A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 61
“You would leave England? Why?”
He drank deep at the words, placing his empty glass on a nearby table. “Your husband plans to ruin me.”
It took a moment for her to comprehend the words. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is. He told me.”
Confusion flared. “When?”
“On the day of your wedding. I came to Needham House to find you, to convince you to marry me, only to find that I was too late and that you’d already left for London with him. I followed you. Went straight to his club.”
Michael hadn’t said anything. “And you saw him?”
“Long enough for him to explain that he had plans for revenge against my father. Against me. When he’s through, I shall have no choice but to leave Britain.”
The words did not surprise her. Of course Falconwell would not be enough for her immovable husband. Of course he would want vengeance against Langford. But Tommy? “He wouldn’t do that, Tommy. You have a past. A history. The three of us do.”
Tommy smiled a small wry smile. “Our past does not weigh so heavily as revenge, I’m afraid.”
She shook her head. “What could he possibly plan—”
“I am not . . .” He took a deep breath. “He knows . . .” Paused. Looked away. Tried again. “I am not Langford’s son.”
Her jaw dropped, along with her voice. “You cannot mean it.”
He laughed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I certainly would not lie about it, Pen.”
He was right, of course. This was not the sort of thing one lied about. “You are not—”
“No.”
“Who—”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know I was a bastard until a few years ago, when my—when Langford told me the truth.”
She watched him carefully, registering the quiet sadness behind his eyes. “You never said anything.”
“It’s not something one says, really.” He paused. “You do what you can to keep it a secret . . . and hope no one discovers.”
But someone had discovered.
Penelope swallowed, turning her attention to a large oil painting on the wall—another landscape—this one in a wilderness too rugged and untouched to be anything but the North Country. She fixed her stare on a large boulder to one side of the artwork as understanding dawned. “It would ruin your father.”
“His only child, a bastard.”
Her gaze returned to his. “Don’t call yourself that.”
“Everyone else will, soon enough.”
Silence. And in it, the keen awareness that Tommy was right. That Michael’s plans included his ruin. A means to an end. He saw the moment she recognized the truth and took a step toward her. “Come with me, Penny. We can leave this place and this life and start fresh. India. The Americas. Greece. Spain. The Orient. Anywhere you choose.”
Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “I’m married, Tommy.”
One side of his mouth crooked up. “To Michael. You require escape as much as I do. Maybe more—at least my ruin at his hands will come swiftly.”
“Be that as it may, I’m married. And you . . .” She trailed off.
“I am nothing. Not when he’s through with me.”
She thought of her husband, to whom she had vowed fidelity and loyalty, who had fought for so long to rebuild his fortunes without his name. He knew the importance of a name. Of an identity. She couldn’t believe he’d do this.
She shook her head. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t . . .” But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true.
He would do anything for his revenge.
Even ruin his friends.
Tommy’s jaw set, and she was suddenly nervous. She’d never seen him so serious. So driven. “I’m not wrong. He has proof. He’s willing to use it. He’s ruthless, Pen . . . no longer the friend we once knew.” He was close, and he took one of her hands in both of his. “He doesn’t deserve you. Come with me. Come with me, and we neither of us shall be lonely.”
She was quiet for a long moment before she said softly, “He is my husband.”
“He is using you.”
The words, however true, stung. She met his gaze. “Of course he is. Just as every other man in my life has done. My father, the Duke of Leighton, the other suitors . . . you.” When he opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head and raised one finger. “Don’t, Tommy. Don’t try to make fools of us both. You might not be using me for land or money or reputation, but you are afraid of your life once the truth is out, and you think I will make a friendly companion—someone to keep the loneliness at bay.”
“Is that so bad?” Tommy asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “What of our friendship? What of our past? What of me?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand the words and the ultimatum in them, born of distress. He was asking her to make a choice. Her longest-standing friend—the one who had never left, or her husband, her family, her life. It was no choice. Not really. “He’s my husband!” she said. “Perhaps I would not have written this tale, but this is the tale, nonetheless.”
She stopped, irritation and frustration taking her breath. Tommy watched her for a long moment, her words hanging between them. “And that is that.” He smiled, sad. “I confess, I am not surprised. You always liked him best.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true.”
“Of course it is. One day, you’ll realize it.” He lifted one hand to her chin in a brotherly gesture. That was the problem, of course, Tommy had always been more brother than beau. Not like Michael. There was nothing brotherly about Michael.
