“The doctor?” Rowarth felt suddenly cold, the fear creeping down his spine.
“Yes, the doctor,” Miles said. “Must you repeat everything that I say?”
“Go on,” Rowarth said.
“As the maid was showing him out I heard him instruct her to look after her mistress,” Miles said. “So I assumed Eve was ill. That’s all.”
Rowarth took a deep breath. “Why did you never tell me this before?” he demanded.
“I’d forgotten about it until tonight,” Miles said simply.
The sharp click of the library door opening and closing again snapped them back to attention. There was the sound of voices.
“That is Tom Fortune,” Miles said, listening intently, “not Warren Sampson.” He spun around as Rowarth let out an oath and, opening the balcony doors, ran back inside the house.
“I say, old fellow, you can’t intervene now,” Miles protested. “You’ll ruin everything!”
“No, I won’t,” Rowarth said harshly. “I’ll be doing what I should have done long ago, devil take it.” He was already slamming out of the room, his footsteps echoing across the floor as he headed toward the stairs.
“As I said, I knew it was a mistake to recruit an amateur,” Miles said, but he was smiling as he followed Rowarth out.
Eve had found the library in near darkness, lit only by a single stand of candles that cast long shadows up the wall. It was also empty and for a moment Eve was relieved, for Warren Sampson’s absence at least gave her a moment to collect herself. She drew a deep breath, leaning against the long central table, which bore a breathtakingly tasteless vase of lolling lilies. Misery and regret beat through her body as she thought of the bitter words she had exchanged with Rowarth.
It was so pointless, so foolish, to want to go back, to wish to change the past. She had run from Rowarth in the first place because she had had no choice and nothing had changed. Five years ago she had turned her back on all that they had had because he had wanted to wed her and she had known that it was utterly impossible.
When first Rowarth had proposed marriage to her she had been astounded but he would entertain no opposition nor accept any refusal from her. He had rejected all her objections that she was unsuitable, that she had been born out of wedlock, that she had no education, that she had been his mistress and so it was utterly unacceptable for her to be his wife and even more inappropriate for her to be a duchess. He had swept it all aside, confident and happy, buoyed up by his love for her. He was a duke—he could do as he wished. And for a while Eve had been swept along, too, believing that they could be happy.
But then she had found out that she was pregnant and had lost the baby almost in the same instant. She had been ill, dreadfully ill, and Dr. Culpepper had told her that she would never bear another child. The news had been the bitterest blow that she had ever had to accept in her life. Even now she could not think about it without the pain expanding in her chest and stealing her breath and making her want to weep. She had thought herself hardened to every misfortune that life could throw at her. She had dealt with more than her share. But this grief was a different matter. It was a black, aching emptiness, a jagged pain that caught her at unexpected moments like a thief in the dark. It sapped her soul until she was so tired and worn that sometimes she had not known how she had carried on.
Rowarth had been away on business, visiting his estates in Kent, and by the time he had returned to London Eve had packed up and gone, knowing that she could never be his wife now, that it was all at an end, that fairy tales did not happen to the likes of little Eve Nightingale. Even if a duke was unconventional enough to marry his mistress he needed a son to carry on the title and inherit the estates that he had cared for so dutifully all these years. But she would never, ever be able to give Rowarth children and it had broken her heart and it would break his, too, if he ever knew …
Eve straightened, rubbing the tears from her cheeks with impatient fingers.
Fool to cry. She had always known that everything that had once been precious and sweet and true between them was long gone. She had always known there could be no going back for them.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting, Mrs. Nightingale.”
Eve had been so wrapped up in her grief that she had not heard the door open but now she saw not Warren Sampson, as she might have expected, but Tom Fortune bearing down upon her, a glass of wine in one hand, a wolfish smile on his lips. She straightened quickly, masking her distress.
“I am sorry,” she said, with an attempt at a smile. “I thought that Mr. Sampson was joining me.”
