For all Hugo’s charm and easy manner in social situations, he had built a reputation as a ruthlessly shrewd businessman. He could smile and jest with a man over dinner, then destroy his commercial interests the next morning without a shred of hesitation if that man proved dishonest or dishonorable.
It was exhausting, Hugo had once confessed, to always be performing. To always be calculating whether the person speaking to him wanted something or was trying to manipulate him for their own gain.
With Laurence, he could simply be himself. Could drop the mask and exist without pretense.
“There’s this absolutely ridiculous situation,” Hugo continued, warming to his subject. “One of the upper classes—an earl, in fact—was betrothed to a perfectly respectable young lady. Decent family, scholarly bloodline, everything proper and arranged.”
He paused to drink, then shook his head in disgust. “But the fool had gotten a courtesan pregnant. Some woman from a brothel in Covent Garden. And rather than handle the situation discreetly, he decided to move this pregnant mistress directly into his London residence. Can you imagine?”
Laurence made a noncommittal sound, only half-listening. His mind kept drifting back to earlier—to the feel of Miss Sinclair’s hand on his, to the soft catch in her breath when he’d held her wrist.
“The bride-to-be fled, of course,” Hugo continued. “Ran away on the very morning of the wedding. At first the rumors claimed she had eloped with some mysterious lover—the earl made certain those stories spread, trying to save face. But then the truth came out when he installed his pregnant courtesan as his permanent companion and started trying to introduce her to society as though she were respectable.”
Hugo’s voice had taken on an edge of anger now. “People aren’t having it, naturally. The man’s own mother won’t speak to him. His friends have begun cutting him. But the real tragedy is that poor girl, the one who fled the marriage. Her reputation is in tatters through no fault of her own.”
He sighed heavily. “I heard her family had to leave London entirely. Send her away somewhere quiet until the scandal dies down. Sad business, really. They’re a respectable family—the Sinclairs, I believe. The brother holds a position at Court. Decent people who didn’t deserve this mess.”
Laurence’s head snapped up. “The Sinclairs?”
His mind raced, connecting pieces he hadn’t realized were scattered before him.
My brother’s reputation has already suffered considerably from our family’s recent scandal,Miss Sinclair had said.Opening a school would only make matters worse. It would affect my younger sister even more.
So that’s why, Laurence thought.That’s why they’re hiding in the country. Why she’s so desperate for something meaningful to occupy her time. Why she won’t return to London.
He pictured Joan in a wedding gown, her dark hair arranged beneath a veil, her soft hands clasped in another man’s grip. Pictured her bound to someone unworthy. Belonging to someone else.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His hands, still wrapped from their sparring, tightened into fists.
Why does it matter,he demanded of himself, if she was involved in some scandal?
But the agitation wouldn’t subside. It churned in his chest.
“Ashcroft?” Hugo’s voice held a note of concern. “Why do you look so angry? Did I say something?—”
Laurence stood abruptly. “Another round.”
Hugo groaned. “We’ve already been at it for nearly an hour! My ribs are going to be one giant bruise tomorrow as it is.”
“Unless you’re conceding defeat?”
That, of course, was all it took. Hugo’s competitive nature, easily manipulated when properly provoked, flared immediately.
“Fine,” Hugo grumbled, pushing himself to his feet with obvious reluctance. “But at least go easy on me this time. I’d like to be able to walk normally tomorrow.”
CHAPTER NINE
Now then,” she said, picking up a piece of chalk, “let us review our multiplication tables. Can anyone tell me what three times four equals?”
Joan stood at the front of the hall, her heart full as she looked at the three small faces before her. Two days away from the Duke’s estate had given her time to focus entirely on the school, and this morning had brought an unexpected gift.
Imogen had arrived hand-in-hand with another boy. Edmund, the physician’s son, both of them clutching slates and looking nervous but determined. Victoria had been teaching only Percival during Joan’s absences, but now they had three students.
Three, Joan thought with fierce joy.It’s a beginning.
The faces of the children were blank.
“Perhaps we should start simpler,” Joan tried again, keeping her voice patient. “What is two times two?”
