Page 37 of A Spinster’s Folly (Courting the Unconventional #2)
His jaw tightened as he rubbed a hand across his face, as if he could physically scrub away the thoughts of her. The accounts needed balancing, his estate required his full attention, and yet he could not string together a single productive thought.
A sharp knock at the door drew him from his reverie. He straightened as Hagen stepped into the room and announced, “Lord Alcott has requested a moment of your time, my lord.”
Charles found himself grateful for the interruption. “Send him in.”
A moment later, Alcott entered, his posture rigid. He did not bother with pleasantries. Instead, he strode forward and asked, “Do you want to explain why you truly visited my sister?”
Charles leaned back in his chair, feigning nonchalance. “It was of little consequence. ”
Alcott’s eyes narrowed as he sank into the chair opposite the desk. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“No,” Charles admitted. “But I cannot reveal the true reason without betraying Lady Eugenie’s confidences.”
That seemed to settle Alcott—somewhat. He ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it in frustration. “Life was much simpler on the battlefield,” he muttered. “At least there, I knew my enemies. Here, I am forced to navigate my sister’s whims, and it is exhausting.”
“I think your sister may surprise you.”
Alcott shot him a skeptical look. “She is always writing, yet she refuses to say for what purpose.”
Charles knew precisely why Miss Winslow was writing, but he could not say. If he revealed the truth, she might follow through on her threat to expose Eugenie’s identity to the ton , and that was a risk he could not take.
Alcott rose and strode towards the drink cart in the corner of the study. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Charles replied, watching as his friend poured a generous amount of brandy into a glass.
Alcott took a slow sip, his eyes distant. “It might be easier if I didn’t feel like I was thrust into this life.”
“Not many would complain about inheriting a viscountcy.”
“I know,” Alcott sighed, sinking back into his chair. “And I must sound terribly ungrateful, but I miss my life in the Royal Army. I left home for a reason.”
Charles studied him for a moment before asking, “Why did you leave?”
Alcott lowered his glass. “I was at odds with my father. Again. I couldn’t stand living under his rule, so I bought a commission and never looked back.”
“How did your father take it?”
A wry smile came to Alcott’s lips. “He was furious, of course. I was his heir and was supposed to focus on our estate. He tried to force me to return home, but I had already tasted freedom. There was no going back.”
“Your father died while you were away. Do you regret not being there?”
The smile faded. “My father was not a good man,” Alcott said simply. “I had to get away from him.”
“What about your sister?”
Alcott let out a humorless huff. “According to my father, Charlotte was merely a useless female. He left her to the care of nursemaids and later a governess, barely acknowledging her existence.”
Charles did not know what to say to that. After a pause, he murmured, “I’m sorry.”
Alcott waved a dismissive hand. “Do not feel pity for me. We all have our lots in life. At least I am spared the trouble of a wife for now.”
“A wife wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Alcott’s smile returned. “You are only saying that because of Lady Eugenie. But if I recall correctly, you had no intention of marrying until you were older and more established.”
Charles sighed. “That is true. But everything changed when I met Eugenie.”
Alcott’s expression softened slightly. “I am happy for you.”
Charles let out a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t be. I cannot convince her to marry me, even though her name is marred with scandal. She would rather remain a spinster than be with me.” He tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, but he knew it bled through.
Amusement flickered in Alcott’s eyes. “Then convince her.”
“Don’t you think I have been trying just that?”
“You were one of the best debaters at Eton. Surely you can convince a young woman to marry you,” Alcott teased. “What did you say when you told her that you loved her?”
Charles stiffened. “I didn’t. Because I don’t love her. ”
“You are either lying to me or to yourself. Which one is it?”
“It is the truth,” Charles insisted.
Alcott smirked. “Ah. You don’t see it, do you?”
Charles frowned. “See what?”
Alcott set his glass down on the desk, his expression turning contemplative. “You are undoubtedly in love with Lady Eugenie.”
He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice as he asked, “And you conclude that how?”
Alcott’s gaze turned distant, as if recalling something from long ago. “Because I was in love once. And it ended poorly. But I remember how it made me feel—like I could do anything, be anything. It may have been short-lived, but it changed me.”
Charles hesitated before speaking. “I care deeply for Eugenie, but love? How do I know?”
“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Alcott asked. “Why do you want to marry her?”
“It is the honorable thing to do.”
Alcott lifted a brow. “What else?”
Charles grew silent as his thoughts spun in his mind, unraveling every interaction, every stolen glance, every moment where Eugenie had challenged him, comforted him, and made him feel alive in ways he never had before.
