Chapter Fifteen

"H oly fuck, what is he doing back here?" Harry yelled, landing on the ground floor of the club. He fixed his glare on Vine, who turned away, obviously not wanting to face his employer's furious question.

Mason Waitrose was back again. Three sheets to the wind again. And creating yet another disturbance in the Lucky Fish.

"Where is he?" the sotted fool called out, stumbling in the center of the main room with his hands outstretched. A group of friends—all equally sotted—surrounded him, including Lord William, who laughed and urged on the antics. They were making quite a show for Harry's customers, and he didn't appreciate that at all. If people were ogling Mason, then they weren't losing their money to him. "I want to speak to him now," the man screamed. "Get him out here so he can face me like a man!"

"He's upstairs with your sister," came a voice from one of the tables. "But I wouldn't worry. They're just talking!"

Laughter ricocheted between the tables. "Sure," another man teased from his seat. "Just talking. They've been talking all night long !"

Mason's face flamed so red it was purple. He slammed his fist down on the roulette table, bouncing the little white ball from its wheel. "Don't you dare talk about my sister," he said, tripping into Lord Michael's arms. His friend hoisted him back and made a show of dusting off the back of his jacket. "My sister is a chaste, good girl—"

"Sure she is."

"Not anymore."

The teasing only egged him on. Mason's tirade was stronger than his sense of self-preservation. "My sister is a saint. My sister has been corrupted by the devil!"

"My wife is upstairs sleeping, and you are being very rude," Harry said, stepping into the center of the floor. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The club always stopped for him. "It's time for you to leave."

He locked his hands behind his back in a casual fashion belying the raging violence that threatened to lash out from his body. How dare this bastard come to his club and call him out—and worse, embarrass his own sister!

Looking into Mason's face, there was a moment—one sliver of a moment—where Harry thought he saw something…grief, anguish, regret…but it died swiftly when Mason opened his mouth again.

"I'm not leaving without her," he said as nobly as a man could with a crooked necktie and sweaty hair matted to his brow. He lifted his chin to the crowd and pointed a finger at Harry. It was bare. No signet ring. No doubt that was Mason's possession upstairs in Harry's bedroom. "This man takes our money. He takes our possessions. And now he thinks he can take our sisters? He is not one of us. You know this. And he never will be."

"Ah, sit down, Mason. Have another drink!" a voice called out.

"I will not!" he replied, jerking Lord Michael's hands from his shoulders.

Harry's glare was as icy as his veins. "I don't take your money or your possessions. You lose them. I accept them. And as for your sister—"

Mason tripped forward. "Don't you dare mention my sister. You aren't fit to say her name."

"Maybe so," Harry replied. "But she is my wife now, and you will respect her decision. Her decision. Her decision." He clapped his mouth closed. Fuck this bastard for making him repeat himself.

No one seemed to notice. All eyes were still on Mason, everyone waiting for Harry to beat him to a bloody pulp. He wanted to. He wanted nothing more. But then he would have to touch Mason, and, more importantly, he'd have to explain to his wife why he'd maimed her brother. Harry was new to marriage, but even he knew that that wasn't a proper second day of marriage topic.

Mason shook his head, crossing his arms like a surly child. "I'm not going until I see her. I'm not going until she tells me with her own lips. It is my duty as the man of my family to take care of her."

Harry laughed then, a great, booming laugh that cut through all the tittering in the room. "And what a great job you've been doing. You're a wastrel, and a poor one at that. How do you think you've been helping your family by throwing all their money away? You don't understand the meaning of duty."

His last sentence was low and menacing, but the entire room guffawed mercilessly. Mason's eyes darted nervously over all the peers, people he considered his equals, people who were supposed to laugh behind his back and never to his face. Rules were being broken. Unwritten ones that had been followed by their fathers and grandfathers.

"At least I have a title," he retorted, jutting out his chest. "I have a name. I'm not just another Irish brat off the boat with no food and no father."

It was like a glass had been broken, so quickly did the levity drop. Breaths were held. Every eye was fixed squarely on Harry. His fingers tapped against his trousers. They wouldn't stop. He couldn't make them. This was why he preferred to watch from the shadows. So much easier to hide things.

Suddenly, the exhaustion that was always nipping at his heels caught up with him, and Harry's legs almost went out from under him. Catching himself in time, he found one of his men. "Deal with him, Spector," he said.

"No!" a voice screamed.

Harry turned to the staircase. There, Ruthie stood, clutching the banister as if her life depended on it, as if her body were as drained as his, or maybe it was her spirit. She must have followed him down soon after he left their room.

Ruthie's face was pale and haunted as she closed her hand over her mouth, staring at her brother with an equal mixture of disbelief and pity.

