Page 18 of Captured by the Earl (The Secret Crusaders #2)

CHAPTER 18

L ondon Society News:

Secrets.

They prowl in the places you least expect, from the people who would seem the most unlikely, changing paths, upending futures and saving lives. The mysterious masked man is today’s greatest secret, of course, and the time since his absence has not lessened the wondering. Most are still convinced he will emerge again, perhaps at the upcoming masquerade?

Secrets are everywhere.

“What do you mean you discovered my secret?” Peyton’s voice held pure power. Gone was the neutral facade, the carefree persona, the man with nothing to hide.

The warrior was here.

“I know about your abilities.”

“My abilities?” He shrugged. Yet it was exaggerated, and false. Others wouldn’t notice, yet she had become uniquely connected with this man. “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you are talking about.”

“Don’t you?” She scooted up in bed. While she could not be at his height, sitting or standing, she would eschew the vulnerability of being prone. “The way you moved through the tunnels, how you crept upon me without my knowledge. The way you brought me here without waking me.”

“You did wake up.”

“Only because you spoke.” She allowed her eyes to drift over the form she knew so well, the strength he could no longer hide. “Even your body. Most men in such fine form wear clothing to accentuate it, and talk endlessly of their pursuits. Yet your garments, while well-made, conceal your attributes. The way you walk, talk, even the way you stand when you are with others, is a facade. It’s almost like you are playing a part.”

She hadn’t realized how true it was until she voiced the words. If she wasn’t so sure Stanton was the rescuer, she’d almost wonder if it could be Peyton. Of course, he had been in his room that fated night on the balcony. She frowned, turned to look around the room.

“Nothing you said is a secret.” He interrupted her musings. “It’s not as if I can hide my height or my build. My smiles are genuine. I particularly enjoy you threatening to send me to America on a log. I’m less excited about the alligators.”

He was trying to distract her. “I’m not saying you are endlessly somber. Yet you are not as relaxed as you portray.”

“Then tell me, who do you believe me to be?”

She opened her mouth, yet stopped. Who was he, if not for the persona he portrayed? Why would he pretend to be so starkly different from what he truly was? “I do not know,” she whispered. “Yet perhaps it is time I found out.”

“I assure you I am all that I seem.”

Untrue.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Her gaze wandered again.

“Would you like to trade secrets?”

“What?” She snapped back to him. She searched his face for humor, yet he was serious.

“I shall tell you a secret, and you tell me one of yours.”

What was his game? He guarded his secrets like a debutante her innocence, yet now he was willing to provide an elucidation? As an offer, it was all-too-tempting. “I agree, on one condition: it must be a decent secret. Nothing like you eat pickled eggs and elderberry ices every morning.”

“I do eat pickled eggs and elderberry ices every morning.”

“You most certainly do not.” She wrinkled her nose. “But seriously, it must be something meaningful.”

She thought he would protest, or perhaps joke again, yet his gaze turned somber. His voice was so low, she almost didn’t hear it. “I’ll go first.” He breathed deeply. “I’ve been in love before.”

“What?” An involuntary gasp tore from her lips, as the air thinned into nothingness. Of all the secrets she expected, it was never this. “You’re in love with another woman?”

“Was,” he said quietly. “She died.”

She blinked as the anguish transformed, heartbreaking sadness for a woman she had never met, sorrow for the man whose raw grief still lingered in his eyes. No wonder he had been so insistent on keeping her from danger. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “What happened?”

“She drowned.” His eyes were unblinking. “Because of me.”

“No.” Without conscious thought, she reached for him. He was so strong, yet underneath vulnerabilities lurked, just like any man. “I’m certain that’s not true.”

“It is.” His voice was wooden, stilted. “If not for my carelessness, she would still be alive. I had to be somewhere dangerous and didn’t realize she followed me. I was too late to rescue her.” He balled his hands into fists. “I should have realized.”

Softly she squeezed his shoulder, silently offering support, comfort. Letting him know she understood.

The seconds passed and his breathing evened. When he spoke again, his neutral mask had returned. “After that, I promised I would never let anyone close again.”

A simple story, yet it explained so much. “Catherine said you changed. Is that why you pushed her away?”

