An Unexpected Proposal (St Daine Family 1) (9 page)

He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his desk. His eyes narrowed, pinning his friend with the sharpness of his gaze. “I
know
you, Tony. You would not have allowed someone in which you held less than full confidence to take your place on such an operation, so tell me—who
did
you choose? Who was the man you sent to board that ship and rescue the marquesses granddaughter?”

“Tristan.”

Lucien felt his heart plunge into his stomach as the full ramifications of Tony's answer hit him like a fist to the gut. Tristan had been the one to board the kidnapper's ship and something had gone amiss...and
Tony
had known all along. It occurred to him also that Tony was, in fact, solely responsible for Tristan's lengthy disappearance, yet he had said nothing of it in all these many months.

“You knew. You knew, and you said nothing. Why?”

Betrayed
, he thought. He had been terribly, horribly betrayed, and by his best friend, no less.

All thoughts of Claire fled his mind, replaced by a maelstrom of unfathomable emotion so dark, so deep even Lucien feared to explore it. He could not. Not now. It was simply too raw, too...

Something of the shock of pain and anger, of the betrayal and utter disappointment he felt must have shown in his expression because Tony jumped to his feet and started to pace the room in agitation. To his credit, he tried to hold his silence, to wait for Lucien to speak first, but his guilt was obviously far too much for him to bear because he could no longer hold back the words.

“Damn it, Lucien!” he growled, gesturing with a fist in Lucien's direction as the words exploded from him. “I never wanted to tell you and you were never supposed to know. It was wrong of me, and I admit it, but I thought if Tristan were with me, he would be fine. I could look out for him for a time while you dealt with the girls, while you all worked through your grief, and all would be well in the end but—”

Lucien saw an hundred recriminations march across Tony's face, could see exactly how dreadful he felt about the eventual outcome of his decision, and that he now regretted the choices he had made. But there was no way to change either of them; no way to turn back the clock and make all the bad things which had happened because of them to go away.

Tony's shame was clearly revealed in his expression. That he was being eaten alive from the inside by his feelings of guilt was blatantly obvious. Lucien could even sense that Tony desperately wanted him to not only accept what had occurred, but to also understand
why
he had made the choices he had. But neither of them could erase the fact that none of what Tony wanted
now
could change the awful truth of what he had done.

“It was
me
, Lucien
.
It was
I
who gave the order to send your brother onto that ship,” he said, his fist thumping against his chest for emphasis. “He was to bring back the girl, no exceptions. We had everything planned down to the letter and we had gone over the details multiple times. There was no possible way for the mission to fail.”

He dropped back into his chair, a dry bark of laughter escaping before his lips twisted into a bitterly mocking smile. “You should be proud, Lucien. The boy carried out my orders explicitly. Unfortunately, his idea and mine of
no exception
differ greatly.”

L
ucien sat
through most of dinner in grim silence, only speaking to the guests both to his right and left when their questions or quips absolutely required a response. His thoughts were chaotic—fitful and fully occupied by the secret rescue mission his brother had attempted and failed, thanks to the misguided efforts of the man he had believed to be his friend—right up until the moment Tony had confessed, revealing his own damning part in Tristan's regretful disappearance.

Pushing his plate forward in disgust at the whole situation, Lucien sighed heavily and dropped back hard against his chair. Claire's friend Melisande, currently seated at his right, glanced quickly up at him and then hastily away. She fixed her gaze intently upon her plate and he wondered only fleetingly why she hesitated to inquire as to the reason for either his preoccupation or his rudeness.

From the far end of the table, he could feel the weight of Claire's concerned stare but when he chanced a peek in her direction, she turned away from the directness of his gaze to speak with the gentleman at her side. He glanced once again at Lady Melisande, a look which she returned with a somewhat hesitant smile, and he felt a sudden bite of remorse for his boorish behavior. Straightening, he offered his dinner partner what he hoped would pass for a sincerely apologetic smile.

“My apologies, Lady Melisande. I received a bit of unsettling news earlier this afternoon and my mind is elsewhere, I'm afraid,” he offered by way of explanation for his atrocious behavior and sullen mood but made no further attempt to engage her in conversation. Instead, he stood and nodded to the entire assemblage. “Please excuse me. I've an urgent matter which requires my attention.”

At the other end of the table, Claire watched him go, wondering at the reason behind his sudden, intolerable defection before her gaze returned to the now empty seat he had recently occupied, and finally, to Mel.

Poor Melisande.

Her dejected expression was pitiable, leaving Claire to wonder how many more such rejections—impersonal though they may be—that her friend would be able to bear. Offering a bright smile, Claire furtively inclined her head toward the gentleman to Mel's left in an attempt to silently encourage her to strike up a conversation there. But Mel, like the duke, decided her best course of action would be to quit the meal as well.

