Unveiled (18 page)

The taller gentleman—Mr. Smite Turner—appeared to be in the midst of telling his brother a story. He had shed his coat and had draped it over one arm—a trick that reminded her of Ash. He gesticulated with the other hand. His face was turned in profile. His visage was a quiet echo of Ash's. But where Ash had dark, curling hair, this man's was cropped close to his skull, and it was almost ebony. Where Ash's skin was tinged in color from the sun, this man was pale.

One thing they had in common was that air of charisma. He said something, and Mark let out a cackle of laughter. At the same moment, the new fellow turned his head slightly and met her eyes. The friendly smile froze in place. His face stiffened; his chin lifted. His eyes grew harder, and he scanned her from head to toe.

Margaret was used to men looking her over. But this perusal didn't feel like masculine admiration. It felt as if he were cataloguing her, from the half-boots still on her feet from the gardens, to the starched white collar of her gown. He nodded once, as if he'd fit her into some mental taxonomy.

“Mark,” he said quietly, “this is she, is it not?”

She?
Etiquette demanded that Margaret curtsy, that she smile at this man in greeting. But he hadn't even addressed her. He'd been rude to Ash. And he was
standing here, laughing with Mark, while his brother felt unwelcome. She stared back at him and straightened her spine.

“At least she's pretty,” he finally said.

“That went without saying,” Mark said simply. “You can always count on Ash for that.”

So the brothers had spoken not only of her, but about their elder brother. Behind his back. Margaret's anger boiled over. She strode across the room to stand before the two men.

“You,” she said accusingly, jabbing her finger towards Mr. Smite Turner's chest. “You may talk about
me
as if I am not in the room, but don't you
dare
do it to your brother. He risked his life for your sakes in India, and now you two leave him alone, isolated? You speak of him as if he were nothing more than a choice bit of gossip? You make him feel as if he's not a welcome part of your family? How dare
you?
” She turned to Mark. “How dare you? I thought better of you than this.”

Mr. Smite Turner held his hands up, palms out, as if to stem this onslaught. A bemused expression lit his face. That gesture was so very like Ash—and the similarity only enraged Margaret further.

“Have you any notion how much you're hurting him with your carelessness?” He'd talked about his brothers with her, and every aspect of those conversations returned to her now. “He paid for your education. He funded your apprenticeship. He sends you a quarterly allowance, even if you choose not to accept it. And you repay him by excluding him from your tight little circle of friendship? By refusing
his
invitations, and then accepting one from Mark? You make this house the grounds for your own private party, and you fail to
issue him an invitation. Shame on you. Shame on you
both.
”

That bemused smile grew. “My God, Mark. She has a tongue on her.” Mr. Smite Turner rubbed his chin with his hand. “Lady Anna Margaret, this is not what you suppose. I did not come because I wished to exclude Ash. But circumstances—”

“Circumstances? Truly? If you didn't wish to exclude him, then where is your brother now?”

The man drew back and folded his arms, and a small smile twitched his lips. “I don't know, my lady. Shall I fetch him and perform the requisite introductions?”

“Introductions? Why—” She choked on the rest of her sentence. Through the thick haze of her rage, she heard what he'd said—really heard. He'd called her
my lady.
And before that, he'd called her… Oh, God. His words seemed to echo, and her hands felt suddenly cold. He'd called her Lady Anna Margaret.
Lady Anna Margaret.
He knew. He knew.

She'd thought to have a few more days. A week, even.

“What did you call me?” A futile attempt. Her protest was too late in coming. “I'm not—I'm not—” A more ineffectual denial Margaret had never heard.

And naturally, he didn't believe it. He shook his dark head, the motion quick and precise. “No point dissembling, my lady. I saw you two years prior at the theater. You were attending with your brother, and I remember everything I see. The line of your nose. Your chin. If you would like, I could recite precisely what you wore that night, down to the pearls around your neck.”

“Pearls?”

“South Sea pearls, round, with a light golden sheen. A quarter of an inch in diameter each.” He shut his eyes and moved his lips, as if counting. “A strand of likely thirty such. Perhaps as many as thirty-two. I could not see the entire string from where I stood.”

He opened his eyes again. He was not guessing. He was
sure.
And he was describing her mother's strand of pearls—a necklace she'd borrowed on occasion.

“I see I made quite the impression.”

