How To School Your Scoundrel (20 page)

Beneath the layers of his clothing, his heart was beating too fast. He stared at the tray of liquors and concentrated on calming his emotions, the old tricks he had learned from childhood: slow the breathing, relax the fingers, unclench the belly. The very act of concentration freed his mind, as it always did, and the familiar clarity settled upon him. Each sound, each sight, each sensation of touch and taste reached his brain with separate acuity.

He was ready.

He glanced at the chest of drawers next to the window, upon which his knife and his revolver lay, ready for use.

No. This fight would be man-to-man, skin to skin, primitive and honorable.

He straightened his cuffs and walked out of the room to the stairs.

A
s beautiful as the Palazzo Angelini was, white-faced and elegant along the winding road into Florence, its true worth lay in the surrounding grounds. The terraced lawns, the symmetrical beds planted with rare and beautiful flowers, the hawthorn maze protecting the house from the river traffic below: All these had been laid out centuries ago, and still looked as fresh as yesterday morning.

The Earl of Somerton appreciated none of this. He emerged from the maze at a dead run, panting and perspiring, with the sun in his face. He lifted his arm to shield his eyes and cast about the sloping meadow to the dull brown ribbon of the Arno below.

Where had she gone?

Where had she taken his son?

He would never forget the shock of walking into her room and finding it empty, the window open, a rope from one of Philip’s pull toys stretching down from the balcony to the trees below. All his plans, thrown instantly into disaster. Who knew that Elizabeth harbored such intrepid determination—worthy of one of his finest agents—behind her ladylike facade?

Or that she hated him so much.

Perhaps they’d had it all planned out, she and Penhallow. Perhaps he’d gotten a message to her somehow, to meet him down by the river. And this time, they would escape for good. They would find some remote corner of the world, and he would never see Philip again.

He was not a good father. He knew that. How was a good father supposed to behave? He’d never known. His father had largely ignored him, until that fatal fifteenth birthday jaunt to the brothel. And now he had four children of his own, by four different mothers, and he was at a loss, helpless to fill the holes in his heart that each one had created, helpless to find the ways into theirs.

If he failed now. If he failed with this boy, with this son, he might never have another chance.

God grant him another chance.

A movement caught his eye, near the trees at the riverside. A voice carried upward from the water.

“Father?”

He heard a woman’s voice, smothering the child’s, but the single word was enough.

He bolted down the slope at a dead run, legs pumping, arms swinging. The two figures came into view, Elizabeth and Philip, the little boy holding out his arms and the mother crushing him to her chest, the way Penhallow had held Markham a short while ago.

Out from his lungs came a furious noise, a snarl of rage.

Elizabeth turned and tried to run, tugging Philip along with her, but the boy struggled out of her grasp and ran toward him.

Toward
him.

He staggered to a halt, several yards away. The words jumbled in his head.
A father should be stern yet kind. A father should command his household. A father should. A father should.
“Young man . . .” he began.

“Father, where’s the doggie? I want the doggie,” said Philip. His face was pleading.

The
dog?
He wanted the damned
dog?

“That’s Mr. Markham’s dog, Philip. Now come with me.” He held out his hand.

“No, Philip!” Elizabeth snatched the boy’s other hand. “Come along.”

Philip looked at him apologetically. “Mama says I should come with her, sir.”

Elizabeth began to pull Philip down the river path, and something snapped inside of Somerton’s heart.

He would never have Philip, because his wife would never let him. She stood like a knight in front of Philip’s young heart, refusing entry, refusing even to let him try. To try to be a father, to try to learn, somehow, what it was that fathers were supposed to do.

A growl started in his ribs and parted his lips. He bent down and swooped up Philip in his arms, and by God, the boy laughed. He laughed with glee, and the growl choked in Somerton’s throat, strangled by the joy of holding his own son, his own warm-bodied, eager-limbed son in his arms.

“Stop it! Put him down!” screamed Elizabeth. “You’ll hurt him!”

Enough was enough. He swung the delighted Philip under one arm and grabbed Elizabeth by the other hand and hauled them both across the grass, up the slope toward the maze. “Into the house, by God. We’re going to settle this, we’re going to . . .”