Fortune smiled again. “He will be here presently.” He came so close to her that she could smell the stale sweat on his body and the wine on his breath. Eve’s nerves tightened. There was something feral about Tom Fortune, something dangerous. She had met men like him before and knew precisely what they wanted. She looked around for something with which to arm herself but the fire irons were out of reach, as were the heavy china figurines on the mantel. She wondered where Rowarth and his colleagues had stationed themselves in order to witness her springing the trap on Sampson. She hoped they were close enough to intervene. But of course they would not do so. Her heart plummeted as she thought about it. Since Rowarth was happy enough for her to seduce Warren Sampson in the interests of eliciting a confession, no doubt he expected her to seduce Tom Fortune as well if the situation required it.
“Now then, Mrs. Nightingale,” Fortune was saying, “I believe that you had a business proposition you wished to discuss?”
Eve gave him a cool look. “For Mr. Sampson’s ears only,” she said politely.
Fortune laughed. He ran one finger down Eve’s bare arm and she tried not to flinch away. “You can tell me,” he murmured. “Mr. Sampson trusts me to handle his business affairs.”
“Does he indeed?” Eve said, raising her brows. “Was it Mr. Sampson’s business that brought you to my shop?”
Tom Fortune’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a very sharp look. “No indeed,” he said. “That was a personal financial embarrassment, I fear.”
“Selling off your brother’s silver to pay your debts?” Eve said. “A pity. I had thought … hoped … that there might be more business potential in the situation than that.”
Tom was very still, watching her like a snake watching a mouse. “What exactly are you suggesting, Mrs. Nightingale?”
“As I said,” Eve said, turning away and feigning boredom, “that is for discussion with Mr. Sampson only.”
Tom laughed. “Then if you will not talk to me,” he murmured, “I suggest that we pass the time until Mr. Sampson’s arrival in more pleasurable ways.” He lingered suggestively over the words. “You must know, Mrs. Nightingale, that in your case Mr. Sampson would deem it a positive delight to mix business with pleasure.”
“And you expect a share in that … pleasure, too, I suppose,” Eve said, trying to edge away from him. Tom Fortune followed her until they were in danger, Eve thought a little hysterically, of chasing one another around the table.
“I always try the goods out myself first,” Tom agreed. He moved quickly, grabbing her arm and pressing a damp kiss on the curve of her neck. Suddenly his hands seemed to be everywhere, down the neck of her gown, grasping for her skirts. It was intolerable and suddenly Eve knew she would rather be dead than succumb to him, Rowarth and Hawkesbury be damned. She tried to free a hand to strike him, but Fortune was strong and determined. She managed to reach for the huge phallic vase in the center of the table and brought it down on his head. Fortune swore. Water cascaded everywhere. Lilies flew in all directions. And in the same moment the door of the library was flung open and Rowarth, all urbane elegance gone, charged across the room, grabbed Tom Fortune by the neck cloth, dragged him away from Eve and struck him so hard and so scientifically that the man seemed to arc across the library before landing in the fireplace with a crash.
“Damned scoundrel,” he growled.
Miles Vic
kery, who had followed Rowarth into the room, went across to check on Fortune. “Out cold,” he said. “You always did have a dangerous left hook, Rowarth.”
“Rowarth,” Eve said, her hands pressed to her cheeks, torn between laughter and tears, “I do believe you have completely sabotaged your own commission.”
“To hell with my commission.” Rowarth scooped her up in his arms and strode to the door. His expression was set and hard. “To hell with Sampson. To hell with Hawkesbury. I should have told him to go hang from the start. You and I are going home, Eve. We have matters to discuss.”
Outside in the hall it seemed that all hell had broken loose as well. The ice sculpture of Poseidon, partially melted and drooping now, had been toppled onto the floor and was spreading water all around. A very pretty young girl of about eighteen in a peacock-blue mask was struggling in the arms of one of Warren Sampson’s guests, who, inebriated and lecherous, was trying to kiss her.
