Page 32

Alistair drank the whole of the day after Violet left and then the whole of that evening too, returning home only to see the sun ascending. He slept for a few restless hours on the settee in his study and then left to do it all over again.

He found he could not bear to be in his bedchamber at all. Not until he could eradicate from his mind the memory of Violet’s hair spread across his pillow. Or the one of her body beneath him. Or her blue eyes staring up at him on the brink of her release.

The problem was, he couldn’t rid himself of her memory at all, no matter how much whisky he drank.

The best he could hope for was a slight dimming of the ache that burned in his chest and a momentary forgetting of the overwhelming sense of loss that stole his breath every time he thought of her.

Which was often when he was sober. He tried to be sober as little as possible.

Such that by the end of the week, he was sunken-eyed and withdrawn, his bronzed-coloring faded to a pallid blue undertone, and his cheeks thinned and hollow. Nearly a month had passed since they’d met again, and she had ruined him, not the other way around.

He was eating little and sleeping less, usually just a few hours dozing in the harsh early morning hours.

When he awoke, he sat alone, drinking the whisky he kept on his desk until he could sleep again for a few hours in the late afternoon.

Then, like clockwork, he visited Jess and left once more for the evening.

Five days after Violet had refused him, when the glaring light of midday hammered through the cracks in his draperies like a spotlight on his face, he awoke to a loud knocking at his study door.

Alistair cracked one eye open into the harsh shine of the sun and closed it again. He did not care to be awake.

The knocking continued. A loud thumping that reverberated through his head, exacerbating the headache he always seemed to have now.

“What?” Alistair yelled, when it became clear that the knocking would not cease.

“You’ve a visitor, my lord,” Williams said.

For just a moment, in his bleary-eyed, half-awakened state, Alistair thought it might be Violet.

His heart leapt at the possibility until his brain kicked in and he knew that it could not be her.

He’d asked her to marry him, and she’d looked him in the eye and refused.

He’d wanted to spend his life with her. She did not care to follow suit.

The sudden frisson of hope at her presence, followed by the pulverizing disappointment of her absence, made him snarl.

“Go away,” he snapped. “It’s too early.”

“It’s four p.m., my lord, and the visitor is already downstairs.”

“Send them away, Williams. I’m sure you understand how that might be done. No visitors at all this week.”

“Yes, my lord,” Williams said as he entered Alistair’s study. “I’ll make sure to alert Miss Goodwin next time she arrives.”

“What?” Alistair sat up. “Miss Goodwin is the visitor? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No, my lord. But Miss Goodwin visits Miss Jess. Quite often. You’ve been out, or—” the man paused delicately, “indisposed.”

Alistair collapsed back down. He’d missed her. Though it was probably for the best. His head felt like Satan’s own, and he was in no shape to see any visitor. Especially not Violet.

Williams stood by his door, face implacable, until Alistair finally asked, “What?” from his supine position.

“It’s Lord Pembrooke that is visiting.”

“Send him away.”

Alistair wanted nothing to do with anyone or anything that reminded him of Violet. How was it that after five whole days he could still, improbably, feel her missing from his townhouse? As if the few hours she’d spent there had forever engraved her in his home and on his body.

I ought to move , he thought.

And then, I ought to flee. Leave London entirely .

McGann’s half-cocked plan, his family, and Violet Goodwin could all be damned.

“Pembrooke says he is here about the trading company funds. Shall I have him leave you a note, my lord?”

That brought Alistair back upright. “What funds?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know the particulars. He did mention having written some number of messages. Shall I bring up your correspondence after I’ve shown him out? It’s been neglected of late.”

The idea of digging through a week of unopened and unanswered messages made Alistair’s head throb even more. He sighed. “Send a tray with coffee and toast. I’ll need something stronger than tea this morning.”

“It’s four p.m., my lord.”

Alistair growled something unintelligible while Williams shut the door behind him. Not a moment later, the toast and coffee arrived, so quickly Alistair knew Williams had asked for it to be made before he’d even woken him.

He breakfasted and dressed haphazardly, before making his way down to his sitting room to greet Pembrooke.

