Page 12 of Miss Davis and the Architect (Dazzling Debutantes #4)

Chapter Ten

"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."

Jane Austen

* * *

B arclay knocked firmly on the earl’s study door early the next morning. From within, he heard his brother’s voice call out for him to enter. Squaring his shoulders, he opened the door and stepped inside, hesitating on the threshold. He was not entirely certain what he wanted to say, but he knew he needed to talk to someone about his predicament. It was imperative he obtain a man’s perspective on this minor crisis, and with Tsar at least two days away in London, Richard seemed the logical choice.

“Barclay, please come in.” Richard’s voice was warm, and he gestured to the seating area overlooking the sprawling park. “Would you like some coffee? I just had some delivered a few moments ago.”

Barclay nodded gratefully, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He noted the quirk of Richard’s eyebrow as he secured the latch—a subtle indication of curiosity. Barclay crossed the room to join him, lowering himself into the chair opposite his brother. The scent of fresh coffee mingled with the faint aroma of leather and old parchment, and he accepted the cup Richard poured for him with a murmur of thanks.

Richard leaned back, cradling his own cup in his hands. “Did you have something to discuss?” he asked, his tone careful, almost apprehensive, as if steeling himself for bad news.

Barclay took a steadying breath, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were clasped in his lap. “I need some advice,” he admitted, his voice a touch rougher than usual. “I find myself without a confidant.”

Richard straightened in his chair, his expression sharpening with interest. There was something almost boyish about the way his eyes lit up—clearly flattered that Barclay had sought him out. It was rather endearing, this eagerness to be included as a valued family member.

Barclay stared down at his hands, the tips of his fingers pressed tightly together. This is deuced awkward, he thought, but with Tsar in London, he was at a loss. He supposed he could confide in Aurora, but somehow, the idea did not sit well with him. What he needed was the perspective of a steady man—someone who understood the responsibilities of being a husband, a father, and a protector within the framework of their society.

Moreover, perhaps this was an opportunity to strengthen his bond with Richard. After all, the earl had shown him vulnerability concerning Ethan’s future. It seemed only fair to reciprocate. And there was a certain comfort in knowing that the duke was out riding, leaving him with only one newly acquired relative to reveal his thoughts to this morning.

Barclay took another breath and squared his shoulders. “My mother impressed upon me the importance of moving on. It has been two years … since my wife died.” His voice roughened, the words heavy with memory. “We were very close.”

Richard’s gaze remained steady, his hands resting comfortably on his knees as he leaned forward slightly, giving Barclay his full attention. The room fell silent save for the faint ticking of the mantel clock.

“I regret I shall never meet Tatiana’s mother.” Richard’s voice was soft with sincerity. “She must have been an exceptional woman to have captured the heart of such an intelligent artiste.”

Barclay nodded, his expression reflective. “You would have liked her very much. And she was breathtaking.”

Richard pulled a face of sympathy, his gaze dropping briefly to his hands. “I cannot imagine how I would cope if anything ever happened to Sophia.”

A grimace twisted Barclay’s features as he smoothed his hands over his breeches, the fabric soft beneath his palms. The mere thought of such a loss was enough to make his chest tighten. He would never wish that sort of anguish upon another man.

“Tatiana has made a request,” he continued, his voice softening. “She wishes to have a new mother, something Natalya made me promise I would take care of once she was gone. Tatiana is to grow up loved by two parents, and I am afraid …” He paused, drawing in a steadying breath. “I allowed my grief to prevent my fulfillment of that promise.”

Richard leaned forward, his brow knitting with understanding. He reached for the coffeepot, pouring a fresh cup and handing it to Barclay before filling his own. “It seems a topic that requires some fortitude,” he remarked by way of explanation when Barclay raised a quizzical brow at the gesture.

Barclay accepted the cup with a nod of thanks, sipping slowly before leaning back in his chair. His gaze drifted upwards to the ornate ceiling, tracing the delicate cornices and floral plasterwork with the eyes of a practiced architect. He had been doing this often since arriving at Saunton Park—studying the ceilings and moldings as if seeking answers hidden in their designs. It was a habit he had developed when under pressure, a means of grounding himself amid uncertainty.

