A Man Above Reproach (16 page)

“You are mad.”

“I know it sounds shocking, Josie, but you could try to trust someone.”

“That is another luxury that I cannot afford,” she exhaled.

“Why not?” Sally insisted, anger rising in her voice. “What Mother is doing—kidnapping and selling girls—would be punishable if you could prove it. Being associated with a man of Lennox’s stature and reputation…”

“Sally, my darling. It is far too dangerous for everyone involved.”

“Fine then,” she returned, shoving her bonnet back on her head. “Sit here miserable, save a few girls a year, scribble your high-and-mighty
ideas. When it comes to putting them into action, this time with help, you balk.”

Josephine sat up as far as she could, but she was definitely not in a position of authority, in a too-small silk robe, adrift in the blankets which still radiated with the duke’s body temperature.

“Lennox does not wish to be a crusader. By all accounts, even your precious Nicholas would tell you this, Elias must abide by the stringent rules of his dukedom. He would never be a disappointment or shame to his family name. I am the worst sort of woman for him.”

Sally shook her head sadly.

“You don’t even know, Josie. You never asked him.”

There was silence between them until Sally, newly confident, bowed her head regally.

“I have a carriage waiting. You know where to find me, should you need me.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“I want to believe that there are those who will not be able to easily dismiss my words, but I do not have much hope. I know that society is comfortable with a certain way of doing things and dislikes complication. Dear Readers, do not think me an unrepentant cynic. I am simply aware of our shared reality. Though I will not hesitate to speak out against the order of things, I do not believe that it will do much to change them.”

—F
ROM
O
N
S
OCIETY
’
S
I
LLS AND THE
R
EAL
P
RICE OF
P
ROSTITUTION
BY
J
OSEPHINE
G
RANT

Elias told Dryden that he wanted to be left alone and to make up any excuse that he saw fit. He stared at a wall for a long while. He drank a few glasses of brandy. He lit a fire when the sun went down, and he dressed for bed. When he took off his coat, a scrap of paper fell out of the pocket. It was the slip that he had been using as a bookmark. He had not given it much notice at the shop, but he now saw that it read “Doesn’t Matter” in Josephine’s tight cursive. He recognized her handwriting from the impressive notes in the margins of the Peacock book and from her waspish inscription to him in her own book.

Doesn’t matter:
The sentiment was greatly galling, if it referred to him at all. She could have been talking about the price of tea, for all he knew.

It was just another mystery, he told himself. Just another peculiar piece of her riddle, which he doubted anyone would solve. He wrote to Uncle Harrington to tell him the matter had been resolved and that no further investigation was necessary. He mulled over whether or not to also call off the reconnaissance on Josephine herself, and decided to let that wait for now. It could not hurt to know her whereabouts, even if he intended to stay in his house.

He had sent Thackeray back home, told him to enjoy what he had with Sally. Elias told him to make it known that he would not be entertaining visitors for at least a fortnight. Alessandra tried to call early the next day, but he warned her against contracting the illness he had; she would not want her face to puff up so. That was effective in keeping her away. He had Dryden inform the duchess of his fabricated sickness. The footman was so kind as to add that the doctor had already seen him and it was a simple, but emphatically contagious head cold.

Elias stepped back from the Josephine Grant Situation. Completely.

He did not shave for a few days, a luxury, read some mythology, not at all helpful, wrote various correspondences, and lined up Josephine’s cursed books on the enormous shelf next to his bed. His chambers were of the greatest advantage in the house, and he enjoyed three days of the sun setting and rising in a reassuring manner. He started to come to his senses.

He determined he would let the investigation of Josephine continue until the end of the week and then cancel the contract. It would ease his mind to know that she had reverted to her normal routine, and he would go back to his. It was clearly what she wanted, after all. She had implied, using the absurd qualifier of “Byronic” scandal, that association with her would bring shame on his family and draw the ire of society.

She had more or less said that there was no earthly chance they could be together, after throwing herself at him and before falling cozily asleep against his thumping heart. He had lain awake for a while after she had drifted off, learning that she snored and muttered in her sleep, but when Dryden came to fetch him, the picture they made together faded. For the hour that they were unconscious, they had gotten along fine. Awake, and talking, they were a lost cause.

When he had kissed the mussed tresses of her head, wispy from the steam of the bath, he determined it would be the last time he would
touch her. He was not a man who made final decisions lightly. What he went through the next week, while pretending to be sick, was like a mourning period. Done and done.

Thus, when Friday came to his door, he was still hesitant to let the world back in. There was a letter, already sealed, sitting on the desk in his study that officially called off the surveillance of Miss Josephine Grant of the Paper Garden. He had signed it, wax sealed it, and addressed it himself. It had been sitting there for three days.

That morning, he lay in bed awaiting his valet’s knock and scratching his beard. He would miss it, especially now that the chill in the air was reaching a high note. He wondered if Josephine would like it. Surely, she would complain at least about the scrape of it against the sensitive skin of her cheek. He would never know for sure, but he thought she might also find it fetching. He needed to stop wondering all these things about her, her opinion of anything he thought of, what she would want to have for breakfast. It was Friday and it was time to get ready for the rigors of the dinners and dances and politics. If he possessed any more ready excuses to shield against reality, he needed them now. He kept his eyes closed, awaiting a brilliant idea.

None came.