He drank deep at the words, placing his empty glass on a nearby table. “Your husband plans to ruin me.”
It took a moment for her to comprehend the words. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is. He told me.”
Confusion flared. “When?”
“On the day of your wedding. I came to Needham House to find you, to convince you to marry me, only to find that I was too late and that you’d already left for London with him. I followed you. Went straight to his club.”
Michael hadn’t said anything. “And you saw him?”
“Long enough for him to explain that he had plans for revenge against my father. Against me. When he’s through, I shall have no choice but to leave Britain.”
The words did not surprise her. Of course Falconwell would not be enough for her immovable husband. Of course he would want vengeance against Langford. But Tommy? “He wouldn’t do that, Tommy. You have a past. A history. The three of us do.”
Tommy smiled a small wry smile. “Our past does not weigh so heavily as revenge, I’m afraid.”
She shook her head. “What could he possibly plan—”
“I am not . . .” He took a deep breath. “He knows . . .” Paused. Looked away. Tried again. “I am not Langford’s son.”
Her jaw dropped, along with her voice. “You cannot mean it.”
He laughed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I certainly would not lie about it, Pen.”
He was right, of course. This was not the sort of thing one lied about. “You are not—”
“No.”
“Who—”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know I was a bastard until a few years ago, when my—when Langford told me the truth.”
She watched him carefully, registering the quiet sadness behind his eyes. “You never said anything.”
“It’s not something one says, really.” He paused. “You do what you can to keep it a secret . . . and hope no one discovers.”
But someone had discovered.
Penelope swallowed, turning her attention to a large oil painting on the wall—another landscape—this one in a wilderness too rugged and untouched to be anything but the North Country. She fixed her stare on a large boulder to one side of the artwork as understanding dawned. “It would ruin your father.”
“His only child, a bastard.”
Her gaze returned to his. “Don’t call yourself that.”
“Everyone else will, soon enough.”
Silence. And in it, the keen awareness that Tommy was right. That Michael’s plans included his ruin. A means to an end. He saw the moment she recognized the truth and took a step toward her. “Come with me, Penny. We can leave this place and this life and start fresh. India. The Americas. Greece. Spain. The Orient. Anywhere you choose.”
Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “I’m married, Tommy.”
One side of his mouth crooked up. “To Michael. You require escape as much as I do. Maybe more—at least my ruin at his hands will come swiftly.”
“Be that as it may, I’m married. And you . . .” She trailed off.
“I am nothing. Not when he’s through with me.”
She thought of her husband, to whom she had vowed fidelity and loyalty, who had fought for so long to rebuild his fortunes without his name. He knew the importance of a name. Of an identity. She couldn’t believe he’d do this.
She shook her head. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t . . .” But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true.
He would do anything for his revenge.
Even ruin his friends.
Tommy’s jaw set, and she was suddenly nervous. She’d never seen him so serious. So driven. “I’m not wrong. He has proof. He’s willing to use it. He’s ruthless, Pen . . . no longer the friend we once knew.” He was close, and he took one of her hands in both of his. “He doesn’t deserve you. Come with me. Come with me, and we neither of us shall be lonely.”
She was quiet for a long moment before she said softly, “He is my husband.”
“He is using you.”
The words, however true, stung. She met his gaze. “Of course he is. Just as every other man in my life has done. My father, the Duke of Leighton, the other suitors . . . you.” When he opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head and raised one finger. “Don’t, Tommy. Don’t try to make fools of us both. You might not be using me for land or money or reputation, but you are afraid of your life once the truth is out, and you think I will make a friendly companion—someone to keep the loneliness at bay.”
“Is that so bad?” Tommy asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “What of our friendship? What of our past? What of me?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand the words and the ultimatum in them, born of distress. He was asking her to make a choice. Her longest-standing friend—the one who had never left, or her husband, her family, her life. It was no choice. Not really. “He’s my husband!” she said. “Perhaps I would not have written this tale, but this is the tale, nonetheless.”
She stopped, irritation and frustration taking her breath. Tommy watched her for a long moment, her words hanging between them. “And that is that.” He smiled, sad. “I confess, I am not surprised. You always liked him best.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true.”
“Of course it is. One day, you’ll realize it.” He lifted one hand to her chin in a brotherly gesture. That was the problem, of course, Tommy had always been more brother than beau. Not like Michael. There was nothing brotherly about Michael.