“I am attempting to move on,” he admitted at last, his voice a touch hoarse. “To notice the women in my surroundings and determine if there are any who appear to be suitable.” He paused, swirling the coffee in his cup absently. “However, there are complications.”

“Complications?” Richard echoed, his brow lifting in curiosity.

“First, there is my parentage.” Barclay’s gaze dropped from the ceiling, settling back on his brother. “As we discussed, it is difficult to be a man in my position. It is even more so for my mother and daughter. Natalya knew she only had a short time to spend with me, so she forwent such concerns to follow her heart. But a new wife …” He sighed, his fingers drumming lightly against the porcelain of his cup. “She may have to deal with the same issues for decades, and I do not wish to inflict that upon a respectable woman.”

Richard cocked his head, his expression thoughtful. “You do not think that matters will be improved … because of us?”

“Perhaps. Only time will tell. Even if matters improve, there will still be certain doors that remain shut.” Barclay’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Some souls are … self-righteous.”

Richard barked out a laugh, the sound rich and full of disbelief. “I find they are usually the ones up to no good themselves.”

A smile broke over Barclay’s face, genuine and unguarded. He savored the fleeting sense of unity with his younger brother. Richard had made every effort to build a brotherly relationship between them, and for the first time, Barclay felt a flicker of genuine kinship. “Just so. The guilty seem to speak loudest in accusation.”

“Agreed.” Richard leaned back, his eyes glimmering with mirth. “When I acknowledged Ethan as my son, I had at least three peers snub me within the halls of Westminster. Men I happen to know have fathered secret children the length and breadth of London.” He snorted in disbelief. “They dared to disdain me for taking the honorable path, while they failed to take acknowledge their own progeny. It was all I could do not to ask after their sons and daughters with solicitous concern.”

Barclay chuckled, leaning forward with interest. “What did you do?”

“I disdained them in return,” Richard replied, his tone dry. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out before him. “If they possess so little integrity, they are not worthwhile connections. They are riffraff , despite the blue blood flowing through their hypocritical veins.” His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “But then, I have the advantage of more powerful connections than they. The duke alone makes for a powerful ally in most matters.”

Barclay chuckled, swirling the coffee in his cup. “What of Sophia? Were there consequences for her when you acknowledged Ethan?”

“Some.” Richard’s expression softened, and his gaze grew distant. “None that perturb her. She is an unusual woman—not overly fond of polite society.” He smiled faintly. “That, I believe, has been our salvation. She is entirely unbothered by their censure.”

Barclay’s eyes returned to the ornate cornices above them, his mind turning over this revelation. It struck him how much more freedom Richard must have found in his marriage than many of their peers. An unconventional wife, one who did not require the validation of London society—perhaps that was the key. His mind lingered on Jane, her willingness to discuss poetry, art, and even mythology with him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She was not shackled by the expectations of the ton in the way so many young ladies were.

“There are two candidates who might lead somewhere interesting,” Barclay began, his voice thoughtful. “One is eminently suitable …”

“And the other?” Richard prompted, leaning forward, his eyes sharp with curiosity.

Barclay hesitated, his hands clasped around the warm porcelain of his coffee cup. “The other …” He paused, drawing in a breath as if to steady himself. “I do not know that it would be appropriate.” He looked up, his gaze meeting Richard’s directly. “But we share something. An affinity that runs deep. Something I have only experienced one time before.”

Richard’s expression turned solemn, his voice dropping. “With Natalya?”

Barclay nodded. “With Natalya.”

Silence settled between them, the mantel clock ticking softly in the background. Richard was the first to break it, exhaling slowly. “I once thought to marry someone suitable,” he admitted, his voice quiet with reflection. “I spent several Seasons searching for the right choice. My plan was to have the sort of marriage favored by the nobility—a dutiful union where we would barely spend time together, and I would continue my pleasurable pursuits discreetly on the side.”

Barclay raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You considered that arrangement?”

