Secret Admirer

  I was going to? That was not the right answer, not the answer she wanted at all. “Really? You were going to tell me? How were you going to put it?” she asked sarcastically. “Just casually mention on our wedding day that you had a son and a wife already? How pleased you must have been when I only asked if you had a mistress. You didn’t have to lie to me, not really. And you were safe. It would never have occurred to me, while you were asking for my hand in marriage, that you already had a wife.”

  He felt the anger rolling off of her in waves. “You don’t understand, Tuesday.”

  Hearing her name from his lips now was terrible, terrible. “You are right. I don’t. But I want to. I desperately want to.” Her outrage slipped and she appealed to him. “Oh, God, Lawrence, please, deny it. Deny that she is your wife, that the boy is your son. Deny that I am sane, or that I am awake. Argue with me. Tell me I am wrong. Explain it to me so it makes sense some other way. I am begging you. Please, I don’t want to believe what I saw. When George came that time and told me about her I laughed an—”

  Lawrence interrupted. “George? George knew about Maria and Lawrence?”

  “Yes. He told me you were keeping a woman, he thought it was your mistress, somewhere in the countryside bu—”

  “Damn him.”

  His reaction stunned her. Tuesday’s chest grew tight with anger. “Damn him? As if this were his fault? As if George did something wrong?” She moved closer to him. “It was you, Lawrence. You are the one who as good as lied to me. I thought you were a gentleman. Better than a gentleman—I thought you were a man of honor, of your word. Was I wrong? Tell me, Lawrence,” she challenged. “Answer me. Is that your wife? Is that your son?”

  No one else in the world could have questioned his honor and his integrity and gotten away with it. But he knew Tuesday loved him. He trusted her not to mean what she seemed to mean. And there was something he absolutely needed to do that instant. He said, “I’ll explain it all later. I don’t have time right now and this isn’t the place to discuss it.”

  “I don’t want you to discuss it,” she said icily. “Not discuss it, no. I just want you to answer those simple questions. Can’t you spare just a few seconds to convince me? Oh God, Lawrence, you don’t know how much I want to believe in you, but you are making it so hard. Just tell me, is that boy your son?”

  Tuesday had not heard the fast, irregular footsteps on the path, but before Lawrence could open his mouth to answer, the little boy had come running up to them. He threw himself around Lawrence’s legs, his face wreathed in smiles. “Papa, Papa, Papa is home!” he shrieked, laughing.

  His laughter was like a fist squeezing Tuesday’s heart. She looked from the child to Lawrence.

  This time Lawrence did not hesitate. He said, “Yes. He is.” He reached out for her. “Tuesday, let me—”

  She shrank away from him. “Don’t touch me.” She moved backward, shaking her head. She had asked for the truth and she had gotten it, and she realized that she had not wanted to know. She had fought against believing, but now she had no choice.

  The tears stayed caught in her eyes but the words poured out, poured over him and into him, like shards of glass slicing his skin. “Lawrence, Lawrence, how could you? How could you have been holding me and telling me you loved me and saying you wanted to marry me, when all the time you knew that your wife and your son were waiting for you? Waiting for you to come home to them?” The image of his chair, lovingly arranged, facing his favorite painting, an always ready reminder of his absence, almost strangled her. “How could you? How—how dare you? You who pride yourself on being such a paragon of honorability and goodness. Ha! What kind of gentleman are you to treat a woman who loves you that way, Lord Pickering? What kind of a monster?”

  Her words were like a cold slap in the face, waking Lawrence up to the truth, to the fact that he had been wrong. He had shared himself with Tuesday, shown her everything, entrusted her with his darkest secrets, and this was what she thought of him. If she had really loved him, had really understood him, she would never have believed him capable of such things.

  Lawrence made no attempt to answer her questions this time because there was no point. No matter what he said, she would doubt him. And he no longer cared about her opinion. She had betrayed the trust she put in him. He had no more time for her.

  He did not feel pain as he made this decision. He did not, from that moment on, feel anything at all.

  “Come on, querido,” he said, hoisting little Lawrence onto his back, not noticing the throbbing ache in his right shoulder. “We’re done here, and Mama will be worried if we don’t get home soon.”

  He passed by Tuesday and Jack without a word and made his way quickly toward the little house. Jack gazed after his friends wistfully, but let Tuesday drag him back to Doom Manor. He did not understand what had happened, why he needed to pack his things, why he had to leave all his friends, but when Tuesday, brushing away tears said, “please, Jack, love, no more questions,” he grew quiet. As he said good-bye to the boys he assured them that he was only going on an adventure and would be back soon, and Tuesday did not have the heart to correct him. They walked down the road, hand in hand, Tuesday looking only at the ground, Jack turning around every few minutes to catch a glimpse of the place he had so briefly and happily called home.

  Lawrence left a few hours after they did. He did not return to Doom Manor for a long time. From that day forward, he was always much too busy.

