The Bluestocking’s Bargain (The Ladies’ Essential Guide to the Art of Seduction #5)

Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

P atience knew Arthur well enough to recognize that he had a scheme, and his fleeting smile indicated that it was a mischievous one. She did not doubt that it would also be a seductive one, and perhaps a surprise. He kissed her before she could ask and she kissed him back, wanting to show that she found encouragement in the passage they had just read. This time, she strove to abandon herself to sensation, no longer fighting against a loss of control, choosing to trust Arthur completely.

That he was as aroused as she made her capitulation simpler. She was thrilled at his incoherent groan of satisfaction, of the urgency she felt growing within him. He was taut and demanding, his kiss so possessive that it nearly made her swoon.

It seemed that she had a power to excite him that might even equal his ability to make her forget her usual reserve. The notion was a thrilling one and she caressed him, loving how he responded to her touch.

Wonder of wonders, her own body responded to him and she found herself clutching his hair, her mouth open as she kissed with as much savage demand as he showered upon her. She felt him swing her into his arms with purpose. In a heartbeat, she was upon the bed on her back, still kissing him, Arthur bent over her. She reveled in the warm strength of his hands in her hair, and the way he pressed her into the mattress, his solid strength holding her captive to his caress.

He broke their kiss and whispered her name, looking down at her with a marvel in his eyes that made her smile. She untied his cravat and cast it aside, then worked loose the buttons on his waistcoat. He moved to facilitate her efforts, a smile curving his lips as she tugged his shirt free of his breeches. She unfastened his cuffs and pushed the cloth over his shoulder, not hiding her admiration as she surveyed his bare chest.

She landed a fingertip upon the scar, which curled over his shoulder. She knew it was deeper upon his back. “A secret?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Souvenir of a duel. It was the sole time I was injured, and I vowed I would never be so again.”

“Do not tell me that you always win.”

“I usually do.” He stole a kiss. “Partly because I do not take a wager I am doomed to lose.”

She laughed, then he silenced her with a kiss that left her gasping with need. He rolled her over with ease and unfastened her dress, kissing her bared shoulders as he pushed it down along with her chemise. She rolled back, arching toward him for his kiss, and his hand cupped her bared breast. He teased the nipple to a taut peak with an ease that should have alarmed her but Patience found herself arching her back, wanting more and more and more.

When his mouth closed over that same nipple, she jumped in surprise. But then he flicked his tongue across the tight bud, sending sensation surging through her and she fell back against the pillow, content to let him do whatsoever he desired. She was on fire with need, but trusted him completely to guide her on this new adventure. The graze of his teeth made her gasp aloud, then he turned his attention to the other breast, his hands locked around her waist and pushing her garments steadily downward. She playfully lifted her buttocks off the bed to aid in his quest, earning herself a wicked upward glance that made her laugh aloud. Then Arthur swept her dress and shift aside, cupped her buttocks in his hands and kissed her most bewitching spot.

Patience fell back in astonishment at this caress and its effect. She gasped as he settled to teasing it with gusto and heard herself moan in unbridled pleasure. Indeed, she could not have stopped herself—and the last thing she wanted him to do was stop. As before, he took his time, making her blood quicken, then pulling back, teasing her repeatedly with the prospect of release then cheating her of it. Each time, the tumult built a little higher until she gripped his shoulders, almost incoherent in her desire. She entreated him to grant her release. She writhed beneath him. She seized a fistful of his hair and he laughed, the fan of his breath against her only increasing her agitation. The next time he drove her toward the summit, she was certain he would draw back again—but he continued, pressing onward, demanding more and more of her until finally, he cast her over the abyss and she shouted with her final release.

He drew himself up beside her, his eyes glimmering with satisfaction, and Patience reached for his chausses. “Now,” she urged and a flame lit in his eyes. He stood up and shed his remaining garb with haste, wiping his face with his shirt, then returned to the bed. Patience wrapped herself around him, welcoming his weight atop her and his heat within her. It was easier this time, smoother and simpler, more familiar and more wonderful. She rolled her hips beneath him and watched him inhale sharply, then he rolled to his back so that she was perched atop him once more. This time, she leaned down and kissed him, loving the wicked taste of him, driving him onward, then cheating him of release as he had done to her.

