Gladstone was at the ball in Stabroek? He tried to reimagine the ballroom, the dim light of the candles. All he saw was Cecilia, and how he had to act gallant and in command when his insides were ripping. His friend Johnson had been shot moments before, and died from those wounds.
“Gladstone made Helena think she was in love. She says they wed. Then he sold her off to a manager at the Elizabeth Ann Plantation.”
“He did what? No. That can’t be possible.”
“Use up a colored girl, hide their vows, then sell a free woman, a daughter of the deceased Wilhelm Thomas—Gladstone had no right, no honor.”
“You went to Demerara. You found her at the Elizabeth Ann Plantation?”
“Sick, broken, preg . . . perspiring with fever. In the middle of a rebellion, I helped her escape, but it was too late. She stopped breathing in my arms before morn. That’s why he must die.”
Felton jammed his gun into his pocket and held Cecilia more tightly.
“Under the jacaranda trees. They were in bloom. Her favorite color, mine too. And then she was gone. What type of life is that? Suffering for love.”
“Cilia—”
“Had Gladstone just left her and not feared word would get back to Aunty Nelly or Lady Jane about his brown wife, my sister, my baby sister, would be alive. He had to rid himself of her forever.”
Unemotional.
Logical.
Unhinged.
That’s who Felton was at this moment. Right on the precipice of killing his cousin himself. Why would Gladstone do this? What fear did he have of their union being discovered? And why taunt Cecilia over his underhanded dealings?
Felton’s plan to dissuade her of murder didn’t seem right anymore. His cousin Jeremiah Gladstone was a rotten soul. How could one be redeemed from this?
And how would Felton be made worthy of Cecilia again? His missions and then the 1812 war had kept Helena from joining them. Under his wife’s watchful eyes in London, Helena would be alive, navigating her way through English society.
“The duke made it possible for you to get to her?”
“Don’t ask me how. I cannot betray him. Please don’t ask me.”
With his hands in her hair, he guided her teary face to his chest. “Then let it all out, all your fury. I deserve to suffer for this.”
“I’m tired of crying. And, Felton, every time I think I can move on, it comes back.”
His neglect, his duty to Liverpool allowed this to happen. He and his family weren’t worthy of her. Only Tramel had honored Cecilia. Only he had helped.
For all the trouble his family had caused, he should beg her forgiveness. A better man would let Cecilia go, after the Warwick business was completed.
Felton wasn’t a better man.
He was his father’s son.
Like Tramel, Felton didn’t care that she was a star and he was formed of dust. He wanted her and would have her. He merely needed to figure out how to have it all—forgiveness and her body and soul.
“My lord, my ears have settled. I’m better now. Let me go.”
No.
Never.
Not again.
“There’s, ummmm, something in the distance.”
