Destined to Last (27 page)

William shook his head. “This isn’t a job for a peer. It requires one be a mite…flexible, shall we say, in one’s morals.”

“McAlistair’s flexible enough.”

“He lacks diplomacy.”

The years McAlistair hadn’t been an assassin, he’d been a hermit. “He does that.”

“You’ll take the position, then.”

“No. I…The offer is…” He dragged a hand down his face. He had no idea what the offer was except astonishing, and unacceptable. “No. I can’t do it. I’ll not risk…” He wanted to say he’d not risk leaving Kate by staying with the War Department. But he wasn’t hers to leave, was he? “I’ll not risk it.”

“Not so much of a risk, to be honest. The vast majority of it is paperwork.” William nudged a stack on his desk, and curled his lip. “Bloody lot of paperwork. But my Mrs. Summers has insisted she’ll not have another husband employed by the War Department. I have promised to retire.”

“You’re willing to make this sort of sacrifice for her?”

“It’s not a sacrifice, to be honest. I’ve been planning my retirement for some time. But yes,
were
it a sacrifice, I would make it, happily, to be with the woman I love.” He tilted his head. “I imagine you know something about how it feels to be in love.”

“I don’t,” he snapped instinctively.

William snorted derisively. “You bloody well do. And saying otherwise won’t change the fact. I can see it in your eyes. They’re bloodshot.”

“I was drunk.”

“Bah. You’ve fallen in love with our Lady Kate.” William winced sympathetically. “Hurts a bit, doesn’t it? I hadn’t expected that, myself.”

“Sanctimonious ass
and
an idiot.”

William appeared to ignore him in favor of twisting his lips in thought. “It’s worked then.”

Forget bloodying noses. He was going to strangle the man. “
What
worked?”

“Right.” William nodded and heaved his put-upon sigh once again. “I cannot adequately express how tired I am of telling this, but…” He heaved yet another sigh. “Almost twenty years ago, the late Duke of Rockeforte tricked me into a deathbed promise. A promise that I have spent a number of years attempting to fulfill.”

Again, Hunter wasn’t certain he wanted to know. “The nature of this promise?”

“That I help the children of his heart find love.” He laughed suddenly. “Your expression is no doubt very near to the one I gave Lord Rockeforte.”

“That is the single most preposterous deathbed promise I’ve ever heard.”

“So I thought at the time, and for many years after. Even Lord Bucknam’s request to have his sixteen hounds looked after seemed reasonable in comparison. But now…well, it’s still damned unreasonable,” he admitted. “But Rockeforte wanted happiness for the children he loved, and there’s nothing preposterous about that. Kate, as I am sure you have guessed, was one of these children. And you are her match. You may thank me for that at your leisure.”

“I could beat you now and get the details later,” Hunter growled. “What did you do?”

“Nothing too extreme, I assure you. I merely exaggerated the possibility of Kate becoming embroiled in the smuggling operation and assigned you to watch over her. Lord Martin was no threat to her. Boy thought he was bringing in a bit of brandy and a love letter over, that’s all. No idea Miss Willory was using him to smuggle a message containing the whereabouts of a French saboteur. We’ve caught them, by the way, Miss Willory and her contact. I’ll let Martin’s father see to his son.”

Hunter spoke around a clenched jaw. “Miss Willory nearly killed Kate by sabotaging her tack in a bid to remove Kate from Lord Martin.”

“Whit mentioned that in his letter.” William dragged a hand down his face. “No wonder, really, that Whit sought his revenge now. In my defense, I hadn’t expected Miss Willory to be involved.”

“Whit knew of this…of everything?”

William winced. “Yes, and no. He knew of the matchmaking business. I was less forthcoming with him in regards to the mission. He believed it entirely fabricated.”

That certainly explained Whit’s reluctance to spend the night on Smuggler’s Beach, his surprise at finding actual smugglers, why he’d allowed Kate to attend the house party
to begin with, and why Mr. Laury was given orders to keep his mission secret. Bloody hell.

“Who else knew?”

“My Mrs. Summers, Lady Thurston, and the Dowager Lady Thurston, though the last two were less…enthusiastic, shall we say, in my choice of match for Kate.”

“Sensible women.”

“Cautious women. They don’t know you as Whit and I do.”

He wasn’t going to have a discussion on that topic either. He could barely comprehend the one he was having now. “You do realize your entire ridiculous ruse was utterly pointless? I’d been planning to acquire Kate’s hand for some time.”

