The Elusive Lord Everhart: The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series (28 page)

C
alliope descended the stairs and crossed the hall to the parlor. In the midst of the vibrant colors of the room, Brightwell stood, hat in hand, wearing somber gray attire. She hadn’t realized until this moment how he never would’ve fit in her world. All along, she thought it was the other way around. But where was Pamela?

He inclined his head. “Miss Croft, I apologize for arriving at such an unseemly hour.”

“I admit it is rather alarming, and for you to arrive without my cousin.” Her mind flew into dozens of different directions, and none of them eased the unsettled pall that fell over her heart.
Perhaps Pamela has run off with Gabriel after all
. “Was my cousin well when you left her this morning?”

“Yes, your cousin is well and, I might add,” he said, pausing to clear his throat, “still residing in our home.”

In other words, she hadn’t run off with Gabriel. Calliope sagged onto the arm of the sofa with relief. “That is good news.”

A look of understanding passed between them.

“Which brings me directly to the purpose of my visit.” Brightwell placed a hand over his heart. “I have wronged you, Miss Croft. I have had knowledge of a certain matter that would have spared you grief, had it not been for my own jealousy.”

Jealousy, indeed. And rightfully so when it concerned his wife and Everhart.

He continued before she could form her response. “I have always known about the Casanova letter that Everhart wrote to you all those years ago.” His mouth pressed into a firm line. “I also know about the letter that he wrote to my wife . . .
not
so long ago.”

“Brightwell, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, Miss Croft. It is my place to apologize. You see, I must also confess that . . . when I proposed to you, I knew that you were never going to marry me.”

Calliope felt her brow furrow. “How could you have known such a thing?”

Brightwell cleared his throat and glanced at the hat he held before him. “I’d realized it the moment that Everhart joined our circle. For lack of a better word, you
glowed
whenever he was near. Why he pretended not to like you when it was patently clear to anyone who saw the two of you dancing, I’ll never fully understand. All I can say is that when he didn’t step forward, I did.”

And they both knew how that had turned out. “I am sorry, Brightwell, for so many things.” One of them being that she’d never loved him. The thing about Brightwell was that he never would have broken her heart. But that was because she never would have given it to him.

“You made the right choice,” he reassured her. “Had it not been for my jealousy, I would have encouraged Everhart to pursue you. Instead, while he was taking me on a tour of the continent, I incited his guilt.”

“Not very noble of you.” She wondered why she felt compelled to come to Everhart’s defense. But knowing that Brightwell had abused him irritated her.

“Very true, Miss Croft. And now to the main point of my visit. I must admit to the most recent of my crimes.” He tucked his hat behind him and drew in a deep breath. “I wrote out two anagrams for your game at Fallow Hall, to purposely thwart your discovery of Everhart’s secret.”

At first she was confused.
Two anagrams
? Then swiftly, she was appalled. Her mouth dropped open. “That was why I hadn’t recognized Everhart’s handwriting. Why would you do such a thing?”

“I am ashamed to tell you.” His gaze lowered, and he shuffled his feet on the edge of the carpet. “When Pamela told me of your conversation with her about the letter and about the questions you posed to her, I was struck by an overwhelming sense of . . .
vanity
. I’d never once been accused of writing that letter, and I should have been. So after I heard of your sudden interest in a game where handwritten clues were required, I took a leap of logic and determined that you were hoping to identify the handwriting. I wanted the mystery of Casanova’s identity to continue. Because with the mystery, I couldn’t be discounted.”

Guilty of his accusation, Calliope flushed. “Brightwell, I—”

He lifted a hand to stop her and shook his head. “Please don’t, Miss Croft. There is no need to explain. Besides, it is my place to apologize. Likely, I’ll add many more to the list before I am finished.”

Seeing him color in what she perceived was embarrassment, she accepted this with a nod. It could not be easy for him.

“And to the next,” he continued, forging ahead, as if eager to put it all behind him, “I knew that your cousin fancied herself in love with Everhart. When it first began, I was actually relieved that she’d stopped mooning over the gardener. At least I knew I could trust Everhart alone with her. Yes, Miss Croft, that’s correct. I trust Everhart.”

