Julia London (85 page)

Greatly surprised and equally suspicious, he said carefully, “Go on.”

“The first,” she said in German, “is that you allow me to go to Rosewood so that I may settle a few things—and say good-bye.” A deep sob escaped her throat. He made a move to touch her, but she shook her head, swallowed hard, and continued in a whisper: “And the second is that you take me to Bavaria.” She lifted her eyes to gauge his reaction.

He had never seen such misery in his life. “That is all?” he asked slowly. She nodded. “You are certain? Lauren, are you quite certain?”

Her eyes pooled again. A single tear drifted from the corner of her eye, sliding slowly to her mouth. “I am
very
certain.”

On impulse, Magnus grabbed her, wrapping her into a protective embrace. He kissed her salty lips, grimacing
when she began to cry again. He did not ask her anything—he had made his promise and he would keep it. There was nothing he could do but cradle her head against his shoulder as a river of grief flowed from her body.

She eventually took the port he insisted she drink and calmly, if not leadenly, talked through the arrangements with him. They agreed to leave as soon as Lauren could pack a few things. Magnus was not so certain she would be able to travel in her current state, but she insisted she would be quite all right.

When he escorted her home, it was he who broke the news to a stunned Ethan and Paul. Paul took the news quietly, his eyes traveling frequently to Lauren, who was trying gamely to put on a smile for them. Ethan, naturally, acted disappointed. He had set his sights on the duke, but Magnus knew he would gladly accept his generous settlement. He even agreed to pay the Russell Square rent through the end of the Season, as Ethan complained he was just beginning to enjoy himself. Pleased with that concession, Ethan insisted upon toasting his latest accomplishment. As the bastard chortled over his feat of snaring
two
Bergen men, Magnus stole a glance at Paul. He stared at his untouched brandy, his mouth set in an implacable line. Lauren looked as if she had been handed a death sentence.

He left very soon afterward, eager to be away from the obnoxious Lord Hill.

   The gargoyle clock on the mantel chimed eleven times. From the writing table in her room, Lauren glanced at it and frowned. Turning back to the empty paper in front of her, she tapped the quill against her cheek. What she had in mind was childish, but she could not resist a parting shot for the scoundrel. She was struggling; she had never been very good at expressing her innermost feelings, yet she was deeply compelled to tell him how badly he had hurt her. As
impotent as a few words might seem to him, they gave her a strength she desperately needed at the moment.

But she was completely inept at describing her utter devastation, and fretted with the end of the quill as she mulled it over. He had asked another woman to run away with him after he had sparked a flaming passion in her that was not, even now, extinguishable. He meant to install her as his mistress, not find a legitimate way for them to be together as she had so foolishly hoped. There was nothing that could soothe her, nothing that could ease the pain he had caused her. Suddenly reminded of a poem, she dipped the quill in the inkwell and wrote quickly.

She anxiously read what she had written. The words, though clear, did not seem to capture her deep hurt. She thought to try again, but a glance at the clock decided her against it. There would be ample opportunity after tonight to perfect the art of stinging rebukes. She left the note unsigned, sprinkled sand across the ink, and waved the paper impatiently to dry it before sealing it with candle wax.

Gripping the note, Lauren soundlessly slipped out of her room and downstairs, pausing on the bottom step to listen. Voices drifted from the parlor; picking up her skirts, she dashed down the hall in the opposite direction, almost skidding to a stop in front of Davis’s room. She knocked rapidly and waited, glancing nervously over her shoulder toward the main hallway, and impatiently knocked again. A faint rustle could be heard behind the door before Davis pulled it open, clearly annoyed.

“Caller,” she said impertinently, and thrust the note at him. “Please take this to Twenty-four Audley Street right
away.” Davis peered at the note in her hand. “
Please
, Davis, I need you to do this!”

“Sutherland,” he said, reading her direction on the note, then lifted his gaze and studied her closely. “Too late,” he snapped.

