The Determined Lord Hadleigh Read online

  ‘We need to talk, I think.’

  She dropped her embroidery into her lap, face down in case he saw it, and stared up at him. ‘There is no we in this situation, Lord Hadleigh. If there is talking to be done in my chambers, then I will do it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He looked ridiculously handsome and uncomfortable, and she hardened her heart against the way it fluttered at the sight.

  ‘You lied to me. Perhaps not to my face, but certainly by omission. I am not entirely sure where such a deed stands in legal terms—but know that you would call foul if faced with similar deceptions in court. Worse, you wilfully went behind my back again when I expressly asked you not to.’

  ‘I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Perhaps—but dishonestly. Although I am sure you convinced yourself it was for my own good.’

  ‘All I wanted to do was give you and Freddie a decent start after the government saw fit to—’

  Penny held up her hand. ‘Fifty guineas is a decent start and it is all I will take with me once this job is done.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ He had the gall to look exasperated. ‘It was not meant like that and you know it. You are choosing to be offended, Penny, by something that was only well meant.’

  ‘Be careful, my lord, as it sounds as though you are on the cusp of justifying your actions by telling me it was all for my own good, when we both know this is more for your own good, ultimately, than anyone else’s.’

  ‘That accusation is unfair. I stood to gain nothing from it, nor did I expect anything in return.’

  ‘Really? Nothing?’

  ‘If you are alluding to that kiss and suggesting my motives were—’

  ‘This has nothing to do with that kiss and everything to do with whatever nonsense you choose to believe in your head!’ Penny stood then, clenching her fists at her sides rather than grabbing him by his shoulders and shaking him. ‘How dare you underestimate me! How dare you trivialise all that I have achieved in the last six months to assuage your own guilty conscience!’ His face had paled, hardened. ‘You once took great offence at my calling your benevolence blood money—yet you are a hypocrite, Lord Hadleigh, for that is exactly what it is! I know next to nothing about your mother and her suffering or your part in that—but I do know that you cannot use mine to try to make amends for your guilt regarding her! Because it will not work. You can give me your entire fortune, spread it liberally among every abused wife and Christendom if you think it will help, but those demons will still be there waiting for the day you finally choose to stop being a coward and face them.’

  His body jerked backwards as if she had slapped him. Then he stalked out of the room, slamming her door hard behind him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hadleigh buried himself in his work for two days and avoided the wench. For the first day, he had been outraged. Royally so. That she could take something noble, something well meant and selfless and throw it back in his face with such venom beggared belief. He had ridden home on the cold, dark road to London imbued with the justified anger of the self-righteous and then lain awake all night castigating himself for poking his nose in when, patently, he should have left well alone for all the thanks he received. There was proud and there was stupid.

  Why should he care what became of her? She wasn’t his responsibility. She was nothing to him... Nothing!

  Except he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that lie—because she was something to him. He wasn’t entirely sure what, or entirely certain what he felt about it, but he did know he hated to think of her co-existing beneath the same sky as him and hating him.

  That uncomfortable truth proved to be a gateway for many others and forced him to do a great deal of introspection over the subsequent day while he licked his wounds in town. Hiding again, but this time from a woman who barely reached his shoulder rather than a house he would rather forget he owned, and one who had the power to prick his conscience, prod at his heart and who called to his soul without uttering a word.

  Thanks to her, it had been the single most unproductive day of his professional life. He couldn’t focus on his pressing case preparations at all, so in desperation had headed to Newgate to see if he could break the last remaining three traitors who were determined to take their chances with the jury. A huge error of judgement, because he lost his temper, when he prided himself on never losing his temper. Yet for some reason, the cool, calm, reasonable lawyer he was had packed his bags and disappeared somewhere on the long road from Chafford Grange alongside the emotional numbness he felt so comfortable with.

