Highland Awakening Page 10

  She nodded, but it was too late. He’d already gone, slipping silently from her bedchamber.

  Chapter 12

  A few days later, Cam was at Mrs. Trickelbank’s establishment yet again, sitting on the sofa outside the room where Pinfield was “meeting” with Betty, who, it seemed, had become his favorite girl.

  Cam stifled the urge to cover his ears like a child and hum loudly to ignore their exuberant sounds. Instead, he rose and paced the tiny antechamber.

  When he and Pinfield had arrived earlier this evening, they’d gone into the common room, where Pinfield liked to drink a glass or two of brandy and flirt with the girls before retiring to this private room with Betty.

  Henry Whitworth had been in the common room speaking with a willowy blonde—a woman rather opposite in appearance to Esme. When their gazes had met, Whitworth had grinned, like they were two comrades sharing an enjoyable common interest. Cam’s return smile was no more than a baring of teeth.

  Whitworth was an ass.

  And he would be the one Esme would give herself to. This man who would never understand her, not like Cam did. Who couldn’t bring her the satisfaction Cam could. Who would look for and find his true pleasures outside the marriage bed.

  Who would never make her happy.

  Cam swiveled around and stared at the door. Pinfield and Betty were fine, and their night had just begun. They would be perfectly all right if he left them for a few minutes. There had been no evidence of anyone wanting to cause the man harm since they’d begun this seemingly fruitless endeavor months ago.

  Lately, he’d begun to wonder if it wasn’t all just a massive waste of time. Adams didn’t have any real assignments for the Knights, so he’d saddled them with this ridiculous task to…what? Have them prove their mettle when it came to matters of extreme boredom?

  Just in case, though, he locked Pinfield in the chamber, using the key Mrs. Trickelbank had given him. Then he strode down the corridor toward the common room.

  As Cam had expected, Whitworth was still there. He’d been enjoying himself with one blonde earlier. Now that one was gone and another sat on his lap upon a long, red-velvet divan. His hand was up the woman’s skirt, and he was lazily opening his mouth as she fed him grapes.

  A few other men lounged in similar fashions in the room. The girls milled about, giggling, groups of them hovering around each of the men.

  Cam strode right up to Whitworth and sat in an adjacent armchair. “Mind if I join you?”

  He’d tried to sound light and friendly, but the words came out clipped.

  Whitworth looked over the lass’s shoulder at him, chewed his grape, swallowed, and said, “ ’Course not. Care for some brandy?”

  “Whisky,” Cam said.

  Whitworth snorted. “Right. Nothing but a Scottish drink for a Scot such as yourself. How could I forget?” He patted the girl’s rounded behind. “Go on, then, Tess, and fetch the man some whisky.”

  She hopped up and disappeared to do as she was bade. Whitworth watched her, his eyelids at half-mast, while Cam watched Whitworth.

  Whitworth sighed happily as she reached the sidebar. “Surprised I haven’t seen you here before, man. It’s one of my favorite haunts.”

  “Hmm. Well, it’s not one of mine.”

  “Why on earth not?” Whitworth cast his arms in a grand gesture. “Have you seen the ladies here? Prime meat, I say.”

  “Oh? And what of your fiancée? Do you consider her to be prime meat?” The words were out before Cam could check them. Just being near this pompous bag of wind infuriated him.

  Instantly, Whitworth’s face darkened. “I trust you weren’t speaking of Lady Esme? I wouldn’t want to have to call you out, McLeod.”

  “Why not?” Cam demanded. “Afraid for your life?”

  He should be. Whitworth was soft, untrained. He was no warrior. It didn’t matter what weapon was chosen—Cam would beat him in a duel within seconds.

  Whitworth laughed. Cam didn’t.

  “Seems your time away has dis-educated you in the ways of things,” Whitworth said.

  “What ways are those?”