Mason was the opposite. He broke out in a sloppy grin, lifting his arms once more. "Ruthie. There you are! Let's go now. Mother is worried. You've been very naughty."

"Mother?" Ruthie rasped from behind her palm. Harry couldn't watch this any longer. He went to his wife and tried to usher her up the stairs, but she refused to move. Her eyes remained glued on her brother. "Did Mother send you here?"

Mason shrugged. "What does it matter? I'm here. Now let's go. Don't make me wait. You're embarrassing yourself, my dear."

Ruthie blanched, then let out a mirthless laugh. "No, Mason. It's the other way around. It always is. Go home."

Harry's heart thumped. Had he actually been worried that she would leave with the bastard? No. It was still nice to hear it, though.

Mason bumbled toward the staircase. "Can't you see? Darling, I'm here to save you from this blackguard. Now, let's go. I'm not leaving without you."

"You're going to have to," Ruthie returned easily. "I'm married. I know you've heard. You've generously shouted it to everyone who would listen tonight."

Harry flicked his head to Spector, who took Mason in hand, dragging him to the exit. "Don't worry, boss," Spector said eagerly. "I'll make sure no one finds the body!"

"Good," Harry replied reflexively.

"No!" Ruthie said, slamming her palm on the banister. "You're not going to kill him."

Fuck . "Right. Try not to kill him, Spector."

Harry reached inside his jacket pocket, but his wife's words stopped him. "Don't you dare write that down in your ledger! Not killing my brother does not go on your list."

Slowly, Harry dropped his hand back to his side as he watched Spector wrangle Mason out of the club. The man was stronger than he looked, and withstood Spector's pushing for a few seconds.

Ruthie's soft voice cut through the tussle. "Have you no shame, brother?"

Mason sobered instantly. Then he chuckled, though it was halfhearted and limp. "Shame, you say?" he replied as Spector grabbed the back of his neck. "Shame is my destiny, sister. And now it's yours as well."

*

The following morning, Ruthie hurried out of bed as the sun was rising. She tiptoed around the room, dressing herself even though she needn't have bothered. There was no one to disturb. After the night's upheaval from her brother, she'd gone back to her room and cried herself to sleep. Harry had slept elsewhere.

Later, Ruthie resolved to ask him about it. It was a bad routine they were getting into. She looked forward to the morning when she could wake to her husband's warm body. She didn't have to touch it; she had a notion that staring at it would be enough. But today…today she had more pressing matters.

As determined as Ruthie was, her feet still dragged as she made the short journey. Her anxiety was enough to kill the chill in the air, but not her trepidation. She'd never knocked on her own door before. At this hour, her mother would be waking from her drug-induced sleep, clamoring for her tea. Ruthie needed to face Lady Celeste while she still had puffy skin and sleep in her eye. It was when her mother was most vulnerable.

Her knock was light, but the butler answered it at once, unable to hide his displeasure at Ruthie's appearance. She attempted to walk past him, but he closed the door just enough that she couldn't squeeze through.

"I would like to see my mother," she announced.

The butler nodded. "Lady Celeste has been waiting for you. I will get her. She asked that you wait here."

Ruthie waited on the doorstep. The wind picked up, slashing at her arms, and she couldn't contain the shivers while she listened for footsteps. When her mother finally came to the door, she was already dressed in a crimson day robe, her hair fashioned in a handsome, plain bun at the base of her head. Her skin was as luminous as ever, although more tired looking than usual.

She clutched the frame of the door, as if ready to slam it at a moment's notice. "Why are you here?"

Ruthie's nerve faded quickly. "I…I…" she stammered.

Lady Celeste's brow arched more with every bumbled word.

Ruthie inhaled through her nose. "I came to speak to Mason. To see if he is all right."

"Your brother is fine. He is sleeping," her mother replied tersely.

"I'm sure you heard about last night."

Ruthie could see her mother's tongue root around inside her mouth as she mulled over her words. "I've heard a great many things these last few days. As well as having to deal with a few unwanted visitors."

Ruthie returned a questioning frown.

"Oh, didn't your husband tell you? He paid me a visit yesterday," Lady Celeste announced the same way one might announce a cockroach. "He told me all about your nuptials, how he would look after you…something to that effect. He tried to be charming. He failed."

"That was good of him," Ruthie said meekly, feeling so intolerably sorry for her husband having to deal with her mother. Why hadn't he told her?

"He came like a beggar, which, now that I know where he's from, shouldn't surprise me." Lady Celeste laughed. "He asked for your clothes, your personal items. I told him you didn't have personal items. You wore clothes that I gave you. They're mine. Or now they're Julia's. I'm sure she will put them to better use. Find a man whom I can acknowledge in public."

