Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

P ersephone woke to an empty bed that still smelled faintly of the man she loved and a body that was aching and sore in new places.

And to a terrible, heart-crushing realization.

She had to leave this post.

It was her only choice. Already, she had grown far too attached to little Anne and Elizabeth. Lady Octavia and Mr. Sutton were kind and just employers, the best she had ever known. Mr. Sutton was a man who seemed genuinely concerned about the welfare of not just his family, but everyone in his household. Lady Octavia dearly loved her daughters and wanted them to receive the best education and care possible. But lingering any longer would only be delaying the inevitable.

Because then there was Rafe .

He already owned her heart. He always would, and she knew that now. But they came from disparate worlds, and although she had given him her body the night before, she had never given him the truth.

There are few things lower than a liar, and I ain't one.

How would he feel if he knew Miss Persephone Wren was not just a simple governess who had been chased from her former position by a lecherous lord? Would he look upon her in the same fashion once he realized she was Lady Persephone Calcot, daughter to the last Marquess of Silwood, betrothed to the current Lord Silwood, one of the wealthiest heiresses in all England?

Unlikely.

She turned her face into the pillow where Rafe had lain his head, the divot still there, slightly warm. He had stayed for most of the night, then. Judging by the weak light hovering at the edges of the curtains, the hour was yet early. She had just missed his departure, and how she mourned that loss.

For if she did what was necessary, she would not see him again.

Tears stung her eyes. Never see Rafe Sutton's charming grin, his dimples, his golden curls, or his hazel eyes. Never hear his decadent baritone calling her lovely once more.

A sob tore from her throat and she buried her face in the pillow to muffle it.

He is not for you, Persephone. You have known that all this time, but you were selfish and you wanted him for your own.

It was true. She had. But last night had seemed laden with endless possibilities that this grim morning light now mocked. She had not been prepared for the magnitude of her grief. She unleashed it now, giving in to the overwhelming sadness as it flowed from her.

When her tears subsided, she forced herself to rise, going to the small pitcher and bowl she kept by the bed and splashing water on her swollen eyes and heated cheeks. Leaving would not be easy, but it had to be done. Her resolve returned. She was mere weeks from reaching five-and-twenty. After almost seven years of hiding in plain sight, her ordeal would soon be at an end.

But she would have a tremendous fight awaiting her. Heaven knew Cousin Bartholomew would not forfeit either her fortune or his power over it easily. He had already proven himself a very dangerous man. She scarcely knew what he was capable of, but she understood that he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. And ultimately, what he wanted was Persephone and her inheritance. Not necessarily in that order.

With a shudder, she hastily dressed in her unlaundered undergarments from the day before and pulled a clean gown atop them, a no-nonsense affair she could fasten herself with ease, just like her other few, serviceable gowns. When she had been Cousin Bartholomew's unwilling betrothed, he had made certain she had more dresses, undergarments, and hats than she would have ever been able to wear. She had fled without a single one of them, save for the one on her back the night she had run. He had spared no expense in clothing her as would befit his marchioness. But then, the expenses had all come from funds that were rightfully hers.

And what a bitter realization it had been, discovering the ugly, bitter truth. When Persephone had first learned she had been left a vast fortune by her mother, whose family had been in trade and extraordinarily wealthy for it—much to the shame of the Calcot family—she had been shocked. But the swift understanding that her guardian would be in control of it until she either married with his approval or reached the age of five-and-twenty had been brutally disappointing. More so for the man who was her guardian.

When she had been a child, Cousin Bartholomew had scarcely paid her any notice. He had assigned her joyless governesses with a penchant for cruelty, and he had summoned her for periodic reports on her progress or lack thereof. However, he had not been interested in her in the way he had been interested in the chamber and scullery maids, which she had always understood with a despicable sense of relief. Better them, she had so selfishly thought as a girl of twelve, than me.

But when she reached her sixteenth birthday, his disinterest had faded.

She could still recall the way he had looked at her for one of their periodic meetings to discuss the reports he received from her governess. His gaze had lingered on the new fullness of her bodice, and he had asked her to take down her hair. Uncomfortable yet wishing to please him to avoid punishment, she had done so. And he had run his fingers through the strands, declaring the shade was unpleasant to him, but the texture fine enough. Whilst he had been touching her hair, his hand had passed over her breast.

