Despite the late hour and the frequent noisy yawns from Nettie, Virgil prattled the whole carriage ride from Lambeth to Mayfair. And never before had Bridget been gladder for his penchant for talking.
Her skin burned with the intensity of Vail’s stare trained on her, just as it had been since he’d ushered her and her family into the hired hack. After the unexpected reunion on those porch steps, he’d instructed Virgil and Nettie to gather their belongings and return to the hack. Had his orders been harsh and cold, it would have been easier than the gentleness of his tone when he’d spoken to her family.
“That is why you didn’t come today, then, isn’t it, Mama?” Virgil piped in cheerfully. “All day I was angry with you for not visiting but you were really preparing to bring me and Nettie with you.”
Opposite her, Nettie wrung her hands together frantically; a cryptic worry in her eyes.
Seemingly content without a reply on Bridget’s part, Virgil swung his line of questioning to a stoic Vail. “You married my mother?” His earlier childlike excitement gone, Virgil looked at Vail through narrowed eyes.
He nodded slowly. “I did.”
Her son frowned and glanced up at Bridget. “Is he a good man?”
Her throat worked painfully. “He is,” she promised. The only male Virgil had in his life before this moment had been the thankfully fleeting visits from his father. How very much he deserved a man such as Vail. Yet, any hope of a family with him had been doomed from the moment Archibald had set foot inside her cottage with his demands.
Virgil continued to peer at the baron, searchingly. “Well?” he demanded. “Is my mother right? Are you a good man?”
Her husband carefully removed his gloves and stuffed them away in his pocket. “I can tell you that I am, but it is far wiser for you to look at a person’s actions, rather than listen to their mere words,” he murmured.
She flinched at that veiled indictment of her character.
Thankfully, Virgil abandoned that dangerous line of querying. “What about the gentleman who hired you to examine his collection? Does that mean you aren’t going to be working for him, anymore?”
Vail sharpened his gaze at those revealing words.
“This is His Lordship,” she said weakly, praying her son would reveal nothing else, uncertain how to stymie his words without attracting Vail’s further notice. “He is—was—my employer.”
Some of her son’s earlier chill dissipated. “You like books like my mother, then?”
Vail nodded. “I do.” He paused. “And do you have your mother’s skill with those books?”
“I do.” The little boy puffed out his chest, proudly. “I’m quite good at it, too. I started helping when Mr. Lowell first—”
“There’ll be time enough for talk with His Lordship, later,” Nettie murmured, with that interruption ending the free rush of information her son handed over at Bridget’s expense.
Virgil again looked to her. “Does this mean we’ll not have to be parted anymore? That we’ll be together?”
She brushed a stray curl back from his brow. “That is just what it means,” she said gently, giving him that assurance when she couldn’t say that. At last, her son settled into silence and, with the noisy roll of the carriage through London, she stared out the window. The truth was, for Virgil’s worrying and his questions, she didn’t truly know what would come in the days ahead with Vail or Archibald. The only certainty was the uncertainty now facing them. In the past, where that would have riddled her with terror, having Vail in her life eased the fear that weighted her shoulders. He might hate her, but seeing him usher off an old maid and small child to a hack had proved he would always help. She caught her chin in her hand and stared out the window at the passing streets. Vail was not one who’d be able to deny others in need. She’d thought that kindness was a gift only extended to his brothers and sisters but tonight, helping Virgil inside the hack, she’d seen the truth of his character. Her heart filled with overflowing love for him.
They arrived at Vail’s townhouse. Glad for the night cover that kept Society’s prying eyes from their coming home, Bridget accepted Vail’s hand. Next, he helped Nettie, then Virgil out. Rejoining the driver, coins were exchanged, and as Vail spoke with the man, Bridget pressed ahead with Nettie at her side.
“You need to tell him, girl,” the nursemaid spoke in low tones.
Keeping her eyes on Virgil dashing ahead, she nodded. “I know. I will. I—”
“Should have told His Lordship before he found out for himself,” Nettie chided, peeking over her shoulder. “He’s a handsome one,” she added, off-topic. “And kind to the boy.”