"Oh," Ruthie said. "Yes, I see." She couldn't think of anything else to say. In her mind, she always had these long, drawn-out battles with her mother, but now that the chance presented itself, she'd come up with nothing. Because it didn't really matter what she said. Her mother's opinion would always be the only one of import.

Ruthie craned her neck to peek over her mother's shoulder, but Lady Celeste closed the door even more. "Is Julia awake?" Ruthie asked. "Can I see her before I go? She never wrote back to my letter."

"And she won't," her mother replied with harsh finality. "Honestly, Ruthie, what did you expect would happen? That we would all just rejoice in your hasty, poor decision? You married beneath your class. Your actions have threatened to ruin us. And you thought you would come here, and we would forget all that. You are not the prodigal son, and I am much too busy picking up the pieces that you so casually broke. I'm trying to save us so your sister can have an honest, good life."

Tears clouded Ruthie's eyes. "I want to help! Let me help you now. Harry is a generous man. I know he will come to your aid if I ask!"

Lady Celeste curled her lip in a sneer. "He didn't tell you that either, did he? Yes, well, I know more than most that men have their secrets. He already asked me to take money. Commanded me, more like it. And I refused."

Ruthie's stomach dropped. "You refused?"

"Naturally!" her mother scoffed. "I could never take that man's money. He's so…"

"What, Mother? What exactly is he?"

"He's different—that's it. I don't care how much money he has. The man is different ."

Ruthie wasn't surprised that her mother had noticed. She was a keen watcher of people. She'd probably spotted all of Harry's quirks in minutes and judged him even quicker. "Just because he does…odd things from time to time, that doesn't make him different. He tries so hard not to show anyone. The repeating, the tapping, the aversion to touching people… It's not such a curiosity. They're just little quirks. It's who he is."

"No touching?" The lines around Lady Celeste's lips wrinkled. "Are you saying he doesn't touch you?

"No, that's not what I said."

"What kind of man doesn't want to touch his wife?" Her eyes narrowed. " Oh. "

"What do you mean, ‘oh'? He does things in his own—"

Her mother reached for her. "What things? Depraved things? What is he making you do in that wretched house?"

Ruthie wriggled her arm free. "He's not depraved. I'm trying to tell you that he's a good man. Just different."

Lady Celeste shook her head. "He's a freak. I knew it. He is not good enough for you. We are better."

"Are we?" Ruthie asked, her anger growing. "Because you've had men in your life, Mother—your husband and now your son—let you down, continually let you down. And finally, there is one that tries to help— wants to help—and you deem him unworthy? What an odd view to have."

Lady Celeste straightened her shoulders. "Yes, well, it is the only view I have."

Ruthie snorted. "Then I suppose I should be grateful that I'm on the outside looking in now." Her head dropped. "Goodbye, Mother. Please tell Julia I came to see her. Tell her…tell her I love her and that I tried."

Without waiting for a response, she trudged down the doorsteps, eager for the door to slam and the conversation to be over. When it didn't come, she looked over her shoulder. Lady Celeste remained at the threshold, watching her daughter with an expression that Ruthie couldn't read. It looked too much like regret.

"Everything I did, I did for you. You know that, don't you?" she asked. "I only wanted the best for you."

Ruthie turned to face her. "I believe that you believe that."

Lady Celeste stepped out onto the porch, letting the door close behind her. She wrapped her shawl tight around her frame. "I married for love, and it made my life unbearable. I never wanted that for you. I wanted you to have a comfortable life, one where you didn't have to worry about bills and creditors." Her face tightened. "Or whom your husband was spending his nights with. I wanted you to be free from all that."

Ruthie climbed a step. She only needed one to be on the same level as her mother. But even then, she felt incredibly large, and so much stronger than the petite woman who now trembled from an inconsequential bluster of wind. Ruthie didn't shiver. Not anymore.

Her legs were too long, her posture wasn't perfect, her hands were big and mannish, but she could withstand so much. She could take her mother's constant judgments, her father's constant failings, her brother's frailty, and still remain standing.

Because she was bigger than other girls. Because she was taller. Because she was stronger.

Stronger than she'd ever believed.

"I am free from all that," Ruthie explained. "You're just angry because I didn't do it on your terms. And I can't change that now. And I can't make you forgive me or let me help you."

Lady Celeste rolled her eyes, returning to the door. "You think you're free? You are far from it."

Ruthie told herself to let her go, but she couldn't help calling out, "I didn't marry for love."

Lady Celeste spun around and eyed her daughter, then she snorted. "Oh, you poor, silly girl. Of course you did. And trust me, that odd man of yours will make you regret it."