Page 36 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

His grandfather had made almost all of Maxim’s life a misery, but blame for the last six years fell squarely on Maxim’s own shoulders. Well, his and Napoleon’s.

When the entire town of Brighton was little more than a speck in the distance, he turned the boat, though his arms and shoulders had not yet begun to burn. The tide was heading out now, the water increasingly choppy, and more than half his work was still to come. His back to the shore, he began to row.

And that was when he noticed the water bubbling through a crack in the bottom of the boat.

He dropped down on one knee to investigate. A small crack. Not much water. Troubling nonetheless. Shrugging out of his coat, the better to free his movements, he began to row faster. More than half the return distance to travel, still, and the crack began to widen. He could feel the drag as the bottom of the boat began to fill with water.

The tin pail he had spotted yesterday was now nowhere to be found. He had nothing more than his hat or his hands with which to bail—and neither would do him a damn bit of good. His lungs began to ache as he willed the boat to move faster, and icy water soaked through the soles of his boots.

When the boat began to ride low enough that waves splashed over the sides, he tugged off his boots and tossed them overboard. Soon enough he would have to swim, and they would only weigh him down.

A hundred yards from shore, the crack became a gash, as the water grew ravenous and began to tear the little boat asunder, the better to devour it. Dropping the oars, he gathered his resolve, stood, and dove.

He remembered nothing of the accident that had split his face and nearly his skull, mangled his leg, and almost cost him his life. But surely this pain must be comparable? His lungs, his heart, his muscles all screamed in protest at the cold and the effort required to fight against the outgoing tide, to gain even an inch toward shore.

Give up! His grandfather’s ghost was in the waves and wind, howling at him to surrender, dragging him under. His feet touched bottom.

Do you like what you see? Caro’s voice, this time. The challenge in Caro’s flashing eyes.

Yes, he wanted to call out, yes! His feet touched bottom, but his head was still above water.

He dragged himself along the sea floor—scraping and scrabbling with toes, knees, hands—as every few moments a wave washed over him, stealing his breath, knocking him down. A few yards more, a few feet more…

Finally, he collapsed onto the pebbled beach and everything went dark.

* * * *

After breakfast in her chambers, Caro went down to the drawing room in ample time to be there before Fanny arrived and ready to distract her friend from noticing the shadows beneath her eyes.

She wasn’t sorry she’d said those things to her husband—sorry was for children, just as she’d told him. But the finality of it still sent a pang through her heart. Somehow, hope had managed to lie dormant there after all that had happened, after all this time.

Well, it surely had been rooted out for good now.

She sat down at her writing desk. Her father’s letter was still awaiting a response, and if she began it now, she would have a ready and honest excuse to explain her foul mood when her friend arrived. Should she plead with Papa, or tell him to do his worst? If she had two thousand pounds, she wouldn’t give it to him. At least, she didn’t think she would. Since she didn’t have anything approaching that sum, the question of what she would do with it was moot.

As she reached for the drawer, her eyes fell on a large wooden crate on the floor beside the desk.

She had just knelt to investigate when Fanny entered at the far end of the room. “Oh,” Fanny said, “those must be the important papers my footman was sent to retrieve.”

Caro had forgotten all about her husband’s urgent business in London. She eyed the crate skeptically. “What sort of papers, I wonder?” They didn’t look terribly important, tucked into a corner and ignored.

Fanny shrugged and came toward her, holding out a hand to help her rise. “Who can say? But how are you feeling?”

“Oh, much improved,” Caro said, glancing over her shoulder at the crate.

“And yesterday—”

“There’s absolutely nothing to discuss. Or forgive,” she added preemptively, looping her arm through Fanny’s as they turned and walked toward the sofa. “Hartwell has always invited sordid speculation and vicious rumors. Who can say what he might be capable of? Certainly, when I married him, I hardly knew what to believe.…”

Once more the crate drew her eye, as yesterday’s words came rushing back to her.

I don’t know you.

Might that unassuming box contain something that would at last truly help her understand her husband?

She thought back to the fear she had glimpsed in his eyes when she had mentioned the prospect of her going to his grandfather. What sort of man had the late duke been? And what had happened to create the gulf between him and his grandson and heir?

“How difficult would it be to open such a crate?” she asked.