Page 25 of Where Have All the Scoundrels Gone (Dukes in Disguise #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Three weeks.

It had been three interminable weeks since Nathaniel walked out of Bess’s kitchen—out of her life—without a backward glance.

Bess thought about the countless weeks upon weeks still left to go in her life, all to be somehow gotten through on her own, without Nathaniel, and sighed.

“Fourteen,” Lucy announced from across the table they’d claimed near the bar. The remains of a very good fish pie sat in front of them. “I make it fourteen, what do you say, Gem?”

Lady Gemma Lively, now Gemma, Duchess of Havilocke, pursed her pretty lips thoughtfully and took a sip of ale. A ring set with a large, oval garnet winked red fire from her left hand. “Fifteen, surely. At least.”

“Fifteen what?” Bess asked.

“We are keeping count of how many times you have sighed since you sat down with us a half hour ago,” Lucy told her. “At least fifteen, we reckon.”

“Pining,” Gemma diagnosed, a disbelieving quirk to her dark brows. “And all over our arrogant, condescending tyrant of a half-brother!”

Bess nearly choked as Lucy slapped at her sister and gave her a quelling look.

“I’m not pining! It’s only that it’s strange to be back and to find myself with so little to do.”

Gemma bit her lip. “I don’t want to put you out of a job, but Flora has done so well the last few months while you were away?—”

“And she and Rohit are saving money so they can get married this year!” Bess shook her head emphatically. “No, no, of course you must keep her on. I should be glad of the help.”

Bess was happy for her sweet, young cousin, truly. And of course it was better for the inn not to rely on a single person to run the kitchen every single day of the year—sharing the workload made sense.

But the days when Flora took over the kitchen left Bess with far too much time to think.

Five Mile House was bustling, full to the brim with loyal regulars who lived in Little Kissington mingling with travelers on their way to Bath or returning to London.

In the corner by the hearth, Peter Cartwright had brought out his da’s old fiddle and was playing a lilting jig to an enthusiastic circle of clapping, stomping listeners. Bill Givens was behind the bar, having been hired on to help out now that Hal had more to do around his estate, keeping tabs on the new mining operation as well as the repairs and improvements to the tenant farms it had funded.

Most of the faces Bess saw as she gazed about the room were smiling, happy, familiar. This was her home, the place she’d lived all her life.

Why, then, did she feel so ill at ease?

Bess shifted in her seat. It was like an itch between her shoulder blades, as though her skin was a dress she had outgrown. Too small to contain the yawning crevasse that had opened up in her midsection the day Nathaniel left.

The day she broke both their hearts and sent him away.

She took in a deep breath—and held it as she realized the reason she kept sighing was to stop herself from weeping every time she thought of Nathaniel.

It will pass , she told herself grimly, swallowing down the knot in her throat. It has to.

But as the front door of the inn flew open, she couldn’t help but turn to see who entered, her heart leaping into her throat at the quicksilver thought that it might be—but no. Of course it wasn’t.

“Hal!” Gemma cried, finishing her drink and jumping to her feet to greet her husband with a kiss that made the tables nearest the door shout and stamp their feet in boisterous approval.

Tall and strong from years of working to rebuild his crumbling estate and the farms of all the tenants who depended on him, Hal lifted his petite, curvaceous wife right off her feet and swung her round till she laughed and ordered him to put her down.

The moment her feet kissed the floor, she tugged him off to a darkened corner table for two, signaling to Bill for supper and a drink for Hal as she went.

They leaned together, Hal’s auburn head bending down to Gemma’s brunette, utterly and instantly absorbed in each other.

Bess turned away, an emotion she didn’t care to name beating at the inside of her chest like a trapped dove.

“Disgusting, aren’t they?” Lucy said, wrinkling her pert nose.

“They’re lovely,” Bess replied quietly. “I’m very happy for them.”

“Right, of course. As am I.” Lucy rolled her eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I wish to be treated to a front row seat to their ongoing operatic levels of amour . One would think saying vows and becoming man and wife would eventually dim the ardor and stem the tide of longing, but so far, I see no evidence of that.”

“You were the one who decided to stay in Little Kissington,” Bess reminded her. “Your brother would have welcomed you back to Ashbourn House to finish out the Season, but you refused.”

He’d written as much, directly to Lucy, along with a very handsome apology for denying her the rightful inheritance he now insisted he knew their father would have wanted for her.

Lucy was to have the generous dowry their father had intended to settle on her, but it was to be hers, free and clear, when she turned twenty-one. Even if she married, she would retain control of the money.

As a gesture, it had gone a long way toward softening Gemma toward Nathaniel. As had the letters he’d written offering the same to her, and to Henrietta.

No one knew exactly what Henrietta’s letter said, as she had surprisingly and uncharacteristically declined to discuss it, but whatever it was had made her smile through tears as she read it.

There had been no letter for Bess.

Not that she expected one.

But she longed for a word—just a word!—from Nathaniel, telling her how he was. What he was doing.

That he missed her as much as she missed him.

She was still certain she’d done the right thing, the only sensible thing. But she had not reckoned on what agony it would be to go about her daily life as though she was whole and fine when her entire heart had been carved from her chest.

