Chapter Twenty-Four

J ohn headed back toward his rented room in Blackstone’s that afternoon, after having paid a necessary trip to his counting house. He was steps away from it when he felt someone bump into him from behind. He turned, angry at the gesture, only to pull back in surprise. It was Lord Stuart, his friend from those earlier days in society—the one who had been with him when he won the card game against Barnsby.

“Is this where you’ve been all this time?” Lord Stuart asked, wearing his usual sardonic smile.

John was confused by the greeting and that Stuart was addressing him at all. He responded stiffly, “I am surprised that you stopped to greet me.”

“If you are, it shows how little well you know me.” At John’s baffled expression, the look on Stuart’s face grew exasperated. “I go to my hunting box for a few weeks and come back to find you cast out of society, with no one capable of telling me where you went.”

It was true John had not divulged, even to his closest friends, that his brother had left an estate to him. He had always remained circumspect about his situation. His friends knew only that he had enough blunt to keep up with them, and that was all they cared about.

“After Theo and Fernsby gave me the cut, I could not help but draw the same conclusion about you.”

Stuart lifted his eyes upward. “If all of our years together have not taught you not to lump me in with those fellows, then there is nothing more to be done with you.”

He met John’s look with a smile, then glanced behind him. “I am not so fickle a friend as to give you the cut direct without at least trying to hear what you have to say to the rumors made against you. I have not moved, so come see me when you have some time, will you?”

John finally emerged from his daze and reached out to shake Stuart’s hand, amazed and touched that he, of all people, had remained loyal.

“I will. Thank you.”

Stuart lifted a hand and waved as he turned back to where he had come from, and John entered the club with much to think about. He would never again judge a person without giving them a chance.

Blackstone’s was bustling with life. It had been surprisingly easy to settle into the rhythm here, and although he had planned to stay for only a couple of days, he found himself in no hurry to rush off again. The room was comfortable, the dinner excellent, and he had even grown accustomed to the beady eyes at every turn from all the animals that had been frozen in time. He greeted two members in the hallway as he headed to the drawing room and there chose an empty seat.

Harry was shuffling a deck of cards, though he was not at a table where a game could be played.

“Aubin, you must be pleased about what happened to Lord Goodwin.”

“What’s that?” John turned to him in surprise. He hadn’t heard anything regarding the earl. At least nothing that had been reported in The Gazette yet. Not even Stuart had said anything, but perhaps he thought John knew.

“His Grace, the Duke of Rigsby let everyone know that the earl’s investments for the asylum and for some mill up north were all a scam. Or rather, he said the project had begun, but he was instead pouring the investments into some risky revolutionary bonds in South America.”

Harry looked around and saw that he had an audience. “Such a venture might have been lucrative—it has been in the United Provinces—except that the revolutionary army in Brazil suffered a defeat at the hands of the Spanish, which means he lost all of the funds. Everything.” He folded his arms as a man satisfied. “Now the beau monde is furious, as you might imagine. He won’t be able to show his face anywhere. News has it he’s gone to his estate in Windsor.”

John was silent, too surprised for words by the turn of the events.

“I suppose he’ll be blackballed next. Think he’ll become a member here?” That humorous remark was from Sebastian Drake.

John tried to follow, but it seemed his mind had turned sluggish. “How did the Duke of Rigsby find out about the bonds?”

Sir Humphrey was seated nearby reading, and he put down the newspaper to look over it. “From Lord Blackstone. I discovered the problem with the mill—as I said, I’ve been following Goodwin closely. Lord Blackstone learned of the revolutionary bonds, and he was the one who informed the duke of the connection between the two.”

“I see.”

John was glad of one thing. Other investors would no longer be so easily taken in. It was for this reason that it was best that Lord Goodwin’s actions had been made public. But he mourned for Lady Geny. With her father in disgrace, how would she carry on? And what about her brother? John feared she would bury herself in loneliness in her London house, only going out to visit the orphanage. He pictured her growing more and more reclusive until the smile had left her face completely. This dismal image stole any satisfaction he might otherwise feel, and he was powerless to save her from it. Because of his deception, he had lost the right to love and protect her.

“A message has come for you, Aubin.” Plockton entered the room carrying a silver platter with a sealed note on it. “’Twas delivered by messenger, and he’s waiting for your answer.”

John opened the letter and skimmed its contents, lifting a brow in surprise. The note was from Mr. Thompson, requesting John’s presence to discuss a matter of some urgency. He was inviting him that very afternoon if he was available. John looked up at Plockton as though he might possess the answer to this mystery. What could be so urgent when they hardly knew each other and had seen each other the day before? He would accept the invitation, of course.

