Chapter Thirty-Eight

To Monty, Bishopsgate Street looked as if it belonged to a different world, not just a different part of London. Even the people looked different—cits bustling along the street as if they were driven by a purpose, as opposed to the aimless wanderings of the ton.

Perhaps that was what the necessity of having to earn one's living did to a man.

And a woman. Here, women jostled the men on the pavement, striding out with the independence that Society ladies lacked—women who earned their own living and thought, as well as spoke, for themselves.

Women such as…

He approached the door and knocked. At that moment, a couple approached. The man glanced at Monty's carriage, taking in the Whitcombe crest. Then he turned his attention to Monty himself and stared—an open, direct gaze, filled with curiosity and a little disdain.

In Society, Monty was revered, but here, where meritocracy ranked above aristocracy, he was nothing more than an idle creature who languished on his estate while better men worked. Against the neat, plain attire of the cit's perfectly tailored, but simply designed, suit, Monty must seem like an over-frilled fop.

The man tipped his hat, gave Monty a nod, then strode past, his wife on his arm.

"Ahem."

A young woman in a plain gray gown stood in the doorway, a set of keys dangling from her waist.

Who in the name of the devil employed their housekeeper to open the front door?

"Oh," he said. "I'm at the wrong house."

"Who have you come to visit, sir?" she asked.

"Sir Leonard Howard."

"This is Sir Leonard's house. Whom shall I say wants to see him?"

"The Duke of Whitcombe."

"Very good. Come in." She ushered him inside and led him into a parlor. "Wait here. I'll see if Sir Leonard is happy to receive you."

Before Monty could respond, she exited the parlor. No curtsey.

And rather than pander to his sensibilities and tell him she'd check whether Sir Leonard was at home, she gave him the more direct narrative of whether Sir Leonard wanted to see him.

He didn't know whether to find her frankness insulting or refreshing. Perhaps those who worked in commerce were required to adopt a more open and honest approach to their lives—and he'd noticed such frankness in her.

My Eleanor…

Footsteps approached, and his heart rate quickened.

Then the door opened and the young woman appeared. "Sir Leonard will see you. Follow me."

Feeling as if he were a wayward schoolboy at Eton on the way to the provost's office for a birching, Monty rose and followed her up one flight of stairs and along the hallway to a heavy, oak-paneled door. She knocked and paused.

"Send him in," a voice said from the other side.

She pushed the door open, and Monty entered the room.

Unlike the parlor, which was almost stark in its simplicity, Sir Leonard's study was the peculiar contradiction of extreme order and chaos that Monty recalled from their previous meeting—row upon row of books filling one wall, and opposite, an array of brightly colored silks and jars of spices. At the far wall, behind a squat mahogany desk, silhouetted against the window, sat the figure of a man.

A chair had been placed in front of the desk, presumably for interviewees or subordinates, but Monty remained standing. In his world—in Mayfair, where everyone submitted to his rank—he'd sat without a qualm.

But he wasn't in his world.

The figure rose, and Monty caught sight of two bright eyes regarding him coldly.

"Whitcombe."

"Sir Leonard," Monty said. "I must thank you for—" He broke off as Sir Leonard raised his hand.

"I wondered how long it would take before you came sniffing round again. How did you find me?"

Yes—it was just like being in Mr. Goodall's office having been caught transgressing.

Monty glanced about the room, half expecting to see a cane ready for use. "Madame Chassineux gave me your address," he replied.

Sir Leonard let out a huff. "Under duress, no doubt, after you reminded her of your rank. I find it a great shame that anyone in business must pander to the whims of a titled gentleman who, in my experience, is less likely to settle his accounts than a merchant on time—if at all."

"I always pay my dues, Sir Leonard," Monty said.

"I doubt that."

"I do—I instruct my steward to settle—"

"I wasn't referring to financial matters."

Monty glanced at the chair beside the desk. "Sir Leonard, may I sit?"

"When discussing certain matters, I prefer to remain standing."

"For what purpose?"

"It ensures that a discussion remains on point, and that time is not wasted on unnecessary niceties with individuals whom I hold in little esteem."

Monty flinched. "I understand your anger, Sir Leonard, but—"

"I'm not angry, Whitcombe—just disappointed. I expected better of you—and had even come round to the notion of having a high opinion of you."

"You had?" Monty asked, a bubble of pride swelling in his soul.