“Some time,” William repeated with a roll of his eyes. “Hell, man, you do overthink things. Can’t fathom why you bother, as you always plow straight through the obstacles in your path as if you don’t see them. By the look of you, I’d venture to say that strategy mucked things up a bit this time, didn’t it?”

“I—”

“Well, I said you were a good man. Never said you weren’t an arrogant, shortsighted fool.”

“I can’t very well be both.”

“Certainly, you can. I’m a sanctimonious ass, aren’t I? I lied to Whit. Lied to you—planted false evidence so I could use your unique position in society for my own ends, and I feel quite justified in having done so. And yet I am a good man.”

He was, in fact. It stunned Hunter to realize it. William Fletcher was a right bastard—particularly just then, to his mind—and a good man. He was a lying, manipulating, schemer…Who’d spent years fulfilling a promise to a friend, and his whole life in service to his country. Hunter found himself at a loss for words.

William, bastard that he was, had no difficulty taking the
ensuing silence for complete agreement. “Delighted you concur. It’s never a good idea to mistake minor imperfections for gross deficiencies of character.” He reached for his pen with one hand and pointed to the door with the other. “Now, go smooth over whatever mess you’ve made with Kate. I want my obligation to the late duke to be at an end.”

Still reeling, Hunter tossed his hands up in a combination of disbelief and defeat. “Certain there aren’t any other confessions you care to make before I take my leave?”

William looked at the ceiling for a moment as if considering. “No. No, nothing comes to mind.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“Yes, I believe I am quite done.”

“Splendid.”

Hunter arrived home feeling bewildered, rather discontent, and
exceedingly
annoyed with himself for having let William distract him from the aim of administering a bloody nose. Leaving his horse to the care of a groom in the mews, he walked to a side door, scowled at it a moment, then walked round to the front of the house to stand on the sidewalk in the last light of a long summer’s day and take a good look at his home.

Taking up a significant portion of the block, the house was far and away the largest building in the neighborhood. Which was the very reason he’d bought it. In fact, it was the
only
reason he’d bought it. He’d wanted the grandest, the most impressive, the most imposing. He’d certainly gotten the last. The house appeared impenetrable, wholly indestructible. Napoleon’s army wouldn’t be able to beat down the massive front doors.

“I don’t like it,” he announced to absolutely no one. “Don’t like a damn thing about it.”

He didn’t like the dark color, didn’t care for the top-heavy look of the attic, didn’t understand why there were so many
chimneys sticking out of the roof. Surely he didn’t have that many fireplaces. Why would anyone need that many fireplaces? The house looked like it had the bloody pox.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but is everything all right?”

“What?” He blinked, lowered his gaze from the roofline and found a maid waiting at the open front door, a concerned expression on her young face. “Yes. Yes, everything’s fine, Anne.”

Except that everything felt very wrong, he thought darkly, and climbed the steps to follow Anne inside. He absently handed her his gloves and hat, absently declined refreshments from a waiting footman, and then absently returned the greetings of the staff that arrived in the front hall to welcome him home. He had an inordinate number of staff, he realized after a time. Perhaps it was they who used all the fireplaces.

Eventually, when the last had come and gone, he stood there in the gigantic front hall of his colossal, pox-ridden home, and wondered what he was supposed to do with himself.

For the first time in his adult life, he felt utterly devoid of purpose. Which was absolutely ridiculous, he assured himself. He had his fortune to cultivate, investments to tend, businesses to watch over, and Kate to win back with charm, thoughtful presents, and…Bloody hell, he must have been
stupendously
drunk to have believed that strategy would work. It was the same strategy he’d tried at Pallton House. And what had it gained him? Nothing more than a rejection of his offer of marriage, a magnificent headache, and a nagging ache in his chest.

He rubbed at the ache now. It had been there while he’d sobered up, while he’d ridden to London and while he’d spoken to William. But now, with nothing to distract him, it was beginning to spread into the tight ball of pain it had
been before he’d drank a vast amount of coffee and gone to London.

Perhaps the key to easing it was simply to distract himself with…with what? His fortune? His investments and businesses? How was that to work when he couldn’t scrounge up even an ounce of enthusiasm for the idea?

He couldn’t scrounge up an ounce of enthusiasm for anything at the moment. Anything beyond the idea of Kate, who, no doubt, wasn’t the least bit enthused by the idea of him.