  He blamed Penny entirely for that. Thanks to her and her blasted hat analogy, he couldn’t stop remembering his mother. His mother had loved a hat. Ridiculous confections with wide brims and tall feathers that always matched her vivid gowns. For a woman with sedate tastes in decor and furniture, her vibrant choice of gowns might have surprised some, but they matched her character to perfection. She had been vibrant. Fun, whimsical. He could once again hear her laughter, which he had adored, and her horrendous singing, which had grated on each one of his nerves. Yet despite her lack of talent, she had loved to sing and dance. She had taught him to waltz one weekend when the snow had been so deep outside they couldn’t risk going out. He had been reluctant. She had been relentless.

  A force of nature.

  Much like Penny in many ways. Neither woman had allowed the pockets of bad in their lives to suffocate their spirit. Neither liked to wear the hat of victim. Both were proud and stubborn and not afraid to put him in his place. His mother would have approved of Penny.

  Good grief, he missed her. Missed the sight of her in the mornings before he started his working day, missed the quiet way she made him take regular breaks or ensured everyone’s comfort. The lilting sound of her voice in the hallway. The glimpses he stole of her with Freddie in the garden every afternoon, where she swung him around and laughed with such joyful abandon he was always tempted to join them, but never did because he didn’t want to encroach. The proud set of her shoulders when she refused to budge. The way he could always see the truth swirling in her lovely blue eyes. The way his body reacted to her presence every single time she was near. The way she had kissed him. Made his house feel a lot like home again.

  His rooms in the Albany felt so impersonal and empty now. Soulless. He longed for home. He longed for her.

  Then Hadleigh had sat bolt upright in bed. Wondering why the blazes he was trying to sleep when he needed to make it right? Hastily, he had pulled on fresh clothes and stuffed more in a bag. Necessity meant he had to head back there in the morning anyway, he reasoned. There was so much work to do, travelling back and forth would only waste time. It was his house, for pity’s sake—his home—so he was perfectly entitled to stay in it and if he was there, constantly under her nose, they would have to muddle through all the awkwardness anyway and reach an accord. Besides, he had things to tell her. So many things he had no idea where to start or how to explain it. But she was right, damn her. He had to face his demons, because since she had forced him to see how they controlled him still, he now realised how much they defined him...when he was so much more than that.

  Like a madman possessed, he’d piled papers and documents and legal reference books on to his desk, then scratched out a note to his valet ordering to have the lot delivered to Chafford Grange as soon as he woke up, alongside more clothes and his shaving gear. Only then had he retrieved his bewildered horse from the stables and ridden it through the small hours to be where she was.

  Now that he was here, he realised it was still more night than morning. The house was plunged into darkness. And while there were soft lamps burning for the men on the watch, there were still a few hours before the first servants would rise and a few more before he would see her at breakfast.

  He considered heading directly to the music room and working, but knew he would be incapable of concent
rating until he had spoken to her, so instead took the servants’ stairs, creeping quietly to his memory-free guest room to wait out the rest of the night and try to get all the words he wanted to say in an order in which they would be coherent.

  ‘Lord Hadleigh?’ Her dark head appeared out of a crack in her door and he winced. ‘Are you aware that it is only three o’clock?’

  ‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to wake you.’

  ‘You didn’t. Freddie did. Again. Over an hour ago and now I am wide awake.’ Her eyes drifted to the fat satchel in his hand and then back up to his with alarm. ‘Please tell me you didn’t just ride all the way here...all alone? In the dead of night when anything could have happened to you!’

  That sounded encouragingly like she still cared, and he found himself smiling. ‘I couldn’t sleep...and I have all these things whirring in my head.’ It was late. He was irrational. But so relieved to see her. ‘I don’t suppose you could spare me an hour tomorrow to tell you a long, rambling and doubtless disjointed story which will probably make no sense? Only I seem to have lost the ability to be thorough and meticulous because I need to get it out.’

  Her door opened fully and she stood in the space with her arms folded, her bare toes just poking beneath the lacy hem of her nightrail. ‘I could spare you an hour now, if you’d like.’ She gestured behind him with a nod of her head. ‘Why don’t you drop of your bag while I fetch you something to drink? You look frozen to the bone.’