"Not at first, of course."

Of course…

The bubble burst.

"At first, I thought you yet another privileged profligate. Of course, men like you patronize my business all the time, with your countless mistresses on whom you shower trinkets and new gowns at every opportunity, to gratify your sense of self-worth in having a bird of paradise on your arm."

So much for ensuring the discussion remained on point with no time wasted on unnecessary niceties.

"But then," Sir Leonard said, weariness in his voice, "I saw how my Eleanor blossomed—how she grew in confidence, accepting herself for what she was rather than berating herself for not conforming to the ideal of a young lady. Fool that I was, I gave you credit for that."

"I take no credit for your daughter's—"

"Do not speak of her!" Sir Leonard cried. "I promised that if I ever saw you again, I'd not waste my anger on you. You'd better go before I break that promise."

"I won't go until you tell me where Eleanor is."

Sir Leonard raised his arm, then struck Monty across the jaw with a punch that sent him sprawling to the floor.

Devil's toes—for a man who looked old and weary, Sir Leonard had the right hook of a prizefighter.

"How dare you speak her name!" Sir Leonard caught his breath and placed his hands over his chest. "Get up and fight me like a man, at least," he hissed. "Or do you define your manhood only in terms of how many maidens you've violated?"

"I didn't come to fight, Sir Leonard."

"I won't tell you where she is."

"Shouldn't she be the one to decide that?"

Sir Leonard let out a bitter laugh. "Arrogant to the last! Haven't you done enough to her? Forcing her into an engagement only to be discarded at the end—but taking what you wanted anyway. Not to mention"—he wrinkled his nose—"strutting about like a prize bull, posing like a dandy for your own gratification, with no thought to the consequences for my daughter!"

"I didn't think—"

"No," Sir Leonard snarled. "You didn't think. Men like you never do."

"Please," Monty said, "I only want to speak to her. You cannot imagine the guilt I suffer."

"Even now you only think of your suffering," Sir Leonard scoffed.

"I suffer in the knowledge that I've caused her pain," Monty said. "Please, sir, believe me—the last thing I want is for her to be unhappy."

"Then you should have thought of that before you tricked my daughter into believing you loved her! I thought you realized she's unlike other young ladies—she's more easily duped by those who seek to deceive, and she suffers more than most when her trust is betrayed."

The earlier flash of weariness in Sir Leonard's eyes returned. Monty struggled to his feet and offered his hand.

"Please, sir, I only want to see if she's all right."

"What does it matter to you whether she's all right or not?"

"It matters a great deal."

"Oh, spare me!" Sir Leonard replied. "You never looked at her twice before you plotted your nefarious little scheme! Then you had the effrontery to look me in the eye while we discussed a marriage settlement—a marriage you never intended to take place. Tell me, Your Grace, why should I believe anything you say? And why can't you have the decency to leave my daughter alone?"

"Because I love her!" Monty cried.

Sir Leonard's eyes widened, then he swayed to one side, clutching his chest. Monty caught the older man and guided him toward the chair.

"Sir Leonard, you're not well."

The man gave a watery smile. "In that, at least you speaking the truth."

"I've not said anything that's untrue, sir," Monty said. "And I'll not shirk my responsibility for your troubles. If your business is suffering for it, I can give you—"

"Stop there," Sir Leonard said. "I've needed to retrench, but I can weather it. Your little corner of the world may look down on me, but here, I'm back among my people."

"And…Lady Howard?"

"My wife chose to return to her family until the scandal dies down. And my younger daughter…" He hesitated. "She's taken a vacation for her health. So you see, Your Grace, your scheme has scattered my family across the country."

"For that, I'm truly sorry," Monty said.

Sir Leonard smiled. "We'll survive. I can live more simply here, and my wife is where she's happiest. As for my daughters, they're resourceful. Eleanor is doing what she always wanted—in a place she used to love, filled with dreams and memories. Even my youngest child—my poor, misguided Juliette—will survive her ordeal and emerge the better for it."

"What can I do?" Monty asked.

Sir Leonard rose, the color returning to his cheeks. "You can leave."

"But Eleanor—"

"Has endured enough at your hands—and the hands of others."

"But—"

"Tell me, Whitcombe," Sir Leonard interrupted. "Who, out of all of us, deserves most to be happy and at peace?"

"Eleanor, of course."

