Passion (2 page)

Matilda is dead, buried—with all the pomp and
somber honor that was required for one of her rep and birth. It is
perhaps too late to ever breathe, feel lightness, or wholeness of
life again. Though I do not know how, something in me says that I
must at least make an effort.

I am packing for my London townhouse, having
put myself in self-imposed exile for two years, which most will
take as mourning, such a good actor was I in public.

My eldest, Jules…I bestowed the Earldom on,
thus he is styled Jules LeClair, 4th Earl of Stoneleigh. He escaped
this wretched house and survives in his own way. The last of the
Lombardi’s died a month after Matilda, and he inherited double the
riches he already possessed. By all accounts, Jules garners certain
awe in high circles for being the seed of two such powerful
bloodlines. Like all of my sons, he is a stranger to me. And why
not? I am a stranger to myself.

My second son, Blaise, Viscount Roche, I have
only just heard, is being forced to retire from the Royal
Navy…Another wound, God’s mercy. This one could be mortal from the
accounts sent to me from Lord Percy at the war office. Part of me
is glad he will not war again. He has escaped death once more, and
has already given eight years to the crown.

Raith… I have no notion of where my youngest
is, though I suspect his brother Jules may.

My—our—secret was no secret to those under
our roof. Bitterness was served abundantly. We tasted it daily from
Matilda, who could not stand to look at Raith—and, from myself, who
dared not show favor to the boy.

Raith was called Lord Montovon from his
sixteenth birthday when his blood uncle arranged, through a
solicitor and myself, to bestow upon him Montovon abbey in
Cornwall, and a property somewhere in London. (He is also the heir
to Spanish titles when his uncle passes.) Something he does not
know. Something—I’d planned to tell him when he was twenty.

Matilda was so enraged at the inheritance—in
hopes, no doubt, he would resent both his lack of title and fortune
as the youngest, and either get himself killed in a war, or take
himself to some obscure foreign outpost, and die of fever—Her
desired wish for most young men she considered rubbish.

However, that was the day she told him the
truth, in my absence. The day the servants told me that she
lied…lied foul and cruel, about his mother, about myself to drive
him away emotionally, and sever any bond he may have felt with
me—or his brothers.

Worse has happened. I have now discovered, an
event kept from me for six bloody years, much to my pain—and my
fear. The mysterious missive informs me that Raith was wed several
years back, and that his wife was found dead, slaughtered, washed
up on the banks of the Thames a short six months afterwards—and
that he has been waiting and weaving his web for six years to snare
the man who did it. I go with the knowledge that I have three sons,
shaped by my weaknesses and Matilda's harsh aloofness, brothers who
were raised in a barren and loveless home—shaped, twisted, by the
hypocrisy we kept alive.

I know what an impossible dream my heart
wants to ignite. There is no salvaging at this late date—and yet
again, my heart cries… I must try.

His Grace, Artis LeClair, Duke of
Eastland.

* * * *

A soft tic, a ding of the bells, tolls on the
hour and chimes on the half. A man could set his clock by my
tightly kept schedule whilst in town. I ride in the park early,
breakfast at my club afterwards. Subsequently, I attend some
gathering, a formal lunch, a musical and afterward supper. At
night, it is the balls and theater. Generally, it is the same, save
for weekend races or some royal command attendance.

I stand today in front of the mirror, whilst
my valet slips another richly tailored coat on me. His almost
feminine hands will brush invisible lint from the shoulders. He
will check the flawlessness of my cravat, adjust the emerald pen
that does not need it, and give the skirt of the waistcoat a tug
before standing back and eyeing his handiwork.

I stare sightless into the mirror, never
having to check, aware that Randolph would never allow me to leave
my chambers in less than perfection. Somewhere in the back of my
mind, I recollect how it used to annoy me when the Valet did that
extra smoothing down of my straight shoulder length black hair, or
when he brushed a hand on my jaw to assure he had shaved it
smoothly. I used to feel vexed, when after tucking my shirt into my
snug black trousers, he would erase any wrinkles with his small
hands.

