“No. And she is not my wife, God help me, no matter what it says on some document somewhere. But I must do it. I would have done it before if I didn’t know how much you would hate the scandal, having all our private business dragged through court. Haven’t I done enough to hurt you? I thought…I thought I would suffer the penance of sticking to my vows, of putting up with that…thatwoman, letting her use my money, use ourname…It hardly even seemed punishment enough. But…” Another pause. A long exhale. “But you know better than anyone that I am weak. I am weak, weak… I can’t stand it any longer. Not when…” He twisted his glass on the tablecloth, candlelight catching the pure water and making diamonds. “Not when there is temptation put in my path.”
“Temptation?” Though a part of him already knew.
His father’s smile was wry. Apologetic. “You may as well marry the niece, my son. Because I mean to marry the aunt.”
Twenty-Five
Tom ran across thegrass, faster than the other boys who had been playing nearby, all of them catching sight of a small sailing dinghy coming into view round a bend in The Serpentine.
The other boys, varying in age, Madelaine guessed, from five to twelve, all clustered near the shore. Their fine coat suits and the cluster of neatly dressed nursemaids and minders following in their wake proclaimed them as children of the highest rank. Tom glanced between them and the boat, hanging back, diffident and wary, shoulders hunched.
“No matter how often I take him to the park,” her aunt said, “he stays as pale as ever.”
“A gentleman is supposed to be pale,” Madelaine reminded her. “He is no coarse farmer’s son.”
Her aunt pressed her lips together, troubled, as she tugged her skirts straight. They’d found a bench to sit on while Tom ran and explored and kicked at molehills, and everything else small boys did that got them covered head to toe in muck.
“We don’t knowwhathe is. I don’t think he does anymore. Not a gentleman’s son but doted on by an earl. They’re engaging him a tutor, I heard today when I went to pick him up. Lord Arnon was talking about Eton.” She sniffed at that, knowing full well how Madelaine’s brother had fared there.
“They’d torment him, hearing his accent, knowing his birth.”
“I know. I know. I’ll speak to the earl.”
There was no betraying blush, but Madelaine studied her aunt’s profile for a moment, smiling softly.
That her aunt shouldn’t drop the connection with Lord Cotereigh’s household had been her main priority once the first hour or so of wretched weeping and confessions had been gotten out of the way. Not that she needed to confess much. Her aunt had heard the whole.
“That wretch! That despicable, wicked wretch.”
Madelaine had never seen such a martial light in her aunt’s eye. Nor such fury. That even her aunt, her dear, sweet, most generous aunt, hadn’t been able to forgive Lord Cotereigh’s behaviour had been a comfort. At first. But Madelaine had been exhausted by the time she’d convinced her aunt to act towards the Thornes as she’d always done.
“Don’t punish Tom for it. And…and don’t punish the father for the son.”
Don’t punishyourself,dear aunt.
That had been three days ago. Four days since the ball and that darkened room. Now Madelaine was able to move and smile and talk as though almost nothing had happened. She’d been busy, packing and preparing for her departure from London. She would leave for Sussex tomorrow. This trip to the park, no matter her aunt’s talk of fresh air and exercise being necessary for young boys, had been organised to allow her to say goodbye to Tom somewhere safely away from Lord Cotereigh’s house.
Tom had scowled when she’d told him she was leaving.
“It’s because ofhim, ain’t it.” He’d kicked at the grass, her aunt pleading ineffectually for him to stop and think of his shoes. “He did something, and now you’re going. I knows how it is, though no one says nuffink to me.”
“No, Tom,” she said, though her heart might as well have been one of the molehills he was flattening. Dark and crumbling to earth. “I live in Sussex. My parents are there, and most of my brothers, and my nieces and nephews. I only ever come to London for a few months in the spring.”
Tom shifted his attention to her aunt. “Not you, though? You ain’t going too?”
“No, Tom. I live in London. I’ll be here just the same as always.”
He’d nodded at that, a little mollified.
Then Tom had eyed her, squinting, anger hiding whatever pleading note might have otherwise crept into his tone. “So you’ll be back next year?”
Her heart had thumped. God help her.Would she?
“Of course, Tom.” She’d smiled. “I can’t wait to see how you’ve grown.”
Now she watched him watch the boat with his engineer’s avidity for anything that moved. Alfred would have watched the boat like it was alive, a wild horse to harness. He’d had one just like it.
The sails flapped, loose. Someone had dropped the jib. There was a shout from the men as one swung the boom arm over and nearly knocked the other overboard. She wrinkled her nose. Alfred would’ve had a thing or two to say about that. She did herself. Even she could sail better. He’d taught her, the sea breeze in his hair—