He placed a hand on Monty's arm. "Then leave her be, Whitcombe. It broke my heart to say goodbye to Eleanor—but I let her go because I love her."

The older man's gentle plea pierced Monty's heart more deeply than his earlier words of anger—for it was motivated by love.

And while Monty may have been able to argue against anger, or vengeance, he could never argue against an honest man doing what he thought best for his beloved daughter.

Admitting defeat, Monty bowed and retreated.

If he were to find Eleanor, he'd have to search elsewhere. What had Sir Leonard said?

A place she used to love, filled with dreams and memories.

Not much to go on, but it was a start.

*

The carriage drewto a halt outside Marlow's townhouse. The building, which Monty had expected to be empty, was ablaze with light.

Marlow was at home.

Monty opened the carriage door and climbed out. Then he leaped up the steps to the front door and knocked. Moments later, a footman appeared.

"Is your master in?"

"Yes, Your Grace." The footman ushered him into a parlor. "I'll tell the master you're here."

"And your mistress?"

"Lady Marlow is resting, on account of the baby."

"Shit."

The footman arched an eyebrow in disapproval.

"Is she in the country?"

"No, sir—she returned to London for her confinement, but she's not receiving visitors."

"I particularly wish to see her on an urgent matter."

"Perhaps the master can relay a message."

"I'd rather speak to her myself."

"Very good."

The footman bowed then retreated into the corridor, closing the door behind him.

Damn—Monty had forgotten Lady Marlow's confinement. She'd looked ready to give birth any day at Rosecombe, and it was the height of incivility not to congratulate a new parent.

Though he'd not cared about such things before…

Before Eleanor.

Too restless to sit, Monty paced about the parlor, taking in the décor, which had a decidedly more feminine touch than he recalled. But the last time Monty had visited, Marlow was a bachelor. Gone were the heavy colors that absorbed the light—gone was the reek of cigars. They had been replaced by warm, welcoming colors and the gentle aroma of lavender.

Monty's gaze fell upon a picture on the wall, nestled among a series of watercolor landscapes. A simple pencil sketch, with very few lines, but the likeness was unmistakable—as was the artist.

The subject looked out from the picture, a smile of bliss on her lips. Her hands were placed on her belly, and an expression of the purest love shone from her eyes.

Monty had never seen such an expression on the prickly Lady Marlow. But perhaps that was a reflection of her opinion of him compared to her obvious love for the woman who'd drawn her likeness. Eleanor's love for Lady Marlow shone through every line, every pencil mark.

The door opened, and Marlow entered.

"Whitcombe! I didn't expect to see you. I thought you were overwintering in the country."

"And I you."

"I brought Lavinia to London for her confinement," Marlow said. "She insisted on being close to Dr. McIver."

"Couldn't you send for him from the country?" Monty asked.

"Lavinia insisted, on account of McIver's other patients. She said she'd never forgive herself if another of his patients fell ill while he was wasting time riding back and forth to Marlow Park. Always thinks of others, does my Lavinia."

He gave a sigh, a look of contentment in his eyes, which, though Monty might have ridiculed a few months ago, he now found himself envying.

"I hear congratulations are in order," Monty said. "You have a son?"

"A daughter. Lillian Mary Eleanor."

"You're not disappointed?"

Anger sparked in Marlow's eyes. "Unlike you, Whitcombe, I don't see a wife as merely a vehicle for procuring an heir."

Ouch. But when had Monty ever expressed a different view on the role of a wife?

"Is Lady Marlow at home?" he asked. "I'd like to congratulate her in person."

"I doubt she'll want to see you."

"I understand she may be delicate after her confinement, but—"

Marlow snorted. "My Lavinia wouldn't let something like a confinement slow her down. I meant she'd be unwilling to see you given that you're the cause of her losing her dearest friend. She's devastated that Miss Howard has gone."

"And you think I'm not?"

"You ended your engagement."

"Yes, but…"

Marlow let out a laugh. "Don't say the infamous rake has lost his heart?"

"It's no laughing matter!" Monty snapped.

"That it's not," a female voice said.

Lady Marlow stood in the doorway.

"Lavinia, my love," Marlow said. "What did I tell you about the need to rest? I—"

"Spare me, Peregrine," she said, turning her unsmiling gaze on Monty. "I thought I heard your voice."

"Lady Marlow, you don't know how delighted I am to see you," Monty said.

