Page 42 of Sinfully Daring

“Your mother and father took a boat out with Harry. Thomas has gone to fetch them,” Montagu said.

Rosamund nodded and allowed Matilda to help her stand, sitting heavily in the chair closest to her. Lord Hargreaves approached her, kneeling at her feet, his countenance so bleak she could hardly bear to meet his eyes.

“Tell me what to do,” he said, staring at her and then at Montagu and Mr Knight. “For the love of God, someone tell me what to do because I cannot live with this.”

His voice cracked, such fierce emotion behind the words that Rosamund’s heart went out to him.

“There’s nothing you can do, my friend,” she said gently, needing to comfort him even though she would bear the burden of this day’s work.

Her entire future, which had seemed full of possibilities just hours ago, now lay in ruins because of a woman’s desire to spoil the one bright spot in her husband’s life.

“Friend?” he said, a bitter note to the word. “Some friend I have been to you.”

“You have,” Rosamund said firmly. “We were foolish not to see the danger we were in, but we did nothing wrong, and you are my friend. You always will be.”

She held out her hand to him and Hargreaves took it, his larger hand engulfing hers, his grip warm and sure.

“I would do anything, anything at all, to save you from this,” he whispered.

“I know,” Rosamund said, blinking back tears. “But there is nothing you can do, except tell the truth to anyone who will listen. I… I think you should go now,” she added, as her composure fractured, and she knew she could not remain calm any longer.

“So do I,” Mr Knight said, his expression grim. “Bedwin will be here any moment, and this may not have been your fault, but he’ll want to kill you anyway, Hargreaves. I would if it were my daughter. You’d best make yourself scare until he’s had time to calm down.”

Montagu nodded his agreement. “He’s right, I’m afraid. Come along. This way.”

Hargreaves sent one last look at Rosamund, his frustration at there being nothing he could do to save her palpable, but he left the room, walking as though in a daze, numb with shock.

Chapter 11

Dearest,

I am broken-hearted for you. I know your family will take the very best care of you, but you need only say the word, and I will come.

We are all of us countering the vile story, telling the true version of events to anyone who will listen. Papa is making the rounds of the clubs, leaning on all those men who he holds in his debt, and Mama is frantically writing letters to all her most powerful friends. We both know your papa will tear down the city brick by brick and build it anew before he allows this to ruin you. Have courage, my dear. You have powerful allies and friends who love you. It may take some time, but we will prevail.

You may also take heart from the fact that Lady Hargreaves can never show her face in polite society again. Montagu saw to that. She may have ruined you, but she ruined herself in the process.

―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight) to Lady Rosamund Adolphus (daughter of Robert and Prunella Adolphus, Their Graces, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin).

Night of the 10th of July 1842, Lansdown Place, Sloane Square, Chelsea, London.

Sebastian did not remember the journey back to London, only getting home, too blind with fury and regret to concentrate on what was happening. A vague memory of Gabriel Knight bundling him into his own carriage stirred in his mind, but he did not much care.

Adelia had ruined Rosamund’s life.

Although she’d won, although he’d given in and stayed so she could continue to torment him, she’d had to break the only good thing in his life. He had turned his back on his friendship with Rosamund to keep her safe, had committed himself to never speaking to her again, and it had made no difference.

Impotent fury simmered inside him, the desire to break things overwhelming. So though it was stupid and base, sinking to her own spiteful level, he went straight to Adelia’s room and broke everything he could get his hands on. China figurines and jewellery boxes were smashed against the wall. His wife’s perfume—the one that he’d once thought so lovely, but which now made him ill—filled the room in an overpowering cloud that suffocated him as the delicate bottle exploded against the parquet floor, scattering glass shards. Yet he did not stop, pulling her clothes out of chests and wardrobes, ripping seams and tearing the fine fabric apart. He picked up the chair in front of her dressing table and smashed it down, breaking the looking glass into a thousand pieces. Seven years' bad luck be damned, he’d had a lifetime of bad luck due him the moment he’d said ‘I do’. There was nothing for him in this life to look forward to. No joy, no love, no children, no family. Just Adelia tormenting him over and over. Well, she would have nothing too, then. He would leave in the morning and instruct the servants to close his houses and not allow her entry, and he would cut off her access to his money. He’d give her just enough to survive, but no longer would he pay for these fine dresses. There would be no more jewels and carriages. She’d have to find a lover, a real one this time, to pay for those fripperies if she wanted them that badly.

He was done playing the fool.

Adelia’s lady’s maid came in and gave a little shriek of horror as she saw the destruction he’d wrought.

“Don’t you dare think about clearing it up,” he barked as he stalked past her, heading down to the cellars, where he picked out two bottles of brandy. It was the only way to get through the next few days without doing something truly terrible. Perhaps, by the time he’d sobered up, Montagu, Bedwin, and Knight would have figured a way to save Rosamund, for they had made it very clear his help was not welcome. He would only make everything more difficult if he had a hand in whatever they did to repair the damage Adelia had wrought. The best thing he could do was to stay away and keep his head down. Ha! If only he’d done that from the first. If only he’d stayed away from Rosamund, instead of being drawn towards her kindness, her smile, and her laughter, the sound of which always made his heart feel lighter. It had been pure selfishness. He’d been lonely and wretched, and she had blazed across his world like a beacon of everything he longed for.

Sebastian drank, for no other purpose than to numb himself, though it did not work. All he could think about was Rosamund, how she had looked crumpled on the floor of the parlour, overcome with shock and misery. He had done that, and unless her father and Montagu and their powerful wives could perform a miracle, it could not be undone.

Someone would need to marry her, and quickly. If only he could have been the one to save her, instead of the instrument of her destruction. For a moment he allowed himself the unutterable torture of imagining Rosamund as his wife, of waking to that beautiful face, of all the ridiculous conversations they would enjoy, of the silly bickering and laughter, and sharing his life with her, his bed.