And when finally she ceded, pushing him to the climax he had earned, Arthur roared with satisfaction. His arms locked around her and he drove deep inside her, shuddered with the power of his release, then kissed her shoulder, her neck, her ear and finally her lips.

He whispered her name with a reverence that Patience could understand, and she found herself drifting asleep, still wound around his strength.

This union was a marvel indeed and one that improved each time. She smiled in anticipation of their next attempt, even as Arthur pulled the covers over them both. “I need a rest before I divest you of those stockings,” he murmured into her hair and she laughed before he kissed her to silence again.

* * *

Patience was perfection.

Arthur sat in the offices of Fanshawe & Parke the next morning, watching Patience explain the details of her venture to Mr. Fanshawe. The older man was clearly skeptical when they arrived, but Arthur deferred to Patience in the discussion. She spoke decisively and with conviction, showing a passion for her plan that Arthur found most compelling. Her discussion with her father had only buttressed the original notion so that she had not only a scheme but a reply to every question posed by the older gentlemen.

Arthur fought against his smile as he watched Mr. Fanshawe’s reservations be steadily overwhelmed, then a glint of enthusiasm dawned in the other man’s eye. By the time, Patience had answered all of his questions, he sat forward in his chair, apparently intent upon beginning the venture with all haste.

She cast him a glance, her eyes sparkling as if they were filled with stars, and he reached to take her hand. As Mr. Fanshawe and Mr. Sommerset retired to review Arthur’s offer, he kissed Patience’s hand.

“Was I too forthright?” she whispered.

“You were perfect,” he said with conviction, and held her gaze until she flushed with pleasure. He was glad to be fulfilling his pledge to her and excited about the possibilities of this new venture. The agreement was made, and Mr. Sommerset declared that he would draw up the necessary contracts. They would meet in a week to seal the partnership.

Patience almost floated to the carriage, her satisfaction so great that it was impossible to disguise. Arthur shook hands with Mr. Sommerset, and handed her into the coach, wishing he could give her even more.

“Oh, Arthur, even Lady Beckham cannot sour my mood on this day,” Patience said. “Thank you!”

“I made a promise and I kept it. Surely that is not so remarkable.”

“You have another to keep,” she reminded him, placing her hand upon his thigh in a most distracting manner.

“I do,” he agreed, forming a plan even as he met her gaze. “I would visit my club again tonight,” he said, watching the light in her eyes dim a little. “The tide may have changed and more is always better.”

She heaved a sigh. “Will it ever be enough?” she asked, her gaze searching his own.

Arthur was the one to look away first. He feared he would never be able to do enough to win her heart, but he would use every available moment to try.

If he could win enough to establish their own household as well, she might surrender her heart to him. He could only try.

* * *

The house on Berkley Square echoed with silence when Patience returned alone. Arthur had helped her out of the coach, then returned to it, waving a jaunty farewell as he departed for his club. Stevens was as impassive and somber as ever, only volunteering that Lady Beckham was out for the afternoon when Patience asked. Upon being pressed further, he confessed that Miss Beckham and her governess were also absent, having chosen to attend a lecture at Lady Beckham’s suggestion.

It was remarkable to Patience that a house could even be so quiet. She climbed the stairs to her room, not feeling sufficiently audacious to sit in the drawing room alone, and smiled when she realized the cats were following her. The three of them settled into her bedchamber, Gellis hastening to light the fire and tend to Patience’s coat.

She could not help but feel let down to be alone after the triumph of that morning. She picked up the book she had been reading but could summon no interest in it at all. She had read it too many times.

Perhaps one of Arthur’s books would provide a distraction, or at least keep her from worrying about his habits. Would he ever relinquish those expensive pleasures? Would she always be awaiting his return from his club? She could not bear to imagine a future of endless waiting upon her charming wastrel of a spouse.

