Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

N eville stared out the carriage window, drumming his fingers on his knee as every wheel turn took him and Arabella closer to Eton College. The school was actually located in Berkshire, not too far from Windsor Castle, about twenty-three miles from London.

On clear days like today, with thankfully no rain and just a scattering of clouds, it would take just over five hours each way. This included stopping for a change of horses at Arabella's preferred inn, a well-kept establishment on the outskirts of Brentford. The inn not only had a large stable of experienced carriage horses, and a carpenter and blacksmith for any carriage issues, they were very efficient and obliging toward those with a warm smile and heavy purse.

To ensure he and Ara reached Stanforth House at a reasonable hour later, they'd departed London at dawn. But although the journey was barely a few hours complete, he was already hungry. And unsettled. If not for Toby, he wouldn't set foot in this illustrious school again; attending as a King's Scholar had been the worst experience of his life.

"Toby will have a much better time, my darling."

He blinked at Arabella's words. The way she deciphered his thoughts was bloody uncanny. "Because of you, he'll be an Oppidan and my gratitude for that is boundless. It doesn't matter how clever or good-natured a boy is, there is no life other than hellish for a King's Scholar. The violence. The bullying. And there are so many boys to manage, the schoolmasters won't do a damned thing about it. I think that is why Eton friendships tend to last a lifetime. They were forged in fire and that is no jest or exaggeration."

Arabella pulled her lap rug higher to her waist. While it certainly wasn't a cold day, there was a nip of pending autumn in the air. Really, it was always better to travel with extra cushions and rugs though, not just for warmth, but for comfort. The roads away from London were rather diabolical; even the most well-sprung carriage seemed to hit rocks and ruts with great precision. "Dare I ask what was the worst thing?"

Neville considered. "It is quite impossible to name one thing. The food was goddamned awful, although I gather that has nearly always been the case. All the lessons are taught in Latin rather than English or even French. The school day starts at six in the morning and ends at eight at night with just an hour for play. Boys only leave the place for summer holiday, they even stay there for Christmas. And the older lads are lawless terrors. Power is wielded without mercy…although I suppose that is preparation for the world outside."

"Oh God," said Arabella, her expression horrified. "Why didn't you tell me all these details before?"

"Because being Baron Carlisle's heir means very little for Toby. It's a relatively new title and has no great estates or fortune to speak of. But attending Eton will open endless doors and I want the world for him. The fact that he can stroll into school, not as a charity case but a young gentleman with a generous allowance, and has relatives who care enough to send him treat parcels, is the best possible start a lad could have—"

"Is it?" she asked bluntly. "How?"

"Because the future leaders and men of influence will be his peers. His friends . Toby can go further, so much further than me. And when he speaks, perhaps change will happen in weeks or months, not years. He'll be a success, not a failure…"

When his voice caught, Neville coughed to compose himself. Where the hell had all that come from? Proximity to Berkshire had turned his mind to syllabub. Thankfully Toby hadn't witnessed any of that; the poor lad would leap onto a mail carriage and stay aboard until he reached Edinburgh. Or further. Dundee. Aberdeen.

"Nev," said Arabella firmly, "how can you possibly consider yourself a failure? As an uncle, you've been an infinitely better father to Toby than Harvey ever was. Toby is fortunate in so much more than my money. He has an example of a good, decent man. A loving man. One with steadfast principles who fights for righteous causes, the downtrodden and the voiceless, and never gives up. That is why he sees you as a hero."

Neville's cheeks heated at the lavish compliments. "Best stop, or my puffed-up head won't fit through the carriage door."

"I wish you saw yourself how I do. I wish I could show you. Or at least distract you from those burdensome thoughts. But…"

Arabella's voice trailed off, and he truly understood her perplexed grimace. While he would walk through flames for the attention of her heavenly mouth and exceedingly skilled hands, it somehow felt wrong without Edmund here to join in or be commanded. That was the difference. The duke had become an essential part of their play. An essential part of their lives .

