Page 42 of An Enchanting Dare

Chapter 15

Dear Bert and Pike,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you received the parcel I sent. I know full well you would have shared most of it among those you consider worse off, but I hope you saved some of it at least.

Pike, have you been practising your letters? I will expect to see progress when next I visit. This evening I shall attend a very lavish party in a vast castle, the likes of which would make your eyes stand out of your head, and I shall tell you all about that, too.

It seems strange now, when I think how badly I longed to return to my rightful place in the world, but I miss you both. I am displaced, neither fish nor fowl, which is ridiculous. I am an earl, in a long line of noblemen, and yet after a few short months seeing the world through your eyes I am not the same man – thank God. I am blessed and cursed at once, for now I can make amends for the mistakes of my past, and yet I am all at sea. I do not know who I am any more. I feel like an imposter, trying to play the part of a good man when I know my soul is still black as pitch. Will it get better, do you think? If I keep playing the part, will that long forgotten decency I destroyed so thoroughly heal and repair until I am whole again? I hope so, even if I do not deserve it.

― Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Maxwell Drake, Earl of Vane to Mr Burt Clump and Master Pike.

30th June 1841, Lady Trevick’s Summer Ball, Trevick Castle, Warwickshire.

Aisling’s hand trembled upon the doorknob as it turned, but she opened it and walked in, head held high, and then stopped in her tracks.

He was lounging in a chair, long legs stretched out in front of him in an indolent pose, a glass of liquor dangling causally from his fingers.

“Lady Aisling. So good of you to join me,” he murmured. He got to his feet, the movement lazy but no less elegant for that. He grinned and executed a formal bow.

“What do you want?” Aisling said, her voice cold. “If you’ve come to cause trouble—”

“Trouble?” His eyes glittered with amusement, such a strange colour they were. Almost violet. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

She watched him watch her as she moved farther into the room, with the unnerving sensation she had stepped into some wild creature’s lair.

The door flew open again with a crash, and Aisling gasped as Sylvester burst into the room. He took one look at the Marquess of Kilbane, and his gaze darkened.

“You bastard!”

Aisling gave a little shriek and leapt in front of him, her hands pressed flat on his chest. She knew she might as well try to hold back the tide if he didn’t want to heed her, but he stilled, his gaze flying to hers.

“Why is he here, alone with you? Is he blackmailing you? What is going on?”

The desire to destroy something with his bare hands shone in his eyes. He wanted to protect her, to shield her from harm, and that made her heart ache.

There was a low rumble of laughter from the other side of the room.

“My, my, Mr Cootes. You are quick to leap to conclusions, and not very flattering ones at that. You’ve hurt my feelings.”

“And why shouldn’t I assume the worst where you are concerned, Kilbane?” Sylvester growled, the tension vibrating through him palpable. “Everyone knows what kind of man you are. A libertine and a scoundrel.”

“Sticks and stones,” Kilbane said softly, leaning one arm against the mantelpiece. He took a leisurely sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving Sylvester. “As it happens, you’ve got it all wrong, but then, I am much misunderstood,” he added sadly.

Sylvester snorted in disgust. “I doubt that.”

The marquess laughed and all the fine hairs on the back of Aisling’s neck stood on end because she knew what came next. His languid gaze settled upon her and he smiled, a slow predatory smile that made her heart skittered behind her ribs. “Well, my lady, shall you tell him, or shall I?”

Aisling was almost grateful to him in that moment, grateful to get it all out into the open so Sylvester could finally know the entire story. He deserved that much if she could give him nothing else. She looked up at Sylvester to find his gaze upon her, waiting.

“His brother,” she whispered. “I killed his brother.”

Sylvester stared at her for a long moment during which she held her breath, waiting for him to leave, to see disgust in his eyes. But he reached for her. He took her hand and held on tight, and that connection seemed to be the only substantial thing in the room. She clung to it.

“My older brother, Richard St Just,” Kilbane said pointedly, his expression mild. “The heir.”

There was a prickling silence during which no one spoke. Kilbane moved to the decanter on the sideboard and filled his glass before glancing at Sylvester. “Want one?”

“No,” Sylvester replied, though she suspected he wanted one very much. She certainly did, but she also declined when Kilbane raised a dark eyebrow at her.