The touch had been most unwanted, and yet, she had seen the expression of sudden, lewd excitement on his face. And even as young and innocent as she had been, she had understood it had been wrong and that later, although she had done nothing untoward in their meeting, she had felt despicably soiled .

"Dear God," she whispered to herself now, hands shaking as she fought tears and packed her meager belongings. For so long, she had kept these memories firmly at bay. She had tamped them down, banished them, had stricken them from her mind.

But now that the time had come where she would inevitably need to face him once more, she was reliving each painful recollection as if it had been yesterday. More sobs shook her as she hid the small amount of coin she had been able to secret and carry with her through all her recent situations. Deep within her portmanteau, wrapped in a new pair of stockings she had never worn.

Everything she remembered was a reminder of why she needed to leave.

She had lied to everyone. To Mr. Sutton and Lady Octavia, to Anne and Elizabeth, to Rafe. None of them knew who she truly was, and she did not dare to tell any of them the truth. To do so would only bring unnecessary danger and worry. They all deserved more than that. So much more.

Leaving them would be her gift.

In all the years she had been running from Cousin Bartholomew, this was the first post where she had put the welfare of the family employing her before her own. In the past, discovery by him had been a risk she had been willing to take. She knew he was powerful, spiteful, vindictive, and violent. That he would not hesitate to exact his swift revenge upon her should their paths ever cross again. But now she also feared what he might try to do to the Suttons.

They were not a noble family by birth. Their wealth had been built upon their own tenacity and hard work. One vindictive marquess who had been slowly and steadily building his influence with the aristocracy could ruin them in a month. Perhaps even a week.

Rats would be the least of the worries of the Suttons.

And all because of her.

No, she could not do that to them. Could not bear to think she would cause any harm to the family she had come to know and admire, and most certainly not to the man she had come to love. The man she had given her heart to some time ago and last night had given her body as well.

"Rafe," she whispered to herself, battling a new onslaught of tears. "Oh, my love."

This is what you must do, Persephone. For the greater good of all. Harden your heart and dry your tears.

Yes, that much was true. She was making the right decision. Leaving was what she had to do, not just for Rafe but for the rest of his family as well. She would never dream of inviting danger into their lives.

Though she hated to flee without word, she knew that if she sought out either her employers or Rafe, they would only seek to detain her. And that, she simply could not allow.

She had to leave quickly, before the entire household was awake and anyone would attempt to question where she was going or why. The longer she remained, the more impossible leaving would become. And she cared for this family far too much to hurt them more than she already must.

Everything was packed when she took one last, resolute look around her room.

Heavens , she had almost forgotten the most important object of all, though it was not truly hers, much like its owner. Borrowed, instead. Persephone rushed to her bed, fingers diving beneath the pillow where she had kept Rafe's cravat tucked, and plucked it from its hiding place.

On another sob, she pressed the crumpled linen to her nose and inhaled deeply.

Each day, it carried less and less of his scent.

She could only hope that her memories of him, unlike this scrap of fabric, would remain strong. And for that matter, that she would remain strong as well. Summoning her courage, she tucked the cravat into her already stuffed portmanteau.

The time had come to go.

"Say that again, brother. I don't think I heard you properly."

Rafe pinned Jasper with a glare, knowing his brother had bleeding well heard him right the first time. He had sought Jasper out this morning just after breakfast, knowing something needed to be done before the day progressed too far.

He had slipped from Persephone's bed in the hush of the night, the weight of guilt heavy upon his heart. He had been reluctant to leave her, but he had also been unwilling to bring any undue harm to her. Being caught in her room would not have served either of them well. And so he had gone.

But as he had crept back to his chamber, feeling like a bleeding cracksman tiptoeing through the house in search of silver, a realization had occurred to him. He could rectify all the potential harms and wrongs in a swift and easy way.

The parson's mousetrap.

That one institution in which he had never supposed he would find himself ensnared. Indeed, the one institution he had done his utmost to avoid at all costs.

"I want to marry Miss Wren," he repeated firmly.