"And I you," she replied.

Marlow raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes, Peregrine. I've been wanting to give him this."

She stepped forward, raised her hand, then slapped Monty across the face.

Devil's toes!He'd been slapped by women many times—a hazard every rake must accept—but never as forcefully. Most women slapped a man out of indignation, mainly because their ruse to get what they wanted—his hand in marriage, a trinket, or a greater bounty for their services in the bedroom—had failed. But the look in Lady Marlow's eyes spoke of rage on behalf of a beloved friend, rather than the selfish disappointment of a harpy.

"Lavinia!" Marlow cried. "I hardly think—"

Ignoring him, she slapped Monty across the other cheek. Though he anticipated the blow this time, he remained still.

"You blackguard!" she cried.

Monty nodded. "I suppose I am."

"I should hit you again."

"Please do," he said. "I rather think it's making both you and I feel a little better."

She raised her hand again. "You make no attempt to move."

"Why should I, when I'm receiving punishment for my transgression?"

"So, you admit that you ruined my friend and drove her from her home?"

"I say, my love," Marlow said, "we can hardly accuse Whitcombe here of—"

"Juliette would never have done what she did had he"—she jabbed a finger at Monty—"not taken advantage of Eleanor."

"Juliette Howard only has herself to blame," Marlow said.

"Oh, spare me!" Lady Marlow cried. "Why must women always bear the consequences of the actions of men? Much as I dislike Juliette, not even she deserves her fate."

"Is Juliette not with her mother?" Monty asked.

"She's in Bath," Lady Marlow said, "taking the waters for her health."

"She's unwell?"

She rolled her eyes. "Just like a man to feign ignorance of the misdeeds of his kind! She's expecting Dunton's child."

"Lavinia, darling, we don't know for certain—"

"Well, I do!" she said. "Why else would she throw herself at Dunton one moment, then hide away the next while he parades about the place with that Arabella creature declaring to the world what a slut Juliette is? The whole family's the laughing stock of the ton, and it's his fault!" She jabbed at Monty in the chest.

"Miss Juliette cannot be in Bath. Sir Leonard told me—"

"Ah—that explains it," Marlow said.

"Explains what?" Monty asked.

"The mark on your face. I daresay Sir Leonard's opinion of you is even lower than my wife's. You'll have a devil of a shiner tomorrow, to accompany my wife's adornment."

"I won't apologize," Lady Marlow said. "It's the least he deserves."

"In that I agree with you, ma'am," Monty said. "But I'll weather whatever is necessary to find Eleanor."

She curled her lip into a sneer. "Is that why you're here—to plague her again? You won't find her. Sir Leonard wouldn't even tell me where she's gone—and I'm the only one, save him, who has any regard for her."

"You're wrong," Monty said. "I love her."

"You don't know the meaning of the word."

"I know that I've not stopped thinking of her from the day we parted," Monty said. "Every waking moment I wonder if she's well—and happy—and I wish I could be with her again."

"That's not love. That's obsession and a selfish wish to enjoy the company of one of the loveliest women to walk this earth."

"In part, I agree with you," Monty said. "Eleanor is the loveliest woman to walk this earth. I'm not asking because I want her—I'm asking because I cannot live without her. And whatever her sister did, you cannot lay the blame at my feet."

"Oh, can't I?" She stepped forward, her face flushed with anger. "Don't you see the consequences of your actions? That the ripples from your false engagement spread across Society? When you, the worst rake of the ton, made such a public offer to Eleanor—a woman the whole of Society thought to be decidedly beneath you in looks, temperament, and station—you gave false hope to every fortune-hunting young woman hungry for a title. Even the meanest of wits would surmise that Juliette attached herself to Dunton in the hope that, with one duke marrying into the Howard family, a second could more easily be persuaded. And Dunton—foul lecher that he is—took advantage, and added Juliette to the list of maidens he deflowered."

"Lavinia!" Marlow said. "Whitcombe doesn't wish to hear—"

"Perhaps I do," Monty said. "Perhaps, as your good wife says, it's time I opened my eyes to the full consequences of my actions. Including that of my own heart."

He gestured to the drawing on the wall.

"Lady Marlow—I'll confess that I do think primarily of myself, and of the better man that I can be with Eleanor in my life. But on seeing this drawing… A few lines on a piece of paper have shown me that I am not the only one who suffers in her absence. I can see that you have lost a friend who loves you dearly."

