Читать книгу The Wallflowers To Wives Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 26

Chapter Eighteen

Needed her? To need her seemed an understatement. In a practical sense, he didn’t need her. The lessons were about done. Any day now, Owen would hear from his contact in France about the latest leads on Thomas and Jonathon would be ready. He’d comported himself excellently at the bookshop. His flawless spoken French had returned nearly full force of what it had once been.

As long as she’s with you. You’ve never done it without her. What if you can’t? You still can’t read French out loud.

Did that really matter? He’d probably never be asked to read French out loud. There was consolation in knowing how much he’d achieved in the last four weeks, but it was a meagre prize compared to what he was giving up: Claire Welton.

No, it wasn’t the need that bothered him. It was the wanting. The rational mind argued that all dreams had a cost. She was merely his price. Just as committing himself in a politically advantageous marriage was part of that price; a price he had not originally minded paying, had indeed felt it was his due to pay; more penance for Thomas. He still felt it was his due to pay. He’d not realised how keenly he’d feel the toll, however. When he’d made his bargain, he’d not had anything to lose, anything to give up.

Jonathon climbed the front steps to his rooms at the Albany on the Piccadilly border—bastion of wealthy, young, unmarried gentlemen during the Season. The halls were quiet, everyone out for the evening. Good. He needed time to think, time to figure out what he was going to do. How would he convince Claire he’d fight for both her and Vienna?

She didn’t think victory on both fronts was possible. She’d made that clear tonight and she knew the price of achieving Vienna. He knew Claire’s consolation. She cared for him enough to pay. She would sacrifice her dream in order to save his. Just as Thomas had. In the end, they’d both left him.

Those two ideas chased themselves around his mind. Claire cared for him.

Claire had left him.

The problem with receiving good news mixed with bad was that one’s brain couldn’t quite decide which emotion to embrace: the elation of the high or the depression of the low. It was even more confusing when the two were inextricably linked: she’d left him because she cared. Thomas had gone down that road because Thomas had loved him, enough to risk dying for him, in place of him.

He fitted his key into the door of his rooms and stepped inside. The room was dark. He’d given his man the night off, but Jonathon could sense immediately he wasn’t alone. He bent down and withdrew his knife from his boot. That weapon was seeing quite a lot of use tonight. He’d didn’t think he’d drawn it in five years, maybe more. Tonight, he’d drawn it twice.

‘Who’s there?’ he called out. ‘I know you’re here. Show yourself. You should know I am armed and in a mood to fight.’

A rich, rolling chuckle filled the room. A form rose from the chair. ‘It’s me, Jonathon. If you’d leave a lamp on, you’d know who was in the room.’

Jonathon expelled a breath and sheathed his knife. ‘Owen, what are you doing here? More importantly, how did you get in?’

Owen stretched. ‘I am here because I have news. How I got in is irrelevant. Come, have a seat. You’re earlier than I expected you.’

Jonathon sat down, instantly alert. ‘Your man has been in contact?’

Owen nodded. ‘Yes, and the man in question, the one living on the Lys, is indeed English. The informant refuses to say more without meeting you.’ Jonathon felt his body tense, his hands clench around the arms of the chair. He forced himself to wait, to hide his impatience. He wanted to walk out the door right this minute and head for France. He didn’t want to plan, to talk. After seven years of wondering, alternately hoping and grieving, he wanted action.

‘Now, before you go haring off, there are things you must know and consider.’

‘Beyond which boat to take?’ Jonathon offered drily.

Owen scolded him with an arched eyebrow. ‘You don’t need a boat. He’s coming to Dover.’ Here Owen hesitated. ‘You have to reconcile yourself to the fact that the man he knows of might not be Thomas. Second, if it is Thomas, he might not wish to be found. He might not welcome your discovery.’

‘He might be held against his will,’ Jonathon retorted. ‘Perhaps he is working the farm under duress.’ He’d heard accounts of such things happening, of men being held captive, even drugged against their will and forced to live another life.

Owen shook his head. ‘It’s been seven years. If he was being held for ransom, his captors are the dumbest kidnappers alive. They’re making no money on him by keeping him hidden away.’ Owen leaned forward. ‘There are other possibilities, too, Jonathon. If it is Thomas, he might not remember his former life. Combat can do terrible things to a mind that a man will block out no matter what the cost. Have you thought of that?’

