Page 71 of To Have and to Hoax
But moving past childhood hurts? His relationship with West? Marriage to Violet? More difficult. And so he’d never really tried.
And his life was undoubtedly emptier because of it.
So now it was time to do something about it.
The door to the library was cracked, and as James approached, he could hear voices filtering out. He reached for the doorknob, then paused as his brain registered what exactly he was hearing.
Violet was speaking. “. . . has gotten out of hand. James and I came to a similar conclusion last night, as a matter of fact.” James felt a flash of amusement at these words, his hand still hovering above the doorknob; Violet pointedly didnotmention the manner in which they had come to an accord of sorts.
“I quite agree,” came Lady Templeton’s voice. “Which is why I say, abandon the sham illness and invite one of these—very willing—gentlemen into your bed.”
James froze, his arm still outstretched. What the bloody hell?
“Youdorealize that the man you’re speaking of deceiving is my closest friend, don’t you?” Jeremy asked, his tone casual; James thought that only someone who knew Jeremy well would have caught the note of anger running beneath the surface, and he felt a brief flash of gratitude for Jeremy, despite whatever mysterious dealings his friend might have had with his father five years past.
“I hardly think now is the time for you to try to claim the moral high ground about deceiving a man in his marriage, Willingham,” Lady Templeton said, her tone scornful.
“I say,” Jeremy said, and James knew instantly that Diana had gone too far, “I would like you to know that I have not once seduced a woman who was happily married, or whose marriage had ever been based on anything other than family connections or money.”
James heard the sound of a chair being pushed back against the floor, and he beat a hasty retreat before he quite realized what he was doing—he didn’t wish to be caught lurking outside the door eavesdropping onthisconversation. He was irritated, even as he made his way back down the hall; he needed to speak to Violet, and he needed Jeremy and Diana to depart for him to do so. He supposed he could barge in and ask them to leave, but he didn’t particularly feel like managing the awkwardness that would doubtless ensue when they realized he’d overheard their conversation. He wasn’t concerned about Violet taking Diana’s advice—and the realization of that unquestioning trust made him feel nearly giddy—but he still thought his presence might be a bit de trop at the moment, and it hardly seemed like a good note on which to begin a discussion with Violet.
He felt like a five-year-old who had been caught spying on his parents, which was absurd—this washishouse, for Christ’s sake. And yet, feeling like a fool, he did the only thing that seemed reasonable at the moment: he left again.
It was at his club that Jeremy found him.
“Awake rather early, aren’t you?” James asked, lowering the newspaper that he’d been staring at blankly for the past thirty minutes.
“Come off it,” Jeremy said, sitting down. “Did you overhear the entire bloody conversation, then?”
“Just a snippet,” James said, casting his newspaper aside with a sigh. He saw no reason to lie; he assumed, since Jeremy was here, that Wooton had told Violet that he’d been home, albeit briefly, meaning that his wife now knew precisely how much of an idiot he had acted.
“And you ran away.”
“I didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping and have Violet get the wrong idea,” James said, feeling more and more foolish by the moment.
“You might have avoided that possibility by not skulking in the hallway in the first place,” said Jeremy with great dignity. It was a bit galling to be condescended to by a man who had only recently had to leave a bedroom window by way of a rose trellis, and James told him so.
“Besides,” he added, “I’m the son of a duke, as my father reminded me just this afternoon. Ducal sons don’tskulk.”
Jeremy straightened in his chair, his gaze razor sharp. “You saw your father today? Whatever for, old boy? Felt like beating your head against a brick wall?”
“It was unintentional, I assure you,” James said, rather testily. “I encountered him out riding in the park—the meeting wasnotcoincidental, I think.” He hesitated a moment, then took the plunge. “Over the course of our rather enlightening conversation, he had some interesting things to say about you.”
“Did he?” Jeremy asked, suddenly very interested in the cuffs on his shirt.
“He did,” James confirmed, and after a moment during which he looked at Jeremy and Jeremy looked everywhere but at him, his friend raised his eyes and met James’s gaze full-on.
“He told you about the night you met Violet, then?” Jeremy asked directly.
“I’d really like to hear it from you.” James had learned—rather belatedly—his lesson about taking his father at his word.
Jeremy heaved a sigh and ran a hand through his hair. James couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him look so uncomfortable; he had grown used to the lazy, always-slightly-drunken Jeremy, the womanizing good-for-nothing marquess who was amused by everything and moved by nothing. It was a very effective mask, but James hadn’t realized that it was almosttoogood; those were all parts of Jeremy, it was true, but he was more than the sum of his parts, and James wondered if perhaps he had forgotten this of late. He wondered ifJeremyhad forgotten, too.
“You recall what it was like when I’d first inherited the marquessate?” Jeremy asked. He didn’t elaborate, but James nodded, understanding all that was implied. Jeremy’s father hadn’t left the marquessate destitute, but its coffers had been reduced by years of neglect and bad investments. Jeremy’s elder brother, who had inherited the title upon their father’s death when Jeremy was still at Eton, had managed, through some creative rearranging of accounts, to come up with the blunt to pay the death duties, but it had been a stretch. He had then spent his remaining capital at hand—almost all of the liquid funds the Overington family had left—on a series of costly improvements to the estate. These improvements had, over the past decade, yielded great results, and the estate was solvent once more—flourishing, even. But at the time, it had sharply limited the amount of ready funds—James could distinctly remember Jeremy grumbling at the reduction in his allowance.
Needless to say, when Jeremy’s brother had died in a racing accident with West, the death duties that Jeremy had been forced to pay whenhehad inherited the title in turn had nearly bankrupted the marquessate. James often thought it amusing how carefully Jeremy had cultivated the reputation of a carefree rake, when in truth he’d had to fight bitterly—at the age of two-and-twenty, no less—to keep his family estate solvent. James had always admired him for it—and he wondered what, precisely, this had to do with the topic at hand.
The question must have been evident on his face, because Jeremy responded as though he’d voiced the query aloud.
