Dusty, tired, and numb, Vail jumped down from his mount and tossed the reins to a waiting servant.
Through his brother’s revelation about the Chaucer, he’d set out for some hint of Lord Atbrooke. And mayhap it spoke to his own weakness, but he’d spent the day searching out that gentleman, looking for some proof of what Bridget had said. All his contacts in the lower ends of London and in every damned hell had revealed nothing. The man may as well be a damned specter.
Entering through the doors as Gavin pulled them open, he shrugged out of his cloak. “D-Did you find it,” Gavin whispered.
He shook his head once. “No.”
Of course, everyone, his siblings included, would expect that Vail was off looking for that coveted volume up for auction next week. All he’d ever thought about his entire adult life was his business and his fortunes. It had been Bridget who’d shown him that something more mattered…if one focused only on providing for one’s family, one lost every moment one had with them, too.
“It’s fine,” he said quietly, squeezing Gavin’s shoulder. “It really is. It is just a book.”
His brother nodded and, head down, shuffled off.
Vail stared after his retreating frame letting those words settle in his mind. The Chaucer was just a book. It was one of value that would fetch a fortune, but the words inside that particular copy didn’t truly mean anything to him. Rather, what that book represented was what had brought Bridget into his life…and now what was threatening to tear her out of it.
He stared briefly up the curved staircase, wanting to go to her. Go to her, then. This woman he wasn’t truly married to.
I did it for you.
She’d freed him. Only, she’d made the decision as to what he needed, and again fed him a lie. Tired, he shifted direction and sought out his office.
As soon as he closed the door, his eyes found the small figure perched on the chair at his desk; Virgil’s small form swallowed impossibly by the leather folds. “Virgil,” he greeted, thrusting aside his own melancholy.
“My lord.”
Seated as he was, with his arms layered upon the desk and a folded sheet of parchment resting under his folded hands, Vail had a glimpse of the man Virgil would one day grow into. The boy made to stand, but he waved him back into the chair.
“Thank you, sir. My lord.”
“Just Vail. Please, just Vail.”
The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Do you know the problem with being a child, sir…Vail?”
“Oh, I remember any number of them,” he confessed, sitting in the chair across from him.
“Yes, that’s true.” He scrunched up his little brow. “Everyone thinks you don’t hear what’s going on or don’t understand it. And so, they speak freely around you. I know she’s not my mother.”
Vail stilled. Oh, God. Had he and Bridget in their discussions revealed the truth to the boy?
“Knew for some time. Overheard Nettie. She’s got looser lips than my mum. I heard what you said to her. The night we came here as a family.” A family. That is what they were. Or, that is what Vail wanted with her—with them. It’s what he’d always been in search of; since before he was younger than the boy across from him.
His chest tightened with the dream for more with both Bridget and this small boy. “Which part?” he asked hoarsely, more than half-fearing the answer.
“Calling her a liar.” If looks could kill Vail would have been dead at this boy’s feet—and deservedly so. “Saying I wasn’t her son.”
Gutted by what he’d casually tossed out, he hung his head.
“I don’t need you to make her feel bad for it, either. About taking me in and lying to me.” Vail winced, properly shamed and humbled by a ten-year-old child. Virgil jutted his chin out and met Vail’s gaze with a ruthless promise in his eyes that revealed the strength of his character and the man he’d one day be. “She may not have birthed me, but she’s loved me as her own, and I’ll not have you, bastard, baron, businessman, dare make her feel less. Sometimes lies are important. Even I know that.” Virgil slid the page under his hands toward Vail.
“What is this?” he asked when he trusted himself to speak.
“I was to give it to you if my mum didn’t return by tomorrow.”
Vail ceased to breathe. “What?” he asked, that question faint.
“I took your book,” he said, his earlier bravado gone. “I found it and turned it over to my un…to him…thought he’d go away and figured you certainly wouldn’t go poor for missing it.” He glanced about the stocked shelves. Then Virgil’s bravado crumpled and his lower lip trembled slightly, revealing the truth and reminder that he was just a boy. “He’ll hurt her, sir. And I don’t know if I can trust you, but I think you’re able to help her and so I’d ask you to do so.”
