The Wild One (28 page)

The answer, when it came, was grim. No, Lord
Brookhampton was not there; he had left an hour before with a group
of his friends. Gareth knew just what friends Perry must've left
with. He swore and continued on, soaked and miserable and never
needing those friends as much as he needed them now.

He went straight to Brookhampton House,
where Perry's mother told him her son was abed, then slammed the
door in his face. He went to his other friends' town houses, and
was given a similar reception by their mothers, who had listened
too much to Perry's, bore grudges against him, or just plain
thought him a bad influence on their darling sons.

By one in the morning, he was shivering and
hungry. By two, he was getting a sore throat. He continued on, numb
with fatigue and growing despair. By three, exhaustion had caught
up with him, and he began to wander aimlessly. He rode to Grosvenor
Square, back to Hanover Square, up and down Pall Mall and
Piccadilly endless times. No Cokeham, no Chilcot, no Audlett,
nobody. Huddled against the cold rain, he turned Crusader north
once more, the horse's hoofbeats echoing against the dark and
silent buildings that lined Albemarle Street. A young urchin slid
out of the shadows begging for a penny, and Gareth, feeling as
miserable as the lad looked, reached into his pocket for a coin,
forgetting that it was long since empty. The boy cursed him
furiously, spit at Crusader's feet and fled back into the rainy
night. Gareth was alone once more.

With no other recourse, he let the big
hunter carry him back to the mews near Bruton Street. The building
was damp and cold, but at least it was shelter from the rain that
sheeted down outside. Shivering, he pulled the wet saddle from
Crusader's steaming back, rubbed him down with a few handfuls of
straw, and, carrying the saddle, stumbled wearily to a corner,
where he tossed the tack to the stone floor and stood contemplating
it for a moment, so tired that he could not muster a single
coherent thought from the jumble of meaninglessness they'd all
become.

In a stupor of fatigue, he scraped and
kicked a few bits of old straw together over the uneven floor. Then
he lowered himself to the cold damp stone, pulling his drenched
surtout up over his shoulders and resting his head against the
saddle. Beneath him, the stone reeked of horse manure and felt like
a slab of ice. Trails of cold water still drizzled from his hair
and down his neck. He had never been so miserable in his life.

Exhaustion eventually won out. His eyes
drifted shut and Lord Gareth de Montforte fell into a deep and
troubled sleep.

Chapter 22

It was a wet and wild night on the Lambourn
Downs, too. The wind drove through the vale in which Ravenscombe
nestled, tearing off a roof tile here, snapping branches from a
copper beech there, whistling up and over the high downs and
through the gatehouse of Blackheath, where it made the roses in the
garden thrash and bob, moaned around the mighty castle, rattled the
windows in their casements, pummeled the ancient stone with rain.
But the castle stood firm and high and invincible. It had thwarted
both man and the elements for five hundred years and would probably
thwart them for five hundred more. Its great towers stood out
against the black sky, its close-cropped lawns were an expanse of
dark velvet. Only the library windows glowed with light,
proclaiming the presence of one who had not yet gone to bed.

In a chair beside the cold hearth sat the
duke, his face grim as, by the light of a single candle, he opened
the missive that had just arrived from his man in London.

My dear duke,

I hope it will set your mind at ease to know
that his lordship your brother married Miss Juliet Paige this
morning under special license (and at great expense, I might add),
and that all went as well as could be expected. This evening, Lord
Gareth brought his family to Mrs. Bottomley's; careful inquiries
have assured me that they have merely taken a room there for the
night, nothing more, and so, satisfied of their safety, I have
taken my leave of them and will reassume my clandestine vigil in
the morning, at which time I shall report again.

C.

Lucien leaned forward, set the note on a
table, and kneaded his brow. So he'd married her. Good. But as he
gazed out over the rainy, night-shrouded downs and thought of them
all off in London, he could not take pleasure in his success. Leave
it to Gareth to bring his family to a whorehouse, of all places.
God only knew where he'd take them tomorrow ...