Once again, she was impressed by the variety of languages represented in even this small collection of books. She wondered if he was as analytical about languages as he was about cards. Her hand fell on the book-that-was-not-a-book and she picked it up, reminding herself that there was some benefit to his unfamiliar skills. He had provided for their venture and she had to remember that some good did come from his gambling.

Then she opened the book for a reassuring glimpse of the banknotes and their tally.

The box, so cunningly shaped to look like a book, was empty.

Patience caught her breath and spun to survey her room, then realized the simple truth. Arthur had taken the money to fund his gambling. He had confessed the night before that he had lost, and he had need of some money to place a stake.

He had won the money. It was rightfully his and she could not argue with that.

But all she could see was that his compulsion to return to games of chance might cost the future of their planned venture. His need to gamble might lead him to break his promise to her.

Unless there was worse to be known. Unless the truths he had not shared with her included an expensive mistress, or a secret life, or another demand upon his purse that he knew she would not find compelling.

How could he do this?

How could he so disappoint her?

What was she going to do?

* * *

“Will you change the name to Fanshawe & Beckham?”

Arthur halted on the stairs of his club. It was close to midnight and he had been headed for Berkley Square. Luck had flirted with him on this particular night, taunting him with small gains that were subsequently diminished. He was not ahead more than ten pounds after hours of playing and had decided to relinquish the fight for the moment.

Then he heard the mocking query from the Earl of Fairhaven. He turned to find that man watching him from the doorway of the club.

“Uncle Reynaud,” he said with a slight bow. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“Is it?” The earl came down the steps to confront him. He smelled of brandy and insolence. “I saw you,” he said. “I uncovered your scheme, and I would discuss the matter with you before sharing the tidings with my sister.”

Arthur bristled but hid his reaction. “I should be pleased to call upon you tomorrow.”

“No,” Reynaud said. “It will be now, for I will never wait upon a tradesman.” He pivoted and marched up the stairs of the club, leaving Arthur to follow.

He considered his options for a moment, then chose to follow. If Reynaud meant to make trouble, he would likely have Arthur barred from the club, which might make this the last time he entered the place.

He checked his watch, reasoning that he could still return to Patience before midnight, no matter how long-winded the earl might be, and followed the other man into the club.

* * *

Patience closed her eyes in relief when she heard Arthur speak to Stevens in the foyer. It was after dawn and she had sat awake all night, uncertain which possibility that rose in her thoughts was worse.

Arthur might be an inveterate gambler.

Arthur might have lost all the funds he had previously won.

Arthur might have a mistress whose pleasures cost him dearly.

Arthur might be drunk. He might be dueling. He might be racing horses and living recklessly, while she sat alone and fretted for his welfare.

Arthur might have come to harm during the endless night.

The cats had both settled in her lap around midnight, as if sensing that she had need of comfort. She eased them aside now as she heard Arthur’s tread on the stairs. His steps were heavy as if he carried a great burden, which only fed Patience’s anger.

He must have lost.

He must have lost it all.

No doubt he remained out to drown his sorrows. That would have been on credit, which meant the lost funds were not the sum of the debt. Oh, if only she could shake sense into him!

The door to his chamber closed softly and she heard the low murmur of him consulting with Taylor. Was he drunk? She could not hear clearly enough to tell. She rose to her feet and smoothed the dress she had not removed the night before. Her hair was still up and she did not doubt that her exhaustion showed.

Her fury was probably also evident.

There was no flinching this task, though. She took a deep breath, strode to the adjoining door and rapped hard upon it. She did not wait for a reply but charged into Arthur’s bedchamber, hauling open the closed drapes on her way. Pale pearly light flooded into the chamber and she spun to find Arthur wincing at her from the bed, one hand before his face.

He was still dressed, his cravat loosened and his shirt opened along with his waistcoat. He still wore his boots and his jacket, but sat on the edge of the bed, looking like a man still under the influence of his revels. She could see the faint shadow of his whiskers on his chin and a bit of the dark hair on his chest. His hair looked as if he had run his fingers through it repeatedly, his boots were scuffed and he positively reeked of brandy.

