Chapter Twelve
As the carriage bounced over the roads the next day, the storm eased, sunlight slanting through the fogged windows. Maybe the heavens had temporarily run out of rain—the way Papa had of words. Rosie’s ears were still burning from his latest lecture. His relief at finding her unharmed had swiftly transformed into parental wrath.
She knew she deserved it. Papa’s reprimands didn’t make her feel as ashamed as how weary he looked. Sitting across the carriage, his handsome face was haggard, shadows betraying his lack of sleep. As he brooded out the window, light glinted off the spreading silver at his temples. He looked tired and worn, and she was the cause of it.
She swallowed, wanting to apologize again, knowing that it would make no difference. What was done was done. When she’d left her family a mere four days ago, she’d been a girl. Now she was the widowed Countess of Daltry. Some fathers might rejoice at the prospect of their daughter making a fine connection… but not hers.
She suppressed a sigh. Papa didn’t give a jot about things like money and titles. The fact that Mama had been a wealthy baroness when he’d first met her had nearly prevented him from proposing. How, then, could he understand why his own daughter would choose status over love?
At the thought of love, her unruly heart skipped a beat. Her life was presently in chaos, yet all she could seem to think about was Andrew… Andrew Corbett. At least now she knew his true identity. Revelstoke’s revelation had been startling, to say the least.
Last year, Polly and Revelstoke had been brought together by mayhem: accused of beating a whore named Nicoletta, the earl had sought Papa’s help to clear his name. Nicoletta’s employer (and owner of the club where the crime had supposedly occurred) had wanted to press charges—and that owner had been a Mr. Corbett.
It can’t be a coincidence. Thus, it followed that if Andrew was that Mr. Corbett, then he was the proprietor of London’s premier bawdy house. He was a procurer... a pimp.
She had difficulty reconciling his profession with what she knew of him. Not that she numbered many brothel owners amongst her acquaintances, but she would assume that such men would be evil and heartless. Despite the tumultuous state of affairs between her and Andrew, she knew he was neither of those things. He’d tried to protect her from Daltry—had pursued her all the way to Gretna to do so. There’d also been times when he’d understood her like no one else ever had, when he’d made her feel so safe…
In fact, she was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t lied after all. If his refusal to marry her was indeed because he was trying to protect her—from himself.
You’re an angel, but I’m not worthy, he’d once said.
Had he truly rejected her for her own good?
Whatever the reason, his rebuff had hurt like nothing else ever had. Her reaction confused her, but no more so than his inadvertent disclosure that he knew about her being kidnapped as a child. Outside of her family and those involved, no one knew about that fact.
Was Andrew a part of my past? The question festered. After Papa and Revelstoke’s arrival, Andrew had met with them privately—she’d been barred from the proceedings (big surprise there)—and soon thereafter he’d departed. Without even saying goodbye.
Her frustration mounted. She needed to understand the truth. Her attraction to him went deeper than the physical. Somehow it was related to her history: the darkness that her family never discussed—that she, herself, had walled off.
Now the shadows were calling to her.
“Chin up, there.”
At the deep murmur, her head swung toward Revelstoke, who shared the bench with her. The earl didn’t usually pay her much attention. She suspected he didn’t like her very much, and she didn’t blame him: she’d acted like a spoilt brat when Revelstoke had declared his feelings for Polly rather than her. To this day, she was ashamed of her behavior.
At present, however, the earl’s handsome visage appeared sympathetic. Rosie supposed this was Polly’s doing. It was amazing how love had transformed the jaded rake into a man of sentiment.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said hesitantly. “I’m afraid I deserve to hang my head.”
“Been there myself. But, as Polly likes to remind me, to err is human.”
“I suppose I’m very human then.”
“That makes two of us.” The earl’s smile was rueful. “By the by, you should know that Polly is at home under protest. She would be here if I hadn’t put my foot down.”
“In her condition?” Rosie said, aghast. “Thank heavens you stopped her! I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her.”
“That’s what I told her,” Revelstoke said.
The unexpected camaraderie boosted Rosie’s spirits—and her courage. She slid a glance at her father, who was still ruminating out the window.
Taking a breath, she said, “I was wondering something, my lord.”
“Yes?”
“What is your opinion of Andrew Corbett?”
The ensuing silence boomed like a clap of thunder. Revelstoke looked to Papa, his lifted brows saying louder than words, You can take it from here.
“That is none of your concern, young lady,” Papa said with a foreboding frown.
“It is. In recent weeks, Mr. Corbett has been,”—she chose her words carefully—“endeavoring to protect me from scandal. Yet never once did he let on about his identity. Now that I know he’s, um, an acquaintance of Revelstoke’s, I want to learn more about him.”