There, he had said it twice, and lightning had yet to streak down from the sky and strike him dead. The clouds had not opened to unleash an unholy torrent of hail. His tongue did not wither and die at the words.

And his heart…

Why, his heart beat on, smooth and strong and assured he was doing what was right. That the decision he had reached was the only possible one he could make. He had fallen in love with her. He had taken her innocence. And now, he would have her at his side. No more slinking from her bed like a bleeding thief.

She would be his.

"Forgive me." Jasper shook his head, as if he was not certain his ears were in working order. "Did Rafe Sutton just declare he wants to wed?"

His brother was having too much bloody fun with this.

He scowled. They were in Jasper's study, an elegant affair that was vastly different from the office he had kept at The Sinner's Palace, which Hart was reigning over at the moment. He'd had his carved desk moved to this town house, however, much to Hart's everlasting disappointment. Hart was currently making do with an old battered affair that was woefully inadequate by Hart's exacting standards.

"If your ears don't work, I'll be more than happy to box them for you," he offered Jasper.

Jasper chuckled, still grinning like a fool. "Considerate of you, but no."

"I could plant you a facer," he suggested, flexing his fingers. "I need to keep up my practice in case we go another round with the Bradleys, and that ugly rum phyz of yours could use some rearranging."

His threat did nothing to subdue his brother, however. "My lovely wife likes my face just fine, and hers is the only opinion that matters."

Jasper was hopelessly in love with Lady Octavia, and for the first time, Rafe was able to take a good, long look inside himself and realize he wanted what Jasper had with his wife. He wanted Persephone at his side, in his bed, loving him, raising their children.

Aye, he did. Girls with red curls and her eyes. Mayhap even a Mayfair house of their own one day, especially if The Sinner's Palace II proved as lucrative as he believed it would.

He swallowed against a rush of emotion, realizing his brother was staring at him, expecting him to speak. "You heard me correctly, Jasper. I want to marry Miss Wren."

"You want to marry my governess."

"Anne and Elizabeth's governess," he corrected, acknowledging he did not care for anyone else to think possessive thoughts about his Persephone.

Yes, that was right.

His.

"Don't correct me, stripling." Jasper glared back at him. "I'm your elder."

Rafe squinted. "I do detect some gray at your temples."

"Arsehole," his brother said without heat. "I haven't any gray at all."

"Of course you don't," he said in exaggerated fashion, as if he were agreeing just to assuage Jasper's offended sensibilities.

"Back to business, greenhead. What's this about marrying Miss Wren? Do you know how deuced difficult it is to find a governess worth a damn? If you marry her, I'll have to secure another for my hellions."

"Lady Octavia will," Rafe corrected, unable to keep the stupid grin from his lips at the thought of marrying Persephone.

The more he spoke about it, heard the prospect bandied about aloud, the more real it became.

"Here now." Jasper's eyes narrowed. "Why the rush for a wedding? Have you made yourself too bloody familiar with Miss Wren beneath my roof, you rogue?"

Well, hell.

For the first time in his life, Rafe felt a flush come to his face. Even his ears went hot. What could he say for himself?

He could still taste her on his lips.

"A wedding is called for," he said simply, rather than confessing in any detail what he had done.

Protecting Persephone's honor and reputation was of the utmost importance. Not that he gave a scrope about society or propriety, but it stunned him to realize just how much he did care about everything to do with her.

Love.

Fancy how it changed a man.

How it made him whole when he had never so much as noticed he was missing a bleeding thing before it.

"Damn it, Rafe, you've tupped her, haven't you?" Jasper scowled at him, shaking his head once more, all the playful banter between them dissipating in favor of seriousness. "I might have known by the way you avoided answering me when I asked you what was happening between the two of you. Octavia said you would never dare to defile an innocent governess. Said you were trustworthy. I should have told her I know my brother better, but I…"

"But you dislike arguing with your wife," he finished for him ruefully, passing his hand along his unshaven jaw. "Lady Octavia is an angel, and I'm a sinner through and through. I've nothing to say for myself, other than that I'm determined to make amends."

"By marrying Miss Wren."

