Page 22 of For a Scandalous Wager (Breaking the Rules of the Beau Monde #3)

CHAPTER 21

H e could have used a change of clothes, but time was of the essence. Thankfully the roads had dried since Rochester had been to Rosewood Manor. The last he saw of the stately brick house, with its three stories flanked at the front corners by six bay windows, respectively, was when Evelyn had been toppling over the sill of her bedroom window. In the daylight, one could clearly see a dozen chimneys peeking up through the hip roof, and the sight of the bronze front door gave Rochester’s stomach a lurch.

He took a deep breath and raised the brass knocker. The door swung inward as soon as the hammer clashed against the brass plate.

“Good afternoon,” the butler said.

Rochester had no time to think. “I’m here to see Mr. Markham. Tell him that Mr. Dalton Rochester requests an audience.”

He pulled his hat from his head and stood in the foyer, arguing with his private thoughts to quit pursuing a conversation that hadn’t taken place yet. Rochester wished to be fresh and free to speak organically without predetermination, which was more likely to come out stilted than genuine. And he was god-awful nervous about the whole affair.

Mr. Markham headed into the foyer, presumably without the butler, so he might throw Rochester out himself.

Rochester bowed. “Mr. Markham, sir. All I’m asking for is five minutes of your time.” Rochester didn’t waste precious moments on incidentals because he was likely to be dismissed before he could say anything important.

Markham laughed derisively. “Oh, the irony. You young pups think we all have time for your inane chatter when the God’s honest truth is if you’d taken your lessons before your blundering mistakes, you’d have no need for explanations now.”

It never dawned on Rochester that Mr. Markham had anything to offer him besides a scowl accompanied by a harsh reprimand, which he recognized was no more than he deserved. But he’d failed to consider the position he’d put Winn’s father in. Not just the embarrassment but the joy of life that he and Darrington had robbed from a man who’d lost so much already.

Rochester humbly bowed this time, checking his thoughts. “Then do please let me offer you five minutes for instructing me in lessons I apparently missed, and then I’ll leave.”

The older man squinted, measuring him for sincerity. “Are you mocking me?”

“No, sir. I mean it with solemn respect.”

Markham ground his teeth, his nostrils flared, and Rochester could see him sifting through truth and lie. His gaze, angry and unrelenting, pierced him until his shoulders sagged on a heaving sigh, and he turned and walked away. Rochester watched after him, uncertain what to do next, at which point Markham turned back. “Are you following or not?” he asked curtly.

Rochester answered with long strides, catching up quickly, hearing Mr. Markham mumble several curses under his breath.

Rochester still held his hat because the butler had not offered to rid him of it or his coat. Convenient for Mr. Markham, he supposed, because the butler need not be called before Evelyn’s father threw him out.

“Sit,” Markham commanded, pointing to a russet leather sofa in the formal drawing room.

Rochester cleared his throat, taking a seat as directed.

“You two, out,” Markham commanded two Irish Setters lying by the cold hearth. The beautiful animals leaped up from their respective pillow beds, tails wagging, and collectively bumped Markham’s open hand as they left. The dogs didn’t seem to fear the man, so why should Rochester? Because the dogs were more family than Rochester could ever hope to be.

Next, Markham filled two glasses with brandy and set one before Rochester on the tea table.

“For God’s sake, give me the hat. You look like a beggar.”

Before Rochester could move, Mr. Markham snatched the hat from his sweaty grip and tossed it on the sofa next to him, then he took a seat in a high-backed chair adjacent to the sofa.

“I have it on good authority that you stepped inside my parish church and challenged the banns. Why?”

“Because I’m in love with your daughter.” No greater truth could be said.

“You’re too damn young to know the meaning of the word and too stubborn to understand the emotional wounds that come from ill-placed words of love.”

Rochester suspected he perhaps was too un loved to know the meaning, but his age had nothing to do with the raw emotion he felt for Evelyn. That kind of magic was timeless, ageless, and a mystery to every man who’d ever been enlightened by it. He wanted to tell Mr. Markham that he was eight-and-twenty and had known his share of women, and his feelings for Evelyn were nothing like that. He wanted to explain the shilling in his shoe, the one that reminded him of her every moment of every day, and he had tried making her an uncomfortable metaphoric pebble when she was, in fact, his rock. She settled him, balanced him, breathed life into him, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t , live without her.

But he stayed silent, instead, searching for patience so he might concentrate on what Markham had to say and accepting he may not be given the opportunity to speak. At least not this time because, God knew, he’d never stop trying.

