Yes, somethingwasamiss about her situation. And she did not intend to let it lie.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cookham Place.
It sounded like a decent enough home, on a reasonable acreage in Sussex. A bit rural, to be sure, but in a temperate clime, which was excellent. She could grow her flowers there. Matthew smiled sadly to himself as he stared at the freshly drawn deed of sale, imagining Cressida in a sumptuous garden, and in the distance behind her, a tidy home with ivy crawling up its stone walls. It had been built a hundred years prior, according to the admiral he’d bought it off of, and had been well maintained.
It had taken an entire evening and the following morning’s worth of whist, but Matthew had done it. With Sir Colin Gearing as his partner, they’d cleaned the admiral out for nearly fifty thousand pounds, whereupon he offered up the estate in lieu of the cash.
Matthew hastily agreed.
In other circumstances he might’ve felt terribly awkward, relieving a man—an admiral, no less—of his home. But Sir Colin had assured him that the home had been rented out moreoften than not, and that the admiral, who came from a well-regarded naval family going back generations, possessed more than enough properties, besides.
Which was how Matthew found himself standing, exhausted and bleary-eyed, outside a solicitor’s office, his clothes smelling of stale cigar smoke and spilled scotch—courtesy of the Army & Navy Club—with the papers to his new home in hand.
Cookham Place. Not his home, but hers. For it was a gift to Lady Caplin, the most meaningful gesture he could make: offering her an escape, a retreat from the London society she loved so much—were it to turn against her.
Matthew slid the paper inside his jacket. He felt numb to the guilt now, he’d lived with it for long enough.
For he was the only reason Lady Caplin’s invitations might cease, that heads would turn, and lords and ladies might cross the street to avoid her. Matthew and his damned thrill-chasing. Well. That was well and truly over now.
Or it soon would be.
The orange light of the setting sun emanated from just above to the horizon, practically blinding when one caught it full on between buildings, whose long and chilly shadows cut intermittently through it. Matthew had always disliked this time of day, just before dusk; he hated the soporific effect it had on him. His body felt slow and heavy, his head even more so, the effect no doubt compounded by his lack of sleep.
But he wasn’t finished with the day just yet.
He pressed on, keeping his head down as he wended his way through packs of pedestrians, setting his jaw as he picked his way across the street, taking care to avoid stepping in muck. Even as he surely looked and smelled a fright, having been out all night, it wouldn’t do to turn up at Rowbotham House with horseshit on his shoes.
For this was his one last chance to make things right, to atone for his moral failings.
To protect the woman he loved.
He felt eerily calm as he mounted the steps of the fine house, accepting that it was likely for the last time. The possibility that he might be turned away, something that once might’ve turned his stomach into knots, had no effect on him now.
“Ah, Dr. Collier,” the butler, Wardle, said with a slight nod. “Her ladyship is out at the moment. Are you here to use the library?”
“That’s…” Matthew sputtered, his stoic composure falling away as he registered the servant’s words.
She hadn’t instructed her staff to bar him from the premises.
Somewhere amid the cold ashes of his heart, an ember of hope flickered back to life. He swallowed and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.
“Yes, exactly. The library, thank you.”
He followed the butler within, heart skipping, a thousand questions flooding his mind. No sooner had he allowed himself that small sliver of hope than doubt came rushing in from all directions.It means nothing, only that she hadn’t yet had the time to instruct the staff.Or:She’d expected more from you; she’d never anticipated you’d be the wretched sort who would oppress a woman with your unwanted presence, so she merely hadn’t thought it necessary to block you.
Left in the familiar hallowed grounds of the library, Matthew shook his head, trying to escape from his own hateful thoughts.
He’d meant to see her one last time, to assure her he’d never compromise her, or allow anyone to speak ill of her reputation, and to…
He looked up to the ceiling, resplendent with its fresco; Greek gods and goddesses stared back at him, watching his every move with keen interest. He’d never paid them any mind before. Butnow he paused to study Athena in her bronze helmet. Her stern gaze was leveled upon him, one hand loosely upon her spear.
This Athena seemed quieter, more reserved than the statue gracing the portico of the Athenaeum. How Matthew had longed to be allowed to pass below that one, day in and day out, as a member—not just a mere visitor, a stranger. As a man of consequence, a man whose intellect and curiosity singled him out as someone worth knowing.
How many enjoyable days had he spent in this library over the summer, under the careful watch of this Athena, without even noticing?
He lowered his gaze regretfully.
