He groped for the hazy memories from before those dark, lonely nights when he’d stood on the drive of Hammond Court, staring up at the house, his heart breaking in two. Before the wager, and his mother’s death, before his father’s collapse, before he’d lost everything.
Those memories were nearly gone now, just a handful of broken, scattered pictures flickering in his mind, but the Ambrose he’d known then . . . would he have done this for him?
Back then, Ambrose had been like a second father to him. God, he’d tried so hard to forget that, but now . . . could Ambrose really have been waiting all these years, to give him back what he’d lost?
“Ambrose made one mistake, though.” Rose let out another of those terrible laughs, but this time it trailed off into a sob. “His faith in me was dreadfully misplaced.”
Is that what she thought? That she’d failed? “No! Rose, don’t you see? I’m not the same man I was when I came to Fairford. I never should have . . . I made a mistake with Dunwitty, one I regret more than I’ve ever regretted anything in my life, but—”
“He used to call you a lost soul. Ambrose, I mean. Did you know that? He always said it with such sadness, such regret. I don’t understand why he wagered for the house in the first place. That part never made sense to me. I doubt we’ll ever know, now.”
She turned for the door, but he caught the sleeve of her cloak. “Please don’t leave, Rose. Don’t go.”
Gently—far more gently than he deserved—she disentangled the fold of her cloak from his fingers. “I have to, Your Grace. It’s cold outside, and Billy and Abby are waiting for me in the wagon.”
“The wagon! No. I won’t permit you to leave here in an open wagon, Rose. At least let me send for my carriage.”
“No, Your Grace. I don’t want your carriage.” She turned away from him, toward the door. “I don’t want anything from you anymore.”
Then she was gone, the light flurry of snowflakes whirling through the air in her wake.
CHAPTER25
“I’m wearing the Duchess of Basingstoke’s gown.” Rose fingered the fold of the silk gown that was peeking out from under her cloak. It was such a lovely shade of green. She’d never worn anything so fine, and when she’d faced her reflection in the glass, it had felt as if anything were possible.
Had that only been hours ago? It seemed as if an eternity had passed since then.
“Francesca’s gown,” she said again, speaking into Abby’s ear to be heard over the clatter of the wagon wheels thumping down the road between Grantham Lodge and Hammond Court. “I’ve stolen a duchess’s silk gown.”
It was rather a serious crime. The silk alone was worth far more than their wagon and the horse pulling it, and it had no doubt been made by one of London’s most fashionable modistes. Thieves had been whipped for less. Hanged, even.
Even so, she couldn’t work up even the dullest twinge of alarm. If the chill of the wind hadn’t crept underneath her cloak to bite at the bare skin of her legs, she likely wouldn’t have noticed the gown at all.
“I don’t suppose Her Grace will mind, dearest.” Abby gave her hand a comforting pat. “Why, I daresay she hasn’t given it a thought. I’ll see that the gown is sent back to her first thing tomorrow morning. No harm’s been done.”
Rose glanced at Billy, who was seated on her other side. He didn’t appear to have an opinion on either silk gowns or duchesses. He maintained the same grim silence he’d observed since he’d fetched them at the entrance to Grantham Lodge.
The same scowl, as well.
He’d glared daggers at the house, his lip curling at the sight of the grand carriages crowding the drive, and the dozens of harried servants scurrying about. Even the Christmas greenery festooning the staircase hadn’t earned his approval. But he’d reserved his most pointed ire for the duke, who’d stood frozen in the doorway as they’d climbed into the wagon, watching them go with an expression she wouldn’t soon forget.
Utter desolation. She’d never seen him look so lost, and it had ripped another hole into her already bleeding heart. How could she still feel such pain on his behalf, after all he’d said and done? His lies and subterfuge?
It was a pointless question. She already knew the answer.
Even now, less than an hour after she’d discovered how thoroughly he’d betrayed her, her hurt and anger were no match for the depth of her love for him. Foolish, misguided heart! What use was it having a heart at all, if she must be cursed with such an irrational one?
But there was nothing rational about love, was there? Nothing wise. On the contrary, it was quite the stupidest emotion in existence. It made young ladies weep, yearn, and swoon like tragic heroines, and gentlemen rave and tear their hair, and forget themselves. Behind nearly every duel in London, nearly every ruination, one could find love lurking in the corner, snickering to herself.
Andthiswas the emotion poets penned odes to!
If she’d had the least idea love could be so dreadful, she never would have permitted herself to fall—
“The drive,” Billy said suddenly, breaking his grim silence as he turned into the narrow road that led to the entrance of Hammond Court. “What’s happened to it?”
Abby turned to him, startled. “Thedrive, child? What do you mean? Nothing’s happened to it.”
“It has. It’s different. Smooth.” He slowed the horse, muttering to himself as he peered through the darkness at the length of the road illuminated by the narrow beam of light from their lantern. “Someone’s seen to the ruts.”