“And you couldn’t tell me or seek an audience before the banns were read?”

Once again, Rochester had no answer because he suspected all his thoughts on the matter would be argued and discounted. Besides, he had sent notice for an interview, but his post had never been opened.

“Regarding the banns, my lord, and the betrothal contract, I insist on paying whatever fine may come from breaking the promise to Lord Cumberland.”

“What a lovely surprise,” Markham said caustically.

Offense at Markham’s comment coursed through Rochester’s veins. He didn’t come here to win an argument. He came to win Evelyn. Markham knew that Rochester had offered to pay for the damages and crimes regarding the gambling debts. The amount was astronomical, which attested to the size of the grudge Evelyn’s father held toward him.

Markham twisted a smile. “No worries there. Evelyn is my daughter. My responsibility.”

Rochester’s cheek twitched involuntarily. He felt his nose cinch with scorn, and he fought it back. He didn’t hate this man. Truly, he didn’t.

“Well?”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except, “Excuse me?”

“Your five minutes. The clock starts now, Mr. Rochester.”

He straightened and swallowed his pride. “I’ve already told you that I’m in love with her. If you’re interested in her feelings for me, I’m certain she’d be more than happy to share them.”

Oddly, Markham grunted through a half smile that looked less menacing than moments ago.

“But allow me to begin elsewhere,” Rochester continued. “My debt to you is great.”

“Damn right, it is. But do you know what it is?”

“Seven thousand pounds on my part plus a five hundred pound fine from the gambling hell.”

“Five hundred apiece,” Markham corrected.

“I’m aware of it and grateful for your intervention more than you know.”

“Mine?” He laughed cynically. “You think I intervened for you? Ha! I lost my son for three years and could have lost him forever. He could have gone to prison, maybe the gallows, for cheating a gambling hell out of a fortune on your behalf, must I say?”

Rochester flinched, his face warm with embarrassment and grief. Everything he said was true. It was all true.

Markham leveled him with a lethal stare. “I didn’t do it for Winn. Or more like, not just for Winn.”

“I understand.”

“You’re all children. Do you know that? Age does not make a man, Mr. Rochester. Women don’t make you a man, either. And if you ever have God’s good grace to have your own children and a wife you love more than your own life, then perhaps you’ll get the chance to understand a small speck of what I say today. You three boys could have ruined her.”

Pain radiated from his chest, constricting his breath and making him feel lightheaded. He felt heat rise up his neck, not from embarrassment but because he had never considered the depth of Evelyn’s father’s despair. He swallowed hard. His head ached with grief.

“Sir, you’re correct. I have not understood, but please know that it pains me that I could lose her for a young man’s folly. I had not taken into account my actions that night.”

“None of you did. And Evelyn is betrothed to a good man with a good reputation who can take care of her. Someone who won’t embarrass her or cause her pain. He’s spotless, Mr. Rochester. What have you to offer?”

With his elbows to his knees, Rochester watched his fingers folding repeatedly over his fist. Mentally, his head was in his hands. His shame was so great. Without looking up, he spoke. “Five minutes. I cannot undo the past, and I cannot repay the emotional cost to you. This man, Baron Cumberland, may be everything that makes you happy, but I guarantee he will never make Evelyn happy. And I refuse to believe you don’t care about that.”

Rochester chanced a glance under his brow but shouldn’t have because Markham’s hard expression looked like a coming storm ready to break open over an already turbulent ocean, with eyes flashing and nostrils flaring. It was not a good sign.

Rochester bit his lip. He picked up his hat. “I’ll have my accountant send you a bank draft for my part five years ago. You may choose to deposit it or sit on your anger. It matters little to me. I will write it out and consider it finished.” He stood to leave. “And as I’ve spoken before, I’m happy to pay the betrothal fines if any occur. I do all that, Mr. Markham, because Evelyn is not marrying Lord Cumberland, no matter the outcome here.”

“You think you have my blessing?”

“Me? No, not likely. But I’d hope that Evelyn would. I can do no more than I have.” He gave a short bow. “Good day, Mr. Markham, sir.”

As Rochester turned his back on the room, he heard Mr. Markham rise. “I never heard from your father,” Markham said. “What did the viscount think of your transgressions?”

Rochester stiffened, clinching his hat. He didn’t turn around to face the older man. “I doubt my father was even aware of my three-year absence, much less the reasons why.” He continued to the foyer and let himself out.