Now it exasperated and sardonically amused
me. I watched him polish my boots again with his own handkerchief,
then fuss around before looking upwards. He was a foot shorter than
my six feet two. I could feel his eyes checking every brow hair
before he made a sound and moved away.

I caught some glimpse of the humor sparking
in my green eyes before I turned away to collect my cape and
gloves. It turned grim enough by the time, I was below in my
study—and handed a pair of missives by the butler.

For the first time in ages, my schedule
slipped my mind. His Grace, my father, was on his way to London. I
had not paid any heed if his townhouse had any activity about it.
It was a street up from my own, and even had I, we were not on
informal terms. I certainly showed him respect when we were in
attendance at some gathering. Nevertheless, it would be a stretch
to call anything between us, warm.

I tossed the missive aside and heeded the
other.

It—took the strength from my knees. I leaned
against the desk. I read the words twice before they sank in. With
utmost care, I laid it on the desk and stood, taking myself to the
decanter with little memory of walking, or pouring a whiskey and
drinking it down. It took another, before I could pick up my cape
and gloves and leave the study.

Everything was as usual when I walked out of
the study, the butler in the foyer, pulling open the door, my
crested coach awaits, and the footmen are opening the coach door
for me. I was half way to the formal supper before I realized the
wheels even turned from my curb.

My cape and gloves on, I stand amid the crush
awaiting entry to the hall. Heads turn my way, greetings, gushing
from most, and I am aware that I generally nod, never smile, and
habitually use these times to compile the lists I will send to the
steward of Stoneleigh manor—seed, manure, wine for the cellars
there, plan the rotation of crops for fall.

Later, I am seated amid the 100 guests. Some
of the most powerful men in England are present, royals, diplomats,
half the House of Lords, several Generals—one who is escorting a
foreign princess. I am favored with friendly nods and given a sly
wink from a grand Duke, who I invite boating every summer.

I feel someone regarding me and glance to the
left as I sip wine, encountering the gaze of Lord Marcus Stratton,
beside him as usual is not his younger child bride Lillana who
supposedly spoke no English, but the ever present Damari, her
brother, a pale-eyed Adonis, slight of build, petulant of mouth,
but having that something which made my skin crawl.

The sheer intensity of sixty-year-old
Stratton’s dark blue gaze was rude and offensive. Stratton wore his
silver hair short, waving back from his forehead. His clothing was
expensive, rich silk cravats and velvet coats. He had some minor
title. But, was in essence a rich planter with plantations in
several parts of the world. However, by rep, a moneylender who had
ties, according to rumor, to some of the worst brothels and gin
houses, a man who employed thugs from the docks as
bodyguards...

It wasn’t the first time I wondered how he
managed to move in such elevated circles—who he knew, or who owed
him some favor—or debts, more like. Though many at the table had
vises, it was unusual to mingle them in their highly scrutinized
social lives.

Moreover, this was not the first time I found
myself under his scrutiny. Stares were not uncommon when I was
present. I had long since found my looks more a hindrance than
asset when it came to being taken seriously—I had remedied that,
not only with my success at keeping my estates and fortunes
growing, but by my private conversations with gentlemen of
intellect and import, who were thrice my age, and my contributions
to the more serious societies and foundations.

This evening I found it more difficult to
brush off Stratton’s attentions. I choose, for now, to believe it
is because of my speeches and writings on the abolition of slavery
in the British dominions—and his use of slaves on his own
plantations, as well as providing them for others through his
supposed merchant ventures, that provokes his rudeness.

Music, voices, the sparkling of chandeliers
off the crystal and silver, the mingling of perfumes, scents, food
and flowers—too loud laughter from Chauncey, the old Duchess’s
spoiled nephew who starts his drinking at dawn, distracted me from
Stratton’s stares. I lose count of the wine I drink. Faces swim and
blur. I converse, I hear myself doing so and am distantly amazed
that I have perfected so much of my actions and speech, I do not
need to think about it. It comes out flawless.

I sit through two hours of conversation,
cheroots, a half hour in the Duke’s study, brandy and talk—mostly
politics. I usually manage to ruffle a few feathers—but tonight, it
does not privately amuse me.

