The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (30 page)

She stopped when they were still several feet away, turning and attempting to look up into Roman’s face but unable to make herself do so. “Has he…?” Her voice cracked. She stared down at the floor, noting the pristine shine of his Hessian boots and the tassels decorating them.

“Your brother has not asked any more questions. He’s waited, as I asked him to do.”

Bethanne nodded.

He brought his hand up and softly brushed her cheek, dashing away a tear. Gracious, she hadn’t even noticed that she was crying. His hands were large and steady, covered with rough calluses. These were hands built to fight battles, to wield swords. They were not meant to toil at menial labor for a gaggle of women. They were not designed for gentle touches. Yet she’d never felt anything softer, nothing more delicate, than the manner in which he caressed her.

She wanted to lean into his touch, to surround herself with his resolute presence, with the steadfast love he had for her and use it as a shield.

Her breath caught in her throat. Love? Where had such an idea come from?

Whether the thought came unbidden or not, Bethanne couldn’t argue with its truth. She could see his love in his eyes, and feel it in everything he’d done these last weeks.

Instead of doing what she wished to do, she pulled away from him and rushed inside the parlor.

Isaac stood by the front window, hands clasped behind his back as he stared outside. From this angle, Bethanne could have easily mistaken him for their father. When the door latched behind Roman, Isaac turned to face them, his hurt and rage and confusion evident in narrowed eyes and a creased brow.

She’d caused this turbulence within him. And it wouldn’t just stop with Isaac—her entire family would be just as pained and upset and disappointed as he was.

Bethanne wanted to go to him, to explain everything she could and ease his temper, but when she started to cross the room, he took a step back.

“Sit, Bethanne.”

He’d never used such a cold tone with her before, never been so terse. It took her aback, and the sliver of bravery she’d mustered to walk into the room with him fled. Before she could turn to run away until such time as she could devise a plan, Roman’s strong hand came to rest at the small of her back again.

She’d created such a muddle that she couldn’t imagine what solutions he could possibly offer either of them. Still, the fact that he refused to leave her now slowed her racing pulse. Roman didn’t speak, but neither had he abandoned her to the fate she’d wrought.

She swallowed, forcing her tears back down even as she realized her mouth had gone completely dry.

Somehow, she moved her feet and took a seat on the sofa. She’d thought Roman might take the chair opposite her, as he so often did when they had their tea in the afternoons, but instead he sat immediately next to her. His warmth seeped through her body to ward off the chill of Isaac’s glare.

When they were settled, Isaac couldn’t seem to decide what he wanted to do. He paced to the hearth, then faced them with his mouth open as though he intended to speak, then snapped his jaw closed and paced back to the window. The same process repeated a few times before finally, he crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at Roman. “I want an explanation. I want answers.”

Roman proved to be unflappable. He didn’t even seem to be the slightest bit unnerved by the goings on of the day or by the ire coming their direction from her younger brother. “And you’ll have them. Ask your questions.”

A tic jumped just below Isaac’s eye. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lord Roman Sullivan. My father is—”

“Sullivan,” Isaac bellowed. He shook his head. “You’re Herringdon’s son?”

Bethanne winced at the sheer volume of his voice. “Please don’t shout. You’ll upset—Aunt Rosaline,” she finished hastily. Best not to lead him to questions he’d ask on his own before she was ready to answer them.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “You mean the boy. The one who called you ‘Mama.’ You told us that he was your cook’s son.”

Nothing was happening as she wanted it to happen. She wished the floor beneath the sofa would just open up and swallow her.

“I did,” she replied, pressing her eyes closed as tightly as she could.

“Yes, Lord Herringdon is my father,” Roman said quickly, speaking over her and sitting forward on the sofa to draw her brother’s attention back to himself.

Bethanne’s eyes shot open and she stared at him, befuddled. Why did he insist on attempting to protect her? Lord Roman Sullivan was proving himself to be a man of uncommon honor and valor, of which she felt wholly unworthy.

“I’ve been acting as the steward of Hassop House,” he continued, “and I’ve taken to looking in on the ladies here, since their manservant has left their employ.”

“Looking in on them?” Isaac barked. “When you discovered they had no manservant here, why didn’t you insist that they inform our family that he’d left? Why didn’t you send word yourself so that we could see to finding his replacement?” Isaac’s lip came up in a sneer. “No, instead of doing anything of the sort, you’re here alone with them, essentially impersonating a servant when I arrived.”

She couldn’t allow this to continue. Roman had done everything he could to protect them, to help them—to protect
her
—and Isaac was trying to besmirch the man’s good name.

Just as she opened her mouth to speak, however, Roman stood and clasped his hands behind his back.

“I have been acting as precisely that, in addition to fulfilling my obligations at Hassop House, so I don’t know that I’d call it an impersonation.”

Isaac’s pacing came to a halt, and he crossed his arms over his chest in a menacing pose. “For how long?”

“Hardly any time at—”

Roman cut off Bethanne’s objection. “For quite some time.”

That set the muscle in Isaac’s jaw to working again. His gaze passed between them, staring for long moments at Bethanne, then at Roman, and then at Bethanne again. “I see,” he finally clipped off. “And how are your duties split between the two households? Here during the day and at Hassop House in the evenings?”

At that moment, Bethanne knew all hope was lost. Roman was too honest to lie about such a thing, too honorable. His eyes bored into hers as he answered.

“The Hassop House butler visits me here each day so we may discuss what is to be done there.”

“Here?” Isaac barked. His hands clenched into fists and released repeatedly. “Why must the butler
visit
you here to discuss matters for your father’s estate?”

Roman, as calm as may be, faced her brother. “He visits me here because I live here.”

