The Dark Affair (20 page)

James snorted. “Marvelous.”

“Powers, you’re an ass. You’ve always been an ass, but you’re a wonderful ass.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say something inappropriate, but then he thought of Margaret and her talk of living in the present. To make a joke in this moment would be avoiding what was happening to him. “I suppose I must thank you.”

“No,” she said. “I still must thank you. Without you, I’d be lost. You and Edward gave me back my freedom. You saved me from hell, and because of that, you will always have my help.”

“Once again, I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ve already said the only thing that matters.”

He quirked his brows. “And those magical words are?”

She leaned forward and took his free hand in hers. “I need help.”

He glanced down at her small hand and wondered what might have happened if Margaret hadn’t been the one to walk into his cell with her cheeky taunts and determination.

He might never have seen Mary again.

He never would have decided to fight for his life.

And he never would have fallen in love again.

More than anything, he wanted Margaret to look at him the way Mary looked at Edward.

This morning, he’d taken the first step to making that happen. Nothing would get in his way now. Not even himself.

M
argaret paced up and down the corridor, at a loss. He wasn’t in his room. She stopped and pressed a cold hand to her forehead. What was she going to tell the earl? And what if James had gone to the East End?

Her stomach dropped, and she swallowed quickly, desperate not to be sick.

In the past, she’d had patients disappear. Those in the thralls of opium addiction were often wont to vanish in the night. She’d accepted those stoically, knowing they’d simply have to begin again, if not from the beginning, from a still difficult place.

There was nothing stoic about her current feelings.

She shouldn’t have left him alone this morning, but she’d been unable to face him. Not after the intimacy they’d shared.

It hadn’t been embarrassment that she’d felt, but fear.

How could she have done it? How could she have lost her wits so completely with him? She’d wept upon him, by God.

Making fists, she resisted the urge to let out an angry cry. She had to get ahold of herself. She couldn’t allow these sudden bursts of emotion to sway her. All her adult life, she’d kept herself carefully in check, and she wouldn’t fail now.

After all, she’d learned the only way to help people was to stay at a distance, to be emotionally disengaged. But how could she do that now?

Powers had wheedled his way into her heart.

And if she gave rein to her feelings, she’d no longer be of any sort of assistance to him because she’d be biased in all her judgments.

Still, she’d never expected him to vanish. After yesterday’s successes, he’d seemed safe. For at least the present.

But that feeling of security only proved that she was not thinking clearly. He would never be entirely safe from the call of opium. It was the nature of those who fell under its spell.

“Margaret?”

She held her breath, flinching. The earl’s voice had drifted up the stair.

It was rather shocking that he would call out, but both James and his father had proved to be unique.

Clearing her throat, she calmly walked to the top of the stairs and began a slow descent. If she appeared as if nothing was amiss then he wouldn’t worry. “Yes?”

“Aha. There you are.” The earl lifted his hands in greeting. “I do believe my son has gone out. For a walk. So I was told.”

She nodded dumbly. She prayed it was true. “How can I help you?”

The earl reached out and gently clasped her hand in his big one. “My man is here to discuss the terms of your allowance, the money settled on you, and the possibilities of renewing your brother’s estate in Ireland. As I understand, it’s quite run-down.” The earl’s face creased with concern. “I also am given to believe he is in some serious trouble.”

She tried to pull her hand away, unused to such sudden kindness and from such a man. It had been impossible to allow herself to think overlong on Matthew in the last days. Keeping herself busy with James had been a godsend. But hearing the earl’s words filled her heart with undeniable fear.

Were these new dangers, or had the earl received word of the events in Ireland? She’d not had the courage or time to disclose such a thing.

“Now, my dear, I realize why you married my son after initially disagreeing. I should be furious, but you have only done for your brother what I was trying to do for James, no?”

Margaret stared up at the older gentleman, not quite sure what to make of him. “The animosity between you and James is a mystery to me.”

“Ah. Well, I am not at liberty to discuss it, but let’s just say I have mellowed greatly in the last few years, though my temper and stubborn nature do get the better of me on many occasion, and usually those occasions involve the one person they should not.”

“James.” It made perfect sense. She’d wondered why her father-in-law could become so imperious. He’d only ever acted thus in regards to his son.

“Exactly, my dear. But we were speaking of your brother, the young earl.”

“What have you heard?” she asked, her voice a harsh whisper.

