Page 21

Twenty

DALTON PLACE, LONDON - JULY 5, 1816

TOM

My week continued in the same vein—dragged off to Hart and Summers, Solicitors, to half-heartedly assist in some manner, then return home to drink until I could sleep.

Kit and I hadn’t spent any significant time together before, but he was easy company—reminding me a great deal of my eldest brother in temperament and wit. While the work was messy—I’d left covered in soot every single day—I could see why Kit enjoyed having an occupation and was reluctant to give it up. This work offered a small sense of purpose I hadn’t known before.

On Saturday, I woke to a now expected knock—to find not only Kit, but three familiar housemaids from Grayson House who bustled in without explanation and set about cleaning without a word.

“What…”

“I told Katie you would need at least three. Do not worry, they’ve been very well compensated for the extra work.”

“But—”

“No. You’re disgusting.”

“Thank you.”

His only response was a raised brow and a nod toward the door. Dutifully, I followed him on what had become our ritual. First, a stop at Hudson’s, followed by the practiced walk to the offices.

Hudson’s was bustling, as it always was, but Anna waved with a smile from behind the counter when she saw us before returning her attention to the patron at the front. While I missed having the exclusive access to her pastries that I had enjoyed when she served as maid at our family home, I was pleased at the evidence of her success.

Kit and I joined the back of the line, content to wait our turn with the knowledge that our usual selection was already set aside for us.

My eyes slid shut as I inhaled. The air in the bakery was always sweet and buttery, with varying waves of whichever fruit tart was currently in the ovens—I suspected apple this morning, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it. The scent was comforting, as familiar as it was mouthwatering.

“Brother,” a familiar voice washed over me.

I opened my eyes to find Michael, bag in hand, an unfamiliar expression on his face.

“Can you spare him this morning?” he added, turning to Kit.

The man merely nodded, too focused on the proximity to pastry to devote much attention to anything else.

“Walk with me? I need to get these back to Jules before the craving passes.” He raised the bag, presumably full of some delectable treat or other.

“Pardon?”

“Apparently women with child have cravings. And husbands are expected to fulfill those cravings. I do what I’m told,” he added with a shrug.

I turned to follow him before recollecting myself. “Do not forget my tart. Whichever is currently in the oven, please,” I said to Kit.

“You’ll get whatever she has saved and like it,” he retorted without turning.

Rather than argue, I sighed as I followed Michael out. Any tart was better than no tart—and was certainly delicious.

As soon as we stepped out of the crowded shop and onto the street, Michael cleared his throat uncomfortably. We turned toward his home while he waffled for a moment before finally settling on, “How have you been?”

I merely shot him a raised brow.

“Right, dim question. Juliet has been fretting something fierce over you. Been pestering me about calling on you damn near every day.”

“She needn’t worry after me.”

“My wife is rather fond of you. And it’s a privilege to be worried after by her—do not squander it.”

I could not restrain a sigh. “I’m quite fond of her as well. But I cannot stop her fretting.”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

“What do you wish for me to stay, Michael?”

“Something, anything.”

“There is nothing to say. It’s over.”

He caught my elbow, stopping our progression and pulled me beside a building. “Tom, I?—”

“I’m fine, Michael. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look it—you look like I did when?—”

“I’m not you, Michael.”

“No, I know.” I couldn’t read that expression either. It was an unfamiliar sensation. I’d always been able to read Michael and Hugh both—it was a necessity of survival in my youth.

“Are we finished? Kit needs my assistance.”

“No. Juliet will feel better for having seen you with her own eyes.”

“I hope you have an extra tart in that bag.”

Confusion fell over his expression and settled in the lines of his brow. “Didn’t you request one from Kit?”

“I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

A chuckle escaped him and he clapped me around the shoulder and shoved me back toward Dalton Place.

At least the weather was fine and I was less bottle weary than previous days—the walk was not entirely unpleasant.

No sooner had we set foot in the house, than he caterwauled, “Jules?”

“Drawing room,” she called back, much more sedately. If Juliet Wayland was ever anything less than the perfect lady, I couldn’t name the instance.

Perched on the new settee in the refurbished drawing room, she was hard at work over an embroidery hoop. I didn’t fully grasp the intricacies of ladies’ finery, but her work was always lovely.

“Oh, Tom!” she exclaimed and pushed off the settee with both hands as she abandoned her work. Her belly had grown round in the weeks since I had seen her. There was no hiding it now, she was certainly with child. “I am so glad you’re here. Come, come. The gazebo is fine this time of year.”

“I brought you the tarts you requested,” Michael interjected.

“That is nice, dear. Thank you.”

His shoulders fell on a sigh. “The craving has passed, hasn’t it?”

Juliet’s expression was sheepish, a lip caught between her teeth.

“Mine has not,” I added.

Michael glared at me but tossed me the bag without comment. It was possibly sacrilegious to handle Anna’s tarts with so little care. But as the recipient of such good fortune, I wouldn’t call him out on it.