Patience seethed. She had never had greater evidence of his rakehell habits than his own appearance on this morning. If he suffered from his indulgences, he deserved as much. She hardened her heart against the sight of him and braced her hands upon her hips, prepared to grant a lecture.

“Patience,” he said without surprise, a weariness in his tone that convinced her that every one of her suspicions was correct.

“How dare you?” she fumed, keeping her voice low that the servants might not hear. “How dare you stay out all the night long, carousing and gambling and drinking?—”

“Cavorting?” he asked with a hint of his usual playful manner.

Patience was not to be diverted. She continued heatedly. “—indulging in who knows what manner of egregious behavior while I sit and worry about your welfare? You are a wastrel and a scoundrel of the worst order, a blackguard and a ruffian, a man whose charm does not excuse his choices…”

“You worried?” he echoed as if she had said nothing else. His eye glinted as he considered her from behind his hand. “You cede that I have charm?”

“Arthur! This is no jest. Of course, I worried! You did not return for dinner, nor in time to retire to bed. And your charm is beyond dispute, though I cannot condone the fact that you use it as a weapon.”

“And are you disarmed by said weapon, Patience?” He smiled at his own jest and she yearned to strike him for finding the situation amusing.

They would never agree upon his choices! Her life would become a sequence of mornings similar to this one and she would be condemned to stand and watch as he gambled away every thing of value to either of them.

She realized his sapphire pin was missing and was struck by how much she regretted its sacrifice to his games of chance.

She returned to her tirade with gusto. “We spoke before about your decadent indulgences and I had understood that you meant to abandon such pursuits in favor of a sensible and prudent life. But no, you lied to me about your intentions.”

“Patience…”

“The worst of it is not that you willfully deceived me, but that you stole funds to indulge your habit.”

He looked up and she was shocked to silence at the sight of his face when he braced his hands on the mattress. “Stole?”

With his hand before his face, she had not been able to see that his eye was swollen almost closed, the skin around it turning vivid hues of purple, black and blue. He had indulged in fisticuffs, as well!

“Goodness, Arthur.” Patience took a step back, the discussion of his gambling completely forgotten. “Your eye!”

Gambling. Drinking. Brawling. Was there no end to his degenerate habits?

“Is blackened, yes,” he said without interest, his tone tinged with impatience. “I might insist that my opponent looks worse, but I am not certain that is the case. Fear not, Patience, I am otherwise uninjured, and sufficiently whole to survive your chastisement.” He frowned, wincing at the pain it caused him and she realized he had other injuries, too.

“Do not mock me, sir!” she fumed. “Do not feign ignorance of what only you could have done. I will not stand by and watch you cast your life aside, to abandon every asset, to surrender every shred of decency simply to play your wretched cards. What will become of our venture now that the funds are gone?”

Arthur rose to his feet in alarm. “What funds are gone?”

“The ones intended for Mr. Fanshawe!” she replied in a heated whisper. “Gone, and doubtless forever.” She gestured to the chamber. “I see no pile of banknotes in your chamber and I doubt you would leave them in your pockets for Taylor to count. The money is gone, spent likely as soon as you put it down on the table in some gambling den…”

“Gone? Are you certain?” he demanded, now looking to be wide awake.

Patience was startled. “Of course, I am certain. It is gone. You took it.”

“I assure you, I did not,” Arthur said crisply. He strode to her room, opened the bookcase and crouched down before it. He lifted out the false book, as if hoping to prove her mistaken, and she knew from his expression when he looked within it that he told her the truth. He stood for a moment, staring at the empty box with a dismay that surely equalled her own, then raised his gaze to her. “You do not make a jest upon me to prove your point?”

Patience folded her arms across her chest as her doubts grew. “No. I would not find such a jest amusing in the least.”

“I cannot imagine that Gellis would even find it,” he mused. “Much less that she would take it.”

“No,” Patience agreed, moving to his side. “Then you did not take it?” She had to be certain.

“No.” Arthur shook his head and replaced the box in the bookcase. They both stared at it for a long moment, then Arthur turned aside, moving past her, and swore with a vigor she had not known he possessed.

