Page 57 of The Lord who Captured Her Innocent Heart
“Oh. Hmm,” Peter said, struggling to come up with any sort of response. “Difficult to find an answer to your question. I suppose my head is just swimming with the events of the previous few days. Father here has shown me the ropes.”
“That’s right,” Sir Hardy said, smacking his fist atop the table so hard that it shook. “Another breed of us. Another generation. It’s such a pleasure to watch, knowing that our good deeds on this earth will continue in your capable hands.”
Suddenly, Peter shot up from his chair. The movement was so volatile that it cast the wooden stool to the ground, making it creak back and forth behind him. The two men and his father blinked, expectant, as though Peter was preparing to make a grand announcement. But instead, Peter said, “I really have to be going. It was lovely to meet you.” His words were lacklustre, lacking any sense of meaning at all.
He burst from the restaurant and stood upon the street, his feet wide beneath him. He imagined his two separate timelines: one in which he carried on with his father, driving money into his account and becoming the sort of hard-hitting, evil-spewing man — like one of them.
But as he stood, a very different reality began to grow from his mind, like a sort of flower burning out of the dirt. Throughout his life, he’d assumed he would have the life of his father, along with a wife similar to Tatiana. He’d assumed so much about the next twenty, thirty years of his life, that he hadn’t given himself time to consider what he truly wanted.
Brighton was a far cry from London. Yet oddly, as he gazed up at the bright crescent of the moon, hovering over the town, he felt Ella looking at it, as well. She’d told him, once — seemingly without any sort of plan or scheme — that she often liked to sit at her bedroom window and gaze out at the moon over the moor. “It feels like it’s whispering to you,” she’d murmured. “It’s as though it holds all the secrets of the night but will only tell you the good ones. It knows you eventually need to sleep. It knows you eventually need to dream.”
Peter stepped quickly towards the hotel. His muscles screamed, but he couldn’t slow down. He raced through the door of his little room and began to toss his belongings on the bed. He could almost hear his father’s voice in his head, announcing to the other two, “He must feel ill for the evening. I suppose that simply means more pints for us, good men.”
Peter hired a driver for the evening, demanding a name from the hotel clerk. “I can pay,” he affirmed, “I can pay a very good price for quick service.”
A young man was called from the stables, squeezing sleep out of his eyes. He stumbled into the foyer, sanding his hands down his uniform. It seemed he had just tossed it over his frame, in preparation for the night ahead.
“You’re the man who needs to return to London as soon as possible, then?” he asked, guffawing a bit. “What’s the rush, I ask?”
“Personal matters,” Peter returned. He’d begun to feel as though Brighton had a general stench to it. Even the clouds had swallowed up the moon, casting the city in impossible darkness.
“Suit yourself,” the driver said. He slotted a hat atop his head, lending a last glance towards the hotel clerk. His glance seemed to suggest:These rich men. They’re absolutely wild, aren’t they?
But Peter hadn’t time to care about such a thing. He reached for a pad of paper in his back pocket, slapped it atop the hotel desk, and scribbled a note to his father.
Forgive me. There’s something I must do in London. Peter.
Peter shot the paper back towards the hotel clerk, demanding that the letter be given to his father, Lord Holloway. The hotel clerk folded it with a sharp crease and slipped it into his pocket. “Very well, sir.”
Peter headed through the doorway, tracing the route towards the carriages in the back. The carriage driver had scampered ahead, his motions light, like those of a rabbit. Already, he’d latched a horse to his reins, drawn the carriage into the dark air. He whistled, the sound echoing from the dank wood of the stables.
When the carriage was fully prepped, Peter climbed the steps, carrying a single suitcase. He’d left the remainder of his things behind, not caring at all whether his father collected them. He felt as though he weighed very little, as though the wind could cast him away without a moment’s notice. For this reason, he knew what he was doing was absolutely correct: he was going towards the light of his life, on a mission. He had to declare what he knew was true.
Chapter 26
The drive into the night was the greatest adventure of Peter’s life. He sat upon the edge of the carriage seat, his hands crept over his knees and his eyes staring straight ahead. Every bump in the road made him sizzle with apprehension. Suppose the driver was cast off? Suppose the horse was injured? Suppose something happened that separated Peter from the great love of his life for good? This was his last chance.
Minutes ticked forward, grouping together into hours. Still, night permeated around them. Strangely, the air hadn’t cooled much, giving everything an eerie quality. As an Englishman, there was simply something about the heat that Peter could never fully trust. He much preferred winter — the calm of it. The enormous comedown.
Could he possibly imagine himself already married, sitting at the dinner table across from Ella, by then? He tipped his head back, casting his eyelashes forward. If he strained his imagination just-so, he could oddly see it. He could feel his heart pumping as she told him a silly joke. He could feel his mind whirring as she described to him the details of the book she was in the midst of reading.
Suddenly, a sound pulled Peter from his reverie. He blinked into the darkness ahead, feeling the carriage slow. It was difficult to tell the hour of night.
“What is it?” he called to the driver. His heart hammered towards his throat. “Why on earth are we stopping?”
The stable boy hadn’t an answer. Peter heard voices, volatile ones. The gruffness of the moment alerted him. He pressed back in his carriage seat, fully realising what he’d done: he’d abandoned his father in Brighton, taken a wild trip across the country. He’d put himself at immense risk.
The door creaked open, revealing a rugged-looking scoundrel on the other side. The man cut a strange smile across his face, revealing crooked, grey teeth. Peter forced himself not to react.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” the man said. His accent was Cockney, showing his class far below Peter’s.
Behind him, three other men appeared, wearing similar, ripped suits. The stable boy cantered down from his stance upon the carriage, sliding his arms across his chest and beaming at Peter. He seemed to affirm the worst: he’d arranged for the bandits to find him. He’d spotted a man on the run and articulated him as one with money. Someone easily robbed.
Peter was far too snide to take this lightly. His heart burned with arrogance. For some reason, he felt powerful enough to take all of them at once. He imagined his fist flashing into them, one after another, casting them to the gravel below.
“Are you going to get out, mate, or should we come in there and grab ya?” the man asked.
“I see no real reason I should need to get out,” Peter said. “We’re not quite arrived at our destination, are we? And I’ve heard it’s a bit dangerous outside the carriage, around these parts. I’ve heard stories of bandits.”
