She had a great deal of explaining to do to her dear sister. And she also had a battle plan to form, for there was no way she would actually allow herself to be married off to the Duke of Bainbridge. No way indeed.
ady Boadicea Harrington had championed him.
And it was bloody mortifying.
Not just because he was the Duke of Bainbridge, hailing from one of England’s most esteemed families, and he should have been capable of defending himself to a pair of silver-haired biddies. But because she had seen him, truly seen him, at his weakest.
Three years later, and thoughts of Millicent’s death still broke him. Still rendered him immobilized and numb, powerless.
Because death was a common enough word, meant to cloak and shield, to insulate polite society from the ugly, disgusting truth. The truth was covered in blood and brain matter. The truth was a single shot firing into his wife’s head, the splatter of scarlet on his wallpaper, the warm spray of blood on his face.
She had done it before him, raised the gun, pulled the trigger. And she had done it in his private space, his study, so that he would never again cross the threshold without recalling what had happened within its walls, without hearing the reverberation of the shot, the sickening sound of entry, the suddenness of it all. The sight of her eyes, open and stunned. Her body falling to the carpet in one swift thump. And the blood, seeping, seeping.
In the aftermath, he had attempted to oversee the redecorating of his study, finding solace and distraction in useful tasks, and he had found a curious little thing beneath the sole of his shoe. Further examination had proven it a shard of Millicent’s skull. He had fallen to his knees, shaking, retching, and he’d never again returned to that chamber. All further attempts at salvaging the carpet and removing the blood stain had been abandoned.
He had instead employed an architect to redesign a series of small chambers into his private library, the room in which he now sat, staring into whisky in his hand. Perhaps it was fitting that his sole haven in Boswell Manor should also be the setting for his ruination.
A sturdy knock sounded at the door, breaking into the grim silence of the moment, and he knew who it was at the other end. He tossed back the remnants of his whisky and poured himself another. He didn’t often imbibe, as it sometimes served to enhance his disquiet, but the interview ahead of him seemed to merit nothing less than a thorough foxing.
He was still reeling from the spell he’d had earlier, and now he had to face the one person he had sworn to never betray. Spencer’s skin went cold. More whisky went down his throat, singeing with its mercurial strength.
Another knock rang.
He swallowed. “Enter.”
The door opened, and his brother Harry strode through with the boisterous confidence of a young man who had never known a day of hardship. As the portal banged behind him, Spencer winced. Harry was golden to his darkness, charming and giving to a fault. His expression was open and inquisitive as he crossed the thick woolen rugs, his footfalls muted, hands clasped behind his back.
Spencer wished for the floor to open up and swallow him.
Sadly, the boards beneath him were not accommodating.
And so he stood, whisky in hand for himself, another for his brother. “Brother,” he acknowledged. Good God, how was one meant to tell one’s sibling that he’d ruined the woman who was the object of his affections? That fate and circumstance and his own bloody lack of control had rendered it necessary for him to wed Lady Boadicea?
“Spencer,” his brother greeted, raising a quizzical brow as he accepted the whisky. “Tippling in the afternoon with the house party just underway? Is there some cause for celebration of which I’m unaware?”
Harry’s soft jibe found its mark. He regretted that his relationship with his brother was not what it should be. They were opposites in every fashion, from appearance to temperament, but he had always cared about his sibling. Had always wanted only the absolute best for him. Still, there had been a distance between them over the last seven years—from the moment Millicent’s troubles had begun until now—that he wished he could breach.
Such a thing would be impossible after the unfortunate news he had to impart. This was the first of two dreaded audiences, but this one would affect him the most. The other was perfunctory. He was already a prisoner trapped in a cell, no need to flinch at the slammed door and the turned lock.
“No celebration, Harry.” He raised his glass to his lips, took another long, bracing drag. The trouble with liquor was that it never got him soused enough to forget. No matter how much he consumed, the memories returned. So too the nightmares. “Drink.”
His brother stared at him, hesitating to imbibe. “Does this sudden, funereal air have ought to do with my intention of supporting Lady Boadicea with her Lady’s Suffrage Society?”
Hell. He’dknownshe was trouble. “Suffrage Society?”
Harry smiled, resembling nothing so much as a well-pleased puppy in his exuberance for life. Oh, to be so untouched. So unjaded. Spencer downed the dregs of his glass, envious of his brother all the more.
“Yes,” Harry said. “She and the Countess of Ravenscroft have begun a gathering of likeminded ladies. They mean to gain the attention of parliament. They could have a chance to be taken seriously, don’t you think?”
“No,” he pronounced baldly, not because it was true that women’s suffrage wasn’t a cause that should be taken seriously but because he knew it was a cause that would take many years and a great deal of campaigning before anyone could accomplish change. He knew Parliament all too well, and he’d lived long enough and hard enough to no longer claim the blind hope he’d possessed in his youth.
It had been stripped from his marrow.
Spencer turned to pour himself a third whisky. Two bloody well wasn’t enough.
“You don’t think the cause worthy?” Harry frowned. “Cannot you see the rightness of it, Spencer?”
“Seeing the rightness of a course of action and knowing the difficulties of passing it through Parliament are two disparate things. Others have tried and failed before them. More still will fail long after.” Another sip of whisky. Still not soused enough, damn it. “But that is neither here nor there. You haven’t touched your whisky.”