Vail’s heart rattled against his ribcage. As terror swamped his senses, he fought for calm. The little boy staring back reflected his own dread. Bridget hadn’t been made for the ruthlessness Vail witnessed daily from his clients. She wasn’t a match for Atbrooke’s evil. “I’ll bring her back,” he promised. “Run along.”
After Bridget’s son had gone, Vail tore open the letter written in Bridget’s hand.
My dearest Vail,
I’ve told so many lies it’s hard to ask you to sort through what is the truth. I have loved you since the moment you came upon me in the Portrait Room. You are all that is good.—His throat constricted—“I did not steal the Chaucer, but I did come to rob you. That is true. My brother won’t rest until he has that book, but we’ve taken so much I’d not let him have this, too.”
An agonized groan tore from his chest, better suited a wounded beast. It meant nothing. She was his everything.
“If anything were to happen to me, I ask you to please care for Virgil.
Ever Yours,
Bridget
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn you, Bridget.” Tearing from the room, he shouted the house down for his horse…and her nursemaid, Nettie.
Her life had, in a way, come full circle.
Bridget returned to this hated place of sadness and irresponsibility and evil. One where she was turned back ten years earlier, without a coin to help her, and only a foundling babe in need of a family.
Carefully picking her way through the side alley connecting the two buildings, she found her way, not this time through the front door of this townhouse but the kitchens. A cool breeze stole through the mews and she huddled deeper inside her cloak. Shifting the velvet sack in her arms, she pressed the door handle and let herself in.
As she closed the heavy panel behind her, she blinked, adjusting her eyes to the dimly lit space, and then found a lone servant sprawled at the kitchen table. Head down, a tankard beside his arm, the servant snored. Biting the inside of her cheek, she tiptoed past the young man from the kitchens.
For all her brother’s vices and all he’d cost their family, the lack of reliable, underfoot servants was the one gift he’d given. Bridget drifted through the hallways. This townhouse had been home to her for the first four years of her life and yet the memories here were so fleeting, filled only with the distant echo of her parents’ derisive words and her brother’s jeering laughter.
No good had ever come from her being in London. Even her time with Vail, who’d forever hold her heart, had been marked by darkness.
But then, mayhap that was simply the way of the Hamiltons. That it could not be purged from who they were and was destined to follow them. Thrusting aside her useless regrets, she began her search. Bridget moved from room to darkened room. The same sofas and curtains hung, now tears and faded colors marked their age. The porcelain vases and fripperies gone, no doubt sold by her wastrel brother. Empty, faded paint marked places on the walls where portraits once hung. The barrenness of her family’s townhouse made her search easy.
As every room revealed nothing more than dust and ancient memories, her frustration mounted.
She reached the end of another hall. “Think,” she mouthed. Holding her velvet sack, she did a slow circle. What was important to Archibald? What had been anything he could have never lived without?
Nothing. Nothing mattered. He’d always been too busy whoring, drinking and…
Bridget stopped mid-turn. Her eyes flew wide. Spinning left, she started down the corridor. She entered the billiards room, doing a sweep. The red velvet table, though faded, still gleamed from the shine on the mahogany wood. The crystal chandeliers sparkled. She honed her gaze on the sideboard in the corner.
And the sideboard was well-stocked. Heart knocking wildly with a growing hope, she set down her bag. Dropping to her knees, she did a search under the table, stretching her arms, she felt about. She bumped her head on the bottom of the sideboard and grunted as her chignon came loose and her hair fell about her shoulders and waist.
Nothing.
She shoved up onto her knees and froze, as her gaze collided with the small silver circle on the sideboard door. Palms shaking, she tugged it open.
