‘You’ve always been so good to me, Gabe. If there is any way to stop anyone else from going through this, you’ll do it, won’t you? You promise?’
He would have promised Tim anything at that point, if only he had made an effort to... It was pointless. After the initial shock of finding Tim dead the next morning he had spent a year full of guilt and self-contempt that he had failed his younger brother, or worse, that he had somehow willed Tim to finish it because his agony was too much to bear, and yet worse—because he could only look ahead to years of servitude to a broken boy. Eventually he had dragged himself out of that pit with the help of Ravenscar and Stanton and their work at Hope House. But his grief and guilt and sense of failure clung. He had enough distance now to know that his pact with Tilney had been formed from the ashes of his failure with Tim. Bascombe, water rights and a young woman who was clearly in need of salvation and therefore likely to be grateful for what she could receive had been presented to him on a silver platter and he had taken them, platter and all, more fool he.
‘Are you still having nightmares?’ Stanton asked, dragging Hunter’s thoughts back with unwelcome sharpness. He could feel the sweat break out on the back of his neck and he rubbed at it, but nothing could erase the sick feeling of helplessness. He knew Stanton meant well, but he wished he hadn’t asked.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Since this piece of gossip showed up?’
‘Yes.’
Both nights. The dreams were one reason he never stayed the night with his mistresses and another reason, if he needed any, why the thought of marriage was so distasteful. It was one thing keeping this secret from the women he chose to visit on his terms. He couldn’t imagine the strain of keeping his fatal flaw a secret from a woman living in his own home. The realisation that he would have to go through with this marriage was probably bringing the worst of it to the surface. It was bad enough having his friends know about them, but he could trust Stanton and Ravenscar with his weaknesses. The thought of that girl...of anyone seeing him while he was in the throes of those moments that left him soaked in sweat... It was unthinkable.
‘All the more reason to extract myself from this mess. I don’t think my bride would appreciate finding out about my less-than-peaceful nights. She’d probably run for the hills.’
‘If you found someone you cared about, you wouldn’t have to hide this from them,’ Stanton replied.
‘That will never happen.’
‘What? Loving someone or sharing your weakness?’
‘Either. What the devil are you talking about anyway? Love is just another name for dependency or lust and I’ve had enough of the former in my life and I’m quite content with what I have of the latter. I have no intention of aping my mother or brother by letting myself depend on anyone as they did on me. It didn’t do them any good, did it? Or me either.’
‘It doesn’t have to be such an unequal equation. I liked Tim and your mother, too, but they drained you dry, man. I don’t call that love.’
‘You go too far, Stanton!’ Hunter said and Stanton raised his hands in surrender.
‘Fine. I’ve no right to preach anyway. Aside from my parents I’ve never seen evidence of the fabled beast myself.’
‘You’re too cold-blooded to fancy yourself in love, anyway, Stanton,’ Ravenscar stated, swirling his brandy as he watched them. ‘And I’m too hot-blooded. So let’s put that topic to rest and leave Hunter’s Viking bride for the morrow and focus on our business. You’ll be pleased to hear I have found a reasonable location for a new house near Bristol. It belongs to a relation of mine who has seen the light and wants to go succour the poor in warmer climes than Gloucestershire. The only problem is that it is distressingly close to Old Dame Jezebel’s lair.’
Hunter gratefully accepted the reprieve.
‘Your grandmother? Good Lord, she would never countenance a charitable institution within a hundred miles of her domain. She’ll never include you in her will if you do this.’
‘Since I am already permanently excluded from that honour, her outrage will be well worth it.’ Ravenscar winked.
‘You are early, Lord Hunter,’ Bassett said as he took Hunter’s hat and cane.
‘Is that an observation or a hint, Bassett?’
‘An observation, my lord. Miss Seraphina is having her cocoa in bed, and Miss Amelia is not yet awake, having read late as usual. Miss Tilney, however, is awake and Sue has gone to tell her breakfast is served. Is there anything I can bring you?’
‘Just coffee, thank you, Bassett.’
‘Right away. Oh, the newspapers are on the table, my lord.’ He nodded at the pile on the breakfast table.
Hunter glanced up in suspicion at something in Bassett’s tone, but the butler was already on his way out, so he turned to the dreaded society pages in the rag Aunt Sephy adored. He found his name quite readily and sighed again as he read through the latest creation of the columnists who were clearly having a great deal of fun at his expense.
‘Bad news?’ a voice said next to him and he whirled around. Nell was standing just beside him, frowning at the paper. She had entered so quietly he had not even realised she was there. He held back on a childish urge to tuck the paper behind his back. Very casually he turned the page.
‘Good morning, Miss Tilney.’
‘Good morning, Lord Hunter. May I see that?’
Hell.
‘It’s just the usual nonsense. I ignore it. So should you.’
Nell didn’t look up from the paper, even though it now merely showed an advertisement for a cream to counter the ravages of the outdoors.
‘Lady F. That’s Lady Katherine Felton, isn’t it?’
Double hell. How would she know that?
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers. Not that this is a newspaper, just a glorified gossip column. Aunt Seraphina lives on a diet of gossip and cocoa.’
The silvery eyes rose and he felt an uncharacteristic heat prickle in his cheeks, throwing him back to the experience of standing before Nurse and a broken window, desperately trying to hide a cricket bat behind his back. He drew himself up. This was ridiculous.
‘Shall we...?’
‘You needn’t be embarrassed you have a mistress. Mrs Sturges assures me most dandies in London have mistresses.’
‘I’m not a dandy!’
‘Aren’t you? Oh, right, she said you were a Corinthian, not a dandy. Though there doesn’t appear to be a great difference between them and I suppose they have mistresses, too.’
‘There is quite a gulf between a dandy and a Corinthian,’ he replied, annoyed at her dismissive tones and momentarily distracted from the fact that the last thing he should be discussing with his betrothed was mistresses.
‘I suppose so, but they both are rather profligate and slavishly obsessed with things that matter to no one but themselves. There isn’t anything in that column I didn’t already know. Mrs Sturges told me all about you and your exploits.’
‘My exploits!’
‘That’s