Promise Me Tonight (10 page)

That was his last coherent thought before he was startled awake by the touch of a hand on his shoulder accompanied by a rather exaggerated clearing of the throat.

Disoriented, James blinked up into the concerned gaze of his steward. He closed his eyes for a long moment before taking a deep breath and opening them again.

“Tell me, Connor,” James said. “Is there perhaps construction work going on outside?”

Connor shook his head. “I’m afraid no’, milor’.”

“Then this confounded hammering is in my head?”

“Afraid so, milor’.”

James groaned, then clutched his head when Connor pulled open the heavy drapes, flooding the room with painfully bright sunlight. “What the—,” he began.

“There’s another of them urgent messengers for ye, milor’, so it’s best ye be gettin’ sobered up now.”

“An urgent messenger? Again? I don’t bloody well believe it. I thought my last reply made it quite clear that—Well, I suppose it would be rude to show him the door without hearing whatever cock-and-bull story my grandsire has cooked up this time. All right, Connor, tell the man I’ll be with him shortly. I need a few minutes to clear my head.”

James sighed as he massaged his throbbing temples. This was the fifth messenger his grandfather had sent since November. The first had informed James the earl was ill and commanded him to return to Sheffield Park. James had sent the man back with the reply that he was sure his grandfather would soon be well again; he was far too ornery to die.

On that account, at least, he had been correct, because the messengers kept arriving with letters penned in the earl’s bold hand, and James kept sending them back. He recalled a game he’d played as a child, tossing a ball back and forth until someone finally dropped it and lost. He was not going to lose.

Nor was he going to take out his frustration on the messenger, James reminded himself. He walked over to the window and felt himself relax at the sight of a pair of adolescent boys laughing and tussling on the lawn. Past them, one of the teachers he’d hired was dancing about in a circle with a group of young girls. They wore bright smiles on their faces, so different from the sullen, downcast expressions they had worn when they’d first come to live at Belmore Hall.

As he watched them, he felt a flood of warmth around his heart. The house had seen too much sadness and then had suffered from years of neglect. Now Belmore Hall was full of life and light and the laughter of children, just as his parents would have wanted it. He had located his old nanny, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and offered her a small fortune to live at Belmore and oversee the daily business of the foundling home. She had accepted with alacrity and taken over the running of the house so easily, it seemed she had been there for years. The children all adored her, as James had known they would, and between her and Connor, there was really nothing that required
his
attention. . . .

His work there was done, James realized abruptly. It had been done for some time, but he’d stayed because he didn’t know what else to do. It was time to go—

James stopped himself. One couldn’t
go
home if one didn’t
have
a home.

Weston Manor was the closest he’d come to a home since the death of his parents, but now that was lost to him, too. Even if Lord and Lady Weston were unaware of it, he had betrayed their trust. The knowledge weighed on him heavily, and though he didn’t deny himself the comfort of Lady Weston’s letters, reading them always filled him with self-loathing.

Henry had tried visiting him once, months ago, but James had sent him on his way as quickly as he could without being rude. It was damned awkward having to look your best friend in the eye when you had nearly taken his sister’s innocence. And heaven help him if Henry, or anyone else in the family, ever learned what liberties he’d taken that night. He would be soundly beaten, if not shot outright, and he deserved no less. A gentleman didn’t do the things he’d done, not to a respectable young lady, without offering marriage.

After all the Westons had done for him—had been to him—this was how he repaid them. Oh, he could claim that Isabella had kissed him first, but he had kissed her back. He had urged her on, had taken all that she was willing to give and still demanded more. He had thrown aside a lifetime of principles, had forsaken the people to whom he should have been most loyal. And he’d done it all in a heartbeat because he had been so overcome with lust for one wisp of a girl.

Lord, what was it about her that incited such a response in him? She was beautiful to be sure, but James had been with his fair share of stunning women. He admired her clever wit, but as that quality was characteristic of all the Weston females, James knew it wasn’t what made her uniquely attractive. In his mind’s eye he flashed back to the instant at her ball where, right after calling him a heartless bounder, she’d gazed up at him, her aqua eyes sparkling with delight and her pale skin flushed with excitement.

Radiant. That was the only word to describe her. She exuded joy and life, both of which he’d seen snatched away at far too young an age. In order to protect himself, James had kept those twin forces, joy and life, and their offspring, love, at a distance. But being around Isabella made that difficult; her vitality called to him, drew him like nothing else could. She gave him glimpses of what life could be like if he allowed himself to truly feel again, and her smiles eased the pain of his past to where he almost forgot why he was the way he was.

