Chapter Eighteen
Never in his entire life had Lucas felt this level of depression.
Considering the plethora of opportunities with darkness and discouragement that had been presented to him over the course of his life, that was saying a great deal.
There was nothing to smile about, should he have been at all tempted to do something so irrational. There was nothing to lessen the burdens currently weighing on him. There was no relief to be found, no comfort he could receive.
His wife was miserable.
And it was his fault.
More than that, he was the one making her miserable.
Surely there was no circle of hell dark enough for that.
He sat alone in his darkened study, no candle, no fire, draperies drawn as much as they could while still letting in light enough to see and work by. He ran a hand over his face, wincing at the stubble and sensitivity of his skin. He had sequestered himself in this room for days, sleeping in his chair, taking his meals within… He was becoming more of a recluse than he had ever been in his life, and he couldn’t see a reason to change that.
He only caused more damage when he attempted to be human.
Gemma had stopped looking for him. Had stopped sending for him. Had stopped caring, for all he could tell. And it was only right that she should. He was destroying what was most precious to him.
His reasons were sound, honorable even. But what good were reasons when he was slowly dying every day? Soon his wife would despise him, just as Celia had. Would she also seek for entertainment and comfort elsewhere? Would she turn cold and hard? How could she stand remaining with him?
Celia had stayed, but only to torment him. He had never abandoned her as he was doing with Gemma. She had taken matters into her own hands, not finding him to be enough for her. He had never been enough for her.
For anyone.
And now he was not enough for Gemma.
And there was no one to blame but himself.
He groaned and leaned back in his chair. He could catch snippets of her voice every now and then, faint echoes of laughter, complaints of a missing handkerchief, compliments of a meal, the soft strains of her violin echoing down the hall…
He was desperate for anything of her, but he could not bring himself to face her. To see the light in her eyes dim with his presence. To long to touch her while knowing it would abhor her.
Celia had been hell for him.
But Gemma…
He was hell for her.
Lady Raeburn’s musicale was in three days. He had sworn not to attend to give himself further distance from his wife. But the more he thought on it, the more he decided that was pure folly. His wife was a talented musician and he had admired her gifts for years, long before he loved her. He had to make an appearance at some point; avoiding the world was irrational.
And he could see Gemma without having to speak to her, or explain himself, anything to ruin his plan to protect her by distance.
In fact, avoiding Lady Raeburn’s musicale would do more harm than good. He had always gone, and he could not afford the affront to Lady Raeburn now when she had always been so generous where he was concerned.
And she adored Gemma. Anything he did to deliberately wound his wife would come back upon his head a hundredfold.
No, he would clean himself up and go. But discreetly. And separate from his wife.
For her sake.
A knock at the door roused him and he called for entrance, his voice sounding harsh and raspy from lack of use.
“This just arrived for you, sir,” a lanky footman with an expressionless face said, handing out a tray.
Lucas frowned and grabbed the thick letter. “From whom?”
“Did not say, sir,” the footman reported. “Courier said he had no information on that score.”
Lucas nodded, his stomach curling. “Thank you. You may go.”
The footman bowed and exited without a word.
He wasn’t ready for another mystery. He could barely handle the ones currently plaguing him, more would be truly excessive.
Nothing this large had ever come without address, and yet it was not heavy enough to be strictly correspondence within.
He broke the seal with an increasing sense of uneasiness.
A bit of fabric fell into his lap, and he reached for it, glancing at the paper surrounding it.
There were only two words, written in a clean, perfect hand he knew all too well, far different from any of his other missives.
So close.
He dropped the paper as if he had been scorched by it, and his hands shook as if he had been.
The penmanship was Celia’s
He’d know it anywhere.
But Celia was dead. He’d seen her broken body, he’d carried her back himself, he’d seen to every detail of her burial, for heaven’s sake.
Yet her handwriting was before him, staring him in the face.
He looked at the fabric that had fallen out, and jolted to his feet, tossing it onto the desk.
Gemma’s handkerchief, her apparently missing one, bearing her initials on the corner. She’d embroidered it at Thornacre with her new monogram, proudly showing him the work when it was done. She’d stated it was the only thing she’d ever embroidered worth beans, and he’d praised her for it.
Now it was sent to him with his late wife’s handwritten threat.
She couldn’t have written it.
She couldn’t be alive.
She wasn’t.