"By wedding her, aye. That's the ordinary way of a chap to make an honest woman of his lady love, ain't it?"

"The East End way, perhaps." Jasper raked his fingers through his coal-black hair, sighing heavily. "Why did I decide to leave off drinking jackey?"

In his younger years, Jasper had wenched and drank himself to oblivion. But now that he was happily domesticated, he had changed his ways.

Within reason, of course. There were some parts of the rookeries that never left a man.

"Because you're an old married codger with gray hair," he provided helpfully, attempting to lighten the somewhat grim mood of their conversation.

"You are trying me, brother."

"If I wasn't trying you, I'd be gone to Rothisbones."

"I may send you there yet."

The threat did not concern Rafe in the slightest. "Well? What do you say to me marrying Miss Wren?"

"I'm not her father. I can't give you permission." Jasper frowned. "You'll need to inquire with the lady herself, unless you've already done so?"

"No." Rafe grimaced. "I ought to have done. But…"

He had been too busy shagging her senseless.

No need to say that, however, so instead, he allowed his words to trail away.

"I suspect I understand your meaning," Jasper said, his expression one of solemn long-suffering. "What did I ever do to deserve such a wild family?"

Rafe grinned now. "You were born a Sutton. It's in our blood."

"Yes it is. The apple and the tree and whatnot."

"At least we aren't tosspots like our pa was," Rafe pointed out.

Their father had been a scoundrel, through and through. But he and his siblings had banded together with Jasper as their leader. He had saved them all, and every one of them was here to tell the tale.

Except their brother Loge.

Rafe felt a twinge of sadness, mingling with hope the Sutton who had disappeared was not dead but rather alive somewhere in London. But that was a worry for another time.

"At least we aren't that," Jasper allowed before canting his head, studying Rafe with a thorough stare. "Are you in love with her, Rafe?"

Admitting to his feelings felt damned odd. Before, he'd reserved his love for his family only. But there was room in his heart for one more.

"I am," he said simply.

For the first time since reaching his conclusion, he wondered what would happen if she were to deny him. They had shared passion, but that did not mean she wanted to marry an East End rogue like himself, bind herself to him forever. Hell, what would he do if she told him no?

"Then we will have to go and find Miss Wren so the two of you can have an audience," Jasper said.

"You approve?"

His brother grinned. "You hardly need my approval, Rafe. But if that's what you came looking for this morning, it's yours. Even if you are poaching my governess."

Rafe smiled back at him, relief swelling like a balloon about to take flight. "She's mine, Jasper. She ain't yours."

Just then, the door to Jasper's study opened and his wife, Lady Octavia, bustled over the threshold with his nieces, Anne and Elizabeth, at her side. A lovely woman with hair dark enough to match Jasper's, Lady Octavia was the perfect wife for his brother. She was intelligent and caring, and she loved the twins fiercely. She brought a softer side to Jasper that Rafe had never known existed until her presence in his brother's life.

Rafe found himself thinking he had a similar, goodhearted woman in Persephone. How amazing it was that he should have found her, and here beneath his own brother's roof. Surely their meeting had been preordained. A story to tell their children one day.

Ah, Christ. Listen to yourself, Rafe Sutton! You're dicked in the nob, you are. You're growing weak.

He could not argue with the voice in his mind. He had grown weak. But he was in love, and he could not be sorry for it. His life with Persephone would be far more complete than his life without her ever could be. He knew that the same way he knew his face in the looking glass. It was familiar, accepted, understood.

"Uncle Rafe," Lady Octavia declared, sending him a strained smile as she clearly attempted cheer for the benefit of the twins. "We have been looking for you."

His instincts told him something was amiss.

He rose to his feet, tension coiling within him.

"Oh? And why is that?" he asked.

Likely, his instincts were all wrong. When was the last time he had stayed up nearly all night just to gaze at the woman in his bed?

Never.

But he had last night, watching Persephone sleep until at last he had forced himself to leave her room, lest he had fallen asleep there and been seen slipping from the chamber by the early morning hours.

"We supposed we would find Miss Wren with you," Lady Octavia said to him. "Have you seen her this morning?"