“He will…would be good to him,” she murmured.
The front doors were opened by the second-butler, Mr. Hammell. As he ushered their party in, several footmen rushed outside to assist with their meager bags. It was a testament to the professionalism of Vail’s staff that not a single one of the servants gave an outward indication that there was anything extraordinary about their employer and his new bride arriving with a pair of strangers and their tattered possessions.
“Hammell,” her husband said from over her shoulder as he entered. “Help Mr. Hamlet and…?”
“Nettie, Your Lordship. My name is Nettie,” the old servant replied.
“Miss Nettie, to guest chambers until something more permanent can be readied for them.”
That was it. Knowing nothing more than that these people were her family, even with all that had passed, he’d still make that offer? Her heart filled with love for him all over again.
Her son yawned loudly and scratched at his head. “My name isn’t Hamlet.”
Vail sharpened his gaze on the boy.
“It’s—”
Nettie promptly placed her palm over his mouth, muffling that reply. “The lad’s tired. We’ll speak more with His Lordship tomorrow.” She favored him with the same quelling look she’d used on Bridget when she’d misbehaved.
Frowning around her hand, he muttered something, the words lost.
Vail’s keen eyes missed nothing. He carefully took in every nuance of their language and their bodies’ movements.
“If you’ll follow me?” Hammell motioned to the stairway leading to the main suites and, grateful for that brief reprieve from her husband’s questioning, she fell into step beside her son.
“My lady? If you would join me in my office?” Vail called out.
She jerked to a stop, her foot poised over the first stair. Of course, it was both foolish and wrong to expect she was deserving of a reprieve. Given he’d followed her and then everything he’d discovered, he would rightfully have questions—ones he was entitled to have answers to. Nonetheless, Bridget struggled to swallow around the unease choking off her throat.
Several steps ahead, Virgil looked down questioningly. She gave him a reassuring smile and then feeling much the way that ill-fated Queen of France had marching up those steps to the guillotine, Bridget turned back to join her husband.
“Vail,” she began when they started ahead.
“Not a word, madam,” he bit out. “Not a single bloody word.” She flinched at the fury pulsing in his smooth baritone. “I’ll not have this discussion before a houseful of servants.”
Her heart sank. There were too many lies for them to overcome and certainly for him to forgive. That reality was etched in the granite-like set to his chiseled features and that telltale tick at the corner of his eye.
They reached his office and he drew the door open. She hesitated. “Get. Inside.”
Flinching at that icy veneer that she’d come to despise, wanting him to be the man he’d been all her weeks here prior and just before in the hack with Virgil. On numb legs, she forced herself ahead.
Vail closed the door behind him with a quiet, ominous click. “Well?” he demanded, bringing her reluctantly back to face him. He leaned against the wood panel; arms folded, one leg propped in a negligent pose belied by the piercing intensity of his eyes and tone.
She’d an entire ride here to prepare a reply. Nay, she’d had nearly a month. But in that time, she’d not allowed herself the possibility of telling him the truth of who she was. Her tongue grew heavy in her mouth. I am a Hamilton. I am from a family of attempted murderers and rapists, and—Bridget pressed her eyes tightly closed. I am the thief of the family.
“A son,” he spat the word like a profanity. “That child is no more your son than he is mine.”
She recoiled. He could have struck her and it couldn’t have hurt more. She’d given up everything for Virgil. “How dare you?” She charged forward, coming so close the tips of their shoes brushed.
“How dare me?” A mocking laugh burst from his lips. “Everything about you has been a lie.” The fight seemed to go out of him. “Everything.”
That agonized whisper ripped through her. He was hurting. I did this to him. I have hurt him. She was no different than Adrina. “You are right.” His body coiled tight again. “I deserve that. Your condemnation and doubts.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I may not be the woman who gave him life, but I have loved him and taken care of him as though I did. I held him when he was sick and cheered as he took his first steps and cried as he spoke his first word.” Her chest heaved. “And I would not let you take the one thing I’ve done right in my l-life,” her voice broke and she spoke around the tears clogging her throat. “And make it wrong.”
