Lord of the Rakes (28 page)

“Dear God,” he breathed. He was looking toward her, but not seeing her. He was seeing the idea in his mind, watching it unfold and finding it wonderful. “God in heaven, it’s so simple. Can it really be that simple?” Now his gaze was on her again, and he was asking in all sincerity.

Caroline suppressed a small scream. “
What
is?”

Philip grasped both her shoulders. “Caroline, do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“No. I mean do you really trust me?”

I don’t know what you mean, because you’re not making sense!
But she couldn’t say that. His face was too serious, almost as if he feared she would say no. “Why?” she asked instead.

“Because I need to leave. At once. I must go home.”

F
or Philip, the preparations for his journey back to Innsbrook passed in a blur. He left Caroline, in a state of bewilderment, and some remaining
dishabille
, and returned to his house. Obviously, he had dressed in the interim. Mostly. He seemed to have left his cravat behind. As soon as he strode through his front doors, he gave orders for his bags to be packed so he could set out first thing in the morning.

He did not sleep. Mind and heart were both too full and too agitated. Philip thought he might pass the hours until dawn by writing letters. He fully intended to send at least one to Gideon, attempting to explain what he was about and enlist his aid. But the words seemed unendurably clumsy, and he tossed the paper aside. He knew this was only a distraction. The person he should be writing was Caroline. But in each of his several attempts, he succeeded only in staring at a blank page while the ink dried on his quill.

I should have told her,
he thought.
I should not have left her wondering.

Because she was wondering. He saw it in her face as he had kissed her at her door. She was letting him go. She was trusting him, but she did not fully understand him. He was sorry for that, and he would explain. As soon as he fully understood himself. For all his expert ability to turn a pretty compliment, however, words failed him when he tried to elaborate on exactly how he needed her. He had only a bone-deep feeling that defied all description.

At last he gave it all up as a bad job and settled on pacing until the slow, smoky, gray dawn at last spread itself down the London streets.

This much Philip did understand—he could not lose Caroline. He could not simply stand back and let her go to France or Venice, or across the street, for that matter, without him. But before he made any real offer, he must know without any further doubt that he could truly be a husband to her. He did not want to be simply an ornament or a sexual adventure. They would both quickly grow to despise him if that was all their marriage was founded upon. Before he spoke his heart to Lady Caroline, he, Philip Montcalm, Lord of the Rakes, would first have to become a real man.

 • • • 

The spring had been damp. Fortunately, however, the road to Innsbrook had received the full benefit of Mr. McAdam’s new process for paving, so Philip’s drive was smooth. By the time twilight fell, he had passed the last stile and turned off the high road. The fields of his boyhood home unfolded around him, every inch familiar. Usually, he paid the scene as much attention as he did the nameless row houses of London. This time, however, Philip saw the land with new eyes. He saw how the grain sprouted up in its ordered rows. He saw the chimney from the new pottery smoking on the hill beyond the house and remembered how his father had complained about Owen’s “damned innovations.” He saw the cottages, some of them sagging so badly that their eaves were propped up on posts. The school building, on the other hand, looked brand-new.

He saw how the men who doffed their hats to him as he drove past were either very old or very young.

Innsbrook manor was not a truly grand house, but it was a good one, with two sprawling wings built from local granite. Rows of diamond-paned windows graced all three stories. Philip had sent his footman riding ahead so the house was warned of his arrival well in advance, and Jessup, the stooped, white-haired butler, came out to meet his carriage.

“So very good to see you, Mr. Philip,” said Jessup as Philip jumped down and handed over his travel bag. He might be aging, but he remained hale enough to hoist a heavy valise easily. “The marquis has been asking for you.”

Had Jessup always made that face when he spoke of Father, or had Philip just never paid attention before?

“I’ll go in to him shortly.” Philip handed the reins over to the stable boy he knew he ought to recognize. Possibly he’d known an older brother? He’d have to start paying attention to such things. “Is Mr. Owen home?”

At the mention of Owen, the butler’s face brightened considerably. “He arrived earlier today.”

“Good. I need to speak with him. Do you know where he is?”