‘That he has lost his mind? His memories?’ The idea was ludicrous. How could Thomas forget who he was? ‘Amnesia is temporary. Even if he’d been affected by it, his memory would have come back by now,’ Jonathon argued, but he was no doctor, what did he really know about such a condition? Why had he lost his ability to speak French? But that ability had come back, coaxed to life again with Claire’s help. ‘Surely my brother’s condition would have improved.’

Owen shook his head. ‘Look at you, Jonathon. You’ve already assumed Thomas has been found. Did you hear a word I said? There are no guarantees. This is nothing more than an anomaly one of my men noticed passing through the village—an Englishman working as a farmer who bears a general resemblance to your brother.’

‘An anomaly that was significantly different to report,’ Jonathon said staunchly. He would not let go of the hope something had been found at last that explained the lack of a body. ‘I combed the roads, the meadows, the battlefield, the hospitals,’ he began, his voice rising uncontrollably. ‘Thomas wasn’t there. I would know. If he wasn’t with the dead, then he is somewhere among the living.’ His voice broke over the last words. He’d been shot for those efforts, lingered on a deathly threshold with fever for those facts. They had to be worth something.

Owen gave a near-imperceptible nod of his head. ‘How’s your French these days?’

‘Good. Excellent, in fact.’ As long as he didn’t have to read anything out loud or discuss kissing. Owen didn’t need to know that. Either scenario seemed unlikely to occur in the near future.

‘You’ll need it. The informant doesn’t speak English. He’ll be in Dover in two days.’ Owen rose and stuck out his hand.

Jonathon shook it, victory coursing through him. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’ Finally, action, a chance to go back and atone for what he should never have done in the first place: he should not have let Thomas go. He should never have left the Continent without answers. Two days was not long. He’d have to leave immediately.

‘Do you think I am crazy, Owen?’

Owen gripped his arm. ‘I think you are hopeful.’ Then added with a wink, ‘Now, what Miss Northam thinks might be entirely different, if you indeed care any longer. I hear that perhaps your attentions may have been redirected. Would you like to verify?’

‘Not particularly. Tonight’s been rather rough, Owen, if you don’t mind I’d like to be alone.’

* * *

He knew there was no chance of that actually occurring. As soon as he lay down, his thoughts crowded in. He dreamed of Thomas. Nothing as vividly coherent as the usual dream; this was a kaleidoscope of images, snatches of memories, snatches of fears over what he’d learn from the informant. He dreamed of Claire, too, hot dreams where her body pressed to his, where he made her climax again and again, her head thrown back, her dark hair falling down, her eyes filled with passion and desire for him. It was all for him and he’d let her go. Or was it the other way around? Oh, yes, he remembered it correctly now. She’d let him go.

He woke sweaty and aching, his head throbbing with that one truth at dawn. She harboured deep feelings for him—feelings that she’d been willing to forego in order to save his dreams. Maybe that sacrifice would be worth it, if he could in turn save Thomas. He found a valise in his wardrobe and began to pack for Dover, starting with his pistols. He’d been down this road before. It could be dangerous.

* * *

It was positively perilous to keep looking at the clock, watching the big hand snake towards the six in proof that Jonathon wasn’t coming. In fact, he wasn’t ever coming again. Lessons were over, her opportunity to attract his attention, over. Claire paced the small sun room, fighting the attraction to the clock, to the hope that perhaps she was wrong. It wasn’t too late yet. It was still possible that he might come. Even now Jonathon could be on his way, stuck in the traffic of London. But soon, she’d have to give up that little fantasy. Once the clock reached eleven-thirty, it would be a ridiculous pretence.

Claire stopped in front of the big window that let in the light, although there wasn’t much light to let in today. The weather was still grey and rain threatened like it had the day before. She leaned her head against the cool panes of the glass. Had it really been only yesterday she’d received his note? That she’d gone to Soho? No matter how old she got, she would never forget the sight of Jonathon fighting in the street. For her. And what had she done? She’d let him go.

No regrets. She told herself. She’d done what was right. He was destined for greatness and she was destined for nothing. She’d set herself on that course years ago just as assuredly as he’d set himself on his. She would only hold him back and he would come to resent her for it.

If she’d known pursuing Jonathon would be this complicated, she would never have embarked on Beatrice’s mission to see each of them launched into happiness. She should have been more careful of what she wished for, but she hadn’t really believed she would succeed. The girls would be scolding her if they knew her thoughts. She could almost hear Beatrice now. ‘Well, you’ve got Jonathon Lashley, what are you going to do with him?’

