Chapter Eighteen

June 17, 1812

"—and that," William said wearily, "is what happened."

The silence that filled the room after his pronouncement was not a great surprise. It echoed the silence in his soul, the emptiness in him that had still somehow weighed heavy from the moment Alice—the moment she had left his house.

He looked up. As he had told the tale of how it had come about, the wrenching apart of his household not even two weeks after their wedding, William's head had sunk lower and lower. Eventually he could no longer see those to whom he spoke.

Now he could. William glanced over at Lindow who was standing by the empty grate in the library, then at Aylesbury who was seated, open mouthed, in the large armchair. Pernrith was pacing in complete silence.

William could hear his own breathing. Every intake, every release, the shift of his shoulders, the grinding of his muscles. He could hear his heartbeat.

It was all so deafening. Had it always been so loud, so utterly impossible to think in the cacophony of sound?

He cleared his throat, as though that would help. "Well?"

"Well," said Aylesbury quietly. "Well indeed."

William had not wished to tell them. There was something intensely humiliating about admitting that one's wife had, without blinking an eye, lied so cleverly and so concisely to him.

"When were you going to tell me about your ward?"

Yet William had only himself to blame. He had assumed innocence when his natural caution should have taken over. What had he been thinking? He'd heard of Miss Alice Fox-Edwards, had been so easily taken in when she had mentioned a cousin of a similar name who had done all the scandalous deeds he had heard of.

The very idea that it had been his Alice, his wife, who had—who had allowed another man to—

"Maude is not illegitimate."

William stood up hastily, unable to remain seated as terrible thoughts rushed through his mind.

No, it wasn't possible. And yet there had been the girl. It would take a fool not to notice the similarities. What had she been thinking?

Lindow cleared his throat. "And... and you are absolutely certain the girl—"

"If you had seen Maude—the child," William corrected hastily, "you would have been in the same mind. I tell you, they were identical."

"Sometimes in a particular light, any two people—"

"The same hair, the precise shade," said William, glancing at his hands as though that would help. "Identical eyes. The same nose, the same air. They even spoke alike."

"That is to be expected, if they lived together," said Aylesbury fairly. "Sometimes people think Lindow and I have similar mannerisms—"

"And you are related, are you not?" William strode over to the drinks cabinet. "I am not an idiot, Aylesbury, I can tell when a woman presents me with her daughter."

"Her ward, she said?" Pernrith said quietly, coming to a stop at the drinks cabinet and taking the bottle of whiskey from William's hands. "I think you've had enough."

William hadn't noticed his hands were shaking until he tried to pour a glass. Stepping away with a rueful smile, he said, "I haven't had any, I'm just—I'm shaken. That a woman, that anyone could look me straight in the face—"

"You never asked her if she had a child, did you?" Lindow pointed out. "Or asked much about the ward, as far as your story goes."

William turned on his brother but managed to restrain himself. It wasn't Lindow's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault but his own. "No. I assumed—"

"Yes, so we can see," said Aylesbury quietly. "And now the truth is out. And she's gone."

William bit his lip as he returned to his seat and collapsed once again on the sofa. "Gone. For good. For all the good it can do."

Which wasn't much. Try as he might, he had been unable to sleep properly since his carriage had taken both Alice and Maude to the Dower House in the country. He wouldn't have believed how the lack of Alice could take a toll on him. They had been married a matter of days, and now the place felt empty without her.

Lonely.

It was a miracle the news had not got out. William had been fairly sure it would, what with the Duchess of Cothrom's sudden absence from the ton, right after her wedding.

There would be talk. There was always talk.

His lungs constricted, every movement a challenge as William tried desperately to think how he could manage such a scandal.

The gossip would be everywhere eventually. Perhaps he should drop a short note to Lady Romeril, ask discreetly just how bad the dishonor was—

"I am sorry, William."

William looked up in surprise. None of the Chance brothers used first names, they hadn't for years. They went by titles, as so many other gentlemen in their acquaintance did.

But Pernrith was examining him with genuine pity, empathy he had not expected from any of his brothers—let alone the half a Chance.

"Truly sorry," Pernrith added quietly. "I feel for you. You are in a difficult position. I do not suppose you could... annul the marriage? Escape it somehow, lack of consummation, that sort of thing."

