A Sinner No More Page 10

  Lord Glenmor raised his eyebrows at his suggestion, as if surprised he would do such a thing. God help him, what kind of tyrant was he? Maybe Pengrin had good cause to put a bullet through his head. How many others would be just as willing to follow in his footsteps and succeed where Pengrin had failed?

  He glanced at the door Lord Glenmor had departed through several hours earlier. A new set of doors had been installed during his absence and a sturdy bolt added. Two new men recently promoted in the ranks stood guard on the opposite side of the doors, much as the previous two men had done the night he was attacked. It did not make him feel any safer. Someone had gotten past them once and he’d be a fool to think it couldn’t happen again.

  His gaze drifted around the room. Beyond the office there was a bedchamber, rather small and sparsely decorated, lacking any hint of the individual who occupied it. The bedchamber could have belonged to anyone. It was his, yet the room revealed nothing of a personal nature. The office had a sitting area with a small table he supposed was where he took his meals, a desk with a rather extensive library behind it, and a reading area made up of two wingback chairs set in front of a decent sized hearth. On the far side of the room was another door that led to a private billiards room.

  Despite all these amenities, it did not feel like home. It felt like a prison—one of his own making. Frustrated at his lack of success finding the journals, he snatched the stack of letters from his desk and was about to untie the bundle when a brief knock at the office doors interrupted him.

  He sighed and tossed the letters back on the desk. “Come in.”

  The door opened and Rickard, one of the men he’d hired, stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar. There was a well-dressed man on the opposite side. “Lord Tunsten t’see you, m’lord.”

  “Lord Tunsten…?” He had informed certain members of his upper staff that due to his injury, he was experiencing some brief memory lapses, though he did not go into the depth or breadth of their severity. He did not want their pity, nor have them take advantage.

  “Yes, m’lord.” Rickard lowered his voice. His thick cockney accent forced Hawk to strain to make him out. “Viscount. Owes a tidy sum t’ the ’ouse so ’is lordship comes once a month t’ make ’is payments.”

  Payments. Hawk glanced around the room to the pile of ledgers Mr. Bowen had left neatly stacked on his desk. He hadn’t had time to review them in detail, but the name Tunsten rang a bell. He issued a curt nod. “Send him in.”

  Rickard opened the door and Lord Tunsten sauntered in as if he was out for a leisurely stroll. He did not immediately address Hawk, but instead looked around the room. Hawk took the opportunity to make a quick assessment. The viscount was a tall, lanky sort, though not exactly thin. His dark hair was heavily peppered with gray and his nose shot out like a hooked beak. His eyes were small and beady but he missed little. The tightness around his mouth and the way his right thumb continuously rubbed his adjacent forefinger revealed he was not happy about being here. The man had an ego and did not appreciate being indebted, nor reminded of his indebtedness. He thought himself above this. Above Hawk.

  Yet it was his vices—his weakness—that led him to be here. And it was the reminder of that weakness that he despised most of all.

  All of this information filled Hawk’s brain during little more than the time it took to take a cursory glance then swam inside his head, bringing on a wave of dizziness. He reached out and touched the edge of his desk with his fingertips to anchor himself. Was this a memory of the man, or just something that Hawk did—sizing people up in an instant and taking in the information they unwittingly revealed?

  “I had expected the room to look a bit worse for wear,” Lord Tunsten said, turning to face Hawk for the first time. “Given your recent unfortunate incident.”

  Hawk said nothing.

  “The ton is quite abuzz with it. Some say you are dead. Others that your brain has been addled to the point of uselessness.”

  “Ah, well,” Hawk gave a non-committal shrug. “As you can see, both reports are false.” He gave no more information than that. The less people knew about the extent of his injuries, the better.

  “But you did not come out of it completely unscathed, I see.” Lord Tunsten motioned toward the wound on the side of his head. It had healed well, thankfully, and appeared more as a red welt than an open wound. Yet, given its positioning, there was little hiding it.

