Forever a Lord (9 page)

His chest still heaving, Nathaniel jumped toward his father and grabbed him hard by the neck with a hand.

The earl gagged, those eyes wide.

Tightening his rigid hold on that weathered neck he wanted to annihilate, Nathaniel seethed out through bared teeth, “I will spare my mother from seeing me until I am presentable in both my appearance and in my life. Because heaven forbid she see what you have reduced me to. I will also spare her from knowing the truth I have carried with me these thirty years. Because I don’t want her last moments spent in hateful regret. She deserves peace. But you? Oh, no. If you think I plan on forgiving you for what you did to me and my life in an effort to protect
your
fucking name and
your
fucking life, that is where you’re wrong. I will haunt you until you beg for forgiveness upon both knees or are dead. Whatever the hell comes first.”

The earl’s veined hand reached up and attempted to touch his face. “No one needs to know,” he whispered hoarsely, those panicked eyes acknowledging the truth. “Let me die first. Then the world can know.”

It was like the man wanted to die. Releasing his father with a shove, before he himself submitted to something insane, Nathaniel swung away and stumbled out of the room and the house.

Through a pinching haze that barely allowed him a steady gasping of breaths, Nathaniel wandered down endless London streets he didn’t know, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

When he eventually found his way into his hotel room at Limmer’s, he walked past the crowded entrance and shoved any men who wouldn’t move toward the walls. They scrambled back and stared as if he were mad. In that moment, he was.

Nathaniel quickly made his way through the trash-strewn lobby and hauled himself up the steep, wooden staircase. He needed to talk to Matthew and straighten out his thoughts. Before he did something stupid.

He tried Matthew’s door only to find it locked. He knocked. “Milton?” he called out. “Milton, I need to talk to you. Are you there?”

No movement came.

Nathaniel dug trembling fingers into the side of his head, trying to remain calm. A few weeks ago, Matthew had met some aristo widow on the riding path, and ever since it was as if the man had no intention of going back to his real life. Even though the swipe on his life was over and the boys were waiting for his return. God. If Matthew didn’t go back to New York, it would end more than the Forty Thieves. It would end what little virtue remained within the Five Points.

Nathaniel was to blame for all of this. He had brought Matthew here and had made a mess of not only the man’s life but his own. And for what? To face a father, who was waiting to die? To face his mother and his sister’s son and husband, who would only suffer if the truth about why he disappeared ever got out? All he wanted was for his father to admit his guilt and he could let it go. The past, after all, was done. Over. But how could he let go of a past that refused to be acknowledged?

Nathaniel unbolted his own leased room and whipped the door shut. Stripping his great coat and shirt, he dropped to the floor, planting both hands flat apart. Gritting his teeth, he commenced pushing his entire body up and down, trying to huff out the tension in his muscles.

He eventually lost count of body lifts at one hundred and eighty. His bare, sweat-sleeked shoulders, chest and arms burned in protest as he pushed on. When he could no longer lift his body in even takes, he rose to his feet and hissed out a harsh breath.

Swiping up his shirt, he buried his drenched face in it. Whipping it over his shoulder, he veered to the corner of the room and squatted, digging his fingers between loose floorboards. Prying one up, he reached into the narrow space beneath and carefully pulled out his sister’s diary. He had learned to depend upon holding it and touching it whenever he desperately needed to remind himself that someone had once thought him worthy of being in existence.

Smoothing a hand over the leather and sash, he veered back to the other side of the room and collapsed onto the sunken straw tick on the floor, his entire world swimming.

Digging his fingers hard into the leather of the diary he wished to God he had the strength to read, he tucked it beside him and whipped off the linen shirt from his shoulder.

He could still see his father’s veined hand reaching up, attempting to touch his face. He could still hear those hoarse, broken words.
“No one needs to know. Let me die first. Then the world can know.”

Nathaniel lay there, staring unblinkingly at nothing, unable to push out the reality that his father had indeed knowingly left him in that cellar to rot.

Dazed, Nathaniel drifted into a deep sleep he hadn’t known in years. When he eventually awoke, he found himself staring at a cracked, mud-smeared window. The light of the day filtering through that window was fading and edges of impending darkness fingered their way across the dank room.

The cellar.

