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Chapter Eleven
Reginald, the newly named Marquess of Hurrow, stood at the familiar door. He’d slipped away during the night, his father having retired early. Reginald was quite sure that the servants had probably seen him leave, but he had every intention of returning to the townhouse by morning. He knew when he was trapped.
Gathering his courage, Reginald raised a hand and knocked on the door. For a moment, time seemed to stop. Behind him, Reginald heard the sounds of London. He heard the ladies in the nearby brothel cajoling men as they walked by, and he heard the laughter of a crowd leaving the nearby theater. All the noise sounded very far away, though.
The door opened, and a woman with blonde hair and sharp green eyes met his gaze. It was Mrs. Emma Smythe. At the sight of him, she drew in a sharp gasp. “My—My Lord!” she blurted out.
“Hello,” Reginald said awkwardly.
Emma Smythe dropped into an awkward, unpracticed curtsey. “I apologize. I didn’t anticipate your arrival, My Lord.”
Reginald felt a lump lodge itself in his throat. Once, this same woman had called him Reginald. Neither she nor her husband had known about Reginald’s profession as a highwayman, but Reginald and Matthew Smythe frequented the same pawnshop, which was where all poor men went when they had desperate need. They’d become acquaintances from there and later friends.
Emma Smythe used to greet Reginald with hearty embraces and gentle, teasing questions.Had he kept her dear Matthew from an evening of debauchery?She’d liked to ask that, the joke being that Matthew Smythe was one of the most moral men that any Londoner would ever meet.
“You don’t have to do all this, Emma,” Reginald said quietly. “I’m still the same person.”
Emma furrowed her brow. “I—if you say so, My Lord.”
There were footsteps behind her, and Matthew joined her. His brown eyes were wide, and his jaw quite literally dropped in shock.
“I was in London,” Reginald said. “I thought I’d come see some old friends. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Charles or Edward of late?”
“Not since they were released from the gaol,” Matthew said slowly. “On your father’s orders. Or so I’ve been told, My Lord.”
“Reginald,” he insisted. “Surely, I’ve known you long enough that there’s no need for formality. Nothing has changed between us.”
“Everything has changed,” Emma said softly.
Reginald nodded haltingly. He tried to keep a cheerful expression on his face, but it was difficult. Somehow, he’d imagined this meeting very differently. He’d imagined being greeted as he always was and treated as he always was, maybe with a few more jokes at his expense. Instead, it was as if receiving a title had pushed him even further from this once familiar world.
“You could act a little happier to see me if you’re suddenly so concerned with respecting my position,” Reginald said, hoping to lighten the dour mood between them. “I’ve come with a proposition for you, Matthew.”
“We are happy to see you,” Matthew said. “It’s just that we hadn’t…expected you. I think I may be in a dream, actually. I’m not entirely sure this is real.”
“Shall I stab you with one of your wife’s hat pins to prove it?” Reginald asked.
Emma smiled, and a new brightness came to her fair face. Maybe it would just take a little time for everything to return to normal. At least, Reginald hoped it would.
“I think it must be a dream now,” Emma said. “We both know I’ve only one hat pin, and it was a gift. Come in, although you’ll need to forgive the mess.”
“Ah, yes,” Matthew said. “Do try to be quiet, too. The children are asleep.”
Reginald entered and found the Smythe residence to be quite as he’d left it. The family lived in a single large room, which was separated into three with sheets hanging from the ceiling. Through one sheet, Reginald could see a bed, which he knew the children slept in. The other bed belonged to Matthew and Emma, and it looked quite sad and dismal in a way that Reginald had never noticed before.
Still, they were more fortunate than some. Matthew and Emma’s little hovel had a fireplace and more space than some of the poor souls in Southwark, who lived in cramped apartments, stacked atop one another in a mockery of fine townhouses.
“Are you hungry?” Matthew asked. “We could offer you some bread and butter, My Lord. It is ‘My Lord,’ isn’t it?”
Reginald suspected the offered food was meant to be Matthew’s breakfast, so he shook his head. “No, I’m quite well-fed,” Reginald replied. “And you don’t need to call meMy Lord. I insist.”
Unlike this poor family and most of his London acquaintances. Reginald felt a sharp sting of guilt in his chest. Simply sending letters to everyone sounded cowardly to him, but it might’ve been better for all involved if he’d stayed far away from them all. This was no longer Reginald’s world, but unfortunately, thetondidn’t feel like his world, either.
Matthew dropped into a chair by the table, and Reginald took a place across from him. It felt strangely like a mockery, a theatrical rendition of the day’s events.
“I don’t know if that’s appropriate, My Lord,” Matthew said.
“You’re one of my oldest friends,” Reginald said. “Please. It’s always Reginald for you and your lovely wife.”