  There was Pickering Hall to furnish and his business (too long neglected) to see to, and so many parties, and his future (he wanted a family of course), and what about that addition to the banqueting house he had meant to do. Not to mention Pickering Hall to furnish and his business and his future and the addition to the banqueting hall and the furnishings he needed to get before his marriage (why did he see Tuesday’s profile in every frosty window?), which had to be arranged, and the Cottonwood’s ball to attend and furniture and the future and family and festivities and—

  He kept on breathing and eating and going to parties. But Lawrence Pickering died that day.

  Chapter 36

  Tuesday’s arm healed very well and the gash on her head left almost no scar. She looked to be in perfect health. In fact, those who saw her every day, CeCe and Jack and the neighbors on either side of the little cottage in the country they had taken, thought that she grew only more beautiful as summer became fall.

  She had never felt worse. The depression Tuesday fell into when she saw Maria deepened every day until she became physically ill as well, with nausea and cramps that none of the local apothecary’s remedies did anything to soothe. In desperation, CeCe had gone around to the neighbors to round up portrait commissions and had Morse bring paints and an easel from London, but Tuesday would not touch a brush or even flip through her book of faces. She spent her days wrapped in a blanket sitting in the garden of their cottage, staring at the flowers as they lost their summer bloom, then at the grass as it turned from green to brown, and finally at the piles of leaves that littered the ground and were iced, each morning, with frost.

  Jack’s presence was the only thing that could bring a smile to her lips, but he had begun to take long walks by himself, visiting the local ponies, and when he was not there to care for, to distract her, it took all her energy to keep from thinking about Lawrence Pickering. And about Maria.

  She wanted to crawl out of her body when she realized that she had been an instrument of pain to another woman, that because of her someone else had suffered the way Curtis made her suffer. She wished there were some way to restore to Maria what she had taken away, some recompense. She had done the only thing she could—remembering the terror of being on her own, without support, she had sent Morse to pawn her dragonfly necklace and make sure Maria got the money—but she was too mortified to go and see the woman.

  The Lion had been astonished by her desertion. He did not know what he had done to anger his Lady so
much, but he knew he had to get her back. Until she returned, there would be no Great Tournament. Until she came back he could not be the Winner. He scoured the countryside for her every day he had off from work.

  And then one day his Watching paid off. He saw her brother, Jack. And the next day he had a letter from pretty, devious CeCe. And from then on, he was in control all over again.

  “Good afternoon, Lawrence,” Crispin said as he breezed, unannounced into Lawrence’s study and sat down opposite his friend. “Are you trying to embalm yourself? It is freezing in here. Why are some of your windows broken?”

  Lawrence looked up from the pile of papers on his desk. “I like the fresh air. It doesn’t seem cold to me.”

  “You must be very busy then.” Crispin leaned forward in his chair and tried to see Lawrence’s pile of papers. “What are those?”

  “Documents. I am working.”

  “Working? I would very much like to know on what.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s Tuesday. You always do something bizarre on Tuesdays.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” he replied, intently studying something interesting on the arm of Crispin’s chair.

  “You don’t? What about four weeks ago when you had your entire art collection taken from Doom Manor and sold? For a fraction of what it was worth? Wasn’t that odd?”

  Lawrence shook his head. “I was tired of it.”

  “Or three weeks ago when you had all the doors in your house taken off and burned?”

  “They made me feel hemmed in.”

  Crispin looked down at the sleeve of his jacket to see what could possibly be holding Lawrence’s attention riveted to it that way. Finding nothing, he went on. “Very well. What about the custom-made boat you sank with sacks of rocks two weeks ago?”

  Lawrence’s eyes moved to the other chair arm. “That was an experiment.”

  “Experiment in what?” Crispin asked.

  “Boat sinking. Surely you can see—”

  Crispin put up a hand. “And what kind of experiment were you doing last week when you cornered the market on dry biscuits, making them the most valuable commodity in London, and then proceeded to line them up in your garden and shoot them all with your pistol? Sixty of them?”

  “Target practice,” Lawrence said, looking at his friend as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “It is important to keep the eye in form.”

  “I should have known. Well, you are right. There is nothing strange about your behavior at all.”

  “No.” Lawrence looked down at the papers on his desk. In his lap his knuckles were white except where they were crisscrossed with scars from the time he rammed them through a window pane. He cleared his throat but did not look up from whatever was busying him on his desk. “I thought maybe you had come to congratulate me.”

  Crispin looked interested now. “On what? What have you done today? Did you blow up your coach? Or maybe you were going to take up all the planks in Miles’s ballroom floor, so they would not remind you of where you danced with her.”

  Lawrence ignored him. “Congratulate me on my engagement. I am betrothed to be married. To Olivia Waverly. Tell your aunts they can put it in their newsletter. I think Sophie will be glad. Hers is the largest wager on it.”

  “Is that why you chose Olivia? So Sophie would win a bet?”

  “Of course not. She is a lovely woman.”

  “She knew Tuesday as a girl.”

  “This has nothing to do with Tuesday.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “I think you are obsessed with her. You should watch that,” Lawrence advised, glancing up from his work. “Thank you for visiting. Give Sophie my regards. Good day, Crispin.”

  Chapter 37

  “Have you seen Jack?” Tuesday asked CeCe as she burst into the cozy atmosphere of the cottage. “I’ve been looking for him for the past two hours and I can’t find him. He’s been gone all day.”