And to know, all the time, that he was miles away in London and feeling the same.

It was a torment unlike any she’d ever imagined.

“I couldn’t go back,” Lucy said, drawing circles with her fingertip in the ring of condensation her mug of lemonade had left behind. “I tried, you know. That night.”

Bess focused on her young friend. This was the first that Lucy had brought up her wild flight from London that had culminated in a midnight ride with a highwayman.

The most Bess had gotten out of her before was that the Gentle Rogue had been a perfect gentleman, and he’d brought her home to Five Mile House when she asked.

“When did you try to go back to London?” Bess lowered her voice, though there was no one nearby paying any attention to two women finishing up their supper. “Is that why you went with the Gentle Rogue in the first place?”

“Not exactly.” Lucy looked a little shifty. There were still parts of the story of that night she intended to keep to herself, Bess saw. “He seemed to know who I was, and he took me up behind him and said he would deliver me back to London. But as we rode away from the mail coach back toward Town, we talked. A bit. And I confessed what I’d done, how I’d left Ashbourn House without even leaving a note, which I felt terrible about and I still do, Bess! It was very wrong of me.”

“We’ve been through all that,” Bess reminded her soothingly. “You’ve forgiven me for trying to mold you into someone you’re not, and I’ve forgiven you for making me as afraid as I’ve ever been in my life.”

“You didn’t try to mold me,” Lucy argued. “Polite Society did that. The whole world does that, to all women. You only tried to protect me, to guide me, as best you could when really, there is no protection or guidance for a woman who doesn’t want to follow society’s rules.”

Bess couldn’t find her breath; Lucy had knocked it clean out of her. She felt as if the world had tilted ever so slightly on its axis, showing her a new angle on everything she thought she knew.

Shrugging, Lucy went on, “I’ve decided the only way forward is to make up some new rules to live by. Ones I can feel good about. But I still don’t feel good about running away without a word. It was badly done of me, and the Gentle Rogue agreed. He was actually very—I don’t know how to describe it.”

Her voice went a little dreamy, and Bess knit her brows, waiting. “He spoke to me like…like a human being. Not like a man talking to a young girl, or to a lady, or even to a woman. Just…like two people. As though I had thoughts in my head and they were worth something to him. It’s odd, isn’t it, that out of all the fine, eligible, titled, respectable gentlemen I met in Town, it was a highwayman who finally looked at me and saw me , as I am. Or at least, that’s how he made me feel.”

“Lucy.” Bess searched for the right words. “What happened with that highwayman?”

The younger woman startled, blinking at Bess as though coming awake from a dream. “Are you asking if he compromised me? Bess! No! I told you, he was a perfect gentleman.”

Relief shuddered through Bess. They were all still holding their breath, waiting to see if word of Lucy’s adventure would leak out somehow and destroy any reputation she had left. Bess could only imagine how much more complicated it would be if it turned out that Lucy had been seduced by that highwayman.

Seduction, after all, carried potential consequences that would change Lucy’s life forever.

“So he didn’t touch you,” Bess clarified, blowing out a breath.

“Well,” Lucy said, drawing the word out. “I didn’t say that. But I’m still a virgin, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

“Lucy, for pity’s sake,” Bess moaned, taking a gulp of her ale. “All right, then what happened? How did you try to go back to London?”

“Oh, well, I was a bit overwrought I suppose, what with the excitement of sneaking out and riding atop the mail coach, which was horrendously uncomfortable, by the by, and then nearly being tossed to my death when the damned fool driver took us over a log. And feeling so badly about leaving the way I did, and so on and so forth, I started to cry. I told the Gentle Rogue that I thought I’d made a terrible mistake, and maybe I ought to grow up and go back to London and stick it out and make everyone proud, even if it made me miserable.”

Bess’s empty chest ached. She reached for Lucy’s hand and gripped it. “What did he say?”

Her dark blue eyes took on a faraway glow, as though she was looking at something very beautiful in the distance. “He was quiet for a long time. And then…Bess, he stopped that big, black stallion right in the middle of the road. I asked what he was doing, and he said, ‘In the end, the only person whose opinion of you matters is you. Everyone else can go to the devil. Where do you want to go?’”

“He gave you the choice,” Bess breathed.

Lucy nodded. “And I chose to come home. And to make myself proud. Wherever that takes me.”

“All I ever wanted for you was the ability to choose your future.” Bess squeezed her friend’s hand. “Thank you for telling me this. I know you haven’t wanted to talk very much about that night.”

Lucy smiled down at her lemonade, a private smile that made her suddenly look older. A girl on the cusp of womanhood. “Some memories are too precious for casual handling. They’re meant to be kept secret and safe, only brought out for special occasions.”

“And tonight is a special occasion?”

“Yes.” Lucy looked up, spearing Bess with the directness of her sapphire blue gaze. “Because you are family. And you’re sad. And it’s not getting better.”

Taken aback, Bess hid her surprise in her mug of ale. “I’m perfectly well.”

