Chapter 25

Uncle Ernest was muttering indistinctly to himself when he entered the quiet study, where Dalton waited by the hearth. He clutched a glass of port in his hand, though he'd found it difficult to swallow the drink all evening. He'd been waiting hours for this moment. And at last, the time had come.

"What's the meaning of this? Have you at last come to your senses about your cousin?"

Dalton's lip curled as he set down his glass on the mantle. "Did you murder my father?" His stomach roiled with that visceral anger, digging his fingers into his palm. Staring down his uncle, he waited for the man to react, to respond.

Uncle Ernest's face paled subtly, his eyes widening as he took a step back. As if Dalton had just struck him.

"Did I—" he pressed a hand to his heart. "Have you gone mad?" he barked out.

The door creaked open and Theodore entered, followed by the constable who clutched that rotten physician by the arm.

The physician was white as a sheet, shrinking backwards even as the constable gave him a sharp tug.

Uncle Ernest staggered back, cursing in a whisper, and wheeled about to face Dalton. Dalton gave him a smirk, folding his arms. "He told us everything. And Celeste did as well."

Uncle Ernest lunged forward, but Dalton laid him flat on the ground before he could make it even two steps. He held himself back as the constable hurried forward and jerked the man to his feet.

"You are dead to me," Dalton spat at his uncle. "Dead."

Uncle Ernest tried to wrench away the constable but got shaken roughly. "You and your blighted father were going to run this estate into the grave. Better him than generations worth of a fortune. Squandered by you and him."

Dalton's eyes blurred as he watched the constable and Theodore wrest the two men out into the hall and towards the front door. His legs buckling, he sank onto the nearby sofa, and buried his head in his hands.

He needed to see Gemma.

Rising, he rushed into the hall, sending Wilson for his hat and cane. And out the door he rushed. It didn't take long to reach the Kenway residence several streets over. And when he did, he tripped his way up the steps, knocking on the door. The butler presently opened it, but his eyes widened when he recognized Dalton. But before he could close the door again, Dalton stabbed his cane into the door's path, preventing it from closing. "Please," he whispered. "I must see Miss Hayesworth."

"Miss Hayesworth isn't here any longer, sir," the butler told him, giving the door a shove to close it.

From within the house, Philippa Kenway's voice rang out, commanding as always. "Who is that, Gibbons?"

"Lord Blakemore, my lady."

Philippa let out a cry. "Good heavens, what could he want? After everything he's done?"

"Please," Dalton called, lifting his voice. "I must speak with her. This has all been a great misapprehension. And I have every means of demonstrating this to you."

The door opened wider and Philippa appeared, fixing him with a scathing glare. "She is no longer here, Lord Blakemore. Though, if she were, what would ever give you cause to hope to see her again. After the way you—"

"As I said," Dalton shook his head, "This is all but a misapprehension. Orchestrated by my uncle. And if you would permit me just a moment, I can explain it all to you. Should you desire further attestation, you need only speak with my cousin herself and Lord Theodore Longworth. But when you do understand, I must implore you to tell me where Miss Hayesworth now dwells."

Philippa stared. After a long pause, she sighed, and closed her eyes. "Very well," she whispered.

***

Life picked up slowly where it left off, as Gemma settled back into life in Willow Grove. This evening, she'd spent the day picking strawberries, and she would bake them into a pie tomorrow. But for now, she enjoyed the quiet evening, the air filled with the garden flowers that blossomed amply this time of year. Beside her, Mama stitched away at a pillowcase set. And around them in the quiet parlor, cats spread out, napping before the blazing hearth. It was late afternoon, and the sun was lowering steadily in the sky.

Gemma had sat up half the night reading the astronomy book Lord Blakmore gave her, poring over each page until she at last fell asleep and dreamt of the stars, bound by silver threads into a constellation. She followed the constellation like it was a path, a bridge across the sky. She must have tripped in this dream, for she stumbled forward and found herself caught in Lord Blakemore's arms. His lips sought hers, briefly, before the dream slipped away and she awoke.

Someone knocked on the door just then, startling the cats out of their doze, and Gemma out of her stupor. She and Mama exchanged looks, frowning. "It must be Vicar Jennings," Mama whispered, before setting aside her work and rising. She hastened over to the door to admit the caller, and Gemma picked up her book again. The words on the page blurred together when she heard the visitor speak. "I've come to see Miss Hayesworth. Does she dwell here?"

Gemma lurched to her feet, going cold and then hot all over. She shook her head at Mama, hoping she'd merely send him away.

