The Clarendon Rose (5 page)

All so familiar, and yet so meaningless.
 
So much a part of a past that seemed irrelevant to the man he had become.
 

He didn’t belong here anymore.
 
But then, he hadn’t felt like he belonged anywhere for the last eleven years.

That’s because you should have died with your regiment.
 

Clarendon clenched his jaw against the insidious whisper that had never deserted him since that vivid afternoon.
 
He had regained consciousness, only to find himself gagging on mud and vomit.
 
He clawed his way out of the suck of wet earth, mind sluggish with pain and nostrils clogged with the suffocating, fecal smell of death overlaid by the metallic tang of blood.
 
Too damn much blood.
 

He shook his head, pulling himself back to the present.
 
To the sound of his boots echoing hollowly off the marble tiles.
 
He took the stairs two at a time.

He had asked that his old rooms be prepared, rather than the ducal quarters.
 

“‘Now does he feel his title hang loose about him, like a giant’s robe upon a dwarfish thief,’” he murmured wryly as he strode along the corridor.
 
It was true enough.
 

But still, I’m back.
 
He pushed open the door to his rooms and entered.
 

With abrupt gestures, he removed his jacket and untied his cravat, tossing them onto a nearby chair.
 
The rest of his clothes soon followed.

He fell back onto the bed, closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
 
Then, he tried to clear his mind of all thoughts—as he had tried to do every night in the months since he had finally decided to stop running away from the past.
 
Sometimes, it seemed to help.
 
Sometimes, he even managed to sleep through the entire night.

The sound of unsteady footsteps pulled her from sleep.
 
She woke, tiny body tense as she strained to hear the next footfall on the stairs outside the small room.
 
The acrid taste of fear blocked her throat, and she tightened her grip on her mother’s waist.

Stifling a whimper, she felt her mother’s start to wakefulness and prayed.
 
That it wasn’t
him
outside.
 
Or that perhaps, if she were very quiet, and if she willed herself to utter blankness, he would not notice them huddled on one of the two narrow beds that stood side by side in the room.
 
That this would be one of the nights when he came in and collapsed on the other sagging mattress, too drunk to do anything but fall into a stupor.

“Lie here and make no sound,” her mother whispered as the footsteps clomped on the final step and began down the hallway.

“No mummy,” she begged, her voice barely a whisper.
 
“Please…”

Her childish grip was no match for her mother’s implacable strength, and she felt the bruising hold on her wrist even as she heard the crushing anger in her mother’s tone, “Now, don’t give trouble, you stupid child.
 
Lie here and stay silent or I promise I’ll beat you myself.”

It was the condemnation in the tone, more than the threat, that caused her to release her hold on her mother’s skirt, though the thought of what was to follow made her want to curl into a ball and disappear.
 
Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and willed them to stay that way.
 

This time, I will not watch,
she promised herself.
 
It would be better that way.

The door slammed wide.
 
“Emily!” he roared.
 
Her eyes flew open of their own volition.
 
There he stood, swaying slightly, his paunchy figure a dim silhouette against the dark doorway.

Tina sat up in bed, her heart pounding as she took in her surroundings and experienced a familiar flood of relief.
 
Just a dream,
she assured herself, as she always did when she woke from this particular nightmare.

It always felt so horrifyingly
real
.
 
She never quite believed she was safely away from the crime-ridden slum of her childhood until she forced herself to take in the evidence of her senses—she’d touch the smooth, crisp linen on her bed, smell the cleanliness of the room and gaze at the dim outlines of her surroundings.

She drew in a shaky breath.
 
The dreams had begun haunting her again in the days after Uncle Charles had died.
 
She was certain they had something to do with her own uncertainties about the future; now that Uncle Charles was gone, she was no longer needed here.
 
And in the last several years, she had grown accustomed to the luxury of being needed.
 
It had felt so much better than being a useless dependent, living off the charity of the family—though neither Uncle Charles nor Edmund had ever seen it that way.

She had accepted Edmund’s proposal in a weak moment, when her fears about her uncertain future had won out over good sense.
 
Clear-headedness prevailed soon enough; Edmund had proposed out of concern and affection, rather than passion, just as she loved him as a sister, not a wife.
 
He was a handsome and highly eligible
parti
—and he deserved far better than a woman who married him simply to avoid facing a potentially bleak future.

By the time Tina had formed her resolve to end the engagement, the duchess had already sent Edmund off on a fool’s errand in the hopes of keeping him away from her.
 
Tina was not immune to the irony that the duchess’s stalling tactic had actually postponed the very result the other woman so ardently desired:
 
the termination of the betrothal between Valentina and Edmund.

And now, with the duke back, it was more important than ever that she proceed with her plan of securing a position and getting herself away from the man as soon as she felt certain he was equipped to take over the running of the estate.
 

After all, she could hardly avoid acknowledging that her anxieties about the future had been further abetted by her ridiculous attraction for him—and the awareness that she must resist the incipient infatuation that had been developing with each further moment spent in his company.
 

Tina twisted off her bed and walked toward the window.
 
Cool moonlight splashed on a small chair and table in one corner.
 

As she leaned against the window sill, she glared at the silvered hedges in the garden, with their elongated black shadows stretching across the lawns.
 
Then, closing her eyes, she thought back to her mother’s face and tightened her determination.
 
She would do whatever was necessary to maintain her respectability, she vowed.
 
