Chapter 21

As soon as Lord Neville departed, Gemma excused herself to retire upstairs. But instead, she decided to slip out of the house, and hurry down the street to visit Prudence. It would be a brief walk, and Gemma needed to talk to someone other than Aunt Philippa about Lord Blakemore's visit. Her mind was whirring with confusion over it, over its abruptness, his intentions…was he attempting to announce his desire to court her? And if he did, would Aunt Philippa even allow it?

She'd thankfully not had the chance to lecture Gemma about it since Lord Neville almost immediately after Lord Blakemore departed. But Gemma could tell that her conversation with him about the Herschels, and publishing something together, had disturbed her aunt.

Aunt Philippa had gone upstairs to rest after the busy morning, so Gemma hoped she wouldn't be missed.

Prudence received her in a quiet back drawing room, away from the rest of her family, so they could chat in privacy.

"Lord Blakemore called this morning," Gemma whispered to her.

Prudence's eyes went wide. "He did?"

"Yes—for but half an hour."

Prudence's voice trembled with excitement. "And what did you speak of?"

"Astronomy, of course," Gemma covered her hand with her mouth.

"And what did your aunt think of that?" Prudence giggled.

"She disapproved. Gravely." The two of them dissolved into muffled laughter. "But mostly, I think she was mystified by it."

Prudence shook her head. "He truly called on you? He's never done so before. Should this get out, the scandal sheets will certainly have something to say."

Gemma studied her hands in her lap. "Do you suppose he means anything by this? That this is his way of announcing his intentions?"

"It may be," Prudence smiled. "Would you accept should he ask to court you?"

"I think I would," Gemma whispered. She and Prudence dissolved into another fit of giddy laughter. Gemma covered her warm face with trembling hands. "It's strange, for I had just wished that Lord Blakemore would come, that he would somehow show me whether he was serious or not, and it was as if this wish had been heard…for he walked through the door a moment later. And almost immediately after he left, Lord Neville called. I wonder if they met one another in the hall."

Prudence's eyes widened. "Perhaps. Do you believe that Lord Neville will take this as a challenge to his suit?"

"Aunt Philippa fears it, I'm certain."

"But he wouldn't be discouraged, would he? Half the girls in London were vying for him, as he is a most eligible bachelor in London this season."

"Then they may have him," Gemma sighed. "He is very kind, and good. But something lacks between us."

"Not at all like it is between Lord Blakemore and you," Prudence sighed. "Well, perhaps you have reformed him."

"Me? Reformed him? Do you think someone of his nature could change?"

"For love, it is possible."

***

"You called upon her?" Theodore said slowly, and then let out a laugh. He slapped his knee. "I don't believe it."

"I'm not sure what came over me. This morning I awoke and realized just how dearly I wished to see her and—"

"Did your uncle find out where you went?"

"Well, he might yet. I haven't been home since this morning."

"Ah. And he'll realize his designs for Celeste and you are utterly ruined." The butler hurried in with a tea tray and Dalton gratefully sipped some, hoping it would ease his restlessness.

"So much the better," Dalton chuckled.

"Do you think she'll accept your suit?"

"That's what I came to speak with you about. On my way out, I ran into Lord Neville, and it set me thinking."

"Dalton thinking! Nothing good ever comes from that ."

Dalton waved his hand, trying and failing not to laugh. But the next moment, he lowered his tone, heart sinking. What if Theodore agreed with him, that it would be in Gemma's best interest to step back for Lord Neville to freely court her?

It would sting, but he'd accept it. He needed to.

"My reputation is not what it should be. And Gemma—Gemma is…" he exhaled slowly. "Gemma is everything. She deserves only happiness, and I am the bearer of grief. I am troubled, and I drink more than I ought. And my past would only haunt us, would it not?"

Theodore was silent for a long moment. At last, he drew in a deep breath, rising and leaning one arm against the mantle as he studied the flames. A frown settled on his brow. Dalton held his breath, tapping his fingers on his knee faster and faster.

