Willoughby 03 - A Rogue's Deadly Redemption (5 page)

He looked up, meeting his brother’s gaze—now filled with irritation. Marcus straightened the crumpled paper in his hand. “Give me the rest of the paper, Robert. This is confidential business.”

Robert searched his eyes for any sign of knowledge, something—anything that might indicate that Marcus knew. But for the slight moment of irritation, Marcus’s blue eyes had darkened to an undecipherable mud.

Robert knew the intelligent thing would be to leave and quick, so of course, he leaned back and waved his hand, crinkled corner of the Report in his fingers, through the air. “By all means, continue. What ways are you preventing forgeries?”

“Robert, this is not your concern,” Marcus told him.

“It can’t hurt to have an opinion at this point,” interjected one of the other men. He stood up and extended a hand. “Jeremiah Harman, Mr. Melrose.”

Robert met his grip with a firm shake, wondering if the man could feel the way his skin had gone clammy. “Governor of the Bank.”

“Yes, and as I’m sure you would understand, I have a decided interest in ensuring that our bank notes maintain their respect.”

“They have already lost their respect,” argued another man. “The forgeries are quite out of control—”

“—Evidenced by the number of lives taken at Old Bailey,” interjected another man. He gave a short nod to Robert. “Charles Hatchett.”

And just like that, Robert was included in the most bizarre conversation of his life. He doubted this is what his brother had in mind.

“We’re not arguing the senseless deaths. People caught passing a forged note are being hung—just for uttering them, even if they aren’t aware the note is forged. The bloody code must be changed,” his brother said. “But some of you need to first accept that the bank notes compared to the country bank notes are easily forged. Until you do that, we cannot move forth with any of the recommendations before us.” He pointed at the mess of papers scattered over the table in front of him.

Recommendations? Robert’s fingers itched to get his hands on those papers. What methods did the supposed experts feel they would need to employ to stop the forgeries?

“Not to a practiced eye,” argued Harman. “You cannot deceive an intelligent eye with the required combination of ink, paper and drawing. It would take an idiot to not recognize the difference. I do understand many common folk lack the education or intelligence to do so and therefore they are being victimized by lesser works. But it is merely a lack of good breeding, which means we must educate them as best we can, as was done with the Bank of Ireland.”

Robert bristled. Lesser works? A lack of intelligence and
breeding
was all that allowed one to not recognize supposedly inferior work?

The ‘common folk’ hadn’t the luxury of the formal schooling the upper crust took for granted, but the life the folks on those streets lived required quick minds, sure-footed decisions and an intellect capable of dealing with horrifying situations in which these men would crumble.

And even as he thought it, Robert realized how stupid and dangerous his irritation was. He created the bloody plates.

What he did took finesse, it took
talent
. It was art. He was an artist and copper his chosen canvas.

He created the copperplates the banknotes were printed on. He never uttered them. He never passed them off as his own money. But he had no right defending the very people affected by his work. He might be a criminal, but he wasn’t a hypocrite.

This was not a conversation he should be a part of.

“What about you?”

Robert snapped his gaze up. “Pardon?”

“Do you believe the Bank of England’s notes are easily forged?”

Robert counted to five, then cocked his head. “Would you be judging my opinion as one of the unwashed idiot masses or that of the educated eye?”

“All right, that’s enough,” Marcus snapped. “Gentlemen, I need to have a word with my brother. If you’ll excuse us for just a moment.” He looked at Robert and pointed to the door. “Out. Now.”

Robert gave a grandiose wave even as his gaze settled longingly on the papers. “It has been a pleasure.”

Once in the hallway, Robert continued walking toward the front door.

“Robert. My study, if you please.”

Robert slowed his stride and swiveled on a heel. “Oh, have you time for me now? After summoning me to your side.”

Marcus’s jawline twitched. “I have sent you at least six invitations to dinner, two for you to join me at the club and when those failed, I attempted to set three separate appointments, none of which you deemed important enough to show up for.”

“And?” Robert drawled. “What does it take for one to get the hint?”

Marcus’s gaze never wavered, but something seemed to change—a slight dimming, a slight giving in. Or perhaps a letting go.

“I don’t understand what I have done to make you hate me.” Marcus’s words were soft, but lethal as a finely sharpened blade. They sliced away ties that bound dozens of memories of the stark childhood Robert preferred to leave buried.

Years of flat, emotionless words that had cut him to shreds.

