“Not to be disturbed, I said!” he barked.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. Doctor Livingston has requested a moment of your time,” came the voice of Tom Beveridge, the butler.
“Very well, Beveridge. In he comes,” Marcus called out.
The door opened and Luke breezed into the room, marched to the sideboard, and helped himself to a generous measure of brandy. Seeing Marcus empty-handed, he poured a second and handed it to him.
“Cheers,” Luke said.
“Your health,” Marcus replied, taking a swallow.
“Quite the adventure tonight, eh?” Luke added.
“That’s one word for it.”
“Indeed. The question is, are your bridges burned? You couldn’t have picked a worse person to bark at than Claydon’s blasted widow.”
“I’m aware, Luke. And I’ve already decided on a course of action.”
“Really? Jolly good then. Because as I saw it, your only choice would be to divest yourself of Selina Voss, preferably sending her back to Sawthorne. Then grovel.”
“I had realized that,” Marcus said, taking another drink, “and rejected it. She has suffered some terrible trauma. And came to me for help. I will not turn my back on her because it is inconvenient.”
“She came to yourbrotherfor help, old man. Who is dead. Take away that illusion and you’re a complete stranger to her,” Luke pointed out, sitting forward in his seat and stabbing a finger at the air to emphasize his point.
“I know that. I have to re-evaluate my views of my brother. I have been reading those journals of my father’s that we found in the attic. It paints Arthur as the worst kind of creature. Dissolute and degraded. If that is true, what happened to him? Because he clearly was not always so.”
“He was ground under your father’s considerable boot,” Luke suggested. “…So if you will not rid yourself of Miss Voss, then what? The ton will see her as a…pardon my language, but as a whore. They will never accept you in those terms.”
“So, I will marry her,” Marcus said with finality.
There was silence between them for a long moment. The only sound was the cracking of logs on the fire and the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.
“Marry?” Luke said finally in a tone that suggested he thought his old friend to be mad.
“It is about time, and the Voss name is a respectable one,” Marcus replied.
“Even so. It seems…precipitate. Why not just send her to one of your other properties? Or how about Windermere? I should be glad to let her have the run of the place. That way she is out of sight and mind, but you won’t have abandoned her.”
Marcus shook his head. The house on Lake Windermere had belonged to Doctor Samuel Livingstone, Luke’s father. Marcus had grown up there from the age of eight after being exiled by his own father. Now, the house was Luke’s. It had occurred to Marcus that he could send Selina away without washing his hands of her. But the thought was not appealing.
I do not want her to leave this house. It makes infinite sense to pack her off to Windermere where no one will associate her with the Roy name, but I will know she is safe. But she will not be nearby. Not be close at hand. I will not be able to see her.
That was what it came down to, but he was loath to admit that to Luke. He wanted her company. Wanted to be close to her. Whether it was purely because of her presence, or the fact she could be the missing puzzle piece to unravel his convoluted life, he was not sure.
She is in love with Arthur. Or was. The longer she stays in Valebridge, the more inevitable it becomes that she will realize that I am not him. Then all might be lost. But I cannot let her go.
“Very well. I do not need to tell you the risks you run,” Luke said.
“You do not. I have considered them,” Marcus replied.
“What happens when she deduces that you are not Arthur?” Luke asked.
Marcus tossed back the rest of his drink and laughed, a short, mirthless bark. “I do not know. Perhaps an even bigger scandal. But it is the only option.”
* * *
Selina sat in a window seat in her sitting room, miserably staring out at the darkness. The maid, Gracie, had brought her a pot of steaming coffee. Selina had used the coffee to rid herself of the effects of the wine. Then, for good measure, she had dunked her own head into the bowl of cold wash water, holding it under until she emerged, gasping for breath. That had been a few hours ago. In that time, she had contemplated leaving Valebridge quietly, the clothes she had arrived in had been laundered, dried, pressed, and returned to her that evening.
