“Miss de Beauvoir!” boomed Mr Higgs, the day manager, who had condescended to give them a tour of the building only after Max had put his foot down and demanded it. Mr Higgs had been furious and unhappy, but there were benefits to being an earl. It was difficult for such a man to deny him. “These people are treated with decency and charity. They have a safe place to sleep, clean clothes, and regular meals.”

  “They have shapeless rags, thin pallets on the floor, and gruel if they are lucky. When was the last time they ate fresh meat or vegetables? When was the last time they were able to wash their clothes?” she demanded with fury.

  Mr Higgs turned purple but did not reply, which was answer enough.

  The building followed a familiar design, in common with many such buildings. It was cruciform, with four wings, each wing completed by a yard, surrounded by high walls. She had been right, of course. From the street side, the side that anyone driving past would see, it was a grand edifice, if forbidding. Once inside, it was a prison. It would certainly act as a deterrent to the workshy. Max could not imagine just how desperate a person might need to be to step through the gates of such a place, but even considering it made his guts roil. Worse still, they separated inmates by gender. So they separated husbands and wives, and kept women apart from their sons, and fathers from daughters. Max found he could not bear to meet the eyes of the inmates he saw, all of them set apart by a bland uniform of rough, ill-made fabric that loudly announced these people were the lowest of the low. And then there was the stench, not just of dreadful sanitary conditions, unwashed bodies and disease but… hopelessness. You could smell it, the scent of despair so tangible he could taste it too, lingering on his tongue like sour milk.

  “I’ve seen enough,” he said, needing to escape, needing to get out and see the sky above him and breathe clean air. That was his right and his privilege. A privilege not available to all. “Mr Higgs, this place is a disgrace. That you have wilfully ignored every one of this young woman’s pleas to make conditions better for those poor devils who have no choice but to come here is beyond belief. We will do something about it.”

  Mr Higgs spluttered and made noises of outrage, but Max ignored him.

  “Miss de Beauvoir.” He turned to her and offered her his arm, unwilling to go another step without being certain she was beside him, wanting the reassurance of her close to him, knowing she was safe.

  They exited the building and the immense doors slammed shut behind them. Max turned to stare at her.

  “My God,” he said, letting out a shuddering breath. “My God.”

  Burt might have ended in a place like that, when he was too old and ill to work any longer, or Pike, if anything happened to Burt before he was old enough to look out for himself. Max closed his eyes for a moment. No. He would never let that happen. They were safe. He’d see to that.

  Max opened his eyes with a start as something caressed his face. Miss de Beauvoir was staring up at him, her gloved hand touching his cheek.

  “Are you well, my lord?” she asked gently, her wide grey eyes full of concern.

  Something shifted in his heart, the giving way of some defensive structure, brittle with age and cynicism. The floodgates opened, longing sweeping through him like an incoming tide. It washed away everything in its path. Old hurts and resentments, fears and doubts, and when they were gone, there was nothing but her, the nearness of her, and the realisation of how very much he wanted her beside him, always.

  He stared, knowing he would never be as certain of anything as he was of her, seeing before him the embodiment of his every dream, and knowing she was out of his reach. She would never consider a man like him. She’d made that very clear. Unless… Unless he could prove to her he was worthy. It would be a lie, of course. No man could ever be worthy of such a woman, but perhaps if he proved it every day for the rest of his days, he might make it true. He’d do it too, for her.

  Max shook his head, unable to find words.

  “You’re very pale,” she observed anxiously. “Do you need to sit down?”

  He gave a startled laugh, fighting to find his tongue. “I think I ought to be more concerned about your tender sensibilities, Miss de Beauvoir. I should never have asked you to accompany me. It was selfish and—”

  “And if you had gone without me, I should never have forgiven you,” she said, her voice tart. “Besides, which you ought to know by now, I have no tender sensibilities.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said, feeling something close to anguish as she withdrew her hand.