“That he committed a crime of passion,” he said quietly. “Murder.”

Tears stung Margaret’s eyes. She’d never heard it aloud before. Not like this. Her brother was a murderer. He’d taken another man’s life. Still, her heart refused to see it. Even if her head knew differently. To her he was still the laughing little boy who’d loved so freely. “He’s not evil.”

The earl scoffed. “Of course not. I’m not one of those pompous oafs in parliament who believes the Irish should simply stretch themselves out under the cruelty of our oppression. And I have heard how your brother has petitioned members of parliament to take the Irish problem seriously in these last few years. He must be full of anger. And the reports state your brother killed a soldier enforcing an eviction. There was no cold-blooded calculation in it. In fact, I imagine it was a rather heated altercation.”

“He was defending a dying girl,” she said. Her heart ached at the unfairness of it. “Do you think there is any hope for him?”

“You must let me use my influence for your brother as you have used your skills with my son. I may not be able to do anything, but I will try.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

He smiled, his eyes warm. “You must call me Arthur.”

The front doors swung open, and Powers strode into the foyer.

From the top of his head to the tips of his boots, not a hair or piece of fabric was amiss. His dark coat swung about his fawn-colored trousers, and his burgundy cravat was tied perfectly just below his shaved jaw.

Margaret immediately looked to his eyes.

Crystalline. Pure. Alert.

The smile that pulled at her lips was unbidden and almost painful. “You’ve come back.”

He quirked his brows. “I do live here.”

The tears that had earlier stung her eyes threatened to return with her relief. Quickly, she lifted a hand and surreptitiously wiped at her eyes. “How silly of me to forget,” she quipped.

“Did you have a fine walk?” the earl asked.

“I did, Father. I visited a friend.”

“A friend?” she echoed. Never once had Powers mentioned any close acquaintances.

“Ah.” His father beamed. “You must mean the duke.”

“Not exactly.” Powers shrugged out of his long coat and pulled off his gloves. “I actually met with Her Grace.”

Margaret snapped her mouth shut as a quick,
Who the devil is Her Grace?
rose to her tongue.

Powers crossed to her and placed his fingers beneath her chin.

To her utter astonishment, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

That brief touch lulled her senses, driving out the ridiculous flash of jealousy.

Powers pulled back. “The duchess wishes to meet my wife at your earliest convenience.”

“She does?” Margaret raised her own hand to his wrist, unsure if she wished to hold him there or distance herself.

“I am pleased the two of you are getting along so well.”

Margaret groaned inwardly. The earl sounded all too pleased, as if tiny heirs were suddenly dancing in his head. “We’ve made some progress, yes.”

James waggled his brows. “And we’re going to make more. Margaret, I know you’ve a cause you already believe in, but Mary—Her Grace—has informed me of one I should like to be a part of.”

Mary.
Much to her utter dismay, Margaret’s heart squeezed with disappointment. He knew this duchess well. Well enough to respect her and take her advice. Good Lord, she felt an idiot for feeling even a twinge of jealousy. She should be bloody grateful to the woman, if she’d inspired James to such action. “Are you going to share what it is, then?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Duncliffe, Mary’s stepmother, runs a charity for women escaping homes that are dangerous for them or for women who simply need help when misunderstood by their families. I should like to assist.”

“That’s grand,” she replied immediately, but she was also curious. It wasn’t the most common cause, and one most men avoided like the plague. “What will you do, then?”

“Well, I’d like it if you would accompany me to meet the dowager duchess, but most of the work I think I shall do will have little interaction with ladies.”

Maggie frowned. “But it’s a charity that helps women.”

“Indeed, but who abuses them?”

The earl pursed his lips. “Cowardly devils.”

“Yes,” James said, serious. “Men. Men who drink, who are violent, who have no sense of self. But then there are men who simply don’t understand what is truly happening to their wives. Wives who spend half the day crying or not eating. I want to work with other gentlemen and encourage them to speak out for women and not allow them to be forgotten.”

Margaret’s thoughts reeled. “When did you come to this conclusion?”

“On my walk home. You see, I made mistakes . . . in the past. Mistakes I would give anything to take back. If I can help other men not to make them, my soul would feel as if it deserved to be forgiven.”

The earl grew quiet.

“That sounds marvelous,” Margaret said, overwhelmed by his sudden passion and intensity but aware he was speaking to some deep and personal pain.

