A Gentleman Undone (38 page)

He lay silent. How would he even begin?

“You needn’t tell me anything if you don’t wish it.” She was steadiness itself, a dark beacon in the shadowed room. “I haven’t any claim on your secrets.”

“May I have a day to consider? Only it’s a new thought with me, to speak to you—to speak to anyone—on this subject. I’m not sure it would be for the best.”

“Of course.” Her fingers uncurled from his thumb. “Perhaps we could call on that widow, though, and I could come to know more of you that way. Without prying into things you might rather not tell.”

The proposal still didn’t make sense. How exactly would a visit to Mrs. Talbot help her know him? Never mind. A call on the widow suddenly felt like the most innocuous of diversions, beside the prospect of confessing himself. “If you like,” he said, and then there was nothing to do but lie awake, wondering at her motives and at whether he had the fortitude to risk losing her good opinion.

H
E WAS
responsible, in some way, for the loss of this woman’s husband. That was the obvious explanation, and one did not seek an explanation beyond the obvious without good cause.
Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem
, as Henry had been fond of quoting. No unnecessary multiplying of things.

Lydia sat on a tired sofa in a small parlor in Camden Town, fighting the urge to knead her hands in her lap. Will sat at her left. Unease furled off him like a vapor, troublesome and distracting to her, undetectable to the other two women in the room. She’d been foolish, perhaps, to hope a visit here might help strengthen his attachment to life.

“Are they an older branch of the family, the Slaughters? I’m almost sure I’ve heard of a Lord Slaughter.” Mrs. John Talbot, wife of the soldier’s brother and mistress of this house, seemed determined to take all the consequence of this call to herself and now must discover exactly how much consequence was involved.

“I’m not familiar with him. I doubt he can be any relation.” The less said of Slaughters here, the better. “Most
of our family distinction resides in the Blackshear line, truth be told.”

“My cousin flatters us.” Will cast his eyes to the carpet, looking suitably modest and all the nobler for it. “The Blackshears are common country gentry; not so much as a Sir among us.” He made a small, unconscious adjustment to one of his cuffs.

“That can change, though, can’t it?” The woman would not be deterred. “One hears of knighthoods, and new-created baronetcies. Even new peerages, sometimes.”

“Indeed.” He acknowledged her contention with a bow. “But my eldest brother already has a reputation for conduct and dignity quite the equal of any lord, and a stubborn pride that prevents him ever wishing to change his state. My next-eldest, I believe, would rather have influence with a peer than be one himself. And both my sisters have already married, neither into the aristocracy. So I don’t anticipate any titled Blackshears, at least in this generation.”

Two brothers, one dignified and one political. A sister besides the one who’d driven Jane home that day. People she would never meet, even if he forsook the duel or survived it. He couldn’t very well pass her off as a cousin with
them
.

“I think perhaps the modern way is for a gentleman to forge his own distinction, by his actions.” Mrs. Talbot the widow broached this radical sentiment with a certain hesitancy—it seemed entirely possible Mrs. Talbot the wife might lean over and cuff her for her effrontery—underlaid by the strength of quiet conviction. “Only think of Wellington, a younger son and Irish into the bargain, but more highly regarded in the land now than even the Regent, I daresay.”

“My point exactly.” Mrs. John Talbot was quick to seize back command of the discussion. “Even younger
sons can hope for titles, if they only bring themselves to the notice of the right people. A man like yourself, Mr. Blackshear, might rise above your elder brothers one day.”

Mrs. George Talbot sank into a mortified silence. Clearly she’d meant nothing so impertinent as to suggest Will ought to concern himself with a title.

I don’t think of courting her
, he’d said. If indeed he bore some responsibility for her widowhood, this was certainly understandable. But a lady
like
Mrs. Talbot, if not Mrs. Talbot herself, would do him some good. She set an admirable example of how to bear disaster with grace. To lose her husband and fall on the charity of these relations must have been a terrible blow, but she found the strength to forge on. She did not go seeking her own extinction in a brothel, as some weaker, more impetuous women did.

Of course she couldn’t afford to be impetuous, having the child to think of, but then wasn’t that the very point of bringing Will here? To remind him of the people
he
must think of; the people who depended on him and for whose sake he must not risk himself in a duel.

“Well, Miss Slaughter.” The other Mrs. Talbot sat forward with abrupt vivacity. “I’m sure I’d like your opinion of the garden I’ve just put in. Will you walk out with me?”

Beside her, Will started. Across from them, the widow Talbot blushed. Mrs. John Talbot’s intent could not have been clearer.

Lydia groped for the sofa’s arm and missed it entirely. Her limbs were icing over. To sit upright, to draw breath, suddenly required conscious effort.

“Let’s all walk out.” Beside her, Will had come to his feet. “I’ve taken a recent interest in agriculture and I’m particularly intrigued by what can be done on a small scale.” He spoke with such enthusiasm as surely convinced
the other Mrs. Talbot that he was not angling to escape the private interview, but rather had not grasped what was intended.

This would only make a temporary reprieve, though. There could be little doubt of what must follow, if he survived the duel. He would hold himself guilty of leading the Talbots into expectations. Being the man he was, he would want to honor his obligations, even if they were founded on misunderstanding. There was a promise involved, after all, and a solemn burden. He’d forsake his own happiness before he’d abandon Mr. Talbot’s widow.