  “There is a code, man. We don’t speak of our families, of ladies, while engaging in these less…er…refined pursuits.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” Whitworth said self-importantly, “ladies of our rank are to be kept in their gilded cages. In every way. You wouldn’t discuss a lady of importance here any more than you’d discuss Tess in the presence of such a lady. Ah, there you are, Tess.” He smiled warmly at the whore as she handed Cam the whisky with a broad wink. Whitworth patted his lap, inviting the woman back onto it.

  “Even after you’re married to such a lady?” Cam asked as Tess wiggled her way into a comfortable position.

  “Oh, especially not then.” Whitworth tilted his head in question. “Have you become stupid in the army? I hear that happens to some. They return from battle dim-witted, and not only from injury, I hear.”

  Cam ground his teeth—if this man had fought against the French, he’d be dead, not merely dim-witted—but he managed a shrug. “Aye, well, I intend to tell my wife everything, if I ever marry.” Which was a stupid thing to say, since he’d never thought about what secrets he’d tell a wife. There was no point—he never planned to have a wife to begin with.

  Whitworth snorted. “Much to your detriment, I’m sure.”

  “Why? I don’t intend to engage in adultery while I’m married. Do you?”

  “Not adultery—of course not. A little fun now and again, though, keeps a man in his prime.”

  Cam glanced around at the giggling whores, many of whom were dressed in a fashion that most ladies of Esme’s class would find appalling—short dresses that revealed ribbon garters, too-small bodices with breasts pouring over their tops, garishly bright cosmetics.

  “The kind of fun to be had here?” he asked Whitworth.

  “Precisely.”

  “If a man is married, that still qualifies as adultery.”

  Whitworth gave him an exaggerated shocked look. “When did you become such a prig?”

  When I saw how my father ruined women’s lives.

  He said nothing. But he remembered the morning when he was about ten years old that he’d found his mother sobbing in her bedchamber. He’d gone next door to his father’s room to investigate and had discovered his father asleep with a naked woman beside him.

  His father had brought one of his mistresses into the house—with Cam’s mother in residence—and hadn’t bothered to hide the woman. Later, with all three children huddled in the corner of the room, he’d shouted to Cam’s distraught mother that he was the Earl of Sutton and had the right to bed whomever he damn well pleased. And furthermore, he’d prefer to bed anyone over her, because she was a sniveling, skinny, ugly excuse for a woman.

  “Of course it doesn’t qualify as adultery,” Whitworth scoffed. He was such a damned idiot. “Mrs. Trickelbank runs the finest establishment in London. All the girls are extremely discreet.”

  “Because they dinna blab about it makes it not qualify as adultery?” Cam asked in disgust. Asses like Whitworth would make themselves believe anything in order to justify their actions.

  Whitworth slid his arm over Tess’s chest, his hand cupping her breast, and drew her close. She slumped back against him, her legs opening. Cam would have a prime view if he bothered to look. Whitworth glanced at Cam over her shoulder and said, “When no one’s the wiser for it, who’s to say anything ever happened?”

  Cam said nothing.

  “Come on, man. You know one gentle lady—especially a lady as gentle as…” Whitworth paused, seemingly unwilling to say Esme’s name in this place. “Well, she cannot serve the needs of a single man.”

  Cam thought he might vomit. He kept his mouth shut. Whitworth made it clearer with every passing second that he knew nothing about Esme. What would he think if he knew Esme had actually visited this establishment? That she’d probably talked to the
very lady Whitworth now jiggled on his lap?

  He might suffer from a fit of the vapors and need the smelling salts, that’s what. The thought made Cam genuinely smile for the first time tonight.

  “I see you agree,” Whitworth said smugly. “Our ladies are too delicate to manage a man’s natural appetites.”

  “Nay.” Cam didn’t want this man operating under the assumption that he agreed with him on any level. “You underestimate Lady Esme.”

  Whitworth jumped, then scowled in reaction to Cam voicing her name. “Please,” he said darkly, “be discreet.” He pushed Tess off his lap and straightened. The girl pouted, thrust out her chest, and reclined against the arm of the divan.

  “And don’t presume to know anything about my fiancée,” Whitworth said, swallowing the last of his brandy and holding his glass out to Tess to fetch another.