I never wanted you.
His mother’s favorite refrain.

Moments where the lack of emotion directed his way was overshadowed by the effusive joy and bumbling affection showered upon Marcus and his other brother, Cary—the Viscount Carrington, who had also served a purpose. The heir. The spare.

In that moment, Robert was six years old again. Knees shredded and bloody from falling out of a tree, pain keeping the constant sheen of tears in his eyes while he mustered all of his strength not to shed them.

He would be brave and make her proud. He was trying, really, but the pain stung so much. But he blinked back the burn of tears. She would be proud of him, and then she would hold him. Hug him. Tell him it would be all right.

He’d walked into the all-white foyer in search of his mother. That ethereal, beautiful vision whom he caught glimpses of now and then, before his governess whisked him away with admonishments that he wasn’t to be seen or heard.

That day, he found her, finally. His mother. A need inside of him pushed him toward her.

He stood there, looking up at her. Her gaze touched upon his before moving on, as though he were invisible.

“Mama, I hurt my knees,” he called up. He hadn’t cried. He’d been so brave. She would have to notice him now. She would love him now.

She’d given him a blank stare. Then the front door opened again.

Marcus strode in, a young man of eighteen, full of life. Their mother’s face lit up as she turned to his brother. “Darling! How was your ride?”

Their steps echoed in the hallway as they walked away from him. She hadn’t spared him a single word. Barely a glance.

His knees bled. His heart shattered.

In that moment, he had known he would never matter.

The anger churned inside of him, spurting to the surface, and Robert ran a hand over his face. This was why he never came here.

He turned toward the door. The need to get out, to not hear the hollow echo of the marble floor under his feet pushed him faster.

“Why did your wife move elsewhere?”

Robert paused.

“What happened? Robert, talk to me.”

“It’s none of your business. And why the hell are you spying on my life?”

“I was not spying. It was in the paper this morning, as are most of your shenanigans. What reporter did you aggravate so that they must follow your every move?”

Robert paused. He’d worn the constant attention as a badge of honor, however false it might be. Let them believe he mattered enough to make the papers.

Robert knew he didn’t.

“Your wife moved her belongings into the Earl of Merewood’s home yesterday. I thought we could discuss this.”

“My failure as a husband? I’m certain that would perk up your spirits. Yet another way to label your little brother useless.”

“I have never said you were useless. I have only tried to be your brother.”

“Since Father died last year, you’ve done naught but try to bring me to heel. You have
never
been my brother.” He stopped, put a hand up. “I am not doing this. I am not your puppet to command, and I will not provide you with entertainment at my follies. Don’t summon me again. I won’t come.”

Out. He needed out.

“Robert.”

The ghost of his mother matched his pace, goading him to leave. He wasn’t wanted. He was a mistake. He was nothing.

The door loomed before him, and Robert wasted no time shoving it open. The fog enveloped him as he stepped down the stairs and this time, he was grateful. It had thickened to a degree he hadn’t seen in a long time, so it took a few steps before he saw his brother’s carriage. Before he could breathe.

He had a meeting to attend. The meeting was proof of his worth, of his talent.

He snapped his fingers at his brother’s driver. “You. Covent Garden. Now.”

The driver paused a second. “Very well, sir.”

Robert opened the door and hauled himself inside. The carriage began to lumber across the cobblestone.

Robert thought of the men sitting in his childhood home. Of his brother, looking for ways to stop the forgeries and play the hero.

And he smiled.

Lily alighted from the carriage and took in a deep, misty breath. It was the first clear, non-anxious second she’d experienced all day. She took another gulp of air, feeling her shoulders relax, her body release the gnarled knots that tangled in her stomach.

She stood on Alberdene street, a quiet, tucked away street off the Strand, assailed by the acrid flavors in the air, of coal smoke and aromas wafting from the well-traveled roads. A costermonger stood on the corner, calling out his wares. The afternoon sun had been hidden by layers of cloud and fog.

The air was ripe with purpose. This area of town was filled with those who lived their lives by the hours they had to work, who paid bills only if they made it on time to a job that required a long, full day. It was a world far removed from her own, which for the moment, suited her just fine.

“Oh, this fog, milady,” Anna said, standing next to her and looking about. “I can’t recall seeing anything like it. It’s settling in like a thick blanket.”

“It lends an air of mystery, don’t you think?” Lily lifted a hand to her head, feeling the fine hairs at all ends and grimaced. “I shall look a fright if it continues.”

