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Chapter Seventeen
May 25, 1819
Fuck, fuck, fuck! What am I doing here?
As Percival stared at the façade of the townhouse where his wife’s sister resided from the relative privacy of his carriage, a sudden bout of unease slammed into him.
It had been a week since that disastrous ball where he’d said the words that had wounded Lavinia, seven whole days since he’d last seen his wife, for she hadn’t been in residence when he’d stumbled home from his club that night. Way too many days since he’d last indulged in the demon brandy that had the power to yank away everything he’d held dear.
And he wasn’t about to square with that potential loss. Neither would he declare defeat.
Yet would she receive him now after he’d uttered such horrible things?
The soft sound of rain drumming against the roof of the vehicle lulled him into a false sense of calm. You can do this, Laughton. She’s your wife. Go in there and speak your truth. It was much the same thing Lord Randolph had told him earlier that day when he’d come to visit. During that quick meeting, his best friend had more or less ordered Percival to make up with his wife so he could believe in love again as well as let Lavinia match him.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and stop making excuses,” Lord Randolph had said.
“But the things I accused her of—”
“Can easily be explained if you pull your head out of your arse and talk to her.”
“But—”
“I won’t hear anything else. You love her; she loves you. Go make it right.”
At which point, his friend had more or less marched him upstairs to attend to personal hygiene while he’d conferred with the valet. He didn’t leave the house until Percival had been presentable.
Now, with a sigh, Percival pushed open the door and then exited the carriage. He glanced at his driver. “I’m not certain how long I’ll be, Tommes. Could be mere minutes, could be a few hours.”
By Jove, if it was within his power, he wouldn’t leave without bringing Lavinia back to his townhouse—their home. Yet, he needed answers if only to put his worry, his own hurt to rest.
“I understand, Your Lordship. From what I’ve heard, you have an uphill battle ahead of you.”
Bloody hell. Of course the gossip would have run through every circle of London like wildfire. “Perhaps, but I rather hope not. It’s merely a matter of understanding and forgiveness on both our parts.” He held out his gloved hands. Not one tremor. That was all to the good. “Why don’t you return to Laughton House? If I have need of you immediately, I’ll send word.”
“As you wish. Good luck.”
“Thank you. I’ll need it.” As the wheels of the carriage turned and the muted clip clop of the horses’ hooves rang in the damp air, Percival sighed. It was time to claim that future he wanted. Seconds later, he knocked on the green-painted door.
The same woman he’d encountered before pulled open the panel. “I’d hoped you’d call, Your Lordship.”
Well, that was a surprise. He’d fully expected open hostility from her staff. “What is amiss? Is Lady Laughton well?” The knots of worry in his belly pulled tight. Had she fallen into a decline since he’d last seen her?
“She is lost, I think.” The housekeeper shrugged as she stepped aside so he could enter. “Some days she cries. Some days she keeps to herself. Not even Miss Thompson can cajole her into a better mood. And some days when she leaves the house according to her schedule, she returns and looks sad.”
“I know exactly how she feels.” He waited until she closed the door before speaking again. “Where is Miss Thompson?” What he wished to say to his wife would prove rather awkward with her sister watching.
“Out. She said she had a few meetings today and would return for tea.”
Damn. That didn’t give him much time, perhaps three hours at best. “Where is Lady Laughton?”
“The last I saw her, she was reading in the drawing room. If she’s not there, then she’s already retired abovestairs for the day.”
“Thank you.” He took a few steps along the corridor toward the stairs. “Oh, and please see we’re not disturbed. This conversation is too important for interruptions. Unless the house is on fire or someone is in danger of imminently dying, do not come in.”
The housekeeper nodded. “I understand, and I hope you can bring back her spark.”
“So do I.” In short order, he’d gained the drawing room where he’d learned so much about Lavinia’s life that day she’d taken Deborah to tea with her sister. Pausing at the threshold, he scanned the room. His wife sat upon one of the sofas with her bare feet propped up on an embroidered footstool. It was perhaps the dearest site to see those delicate pink toes. A gown of jonquil silk clad her frame and lent a splash of needed color to the dreary day. Her eyes were closed with her head resting against the back of the sofa. A book lay open on her lap.