Nathaniel gasped, his chest too tight to let in any air, as perspiration beaded his upper lip and forehead. He almost screamed in riled disbelief until he realized there was a window. Not just walls and a door. There was a window.

He drew air into his lungs, trying to steady himself and his mind. Jesus Christ. Rolling onto his back, he blankly stared up at the ceiling, knowing his father and all of London would be at the event the duke was hosting.

Nothing would ever be able to make him forget his days and years spent in that cellar. Not whilst he lived. And not whilst his father lived.

A large roach crawled in tick-tick-ticks across the uneven planked floor, taunting him into joining the lower species. Picking up Auggie’s diary, Nathaniel rose onto booted feet. Striding over to the wooden crate where he kept his leather belt, pistol and dagger, he knew what needed to be done.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What Devil could have provoked him to exhibit his wonderful stock of honour, virtue, and benevolence in so public a manner, I am at a loss to divine.

—P. Egan,
Boxiana
(1823)

The following night

A
S
IF
ON
CUE
,
eight well-muscled footmen in powdered white wigs scrambled into a firm shoulder-to-shoulder body wall, preventing Nathaniel’s entry to the vast ballroom beyond the foyer.

He stared toward that glittering world majestically showcased by shimmering crystal chandeliers and oversize gilded mirrors that reflected rows and rows of candlelight and silk and color. Refined music from violins and flutes mingled with the thrumming gaiety of countless cultured voices that drifted out toward him into the corridor.

It was the life he had been born into.

Once upon a fucking time.

He tightened his gloved hold on the hilt of his dagger sheathed within the scabbard belted to his hip and knew the only way he was going to get in was by announcing himself. “Inform His Grace that Viscount Atwood has at long last arrived in London and wishes to see him.”

One of the footmen squinted, clearly doubting his intentions based on not only the dagger but his appearance.

He knew he should have brushed his hair. “His Grace is expecting me.”

The footman hesitated.

“The duke married my sister,” he added with hardened authority. “That makes me his brother-in-law. Now take your fancy prick of a wig and get him before I put your liver into your hand and make you swallow it through your nostrils.”

“Stay here,” the man ordered, jogging down the corridor and disappearing into the ballroom.

The line of footmen rigidly held their place but didn’t meet his gaze.

He obliged them by doing the same.

Hurried steps eventually made him glance toward the direction of the ballroom. The Duke of Wentworth darted out of the masses, followed by the footman.

Dressed in full evening attire that made the man look strong and debonair, the duke waved aside the line of footmen. “Stand back. All of you.” He reached out and squeezed his arm, his aged face and dark eyes brightening. “By God. Atwood. You do us great honor.”

“I wish I had come in better spirits.” Nathaniel set his shoulders and stepped outside of the duke’s reach, trying to stay focused. “Is my mother here?” He wanted to make sure she wasn’t.

“No. She left a short while ago. She wasn’t feeling particularly well.”

Nathaniel swiped his face. “Is she very ill? How serious is it?”

“The doctors aren’t certain as to what happened, but one side of her face collapsed. The poor woman hasn’t the means to even smile and suffers from severe headaches.”

Nathaniel’s shock yielded to fury. “Jesus Christ. And you’re letting her attend events?”

The duke held up a hand. “She insists on attending them and is physically very able to do so. It brings her joy. Aside from mingling with guests, she wanders about the house and looks through Augustine’s belongings. I’m not going to keep her from visiting with whatever is left of her own daughter.”

Glancing up at the ceiling to keep himself from submitting to emotion, Nathaniel asked tersely, “And my father? Is he still here?”

“Yes.” The duke hesitated. “Don’t think the worst of me, Atwood. Your mother insists I include him in everything I do. She and your father have become exceptionally close since Augustine’s passing.”

Anger spiked through him. His father was not going to live the lie. Not anymore. “Tell your footmen to let me pass.”

The duke’s brows shot up. “Pass? To do what?” He wagged a hand toward him. “You are not about to intrude upon my guests looking like that.”

“Why not? I bathed and I shaved.”

“Atwood.” The duke grabbed his arm. “You cannot expect your father or people to accept you all in one night
and
dressed as you are. We have to slowly reintroduce you into society and allow word of your return to blow in. Now come with me. And heed that it is
not
a suggestion.”

