∞∞∞
Hope lay in her bed and tried to sleep but her mind had entirely different ideas. Her siblings had always considered her the boring sister, with little imagination or bottle, but mayhap they wouldn’t think her quite such a dullard now, lying in her bed fantasising about a man she knew nothing about and had only met twenty-four hours earlier. It was exactly the kind of daydreaming her siblings might have indulged in, but Hope had believed herself above such foolishness.
She thought back to the sequence of events since Gabriel Atwood staggered into the church the night before. Even at first glance there had been something about him. As thin and bedraggled as he was, he had a presence that had set her heart racing. His piercing grey eyes that were so guarded, clearly down to the suffering he’d endured at the hands of his family no less.
But that didn’t mean he was in anyway a suitable focus for her girlish fancies. Undoubtedly his story had tugged at her heartstrings she decided, turning over and plumbing her pillow up viciously. That was the only reason for her preoccupation.
Nevertheless, she spent the next hour planning her attire for the morrow which, as her wardrobe was paltry at best, would normally involve mere minutes.
∞∞∞
‘I canna begin to imagine what the laddie’s been through these last months,’ growled Malcom once the ladies had retired. ‘I hardly recognised him when he walked through the door.’
Nicholas leant back against his chair, fingers steepled as he pondered the matter. ‘Gabriel has indeed been wronged most sorely by those he thought family,’ he agreed heavily. ‘In truth I would like nothing more than to announce to the world that the rightful Viscount Northwood has returned, thus rubbing Benjamin and Henry Atwood’s noses well and truly in the dirt. But we must tread carefully, or Gabriel’s life may yet be forfeit.’
Adam nodded in agreement. ‘I believe his immediate safety is assured,’ the Earl added. ‘As long as he remains out of sight within these grounds and his tormentors do not get wind of his return.’
‘You’d give the laddie a roof then?’ questioned Malcolm.
‘I would not see the man with nowhere to go,’ Adam responded easily.
‘The question is, how are we going to put a deuced rub in the way of their plans?’ The Reverend had been quiet thus far. It was late and in truth the other men thought he had fallen asleep. His question was weary in the extreme reminding Nicholas that his wife’s irascible father was no spring chicken.
The Duke stood up. ‘We are all tired,’ he announced, ‘and staying up until the early hours will not achieve anything. Besides, Roan will be arriving with Faith in a few hours, and I would certainly value his input. But for now, I think we would all benefit from a good night’s sleep.’ He finished the last of his brandy before adding grimly. ‘Not to mention the fact that rushing into such smoky business without due caution may well get us all killed.’
∞∞∞
Rear Admiral Benjamin Atwood stared into the dying embers of the fire. By his estimate it was approaching midnight on Christmas Day. Caroline had long since sought her bed.
Aside from the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the faint pop of the dwindling flames, the room was silent. There were a paltry half a dozen candles scattered around the room that did very little to dispel the shadows, and nothing at all to disperse the darkness that coiled itself around his heart.
He looked around the room that had been his sanctuary for over thirty years. As the sixth Viscount Northwood he could have established himself in glorious comfort at Northwood Court instead of freezing in the now shabby confines of his marital home.
But really that was it. Rutledge Manor was home. In the way that Northwood Court would never be.Couldnever be. Not in the circumstances. Henry was welcome to it. Atwood closed his eyes in sudden anguished realisation. What did it matter? His son had taken everything else he possessed.
Fighting the urge to cry out, the Admiral staggered to his feet and reached for the decanter of brandy. Fiend seize it, he felt as though he was in his cups, but nothing could be further from the truth. Gritting his teeth, he picked up the decanter, his whole arm trembling with exertion.
Finally, after spilling a generous amount onto the small table, he managed to fill his glass before promptly collapsing back into his chair, causing another measure to slosh onto his waistcoat. Fighting back a sob Benjamin put the glass to his lips and allowed the fiery liquid to chase away the lump of self-pity as it burned its way down his throat. Then he wearily leaned his head against the back of the chair, just as the clock chimed midnight.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he muttered. The silence answered him back. God’s teeth, if his peers could see him now, they would hardly recognise him, especially since he hadn’t been to London in months.
How the bloody hell had it come to this?
He was dying.
Naturally he hadn’t seen a doctor. He was well aware of what ailed him - had known for nearly fifteen years. Ever since that cursed whore in Belgium.
He thought back to the first time he saw her. Madam Marie Bouchard. That was the name she used. Fed him a complete Banbury story about her dead husband. He should have seen right through her lies, but his cock hadn’t been interested in anything but her voluptuous curves. He shook his head. The truth was he’d been determined to give a good prigging to the first prime article who crossed his path once he’d gotten across the Channel and by the time Madam bloody Bouchard showed her true colours it was too late. And to think he’d wanted to make her his mistress. Set her up in a house in London. He gave a hoarse chuckle which turned into a cough.
Fortunately for him though not so much for Marie, before he had chance to make her an offer, a former recipient of her…machinations, who clearly did not have such a forgiving nature, decided to blow her brains out before turning the gun on himself.
Benjamin Atwood glanced down at his hands, the dark red blotches just visible in the flickering candlelight.
Following that ill-judged affair and Napoleon’s delusions of grandeur, he spent the ensuing years away at sea, and after he was finally promoted and able to return to England, it hadn’t been too difficult to avoid any intimacies with his wife. For his part, he’d only ever performed his duty anyway.
Unlike…
No. He would not. She was dead. Years ago now. The Admiral squeezed his eyes shut and forced back the memories. That path would lead him to madness quicker than the French pox.