Vail gripped her shoulders as he’d done at Lambeth, but this time there was gentleness there. “Then make me understand,” he pleaded.
Forcing her eyes open, she searched for a proper place to begin. She sucked in a steadying breath. “My name is Bridget.” She needed him to know that at least was true. “I was born to a noble family.”
He instantly stiffened.
When still he said nothing, she pressed ahead with her hated telling. “My parents had little use for me.” That much was true. “When they saw…when they saw…” She briefly palmed her marked cheek. His gaze slid over to the crescent birthmark.
How many years she’d spent letting that mark define her? Vail had never looked upon it as though it had mattered in any way and, for it, she herself had ceased to believe it did. “It is a family one,” she explained. “Every one of our ancestors was cursed with that crescent, but theirs were always here.” She touched her opposite wrist.
Realizing that she rambled, Bridget immediately ceased, and let her arms fall. “When I was four, they learned I was partially deaf. It didn’t matter I still had use of one of my ears. Lords didn’t marry cripples,” she repeated that hollow echo her father had hurled at her head. “I was…sent away to the country. I never left.” After that moment, in the whole of her life there’d been just two times she’d gone anywhere—very briefly to London with her babe, and then back to Leeds, and now the time she’d spent here. Disquieted by his penetrating stare, she wandered to a nearby Tole tray table. Absently, she traced her fingertips over the rider painted in red.
“Who is your family?” he demanded.
She stilled. Of course, he’d ask that question. As a nobleman with business connections all over England he’d certainly expect to know a member of the peerage. And yet, the minute she revealed the truth to him she’d cease to matter to him.
“Bridget.”
She started, having failed to note his approach. He stood a mere foot away, tension rolling from his frame in waves. Shaking her head, she continued with her own order of the telling. “One day, a young woman arrived at my family’s countryseat.” Bridget hugged herself as the remembered horror of that day assailed her. “She was weeping and ashen. She had a babe in her arms. She’d said my…my brother was…” Her teeth chattered at her family’s propensity for evil. “That my brother had raped her.”
Vail drew back, shock slackened his jaw.
“She threatened to kill the babe if he didn’t take it.” Bridget looked down at the floor, hating the earliest memories of her son’s life. And yet, he was here because of them. And she could never, ever regret that he’d been given life.
What evil had his wife known?
…I suspect understanding why she required those funds, is as important…
This is what Huntly had spoken of.
The earlier fury that had sent him to his office with her, dulled with every revelation.
The lady was of the nobility. He’d known that nearly from their first meeting by her cultured tones and literary mind, but he’d allowed himself to believe that she was perhaps the daughter of an impoverished lesser lord. Mayhap a country squire as Adrina had been. He’d not, however, allowed himself…any of this.
This ruthlessness she spoke of: parents who’d shun their child and treat her as though she were dead to the world and a brother capable of the greatest evil.
Vail brushed his knuckles under her chin, forcing her gaze up. “And you took the babe in.”
Bridget offered a shaky nod. “I-I brought him to London. It was the first I’d ever been there since I was a child. It was so noisy and dark and wet. It rained the minute the mail coach arrived and continued until…” She clamped her teeth tight stymieing her rambling. “He wouldn’t take him,” she whispered. “I couldn’t reason with him. I couldn’t make him do right. He said if I was so very worried about the babe, then…”
“You could take him,” he quietly provided.
Biting her lower lip, she nodded.
What that must have been for her, a sheltered young woman, alone…with no resources. The air lodged in his chest. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
Seventeen. When most young women were making their Come Outs, sipping lemonade at Almack’s and strolling Hyde Park, she’d been caring for a motherless babe. Where he? He’d been too busy wooing a grasping woman to look after anyone, except his own desiring.
“The boy…your son, Virgil is why you came here.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she nodded.
…People are no different. You cannot neatly file them as sinners or saints. We are all simply people, flawed by our own rights…surviving in an uncertain world…
She’d accused him of seeing the world in black and white, and for his insistence on the accuracy of that viewing of people and life around them, she’d been correct. There were shades of gray in between what he’d previously taken as certain truths.