He could hardly blame her. A little time and the vast amounts of coffee had bought him a small amount of clarity, and with it, an ocean of remorse.

I’m very fond of you.

Like apple tarts.

What the devil had he been thinking? He should have remembered the jest he’d made the night before about apple tarts. He should have remembered a great many things. He should have remembered the novels she read were about love, not just adventure. He should have remembered that her friends and family all had love matches of their own. He should have remembered the way her eyes lit up when she’d watched Evie dance with her husband at Lady Thurston’s ball.

But he’d been too focused on
acquiring
her. He’d gone after her hand and all it represented in the eyes of society in the same way he’d gone after his fortune, with blind determination.

He’d not once, not
once
since she’d left Pallton House given a thought to what her hand represented. He no longer cared. She could be a fisherman’s daughter, a seamstress, a scullery maid and he wouldn’t want her less. He wouldn’t miss her less. He wouldn’t be less remorseful for having broken her heart. And in breaking, lost it.

The pain bloomed.

Bloody hell, it hurt. Just as it had when he’d lost his parents and cousin. Just as it had when his aunt had turned her back on him. And just as it had when Lizzy had walked away.

Just as it had every other time he’d lost someone he loved.

He squeezed his eyes shut on a groan. “Oh,
bugger
it.”

He loved her. Despite swearing he never would, despite taking every precaution known to man to
ensure
he never would, he’d fallen deeply, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love.

And now he was paying for it, just as he had in the past.

No, that wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. It wasn’t anything like what had happened before. Kate wasn’t dead, for pity’s sake. She’d not walked away to a place or a life unknown. She’d not left, abandoned, or forgotten him. She wouldn’t. It wasn’t in her nature. Isn’t that part of what had drawn him to her in the first place—her absolute loyalty to those she loved?

She’d just…very understandably backed away, a little. And very courageously invited him to follow, he realized, remembering her invitation to risk a visit to Haldon.

This time, it had not been he who’d been willing to beg. It had been he who had turned away.

And this time, he thought with a growing sense of hope and urgency, he wasn’t a powerless little boy who didn’t know how to make things right again.

“Beggin’ your pardon again, sir, but—”

“No.” Without turning his head, he jabbed a finger in the direction of Anne’s voice. “There will be no more begging.”

“Er…Yes, sir. It’s only that you’ve been standing there—”

“Never mind that. I need my coat and gloves. Where…?” He looked around him, uncaring that the grin growing on his face likely made him look a veritable loon. “How the devil do you find anything in this monstrosity?” He turned and
jabbed his finger at Anne again. “We’re getting a smaller house.”

“I…Yes, sir.” She backed away slowly. “Very good, sir. I’ll just fetch your things, then, shall I?”

“My things, yes,” he said distractedly and then called after her as she turned and fled. “And have someone ready my horse!”

He was going to make things right.

T
he symphony was done.

Kate sat back in her chair and stared at the piles of paper littering her writing desk.

She’d finally completed it, finally discovered why she’d not been able to complete it before. Anger, grief, and heartache,
that’s
what the missing piece of her symphony had needed. She hadn’t been able to hear them before, because she hadn’t been able to feel them. Well, not feeling them had ceased to be an impediment. She’d felt all of them and more during the return trip from Pallton House. She’d felt as if she would drown in them.

Desperate to do something, anything really, with those feelings
besides
drown in them, she’d gone to her room the moment she’d arrived at Haldon, pulled out her supplies, and begun to compose. She’d worked until her eyes burned and her fingers cramped, until the red light of dawn filtered through her window and grew until the gold light of early day. And then she’d eaten, slept for a few hours, and begun composing once again.

What was it now, she wondered blearily, seven o’clock in the evening the day after she’d left Pallton House? It seemed odd that she had only been awake for a few hours.

“Have you a moment, Lady Kate?”

Kate glanced up to see Lizzy standing in the open door between their rooms. She looked anxious, Kate realized. She was biting her lip, and there were circles under her eyes. Worry and guilt were added to the heartache. Had something happened while she’d secluded herself away to lick her wounds?

“What’s the matter, Lizzy? What’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened. Nothing’s the matter, not really. I don’t wish to interrupt.” Lizzy hesitated, then walked in and eyed the papers strewn across the desk. “Your symphony, isn’t it?”

“You’re not interrupting,” Kate assured her. “It’s done.”

“Is it?” Lizzy’s face brightened. “Is it really? You’ve finished the whole of it?”

“I have.”

