Educating Caroline (26 page)

She saw his tanned fingers ball into fists, and she was put in mind of another pair of fists she’d happened to observe as closely, just a half hour before.

“There’s just something,” Tommy said, “that I have to do there. I’ve been waiting and waiting—and now I think I’m well enough. Please, Caro. Go and talk to her. I need the carriage, and some pocket money. Just enough for a day or two.”

“What?” Something in her brother’s voice awoke the elder sister in her, ever watchful for mischief—or worse, recklessness. “What do you have to do there?”

“It isn’t something I feel particularly comfortable discussing with my sister,” he said, with a smirk.

Caroline eyed him. A girl? One of his masters’ daughters, perhaps? She could only hope. She prayed it wasn’t some blowzy barmaid—though how could it be, if what he’d said that day was true, about never having tried on any trousers before?

“It’s just something that I’ve got to do, all right?” Thomas ran a hand through his overlong hair, making the ale-colored strands stand on end. “Something I’ve got to take care of. That’s all.”

No. She narrowed her gaze. It wasn’t a girl at all. She couldn’t say how she knew, but she did, quite suddenly.

“Tommy,” she said. “Does Hurst know you’re going?”

Something tightened in her brother’s face. He seemed to go pale beneath his tan.

“No,” he said. “And you’re not to tell him, Caro. This isn’t something I want to drag Hurst into. It wasn’t his fault.”

Her eyebrows went up at that. “What wasn’t his fault? Whatever are you talking about, Tommy?”

He glared at her. “You mustn’t say anything about my going to Hurst. Promise me, Caro.”

Caroline shook her head. There was only one reason her brother would wish to go to Oxford and not tell his good friend Hurst. Because Hurst would try to talk him out of it.

“You can’t ask me to keep a secret from the man I’m to marry,” Caroline said, firmly. “If you aren’t taking Hurst with you, I don’t want you going, either. Not alone. Not after—”

“Caro, you don’t understand—”

“No, I don’t. I won’t tell Hurst. But I’m not talking Ma into letting you go.” Caroline turned her back on him, and started up the stairs to her room. “And don’t bother asking me for the money, either. I won’t loan you so much as a ha’penny. You’re up to no good, I can tell. You had better just stay here.”

Tommy stood at the bottom of the stairs. She could feel his gaze boring into the back of her neck as she took each step, but she didn’t care. She kept her shoulders squared, and her head held high. She didn’t like fighting with her brother—not now that they were fully grown. But what was she to do? He would go. She knew him, and just as soon as he could scrape together enough money for a train ticket, if he couldn’t get their mother to loan him the carriage, he’d be gone.

Her first instinct was to tell Hurst, only how could she, when he had asked her not to?

But
why?
Was Tommy finally realizing what Caroline had? That Hurst was not the saintly creature he’d seemed when they’d first come to know him? Oh, he loved Tommy. There was no doubt about that. But now that the two of them were about to become brothers in truth, did Tommy suspect that his friend did not love his sister as well as he ought? Did he, she wondered, know about Jacquelyn? Surely not, or he’d have said something to his friend, to Caroline—she couldn’t believe that her own brother would knowingly allow her to marry a philanderer.

Or was it simply that Tommy thought Hurst, too, would try to stop him from going if he were made aware of his plans?

It was madness, this decision to travel when he was still so weak—and Caroline knew that, despite his assertions otherwise, Tommy was not yet whole. He still slept every morning until well past ten, her brother who’d always been up and out of the house before the clock struck eight. And she saw him wince, occasionally, whenever his side was jostled in a crowded ballroom. He could not well command a horse, nor yet dance more than one set in a single evening. Even badminton seemed a strain sometimes.

No, he was not yet strong enough to embark on whatever mission this was that he’d assigned himself. But if he would not listen to the doctor’s words of warning, or his mother’s protestations, or Caroline’s misgivings, however was she to induce him not to go?

