The Dark Affair (22 page)

M
argaret made a slow march toward the breakfast room. She’d longed to stay in her room, but she wouldn’t hide. Not from James.

Each step was forced and weary, but she made her feet move down the stairs.

Last night had begun with such perfection. How had it all ended in such sadness?

Footsteps thudded down the stairs behind her. James’s steps.

Her heart leaped to her mouth, and she found she couldn’t speak as she turned to him.

Stopping awkwardly on the stairs, he said, “I must go back and see Mary, the Duchess of Fairleigh.”

Preposterous pain lanced her heart. He wished to see someone else? After last night, it was a miracle he wasn’t entirely avoiding her. “Of course. She’s an old friend. And I think she had something to do with your freedom yesterday—”

“Margaret,” he cut in. “I wish to speak with Mary because . . . Well, honestly, it’s not my place to inform you. But she understands something about me.”

“That I don’t?” She hated the hurt note in her voice. Was he withdrawing from her? Oh, God, was this what it was to be like?

She knew she couldn’t be all things and everything to Powers. She didn’t even want to be. Truly. She had one job where he was concerned, and so far, she was fulfilling it. It had been her foolishness to attempt to mix love and marriage with her primary role as his caregiver.

He smiled, but there was a brittleness. In fact, his hands were opening and closing in a hard, repetitive gesture.

Her mouth opened slightly. “You wish to use opium,” she stated.

He nodded tightly. “I know that must be a disappointment to you. I suppose I could lie, but that wouldn’t serve either of us.”

“No. It wouldn’t.” She longed to reach out to him, wishing she could fold her arms around his big body and give him comfort. “But I’m not surprised. Last night was unpleasant, and every time you have felt so intensely in the past, you’ve turned to opiates. Why shouldn’t you feel the need at present?”

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “How perfectly put. Last night was indeed unpleasant.”

Was he mocking her? She couldn’t quite tell, but he was certainly displeased with something she had said.

“Margaret, I must ask you a favor.”

She nodded. “What is it?”

“Will you walk with me to the Fairleigh’s town home?” He flinched. “Awkward as it is, I don’t quite trust myself not to turn east or find an apothecary.”

She beamed at him. He did need her. He still did, and she was grateful that she could help him. “It would give me great pleasure.”

Out of what appeared to be sheer formality, he took her hand in his, tucked it under his arm, then pulled her toward the front door.

She followed silently, not caring how scandalous it was that she didn’t have a hat or gloves. All that mattered was that he was behaving just as he should. He was accepting the fact that he still longed to use opium, but now he was doing something about it.

As they walked at a surprisingly rapid pace away from Hyde Park and up the Mall, she had to skip a little to keep up. Tempting though it was to ask him to slow his step, much as she had done on their wedding day, she didn’t. Whatever was driving him to move so quickly was most important.

Blessed sun peered down at them, the few clouds above racing along. Margaret allowed herself to smile. Though they had walked through fire last night, she felt that could change, and the beautiful afternoon only assisted her in that notion. Surely, they could set things to rights. She could make him understand what she had done. He just needed time.

It was hard not to hear the birds chirping as they turned toward Green Park. A sense of lightness replaced her earlier melancholy, and she found keeping up with James was much simpler than she’d originally thought.

That ridiculous fear she’d felt this morning that the bond that had formed between them was gone had vanished the instant he had asked her to accompany him. He still very much wished her to be a part of his healing.

“You seem remarkably cheerful.”

She winced. “Is it inappropriate?”

“Only if you’re delighting in my physical and mental discomfort,” he drawled.

She scoffed. “Do you not know me better?”

He was silent for a moment before saying, “I know you’re a devil of a woman.”

“Well, yes, perhaps.” It had been a mistake to ask if he knew her or no, because he clearly seemed uncertain.

“But why this brightness? “

“Because I think all will be well between us. You still need my help, after all.”

He stopped suddenly.

Surprised and unprepared, she smacked into him, her body bouncing against his. “James?”

“After last night, you’re happy today because I still need your
help
?”

Her smiled faded, her lips heavy as lead. “Well, yes?”

“That’s why you’re happy?” he asked again. “We spent the night in separate rooms. I didn’t sleep at all on your marriage bargain and the fact that you might already be carrying the
promised heir
.”

She dropped her chin to her chest, completely unprepared for such a conversation or the thought that she could be carrying his child. “This is hardly an appropriate place to discuss such a thing.”

“I find I don’t care. Now that I’ve begun addressing things that cause me pain, I must ask.” He leaned down and whispered, “How can you still think I’m going to continue to use you as a nursemaid when we have been as man and wife? And how the devil can you be so damned cheerful after my heart was ripped out last night? How can you be so cold?”