  It had been icy, he supposed, because he recalled how his breath had made clouds swirl around his face, but he had been so consumed with the need to get to her he had ignored it—but it explained why his hands, feet and nose felt numb. Yet, for once, the rest of him didn’t. There were feelings, hundreds of them, all so confusing and jumbled, vying for attention and a good airing, he didn’t know where to start to attempt to unpick them.

  But he did as she asked, dropping the heavy satchel on his mattress and wandering back to her room. Discarded next to her chair was her embroidery hoop. Without thinking he picked it up and chuckled. The design was crude, the colours garish, the stitching uneven. How marvellous. She was no embroiderer, but persisted regardless. How perfectly...Penny.

  ‘It’s a shocking mess, isn’t it?’ She was carrying a decanter and two glasses. ‘But I cannot bring myself to give it up. Despite my lack of talent, I’ve always found it relaxing.’

  ‘My mother used to embroider.’

  ‘Was she any good at it?’

  ‘She was. Excellent, in fact. But she often used her skills for evil. She sent me off to university completely unaware that she had stitched flowers on my drawers for her own amusement. Roses, periwinkles, daisies...a different, huge and flamboyant display on every single pair.’

  ‘Poor you.’ But she was smiling as she poured them both a brandy and handed one to him before sitting opposite him. ‘That was evil.’

  ‘There was, apparently, a practical reason, too.’ Inadvertently, the memory had offered him a way in. ‘She wanted those flowers to make me think twice before I—’ how to put it delicately? ‘—sowed too many wild oats.’

  ‘Did she succeed?’

  ‘Not entirely... I sowed my fair share...but I had more pertinent reasons to be discerning than the bright pink peonies festooned over my unmentionables.’ Hadleigh took a deep breath. Sat forward in his chair. It was long past time to tackle those demons head on. ‘My father had syphilis. Was riddled with it, actually. It is what killed him. Frankly, hardly a surprise because he was an indiscriminate and undiscerning philanderer. The disease ate at his brain and rendered him mad by the end. He was only fifty-five.’

  ‘Is that what made him violent?’ Clearly she understood he needed to purge himself.

  ‘No. That was there all along, he always had a violent temper, but it exacerbated it. He was a cold man. Uninterested most of the time in anything not about himself. The awful temper only showed itself occasionally. Of course, I might be wrong for we rarely saw him. After I was born my parents lived largely separate lives. He stayed in London, in close range of the hells or brothels he enjoyed, or with his latest mistress. He always had at least one on the go. Usually more. He never hid that and if my mother disapproved of his lifestyle she hid it well. Even as a child I understood she disliked the man she had married. It was a loveless union and she did once confess not of her choosing. But she loved his estate. Loved living in this house.’

  ‘The pride she took in it is evident everywhere. This is a beautiful house.’

  ‘She would be pleased to hear that...’ It would be easy to change tack now and avoid the demons, but it would give him little temporary relief rather than exorcise them as he knew he should. Purging himself here with Penny was a necessary first step. ‘As the disease progressed, that part of his character became more prominent until eventually there was nothing else left.’ Hadleigh took a sip of his brandy. Dutch courage. The amber liquid felt smooth and warm on his tongue, but did nothing to ease the pain. ‘I suppose I first learned of the violence the summer I turned fifteen. He had been ill and had come home to convalesce. I have no idea if that was anything to do with the syphilis or even if he had the pox at that stage. My parents kept it from me, but I do know that the oasis I had grown up in changed that year. The smallest thing would ignite his temper and the way it exploded and stole away all reason was terrifying. They would argue behind closed doors—usually in either his bedchamber or hers—although now that I think about it, those arguments were one-sided. I heard his ranting, never hers. That’s when the clumsiness started with a vengeance and she would tell lies about how she acquired the bruises.’

  ‘She wanted to protect you.’