Bridget’s eyes slid closed and she sent a brief prayer skyward. She made quick work of switching out the newer edition of Chaucer’s work with the prized one Vail had going to auction and placed it inside the gold velvet bag. Crawling under the billiards table, she frantically scanned the floorboards, looking for and finding one specific plank. Digging her nails into the faint cracks along the slide, she lifted the board and tucked Vail’s book inside. It gave with a satisfying click. Scrambling out, she rushed back to close the door of the sideboard.
“Tsk, tsk.” Bridget froze, her fingers damningly on the door of her brother’s liquor case as a hated voice drifted over to her good ear. Dread stuck in her throat and held her motionless. “Stealing from one’s sibling. Why, you are a Hamilton. If it weren’t me you were stealing from, I would say I was proud. Get up,” he clipped out, yanking her up by her upper arm.
He forced a cold smile; the only one she’d seen her brother don in the whole of his miserable life. “Archibald,” she greeted, angling her chin up, defiantly. “I would say it is a pleasure but it has never—” He backhanded her across the cheek.
Bridget cried out and went flying backward. She caught herself against the wall. Stars danced behind her eyes and she blinked them back.
“You were always useless,” he said, his tone hopelessly bored like one speaking on the weather. He strolled toward her and, legs shaking, she retreated. “And here I thought I’d found one single task you could accomplish. I asked that you get me that damned book and you couldn’t even do that. My son, however, proves he’s very much my child.”
Fury burned hot through her veins. “He is not your son, you bastard,” she hissed.
Archibald shot out his other palm, catching her again on the cheek. She went down hard on her knees. Pain shot along her jaw. Cradling her cheek, the metallic hint of blood tinged her mouth, flooding her senses.
Her brother grinned.
Refusing to give him any more satisfaction, she let her hand fall back to her side. “I’m not letting you do this.”
“I already did it.” Bridget darted around him making for the velvet sack, crying out as he wrenched her arm high behind her back. “I’m taking it and leaving tonight.” Gathering her by her hair, he drove her forehead into the edge of the billiards table.
A piteous moan spilled from her lips as she battled the inky blackness pulling at the corners of her vision. Not wanting to give in to that darkness, she fought it, as under the table a pair of legs appeared in the doorway. And it must have been the effects of Archibald’s blows, but through the agony pounding at her head, Vail’s face drifted over—lined with fury and yet tender at the same time.
The pull proved too great—and she pitched forward, slipping into unconsciousness.
Nettie had gathered the one place Bridget had likely gone. She’d come here. To confront her brother and rescue a damned book Vail would just as gladly set fire to if it meant she would be safe.
Now, he did a quick sweep of Atbrooke’s billiards room. “Where is my wife?”
“N-Not sure what you’re talking about, Ch-Chilton,” the marquess stammered from the opposite end of the table. He yanked at his lapels. “C-Certainly not the thing entering a man’s home. Baron or no, I-I’m a marquess and can have a constable called.”
Vail laid his palms on the opposite end of the table. “Wrong response,” he whispered and started forward.
The marquess squeaked as Vail approached; a predator with his prey in sight.
“S-stop there,” that shaky command emerged as a desperate plea.
Vail continued coming and then stopped. His heart stopped beating and sank to his stomach and dropped down to his toes. “Bridget.”
She lay sprawled face-first with half of her body concealed under the table and her legs jutting out.
“Sh-she came to steal from me,” Lord Atbrooke’s voice was pitched high. “Anyone would say—ahh.”
With a thunderous roar, Vail charged forward and, gripping the other man by the throat, he propelled him to the floor. Drawing back his fist he drove it into the other man’s nose. The satisfying crack melded with the man’s agonized screams. A sticky stream of blood coated Vail’s hands as he rained down blow after blow, knocking the marquess’ head against the hardwood floor. Wanting him to hurt as he’d hurt Bridget and her son over the years. Wanting to kill him and yet wanting him to live all at the same time so he could happily torture him until he drew his last breath.
“Vail.” Colin’s voice penetrated, as if from a distance, through the fog of hatred, madness, and bloodlust. Snarling, Vail grabbed Atbrooke by the throat and choked his limp frame. “Vail.” Hands scrabbled with his back and he fought against the hold, wrestling free of that grip.