For a moment he did not respond. When he did, his voice was emotionless. “I have to protect her. And you.”

Of course. His protective, possessive nature. The way he guarded his heart and his inability to admit his emotions. Yet it did not explain all his secrets, the new questions rising amidst the answers. What dangerous activity did he speak of? Did he still partake in such activities?

Why?

“It’s your turn.”

She bit back a protest and a thousand more questions. He had revealed far more than she expected. “I promote social action causes.”

She waited for a response, yet his expression remained impartial. She retracted her hand and traced it along the coverlet’s fine seam. “You probably already guessed my intentions. Goodness knows, I haven’t been very good at hiding it. Society values women solely as ornaments, as lovely accessories for their husbands’ arms, yet I cannot mindlessly play the pianoforte while suffering occurs right outside my golden chamber. I may not be able to do much, but–”

“Do not lie.”

She looked up. “I’m not lying. I fight for social action causes.”

“I wasn’t referring to your work, but the declaration you do little. Your efforts are tremendous.”

Images flashed of the poor mothers and children, all people she couldn’t help. “There are simply too many,” she whispered.

“None of that.” He placed a hand under her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “I saw what you did for the Wallaces. No doubt you helped many on your walk before our visit.”

She sighed. “That was the day I walked in the alley and–”

“Emma.”

Images of the alley faded. “Yes?”

He leaned closer. “You work so hard on behalf of the poor. If more people were like you, the world would be a better place.” His voice was soft, lulling. “Is this why you pretended we were betrothed?”

She froze, as a thousand bees buzzed in her stomach. “I told you what happened. Constance Welleby told Betty Thompson, who told–”

He stopped her with a raised hand. “I believe the initial rumors were inadvertent. However, that doesn’t explain why you allowed them to continue.” He covered her hand with his, squeezing ever-so-gently. “Was it because it allowed you to influence people? Is that why you discussed social action so frequently?”

Even though sharing secrets had been her goal, something in her panicked. “That’s not all we discussed. I told my mother about the letters, the banners, the public displays. Of course, I had a lovely conversation with Lady Drummond about the rash on your –”

“Do not finish that sentence,” he ordered. He folded his arms across his chest. “The truth, Emma. Social action was your focus, portrayed as advice from me.”

The denial caught in her throat. His demand was justified. She had upended his life, stolen his voice. He deserved to know why.

“It wasn’t how it started,” she revealed softly. “I was honest about being overheard, and word spread before I could stop it.

He lowered his chin. “And afterwards?”

“Afterwards–” She breathed deeply. “I couldn’t give up the ability to influence people. Before the betrothal, I couldn’t convince the most gullible lord to sample the punch. Suddenly I had…” Her voice drifted off.

“Power?”

Indeed. It was something men largely reserved for themselves, leaving women to grasp the little they could. “It’s not fair. Woman are ignored on serious matters, no matter how vast their knowledge or worthy their cause. Men think we can’t handle important subjects, or influence them, because of our supposedly fragile natures.”

“I agree completely.”

She stared. “What?”

“I agree that it’s not fair.” His strong voice brooked no argument. “Which is why I will say the opposite of what I told you when you fled in that rickety boat.”

“The first time you kidnapped me,” she muttered.

“The first of at least a dozen.”

“What? Does that mean you’re planning on–”

“I understand why you continued the betrothal.”

The words shocked her into silence. But only for a moment. “You do?”

“Not only understand, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same in your position.”

Now that was waxing poetic. “Truly?”

He grasped her hand. “At first I thought you sought to entrap me. Then I believed it to be a joke or stunt for attention. Now I realize you did it out of pure goodness, kindness and self-sacrifice. Your charity work makes me lo–”

Oh.

My.

Goodness.

“Makes me like you even more,” he continued firmly.

Something inside her deflated, just a little bit. It was ridiculous. She couldn’t want him to… no. She couldn’t even think it.

“However, I do have opinions on your methods,” he continued as if he had not taken her world and twisted it ten thousand times. “I will not allow you to put yourself in danger again.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I do not believe you have any say in the mat–”

He pressed his lips to hers.