Mark came to stand by her. “Smite remembers everything. Precisely.”

Margaret drew a shaky breath. Denial wasn't working. Defense was no longer an option. That left only attack. “That's very well,” she started again smoothly, “but we are not here to talk about me, interesting as I might be. I came to ask—no,
demand,
that you talk with him.”

The two brothers exchanged glances.

“Let me strike a bargain,” the elder Mr. Turner said. “You stop browbeating me like a shrew for my treatment of my brother, and I'll keep your little secret. How is that for a trade?” He smiled at her negligently.

If Ash knew the truth about her, he would never look at her the same way again. He would never smile at her, would never believe that she was something special. She would become just another Dalrymple to him—and a deceitful, lying one at that. That was the inevitable end to their relationship—recrimination and anger. There was no future between them.

Margaret had no desire to rush headlong into that nonexistent future.

All she would have to do was walk away. And do so, knowing that he was sitting in his office, hurting,
because these two men were too selfish to understand what they had done to him. After all that Ash had given her, he didn't deserve to have her desert him as well.

“No deal.” Her voice shook. “What sort of man are you, to offer to bargain with your brother's happiness, in exchange for a moment's comfort?”

Mark and Smite exchanged glances again.

“I
told
you so,” Mark said, an impish smile lighting his face. “I told you she wouldn't take the bait. And I was right.”

“You did. Brat.” There was no accusation in that last word though, only affection. Smite shook his head and glanced over at Margaret. “You see, when I heard that my brother—my eldest brother, who rescued me from the streets, who stayed up to three in the morning laboring over the accounts from the previous night so that he might pay for my education—when I heard that he had taken an extraordinary interest in a woman who might have been the daughter of his worst enemy—yes, Lady Anna Margaret, I
did
come running to his side. That is precisely how I repay him. I don't let my brothers come to harm.”

“
You
knew?” Margaret glanced at Mark.

“I guessed.”

“And still you were kind to me.” Had it been an attempt to win her confidences, to use her?

“It was a recent guess.” Mark shrugged. “Unlike my other brothers, I've never much believed in this foolish dispute. I knew you would keep Ash on his toes long before I believed you were a Dalrymple.”

His elder brother snorted in disbelief.

Mark grinned across at her. “I would take care,
Smite. I've been teaching her how to disable a man. Her lessons continue apace.”

“I'm so worried.” He rolled his eyes.

“Don't let her sweet appearance fool you. She hit hard enough to take Ash down.”

Margaret tapped her foot angrily. “
She
is standing right in front of you.”

Smite glanced at her. “I suppose if
she
truly intended him harm, she wouldn't have cut into a rage at me. My God. Has she put him in his place like that?”

“More than once,” Mark answered. “It was magnificent. You should have been there.”

“You can address me in the following ways: ‘Lady Anna Margaret;' or ‘ahoy, you there!' or, if you should wish, just Margaret—that is, after all, what my friends and family call me. You may not call me
she.
Not under any circumstances, not when speaking to my face.”

Mr. Smite Turner smiled again. There was little amusement in the expression. “I apologize for my rudeness. Mark and I…we've experienced a great deal together. When we're together, we sometimes lapse into familiarity. We love Ash. But you must understand that as dedicated as Ash is, he is also overpoweringly annoying.”

He spoke those words using the same solemn certainty with which he'd pronounced her name, as if this were a simple fact. Margaret felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

“Annoying? I hadn't noticed,” she said a little hotly—and rather untruthfully, because as she spoke, she remembered the master key hanging from her neck—and his tiger-cub Laurette—and his damned insistence the other night that Lady Anna Margaret
was a pitiful creature. He was easily the most annoying man she had ever met. She looked away.

The two brothers simply looked at each other, and finally Mark nodded, and Smite let out a sigh.

“If I believed you intended him harm—but you don't, do you? I suppose he charmed you out of any such thoughts in the first hour he knew you.” Mr. Smite Turner shook his head. “Everything is always so simple for him.”

“In point of fact,” Margaret said, “it took him more than a week.”

He truly smiled at that. “Good. Then he'll not trample all over you—he's wont to do that, you know. Ash just
wants
things, and generally, reality leaps to make them happen. After you've spent more time with him, you'll see.”

