Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 22
Connor had set his course of action years ago and was given many chances to alter his path, but he’d hedged his lot and levied all his bets—on the wrong side.
“Can I get ye another pint, sir?” The barkeep dried a recently rinsed mug with the grimy towel that hung from his waistband.
Connor’s pocket was quite a few coins lighter since he’d entered the bar. If he was to continue his time in London, he had to watch where he spent the last of his money. He’d funneled not only pilfered cash from Vi’s money box but also his own wages to keep Hamp afloat. It was his foolishness that had him believing his friend’s word that the man had been working, making connections for D & C’s Fine Foals. In reality, Hamp had spent most of the coin to set his mistress up in a flat on the most fashionable part of town. “The detestable man!”
The barkeep stopped his rhythmic wiping and stared hard at Connor. “Look, I jus be ask’n ye if you be need’n another drink.”
Connor reached into his pocket and pulled enough coin out to settle his tab. “My apologies. I was talking to myself.” He set half of his remaining money on the bar. “This should be enough. Have a pleasant evening.” Connor surveyed the crowded room as he slipped his overcoat on.
The bar had filled since he’d arrived hours before, but Connor hadn’t heard the laughter of men deep in their cups or the shuffling of cards from the table in the corner. He moved through the crowd and out the door. When had the sun set, and how long until it again rose? He rubbed his smoke-heavy eyes, happy for the fresh air the outdoors provided. Looking left and then right, he turned in the direction where a great amount of foot traffic and light lit the way toward a more populated area of town. The last thing he wanted was to find himself on a deserted stretch of road frequented by robbers and pickpockets.
As he traversed the street, the quality of attire the men and woman wore changed from sturdy cottons to tailored pants and fine dresses. He pulled his coat tight around his worn-work attire to hide the dirt from view.
During his moping at The Fox and The Hound he’d lost sight of the large picture—the start of his problems.
Lady Viola Oberbrook.
She was not a friend.
She could not be trusted.
She’d deserved everything she’d gotten—and deserved even more than all that had been taken from her recently.
Yes, she had manipulated him. His fists clenched. She’d lead him on. She should have come around with time—even her father hinted at a possible match between the pair. He’d sunk years of his life into her. Truly, she was the only person to blame for where he stood, what he’d missed out on, and the further decay his life would no doubt face.
She’d chosen her path in life. She’d treated people such as himself unjustly all those years ago. It was not his concern that she was only paying for her sins now.
But pay for her sins she must. People could only outrun their misdeeds for so long—something he was only beginning to understand now.
He was unsure how long he’d walked, how much distance he’d covered, or what time of night it might be. The chilly London air had seeped through his overcoat and chills spread through his body. He needed to find an affordable inn, or at least a bar to escape the cold. Looking around, he tried to determine his exact location.
Unfortunately, he’d made his way to a very high end part of town.
“Mr. Cale?” a voice called to him in the semi-darkness.
Connor looked around to see who had called him when a man stepped out of a well-lit doorway several feet behind him. The dark street, combined with the bright lights from the establishment he’d just left, cast a shadow across the man’s face.
“It is I, Rodney Swiftenberg.” The voice paused as the man moved toward Connor.
Of all his bad luck, he’d been spotted by Lord Haversham’s cousin. “Yes, good evening, Sir.” Connor kept his voice level and bowed—placing his hand firmly against the wall to stop from swaying. “How nice to see you again.”
“Very good, indeed. Can I interest you in a drink?”
Pedestrians made their way around the men on the walkway. It would not do to loiter where someone else could spot him. “That would be agreeable. The weather has turned cold quite quickly.” Too late, he realized they stood outside of White’s. The interior of the club was teeming with men seeking refuge and drink after a night spent toiling at a ball or the opera house. Every man worth a grain of salt was either in the club or on their way there. Connor’s luck was not on point this evening.
Moments later, Rodney sat in an empty chair inside White’s and gestured for Connor to do the same. “Scotch or brandy?” he asked, and motioned for a server to attend them.
“Brandy, please.” Connor scanned the room as Rodney spoke to the server. There didn’t appear to be anyone he knew in attendance at the moment. Possibly his luck was returning.
“Now that everything is out in the open, may we speak candidly?”
And as quickly as he’d thought his night was improving, it was cast back into the gutter. “Of course.” How else could he respond?
“I understand that we both have a certain young lady,” Rodney paused to accept his drink from the servant, “whose disappearance would benefit us greatly. Am I correct?”
Connor eyed him, uncertain how to answer. The man could very well be tricking him into revealing himself. “I am unsure what you mean.”
“Oh, come now.” Rodney brought his glass to his lips patiently, as if waiting for his meaning to sink in. When Connor remained quiet, he continued. “Lady Viola and her presence here in London could seriously jeopardize both our futures.”
Connor had a viable reason for wanting Lady Viola far from London, but what could Rodney’s reasoning be? He decided to wait the man out, forcing him to reveal his motivation first.
“You see, I have a vested interest, as you may well know, in the Haversham estate. It would not behoove my cause if my dear cousin was to go off and get himself wed now.”