"Gemma," Lord Blakemore called. "Please, permit me to explain everything to you."

"I—" Gemma stepped back, faltering. Was this truly happening? She rushed to the door, glaring up at him, her eyes blurring. "Why should I listen to a thing you say?" she whispered, throat closing. "You've toyed with me. All this time. And I—"

"Gemma, I didn't," Lord Blakemore's eyes were also misty, his voice cracking. "I didn't. My uncle was cruel, and treacherous. He wished to entrap me with Celeste, so that I would be compelled to wed her. He sought control of my father's estate. And his only means of securing it—" he drew in a shaky breath. "His only means of securing it was to exact his will, deceitfully, upon my cousin and me. I—I love you, Gemma. Only you. And ever since I've met you, I've been transforming into someone I thought I'd never be again."

Gemma couldn't breathe. "I don't understand," she whispered, shaking her head. "I don't understand." Hot tears slipped down her cheeks.

"My uncle devised that whole encounter between Celeste and me. He forced her to advance upon me, so I would be compelled to marry her, to salvage our reputations. But he is imprisoned now, for all his vileness."

Gemma clamped a hand to her mouth as sobs wracked her. It took several moments to compose herself, and when she at last did, Lord Blakemore stepped closer and inquired if he could speak with her in the garden. She nodded dazedly and followed him outside into the shade of the towering nearby tree that drooped over the cottage. They walked over to a bench beside the tree trunk, and she lowered down upon it. Her knees would give out if she didn't.

"Gemma," Lord Blakemore whispered. "I love you. I love you."

Gemma swallowed, unable to believe what she was hearing. "You—you do?"

"Deeply. You're everything I've ever sought in a wife. You are the very person I've been dreaming of. More than ever, I'm certain we are bound by the stars to one another."

Gemma could barely get her reply out. "I love you as well." She'd scarcely finished before Lord Blakemore gathered her in his arms, kissing her at last. When he drew back, he smiled, his eyes wet with emotion, his voice hoarse.

"Will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?"

"Your wife?" Gemma repeated blankly. But instead of the trepidation and unease that tugged inside her when Lord Neville asked for her hand, joy swelled in her chest, and she nodded. She'd never been more sure of anything before in her life. "Yes," she breathed. "Yes, yes, yes." She was babbling nonsense, but Lord Blakemore didn't seem to mind. He grinned, and kissed her again.

"Oh good heavens!" Mama's voice from the cottage doorway broke them apart. Gemma's face warmed but she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Mama, Lord Blakemore has asked me to marry him. And I have accepted."

Mama stared, her mouth falling open. "You—you have accepted?"

Gemma laughed, unable to contain that exhilaration bubbling in her chest. "Yes. How could I not? I love him, dearly."

She turned back to Lord Blakemore, and in a voice raw with emotion, he told her earnestly, "I love you. I adore you. I've come alive since I've known you."

This must be a dream. Is he really standing right before me?

***

Dalton dined with Gemma and her mother that evening, and enjoyed his glimpse into Gemma's life, the life he had not yet seen. And he told them everything that had transpired, from his uncle's conspiracy against his father, to the way he had endeavoured to slowly send Mother to her grave. Gemma was white, wide-eyed with horror as he tried to delicately weave the madness that was his life into a clear-cut explanation.

"What a dreadful, dreadful man," Mrs. Hayesworth shuddered when he finished at last. She gazed at Dalton with tremendous sympathy. "I wish that you did not have to endure such grotesque treachery, and at the hands of your own uncle."

Dalton tried to smile, but he was still shaken by it all. It was as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet. He wondered if he'd ever quite regain his balance again. But as Gemma turned her large, searching eyes to him, something in him squeezed. As long as she was by his side, he could get through anything.

"I am so utterly sorry for all that you have gone through," she whispered. "I wish there was something more I could do, to somehow help."

"It is a joy to merely be here in your presence, Miss Hayesworth," he told her, hoping she knew he meant it.

Just then a black cat strolled up to the table and began to rub against his leg, purring. Dalton stiffened, straining to see the creature under the table. Gemma laughed softly beside him. "That is my cat, Udolpho. He accompanied me to London on my late trip."

"Did he? Well, I am pleased to meet him at last," Dalton chuckled.

The rest of the room faded away as his eyes locked with Gemma's, and for a long moment, he forgot about all his troubles back home, savoring her smile, basking in the aura of her nearness.

But then, Mrs. Hayesworth cleared her throat, and the moment passed.