“But I won't spend time with him,” Margaret said, “not after you divulge my identity tonight.” She had known this moment was coming. But it had always seemed a distant possibility on the horizon—an eventual discovery, not an imminent threat. She was about to lose him. And it should not have felt so much like a
loss.
She had, after all, known he was never hers. Not truly.

“I was ready to do so,” Smite said slowly. “I came here, convinced I'd have to wrestle him into facing the truth. But Mark has dissuaded me. No, you'll have to tell him yourself.”

Margaret stared at him. “Why…why would you allow me to do that?”

It was Mark who finally spoke. “Because it will cause him less pain to hear it freely offered from
you
than to have the truth come from us.”

“You'll tell him by tomorrow morning,” Smite said firmly. “Because according to Mark, he cares for you. And my brother
deserves
to have the truth from the woman he cares about.” He stared at her, his gaze as implacable as hers had been earlier. Mark, next to him, looked no less sober. Together, they formed a solid wall of grim male intention. It almost warmed her heart, to know that they cared for him this much.

Still, she put one hand on her hip. “If you don't want him hurt,” she said to the elder Turner, “perhaps once—just once—you might let him do something for you. He hates that you take nothing from him.”

His chin rose. His nostrils flared. But if he'd heard what she said, he did not show it. Instead, he fixed his unblinking gaze on her. “Tell him. I'll give you one day.”

T
HE HOURS BEFORE
dinner dragged. Ash attempted to focus during a series of meetings with his men. The words they spoke, however, barely intruded into his consciousness. He wasn't even sure he heard his responses to their queries. His mind was elsewhere—on his brothers.

When one of his men slid a stack of papers towards him, he simply stared at it.

“What is this?” he asked quietly.

Across the table from him, Strong grimaced. Cottry, who had handed him the papers, looked up uneasily. “An accounting of the expenses estimated for refurbishing the
Lily.
” Ash glanced down. The pages were mostly numbers—and numbers, unlike words, had always made sense to him. But still, there was enough text that following it would be difficult. And besides, it was the principle of the thing.

“Sir,” Strong continued, “I know you don't like reports, but there are so many little details, all of which you must be conversant with, if you are to make an informed decision. So if you'll just turn to page two—”

Ash shook his head.

Books had worked for his brothers. They could have simply read what Strong presented to them and been able to engage him in a discussion of endless minutiae. For them, there was no difference between actual
knowledge and this written facsimile thereof. But Ash had never had the trick of learning from words. He lacked whatever magic happened behind most people's eyes, the miracle that transmuted ink into understanding. Words were just words. He couldn't read about agriculture and have it come to life in his mind. Until he felt the soil between his fingers, until he watched plants poke green spears through rich mulch, he would never understand farming.

He sighed and pushed the papers back across the desk. “No, Cottry.”

“But, sir—”

“No buts. No excuses. My mind simply doesn't work on paper.” It was as close as he'd come to ever admitting the truth to anyone, besides Margaret. “It works on
things
—people, ships, jewels. Tangible items. I want to be able to put my hands on something, look it in the eye.”

Cottry exhaled in frustration. “Sir.
Lily
is a ship. She doesn't have eyes.”

Ash stood up and beckoned the man closer. Cottry swallowed and leaned in his direction. Ash looked at him. He was an intelligent fellow. This wasn't about Ash's supposed refusal to read documents. No—this was something he went through with all his men at some point. They huddled in the nest like little fledglings, beaks open wide to receive what scant nourishment he might deliver.

“Cottry,” Ash said, with a weary shake of his head, “I own an entire fleet of vessels. I have holdings in four countries and warehouses in seven ports. I haven't the time to sort through maintenance records, even if I had the inclination.” Or the ability.

Cottry swallowed.

“You're afraid,” Ash said. It didn't require much intelligence to make that out. He'd seen it too many times before to miss the telltale signs. “You're afraid you've made a mistake, and that if it goes unchecked, something will go dreadfully wrong. And so you want me to look everything over. Well. I am not a balustrade, erected at the edge of a cliff to keep you from tumbling over. I am not your governess, tasked to keep you safe. I am your employer.”

Cottry nodded.

“I hired you,” Ash said, “because I knew you could make these decisions on your own.”

Cottry inhaled. He looked a faint plea at Ash.

“The first time's the worst,” Ash said cheerily. “Make the decision on your own—tell me about it—and afterwards, if you need to vomit, please try to make your way to the chamberpot first.”

