Chapter Nineteen

Jacob won the next round with a burst of aggression Annabelle had never seen from him—or anyone—before. The violence grated, but something else stood out in vivid relief. When he fought, there was something quiet about him. Even when the room erupted into cheers, he was still and quiet, as though he had found some inner peace she could not access.

Lady Bolton rose, brushing down her skirts. "Just as disagreeably noisy as I remember these events being," she said. "And he will be disagreeable too, so we should head him off before he attempts to escape without us."

Annabelle nodded and followed Lady Bolton as she made her way to the edge of the ring just as Jacob, a towel around his neck and his shirt in his hands, emerged. She did her best not to stare at his exposed torso close up, but it was a battle quickly lost; her gaze traced over the curves and dips of his stomach and hipbones. She hadn't known there could be so much power and elegance in a male body. Sculptures, for all they were lifelike, did not capture the way they shifted as he moved, or the tantalising gleam of sweat in the candlelight.

She felt a little lightheaded.

Jacob glowered at them both, taking hold of the towel and running it through his hair. "You shouldn't be here. This is no place for a lady."

"Oh tosh," Lady Bolton said dismissively. Jacob pulled his shirt over his head and Annabelle told herself it was a good thing he was covering up. Just as it was a bad thing the material clung to his damp skin, the bronzed colour visible through the white cotton.

"Excellent game," a man said to Jacob, and he winked—winked—at Annabelle. "You've got some swell supporters. My wife never comes to see me fight."

Jacob grunted and took Annabelle's elbow. "Go," he said tersely.

"She knows about Madeline," Lady Bolton said, and Jacob froze. Emotions flitted across his face, too fast and too many to note, before he settled into a blank expression that hurt to look at.

"My brother told me," Annabelle said quickly. Behind them, a bunch of men began singing a loud and rather bawdy song. "About . . . the gist of it."

Beside her, Lady Bolton also froze. "Your brother was the one to tell you?"

"He returned home today and discovered the engagement and was . . ." Annabelle winced. "Displeased."

"Is that so," Lady Bolton said with a hard note to her voice. "Just as high-handed as ever, then?"

Annabelle frowned. "You know him?"

"She knew him before he went to war," Jacob said, his hand still on Annabelle's elbow. She felt his fingers flex. Someone stumbled into them and he scowled, pulling her closer. "For God's sake, Louisa, you should have known better than to bring her here. Leave and I'll follow as soon as I've concluded my business."

"You need to explain," Lady Bolton said. "She deserves to know."

Jacob ran a hand through his damp hair. "Very well, I will explain, but you should go before one or both of you get trampled. These men have been drinking for hours."

But it's only mid-afternoon, Annabelle wanted to protest. It would have been futile; there was no denying the crowd was increasingly boisterous, and they were the only two ladies she could see.

"Never mind," Jacob muttered, striding through the laughing men and pulling Annabelle in his wake. "I'll escort you out. What were you thinking, sneaking off to see me today of all days?"

"I hardly knew you were going to be here," Annabelle said, fisting her hand in the loose shirt on his back to steady herself. "And what does it matter? We can look after ourselves."

"Not in a place like this," he said grimly. "You're a walking target."

"It was an excellent way to ensure you paid us heed," Lady Bolton said from behind them.

"It was an excellent way of putting yourselves in danger. I have enough on my plate without worrying about the two of you."

"Heavens, Jacob," Lady Bolton said in mock surprise. "Are you telling me our wellbeing is of your concern?"

They climbed a set of rickety stairs and Annabelle corrected herself, because here there were other ladies, but they wore provocative dresses and too much rouge, holding themselves as though they knew they were a prize to be won.

"Congratulations on your victory," one said to Jacob, running her tongue along her top lip. She was sultriness personified, and Annabelle disliked her immediately. "Visit me later if you want to celebrate in style."

Annabelle was aware of a violent, and hitherto unknown, desire to do harm to a fellow woman.

"Try targeting a man who doesn't have two ladies in his company," Lady Bolton told the girl coolly.

Jacob said nothing, and Annabelle had the awful thought that perhaps Jacob would have taken her up on her offer, or perhaps still would, once they were out of the way.

The idea of it made her want to cry.

They stepped out onto the street into misting rain, and she turned her hot face into the soft moisture, welcoming its coolness.

"Did you really do it?" she asked, not looking at him. "Did you really seduce your brother's betrothed?"

Jacob was silent long enough that she looked at him, the rain catching on her eyelashes. His shirt was rapidly growing damper, clinging to his body in a positively indecent fashion. He should not be seen without his waistcoat, at the very least, but he didn't seem to notice as he watched her, his eyes very dark. Lady Bolton wandered away to peer in a nearby shop window, giving them at least the illusion of privacy.

"We shouldn't have this conversation now," he said at last. "It is not an easy one to have."

"Then that's a yes." She'd known, but somehow hearing it from his lips was different. "I know you didn't like your brother, but what about the girl?"

"Madeline?" he scoffed. "Do you think I could have seduced her if she wasn't willing? Everyone looks to blame the man, and you're right, I was fully in the wrong for ever approaching her, but she never loved my brother, and he never loved her. She welcomed my attentions because she was lonely and because I offered her what she wanted. And I, who thought myself immune to love, came to love her. Do you think it was merely for fun? That I ruined her out of spite?"