“Inform the messenger that I will be there in an hour or so.”

Plockton went off to do his bidding. After a moment’s reflection, John decided it must be related to the earl’s disgrace, particularly since Mr. Thompson had donated money to the orphanage. Perhaps he wished to ask John how to retrieve his donation, thinking that he might have some advice since he used to work there. John wasn’t sure he could satisfy him, but he would do his best.

An hour later, he stood outside a Palladian-style home, admiring how magnificent it was for a merchant who was still living as a bachelor. If he had thought about it at all, he had been expecting something much more modest.

The servant admitted him right away, saying he was expected. Without requiring John to wait, he led him to the drawing room and stepped back to allow John to enter. He did so as Mr. Thompson strode forward to shake his hand .

“Thank you for coming to meet me.”

“It is nothing,” John replied. He looked around the spacious drawing room with curiosity, noticing how tastefully it was decorated—again for the home of a bachelor. This appreciative regard came to a halt by the sudden appearance of Lady Geny rising from the sofa. The shock of seeing her there stunned him, then angered him. He turned his face to glare at Mr. Thompson before returning his gaze to her.

“My lady, I must ask what you are doing in the home of a man still living as a bachelor?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. Then the truth fell on him at once, and he took a step back, the air temporarily knocked from his lungs. “You have an understanding? Is that it?”

Movement from the right caught his eye, and he turned to it. Miss Buxton had been standing unnoticed by the window, and she now walked over to where he stood and curtsied.

“This is my home, Mr. Aubin—my parents’ home—and you are most welcome to it. You could not know this, since we have not made it public, but Mr. Thompson and I are betrothed.” She touched her fiancé on the arm. “And now, he and I have a few things to discuss for our wedding in a couple of months. If we are not needed, we will retire to the library.”

Mr. Thompson looked at him ruefully. “Forgive me for the deceit. I trusted my fiancée that this meeting was what you would have wished for. I hope I was not wrong.”

He bowed and followed Miss Buxton out of the drawing room, closing the door firmly behind them. John was rooted in place, frozen from what felt like a succession of shocking revelations, but this lasted mere seconds. He forced himself to go to Geny, unwilling to lose his chance to speak to her.

“I hardly know what to say.” He allowed his eyes to drink in the sight of her but dared not touch her. “I did not expect to have the fortune of meeting you again.”

She looked at him in silence, and he remembered the terrible image of loneliness he had envisioned just hours before of what her future would look like. This propelled him to speak.

“Please tell me. Your father…” He examined her face for signs of tears or pallor. Instead, he found only two bright spots of color on her cheeks. The sight somehow gave him courage. “How are you faring?”

She still did not speak, and her silence now brought John a new and alarming revelation, one he was eager to dispel.

“It was not done by my hand,” he explained urgently, lifting both hands as though taking a double oath. “I was not the one to expose your father. I told him I would not do so when we met in Manchester.”

“I know, John.” Her gentle voice reached him and calmed the worst of his fears, especially when he heard her use his name. “My father informed me of having met you in Ancoats, and he told me that you confessed your feelings for me.”

The swift change in topic and—it seemed—his fortunes caused John’s throat to constrict, making it hard to bring air in. Dare he hope again?

“I did.”

“This is why I wanted to meet. I knew that you would not disregard my order to stay away, so that if I wished to see you again, I had to be the one to arrange the meeting. Although”—she lifted her fingers to cool her cheeks—“it is so forward of me that I can scarcely bring myself to look at you.”

This broke John out of his stupor.

“I am glad you did.” He took the remaining two steps to her and grasped both of her hands. “I was resigning myself to a life of never seeing you again and was trying to learn how to live with it. I must tell you that never in all my days have I contemplated the future with such bleakness as I have in these past two weeks.”

She tilted her face upward, her eyes searching his. “Nor I. Everything you said about my father was true. It did not take much to believe you, and once I did, I could not remain angry with you. I…I have missed you.”

Though conscious of his unworthiness, John could not refrain from lifting her hands to his lips. He permitted himself this gesture of gratitude, of reverence, before releasing her hands and preparing himself for what he must say next. If he wanted to propose, he was honor bound to lay everything bare before her. Geny must know what bargain she was getting should she agree to become his wife. It was the weight of this confession that made it difficult to fully meet her gaze.