Colin slapped him hard across the face, wrenching him back from the precipice of madness. Chest heaving, Vail struggled to get air into his lungs. He blinked wildly. So this is what it was to go mad. Releasing the marquess, the man’s body fell with a satisfying thump and Vail scrambled on his knees over to Bridget.
“No. No. No.” He moaned. With fingers that shook, he gently drew her out from under the table and cradled her on his lap. Limp like that cloth doll Erasmus had once played with, she sagged against his chest. Keening like a wounded beast, he searched her neck for the beat of her pulse. His eyes slid closed as he found it, steady and strong. “Bridget,” he pleaded, brushing back the tangle of curls from her face. The air left him on a swift exhale. A large knot, now turning purple, marred the center of her noble brow. Blood leaked from the corners of her mouth. “Nooooo,” he groaned, his earlier relief fading. He’d seen too many men fall and eventually draw their final breath from nothing more than a blow to the head.
“Take her out of here,” Colin urged. “I’ll handle Atbrooke.”
Gently lifting Bridget, he shoved to a stand. She moaned, as her head rolled into his chest.
“Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry.” For so much. This was the depth of evil she’d lived with. A brother who would have killed her to secure his own future. She’d never had a choice.
“Vail.”
Bridget’s voice, weak and strained, froze him. “Yes, love?”
“It’s under…” Her words broke off.
“Stop. We’ll talk later.” There were so many words to be said.
“No,” she pleaded. “Th-there is a board… under the billiards. Your book…” And she went limp once more.
Panic threatened to engulf him as he searched for a pulse. “Don’t you dare die,” he rasped. “For a bloody book.” She’d threaten him with the prospect of eternal loneliness and the loss of her for a damned book. Nothing mattered more than her. Tears blurred his vision and he blinked them back.
Colin settled a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Take her and go. She needs a doctor.”
Colin’s steady, assured voice pulled him back from the brink of madness. With Bridget in his arms, he rushed through the marquess’ townhouse, past portraits he’d not noted when he’d entered. A noble family: a mother, father, a son, and daughter…and yet there was another child missing from all those portraits.
He wanted to rail at the ugliness that existed in her parents’ soul. He yearned to take a knife to each painting and drag the blade through those people who’d cast her out.
Throat working, he glanced at the pale woman in his arms. Then, mayhap with the evil her brother would have carried out against her this day in the name of his greed, she’d been spared a more dangerous fate than had she lived in their midst.
Reaching his carriage, not relinquishing Bridget to his driver’s care, Vail climbed inside. “H-Home,” he managed, that one word breaking. Seated on the bench with her on his lap, he turned his attention back to her. The knot on her forehead had already turned a vicious shade of purple and blood continued to trickle from her mouth. With shaking hands, he yanked out his kerchief and gently brushed away the blood from her lips. “Oh, Bridget,” he whispered achingly. “What have you done?”
A piteous moan escaped her and he froze.
Her lashes fluttered, revealing pain-laden eyes. “Vail. It was you.”
He strained to hear her faint words. “Did you think I would not come for you?” Except, when the Chaucer went missing, he’d shown his doubt. How he hated himself for not having trusted her in this. He dusted his knuckles along her jaw.
“I didn’t…” She winced, closing her eyes again.
“Shh,” he pleaded. They’d talk later. They had forever. He’d show her that.
“I didn’t want you to come.”
For a moment, he thought he’d misheard her. She hadn’t wanted…?
“I n-needed to do this.” Bridget touched her fingers to his cheek. “For you.”
“For me,” he echoed, his voice curiously blank. He sank back in his seat. She’d have sacrificed her life to prove herself.
“I wanted to tell you—” The carriage hit a bump and an agonized moan filtered around the carriage.
His worry swelled. “Not now,” he said quietly. “Rest. We’ll talk later.”
And once more, Bridget slid into unconsciousness.