“I am sorry, Patience, but I did not take the money. I know you did not take it, but it has vanished nonetheless.” He spared a glance over his shoulder at her and she caught her breath at another view of his eye. “I am sorry to break my promise to you.”

“I am sorry that I blamed you,” she said. “I should have asked you instead of making an accusation and assuming your guilt.”

“Why, Patience? Because I have told you all of the truth?” Arthur shook his head. “No, it was fair that you thought the worst of me.” He grimaced and she urged him back toward his own chamber.

“The eye is not the sum of it, is it?” she asked.

“Not nearly,” he acknowledged.

“How much brandy did you drink?”

“None.” He almost smiled when she looked up at him in surprise. “I do not drink when I play, Patience.” He lifted his shirt away from his chest and she saw the golden stain upon it. “This was a waste of good brandy, for no one enjoyed it.” He grimaced again when he sat down on the bed once more and looked so defeated that her sympathy rose.

She perched on the mattress beside him, placing a hand upon his arm. “Where were you? What happened?”

He spared her a glance. “Am I no longer assumed guilty of every debauchery, then?”

Patience flushed. “I am sorry. You look terrible and you smell like a distillery. You were out all night. What was I to think?”

“Only what you did.” He sighed and frowned, then considered her. “I would tell you of it, if you would listen.”

“I would like to know. Who struck you?”

“The Earl of Fairhaven,” he ceded. “He saw us at Mr. Fanshawe’s and has learned the truth.” Patience caught her breath, for Arthur seemed to view this as very bad tidings. If the earl had told Lady Beckham, she imagined it might be. “He demanded a discussion, considering our choice to be an insult to his family name, and I returned to the club in the hopes of placating him. In truth, he did not wish to talk. No sooner had we retired to a quiet room alone than he assaulted me. He and his companions took me by surprise, and gave me a pummeling. Perhaps he meant to teach me a lesson, or urge me to reconsider.” Arthur shrugged, raising a hand to the back of his head. “I remember feeling my head strike something and I fell, then he cast the contents of a glass of brandy over me.”

“Arthur!” Patience whispered, horrified that he should have been so abused. She found herself feeling the back of his head with gentle fingertips and located a small bump.

“I awakened at dawn or near to it, to find my pockets had been emptied.” He patted the place where his sapphire pin should have been, his expression rueful. “I liked that pin. It matched my eyes.”

“It did indeed,” she ceded and he smiled at her.

“Shall you add vanity to my crimes?”

She could not halt her own smile. “I could call it honesty instead of vanity. You are a handsome man and would have to be blind to be oblivious to it.” He grinned and she dared to continue. “I like that you take pride in your appearance, for I find you most attractive.”

“Patience,” he murmured with surprise and she found herself flushing again.

“Did he even take your coppers?”

Arthur almost smiled. “He did, the wretch. Every one of them. I am surprised he left my watch, but perhaps he was interrupted.” He shrugged. “Without a single coin to my name, I knew I could only walk back to Berkley Square. I waited for the sounds of the workers in the street, then did as much.” He raised his hands. “And so you find me returned, if somewhat more disheveled than is my custom.”

“Did you lose last night?” Patience found she hated the notion of the earl absconding with Arthur’s winnings more than the prospect of Arthur gambling.

“No, but nor did I win.” He turned to her, his expression haunted. “But it is in this moment that I stand to lose all of import, if you have come to despise me, for your choice would not be without cause.” He was so earnest that a lump rose in her throat.

She touched his arm. “Arthur! Do not lose hope. We will find a solution. We might find the funds themselves. Or perhaps Mr. Fanshawe will grant us a loan.”

Arthur gave her a hot look. “Based upon what principal? My boots are not sufficiently fine and as you have noted repeatedly, I possess no skills or expertise.”

She had never yet seen him despondent and it troubled her. “Arthur, we will find a way together, somehow. We are bound together for better or for worse, after all, until death us do part.” She had thought to provoke a smile but he frowned.

“Are we?”

Patience blinked. “Of course, we are. We stood before the vicar and exchanged our vows just last Saturday…”

“You pledged yourself to Arthur Beckham. I know that man has been dead these twenty years.”