So close…
Whoever this was, they were close to Gemma. They knew Celia. And they knew exactly how to twist the knife in Lucas’s stomach with maximum damage.
He began to shake uncontrollably, pacing the room like a madman. What could he do? It was beyond imagination, horrors upon horrors now facing him and his wife, and he’d been doing the only thing he knew how to protect her. Nothing was working. He couldn’t protect her, not even from himself.
She had no idea what could happen if…
His knees buckled and he collapsed into his chair again, breathing frantic, vision spotting before him.
There were no options left.
Beverton could do nothing about this, he had limited power in London as compared to Hampshire. Kit would want to involve his brother, and Lucas did not know enough of Colin Gerrard to know if that would be sensible or worthwhile. He had run the course of what he could manage on his own, and he dared not attempt to hire Bow Street or anyone else, for there were details in his past that even he wished to forget.
His eyes snapped open as another name flitted through his mind, and he seized upon it like mad. He’d never employed him thus, feeling awkward about doing so with a friend, but there were literally no other options.
And after all, it was what he did.
But how could he communicate properly with him?
What was the name he went by?
It came to him and he scribbled out a few inconsequential lines on a spare bit of parchment. Then he went to the door and called for the same footman from before. James, he thought. And he was quite certain the lad hailed from London and would know what to do.
“Here, sir,” he replied, coming to him.
“Have you a set of common clothes at the ready, James?” Lucas asked him without any preamble.
“Aye, sir.”
“And do you know your way around London?”
The lad grinned. “Born and raised here, sir. Know it like the back of my hand.”
Lucas nodded firmly, and handed the note. “You will please deliver this note and wait for instructions.”
He took it, then frowned at the blank address. “Where am I to deliver it, sir?”
Lucas exhaled slowly, forcing back the last of the pride and restraint he had left. “I need you to take it to the Gent.”
Recognition, understanding, and awe dawned on the young man’s face, and he nodded, his jaw firming. “Yes, sir. I shall be discreet.”
“Thank you.” He indicated with his head for the lad to proceed now, and he did so.
Then, still shaking with slight tremors, Lucas went to the gallery, the only other place he dared venture anymore. Perhaps answers would lie within.
Or perhaps only more questions.
“And I’ve asked, but the servants tell me he only sits in there and stares at her portrait. He’ll be in there for hours, and he is not to be disturbed unless it is of utmost importance. I thought one of the maids would cry out of terror from having to disturb him.”
“Was he cruel to her?”
Gemma shook her head quickly, sighing as Marianne set her glass aside. “No, he never is. But his behavior is scaring them. It’s scaring me.” Tears swirled in her eyes and she blinked them back hastily. “I cannot reach him, Marianne, and I don’t know why.”
Marianne took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I wish I knew what to tell you, Gemma. You know I did not have an easy time with Kit when we first came back to London, but then it passed. You do know your husband cares about you, yes?”
Gemma nodded glumly. “Of course. I can see it in the rare moments he still sees me, and I cannot deny what has passed between us. But I wonder if he cares enough. Mr. Stanford says…”
“Mr. Stanford?” Marianne interrupted bluntly, raising a brow. “Bennett Stanford? Lord Oliver’s brother?”
She nodded in response, unable to keep from smiling. “We have become more acquainted of late, and he has become a dear friend of sorts. He knows how worried I am about Lucas, and he knows and cares about him, so offers some advice.”
Marianne frowned. “Kit knows Blackmoor and cares about him. I cannot see how Mr. Stanford can be of more help than him.”
“Yes, well, I can hardly converse easily with Kit in the park about Lucas, now can I?” Gemma snapped, disgruntled by Marianne’s lack of enthusiasm. “Your husband talks only a little more than mine does.”
Marianne snorted softly, her delicate lips curving as her eyes sought out her husband on the far side of the room. “I know, but what he does say is really quite marvelous.” She looked back at Gemma and her smile faded. “I will only say this: be wary of being too friendly with a gentleman, particularly an unattached one. I know little enough of Mr. Stanford to his credit or discredit, but you are not in a position where you can be who you once were where he is concerned. People will talk, Gemma.”
“I know that,” she muttered, looking away. “He is constantly reminding me of propriety.”
“Mr. Stanford?”
She nodded.
