An Unexpected Gentleman (12 page)

In this case, the end justified the means. Even when the means involved infuriating Adelaide. In fact, he’d rather liked infuriating Adelaide. She was magnificent in her anger, an absolute pleasure to watch as those soft brown eyes turned molten with fury.

Connor rolled a knot out of his shoulders. It was possible he’d enjoyed the sight a hair too much. He hadn’t intended to, but it had pricked at him to hear her make excuses for Sir Robert while she berated him. Even worse had been seeing the line of strain across her brow when he’d opened the door.

And so he’d poked at her for his own pleasure and because it was easier to see her anger than her fear. Undoubtedly, it would have been easier in the short term if he had soothed her temper with honeyed words.

There were a thousand easy lies that may, or may not, have served to appease her now . . . but would most certainly have enraged her later.

Adelaide was generous, and far too trusting for her own good, but she wasn’t a fool. She might succumb to fine speeches and false flattery for a moment, but
only
for a moment. In the end, she was a woman who preferred an ugly reality to an attractive lie.

Let Sir Robert fill her ears with saccharine venom and see what good it did him. For that matter, let Sir Robert fill her ears with the truth and see what good
that
did him. It bloody well didn’t matter what Sir Robert said now. After she spoke with her brother, the matter would be settled. Adelaide would become Mrs. Connor Brice.

She would be his. At last.

Suddenly restless, Connor rose and wandered into the study. There was a small wooden carving sitting on the desk—the perfect likeness of Adelaide as he’d known her through the bars of his cell window, with a child in her arms and the light of determination and courage on her face. Gregory had fashioned it out of oak with a small knife he’d paid a guard to smuggle in. Gregory had made a good half dozen carvings in prison and passed them off to Freddie to sell with the pretense that they’d needed the money. In truth, Gregory had been taken with Freddie and liked listening to the pretty lass exclaim over his skill.

So Freddie had sold the carving in the nearby village of Enscrum, and Connor had paid a guard to bring it back, with an extra coin to be certain the pretty lass remained none the wiser. In truth, they’d all been a little taken with Freddie.

Connor picked the carving up and turned it over in his hands. “Taken” did not begin to describe his reaction the first time he’d seen Adelaide.

He remembered that February day with perfectly clarity. After three months of being incarcerated, he’d glanced out the cell window with little expectation of seeing more than the depressingly familiar view of the frozen courtyard. But what he’d seen was Adelaide—standing in the bitter winter wind with her worn coat whipping about her ankles, and her arms wrapped protectively around an infant cocooned in a sea of blankets.

She’d stopped to speak with a guard and turned her face up when the guard pointed at the second floor of the debtors’ wing.

Connor hadn’t been able to see the color of her eyes. He hadn’t known her name, where she’d come from, or why she was at the prison. But none of that seemed to matter. He’d experienced the most excruciating longing to reach out and touch, to brush the back of his hand against the cool silk of her wind-kissed cheeks, to draw her into the shelter of his coat and feel her grow warm in his arms.

He’d never before had such an immediate, visceral reaction to a woman. He’d known instant lust, even immediate fascination. But he’d never known such a hollow longing. He’d realized it was illogical, even embarrassing, but he’d reveled in every fantastical second, drinking in every inch of her until she nodded to the guard and disappeared into the prison.

He’d turned from the window then, disturbed that he should be so powerfully affected by a mere glimpse of a woman. That was the sort of maudlin nonsense to which other men,
lesser
men, succumbed. Dandies spoke of the angel they had seen from across a crowded ballroom. Poets waxed on about the captivating maiden they had spied from afar. Men of sound mind were not taken in by that sort of romantic rubbish.

He’d gone too long without the company of a woman, that was the trouble. Abstinence did terrible things, unnatural things, to a man’s mind. And yet, twenty minutes later, he’d gone back to the window. And he’d gone back again and again—every Saturday for months, hoping for that next glimpse.

He’d built harmless fantasies around her when he’d thought her married . . . Mostly harmless . . . A man couldn’t be blamed for the odd lurid thought. Once he was free and had access to all his funds, he would pay her husband’s debts anonymously, and perhaps set something aside for the child.

When he’d learned her name and that she was coming to visit a wastrel brother, Connor decided he’d clear the debts and give Adelaide the home and income her brother was clearly incapable of providing. The notion of marriage was considered and rejected. He didn’t want the responsibility of a wife distracting him from his quest for revenge. Perhaps after . . .

Then
he’d heard of Sir Robert’s courtship, and everything changed. There would be no anonymous donations. There would be no after. She would be his.

In the study, Connor set the carving back on the desk.

Adelaide Ward had always been his.

T
he late summer sun beat down mercilessly on Adelaide as she made the return trip down the drover’s trail. There wasn’t a hint of chill in the air. And yet she felt cold down to her very bones.

A means to an end, that’s all she was to Connor Brice.

She gathered her cloak around herself like fitted armor. She tried to do the same with her anger, but it slipped out of reach faster than she could grab hold, pushed aside by exhaustion and bitter disappointment. And the damn stinging of her feet.

“Damn and blast.”

Abandoning the notion of reaching the relative sanctuary of her chambers as quickly as possible, she stopped to rest on a fallen log. She sat on it gingerly, thinking it would be just her luck to discover the center was rotted through
after
she took a seat.

It held. Which was more than could be said for her composure.

She pulled her right shoe off, glared at the thin, worn sole, then hurled it at a nearby tree with all her strength.