And above all, she would avoid stepping on the path her mother had taken, all those years ago.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Clarendon demanded the next morning, scowling at the calling card Soames had given him.
 
He redirected his frown at the butler.
 
“Lord Sebastian?
 
Here?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

Having come down well before the appointed time, in the hopes of making an early start, Clarendon had just ascertained that Miss Merriweather had gone out for a morning ride and was only expected back in time for their meeting.
 

But now, the news that one of the last people Clarendon would ever have expected to call awaited him in the blue sitting room had completely captured his attention.
 
The two men had not parted on friendly terms, during one of Clarendon’s previous stays in London.
 

After all, Bastian was the only one of my friends who had the temerity to tell me I was being a fool and debauching myself into an early grave.
 
At the time, it was not something Clarendon had wanted to hear.
 

Half-drunk, he had flown into a fury, repudiating their friendship and insisting that such presumption was not to be forgiven.
 
Now, he winced as he thought back on the incident.
 
“Get out,” he had said with icy precision.
 
“And know that I shall call you out if you presume to contact me again.”

The sight of his old friend’s calling card renewed the bitter regret he had often felt in the months since he had straightened himself out.
 
He had planned to call on Lord Sebastian at some point—had hoped that initiating contact would help bridge whatever barriers Clarendon had placed between them.

But, it seemed Lord Sebastian had beaten him to it.
 

“Bastian!”
 
Clarendon exclaimed as he entered the sitting room.
 

Lord Sebastian Tremain rose from a ghastly blue divan and came forward, his expression cautious.
 

The two men exchanged handshakes.
 
Then, unable to restrain himself any longer, Clarendon laughed and clapped his old friend on the shoulder.

“Damn, but it’s good to see you, Bastian—though why you’d bother when I was such a bloody idiot the last time—“

Lord Sebastian relaxed, returning the grin as he interjected, “Dash it, Southam—I mean, Clarendon, rather—I knew you weren’t yourself at the time.”

“And judging from your expression just now, you weren’t sure whether I’d managed to recover my identity in the interim,” Clarendon observed wryly.

“More or less, I’m afraid.”

He and Bastian went way back, having been friends since their school days.
 
They had bought their commissions at the same time, convinced they’d have a high old time defending Mother England from Boney’s evil machinations.
 

The war had moderated some of Bastian’s high spirits, leaving the visual legacy of a broken nose and a jagged scar to temper the golden perfection of his looks.
 
But, unlike Clarendon, after the war, he had begun to eschew the rake’s vices even as he continued to crave excitement of another sort, with the result that the two men had grown apart over the years, their lives branching off on very different paths.

As the younger son of an Earl, Bastian had taken a position in the government, doing some kind of work that he had always avoided detailing to Clarendon.
 
Lord Sebastian had never married—and despite the evasions, Clarendon had the impression that whatever work Bastian did, it was not the kind of boring, bureaucratic grind that was normally associated with government jobs.
 
Once he had realized his friend was being deliberately vague about the exact nature of his work, Clarendon stopped asking for specifics.

Now, he frowned at Lord Sebastian.
 
“Refreshment, perhaps?
 
Or has Soames seen to it already?”

Bastian shook his head.
 
“I told him to hold off, as I wasn’t sure what kind of reception I would get,” he said with a lopsided grin.

“Well then, why not join me in the breakfast room?”

Having repaired to the room in question and availed themselves of the heaped sideboard, Clarendon sank down in a chair opposite his friend.

“So, how have you been?”

Bastian shrugged.
 
“Well enough, I suppose.
 
We’ve got a bit of a situation at the bureau that I’m working to unravel at the moment—but then we always do.
 
The manor was just along my way, so I thought I’d stop in, as I heard you had returned to England.
 
I wanted to pay my respects to the family, as well.
 
I was up north when your father passed on and I only got the news after I returned to London.
 
The mater and pater called in when the old duke was lying in state, but…”

“I appreciate the sentiment—though you’ve missed my mother and Edmund, unfortunately.”

Bastian nodded.
 
“So I’ve been informed.
 
And I understand Miss Tina’s out on the estates somewhere, so I’ll have to ask you to pass on my condolences.”

Clarendon frowned at Bastian’s casual reference to Miss Merriweather.
 
It was, perhaps, permissible within the household, for many of the servants must have known her since she was still in the schoolroom.
 
But the thought of his handsome, womanizing friend calling her “Miss Tina” didn’t sit as well with him—after all, it wasn’t as if she had an elder sister to claim the title of “Miss Merriweather”.
 

In addition, from the sounds of it, Bastian had been a regular caller at the manor over the years.
 
Clarendon inclined his head, unable to keep the coolness from his tone.
 
“I shall be sure to pass your sentiments on to Miss Merriweather.”

“I hope to God you haven’t been giving her a hard time, old man,” Bastian commented, his tone edged.

“Playing the role of champion in the absence of her fiancé, Bastian?
 
Funny, I’ve always seen you in the role of despoiler rather than defender of the fairer sex.”
 

Bastian’s jaw tightened.
 
Then, he made a visible effort to relax.
 
He shrugged.
 
“Your mother has been very hard on her over the years.
 
Though I’m loath to criticize, I should point out that from what I can see, Miss Tina has done very little to deserve it.
 
And this last year, she’s practically run this place, while spending every spare moment tending to your father.”