“No! You can’t have him, do you hear me? You brute, you lecherous madman . . .”

“Not in front of the boy, Elizabeth. For God’s sake.” He brought his arm around her shoulders and went on striding up the hill, dragging her along with the force of his determined momentum. “We’ll discuss this inside. I am not giving him up.”

“You can’t take him! I’m his mother, I . . .”

The words died away. Elizabeth twisted her body and looked up the hillside. “Oh, look!” she cried out. “Roland’s here!”

Somerton looked up.

He had forgotten entirely about Penhallow. The thoughts of revenge that had consumed his hours had somehow dissolved into the warm skin of the little boy now tucked under his left arm. But Penhallow himself had not dissolved. He stood poised at the entrance of the maze, bathed in afternoon sunshine, like a god returned to earth. He sent them a cheerful wave and called something down.

In the instant of surprise, Somerton loosened his grip on his wife’s shoulders. She whirled around and drove her fist into his back.

The shock of it nearly sent him to his knees. Philip scrambled out of his other arm.

“Run, Philip!” Elizabeth screamed. “Run for the maze!”

The boy pelted happily up the hill. “Uncle Roland!” he called out. “There you are!”

Uncle Roland.

Like a nightmare, the scene unfolded before him. Philip, his boy, his dark-haired son, ran away through the trim green grass, his little calves pumping with effort. And Penhallow, golden Penhallow, Fortune’s favorite child, grinning like a lunatic, dropped to one and stretched out his arms.

Philip ran straight into Penhallow’s embrace, to be enfolded by those long arms, to be kissed on the top of his dark head by those smiling lips.

When Somerton was not much older than Philip—eight, perhaps, at the most—he had wandered into the music room one afternoon and found his mother lying on the chaise longue by the window with a strange man on top of her. His mother’s clothes were rumpled, her breasts bare, her skirts up around her waist. The man had his clothes on, except for his bottom, which was bare and white. He had his mouth on her mouth. He was braced on his elbows, grunting and pumping his bottom on top of her, and his mother was crying out softly.

Somerton had thought that the man was trying to hurt her. He had grabbed the poker iron and dragged it across the room and, in the strength of panic, had lifted it up and bashed the man on the back. “Get off my mother!” he’d screamed.

The man had gotten off his mother, all right, and he’d boxed Somerton’s ears so hard they rang for a week. But it was his mother’s words that hurt the most.
You stupid boy, look what you’ve done. You stupid, ugly boy, oh, my poor Rupert, my sweet darling, did he hurt you?
She had turned away from Somerton and embraced her lover tenderly, kissing him all over, begging his forgiveness.

Whenever the memory of this particular event pushed above the surface of his mind, Somerton smashed it back down again. But he couldn’t forget the pain. It still echoed across his ribs. He couldn’t forget the way his heart had felt, as if someone had ripped open his chest and taken it out to see if it was still beating.

The way Lord Roland Penhallow had ripped out his heart just now.

“You see!” Elizabeth’s voice hissed in his ear. “You see how he is with him! He loves him!”

She hurried forward to join them, but Somerton reached out his arm and snared her effortlessly. “Vicious little thing, aren’t you?” he said.

“Let me go! Can’t you see it’s hopeless? Can’t you see you won’t win?”

He turned his mouth to her ear. “He shan’t have you. By God, he shan’t.”

“Then kill me! Kill us all! What the devil do you mean by all this? Do you think to save your pride with revenge?” She was panting with emotion. “It won’t work. It never works. Revenge is hollow; don’t you know that, by now?”

Markham’s voiced rattled in his head.
Revenge harms most the one who perpetrates it.

Wise old Markham.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” whispered Elizabeth. “You haven’t a clue what to do with us. You can’t bring yourself to let us go, but you can’t bring yourself to end it all. You’re a coward, Somerton. A bully and a coward.”

She was right, wasn’t she?
Stupid, ugly boy
. A bully and coward.

He lifted his hand to rake it through his hair, and a movement snagged his attention, near the river. A flash of subtle color in the brush.

