawn remained where roses had once bloomed.
Nash glanced sideways at the lovely young woman hurrying along beside him, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, skipping every second or third step, as carefree as a young girl.
She would stay that way, he vowed.
Nash would not be jealous and possessive and tormented by love. He would have a civilized marriage, one where nobody got hurt and where children would not have to watch, agonized and helpless, consumed by fear.
A marriage of mutual respect and esteem, not passion.
All that was required was the necessary self-control.
Twenty-one
On their third afternoon at Firmin Court, the peace of Maddy’s existence was shattered by the arrival of three more guests. First the Earl of Alverleigh and Lord Ripton arrived, riding neck and neck down the driveway, scattering gravel as they thundered toward the front steps. Maddy thought the horses would leap up the steps, but at the last second, they drew up, Luke announcing that he’d won by a nose.
“Dashed fine bit of blood, that, Marcus,” he commented as he tossed the reins to a waiting groom. “Didn’t know earls could ride.”
“Didn’t know barons were lunatics,” Marcus retorted coolly. He glanced at Harry and Nash, who’d come out to welcome the new arrivals. “He’s quite insane.”
They both nodded. “Yes, but only when it comes to racing,” Harry said. “He and Rafe egg each other on. I’m surprised you did, though.” He eyed his half brother narrowly.
“He’s almost as good a rider as Rafe,” Luke admitted reluctantly.
“I’m better than Rafe,” Marcus said coolly.
Luke snorted. “I’ll lay you a monkey you’re not.”
“Did you see the Bloody Abbot?” Maddy burst out, fearing the manly horse talk would never end.
“He came last night,” Luke said, shrugging off his greatcoat. “The swine destroyed the rest of your garden, I’m afraid, and then he started banging on the windows and doing the moaning wailing thing you told us about—creepy stuff, I must say—for a woman and children, that is.”
“Yes, but did you catch him?”
Luke shook his head. “Sorry. I tackled him—got in a few punches—he’s got a black eye at the very least, but we lost him in the blasted fog.” Luke handed his hat and coat to Bronson. “Wretched stuff was so thick you could only see a few feet in front of you. The villain disappeared into it before Marcus could shoot him again.”
“You shot him?” Nash asked his brother.
“Winged him in the shoulder, I think,” Marcus said. “He let out a yelp, at any rate, and clutched his shoulder.”
“And this morning we found blood on the path and the garden gate,” added Luke.
“But since Luke was swirling around in the fog with him, I didn’t dare risk a second shot.” Marcus tossed his greatcoat and hat to a footman.
“You lost him, Luke?” Harry said incredulously. “Slipping in your old age?”
Luke snorted. “You’d have lost him, too, if you’d been belted over the head with a blasted lump of wood. Look.” He bent and showed them a large lump on his head. “You never told us he had an accomplice.”
“He never has before,” Maddy said, surprised. “It’s always been just one man.”
“So what now? You’ve left the cottage to him?” Nash asked.
“Of course not, my footman’s still there, guarding it, and he’s got my pistols,” Marcus told him. “But we don’t think there will be any more trouble. When I was grappling with him, he called out to his mate, ‘The pigeon’s flown the coop,’ Miss Woodford being, presumably, the pigeon in question.”