  “I survived. Lord Pengrin, on the other hand, well…” He let his voice trail off, then smiled. “Do you have something for me, Lord Tunsten, or did you simply stop by to chat?” Lord Glenmor had informed Hawk that he was more often than not a man of few words and the words he did offer were limited and to the point. He did not suffer fools lightly and had little sympathy for those who gambled away their purses and then begged for mercy.

  “Mercy was not generally something in The Hawk’s repertoire.”

  Tunsten’s expression hardened. He did not like being called to task. Likely he wished Pengrin’s bullet had killed Hawk and, given the hate in the viscount’s eyes, if it had been a slow, agonizing death, all the better. Lovely. How nice to engender such devotion in one’s peers.

  Tunsten reached inside his well-tailored jacket and pulled out an envelope too thick to contain a letter or bank draft. “I do not know why you insist on having me deliver this in person. Do you like rubbing my nose in it? Does it give you some kind of perverse pleasure?”

  “I am not the one who risked my fortune on the turn of a card,” Hawk said, motioning toward the table rather than taking the envelope from the viscount. “Nor did I force you to stand at the tables and gamble away what you could ill afford to lose.”

  Funny how when things went sour no one wanted to take responsibility for their part in it.

  Tunsten tossed the payment on the desk behind Hawk where it landed next to the letters, but the viscount did not immediately turn away. His glare cut into Hawk like a knife to the flesh. Hawk refused to flinch or look away. Instead, he raised one dark eyebrow.

  “I despise you,” Tunsten said, the words hissed out of him like acid. “One day you will pay for all the misery you have brought.”

  “Is that so?” Hadn’t he already paid? Wasn’t the loss of his memory enough?

  “Mark my words.” Tunsten took a step back but his expression did not soften. “You are nothing like your brother. His death was a great loss to your family. How disappointing for Lord Ravenwood to know you are now his only heir.”

  “I suspect the latter part of that statement is quite true.” Hawk took a breath, struggling with the anger roiling inside of him. “The former, however, I have my sincere doubts about.”

  Before Tunsten could continue, Hawk looked past his shoulder and called out to Rickard. When the burly man opened the door, Hawk turned his back on the viscount. “Show Lord Tunsten out, would you, Rickard? Our business here is concluded and I find I have grown weary of his company.”

  “You’re filth dressed up in a fancy suit,” he seethed at the dismissal. “Title or no, that will not change.”

  His words sliced into Hawk, cutting deep into the fears he had tried to keep at bay as he discovered more and more about the man he had become. When his memories returned, was this who he would be? This despised creature that thought nothing of destroying his peers as if it was a game? It sickened him. Perhaps he was not much different from Phillip, after all.

  He waited until he heard the main door to the gaming hell close and for his men to throw the bolt across it before he turned and hurled his brandy toward the fire, watching as the flames flared, then settled once more.

  He needed to find those journals. And he needed Madalene to do it. She was all he had, a thin, tethered rope between the man he once was and one he had become. It had been she who had unlocked the memory of what had happened between him and Phillip. Perhaps if she could help him find the journals as well, he would find the rest of the answers he sought. He would discover why he had cha
nged so drastically from the man she claimed was filled with goodness. The man he wanted to be for her again.

  But how in the hell was he to bring her to The Devil’s Lair without ruining her completely? It was impossible. He would die a thousand deaths before exposing her to anything that would cause her pain or upset. She had suffered enough at his hands.

  No, he was on his own. A state he should be all too familiar with.

  Frustrated, he strode to his desk and grabbed the packet of letters, then returned to the wingback chairs by the fire and pulled at the bindings holding them together.

  * * *

  Lady Henrietta circled Madalene staring at the pale blue gown that drifted down her body like a cloud. “I believe this gown is far more suited to you than it ever was me, Miss Cosgrove.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Madalene was not used to such compliments and besides, she and Lady Henrietta were of similar build and coloring, with their blonde hair and blue eyes. Why, they could almost pass for sisters.