Lauren quickly wedged herself in the door to keep him from shutting it in her face. “All right, I did not want to do this, but I am fully prepared to dispatch a letter to Lord Dowling and tell him how horribly disagreeable you have been during our stay here. I do not know Lord Dowling well, but I am quite certain he will not appreciate that a countess has been treated so ill by a servant in his home. You value your employment, do you not?”

Judging by the sour pucker of his mouth, he did. He glared at her, then the note in her hand. With a low growl, he snatched it from her. “Twenty-four Audley Street,” he groused, and would have slammed the door on her shoulder had she not jumped out of the way.

   Finch glared at the little man who thrust the note at him and barked, “Sutherland,” then turned on his heel and stomped away from the door. The last thing he needed was to bring his grace any more news, of
any
kind. Oh, the duke was in a fine mood. It had begun during the welcome home supper for Lady Marlaine. His grace had ignored all propriety and had actually left the table in the course of the meal to find his butler. Find him, he did, all right, in the servant’s dining area, and had dragged him out in full view of the staff.

Finch’s second misfortune—the first having been found—was to be the one to tell his grace that the messenger was unable to locate Countess Bergen at Vauxhall Gardens. The duke’s face had grown dangerously dark as Finch assured him the messenger had gone to every single fountain in the gardens, big and small alike, but had not located her. He had timidly returned the note that should have been
delivered, only to watch his grace rip it into tiny little pieces before marching back to the dining room.

God only knew what news
this
note brought. But there was one thing of which he could be sure, Finch thought as he walked slowly to the duke’s private study, the note held before him on a silver tray.

His grace would not like it.

His grace signaled his displeasure by groaning the moment Finch stepped into the room. “What is it?” he barked.

“A note has arrived, your grace.”

He growled, slamming the glass of whiskey down on a table. “What time is it?”

“Half past twelve midnight.”

The duke rubbed his temples. “Bring it,” he snarled, and tossed aside the book in his lap. Finch carefully handed him the note, and then backed out, shutting the pocket doors
very
softly.

   Alex could not bring himself to read it.

He paced around the room, clutching the note tightly in his hand. He could not bear to be reminded of the mess he had created or be filled with a new rash of longing. He took a deep breath, ripped past the seal, and looked at the page.

“Bloody hell.
Bloody, bloody hell!
” he shouted at the ceiling. It was unsigned, but he knew
exactly
who had penned it. Good God, who
else
went about quoting from pages of English poetry? He stumbled backward and into a chair. How could she have come to the conclusion that last night was a lie? How in the bloody hell had she judged it a lie? It was not a
lie
, Goddammit!

God
, what had he done? he asked himself for the thousandth time as bitter disappointment churned in his gut. Reminded of his strange premonition last evening that she was slipping away from him, he realized he had lost her. He had lost the one thing that had ever mattered to him.

His world was rapidly crumbling.

He glanced at the clock—a quarter to one. There was nothing he could do at this hour, not a bloody thing. Except drink.

His head felt like stone. Not only that, he must have eaten mud last evening, so foul was his mouth. God help him, but that woman had caused him to overindulge three nights running now and last night had been his best effort yet. Alex lifted his head from the desk and tried to open his eyes, blinking against the shards of sunlight that knifed his brain.

This madness had to
stop.
He was neglecting his responsibilities and scaring Marlaine half to death. She was trying very hard to be understanding, but she was smothering him with her concern, constantly hovering, asking if there was anything she could do for him, if there was anything he needed. There was something he needed, all right, something she could not give him.

He did not look up when the door to the library opened and closed. “God’s blood!” Arthur exclaimed. Alex gestured for him to soften his voice. “You look like hell, man! Judging by the look of you, I suppose there is no need to tell you Countess Bergen has left London—”

“Wh—What did you say?” Alex demanded, pushing himself up in his chair with supreme effort.

“I said you look like hell—”

“Not that!”

Arthur exhaled his aggravation and picked up Alex’s discarded neckcloth. “She left. Yesterday.”