So he yawned and stretched and pulled his body from the sheets wound around him in his fidgety sleep. He braced himself on the edge of the bed, hands splayed. What did he have to do today? His schedule sat open to the correct day on his nightstand, but he did not need to look: luncheon with the Francis family and various others, dinner with the same group at Lord Frost’s, before the ball that would occur in Frost’s expansive residence. His cousin Sebastian had just returned from extensive foreign travel, and it was something of a welcome home. His mother had sent various notes during the week with a reminder of the very important day and that she did hope he would be well enough to fulfill his duties. It was thinly veiled, but when mother mentioned
“duty,” it meant “you will absolutely obey my edict to do whatever time-wasting social activity I have planned.”

His door burst open.

In it stood Nicholas, panting, and Alessandra behind him, at his left shoulder. She was clutching and unclutching her hands.

“Pardon the intrusion,” Alessandra started.

“You must come with us,” Nicholas finished.

Elias shrugged on a dressing gown, unperturbed.

“I am just waking. I have not even begun my morning ritual.” He yawned yet again and attempted to sit down at his shaving kit. Nicholas, per usual, just kept on talking.

“Elias. Miss Francis’s father is on his way here to secure your declaration of betrothal. That is what your mother and he plan to do today—throw you two together this afternoon, allow time for a proposal from you, make the announcement at the ball.”

Elias looked to his sister.

“It is not a joke,” she said. “Mother told me over breakfast. I sent for Nicholas. Mama is sure you are ready to declare.”

“Without even a by-your-leave,” he said, stunned. He was staring at his hands, sturdy blue veins pumping at the top indicating that his heart was still working, though he suspected that was not the case. He did not think the time would come so soon. His voice was dull, but even, and resigned. “But why should she ask me? Everyone has decided that I shall marry the huge-eyed heiress. I have given no evidence to the contrary. I suppose there would really be no reason to ask me… my entire existence is implied.”

“We do not have time to discuss it,” Alessandra said, donning a smart bonnet. Elias noticed then that she was already in her pelisse and ready to travel. “Mother is changing and giving orders for luncheon. Nicholas’s carriage is in the back. You must get in it now.”

Dryden had entered while she was talking and gathered the necessary components of his master’s daily wear. Elias blinked and rubbed his eyes. Was there a remote chance he was still sleeping?

“No.” He looked at Nicholas, then Alessandra again. “No, no.”

“Right,” Nicholas agreed. “No. No, you will not be here to fulfill their plans. We are going to Sally’s new flat, just outside of London, no one will intrude there. Lennox—move.”

They heard an echoing knock on the front door and a butler scurrying to answer it. Nicholas and Alessandra were right: there was no time. It unfroze his limbs and he yanked on his overcoat, right over his dressing gown, and mashed a hat onto his head. He would worry about his appearance when he was in a safe place, which Ashworth Hall was not, for the first time in his life.

“Thank you,” he said to his two best friends, his sister and the man who might as well be his brother. “Thank you.”

“Shhh, Eli, Mama will hear you.”

Alessandra marched down the hallway, but Nicholas fell into step beside him and Dryden trailed behind the pair with an armful of clothes.

“They will not shackle you today,” Nicholas smiled. “Not today.”

Josephine knew that she had to apologize to Sally for being so irrational, but she felt entirely silly waiting in the entryway with an armful of flowers like a chastised gentleman caller. Sally’s new domicile was a good balance of livable and opulent, with more than a few flounces designed to flaunt Nicholas’s wealth and devotion to his mistress. Golden cherubs danced around the mirror next to her, a mirror that also revealed Josephine’s own less-than-ideal state, wisps of brown hair flying above the line of her scalp, trying to escape the fire in her brain
underneath. She had been alone for days, except for Sapphire, who had volunteered to take Sally’s place at the Paper Garden.

Sally’s maid—
her maid!
—had gone to tell her mistress—
her mistress!
—of the arrival of Miss Grant. Josephine stood awkwardly in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot, grazing a hand over all the surfaces. She couldn’t believe that it was only a week ago that the young girl had been living in her home, like a sister. Josephine looked up as a door closed. Lost in thought, she assumed it was the maid returning.

Instead, it was Elias, sheet white, but looking at her like she was the ghost.

Neither of them said a word. He was dressed in a hasty manner—messy cravat, waistcoat unbuttoned—almost as if he just gotten out of bed and threw on clothing with a bleary eye. His hair bolted up in competing factions on his head, unable to come to a consensus about which side to choose. His face was partially obscured by what had to be a week’s worth of beard growth and his eyes had sunken further, pooled and cradled by tired skin.

When they both chose to speak, they did so at the same time.

“What are you doing here?”

“Do not get any irrational ideas,” he ran on. “I’ve only just gotten here and I may as well have been kidnapped. What are
you
doing here?”

“Visiting my friend; this is perfectly within my rights. I could not have known you would be here.” The stems of the bouquet made a crunching sound under the anxious tightening of her fist.

A smile cracked the hard lines on his face. “Then why have you brought me flowers?”

The maid cleared her throat.

“Pardon? Miss Grant? The lady says she is occupied…”

Her eyes darted toward the duke.

“… but that she would welcome an evening visit, should you be able to come back.”

Elias turned to the maid.

“It is all right, Mildred. They are trying to protect me. As it seems I have already been revealed to Miss Grant, we will retire together to the sitting room. Tea would be appreciated. Also, could you be a dear and put my flowers in a vase?”

The woman nodded, taking the bouquet from Josephine, and went on her way.

“Why so many lilies? I hate lilies.” Elias put a hand on the small of her back and directed her toward the sitting room.

“Sally loves lilies and I am an ass,” Josephine said.