It wasn’t until she was back in her own room— Bennington obligingly locked her in again, after telling her that Lady Emily had finally given up waiting on her, and gone home—and she spied the piece of foolscap on her dressing table that she remembered Braden Granville.

And just like that, she knew what she had to do.

21

H
er missive arrived at his office the next morning with the very first post, the feminine cursive with which it had been addressed setting it apart from the business letters and legal correspondence that arrived at the same time. Braden noticed it the minute he sat down at his desk, and quickly plucked it from the pile, examining the small, cream-colored envelope into which it had been folded. He recognized the handwriting at once as Caroline’s. Her script was scrupulously small, each letter formed with care, as if she were still striving for good marks in penmanship.

He sat studying the envelope, strangely reluctant to open it, and angry at himself for being so. He knew what it was, of course. What else could it be? Especially after what had happened between them in his carriage the day before. What had he been thinking? What in God’s name had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been thinking at all. That was the problem. Something came over him when Caroline Linford was anywhere within his proximity. It was unlike anything that had ever happened to him before. Always before with women, he’d been able to keep cool control over his actions, his emotions. The wooing of an attractive female was a game, a game which he’d mastered at a young age. Or thought he had, at least. Lady Caroline Linford had showed him otherwise.

Why was it that the one woman whom he most longed to impress was the same woman who drove him to such acts of supreme idiocy? What had happened in the carriage was a prime example. What had he been thinking, mauling her about like that, as if she were some doxy he’d picked up off the docks? Caroline Linford was a lady—one of the only women he’d ever met whom he felt truly met the definition of the word. And yet it seemed that every time he got within two feet of her, his only thought was of removing as many articles of her clothing as was possible in the limited time they had together. What sort of way was that to treat a lady?

It was no small wonder she wanted to sever all ties to him. He thoroughly deserved her reproof. She was a complete innocent, guileless in her understanding of the male half of the species, and he had taken advantage of that. It was unforgivable, the way he’d treated her.

And yet he hadn’t been able to help himself, any more than he was capable of stopping himself from breathing. Perhaps it was just as well she was putting an end to it. If he could not control his baser instincts in her presence, he did not deserve to have her. Maybe it was true, what Jacquelyn had said: One could take the man from the slums, but never the slums from the man.

Deciding that, no matter how eloquently she pleaded, he was not going to allow it to end this way—with a letter—he ran a finger beneath the wax seal that held Caroline’s letter closed, and unfolded it.
Dear Mr. Granville,
he read. Well, of course. She’d yet to call him Braden.

But what came after the salutation was not at all what Braden had expected. He read Caroline’s careful script all the way to the highly impersonal closing—
Most sincerely yours, C. Linford
—then dragged his gaze back to the top of the page, and read it again, certain he’d missed something.

But he hadn’t. There was nothing reproachful here, nothing in the least indicating that she wished never to see him again. Not a word of condemnation. Nothing bitter, nothing biting. Instead of recriminations came a request. A most unusual request, but one that Braden could easily accommodate.

He took out a sheet of paper and began at once to pen a reply that would arrive, if he hurried, by return post.

It pleased him far more than it should, the thought that he might be able to do something for her—something no one else but he could do. It was sickening, this weakness he had for her. He was almost glad Weasel was holed up with his bad leg: he would have been disgusted at his employer’s ingratiating behavior—the more so because it was so uncharacteristic. Braden Granville did not fall over himself in an effort to win any woman.

Until now.

But he couldn’t help himself. One glimpse into those chestnut-colored eyes, and all the steely composure for which he was known was lost.

It was a little after twelve in the afternoon when he arrived, sitting tall in the saddle of an even-tempered roan, his gaze sweeping the sandy track upon which only a few gentlemen were left taking their morning exercise. Rotten Row was most crowded with equestrian traffic early in the day, but Caroline had made it clear in her letter that since his accident, her brother was rarely out of the house by midday. The late hour, however, would not keep the Earl of Bartlett from putting in his appearance at the park. He was determined not to let his injury keep him from all of the rites and traditions of the beau monde that he had come to know since coming in to his title.

