Page 31 of The Trouble with True Love

His mother had the grace to look abashed, and he returned his attention to his butler. “Did he happen to have a newspaper with him?”

“He was carrying one, yes, my lord.”

Rex sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“Do you wish to receive him, sir?”

“Here?” Rex jumped to his feet, appalled by the prospect. “My father and my mother in the same room? Are you mad?”

His butler stiffened as if affronted by that question. “I had thought,” he said with dignity, “to put Lord Leyland in the study.”

“No, that won’t do. If you don’t bring him to the drawing room, he’ll immediately start speculating why, and I’ll never get my quarterly allowance back if he goes down that road. Tell him I’m not receiving. Got in a fight, head trauma, all that rot.”

“No,” his mother interjected before the butler could move to depart. “See him. He’s your only hope for an income, especially if Petunia is being chary. Best not to antagonize either of them.” She stood up. “I’ll go, and slip down the servant stairs so he won’t see me.”

“That’s not necessary, Mama, for I have no intention of seeing him.” He paused to wave Whistler out of the room to carry out his instructions. “Not after the day I’ve had.”

“But you might be able to return to his good graces, and if so, he’d resume your allowance, and you could then pay off the moneylender—” She broke off, and had the grace to blush at her own self-absorption.

“I’m so happy to know how concerned you are about my well-being, Mama,” he said dryly. “But never fear, I’m sure Auntie and I will work things out and all will be well. In the meantime, if Papa wants to reinstate me, that would be lovely, but I’m still in no mood to eat the crow he wants to dish out, nor do I want to hear a vituperative tirade about you for the second time in a week.”

Even his mother didn’t dare to press the topic any further. “What about the moneylender?” she asked in a whisper. “If I don’t pay him...” She paused, pressing a hand to her throat as if unable to continue.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said harshly, well aware he was making a promise he was in no position to keep.

“You’ll raise a loan, then?”

After what had appeared in the paper, he doubted he could raise a loan for omnibus fare, much less one for a thousand pounds, but he didn’t say so.

“I already told you I would take care of it,” he said, leading her to the writing desk by the window and thrusting a pen into her hand. “Write down this moneylender’s name and exactly where in Paris one might find him.”

“But where are you going?” she asked as he turned and started for the door.

“To make certain Papa has really left and isn’t still lurking somewhere about the house. God knows, if he saw you here, I doubt he or Auntie would ever speak to me again, much less reinstate my allowance, and I’m not about to let that happen.”

Upon verifying that Whistler had seen Papa get into his carriage and that said carriage had definitely departed Half Moon Street and turned onto Piccadilly, Rex returned to the drawing room, where his mother presented him with a folded sheet of paper.

“The man lives in a little cul-de-sac near Montmartre,” she explained. “You should be able to find the place easily enough.”

“Me, go to Paris?” He shook his head. “No, I can’t. I need to make amends with Auntie Pet, and if she were to hear I’ve gone to Paris, she’ll think it’s to visit you. Papa will hear of it, too, and the fat will really be in the fire. I will send my valet. He’s a trustworthy, responsible chap. And he’s discreet. The debt will be paid by Saturday, you may be sure.”

“Thank you, Rex. I am truly grateful.”

“Are you?” He took a deep breath, looked into his mother’s eyes, and worked to add another layer of armor to the ones already encasing his heart. “If so, then I trust you will show your gratitude by staying the hell away from me.”

Despite his efforts, the hurt in her eyes pierced his chest like a knife, making it clear that a few more layers of that armor would be required. “Go,” he ordered, “before I realize just how great a fool I truly am.”

He turned away and walked to the writing desk without a backward glance. He sat down and made a great show of retrieving paper, envelopes, and stamps from the desk as if to demonstrate that he’d already dismissed her from his mind, but it was a pose, for he found himself holding his breath until he heard the door behind him open and close.

He waited a moment longer, then glanced over his shoulder to find that she was indeed gone. Only then, did he allow himself a sigh of relief.

That relief, however, was short-lived, for as he’d told his mother a few moments ago, he had to mend his quarrel with Auntie. He also had to obtain a thousand pounds and get it to Paris by Saturday.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that both these problems might be solved at the same time, and by one action. He considered a moment how best to proceed, then he drew a sheet of paper closer, pulled the pen out of its holder, and flipped open the inkwell. After taking a moment to compose in his head just what he wanted to say, he inked his pen and began to write.

Chapter 8

Though Clara had lived in London her entire life, she had been inside the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden only once, and the view she’d had then from her inexpensive seat in the stalls could not compare to the view she had now.

---