Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

R osalyn was startled awake. Had someone just shouted her name? She rushed to the window and saw Patrick being dragged away by two large men, still shouting over his shoulder. He was angrier than she'd ever seen him, but so obviously hurting, as well. She needed to stop him. To tell him she was sorry.

She wrapped herself in her robe and hurried out into the hallway. About halfway down, she was stopped by a familiar voice.

"Rosie?" She turned and peered through the doorway. On the bed lay Finch, his face so horribly bruised and battered, he was almost unrecognizable.

"Finch?" He peeked through swollen eyelids, and despite his injuries, he attempted a smile. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she neared his bed. Why had someone hurt him like this? He had a splint on one arm, and every inch of him that she could see was bruised or scabbed. Her heart broke for him.

"Giving his lordship hell then, are you?" He chuckled, and she was pretty sure he tried to wink.

Rosalyn laughed under her breath. None of this was funny, but somehow Finch always managed to bring levity to every situation.

"That wasn't my intention, but it seems that is exactly what I've managed to do."

"Why don't you sit down and tell me about everything?" He turned his head toward the chair beside his bed. "He's a stubborn, bullheaded fool, and I know I shouldn't speak so of my employer, but he's also my dearest friend."

Rosalyn sat down in the chair, her hands clasped between her knees. "Will you tell me the story of how you came to work for him? The real story I mean. I assume, it's not exactly the done thing to be friends with one's valet."

"I will, even though he won't thank me for telling the story." He shifted in the bed, and groaned quietly, wincing from the pain. "It was about 13 years ago, now." He let out a sigh. "Leaving a… let's say tête-à-tête… with a man." He cleared his throat. "If you haven't already deduced as much, I am not normal when it comes to men and women, and apparently that makes me a depraved reprobate." He gave a slight shrug with his unencumbered arm.

She'd always imagined such men to be more akin to demons, based on what her stepfather had said about them. Finch was kind and caring, so clearly she'd been misinformed.

"Well, at least we'll both be going to hell together then."

He laughed, but immediately groaned and wrapped his good arm around his ribs.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry, Finch. Please continue."

One side of his mouth tipped up a bit, stretching his scabbed lips. "Well, I stepped out the back door of an establishment into an alley, and there was Patrick." His eyes stared straight ahead, but he looked at nothing, as if he was watching the incident again inside his mind. "He had the barrel of a gun held against his temple."

Rosalyn gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. Finch's gaze turned to meet hers and he nodded. "I doubt he'd ever admit it, but he had every intention of ending his life that day."

Rosalyn swallowed back tears. "Why?" The word was barely a whisper.

"Well, the truth is, we never discussed it. He was under the effects of too much whiskey and a good dose of opium, but mostly, I think he was lonely and bored."

"Bored?" Rosalyn was horrified. Boredom was hardly a reason to take one's own life.

"As the second son, I think he lacked a sense of purpose." She remembered Patrick calling himself ‘the spare'. Clearly, there was more truth to that than she'd realized. Finch took a sip of water from the glass on his bedside table before continuing. "I didn't ask a lot of questions. I simply convinced him to give me the gun, then I helped him back to his flat, and have basically refused to leave his side since."

Rosalyn smiled. Although it was heart wrenching to think of Patrick in such a state, their friendship was nothing short of sweet. Thank God Finch had been there at that exact moment, and willing to step in the way he did. Most people probably would have just turned a blind eye.

"I'm not the hero the story makes me out to be, really. I had been sacked that day and thrown out on the streets, with nowhere to go and no reference. So you see, he saved me every bit as much as I saved him."

Rosalyn took Finch's uninjured hand in hers then bent to place a soft kiss on his forehead. "You are truly heaven sent, Finch."

He snorted and shook his head. "Now, Rosie, it's your turn. What on earth happened that brought you here with him shouting your name to the rooftops outside?"

