CHAPTER THIRTY
Brock did not know why he was here, what he would say, or, most importantly, what he sought to accomplish. What he did know was that he was tired. He hadn’t slept the remaining hours of the night after he’d left White’s. Instead, he had chosen to think.
About the man he was.
About the man he wanted to be.
About the sons he hoped to raise in the future, and what type of men they would be.
His carriage had been parked down the street from Lord Liperton’s townhouse for going on twenty minutes, and he still couldn’t bring himself to get out and knock on her door. He only knew he had to make peace with her. Regardless of what she was guilty of, he knew he carried his own sins upon his shoulders.
Could he blame her for acting the way she had? No more than she could blame him for what he had said. The fact was—as Harold was happy to remind him—he had embarrassed a lady of the ton in public, before all her peers.
He reclined against the velvet squabs and let the curtain fall into place, obscuring his view. It did not matter who he was, or what she had done in the past. Members of the ton would not forgive any man who defamed a woman, no matter that they had shunned her long ago. The night before been dreadful. Men had hurried to remove themselves from his and Harold’s path, matrons had turned their noses up as he passed, and every young, available female’s dance card had been mysterious full even though dancing had yet to begin.
Honesty was something he had prided himself on his whole life. And now was the time for him to be honest: He was here to soothe the feelings of the ton, nothing more. It had nothing to do with him regretting what he’d shouted in his anger, or repairing Lady Viola’s wounded self-worth.
No. This was about redeeming himself in the eyes of the ton long enough to find a wife.
If only he could forget his need to avenge the wrongs done to his family.
For only ten minutes, twenty if she kept him waiting to be seen, he told himself. He could do this—he had to.
Brock wished he had insisted on Harold accompanying him, acting as a buffer of sorts. Harold had a way of calming people. But his friend insisted Brock go alone, and part of him was grudgingly thankful. It was a very good possibility that he would not be allowed in Lord Liperton’s townhouse. Or that he would be admitted only to be thrown out again just as quickly. Then again, Lady Viola may request a long, drawn out apology, and he doubted he could keep up his charade for very long.
He thought of calling to his coach men to return to his townhouse, say to hell with apologies, and retire to the country—permanently. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Lady Viola had done just that all those years ago. She had expected to stay in the country, but he had drawn her to town.
“My lord?” his coachman called from his post outside, awaiting his command to open the door and lower the steps.
“Yes, Jeffers. I am ready to depart.”
“It is not that, my lord. She is leaving.”
“Who is leaving?” Brock asked.
“Lady Viola. She is hailing a hack now.”
Brock pulled his curtain aside. Sure enough, he spotted her not far from her townhouse, a bundle tucked under her arm. No more had she put her hand out to signal a passing hack than had it stopped and she clambered up and onto the seat next to the driver, settling the package between them.
Something about the way she carried herself, or perhaps it was the mysterious bundle in her arms, made Brock pause. Lady Viola glanced about surreptitiously, as though doing something illicit, before she clambered into the waiting carriage.
What was the dread woman up to now? Who else’s life was she out to ruin?
In an instant, Brock made his decision.
“Quick! Follow that hack!”
Jeffers pulled away and maneuvered around a group of men astride horses.
Brock poked his head out the window and shouted, “Keep them in sight. Do not let them know we follow.”
The curtain fell back into place, and Brock settled in to wait for her carriage to stop. Why would she take a hired hack?
Visions moved through his head: him following her to a lover’s tryst. Maybe she’d snuck away to meet the man who had sent her the love letter he had found on her desk. His anger resurfaced. The nerve of the woman, running off to meet a man when he had tamped down his pride enough to make amends for an incident he honestly did not regret, nor one he was sure would not be repeated if they both chose to continue attending the same society functions.
An odd smell invaded his nose, and Brock again leaned over to pull the curtain aside. Peering out, he watched as they crossed the River Thames into the End East. What an unsavory choice for a tryst location. Surely they could find a more reputable locale in which to meet—she was obviously not short on funds.
His coach slowed as his driver navigated through the congested streets, deeper into the impoverished neighborhood.
“They are stopping, my lord,” Jeffers called over the sound of the wheels on the rough street.
“Stop here.”
Brock watched as Lady Viola handed the man some coin, picked up her bundle, and clambered down from the hack. With a quick look around, she made her way up to the door of a building that looked ready to collapse, if it were not for the buildings on each side holding it up. She lifted her clenched fist and rapped on the door. It swung open and a woman who looked much like a maid ushered her in. The door closed solidly, leaving Brock staring at the empty stoop.