"You soothe my soul, Ara," he said, leaning forward to take her hand in his. "And you've built the platform beneath my feet. If I have achieved anything, it is because of you."

Her gaze softened, yet before she could speak, his stomach rumbled and she laughed instead. "Goodness me. My poor pet is starving. Allow me to feed you before your entire being is consumed by that cavernous abyss. I am rather enamored of your body."

Neville chuckled. "As I am of yours. Let's both eat."

Arabella began rummaging in the food basket by her feet. "Yes. Because Cook doesn't trust any inn, shop or pie cart to sustain us properly, we have fresh buttered bread, a few raisin pastries, apple tarts…oh yes, and some sugar-dusted cinnamon wafers because I begged Katie Whitmore's cook to give me her recipe. They are perhaps the most delicious sweet I've ever tasted. Also a flask of lemonade. Plus one of…good grief, what is this ?"

Neville shuddered at the ghastly sight of the mottled reddish orange cordial. "I believe Cook is trying to guard us against future winter ills. That looks like a tonic with castor oil, carrot, beetroot, and lemon."

"Edmund would know. The poor man has probably consumed every tonic under the sun. I know he hasn't said too much about his marriage, but what he endured before conceiving his heir was terrible. It seems whether you want children or don't want them, there are trials to endure."

He nodded as he downed a chunk of soft buttered bread followed by several of the scrumptious wafers. Unwrapping the duke was like unwrapping a parcel with sixty-five layers. He was so guarded about his past; entirely understandable considering his frightful upbringing. In truth, the more he learned, the more Neville was ashamed of the assumptions he'd made about Edmund. Power and position certainly hadn't protected him from pain. "I wonder what he is doing right now."

"As long as he's not bedding someone else or breaking the law, I really don't mind," said Arabella as she finished a second raisin pastry then dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin. "Speaking of bedding…"

His ears pricked up. "Yes? Pray continue, my lovely, beautiful, talented, splendid wife."

She snorted. "At ease, soldier. I was pondering what acts we might try in future if Edmund wishes to continue as a trio. Obviously, binding his wrists, he seems to enjoy that. Or making him touch himself. One thing I would like to attempt with you both is Edmund fucking my arse while you fuck his. What do you think?"

Neville groaned. "Arabella Laurel Carlisle, you simply cannot say ‘at ease, soldier,' then follow it with exceedingly erotic suggestions. Have a care for my trouser fall."

His wicked wife batted her lashes as she reached for the small box of comfits in the food basket, before popping one of the mint-flavored sweets into her mouth. "But what do you think? Would Edmund want that?"

"I hope so. And a whole lot more. I just want to fuck him and hug him and make him laugh. Forever."

She hesitated. "Forever?"

Oh God. He'd let his tongue run away from him. But there was no plausible way to walk those words back. He needed to stand behind them. "Only once before in my life have I fallen so fast and hard. When a certain Miss Ferndale hoisted me over her shoulder and dragged me back to her lair. I was helpless in the face of her magnificent br—"

"Breasts?"

"Brain," he continued smugly, only wincing a little when Arabella kicked his shin. "But now Edmund is in my heart, too. Just as he's burrowed into yours."

Arabella nodded slowly. "I sent a note before we left, saying we would call this evening. We have a lot to talk about. Everyone must have their needs met, and I suspect it won't be easy extracting information from a man well used to hiding or suppressing it."

"And this is the first time Edmund has lovers who truly care about him in bed and out. Who want him to be happy. He was scarred by his marriage, it's not undying love that stopped him remarrying or taking a mistress."

His baroness grimaced. "The ton does enjoy romanticizing past nonsense. In the meantime…brace yourself, my darling, the carriage has just turned onto Eton Road."

Neville covered his eyes. "And you were diverting me so brilliantly."

It was time to buck up and face the demons of Eton past.

Ugh.

There was something endlessly fascinating about buildings that were almost four hundred years old.