“Bloody . . . Damn . . . Hell . . .” Oh, how she wished she knew how to swear properly. “Bloody hell!”

And that was it. That was the last of her immediately available anger. Feeling the fight go out of her, she lowered her head to her hands and groaned.

She didn’t cry. The tears were there, she could feel them pressing against the back of her eyes, and pooling into a heavy weight in the center of her chest, but she ignored both sensations. She had no right to feel sorry for herself. Her circumstances were as much her own doing as Connor’s. The fact that he was a charlatan and a cheat did not excuse how readily she had succumbed to his charm and lies. She’d not come to the house party a naïve young girl fresh from the nursery. She was seven-and-twenty and, for all intents and purposes, the head of a household. She ought to have known better.

She ought to have done so many things differently.

The pressure in her chest built. She fought it back, lifted her head, and blew out a long, hard breath.

She was not, absolutely
not
going to make matters worse by indulging in a bout of tears. Crying would accomplish nothing more than to give her a red nose and stuffy head. And she needed a clear head to think.

There were choices to be made, steps to be taken, more questions that needed to be answered.

How long did she have to make a decision? Was there some sort of time limit? A day? Two? Could she put the decision off for a week? She had to put it off until she spoke with Wolfgang, at least.

As much as she hated to give credence to anything Connor said, she was forced to admit it was unlikely he’d imply Sir Robert knew something of Wolfgang’s debt unless there was some truth to the accusation. He had nothing to gain by making an idle lie.

Sir Robert was connected to her brother’s troubles. She couldn’t decide on anything until she knew the details of that connection. She needed all the facts.

Good Lord, she wasn’t sure she could stomach any more facts. Already, she knew more about Sir Robert and Connor Brice than she cared to . . . No, that wasn’t true. She didn’t like what she’d learned, but she was better off for knowing. It was always better to be informed, wasn’t it? Much better to enter marriage without an idealized perception of her bridegroom. There would be no rude awakening after the wedding, no unrealistic expectations guaranteed to end in bitter disappointment. Two days ago, she would have walked into marriage with Sir Robert blindly. Now she could choose her path with open eyes.

It was, arguably, the one bright spot in the entire black affair.

Brushing off her skirts, she rose from the log and hobbled over to fetch her shoe. She would concentrate on that bright spot and hope it was enough to illuminate each new step as she took it. Move forward, reevaluate footing, and move forward again—it was a prudent plan of action. Mountains were scaled one step at a time.

A strange sense of calm fell over her as she set aside her fears of the days and weeks to come and focused only on what needed to be done next.

Her spinning world narrowed down to a series of small, steady, and manageable tasks. She walked back to the house in a kind of daze. She spoke with Lilly and Winnefred, who assured her she could take a few days to make her decision. Then she helped Isobel pack, went to bed before dark, and rose at dawn to direct the loading of the carriage.

She spent the two-hour return trip staring blankly out the window, her only thought aside from her next step that she should have eaten something to settle the mild ache in her belly before leaving the house party.

Isobel slept, closing her eyes while they’d still been in Mrs. Cress’s drive and not opening them again until the carriage came to a stop in front of the prison, four miles from their home.

Rumpled, eyes blurred with sleep, she glanced out the window and frowned. “Why are we here?”

“I need to speak with Wolfgang.” Adelaide’s voice sounded distant and dull in her head. “The carriage will take you home.”

“I’ll come with you. Or wait, if you prefer.”

Adelaide shook her head and reached for the door handle. “Fetch George from Mrs. McFee. We’ve inconvenienced her long enough.”

She hopped out of the carriage and hurried into the shadow of the looming stone building before Isobel could argue.

The prison was relatively new, built in the last decade to house an overflow of criminals from Edinburgh and an influx of French soldiers captured during the war. The first time Adelaide had visited her brother here, she’d been struck by the sheer size of the place, and the sense of gloom and despair that seemed to all but seep from its stones. She hardly noticed either anymore. Today, she passed through the gate and strode through the courtyard without paying heed to the towering walls or the few lethargic figures milling about in what scant sunlight could be found. She followed a guard down the long maze of halls without hearing the voices of inmates or noticing the smell of old straw and sweat.

Wolfgang had a private cell, courtesy of his position as a gentleman, and the few extra coins Adelaide had slipped to the appropriate official. She’d paid the bribe for George’s sake and her own piece of mind. Neither she nor George needed to become acquainted with the other inmates.

The guard stopped outside Wolfgang’s cell and pushed the door open for her in invitation. Debtors were free to move about their wing, take a bit of air, and exercise in the yard. Wolfgang rarely took advantage of the opportunity.

Stepping into the small, dark room, she watched as Wolfgang rose from a cot in the corner. As always, Adelaide was struck by how little he resembled the boy she’d once known. He’d been plump as a child, his features soft, round, and invariably lit with a grin.

She’d adored him then, the younger brother who could tease her out of a pout with a jest and a smile. The carefree boy who had raced with her about their father’s estate and enticed her into adventures in the fields and woods beyond.

It was difficult to see that boy in the man standing before her now. Wolfgang had grown gaunt, despite the extra food she brought each week. His face was haggard and drawn, with sharp angles and sunken eyes. They were less than two years apart in age, and yet he looked to have aged two decades beyond her.

“Are you going to come in properly,” he asked, “or stand there gaping at me like a landed fish?”

“Wolfgang.” She crossed the room and pressed a kiss to his cheek. The skin felt thin and rough from his night beard. “You need to shave.”