Patience could only stare at him. “But,” she managed finally.

He held her gaze and even if she ignored his blackened eye, he had never looked so much like a stranger to her. “My name is Charles Arthur Leighton.”

Patience felt her mouth drop open.

There was a gentle rap at the door then and Taylor appeared. “Sir? I would not interrupt.”

Patience rose to her feet with purpose. “Please, Taylor, my husband has need of you. If you might summon a hot bath, I think he would welcome it as much as a change of clothing. Please have the fire laid, as well. I suspect you have a better notion of how to care for his injuries than I might.”

“Ma’am?” Taylor came into the room, his expression turning to horror as he looked at Arthur’s blackened eye. “Sir!”

Arthur stood up and shed his jacket with some effort. “My wife is right, Taylor, save that I would also like breakfast after that bath.”

“Of course, sir.”

Arthur fixed Patience with an intent look. “You might bring that to my wife’s chamber, for she and I have much to discuss this morning.” He raised a brow, lowering his voice as Taylor hastened away. “There is no point in withholding the tale any longer. You will have your truth, Patience, and you will have it this very day. Perhaps you will see why I did not hasten to share it with you. Not only did I mislead you, but I am not even the man you believed me to be. Perhaps the truth is the only thing of merit I can offer you.” He looked saddened by this and as much as she yearned to reassure him, Patience knew she had to hear his confession first.

* * *

Arthur felt much restored by his bath, and his stomach growled when he proceeded to Patience’s chamber in his dressing robe. He admired how she had directed Taylor’s efforts with a minimum of discussion, seeing proof in that of her experience in managing her father’s house. Her hair was done by the time he joined her and she had changed her dress. The fire was crackling and the cats, once his loyal companions, had clearly chosen Patience as their new guardian.

He could not blame them.

She rose to greet him and took his hand, ushering him into one chair while she claimed the other. It was sweet torment to touch her and suspect that he would likely never do so again. Even the weight of her hand within his seemed infinitely precious and he mourned his own failure to defend what was of import to him.

He had betrayed her and she would not forgive him. The sole thing she could not abide was a deception, after all, and his life had been a lie for twenty years. He would tell her the truth, simply to clear his debt to her, then nothing else would matter. He knew the earl would ensure that his membership at the club was revoked and he suspected that Lady Beckham would soon hear of his unacceptable choice. With the funds having vanished, he could not finance Patience’s goal or keep his promise to her.

All was lost and Arthur did not see how any of it could be made to rights.

He saw no reason to evade the facts. “I have lied to you, Patience, and in fact to all the world,” he admitted when they faced each other. Her expression was neutral and he knew she hid her thoughts. “My name is not Arthur Beckham, though I have pretended to be him for over twenty years.”

She surveyed the chamber with a frown, as if the answer to her obvious questions might be lurking there, then met his gaze again. “But how can that be?”

“It is a long story,” he said.

“Then start at the beginning,” she instructed, her practicality making him smile a little.

Indeed.

“Once upon a time,” he began softly. “There was a boy who lived with his parents in a small village in England. They were not rich but neither were they poor, for as the mother said, they had each other and that was sufficient for anyone’s happiness. It was sufficient for the three of them, until the day the mother died.”

Patience let out a breath, as soft as a sigh. To Arthur’s surprise, she reached out and took his hand in hers. She gave his fingers a squeeze, as if to encourage him, and to his astonishment, it did.

“Both father and son were bereft without the lady, who had been not just wife and mother but the very focus of their lives together. She had been the one to know when one of them was ill, she was the one who knew what to do in any situation, she was the one who cooked the meals they loved and tended to their garments. She was a sweet and generous woman, much inclined to kindness but not averse to a stern word when one was needed.”

“She sounds lovely,” Patience said and he nodded agreement. He felt his throat work, but he continued. “Without her, their lives spun into disarray. The man began to spend what few coins he possessed at the public house, and often he missed days of labor, which meant their resources steadily diminished. Bills were left unpaid and the larder was often empty. The boy sold what he could. He took to doing tasks for others for coin or to begging, though there was little opportunity for either in their small village. He was hungry and dirty, his clothes ill-fitting since there was no one to patch or replace them, when he saw the fancy coaches on the road.”