Sagging, Alex closed his eyes, his head reeling. She was gone. He pinched the bridge of his nose and wished like hell the room would quit moving. “Yesterday?” he croaked.

“In the company of the German.”

“Bloody hell,” he grumbled.

“God, Alex, when will you end this tiresome brooding of yours? Do you remember you are to be married in a matter of days? You should be treating your fiancée with the adoration she is due on the eve of that fortuitous occasion, and not diving into your cups night after night!”

If Alex had possessed one ounce of strength, he would have cheerfully split his brother’s skull open. And Lauren thought
he
was arrogant.

“How long do you intend to let this self-pity continue? How long will you allow the gossip to abound? Do you know that Marlaine attended a concert without you last evening? Told the Delacortes you were ill, but as you managed to make it to White’s yesterday afternoon for a
drink
, Delacorte knew it to be a lie. Oh, but do not worry. Your fiancée had a nice time of it with her cousin, Miss Broadmoore. A
smashing
good time by all accounts. Seems the pendulum has swung the other way—now Marlaine is the object of gossip.”

Alex rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to dispel the throbbing. “She will be the source of constant gossip once she is a duchess and may as well get accustomed to it. God knows I have.”

Arthur’s unsympathetic moan reverberated about the room. “Here now, take Marlaine to the Fremont ball tonight. That will end the worst speculation.”

“I don’t know,” Alex drawled as he slowly sat up, grimacing. “I had already promised my attentions to a bottle of whiskey.”

“All right, enough,” Arthur said impatiently, throwing up his hands. “Look, I can certainly understand your infatuation for the countess—she is beautiful and charming. But that is all it is, Alex, an infatuation. She has
left
, for Chrissakes! And according to Paddy, that rather despicable uncle of hers has announced her betrothal to Count Bergen. So you may stop this adolescent pining for her and resume your life!”

“Tell me, Arthur, is there anything else I might do to please you?” Alex asked bitterly.

Arthur wearily tossed the neckcloth aside. “I think you have lost your mind.”

Not my mind. My way
, he thought, and forced himself to look at his brother. “I will take Marlaine to the Fremont ball tonight. I will let the entire
ton
see that all is well with Sutherland. We are one very happy family, do not fret.”

“Good,” Arthur said, and walked to the door. He paused, looking over his shoulder. “Come now, it can hardly be as bad as all that. You will have forgotten her soon enough, just like the others.”

Alex snorted as the door closed behind his brother. He would never forget her. There was not enough whiskey in the world for that.

   Arthur’s indignation, Alex suspected, sent him running to Hannah, as he could think of no other explanation for his mother’s sudden appearance. He was sitting in his study, his head lolling against the leather wing-backed chair, staring into the fire. Lauren had left with the Goddammed German, and there was not a bloody thing he could do about it. He himself would be married by the end of the month; he could hardly fault Lauren for doing the same. After all, everyone must make a suitable match, one befitting their station and
the
ton
’s expectations. Everyone must eventually settle. He would. She would. Life would go on. And he would learn to endure this agony.

It was that which he was contemplating when Hannah appeared at the door of his sanctuary, her hands on her hips. Hardly in a mood to hear a maternal lecture, he barely glanced at her.

“It would seem my son has a problem,” she said imperiously.

That was putting it rather mildly. He sighed impatiently. “What, was there some offense Arthur failed to mention?”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Alexander,” she said, gliding into the room. “And Arthur is right. You have behaved abominably these last few days.”

“I really must thank Arthur for his complete dossier.”

“I spoke with Marlaine earlier,” she continued, ignoring his biting sarcasm. “She confided to me that you have been very distant with her. She fears you are suffering from second thoughts. Quite naturally, of course.”

“That’s rich,” he scoffed. “Only Marlaine could make my behavior sound reasonable.”

Hannah sat heavily on the edge of a chair next to him. “I have asked myself over and over again why you are behaving this way. You are a fine man, Alex, a decent,
caring
man. You are hardly one to invite gossip or disregard the feelings of others, or intentionally hurt those for whom you care.”