Chapter 21

"I cannot," Sidney whispered. He barely looked up at his mother, who stood in the doorway to the billiard room. He stared into the fireplace, watching the flames flicker and twist, folding together in a dance so complex that he could watch it for hours, losing himself in it and trying to imagine how to paint it, as though it was the only thing on his mind

"But Sidney...you ate no dinner last night. You must be starving. Please, I beg you, come and have breakfast." his mother said.

Sidney swallowed hard. He could not eat. He was aware, distantly, that he felt shaky and exhausted, and that not eating was probably not helping him, but he could not make himself sit in the breakfast room. His mother would expect him to talk—worse, Aunt Harriet and Giles, who were visiting, would expect him to talk. He had nothing to say to either of them. Since hearing the news about Lord Ridley, he had not left the billiard room. He had shut himself in—though it was a room he hardly used, it was upstairs and away from everything and he disturbed nobody. He could seclude himself there and forget everything. For six days he had stayed there, leaving only to sleep and sometimes not even then.

"Mama, I cannot," he murmured.

"Sidney. You're going to make yourself ill," his mother began, but when he held her gaze, she stopped. Sidney never insisted on anything, but when he had to, his stubborn streak outdid what his father's had been—or so his mother always said.

"Mama, please. Let me have my peace."

"Very well," his mother said with a sigh.

"Thank you," he said softly. He could see the pain in her eyes, and he knew he was causing her suffering. He could not do anything else, however. He could not sit in the breakfast room and converse with Aunt Harriet and pretend that he had a heart, as though his soul was not in torment.

My heart is not my own any longer and my soul...I do not know where it resides, save that it is not with me.

He could not live like this.

"I will be in the breakfast room," his mother said gently. "Should you come down to join us, we would be delighted to see you."

"Thank you, Mama," Sidney replied.

He saw her hesitate in the doorway, and he knew she was struggling to let him sit there without eating, but he could not help it. He heard the door close quietly and he slumped.

"Please, God," he whispered to the empty room. "I cannot do this."

He leaned back on the leather-covered chair and closed his eyes. He had sat and thought for days. Part of his thoughts had been wild plans—retiring to a monastery, fleeing to pursue a career as a painter. But he knew those were not possible. Mama needed him. Amy and Henry needed him. The entire estate and the dukedom needed him. He had no choice but to stay.

He opened his eyes, looking around the room. The pale green wallpaper with its leaf design and the dark green velvet curtains were like a prison. Yet, staying imprisoned in this room was better than having to venture out. Here, it was possible to forget everything—to watch the flames and act as though there was no world besides the four walls and the fire.

A knock at the door made him jump. Mama did not knock like that, so abruptly and harshly. He bit back a curse and remained silent. If it was the butler, he would know better than to disturb. Nobody else would be there.

Before he could say or do anything, the door burst open.

"Cousin!"

"Giles!" Sidney yelled. He shot to his feet. Rage flooded through him, and he might have walked briskly over, but his head pounded, and his legs felt weak. Not eating for two days was catching up with him. He swayed on his feet. Giles smiled.

"Cousin. Grand to see you. Are you going to come out?"

"Giles, get out of here," Sidney grunted. He bit back a curse and stared at Giles. He expected that his cousin would be swaying with the effects of the previous evening. But his cousin was clear eyed when he looked at him, and only the mildest smell drifted from him to suggest he had drunk anything at all.

"I had some news," Giles began. He was, Sidney thought, dressed in his smart evening jacket, as though he had come back from drinking and spent the night sleeping in the drawing room. Sidney bit his lip.

"What news?"

"I was in the Grantham," Giles said slowly. "And a certain gentleman was there, too, boasting about his recent betrothal to a certain lady." Giles' eyes sparkled. Sidney groaned.

"I know, Giles," he said angrily. He had spoken to Giles about it just two evenings ago, when Giles happened to stumble into the room, reeking of brandy and barely able to stand up. It seemed as though Giles did not recall a single word of that conversation, though he had spoken at length. "I don't need to hear about it."

"Well, I heard more than just that," Giles confided. "And I had to come in to tell you as soon as you awoke."

"I've been awake for four hours," Sidney countered. He had woken when the collier came, at four o' clock in the morning, and he had not slept since the sound of the coal being delivered to the kitchen downstairs. "What did you hear? Tell me," he added, seeing Giles' eyes sparkle.

"The gentleman we are discussing mentioned that he was glad of the money that her father would give him after the wedding. It would pay off his debts. His friends seemed gladdened by the news—I take it they are owed the money."

"What difference does that..." Sidney began, then blinked as a fact dropped into his head. "Wait..."

He did not know Lord Ridley well—he'd only seen the fellow once or twice. But no rumor had ever suggested that the man was deeply in debt. Most rumors he had heard suggested he was rich, in fact. And that was doubtless what her family believed.

"It does seem that Lord Graystone believes otherwise, too," Giles said with a grin. "And I reckon that, were this to be known, it would be another matter. The earl is a good friend of all those who are good investors, you know."

"What?" Sidney blinked again, confused. "Giles...how do you know all this?"

Giles just smiled. "I know more," he said swiftly. "If you rush to Graystone House, you might just make it in time to change things. Wedding's at nine o' clock."

"What?" Sidney gaped. "Giles. What? When?" He was on his feet already, hurrying to the door. "How? How do you know that?"

"A friend visited me," Giles said, and this time the grin was evident, as if he could not hide the warmth he felt. "She confided in me a great deal. Lady Anastasia is very dear to her, it seems."

"A friend? Giles, what?" Sidney's brow was lowered in a tight frown that made his head hurt. His entire body hurt, if he thought about it. Hunger made his temples throb, and his feet felt like they were carved from stone.

"Hurry, Sidney," Giles said swiftly. "You ought to change first."

"Giles?" Sidney frowned at him. "Why are you helping me?" He hadn't thought Giles had heard a word he said that night when they had sat in the billiard room and talked to one another. He had clapped him on the back when he was sobbing, and he had asked if he could help. Sidney had thought he had forgotten all that—Giles had seemed too drunk to remember any of it.

"I might be many things, cousin," Giles said, and his hazel eyes were level and clear and the eyes of his best friend. "But I am your steadfast friend. I hold you in the highest regard, akin to a brother. You must take your leave at once, before the vicar arrives."

Sidney nodded and ran to his room. He had an hour to change his clothing and get across town, and he was tired and hungry, and his head throbbed so much he could barely see. But hope was lending wings to him, and he ran to his room, rushing before it was too late.