That surprised Calliope. “Even now?”

Brightwell nodded. “The only types of conversations he had with my wife were about her family. I believe it was in the hopes of discovering whatever he could about you. Over the years, Everhart frequently steered conversations toward your family and your father’s health, and to your brother and his recent marriage. He’d even taken to speaking of those who live on Upper Brook Street, Miss Croft.” He offered an uncharacteristic shrug. “So you see, he never would have run away with Pamela. In fact, I’m the one who asked him to drive her to the country to see her mother on the day of the accident. Looking back, I should have warned him about her nature.”

At the mention of the accident, and the fact that her cousin had thrown herself at Everhart, Calliope was not inclined to feel much forgiveness. “That does not explain why Everhart wrote Pamela a love letter.”

“Doesn’t it?” Brightwell’s pale brows lifted. He blinked. “Forgive me, but I thought you’d read it. From my understanding, even though the address is to my wife, I believe the contents were written to you.”

“No. You are wrong.” Wasn’t he? She couldn’t have made such a mistake.

Reaching into his coat, he withdrew the letter and unfolded it.
“My dearest Pamela, My heart yearns for the siren who captured it. For years, I have waited for her to find me—waiting endlessly for one word that would draw me to her shore. I crave the sight of dark honey tresses spilling over
”—he cleared his throat and kept his gaze on the letter—“
the bare shoulders I never touched. I long for the brush of those
”—he paused again—“
lips I dared not taste. And my arms ache from the weight they do not hold. I am wrecked without her, and I would never allow Brightwell to endure such a fate. Your friend . . . etcetera
.”

Calliope could barely breathe. She hadn’t read the full letter at Fallow Hall. After reading
siren
on the first line, it had been too painful to imagine that he was using the same words to woo her cousin. And yet, Pamela did not have
dark honey tresses
. Her hair was pale, like corn silk.

I am wrecked . . .

Could it be true? She didn’t want to allow her overly romantic notions to cloud her judgment any longer. She wanted to see things for exactly what they were. Knitting her fingers she walked from the sofa to the window and back again. “I’m not certain what to think.”

Brightwell folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. Then, as if he thought better of it, he placed it on the sofa table, leaving it in Calliope’s possession. “With what’s in the
Post
this morning, I thought it high time you had the full story.”

“The
Post
?” She stepped out into the hall and saw a freshly pressed copy waiting on the rosewood table. Carrying it to the table near the window in the parlor, she quickly skimmed the first page, the second . . . Then, halfway down the third, her breath caught in her throat.

CASANOVA UNMASKED

I, formerly known as the love-letter Casanova, do hereby confess to cowardice
.

I fell in love with a young woman years ago and subsequently wrote a letter expressing this sentiment. Yet before I posted the letter, I removed my signature from the bottom of the page. Even so, this undeniably clever siren nearly discovered my true identity. In fear, I wrote a series of other letters—for which I must apologize—in order to keep her from finding me. In doing so, I broke my beloved’s heart, in addition to others
.

With this confession, I hope that her precious heart will begin to mend. I love her still. I will love her always
.

Hers irrevocably,

Gabriel Ludlow

Viscount Everhart

Turning around to face Brightwell, she felt her lips, her cheeks, and even her eyes tilted upward into a smile. Unable to suppress her happiness, she crossed the room, fully prepared to embrace him. He, however, held his hat in front of him like a shield, and she dared not.

“Brightwell, you’ve made me the happiest of women. If you weren’t married to my cousin, I’d kiss you.”

The sound of a low growl from the parlor doorway drew her attention.

“And if you so much as return the sentiment, Brightwell,” Everhart growled again, “I will kill you in a field of honor this very morning.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

G
abriel’s hand squeezed the fragile stems in his grasp. Before he realized it, the bouquet of lilies of the valley collapsed over his fist, lifeless. The remains of a red ribbon dangled over his fingers. Unfortunately, he’d left his walking stick—along with his hat, coat, and gloves—with the butler, or else he’d have been armed with a silver-tipped spear and fully capable of wielding it directly through Brightwell’s heart.

