Educating Caroline (38 page)

It was all slowly beginning to sink in. Sweet, dull, virtuous Lady Caroline—
his
Lady Caroline—was virtuous no longer. She was also, he couldn’t help noticing, not very dull anymore.

Ruined. She said she’d been ruined. And that she’d seen him. Him and Jacquelyn, together on a divan at Dame Ashforth’s. But she hadn’t said anything. All this time, she hadn’t said anything.

Until now. Because now, apparently, she was saying good-bye.

She rose to go. “I hope there won’t be any unpleasantness about this, Hurst. I really was quite fond of you for a little while. And I like to think you were, too, of me.”

He blinked up into her heart-shaped face. She looked . . . older. But that was impossible. He had seen her only a few days earlier. How could she . . . ?
Who
could she . . . ?

“And now I had better leave you,” she said. “We still haven’t found Tommy. It’s quite the oddest thing, and not a bit like him. I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him, have you?”

Hurst, realizing at last what was happening, threw back the blanket that had been covering his legs, and made an effort to stand.

“You can’t do this,” Hurst declared.

The money. That was all he could think. The money that might have been his. The fortune that, with the earl out of the way, would have been all Caroline’s—and his. He hadn’t wanted to kill the earl. Lord knew he hadn’t wanted to do it. But he’d eventually come to believe he was actually doing the Linfords a favor: the boy would only have gambled away his inheritance when he finally received it anyway. This way—The Duke’s way—the money, at least, would be safe.

He hadn’t wanted to do it, but he felt he had no choice now. Standing with his weight on his uninjured leg, and holding on to the back of the chair she’d been sitting in, he said, “Caroline, think what you’re doing. I . . . I saved Tommy’s life. If it hadn’t been for me, your brother would be dead.”

For a moment, something passed through those eyes. He was certain it was guilt, and felt a rush of relief. He’d won. He’d won.

But then the guilt disappeared, and was replaced by that curious, emotionless mask.

“You did save Tommy’s life,” Caroline said, calmly. “And for that I’ll always be grateful. It’s for that very reason, you see, that I can’t possibly marry you now. You deserve so much more than . . . well, what I’ve become.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done,” Hurst said, desperately. “Or who with, Caroline. I’ll take you back. I still want you.”

Caroline raised her eyebrows, as if he had said something interesting. “Oh?”

“I mean it, Caroline,” he went on. “And . . . and the truth is, well, not to be coarse, Caroline, but you’ll never get anyone else. Not after what you just told me. You’ll be publicly humiliated, a laughingstock, when word of this gets out. No man will want you—but I do. I will always want you.”

Her eyes—those damned reproachful eyes—were cool. “But I don’t want you,” she said, matter-of-factly.

And without another word, the Lady Caroline Linford left the room. And his life.

Jacquelyn came bursting from the room next door.

“You fool!” she cried. “You perfect fool!”

“Jackie.” Hurst let go of his chair, swinging his injured leg gingerly, and limped toward the window. He felt as if he needed a bit of air. “She saw us. At Dame Ashforth’s. She saw us.”

“I heard. I’m not deaf. God, you are such an imbecile! If you’d just eloped with her when I asked you to, none of this would be happening. But no. You had to let Granville get his hands on her—”

“What do you mean?” Hurst interrupted, sharply.

“You are such an innocent, beloved.” Jacquelyn tossed her head. “Ruined! I’ll say she was. And who do you think did it? I’ll tell you. None other than the man who put a bullet through your leg.”

Hurst’s lips moved silently.
Granville?

“I told you he’s in love with her,” Jacquelyn said, waspishly. “And it was clear to me—at least when I saw her at Worth’s yesterday—that she feels the same way about him. And there you have it. He got her. The Lothario of London got your fiancée. And all because you didn’t act quickly enough.”

Hurst watched through the window as Caroline Linford appeared upon the street, and entered her waiting carriage. “Braden Granville,” he murmured. “She’s leaving me for Braden Granville.”

“Likely as not,” Jacquelyn said. And she went and rang the bell for the maid.

Hurst turned his head to look at her curiously. “What are you doing?”

Jacquelyn regarded him curiously. “Ringing for my things. I’m leaving.”

Hurst stared at her. “You’re what?”

Jacquelyn looked determined. “I don’t like it any better-than you, my pet, but we haven’t any choice. And we oughtn’t waste any time. I noticed that old fool, Lord Whitcomb, looking down my dress the other night. I’m going to go and throw myself at him. He’s got five thousand a year, and another two coming when that windbag mother of his finally dies.”