“Now that you know who Corbett is,” Papa said sternly, “you ought to know that he was right in keeping his identity from you. While I do not agree with his tactics, I do with his discretion. You will have no further contact with him, Rosie.”
“Is he truly that wicked?” she said hesitantly.
Her father seemed to struggle with his response. Interesting.
“The world is rarely black and white,” he said at length. “I cannot in good conscience defame Corbett’s character, but he is not suitable company for you.”
“But he’s a part of my past, isn’t he?”
Papa stilled, his amber eyes wary. “Is that what he told you?”
Her frustration spilled over. “He told me nothing, just as you are telling me nothing now! I am no longer a child. Why won’t anyone tell me the truth?”
Trepidation prickled over her skin like thorny vines. What was so terrible about her past? Why did her parents think it necessary to keep it concealed?
“It’s true that you’re no longer a girl.” Papa’s chest heaved on a sigh. “As for Corbett, it is not for me to tell you about him. When we get home, you’ll speak to Mama.”
“Why bother? She never tells me anything,” Rosie said sullenly.
“She wants only to protect you. She loves you, Poppet, more than you’ll ever know. This time, however, there is no hiding from the past.” Papa’s troubled expression ramped up Rosie’s guilt—and anxiety. “For either of you.”
~~~
Two evenings later, Rosie sat in her mother’s sitting room. As a girl, she’d always felt privileged to be permitted into this feminine sanctuary. Mama changed the décor from time to time, but the room was always a statement of her inimitable good taste. Presently, the walls were papered in pale lemon silk, the furnishings upholstered in eggshell velvet. The vase of hothouse peonies on the escritoire provided the only sign of cheer at the moment.
“How could you do such a thing, Rosie?” Her emerald dressing gown swirling around her slender form, Mama was pacing before the settee where Rosie sat. “This was beyond reckless. Beyond the pale.”
“Have a care, my love.” Papa watched the proceedings from the hearth, one arm braced on the marble mantel. “You’ve just recently regained your health—”
“I blame myself.” Mama’s famously sculpted cheekbones were pale. “If I hadn’t been bedridden, I could have kept a better eye on her. Prevented this catastrophe. It is my fault.”
With throbbing remorse, Rosie watched as Papa crossed over to Mama, enfolding her in his arms. He whispered to her, his hand moving over her loose silver blonde tresses in a soothing stroke. Witnessing the love between her parents had always made Rosie feel safe, but now a host of other emotions swelled in her.
Longing to have what they had. Determination to understand her own history.
And sudden, inexplicable anger.
She stood. “I am sorry that I have caused you both worry. But I am not a child, to be discussed as if I am not present.”
Mama lifted her head from Papa’s shoulder. “If you are not a child, then why have you acted like one? Eloping with a blackguard… on some petty whim…”
“It was not a whim.” Rosie was proud of how steady she sounded. “It was the logical solution to my problems.”
“Marrying a lecherous old peer solved your problems?”
“I took a leaf from your book.”
She saw the stunned look on Mama’s face—and was too angry to care.
“Primrose Kent,” Papa said severely, “you will apologize to your mother this instant.”
“I’m sorry, Papa, but I will not apologize for the truth.” Swallowing, she said, “I’m four years older than Mama was when she married Baron Draven; I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions. If we’re to talk, I wish to be treated as an adult.”
Papa looked ready to argue, but Mama put a staying hand on his arm. “I think it’d be best for me to speak to her alone, Ambrose.”
“If you’re certain, my love.” At Mama’s nod, he left, sending Rosie a warning glance.
Mama said quietly, “The last thing I want is for you to make the same mistakes that I have, Rosie. Marrying Draven remains the biggest single regret of my life.”
“More than having a bastard?” The words left before she could stop them.
“How could I regret having you, my darling?” Mama came to her, tipped her chin up. “From the moment you were born, you were my reason for living. When Draven took you from me, I vowed that I would do anything to get you back. That I would never stop looking until you were in my arms once more.”
Seeing the shimmer in her mother’s eyes, Rosie felt heat push behind her own. The truth left her. “I hate being a bastard.”
“I know you do. And I am sorry,” Mama whispered.
When her mother reached for her, Rosie took a step back. “I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty. I know you’ve done everything in your power to be a good mother to me. I know you love me.”
“I do, Rosie.” Mama’s voice broke. “So much.”
“Then tell me the truth about my past.” Fear lodged in her throat; she spoke around it. “Tell me about Andrew Corbett.”
Mama drew the lapels of her dressing gown closer. “You are certain you must know? The past… it’s ugly.” Shadows darkened her eyes. “That is why I’ve always sheltered you from it.”