  “I don’t presume,” Cam said. He knew.

  “She’s a very delicate lady, prone to fits of nerves at times. She’s handsome enough, but she possesses a mixed reputation of being a terrible bore and an utter social failure. Not to mention being the subject of even more unsavory gossip, all of which is untrue, of course, but nonetheless still affects her image in society.” Whitworth shrugged and gave him a conspiratorial look. “However, she’s a duke’s sister and she comes with a rather large dowry, and those facts trump her debilitating shortcomings, wouldn’t you say?”

  Something inside Cam turned black as coal, but he managed to hold on to his composure. “I see. She’s delicate, is she? Then surely she would understand and support your”—he gestured to the room at large—“proclivities.”

  Tess returned with Whitworth’s brandy, prompting Cam to take a swallow of his forgotten whisky. Tess took his glass and wandered off again.

  Whitworth leaned toward Cam, brandy cupped in his hands. “You are naïve, man. She’ll never know about my private life. We will have a very public marriage. Put on a show for the people. What I do in my private life, however, is none of her concern.”

  “What about what she does in her private life?”

  Whitworth’s lip curled. “She will be my wife. I will retain all control over everything she does, public and private.”

  “And you believe that’s fair?” Cam asked mildly.

  Whitworth snorted. “She is a woman, I am a man. It is the way of things.”

  “And if she pursued ‘activities’ that didn’t meet your approval?”

  “Such as what? Adultery? She wouldn’t dare. She’s too well-bred.”

  Oh, of course, it was perfectly fine for Whitworth to be an adulterer, but heaven forbid if Esme were to do the same thing.

  God, he was reminded all over again why he hated this world so damn much. Give him the life of a simple Scottish countryman—where honor and loyalty ranked above all, and equally for both men and women—than this life of debauchery and dishonesty.

  “Not adultery.” Cam took the whisky Tess proffered and drank it down in one long swallow. He set the empty glass on the side table with a clunk as the woman returned to Whitworth’s side. “But what if it was something else? What if she engaged in something that didn’t affect you at all, but that you wouldn’t approve of?”

  “Such as?”

  Cam held Whitworth’s gaze evenly, but his mind was scrambling. This was his chance. He could end it right now, right this second.

  Esme might hate him for it. She might never speak to him again. But at least, at the very damn least, she wouldn’t have to be subjected to spending a lifetime married to this idiot.

  Whitworth didn’t deserve her. He shouldn’t even be allowed in the same room with her, as far as Cam was concerned.

  “What if she were secretly an authoress of romantic novels that were published and sold to the public?”

  He gritted his teeth. Bloody hell. He’d done it. Esme was going to consider this a horrible betrayal. Cam wouldn’t blame her for that. He didn’t deserve her, either, after all.

  But he was doing the right thing, damn it. That thought brought him strength.

  Whitworth held very still. After a long silence, he motioned to Tess to go. She sighed dramatically and flounced away.

  Whitworth tapped his thumb on the lip of his glass. “I assume you’re speaking hypothetically?”

  “Hypothetically. Of course.” Cam’s voice was dry as autumn leaves.

  Whitworth shrugged. “Absurd.”

  “But if she were? What if she engaged in this activity secretly? What if no one knew about it?”

  Whitworth grimaced. “No matter. Such a thing would be a disgrace. It would never happen.”

  “But if it did?” Cam pressed.

  Whitworth cocked his head. “Are you telling me something, McLeod? Are you sending me some kind of message?”

  Cam finally looked away from him. He curled his hands into fists. “Make of it what you will, Whitworth. I’ve told you nothing.”

  “Fine,” Whitworth bit out. “I would have naught to do with an authoress of any kind. And romantic novels…” He shuddered. “I would not countenance it. In fact, I would not deign to have any communication whatsoever with a woman who engaged in such activities.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.” Cam felt like he was speaking through a mouthful of grit.

  “Would you?”

  “Mayhap. Depends on the woman, not on her choice of profession.”