  ‘And I wanted to protect her, but she wouldn’t let me. It was my mother who locked the doors to prevent me barging in. I assume now that was to ensure he never took his temper out on me, but I would rather he had. I felt so powerless. And I hated him! So much it began to gnaw away at me. I planned to kill him. A foolish, childish plan which I had all meticulously worked out. I was going to shoot him late one night on the toll road and blame it on footpads. I had stolen my grandfather’s old pistol from the gun cabinet, lead and shot and I spent that entire summer learning to shoot the damn thing. I took out so much anger on those targets...’

  His voice petered out and he sighed. ‘But when push came to shove, I couldn’t do it. I had him in my sights. Drunk on the road, exactly as I had envisaged it, yet I couldn’t pull the blasted trigger.’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t.’ He felt her hand brush his arm and brought his other up to capture it, needing the contact. ‘You are a man of high principles. Never regret refusing to compromise them that night. It would have been a dreadful burden to bear.’

  ‘Better than knowing my father killed my mother when I was too busy studying for my own selfish reasons far away? I don’t think so.’

  ‘He killed her.’ She intertwined her fingers with his, her expression distraught on his behalf, and he gripped them for all he was worth. ‘Here at Chafford Grange?’ He watched fat tears gather on those ridiculously long lashes, swell, then trickle slowly down her cheeks. Tears for his mother. Tears for him. Tears that humbled him. His own eyes prickled with a decade’s worth of unshed tears. He bit his back and tried to be matter of fact to get the rest of the gruelling story out.

  ‘Yes. Here. I am not altogether sure how it happened, but it was late. Past bedtime. The servants heard him shouting and her trying to placate him, but by the time they had run to her aid it was too late. They found her at the bottom of the stairs.’ Hadleigh felt his voice choke. ‘She was already dead.’

  ‘You blame yourself.’

  ‘I should have been there.’ He practically gulped down the rest of his brandy as he allowed the anger to burn. Feeling more comfortable with that than the grief which sliced like a sabre and demanded release. ‘I begged her to leave not a week before, aske
d her to come back with me to London, but she refused to leave her home or him in his hour of need. She felt sorry for him, can you believe that? Didn’t want him to have to face dying all alone when even his wits had deserted him.’

  ‘That she could was testament to the sort of woman she was.’

  ‘She was stubborn.’

  ‘A trait you both share. What happened to your father?’

  ‘He died a few months later. Unlike her, I happily allowed him to do so all alone and good riddance to him. That was nearly ten years ago. I keep thinking what a significant milestone that is. Ten whole years when I remember it all as if it were yesterday.’

  ‘Of course you do. From my own experiences of losing a parent, the pain never goes. You just find a way to cope with it. For me, I always try to focus on the good memories for they are the most fitting tribute to the two wonderful people who raised me.’

  ‘My memories are too bad. Too painful. Wrapped in guilt and layered with regrets.’

  ‘Is that why you never came here?’

  He nodded, swallowing past the tight knot of emotion which was making it so very hard to breathe. ‘I’d managed to avoid it and block it out of my mind till you came along and I reopened Pandora’s box.’ He sighed, accepting defeat, and shook his head. ‘That’s not entirely true...’ They both deserved the truth, although whatever that truth was he was yet to rationalise it. ‘This year I killed a man, Penny... Saint-Aubin.’

  ‘The monster who imprisoned Jessamine?’

  Hadleigh nodded. ‘And the strangest thing is I am not the least bit sorry for it. In that moment, when faced with the stark choice of either killing him or allowing him to kill my friend, I aimed and fired without a second thought—but that has stirred things up in here.’ He tapped his head. ‘Reminding me that I had the chance to do it before and failed to step up to the mark.’

  He must have allowed the full extent of that burden to show on his face, all the guilt and shame at his inadequacy, because she cupped his cheek tenderly, smoothing the lines of pain which etched themselves deep in his face, and sighed. ‘You are wrong to punish yourself.’