And, Braden saw, after a few minutes of searching, there he was, taking it very easy on a fine looking gray. He was accompanied by a middle-aged groom, but whether this escort was not particularly to the earl’s liking, or the groom was of a taciturn disposition, there appeared to be no conversation taking place between the two men, and the earl, in fact, rode a little ahead, his face turned toward the midday sun.

Braden gave his mount a gentle taste of his heels, and the mare broke into an obliging trot. He was soon neck and neck with the earl, and eased back on the reins.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” he said, gravely.

The boy threw him a startled glance. When he realized who it was who’d greeted him, the earl turned a deep red—Braden saw his crimson cheeks from the corner of his eye. He was startlingly like his sister in the easy way he blushed.

“Gran—I mean,
Mr.
Granville,” Thomas Linford cried. “Oh, I say. I’ve never seen you here before.”

“No,” Braden said, resignedly. “I haven’t much time for riding.”

“Of course.” Thomas nodded. “You’re needed at your business, I imagine, all the time.”

“Quite.” Braden turned then and looked at the groom, who was riding just behind them, with his head ducked, as if by doing so, he could stop his ears from overhearing his master’s conversation. “Do you think you and I might have a word in private, my lord?”

The boy nodded again, and turned in his saddle to instruct the groom to wait for him. He would ride on a little with Mr. Granville, then return when their business had been conducted.

The groom assented, and Braden and the earl rode on in uneasy silence—uneasy on the part of the earl, since it was plain to see the boy was bursting to ask what Braden wanted, and Braden because he could not quite see how he could introduce the topic he wished to discuss without betraying Caroline, who’d asked him in her letter not to let on how he’d discovered what he knew.

Finally, upon passing a fellow who had obviously imbibed too much the night before, and had fallen asleep upon his mount, to circle round and round the park until his horse either tired or decided to take it upon itself to find its way home, Braden remembered something, and said, “I used to come here quite often as a boy.”

“To the Row, sir?” Thomas’s voice conveyed his astonishment without, Braden was certain, the boy’s meaning it to. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean. I didn’t come to ride, of course. I hadn’t a horse until I was well into my twenties. But my friends and I used to come here and look for fellows like that one back there.”

“The drunken one, sir?”

“Yes, that one. They were quite easy targets. We’d wait until they passed close to a tree, and when no one was looking, we’d knock them from their mounts and take their wallets.” Braden spoke as tonelessly as if he were describing a chemical experiment. “A dangerous way to make a living, but back then, we didn’t know any other.”

Thomas rode beside him in silence. Braden studied the boy’s profile. Except for his coloring, Braden could not trace much likeness to his sister. His features were sharply drawn, most likely as a result of the weight he’d lost after his injury. Caroline’s face was much softer, her nose not aquiline at all, but turned up at the end, her cheekbones high enough to give her fine eyes an upward tilt at the corners, like a cat’s, without making her appear haughty in the least.

“But,” Thomas said, at length, “you never shot them, did you? These men you robbed, I mean.”

“Of course not.” Braden turned his attention toward guiding his horse around a particularly wide stretch of track that had gone to mud. “None of us owned guns. They cost too dear. That is why—” He grunted as his mare misstepped, her hoof sinking into the deep mud, and momentarily lost her balance. A second later, she had righted herself, and seemed embarrassed by the mishap, giving an indignant whinny before moving on again. “—I find myself wondering about your story concerning the footpad.”

He saw the boy’s chin slide forward, and instantly recognized the stubborn gesture, as it mirrored exactly the one that appeared on his sister’s face when she was at her most intractable.

“Are you calling me a liar, sir?” Thomas asked, hotly.