And that was why he had to stay away from her, because if he let her, she would worm her way into his heart. She had that power. And then, if he were to lose her . . . He simply wouldn’t survive. His father was proof enough of that, and James would not end like his father. He wouldn’t let his happiness depend on another person, no matter how much she might tempt him.

He forced his mind from thoughts of Isabella, for that way madness (and whiskey) lay. No, for now he would concentrate on dealing with the messenger, but it was a sad day when receiving a hate- filled missive from his only living relative was a welcome distraction.

He found the man in the entry hall looking most ill at ease, though it was hard to say whether that was due to the nature of his mission or the cluster of children inspecting him. He wasn’t anyone James recognized, which had been the case with all his predecessors, but was hardly surprising given that the majority of the servants at Sheffield Park should have been pensioned off a decade ago, at least.

One could hardly expect a servant who had difficulty making it up and down the stairs to travel the six hundred miles from Essex to County Kerry. In truth, the journey was a perilous undertaking for anyone; the crossing on the Holyhead packet was rough at the best of times and then, assuming a safe arrival in Dublin, there was the anti-British sentiment which, if the newspapers were accurate, was growing more pronounced and violent by the day.

James noted the messenger’s haggard appearance and took pity on him. “Children,” he intoned, then waited until he had their attention. “I am going to take our guest into the study now. Please return whatever valuables you have lifted off him.”

The messenger looked startled, and then astonished as, one by one, his watch, coin purse, handkerchief, and a host of other items were handed over amidst loud grumbles. James wanted to laugh, but he fought to keep his expression stern. “I have told you on numerous occasions that such impolite and criminal actions have no place at Belmore Hall.”

“Yes, milor’,” they chorused, all trying to look repentant and failing miserably.

James sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, eliciting giggles from the younger children, at least those who had been at Belmore long enough to overcome their fears of being punished and sent away.

“All right, off with you.” James made shooing motions with his hands. “No doubt Mistress Fitz can assign you more chores and schoolwork to do, since your minds and hands are not busy enough to stay out of other people’s pockets.”

There was more grumbling as they quickly dispersed and James ushered the messenger into the study. “I apologize for their behavior,” he said, closing the door. “Apparently thievery is a difficult habit to break.” He shook his head. “Now, what urgent news brings you here? What Banbury tale has my grandfather sent you to pedal?”

The man shifted uneasily.

“Come, I am certain the earl gave you a message for me. You needn’t fear being shot. All the other messengers left Belmore unscathed. I assure you, I am quite used to his rants.”

“My lord, perhaps it would be better if you just read this,” the man said, pulling a letter from the inside pocket of his coat and handing it to James.

James motioned for the messenger to be seated, and then took his own seat. Anything written by his grandfather, he knew from experience, was best read sitting down. He picked up the letter opener on the desk and slid it under the wax, then paused.

That wasn’t his grandfather’s seal; it was Lord Weston’s.

A wave of panic welled up and crashed down over him, and James’s gut started churning. He could think of only two circumstances in which the Westons would send a special messenger, and both involved death. Either someone had died or was about to. With trembling fingers he set the letter opener and folded the piece of foolscap down on the desk. He couldn’t bear to read it, because then he’d have to face whatever news it contained. His mind raced with unhappy possibilities, each scenario more horrible than the next.

Henry was surely at some shooting party or another, where any one of a thousand mishaps—a gun’s misfiring or a riding accident, for instance—might have befallen him. Or had one of the little ones taken ill? Or what if something had happened to Izzie . . . ?

His heart seized and his brain went blank, unwilling to finish the thought.

Slowly, numbly, he reached for the letter and broke the seal. He read the first line slowly, and then read it again, struggling to come to terms with what was written:

I shall put it plainly as I know you won’t wish condolences: Your grandfather has shuffled off his mortal coil.

James crumpled the paper in his hand as he rose and began to pace. Emotions flew at him, fast and wild, battling with one another for supremacy—surprise, triumph, anger, fear—but they were fleeting, and he was left feeling empty.

His grandfather was dead.

How many times had he dreamed about this day? Too many to count, he supposed, and he’d always thought the news would fill him with joy, or at least some measure of satisfaction.