He registered the absolute stillness and looked to his wife. A battle warred in her expressive eyes. “Oh, God.” She searched about and then slid into a nearby King Louis XIV chair. “I want to tell you all,” she explained pleadingly. “I want to tell you everything and know that it will be all right.” A sob burst from her throat. “But how do I do that?” she begged. “How can I give you the answers you deserve if it might hurt my son?”
What battles she’d fought and continued to, on her own. Initially, he’d only wanted answers to assuage his own frustrations and anger. Now, he wanted to take the burden that she’d carried for too many years. Heart splitting in two, Vail stalked over and knelt beside her chair. He gathered her hands in his. “Tell me,” he urged. “Not because you believe I deserve answers, tell me because you want me to share whatever this is.”
“My brother…” She exhaled slowly through her compressed lips. In her eyes, he saw the battle she fought. Vail waited in silence, giving her the time she required. When she spoke, her voice emerged as a threadbare whisper. “My brother threatened to take Virgil if I did not… steal your Chaucer.”
Vail sank back on his haunches. Given her earlier deception, everything Bridget gave him could be a lie. It could be a thief’s attempt to play upon his sympathies and yet—
She eyed him warily. By the resignation he spied there, she expected him to doubt her. He sighed and dusted a hand over his face.
“Who is your family?” he asked again, quietly. Were they people he’d hosted at balls or conducted business with? His stomach churned at the prospect.
Bridget’s face crumpled and she dropped her gaze once more. It was the second time he’d put that question to her and the second she’d evaded answering. Hugging her arms to her chest, she looked up, and held his stare. “My brother is the Marquess of Atbrooke.”
The Marquess of Atbrooke.
Atbrooke.
More slimy than the worms he’d used for fishing as a lad, the man had been run off the Continent a couple of years earlier and had since returned. His love of whores, drink, and wagering was the only thing that called him to London. He’d not, however, been a man Vail had ever done business with. The man also had a sister—
All the air exploded from his lungs and burst from his lips. He jumped up. “Lady Marianne Carew.” Huntly’s former lover. A viper who’d attempted to kill Lady Justina. His stomach lurched. “This is your family,” he repeated, sick, struggling to divorce who she was from the people whose blood she shared. He’d brought her into Nick and Justina’s home as a guest. On the heel of that was shame. I am not my father and neither is Bridget her family and yet… He closed his eyes briefly, hating her connection to those fiends, anyway.
Bridget winced, saying nothing.
Struggling under the weight of all she’d revealed, Vail pressed his fingertips against his temples. What if they were just more lies? What if she were, in fact, as evil as her brother and sister and this tale was nothing more than a ploy to weaken him? He’d been made the fool two times now where a woman was concerned.
“Will you not say anything?” she pleaded.
“What would you have me say?” He no longer knew which way was up, down, or sideways, anymore.
Tears spiked her thick auburn lashes. “Anything. Tell me you hate me. Or tell me you believe me. Just say something.”
In the end, he gave her the truth. “It is a lot to take in,” he confessed. And accept.
Her lower lip trembled and she caught that plump flesh between her teeth, steadying it. “I know.” She shoved to her feet. “I should see to Virgil.”
“Of course.” Bridget lingered, opening her mouth as though she wished to say more, but then left.
As soon as she’d gone, he unleashed a flood of curses. Bloody, bloody hell. This was who her family had to be? And yet, that would have mattered less had she come to him without lying about her identity…and a mountain full of secrets.
In desperate need of a drink, Vail stalked to his sideboard and poured himself a tall snifter. He took a long, slow swallow.
“So, you’re my mother’s husband.”
He choked on his swallow, until tears streamed down his cheeks. Glass in hand, he spun so quickly, sending liquid spilling over the side and splashing the floor.
Bridget’s son slammed the door behind him and came rushing forward. “Look up,” Virgil ordered. He took the snifter from Vail’s grip and slapped him on the back with what he suspected was all his strength.
“L-Look up?” he managed to rasp out between choking, gasping breaths.
The small boy shrugged. “My mum always says it helps.”
After Vail’s paroxysm dissolved into a manageable, occasional cough he retrieved his drink and took another, smaller sip.
