Chapter Twelve

L uke lay on his pallet staring at the ceiling, his hands cupping his head on the pillow. His leash trailed along the pillow and floor to the bed.

Belle had fallen asleep within minutes, but his thoughts kept circling. Her question the day before about his day had plucked an unexpected response. He got that same sense of reward, of winning, through accomplishing a task, as he had from winning at dice or cards. Of course, it depended on the task and his mindset, but it had happened. In fact, he’d experienced that elation two days in a row.

Her past showed him he had a long way to go, however. Menial tasks would not hold his interest for long, nor were they the type of thing a future earl should spend time on. The differences between her achievements and his lack thereof continued to bother him. Which he supposed was a small step forward.

The obstacles in her past compared against a lack of such in his orbited the dark ceiling. There was something there to build on, he was sure of it. He lay for a long time considering the impediments in his world—other than his father, they were self-made. Hours later, he had a tentative idea of a productive use of his time. It would take time and capital and business sense, so he hoped Belle would add her insights, but even without that, he was eager to investigate it more.

He relaxed and turned his contemplation to the woman sleeping above him. What he wouldn’t give to have her truly above him, laying on him. But her story provoked respect and admiration even more than lust. He wanted to be like her, to impress her—not in lieu of making changes for himself but because she dazzled him and made him want to interact as an equal, rather than the burden he had been thus far.

Shaking his head, he admonished himself. Never mind him preening like a peacock for her. She deserved to get what she wanted. Such a magnificent, accomplished woman deserved the absolute best husband in the land. He fell asleep running through his university mates to see if any were worthy of her.

He descended the stairs the next morning at a trot, eager to see what Belle had in store for him that day.

But she came to the dining room door, face grim and paper in hand, as he reached the lower hall.

“What is amiss? Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for her forearm that held the paper.

She turned her wrist and thrust the paper into his hand, nodding at it.

A small notice a third of the way down the page she had it folded to read, “The Earl of Harrington, Frederick Stanton, aged 50, collapsed Tuesday night at White’s and could not be resuscitated. His wife, son, and daughter will hold a service in Southwark Cathedral on Saturday.”

“William,” he gasped. He’d been so self-involved coming to grips with his drinking and, well, life, he hadn’t checked on William. Now with his father dead, William was an earl.

Luke shook his head. He’d lain there the night before congratulating himself on accomplishing weeding a garden and polishing a floor. He was such a failure. His friend had more responsibility than he needed, while Luke struggled even though he had none.

“I thought you might want to write a note, and I suppose you’ll need to attend the funeral.”

“Yes. Yes. Blast, I—” he could not even finish a thought. William’s house would be overrun with the transition of the earldom and arrangements for the funeral. That meant he’d help his friend more by staying away, despite wanting to check on him. A note, Belle had said. As though it was that easy to find words. And it was Friday already. The funeral was tomorrow.

She led him into the dining room. “Have tea. We can make a plan.”

Luke closed his eyes and nodded. Internally he berated himself for his relief at her use of “we.” If he had a few more days of peace, he could grapple with his future. A plan had started to coalesce in the dark of night. However, it seemed fate had other plans this morning.

A new fear gripped him. He was not yet ready to venture back into the world. This miniature private house party was helping him establish new habits. Would Belle release him now because of the funeral? If she did, he had no idea how he’d pay his gaming debts or avoid the temptation of whisky.

Slouching into his chair, he gulped the tea she poured, registering vague surprise at her willingness to serve him.

An hour later, he’d managed a semi-coherent note including, with Belle’s permission, an offer to have drinks at their usual public house with William and Nate after the service.

“We shall need to discuss your time in the pub, but your friend needs you. Take today to consider how you can support him.”

“No, please.” He knew if he sat idle, he’d spiral into negativity and end up craving whisky.

Her chin jerked back in surprise.

“I need to stay busy. The physical work helps quiet the noise in my head and distracts me from wanting to drown my sorrows.”

She nodded in understanding. “Right, then.”