She glanced about the bustle of people, heads down, scurrying to their destination. Lily watched as her coach disappeared down the street, enveloped by the mist. It gave her a sense of foreboding she couldn’t quite shake.

Which was ludicrous. She was exhausted and being fanciful, that’s all. Yesterday had been one tiring conversation after another, and though she’d done nothing physical, she felt worn to the bone.

“I wish we’d had time to stop by and pick up the new books,” she said, voicing her annoyance that she’d forgotten her newest acquisitions for her library at her—no, Robert’s house.

Would she ever get used to that?

She had new volumes of Jane Austen’s works to add to the library. Two new sets of volumes for
Northhanger Abbey
and her personal favorite,
Emma
. Miss Austen was a favorite of the library’s members, no matter that many in the upper society looked down upon women reading and having access to novels.

Anna bit on her lower lip. “I am so sorry, my lady, for not getting them packed. I thought I had everything.”

Lily felt a pang of guilt and put a hand on Anna’s arm and squeezed as they neared the door. “It isn’t your fault. I set them aside in an obscure place, believing I would keep them safe there. Which means, of course, I forgot I had put them there. We’ll stop by on our way back to my brother’s and pick them up.”

Lily’s heart skipped a beat. Would Robert be there?

She shoved the bubble of hope down. Stupid.

She needed to squash the desire to tell him she hadn’t meant to leave him on
that
day. She hadn’t been trying to hurt him in that way.

If she did, perhaps they could talk about it. Perhaps they could offer comfort to each other, something they’d been unable to do the day she’d lost the baby. She had barely been able to speak to him, and he’d left the house—the first of many nights he spent away.

There was no point in wishing. She knew how he felt. She knew he blamed her. Their not-so-grand confrontation wouldn’t change that.

Zebras did not change their stripes. It was a saying Aria had said once, and Lily felt it to her bones.

Lily stepped through the doorway of The Rosemead Circulating Library and Reading Salon, the subscription library she had sponsored over a year and a half ago, and bells jingled above her head. She had wanted to offer a haven open to the public, for anyone who wanted to read, be read to or just enjoy books as much as she did.

It had proven to be
her
haven.

She had needed something, anything to take her mind from everything she’d lost. In the months since she had opened the library, it had become the place where she could retreat into other worlds and feel the joy that only a good book could bring. She’d begun to teach their less able members to read for themselves. The sense of accomplishment she’d earned had helped to ease the ache and fulfilled her in an unexpected way.

The warmth of the main library buoyed her spirits. The welcoming perfume of the burning wood in the fireplace, the unique scent of crisp, clean books lining shelves and the aroma of East India tea tinged with cinnamon snuggled around her, settled all the way into her toes until she couldn’t wait to curl up on a chair and delve into discussion.

“Lady Melrose!” The booming voice belonged to
Mr. Carlton Hayes
, the gentleman she had hired to maintain the library
.

He approached from behind on of the side counters with his wide grandfather’s smile, his bushy eyebrows waggling. “It is frightful outside, I wasn’t sure we would see you today.”

She held up the books in her hand. “I wouldn’t miss it.” A pang of sadness halted her step.

She
would
miss it.

She could count future visits on her fingers now. She might attend two book discussions if she was lucky, before she left for America. Or walk through the reading salons, where the women she had taught develop their skills would be, talking or reading.

Somehow, in the surety of her decision to leave, she had overlooked this. The thought tied her stomach in knots, but she shoved it down and painted a smile on her face.

She would have to tell them as well.

Mr. Hayes smiled in that sweet way of his, offering an air of comfort that so many adored about him. “Did you bring the new additions?”

She sighed. “I had them tucked away in a safe place, which of course, I forgot all about. Tomorrow. You may add them to the lists.”

The volumes they already had of Miss Austen’s works were always the first to be checked out, and they held lists a dozen people deep waiting to read. Their members eagerly awaited new books and Lily was determined to provide options since she believed it would be easier for the women to improve their reading skills if they read something they enjoyed.

“Very good, my lady. And wonderful news: we acquired four new members this week.”

“That is wonderful news, Mr. Hayes.”

None of whom she would be present to talk with, to encourage. To help.

Teaching had proven the biggest source of joy in her life. She was losing that. Uncertainty filled her. Was she doing the right thing in leaving? If she couldn’t even utter the words, was it the right choice?

