Of Moths and Butterflies (47 page)

And that was what he had all along been waiting to hear. He thought to offer one last word of warning, and of encouragement, when the dining room doors opened.

“Mrs. Hartup,” Imogen said, restoring the proper distance between herself and her cousin.

Mrs. Hartup cast a menacing glance in Roger’s direction before returning her attention to Imogen. “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, would you come inspect the applicants?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She turned to follow.

Roger reached out to catch a wrist and stopped her. “Think about it, will you? You are responsible for your own happiness now. All others have forfeited that right.”

She looked at him a moment, nodded and then left him, standing, alone and lost but nearly found—possibly found—in the great hallway of the vast and echoing Abbey.

INNER THAT EVENING was an awkward affair. Imogen had retired early with a headache, and without her presence, the dialog was faltering and strained. For all Archer’s pains, Barrett would hardly speak to him. Whatever the result of the interview he had held with Imogen, it had evidently not augured well for himself in Barrett’s opinion.

Claire was tensely civil, both to him and to Barrett in kind. He had not heard the last of her opinions, and looked forward to, or rather dreaded, hearing them in private. If she would reserve the bulk of these from public airing, he would be grateful. But he knew better than to count on her for reticence.

“You have travelled from Hampshire, I understand, Miss Montegue,” Barrett said, in an attempt to break the silence with any conversation at all.

“Southampton, yes,” she answered in her still reserved manner.

“Do you make it this way often or is it a special occasion which brings you?” Barrett asked now. “The upcoming festivities, perhaps?”

“I was lately invited, Mr. Barrett. I only learned of the impending celebrations upon my arrival.”

“I see,” he said and the silence threatened to loom once more.

“I believe it was in response to your proposed visit that my cousin begged me to come,” she added eventually.

“Is that so?” Barrett asked, turning to Archer.

“I was coming to you anyway, Claire, as I believe I told you.”

“Well, Mr. Barrett, it seems I can thank you at least for inducing my cousin to recognise the desperateness of his situation.”

“Is it possible we are not in opposing camps after all?”

“We both have set our minds to providing for the happiness of a dear friend. We are only in opposition in regard to how we intend to go about it.”

“I’m not opposed to any means that will ensure the safety and happiness for one I have too long watched suffer at the hands of others.”

“No? And what if those means should equally protect her from you?”

“Me?”

“Don’t be coy, Mr. Barrett. We all know why you have come.”

Barrett put down his fork and knife. “Do you, now?”

“The disappointed lover discovers he may have a second chance? At what? Ruining a good woman who has so far known nothing but the selfish machinations of controlling and manipulative men?”

“That’s enough, Claire,” Archer said.

Claire turned to him, seeming to have forgotten, in her frustration, that Archer was there at all.

“I know you’re angry, Claire, and you have a right to be, but don’t forget there are more victims than one in this mess.”

“What the devil!” Barrett answered, anger thick in his voice.

“He’s right,” she said. “But there are those who have the power to raise themselves, and those who must rely on the help of others. More often than not, the difference is a line drawn across the boundaries of sex. What you have feared to do, felt uncertain how to do, she has been powerless to do. She has depended on you, and you have failed her. Sir Edmund is gone this week, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“I suggest you use the time to your advantage. Does she have a solicitor, some man of law with whom you might consult?”

“She does,” Barrett answered for him. “But I’m not sure he’ll help you.”

“Why ever not?” Archer demanded.

“No,” Claire concurred. “If he’s true to her, he might not at that. And that speaks well of him, but it won’t help you. Do you have a man of your own?”

“Not who isn’t connected to my uncle.”

“That will never do.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Barrett, you might reassure Mrs. Hamilton’s lawyer of the good intentions of her husband.”

“If I were certain of them myself, I might.”

“Then it seems the two of you have much to discuss.” With that, Claire placed her napkin on the table and arose to quit the room, leaving Archer and Barrett once more to each other’s company.

The doors drew closed with a bang, and the room fell silent, save for the ticking of the clock. It chimed the quarter hour, and when the echoing knell at last ceased, Archer attempted to begin the requisite dialogue.

“You will help me?” he said. “You will help me to help her?”

“You must think me the greatest of simpletons, Hamilton. First, my cousin, having foolishly hired herself out as a servant in your house, must fight off your advances. And then, returning to Society, is by coincidence—I cannot account for it in any other way unless you are a greater brute than I had before supposed you—reunited with that same gentleman. However it was, the fact remains, you persuaded her that your feelings for her were true.”

“They were. They are.”

“After which you dragged her back here to subject her to a man not unlike the one she sought so desperately to escape. How different are you from him, I wonder? You knew him, of course. Mr. Everard, I mean.”

“By name and reputation only. But I hardly think, from all I have heard of him, that you can rightly compare me to him, nor to my uncle either.”