“You’re not. And I don’t know how to help you, other than to remind you of what you once told me. There is more than one path through the woods.” Lucy leaned forward, not letting Bess escape the intensity of her regard. “You don’t have to live by anyone’s rules but your own. Make your own path, Bess.”

“I have made my choice, Lucy.” Bess tugged her hand free and stood up too quickly, making her chair screech awkwardly against the scarred wooden floor. “Now I must live with it.”

“Is it a choice that makes you happy?” Lucy pursued, reaching for Bess pleadingly.

Bess avoided her hands, gathering their dirty dishes with brisk, efficient movements. She didn’t know how to explain to someone who’d grown up the way Lucy had, petted and cosseted and given everything she wanted before she even had to ask for it.

Lucy had grown beyond that expectation, that entitlement, but it still informed the way she thought about the world. How could it not?

Balancing the plates expertly upon her forearms, Bess turned to take them down to the kitchen. She paused long enough to say, “Not everyone gets to put their own happiness first.”

“Why is it good when I do it,” Lucy asked shrewdly. “But it’s not alright for you? What’s the difference between us? You deserve happiness as much as anyone, Bess. More, even!”

The difference is, I’m not a lady. I’m not a duchess. I’m just plain Bess.

I’m nobody.

Her jaw clamped on the words. They didn’t feel true, even in her own head—more of a reflex than a belief.

Lucy and her family had certainly never treated her that way, as though they saw her as less. It wasn’t even how she thought of herself. Bess knew her own worth.

And then there was Nathaniel, who had seen right down to the core of her. And loved her.

Bess shook her head and turned away, her heart thumping. It was too late for these doubts and misgivings. Regret was a luxury Bess had no time for.

She heard Lucy’s huffed breath behind her, but she didn’t stop—until Lucy called out, “Another letter came from London this afternoon. You should ask Mama about it.”

Another letter.

Bess delivered the dirty dishes to the kitchen in a daze. She applied herself to the stack of trenchers and plates that had accumulated, washing and drying and stacking without being aware of what she was doing. Flora worked around her, chatting comfortably about the many orders for fish pies and the way the new barman tended to get mixed up when too many people came in at once, and Bess took in exactly none of it.

Another letter. Another letter from London.

From him.

Was it for Bess? Did he mention Bess in the letter? Was there news of how he was—Lord, Bess didn’t even know what she hoped to hear.

Did she want to know that he was unhappy? Pining away in his big, empty Mayfair mansion without her? Or did she perhaps hope to hear that he’d moved on completely? Perhaps she would be satisfied by the news of his engagement to the lovely Miss Devensham or another well-bred heiress of her ilk.

Bess had to set down the last plate carefully and put her hands flat on the table to steady herself as she breathed through the pain.

“Flora,” she said, interrupting the flow of her cousin’s chatter. “Have you sent up Henrietta’s supper yet?”

“Not yet! It’s ready for her, though, as soon as she wants it. I think she’s in the back garden, sketching.”

“The light is about to go,” Bess observed, wiping her hands dry on the plain rust-colored linen of her skirts. “I’ll take her supper up to her.”

“Thanks,” Flora smiled, flushed and pretty as she bustled about the kitchen. “I’ve a deal of work to do and that will save me a trip up those stairs!”

Bess arranged the tray for Henrietta, as she had so many times before, and carried it up the back stairs and out into the tiny garden behind the inn.

It was late summer now, and the light clung to the sky as long as it could before giving way to dusk. Even twilight, at this time of year, glowed with a lazy warmth that seemed to melt into night like a chunk of ice dropped on the hot cobblestone path.

Amid the drowsing bees bumbling amongst the heavy-headed roses, Henrietta sat at a small, round table with her journal and a pack of charcoal pencils. She wore an enormous straw bonnet to shield her from the setting sun; it was plumed with a spray of ostrich feathers at least eighteen inches high and dyed an unlikely shade of fuchsia. Grosgrain ribbon of the same violent pink decorated the wide brim and trailed becomingly down the sides to tie in a large, lopsided bow that rested on Henrietta’s right shoulder.

Careful not to startle her, Bess set the tray down on the table and waited for Henrietta to blink over at her. She dropped her pencil, hand flexing as though it was cramped. “Dear Bess! Have you brought me sustenance? Bless you, sweet girl. Ooh, fish pie, yummy yummy.”

Henrietta tucked in, exclaiming over Flora’s pastry crust, which Bess tried not to take personally. To distract herself and let the poor woman eat, Bess gestured at the sketchbook that lay discarded upon the table.

“May I?”

“Of course! They’re only doodles, you know, little bits and bobs, things I’ve noticed. People I’m thinking of.”

Bess smiled at a charming line drawing of a hen, beak open and wings spread, castigating a rooster with a positively wilted coxcomb and a palpable air of glum defeat.

Henrietta had filled several more pages with studies of the flowers in bloom about the garden, the blowsy, overblown roses and the gracefully trailing wisteria like clusters of grapes in a vineyard.

She turned further back, paging past a rather nice sketch of Gemma in profile, a wicked glint in her eye and a teasing grin on her lips, and several pairs of hands at work about the inn at various tasks, in different positions.

Then Bess turned another page and felt her soul leave her body.