Or was she running away?

“Are you all right, Lady Melrose?”

Lily met his gaze. She had to tell him. They had to make plans for the library to continue on after she left. “I have something I need to discuss with you, Mr. Hayes. Perhaps after today’s reading?“

“Of course.”

“Lady Melrose!” A youthful, sweet voice echoed in her ear and Lily turned around. At the sight of the young girl who hurried toward her, Lily smiled.

“Colette, you came.”

Colette nodded, her bright red curls bobbing up and down with her enthusiasm.
She clutched a copy of
Cecilia
to her chest, the book being discussed in the day’s discussion hour. “I worked an extra day the last three weeks, so I could be here today. I read the entire book, all by myself.” She held it up as though it would provide a testimonial.

Lily leaned forward and gave Colette an impulsive hug. “I am proud of you.”

Colette beamed with joy, and then hurried toward the group gathering at the other end of the room.

“We can get started if you’re ready,” Mr. Hayes said.

She looked around. More members had filtered in, waving at them and the lively din of conversation echoed against the stacks. “Yes, it looks as though we’re ready. Perhaps…”

Her voice trailed off.

Cordelia stood in the doorway.

Their gazes met, and Cordelia moved toward her with that defiant, confident way of hers. Lily could feel the air in the room growing hotter and more suffocating with each step.

“So this is your little project,” Cordelia said as she stopped in front of them.

From the corner of her eye, Lily could see Mr. Hayes straighten his shoulders, but before she could say anything, Cordelia asked, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Lily pursed her lips as a slow burn of resentment wound through her.

Already the room buzzed with curiosity.

Cordelia was so striking, her blue and white striped gown of the highest fashion. Her hair gleaming and perfectly coiffed. Lily fought the instinct to pat her own hair down, certain it had grown frizzier in the last five seconds.

Once it was known Cordelia was the Duchess of Halton…well, in minutes that would ensure the afternoon was about her. The people that frequented this library had little opportunity to encounter a duchess. For weeks, they’d be talking of this visit.

Would Lily find any respite from her sister now that she was in London?

But Cordelia had left her no choice.

“Duchess, may I introduce Mr. Hayes, the manager of the library? Mr. Hayes, this is Her Grace the Duchess of Halton,” Lily said with a quick reluctance.

“Your grace, we are honored by your visit,” Mr. Hayes said.

Lily felt no such thing. It might be childish, but she couldn’t stem the anger building inside of her, fisting her hands. This was her place. Her escape.

She couldn’t very well escape if her sister followed.

“Yes, we are honored by your brief visit,” Lily said. “I am certain you have other shopping and things to do, so we won’t keep you.”

Cordelia looked about the room. “I have never been to a subscription library. I am fascinated.” The challenge had been issued.

“How kind.” Lily pasted a smile on her face.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Mr. Hayes said, seeming to catch the undertones of their politeness. “Your grace, Lady Melrose. I’ll see about getting our group settled today.” He bowed from their circle and hurried across the room.

Once he was out of earshot, Lily took a step toward Cordelia. “Did you follow me here?” she asked through clenched teeth, keeping her tone low.

“Blythe had written of your library, so I thought to see for myself. I was bored.”

“Poppycosh. You have no more desire to spend time with me than I do with you. We both know you are not the slightest bit interested in the library.”

“On the contrary,” Cordelia argued. “I see you have taken an interest in this quaint place here, and I find I need something to occupy my time.”

“This is my business, Cordelia. Not yours. I do not want you here.”

“You mean Adam’s business, don’t you? He is the one who purchased the building, pays the bills. He would be the one I should ask if I may participate. Yes, I do believe I’ll do just that when I return.”

“Why must you be so hateful?”

“This is not a competition. I am simply showing my interest in things you are interested in.” Cordelia cocked her head. “Isn’t that what sisters do?” The pointed barb hit home, and Lily flushed.

At that, she turned and left Lily for the other side of the room. People jumped to their feet, offering curtsies to the duchess.

Even Mr. Hayes gave her his patented smile.

The discussion was about to start, and the group gathered in their chairs. Cordelia sat down, letting everyone make a great fuss over her.

All the joy Lily had felt at today’s pending discussion had fled. The idea of joining the group now,
her
group, who sat avidly listening to Cordelia, left a bitter taste in her mouth.

In the span of less than five minutes, Lily had been relegated to living, once again, in the shadow her sister’s presence left behind.