Chapter 18

"Where have you been off to?" Uncle Ernest demanded of him when Dalton at last reached their box. Celeste sat beside him, her eyes red, her pout unmistakable, and Dalton's heart sank.

"A smoke," he told his uncle flatly, reaching up to tug at his cravat. It had begun to feel too tight.

Uncle Ernest grunted, almost as if huffing out a laugh of disbelief. "You missed the fireworks. Celeste was rather grieved by your absence during those. You know how much she adores fireworks."

"My sincerest apologies, dear cousin. Uncle." Dalton leaned against the dinner box wall that overlooked the rest of their section of the gardens. He exhaled heavily, still fidgeting with his cravat.

In his mind's eye, the memory of Gemma across the walk, in her box, lingered in his mind's eye. Wonder had filled her expression, her lips parted in awe of the glorious display over their heads.

"Dalton!"

He jerked, shaken from his reverie. "Yes, uncle?" he drawled in his most bored tone.

"We are leaving. Celeste has a dreadful headache."

At Dalton's glance, Celeste tilted her head, letting out a nervous, tearful titter. "My head is pounding wretchedly."

Dalton refrained from rolling his eyes to the ceiling and nodded. Well, it was for the best. He would rather not suffer another hour under his uncle's watchful eye. It was easier to come and go as he pleased at home, where he could slip away unnoticed, where he could retreat to his bedroom should he desire relief from his relatives. Besides, he wanted to check on Mother, check in on her when he returned home. He had sent a runner for the physician, and Dalton would like to hear what he had to say about Mother's slip back into low spirits.

He accompanied Uncle Ernest and Celeste back to the boats on the Thames, where he searched for a glimpse of Gemma and her party. But it appeared that they had either taken a different boat or would linger at the gardens longer still. He resumed his place on the railing of the boat, watching the stars far above, twinkling away, though not as visible as he'd like here in the city.

Self-loathing filled him, making his stomach turn. How could he be such a fool? Gemma might be drawn to him, but it would not be in her best interest. And yet, the idea of Neville and her?

It was perplexing, how his soul revolted at such a notion.

He needed a stiff drink. A good one. But in his thoughts as he boarded the coach taking him out to drink, he grimaced at the thought of visiting one of those salons where courtesans would vie for his attention, strutting like colorful birds.

At last the boat reached Westminster where everyone deboarded, stepping onto the carriage. Several times throughout the coach ride back to Blakemore Manor, Dalton turned from the window to find Uncle Ernest studying him, his small eyes cold and shrewd.

Each time Dalton offered him a stiff smile in return. Celeste's sniffling filled the silent carriage. What is she so distraught about?

As the carriage rolled through the darkened streets of London, Dalton reminded himself that he was playing a dangerous game with Miss Hayesworth. He was rapidly coming to realize that perhaps all this time he had been searching for her in those hazy nights he couldn't even remember any longer. He was tired of returning home, his head foggy, an empty void yawning inside him. He did not want to face the self-reproach that gnawed at his soul after nights like this.

He hurried up the front steps of the manor and headed towards his mother's wing. He expected her to be asleep already, but instead, he discovered her standing in the window of her bedroom which overlooked the gardens, a candle clutched in her thin hands. She turned when she heard the bedroom door creak open, and extended an arm, entreating him to come closer. "My son," she sighed, smiling sadly.

Dalton's heart ached. What had happened to the mother he'd grown up with? The mother who had once been so full of life, so vital?

As he came to a stop before her, she reached out, clasping his hand in her cold one. "How were the gardens?" she murmured, something wistful in her eyes.

"Rather crowded," Dalton leaned forward, kissing her on the cheek. When he drew back, he found tears in her eyes. She reached up, running the pad of her thumb over the dark circles under his eyes.

"Oh, my boy. You find little joy these days."

"I worry for you, Mother." A lump formed in his throat.

"Don't, please. I will be in better spirits one of these days. Those tonics given by the physician, he just needed to adjust the dosage."

"Mother, perhaps we should take a trip to the sea. Jut you and I."

"I told you, I wish to remain here, in society. And Celeste—"

"But it would lift your spirits so. And your health—your old physician always instructed visits to the sea, before—"

"That was before your father passed. A sterner course needed to be taken. And Ernest was so kind to recommend this physician. I should hate to wound him by returning to Doctor Jensen."

Dalton closed his eyes, nodding. Mother would not be swayed about this, that much was evident. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek, before bidding her goodnight. "Rest well, Mother."

"And you. You seem wearied by this evening."

"I will be better after a good night's sleep." Dalton returned to her bedroom doorway before he paused, considering. A part of him longed to share his burgeoning feelings for Gemma Hayesworth with his mother, get her advice about the whole matter. But at the same time, he worried she would mention it to Uncle Ernest. And he did not wish for any sort of battle with the man. Especially not now. His patience with the man was short as it was. But should Uncle Ernest speak to him again of Gemma, or utter her name in that pompous voice of his…

Dalton lifted his hand in farewell, but Mother had already turned back to gaze out the window. So, he slipped out without another word, and in the hall, he leaned back against the wall in the dark corridor.

A soft humming started up, his mother singing to herself. He listened for a few minutes, a flare of anger starting in his chest towards his father. For dying, leaving Mother and him. Mother had always been a delicate soul, and Father's passing…it was heartbreaking for her. Deeply.

***

Ernest found his niece pouting in her bedroom, in a big chair by the window. She'd been in a petulant mood all evening, since he'd roundly scolded her for her pitiful attempts to charm her cousin Dalton.