  The desire to pull her into his arms was an ache beneath his skin, but he resisted the urge. How, he did not know, when he had spent his entire life giving into temptation at every turn, and he wanted her beyond anything, beyond reason. Instinctively, he felt she would keep him on the right path. This woman would never let him get away with anything, never let him slip and be anything other than his best self, and he would never slip, for he would never want to disappoint her.

  “A cup of tea,” she said decisively. “A cup of tea and some cake.”

  Max nodded. “Would you mind awfully if I put a tot of brandy in the tea?”

  She frowned at him. “Only if you neglect to put any in mine.”

  He laughed then, and she smiled at him. The expression sliced through his heart like a blade. Oh, lord. He was in deep trouble, and it was nothing less than he deserved. How many women had believed themselves in love with him, and he’d laughed in their faces? Abruptly, a particular young woman’s face came to mind, her beautiful eyes filled with tears, as she pleaded with him to help her, and he —

  The memory lanced through him and shattered his newly vulnerable heart. If Miss de Beauvoir knew what he’d done—if she ever discovered that—she’d despise him for all eternity, and rightly so.

  “My lord?”

  He stared at her, shaken to the core. “Yes. Come, let me take you back to the carriage and away from this dismal place,” he said, pasting a false smile to his face.

  There was no future for them. Not in this lifetime. Not even if he lived as a saint for the rest of his days. He knew that. As much as he wanted to leave the past behind, he could not. He had burned his bridges, given up any chance for happiness because of his loathsome behaviour. His own fault. His own damn bloody selfish fault.

  Reap what you sow. That was it, wasn’t it? Well, he might have a second chance at life, a chance to make amends, but no one had said he had a right to be happy, had they? No. This was retribution for his sins, to fall in love at last and know he could never declare himself, never be worthy. For some sins were unforgivable.

  Chapter 13

  Thorn,

  I am in a world of trouble. For God’s sake, come to the address below before the 25th, and bring as much money as you can lay your hands on. I am being blackmailed and I need to silence the devil quickly. You see, there’s a child. Her happiness is too important to risk and… Hell, I can’t explain this now. Don’t, whatever you do, breathe a word to a soul. If our father gets wind of this—Christ, I can’t bear to think of it. Damn me, but I am a thousand times a fool. But it will not only be me who suffers for my selfishness and lack of foresight.

  I do not know what to do, who to turn to, and I know I am a wretched fellow for dragging you into my mess and asking you to bear the burden of such a secret, but I do not know where else to turn.

  Please come. Pip x.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Philip Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton (eldest son of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu) to his brother, The Hon’ble Mr Thomas Barrington.

  18th June 1842, Wildsyde Castle, Caithness, Scotland.

  Evie stood on the headland, the wind buffeting her face and tugging at her cloak. She pulled the material closer about her, lest it become a sail and have her flying off the edge of the cliff. The ruins of Bucholie Castle stood before her, and she knew better than to get any closer, having been warned of the dangers, but it was a romantic ruin and a beautiful if melancholy place. It drew her back over and over again.

  “Here ye are!” called a cheery voice from behind her.

  Evie turned to see Muir Anderson striding through the long grass. He looked like a great Scottish lion in a kilt, with his tawny hair blown about by the wind and his clothes all rumpled. He generally appeared somewhat dishevelled, as if he’d been wrestling some great beast. He was wild and untamed himself, and yet she sensed a gentle soul in him. He also had a dreadful sense of humour and made her laugh a good deal.

  “I’ve been searching for ye this age,” he said, coming to stand beside her.

  He stared down at her and she saw his eyes were tawny too, flecked with gold. She turned away, staring out at the sea, a vivid, almost painful blue that made something in her heart twist.

  “You like it here, aye?”

  She nodded, brushing the hair from her eyes and staring out at the sun glinting on the sea, so bright it made her eyes water. “I do.”

  He leaned down then and kissed her, so swiftly she’d not known it was coming. It only lasted a moment, enough for her to tell that his lips were soft, and he smelled like heather and fresh air.