Puzzled, Connor asked, “How does that involve either myself or Lady Viola?”
The man chuckled. “Do not pretend that you do not see the way your mistress captivates my cousin. The man looks fairly awestruck every time her name is mentioned.”
It was Connor’s turn to take a long sip of his drink. “And you think after the other evening, that either Lady Viola or Lord Haversham will ever wish to seek each other out again?”
“The past has shown that the Haversham men are not the best judge in women.” Rodney sat forward in his seat and set his empty glass on the table between them. “And it would be very bad for you if Lady Viola were to expose your disloyalty.”
Connor cringed. He would have no reprieve if all of London knew he’d sabotaged Lady Viola; his chances of gaining employment would be lost.
Curse Hampton and his foolhardiness.
Curse Lady Viola and her selfish youth.
Curse Lord Haversham for his horrible timing.
But mostly, he cursed himself!
“What shall we do about this dilemma?” Connor asked. It couldn’t be anything more revolting than what Viola had done to him.
The man smirked. “To be honest, I do not care about solving your problem. Only mine.”
“Then why are we speaking?”
“Because you will help me solve my problem, lest I spread word of your transgressions amongst society. See how we can help each other now?”
It was perfectly clear to him. If Connor helped keep the pair apart, then Rodney would not help to spread his secret faster than it would spread eventually. He must resign himself to the fact that’d he’d aligned himself with a shady character—namely Hampton—who had taken advantage of him. Now, that cycle would continue. Lying begets liars. “And if I refuse to help you, what then?”
“It is very simple. I will—” Rodney paused to look over Connor’s shoulder in the direction of the door. “Cousin, how lovely to see you. Do join us for a drink.”
Connor turned in his chair as Lord Haversham sauntered toward them, a dark look on his face.
“I haven’t the time, Rodney,” Lord Haversham said as he moved past the seat Connor occupied. But before he entered the card room, he turned. “Mr. Cale?”
A cloud, darker than what had already been there, settled on Lord Haversham’s face.
Connor immediately stood, bowing low in greeting. “Good evening, my lord. I trust you are well?” Too late, Connor saw his mistake. Of course the man was not well. He’d entered into an epic battle of wits with Lady Viola in front of the entire ton. It made what Lady Viola had done to Connor seem minuscule in comparison. “I mean to say—”
Lord Haversham turned fully to address Connor. “I do not particularly care what you mean to say…or to hear you say naught at all.”
The venomous words pushed Connor back into his chair as if he’d been struck a physical blow. “My lord?” Connor looked to Rodney for help but the man was gone, leaving Connor to endure Lord Haversham’s wrath alone.
“You are a poor excuse for a gentleman. It is the height of immorality to abuse a woman’s trust thusly!” Lord Haversham spit out.
“But—” Connor shuddered. “How is what I’ve done any different than what you’ve done?” He knew the question was unwise to ask, and regretted his loose tongue immediately.
Lord Haversham’s nostrils flared and his eyes shot daggers. “And what precisely have I done that in any form resembles the atrocities you have committed?”
Connor knew he needed to select his words wisely if he meant to make it out of White’s alive. Men from every corner of the room moved a bit closer to hear their heated conversation. No doubt the betting book would be full within minutes with speculation as to what they argued about, who would challenge whom to a duel, and whether it was more likely that Lord Haversham or Connor currently slept with Lady Viola. Connor had seriously miscalculated Lord Haversham and his rage.
“It is just…ummm…she lied to you, used you, and hurt your family. Just as she did to me all those years ago. I know exactly how much you must loathe the woman.” He was babbling and he knew it, but he could not turn back now. He needed Lord Haversham to understand. “She is a charlatan of the first water. A conniving bit—”
“Son of a bitch!” Brock massaged his clenched fist. He’d never been a violent man, but Connor had begged for it. No man insulted a woman in his presence, not matter what Brock felt for the woman himself.
The club’s butler rushed toward him, and the men who’d gathered closer to watch now took a step back.
“My lord.” The butler took Brock by the elbow and guided him to a small meeting room next to the card room. “This way, please.”
Brock was aware that White’s frowned upon violence within its walls, and it was common for men to step outside the door when driven to fisticuffs. He glanced over his shoulder one last time before the door to the room closed tightly against the prying eyes of the ton. Men lined up eagerly to place wagers at the famous betting book within the club. He didn’t doubt that speculation would run rampant and only add fuel to the fire for the gossipmongers about town. He only hoped the flames didn’t take both him and Lady Viola down.
The room seemed to shrink as he paced the length waiting for his temper to recede. His long stride ate up the floor underfoot and before he knew it he was turning once again to return to the other end of the room. The walls closed in on him and he struggled to pull the warm air into his lungs. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d ripped off his perfectly knotted cravat and it lay discarded with his jacket.
“Fuck!” He dropped into an overstuffed arm chair positioned in front of a roaring fire and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Bloody hell and damnation.”