He rose to his feet, pacing slowly back and
forth, hands clasped behind his back. Was he right to have placed
any faith in his brother? Was he right to have any faith that the
girl could turn him around, make something of him? And why had
she
consented to stay at a whorehouse? Lucien swore softly
beneath his breath. If it weren't for Gareth's fierce pride — and
Lucien's own dwindling hopes that, through adversity, Gareth would
finally straighten himself out — he'd order Armageddon saddled,
ride to London, and drag them all back here himself. Nerissa had
begged him to do it. Andrew, who wasn't speaking to him, had
threatened to go himself. And now to hear that Gareth hadn't taken
his family to respectable lodgings but to a damned brothel ...

He shook his head. No. He would not
intervene, no matter how tempted he was, no matter what lows his
brother had sunk to. He had to give Gareth this chance to prove
himself.

Had to allow him this chance to grow up.

He picked up the candle, pocketed the
missive, and moved silently from the room, the meager flame glowing
against Blackheath's ancient stone walls as he moved through the
silent, shadowy corridors. He began to climb the stairs. Sleep
might evade him, as it often did on these nights when the wind
moaned around the castle and he relived that terrible moment when
he'd discovered his father dead on the tower stairs all those years
ago, but at least he could find peace in one thing: Gareth might be
up to his usual depravity some miles away in London, but through
his informer, the Duke of Blackheath was watching over him most
keenly, indeed.

He had already lost one brother.