“You need to know what kind of man I am—what kind of man I’ve been. I spent eight years in London as the worst kind of rake and have nothing to show for my time there.” He stopped, forcing air in his lungs, then rushed on before he lost the courage. “I lived a life of pleasure, heedless of anyone but myself. I ruined a man by winning his fortune in a card game—this you know—but in fact, there were many other card games where my own losses were great. I spent my time in the clubs, spending recklessly, drinking, women…”

John stopped, unable to say anything else or even to form a coherent ending to his confession. He burned with shame, waiting to hear what she would say. He waited like a man on the gallows. After a stretch of time that seemed like forever, he heard the question she asked in her quiet voice.

“Are you still that man today?”

“I am not.” It required no time for reflection. “That man died with his reputation.”

“Good.” Her voice was light, and her tone sounded like a smile. It invited him to lift his eyes. “I am glad. For I quite like the man who stands before me now.”

Her expression of grace made him want to deserve it. His heart pounded with a new hope.

“I was wrong to deceive you, Geny. I regret it, as I regret the liberties I took while engaged in my deceit. I can hardly believe my good fortune that you are willing to grant me an audience to tell you this, but I promise never to deceive you again, not as long as you will allow me to be a part of your life.”

“I believe you,” she said softly.

He reached out and gently took her elbow, pulling her closer, his eyes lovingly skimming every detail of her features from her soft blonde hair to her pale brow, her wide eyes to her stubborn dimpled chin, all while breathing in the comfort of her subtle scent… Everything about her left him feeling fresh and hopeful. It always had.

“If I were more of a gentleman”—his voice had gone gruff—“perhaps I would do the honorable thing and insist you forget about me, leaving you free to find a more worthy husband.”

Her knit brows caused him to release her hands and lift his knuckles to graze the side of her cheek. “Unfortunately, I am only a man, and I am not strong enough to do that. Will you marry me, Geny?”

She nodded, her eyes bright, her lips pressed together in a smile as though she did not trust her voice to speak.

He could breathe again. John’s smile spread. “Forgive me if my ego is too great, but is that a yes? May I hear it from your lips?”

She nodded in broad motions. “Yes,” she said, her pressed lips spreading into a grin.

John gave an audible sigh of relief and reached his arms around her to pull her into a tight hug. Then, just as quickly, he pulled away again, dropping his arms to his side in consternation. Too late, he remembered his decision to be virtuous.

Geny looked up at him with bright eyes—trusting eyes—a look which turned to confusion when he continued to stand at a distance. When he saw that look, he wished to take her in his arms again to reassure her of his consuming love for her, but did not dare. She deserved only the best, most honorable treatment from him. The safest way to guarantee it was to keep his distance until they were married. But then, surely, he should act like a man betrothed and not like a mere stranger, shouldn’t he?

To his growing dismay, he discovered that any useful skill he might once have possessed in the art of seduction—as well as any talent therein—had fled. Here he was betrothed, with the right at the very least to kiss his fiancée, but he dared not do it. He was not worthy of a woman of her virtue.

“Good,” he said stupidly when the silence stretched.

Perhaps if he attempted a reformed lifestyle for a few months first, he might become worthy of being her husband.

Geny took a step back, studying him with surprise bordering on indignation. “Mr. Aubin, after you have shown me what satisfaction it is to be kissed by you, are you now going to deny me this after I have promised to become your wife?”

“No, no,” he protested, the ridiculousness of the situation causing him to slap his hand to his head.

“No.” He stepped forward again and this time put his arms around her. He looked into her eyes as he pulled her close again. “It is only that you are too good for me, and I didn’t dare to take any liberties.”

She shook her head at him, her mouth pursed in disapproval. “Do not say that. Our marriage will begin and remain on level ground. I sincerely hope that your stores of goodness will fill out my stores of want, and that my stores of goodness will fill out your stores of want. Is that not what such a sacred union is for?”

John needed only seconds to agree. “Why, so you are right, my sweet.”

With such wise words coming from the lips of his betrothed, he was now determined she should not marry a fool. He bent down and kissed her, his lips settling warmly on hers, and his hands pulling her more closely into his embrace. All was just as it should be.

“You wished to be reminded of the satisfaction of being kissed,” he whispered, his lips scarcely leaving hers. “Something like this?”

After a few minutes during which she could only be measuring the level of satisfaction to determine whether she deemed it sufficient, she gave her reply, her lips scarcely leaving his.

“Yes, John. Exactly like this.”