Chapter 39

Chapter Thirty-Nine

R uth was vaguely aware of the tears streaming down her face as Philip left the gardens. She could feel every pair of eyes on her, hear the blaring din of whispers that shouted everywhere around her.

Munroe clucked his tongue. “Upon my soul, a wicked lie.”

She stared at him for a moment. How had he discovered everything?

Her stomach dropped as she thought on the anonymous visit to the offices of the newspaper. Was Munroe behind that?

Ruth grabbed the mask that lay upon the bench and rushed out of the gardens. She had to make Philip understand. She was a wretch—there was no doubt about that—but she was not the reprobate he thought her. He needed to know that her feelings for him were real, even if he doubted everything else.

As fast as her skirts would allow, she ran after him, pushing through crowds of people until Philip’s dark head of hair appeared before her at the door which led out to Grosvenor Square.

“Philip!”

He didn’t turn but strode through the hastily opened door, disappearing into the night air. The servants made to shut the door behind him.

“Wait,” Ruth said, and they pulled it open again with slightly raised brows. She hurried past them and down the steps, reaching for Philip’s hand.

He stopped and swung around to face her. His jaw was sharp, his nostrils flared, his fist balled in her hand.

“Please let me explain,” she pleaded.

People newly arrived to the masquerade walked past, curious eyes directed at them through their masks.

“There is nothing to say,” he said, pulling his hand away. “If you are here about your money, I will have it sent around in the morning.” He smiled humorlessly. “You have certainly earned it, haven’t you?”

Her lips trembled, and she rubbed them together to stop it. “I don’t want your money, Philip.”

He raised his brows, but the gesture rang false. “Oh, you don’t? Why? Because you thought you might have more than three hundred pounds if you could have me instead?”

Ruth pulled in a sharp intake of breath, hurt that he had believed something so unsavory about her. “How can you believe Munroe but refuse to listen to me?”

He scoffed and turned fully toward her, folding his arms across his chest. “Tell me, then, Ruth! What did Munroe have wrong? Were your brother and Miss Devenish courting, or were they not?”

She swallowed. “Yes, but—”

He gave a stiff nod. “Did Kirkhouse pay you to assist him with Miss Parkham, despite your assertions that I could trust your discretion?”

“Yes, but—”

“And all this when you assured me that there were no more lies between us?”

She shut her eyes, biting her lip. What could she possibly say to defend herself? She was repulsed by her own behavior. “I was wrong, Philip. I should have told you. And I wanted to.”

“Then why ? Why didn’t you?”

She stared at him, chest heaving, trying to decide what to say. She could blame it on Topher. She could blame it on her circumstances and the dire need of her family. But at the end of the day, only she could take responsibility for her deceit.

She lifted her shoulders helplessly, and the night air prickled her cheeks where the tears trailed down. “I was afraid of losing you—your friendship. Your respect.”

He scoffed and looked away. “Well, you have lost them. All of them.”

She cast her eyes down, hoping to hide the way his words wounded her. “You have every reason to despise me. And heaven knows I don’t expect you to forgive me. I only came after you because I wanted you to know one thing—to believe it, even if you can believe nothing else.”

She glanced at the passing couple on their way into the townhouse, waiting until they were out of earshot. She would gladly declare her feelings before them—she had no reputation left to salvage. But she didn’t wish to embarrass Philip with such a display—not after all she had already done to him.

“I love you, Philip.” Her voice trembled, and she forced it to stay level as she continued. “You can hate me and think the very worst of me for all I have done—I assure you I never thought myself worthy of your consideration or of my sentiments being reciprocated—but please know that my regard for you has been sure and constant.”

His jaw shifted from side to side, his eyes avoiding hers. “And what reason have I to believe a word you say?”

Her shoulders lifted. “None, I suppose. But it is the truth, all the same. You deserve far better than me, and I have no doubt that you shall have it. But you have all the love in my heart, however little it may be worth to you.”

His gaze finally met hers. “I will send your money first thing in the morning.” He turned on his heel and left.

P hilip’s hands shook as he walked away from Ruth, and he fought the desire to look back—to see whether there existed any evidence of her words on her face. It was weakness, and he hated that he cared—that, even amidst his anger and humiliation, the hurt in her eyes struck a chord in him. He had tied himself to her in a way that refused to be broken. His heart didn’t want to believe what even Ruth had admitted was true—she had duped him. Again. She had pretended to help him, to be a friend to him, while the entire time, she’d had her own interests at heart.

And he had almost asked her to marry him.

Emotion rose in his throat, and he forced it back down, kicking at a bunch of flowers in a patch of grass in Grosvenor Square. He was no different than he had been twenty-five years ago—a pathetic little boy, desperate for the love of a woman who cared nothing for him.