A soft mewl of protest was all she could offer, then a louder protest when he pulled back. “What was that for?”

“I have come to the conclusion the best strategy for dealing with your disagreeableness is simply to leave you breathless.”

“You do not leave me–”

He kissed her again.

Breathless.

“This really is unseemly.”

“Would you like to do it again?”

“Yes, please.”

Any and all arguments were completely forgotten.

The rest of the week raced by in a fury. Emma partook in various activities, both outdoors and indoors, using the opportunity to subtly influence lords. Yet to her shock, it was surprisingly unnecessary. The lords who previously indulged her now whole-heartedly supported her cause. They would not tell her exactly why, but clearly someone convinced them of the merits of her cause.

There was no doubt as to whom.

She reminded herself hourly about the need to break the betrothal, tried to think of Stanton, who was as kind, talented and dashing as ever. Yet every time she pictured the man she’d set her cap for, another man’s image would emerge, with that slightly wicked smile and mysterious eyes. She grew closer by the day to her enigmatic host, with fascinating conversations and witty banter. His kisses were delicious, and the man became more alluring with every conversation about rashes on asses.

He’d even kidnapped her thoughts.

Making love again was not a good idea. Therefore, she managed to keep it to only three times. Well, four if you counted the very quick encounter in the tunnels. Yet every time she mentioned ending the betrothal, Peyton would kiss her. And then kissing would lead to touching and touching would lead to making love. Again. And again. And again.

Indeed, convincing him to end the betrothal was failing spectacularly.

But she would succeed. She needed to focus on her goals, and on Stanton, and remember all the reasons she couldn’t be with Peyton. Despite what he had shared, secrets still swirled in his eyes, and even in his behavior, such as his interactions with Lord Trenton. Whether Peyton had truly recovered from his desire to travel was unknown. Yet despite it all, the thought of leaving him was simply unacceptable.

Yet soon decisions would be forced, and the betrothal would either have to end…

Or become real.

It was on her mind the entire week, and as she returned to London. It remained present through regular activities, night and day, and during her visits, with and without Peyton. And it was still there as she talked with Priscilla one afternoon, after a meeting of the Distinguished Ladies of Purpose.

“I’m just going to tell him.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“He has to know the truth.”

Emma took Priscilla’s hand, gave it a soft squeeze. “I think it’s wonderful you’re going to tell Bradenton he’s to be a father.”

Priscilla’s spacious drawing room was empty save for gilded chairs and the remnants of dozens of exclusive scents. With the vote only days away, and the outcome still very much in doubt, tensions were high. For her part, Emma would be doing more campaigning than dancing at the masquerade.

“He certainly wasn’t taking any hints.” Priscilla rubbed her belly.

Emma commiserated. “I have the opposite problem. Peyton guesses every thought in my mind, at times before I think it.”

As Priscilla gazed at her with curiosity, Emma swiftly changed the subject back. “How are you going to tell him?”

“I’m just going to come out and say it. I’ll look him in the eyes, and say Edmund, you’re going to be a father.”

“I know.”

Their gasps were heard in the Artic – the far part.

The ladies whipped around. Impeccable as always, the duke leaned casually against the doorway, his arms folded, his eyes unrevealing.

Priscilla turned as pale as a debutante’s coming-out gown. “What did you hear?”

“I heard everything, my beautiful duchess.” He pushed off the doorway. “We are going to have a baby.”

“But, but–” Priscilla was at a rare loss for words. “Aren’t you shocked?”

He reached his duchess and now gazed down at her with unmistakable adoration. “I was, yet the surprise wore off long ago. With all the clues you left, it was strikingly obvious.”

“Edmund!” She wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wasn’t sure if you were trying to tell me, or if it was unintentional,” he murmured. “I wanted you to tell me in your own way, on your own time.”

Emma hid her smile, as Priscilla blinked.

The duke’s eyes sparkled with pure, unadulterated joy. “I am beyond ecstatic. It is my dream come true, just like you. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Emma slowly backed away, giving the soon-to-be parents privacy. Theirs was a relationship based on pure love, transcending duty and society, tradition and roles. It had not started smoothly, yet a tumultuous beginning inspired an all-encompassing love that was beautiful, extraordinary and so very rare.