Richard chuckled ruefully. “I did. It seemed … sensible. Efficient, even.” He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then one night, I overheard a young lady lambasting my character to her cousin, and I …” He trailed off, his expression softening with the memory. “Please, do not scorn me when I say this, but I simply lost my heart. It made little sense to pursue her, but I could not imagine an existence without her by my side to disparage my prior roguish pastimes with her cutting wit.”

Barclay’s mouth curved into a smile. “The countess?”

“Indeed. Sometimes your heart knows what you need far better than your mind does.” Richard’s gaze softened, his expression reflective. “I needed someone strong, opinionated, who would not accept things as others expect them to be. Someone who would confront me about my worthless behavior.” He leaned back, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon beyond the window. “My heart recognized the void she would fill in my immoral existence, and my mind simply caught up.”

Barclay lifted a hand to smooth his beard, his fingers brushing over the coarse hair as he mulled over what the earl had revealed. “The second woman is … exquisite. In very way,” he admitted, his voice thick with sincerity. “I just hope I would do right by her if I pursued the affinity we share.”

Richard regarded him thoughtfully. “I cannot say, but I will tell you this—it is far easier to contend with life’s challenges when one has the right partner at one’s side.”

The truth of those words struck Barclay with surprising force. That was what he missed most, wasn’t it? A wife and partner who always had his best interests at heart. Someone who stood by him even when he faltered, someone whose loyalty was unwavering.

Clearing his throat, Barclay broached the most awkward of questions. “As you are a man of experience … if I were to pursue he … how does one go about courting?”

The earl, who had just taken another sip of coffee, was suddenly seized with a paroxysm of coughing. He hastily set his cup down and fidgeted with his cravat, his face turning an alarming shade of red. Barclay narrowed his eyes as his brother squirmed, embarrassment flickering across his expression. “I do not really know all that well,” Richard finally admitted, his voice subdued.

Barclay raised an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced. “I do not understand.”

Richard rose from his chair, pacing over to the window to gaze out over the park. His hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared in that slightly rigid stance he adopted when uncomfortable. “I am more familiar with the art of seduction than with courtship, I am afraid,” he confessed, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Perry could recite every rule, every nuance of courtship with perfect recollection, but I … can merely give you a rough outline.”

Barclay leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Such as?”

Richard turned from the window, his gaze steady. “Two dances imply a sincere interest. A third is practically a public proposal. Hothouse flowers are considered an appropriate gift, but not a piece of jewelry or anything too personal or expensive.” He shrugged helplessly. “I always assumed I would gather the details when I actually found a young lady worth courting.”

Barclay’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you hunted for a wife for several Seasons?”

“Yes, but I never went past a single dance.” Richard’s mouth quirked with wry amusement. “None of the young misses captured my interest, so I only knew what was expected in broad strokes. Or rather, defensive strokes. Like never being caught alone with a young lady if one did not wish to be led to the parson’s noose … and to be mindful of that dancing rule of two and three.”

Barclay huffed a laugh. “Even I know that.”

“I am mortified to reveal this to you of all men.” Richard’s voice grew softer, almost confessional. He clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze still fixed on the window’s view of Saunton Park. “I was so afraid of becoming like our father. I changed my entire life around when I realized how perilously close I was to following in his footsteps.” He paused, his shoulders straightening as if bracing himself. “Fortunately, my conscience is eased because the moment I learned of Ethan, I knew I would acknowledge him.” His voice grew firmer, edged with pride. “After meeting my boy, I learned of your existence—it is incredible to me that my father did not marry your mother, or at least acknowledge you. He should have been proud to bestow his name on you or, at the very least, pledge his support for such a talented man.”

Barclay straightened, his heart squeezing at the sincerity in Richard’s voice. He rose from his chair and joined his brother at the window, gazing out over the park where the morning mist still clung to the grass in delicate wisps. It mitigated his guilt to discover that Richard, too, had wrestled with the shadow of their mutual parent. “You are a good man, Richard,” he said quietly. “And I must confess, hearing that you considered similarities between you and the late earl is a bit of a relief. I have been doing the same since I was told he was my father, and it has worried me to notice possible elements of him in me.”