Hurst said, through dry lips, “No. No, Jackie—”

His mind was awhirl. He could not quite believe what was happening to him. To have lost so much so quickly was beyond the scope of his understanding. It couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t.

“I hope you’ve some other pokers in the fire, love,” Lady Jacquelyn said. The maid had appeared with her bonnet and parasol, laid them on a table, and quickly disappeared again. Jacquelyn pulled on a pair of white lace mittens as she spoke. “Young ladies, I mean. The Chitten-house girls are miserably plain, I know, but the eldest has ten thousand a year. If you can bear to look at those teeth every morning, it might well be worth it. Oh, but we can’t make the same mistake this time, my pet. I think we should stay away from each other until after the weddings. Don’t you agree? We can’t risk another Dame Ashforth’s.” She noticed his expression and said, “It won’t be long, love. Surely you can live without your Jackie for a few months, at least?”

And with that, she kissed him briefly on the lips, and floated from the room.

He flinched as the door closed behind her.

Of course he could live without her.

But why should he have to?

He knew why. He knew why only too well. Two names. Two odious, noxious names.

Braden Granville.

Braden Granville, that upstart from the Dials, who didn’t know his place any better than The Duke knew his, but who seemed to think he could make up for it with his hefty bank account and a charming way with women.

Braden Granville, whose money was so new, it squeaked, every penny of it earned not by the proper method of accruing income, through careful investment of inherited funds, but by the sweat of his odious, upstart brow.

Braden Granville, who knew far, far too much. Hurst couldn’t imagine how—probably because of the highly unsavory circles in which he traveled—but somehow, Granville had managed to learn of the plot to get rid of the Earl of Bartlett.

He had to be gotten rid of. If only Hurst had been quicker the day before with his pistol. . . .

Well, in any case, it was clear now he had to finish what he’d started. Braden Granville had to be destroyed. The alternative was unthinkable. Hurst had to protect himself.

It wasn’t going to be easy. He knew that. Granville’s performance in his own sitting room the day before had proved how inhumanly quick the man was with a weapon. He was someone who had spent a lifetime sidestepping death, and was well used to having pistols pointed at him.

But Braden Granville had never met an adversary who’d had as much reason to kill him as Hurst. Granville’s knowledge of Hurst’s activities with The Duke made him supremely dangerous.

And then there was the fact that the man had threatened, manhandled, and humiliated him, then had gone on to bed both the love of his life and, apparently, his virginal fiancée.

Granville had to die. And Hurst was the one who would kill him, wounded leg or not. He could still walk. The surgeon had assured him he could. He’d walk right into Braden Granville’s impossibly large house on Belgrave Square, and—

No. No, he’d
slip
into it, the way he’d slipped in and out of Jackie’s house. Slip into Braden Granville’s, do his business, and slip out again, avoiding detection. He could do it. He knew he could. He’d been caught unawares the day before, when Granville had shown up at his flat. This time, he’d be the one to show up unexpectedly.

Oh, yes. And he wouldn’t be satisfied with a mere bullet-through the leg, either. He would have the pleasure, Hurst decided, of watching Granville die.

The Duke, he thought, was going to be proud.

36

B
raden Granville sat in his library, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had not drunk from the glass, nor did he recall pouring it. He simply stared into the liquid’s amber depths, thinking that its color shifted in the light in quite the same way as a certain pair of eyes he knew. . . .

The Earl of Bartlett’s voice drew him back from where he’d gone, miles and miles away.

“So you’re saying I can’t go home yet.” Thomas still spoke a little too loudly. His hearing had not yet completely returned, although the surgeon who’d been summoned to attend him had assured them that it would, in time.

Braden inclined his head. “Yes,” he said. “Apparently, there was a slight . . . misunderstanding.”

The boy studied him quizzically from the chair in which he slumped. “Misunderstanding? What kind of misunderstanding?”

“Well.” Braden Granville wondered how it was that he could go on talking like this, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, when inwardly, he was weeping. It sounded dramatic, he knew. But it was the truth. Just not a truth he chose to share with Weasel or Crutch, and most specifically, this boy in front of him.

“The authorities have tracked down and arrested Seymour Hawkins, otherwise known as The Duke.” When Tommy’s jaw dropped at this piece of information, Braden nodded. “Yes, I thought it wisest to have him incarcerated. You needn’t worry, you won’t be called to testify against him. The crimes he committed right here in London some time back will keep him behind bars for years. Unless, of course—” This he added almost thoughtfully, “they hang him.”