“Given you graciously insist.” Nathaniel followed the man down the corridor toward another section of a very impressive house that led into what appeared to be a study.

The duke pointed to a leather chair. “Sit.”

“No.”

The duke shifted from boot to boot in what appeared to be agitation. “Might I at least inquire where you are staying?”

“Limmer’s.”

The duke blanched. “Oh, no. No, no, no. I wouldn’t even send the French militia there for a night. No family of mine is going to be living like a pauper. I have plenty of rooms. I will have a footman collect your belongings within the hour.”

Nathaniel leaned toward him. “Just because we are bound through my sister’s memory doesn’t mean we are also bound to live in the same goddamn house. Don’t insist on something that isn’t going to happen or you and I won’t be getting along. Wherever I do live, it will be paid for by me for me. Is that understood?”

The duke eyed him and eventually shook his head. “Pride runs a bit too strong in this family. You and I will revisit this another time. Agreed?”

“Revisit all you like. It’s not going to change a thing. Now what else did you fucking want?”

The duke pointed a curt finger at his mouth. “Enough with the tongue. Show your family the respect it deserves. Would you have spoken to your sister like that?”

Nathaniel tightened his jaw, knowing the duke was right. “No, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

The duke raked his hands through his hair. “Do you still have her diary?”

“Of course I do. What a thing to ask.”

“Have you read it?”

“No. I haven’t.”

The duke dropped his hands and stared. “Almost a year has passed since you approached us back in New York and we have not heard so much as a word as to whether you would even be coming. And now this? They are her words, damn you. Words she had breathed life into, and half of them were dedicated to you. If you cannot find the strength to read them, you are unworthy of ever knowing them and I demand you give it back. I don’t know what she ever meant to you, but I do know what she meant to me.”

Nathaniel swallowed. It was with awe he had the honor to witness how his sister had touched this man’s life. She had found something he never thought possible. Real love. “I’m not ready to read it quite yet. It’s been difficult enough for me to face knowing I missed any opportunity of seeing her again. You have had years to adjust to her death, whilst I have barely had a year. So let me keep it.”
Let me keep it until I no longer have a need for it.

The duke huffed out an exasperated breath and pointed to the leather chair again. “Sit. And whatever you do, don’t wander about dressed as you are. I didn’t invite people here tonight to meet a disheveled phantom everyone thinks is dead. There are ways to go about this. Now stay here. I need to find Yardley. He up and disappeared on me.
Again.
”

“I’m not in the mood for a family gathering.”

“It’s important he see you.” The duke grabbed his arm. “He suffered a very serious accident back in New York, not long after that night you came to us at the hotel. He was hit by an omni and his mind was rendered entirely blank. Though he has regained most of his memory, he hasn’t been the same since.”

Rendered his mind blank? Nathaniel’s brows rose, remembering Matthew telling him about the man Georgia had brought into her tenement back on Orange Street. A man who had lost all memory of who he was. A man who Georgia had followed to London. Georgia. London. And his nephew was in…London. Blood on high. It couldn’t be. “Did he go by the name of Robinson, per chance?”

The duke’s eyes widened. He released his arm. “Yes. How did you know?”

Nathaniel scrubbed his chin with the back of his hand in disbelief. Matthew wasn’t going to believe this but apparently Georgia, that freckled street rat who only ever gave them both trouble, was set to marry his nephew. “I heard about it back in New York. From yam sellers to the boys alike. Is he all right?”

“He has long since regained most of his memory, but for some reason, much of his trip to New York—anything before the accident—doesn’t exist. He doesn’t remember meeting you.”

“Christ.” It would seem everyone’s mind was unstable these days. Knowing he might as well get to the point, he muttered, “I should probably admit that I’ve actually been in town for some time.”

“What do you mean? Why haven’t you—”

“Because I needed time to wade through this mess on my own whilst I also earned some money. At first, I was intent on leaving London and going straight to Venice to retrieve the man who held me hostage to prove my claim. I decided against it, however, because in doing so, it would have created another set of ungodly complications for you, Yardley and my mother. So I decided to approach my father on my own and take it from there. And I did. Yesterday. As expected, it didn’t go well. He denies everything, and with him denying who I am, and there being no painted likeness of me in existence, I can’t readily prove to anyone I’m really Atwood, can I?”