“Well, at least one of you is sensible.” Marianne squeezed her hand again, forcing Gemma to look up at her friend and catch the teasing glint in her eye. Instantly she relaxed, at ease once more. “Now, you were saying something about what he told you?”
“Yes.” She straightened up, trying to remember. “He said that he can tell that my husband cares about me a great deal, and is very protective, but for some men it will always be the first wife who reigns supreme in their minds.” Her heart had broken a little as he’d said that, but it felt truer every day. “Obviously, he does not know with Lucas, and he would not presume to guess, but it would make sense.”
Marianne frowned, her eyes suddenly troubled. “I admit I know little of his first wife. Her final Season was my first, and I was hardly the creature I became at that point, but I envied her so. She was everything I wanted to be.” She shook her head, chewing her lip slightly. “From outward appearances, at least. Kit doesn’t say much on the subject, but I don’t think it was a happy marriage.”
“So I’ve heard,” Gemma murmured. Indeed, it was all she thought about these days. How did she measure up to Celia? How did Lucas compare the two?
Did he regret taking a second wife so very different from his first?
Marianne suddenly snapped out of her reverie. “But you mustn’t think on it overly much, Gemma. You are his wife now. You are here.”
“But he isn’t.” She shook her head, feeling the weight in her chest. “What if I am always relegated to second best behind his first wife, Marianne? I don’t think I could bear it, being married to a man who was measuring me against another all the time. I don’t want to be his second rate wife.”
“Oh, I doubt Blackmoor would do or think any such thing,” Marianne scoffed, sipping her drink again. “He knows how different you are, and he wanted you just the same. And quite badly, if you recall.”
She could barely remember those times, and it seemed a lifetime ago. Or that it had happened to someone else entirely.
“I don’t know what my husband would do or would not do anymore,” Gemma admitted with a bitter sigh. “I wonder if I know him at all.”
“You know him,” Marianne insisted, sounding quite fierce. “You do.”
Gemma only shrugged, looking away, pretending to glance around Lady Raeburn’s exquisitely decorated music room, far grander and larger than any else she had been in. She suspected it was meant to be a ballroom, but as Tibby had no use for such a place, she had converted it to a room for musical entertainment. It allowed her to host the most enviable musical events every year, and one was nearly as eager for those invitations as they were for any at the Rivertons’.
The performances had gone well, and Gemma had been lauded and praised for her excellent violin pieces, though she felt a little lacking in energy. The Rivertons had attended, to the delight of all, and it had pleased her to see at least some part of her new family treating her as such. They were all very careful in their attentions, being public and in company, but she had felt their sincere praises and it had warmed her.
If only her husband could be more like them.
She frowned at the thought. She could not very well wish her husband to be someone else. She had fallen in love with him, after all, as he was and for who he was.
The man he was now was not her husband.
And that was the problem.
“He couldn’t take his eyes off of you, you know.”
She shook her head and looked at Marianne. “Who?”
“Blackmoor.” At Gemma’s blank look, Marianne smirked. “Your husband?”
“He wasn’t here,” Gemma reminded her poor, deluded friend. “He isn’t.”
“Well, not anymore he’s not,” Marianne said with a light laugh. “The man escaped just after your final performance with Lily. Which means he missed Charlotte Truman, wise man.”
“He… he came?” Gemma breathed, her heart pounding furiously.
Marianne’s eyes widened perceptibly. “You didn’t see him?”
She shook her head slowly, her mouth gaping a little.
That brought a small, sad smile to her friend’s beautiful face. “Oh, my dear girl. If you could have seen him… The way he looked at you was breathtaking. I doubt anyone noticed, but I was so surprised at seeing him, given that he was not to attend, that I couldn’t help but stare. And then I couldn’t look away.” Her throat worked slightly and her smile grew. “There are some very deep emotions there, Gemma. While you were playing, he would look nowhere else. Nothing else existed.”
“Why would he not come to me?” she whispered, unable to swallow, breathing suddenly difficult.
Marianne chewed her lip, her brow furrowing. “I don’t know, but believe me when I say that nothing about you is second rate for him. I could see it. And you know I never speak kindly of anyone if I can help it.”
Gemma laughed against her will and squeezed her friend’s hand in gratitude.
Did it change anything, him being here for her? Though she had not seen him, did it matter that he had been apparently transfixed by her, unable to stay away despite his declarations?
Her heart swelled within her and she had to smile.
Yes. Yes, it did matter.
It very much did.