“My mum also says to drink a bit of water, but I expect that should do, as well.” The little boy eyed the glass in his hand curiously. “Is that good?”
“Honestly?”
Virgil nodded.
“It’s rot. But the more you drink it, the taste eventually grows upon you.”
His nighttime visitor grunted. “Mum said that men who drink spirits aren’t to be trusted and said I should never, ever drink it. Ever.” By the rote-like deliverance, it was a familiar warning the boy had heard frequently uttered.
The glass trembled in Vail’s hands as the solemnity of that boy’s tone pierced the brief camaraderie. For with a handful of words, Virgil had offered an unwitting glimpse into Bridget’s life. He searched the boy for some indication that he’d heard the discussion on his origins at the doorway but found none. Having only found his siblings when they were all largely grown, he’d little familiarity with children being underfoot and listening at keyholes. With Erasmus’ difficulty comprehending and his struggle to hear, there’d been not even a thought that he might hear something he ought not. Searching for ground around this new person, he finally said, “Not all gentlemen who partake are bad. It is the ones who are unable to moderate themselves, who overindulge and let it consume them we should be wary of.”
“Like my uncle.”
It was a statement of fact. Vail stiffened.
The boy stuffed his hands inside his pockets, bringing Vail’s attention to those modest, threadbare garments. They spoke to how this child and his family had lived. Vail tightened his grip around his snifter, hating the signs of struggle Bridget had known. “He drinks a lot,” Virgil clarified.
“And does he come ’round a lot?” he asked, unashamedly pulling whatever he could from Bridget’s son. Only more than wheedling information, there was a genuine need to know.
Virgil flattened his mouth into a hard line; that flash of cynicism counter to his otherwise innocent transparency. “Sometimes.”
“And is he—?”
“You’re looking for me to tell you about my family,” the child said bluntly, with a shocking candidness and intuitiveness.
Vail blinked slowly.
“You want to know about my uncle? Why?” he asked, narrowing his eyes into thin slits.
Why? The immediate answer for Vail should be: that he didn’t trust Atbrooke, Bridget, or any of this family. “Because I care about your mother,” he said quietly, instead. Because I love her. I loved her since the moment I came upon her in my office and she blurted out every last thought upon her lips. The enormity of that hit him with the force of a fast-moving carriage. He didn’t know if he could trust her. He didn’t know if there were other lies that would come to light between them. But there was no understanding the heart.
Virgil spoke, breaking through that tumult. “You believe you can keep her safe…us, safe?” Color splashed the boy’s cheeks. Was he ashamed in needing help? The sight of his pride and that devotion to his mother settled like a weight on Vail’s chest.
“Do you believe you need to be kept safe?” he asked instead.
“Everyone does.” Virgil rolled his small shoulders. Then, he glanced about, his eyes lighting up as he took in the shelving units. “Are these all your books?” he asked, as only a child was capable of moving off topic.
Vail followed his stare about the room. “Some of them.”
The little boy wandered away from him and picked his way around the perimeter, going from shelf to shelf. “My mum loves to read.” He paused beside one title and looked back. “She’s always working and has to give them back afterward, but when Mr. Lowell brings them to her, I’ll find her reading the passages at night, and not just evaluating the condition.”
Vail didn’t know who Mr. Lowell was, but the images the boy drew forth, squeezed at his heart. Imaginings of a tired Bridget, sitting by a dying hearth, and reading, until that book was eventually taken back.
A memory slid forward of how Bridget had been her first day here, wholly captivated by the titles in his office. Her eyes had glowed with the same joy most women would have in looking upon a fine diamond.
“Can I look at your collections?” Virgil asked, the question emerging reluctantly.
“You have freedom to use whichever rooms you wish. My home is yours now.” There was a lightness in his chest that came from that admission. “There’ll also be tutors,” he murmured, more to himself. He made a silent note to have Edward find the best for the lad. And in time, there would be Eton and Oxford…or Cambridge, should he wish it. He’d have every opportunity Vail himself hadn’t.
Virgil shifted back and forth on his feet. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
If he couldn’t do right by this boy’s mother, at least he could do right by the lad himself.