I take my leave, kiss feminine hands, and do
the bows and speeches.

Out in the damp London air, I stand with the
door of the coach open, my hand on the roof of it feeling the world
rock and shift around and under me.

I am being blackmailed.

A night that beforehand was only a blur
begins to warp through my mind. Images of myself are clear, but the
young male is not. I keep seeing the morning sun and feel the sharp
pierce of it that woke me. I reek of spirits and sweat and stumble
on the bed sheets arising. It slows in motion, as usual, the moment
I realize there are trousers on the floor with mine, and boots, not
a gown and stockings, no corset and hair pens. The sickening deluge
goes over me. I know nothing before. I remember nothing—but the
seal and crest on a tangled chain lying amid the shirt and neck
cloth.

Now, at present, I am both chilled and
sweating. Someone steps out and asks if I am well? I reply with
calm (perfectly well) and get into the coach. My gloves land in the
floor. I close my eyes, breathing too shallow, too fast. The cape
is like led on my shoulders.

I all but run once the coach stops—through
the door, I eye the stairs as if there is a haven above, though I
know there is not. Servants are everywhere, taking my cape, asking
something, bowing, curtsying, and I bark something—distantly seeing
the shock on their faces.

I feel as if I am stumbling toward the stairs
but I stride with my usual pace. The butler is on my heels, the
bloody man. He dares to catch my arm, and God knows what shows in
my eyes when he detains me.

My lord, he says, this came, urgent it says.
I snatch it, open it, aware he has left, that he is shooing
servants out. Everyone is scurrying to leave me be.

I loose my hold on the stair rail, turn and
sit heavily down on the bottom tread. The missive sheets in my
fingers, dangles.

It reads: I will grant you audience on
Thursday noon, to discuss your request concerning, Lady Caroline. I
hold you in the highest regard, Lord Stoneleigh, but as you are
aware, Lady Caroline is only in her second formal season. As her
Mother came from royalty, she is held in “reserve” for a possible
match in that quarter. However, I have observed your intimacy with
those circles yourself, and since you enjoy a faultless standing
with those of import, I am inclined to consider your suit. It is
signed respectfully His Grace, David Bordwyc, 6th Duke Bordwyc.

I am torn between panic, a feeling completely
foreign to me—and a gut-sick dread that there is more evidence,
some trace of guilt, that someone possesses—the blackmailer
doubtless, that will not only cause my social ruin, it will get me
hung—depending on what is accused. I feel bile in my throat and
rise, rushing up to find the basin in the water closet, where I
empty my gut.

I am glad the valet is not hovering, touching
me, I may well do violence. I am fevered and chilled as I rinse my
mouth and start taking off my clothing.

In my trousers, I lay on the bed, my clothing
in an un-neat heap, another first, on the floor near the wardrobe.
I keep rubbing my face as if some veil will lift and I will see
through the fog of that night. I never do.

Jules LeClair, 4th Earl of Stoneleigh

* * * *

I have no bloody clue if 'tis day or night. I
am relieved to disembark from the Hospital ship, even if it is
humiliating to be led by a young Sergeant. I resign myself to
sounding grateful, though it comes out through clinched teeth. He
calls a hack whilst I am straining to hear the noise on the docks
and distinguish them. It is nearing dark, I think. Directions are
given after my bag is put in, and I smell sharper scents on the way
to Sir Langley’s.

I had not agreed to a private physician, but
since I lost my sight in the blast of shrapnel, everyone acts as if
I have lost my intellect and senses too.

The coach stops. The streets are crowded. I
use my cane but loathe it. The driver helps me to the door, knocks.
Sir Langley’s butler takes over. I am walked by the arm to some
seating. I smell cooked beef mingled with a medicinal odor.

Sir Langley enters. I stand, shake his hand,
and though he has a pleasant voice, deep, mature and calm, I can
almost feel his fingers itch to take off the bandage and get a look
at the mess. I give in. He walks me somewhere, murmuring to me in a
low voice—directions, counting steps, watch out for the door.