As their carriage moved slowly toward Eton's heart, Arabella studied the imposing red and cream brick structures. People often talked of Eton as an old school steeped in English history, but until one drove amongst it, it was hard to understand how old and how steeped. For God's sake, the school had been founded by King Henry VI. Not the miserly king who ended the War of the Roses or his monstrous son who churned through six wives and introduced the wretched Buggery Act, but the Henry before them.

Oh, the tales these bricks could tell.

"Bloody hell," she muttered.

Nev snorted. "Welcome to Eton. Less of a mouthful than Kynge's College of Our Ladye of Eton besyde Windesore. On your left is the College boarding house where all us highly unfortunate King's Scholars resided. I know those arched doors and narrow windows don't appear particularly terrifying, but inside was the first-floor Long Chamber where we slept; the less said of that vile inhumanity, the better."

"It masks the crimes well. Is that the chapel?" she asked, pointing to a large cream brick building.

"Indeed," said Nev, grimacing. "Prayers every day at five in the morning."

Arabella clasped her hands, fighting the urge to burst into every building and liberate the boys like a madwoman freeing chickens from a coop. "Which boarding house is Toby in again?"

"It's called Jourdelay's," said Nev. "This one up ahead."

The moment the carriage pulled up, Arabella scrambled out and glared ferociously at the four-story red brick building. The surroundings here were far more pleasant; two lads were sitting under a mulberry tree sketching and another group were kicking a ball about in the courtyard.

She didn't trust the tranquil scene for a moment.

"Shall I bring the parcel?" asked Nev.

"Just hold for a bit, I want to find Toby first," Arabella replied, walking toward the front door of the boarding house.

A young woman in a plain gray gown immediately appeared and bobbed a curtsy. "Good morning, madam. Are you looking for Dame Sara?"

Nev leaned down. "Each boarding house has a dame overseeing it," he whispered.

Arabella smiled at the maid. "I am Lady Carlisle. His Lordship and I are looking for our nephew, Master Toby Carlisle. Is he indoors or outside?"

"I believe he's watching the hoop racing on the west side of the building, milady."

"Thank you," she replied, already marching away and preparing for battle, Nev hurrying after her. Only when she saw for herself that Toby was safe and well would her mind ease.

It actually took less than a minute to find him; the lad was playing conkers with another boy of about the same age. While they were both wearing black trousers, white shirts, and black waistcoats like all the Eton boys, shorter, fair-haired Toby was laughing, while the other lanky, brown-haired boy seemed more solemn, although he was smiling at the game.

"Toby," she called, trying not to yell like a fishwife and embarrass him.

The lad turned and his face lit up. Then he bounded over, the other boy trailing behind him. "Aunt Arabella! Uncle Nev! What are you doing here?"

"We are a more efficient mail carriage for parcels," said Nev as he ruffled the boy's hair. "Are you going to introduce us to your friend?"

"Oh!" said Toby, grinning bashfully. "May I present my very best chum, Lord Denby. He's an heir like me! I call him Harry. Harry, this is my aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Carlisle."

The lad bowed, very stiff and formal. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. My lady."

Nev's brow furrowed. "Wait. Denby. Heir to whom?"

Something like deep, aching sadness flashed across Denby's face, an emotion far too intense for a ten-year-old.

Toby clapped his friend on the shoulder and gave them a surprisingly fierce look. "His father is the Duke of Stanforth. But Harry's not like him. He's much better and nicer. He cares about others, even if his father hates him. And I'll plant a facer on anyone who argues, it doesn't even matter if Headmaster Keate flogs me."

Arabella froze, her mind splintering like her nephew had started singing in fluent Russian. This solemn, sad lad was Edmund's son? And according to the boy, Edmund hated him? How was that even possible? That wasn't the Edmund they knew!

Inwardly flailing, Arabella glanced at Nev. Had she misheard? Was being at Eton turning her mind to mud?

Except her husband looked equally shocked.

"Er, no need to punch anyone, and school floggings are awful," said Nev eventually. "But we are delighted to make your acquaintance, Denby. Or do you prefer Harry?"