He had secured a room at the local inn, but promised Gemma he would return forthwith the following morning. It was difficult to bid her goodnight, to part from her, but in her eyes he read a calm reassurance that she would be there, waiting for him. He resisted the urge to kiss her again and set out on his ride back to the inn.

When he arrived at the Hayesworth cottage the following morning, Gemma took him on a walk about Willow Grove, down its many winding paths that snaked through the neighboring fields and lakes.

Behind them, her mother walked as a chaperone.

The weather was clear, not a hint of clouds in the sky. He couldn't have asked for any of this to go more perfectly.

"I would have understood if you decided to loathe me forevermore after that night," he told Gemma with a smile, her arm brushing his as they strolled.

"I confess, I thought it as well." After a pause she continued, "I will confess, I was astonished that first night I heard you in the bowers at that ball. Reciting the constellations. It is so singular a passion that I did not expect to encounter anyone who shared affections for it."

"Ah, so I astonished you, did I?"

"Very much, Lord Blakemore," Gemma's lips curved, her eyes dancing.

"Well, you astonished me as well, I will confess. "I did not expect to encounter someone like you, someone I could never hope to forget."

Gemma's eyes widened at this, and her cheeks flooded with a pretty blush.

"You singled me out at the second dance I attended. Had I already intrigued you so desperately by that time?"

"But of course." Dalton drew in a deep breath and paused their stroll, turning to her. "I know I have brought you great pain, even if it was not of my own doing that last night."

"It was not your doing," Gemma told him earnestly. "And I fully comprehend that, I truly do. Do not fret about that any longer. My heart is wholly yours." He could see she meant it, and wished to kiss her again. But he didn't let himself, determined to demonstrate propriety.

"Thank you," he whispered. "I cannot imagine what that must have been like."

"It did shake me, I confess," Gemma admitted in a soft voice. "I had believed, so very much, that you were sincere in your attentions towards me. But I do believe everything you've told me, and I hold that you speak nothing but the utter truth."

"Indeed. I do. I do."

***

"Do not be cross with me, Mama, for accepting Lord Blakemore's proposal of marriage." Gemma sank to the floor at her mother's feet in the quiet, dark parlor, lit only by the blazing fire in the hearth.

"Cross with you," Mama sighed. "I do not begrudge you your decision. I do ask you to thoroughly consider this. I merely wish to see you happy and secure, with whomever you do wed. And I understand that this Lord Blakemore has something of a questionable repute."

"I believe I was quite adrift, dear Mama, when I encountered him. My one guiding star knew that I wanted a love like the one you shared with Papa. And I did not find that in Lord Neville, or even Vicar Jennings."

Mama's eyes glistened in the firelight. "Ah, I remember how it was between your Papa and myself. We danced, and I somehow knew, deep down. Of course, we still had time after that to become acquainted, but it was so utterly strange, to simply know something. When you describe how it was, when you met Lord Blakemore, it caused me to remember that night Oliver and I danced."

"You hardly speak of Papa," Gemma whispered. "I wish you would tell me more of him in those days. What he was like when the two of you were courting."

"In some ways, he reminds me of your Lord Blakemore. Headstrong, intelligent."

"Does he?" Gemma laughed.

"Yes. Your father was something of a rake himself, but he left his ways behind him when we met." Mama smiled down into her lap, with a wistfulness in her expression that wrenched at Gemma. She could not imagine the pain her mother had gone through when Papa was found as he was that dark day. Truthfully, she'd done her very best to block it all out, to stifle it in her memory.

"I still miss him so very much," Mama choked, blinking away tears and dabbing at them with her handkerchief. "He would be so very proud of the woman you've grown into."

"I miss him as well, Mama," Gemma said, rising and throwing her arms about her mother's trembling shoulders. "And I want you to be with me, wherever I end up with Lord Blakemore. We've spoken of buying a place out here, away from the city. His own mama would join us. She is very kind, though I don't know her so well. I'm eager to see her again soon, when she is better."

"The poor creature. Poisoned, by her own husband's brother. How wicked people can be!"

"Very wicked. But Dalton is—he's so good and kind, and strong…his soul speaks to mine." Gemma leaned her head against Mama's knee, scarcely able to believe that so much had changed in but a few days.

Dalton and Gemma returned to London by carriage a few days later, where he brought her to the Kenway house. Aunt Philippa greeted them, for they'd sent her a note ahead with a runner while in Willow Grove.