She desperately wanted to go to her friends and lay this latest burden at their feet, but she couldn’t. This was her relationship and only she could manage it. This new, adventurous Claire who’d come to life had to take responsibility for herself. She smiled a little to herself. She had changed. She’d taken back her life. Not because she had a man, she still never wanted to be a woman who defined herself through the man on her arm, but because she’d found herself again.

It had been a relief to find her alive and well, buried beneath layers of a quiet woman who’d chosen withdrawal to engagement, a woman who was withering away in the dust of obscurity. Jonathon had not made that discovery happen, any more than her friends had made it happen. Ultimately, the choice to re-engage was hers alone, but Jonathon had given her the opportunity to make the discovery and she’d taken it. Jonathon wasn’t afraid of her intelligence. He admired it, respected it and, in return, he’d given her a safe place in which to be herself and try her wings. It was perhaps the greatest true gift any person could give another. That he had chosen to give that gift to her was worthy of examination.

No one gave such a gift haphazardly. One would have to care for someone deeply to invest in that kind of offering. A little cry rose in her throat. Jonathon loved her. Oh, dear sweet heavens, what had she done? In her mind, she saw the taut outlines of his face the night he’d climbed into her room, waiting for her acceptance, the pain on his face last night, when she’d broken off with him. She saw other images, too, like his beautiful head thrown back in ecstasy as she pleasured him, the way he looked before he kissed her, as if she were his feast. She’d hurt him. He had been willing to fight for her, not just in the streets, but in the drawing rooms and ballrooms of the ton. Claire, you are worth fighting for.

He had been willing to take the risk, but she had not. She’d led him to believe he wasn’t worth fighting for when nothing could be further from the truth. She’d always believed that right and best were synonymous. Now, she wasn’t so sure. Was it possible that the right decision was not necessarily the best? She’d made a terrible mistake. She had to find Jonathon and tell him.

* * *

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion while she had speeded up. Nothing could happen fast enough to suit her; not the bringing of the carriage, not the journey through London through all the midday traffic. Three streets from the Albany, Claire gave up the last of her patience and hopped out. She could walk the remaining distance faster than her coachman could drive. At last, she stood in front of Jonathon’s door, breathless from excitement, from nerves, from the haste she’d made, and knocked.

She heard footsteps behind the door and she drew a breath, ready to make her speech. The door opened.

‘Jonathon, I’ve made a mistake, I am sorry.’ The words rushed out before she realised. This wasn’t Jonathon. This was... ‘Preston! What are you doing here?’ Nothing made sense. This was Jonathon’s door. She’d come to see Jonathon. He should be here, not May’s brother.

Preston gave her a considering look, arms folded across his chest. ‘What are you doing here?’ He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind them. ‘Good heavens, Claire, this is a boarding house for bachelor gentlemen. Did anyone see you?’ He looked genuinely concerned.

‘I don’t think so.’ But she wasn’t entirely sure. Most gentlemen were either still in bed at this hour or out with errands. The halls had seemed empty, but in truth, her mind had been too occupied with other things to give much thought to the consequences of her actions. The only consequence she was interested in was finding Jonathon.

‘We have to get you out of here.’ Preston was striding through the room, looking for something.

She peered around his moving form to the door leading into the other room. ‘I came to see Jonathon. Is he here?’ She fully expected to see him emerge any moment. Surely he would have heard her voice and the commotion by now.

Preston stopped his searching. ‘No, he’s not here. He’s gone to Dover on business for Sir Owen Danvers.’

‘What?’ Claire felt her stomach sink, the whirling of her mind come to an abrupt halt. Jonathon wasn’t simply ‘not’ here, he was gone. She’d come to tell him she loved him and he was gone. It seemed the height of injustice. ‘Why? What kind of business? How long? When did this come up? He said nothing about it.’

‘I’m sorry, Claire. I can’t say anything more than that on the subject. His business is his own. It’s not for me to say.’

Preston offered her a kind, brotherly smile. ‘If it’s any consolation, I think the business came up rather suddenly. I don’t think he had much advance warning.’ He touched her arm. ‘Let me take you home, Claire.’

‘No.’ Claire met Preston’s gaze with a determined stare, daring him to deny her. ‘I need to talk to Jonathon. Take me to Dover.’