The cursing relieved a bit of his anger. What had he been thinking? Yet again, he’d caused a scene—a needless scene, at that. Connor wasn’t worth his time or the possibility of being disbarred from a club his family had been members of for over a hundred years.
Violence wasn’t him. Even during his many years as a soldier he’d sought to resolve conflict in a non-violent way. Why now?
The door to the room slammed open on its well-oiled hinges, knocking into the wall behind it.
Brock jumped to his feet, ready for he knew not what.
“What in the hell happened out there?”
He heard Harold before he saw him.
“Hello? Answer me!” Harold yelled. “What has gotten into you?”
“Close the door, will you?” Brock sighed. “And keep your voice down.”
Harold nudged the door shut with his foot and continued toward Brock. “Keep my voice down? Keep my voice down?” Harold repeated in disbelief. “That is rich. You punch a man in the face—unprovoked, as the story goes at the moment—and you are worried about me raising my voice?” He grabbed Brock by his unbuttoned lapels and shook him.
“Get your blasted hands off me or you will meet a similar fate.”
Harold’s grasp on Brock’s shirt tightened. “Is that your new solution to your problems? To go around striking any person who dares insult you? That is pathetic.”
“No one would dare insult me,” Brock yelled back. “I am Lord Haversham, and I will be respected.”
Harold laughed, but did not release his grip. “You talk about respect, but who have you shown respect to recently? Definitely not your mother’s memory—”
“Do not bring my family into this.” Brock pushed into his friend’s grip, but Harold held his ground.
“That is fine. I can leave your family out of it.” Harold continued to stare hard at Brock. “How about Lady Viola and her family? Was that respect you showed her when you embarrassed her in front of all of society?”
Brock only returned his friend’s hard stare.
“If you are going to hit me, then do it,” Harold whispered. “If that will make you feel better, more of a man, then by all means take your anger and frustration out on me.”
With that comment, the tightness left Brock’s body. He averted his gaze.
“No? Pity.” Harold released Brock’s shirt and moved toward the door.
“Harold,” Brock called as he sank to the chair behind him.
His friend halted but did not turn. “I will see you at home.”
With that, Brock was once again left alone. Utterly, completely, hauntingly alone.
Chapter 29
How long had he sat there?
Brock had no clue, but he was damn tired. At some point, a servant had quietly entered the room, leaving him a bottle of scotch and a light meal, securely closing the door behind him.
Harold’s words rang in his head.
Brock knew the answer to his problems did not lie in violence.
Then why had he hit Connor, besides the obvious reason that the man was detestable?
Connor had harmed Lady Viola’s reputation, which any upstanding gentleman would not let another man get away with. Then, he’d had the gall to accuse Brock of doing the same thing. Had he hit Connor because he resented the insinuation that they were in any shape or form similar?
The notion was absurd. And absolutely—beyond a doubt—true. The realization shook him, brutally altering his personal paradigm. He was exactly the man Connor—and Harold, to a lesser degree—had accused him of being.
Since he had returned from the continent, Brock had been self-absorbed, self-indulgent, combative, and an all-around jerk. He’d matched wits with Lady Vi instead of deferring to her and handling their disagreement in a more private setting.
If he was being honest with himself, which he knew he hadn’t been recently, he had sought to lure the woman to London, force a confrontation, and give her what for. He could hardly be upset with the consequences, considering the fact that he’d been the one to set the entire catastrophe in motion.
A knock sounded at the door. Brock rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes and stood.
“Enter.”
The man who passed through the door had a large bruise that extended from his jaw all the way to the corner of his eye. A cut at the corner of Connor’s mouth, recently cleaned, still seeped blood.
No wander his hand hurt like the devil.
“My lord—”
“Do you think it safe to be in a room alone with me at this juncture?” Brock asked.
Connor kept his eyes firmly aimed at the rug under Brock’s feet. “I only seek to explain my actions.”
“What explanation could you possibly give to justify your horrid treatment of Lady Viola, and your complete lack of loyalty?” He continued to rub at the soreness in his knuckles. “Do you not have any honor?” Brock asked the question even as he wondered where he had lost his own honor. The last place he could remember seeing it was when he’d left his men behind in France, on his way to assume his new title as lord.
Connor’s chin lifted, but his eyes didn’t quite meet Brock’s. “Which question should I answer first?”
The man tried Brock’s patience. “I truly doubt you have a satisfactory answer to either.”
“But I do, my lord. You see, when I said you and I were alike—”
“Do not utter those words.” Brock’s voice thundered off the walls in the small, empty room.
Connor held up his hands, palms toward Brock. “Wait, wait,” he stuttered. “Lady Viola did not only ravage your family, taking the lives of your brothers—”
“She did not take their lives,” Brock interrupted. “They chose their path in life. They were foolhardy and reckless.” His need to defend her seemed to come from nowhere.
“I only seek for you to understand my hurt, the suffering she has caused me.”
“Go on, but be quick about it. I haven’t all night.”
“My tale is much the same as your brothers’. I too courted the young, lively, energetic Lady Viola during her first season. I took her for carriage rides, for ices, to the opera . . . we even danced on many occasions.”