“So many women need help that they never get.” A muscle worked in James’s jaw, and his icy eyes, usually so cold, darkened. “And it’s often fatal.”

“This happened to someone you knew,” she observed.

“It’s happened to many women,” James said. “Mary was one of them. Her father locked her away, but in regards to women who are overlooked . . .”

“Sophia,” the earl choked.

“Yes, Sophia.” James’s eyes grew glassy with unshed tears.

Margaret turned from one man to the next, completely at a loss. “I cannot believe that either of you beat her or were cruel.”

“This isn’t a conversation for the foyer,” James said tightly.

“No,” she agreed, feeling as if she were being swept along by a furious current to God knew what destination. “Certainly not.”

“The morning room?” the earl said dully.

James nodded.

With each step, they remained quiet, and a heavy dread pooled in Margaret’s stomach. She understood how important this moment was. It struck her that the two men had only ever shared furious words over Sophia’s and Jane’s deaths.

She still didn’t know how either of them had left this world.

It seemed certain she was about to find out. Wordlessly, she sent up a prayer to whatever spirit might be willing to give their blessing that the two men could finally find peace in this discussion and that it didn’t descend into words that couldn’t be taken back.

In her experience, family needed a third member to mediate when emotions grew wild, but she was a part of the family now, wasn’t she?

As they made their march to the morning room, the untold stories of the dead with them, she sensed that whatever had been between the men was about to come to an end, peacefully or no.

Was she ready for this? All along, she’d been so certain that James had to speak of his wife’s and daughter’s deaths to heal, but fear slid its poisonous way into her heart.

What if she heard something that couldn’t be unheard?

She simply couldn’t believe these impossible yet simultaneously good men had anything to do with a young woman’s and her child’s death.

“R
ight, lads.” Patrick tapped the barrel of gunpowder. “We’ve six of these.”

Matthew stared at the oaken casks that one might assume contained aging whiskey, that is, until one rolled it upon the ground. “And we’re shipping them back to Ireland? Doesn’t seem like nearly enough, and where are the rifles?”

Patrick laughed softly.

Brendan Doyle placed his rough hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “You’re not thinking clearly. We’re struggling to unite the factions in Ireland, and communication is a challenge, not to mention getting the rifles, as you pointed out.”

Matthew blinked, a sick feeling welling in his stomach. “What the devil do we need gunpowder for, then?”

Patrick crouched down and pulled a knife from his pocket. The blade winked under the gas lamp glow in the dark cellar. He began sketching lines into the dirt floor. “This is where we’ll hit.”

“Hit what?” Matthew demanded.

Brendan pulled a bottle out of his pocket. “Have a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Matthew snapped.

Patrick spat on the ground. “Well, it sounds like your courage is failing you there, boyo. Perhaps you’re going to run off to the English, like your sister.”

“I’m here, am I not?” Matthew stared down at the lines in the dirt. They formed a small circle with five lines striking out from it. “What is that?”

“Piccadilly Circus,” Michael, another of the men in the small room, said carefully.

Patrick smiled his confirmation, then dug the knifepoint into the ground. “We’ll hide the barrels in carts and place them in strategic places. We’ll add nails and glass. And then we’ll blow them up.”

Matthew stared at the faces around him.

Patrick was the only man smiling. The others wore the grim expressions of those accepting a death sentence. But accepting it, they were.

“When there are people present?” Matthew breathed.

“When there are English present,” Patrick snapped.

“Why not parliament?” Matthew said carefully, aware that the temperament in the room was shifting against him.

Brendan was eyeing him as if he’d grown a second head.

“We’ve tried negotiating and intimidating the government,” Patrick gritted. “It hasn’t worked. Now it’s time to try more brutal tactics.”

“You’re going to kill innocent women and children.”

“Some must die so that others may live,” Michael intoned with the passion of one speaking out the paternoster.

Holy God, was that how he had sounded in Margaret’s room, spouting Thomas Jefferson? No wonder Mag Pie had looked at him as if he were the devil himself. In all his life, he’d never touched an innocent soul. And he’d thought their war would be against the soldiers.

Patrick stood slowly, the gas lamp light dancing ominously over his face. “You’re not having a change of heart, now, are you, Matthew?”

“Of course not,” he snapped quickly. He certainly couldn’t admit that yes, this was far more than he’d ever bargained for. “You surprised me is all. Now, when’s it to be?”

And he pinned a look of hardness to his features even as his heart thudded with the pain.