Finally, Theodore raised his head, peering at Dalton curiously. "Grief is what set you on your path of destruction. But you've let it hold you captive long enough. It is time you seek happiness. And it is evident you desire to better yourself. You may still be a true gentleman yet."

Dalton chuckled sadly. "But isn't it too late for such a turn?"

"That is for your choosing. And your choosing alone."

"Not very enlightening of you," Dalton grumbled.

"Ah, yes. I am your source of enlightenment, your conscience. Aren't I?"

"So it would seem." Theodore returned to the settee across from Dalton's, and seated himself on it, leaning forward. "What do you believe your father would tell you?"

Dalton rubbed his hands over his face. Why did he feel weary all of a sudden? A bone-deep weariness that for a moment gave him a glimpse into what it must be like for Mother, lost in her melancholia. "He would tell me that I am the master of my own ship, that I must always strive to do better."

"There's your answer."

"Gemma is an angel, full of this eagerness, this hope. And me, I'm a cynic. A jaded cynic who is lost at sea."

"A cynic who sees the light," Theodore corrected him, grinning.

"Am I an utter fool? Is this folly?"

"It could be, if it weren't evident that Gemma and you are star-crossed."

Dalton groaned, laughing. "I didn't know you were capable of sentiment."

The two men continued chuckling for a little while, until Dalton rose at last. "I'd best return home to check on my mother. She has been in poor spirits again."

"For that I am sorry. Pay her my respects, will you?"

***

Dalton found his mother dozing in the greenhouse, in a cushioned chair with blankets draped over her lap. She roused when he approached, pushing aside some of the hothouse flower leaves to sit down in the chair across from hers.

"You've been gone nearly all day, and poor Ernest has been worried sick. Why do you insist on tormenting him so?"

"Tormenting," Dalton clenched his teeth. But he swallowed down his harsh words about Uncle Ernest, focusing on his mother instead. "How do you fare today?" He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek and she smiled sadly.

"Oh, I am weary, as usual. I tried to read the scandal sheets that were sent out this afternoon, but I can't seem to stay awake. The physician gave me a new variation of his tonic, and it makes me rather languid."

Dalton frowned, leaning over to pick up the small brown glass bottle on the table beside his mother's chair. It didn't have a label on it or anything to indicate its contents. With a frown, he decided he'd consult the physician about this tonic. Whatever it was, it wasn't helping much with Mother's melancholies.

"Dalton!"

He nearly dropped the bottle when his uncle's voice rang out sharply through the peaceful greenhouse. Setting the bottle down carefully, he rose, balling his hands into fists. "Uncle." He bowed and started to exit the room through a back entrance that opened onto the gardens and hedge maze.

But his uncle stepped in his path before he could take more than a few steps. "Where did you go this morning? I needed to speak with you!" Uncle Ernest demanded, eyes flashing.

"Something urgent required me," Dalton replied, unable to keep the disdain from his voice.

"Dalton, Ernest, please don't quarrel," Mother called to them pleadingly.

"Well, I've been slighted by my own nephew. This hardly inspires any sort of familial affection, now don't you think, Adelaide?"

"Don't speak to her like that," Dalton whispered, clenching his teeth.

Uncle Ernest turned purple. " You will show your uncle some respect for once in your life."

"And what have you done to deserve it?" Dalton stepped close to him, itching to grab him by the shirt front, march him to the street, and throw him out. And tell him to take his cloying niece with him.

"Deserve! You ask what I've done to—I've merely been managing your late father's estate, picking up the pieces of what he managed poorly—"

Dalton stared. "Get out," he at last managed to whisper, shaking. "Get out."

Mother began to weep. "Stop it, please!" she cried. "I can't bear it." She covered her face in her hands, and Ernest called for her lady's maid. "Help Lady Blakemore to bed, will you?" he grunted when the girl arrived. Dalton could scarcely breathe still.