“Sir.” Cottry sounded strangled.

“It's a ship, man, not a battle plan. If you are in error, I'll only lose money. Use your best judgment.” He leaned forwards and looked the man in the eyes. “I know it's good.”

Cottry nodded weakly. It was weak assent—but it was assent.

Ash gave him one last nod. “I know you can do it,” he said quietly. Cottry met his eyes, and a ripple of panic passed over his face. Ash had seen that look a hundred times at this stage, and he knew precisely what it meant:
Dear God, please don't let me fail.

As his men left, Ash realized that Margaret was right. His method of doing business had started out as a way for him to hide his weakness. But since then, he'd met too many other tradesmen who became trapped
by their own myopia. They'd been too bogged down by details to successfully handle an empire.

Ash hadn't been able to comprehend all the details, and so instead, he had learned to comprehend other people. People wanted to believe they were capable, and when you told them they were, they leaped to prove it.

Ash was never going to be a scholar. But then…he didn't have to be one. He was good enough, as himself. Ash stood and brushed off his coat. It was time to give it one last try.

His brothers had been set up, along with a tray of sandwiches, in a parlor decorated in stuffy pinkness. He wondered if Mrs. Benedict had put them here out of some perverse sense of humor—the femininity of the room, with its embroidered roses and gold-scrolled wallpaper, along with a bewildering array of lace-edged pillows, was almost overwhelming.

He swung the door in. Smite was sitting alone. Of course he was reading a book.

A decanter of port sat on a nearby table, and glasses were ready beside it. Likely that was Mrs. Benedict's doing, too—although this had substantially less to do with humor and more to do with a certain practicality that understood the typical gentleman of Ash's station all too well.

Smite had not drunk the port. Instead, he sat reading his book. He turned a page and glanced down. He almost seemed to be simply staring at it for a few seconds, before he transferred his gaze to the next one and then turned again.

Ash had never really been scared. Not even in India, where on one memorable occasion, he'd found himself alone and surrounded by natives who brandished
spears. He'd always had a sense of things, a knowledge of what to say—or, as was the case in that instance, how to gesture. He'd been able to look at people and intuit what they wanted, what they feared and how to provide them with the former in a way that profited everyone. But with his brothers…he had no notion of how to proceed. It was as if they were an extension of him, so close to his heart that he could not guess at the topography of their emotions. He could see no secret way into their hearts.

Smite looked up at Ash's footsteps. He simply stared at him for a second, and then, slowly, a smile crawled over his face. Ash's stomach lurched.

God, he loved his brother so much.

“I've met your Miss Lowell,” Smite said.

His younger brother deployed words precisely. He'd done so even before he took articles in Bristol, but legal training had accelerated the tendency. Smite's use of the possessive was not happenstance.

His
Miss Lowell. Ash liked that thought very well.

“I see,” Smite said dryly, “that you don't bother to disclaim her. I do wonder if she is possibly good enough for you.”

Good enough for
him?
Ash held his breath. He wasn't sure if this was a conscious slur on his brother's part, denigrating her station, or a shocking compliment to himself. “And your conclusion?”

Smite simply shook his head. “No. She is not.” He turned away. Nothing more to bolster Ash's hopes. That bare dismissal felt like a slap in the face.

“Don't make hasty judgments,” Ash said. “Look, stay a few nights. A week, if you dare. Talk with her some more.”

Smite let out a long sigh.

It was cowardly, but Ash added, “I know Mark would enjoy your company.”

“I'm leaving in the next hour.”

“For God's sake, it's barely September. The courts are closed. I'd be willing to wager that the man you work under isn't even in town at the moment. Could you not stay even one night? You won't make it to Bristol by nightfall, and we're due for a storm any moment now.”

Smite's lips pressed together, but he said nothing. Compliment or insult, there was no way to interpret his hasty departure as anything other than another rejection. Ash let out a pained breath. It had always been like this between them, ever since Ash had come back from India. Mark at least
tried
to talk with Ash.

“What must I do?” He strode forwards. “What must I do, that I offend you no longer, Smite? Do you want me to beg? I'll grovel. Do you want me laid low? I'll cast myself at your feet.”

Smite interlaced his fingers precisely in front of him. “You have nothing to atone for. And no matter how hard you try, it cannot be made up in any event. But, Ash—” his brother raised his eyes “—you don't offend me. You never have.”