William's cheeks burned. "Not... not exactly accurate, unfortunately."

He glared up at Pernrith, and over at Aylesbury and Lindow for good measure, but none of his brothers appeared in the mood for ribbing him. That was concerning in itself.

He couldn't continue moping like this. He'd had long enough—days—to rid Alice from his system. Everything of hers had been sent to the Dower House, and William was determined to live the remainder of his life as best he could.

Alone. Lonely.

But with his head held high.

"I suppose I should be grateful I have so many brothers," William jested, his voice taut. "Aylesbury, you'll have to marry soon."

Aylesbury looked astonished. "Dear God, why?"

"Well, for the family," said William, frowning at the obvious answer to such a ridiculous question. "Next generation, that sort of thing."

Clearly the second eldest Chance brother had not considered such a thing, for the Marquess of Aylesbury looked genuinely horrified. "You cannot be serious."

"No legitimate sons coming from my line," William said, wincing at the awkwardness of saying such a thing with Pernrith in the room. "Ah. Erm... no offense meant, of course."

Pernrith shrugged, his face impassive. "None taken."

"So it's down to you, now," William continued, looking back at Aylesbury. "You'll need to marry, have sons—at least three, I think, is probably best if Lindow doesn't—"

"You cannot be serious," Lindow interrupted, echoing Aylesbury, maybe just as unwilling to marry as his brother. But when he continued, William realized he was mistaken. "You are not going to take Alice back?"

The idea was repugnant to him. William actually felt his stomach turn in response to the suggestion.

Take Alice back? Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend she had not lied, that she was not bringing her child by another man into his family? Act as though nothing had gone wrong, as though it was perfectly natural to hide a scandal from a man so utterly terrified of such a stain?

William's mind whirled so painfully, it took a moment to collect his thoughts sufficiently for speech. "You—you cannot think I would—are you out of your mind?"

"She made a mistake," Lindow said expansively, throwing his hands out as though it were not an utter betrayal. "She had fun. Can you blame her?"

Jaw tightening, William snapped, "What, you think that just because you want to have affairs left right and center, everyone else should—"

"We are harsh on the fairer sex, as a society," Lindow said, sounding far more like one of those women who demanded the right to vote and other such things than the brother William knew. "What, you never tumbled someone before you wed Alice?"

"I—it's not the same—that is not the point," William said hotly.

He'd invited his brothers here to be informed of what had occurred to the head of their family, not to be criticized!

And besides, it was different. Whenever he had taken a woman to his bed, it had been to satisfy an urge, scratch an itch. To overcome a physical distraction.

It had never been—not like with Alice. They had shared something primal, yes, but also something deeply intimate. Something William had thought they had shared, for the first time, together.

How could he ever look at her without picturing her with another man?

"This was years ago, long before she met you," said Aylesbury. William's head shot up. "I mean, yes, it's not ideal—"

"Not ideal!"

"—but it's not as though it was a personal betrayal. She was not unfaithful to you," Aylesbury said with a shrug.

A flicker of rage curled around William's mind, but he did his best to ignore it, dousing it in the cold water of bitter logic. "She betrayed me by not telling me the truth! She betrayed my trust!"

They did not understand—but how could they? William had been a fool to think he could gain a little sympathy from three men who cast caution to the wind, did whatever they wanted, and never cared how it would look, what stigma it would bring on the family name!

Well. Now he came to think about it, Pernrith wasn't like that, not in his conduct. His very existence was an awkward fact, however, that William had attempted to mediate in the public eye as best he could.

But Aylesbury and Lindow? How could they know what it was to love someone, truly love someone, then realize you had been used?

"She betrayed my trust," William repeated, his voice dull.

"And did you earn it?"

He glared at Aylesbury. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

Silence fell in the library as fury shot through his veins. It was no longer possible to hold back his irritation and, though William knew it stemmed from Alice's treachery, not anything his brothers had truly done, it was impossible to stem the tide.

He continued to glare at Aylesbury, but his features softened as he watched the second oldest Chance brother exchange a glance with the third.

William transferred his glare over to Lindow. What on earth did that private silent exchange mean?