“But if you do not know…”

“Then tell me. Tell me her story. Tell me how to help her overcome it.”

Barrett remained silent.

“You know it, I take it.”

“I have the story both in her own words as well as her uncle’s.”

“Her uncle’s? How?”

“Never mind that. It’s not my story to tell, and it can make no difference now.”

“If it would enlighten me as to how best to help her...”

“You can help her by protecting her. From your uncle. From your own selfish manipulations.”

“You insist I’m so like my him?”

“What sins one man commits for himself and what another stands by and permits are really all the same to my mind.”

This struck a nerve, for it had always been his fear that, however hard he might try to avoid it, destiny had already determined that he was to repeat his uncle’s mistakes, to end up, when all was said and done, a broken, angry, cantankerous old man, alone and taking issue with the world.

“If there was a way to divide myself…but I don’t see one. The money is tied up, I’m not sure I can get at it. Not without a fight. And that fight, Barrett… I’m not sure I dare attempt it.”

“The courts, you mean.”

“Yes.”

Barrett looked suddenly wary. “I would not advise that.”

“And so if I leave, I leave behind what is hers too. It’s poverty or scandal, it seems. It would be better, far better, to make our success here, to raise ourselves.”

“It can’t be done. It won’t be done.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She doesn’t care, you know. Or haven’t you figured that out yet. She would far rather be divided from the money, safe in the knowledge she has someone by her side who will fight to the death for her. Are you her protector or not? Are you her husband? Do you love her?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“You have a choice to make, then. You’ve not yet made it. While you prevaricate, you effectually choose your uncle over her.”

They were silent for the moment. Archer was seething under the accusations Barrett had heaped upon him. And yet, to his dismay, they rang true. At least they had reawakened his own fears. In his efforts to hold himself above the evils that surrounded him, he had, by association, by appearance, allowed himself to fall into the same. By permitting it of others, he had done wrong himself. Barrett was right.

“If it can be done without dragging us into chancery, without dragging her name through the mud, then I’ll do it, Barrett. If she will go with me, I’ll walk away from here. We’ll leave it all behind and make our own way. If you can assure me that that is what she really wants, then I’ll do it.”

Barrett was silent.

“This isn’t a joke, Barrett. You understand the magnitude of the sacrifice you are asking me to make. I’m telling you I’ll make it, but you have to promise me it’s what she wants.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Can’t you?”

“Only she can tell you that. What you are asking her to do is to choose you again. I’m not so sure, after all, that she would do it. You have to ask her.”

“And if she tells me not to do it? She very well might, you know, whether she wants it or not.”

Barrett examined him a moment, then, sitting back in his chair, sighed. “Go to Mr. Watts. He can tell you what you’re up against, what the implications are. I don’t want to see her embarrassed any more than you do. Make the inquiries. See what can be done. We’ll go from there.”

“It means going back to Town.”

“Undoubtedly. And soon. Immediately if you can manage it.”

“She won’t like that.”

“If you go now…while Miss Montegue and myself are here...”

Archer raised his brow at this.

“We’ll take good care of her.”

“It wasn’t Gina alone I was concerned about.”

“Imogen,” Barrett said as though correcting him.

“Yes.”

“You are worried about Miss Montegue and myself? I trust she can hold her own.”

Archer laughed. “Yes, I believe she can. You’ll not provoke her?”

Barrett whistled. “I suppose a wise man would stay well clear.”

“And you?”

“Well, I’ll have little else to occupy my time, won’t I?”

Archer smiled, though he was uncertain Roger knew just what he was getting himself into—if he was serious. There was never any knowing where Roger Barrett was concerned.

*   *   *

Imogen heard the light tapping at her door, the door that connected her room to Archer’s. She heard it but she did not answer.

“Are you awake, Gina?”

She remained silent, her heart pounding. She should open to him. She should…but she couldn’t.

“Can you hear me, Imogen?”

As she parted her lips to answer him, her voice was stopped by the sound of his.

“I’m off to London in the morning. I did not want to go without telling you.”

There was silence then. Her heart beat faster. How long did he mean to be gone this time? And why was he going again—so soon?

“Claire and Barrett will remain. You’ll be safe in their company.”

She sat up. Should she go to the door? Throwing the covers off of her, she arose and crossed the room, but could not quite bring herself to turn the key.

“For what it’s worth,” she heard him say, “I’m sorry for this morning. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll make it right, if I can.”

He had finished, it seemed. He had said his piece. Still, she might open the door. If she could summon the courage. But there was none to be summoned. She leaned her head against the wooden barrier, sorry in her own right for all they had failed to accomplish thus far.

“I love you, Imogen.” His voice was as a breath of wind, and she only just caught the words. Had she remained, safely tucked up in her bed, she never could have heard him. He had not intended she should. The inherent sincerity in the gesture touched her. She touched her hand to the doorknob, but that fledgling courage, inspired by three words, failed her.