Jessup pulled back, and Philip thought he saw a wary and protective look in the old man’s eyes, as if he suspected Philip of some mischief. That gave him an uncomfortable twinge. “I . . . I believe he may be in the attic, sir. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll go up.”

“But . . . but . . .”

Philip left the butler sputtering behind him. He was fully aware that saying he’d go up into Owen’s old attic was unprecedented, but everyone was going to have to get used to all sorts of unprecedented behaviors from the new Philip Montcalm.

Including Philip Montcalm.

 • • • 

As it happened, Jessup wasn’t the only servant Philip startled. As he trotted up the final flight of steps, he came upon Grace, the cook’s plump assistant, struggling to carry a broad silver tray loaded with a cold collation of ham and chicken, bread, fruit and cheese, as well as the obligatory pot of tea up the narrow stairway.

“I’ll take that, Grace.” Philip lifted the tray from her hands and slid past her before she could do more than gasp in protest.

The plain wooden door at the top of the stairs was closed but not locked. Philip put his shoulder to it and pushed. He backed carefully into the room, turned, and stared.

The truth was, Philip had no idea what he’d find in Owen’s attic rooms. But whatever he might have imagined, it was certainly nothing like what he actually saw. Long tables filled much of the space under the sloping eaves. Every table was covered with papers and maps. There were globes, sketches on canvas and parchment, microscopes, cases of instruments, little spirit stoves, retorts, and alembics. There were even taxidermied animals, mainly birds, he thought. It could have been the room of an Oxford don or a mad alchemist.

In the middle of it all, Owen, in shirtsleeves and a plain buff waistcoat, perched on a high stool and wrote laboriously in a broad notebook.

“Thank you, Grace,” Owen said without looking up. “You can leave the tray there.” He pointed vaguely over his shoulder.

“Shall I pour you a cup?”

Owen spun on his stool, his pencil raised as if he thought he might need a weapon. Philip set the tray down on the nearest clear spot on the nearest crowded table. The attic was, he realized, startlingly like Aunt Judith’s sitting room, only decorated with scientific instruments rather than books and manuscripts.

“What are
you
doing here?” croaked Owen.

“Bringing you your luncheon.” Philip poured out a cup of tea, took up a saucer, and handed it to his brother. They both stared at it. Owen made no move, so Philip shrugged and took a sip.

“Not at all what I expected up here,” he said, looking around. “You’ve been keeping yourself quite busy, I see.” His eye lit on a program, and on the coat of arms, and his brother’s name. “The Royal Society, Owen? Congratulations. I had no idea.”

“No.” Evidently deciding he would not need a weapon against his brother, Owen lowered the pencil. “Why have you come here, Philip? Really?” He sounded worried, and resentful. Philip searched for a place to begin.

“I came home largely to see you,” he said. “I wanted to mend some fences, and to ask a favor.”

“Of me?”

“Of you. Will you hear me out?”

Owen looked him up and down, clearly uncertain. Reminding himself how much he needed Owen for his plans, Philip held his temper. After years of disregard, if not actual disdain, his brother had every right to be suspicious.

Philip picked up the Royal Society program and read the entry under Owen’s name. “Parrots? Really?”

Owen snatched the program out of Philip’s fingers. “I suppose you’re going to tell Father now, aren’t you? So you can both have a good laugh at the old plodder.”

The heat of his brother’s words washed over Philip, as did the justice of them. He had in fact laughed at Owen before, and he had helped his father tease him. He had not thought any harm in it. Father always said Owen was just too sensitive for a man. But he knew he should not have dismissed the hurt he caused. He should have taken the time to understand that Owen’s differences did not lessen him. How had he been so blind? Uncomfortable suspicions, born of Caroline’s sharp questions and Aunt Judith’s sharp comments, had plagued Philip while as he drove here. He’d find a way to apologize, and to explain.

“I won’t say anything you don’t want me to,” Philip told his brother. He must have managed some credible display of sincerity, because Owen slowly sank back onto his stool.

“Good.” Owen stared at the program with a look very close to hunger in his eyes. “He’d probably order the servants to throw everything out. Not that they would, but still . . .” He looked around and shrugged.

“Do you know why he resents you so?” Philip asked.