“I—” She snuck a glance toward the park, desperate to find any way to avoid answering his direct question. “I don’t think we should be focusing on myself at present. Why did it bother you?”

He stared down at her. “Oh, Margaret. Why is it so difficult for you to discuss your own feelings?”

“Because I am not the p—” She broke off before she could finish.
Oh no. No. That wasn’t what she was . . .
She wasn’t a patient, and she certainly wasn’t going to lose control as her mother had done, as her father had done, and as recently her brother had done. If she did, my God, she’d end up like them, dead or in dire straits. She’d never allow herself to fall to such a miserable end.

His face darkened. “Patient. That was what you were about to say, were you not?”

She couldn’t reply. Because of course, it was true. But he had been the patient. She wasn’t being treated for anything. “Exposing all my thoughts and feelings was never part of our arrangement.”

“I didn’t realize it needed to be,” he countered. “You stood there, observing my father and I yesterday,
honored
. Last night you said you loved me, but now you cannot honor me with a simple answer?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He raked his gaze up and down her frame, silent.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m waiting for you to take your saintly, defensive stance. Hands folded before you, shoulders back, chin up, and completely implacable.”

“It is important that I maintain control. That is why I stand like that.” She made a gesture to herself. “And I’m not doing it now.”

A muscle in his jaw tightened. “Never mind, Margaret.” He pulled his hand away from her and pointed to a large three-storied building with Palladian windows. “There is the house. I’m going in. Perhaps it best you wait here. I don’t wish Mary to see us like this.”

She nodded, the blood draining from her face.

A reply was impossible. How could she explain? How could she make him understand that she had relied on no one but herself since childhood, and distance from others was the only thing that had kept her from the same sort of despair or rashness that had destroyed her mother, her father, and her brother?

For all her adult life she had been the one in control, aloof, teasing perhaps, but always at arm’s length.

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

That solemn face of his didn’t waver. “You don’t need to apologize.” A sad sort of acceptance softened his words. “It’s who you are.”

She longed to protest, but she couldn’t. James was absolutely right. No one had ever seen into the core of her before and seen so correctly. It was who she was. She hadn’t even had to explain, because he already knew.

M
atthew slipped through the park, his boots skimming easily over the neatly trimmed grass.

Margaret was only a few feet away.

He’d followed her and her English husband from their home, wondering how in the devil he was going to get her on her own.

Thank the angels his patience had paid off.

Margaret had watched her husband walk into a large house and then walked straight to the small gated park.

Her hands were pressed to her hips, and she appeared to be in discomfort.

It broke his heart to see her distressed, but it didn’t surprise him. Marrying an Englishman could never have brought any good.

He ducked behind an oak tree. Waiting.

Margaret paced the green, her red hair glinting in the sun.

He needed to act soon, or he’d be missed.

In truth, he shouldn’t even have come, but he had no idea who else to turn to.

Plucking up his courage, Matthew ventured out of the shade of the sprawling old tree. “Mag Pie?”

She tensed, then whipped around. Her pale face whitened. “Matthew? My God, have you lost your reason?” she hissed.

He shook his head wildly, doffing his cap. “No. I’ve found it. I need to talk with you.”

“Matthew, my God. I didn’t think I’d see you again.” She rushed to him. “Are you all right?

“No,” he said, glancing right to left, squeezing the wool of his cap between his hands. “Please listen.”

Her face creased with pain before she nodded.

He backed toward the tree again, determined to use the shade and the long, draping limbs covered in vibrant leaves as best he could.

She followed slowly, wary. “What is it, then? You know the risk of being so in the open.”

“The risk is worth it.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re scaring me, brother.”

“You should be scared.” Oh, God. He gulped back his own terror. “You’ve got to help me.”

“I’m trying, but it takes time. The earl, James’s father, he’s going to try to help you, but—”

“No,” Matthew cut in, his voice low. “You don’t understand.”

She stilled. “What is it that I don’t understand?”

“You know I’ve been working with those who wish Ireland’s freedom?”

She nodded. “Fenians.”

“More extreme lads, if you must know,” he admitted.

She stared at him, uncomprehending.

“I’ve discovered something and I can’t bear it.”

“Dear God, Matthew.”

Matthew stretched out his hands. Pleading. “I need your help. They’re going to blow up Piccadilly Circus,” he hissed.

“Ah. Now.” Patrick’s voice cut in from the shadows. “That wasn’t wise.”

