Vaucoeur, and discovered something about himself that he could not bear, and he was suffering. Just as Leam was doing now, he had escaped to Alvamoor in an attempt to escape himself.
Slowly Leam unfolded the cover of the slender volume and scanned the title page.
His brother had not been a scholar, but he’d had the Blackwood brains, and he hadn’t spent all his hours at university on the playing field. He had chosen Leam’s Christmas gift that year with great care.
It was a book of poetry by a Frenchman. Given James’s constant teasing about his love of verse, at first Leam had been astounded. But when he read the poems, he understood. Centuries earlier, the poet Theophile de Viau had written, drunk, and danced his libertine way through the grandest courts of Europe. But in the end his king had betrayed him and he was publicly reviled, left to die in obscurity.
Exiled for loving the wrong person.
Leam turned back the title page, and a wash of sheer hopelessness swept through him. Two boldly scrawled lines crossed the paper, just like the confident man James had been. It was the only verse James had ever written, a confession to Leam, the only person with whom he could be honest.
When the tears came, Leam did not halt them. He set the book on the dressing table and pressed his fingers to his eyes, then the heels of his hands, then his sleeve. He had not wept when he watched his brother die, nor when he found his wife in the river two months later, her body swollen and disfigured, recognizable only by her gown and wedding ring. At that time, grief had stunned him into paralysis.
But now the tears fell. Not knowing how he went, Leam found himself in the stable, then his roan beneath him, flying toward the forest. When he reached its dark interior, he lost himself in it, needing the shadows of the ancient trees. He rode, heedless of branches in his face and pulling at his clothing.
His horse protested and Leam dismounted and released it. Falling to his knees, alone in the forest with his imperfect soul, he bent his head and wept.
His brother had trusted him with the greatest secret of his life. From that time on, James had struggled daily to defy his own nature, as though someday he might outrun it, outbox it, outshoot it.
Outlove it with every woman he could find. In the end, he had not betrayed Leam. Indeed, it was the other way around. He had taken what he’d known of his brother in confidence, and he had turned it against him.
He deserved it that Cornelia would be the only woman he ever loved. He deserved the lifelong punishment of an empty heart. Though she knew only part of the story, Isobel was right. There was no living with what he had done.
By the time Bella found him, the sun was setting behind a wall of gray sky. Returning on foot to the stable with his hound, he found his horse well within, and walked up to the house. He called for tea to be delivered to his study, then went to Cornelia’s rooms, where he drew from the trunk his love letter and her diary, then closed the box and locked it.
He gave the key to his housekeeper, instructing her to sort through Lady Blackwood’s belongings for personal objects, which she should pack in the attic for Master Jamie to have someday. The gowns and such should be given to charity.
Finished with that, he went to his study and shut himself in. He had been absent for a year and had plenty of work to do, and he could not see his family tonight. Tomorrow he would meet them with a restored countenance. He was no longer a poet. What had seemed in the dark of the cold forest to be immutable truth, before a warm grate in the comfort of his house he recognized as dramatic overindulgence. He had Fiona’s future to plan and a son to raise. If he were fortunate, he might even someday convince Isobel to marry and move away from Alvamoor. And he still had a brother. If Gavin needed him, he would be there for him too.
He moved to the hearth and drew forth Cornelia’s diary and his note. Carefully he laid them on the grate and stirred the coals until they ignited. Then he poured himself a brandy and sat down to the pile of business his steward had left for him. It was clean work, unencumbered with emotion, and it suited him.
After some time, the new footman entered to light candles, a maid following with more coal. Leam nodded his thanks and waved them out, intent on his documents.
Sometime later he noticed the folded paper on the corner of his desk. He reached for it.
Leam’s hands went cold.
He bolted up, pulling the call rope as he raced into the corridor. His butler sprang from a chair.
“Milord?”
“Where is that new boy—the footman? And Jessie, the housemaid, the one who brought in the coal earlier. Fetch them at once.”
“A can git ye Jessie, milord. But the new lad asked tae be let tae go down tae the cockfight tae nicht. He ain’t had a day aff since afore ye came home a muin ago, so A tald him he coud.”
Panic rose in him, but he shoved it back. “How long ago did you give him leave?”
“Juist over an hour, A’d say, sir.”
“Send for my horse immediately.” There was still time. If the fight lasted long enough, he might find the lad.
In the modest hillside town a mile from Alvamoor, Leam searched, torchlight cutting the cold, misty night enough to see faces in the crowd, all jostling, cursing, laughing drunken men pressed about the animals tearing at one another with beaks and talons. But no footman could be found, as Leam had suspected. And now he had wasted time.
The “it” must refer to the broken gold chain Cox had dropped, or the object that had hung upon it — something of modest weight, according to the village’s old jeweler, Freddie Jones. Leam had no idea what games Cox believed he was playing, but the note was a clear threat. Cox wanted the object and imagined Leam possessed it. And he knew he would go to London if Kitty was in danger.
Instructing his manservant to pack his saddlebag, he ran up to the nursery three stairs at a time.
Jamie was asleep. Leam watched his breathing, the small replica of his brother’s face at perfect peace, and silently vowed to return as soon as he could.
Fiona met him in the corridor.
“Mrs. Phillips told me you ordered Albert to pack a bag.” She clutched her dressing gown to her in the cold. “Are you leaving now?”
He touched her chin. “I must. But I will be back.”
“In the middle of the night? What is it, Leam? And do not pretend it’s nothing. I don’t know what you have been doing all these years in London, but it isn’t gambling and chasing skirts.” She spoke swiftly. “I read the London gossip columns, you know, and the man they describe is not my brother.”
“No. It isn’t, and you are a very clever minx. But I haven’t time to explain now. You must simply trust me.”
She screwed up her brow, but she lifted her cheek for him to kiss, then threw her arms about him.
“Don’t be gone long. And come back happier than you were today. I do not like to see you sad. It reminds me of James.”
“Tell my son I promise to return soon.” He turned and made swiftly for his horse.
Chapter 16