And as she traveled through luxurious hallways that would soon echo with the soft pitter-patter of tiny feet, she realized something:

It was what she wanted with all her heart.

“Why have you brought me here?”

Philip did not immediately answer, as he glanced at his sister. Catherine wasn’t truly angry, or even incensed, based on her tone. The little catch betrayed her interest, as her eyes darted back and forth on the exclusive street of London. Lords and ladies tipped their heads as they passed one charming store after the next, selling everything from fabrics to books to delicious delicacies. They turned down a wide corner, entering a busier thoroughfare flanked by neat buildings and majestic trees.

“I wanted to talk about your art.”

Catherine’s gaze turned guarded. “What about it?”

“You weren’t planning on disobeying me and displaying it without my consent, were you?”

A dash of defiance flashed, making clear she planned exactly that. “It’s none of your concern,” she sniffed.

“I’m afraid it is.” He reached their destination, a crisp two story building with large picture windows framed by emerald vines. He removed a cool metal key from his pocket and slid it into the latch. With a soft click, the door opened. “Because your paintings are unavailable.”

Catherine stepped into the space, her shoes clicking on the gleaming floor. “What do you mean–” She stopped, stared.

For a moment, she said nothing, simply gazing at the artwork-covered walls, the paintings so full of emotion. Joy and heartbreak, elation and longing, a million and one feelings captured so perfectly in every brush stroke. She breathed as she slowly pivoted, blinking as if she couldn’t believe the sight before her. “It’s enchanting,” she whispered. “Truly extraordinary.”

Philip stepped forward. “It’s all your doing.”

It was true. The building itself was lovely, a spacious room with cream walls and golden highlights, lit by natural light streaming from wide windows. A large circular blue velvet sofa provided the perfect place to contemplate the artwork, under a large crystal chandelier that cascaded from the ceiling like a diamond waterfall. He had purchased the building on the spot, yet its true beauty lay within its contents:

Catherine’s paintings.

How had he never recognized his sister’s astonishing talent? The paintings were as varied as they were stunning, intricate depictions of landscapes and still life, portraits and abstract creations. Her command of color was exceptional, with emotion that transcended the canvases.

“Your paintings deserve to be seen by the world, in any capacity and form that you wish. I have not put your name on these, yet if you wish to do so, I will support it. This could be your gallery for display or you could sell them. It is entirely up to you. I wish I realized how good you were–” He stopped, straightened. No more excuses. “I should have realized how good you were. I should have supported your endeavors without fail. You are so very important to me.”

“I wasn’t so sure how you felt.” Catherine’s eyes shone in the crystal reflections. “I didn’t know if you still loved me.”

Something shifted inside Philip’s heart.

Catherine looked at him with the adoration she could never quite hide. The adoration he returned with all his heart.

Perhaps it was time to tell her that.

“I love you, Catherine.”

Her lower lip quivered. “You do?”

He allowed all the love he felt to show. “You do not remember, of course, but on the night you were born I promised to always love and care for you. And although I have not always shown it, my love has never lessened. When father died, my role changed. I felt like I had to protect you from anything and everything.” He gazed around the studio. “It was a mistake.”

She smiled softly. “You were just away so much, on endless vacations. And you never took me with you.”

His reasons were not something he ever thought he’d share. Yet Emma had taught him that sometimes it was more dangerous to keep your secrets close. He could not tell her much, or reveal anything that would put her in danger, yet perhaps enough to make her understand…

“I do not travel for leisure.”

Catherine stilled. “I don’t understand. You claimed you wanted to explore the world, although I must admit you choose some strange places to do it. I can’t even pronounce half the places you visited.”

“I didn’t choose my destinations.”

“You didn’t?” Her brow furrowed. “Then who did?”

He would not reveal the man who had taken a special interest in her. That was something he would address, and soon. “Let’s just say I am sent on specific assignments.”

“Assignments?” Her forehead wrinkled. “You can’t possibly mean you’re a–”

“I can’t tell you what I am,” he interrupted. “And you must never speak of this to anyone. I’m telling you because I trust you, and because I believe you have a right to know. Any indiscretion could put me, and more importantly you, in danger.”