Richard turned from the window, his brow furrowing in disbelief. “You?” he asked, his voice laced with incredulity. “You are a bastion of honor and integrity, who is still faithful to his wife two years after her death. What could you possibly have in common with our father?”

Barclay’s gaze did not waver as he responded. “I think any discussion of women inevitably stirs thoughts of the actions that led to our existence, does it not?”

Richard winced, his expression twisting with distaste. “Well, that is a repugnant thought to consider.” He hesitated, his gaze dropping momentarily before he looked back at Barclay with conviction. “However, I feel compelled to tell you I have not noticed a single trait in you that reminds me of our father. He was the worst kind of libertine.”

Barclay’s brows knitted. “To what extent?”

Richard’s mouth pressed into a hard line, his hands clenching behind his back. “If you knew …” He shuddered visibly, a shadow flitting across his expression. “There are no words to describe the hell that my younger brother lived in under his roof.” His eyes flicked back to Barclay, heavy with the weight of memory. “Suffice it to say that when I see how you are with your mother and your daughter, I can assure you that you have not inherited even the tiniest fraction of character from the Earl of Satan. He was an irredeemable monster.”

Barclay’s gaze dropped to the patterned carpet, tracing the floral swirls absently with his eyes as the silence stretched between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and thick with emotion. “I am constantly reminded since I arrived here that he seduced my mother when she was just seventeen years old. Somewhere in this house … or the grounds.” His fists tightened at his sides. “It does not bear thinking.”

Richard leaned a hand against the window frame, his posture relaxed as both men gazed out over the expanse of Saunton Park. Barclay’s eyes tracked a group of gentlemen striding in the direction of the lake, their fishing poles slung over their shoulders and hampers dangling from their hands. Their laughter carried faintly on the breeze, punctuated by the occasional shout as they jostled one another in good spirits.

On the distant horizon, two riders appeared, crossing the open field at an easy canter. Barclay squinted, trying to distinguish their figures. One was clearly a man of considerable size, and he wondered if it might be the Duke of Halmesbury. The second rider was smaller by comparison, though whether that was due to stature or distance, he could not quite tell. It might have been the duchess, though he could not yet make out the distinctive silhouette of a sidesaddle. Then again, considering the duke’s formidable size, even a fully grown gentleman might appear diminutive at his side.

“I wish I could do more for your mother,” Richard said suddenly, his gaze still fixed on the scene below. “Sophia and the duchess have pledged to introduce Aurora to the very best of society—the worthwhile best, that is. Not the judgmental biddies beneath our notice.”

Barclay turned, meeting the earl’s gaze. His chest tightened at the sincerity in Richard’s expression. “I appreciate that … brother.”

The earl’s head came up at that, surprise lighting his features. His eyes widened with clear delight. “Brother?”

Barclay nodded, his lips curving into a tentative smile. “Just assure me your door will remain open in case I decide to blunder through a courtship during my stay in your home?”

Richard’s eyes softened with warmth, and he stepped forward to clasp Barclay’s shoulder with a firm grip. “You have my support always. You are my blood, Barclay.”

Barclay could only hope that the earl’s sentiment extended to a potential courtship of Jane. Richard was fiercely protective of his family, and the young woman was his sister-in-law.

Faith! Did I need to think of a further complication?

How had he failed to realize sooner that he was contemplating courting Perry’s sister-in-law? Emma Davis’s recent marriage to his new brother only deepened the complications. Barclay suppressed the urge to hang his head in dismay. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the trees outside the window, the gentle sway of the branches in the breeze doing little to settle the turmoil in his chest. He took a steadying breath, forcing his composure before Richard could detect any trace of his inner conflict.

This was an impossible situation. He could only be grateful that Richard had not pressed him for the identities of the women he was considering. How on earth would he reveal to his new brother that it was Jane who had captured his interest?

When he left the study a few minutes later, his thoughts churned relentlessly. If he were to truly consider this courtship of Jane, he would need to speak with Aurora first. His mother was typically engaged in lively conversation with their hostess at this time of the morning, her laughter often drifting through the corridors of the manor. Yet, today, he had not caught so much as a glimpse of her among the guests who meandered through the grand rooms.