  “Profession.” Whitworth grimaced. “As far as I’m concerned, unless a woman is a whore, she should have no profession, save the care and keeping of her children and husband. Either way, she spends her life in service to a man.”

  At this point, Cam shouldn’t have been surprised by anything this man had to say. But Whitworth was growing more intolerable by the second.

  “So,” he said carefully, “I’m just wanting to understand. If Lady Esme—”

  Whitworth held up his hand as if to stop Cam from speaking her name.

  “If Lady Esme,” Cam repeated firmly, “was secretly Jean Hayden, writer of romantic novels, you’d cast her aside?”

  Whitworth sneered. “Instantly.”

  Regrets—so many of them—bubbled up inside him, but he pushed them forcibly down. He managed to keep his posture stiff and his expression as hard as granite even as a thousand fissures cracked over his heart.

  He was not a man who handed out others’ secrets freely. He was a loyal man, down to his marrow, to those he cared about. And he cared about Esme, damn it. He was doing this for her. For her happiness. For her freedom.

  Esme wouldn’t see it that way. She’d see this as betrayal, not loyalty.

  But he intended to try like hell to make her see reason. If he succeeded, maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t lose her. Yet.

  “I see.” Cam hesitated. “Well, then, Whitworth, you might be wanting to learn more about Jean Hayden and her connection to this woman you’re planning to marry.”

  Whitworth swallowed the rest of his brandy and set his glass down hard, right next to Cam’s. “I’ll do that, McLeod. You can be sure I will.”

  Chapter 13

  Esme and Sarah had been shopping all morning—Sarah had purchased a new top hat in the latest fashion for Trent, as well as a new pocket watch for his upcoming birthday. They were smiling and laughing as they entered Trent House. They paused in the entry hall to hand their gloves, pelisses, and hats to their maids.

  “You should have bought it, Esme. It was so perfect for you.”

  Esme sighed. The amethyst bracelet had been a beautiful piece, and she didn’t have anything like it. Yet it was an extravagance she didn’t really need.

  “You are too frugal,” Sarah said, but there was deep affection in her voice.

  “I don’t want to be a burden,” she said quietly.

  “Don’t be silly,” Sarah said. “You’re never a burden, Esme, dear.”

  When Esme had first become a published author, she’d racked her brain on how she could use the monies earned from her writing to become more in
dependent. In the end, she hadn’t been able to find a solution that didn’t include revealing her secret. She’d ended up donating all her earnings anonymously to various charities. Which meant that everything she possessed, even now, came from the coffers of the Duke of Trent. She still hadn’t found a way to solve the problem without revealing her secret identity to someone who might decide to reveal it to the world.

  One of the footmen appeared at the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, my lady.” He nodded to Sarah and Esme in turn. “But you have a visitor, Lady Esme. Mr. Henry Whitworth. I told him you were not at home. He said it was urgent and that he’d wait for you. He’s in the drawing room.”

  “Goodness,” she murmured, pulling out the last hat pin and handing her hat to Polly. “I’ll go to him this instant,” she told the footman.

  She said goodbye to Sarah and followed the footman down the corridor to the drawing room.

  “Good afternoon, Henry,” she said as she entered. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing through the window at the rose garden. The blooms were out in full force—deep reds and pinks in a veritable explosion of color.

  He turned to her, inclining his head in greeting as the footman closed the door behind her.

  She stopped in the center of the floor, then stood awkwardly. “I…um…I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

  “No. Not long at all.” He stood facing her for a long moment, then cleared his throat. “I must speak with you, my lady.”

  Well, clearly he wanted to speak with her—otherwise why would he be here? And she couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her my lady when they were alone together.

  “Of course,” she said. “Ah…won’t you sit down?”

  “No.”

  Well. All right, then. She didn’t move. He stared at her.

  Something was wrong. Her heart began a heavy thump beneath her breastbone.

  Henry shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, looking anywhere but directly at her. Finally, he cleared his throat again, then said, “I fear I cannot marry you.”

  It took her a moment to understand exactly what he was saying. She blinked several times. “Oh.”