“Of course not. I am merely suggesting that the story you told your mother and sister about the footpad might have been a fabrication to hide the truth about how you came to be shot.” Braden was careful to keep his tone neutral. Not judging. Merely stating a fact. “I don’t fault you in the least for the lie. Had I a mother and sister, I would have told them the exact same thing. For they would not know—as you and I both do—that footpads rarely have access to pistols. If they do manage to find one, they generally sell it—for even as scrap, a pistol will usually fetch more than most thieves can make in a year.”

Thomas was silent, but not sullenly so. He was listening to Braden intently, and seemed to be debating something within himself.

“The person who shot you,” Braden went on, “was not a footpad. For not only did he have ready access to a pistol, but he was skilled with the weapon. He’d had practice, and a good deal of it. Not only that, but he respected his weapon, keeping it in good repair. If he had not, you would not be alive today, for the shot was clean, if a little low. I assume he was aiming for the heart.”

Thomas murmured, “My foot slipped. I was going over the wall, and my foot slipped—”

“Good thing, too,” Braden said. “For if you had held steady, we would not be having this discussion.”

“It was—” The earl appeared to have drifted far away from Rotten Row—not physically, but in his mind. He murmured, “It burned. When it hit me. It flung me back, and then it burned. And then when I woke up, it hurt. More than anything I’ve ever known.”

“Yes,” Braden said, flatly. “It does, doesn’t it?”

That brought him back. He flung a surprised look in Braden’s direction. “You—
you
’ve been shot before?”

“Many a time,” Braden said, evenly. “One does not become known as the Lothario of London without incurring the wrath of the occasional husband. But I was never stupid enough,” he added, “to be run down by a footpad.”

And with that, Thomas gave it up.

“It wasn’t a footpad,” he said, scornfully. “It was a duke.”

“A
duke?”
Braden could not have been more surprised if Thomas had said he’d shot himself. “Were you dueling?”

“No. Cards.” Thomas’s voice was filled with scorn. “A fixed game, I’m sure of it. I called him a cheat. And so he followed me home and shot me, I suppose so I wouldn’t tell anyone about the fact that the game was fixed.”

“Only he failed,” Braden said. “Because the marquis found you.”

“Found me?” Thomas let out a bitter laugh. “Not hardly. He’d been following me. He suspected the duke might be out for my blood, and he—”

Braden’s tone sharpened. “Lord Winchilsea was playing as well?”

“Of course. He’s the one who let me in on the game. Highest stakes in Oxford, he said. He didn’t say they’d be
this
high, though.” He touched the place the bullet had gone through with a wry expression. “He hadn’t any idea the cards were marked, of course.”

Braden Granville felt a sudden chill, even though the day was fine. Someone had walked over his grave. At least, that’s how he remembered his mother explaining the sensation.

“The cards were marked?” he asked, in a wooden voice. “You’re sure of it?”

“Yes. It was difficult to see—they kept the lights low. But if you squinted and stared long enough, you could see, plain as day, the mark in the design on the back—”

“The Duke,” Braden said.

“Well, that’s what he said he was, only I’ve met dukes before, and this one—”

“Not
a
duke,” Braden said, quickly.
“The
Duke.”

“Right. That’s what he called himself. You know him?”

Braden shook his head. When Caroline had written to him, asking if he’d be willing to try to talk her brother out of going back to Oxford for the weekend, he had never imagined this. . . .

“I know him,” Braden said, grimly. “Thomas, you must tell me the truth now. Does he know that you’re alive? The Duke? You haven’t communicated with him, have you, since he shot you? Or anyone else who might know him?”

“No,” the earl said, looking bewildered. “Just Hurst. Only he said I wasn’t to tell anyone about . . . well, about what had happened. He’s the one who came up with the idea about footpads. I suppose he’ll be put out with me when he finds I’ve told you, but you’re—”

“He’s quite right,” Braden said. “You mustn’t say a word—not a word, Thomas—to anyone.” He shook his head wonderingly. “It’s a wonder they haven’t discovered it yet,” he murmured.