“I want to know,” Rosie said in a quivering voice. “Mr. Corbett—he knows me, doesn’t he?”
Mama sank onto the settee, nodded slowly.
Shivering with anticipation, Rosie took the adjacent seat. “How? When?”
“It was during your early years. Before Coyner.”
Whenever Mama referred to Gerry, her voice vibrated with hostility—understandable, given that Gerry had kidnapped and nearly killed her. On the rare occasions when Rosie thought of her former guardian, confusion bombarded her. How could she reconcile the doting, if oft-absent man she’d known with the villain that he’d become? Sometimes she even dreamed of that terrifying night when she’d helped Papa to rescue Mama and defeat Gerry.
Tamping down dread, she said, “I don’t remember anything before Coyner.”
“I had hoped it would remain that way.” Mama let out a breath. “You know that after you were born, Draven took you from me. Used you as leverage to bend me to his will. After his death four years later, I ransacked his belongings for any clue to your whereabouts, and I found… a receipt.” Her throat rippled. “He’d paid a woman by the name of Kitty Barnes to care for you.”
“Kitty Barnes.” As Rosie repeated the name, no face emerged in her mind’s eye, yet a sense of apprehension swamped her. “I don’t remember her.”
“That is not surprising since you left her keeping when you were only four years old. After I learned of Barnes, it took me another four years to hunt her down. It was during this search that I met Andrew Corbett.”
Rosie’s pulse raced. “You know And—I mean, Mr. Corbett?”
“I met him briefly.” For some reason, Mama’s cheeks flushed. “The investigators I hired to find you had proved worthless, but they had dredged up one clue. Kitty Barnes had an associate and lover named Augustus Longfellow.”
When Mama hesitated, seeming to struggle with her next words, Rosie pleaded, “Go on, Mama. Please.”
“Longfellow was easier to track down than Barnes. He was using his real name, Andrew Corbett, by the time I found him working in a house of ill repute owned by a Mrs. Wilson.”
Rosie blinked. “Working there? You mean as a footman?”
“As a prostitute,” Mama said bluntly. “There are dens of iniquity which cater to women, my dear, and Mrs. Wilson’s was the premier place of its time. Corbett was her star attraction. Rumors that he was one of the Prince Regent’s by-blows boosted his popularity.”
Rosie’s mind whirled. Andrew had been a prostitute? And he might have royal blood? As she tried to absorb these staggering facts, she recalled his masterful lovemaking. How skillfully he’d brought her pleasure. And her cheeks burned.
“It was through Corbett that I located Barnes. Although he and she had parted ways some years ago, he told me that she’d gone into hiding because of her debts to Bartholomew Black, an infamous cutthroat.” Mama paused. “Corbett’s information allowed me to flush Barnes out and, eventually, to find you. He didn’t have to help me, but he did. And he refused payment, too.”
“Why did he help you?”
“Because he is a gentleman. Not in Society’s eyes, of course, but in the true sense. I believe his honor prompted him to do the right thing.” Mama’s fingers knotted in her lap. “His honor… and you.”
“Me?”
“He told me that Kitty had decided to… sell you. To the highest bidder,” Mama said in a haunted whisper. “He parted ways with her because he could not condone her decision.”
A sickening sensation gripped Rosie by the throat. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t give voice to the vile, unthinkable question exploding in her brain.
“Gerry?” she managed.
“Nothing happened to you.” Her mother grasped her hands, which had gone numb. “You must believe me. But when your father and I finally hunted down Coyner, we found evidence that he meant to… eventually…”
“What?” she said in an anguished whisper.
“Marry you. To make you… his child bride.” Mama’s eyes shone with unshed tears. “But nothing had happened as yet, Rosie. You were only eight when we found you, and he was waiting for you… to mature. To show the first signs of womanhood before he put his despicable plan into action.”
She was going to be ill. Right here, on the pristine velvet cushions. She lurched to her feet, pulling free of her mother’s grasp.
“Rosie?” Mama stood, reaching out.
“Don’t touch me!” Rosie backed away, her arms wrapped around herself. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before? Why have you and Papa been lying to me for years?”
“Don’t blame your father. He wanted to tell you the truth,” Mama said in a suffocated voice, “and I wouldn’t let him. I couldn’t bear the thought of you being burdened with this. You must believe me: Coyner never—”
“Why should I believe anything you say?” The words left her in a shout. “Why should I believe you ever again when you have lied to me my entire life?”
Moisture trickled down her mother’s cheeks. Feeling her own tears well up with uncontrollable force, Rosie whirled around and ran from the room.