“That’s wonderful,” Lizzy breathed. “An entire symphony. I can’t imagine. It’s…well, it’s wonderful, isn’t it? You must be very excited.”

Kate nodded, and wished she could, in fact, feel some level of excitement. In truth, she’d rather the symphony have gone unfinished than experience the pain that had inspired its completion. “I’m glad it’s finished,” she said evasively. “What is it you wished to speak to me about?”

“Oh, right.” Lizzy looked down and began fiddling with the edge of her apron. “A letter arrived from Lord Thurston to your mother an hour ago. Mr. Hunter has returned to London.”

“I see,” Kate said carefully. She knew Lizzy had spoken with Hunter about their shared past, but aside from that, neither had broached the subject of the real reason they’d left Pallton House.

The guilt she was experiencing grew. There had to be much more for Lizzy and Hunter to discuss than they could have in the short time they’d been given. And though Kate had encouraged Lizzy to stay behind with Mrs. Summers, Mirabelle, and Whit so she could further her friendship with Hunter, Lizzy had adamantly refused. Kate had no doubt that refusal stemmed from her loyalty to her friend and mistress.

“Would you like to go to London, Lizzy?”

“I wouldn’t.” She pulled a face. “Why should I want to go to London? You know I don’t care for it there.”

“Wouldn’t you like to speak with Mr. Hunter again?”

“I’ll speak with him next time he comes to Haldon Hall and…” Lizzy trailed off and winced. “I’m sorry, I know you wouldn’t care to see him.”

“It’s not that I wouldn’t care to see him, it’s only…” Only that she wanted to see him so terribly that she hurt with it. She shook her head. “Never mind. If it’s not Mr. Hunter you’re troubled over, what is it?”

“It is Mr. Hunter, in a way.” Lizzy bit her lip again. “It’s what we spoke of. Well, part of what we spoke of. We didn’t speak of it exclusively, or even a very great deal. He mentioned it almost in passing, although he was quite clear—”

“What is it, Lizzy?”

“He offered to take care of me.”

“Oh?”

Lizzy nodded. “A house of my own in Benton and a yearly allowance.”

“I wondered if he would.” She and Evie had planned to offer the same in a few years’ time. “Will you accept?”

“I don’t know. What he offered is…it’s ridiculous, is what it is,” Lizzy huffed. “He told me I could have Bethel Manor. Said he bought it a year ago with me in mind and—”

“Bethel Manor? Good heavens.” The house and grounds were enormous. She and Evie couldn’t afford anything quite that grand. They’d chosen a small cottage not far from the
town square, and they’d had to borrow the money from Whit. “And a yearly allowance?”

“Five hundred pounds, plus salaries for staff.”

“Five hundred pounds and Bethel Manor?” Kate felt a smile form. “You’re richer than I am.”

Lizzy’s eyebrows winged up. “Am I really?”

“I don’t have five hundred pounds a year and my own manor house, do I?”

“I don’t have it as yet either.” Brow furrowed, Lizzy walked to the bed to take a seat on the end of the mattress. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve always been a lady’s maid. I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You’ve never been just a lady’s maid,” Kate replied, shifting in her seat to face the bed. “You’re a friend. You always will be.”

“It puts me in an awkward position, to be neither servant nor lady.”

“Then be something else entirely,” Kate suggested. “You could open a shop. A bookseller’s shop. Oh, that would be lovely.”

“Benton all ready has a bookseller’s.”

“Yes, but Mr. Kirkland caters to the gentlemen. And a town can never have too many booksellers.” She smiled a little at Lizzy’s pained expression. “Something else, then. A milliner’s, a bakery, a blacksmith’s if you like. Whatever it is that tickles your fancy.”

“It’s not to be a blacksmith,” Lizzy said dryly. “Or live in a house as grand as Bethel Manor.”

“Well, whatever it is, whatever you decide to do, you know you’ll have the support of every Cole at Haldon.”

A light blush bloomed on Lizzy’s cheeks. “Thank you.”

Afraid Lizzy was still hesitant to take Hunter’s offer of assistance because of her, she added, “I should tell you though, that I’ll be giving mine most grudgingly if you refuse what
Hunter would give you. I don’t fancy supporting you in your decision to be a twit.”

“I suppose I’d have to be, to deny myself a windfall,” Lizzy replied on a laugh. “Thank you. I want to put my mind to the matter a bit longer, but I feel better for having spoken with you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Lizzy bobbed her head, then looked about the room for a moment. “I’ll feel better for having said this too—Tisn’t good for you to spend so much time in here.”