Owen shrugged again. “I’d have thought it was obvious. I don’t want the things I’m supposed to. I don’t want to drink and gamble and fuck until I’m dead of a bullet hole or some disease. I want to
live
. I want to explore and understand the world.” He touched the globe that sat at the corner of his table. “I want to contribute, in some small way, to the world’s knowledge. I want to leave things better than I found them, for me, and for those who depend on me.”

Philip paced across the room, looking at the maps on the tables, the plants laid out on screens to dry. The notebooks beside them were opened to display exceedingly detailed drawings, and careful notes made in Owen’s tidy hand.

“Caroline asked me why none of the servants’ children enter into service at the house.” Philip touched the carefully tinted sketch of a maple leaf. It was so realistic, it looked ready to drift off the page.

“Because most of them go to school,” said Owen behind him. “Or into apprenticeships. Who is Caroline?”

“Arranged by you?”

“By me. I may be tethered to this place and our father, but it doesn’t follow that they have to be. Everyone should have a chance at a better life, no matter what their birth.” He folded his arms, clearly waiting for Philip to challenge this shockingly democratic sentiment.

But Philip remained silent. He was trying to imagine Owen’s life as he never had before. His brother carried all the burdens of the estate and all the scorn their irascible and heartsick father could serve up, and yet he stuck to his work. He did his duty. Unlike so many, Innsbrook was a healthy estate, thriving even. The children of the tenants were sponsored to better lives. And yet all Owen’s heart was clearly here, hidden from all the world, because the world might take it away from him. Because he believed himself to be alone, even now, when his younger brother stood beside him.

“Who is Caroline?” asked Owen again.

Philip squared his shoulders. He could not delay any longer. If he meant to change his life, he had to speak, clearly and openly, and do so now. “Lady Caroline Delamarre. She’s the reason I’ve come home. Well, part of it, at any rate. I’ve really come to learn. I also want a better life.”

He’d thought this a rather grand statement, but Owen’s brow just furrowed in an expression that was mostly confusion, but that was mixed with a goodly portion of solid disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

Philip suppressed a sigh. He was not used to being patient with Owen, and he had to get used to it. If he let out one of his usual quips, he risked destroying everything. “I want to make a bargain with you, Owen. You will teach me what I need to know about management—how the estate works, how the lands need to be handled . . . hell, how to actually read a ledger sheet. When you think I’m ready, I’ll take over here, and you can go off to study as many South American skylarks as you please.”

“Parrots,” said Owen drily.

“Parrots, skylarks, and unicorns if you choose. Have we a bargain?”

Owen pressed his steepled fingers against his mouth as if considering some particularly knotty chess problem. “You, Philip Montcalm, Lord of the Rakes, want to bury yourself in the mud and manage an estate?”

“I’ll need a tweed jacket, don’t you think?” replied Philip. “And some new boots. Stout boots.”

For a heartbeat, Philip wondered if he’d misjudged his remark. But then, clearly in spite of himself, his brother barked out a single, sharp laugh. “Why?” Owen asked.

So Philip perched on one of the rickety stools and told Owen who Caroline was and what she meant to him. As he spoke, Owen’s eyebrows inched slowly upward.

“You’d throw over all your tonnish freedom for this woman?” he asked once Philip finally finished.

“She deserves a real man, Owen, a grown man, who can handle responsibility. A man like you.”

Owen’s Adam’s apple bobbed visibly as he swallowed.

“But it’s not just for her,” Philip went on. “It’s for me as well. I’m tired, Owen. I want a real life. I’ve wasted too much time trying to be the world’s idea of a man. I want a home that I can bring Caroline to. One where I can raise a family.”

“You’re going to propose marriage,” said Owen slowly.

“Yes, I am.”

Philip was aware he should have been afraid to hear himself speak those words. But what he felt bore no relation to fear. He felt giddy. He felt alive, as he seldom did out of a woman’s bed. More than that. He felt free. It was entirely paradoxical, but the thought of binding himself for life to Caroline left him with a sensation of freedom beyond anything he’d ever known. This, reflected a distant, deep part of his mind, was the true love the poets spoke of. Far from being a shackle, his love for Caroline was a lifeline to his soul.