  “I am certain he is fine,” CeCe said.

  “How can you be certain?” Tuesday demanded.

  “Who would hurt him?”

  “It’s not so much who as what. It is nearly dark out and it looks like there is going to be a storm.” Tuesday pressed herself next to the window and looked out. “He has not been really happy since he left Doom Hall. I am worried he might have done something to himself.”

  “Not Jack,” CeCe assured her. “I think he is mostly sad for you. He hates it when you don’t smile.”

  “You are right. I should try to be jollier when he is around.” She looked out the window for another two minutes and announced, “I am going out looking for him.”

  “No,” CeCe said firmly. “Tuesday, you are not well. You are staying here. It is sleeting out.”

  “All the more reason for me to try to find him. What if he is lost and outside? What if—”

  CeCe tried to comfort her again. “He has some money. He knows to go to a tavern.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Jack would not want you to worry about him this way,” CeCe said, hoping the impatience did not show through her voice. Where were they? She was getting tired of having to keep Tuesday locked up. “He is fine. I am sure he is snug in a tavern smiling at the barmaid right now. Come back inside.”

  Tuesday spent all night standing in the doorway letting the sleet and cold air in, and CeCe spent it at her own window, but there was no sign of anyone. At the first hint of dawn CeCe came downstairs and found Tuesday putting on her boots.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going in search of him.”

  CeCe put herself in front of the door. “He is fine. I know where he is. No one is going to hurt him. You are staying here.”

  CeCe’s tone was brusque. Tuesday stared at her. “What are you talking about? What do you mean you know where he is.”

  “I am not going to tell you, and if you don’t—”

  The sound of carriage wheels crunching over the icy ground stopped CeCe in the middle of her speech.

  Tuesday’s hands froze with her scarf halfway to her neck. Something had happened to Jack. Jack was dead. Jack had been hurt and the barber was bringing him home. These were the only possible explanations for the arrival of a coach. She had pushed past CeCe and was out of the cottage and skidding down the front of the walk in her slippers as the door of the carriage opened.

  Four people looked out at her and she saw that she had not actually covered all the possible explanations.

  “How do you do it?” Lawrence demanded as Crispin sauntered into his office.

  “What?”

  “Get by an entire staff of servants both armed and trained to keep me undisturbed without them even thinking to announce you?”

  “Bribes,” Crispin answered. The truth was that Lawrence’s servants would have allowed in anyone or anything who offered even the slightest chance of bringing their master to his senses.

  “Is this going to be another one of your talks? I am very busy today.”

  “Of course. You are always busy. In fact, you seem busier these days than ever before.”

  “I am,” Lawrence confirmed, glad that people had noticed. His activities had increased and changed slightly in the months since his engagement, keeping him almost constantly occupied.

  He had entered into the fast-moving commodity market at the Royal Exchange with a vehemence that left his friends breathless. By Crispin’s best guess, Lawrence had managed to lose the better part of an average man’s fortune through his speculations in the last two weeks alone. The label “A Pickering Pick” on any stock was quickly coming to be viewed as a sure sign that its value would decrease.

  However stimulating this might be for the economy, and Crispin was certain he had seen at least one merchant in negotiations for a new coach, it was not good for Lawrence. He would always have plenty of money, but this carelessness was unlike him. It was as if
instead of doing things to obliterate the memory of Tuesday, he had begun to do things to punish it. And himself as well.

  “Was there something in particular you wanted, Crispin, or did you just drop in to say hello? Because—”

  “There is something in particular. Actually, several people asked me to come today. Triscut Walpole was wondering if he could ask you not to invest in the new stock his bank is offering. They are hoping to raise quite a lot of money and, while I’m sure you aren’t aware of it, your interest in anything these days is a bit of a liability.”

  “You are mistaken. I am aware of it.”

  “Then why are you speculating like this?”

  Lawrence scowled at him. “To make money.”

  “You are doing a lousy job.” Crispin sat forward and said, “Lawrence, you can’t take your anger at Tuesday out on every market in London.”

  “I’ve warned you about this obsession of yours. Have I done anything illegal?”

  “No.”

  “So why is my investing wrong?”

  “Because you are not investing. You are bleeding money.”

  “I can afford to.”

  “It’s not about that Lawrence. It’s about what is good for you.”

  “Ah. It all makes sense to me. You certainly never objected to my speculations when I just buying gaming clubs, Crispin. But now that I am trying to be a legitimate merchant, just like you, you object? Is it because I was poor? Because I was abandoned by my mother and—”

  The only thing that kept Crispin from punching Lawrence at that moment was Christopher stepping through the doorway and announcing, “Lady Waverly, my lord.”

  Olivia floated into the room, immediately attune to the thick atmosphere. “Lord Sandal, how are you?” she asked, curtseying to Crispin. Looking from him to Lawrence she said, “I hope I am not interrupting anything important.”

  “No.” Crispin rose from his chair. He stared hard at Lawrence for a moment and then, filled with anger, stalked to the door. When he reached it he forced himself to turn around. He tried to paste on a smile but spotting himself in the mirror across the room he saw it looked like he was choking. He said, “Congratulations on your engagement.”