The lad blinked. Then smiled tentatively. "Harry. It's short for Harrison. My sister calls me Harry. I like it."

"Harry it is," said Arabella. "But my dear, I must ask…why do you think your father hates you? That is a heavy burden to carry."

"He always has," said the lad quietly. "Because I took too long to be born. Father and Mother had to wait eight years. That was my fault."

Arabella pressed her fist to her mouth. Any moment she might burst into tears and that was utterly unacceptable. To witness such despair, when a heartfelt conversation between Edmund and Harry could put this to rights. Well, she had broken all her rules when it came to Edmund and was about to break another: minding her own business.

As Katie had said during their visit, open and frank conversation in a threesome was essential, which meant that Edmund's painful past could not be allowed to poison his future. And that included the bond between father and son. It was up to her and Nev to provoke change, to start the mending of this rift before they could embrace Edmund as a permanent part of their future.

"Right," she said crisply, "Here's what is going to happen. We are all going to return to London. This is an injury that must be reset so it can heal."

Harry stared at her with wide eyes. "Are you…are you going to abduct us? Like a pirate?"

Arabella nodded. "You might not know this, Harry, but my father sails ships filled with treasure chests. He pretends he is a textile merchant but…he is very, very wicked. As am I."

"It's true," breathed Toby. "I've been to the docks—Mr. Ferndale has lots of ships. Listen to Aunt Arabella. She always knows best."

A laugh almost escaped, but the situation was too serious. Arabella glanced at Nev. "Discreetly get the boys into the carriage. I will hunt down the dame."

With shoulders back and chin high, Arabella marched back into the boarding house. The same maid from before directed her down a hallway to a small corner office where a rather harassed-looking older brunette in a black gown was flicking through a pile of files and ledgers on her overcrowded desk.

"Dame Sara?" she asked politely. "I am Lady Carlisle, Toby Carlisle's aunt. May I have a moment of your time?"

The woman sighed, as though rallying herself, then she offered a brief smile. "Of course, my lady. Is there a problem?"

Arabella hesitated, rapidly recalculating her approach. The poor woman was obviously overworked with far too many young lads in her care, and probably horribly underpaid. "No problem. I wanted to ask a small favor, for which I will compensate you handsomely."

Dame Sara frowned, but not swiftly enough to mask the flash of interest. "And what favor might that be?"

Arabella smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "I'd like my nephew and his best chum Lord Denby to have one last hurrah before school begins. To take both boys now and return them, safe and sound, tomorrow. So what I would require from you, is, hmmm, a slight miscount when you check beds tonight and in the morning."

The brunette tapped her chin as she stared at Arabella's reticule. "I am scrupulous with numbers and couldn't possibly miscount…but boys who are unwell sleep in the infirmary chamber away from the others. They could be in there for a night. No more, mind."

"A fine and efficient system," said Arabella. "Now, I also know someone so scrupulous couldn't possibly accept payment for such a favor. But if some coins appeared on your desk…who's to say where they came from?"

"I am a very busy woman," said Dame Sara, nodding. "I can't watch my desk all the time."

Opening her reticule, Arabella dug around until she retrieved two crowns, then she placed them on the desk. "I am a practical woman. What a joy to find another in you."

Dame Sara's eyes bulged at the amount. "Aye, my lady. We understand each other perfectly. You just make sure the lads are back in time for supper tomorrow, or there will be physicians involved and hell to pay. Be careful traveling out as well. Other dames aren't so…practical."

"Of course. Good day," said Arabella as she departed the office. Good grief. Another rule broken; this time blatant bribery! She truly was her father's daughter.

On returning to the carriage, Arabella climbed in and directed Toby and Harry to crouch down, which they did with great glee. Then she covered them with her lap blanket.

Nev's lips twitched wildly. "Dare I ask?"

"Certainly not. To London!"

There was a reconciliation to achieve.