Even after the food, his head still ached, and the inside of his mouth tasted like an ashtray.

He’d partaken in multiple cheroots last night trying to eradicate the taste of Violet from his tongue and the smell of her from his nostrils.

He regretted those attempts now, as not even the bitter lingering of tobacco was enough to remove her mark from his body.

Pembrooke looked him up and down as soon as he entered the drawing room and whistled.

“God’s teeth, man,” he said. “You look a wreck. No wonder you’ve missed my letters. How long have you been blotted?”

Alistair ignored that greeting, such as it was, and walked to the side bar to pour himself a brandy. He sat heavily on the sofa, drink in hand, and didn’t bother to offer one to his guest. His stomach protested at the thought of more liquor, but he took a sip anyway.

“What of the funds?” he asked.

Pembrooke made his way to the side bar and poured his own brandy.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “Although I don’t generally imbibe this early.” He paused and turned to Alistair. “I need your assistance, Crawford.”

“With what?” Alistair gulped down the rest of his glass before handing it to Pembrooke to pour him another.

“Crawford, when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

“I can’t imagine how that’s your business.”

Pembrooke poured another brandy for Alistair, although it was a noticeably short pour, and strode over to the sofa. “Fair enough. I do need your help, however. As a friend.”

“And where were you,” Alistair asked, eyebrow arched, “when I came to you for help?”

Pembrooke at least had the grace to look chagrined. “I am sorry about our last conversation. I would invest if I had the funds, truly. But I don’t. Not yet anyway, but soon enough. It’s why I’m here. With your help, my situation will improve.”

“The Viscount will increase your allowance?”

“No. The estate is insolvent. That much is a certainty. I’m to marry, Crawford, as I told you. I’ve asked the lady, but she has not yet agreed.”

Alistair glared at him. Marriage was currently his least favorite topic. “She’ll agree,” he said.

Pembrooke was tall, classically square-jawed, with fair hair and an aristocratic nose.

Hell, he had an aristocratic everything.

He was heir to a Viscountcy, for Christ’s sake.

He had what the women of the ton wanted; what Alistair did not have and never would.

Reputation, familial support, a title that was more than a courtesy.

Pembrooke was just like Darius. And Alistair was different.

Violet is different too , he thought, although it hadn’t mattered in the end. She’d still refused him. And when she did, she’d confirmed everything he knew to be true about himself—everything his father had accused him of.

“I’ve invited her to the house party to guarantee it,” Pembrooke said.

Alistair tipped the entirety of the brandy glass into his mouth before he finally looked up.

“And what’s this to do with me?”

“The lady is cousin to Violet Goodwin.” Pembrooke looked him up and down, his narrow eyes squinting. “I recall you are acquainted.”

Alistair grunted in response.

“Catherine will not attend the house party if her cousin doesn’t. You need to convince Miss Goodwin to attend.”

“I have no sway over Violet Goodwin,” Alistair said and held out his glass for more.

Pembrooke stared at him for a long moment before he took a step backward and settled into one of the wingback chairs, ignoring Alistair’s demand for brandy. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, looking as if he had been born to lounge in wingback chairs.

Whereas Alistair had been born to… make his own way, he supposed. To sleep alone in naval hammocks. Or on settees. Whatever moderately soft surface was available would probably do.

“Alistair,” Pembrooke said. “Convince her to come. I’ll marry her cousin, and I’ll invest in your company with the marriage funds.”

Alistair let out a bark of laughter. This inane plan was too similar to McGann’s inane plan. Neither would work. Although his proposal hadn’t either and it had had nothing to do with money. He’d just wanted Violet.

And she’d wanted… what?

He didn’t know.

The realization fell like a timber on his chest, squeezing all the air out.

I never asked what she wanted.

He’d told her of his dreams and his plans and never once asked about her own.

“Hell’s teeth,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?” Pembrooke said.

“Nothing.”

Alistair rose, trying to shake the brandy and last night’s whisky from his mind. “You’re on your own, Pembrooke. I can no more force the lady’s hand than you can.”