Thus he sat in the dining room polishing all the silver the staff could find. Each time someone entered with another vase or letter opener or the like, they attempted to keep a straight face, but it was no secret they were enjoying the help from this strange guest of their employer’s.

The repetitive work soothed him, allowing him to align his jumbled thoughts. As he rubbed the cloth over a silver tureen, the unfairness of the paters that fate had handed William and him wafted over him again. William had earned exemplary marks at Oxford and had leapt into helping the earldom before his last year at university. His choices and efforts would have overjoyed The Earl. William’s drunken father, on the other hand, could have provided an excellent excuse for Luke’s own choices.

Even Nate, whose father was loving but remote and without resources to help, had established his own career in record time. He tilted his head as he set the tureen aside. Nate and Belle had much in common. An ugly twist of emotion churned in his stomach. He didn’t like to think of Belle and Nate suiting, or Belle and anyone suiting, for that matter.

Grabbing a bowl with ornate decorative filigree on the handles, he selected a narrow brush, scrubbing the tiny metal swirls as he shook off thoughts of Belle’s impending marriage. He had his own future to worry about.

He was stuck with The Earl, so he needed to confess his sins. Better to do that with a plan for his future that he was proud of—his hopes of paternal pride were low. Belle’s story of her sister, as well as her gentle guidance of his own path to sobriety and indeed to maturity, had sparked the strategy he’d outlined on the dark ceiling.

If he could remain sober and be an example to others, perhaps he might help those in need wean themselves off gaming, spirits, or whatever vice they’d taken too far. He was still debating the logistics regarding where he’d do this, the number of people he could help at one time, and whether he should open it to aristocrats, working men, or both. His preference was both after hearing Belle’s story. He was not yet ready to navigate chaperones or mixing men and women in one building, so he’d decided to begin with men.

Discussing the project with his father still made his stomach hurt. The Earl would no doubt find fault with it, no matter how detailed the design. However, Luke would practice his presentation and calculate paths to success without his father’s support if needed. Given The Earl’s good health and disappointment in his son, the man’s invitation at the holiday was not likely to be to demand he start learning the earldom. He was grateful to have time to mature, as well as friends such as William and Nate who were farther along in life than he was.

That night, he didn’t sleep. Worry about going out in public without Belle’s supervision jockeyed with guilt over his self-absorption rather than considering William’s needs, interspersed with disparagement of himself as a man given his sudden desire for supervision. He would never be able to help others if he could not handle himself.

Luke woke to a clean suit hanging on his wardrobe, pressed and ready for him to wear to the funeral. Belle must have procured it from his house. The woman was an excellent caretaker for spoiled men.

After performing his morning ablutions, he dragged on the first layer of garments, wishing he could remain here where no one knew his whereabouts, and he did not have to navigate society without the warmth of whisky in his belly.

However, he’d never forgive himself if he did not support William, no matter how tolerant his friend was. Belle had given him strict instructions, but even those had put ideas in his head. Nipping into a pub on the way to fortify himself, pestering Nate or others he’d know at the service for a flask.

Shame flashed over him in a hot wave. He’d gotten free of spirits. Belle would not stand for him to fall back into old habits. Nor did he want to contemplate feeling as he had those first few days again, or where she’d make him sleep after another misstep. Beyond that, the idea of helping others as he’d been helped had piqued his interest, and he did not want to jeopardize that. He just wished he could delay venturing back into society for another few days.

On the other hand, William needed his support. From past conversations, he suspected his friend was juggling relief as well as sorrow at his father’s passing, given how much of a mess the prior earl had made of his family’s finances.

Luke frowned. William was an earl—now, not someday. That new development made his own future feel more pressing. Gah, one drink. He just needed a few sips to deal with all this reality.

A knock on his room door made him turn.

Before he could invite the person to enter, Belle stepped into the room.

“Shall we go over this once more?”

“No, Belle. I understand.”

Her gaze narrowed. “I did not give you leave to address me by that name.”