He walked over to the Greenhouse window, staring out at the gardens as he tried to return his breathing to normal. He hated to upset mother, to be the cause of her grief. But Uncle Ernest drove him mad. His gall to say such a thing about Father…

It would not be tolerated.

Couldn't Mother see that Uncle Ernest was a leech? A parasite?

And he had just disrespected Father, in the very house Father passed in…the house he had taken great care to provide to Mother. In Ernest Blakemore's estimation, Father had been wasting the family assets on Mother, on this home.

He could vaguely recall an argument about it between Father and Uncle Ernest. Though it was so long ago, he wasn't sure if he'd just been imagining it. Yet, it did seem like something his uncle would make a fuss over. As it was, he'd been struggling to exact his will over the estate, much to Dalton's chagrin and growing irritation.

Mother insisted it was out of good-will only, though Dalton was not so sure.

"You," Uncle Ernest wheezed behind him, "You will not banish me from this house. Do you understand?"

Dalton didn't reply. Instead, he strode from the greenhouse, letting the door shut behind him loudly, and in long strides walked to the far edges of the hedge-maze, where he stopped to pace back and forth. He did not want to make his family the center of ridicule and histrionics.

He'd done enough damage to the Blakemore name as it was. But to come to an open rift with his uncle would be to cast himself out of London society. After all, Dalton would be eschewed by now if his uncle didn't remain in good standing with the rest of the Ton. Despite the Blakemore wealth and prestige, his reputation as a determined rake hardly recommended him.

Yet, did it matter? He wasn't sure. All he knew was that he did not wish to distress his mother more.

He inhaled deeply several times to steady his racing pulse, and sank onto a nearby bench. That sense of suffocation rose in him, like a fist around his throat, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the panic to ebb. It took a while, but at last he stood and found his way back inside

Mother did not appear for dinner that night, and it was a strained meal. No one spoke, not even Celeste, who tended to chatter when there was a tense silence. Thankfully, this evening she remained quiet, glancing between Dalton and Uncle Ernest several times, a crease between her brows. At dessert, she at last asked him, "There is to be a soiree at Lady Neville's home, for Gemma Hayesworth , evidently. Are you thinking of attending with uncle and me?"

Dalton blinked, trying to clear his head. "When would it be?"

"Tomorrow evening, I believe."

"For Miss Hayesworth?"

"Rather telling, isn't it? The man is besotted with the creature, though I can't imagine why. She's so quiet, and rather bookish I hear?"

"Oh?" Dalton smiled at his plate.

Down the table, Uncle Ernest sniffed but remained stubbornly close-lipped. "What good could possibly come from a girl who reads books?"

"I read, Uncle!" Celeste cried.

"I don't mean the scandal papers." Uncle Ernest sloshed some brandy into his glass and took a long draught of it. "Or novels." And he gulped down the glassful.

"Uncle!"

Dalton pushed back his chair from the table and muttered a goodnight. But then Uncle Ernest said loudly to Celeste, "I hear that Lord Neville means to propose marriage to Miss Hayesworth. They make a handsome couple, don't they?"

Dalton stiffened but kept walking. Behind him, he could hear Uncle Ernest chuckle under his breath. His blood boiled.

Perhaps it was time to go boxing again. It would relieve some of the pent up energy that made it nigh impossible to sleep.

Instead, he set out on another long walk that ended at Theodore's place. The two of them shared a drink of coffee, and Dalton told him about his uncle's statement regarding Neville. "If he does, I ought to resign my advances. Don't you think?"

Only unless she accepts him. But I do not believe she will."

The two men retired to the billiard room to begin a game of billiards, and played well into the early hours of the morning until Dalton returned home after another long walk. As soon as he could, he would speak to Gemma, tell her his true feelings about her. And if she turned him down…he would step back, wish her every happiness. But if he did not at least try, he'd never forgive himself.

He knew this, deep in his gut.