The truth was that he needed Eugenie to say yes to his offer of marriage.
He had cared for her since that first kiss.
But she didn’t feel the same. There were only so many ways a man’s heart could break, and he had a feeling his couldn’t survive another rejection.
A sudden realization struck him like a physical blow. He wanted to marry Eugenie. Not because it was the honorable thing to do. But because he loved her.
Alcott’s smug voice broke through his thoughts. “You figured it out, didn’t you?”
Charles met his friend’s gaze. “I love her,” he said, the words feeling both terrifying and inevitable .
“I don’t know why you are telling me,” Alcott said. “You should be telling Lady Eugenie.”
“And what if I confess my feelings,” Charles started, his voice edged with uncertainty, “and she still refuses my offer of marriage?”
Alcott rose from his chair with an air of finality, straightening his coat. “Then you must have said it wrong.”
Charles opened his mouth to retort, but before he could form a response, the door swung open with sudden urgency. His aunt swept into the room, her brows drawn together in a tight furrow.
Sensing something amiss, Charles immediately rose from his seat. “What is wrong, Phoebe?”
Her sharp blue eyes flicked towards Alcott before returning to Charles. “May I speak with you privately?”
Charles nodded. “Of course.”
“Mrs. Ellsworth,” Alcott greeted with a respectful bow. “I shall leave you to it.”
As soon as the door closed behind Alcott, Charles moved around his desk, his eyes scanning his aunt’s face for answers. “Is this about Philip?”
Phoebe bobbed her head, worry creasing her features. “The duel has been pushed forward. It’s happening at dusk.”
A sharp bolt of frustration ran through Charles. “How do you know this?”
Phoebe’s hands clenched at her sides. “I caught him cleaning his pistol and confronted him about it. I tried to talk him out of it—I pleaded with him—but he wouldn’t listen.”
Charles inhaled deeply, steadying his rising temper. “Did Philip mention where this duel is to take place?”
“St. James’s Park,” she replied without hesitation.
His gaze flickered towards the window. The late afternoon sun streamed through the glass and dusk was fast approaching. If he wanted to prevent this madness, he had to act now. And he couldn’t do it alone.
Bringing his eyes back to Phoebe’s, he placed a reassuring hand on her sleeve. “Go to Lord Westcott. Tell him what you just told me and ask him to inform Warwicke.”
Phoebe’s brows knitted tighter. “Whatever for?”
“Just trust me,” Charles said firmly. His voice held conviction, but beneath it, there was an edge of desperation. “I will bring Philip home… alive.”
Phoebe searched his face as if looking for reassurance she wasn’t certain she’d find. After a moment, she relented. “Very well. But you must hurry if you intend to talk him out of this madness.”
Charles forced a confident smile. “Try not to worry. It will be all right.” He hoped, with everything in him, that he wasn’t making an empty promise.
“I am a mother, Charles. I will always worry,” Phoebe replied, her voice laced with an unmistakable strain of fear.
Charles squeezed her hand briefly before stepping back. “Then let me give you one less reason to.”
He turned sharply on his heel, his boots echoing against the polished floors as he strode towards the main door. Phoebe fell into step beside him, her skirts swishing with each hurried step.
As they moved through the grand hallway, Charles still couldn’t quite believe it had come to this. A duel. Over what? Honor? Stubborn pride?
Philip was a fool.
Charles had seen men gamble with money, their reputations, even their livelihoods—but gambling with one’s life was another matter entirely. And Philip was doing just that.
Charles came to an abrupt stop in the entry hall, his gaze locking on to the butler, who stood poised near the door. “Have my horse prepared—and quickly,” he commanded, his voice clipped with urgency.
“At once, my lord.” Hagen turned and hurried towards the servants’ quarters to see the order carried out.
Charles turned towards his aunt, his expression taut with determination. “We must move quickly. Take your carriage to Lord Westcott and deliver my message. Do not delay.”
Phoebe’s lips pressed together in worry, but she understood the gravity of the situation. Without another word, she swept out of the townhouse, disappearing into the growing shadows of the afternoon.
Now alone, Charles exhaled sharply, his fingers instinctively reaching for his pocket watch. He flipped it open and glanced at the time, but instead of providing clarity, the ticking hands only mocked him.
Each passing second felt excruciatingly slow.
Would he reach Philip in time?
He shoved the watch back into his waistcoat pocket and started pacing. Every moment that slipped by was another moment closer to disaster.