Of course he had seen her, sleeping and sated with the glow of the moon in her sunset hair and one rosy nipple peeping from beneath the counterpane.

Do not say that aloud, you bleeding noddy.

He cleared his throat. "No, I have not seen Miss Wren this morning. Why do you ask?"

"She was to begin the girls' lessons half an hour ago, but she is nowhere to be found."

Something shifted in Rafe's gut, twisting. Needling him. Persephone's absence was troubling and quite unlike her, but then, he had taken her innocence the night before. Perhaps she had overslept.

"Have you checked in her chamber?" he asked, trying to combat the rising sense of worry gnawing at him.

"One of the maids did," his sister-in-law said, frowning. "She said it was empty, the bed made and not a trace of Miss Wren to be seen."

Those words made his heart freeze in his chest.

Not a trace of Miss Wren to be seen.

"I want Miss Wren," Elizabeth said with a pout.

Or was it Anne?

Rafe could not be certain. The twins were dressed in identical gowns this morning, and his mind felt as if it had been inhabited by an impenetrable fog.

"She was going to finish telling us about Daisy the Duck," the other twin announced. "I want to know if the boat she made leaked, or if it carried her across the lake to the opposite shore."

"Why the devil would a duck need a boat?" Jasper asked, sounding perplexed.

"You mustn't use oaths, Papa," the girls chastised him in unison.

"The duck was afraid to swim," said the twin on the right, who he was reasonably certain was Anne.

"Miss Wren made the story up herself," added Elizabeth.

Or at least, he thought it was Elizabeth.

"If she ain't here, we'll never know the ending!" Anne's lower lip trembled, her hazel Sutton eyes welling with tears.

Christ, he hated the sight of a weeping female. He plucked a handkerchief from his waistcoat and offered it to his niece, bending down until he was on her level. "Here now, dry your tears, lass. What makes you think Miss Wren isn't here?"

She had to be here somewhere. She'd said nothing of leaving the night before. And he refused to believe she would simply disappear on him.

She wouldn't.

Would she?

"Anne said she dreamt Miss Wren came to the nursery to say farewell," Elizabeth added. "And that she would miss us so. Maybe it weren't a dream."

"Maybe it was not a dream, dearest," Lady Octavia corrected gently.

Realization thundered into him.

Fucking hell.

His feet were moving, his legs striding, taking him from Jasper's study. Ignoring the confused calls that followed him, he took the stairs three at a time, practically leaping up them in his driving need to get to Persephone's chamber.

She cannot be gone.

She cannot be gone.

She cannot be gone.

With each frantic step he took, the words repeated themselves in his mind, a litany the rational part of him was beginning to suspect was a lie. He was dimly aware of one of Jasper's dogs chasing at his heels in nervous excitement. It was Motley, the young pup, panting and dogging his every footfall.

By the time Rafe reached Persephone's room, desperation led him to throw open the door and race inside, not giving a damn about propriety or privacy. Motley followed him with a loud bark and then an accompanying whine.

The chamber was empty.

The maid had been right.

Not a hint of Persephone remained. The bed he had made love to her in the night before was sternly made, nary a wrinkle on the coverlet. The bedside table was empty. The small wardrobe was barren when he threw open the doors. Nothing remained, save the slightest hint of Winter's soap.

Persephone was gone.

A howl emerged from him, scarcely human, bubbling up. She had left him. Fled in the night at some point after he had gone. Had it been because of what had happened between them? Had she believed he would not offer for her after he had taken her maidenhead?

"Damn it," he muttered.

Motley shadowed him as he paced around the small room, nearly tripping him. With a growl of pure rage and frustration, Rafe swiped at a chair, toppling it over. The action did nothing to diminish the rising anger he felt for himself.

He should have asked her to marry him last bleeding night. If he had, maybe she would have stayed. Motley whined again, then made a low sound of complaint and lay on the floor, resting his head on his paws. Utterly defeated, Rafe sank to his knees beside the dog.

She had disappeared.

As if she might have never been, aside from the ache in his heart to show she had found her way there.

One way or another, he was going to find her. This was all his buffle-headed fault.

Motley licked his coat sleeve and then began chewing on it. Rafe didn't even have the heart to stop him.