  “D’ye mind?” he asked, drawing away a little.

  Evie stared at him, wanting to cry. “N-No,” she stammered, not wanting to hurt his feelings, and she didn’t mind. She just wasn’t certain she wanted him to do it again.

  “You’re not mad about the idea, though, eh?” he suggested, grinning.

  To her relief, there was no trace of embarrassment or resentment in his open face.

  “I—” she began, not having the first idea how to answer that question. The trouble was, she liked him. She liked him very much. Worse, she could imagine being married to him, and the life they would share. A good, steady life, filled with children and laughter, just as she had wanted, but….

  But.

  Oh, what was she to do?

  “Aye, reckoned you’d not fallen arse over apex for my charm and good looks,” he said wryly.

  Despite everything, Evie giggled.

  He winked at her and offered her his arm. “Come along. I’ll escort ye back to the castle like a proper gent. I do ken how, ye know.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Evie,” he said, lowering his voice and her heart beat faster as her anxiety returned. “I know ye are not in love with me. The truth is, I’m nae in love with you either, but I like ye a good deal. I think love could come, for we’re friends already. I think we suit, and I reckon we could be happy together, if ye gave me a chance. I’ll nae ask ye the question now, for I know you’ve doubts. ’Tis only natural. But I will ask ye, and soon. So, I’d like ye to have a think about it. A very serious think about it.”

  He drew out the ‘r’ in ‘very,’ and she realised she liked his accent a good deal. It was rough, warm, and charming. So very different from another man, another accent. His words would be clever and seductive, so dreadfully sophisticated. Far more knowing and worldly than she could ever hope to be. She could handle Muir, she knew where she stood with him, and what to expect. He was not an unknown quantity, did not have secrets and a past which haunted him. He would be simple and direct and so much easier.

  “Will ye do that for me, Evie, love?”

  Evie, love. Would that be his endearment for her? Would he call her that with affection and a warm look in his eyes? Ma petite. Muir did not love her, and she did not love him. The trouble was, she did not know if anyone else loved her, or why on earth they wanted her, or if she had a chance of holding onto a man like that, because who could hold him? No one she’d ever seen. Beautiful women had come and gone, far more beautiful than her, and he’d never cared, not for one of them.

  She blinked hard.

  “Evie? Have I made ye cry?”

  She shook her head, swallowing hard. “No. No, of course not. I… I am very honoured, Muir, and I shall think about it seriously, I promise. Very seriously indeed. You have my word.”

  Evening of the 18th of June 1842, The Hanover Square Rooms, London.

  The concert was an excellent one. Herr Thalberg was a master of his art, and his hands flew over the piano in a mesmerising blur. Yet Kathy could not focus on the beautiful music. Lord Vane sat on the other side of the aisle in the front row, and she found she could do nothing but stare at the back of his head, his golden hair glinting in the candlelight.

  It was a warm evening, and the concert rooms were stuffy. Kathy shifted in her seat. Her bottom was feeling decidedly numb and, as wonderful as the music was, she was rather longing for the interval. Stretching her legs and a glass of cold lemonade or fruit punch sounded like a wonderful idea, and perhaps there was the possibility of a word with his lordship.

  She had not realised he was coming tonight, except perhaps she should have, for it was a charitable event to raise money for widows and orphans. Unwillingly, her gaze returned to him. He had turned his head, revealing his strong profile as he spoke to Humphrey Price who sat beside him. Mr Price had escorted Miss Morcombe, a friend of Rosamund’s and the girl turned, noticed Kathy staring, and waved at her. Lord Vane did not. Kathy stifled a sigh and had to concede the truth she had been trying to smother for some time now. She was in a very bad way. Lud, but she was a fool. He might desire her, but he was an earl, and she… she didn’t know who she was. No, she scolded herself, that was not true. She was Kathleen de Beauvoir, and she was an educated woman with a brain in her head … but no matter how accomplished she was, she was no countess. It was a ridiculous idea. Besides, he might well desire her, but desire was not love, not regard, not a basis for anything real and long-lasting.