“I had no idea,” the earl said, again speaking too loudly. “There was nothing about his arrest in the papers.”

“No. There’ll be something tomorrow, if my sources are correct. And so you’ll have to stay here at least another night. No messages home, either. I’m sorry, but the . . . individual with whom I dealt yesterday proved to be surprisingly intractable, and did not follow my instructions. Your life could still very well be in some danger, at least so long as he thinks The Duke remains at liberty.”

The boy eyed him somberly with dark eyes that were disturbingly like his sister’s. But Braden tried not to think about that.

“You’re talking about Hurst, aren’t you?” Tommy asked. “No, don’t shake your head. I knew it was him. I knew it was him from the moment the gun went off in my ear. He tried to kill me.” His voice did not quaver in the least.

Braden tried for a slight shrug by way of response.

“No,” the earl said. “There’s no need to baby me. I’ve been a fool. I see it all now. He felt bad the first time— when The Duke shot me last December, I mean. Because it was his fault, in a way, for taking me to that place. He knew they’d cheat me. He knew it good and well. And so he blamed himself.”

Braden said only, “I think so,” and that he said softly.

The earl apparently hadn’t heard him. “But then it became apparent that I was a liability, wasn’t I? Because of what I knew. I might talk. Not just about the cheating, but about how The Duke tried to kill me. And so he determined to get rid of me.”

Braden said, “If it’s of any comfort to you, I didn’t get the impression that Lord Winchilsea much relished the assignment. Killing you, I mean. I believe he was only doing it because his own life was in some jeopardy if he didn’t.”

“Still,” Tommy said, with a good deal of indignation, “he didn’t have to go through with it. He could have run away.”

“Ah, yes.” Braden’s smile was brittle. “But then he wouldn’t have had the privilege of marrying your sister, you see.”

The earl, turning red with anger everywhere but where the gunpowder still lay embedded beneath his skin—it would, according to the surgeon, work its way out eventually—scowled into his lap. “As if I’d let her now. Marry that blackguard, I mean. It was all right, when I didn’t know he was in on it. But now—”

“Yes, well.” The brittle smile vanished. “That is, of course, for you and your sister to work out.”

“I’ve got to tell her,” the boy said. He didn’t, however, speak very loudly, and Braden wondered if perhaps he hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. “If only there was some way to leave out the gambling, though . . .”

“You’ll have plenty of time to think it through.” Braden Granville set the untouched glass of whiskey aside. “You’re to have no communications at all with your family until we know it’s safe.”

“But she has a right to know,” the earl said, more loudly this time, so it was clear he wasn’t speaking to himself. “She has a right to know the kind of man she’s marrying. Don’t you see? It’s all my fault she got involved with him in the first place. He had me fooled—he had all of us fooled. With his title and his connections and his charm. We thought he was gentry.”

Braden lifted a brow at the fractious boy. “And he is. Winchilsea is a well-respected title, one of the oldest in the Baronetage.” He recalled his father’s frequent recitations from that esteemed tome. “The Slaters have managed to maintain their blue-bloodedness from as far back as—”

“But underneath all that,” the earl interrupted, “he isn’t any better than that Hawkins fellow.”

“That may be so,” Braden said, gravely. “But I don’t want you leaving this house, or sending any messages— not to your sister, or your mother, or anyone. Later, if you wish—”

But he broke off, and said nothing more, only busied himself with shuffling the papers on his desk. What was he doing?
What was he doing?
He’d sworn he wouldn’t. He’d told himself he wouldn’t appeal to this boy to help him with his situation with Caroline. If she refused to believe him when he said his shooting Slater had nothing to do with Jacquelyn, then she was exactly like all the other women he’d ever known: suspicious, contrary, and controlling. He’d washed his hands of her.

And yet he was bleeding inside.

“Later, sir?”

Braden did not even glance at him. “Nothing. Run along. I have a good deal of catching up to do. As you know, I left early yesterday, and came in quite late today. . . .”

The earl said, quite suddenly, “You shot him, didn’t you?”

Braden, startled, cleared his throat. “No, no. Well, not really. Just a little.” When a broad grin broke out over the earl’s face, Braden said, severely, “It isn’t amusing. It’s quite wrong to shoot people. Guns and violence . . . we are a civilized society, and there isn’t any place for them.”

The earl’s grin vanished. “You sound exactly like my sister.”

“Yes,” Braden agreed. “Go and visit Weasel now, will you, my lord? I have a great deal to do.”