“What?” Thomas leaned forward in his saddle, though it was clearly not easy for him to do so, with his wound still not completely healed. “What did you say?”

Braden wheeled his mare around and urged her forward until she stood nose to nose with Thomas’s mount. Then he said, in a low and urgent voice, “Thomas, I know this man, The Duke. His real name is Seymour Hawkins. He used to operate an illegal gambling hall in the Dials. He bribed the local constabulary there to turn a blind eye to it . . . until a new man, an honest man, was appointed chief constable, and wouldn’t accept Hawkins’s blood money. Hawkins doesn’t take kindly to honest men, Thomas. He cut out the constable’s tongue for calling him a liar and a cheat, and gouged out his eyes for looking at him while he did it.”

Thomas stared up at Braden with a mixture of fascination and horror on his face. “Truly?” he asked, looking suddenly far younger than his nineteen years.

“Truly,” Braden said. “The crime was so brutal, it garnered a good deal of attention from the press, and The Duke became a wanted man. He was forced to leave London. If he discovers that you are still alive, Thomas—if you go to Oxford—he’ll see that you are permanently dispatched this time. I know it as surely as I am looking at you now. You do not cross The Duke.”

Thomas said, in a voice he obviously meant to be haughty, but which came out sounding only petulant, “I cannot let a man shoot at me and get away with it. I am an earl. I cannot show such cowardice. I have my pride, sir. Now that I am well enough, I must go to him and demand satisfaction—”

“Damn your pride,” Braden said. “Think of your sister,-boy. She would sooner have you alive and humbled than dead and vindicated.”

A scowl broke out across the young earl’s face. “You seem to know quite a bit about my sister’s feelings.” His tone was hotly accusing.

“I will not deny,” Braden said, in a wooden tone, after a moment of silence, “that I admire your sister.”

“She is engaged to be married,” Thomas said, quickly.

“Indeed.” Braden spoke again without inflection of any kind. “And to a man who is responsible for getting you shot.”

“That isn’t so!” Color flooded the boy’s cheeks. “Hurst is the one who saved me. I would have died if it hadn’t been for his efforts.”

“If it hadn’t been for his
efforts,”
Braden said, not quite so tonelessly now, “you wouldn’t have been shot in the first place. How is it that you are so blind you cannot see that? That bullet caught you in the chest, not the eyes.”

Thomas said, shakily, “Hurst didn’t know. He told me a thousand times he didn’t know the game was rigged. And I believe him!”

“Evidently,” Braden said, the fury burning within him so hot that his mare felt it, and began to dance nervously. But it still didn’t show in his voice. “Evidently you believe him well enough to entrust to him your only sister. I admit I don’t think I could be so easy, knowing my sister was to wed a man who associates freely with the likes of Seymour Hawkins.”

“I would sooner see her wed to him—” Thomas, for all his bluster, sounded very much as if he might start crying. “—than to the Lothario of London!”

“Then you can rest easy.” Braden realized he’d made the boy fractious. He hadn’t set out to do so. But hearing the truth about Hurst had set his teeth on edge. “For she has no intention of breaking off her engagement to the marquis. But if you were any kind of man, my lord, you would tell her the truth. She has a right to know exactly what sort of fellow she’s getting for a husband.”

“I can’t tell her,” Thomas said, looking horrified. “If Caro found out I was gambling, she’d . . . well, I don’t know what she’d do. Tell Ma, I wouldn’t doubt. And she’d cut me off.”

“I don’t have a sister,” Braden said, stiffly, “but if I did, I can assure you that my fortune would not be worth more to me than her happiness.”

“Caroline loves Hurst,” Thomas assured him, with a confidence Braden was not convinced he actually felt about the matter. “Just as he loves her. He’s a good man. He’ll take care of her. I’d stake my life upon it.”