  “I do,” Lady Henrietta said. “And your skill with needle and thread is beyond compare. Where did you learn such a skill?”

  “My mother and aunt. After Lord Walkerton relieved my father of his duties, I often took in sewing to help make ends meet and for a brief time worked in a seamstress’s shop.” The memory, never far from her mind, did little to calm her nerves over the upcoming dance Lady Dalridge insisted on taking her to.

  “Do not worry.” Lady Henrietta placed a gentle hand on Madalene’s forearm, as if sensing her fear. Then again, likely she knew a thing or two about facing society while knowing she no longer fit within it. Her scars set her apart, as did Madalene’s background.

  “I cannot help but feel they will recognize I do not belong the moment I step foot through the door.”

  “You are the granddaughter of a baronet, and possess an astonishing amount of poise. You will fit in quite nicely and I suspect none of them will be the wiser. Aunt intends on introducing you as the granddaughter of a longtime friend who has since passed on. I dare say, no one will challenge the great and imposing Lady Dalridge.”

  The way Lady Henrietta imparted that last bit made Madalene smile. “I do wish you were coming, as well.”

  “Oh, well.” Lady Henrietta waved off the comment, her gaze dropping away, but not before Madalene saw the sheen of tears sparking in her eyes. “I think my days in society are over, brief as they were. Between my scars and the horrible fiasco with Lord Pengrin, I have determined I would be better served keeping my own company. I cannot bear the stares and whispers, I truly can’t.”

  Madalene reached out and took Lady Henrietta’s hand. “Forgive me. I should not have suggested such a thing.”

  “It is of no matter.” Lady Henrietta smiled, but it lacked a certain happiness one would expect from such a lovely young woman who should have held the world by the tail. “Now, come. Let us show Aunt how absolutely lovely you look! I will be surprised to hear if you are not the belle of the ball.”

  Madalene’s heart pounded as they entered the grand home of Mr. and Mrs. Lindwell. The American couple had spared no expense. The extravagant décor stopped just short of being garish, though to see the upturned noses of several guests, she may be the only one who thought so. During the short ride over, Lady Dalridge had prepared Madalene for the fact that the Lindwells were not well thought of and only the fact that Mrs. Lindwell was a second cousin to the Duke of Franklyn even remotely allowed them to move about society as if they belonged.

  “Which they don’t,” Lady Dalridge added.

  “Then why are we attending?” Society baffled her. There were so many rules, hidden and otherwise, that made no sense at all. So much emphasis was placed on things no one had any control over, all in an effort to place importance on things that were not really important at all. Titles and wealth and propriety and manners. What did that matter if one did not possess character and goodness and a willingness to help others in their time of need?

  “We are attending, my dear, because entertainments are sparse this time of the year and I thought this might be a good place to start your introduction to society, seeing as your own connection to it is rather thin.”

  It was skewed logic at best, but Madalene didn’t bother questioning it. What good would it do her now? She was trussed up in a fancy dress, her stays pulled so tight her bosom threatened to spill over the bodice. Her hair had been pulled up in what Lady Henrietta referred to as a Grecian style that she would never be able to duplicate in a hundred years. Why, she even had tiny blue flowers that matched her eyes and gown poking out of her tresses as if they’d grown there naturally. It seemed a strange amount of effort to go through just to spend a few hours at a ball she did not particularly desire to attend in the first place.

  “Now, remember,” Lady Dalridge said, as they approached the receiving line populated by Mr. and Mrs. Lindwell and their two daughters, Temperance and Constance. “You are the granddaughter of a dear friend. If they begin to question you in detail, pay them a compliment. It will divert their attention back to their favorite subject.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why, themselves, my dear.” Lady Dalridge snapped her fan open and smiled behind it, her eyebrows lifting in amusement. “You will find most lords and ladies prefer to talk about themselves just slightly more than they like to gossip about their peers. Though not by much.”

