“Doesn’t love need fuel, as well?”
Could she and Piers keep that fire burning for a lifetime? After the events of last night and their argument in the morning, Charlotte wasn’t sure. She wasn’t strong enough to be the only one carting coals. He would have to supply at least a few.
But he’d refused her even that much.
Diana patted her on the knee. “Minerva and I had best go wash and dress for the evening. We’ll leave you to think.”
Sir Vernon invited Piers to join him in his library before the ball, for a brandy.
Piers accepted, naturally. The irony was irresistible. They were returning to the scene of the crime.
“Too bad about that unpleasantness in the back garden last night. But it’s all worked out in the end, eh, Granville?”
He handed a brandy to Piers before taking a seat behind the infamous creaking desk.
“You needn’t worry about any scandal,” he said. “My daughters understand it’s in their best interests not to sully the virtue of a close friend.”
The nerve of the man.
Piers took sole responsibility for wounding Charlotte. But he never would have hurt her at all if Sir Vernon Parkhurst were the honest, upright man he pretended to be.
Atop this very desk, he’d committed adultery. He’d had weeks to confess his indiscretion, but to this day, he would allow his daughter’s friend to pay the price for it. Which was a loss, of course, to Delia as well.
Piers tossed back a scalding swallow of brandy. He’d been sent here to find answers. He was tired of dodging around the questions.
Forget stealth and searches. He was going to outright ask.
“Sir Vernon, how long have you been married?”
The man frowned in reflection. “Three-and-twenty years this August, I think?” He counted on his fingers. “No, twenty-four.” He laughed. “If my lady asks, I answered you correctly the first time. Without hesitation.”
“Of course.”
“I’m not so handy with numbers, but I recall everything about the evening we met. It was a masquerade. She was dressed as a cat. Tail attached to her skirts, little pointed black ears. Fur edging her bodice.” He raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, propping his boots on the desk. “I’m a hunter, Granville. A sporting man, through and through. I knew then and there, Helena might lead me a pretty chase—but in the end, she would be mine.”
What a charming story.
Piers sat up in his chair. “We are friends, are we not?”
“I certainly hope so.”
“Then I hope you’ll permit me a personal question. The answer will be kept in the strictest confidence, of course.”
Sir Vernon waved his brandy glass in invitation.
“As you say, you’re a sporting man. In twenty-three years, have you never caught sight of a different quarry? Been tempted to give chase?”
His host’s grin faded. He let his boots fall to the floor and set his brandy on the desk. “I know what this is about, Granville. What you’re truly asking.”
“Good.” That would make this all the easier.
“We’re men. We understand each other.”
“Yes, I believe we do.”
“Then let’s get to the heart of the matter.” Sir Vernon regarded him gravely. “You’re getting cold feet.”
Stunned, Piers found himself at a loss for words. “I . . . You’ve . . .”
“No need to be ashamed of it, Granville. You needn’t make excuses to me. I felt the same on the eve of my nuptials. Spent a sleepless night convinced I was making a mistake. In the morning, I thought I’d be sick all over the vicar’s vestments.” He tapped the desk blotter thoughtfully. “But I’ll tell you God’s honest truth. Once I caught sight of my Helena walking down the aisle of that church, all my doubt vanished.”
“Vanished?”
“Gone.” The man’s eyes were unwavering, solemn. “Never looked at another woman after that day. Well, I’ll be honest. I’m a man. I’ve looked. But I’ve never felt restless, never been tempted to stray. I’ve never even given it a thought.”
Piers regarded the man.
Most people were exceedingly poor liars. He’d long ago learned to tell a truth from a falsehood, unless the liar in question was very, very good.
And he’d be damned if he didn’t believe, to the soles of his boots, that Sir Vernon Parkhurst was telling the truth. The man was devoted to his wife.
Which meant Piers knew even less than he’d thought.
It didn’t make any sense. The missing money. The strange journeys to seedy row houses and country inns. What on earth could be behind it, if not a mistress or illegitimate child?
Some other agent would have to find out, apparently. Because Piers was at a loss.
Sir Vernon rose from his chair and came around the desk to give him a hearty slap on the back. “You’ll be fine, Granville. A bit of doubt on the bridegroom’s part is only natural—but don’t be fooled. You’re not truly worried she won’t be enough for you. You’re worried you won’t be enough for her.”
Piers reached for his drink and downed the remainder in a single swallow.
“You never will be good enough, you know,” Sir Vernon went on, chuckling. “For some unfathomable reason, the ladies insist on loving us anyway. Sometimes I even think they like us the better for it.”
With another resounding thump to Piers’s back, Sir Vernon left the library—leaving Piers alone with an empty glass, a mind awhirl with thoughts, and a heart full of regret.
He stared at the window seat. He remembered clasping Charlotte to his chest as she laughed herself to tears against his shirt. He recalled watching her smile as she conversed with his brother. He thought of making love to her in a sunny meadow.
He thought of Oliveview, and of ranking solidly in her top quartile.
He’d likely plunged to the bottom of those ranks today, hovering somewhere just above the dullards who rarely bathed.
Who was he fooling? He’d sunk beneath them, too.
Damn. He’d been so stupid. Beyond stupid. He’d had a lovely, sweet-natured woman naked in his bed, vowing to love him forever. And the minute she fell asleep, he’d decided to go play with matches. All in some stupid attempt to prove her wrong.
Now—thanks to Sir Vernon Parkhurst, of all people—it was clear to him that he’d been not only an idiot, but an ass, as well.