Edmund braced his hands on the parlor window and gazed out onto St. James's Square. This view was peaceful—the other side of Stanforth House looked over bustling Pall Mall, and past that, the Prince Regent's overblown Carlton House—but if he looked out here, he could just see an expanse of green lawn and trees and shrubbery. If he closed one eye and tilted his head, he could almost pretend he was in the country.

He truly needed a moment alone after a frantic morning. At breakfast, he'd received a short note from Arabella, requesting an audience for her and Nev this evening. But he'd been unable to concentrate on that mind-whirling news, for less than an hour later, Sir Kenneth had arrived on his doorstep, a determined expression on his face and a ring in his pocket, asking to speak to Cressida.

Edmund smiled at the memory. The man had certainly wasted no time at all in proposing to her, and his daughter's shriek had almost lifted the roof. But the way she had hurled herself into the politician's arms, the way Sir Kenneth had grinned and twirled her around…that had been lump-in-the-throat special. This was how a betrothal should be: lots of laughter and cheers and excitement for the future.

Of course they'd then opened bottles of champagne and brandy to toast, and both Sir Kenneth and Cressida's voices had wobbled with emotion as they bantered and jested. After that, Cressida had insisted on sharing the news with all the servants in Edmund's employ, so he'd ordered even more bottles from the cellar so everyone could have a glass. There was now an air of merriment throughout the townhouse as Cressida's admittedly lovely diamond-and-pearl betrothal ring was examined and exclaimed over.

But now Cressida and Sir Kenneth had departed in the politician's carriage to share the news with his family, their closest friends, and members of his party, and Edmund was alone with his thoughts. A dangerous enterprise.

The discreet throat-clearing behind him almost sent Edmund crashing head-first through the window. He turned around to see Yates, his secretary. "Good God, man, do I need to put a bell around your neck?"

Yates chuckled. "Forgive me, Your Grace, I think you were very deep in thought after earlier events. But I wanted to confirm: Sir Kenneth has requested a formal meeting to discuss terms later this week. Is that acceptable?"

"I'll make myself available," said Edmund. "And you did send some extra funds to Denby? Would hate to think the boy was going hungry due to Eton slop."

"Of course, Your Grace. I had two footmen ride to Eton. In regard to the wedding, I expect there will be a lot to plan. Is Lady Cressida thinking St. George's? Or Westminster perhaps? I shall make enquiries about available dates and the reading of the banns. Enjoy the rest of your day."

Edmund waved absently as his secretary departed. Yes, there would indeed be much to plan for the wedding, but now his thoughts had abruptly turned to his heir. Would some distance between them perhaps soften his son's heart? Could they start again and rebuild something much better without Cressida as some sort of translator or emissary?

It was so very strange, but the time spent with Arabella and Nev had changed him in many ways other than sexual. Finally it seemed like he could see good in the world. Feel joy. Have some fun. His father and grandfather had actually been rigid and icy and proper, but Edmund could no longer play that role. It wasn't him, and the falseness of it was distasteful, a vise crushing him. He wanted freedom. Companionship. Love. And yes, passion. With Arabella and Nev.

Waiting for them to arrive was truly torturous. The note had indicated early evening after they completed a brief jaunt out of London, but that could be anytime, really. And depending on what they had to say, it could either remain one of the happiest days of his life, or take a turn for the worst. Was there any chance they wanted him as much as he wanted them? And not just an affair…but forever?

Naturally, there was much to discuss, but it just felt so right being with them both.

Edmund sighed. He desperately needed to distract himself, but there was simply no way he could concentrate on documents. Or reading. And while visiting one of his St. James's Square neighbors, perhaps Norfolk at number 31, or the Castlereaghs at number 18 held appeal, it would be devastating to not be here when the Carlisles arrived.

Damnation. He was on the verge of losing his mind.

"Beg pardon, Your Grace, but you have a visitor."

Somehow he suppressed a woeful yelp at being startled a second time. Yet as the footman's words sank in, Edmund's heart leaped in an uncomfortable blend of anticipation and anxiety. Arabella and Nev were here!