The duke set a fisted hand against his mouth. After a long moment, his hand fell away. “But I can prove it. And I will. First, I need to find Yardley. You two can talk whilst I run about and tend to guests before people commence wondering what is going on. Stay here.” The duke stepped out, sliding the study doors closed behind himself.

Nathaniel sighed and scanned the study lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of old, leather-bound books. He stilled, his gaze falling on the only painting to grace the room. He made his way toward it and lingered before it in a half daze, completely submerged in disbelief.

He stared up at a pretty, dark-haired woman whose gloved hand was propped against a tree just beyond a rose garden. She was dressed in a flowing pink gown, which barely allowed the tips of her white slippers to peer out.

Though the woman didn’t smile, those large grey eyes stared out at him with a strong, shining presence that choked him into remembering the only person who had ever mattered. His sister. His mother had been far too occupied in trying to convince his father she was worthy of his love.

He remembered a girl of sixteen. Not…not this. He fisted both hands. So many years erased. And he would never get them back. All he had left of Auggie now was a crypt. A crypt he had yet to visit and doubted he would ever be able to visit, given he hadn’t even been able to read her diary.

His father had taken everything away from him. Everything.

And for it, he would die. Tonight.

The doors of the study slid open, announcing someone had entered the room. The doors slid closed again and the floorboards creaked.

Nathaniel sensed someone lingering behind him.

“No portrait did her justice,” a male voice humbly offered.

Nathaniel turned and faced his nephew.

The yellowing glow of the study’s candles illuminated a shaven, lean face and grey eyes.

Nathaniel gripped the hilt of a dagger that was attached to the leather belt on his hip, wishing he had been part of this family Auggie had created for herself.

“I’m your nephew.” Yardley eyed the dagger. “Yardley.”

“I know who you are. We met. Back in New York.”

Yardley hesitated, then blurted, “Forgive me for not being able to remember. I had an incident that—”

“I know. You needn’t worry. I’m not all that memorable, anyway.”
And I’ll be dead for what I plan to do.
“Allow me to get to the point of my visit tonight, nephew of mine. One I have yet to convey to your father. After a less than constructive meeting with my father yesterday morning, who refused to let my mother see me, I have decided to kill him. Tonight, actually. After he leaves this house and heads into his carriage. And I intend to have all of London witness it. Why am I telling you this? Because when you are brought before the jury, I don’t want there to be any doubt as to what my motives were. Tell them it wasn’t revenge but a savage need for peace.”

Yardley stared, his features tightening. “Don’t do this. Killing him will only see you hanged.”

“Exactly. Peace.”

His nephew edged toward him. “Killing him and then getting yourself hanged will change
nothing.
”

Nathaniel flexed his leather gloved hands. “I know.”

“Uncle. If you do this, you will not only destroy yourself, but you will ruin my father, and me, as well. You’ll also be destroying the wife I hope to take and the children I hope to have. All we would ever know and hear and see would be the blood you rashly spilled and the mess you leave for us to mop up.”

Waking up thinking he was still in a cellar was the real mess Nathaniel had to live with for the rest of his days. He pointed to his own head. “I am
not
going to live inside this head a breath more.”

“No one understands you more than I. Believe me. Living within a head you would rather step out of is a curse of the worst sort, but there are ways to allay the misery. But not like this. You will find it through the support and love of your family.”

As if his father knew spit about support or love. “The Sumners are not my family.”

“Right you are in that. The Sumners are not. But we are. I am. My father is. My father loves you, given all that you represent. He loves you enough to unearth his own wife’s remains, which I know will kill him, considering what she meant to him. Despite that, you mean to dirk him? You mean to dirk the last person who remains standing in your corner in order to entertain some morbid urge for revenge?”

Nathaniel’s heart pounded in disbelief. “He means to disturb my sister’s grave? I won’t have it.”

“’Tis the only means we have of proving your legitimacy. My father told me about my grandfather denying your legitimacy, but
this
would prove it. ’Tis the only known portrait of you in existence with a label of your name and it lies buried with my mother.”

Nathaniel closed his eyes, feeling the world sway. “She was buried with my portrait?”