When he arrived in Brook Street, he told Draper to inform Nash that he didn’t require his assistance. He wanted to be alone.

At the foot of the stairs, he turned back to the butler. “Draper. In the morning, have three hundred pounds sent to my uncle’s house in Upper Brook Street. You can wrap it in one of the papers on my desk and have one of the footmen take it.”

The butler nodded. “Shall I write anything to go with it, my lord?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.” He hesitated for a moment, frowning and putting a hand to his temple. “And have some brandy sent to my bedchamber.” He turned back to the stairs and undid the knot at his throat as he scaled them, tugging at the fabric until it came free of his neck then setting to the button at his throat.

Once he was in the silence of his dressing room, he tossed his mask and cravat onto the chair and sat to remove his shoes, eying the mask with a lump in his throat. He had thought removing Ruth’s mask would help him see her clearly. What a fool he had been.

A servant entered, holding a tray upon which sat a full decanter of brandy. Philip thanked him with a nod of the head and reached for the crystal bottle and the empty glass beside it. He had a feeling it was the only way he would get any sleep.

R uth didn’t stand there long, watching Philip stride toward his lodgings in Brook Street as the summer breeze ruffled her hair and licked at her wet cheeks.

She knew a lost cause when she saw it. And her cause with Philip had been lost from the beginning.

Even if she had told him before—told him when she had discovered Topher’s secret—it would have changed little. Their weak bond at that time would have snapped easily under such strain, just as the stronger one they’d developed had snapped under the weight of tonight’s discovery.

Her hand stole to her lips. At least if she had told him before, she wouldn’t be forever haunted by that kiss.

It had only been fifteen minutes since it had happened, but it might as well have been fifteen years for how distant and unobtainable it was now.

“Miss…Franks…or Hawthorn! Oh, whatever you are to be called!” Mrs. Barham took the three steps down from the Walthams’ townhouse and came to Ruth, inspecting her with a grim look. She put an arm about Ruth’s shoulders and attempted to guide her back toward the house. “Come, my dear.”

But Ruth didn’t budge. She wiped the tears on her face with the back of her gloves and shook her head. “No. Thank you, Mrs. Barham, but I am going home.”

“I shall escort you there, then. Let me just call for the carriage to be brought around.”

“No. I appreciate your kindness, but it is unnecessary.”

Mrs. Barham stepped back and looked at Ruth with a frown. “I am your chaperone for the evening, my dear. What kind of a chaperone would I be to let you walk home in the dark?”

“It is but a street away and well-lit. The walk will do me good.”

“That may be, but I must insist. I don’t mind a good scandal, but danger is another thing entirely. Philip entrusted you into my care, and in my care you shall remain.”

Ruth took a step backward, toward Upper Brook Street. “I have no desire to taint you by association with me—any more than I have already.”

Mrs. Barham laughed. “Fustian nonsense, my dear! I live to be tainted. But if you insist upon walking home, I shall accompany you.” She directed the nearest servant to have her carriage sent to Upper Brook Street and took Ruth by the arm.

Ruth hadn’t the energy to resist any more than she already had. It was a short walk, at least.

“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Barham as they made their way slowly across the square. “Tell me what all this is about.”

The small distance that lay between the Walthams’ and Upper Brook Street took nearly half an hour to cover at the pace Mrs. Barham prescribed. Her firm hand guided them around Grosvenor Square twice before allowing any more progress toward their destination, and while Ruth had been reluctant to speak of her troubles, she found the prospect of explaining herself too appealing to resist for long.

For so long, she had held things inside, and if Philip wouldn’t hear her, at least someone could understand her heart—someone could listen as she confessed her wrongs and clarified the intention behind them.

Mrs. Barham listened without a word, only nodding her head and pursing her lips from time to time, and when they finally set foot in front of Upper Brook Street, she turned toward Ruth with a sigh.

“Well, my dear.” She put a hand on Ruth’s arm. “It is a coil indeed, and I cannot say that I am certain it will all unravel as you or I might wish for it to.” She rubbed Ruth’s arm softly, a sad smile on her lips. “My nephew couldn’t do better for himself than to marry you, in my opinion. But unfortunately, the Trents have always been lamentably concerned with the opinion of Society. And while he is better than his family on the whole, Philip is still a Trent. I think within a few days, you will know whether or not he intends to go the Trent way or to make his own path.”

Ruth had no intention of remaining in Town to see whether Mrs. Barham knew of what she spoke. It was impossible for various reasons, not least of which was how unbearable Ruth would find such suspense. She had no expectation of Philip’s opinion of her changing. She was the antithesis of what Philip needed. And as for what he wanted? Well, he didn’t want her now that he knew the truth about her. She had always known that.

“Get some sleep, child. Things look much less dreary in the light of the morning, I have found.”