“Don’t you know who I am?” the maiden shrieked, pushing him hard. “Unhand me at once, you dolt!”
The man reeled backward and in the same moment Nat Waterhouse erupted across the hall, caught him by the cravat and hit him across the room in much the same way that Rowarth had despatched Tom Fortune. Waterhouse turned on the girl.
“Lizzie,” he said, in tones that made a chill trickle down Eve’s spine, “what the devil are you doing here?”
Despite the mask, Eve had recognized the girl now as Lady Elizabeth Scarlet, half sister of Sir Montague Fortune and of Tom, the very man who had just tried to seduce her in the library. It was evident from Lady Elizabeth’s very expensive but demure debutante’s raiment and the look of the startled virgin on her face that she could not quite hide, that for all her bravado she was in completely the wrong place.
“I heard there was a party,” Lady Elizabeth proclaimed, “and I wanted to see for myself.” She sounded ever so slightly drunk.
Her gaze swung around the hall, taking in the seminude women, the couples in various states of debauchery and the overendowed ice sculpture, and Eve saw her gulp. She had heard that Lady Elizabeth was wild but the poor girl had, Eve was sure, overstepped the mark this time.
“I’m taking you home,” Nat Waterhouse said to her, still sounding furious.
Across the hallway a couple of drunken young bucks had decided that if there was going to be a mill then they would join in. Half-dressed women ran shrieking for cover as they ploughed enthusiastically into the fight. Before long the servants had joined in and the entire room was a heaving mass of men planting random punches. Miles Vickery was doubled up with laughter.
“A marvelous end to Mr. Sampson’s entertainment and to our endeavor,” he said cheerfully. “Rowarth—would you like to be the one to explain this to Lord Hawkesbury?”
CHAPTER FIVE
“WE NEED TO talk,” Rowarth said. He and Eve were alone in the carriage, having delivered Lady Elizabeth Scarlet secretly and safely back to Fortune Hall and received her incoherent and tearful thanks. Waterhouse and Vickery had bidden them good night and retired to their lodgings at the Morris Clown Inn, mocking Rowarth for the fact that he was so rich that he was staying at the Granby Hotel while their miserable pittance of an income from the Home Secretary condemned them to less salubrious surroundings.
“I don’t want to go to the Granby,” Eve said. “I have had a sufficiently disreputable evening as it is without creeping into a gentleman’s hotel room. That would finish my reputation for good.”
Rowarth took her hand. “Then where shall we go?” he asked. His gaze compelled her and a curl of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She knew that there could be no avoiding a final confrontation now. She had felt it from the moment Rowarth had scooped her up into his arms in Sampson’s library.
“There is no one at the shop,” she said reluctantly. “Joan has rooms at her sister’s house in the village.”
She saw the flare of satisfaction in Rowarth’s eyes and something else, heated and intense. “Just to talk, Rowarth,” she reminded him, though her pulse fluttered.
“Absolutely,” Rowarth said smoothly.
The tiny room above the shop seemed even tinier with Rowarth in it, his presence dominating the space. Eve stirred the embers of the fire to a bright burning glow and lit a candle that she could ill afford. The soft light gave the room an illusory warmth but she felt cold and on edge inside.
“Would you care for a brandy?” she asked. Her cupboard was scarcely creaking under the weight of wine or spirits but she felt that even if Rowarth refused, she needed a drink for Dutch courage.
He laughed. “You still have a taste for brandy?”
The memories flooded back into Eve’s mind. When they had been together Rowarth had teased her once about the unladylike pleasure she took in drinking brandy and she had explained that she liked it because it was expensive, a gentleman’s drink, unlike the rough gin that was sold on the streets. Rowarth had gone out and bought her a case of the best brandy the very next day and she had told him that it was not his gift that mattered the most to her, although it touched her, it was his generosity in wanting to make her happy.
“I do not need a drink,” Rowarth said.