  The viscountess’s explanation did not prompt any confidence that Madalene would ever fit into this strange group of people. With each step she longed to do an about face and return to Northill, to the simple life she had left behind, populated with people who put character and substance far above pretty dresses and fancy balls. Yet, in fairness, the titled lords and ladies of her acquaintance were perfectly lovely people. Not once had the Bowens or their close friends looked down their noses at her or treated her as inferior because she did not possess the proper pedigree.

  Perhaps it was she who was guilty of prejudice, basing her assumptions on experiences in her past and using that as a measuring stick for anyone bearing a title. With that thought in mind, she drew a deep breath and stepped in line behind Lady Dalridge to be greeted by the Lindwells and face the gauntlet of the ballroom just beyond.

  “They seem like lovely young women,” Madalene commented with respect to Temperance and Constance Lindwell. Both were of an age close to Madalene’s own one and twenty years and, although twins with similar features, were easily told apart by their divergent coloring. One was light, the other dark. The trouble only came when one had to remember which one was the dark one, and which the light.

  “I suppose they are well behaved and polite,” Lady Dalridge allowed, though it came begrudgingly. “I can only hope they do not attempt to set their caps for James. He is rather susceptible to a pretty face.”

  James Harrow, the Marquess of Ridgemont, was Lady Henrietta’s older brother. He had not been in residence at the time she arrived. Lady Henrietta had told her that he had traveled to visit his close friend, Lord Rothbury, who mostly kept to himself since the death of his wife years past. Would Madalene have been so quickly invited to stay with Lady Dalridge and Lady Henrietta if the marquess had been in residence? Would Lady Dalridge fear she would try to set her cap for Lord Ridgemont as well, in an effort to better herself? She needn’t worry on that account. For as much as Madalene tried to deny it, her heart was otherwise occupied, tied to another gentleman far above her station who barely remembered her, or himself for that matter.

  “Good heavens,” Lady Dalridge muttered as they entered the ballroom. The crush of bodies surprised Madalene. For a family who inspired upturned noses from the ton, they had certainly turned out in droves to attend their party.

  Lady Dalridge slipped an arm through Madalene’s and used her walking stick to poke and prod people out of her way. “Stay close, my dear. We shall find our way through eventually.”

  And they did, though Madalene could not recall it ever taking so
long to traverse the length of a room before. Once on the other side, several younger women quickly vacated their chairs upon coming in contact with Lady Dalridge’s cutting glare. Once seated, the viscountess pointed her walking stick toward the lengthy table filled with sweets and drink in the nearest corner.

  “My dear, might you have the fortitude to bring this old lady a glass of what is likely to be insipidly sweet punch? I find I am quite parched and all of these bodies have this room sorely overheated.” She snapped open her fan and waved it in front of her face. “Why they will not crack open a door I cannot say.”

  “Yes, of course, my lady.” Though the idea of carrying anything through the thick copse of bodies was rather daunting.

  Madalene skirted the edges of the crowd, avoiding eye contact with those she passed, though she could feel several set of eyes upon her, burning into her exposed skin, of which there was far too much for her liking. Did they recognize her as someone who didn’t belong? Did her lack of pedigree emanate outward as if she carried a painted sign over her head?

  She did her best to ignore the stares as she dipped the ladle into the punch and poured a generous amount into an ornate cup with its matching saucer. The Lindwells had spared no expense in order to attract the attention of the ton and, as Lady Dalridge claimed, titled gentlemen for their daughters.

  “Ah, refreshments. I feared I might never make my way through the crowd to find such an oasis.”

  Madalene glanced to her left unsure if the masculine voice addressed her directly or if he simply made the comment to himself. As he was looking straight at her, she assumed the former, but as they had not been properly introduced, she didn’t quite know how to respond. The rules were much different in this world than the one she’d come from and though Lady Dalridge had peppered her with proper etiquette for the past two days, most of what she’d learned appeared to have been forgotten, leaving her to stare blankly at this man in regimental uniform standing next to her.