After gathering his composure, he smiled briefly at the footman. "Thank you, send them in."

However, as soon as he'd given the instruction, his confidence failed him. Should he stand? Sit? Was he wearing the most appropriate clothing or should he have changed? Would the drawing room be a more suitable location? On the leather armchairs in front of the fire in his bedchamber? Was it too early or too late for refreshments? Both Arabella and Nev had a sweet tooth, perhaps he should order cakes and pastries…

"Good afternoon, Stanforth."

Utterly confused and equally annoyed, he frowned and glanced toward the parlor door. What the bloody hell was Sylvia doing here? And why did she look so unusually cheerful, dressed in a pink gown? Most of the time his sister-in-law wore gray and possessed the long-suffering, put-upon air of a puritan ordered to speak to a sinner. "Sylvia. This is a surprise. I'm actually expecting guests. Is something amiss?"

The blond woman giggled as she hurried to him. "I just heard the momentous news. It's all anyone is talking about in town. Cressida betrothed to Sir Kenneth Lochore!"

Edmund relaxed a little. "Indeed, it is wonderful. I think they will be a splendid match—"

"Naughty man, teasing me so," said Sylvia, actually rapping his wrist with her fan as she batted her pale lashes. "I will admit to a certain disappointment that you did not send a note arranging a private rendezvous immediately. But I'm here now, and all will be well."

His shoulders tightened to the point they could be used to prop up a building. A private rendezvous? Damnation. There was nothing vague about that, she'd gone far beyond the pale. " Teasing ? I have no idea what you are talking about," he replied curtly.

Sylvia shivered. "Oh, I see, you are going to make me say it. How masterfully, how cruelly you wield your power over a lady's heart, my dear duke! Very well. Denby is now at Eton. Cressida is betrothed and will soon be gone from this house. We can finally be lovers as we always hoped and wished!"

Christ .

Edmund could only stare, unable to articulate the revulsion currently churning his stomach. Bed Sylvia? His late wife's sister? He would ride naked through Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens holding flaming torches to his groin before that would occur. Such a desire had not even floated in his mind. Not to mention that the only people in London he wished to pleasure and be pleasured by were Arabella and Nev. They understood him. They recognized his sexual needs and met them in extraordinary ways. They cared about him. And it had nothing whatsoever to do with his title or his money.

"No," he said bluntly.

She stared at him, clearly confused. "Excuse me?"

"I have never looked at you in that way. It is not something I want, and it's long past time you ceased entertaining such thoughts," replied Edmund, on one hand disliking the need for harsh words while understanding this was definitely not an occasion for dissembling.

"What are you talking about?" said Sylvia, her tone rising. "Of course you want this. It's the only reason you married Lydia. To be close to me."

What the hell ?

Had he been transported into a play at Drury Lane? How could she spout such utter nonsense? Everyone in the entire bloody country understood why he and Lydia had married so young, without any kind of courtship or attachment; hell, even Cressida knew!

Edmund took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. His sister-in-law was obviously not well. "Sylvia," he said more gently. "You know that is not true. And I think it's best you leave. Lord Lovell does not deserve such shabby treatment and you are better than this."

"My husband has always known of my love for you. I told him. And he concedes to a better man. Do not fight this. Do not fight me ."

And with that, his sister-in-law launched herself at him in a grotesque parody of Cressida and Sir Kenneth's earlier embrace. Her slight frame and bony limbs were bruising, and even as he grabbed her shoulders to shove her away, her dry, cold lips pressed against his in the most unromantic, unerotic kiss imaginable.

"Oh dear," said a cool feminine voice from the parlor doorway.

Edmund turned, his revulsion turning to horror at the sight of not only Arabella and Nev, but also an unfamiliar blond lad. And…oh Christ…Denby?

His solemn, disapproving son had just witnessed that? His lovers had just witnessed that?

It was hard to imagine a deeper, darker pit of hell.