“That explains the pennies then,” she said quietly and he looked at her in momentary confusion. “The ones you give to children.”

He winced. “That coin might provide their first meal in days. I know how much it can matter, but for Arthur Beckham, giving away a hundred pennies a day makes no difference at all.”

She tightened her grip on his hand and looked to be blinking back tears. He could not bear that he might have made her cry, so he frowned into the embers of the fire.

“The coaches came each year at regular intervals for the school terms, though the boy had never paid much heed to them in the past. They were from another world, one more affluent and privileged than his own. As he watched them this time, he recalled his mother saying that each coach carried a wealthy boy to school in Shrewsbury. She had said the boys came when they were at least ten years of age and he realized, with some surprise, that he was that age himself. It was early October and they arrived for Michaelmas term. On impulse, he followed the carriages, drawn to them by a fascination he could not explain. When one stopped at the tavern in the next village, he persuaded the coachman to let him ride along with a tale of his ailing aunt in Shrewsbury. He had never been more than a quarter mile from the house where he had been born, but there was so little for him there that he did not even look back.

“Shrewsbury was enormous and busy to him, confusing and thrilling. His efforts to fulfill a task for a penny or two were more successful here than in his home village, for it seemed not only that there were many minor tasks to be done but that people had much more coin in their pockets. He found himself lingering near the school, fascinated by the lives of these boys born to advantage. They had wealth and clothing, horses of their own even, and lessons. What would it be like to live thus? To never be hungry? To know that your future was assured, and would be one of comfort and indulgence?”

He shook his head at the very thought.

“The boy found favor in the kitchens of the school and worked long days, hauling supplies, shovelling manure, doing whatever had to be done. The cook let him sleep by the hearth, purportedly to ensure that he was always available, but she was a more kindly woman than she wished others to know. He eavesdropped on lessons whenever he could and watched the students with fascination, marvelling that Fortune could make lives so different for no apparent reason. A coachman taught him to play draughts, then cards, showing him how to anticipate the play. He was fascinated by the suggestion that chance could be foretold.”

Patience’s grip remained steadfast, though he knew at some point she would be troubled by his tale.

“There was a group of new boys seemingly determined to find trouble. One day, they schemed that they would escape in the night, and the boy heard of this plan. They chose to challenge each other to a feat of bravery. The wind was up, a sign that a storm brewed, but they were accustomed to having their way and paid no heed to the weather. The boy watched them creep out of the dormitory at midnight and considered whether he should tell anyone. Instead, he followed them.

“They all had insisted they could swim, but several could not. The boy could swim, though, and when he heard their cries of distress, he did not pause but jumped into the river himself. Two made the shore alone. One he saved. The fourth, name of Arthur Beckham, he reached too late.”

Patience inhaled sharply.

“The cook had noticed her missing charge and had him followed by a groom. In a school of boys, she doubtless had learned to smell mischief in the making. By the time the boy brought the third boy to the shore, there were half a dozen men from the school there, bundling up the survivors and carrying them off to the infirmary. In the chaos and the darkness, only the boy and the headmaster knew Arthur’s fate and the boy was sworn to silence. The headmaster took custody of Arthur and the boy was returned to the kitchens, where the cook fussed over him. He returned to his customary tasks and held his tongue.

“The boys were severely punished for their breaking of the rules and kept isolated from each other, as well as the other students. The dead boy’s father, Viscount Meadstone, was summoned at once. The sound of his arrival echoed through the halls and his roar of fury left more than one shaking in fear of repercussions. I was terrified when summoned to him.”

Arthur fell silent, realizing belatedly what he had confessed.

Patience bent to kiss his hand. “You were the orphaned boy,” she said, smiling up at him so his throat tightened.

“I was.” He exhaled, his vow finally broken after so many years of silence. He felt he had put down a burden, one that had become more weighty with every passing year, one he had never desired to pick up in the first place. He nodded once more, conviction growing in his voice. “I was.”