“Everhart, there’s hardly a need for threats,” Calliope stated. She set her hands on her hips—which was fine with him, as long as her hands stayed far from Brightwell. “And just look at the violence you wreaked on those poor flowers. I certainly hope they weren’t meant to be an offering of any kind.”

Gabriel’s gaze sharpened on her. How dare she sound so merry and cheeky when his every moment apart from her had been utter misery!

Her eyes were bright, her cheeks glowing . . . and a moment ago, she’d nearly been in Brightwell’s embrace. Fortunately for Brightwell, Gabriel noticed that the chap had sense enough to keep his hands clutching the brim of the gray top hat. That hat may have saved Brightwell’s life. But not the flowers.

Glancing at the sad bouquet, he looked for a place to set it down. That was when he noticed that the parlor was filled with lilies of the valley. Small clay pots and colorful vases adorned every table. The room was fairly bursting with tiny white bells.

When his gaze met hers, a shared memory passed between them.

“As you can see,” Calliope said softly, “we’ve had an abundance of lilies of the valley in the past week. The gardener has never seen the like.”

She skirted past the sofa and stopped in front of him, standing on one side of the threshold with him on the other. Her gaze flitted across his, uncertain. Then, with tender care, she reached for the blossoms, her bare fingertips brushing his, lingering.

“Do you think you can salvage some of them?” he asked for her ears alone, his voice gruff with longing. It had been three weeks since he’d seen her. Since he’d held her. Since she’d told him that she never would have chosen their story.

She lifted her lashes, her expression a mystery to him. “I hope so.”

“Well, all this talk of murder for the sake of honor has made me realize I haven’t broken my fast,” Brightwell announced, donning his hat. “Everhart, should you still require a meeting this morning, you know where I live. Just please don’t kill me before I’ve had a proper cup of tea.”

“Noted.” Gabriel inclined his head, not fully convinced that murder wasn’t necessary. “We are gentlemen, after all.”

Brightwell paused in the foyer. “Did you know . . . with that tone of voice, you sound remarkably like your father?” With a laugh, he tipped his hat, bid them good day, and left.

Gabriel was no longer bothered by such attempts to rile him. When the front door closed, he refocused all his attention on Calliope. “Tell me, does Brightwell often visit you before calling hours?”

“That depends on what you consider often.” She smirked as she walked to a table near the window and laid down the bouquet. Next to her was a copy of the
Post
.

He noted that it was open to reveal his confession. Stepping inside the room, he took in his surroundings. The exotic blend of colors reminded him of his travels. The flowers reminded him of his home.

Home
. With the thought, he automatically moved toward Calliope, who busied herself with untying the ribbon and sorting through the stems.

Beside her, he leaned in and set his hand on the newspaper. Absently, he trailed his index finger over the words. “Read anything interesting?”

She kept to her task, offering an indifferent lift of her shoulders. “There’s a new exhibit at the museum.”

“Hmm . . . Is that all?” His face was only inches from hers. The morning light loved her skin. She truly did have a glow about her. It was remarkable. Captivating.

She looked up, not at him but at the paper. Her hands were still busy with those tiny white bells, pinching off broken stems and saving the rest. “There was one thing that drew my interest. A confession. I can only imagine what the author’s family would think. He is a viscount, after all.”

He imagined his grandmother would laugh—only in private, of course. To the rest of the
ton
, Grandmama’s severe expression would challenge anyone to speak on the matter. As for the estimable Duke of Heathcoat, Gabriel liked to imagine that he would feel a sense of kinship. He’d once been a man of great passions, after all.

Though none of that truly mattered. “It’s my guess that the author doesn’t care about what his family thinks,” Gabriel said. “He only cares about her.”

“You may be right.” She pursed her lips. “However, there was one very large error in the letter.”