Setting off to look for her, Barclay traversed the spacious halls, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished marble. He soon confirmed she was nowhere to be found in the main house; the drawing room, the conservatory, and even the library were vacant.

As he walked back toward the family wing, his professional eye drifted to the architectural details of Saunton Park. Tsar’s hand was evident in every line and curve of the manor—the arching windows that framed endless views of the parkland, the delicate cornices that traced the ceilings, the balance of light and shadow in the vast hallways. Barclay found himself admiring how Tsar had incorporated the natural landscape into the very design of the estate, as though the walls and windows merely framed what the land already offered.

Yet his appreciation was quickly overshadowed when he reached the family wing and approached Aurora’s door. It was slightly ajar, and from within, he heard the unmistakable sound of a woman weeping. His heart clenched painfully in his chest. Striding forward, he pressed the door open, his gaze sweeping the room to confirm it was his mother seated in a plump armchair by the window.

But she was not admiring the view. Her face was buried in the crook of her elbow, propped on the ledge, her shoulders shuddering with the force of her sobs.

Barclay’s breath caught. His mother was always composed and unyielding—a model of quiet dignity. She had withstood decades of slights, barbs, and outright insults with unflinching grace. To see her now, alone in her room, weeping so openly, shook him to his core.

Without hesitation, he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him to keep the rest of the household from witnessing her vulnerability. He crossed the room with deliberate care, lowering himself into the chair beside her and reaching out to lay a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder.

“Mother?” His voice was tender, threaded with concern. “What is it? What has happened? Is it Tsar?”

Her voice was muffled, barely rising above the soft rustle of the curtains stirred by the morning breeze. “No! It is not anything of import. Please, leave me and do not be distressed by my ridiculous behavior.”

“Mother, I cannot.” Barclay’s voice was firm but gentle, his hand still resting on her trembling shoulder. “Please, tell me what has happened?”

Aurora shook her head, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I do not wish to speak of it, Barclay.”

“Mother, please.” His tone softened, edged with concern. “I cannot bear to see you so distressed.”

For a moment, she remained still, her eyes cast downward, but finally, with a shuddering breath, she held up a letter he had not noticed before, her hand shaking as she offered it to him. “I received a response from the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors.”

Barclay’s heart clenched painfully. Without hesitation, he pulled his mother up from the chair and enveloped her in his arms, his hold gentle but unyielding. Aurora collapsed into his embrace, her slender frame shaking as fresh sobs wracked her body. Her tears soaked through his linen shirt, but he scarcely noticed, his focus entirely on the weight of her grief.

He smoothed his hand over her back in soothing circles, his chin resting atop her head as she wept into his shoulder. It was rare—almost unheard of—for Aurora to display such vulnerability. She had always been a pillar of fortitude, unyielding in the face of whispered insults and exclusion from polite society. To see her now, utterly undone, tore at his very soul.

As her sobs subsided to soft sniffles, Barclay gently pried the crumpled letter from her hand. Holding it behind her back, he unfolded the page, scanning the lines while his jaw tightened, and fury began to burn hot in his chest.

“I was so sure …” she whispered brokenly against his shoulder. “I allowed my hopes to become engaged, thinking that this new connection to the earl would sway the ladies to allow me entry … Oh, Barclay!”

A fresh wave of sobbing overtook her, and he tightened his embrace, his arms strong and steady around her slight frame. His heart broke at the sight of his strong, dignified mother reduced to such despair. But mingled with his sorrow was the creeping rise of fury—righteous and unyielding—at the self-righteous matrons who had inflicted this pain upon her.

He raised the letter again, his eyes scanning the florid script, noting each carefully chosen word designed to wound under the guise of propriety. His fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crumpling slightly as he read:

My Dear Miss Thompson,

In respect to your recent application to join the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors, and in light of your connection to the Earl of Saunton, Lord Richard Balfour, it falls to me to convey the committee’s decision regarding your request. I regret to inform you that the committee has rejected your application.