By God, he would not lose another.

~~~~

In a lavish bedroom at de Montforte House, a
humble young woman from the colonies lay dreaming on soft,
goosedown pillows. A thick, fluffy counterpane warmed her body, her
skin was silky after a bath in lavender water, and the fire that
crackled in the hearth filled the room with heat and light.

On a cold stone floor in a nearby mews, the
heir presumptive to an English dukedom also slept, his pillow the
hard leather of a saddle, his blanket the wet surtout that covered
his shivering body. His skin was damp and raw, and the rain that
beat down outside found its way in through the leaky roof, creeping
beneath his sleeping body via grooves and channels in the filthy
stone floor.

The horizon greyed with the approach of
dawn. The nightman came in leading his tired horse, a lantern in
his hand. He saw the nob lying apparently drunk on the floor,
stepped over his huddled body with indifference, and put his horse
in its narrow stall. A few feet away, the drunk was mumbling
something in his sleep, tossing fitfully.

But Lord Gareth de Montforte was not drunk.
He was dreaming ...

You are lazy, feckless, dissolute, useless.
You are an embarrassment to this family — and especially to me.
When you grow up and learn the meaning of responsibility, Gareth,
perhaps I shall treat you with the respect I did your brother ...
the respect I did your brother ... the respect I did your brother
...

Gareth tried to storm away. But this time he
could not just go riding off to escape Lucien's savage rebuke,
could not just laugh in his face and go find some other trouble in
which to involve himself, because this time it was a dream, and
there was nowhere else to go. Instead, he tried to escape by
clawing toward wakefulness, but the dream held him in its clutches
like an iron shackle around a prisoner's leg, and there was no
getting away.

And still, Lucien, gazing down his nose at
him with the highest contempt, those damning words echoing over and
over.

Lazy, feckless, dissolute, useless.

"Oh, just sod off, will you?" Gareth cried,
lashing out at that austere, forbidding face. "Bugger off and leave
me the hell alone!"

He turned over and saw Charles.

"Hello, Gareth."

He froze, staring in open-mouthed shock.
Then his heart began to beat in sudden, fragile excitement. He
blinked, disbelieving. "Charles?" he croaked.

Charles smiled. He was in his regimental
uniform with its blue facings and shining gorget, his sword at his
side. For a long moment he looked at Gareth, his face tender with
brotherly love; then he shook his head, gave a tolerant little
smile, and, turning on his booted heel, began to walk away.

The command to follow was an unspoken one.
Gareth picked himself up, shot Lucien a triumphant glance over his
shoulder, and dashed off after Charles, hardly daring to
breathe.

Incredibly, Lucien did not try to stop
him.

His brother led him through the fields,
never turning to see if Gareth followed, never pausing to wait, but
continuing on his way as purposefully as if he were leading his
company into battle. How long they walked Gareth did not know.
Where they were going he could not even guess. But eventually
Charles paused, and as Gareth came up beside him, he stood back and
pointed to something just ... becoming ... discernible through a
drifting envelope of gray mist. Gareth gasped. It was their mother,
having tea in the garden with Perry's mother, her smile as gentle,
loving, and heartwarming as he remembered. His heart leaped.
Mama!
he cried excitedly, but she went right on talking to the
Witch, never hearing him, never even knowing he was there. And as
the mists cleared even more, Gareth saw that a fine summer day
surrounded them, with the pond sparkling like a blue mirror in the
distance. Far off in the muck and bulrushes that ringed it, he
could just see a bit of color: himself as a little boy, hiding in
the weeds with Perry and giggling in preparation for their grand
prank.

He glanced excitedly at Charles. His brother
inclined his head, directing Gareth to turn his attention back to
this long-ago scene that was unfolding before them ...

"Really, Mary," Lady Brookhampton was
saying waspishly, "I don't see why you defend him so. I don't think
his antics are charming at all! He's a mischievous brat, and he'll
cause you nothing but heartbreak and embarrassment. Charles is the
one who will be the heir if anything happens to Lucien, Charles is
the one who deserves your time and efforts —
not
that horrid
little hellspawn!"

Not that horrid little hellspawn.

Charles looked pained. He gazed quietly at
Gareth, who faltered, undone by the blatant love in his brother's
eyes. He knew that Charles had hated the comparisons between the
two of them as much as he did, if not more. He knew that Charles
had always felt guilty about coming out on top, as though it was
his fault that he and Gareth were made so differently. The sympathy
in Charles's gaze was almost unbearable. Pretending to be cold,
Gareth shifted his feet and shivered. And then Charles turned and
began moving once more, leaving the two women in their cozy summer
scene far behind. Like an obedient dog, Gareth followed.

"Where are we going?" Gareth called after
him. "Are you a ghost or a memory? Where are we? Charles!"

The scarlet-clad figure neither turned nor
answered, merely kept moving, the sunlight glinting off his
accoutrements and catching the gold in his hair. And when he
stopped again, it had grown dark, and the two of them stood before
the statue in the village green.

Gareth knew immediately what he would see:
Chilcot with the bucket of purple paint in his teeth, Cokeham
rooting in the grass and making pig-noises, and all of them foxed
out of their heads on Irish whiskey. An involuntary burst of
laughter escaped him, for it really was quite funny.

He glanced at Charles.

His brother wasn't laughing. He looked
infinitely sad.

The guffaw died abruptly in Gareth's throat.
He cleared his throat and looked away, suddenly ashamed of his
behavior. While he had been running wild over Berkshire, his
brother had been off fighting for his king. While he had been up to
his usual drunken debauchery, his brother had been dying a lonely
death in a land far from home. Suddenly, Gareth could not bear to
meet Charles's gaze. Could barely force himself to raise his head
and look again at what Charles had brought him to see. And when he
did, he saw himself clinging to a rope slung from the statue's
neck, a paintbrush in his hand and a foolish, drunken expression on
his face that now made him cringe with embarrassment. He heard his
silly words, saw his friends acting like fools, felt Charles's
infinite despair as he stood quietly beside him.

"Please, no more, Charles," he said, turning
away from the scene of mayhem. "This is damned embarrassing."

Charles merely studied him for a moment,
thoughtfully, then turned and began walking again.

And when he stopped once more, it was in the
Spitalfields church where Gareth had married Juliet just that
morning. The Den members were laughing and insulting each other,
the vicar looked harassed, and everyone was behaving as though
marriage was some grand joke. Everyone, that is, except Juliet.
There she stood, alone, looking sad and mature beyond her years,
pledging herself to a man who didn't know the meaning of the word
"responsibility." There she stood, still and silent, facing the
adversity that was marriage to Lord Gareth de Montforte with the
same stoic resolve with which she must have faced everything else
in her young life. She, who had crossed an ocean to secure a future
for her baby; she, who was putting her entire faith, trust, and
future in the hands of a fellow who was sadly undeserving of any of
it.