The rain came down harder now, soaking into her shoulders and through to her skin, and all Annabelle could do was look at him. His hair was black as coal in the rain, slicked against his forehead, and there was almost a desperate, pleading look in his eyes.

He had loved her. This Madeline. Regardless of anything else, Annabelle believed that—she had known the moment she had asked Louisa, and the raw agony that flitted across his face was confirmation. But although she had told herself this was what she had hoped for, the reality hit her like a brick to the heart. He, Jacob Barrington, the Devil of St James, had loved a girl named Madeline, and she had broken his heart.

He had loved her.

"You should return home," he said after a long moment. "Tell no one you were here with me."

"Wait." She reached out a hand, finding his wet cuff and holding it. "When will I next see you again?"

"We are engaged, little bird," he said wryly, reaching out to disentangle her. "I hardly think you could avoid me if you wanted to."

She didn't want to. There was more to this story that had put such bleakness in his eyes, and she wanted to hear it and understand it, she wanted to know what it meant to have hated his brother so much he would have betrayed him in this way.

She wanted to know what about Madeline had made him love her so.

But all she said was, "You sent me the sonnets this morning."

He stiffened on his way back to the tavern entrance. "What of it?"

"Why?"

He glanced back then, bitter, mocking amusement in his voice as he said, "I suppose I wanted to be a little more like my brother."

Jacob strode back into the basement. The ring had already been dismantled should any magistrates come knocking. Bettors congratulated him on his victory, and he collected his winnings with a smile he didn't feel.

Madeline. Annabelle. In his head, they had merged to the point when if he thought of Madeline's green eyes, he could only think of Annabelle's blue ones. He should have explained the entire situation, but in the rain with her looking at him as though he had just kicked her favourite puppy, he hadn't had the words. How did one explain that he had been the reason for her death?

Everyone close to him met their end. Even Cecil had died because of him. Their argument had been the reason for his heart giving out. The strain of being his brother had been too much, and although Jacob did his best to never think about it, sometimes the thought crept up to him at night.

All you will know is misery. That is your curse, Jacob.

If he allowed himself to care about Annabelle the way he had cared for Madeline, he would find a way of cursing her, too. Her brother was already kicking up a fuss about their engagement; if he persisted in getting closer to her, things would only get worse.

Sending her the book of sonnets had been a mistake. He'd been angry at Cecil, angry at her, angry at himself, and that was something he could not risk again. She deserved better than anything he had to offer.

"Barrington!" one of his friends clapped him on the back. "Great fight. Coming for a drink?" He leaned in. "I've organised for a few girls to join us."

A few months ago, he would never have hesitated, but when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Annabelle's expression when she said she wished she could have married Cecil.

He gritted his teeth, angry at himself for caring. "Thank you, no," he said, leaving the tavern before anyone else could tempt him in with a drink. One drink would turn into five, which would turn into many more, and the rest of the day would be lost. He'd stumble home drunk at dawn and face a headache the next day.

Once, he would have welcomed it, but he had some idea in his head of being—well, he didn't fully know. The person his father had never thought he could be. Taking revenge on people who were dead and would never see the fruits of his work seemed shortsighted and a distinct waste of effort.

Thus, when he was home, he would wipe off whatever blood was on his person, and he would channel his remaining frustration into taking charge of the estate. The fight had taken the edge off, though he still itched with restless energy.

Seeing Annabelle had disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. After sending her the book of sonnets, he hadn't expected to see her for a few days, so he would have time to come to terms with just how foolish that impulse had been.

He was not Cecil. No matter how many books he sent her, he would never be good enough to suit her. And he didn't want to be. What he wanted was for the engagement to be over so he could go back to his life without thinking about the ways in which his decisions would affect her. He wanted to be able to go to sleep without wanting her.

He wanted to not see the wistful expression on her face when she thought about his brother and what he had to offer. History was playing out again and Cecil wasn't even here to control the narrative.

Jacob rolled his shoulders, wishing he knew a better, more effective way of burning off the energy that still roiled inside him.

Although it was still raining mistily, he opted to walk, strolling past all London had to offer as he moved west into the more salubrious areas the ton chose to inhabit. Hopefully Louisa had taken Annabelle home in a hackney at the very least.

No, he needed to stop thinking about her.

By the time he arrived home, he was wet to the bone, and he had just divested himself of his sodden coat when Smythe said, "You have a visitor, my lord." His tone implied the visitor was not at all to his taste. Jacob ran through who it could be. A debtor come to collect? Unlikely; he hadn't even, to his knowledge, received any threatening notes.

Villiers? No doubt Smythe would disapprove. But he would have given the gentleman's name immediately.

"Well?" he asked, unbuttoning his waistcoat as he moved to the stairs. His visitor could wait until he had changed at least. "Who is it?"

"I'm not entirely sure, sir," Smythe said stiffly. "She wouldn't give her name."

She? That stopped Jacob in his tracks. "Is she alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is she?"

"In the receiving room, my lord."

The receiving room was a small room beside the door tradespeople usually waited in if they wished to speak directly to the family. Not a place for a well-bred lady, but if a lady had come here alone, no doubt she wasn't well-bred.

He had no outstanding debts with brothels. Truth be told, he hadn't visited for months.

Annabelle. Her face flashed in his mind and he went cold all over. If she had risked coming here, something dreadful must have happened. It was one thing to follow Louisa after him, but entirely another to come to his house alone.

"Take me to her," he said.