This was going to be difficult. Afterall, she couldn't explain everything without sharing very private details about her life, and her relationship with Patrick. Finch had trusted her enough to share very personal things, though, so perhaps she could trust him just as much. She let out a long sigh, and started from the beginning.

... "So that's how I ended up here," she finished up some time later. Rosalyn walked around the bed and poured herself a glass of water. "I'm not sure why he's here. He seems to be furious with me, though."

"Oh, Rosie," Finch said, shaking his head. "He's not furious with you."

Rosalyn laughed. "You didn't see him out there, Finch."

"I didn't need to see him. I know him." He waited for her to sit back down. "He cares about you, Rosie, and he's afraid he may have lost you. He's angry at himself, and probably the rest of the world, but not you."

Why did her traitorous heart trip over itself at those words? "He hardly knows me, Finch."

He tilted his head slightly, and even between his swollen lids, she could see the mirth in his eyes. Warmth climbed up her neck and filled her cheeks. His implication wasn't wrong, though. Patrick may have only known her for a short time, but he knew her more intimately than anyone else in the world.

"There's something special about you, Rosie."

She scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous."

Finch shook his head. "Then answer me this. When he took you from that brothel, why did he bring you home?"

"I don't know." She shrugged and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "For some reason he felt compelled to save me from that place."

"Yes," Finch said, taking a deep breath as if he was explaining something to a child. "But why didn't he just bring you here?"

"I…" She looked around the room as if she might find an answer to that question written on the walls. "I don't know," she said once more.

"To be fair, I'm not sure even he knows the answer to that question."

"Well," she said with a bit of a huff. She didn't know how to feel about these revelations. And, special or not, it didn't change the reality of their circumstances. "One day he is going to want a proper wife, Finch, and he can't very well do that if he's already married to me."

"And what makes you think you can't be a proper wife?"

Rosalyn scoffed again. "He's the son of a marquess, Finch."

"The second son of a marquess, who obviously doesn't put much stock in society's rules."

"Well, it doesn't matter," she said quietly, picking at her thumbnail. "He didn't ask me to be a proper wife. He offered to send me away and keep me safe." She looked up at Finch again. "It's as if he thinks I'm a china doll," she said with a shrug.

"He's not always the quickest bunny in the forest, our Patrick, but he means well." Finch chuckled. "Give him time, Rosie. He'll figure it out. And in the meantime, talk to him. Tell him what you want."

Finch shifted in the bed. "Now, I need to get up and move around a bit, and I'm afraid I'm not dressed for company. Think on what I've said, Rosie."

She nodded and walked to his bedside. "Thank you, Finch," she said, placing another gentle kiss on his forehead. "I'll be back to visit with you again soon."

"I'll look forward to it!"

* * *

Patrick heard a commotion in the hallway, heavy footfalls, along with a skittering noise and his new young servant's voice.

"But sir, I don't believe his lordship is at home."

"Just leave it, Alfred," Patrick called down the hall. "He's the only one who can have rules. The rest of us must simply bend to his wishes."

When Ash arrived at the door to Patrick's study, he leaned against the jamb. He rested both of his hands atop his cane, an arrogant brow raised, and one side of his mouth lifted in a smirk.

"His lordship, eh?" Ash said with a chuckle. Patrick merely rolled his eyes.

"What makes you think you're welcome in my house, Ash?"

"Oh, on the contrary." He pushed himself away from the doorframe and sauntered over, making himself comfortable in the chair across from Patrick. "I assumed I would not be welcome, but I came anyway."

"Well then," Patrick leaned back with a sigh and clasped his hands in his lap. "Say whatever it is you came to say so you can leave."

"I mostly just came to see if you were drinking so I know if Michael needs to cover you at the club tonight."

"Fuck." Of course. He was supposed to be on duty tonight. How did he forget? It was as if everything in his life outside of Rosie had ceased to exist. He cursed again under his breath, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. The clock on the mantel read just past noon.

"I'll be sober before we open."