Corruption is, as we all must acknowledge, the scourge of our age. It is a blight that festers even within the ranks of those who outwardly display the ornamentation of excellent social conduct. I must, with great delicacy, express that there are members of the fairer sex who present a mask of propriety, affectations of virtue, and yet harbor inappropriate passions—passions that tempt our gentlemen into base behaviors and contribute, most grievously, to the moral decline of society.

Notwithstanding your unwedded status, you have shown no inclination to amend your situation, thus leaving unaddressed what some would call inherent moral turpitude. After so many years, you have yet to demonstrate the piety that might counterbalance such impropriety, instead continuing to bear the ornament of lewdness by remaining unwed—a state which some might interpret as evidence that your innate passions have not abated.

The committee has tasked me with notifying you that no further applications shall be considered. This decision was reached with unanimity and is, I must stress, final. There is no avenue by which the committee shall be persuaded to amend its position. We would, however, direct you to consider taking advantage of our charitable endeavors as a recipient, rather than as a member.

I remain,

Ever yours,

Mrs. Iona Campbell

Secretary to the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors

Barclay was not a man given to emotional outbursts, but at that moment, he was sorely tempted to rip the letter in two. Or perhaps tear the drapes from the fittings. Or throw something—anything—through the window to assuage the fury that simmered beneath his skin. His hands clenched at his sides, the letter crumpling slightly in his grasp as he fought to restrain the urge. The unkindness—the sheer cruelty—of the words written by that sanctimonious shrew ignited a fire in his chest that threatened to consume him entirely.

When Aurora had first expressed her desire to reapply to the London Virtuous Committee of Charitable Endeavors, he had wanted to dissuade her. He had seen the way those spiteful women had treated her before, the judgmental glances, the snide remarks couched in false pleasantries. He feared she would be disappointed yet again. But she had been so confident that her connection to a powerful and wealthy earl would sway the minds of those harpies, so he had not the heart to crush her hopes. Now, seeing her reduced to tears, he could hardly contain his rage.

“These women are worthless, Mother!” he burst out, his voice harsh with indignation. “You must cast them from your mind and speak of them no more!”

Aurora’s sobs had subsided, though she still rested her head against his shoulder, her breathing uneven. “I should have paid you heed when you said not to write,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But I was so sure …” Her voice cracked, and for a moment, he feared she would dissolve into fresh tears.

Carefully, he eased her back into the chair, his movements gentle yet firm. He knelt before her, resting his hand atop hers, which she was twisting together in her lap. Her fingers were icy beneath his touch, and he covered them with both hands as if to lend her some of his own warmth. He struggled to find words of comfort, but guilt coiled within his belly, heavy and unyielding. It was a familiar ache—one he had carried for years. A guilt that, like a narcotic, threatened to drag him into oblivion if he let it consume him.

“This is my fault,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Aurora’s tear-streaked face tilted up to meet his gaze, her eyes glistening with confusion. “Why?”

“If you had given me up, you would have been able to lead a full life,” he replied, his voice thick with regret. “Free of scorn and derision. No one would ever have been the wiser that I even existed.” His words trembled on the edge of bitterness, a blade of truth he had never spoken aloud.

“Never, Barclay!” Her hands flew to clasp his, gripping them tightly. Her voice, though weary, was resolute. “That was never an option. I would receive a thousand cruel rejection letters and never, for a single moment, regret that you are in my life.” Her gaze softened, and she reached up to brush his cheek with trembling fingers. “This is just a silly dream that has been dashed for the last time. I am disappointed, yes, but I shall dry my eyes, and life will continue.”

Barclay’s heart clenched painfully at her words, the strength in her gaze momentarily stealing his breath. But the injustice of the letter burned hot and unyielding in his chest.

His voice was softer when he finally spoke. “I have never understood why this particular society was so important to you.”

Aurora sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of years. Her gaze dropped to her hands, which she still wrung together, the pale knuckles standing stark against the delicate skin. She did not answer right away, and Barclay waited in silence, his hand resting atop hers as if willing her to draw strength from his touch.