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“Thank you,” Reginald said. “That’s very kind of you.”
It was probably proper to say something more or to see them out himself, but Reginald was beyond caring. Why should he pretend that he was a proper gentleman when it was so apparent that he was not? Blaire would know what he meant, and she would understand the depth of his emotions, even if he couldn’t properly put them into words.
Blaire stood, her gown falling around her like water. She gave Reginald a soft, sympathetic smile as she left. Simon turned to leave, but he paused. Reginald tensed and waited. His cousin opened his mouth like he meant to say something, but then, he went on without saying a word.
“Finally,” Reginald muttered. “They’ve left at last.”
He felt cruel for being so utterly relieved by their absence. His aunt’s, anyway. She’d been so patient with him and so gracious, even as he took the title Marquess of Hurrow. With a sigh, Reginald withdrew a bit of paper from his desk. He took a quill in hand, and his heart ached. Quills and ink reminded him of Marcella and all her ambitions.
She was a strong woman, and she’d been right about one thing. Marcella wasn’t suited for marriage. She’d have been happier if she’d been allowed to remain on her own, and as a parting gift, Reginald would give her that as best as he could.
My Dearest Marcella—
Perhaps he shouldn’t call her that. She’d still be angry with him. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how she’d looked in the days before, with her bright hazel eyes and cheerful smile. Reginald didn’t want his last memory of Marcella to be with her face flushed and her eyes angry.
Reginald shook his head. He wasn’t a man of letters and had never resolved to be. No, he would do better to say what he wanted and quickly. It was time for him to cease pretending to be something he wasn’t.
I suppose I should apologize for my behavior towards you. While I do still believe that we’ve both committed errors in our marriage, I feel as though mine was the greater one. I always detested the ton for being frivolous and shallow, and in marrying you for your fortune, I became the very thing I despised, even if I intended on marrying you with good intentions.
He dipped his quill into ink, spattering it on his paper. Reginald grimaced. His mind had already drifted to lovely Marcella with her ink-stained fingers. He wondered what she would think of this, him bent over his desk in the same pose which she often used when she was writing her novels. She’d have all the time in the world to write her novels without a husband interfering.
I suppose I must be honest now—or as honest as I can bear to be. I left of my own free will all those years ago because I believed—for many reasons—that I could not be a proper Marquess. One of my jests was ill-performed, and I nearly injured myself with my foolishness. My father was devastated.
Reginald straightened his back and stared at the paper. It would be folly for him to lie any longer, but thatone nightstill haunted him as if it was a ghost. He’d held it back for so long, and yet it kept reoccurring. Reginald had assumed it was only that he had no desire to face his past, but now, he wondered if it hadn’t been some ill omen, foretelling of his own doom.
And I spoke with someone very close to me.
Reginald hesitated, the quill hovering just a hairsbreadth from the page. He thought of Marcella again. It would be just as easy to approach the lady in her chambers and to tell her everything, but then, she might persuade him to remain when he was so obviously suited for elsewhere.
This person who spoke to me told me that I was ill-suited to be a Marquess, and I came to believe that he was correct. Because of this, I chose to flee my life as a nobleman. That is the truth of it. I felt as though I was saving the Marquisate and my family name by leaving.
Reginald paused. He took a steadying breath. This was so hard to write that it made his hand shake from the effort of it. There would be no return from this.
So I did. I’d resolved never to return, either, but you know how well I managed that. I tried to be a Marquess, but I realize now how foolish I was. I will leave now for Southwark, and I don’t imagine I’ll ever return. You’ll have the estate and all the money at your disposal, to do with as you wish. Take the life you always wanted, the single life of a writer.
At least, Reginald would be able to make Marcella happy. Deep down, he ached. He loved her still, despite it all, and he was quite certain that he would continue to love her, even if they could never have the happy marriage either of them might have wanted.
Ever Yours,
Reginald
He folded the letter in half and wrote Marcella’s name on it. Then, he set aside his quill. Reginald grimaced. Writing this letter felt as though he was putting the nail in the coffin of his short marriage.
Before he could lose his nerve, Reginald stormed across the room. He left his study and descended the stairs quickly. It was dark, and he was in the countryside, where it was easier to lose one’s bearings and to become lost. He’d escaped Hurrow as an adolescent, though. Reginald could do it again.
He hurried to the stables and retrieved his favorite horse, a gray stallion. The animal whinnied softly at his approach. “Hello,” Reginald muttered, petting the creature’s nose. “You’re a much finer animal than I ever had as a highwayman. I suppose that’s a life ill-suited for you, but it’s well enough for me.”
The horse blinked, gazing at him with a large, brown eye. Reginald smiled. The animal wasn’t the company he wanted, but the stallion was better than nothing. He wondered, then, what had become of the horse he’d left behind in London. Had Edward or Charles taken in the animal, or had the constable received it as a payment for services rendered?
“Shall we, then?”
Reginald saddled the horse with practiced efficiency. The stable was so quiet, understandably for it was very late at night. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but feel as though the world itself was judging him. Even if he knew quite well that he was best suited for Southwark, he still felt like a coward for running.
After the horse was saddled, Reginald clung to the saddle and stared at the grand animal. “Is it an act of cowardice if it’s for the greater good?” Reginald muttered. “If it’s truly what’s best, is that not instead an act of great mercy?”
The horse had no answers, but the animal shifted on its hooves. Reginald supposed that was as good of an answer as any. He mounted the horse in a single, easy motion. He would return to Southwark and find Matthew Smythe first, to tell him that he was no longer a Marquess. Matthew would be disappointed, but already, Reginald had paid his friend enough to survive until he could find more work.
Reginald could find Charles and Edward once more. They could be highwaymen again and continue as they had, and Reginald could return to helping in his small way, by giving food and money to those who needed it most. Maybe it wouldn’t be the glorious way he imagined helping those in Southwark, but it was better than nothing. It was familiar and safe.
And there will be no lady to disappoint there.
Reginald urged the horse into a gallop, eager to put as much space between Hurrow and himself as he possibly could. He wondered if Marcella would try to send anyone after him. She was forceful enough and daring enough that he could quite readily imagine her doing that, if only because she wished to have the last word.
He rode onward until Hurrow was but a small, indistinct shape in the distance. And in leaving behind his estate, he left behind also the most magnificent woman he’d ever met.