Lindow smiled briefly, but it disappeared almost immediately. "Well, Cothrom... you want the truth? You are not the most forgiving man."

William's glare deepened as he felt a throb in his temple. Oh, that was the last thing he needed—a headache. "And what, precisely, does that mean?"

"Don't feign ignorance with us," Lindow shot back, not cowed by William's dark tone. "You are the first to critique others, Cothrom, but you fail to accept that you too could make a mistake."

"That is because I don't make them!" William argued, feeling the heat of his rage trickle down into his fingers.

The absolute cheek! How dare they say such—

"Criticizing us doesn't make us more likely to tell you the truth," Aylesbury said quietly. "It doesn't encourage spilling one's secrets. I can understand why Alice did not wish to—"

"If I am always critiquing, it is because I am always the one clearing up after your messes!" William said hotly.

It was painful to hear such words, but even more painful still was the suggestion that they were right.

He had spent his life—hours and hours, weeks, agonizing over how best to lead this family. Worrying about disrepute, wondering how he could best take care of them all. There wasn't a moment in William's life which hadn't been colored, since he had inherited the ducal title, by commanding a fighting chance for the family.

And this was to be how they repaid him? By condemning him in turn for actually caring!

"The messes, as you call them, are of our making," said Lindow softly. "Did you ever wonder if we should be left to clear them up on our own?"

William opened his mouth, ready for a swift retort... and found there wasn't one.

Clear them up on their own? Lindow and Aylesbury hadn't extricated themselves from a debt of a pound without his assistance, not since the three of them went to Cambridge!

Or Eton, truth be told. William's shoulders sagged as he closed his mouth, desperately attempting to recall a time when he had just left his brothers to sort out their own disasters.

And not one single occurrence came to mind.

No, that—that wasn't right. That was impossible.

William swallowed, his mind racing. Even before their father had died, he'd been the one protecting them, ensuring their mischief never came to the ears of their parents.

When had he decided to take on that burden for himself? That had been years before his father had requested his promise to cover for them in every eventuality.

"Keep them safe, William."

And now he came to think of it, that was all his father had asked of him. To keep them safe.

Not remedy their every mistake, pay off every debt, and ensure no whisper of gossip ever reached the scandal sheets. When had he conflated keeping his brothers safe to wrapping them up in lambswool and never permitting them to do... anything?

William swallowed. Oh hell. It was a nasty realization to have, and even worse, it was potentially too late.

Then a memory surfaced in his mind—a memory of child with white-blonde hair who had looked up at him with curiosity, holding close to her mother's leg.

William hardened his heart. "I cannot ignore the fact of the child."

"An illegitimate child," Pernrith said quietly.

With a lurch of his stomach, William nodded. "Alice insisted the child was not illegitimate, but that is impossible."

"Improbable, perhaps," nodded Aylesbury. "But as you have said yourself, it appears you did not know Miss Alice Fox-Edwards as well as you thought."

It was a startling consideration, and one William filed away for another day. A day when he did not have three argumentative brothers before him and a headache brewing.

"Here."

William blinked. Pernrith had stepped across the room and was now pressing a glass of something into his hand.

He looked down. It was the whiskey he'd almost had earlier.

"I think you need this now," said his youngest brother quietly.

With a dry laugh, William nodded and knocked back the entire glass. "I think I needed it a long time ago."

How could he have got this all so wrong? How could he have constructed a life that was doomed to fail—fail not only himself, but the very people he had thought he had been helping?

"The child," William said quietly. "I could never have that child in my house, knowing it was not quite—"

"Not quite family," said Pernrith, and his voice was stronger now, his jaw set. "But take it from me, Your Grace, a child knows when they are not wanted. For a child not truly of the family to be forced to dwell within it, that is perhaps the crueler choice. If you cannot at least welcome the child as a living creature that deserves to be loved, perhaps your reconciliation with its mother should be... postponed."

William's heart squeezed painfully.

They never talked about it. They'd never discussed it as children, and they had avoided the topic like the plague as adults.

But when Pernrith—when little Frederick had been dropped off with a note at the age of three, not much different from Maude... Here was a child born not long after Lindow, and despite that, he had been taken in. Cared for. Clothed, fed, educated.

