Page 79 of The Duke of Daring (The Untouchables)
The thought of Bertie nearly drove him to his knees. His brother had been so scared, but then he’d tried to be brave for Andrew. Andrew had sat there, helpless, while they’d all died. But Bertie, more than the others, cut him to the bone. He’d looked up to Andrew, and Andrew had said he’d always protect him. He’d told him that just before he’d died—“I’ll save you, Bertie.”Even though he’d known it was too late. Logically he knew that no one blamed him, but he still felt such immeasurable guilt.
“Tonight,” he rasped into the cool, nearly dark room. “My brother will never have a night like this. My sisters will never have children to love. Why was I blessed? What did I do to deserve to live while they died?”
She wound her fingers through his. Her eyes were wide and so rich with emotion. “Nothing. There’s no reason. Will you let me help you make peace with this?”
“I can’t. There’s no peace. And there shouldn’t be. I can’t…I can’t let them go. I’m all they have left.” He pulled his hand from hers and snatched his coat and hat from the chair. He didn’t look at her as he swept past. He stopped at the door but didn’t turn to face her. “You can’t help me, Lucy. No one can.”
He left, closing the door behind him.
Taking deep, gulping breaths, Andrew stole down the back stairs, the way he’d come in earlier with a bit of assistance from Lucy’s maid. Now it was dark and quiet, just the way he preferred things when he was feeling like this—as if a great weight pressed upon his chest and might crush him into oblivion. But wasn’t that what he wanted? Hadn’t he wished for a way to bury his thoughts and be free of the guilt because he’d lived?
He walked briskly through the bowels of the town house to the front, where he let himself out and climbed up to the street. It was very late or maybe terribly early. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t find a hack. It was cold and damp, having rained earlier. He pulled the collar of his coat up and tugged his hat lower over his brow.
It seemed as though his episodes were growing worse. He thought he’d conquered the debilitating terror that came over him when he thought of his family too closely. He’d learned to keep them at bay, to occupy his time with activity and the pursuit of adventure.
He’d done such a good job that he had trouble conjuring his brother’s face and voice. They were hazy, growing hazier by the year. And his sisters were all but lost to him now, their singsong voices indeterminate in his memory. The panic seized him again, that helpless feeling that he was chained to a rock while water rushed in, drowning him.
Stop thinking about them. Think about something jolly. Think about what you’re doing next. Parachuting.
Yes, parachuting. He’d be going up with Sadler again in a few days, and if the conditions were favorable, he’d parachute. He’d meet with him the day after tomorrow and review the procedure.Yes, parachuting.
With each step, the darkness seeped away, leaving him numb and hollow. Later, when he was finally abed as the dawn began creeping over the horizon, he relaxed. His body felt like lead, deliciously heavy and without feeling. As he closed his eyes, his mind was blissfully blank. But as he drifted to sleep, he smelled flowers and clove and tasted heaven on his lips.
As he typically did after a nightmare, Andrew slept rather late. He hadn’t, however, had a nightmare. He’d suffered an attack, but once he’d fallen asleep, he’d dreamed. Of his family and Lucy, and it hadn’t ended badly with cold and darkness and that horrible pain that left him feeling hollow.
Tindall brought him something to eat along with his mail. Andrew ate ravenously and then picked through his correspondence. The third letter he opened made his blood run cold.
Dartford,
I know that Smitty is really Miss Parnell. If you’d like this to remain a secret, deliver five thousand pounds in a package addressed to Mr. Black to the head footman at Boodle’s by five o’clock. I should hate for her to be ruined by your inaction.
Yours,
Mr. Black
The ice in Andrew’s veins melted as hot anger poured through him. How dare this man threaten Lucy? And demand money from him? He crumpled the paper in his fist.
Black.
Andrew didn’t know anyone named Black. He did, however, know someone named Greene. It seemed to be too much of a coincidence—both names being colors—but perhaps it wasn’t.
He stood up and bellowed for Tindall. He didn’t know where Greene would be at this hour, but he’d run him to ground.
It took him well over an hour, but Andrew finally caught up with Greene at a coffee shop on St James’s. He sat with two other gentlemen at a table and looked up when Andrew approached.
“Dart, what a pleasure to see you here. Join us.”
Andrew barely kept his temper in check. “I need a word. Privately.”
Greene’s brow tipped low. He flicked a glance at his tablemates. “Please excuse me.” He rose and motioned for Andrew to follow him to the back of the shop, where he led him into a small chamber that looked to be some sort of retiring room.
Without preamble, Andrew glared at him, his lip curling. “I received your letter. You’ll extort no money from me, nor will you expose Miss Parnell. Give me your word right now, or I’ll summon a second.”
Greene stared at him, his gaze…confused? “I didn’t send you a letter about Miss Parnell. What are you talking about?”
He seemed genuinely perplexed, which sucked the vitriol right out of Andrew. “I thought…that is, you didn’t send me a letter?”
He looked offended, his eyes narrowing. “No. Nor would I extort money from you. I’m aghast—and outraged on your behalf—that someone would. I’m doubly angry that anyone would target Miss Parnell. I hold her in high esteem.”