She had protested his chastisements. "Uncle, he is smitten by Miss Hayesworth. I'm doing everything in my power, but it is evident that he will not be moved. Didn't you see him this evening at the Pavilion, cutting in to steal her away from Lord Neville?"

Ernest's anger had sparked. "Of course I saw that," he spat. "How could anyone miss it? The lad is out of control. But Philippa Kenway knows of his reputation, and will have none of it. That is where you have a keen advantage, my dear. Do not forget that, I beg you."

"What advantage could I possibly have when I am not Gemma Hayesworth?"

"Gemma Hayesworth this, Gemma Hayesworth that—I am sick hearing that name," Ernest had exploded. His mood had only worsened when the boy vanished for a good half-hour following that ridiculous dance. And then, Gemma Hayesworth had disappeared as well. And Ernest knew, in his soul, that they must have fled to the privacy of the Vauxhall wilderness. His blood had boiled. And it was still boiling, as he approached Celeste. She lifted her head, noting his expression, and recoiled slightly, eyes widened.

He loomed over her, heart pounding. "Do you wish to live on the streets? To be a wench pleading for two-pence on the corner? I paid for your finishing school and I have been paying ever since your father-my cousin- fell sick and died, for heaven's sake. And what do you have to show for it?"

Celeste's blue eyes flooded with tears again as she shrank back into the couch on which she sat. "Uncle! How can you be so cruel to me?"

"Cruel? You know nothing of cruelty. Of how cruel this world can be," he snarled.

She shot to her feet, lips trembling. "I'm doing everything I can. But he shows me nothing but contempt."

"Because you bore him. You must learn him. Learn what interests him, study him. You have done nothing of the sort as of yet, and your connection with him suffers as a result."

"And he bores me," Celeste cried. "He is so serious, and stern. And always gazing at everyone and everything with such contempt. Except for Miss—"

Ernest held up a trembling finger. "I pray that you do not say that woman's name again."

"Miss Hayesworth," Celeste sneered. "He's in love with Miss Hayesworth. And I'm tired of this ruse, Uncle." She leapt to her feet, stamping her foot.

"You are tired of this ruse?" Ernest balled his hands into fists. The girl was a dullard, no doubt of that. No foresight, no vision. No true understanding of how dire a situation it was that they found themselves in. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "This ruse is to secure you a place in London Society. To secure your offspring a place. Or would you prefer to wed a destitute merchant who barely scrapes a living together." He grasped her face between his hands, holding it up firmly so she could not move away. "Do you not understand that, girl?"

She began to sob anew. He released her and she staggered to her bed, throwing herself upon it. "Quiet," he whispered urgently. "Do you wish to wake the whole house?"

"Oh, Uncle. What if I should fail?"

"You shan't." He crossed the room, perching on the edge of her bed. Stroked her golden curls. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. He would have to employ more ruthless tactics, if he was to see a union between Celeste and Dalton.

"We must take a more…severe…approach, I am afraid."

Celeste trembled beneath his hand, and lifted her head at last. "You truly mean—"

"To entrap him. He cannot possibly refuse if he is seen in a compromising position. Even better, it would behoove us for the rustic Miss Hayesworth to witness it. He would never be able to reconcile with her should she behold you and him…" Ernest searched for the right word, "…embracing."

"Oh Uncle, I—"

Ernest placed a finger against his niece's lips to hush her. "Destitute? Or Blakemore Manor, with a country estate in Derbyshire, and trips to Bath every year?"

Celeste drew in a shaking breath and closed her eyes. And she nodded. "I cannot abide being destitute," she said faintly. "The mere thought of it makes me ill."

"Very well then. Before long we will secure him." He patted her hand, with its whitened knuckles, gripping the bed coverlet.

Celeste sniffled, sitting up, and wiped her eyes. "Yes, Uncle."

"Good girl," he kissed her cheek and rose to depart. "You get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day. We shall start again. Understood?"

"Yes, Uncle," Celeste stared down at the coverlet, her face flushed from her violent weeping.

Ernest hurried out into the corridor, shutting the door softly behind him. He would need to strike at the precisely perfect moment. The moment that would deliver the most impressive impact. In the meantime, Ernest needed to send the physician a note regarding Adelaide. More severe measures needed to be taken with her. Lately, he'd been waiting on tenterhooks for her to bring up the other day, when she'd surprised him in the library.

A stronger tonic would keep her in a subdued, confused state. This close to his objective, he couldn't risk it all fleeing from his grasp.

***

Dalton set out on a walk, although the sun had set hours ago, and it wasn't exactly safe for a gentleman of his stature. But he carried with him a chalcedony cane, with its dagger hidden in its core. Perfect for walks such as these. Anyhow, a constable was always out and about in this neighborhood, so he didn't need to fear much. He set out without a destination in mind, but at the juncture where he usually turned to the left to head towards the West End, where he'd find some of the finer drinking places in London, tonight he turned right instead.

He walked blindly, feet pounding the cobblestones fast and hard as he rambled onward, candle lamps blurring past. The rumble of carriages on the road faded into the back of his consciousness, and he bumped into passers-by several times, earning their exasperated glances and exclamations.

Muttering apologies, he moved onward. Gemma haunted him. Her bright hazel eyes, her sweet smile, her wit. He wanted to cry out.

When he at last slowed his pace and came to a stop, he realized he'd reached Theodore's home. He pulled his silver watch from his pocket to check the hour. Nearly midnight. He's certainly asleep.

But Dalton needed to speak to someone about this. About the whirling confusion within surrounding his draw to Gemma. He had never counted on this happening, and certainly not with someone like her. In fact, he hardly knew girls like her existed. The epitome of everything he'd been searching for, everything he didn't know he wanted.