“I have slept in your room and held your feet in my hands, and”—he wiggled his eyebrows—“you’ve seen more than that on my form. Might you consider offering me the privilege?”

“We shall see how today goes. Now, I know you say you understand, but this bears repeating. No flasks, no wandering off from the service. If William and Nate can get away after the funeral, no gaming, no spirits, and only one drink—a cider, as you’ll sip that slowly out of dislike.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She held out the shoes she’d been holding. “I am sorry for William’s loss. Please convey my sympathies when you see him.”

When she stepped forward to help him with his cravat, a vision of her doing this every day as his wife stole his breath. Dismissing it as a stress-induced fantasy, he muttered his thanks and turned away to don his shoes.

He climbed into Belle’s carriage, marveling at the quality. It was as nice as his, demonstrating yet again her triumph over her humble beginnings. Hating himself, he stuck his fingers behind the squabs and ran them over the support for the bench seat, looking for flasks tucked away or hidden compartments where he might find whisky. His lovely housemate had removed them, if indeed there had ever been any.

He avoided looking out the window for fear of stopping at a tavern along the way. Instead, he practiced words of sympathy for William and his mother. The countess, or Ruth as she insisted they call her, had adopted Nate and Luke as her own. No matter how deficient a husband and provider the earl had been, she had loved her husband, supporting him publicly and covering for him privately. Luke ached for her loss even more than William’s.

Nate was lingering on the church steps when Luke arrived, looking nervous. He should have arranged to pick Nate up on the way. Just as Belle declined to attend the service, his working- class friend no doubt felt out of place at an earl’s funeral. The familiar sensation of disappointing someone he cared for weighed his shoulders down again.

Nate spied him and sighed in relief, waving him over.

Luke greeted Nate and asked, “Have you spoken to Will?”

The blacksmith shook his head as they entered and selected the end of a pew off to the side.

Luke glanced around. Several regulars from the Lyon’s Den caught his eye and nodded. He gulped a swallow, his parched throat once again craving the unique soothing combination of fire and water in whisky. Ruth turned to say something to William, the lines on her face more pronounced with grief and fatigue than he’d ever seen.

He pictured himself in that front row, his father gone with no more opportunities to reconcile, and a new layer of grief washed over him. No matter how much he resented The Earl’s unrealistic standards, he had a better appreciation for his father’s oversight and protection as he watched the grieving family. And perhaps because he was sober for what felt like the first time in years.

And that brought his thoughts right back to whisky. Blast. Gripping the pew in front of him, he pictured Belle, his wish to make her proud, and his own desire to succeed. He rather liked the idea of being able to turn and hold out his hand to help someone else in a similar predicament. But one day at a time. He needed to get through this funeral and support his friend.

After the service, he hugged William and asked in an undertone if he wanted to meet them at the public house near Nate’s business. William slanted a look at his mother and shook his head. “Two nights from now.”

Luke nodded, sighing in relief at the reprieve. He climbed back into the carriage and leaned forward to watch the streets go by, eager to share his success.

Alighting, he rapped a quick succession of knocks on Belle’s front door for entrance. But the butler only opened the door a foot, leaning forward to hiss, “Mrs. Rossi has a visitor, a lady. Please go ’round to the kitchen door.”

Luke nodded and stepped back to turn. She did not want her visitor alerted to his presence. He frowned, strangely hurt by that thought.

She was a courtesan. Why did she need to hide a man in her home? Unless it was personal; unless he embarrassed her.

Cook let him in at the back door and directed him to the servant staircase. He trudged upstairs with a myriad of conflicting emotions. Perhaps Belle would come chain him to her bedpost like a wayward pet again. His jubilation at getting through an outing without having a drink evaporated. He was such an imbecile. A ten-year-old should be proud of that. A man of two-and-twenty should be able to do that every day, nay, every hour with no sense of accomplishment needed. And without clutching a pew and craving a drink halfway through. No wonder she was embarrassed by him.

Morose, he passed his bedroom and entered hers to lie on his pallet, like the ill-mannered mongrel he was.