Isaac let out a roar, looking as murderous as she’d ever seen a man.

Bethanne didn’t think. She couldn’t. She leapt to her feet and put herself between the two men, just as her brother lunged toward Roman. His hard, fisted hand struck her eye, and everything went black.

Bethanne awoke to a dull throb pounding inside her head, or so it felt. She opened her eyes and then blinked a few times, until her surroundings became clear. She was in her chamber, in her bed. Joyce sat in a chair right next to the bed, and Isaac stood by the window, staring out at the setting sun on the horizon.

Bother. Isaac.

She moaned slightly, and both of them turned to her. Isaac’s eyes had lost none of their earlier fire. The tension in the room was murky enough to make her feel she was being smothered by an elephant.

Joyce leaned over her and pressed a cool cloth to her forehead. “How are you feeling?” Her voice carried the weight of concern.

“I do believe I’ve seen better moments,” she quipped. Her voice sounded strangled, earning her a sheepish wince from her brother.

After filling a glass of water from the pitcher nearby, Isaac moved to sit by the opposite side of the bed. “Here, drink.” He and Joyce helped draw Bethanne into a sitting position, and then he pressed the glass into her hand.

She drank. The water soothed her parched throat. After a third swallow, she finally broached the subject she’d been dreading. “Where is Roman?”

As expected, her question drew Isaac’s scowl. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Bethanne’s tone was laced with shock, and possibly also a hint of panic. Her breathing, which was already a bit shallow, turned to rapid, ragged bursts. She met Joyce’s eyes, which were filled with disquiet and sympathy. A tiny shake of Joyce’s head seemed to be her only answer.

A thousand possibilities of what
gone
might mean filtered through Bethanne’s mind at once. Had Isaac injured him—or worse? Perhaps he’d simply returned to Hassop House to appease her brother…but would he return after her brother departed? Or was his disappearance indicative of something even more significant than all of that?

Isaac cleared his throat. “I should like to speak with my sister alone. Please leave us.”

That couldn’t possibly bode well.

“Of course, Mr. Shelton.” Joyce nodded and quickly tidied the bedside table, then she slipped out of the room, drawing the door closed behind her.

When Joyce was gone, Bethanne turned to her brother again, questioning him with her eyes.

After a long moment, he dragged a swollen hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I lost control over myself. I should never have struck you.”

“I know you wouldn’t intentionally hurt me.”

“That is far from good enough, however.” The muscles along Isaac’s mouth and jaw worked, contracting and releasing repeatedly. “Intentionally or not, I did hurt you.”

It was just one more fault he would add to the list of faults which forever haunted him. Bethanne could see it in his eyes—how he wouldn’t easily release his guilt for such a thing. Isaac had already seen far too much internal torment for being a man of so few years.

She reached over and took his hand, holding it between her two. “You mustn’t let this fester, Isaac.”

He shook his head. “I won’t. I haven’t.”

He hadn’t? It had only just happened, so Bethanne didn’t have the slightest inkling what he was getting at. But perhaps her head was still fuzzy.

The counterpane covering her seemed to fascinate him, as he stared intently at it.

“Where has Lord Roman gone?” she asked a moment later, still holding her brother’s hand between hers.

Then his eyes shot up to meet hers. “I don’t know. Nor do I care, so long as he meets me at dawn as arranged.”

Bethanne sat bolt upright in her bed, and immediately regretted it. The room spun, and she snatched back one of her hands to steady herself against the bedding. He couldn’t mean what she thought he meant. “You can’t duel Lord Roman,” she said when she no longer thought she’d take a tumble from the bed.

“I can, and I will.”

“But he’ll kill you!” She shook her head, sure she must have mistaken something in what he’d said. Isaac was a horrid shot, and Roman had served a very long career in the military. He had come home alive, which said a great deal about his abilities.

The idea of the two of them dueling was utter madness.

None of the intensity had left her brother’s gaze, however. “Must I remind you that I killed Loring and not the other way around?”

She could do nothing but gape at him. It was true—Isaac had killed Lord Loring in a duel, thanks largely to Isaac’s ineptitude with a pistol, from all accounts. He couldn’t truly believe the same would hold true again. Even if he could believe such a thing, she couldn’t allow it to happen. Bethanne would not allow the death of either man to remain on her conscience—not when the only person at fault in the entire situation was her.

And she’d be damned if she would let her brother suffer the torment of another such event again. He’d already had years’ worth of guilt eating at him from the inside. He would not add to it. Not if she could stop him.

Pressing her eyes closed and saying yet another prayer for patience, Bethanne took a breath to clear her thoughts. “Why?” she asked when she reopened her eyes a moment later. “Why on earth do you think you must duel him?”

“You’re joking,” he scoffed. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

Never in a hundred lifetimes would she joke about something so weighty, and he knew it. Bethanne didn’t deign to respond to his absurd question.

“After we made certain you were all right, and once I was somewhat calm, Sullivan and I had a discussion. He admitted,
again
, that he’d been living beneath this roof. If that alone isn’t enough to demand satisfaction for your honor, I don’t know what is.” By the end of this diatribe, Isaac’s voice had risen to a near-shout.

Fighting the urge to cover her ears to dull the growing pain in her head, Bethanne tried to speak. “But—”

“But nothing,” he bellowed. “I would advise you to stop trying to protect him. When Father and Uncle Drake arrive, I doubt they will see eye-to-eye with your view of things.”

On that score, she had no doubt, yet she couldn’t allow Isaac’s plan to come to pass.

He didn’t slow long enough for her to do more than swallow the acidic venom pouring from him now. “Before I challenged him, though, I asked him about something else. Or perhaps I should say
someone
else.”