He straightened his back and freed Elizabeth’s arm from his hand. He was dimly aware of Penhallow approaching, saying her name tenderly, urging her back to the maze with Philip. Safely away from her brutal husband.

There it was. A figure emerged from the brush, tall and gray-haired, dressed in immaculate tweed. His hat was under his arm, and a walking stick kept a stately pace by his side. He stepped onto the flagstones of the river terrace, dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief, and looked upward to the maze and gardens of the Palazzo Angelini.

The Duke of Olympia.

•   •   •

L
uisa pressed her fingers into the papery bark of the tree and watched her uncle advance to the terrace.

The damp smell of the river filled her nose, mingling with the rampant green vegetation by the water’s edge. Her chest was still heaving. She’d run downstairs from Philip’s empty room, out the door and up the road, where she’d met Olympia in the agreed-upon place, the summer pavilion of the neighboring villa.

“You’ve got to come now,” she’d said, holding a pillar for support. “Lady Somerton and Philip have escaped, and Penhallow’s after them, and God knows what Somerton will do when he finds them.”

The duke had risen and picked up his walking stick from the bench beside him. “Calm yourself, my dear.” He patted his pocket. “This unsavory drama was, I’m afraid, necessary for all parties. The only way to bare the truth. But I’ve the solution to it all right here.”

Her gaze had fallen to the wide patch pockets of his tweed jacket. “The divorce papers?”

“The same. Lead on.”

She had led on, and Olympia had followed her swiftly along the river path, betraying a little more urgency than his calm words had suggested.

When they reached the open lawn of the Palazzo Angelini, he’d placed a warning hand against her chest. “Stay back, my dear. These things never quite go according to plan. My man Mr. Beadle is waiting by the bridge, if help is needed.”

Mr. Beadle, another of Olympia’s network of agents, crisscrossing Europe. Luisa leaned her head against the tree trunk and concentrated on bringing her breathing under control, bringing her heart back to a more reasonable pace.

She tilted her head around the tree to gather the scene. Somerton, Penhallow, and Lady Somerton stood on the grass, near the base of the slope, staring at the river terrace where Olympia stood. Of Philip, there was no sign.

“What the devil are you doing here, Olympia?” Somerton called out. His hands were on his hips. Penhallow was holding Lady Somerton, whispering something in her ear, and she nodded and turned up the slope, hurrying toward the maze, where a small figure—Luisa craned her neck—could now be seen, sitting in the grass at the top of the hill.

Philip. Thank God.

Olympia’s voice rang out in reply, but he was facing away from her, toward the figures on the grass, and Luisa couldn’t hear them.

Olympia advanced toward them, like a policeman brought in to sort out a brawl. Luisa leaned her head against the tree and forced her limbs to remain still. Not to go. Not to run to Somerton’s side and defend him. He could defend himself; he had to. The four of them had to bring everything, every secret and lie and subterfuge, into the open together, in this complicated and heartbreaking affair in which she, Luisa, had no part.

They had to do it, for the sake of Philip.

And he would do it. In the end, Somerton would do what was best; she was sure of that. When the markers were all on the table, he would give up his fury and his revenge, and he would do the honorable thing.

He
would
.

The fury was still there. She could see it in his face, in his stance, as he argued there with Olympia and Penhallow. But there was something else, some subtle slope in his shoulders, that told her something else. The presence of pain, or perhaps defeat.

What had happened, there on the lawn, before she arrived? She looked back up at Lady Somerton, who was holding Philip close, watching the scene below as anxiously as Luisa was. Her faultless beauty glowed in the sun, even from this distance. She and Penhallow, they were a glorious pair.

“Damn you for that!” Somerton’s voice carried across the grass.

Olympia was pounding his gold-knobbed walking stick in a theatrical manner. Penhallow had his fists balled by his sides. Luisa stood uncertainly. Should she run down to the bridge and find Beadle?

A burst of faint laughter reached her ears. She turned to the river, where a tourist boat was making its way downstream, filled with frilly pastel dresses and parasols, with men in rumpled linen suits. The lighthearted chatter rattled against her nerves.