“Yes, I know.” She nudged the papers on her desk. Now that the symphony was done, she wasn’t at all sure what to do with herself. Rising from her seat, she shoved the papers into the center of her desk and lifted the front lid to enclose her work inside. “I believe I’m done with composing for a while. Perhaps I’ll go for a stroll.”

She hesitated a moment, and then, before she could talk herself out of it, went to her vanity to retrieve the pocket watch Hunter had given her. A walk in the garden, she decided, might be just the thing to distract her from the heartache she no longer had a way to vent now that she’d finished the symphony.

After twenty minutes of meandering along the gravel paths without giving a single thought to the flowers, trees, and bushes around her, she was forced to admit that a walk in the garden was an entirely ineffectual means of distraction.

The pain was relentless. She feared it always would be. Though she knew time could heal a great many wounds, in that moment it seemed impossible that she should ever feel truly happy again. She needed Hunter too much. Loved him so deeply it made even the most poignant romances she’d read in her novels now seem hopelessly shallow. And she would, without doubt, always love him in the same way.

Not too many years ago, had she proclaimed to Evie and
Mirabelle that such a love could exist, they would have teased her good-naturedly and informed her that she was being fanciful. And not too long ago, she would have laughed and admitted—if reluctantly—that they were right.

But she wasn’t being fanciful now. She wasn’t insisting she loved Hunter with every fiber of her being because she
wished
to love Hunter with every fiber of her being. At the moment, she’d have given nearly anything to feel less for him. How could she not, when he hadn’t a fiber of love to spare for her?

Battling back tears, she stopped to sit on a stone bench, and reach into her pocket to pull out the watch. She traced the gold inlay with her thumb and felt the watch ticking, steady and sure, beneath her finger. For the life of her, she couldn’t explain why she’d taken it out of her vanity. She wasn’t using it to keep a consistent tempo of any music. She’d simply wanted it with her. She wanted to feel the steadiness.

That’s what Hunter wanted too, she thought dully—steadiness, certainty, constancy. It was what he had gone without as a boy, and it was what he needed now.

She’d offered him a love that constant. She’d offered to
beg
, for pity’s sake. She closed her eyes as a wave of humiliation washed over her. Oh, what had she been thinking?

That I love him.

That I’d do anything for him.

That I wanted him never to doubt either.

Surely he couldn’t have doubted after that. Except…she
had
left. She’d walked away as he’d stood there, watching her from the steps. She’d gone even after he asked her—albeit in a very roundabout sort of way—not to go. She’d left him, just as his aunt had, and Lizzy.

It was different, of course. He didn’t love her as he’d loved his aunt and Lizzy. But it was the same, in that she was supposed to be someone who loved him, and she’d left.

“Oh, dear.”

But what else could she have done—remained at Pallton
House, pretending to enjoy the house party as if nothing was wrong? As if he’d not broken her heart? Besides, she’d only gone to Haldon, not Australia. He must have understood she was only going away a little and only because he’d hurt her.

She rolled her eyes at the ridiculous qualifications. A little? What difference did a little make? What difference did it make that her reason for going away was valid? She had still claimed to love him in one minute and left in the next. How was he to understand and trust that the love she offered was constant from behavior such as that?

She should have waited a little longer, should have taken the time to make certain he understood that she would always love him.

Perhaps she should explain herself in a letter. No, that would never do. She wasn’t certain she could convey what she felt in a letter, and like as not, receiving a letter from her would only reiterate the fact that she was some distance away.

Perhaps she could speak with him when her mother took her to London for the Little Season. But that was months away. She couldn’t possibly wait that long. Perhaps she should go to London sooner. Perhaps she should go tonight.

She bit her lip, calculating the risks and benefits of such an endeavor. London was only a short distance away. She could easily make the trip, speak with him, and be back at Haldon by morning. She’d wait until after midnight, and she’d take at least two footmen she could trust to keep her secret. Whit and Mirabelle hadn’t yet left Pallton House, and her mother and Lizzy would be fast asleep by then. With any luck, she could get to London, speak with Hunter, and return to Haldon without any member of her family being the wiser.

There was the possibility that it would change nothing. Probably, it would result in a lecture about being impetuous. Without doubt, she wouldn’t deserve one. She wasn’t being
impetuous, she decided and rose from her bench, she was taking a calculated risk.