Pembrooke frowned. “At least try, Crawford. Ask her. You’ve been invited too, don’t forget. You could spend some time with her. Alone. Make it where she’d have to have you. And then we’d both have fortunes.”

“Go to hell.”

He turned on his heel and left. He’d made a hash of everything. Again. He might be able to fix it, but this time he wouldn’t show up empty-handed.

“Lord Alistair Crawford.” Jess sat up in bed and eyed him. “You’re here early today. And looking rested.”

“Why, Jess.” He raised his eyebrow at the girl. “Is that a euphemism for sober?”

“It is. You shouldn’t drink so much, and you know it. It ruined my da’.”

“I know,” he said. “I reneged on my promise to stop, and I paid the price for that. I’ll not do it again.”

Jess studied him intently before she replied. “It won’t be easy, you know. Papa tried too, more than once. He was much further gone than you, though.”

“I’ll put an end to it. I excel at endings. Trust me.”

“Glad to hear it.” She grinned at him. “Does make me wonder why you’ve got the idea to change now.”

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Alistair said, and this time the girl raised her eyebrow at him. “Don’t you?” she asked.

“You’re too young for cheek, miss.”

“I’ve given birth, sirrah,” Jess shot back at him, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, a look of pain swept across her small, delicate features.

“Oh, Jess, I am sorry,” Alistair said. “Can I get you anything? Tea? Biscuits?”

“No. I’m as fine as I can be. Sooner or later, it will hurt less. I hope.”

Alistair reached for her hand and held it, noticing how small it looked in his large grip. “I’m sure that’s true. Everything hurts less eventually.”

He hoped that was true, too. For both of them. No child should endure what she had. And she was a child, at ten and four years.

Nearly the same age as me when I left home .

Jess nodded, the tears threatening to breach her eyelids before she shook them away.

“Enough of that,” she said, forcing a smile. “Tell me, it’s Miss Goodwin, isn’t it? The one who’s set you straight? You deserve a nice lady.”

Alistair cleared his throat roughly at the suggestion that Violet Goodwin might be his.

“She’s not my lady,” he said. “And I definitely don’t deserve a nice one. Where’s your brother?”

“He went to the tavern you sent him to. They hired him on, just like you said. He’s over the moon for it. We can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for us.”

“I’ve done nothing that anyone else wouldn’t do,” he said, but the girl only shrugged at his dismissal.

“Jess,” he continued. “I’ve got to go away for a few days. Williams will know how to reach me if you need anything.”

“I see,” she said. “We’ll go home. I’m well enough.”

“No.” Alistair shook his head. “You’ll stay here where you’ll be looked after. I insist. You shouldn’t go back there.”

“There’s nothing wrong with where we live.”

“You need a clean bed to sleep in. And a meal in your stomach at the end of the day. Davy does too. Stay. That’s an order.”

She nodded her head, acquiescing, but he noticed she wasn’t quite meeting his eye.

“Jess? You agree, do you not?”

“I do.” She turned her head back to him then, abruptly. “She talks about you, you know.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Alistair said. And then, not being able to help himself, “Who talks about me?”

“Miss Goodwin does. I don’t think she realizes how often, either.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Again, I’ll remind you that you’re ten and four and should not be so insolent.”

Jess just shrugged. “Fourteen-year-olds have ears in their heads and sense in their brains, sirrah. I wonder if forty-year-olds do?”

“Who in Christ’s name is forty in this example?”

The girl grinned. “I think you know.”

“I think I do too. Although I’ll have you know I am not a day beyond twenty and five.”

“Where are you going?” she asked. “To the house party Miss Goodwin was invited to?”

Alistair wondered for a moment if he should go. He’d been invited. But he pushed that thought away. No. Not yet. He wanted to be ready when he saw her again.

“I’m going to Rosehips,” he said. “I have some family business to attend to.” He squeezed her hand. “I must go. Send for me if you need me.”

“I will.” She turned her face from him again, the pain and sadness washing back over her features.

“Promise me,” he said, and Jess nodded her head in reply.