his promise and finally gain what he had always wanted—his father’s respect and pride in his accomplishments rather than always standing in his father’s shadow.
A knot formed stubbornly in Charles’s throat.
“Your Grace?”
A man’s voice nudged gently into Charles’s awareness. He looked up and met the dark gaze of his valet.
“Your Grace, you asked to be reminded when it was near time for you to depart for Miss Lottie’s.”
Charles nodded. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Thomas glanced at the treasures surrounding Charles. “Several doors down there is another room filled with the items you discovered on your own travels.”
The trouble with good valets was the way they oftentimes were far too perceptive.
“They aren’t the same.” Charles looked at a jade pendant of an elephant with gilt tusks.
“You are a good man, Your Grace. He would be proud of what you’ve accomplished in such a short period of time.”
Charles nodded absently. His father wouldn’t be proud. Not after his failing to locate the Coeur de Feu. No, his father would be disappointed.
The thought sliced into him as he recalled his father’s last words, hastily scrawled with the desperation of a man with only moments left to live. And once again he felt the crushing weight of disappointment, because they’d been about the damned ruby.
Thomas bent in front of Charles and lifted the key from the floor. “When you’re ready, Your Grace?” He carefully set it on the desk beside the massive tome and departed.
Charles sighed, but the weight in his heart did not lighten. He had committed many wrongs in his life, and all the treasures of the world wouldn’t make it right. Getting those journals from Eleanor would be a start.
In truth, she had wormed her way into his thoughts several times since their discussion. Her forthright demand for what she might do to improve herself had taken him aback. And yet it had been refreshing. It was a rare thing indeed for a member of the ton to request an opportunity to better oneself. Not in dance or watercolor or singing, but in the general composition of their personality.
Charles got to his feet and strode out the door. He stopped at the top of the stairs and gazed down to the entrance hall below, where polished marble gleamed in the candlelight. He’d stood there so very many times before, watching his father prepare to leave for another trip.
When he was a boy he’d held onto the ornate railing, his small fingers curled around the cool wood, as if clutching it would keep his father from leaving again. When he was an adolescent he’d propped his elbow on its bannister and let his imagination carry him to the places his father would go, where Charles knew with the whole of his heart he would also venture someday.
And this was where Charles had seen his father for the last time...
The bustle of servants began to calm and Charles found himself alone in the foyer. His blood danced in his veins at the thought of the impending adventure awaiting him—the foreign lands, the excitement of experiencing everything he’d ever heard about from his father and had spent a lifetime dreaming of.
The back of his neck prickled with the awareness of being observed. He turned and looked up the curving stairs to where his father leaned heavily on a carved ivory cane just at the top.
They’d said their farewells already. Promises had been made to pursue the Coeur de Feu, and wisdom and advice had been passed from father to son.
The Duke did not make his way down to offer another goodbye. Instead he stood at the top of the stairs, leaning on the cane gone yellow with age, and nodded down at his son.
This time it was the Duke of Somersville who was seeing Charles off. And this time it was not just information which had been passed from father to son, but a role...
The memory wrenched at Charles’s heart. Not because he hadn’t been there to offer his father a final farewell when the Duke had passed on, but because he had failed.
There would be no moving on with Charles’s life until the gem was found. The dukedom could wait. It had been unattended for the previous six months, after all. Charles was young. He had time for life to wait as he finally fulfilled his promise.
The steel of determination set in his spine as he climbed into the waiting carriage. He would get those journals by any means necessary.
Late evening was often the hour of illicit deeds. Eleanor’s deed posed no exception. She slipped into the town house on Russell Square in Bloomsbury, utilizing the servants’ entrance for discretion.
It wasn’t until the footman had led her into the drawing room that she allowed him to take the domino from her shoulders, the wig from her head and the mask from her face.
While last time divesting herself of her disguise had left her trembling with vulnerability, now it rendered her lighter, freer. Perhaps now she saw the lessons for what she hadn’t fully understood previously that they were: a second chance. Possibly her only chance.
Not just in acquiring a husband, but in living her life. Having passion, as Charles had said. Being a painting with depth.
The very idea of it prickled over her skin. She had restrained her emotions for so long, the very idea of letting them free was exhilarating.
Her mother had been equally eager to have her attend another lesson, especially after she had been seen in Hyde Park, speaking with a mysterious man. Eleanor had remained closed-lipped about Lord Charles, and her mother had been too pleased with the development to press for more information.
Eleanor watched the door with anticipation—waiting for it to open, for Lottie to saunter through it with her sensual confidence. And for Charles to follow behind her.
Perhaps Eleanor ought to have been offended by the bluntness of his words—certainly they had stung. But they had also thrown open the doors of her comprehension. What might have been the harshest criticism had also been the introduction to opportunity.
A glass of sherry, she noticed, was sitting once more on the small table beside the buxom bust. She leaned over the marble woman, considering... Her eagerness to change, however, did not extend far enough to allow her to reach between the pert nipples and claim the glass.
The doors swept open and Eleanor lurched around like a child caught doing something naughty. Lottie passed into the room like a queen. The length of her black curls cascaded down her right shoulder and the blue silk gown she wore made her skin gleam like the flawless surface of a pearl. Charles entered the room behind her and bowed low.
“Good evening, Lady Eleanor.”
He rose and bestowed upon her a charming smile, which she ought to have ignored but which set her heart tapping at an odd rhythm.
“It’s