“Excuse me,” Claire heard her whisper quietly before she, too, stood and left the dining room.

Would she follow the duke? Perhaps this time it would be Mel who spoke with him in some quiet alcove, Claire thought, and mayhap they would even share a kiss. A sudden, uncomfortable twinge in her midsection made her lay her fork aside, her appetite strangely diminished.

Clearly Mel was not feeling well, she decided. She should go after them – after
her
, Claire corrected. She turned to her father to make her excuses, but one look at the resolute set of his shoulders warned her against it. His expression said he believed the worst—that Mel and the duke had arranged to leave tonight's dinner together so that they might meet in secret elsewhere with far fewer prying eyes.

Her smile faltered.

“Melisande complained of a megrim earlier. I am sure she has merely gone to call for her maid so that she might retire early,” Claire offered instead.

The earl merely grunted in response, and she was forced to pick up her fork once more. If nothing else, she would have to at least pretend to attend her meal until the last dish was cleared. Only then could she seek Mel out without drawing her father's attention and disapproval.

But what of the meantime, she wondered. Was Mel with the duke? The now familiar twinge in her stomach pinched again and Claire willed it away.
Stop it, Claire Leighton
, she chastised in silence.
What is it to you if they are together?

Nothing, she reminded herself. Or at least it should be. If Mel was with Rothwyn, it meant only that her promise was that much closer to being fulfilled. She should be
glad
, happy for the both of them. But for some reason, Claire felt anything but.

Pushing at the food on her plate, she prayed time would pass swiftly.

H
aving quit the dining room
, Lucien stalked toward his study, changed his mind at the last minute, and made for the door and the stables instead.

Grandmother would be upset with him, he knew, but had he stayed a moment longer to explain his sudden need to be far, far away from the company of their guests, he would not have been able to contain the raging anger pulsing through him, and so he had made his exit as quickly and with as little fanfare as possible. He had barely reached his destination when a familiar voice called out to him from the dark.

“Going for a brisk ride to stave off your frustrations, are we? Too bad we are not in London. A quick round at Knights would do the job most admirably, don't you think?”

Lucien did not wait for a more blatant or gracious invitation. He spun about, swinging blindly, but his fist connected with naught more than thin air. Tony, having swiftly ducked out of harm's way, left only an amused chuckle to fill the space where his head had been.

“Damn it, Tony, how could you do it? How could you send Tristan into danger?” he asked, his fists now clenched tight at his sides. “You
knew
we had just lost our parents, knew he was grieving still, and not at all ready to make any sort of decision about his way of life or lack thereof!”

“He is
a man
, Lucien. Only a few years younger than you. Are you telling me you were not capable of following your own mind at his age?”

Tony's logic only made Lucien more angry. “Of course not, damn it!” But there were any number of legitimate pursuits you could have suggested instead, and well you know it. Had you done so, like a
true
friend with both our families' best interests at heart, Tristan would still be...”

“Safe? Untested? Stuck securely behind the walls here at Rothwyn House where his sisters and your grandmother could coddle him like a girl until he lost his manhood completely?” Tony heckled, needling him to the point of violence until, with the sure voice of reason, he said the words Lucien knew he could not honestly dispute. “Come now, Lucien, we both know there is too much of your father in Tristan for him to allow that to happen. Your brother knew exactly what he could be getting into when he boarded that ship.”

The anger and frustration he had harbored since morning dissipated immediately, leaving Lucien with a queer, hollow feeling inside. “Why did you not at least try to protect him, Tony? You were there. What could possibly have gone so badly awry that, while you made it home unscathed, my brother was left bound in chains and then dragged away to be locked in a cell in Newgate, to await trial on charges of piracy?”

Tony scoffed at his blatant disloyalty. “You think I have not done everything in my power to keep Tristan's neck out of a noose?”

Silence met his question and he rambled on, though Lucien was no longer certain whether his intention was to push him to release the fury which had been roiling inside him all day or to needle him with yet more guilt.

“I suppose you would be quite thrilled had our positions been reversed, leaving
me
lying on a dirty cot to rot in a tiny, windowless cell. But while you're standing there wishing me into the blackest pit hell has to offer, consider that had I
not
'made it home unscathed', your brother would be left with no hope whatsoever of getting out of that prison alive.”

Lucien did not bother to remind him he had yet to show proof of this vague bit of hope he proffered.

“Other than a life-long friendship, I have no true obligation here, Lucien. Tristan is an adult, fully capable of making his own decisions. I could sail at dawn, be off with the morning tide. But as I am currently the
only
thing standing between your brother and certain death, I believed my presence here would, at the very least, be appreciated.”

When Lucien continued to hold his silence, Tony stepped back into the shadows that loomed dark near the stables. His voice tinged with a weariness not unlike that which Lucien had felt daily since the night of Tristan's disappearance, he murmured, “It appears, however, that I was mistaken.”

