She couldn’t have the man she loved without ruining him. She couldn’t keep the children she adored without shaming them. And now, she couldn’t even earn her own bread. The walls of the inn felt as though they were closing in, a precursor to the debtors’ prison or the workhouse. Her options were wearing thin. She didn’t even have the talent of her mother to take to the stage. It would have to be the streets for her.
From the next table, the boisterous voices of a young family broke through her despair. They were surrounded by crates and canvas bags. Imogen turned in their direction, unable to look away at the smiles on their faces as they spoke of their futures.
“Oh, can ye just think of it, Mary!” the man said, his tan eyes bright with a feverish hope. “In New York, no one cares who your father was or what lord you served. It’s a clean slate. A fresh start for all of us. You’ll see!”
“I can’t wait, Georgie!” She cooed as she planted a kiss on his cheek.
“A fresh start,” Imogen echoed under her breath.
America.
The word tasted like oxygen to a drowning woman.
Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
Across the Atlantic, Lady Presholm’s reach would surely fail. The shadow of Imogen’s illegitimacy would vanish in the bustle of a new world, where she could be anyone she wanted. Perhaps there, she could be just Imogen. Or even a Mary. She would not be a governess, not a secret daughter, not a heartache. Perhaps there, the memory of Ambrose’s smile and the boys’ laughter would eventually fade into a dull, manageable ache.
Could I be happy in America?
A shadow fell over her table then. She looked up, expecting the innkeeper to demand rent, but instead found the tall, imposing figure of the Duke of Kirkhammer.
“This is a long way from Mayfair, Miss Lewis,” the Duke of Kirkhammer said, his voice gentle as she watched his gaze survey the dismal surroundings.
“Your Grace,” she said, straightening her posture. “This is most unexpected. If His Grace, the Duke of Welton, sent—you?—”
“He didn’t send me, Miss Lewis,” he interrupted, pulling out a chair and sitting uninvited. “He’s currently at Welton House trying to convince two young boys that life is worth living whilehe looks like a man who has forgotten how to breathe. He’s a shell, Miss Lewis. Won’t even speak to me…”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Imogen said, bile rising in her throat.
“He’s not here himself because he thinks he’s protecting you, but this separation is killing him. And you are thinking that you are protecting him from yourself, but it’s killing you. I can see it, Miss Lewis.”
Imogen’s heart constricted. “It must be this way, Your Grace. You know the world. You know what they would call me… what they would call the boys if he kept me.”
“To hell with the world,” The Duke of Kirkhammer snapped, leaning forward closer than was proper, his eyes passionate. “He loves you. Those boys are pining away. Come back. Even if just to say goodbye properly, so they can have that closure. He’s drowning, Imogen… And I know you’re the only one who can pull him up. He was a rake before you, before the boys. You are his family, his life!”
“I cannot go back to being a ghost in his house,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “The more I stay, the more damage I do. I’ve made my decision. It is what is best, as hard as it is… as much as my heart is breaking!” She sighed through tight lips.
The Duke of Kirkhammer sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And what is this grand decision? To sit in this damp room until your coin runs out? What is your plan, Miss Lewis? Because whatever it is, it doesn’t appear to be going well.”
Imogen looked toward the family with the crates, her chin lifting with a sudden, desperate resolve.
“I am leaving, Your Grace. Not just this inn, and not just London.”
Morgan frowned. “Where could you possibly go where Lady Presholm won’t find you?”
“America,” Imogen said. The word felt stronger this time, and so she repeated it. “America. I’m taking the next packet ship out of Liverpool. There is nothing left for me here but ruins. In America, I can be whole again.”
The Duke of Kirkhammer stared at her, stunned into silence. “You’d cross an ocean? You’d leave him that completely?”
“I have to,” she whispered, tears finally spilling over as they streamed down her cheeks in thick ribbons. “Don’t you see? If I stay in the same country as him, I will eventually crawl back. And if I do, I’ll destroy everything he is. Tell him… tell him I’m going somewhere where the name Lockhart can’t hurt me, and I can’t hurt it.”
“I do not like it, Miss Lewis,” Kirkhammer said as he rose to his feet, sliding the chair quietly back where he found it. “But I can do that, in hopes that it provides some sort of closure for Ambrose and the boys. I wish you well in your future,” he said as he placed a bank note in her palm and closed it tight. “Good day, Miss Lewis.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The library at Welton House smelled of stale tobacco and the sharp tang of expensive brandy.
Ambrose had no want for actual sustenance. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the only light provided by a single candle that had burned down to a jagged stump. He looked every bit the ruin his friend Morgan had described. His cravat was discarded on the floor, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep and a surplus of spirits.
