Page 50 of A Perfect Gentleman

“I’m very sorry.”

“He wasn’t a bad man.” The other woman’s eyes filled with tears. “It hurt him inside; he didn’t like to frighten you. But it was all he could think to do.” She peered intently at Abigail. “Were you there? Was he in pain?”

“No, he wasn’t in pain.” It seemed the only comfort she could offer the woman. “I don’t think he even realized what had happened, it was so quick.”

“That’s good. I’d hate to think he suffered.”

“Mrs. Baker, I wanted to give you the money he asked for.” Abigail pulled the roll of bills from her purse and handed it to her.

The other woman stared at Abigail in amazement, but her fingers quickly curled around the money. “Thank you. I— You are a fine lady. I hope he told you what you wanted to know.”

“He wasn’t able to tell me all of it. Do you know what he planned to say?”

“I—I don’t know.” Mrs. Baker’s hand clenched convulsively around the money as though she feared Abigail might snatch it back. “He knew something about what happened back then. With Lord Reginald and that charity.” She cast a cautious glance at Graeme, and he nodded reassuringly. “It bothered him.”

“What bothered him, Mrs. Baker?” Abby asked softly.

“Milton said he hadn’t done it—Lord Montclair. He said it wasn’t Montclair who took the money.”

“What?” Graeme stared. “Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded emphatically. “He—Milton took to drink for a while, and sometimes when he’d had too much, he’d talk. He’d say they were wrong; it wasn’t Lord Reginald, and maybe he should have told someone. Then he’d scowl and say, ‘But it served him right. Why should I lift a finger to help him?’ He was angry, you see, because you didn’t hire him on, sir. Milton expected it, but still he couldn’t help but be angry because he’d only done what your father wanted. He felt guilty, too, though, because he said nothing. After Milton gave up the gin, he stopped talking about that time. Then I got sick, and we hadn’t enough money, and he was desperate. He heard about you coming here, my lady, and that’s when he decided he could get money for what he knew.”

Abigail glanced at Graeme. His face was an odd blend of hope and disbelief. Since he seemed unwilling or unable to speak, she asked, “If Lord Montclair hadn’t done it, why didn’t Montclair himself speak up?”

“He was proud, you see, and it would have been a great scandal if anything was said. Better to just pay it back and keep it quiet.”

“But, if he didn’t do it, who did?”

“I don’t know.” Mrs. Baker shook her head. “Milton never told me that. He just said someone else took it. He said you’d pay to find out Lord Montclair’s father wasn’t a criminal. He didn’t want to go to his lordship, you see.” She glanced toward Graeme apologetically. “I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”

“Thank you.” Abigail smiled at her. “I’m very glad you told us this. I—I hope the money helps.”

“Yes, my lady. Thank you.”

It was clear that the woman was starting to flag, so they took their leave. Abigail slipped her hand into Graeme’s arm as they went down the stairs; it was hard as iron. His face was unreadable in the dimness of the stairwell. When they stepped outside, he took a deep breath, as if cleansing himself of something.

“She couldn’t be right.” The uncertainty in Graeme’s eyes belied his words. “He told me himself he’d done it.”

“What did he say exactly? Did he say he had taken it?”

“Of c—” He stopped, then sighed and shook his head. “Honestly? I’m not sure.” He was deep in thought as they walked to the waiting carriage. When they climbed in and the carriage started rolling, he said, “I can’t remember him actually saying he took the money. I think his words were, ‘The foundation’s money is gone, and it’s my fault.’ Or perhaps, ‘I am responsible.’

“Father was obviously ashamed, and, frankly, I was so shocked that I didn’t even question him about it. I think I asked what had happened or where it had gone, and he said it didn’t matter. I was so furious I barely spoke to him for weeks afterward. I couldn’t bear to be around him—or anyone, really. I was horrid.” He had been staring blindly out the window as he talked, and now he cast a quick, abashed glance at Abigail. “You know what I was like. The truth is, things were never the same between my father and me after that. We talked; we were polite. But we were never . . . comfortable together. Then he died.”

Seeing the bleakness on his face, Abigail reached over and slipped her hand into his. He glanced at her, surprised, and tightened his clasp. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t burden you with this.”

“Who else should you tell?” Abigail said reasonably. “I promise you, no one understands better than I feeling torn about one’s father. I know the sort of man my father is; I’ve felt shamed by the things he’s done. Angry. There were times when I hated him and wanted to be miles away from him. But still, he’s my father, and deep down, I cannot help but love him.”

“Of course you do.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand in a small gesture of comfort.

“In his own way, Thurston loves me,” Abby went on. “His rules and restrictions, his insistence that I do this thing or that, until I thought I could not bear it anymore—to his way of thinking, he was protecting me, keeping me safe and sheltered. He was certain he knew what I should have, what would make me happy. He showered me with presents; he gave me everything I asked for and much more besides. He even bought me a husband.” She flashed a teasing smile at him and was rewarded when his lips curled up ruefully in return.

“A rather disappointing present there.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Abby squeezed his hand again. “Just because you love someone, it doesn’t mean you have to be blind to his faults or approve of everything he does. I’m sure your father knew you loved him even if you were rightfully upset at him.”

“Perhaps.” He was silent for a moment. “Everyone loved my father. Well, you met him; you know what he was like.”