Lucien reached out, halting him. “You know you are appreciated, Tony.”

After a long moment of silence, Tony nodded. “Duly noted. Now, may we go back to your guests before your grandmother sends out a search party? I've grown rather attached to the freedoms of anonymity but something tells me Lady Amelia would happily blurt my identity to the world if it meant doing so would bring you back inside.”

A wry smile turned up one corner of Lucien's lips. “Aye, you are probably correct. Although this little house party was supposed to be for Phoebe's benefit, I can see my grandmother's fine hand at matchmaking at play within the guest list.”

Tony turned to lead the way back to the house. “A right fine hand it is, too, if the scene I witnessed upon my arrival is any indication.”

Lucien grunted noncommittally. “I've no time for dallying with the ladies, Tony, despite Grandmother's machinations. Now that I know where Tristan is, I'll be going to London to speak with the magistrate. But first, I must find a way to tell Phoebe.”

T
he following morning
, Lucien had risen early to prepare for his trip to London to see the magistrate. He had put off telling Phoebe until the last possible minute, but now, there was no time left for procrastinating.

“Phoebe?” he called through the locked door and raised his hand to rap his knuckles softly against the wood. He had already knocked once and gotten no response, but he knew he must try again. There was already more discontent between the two of them than he cared to admit. If he left this morning without at least attempting an explanation…

“Phoebe, I need to speak with you about Tristan. Will you please open the door?”

Muffled shuffling noises from inside the room told him she must have decided to hear what he had come to say. While he waited for the door to open, he considered several possible scenarios of how the next few minutes might play out. Unfortunately, most of them ended with him once again looking like the villain, and he almost walked away without seeing her before he left for London after all.

The door opened, barely a crack, but he could see her red and swollen eyes even in the low light and immediately felt guilty for having caused her tears. He had, after all, been the bearer of the bad news which had overset her so completely. “May I come in?”

She said nothing, merely stepped back to allow him entrance. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. A quick glance around her chambers revealed evidence of a long, tear-filled night, though her bed looked as fresh as his own often did when he had yet to sleep in it. “Did you sleep not at all?”

Crossing to the settee, Phoebe sat, tucking one leg beneath her, and shook her head. “I could not.”

Out of his element now and completely uncertain how to proceed with this whole “looking in on his sister” bit Claire had suggested after calmly informing him that his sister needed him last night, Lucien wandered around her chamber, idly examining the few framed paintings and casually lifting a figurine here and there, hefting the weight of each in his palm before placing it back where it belonged. Finally, not knowing what else to say or how to ease her misery, he said, “I am going to London to speak with the magistrate. I leave this afternoon.”

Before the spark of hope he saw in her eyes could become fully lit, he cautioned, “I am going alone. To have the entire family pack up and hie to London now would only fuel the fires of gossip. However, once our guests depart, Grandmother has promised to bring you and the girls along.”

“Will you see him?” she asked. Her voice was unusually husky, as if she were quite on the verge of spilling yet more tears.

“I do not know. My meeting is to be with the magistrate, but if they will allow me to see him, I—” He broke off, his throat working from the effort of holding back his own emotions. If they did allow him to see Tristan, what would he say? What
could
he say? Obviously, he had said quite enough before his brother had left them, but—had it truly been more than a year since last he'd had word from his brother? No, he reminded himself as his gaze wandered aimlessly about the room. Tristan had written to Phoebe before Christmas, promising to be home soon, and Phoebe had been ecstatic with the news of his return. But the holiday had come and gone without him, leaving the entire St. Daine family in a state of unease. Phoebe, of course, feared the worst, and though Lucien did his best to assure her Tristan was fine, he, too, had begun to doubt.

His thoughts flew back to the evening that had started the whole mess. Barely more than a year had passed since the deaths of their parents at the time and the family was just coming out of mourning when Tristan approached him in his study to tell him of his
grand plan
.

Lucien had refused to allow it, of course. As the Duke of Rothwyn and the eldest St. Daine male, it had become his responsibility to look after and protect his family, and he had told Tristan as much, he recalled, but doing so had not mattered.

They had argued.

They had fought.

Tristan reminded him a number of his closest friends were currently engaged in the same sort of endeavor and Lucien pointed out that those friends were not his brother—and it was that particular line of argument which had caused the situation to descend into madness.

“And
you
are not my father, Lucien!” Tristan had demanded. “You are
not
my father!”

Stricken by the pain both caused by and filling his brother's words, Lucien had fallen silent, a sudden anguish for the loss of their beloved parents robbing him of the ability to say more. Tristan had walked out the front door of Rothwyn House shortly thereafter and now...

Phoebe nodded, but said nothing. In fact, she was silent for so long, Lucien turned on his heel and was already at the door before her quietly whispered plea halted him.