  Except there had been a moment, on the steps of that awful building, when she had touched his cheek. She had understood his distress for the poor devils within the workhouse for she had felt it too, but to realise that it he really cared, really, honestly wanted to help these people had soothed any last doubts about him. He had appeared to need her, to want her with him. It had made her believe he wanted her by his side always. Not just in whatever professional capacity she worked for him, but something more than that. Her heart had leapt at the possibility.

  Not to mention the fact he’d said, ‘we will do something about it.’

  Well, she’d been done for.

  And then he had opened his eyes and the naked longing she had seen in his expression had stolen her breath. But she had been mistaken. She must have been, for she had seen no evidence of it since. He was as charming as ever, and so very appreciative of all she did, but politely distant. She had imagined it then. No doubt her own silly fantasies at work once more. Would she never learn?

  She had spun her romantic dreams about a dying man, imbuing him with all manner of heroic attributes he had no claim to, and that had not been his fault. He was just a man. And now that man was trying to remake himself, and what had she to do but fall into the same silly trap all over again?

  “Kathy, do get up, there’s a dear. I am parched and shall do murder if I cannot have a glass of something chilled.”

  Kathy tore herself out of her distraction to regard the Duchess of Bedwin, or Aunt Prue as she called her, though she was not truly her aunt at all. But Prue had a tendency to adopt people she liked as family, and she was Mama’s cousin, after all. Kathy had come with Aunt Prue and her daughter Rosamund, all of them escorted by Rosamund’s older brother, Jules, Marquess of Blackstone.

  “Sorry, Aunt Prue, of course.” She got to her feet, stepping out into the aisle and instantly colliding with Lord Vane.

  “Oh!” she said, mortified, as he reached out to steady her. “I beg your pardon.”

  The warmth of his hands sank into the thin silk of her sleeves and shivers raced over her skin, a deliciously distracting reminder of that moment in her front parlour, when he had taken her hand in his.

  “Miss de Beauvoir! The fault was mine, I assure you. Are you hurt?”

  Kathy shook her head, too stunned to say anything.

  “Vane, have a care. The ladies are under my escort this evening, and his grace will be tetchy if I return them with bruises.” Jules drawled from behind her.

  “Blackstone,” Lord Vane replied, his tone polite but cautious as he released his hold on her. “I beg your pardon.”

  “It was my fault,” Kathy said at once. Well, it was true, but Jules had moved closer, placing her hand firmly upon his arm, his posture somewhat protective.

  “Come along, ladies,” Jules said, moving her along, away from Lord Vane.

  Rather to her own surprise, Kathy planted her feet.

  “Jules,” she said under her breath. “You’re being rude.”

  But Lord Vane had already taken the hint.

  “Forgive me, Miss de Beauvoir, Blackstone. I believe I see someone I must speak with,” he said, bowing to them both before hurrying away.

  Kathy glared up at Jules, who shrugged.

  “Working for the man is one thing,” he said, his tone dark. “Socialising with him, quite another. He eats little girls like you for breakfast.”

  “In the first place, I am not a little girl,” Kathy said, stiff with indignation. “And in the second, he’s changed.”

  Jules snorted, and Kathy was tempted to kick him.

  “He has!” she insisted, “And I’m not your little sister, I might remind you. You are not my guardian.”

  “I’m escorting you tonight, and I’m in enough awe of your brother’s fists to do a decent job of it,” Jules retorted.

  Kathy harrumphed. Brothers. They were all as irritating as each other, whether or not they belonged to you. “And I suppose you are all sweetness and light, and never put a foot wrong? Hmmm?”

  Jules’ expression darkened for a moment. “No man is sweetness and light, and no one ever gets through life without putting a foot wrong, but I’m a better man than him, and I assure you that’s not saying much.”

  Kathy snatched her hand back, a wash of anger heating her skin. “I don’t doubt that was true once, Jules, but no longer. You don’t know. You don’t know him.”

 

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