“Leave me a raspberry one,” he mumbled before turning to where I knew the study to be.

Juliet took my arm, arranging it in such a way that it looked to any outsider as if I had offered it, then she tugged me outside in a perfectly elegant manner.

What was once a small plot of overgrown weeds and dead plants had been transformed into a lovely little garden. The gazebo was new to my eyes and fit well in the cultivated wilderness blossoming in the heart of the city.

“When did you have this built?”

“Last spring.” She led me up to the wrought iron bench in the center and urged me to sit silently before releasing my arm. “Tom, I need to—I apologize for not coming to see you earlier. I should have made the effort.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, no reason to visit.”

Her smile was soft and accompanied by a self-deprecating scoff.

“Juliet, I?—”

“How are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I wish to know if you are well.”

“I’m perfectly well, as you can see.” I gestured to my person—well attired and groomed more than I had been in recent days.

Rather than comment on my appearance, she tucked her arm through mine and pressed her cheek against my shoulder.

Something about the gesture left my throat too tight and my eyes burning. “He left,” I choked out.

“I know,” she whispered, something thick in her tone too. “I know.”

“I just— Have you ever had one of those moments? The kind where your entire life can be divided into before and after? And the you that you are at the other end of that moment is fundamentally different from the you you were before… I’m not making a lick of sense.”

“No, I know what you mean. I have experienced a few—mostly with Michael.”

“I’ve had three—and two of them were with Xander. And this version of me—he doesn’t know how to go back to living like the version who hadn’t ever kissed him. I didn’t know anything could be like that. And now I’m expected to spend the rest of my life never experiencing it again—only now I know what I’m missing.”

“He did not run away from you—surely you know that. It has been his plan for months—years.”

“Yes, but he made those plans before me. Our kiss—to him, it was just a kiss. He was precisely the same Xander before and after. It— I —wasn’t enough.”

“I saw the two of you, and that was not the expression of an unaffected man.”

“Just not affected enough.”

“It’s not as simple as all that. You know that—you told me as much once. When you’re kissing the man you love, it all seems so simple. But the truth is, there are consequences to forsaking society, for both of you. Are you prepared for that?”

My heart answered for me. “Yes.”

She offered me a closed-lipped smile. “Then I am afraid I have to give you some wretched news.” Her tone belied her words, lighthearted and easy.

“What?” I was half trepidation, half laughter.

“Men in love are deeply, deeply foolish. You’ll probably have to go all the way to Scotland to retrieve your man.”

“Do you suppose I’ll need to have anyone arrested?”

Her laugh was bright and infectious.

“Lord, I hope not. It’s quite the overdone thing, you know.” Silence settled over us for a moment. “Are you planning to eat that tart? It’s actually quite tempting.”

“Ye—wait, didn’t you send Michael to fetch it because you were having a craving?”

Her expression turned sheepish again, a blush coloring her pale skin. “I may have received some intelligence that you’d been at the bakery every morning at around ten… I cannot possibly help it if my craving struck at precisely the same time and I absolutely had to send my dear, doting husband out for it.”

I bit back a smile as I pulled the tart from the bag, tore it in half, and handed her the larger piece. “You’re quite the schemer, Juliet Wayland. You act all innocent and ladylike, but if you put your mind to it, you could take over the country.”

“Only the country?”

“For a start. I wouldn’t want to limit your future endeavors.”

She tipped the tart out like a glass. I tapped mine against hers before we took a simultaneous bite.

“To my inevitable future rule.”

“Long may you reign.”

It was dark by the time I escaped from Kit’s offices. I was entirely astonished when I returned to a brand-new apartment—entirely free of rubbish and clutter.

I would need to find a time to thank Kate—and I wasn’t yet willing to brave Hugh so it would require some careful plotting.

Instead of reaching for the scotch, I set the kettle on for tea. Absentmindedly, I tugged on the knot of my cravat as I wandered over to the writing desk in the corner of my sitting room.

I couldn’t recall precisely where I had, in my drunken state, put the address I’d borrowed—certainly not stolen—from Kit. I pulled open the drawer and flipped through pages for something covered in ash and half-burned.

At last, I found it in the very last drawer. I tugged it free, settled it atop my desk, and reached for a fresh piece of parchment. As I did, my gaze caught on the address—Kilmarnock Abbey.

Memory washed over me. The drunken waves of longing spilling across the pages by candlelight. Folding and addressing the missive in my infinite soused wisdom.

Fuck.

The chair smacked angrily against the floor when I shot to my feet. I grabbed a drawer, and the contents spilled free in a pile across the floor.

My knees protested when I fell to the wood and began sifting pathetically through the wreckage for a letter I knew I wouldn’t find. Because deep in my gut, I knew. One of the maids had taken it.

I barely had the forethought to pull the kettle off the stove before I rushed out the door for Grayson House at a sprint.