Not the same as his brothers, naturally. Hand me down clothes instead of bespoke fittings. He had eaten with the servants, not the family. Educated at the local school, not at Eton.

William shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They had not been his decisions to make, and he had not made them. His father—their father—had. But Pernrith had to live with the consequences of those decisions in a way that he, William, did not.

Lindow was glowering silently, obviously unhappy with the direction the conversation had turned, but it appeared Pernrith was not finished.

"But if," he said gently, "if you can look at the child and see nothing more than that—a child, one who has done nothing wrong but exist—then perhaps you can be with the woman you so evidently love."

William cleared his throat awkwardly. "I don't know what you—"

"Do not attempt to lie to us, it does not suit you, Cothrom," said Aylesbury, his face stern. His mockery vanished quickly. "In all seriousness, do not lie to yourself. You know precisely what Pernrith means. You love her."

Glancing at the empty glass in his hands, William wished he hadn't been so hasty in drinking it. Having another sip of whiskey would be a pleasant distraction round about now.

"I don't know about that," he said awkwardly.

"Oh, really?" said Lindow with a laugh. "Did you, or did you not, tie yourself in proverbial knots just trying to decide what waistcoat to wear to your wedding?"

William scowled. "That doesn't mean—"

"And did you or did you not send away all your servants on your wedding night?" said Aylesbury with more of an admiring grin than William had ever seen on his brother in their conversations. "Damn good idea, I must say. Was it—"

"And the very fact you are having this conversation with us," said Pernrith rapidly, speaking over the undoubtedly licentious question that was about to asked. "The fact you so obviously want to talk about her, the fact we have been talking here for hours—"

"You're right, it is time for a drink," said Lindow vaguely. "Aylesbury?"

"Don't mind if I do—"

"—tells us one clear truth," Pernrith persevered over the chatter of the other two. "William. You love her."

It was on the tip of his tongue to deny it. To tell his interfering brothers that, try as they might, they couldn't convince him of such a nonsense.

And he would have said it, too.

If it weren't a lie.

William sighed, placed the empty glass on the console table beside him, and glared up at his three tormentors. Brothers. Same thing. "Fine. Fine! I love her!"

"Excellent, so it's all solved," said Lindow cheerfully. "Whiskey or brandy?"

"It is not solved," snapped William, dropping his head into his hands as the weight of the mistake he made settled onto his shoulders. "I have a wife who lies to me and a child who..."

He swallowed. The child. Maude, she had looked at him like—like she had trusted him. Maude, at least, was an innocent in all this, and what had he done? He'd been cruel. He'd been unnecessarily harsh. He'd been exactly the lout he had instructed his brothers not to be.

William swallowed in the silence. "I suppose I could... could have dealt with things differently. Better."

"What, you, make an error?" Lindow's eyes were wide. "I've never heard of such a thing!"

But William barely heard his brother. Now that he was beginning to look back at his actions with a measure of clarity inspired—against all odds—by his brothers, he could see how poorly he had acted. Alice... it was true that she had not been open with him, but it was all just to protect an innocent child.

And what had he done? Punished her for it.

His voice cracked when he finally spoke. "I have ruined everything. I had the best woman in the world as my wife, and I've wrecked it all!"

The pain was exquisite, the regret absolute. What had he done? How would Alice ever forgive him—how could they move past this? Would she ever trust him again?

Did he have any right to her trust?

There was a heavy sensation on his shoulder. William looked up to see Aylesbury, who had clearly risen just to place his hand on his shoulder.

"Welcome to the club," he said brightly.

"What club?"

"The ‘oh damn, I've made a terrible mistake and I don't know how to fix it' club," Aylesbury said with a wink. "As a long-time member, may I offer you some advice?"

"Please," said William helplessly. Dear God, was this what he'd come to? Asking advice from his brothers, of all people?

"Don't go down without a fight," said Aylesbury, a little of the levity in his tone disappearing. "And do what I do."

"Which is—"

"Ask your brothers for help."

William just stared. Then slowly, as the words sank in, a slow smile crept across his face. "You absolute blackguard. You will?"

"Not for love nor money," said Aylesbury firmly. "Neither will Lindow, we are absolutely foolish men with no good sense and no good advice. But Pernrith, on the other hand..."