She embraced Gemma, and then turned to Dalton, her voice sharpening. "My niece has written to me an explanation of everything that has happened. Of course, this hardly blots away your repute as a rake. That is indisputable, is it not? I do have sympathy for your situation with your uncle, and his ill-doings. But Gemma is my dear brother's only child. As such I will do everything in my power to see that no harm comes to her. Do you truly wish to wed her, or is this another one of your flights of fancy?"

Dalton smiled. Quite fair. He had to admit, he respected the plain-spoken woman for her determination to look after Gemma. It was endearing, and almost enviable. His own uncle had sought his destruction at every turn. Philippa was a relieving contrast to Ernest Blakemore.

"Lady Kenway, Gemma is far more than any flight of fancy. I adore her with all my heart, and it will be my keenest desire to ensure her happiness, in every way I possibly can. I will be the first to admit that my past is wanting, but back then, I was lost, searching for I knew not what. And then I met Gemma, and she reminded me of the goodness that is in this world, the goodness that is worth going to battle for."

"Quite a noble speech," Lady Kenway narrowed her eyes. "You are a very charming young man."

"So I have been told," Dalton smiled.

Lady Kenway peered at her niece. "I expect that your mind is quite made up?"

"Indeed it is, Aunt Philippa."

"Very well. Pray, Gemma, when will your mother arrive in town?"

"As soon as she finds someone to watch our cottage while she is away. Someone must feed our cats their saucers of milk."

Dalton chuckled at that, unable to tear his eyes from the young woman seated on the settee. Her eyes shone, her cheeks flushed, her lips curved into a bright smile. Her laugh was infectious. Was he so fortunate to marry such a sublime woman?

That evening, he returned to the Blakemore Manor, where he found his mother still in bed, sleeping fitfully as the physician, Dr. Mackenzie, looked on. Theodore had found him promptly after overseeing Ernest's arrest.

Now, Dr. Mackenzie was taking care of Mother as she weaned off the laudanum Ernest's spurious physician had treated her with. It still enraged Dalton to even think about, but as he sank into the chair at his mother's bedside, and watched her pale face, twisted with pain, his gut cinched with a bone-deep anger towards his uncle. How much pain and turmoil had the man wreaked because of his sickening greed?

The man had murdered father, and had been slowly killing mother, sedating her with these tonics. Dalton lowered his head to her hand, lifeless and burning hot beneath his cheek. He couldn't bear the thought of losing her after already losing Father.

Turning, he glanced at Dr. Mackenzie, hoping the physician would have some kind of idea of how long these symptoms would last.

"It's difficult to know how long this sort of thing can go on. From the sound of it, she's been taking the stuff for the past several years since your father's death. Heaven knows how much her body has come to depend upon it."

Dalton closed his eyes tightly. Dear heavens…

"How long has her fever been going?"

"Just a day. I started to decrease the dose of her laudanum, but her body is utterly dependent on it."

He dozed at her bedside, waking the next morning with a jolt. Mother was still unconscious.

And Wilson stood beside him. "Sir, Miss Hayesworth is down in the parlor."

Dalton's heart lifted. Just hearing her name was a comfort. "Tell her I will be down in but a moment. He rose and washed his face. When he glanced in the looking glass, he was startled to find the reflection of himself pale, dark circles under his eyes.

It was clear that he'd scarcely slept the evening before.

When he made it to the parlor, he found Celeste and Gemma sitting together on the settee, chatting with friendly ease. He stopped short, and they turned at the sound of his step.

"I was just asking for Miss Hayesworth's forgiveness for my dreadful conduct at the Nevilles. I hate that I brought the both of you such pain. I ought to have put my foot down, but I was a coward."

"Thank you," Gemma whispered.

Celeste leaned over, pecked her on the cheek, and rose. "I shall leave the two of you to yourselves," she said, before darting out of the room.

Dalton hurried over to Gemma, and she rose to greet him with a warm, gentle smile. He nearly gathered her in his arms but refrained just in time. "How is your mother?" she whispered.

"Not good. She is very unwell this morning. My uncle, he—" he closed his eyes, trying to keep composed. "He has done irreparable damage to her."

"Surely he will be tried and sentenced for his doings."

"Oh, surely," Dalton smiled, even as his heart wrenched in his chest. "You are fortunate to have family like your aunt, who would do anything in her power to see to your well-being."

"Well, she shall be your family, will she not?" Gemma asked.

Laughing shakily, Dalton lifted Gemma's hand to his lips. "Indeed. Now, how long before I can call you Lady Blakemore?"