“Of course.” She nodded profusely, gazing at him in a way she hadn’t for many, many years. “All this time,” she breathed. “It explains so much – your mysterious absences, your connections.” She darted her eyes up. “The house party?”

He hesitated, nodded.

She sighed, but did not ask for details. “If only you had told me earlier.”

How he wished he had. He took a step, touching the ornate frame of one of her canvases. He’d paid a small fortune to get the fames created so swiftly. They were unique to each piece, chosen to best display their distinctive beauty. “I cannot change the past, but I can alter the future. It’s why I bought the townhome.”

She stepped next to him. “So you really meant it when you said you are staying?”

He stopped and reached out to tweak her on the arm, just like he did when they were kids. He winked. “Soon, you’ll be begging me to leave.”

She chuckled, exposing adorable dimples. She placed her hand over her heart. “I always wanted to share this with you.”

“From now on, I want to know all about your art. Every single brush stroke.”

She giggled, and a deep satisfaction arose. She spun around, excitement lighting her eyes. “I shall like this to be both a gallery and a shop. Not for the money, but it’s always been my dream to share my work with others. I shall keep a few, and this one will be a gift.” She gestured to a painting in the corner, a likeness of a young boy holding the hand of a toddler girl, as he carefully led her through a sunlit forest. Love and adoration transcended the brush strokes, an unbreakable sibling bond. “Do you know who that is?”

Philip looked closer. The boy had dark hair and golden eyes, as he tightly clutched the little girl. A memory of a forest surfaced, near their family’s main country estate. “It’s us.”

“This is how I remember you.” Her eyes shined. “I love you, big brother.”

“And I love you, little sister.” Philip held out his arms, and Catherine leapt into it, all strawberries and sunshine and happy memories. And his heart remembered.

The next few hours were spent talking about anything and everything, personal matters unspoken for years and childhood jokes retold to newborn laughter. When Philip finally stepped into a glorious afternoon amidst flawless blue skies, a new relationship had been forged, borne of understanding, respect and, most of all, love.

He had one more errand to run. This one would take place in the decidedly less fashionable part of town, yet its lack of exclusivity made it no less important. He took a modest black carriage, rumbling along an increasingly uneven surface, before finally stopping at his destination. Although the neighborhood was rundown, signs of improvement were visible: a new pathway for pedestrians, less garbage and several freshly painting buildings. He exited the carriage, and entered one of the modest buildings. The space was clean, bright and empty.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” The woman grinned up at him. “This is a pleasant surprise. How does it look?”

“Mrs. Wallace, it’s amazing.” Not long ago, ramshackle would have been a generous term for a building characterized by peeling paint, uneven floors and jagged crevices. He had purchased it from several grateful families for more than triple it was worth, allowing them to each move into their own home. After a great deal of improvements, it was almost ready. “I have good news. I found a physician and several nurses. Soon, we will have a working clinic.”

The woman clapped her hands, her eyes turning misty. “That’s wonderful. This will save lives, it will.”

Yes, it would. And the salary Mrs. Wallace earned from managing it all was more than four times what the factory used to pay her husband. She had been thrilled to accept the job.

“I almost forgot. I have something for you.” Mrs. Wallace reached into her voluminous apron and pulled out a small piece of paper. “Mary made this for you.”

The paper displayed a stick figure, and above it, in crooked, quivery print, “Thank you.”

“She was so proud she did it all herself. The tutor you sent has done wonders.”

A funny feeling curled inside of him, and his eyes felt strangely watery. He blinked it away. He would secure many more tutors. Many more clinics. Many more lives saved.

And he knew just who he wanted to do it with.

With a smile, he thanked Mrs. Wallace, and walked outside.

A butterfly flapped by him, its azure wings brilliant against the blue sky. It bestowed its beauty without prejudice, uncaring of its humble location. Just like Emma, its quest was to make the world more beautiful, not just for the elite, but for everyone. Emma was the rarest diamond of the first water.

And he was the luckiest man in London.

He was done with their separation. Tomorrow everything would change. It was the masquerade, the day Emma’s father returned.

The day he would claim her once and for all.