Rafe glowered at the footman, who retreated from the hall, before advancing on his uncle. “You dare speak to me of righteousness or prudence or conscience? You killed my parents.” His voice nearly broke, and his hands twitched with the need to curl themselves around the older man’s neck. “You tried to kill me too, and would have, if not for the conscience of my nurse.”
Mallory stared at him expectantly, one of his brows arching pompously. “Can you prove any of that?”
Rafe barely held himself in check. “I will.”
“I don’t think so.” Mallory clucked his tongue with disdain. “Because I didn’t do any of it.”
The smugness in his gaze told Rafe the opposite. It also told Rafe that his uncle wanted him to know, that he reveled in it. It was a game to him.
“He was your brother,” Rafe whispered. “Your blood. As am I. As is Selina. She didn’t deserve the life she’s been forced to lead.”
“I’m quite proud of how my niece has turned out. Her husband is the son of an earl.” Mallory’s imperious gaze swept over Rafe. “You’ve done incredibly well for yourself. That should be enough. Let it be enough.”
“Father, leave him be.” Lorcan came from behind, carrying his and Mallory’s hats and gloves, and paused near Rafe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he was going to contest.”
Anne had known. And she hadn’t told him.
Lorcan and his father left. Rafe stared at the closed door, his body thrumming with barely leashed rage. The sound of another person in the hall drew him to turn his head. Colton stood a few feet away, hands on his hips.
“You should go too.” Colton sounded nearly as defeated as Rafe felt. No, not defeated. Rafe would fight his uncle with every breath he had. He wanted to fight for Anne with the same.
Was she better off without him? Probably. Hadn’t he been telling her that since practically the moment they’d met?
Colton blew out a breath and dropped his hands to his sides. “I told you to tell her the truth. Now she’s going to be humiliated again with another broken betrothal.”
Rafe swallowed as Colton moved toward the doorway to the staircase hall. “You assume she’s going to end it.”
“What choice have you given her? The exposure of your past will take what everyone has already been talking about—your resurrection and betrothal to Anne—and twist it into an utter spectacle. After everything Anne’s been through, you can’t expect her to endure that again.”
It was a vicious blow to his gut so that Rafe nearly doubled over. He should have told her. Better yet, he never should have become involved with her at all. “I would still marry her,” he said softly, his soul aching.
She likely didn’t want him, and he’d have to accept that. Unlike his uncle, he would.
Colton pressed his lips together. “That will be up to her.”
“Will you tell her I’m sorry? And if she’s willing to hear me out, I will tell her anything and everything she wants to know.”
“I’ll try, but I may be persona non grata tonight with Anne and my wife.” Colton grimaced. “Anne may not want to see you again. Who you were is pretty damning.” He rubbed his hand across his forehead. “However, I know something about redemption, and about finding someone who can not only forgive you your sins but help you forgive yourself.” His eyes met Rafe’s. “I’ll do what I can, but expect the worst.”
“I always do.”
The footman had returned to give Rafe his hat and gloves. Taking the accessories, Rafe departed the house, setting off toward Upper Brook Street the same way he’d arrived: on foot.
The evening was warm, perfect for trouble. In his youth, he would have spent a night like this thieving and fighting, earning one of the myriad nicks from his opponent’s knife as they fought bare-chested amidst the cheers of their comrades, the light of the moon, and the scent of cheap gin.
He crammed his hat on his head and shoved his gloves into his pocket. Perhaps he should go looking for such trouble tonight. It would be a simple thing to return to one of the neighborhoods where he’d been a prince, where men and women had flocked to his side, eager for his approval and leadership. He could get any one of them to end his uncle’s existence. Rafe wouldn’t even have to do it himself.
Killing was one crime he’d avoided at all costs. Except for the singular occasion when there had been no other option. When vengeance had been wholly necessary. Even now, four years later, he felt no regret.
Still, he wouldn’t do it again. Unless he was driven by another’s violence. Not to him, but to those he cared about. Selina. Anne.
Hadn’t that violence already happened? Mallory had murdered his parents. He deserved the same fate as the man who’d killed Eliza.
A righteous anger welled within him. He abruptly pivoted and stalked back the way he’d come, passing Colton’s house and ignoring the pull he felt toward Anne. Onward he kept until he reached Bond Street.
Perhaps he wasn’t really meant to be the earl. Perhaps he wasn’t worthy.
Hailing a hack, he directed the driver to the only place he’d ever belonged. In the rookeries of East London, no one found him lacking.
There, he could be anything he wanted. He’d just do it alone.
Chapter 15
“You ride as if you were born on a horse,” the Viscount Northwood, Harry’s older-by-five-minutes twin brother, said as they walked their mounts from Green Park. “And this is only our second lesson. It’s nauseating, if you must know.”
“Thank you?” Rafe allowed himself to smile.
When Harry had suggested his brother teach him to ride, Rafe had bristled at first. But then he’d surrendered to sense. He should ride a bloody horse. Not just because he was going to be an earl, but because his father had