Ash nodded but looked less than convinced. "So are you going to tell me what happened?" He lifted his left ankle to rest on his other knee and picked a spec of dirt from his boot.

"Apparently, living in your compound is more appealing than being married to me," Patrick said, shaking his head. "What I don't understand," he said, his brow furrowing, "is how she knew to go there. I never told her about the place, or the ladies it houses." His tone was accusatory, even to his own ears.

"And what, you think I lured her there?" His foot dropped back to the floor and he sat forward. "Don't be stupid, Patrick. When I got to her, she was standing in front of Maison Rouge. Luckily, she'd managed to make it there unharmed, and I arrived before she went inside." He stood then and leaned across the desk. "I,"—he pointed at his own chest—"tracked her down. I convinced her not to go inside. I got her somewhere safe. So you're welcome!" His voice was raised, uncharacteristically.

It took a moment for the words to fully register. She'd been willing to return to Maison Rouge. Ash had saved her from a terrible fate, and Patrick had been too caught up in his own self-pity to even consider that possibility.

Patrick blew out a long breath. "I suppose you owe me a wallop." He managed to at least look Ash in the eye.

"Indeed I do." Ash nodded and sat back down, folding his arms once more. It was a measure of their friendship that they never had to say I'm sorry. They just knew. Of course Ash had been on Patrick's side. He always would be.

"Drink?" Patrick lifted the decanter and then remembered he was supposed to be sobering up and set it back down. Ash was drumming his fingers impatiently on his bicep.

"Alright." Patrick let out a long sigh. Without getting into details, he told Ash about Rosie's past and why he had offered marriage. It sounded perfectly reasonable to him, but Ash was laughing by the time he finished.

"I'm glad you find so much joy in my misery." He swallowed the last of the brandy that was in his glass.

"I had no idea you were so clueless, Patrick. I've seen the way she looks at you. She obviously cares for you."

"Oh really? Then why, pray tell, did she decide working in a brothel was preferable to becoming my wife?"

"Perhaps because you didn't offer her the opportunity to be your wife. Instead, you said you'd ship her off to live as a recluse at one of your country estates. Does that sound like a life you'd want to live?"

"I'm just trying to keep her safe."

"Well, you have what you want, then. You know how seriously I take the safety and welfare of the Lady Ravens."

"No!" He stood up so fast, his chair tipped over behind him as he slammed his palms down on the desk. "She will not be a Lady Raven!" The thought of her on display in his club for every man in there to ogle made fury erupt within him.

Ash merely raised his brow. "I don't believe that is your decision to make."

Patrick tried to sit back down, but the chair was not there, so he landed hard on his backside on the floor. He cursed loudly as a bark of laughter erupted on the opposite side of the desk. Grabbing the empty tumbler from the desktop, he threw it at Ash, but it landed across the room where it shattered.

"Are we having a tantrum?" Ash's laughter continued. Yes, he was having a tantrum. He got slowly to his feet and righted the chair. Holding onto its arms, he took in a deep breath and held it, allowing his anger and frustration to diminish.

Seating himself, he looked at Ash, who'd managed to get his laughing mostly under control now and was simply smiling.

"What would you recommend I do, then?" he asked in earnest.

Ash's smile slowly morphed into one of pity. Apparently, the answer was an obvious one.

"Please, Ash. I'm putting my pride aside right now and asking for your help. Do you have to make me feel like a simpleton in the process?"

"Look," he said, more serious now. "I don't have all the answers. God knows I'm no expert when it comes to relationships. I think you should have just brought her to Raven House in the first place and then we wouldn't be here right now." He shrugged and clasped his hands in his lap. "But since you didn't, and we are here, perhaps you should stop trying to save her, and try wooing her instead?"

It sounded like great advice, and would have been, if he wasn't also trying to protect Rosie from his own lustful advances. Wooing her wouldn't take away the things that happened in her past. It wouldn't make being intimate with him any less difficult. He had to do something to at least get her talking to him again, and then he'd figure out a way to keep her safe.