She yanked out her reticule, careful not to dislodge Edmund’s—hold on. Panicked, she fingered her sleeve. Heremptysleeve. Had the slip of paper with his poem fallen out when she’d jammed her purse beneath the fabric? Still, that was the least of her worries at the moment. She’d have to search for it when she left this putrid place.
Ifshe left it.
Channeling all her frustration, she threw her reticule at the big man’s feet. “That’s all I have. Take the money and go.”
Mr. Brudge spit out a crude laugh. “I don’t want your coin, girl. I don’t even want your ugly statue anymore.”
“But I have nothing else.” Great heavens. Had that frightened little girl’s voice really come from her? She fisted her hands on her hips, praying the stance would infuse some sort of courage. “What more could you possibly want, Mr. Brudge?”
His lips twisted into a smug line.
“You.”
27
“Get out!”
The words were thunder. The viscount’s face black with rage. Edmund widened his stance in the storm, knowing full well it was a tempest of his own making. He never should have let Lord Bastion so much as entertain the thought he might marry the man’s daughter.
But it was too late for that now.
He held up a hand, more of an appeasement than a surrender. Showing any hint of weakness would be a death knell. “Allow me to make amends, my lord, to your daughter, to your guests. Explain that this was all a misunderstanding and—”
“You heard me, Price.” Bastion shot out his arm like an arrow to the kill, indicating the study door. “Pack your bag and leave at once while I mop up this mess. I will have nothing more to do with you and neither will Violet.”
“But, my lord, if we could just discuss—”
“Now!”
Inhaling deeply, Edmund hesitated a heartbeat longer, debating if there was anything more he could do to keep from jumping off this cliff. Hah! Not likely. It’d been a downward spiral ever since he told the viscount in no uncertain terms he wouldnot wed Violet, even if his candidacy depended on it. Which it did. Or it had. There was no chance at Parliament anymore.
“Very well.” Sighing, Edmund strode from the room and signaled one of Bastion’s staff members standing by. “Please see that my valet is summoned and have him make arrangements for three rooms at the Langham Hotel. Then he is to accompany my luggage and the Daltons’ belongings over there. Is that clear?”
The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Thank you.” The low drone of the party followed him like a moaning ghost as he bypassed the gentlemen’s wing of the town house and trotted over to where the ladies’ quarters smelled of perfume—rose, lilac, jasmine. Sniffing, he stopped at the door with a faint scent of smoky cinnamon lingering on the air.
“Ami?” He rapped on the wood.
No answer.
“Ami, please.” He knocked again. “I saw you run off. I know you’re in there. Let me explain.”
And . . . nothing.
He dropped his forehead against the hard door, completely deflated. He could bear Lord Bastion’s fury. Could take all the humiliation the society page would dish out in tomorrow’s edition. But this was not to be borne. It cut too deeply, burned too hot to think of the hurt he’d caused this precious woman. Could she even hear him, or was she weeping into her pillow?
Swiveling his head, he pressed his ear to the wood. No sobbing whimpered from within. No anything, actually. Which in a way was worse. Was he already dead to her?
“Please, Ami, open the door.” His voice shook. His whole body did. “I understand how it must seem to you, but it’s not true. I am not engaged to Miss Woolsey. I do not love her. I love you. Do you hear me? I will have no one but you!”
Spent, he sagged against the wood. If she opened the door now, he’d fall against her. A dream, that. Heaven. And yet each second that ticked by was more hellish than the last.
At length, he straightened, giving it one last try. “We must leave here. Tonight. I’m booking rooms at the Langham, and we’ll return to Oxford tomorrow. I’ll be in my room packing, waiting ... hoping.”
It was a funeral march to his room, every step away from her a fresh grief. If Ami wouldn’t speak to him through the door, there was no way she’d seek him out in his room.
He yanked his suitcase off the top of the wardrobe and flung it on the bed, angry with himself. He’d let her down. And not just her. He’d let down all the struggling men who were in Sanjay’s same situation. Oh, he could still help his friend with the funds from the sale of the Egyptian cargo, but now he could do nothing to stop the new tariff from destroying other men’s lives. Just like his father always told him...
