Page 28 of A Wicked Earl's Widow
Nate ran a hand over his face. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“So you don’t make the same mistake I did.” Lady Pendleton leaned forward and took his hand. “With Eliza.”
He was stunned. “All these years, you let me think there was not an ounce of good in my father. And now you tell me it was all a lie?”
She shook her head. “My mind needed to justify his death. I was as irresponsible as he had been by not taking any of the blame for our failed marriage. He never stopped trying until I pushed him away.”
“What in God’s name does this have to do with Eliza?” Bile rose in his throat along with the horrid thoughts he’d had about his father over the years. The disdainful comments that had always angered Maxwell.
“She has that same generosity of spirit, that innate kindness your father had. I considered him pathetic by the time your sister was born. As I grew older and wiser, I realized I’d misinterpreted goodness for weakness. I disregarded his loyalty and threw it in his face, for it had no value to me.” His mother’s voice cracked. “Strength can be hidden deep inside a person. He never gave up on me, on our marriage, until the very end.
“When I found out the London on-dits portrayed me as a shrew and he the victim, I flew into a rage and said such hateful things. I told him I didn’t care if he lived or died, I only wanted him out of my sight. That was the night he found comfort with another man’s wife. The woman had a terrible reputation, and your father was an easy mark. To save face, I insinuated that he’d had many other affairs.”
“You lied?”
She covered her face with her hands and nodded. “It was the only time he was unfaithful to me.”
He couldn’t breathe for a moment; her words punched him in the gut. His jaw clenched as the information sank in. “All this time you have let me hate my father? By Christ, if you were not my mother, I’d call you out.”
He stood and walked back to the window, watching Althea and the dog playing on the lawn. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with Eliza.”
“She made a comment about the tenants. Those born into privilege had an obligation to those who were not. Her words began a sort of introspection, and the more I remembered, the more I depressed I became. I had wronged not only my husband but my son…and myself. I feared London because of the gossip about me, not your father. After Eliza came, I looked in the mirror and saw someone ugly who needed redemption.” She held out her hands. “I am begging your forgiveness.”
Nate turned, surprised at the vulnerability in his mother’s eyes. His stomach twisted. “This is a shock, and I have much to think about.”
“Yes, you do. But know this—I see an inner strength in Eliza that even she doesn’t realize exists. When you propose marriage, and you will, the girl will turn you down thinking she is not good enough. Your father had little self-esteem being a third son with no exceptional talent. I destroyed what confidence he had left. If I had supported him, given him my strength to lean on, perhaps our lives might have been so different.”
“I love her, Mother.” He cursed then, remembering their last private conversation. “She’s writing to relatives in Scotland, running away, I think.”
“If she leaves, you will regret it. Eliza needs a man who realizes how remarkable she is, who will makehersee how much she has to offer. And your return on that investment will be a future of hope and happiness.” She clutched her son with a cold, slender hand. “Don’t end up bitter and alone like your mother.”
Chapter Twelve
Early May
The Swine and Swig
Whitehall District, London
The tallow candlesflickered as the heavy oak door opened, rusty iron hinges complaining against the violence of a sudden spring storm. Stale ale, unbathed bodies, and cheap perfume assaulted his nose as Landonshire stepped into the tavern. He scanned the dingy interior. The blackened beams above from a century of smoke, bodies crowded around the bar and the tables the proprietor’s mongrel curled up by the hearth. A barmaid bent over to accept a coin from a customer, who slid his grimy fingers into her ample cleavage.
The place disgusted him, and he cursed Eliza for forcing him to patronize such an establishment if only for a quarter of an hour. He added another item to the list of reasons she’d suffer. No man should endure such indignities over a disobedient daughter. If it weren’t for the marriage contract, he’d smash that beautiful face to a pulp. But Bellum didn’t want a disfigured wife. Not for thirty thousand pounds.
In a corner by the fire, a man nodded at him. The marquess stood out in this crowd, his fine overcoat and hat worth more than a year’s annual wage for some. He clutched the walking stick and fingered the hidden trigger that would produce a double-edged blade. One could never be too careful. He sat next to the shabby thief, noting the bawdy voices and slurred off-key serenade would cover any conversation he had at a tucked away table.
“What did you find out?” Landonshire didn’t want to spend any more time here than necessary. His eyes burned from the poor ventilation and something had just scurried across his boot. “I’m not here to socialize.”
“And ’ere I was goin’ to offer ye a mug o’ ale, milord,” sneered the man. His once-blond hair, darkened by soot and grease, matched the stained and broken fingernails that tapped the rough-hewn table.
He held out a filthy hand. The marquess dropped a small leather bag into the palm, and the man wrapped his fingers around it with a grin then pushed it into his pocket.
“Now tell me, where is my daughter?”
“I went up to Sunderland, like ye said. She weren’t at that castle, and she weren’t at the Boldon place either. I was headed home, dejected ye see, ’cuz I was only goin’ to get half the money since I couldn’t find the girl. So I’m passing through this little village, Pendle, it was. I was hungry and they had a small inn there.” He took a long pull of his ale and wiped his mouth with the back of his coat sleeve. “The barmaid there was a gabster. Of course, I can be very charmin’ meself when I put my mind to it.”
“Get on with it, or I’ll take back the purse.”
“Patience, milord,” the man drawled, warming to his story. “I asked her if any strangers had passed through lately. Now she tells me of a footpad that got picked up by the constable a few weeks back. Tried to rob an old woman and then a fine coach that stopped to help. Seems a young woman of quality refused to give up the goods and took a whip to the cur.” He waved his cup at the barmaid passing by.