There mightn’t be any forsaking of happiness. Weren’t you just thinking that this woman is precisely what he needs?
She rose, sluggish and ungainly as if she were hauling herself out of a bog, and she walked out with the others.

A thought bloomed, feebly, as she staggered through the ordeal of the Talbot garden: maybe now he would give up the duel. What respectable woman, after all, would want her husband to have fought for such a cause?

I don’t think of courting her. If I’m not already in love with you, I’m within striking distance of the state
. It could never have come to anything. She’d never hoped for it in the least. So why did she feel like she’d been turned outdoors coatless in the dead of winter?

The garden tour came finally to a merciful end, and after a round of good-byes and well-wishes and other excruciating politeness she found herself once more on the street with Mr. Blackshear. She started walking. Discussion would change nothing, so she did not speak.

“Lydia.” He fell in beside her, his voice low with urgency. “I assure you, I had no idea of—”

“It doesn’t matter.” She pulled her cloak more snugly about her, and walked faster.

“Only I want you to know I didn’t lie, when I told you there was no understanding. I would never have bedded you if there were. I don’t even know how to account for—”

“I’ve said it doesn’t matter.” The words emerged more brusquely than she intended. She evened out her voice. “I don’t doubt you. I can see the family’s assumption came as a surprise to you.”

“I haven’t called there above a few times. And she’s in mourning.” He was reasoning with himself as well as with her. “Her husband hasn’t even been dead a year. It simply never occurred to me that—”

“You’ve made that plain. And you don’t have to make account to me. None of this is my concern.” She couldn’t seem to be civil. And of a sudden the two-mile walk to St. James’s, with her no doubt cutting off his attempts at conversation all that way, was more than she could bear.

She stopped where she was, and pivoted to address him. “I think I’ll go home, since I’m so near Somers Town. I need to get the rest of my money for tonight, and I need to sort through some belongings.”

His already-stricken eyes showed new dismay. “I thought—” He took a step back from her, and dropped his gaze to her boots. “That is, I had supposed we would go back to my rooms and … talk, for a bit.”

Oh, God. He’d made up his mind to tell his dark secret. He was ready, finally, to unburden himself, to honor her with his deepest trust, and she was not equal to it, not now. “I think it will be more convenient if we just meet at Oldfield’s tonight.”

His eyes came back to hers. He didn’t understand. Well, how should he? She only half understood herself.

“Very well.” He accepted this latest setback with soft words and a nod, when he had every right to demand an explanation. “I’ll see you home.” He put out his elbow.

“You’re kind, but no. Thank you.” Already her legs were moving, backing her away and down the street. “I shall be at Oldfield’s from ten-thirty. I’ll expect to see you around eleven.”

He didn’t argue, as he’d done in a similar situation some weeks since. He didn’t make any reply at all. He pushed his hand into his greatcoat pocket and stood there, watching her recede.

Her heart—her stupid poisoned heart that had lurked for years beneath the rubbish-heap of anger, just waiting for the worst possible moment to reemerge—her heart would surely break if she had to see the look in his eyes for a single second more. With a whirl of skirts and cloak she turned, and went on her way.

Chapter Twenty

T
HAT NIGHT
she wore her plain white muslin to Oldfield’s, since her more elegant gowns were all in the trunk in Mr. Blackshear’s rooms. Anyone recognizing her from her last visit here must suppose her fortunes had undergone some change—if not by the evidence of her subdued dress, then by her manner.

She counterfeited drunkenness this evening. She hadn’t the heart to flirt, with Will or with anyone else, so she alternated between morose silence and bouts of bad-tempered loquacity in which she embedded his cues. Bet five. Bet four. Bet seven. Now stick.

Behind her, the roulette wheel clattered. At her left, the dice clacked together in someone’s hands before tumbling down the baize. And from all about came the buzz of conversations that did not concern her. The sounds knit themselves together and retreated a discreet distance, and then the world was nothing but cards and reckoning and cool resolve, a world where the only hearts that mattered were those that could be numbered in pips.

She had no place in any decent man’s life. Not as a wife, not as a lover, not even as a sympathetic ear. But by
all she held sacred, she had a place here. Graceless disrespectable wanton that she was, she would take what she wanted from Oldfield’s in handfuls, with mercy for none.

And the cards, as though to welcome her back from having wandered astray, fell out again and again in her favor. Mr. Blackshear’s favor, rather. He was the one making the large wagers.
Eight units. Nine. Eleven
, with a reference to pawning all her worldly possessions, because
possess
led to
own
, and
own
to
onze
. Truly, she hadn’t expected to ever need that one when they’d devised the code.

Without clocks, one measured the night in money rather than hours, and somewhere near the dizzying mark of eighteen hundred pounds he stretched his arm to signal for a conference. She looked the other way. If he was fatigued, he could excuse himself for a few minutes without making any account to her. If he thought they’d won enough and ought to quit for the night, he sadly underestimated her firmness of purpose. And if he meant to address her on some other subject, he needn’t. They’d said all there was to say.

When twenty minutes elapsed with no response, he made the signal again. Carelessly, languorously, he raised his right elbow behind him and took hold with his left hand.