Before Matthew could react, Patrick was behind him, the muzzle of a pistol pressed into his back.

Patrick reached forward and slipped the knife from Matthew’s pocket.

No. A wave of sheer panic assaulted him. Saints above. What had he done? He’d been a right fool. A terrible, terrible fool, and he’d never be able to forgive himself.

He’d led them to Maggie.

Maggie’s eyes flashed with fury “Let my brother go.”

Patrick pushed the muzzle tighter against Matthew’s back. “I can’t do that. The boyo’s been a might foolish, telling you things he oughtn’t.”

“Let him go or I’ll cry out,” Margaret threatened.

Matthew winced.

It was an empty threat.

“I don’t think you will,” Patrick replied calmly. “Not unless you wish to see the grass turn red with blood.” Patrick leaned down. “Our Matthew here is in a good deal of trouble.”

Margaret’s back snapped straight. “He’s not your Matthew. He’s mine.”

“He hasn’t been yours in years,” Patrick bit out. “But it does seem there’s a strain of your weakness in him.”

Matthew glanced back over his shoulder, glimpsing the dark stubble of Patrick’s unshaved skin. “Please. Let her go.”

“Too late for that, me lad. You’ve gone and spouted off your gob, and now your sister will serve a purpose, and it won’t be just to keep you in line.” Patrick shoved Matthew forward. “Now, we’re all going to take a walk. There’s a coach waiting for us.”

Margaret’s shoulders sagged. She looked to the house her husband had entered. Some emotion Matthew’d never seen on Margaret’s face flitted over her visage. It was more than sadness. It was regret.

And all because he’d had to have grand ideas about patriotism, turning into the fool that Margaret had claimed he was. The well of self-hate swept over him so intensely he almost reached back and forced Patrick to shoot him. Only he knew if he did that, Margaret would be dead too.

Somehow, he was going to keep her alive.

•   •   •

James charged into his home, fear pummeling through him. “Father,” he shouted.

The house was seemingly empty, save for a housemaid, who stopped to stare at him, her mouth agape.

James skidded to a halt. “Have you seen her ladyship?”

The housemaid’s brown eyes widened, and she shook her head wildly. “No, my lord. Not since this morning.”

“Thank you,” James managed before running up the stairs. He stormed to her room and threw the door open.

Nothing.

Not even the bed was mussed.

“James?”

He whipped around.

His father stood several feet away, his brows furrowed with confusion. “Whatever is amiss?”

“Margaret.” James grabbed the doorframe, fearing he might sink to the ground. “She’s missing.”

“Missing?” his father scoffed. “Surely she’s simply gone for a walk.”

James’s mouth dried as his fear deepened. “She came with me to the Fairleighs, and she was just to wait until I’d finished my meeting. I left her waiting in the park.”

The meaning of his own words sank in, lacerating his heart and soul with terror. Every step home had been one filled with terror that something had befallen Margaret. And yet he tried to convince himself that she’d simply returned home without him.

His father lifted a shaking hand to his mouth. “You didn’t find her?”

“No. And you know Margaret. She’d never be so cruel as to leave us in such doubt. She’d have left word with someone. Even if she’d been furious—”

“Was she?”

James stopped himself. He tried to think. He knew he’d upset Margaret, but she’d hurt him too. God, the pain of it, discovering that she still couldn’t be free with him.

He didn’t believe he had asked too much, but whatever it was, she was unwilling to open herself. And if something had happened to her, their disharmony would be the last thing he’d have to remember her by.

He blew out a harsh breath. He refused to accept such a thing. The fates wouldn’t be that cruel.

“Did she tell you about her brother?” his father demanded.

He thought back. There had been hours they’d spoken when he wasn’t fully alert, but he couldn’t recall anything about a brother. She’d spoken much of her parents, but never a sibling.

It was another blow.

She’d not trusted him enough to tell him. And all he could do was curse himself. She hadn’t shared with him because he’d been in no state to help her. He’d been full of self-pity and arrogance. But now he could. He would.

“No,” he admitted. “Could he have put her in danger?”

“The boy’s in rather dire straits. And he’s in London, I believe. He’s wanted by the police.”

“Do you think her brother took her?” James didn’t want to give credence to such a thing, but the cold truth was that anything was possible. A brother could easily hurt his sister.

His father gave a desperate shrug. “It’s a place to start. He’s hiding somewhere in the East End, and given his political leanings, he is associating with a rather dangerous bunch of rebels, I believe.”

For once the old man’s controlling need to know everything about his family members would prove useful. James nodded, then strode back to the stairs, knowing exactly where he needed to go and who could help him.