"How can you see that?" she asked.

"I see it in your portrait," he said. "Every stroke of her pencil—every mark—has been delivered with love. It's a love to be envied." He swallowed, drawing in a sharp breath to temper the moisture pricking at his eyes. "I recognize, and honor, that love, for I've seen it before."

"Where?" she asked in a whisper.

He blinked, and a tear splashed onto his cheek. "In a sketch she drew of me, which she gave me leave to keep. A-and in other sketches that she kept, which…"

His cheeks burning, he averted his gaze.

"So it's true," she said. "The gossips said Juliette had displayed a sketch of Colonel Reid. But the subject was you, wasn't it?"

Monty nodded.

"How could you have been so foolish?"

"Because she asked me—she said she wanted something to remember me by."

Marlow let out a snort. "You certainly gave her that, old boy. I think—Ouch!" he let out a cry as his wife slapped his arm.

"The less you say, the better, Peregrine."

"I must defend my friend," Marlow said. "I saw a different man at Rosecombe to the one I've always known. Even I can see that he loved Eleanor."

"Then why end your engagement?" Lady Marlow asked.

"Believe me—that's a question I've asked myself every waking moment," Monty said. "Before we parted, I'd long lost any understanding of why our engagement had to come to an end, other than it's what we'd both agreed from the start."

"And your male pride dictated that you ought never to be seen to change your mind."

"My mind—and my heart—changed a long time ago, Lady Marlow," Monty said. "But I was too afraid to admit it."

"To yourself, or to my friend?" She tilted her head to one side, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a smile.

"You find my pain amusing?"

"No, Your Grace. But I marvel at how Fate conspires to ensure that the path we take comes full circle. Eleanor once told me that she loved you so deeply that she feared it. She feared both the influence it had on her every waking thought, but also that, were she to have it confirmed you thought little of her, it would destroy her."

"Then you understand my pain, Lady Marlow," Monty said. "Tell me—is that a fitting punishment for my sins?"

"Perhaps," she said. "But it's not a punishment I'd wish on anyone."

"Then you'll help me find her?"

She shook her head. "I cannot. I spoke the truth when I said Sir Leonard wouldn't tell me where she is."

"Is there nowhere you can think of?" Monty asked. "Anywhere she might have visited as a child? Sir Leonard referred to somewhere she used to love, filled with dreams and memories."

Lady Marlow paused, and for a moment, Monty thought she might throw him out. Then Marlow took her hand.

"Lavinia, my love—don't you recall the pain we suffered when we were parted once? You said you could bear our being apart if you knew I was happy—but my suffering was, to you, as a knife to your heart, because you loved me."

She sighed, and her expression softened.

"Whitcombe, do you love my friend?" she asked.

"With all my heart," Monty replied.

"Do you accept that if you harm her in any way, then you should expect to lose your balls if you come within ten feet of me ever again?"

"If I harm my Eleanor, you can not only have my balls, but my head."

At length, she nodded. Then she crossed the floor to a bureau, drew out a piece of paper, and began to write.

"I'm afraid you'll have a task on your hands," she said. "Eleanor told me her family traveled extensively when she was young. Brighton, Wells—she has a beautiful sketch of the cathedral—Sandcombe, York—even as far north as Arbroath. Peregrine—can you think of anywhere else?"

"Didn't Miss Howard mention visiting France? Or Italy?"

"The family spent some time in Rome when Eleanor was much younger—before Juliette was born, I believe."

"Sounds like an impossible quest," Marlow said.

"But it must be done," Monty replied.

"Count yourself lucky Sir Leonard never took the family with him to the Far East," Lady Marlow said, continuing to write. "I believe he sailed there several times."

She continued to scribble names, then handed the paper over.

"Will you visit them all?"

"I'll begin my quest tomorrow," Monty replied.

"Then go, with my blessing."

"Thank you." Pocketing the paper, Monty bowed, took Lady Marlow's hand—the same hand that had struck him earlier—and brushed his lips against her skin.

"I shall use this wisely," he said. "And rest assured, I'll not do anything to make Eleanor unhappy."

The footman opened the doors, and Monty stepped out into the street.

"Your Grace."

Monty stopped and turned. "Yes, Lady Marlow?"

"If you find Eleanor—what if she rejects you?"

"Then," he said, "my punishment will be complete."