Page 7 of Holding Onto Love

“No.”

“I won’t tell Jasper.”

“Perhaps not,” she allowed, “but it would be unfair to put you in that position.” She had made the same excuse to Rose Posonby, her first London friend and her fiercest, and to Lady Effie Andini, her truest friend, who had known similar loss.

He gave her a long, studying look. “You truly do not wish to be found?”

A significant question. Vanessa knew Crispin. What he did. How well he did it. She could not flee far enough to hide from him if he chose to find her.

“This is not a game to me.”

He blinked and looked away. Then he shrugged. “And so, farewell, Vanessa. I will see myself out.”

Chapter Three

The Taverstons’ home at 8 Grosvenor Square was palatial as were most all of the homes rounding the square. Lord Jasper Taverston, the fifth Earl of Iversley, had been born there and had grown up running up and down its halls. He loved this house. He appreciated its comforts, luxuries, and pleasant memories. Even so, he could not inhabit the entire monstrous dwelling by himself. Having plentiful staff was not the same as being surrounded by family. The emptiness echoed.

Even the designed-to-appear-intimate morning room felt cavernous. Jasper pushed aside his untouched plate of kippers, snatched his coffee cup, and headed for the stairs. The clacking of his shoes on the marble floor sounded very nearly ear splitting.

Ascending the long, wide, central staircase felt like climbing a mountain. He nearly had to grab the banister and haul himself up. It was depressing to look out over the next several days, weeks, and months, and know there was nothing to look forward to. Crispin had gone back to his regiment. Reg was squirreled away with his new wife. And Vanessa had vanished into thin air.

In the last six weeks, he had made three trips back and forth between London and Chaumbers, his father’s—no, the bloody devil, it was now his—country estate, trying to see to the myriad things that had to be done. And mostly failing. Damn it. He was still without a steward and couldn’t hold the position for the man he wanted much longer.

At Chaumbers, at least he’d been allowed to grieve; mourning his father, of course, but also using that acceptable grief to mask his unseemly pining for his mistress.

That was in private. In London, in public, he must move on. He had dutifully taken his seat in Parliament, listened to speeches, and met with numerous lords on both sides of the aisle, partly for political purposes but also to receive their condolences. When men started to treat him more as a young peer than a bereaved son, he saw that it was time to curtail those comforting visits to the countryside and trust that Mother and Olivia, his sister, were coping on their own.

Well, they had each other.

Father’s—his, damn it—second-floor study, with its small windows and funereally dark décor, had become his breakfast parlor of choice. He set his coffee cup on the desk, an overlarge boxy piece made of mahogany. It had been Grandfather’s. Father had always hated it but would not get rid of it. And now, Jasper sighed, he would keep it as well.

He sat, picked up the morning newspaper, failed to read anything, and finally laid it back down.

The one bright spot had been Reg’s wedding to Georgiana. His youngest brother looked contented. One might even say that he looked happy. And Georgiana was radiant. Jasper had once imagined she would make him a perfect countess, but she was a more perfect sister-in-law. A fortunate turnabout, really. She was too chilly for his taste.

Naturally, his friends had ribbed him for the ludicrous failure of his courtship, but it was kindly meant since ignoring the farce would have been awkward. And since no one in the world could think badly of Reg, those who knew them accepted it for what it was: an unexpected love match.

No. All well and good to tell himself that. The truth of it was that he was sick to death of arses slapping his back and telling him his botched suit caused them financial ruin. They had all laid their wagers at White’s upon expectations of his success. Har-har-har!

Good God! How could he be both desperate for company and yet sickened by it?

At least the matchmaking mamas were biding their time. Or perhaps he was simply adept at avoiding them. He accepted no dinner invitations and attended no ton functions. He was not only in mourning but had soured on the prospect of marriage.

He rose and paced. His footsteps fell along worn spots in the carpet. Apparently, his father had been a pacer as well.

What he needed was to see Vanessa. Not to beg her to take him back. He wouldn’t put her through another parting, not for all the world, not even to do it correctly this time. But he needed to see her for practical reasons. To settle things.

He had been to the house, the one they’d shared for four years. Four years! Though “shared” might not be the correct word. He’d leased it for her, but when in London, he spent most of his evenings with her and was often, usually, still there in the mornings.

Once he’d established that she left no letter for him, and no indication of where she had gone, he told his man of business to dispose of everything and cancel the lease. He wanted no reminders. He had to let go. But how ridiculous of her to disappear like this! Almost…spiteful. She knew how worried he would be.

Well and so, he was bringing to bear the full force of his newly enhanced authority. He’d sent a card to Vanessa’s solicitor, asking him to come around to the house for a meeting. Summoned by an earl, Mr. Collingswood had no option but to come.

Jasper piddled away the morning perusing the newspapers, still retaining nothing from them. When his stomach began rumbling, he rang for sandwiches. Thus fortified, he studied the text of a speech that his friend, Viscount Haslet, would be reading on the floor sometime in the next few weeks. Nitpicking about a new tax on leather. Hazard was a Whig. Jasper was a Tory from a long line of staunch Tories. Sparring over politics could prove diverting.

Jasper had taken off his jacket and shoes and was sipping tea and marking a few points on Hazard’s speech when Finley appeared at the door. Finley, the under-butler, was in charge since Peters was still at Chaumbers. Finley did a fine job but had a nervous edge that could be irksome.

“Yes?”