“I do,” Eve said feelingly. She poured for herself, then found that she could not touch the spirit anyway.
“Eve …” Rowarth came to sit next to her on the sofa. “I am sorry,” he said. “What I made you do tonight was unconscionable.”
“You did not make me do anything in the end,” Eve said. “I had already decided that you and Lord Hawkesbury could go to hell in a handcart before I touched Warren Sampson. And I was well able to deal with Mr. Fortune.”
“He looked very fetching wearing those lilies,” Rowarth said, smiling. The smile faded. “But you know what I mean. I was utterly in the wrong to coerce you so. It was unforgivable.”
The breath caught in Eve’s throat. She looked at him. He was watching the embers of the fire and his gaze was somber.
“I regret it more than I can tell you,” he said. “There are no excuses, but I want to explain. I want you to understand.” Then, as she inclined her head he continued: “To my eternal shame, I was so angry with you, Eve, angry and bitter. I should have told Hawkesbury what to do with his commission but when I heard that he had found you all I could think of was to see you again so that I could prove to myself that you no longer had any power over me.” He looked up, took her hand, his grip painfully tight. “I think that I feared becoming like my father,” he said softly. “His divorce case was so scandalous and sordid. It broke him. I was only ten years old but I saw the change in him. And then he died when I was barely eighteen and I knew my mother’s betrayal had killed him in the end.” He intertwined his fingers with hers, looking down at their linked hands. “I was furious that I had almost made the same mistake myself.”
He shifted, his fingers tightening painfully on hers. “Hawkesbury was able to use me because of that fear and resentment,” he said, “and in return I used you.”
“I understand,” Eve said. Her voice was thick with tears for the boy who had seen his father broken and betrayed and for the young man who had had to step into his shoes at so young an age and take on all a grown man’s responsibilities. “It does not matter, Rowarth,” she said. “We have both made mistakes. It is all done now.”
Rowarth was still holding her hand, his thumb stroking in distracting circles over her palm. “No, it is not,” he said, and Eve shivered because she knew what was coming. “Tell me what happened to you, Eve. Why did you run? I do not believe what you told me before. I know that you loved me, so why did you leave me?”
The grief and the misery wrenched at Eve’s heart. She looked up and met his eyes and saw nothing but compassion there, all anger spent.
“I cannot tell you,” she said. “Oh, Rowarth, don’t ask me. Please don’t ask me.”
His hand came up to cup her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re afraid,” he said softly. H
is fingers touched her cheek with aching tenderness, cradling her. “Eve, I have to tell you that Miles Vickery told me something tonight that I never knew. He saw you on the day you left. He had come to call on me and he saw Dr. Culpepper leaving, too.”
Eve went very still. Icy shivers chased over her skin. Rowarth’s words had conjured all the fear and misery of those last days. She struggled to keep the horrible memories locked in the box where they belonged. She sat silent, her heart breaking.
“Eve …” Rowarth was gentle but relentless and she knew he would not give up now, not until he had the truth. She felt trapped. Could she relinquish half the secret, explain a little while keeping those worst, darkest and most devastating of memories safely locked away? She was terrified; she could never tell the worst of it. Even now it would destroy her.
“Were you ill?” Rowarth asked. “Eve, please—”
Eve gave a little hiccup between laughter and tears. “I was not ill. I was pregnant.”
There was a moment’s silence while Rowarth thought about this. “Did you leave because you thought I would not want our child?” His voice was rough. “Surely you knew me better than that? You knew I wished to marry you—” He broke off as Eve shook her head violently.
“It was not that,” she said. “I lost the baby, Rowarth. I had a miscarriage. I lost our child and I could not bear it.”
To her enormous relief he did not press her any further but gathered her close, brushing the hair away from her face as she cried now, unable to help herself. He murmured endearments to her, his arms as strong as steel bands about her.
“My darling … that you should have had to suffer that and I was not there for you …”