His actions spoke louder than words. “You'll appear the instant Mark dashes off a request, but you won't even stay another twenty-four hours when I ask it of you? Don't tell me you would talk to
Mark
this way.”

“Of course not,” Smite said in disdain. “
Mark
would know better than to ask me to stay.”

“But—”

“Mark asked me to come here to…meet Miss Lowell. For you, you barbarian, as it appears that when it comes
to her, you are intent on diving off a cliff, headfirst. I came for
you.
Not for him.”

His brother spoke those words as he always did, clean and crisp, with just a hint of wry humor. Ash stared at him, not quite able to comprehend what he'd just said. He wanted to hug him. Or, more like, to barrel him over and pin him to the ground. But so much exuberance would make him uneasy.

Instead Ash reached out his hand and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. It would have to do, as embraces went. “Thank you,” he said. It seemed inadequate to the moment.

Smite looked up at him, his features held very, very still. “You know, Ash,” he said quietly, “you cannot buy me back my childhood. It's not your fault I lost it, nor is it something you could purchase in any event.”

They never talked of those years. Never. For Smite to bring it up on his own… Ash held his breath. Whatever had transpired in his absence, Ash
knew
he could not make up for it. It didn't stop him from wanting to try. From wanting to throw everything he had in his brother's direction, just to try to win a smile from him.

“You can't purchase my childhood,” Smite repeated. His hands spread, and he flattened them on the table in front of him. He seemed distinctly uneasy. “But perhaps there is something you can do for me as an adult. Some two things.”

A peace offering. After all these years of spurning Ash's attempted gifts, there was a peace offering. “Name them,” he said hoarsely.

“I'd like to be a magistrate.”

“Done. Hell, when I'm the Duke of Parford, I'll see
you appointed to the Queen's Bench. Do you fancy being Lord Chief Justice?”

Smite smiled and shook his head. “Stop embellishing on my dreams, Ash. A magistrate. I have no desire to sit in the assizes. I'd be satisfied to be a small dispensary of justice—someone who sees little people, and who, from time to time, might make a difference in someone's life. I know that
small
is not your style. But it is mine.”

Ash nodded. “Why?”

His brother smiled faintly once more. “Because what happened to us… I want to make certain it won't happen again. Not on my watch.”

“And the second thing?”

Smite's gaze slipped away. “I'm sure Mark has shared his feelings on this point. But we both know how Mark is.” His fingers drummed against wood. “It's about Richard Dalrymple. I want you to take away everything he has ever cared for. Turnabout, after all, is only fair.”

 

M
ARGARET KNEW SHE NEEDED
to talk with Ash, but he'd been busy up until dinner, in anticipation of his brother's departure. It was almost ten in the evening when Margaret stood in her father's room, her hands on her hips, listening to him complain.

“Why,” he demanded, “is it still so warm? It's September. Autumn should be coming on.”

The weather over the past few days had not cooled. Instead the heat had built, a furnace stoked by each passing day. The air had grown still and stagnant. Even if Margaret had opened the windows, no breeze would have ruffled the curtains. Instead, the air hung
thick and humid, like some bloated creature hunkered sullenly in one corner of its lair.

Her father continued. “It's time for fires in the fireplace, and autumn chills and the like.”

“Would you like me to build you a fire?” she asked dryly.

“Don't be a ninny. I would like you to alter the weather.” He looked at her implacably, as if a strong enough ducal command might cause storm clouds to gather.

“Well, then. I'll just snap my fingers and make it so. I hope that will satisfy you, Your Grace.” As she spoke, she dabbed gently at his face with a towel. Since she had been left alone at Parford Manor, his incessant demands had become worse, even less reasonable. Had he ever loved her at all? Had
she
ever loved
him?
Perhaps there had never been anything between them but duty and obligation.

“Worthless girl,” he muttered, rubbing the side of his cheek.

Margaret's hands closed around the towel. She wasn't performing tasks for pay. She wasn't a bear, to dance at the end of a rope.

If she'd been confused about Ash, she was utterly discombobulated when it came to her father. If she was worthless, it was because
he
had made her so—because he'd engaged in bigamy, and because he had simply ceased to play the charade of father, once the truth was revealed to the world.

“What was that you said? I couldn't make it out.” Her voice was low and fierce in her ears.