From her use of a hack, she was obviously somewhere she should not be. If her father agreed with her activities, she would have traveled in the family carriage, trailed by her maid.
His curiosity was indeed piqued. To his knowledge, Lady Viola had not been to town in many years. Who could she possibly know in this area?
What plot had the woman gotten to now? If she indeed had taken a lover in this loathsome part of London, he would see it for himself. He told himself all of these things, refusing to acknowledge the truth: Despite everything, he was concerned. Worried for Lady Viola’s safety. Difficult as it might be to admit, he did not wish the woman harm. In fact, the thought chilled him to his core.
Before Brock could change his mind, he pushed the door open and jumped down. “I will return shortly,” he called as he crossed the street. The stoop was clean of debris, which was odd for this part of town, where the population was so great that garbage lined the streets and walkway, with no other place to dump it but the river.
He knocked and awaited the maid who had opened the door for Lady Viola. He heard voices, raised in song from within and then footsteps heading in his direction.
The door swung open to reveal the portly woman, a smile on her face. “Can I help ye . . .” She looked him up and down, “M’lord?”
Bloody hell. He had no idea if the woman could help him. “Ah, yes. I was driving through the neighborhood—”
“That is a bit odd for a gent such as ye self,” she cut him off.
“Well,” he cleared his throat and started again. “As I was saying, I was driving by and I believe I saw a dear, dear friend enter your home.” His friend? He already doubted his impulsiveness.
Her hands went to her hips and her brow furrowed. “An’ who would that be?” she asked.
“I do apologize.” He would issue many apologies today, it seemed. “I am Lord Haversham. Perhaps your master is in?”
“I be the master in this house.” She made to swing the door shut in his face.
Brock stuck his foot out to stop her as a voice rang out behind the woman.
“Mrs. Hutton, Mrs. Hutton,” came the squeal of a child. “Look what the lady brought me. Is it not the finest thing ever?”
The woman, Mrs. Hutton, held the door tight against his boot and turned to address the child. “Do be wait’n a minute, Abby. Can ye not see I be tending the door?”
“But look at this. I have never seen—”
“Please go back to the celebration,” she scolded.
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With the woman’s attention diverted, Brock gave a solid push on the door. It burst from the woman’s grasp and slammed against the wall.
“M’lord!” Mrs. Hutton tried to regain her hold on the door, but was unable. He stepped around her and into a dimly lit hall.
In front of him, a young girl twirled. Twirled so fast he could see nothing but her pale hair fanning out around her face. A candle, mounted to the wall above, gave off a small amount of light that reflected off the iridescent purple gown the girl was marveling at as she spun. A gown he had seen not long ago—but that was impossible. That gown had been crafted to the height of fashion and made to fit the curves of a mature woman. He remembered it had plunged low in front to show off its owner’s assets. Now, the gown had more of a modest neckline.
He stood staring as the child came to a halt, noticing his presence.
The child—Abby, he dimly reminded himself—pushed the long golden locks from her face, and Brock did everything he could not to gasp. Part of the girl’s face was missing, her eye sewn shut over a gaping hole he knew lie beneath. He had seen injuries such as this many times while at war. Why did the wound seem so much worse, so much more heartbreaking, on a child? He had no doubt her injuries were due to a gunshot.
“You do not need to stare.” The child’s hands went to her hips, much like the woman who stood beside him, and her one eye glared at him.
It looked as though he owed yet another apology. “I beg your pardon, my lady.” Brock bowed low to the child.
She giggled and her head dipped to hide her deformed face. “You are forgiven.”
The child was certainly born a member of the ton, her poise, speech, and manners bred into her from birth. Was she the child of whomever owned the home? The person Lady Viola was obviously here to meet?
“Perhaps you know whom I seek,” he addressed the child.
Mrs. Hutton huffed beside him and pushed the door shut, blocking the light that poured in from the street.
“Do you mean Lady Vi? She came just for my party, and brought me this splendid dress.” The child’s enthusiasm was infectious.
“Child, go back ta the party--”
Brock smiled his most charming smile. “Why yes, it is Lady Viola I seek.” He had no idea what he had walked into, and part of him wanted to walk out the door just as fast as he had entered and not look back. But it was too late for that. A peek down the hall and he saw little heads poking out of a room at the end. The singing and chatter had stopped.
There was no turning back now.