Luke had lived in the squalor and wretchedness of that one small room with Feagan and his band of child thieves, and he’d felt safe. They’d shared their clothing, their food, their beds. They’d taught him how not to get caught. They’d taught him how to hide. And more than anything, in the beginning, he’d wanted to hide. Hide from his uncle, from the yells of his father dying, from the shrieks of his mother begging for mercy. When he’d walked through Feagan’s door, he’d done so willingly, wanting—needing—to leave his terrifying other life behind.
Nothing was more frightening than knowing that someone for whom he’d drawn a picture of a pond, someone who’d given him a small wooden carved horse, someone who had tucked him into bed once when visiting, kissed the top of his head, chuckled with his father, danced with his mother—could stand by laughing while others murdered his family. But his uncle was deeply ensconced in all those memories.
Luke heard the door open, heard the light footsteps. He twisted around in the chair, looking back toward the door. He hated the joy that filled him at the sight of Catherine. Despised more the relief that swept through him because she was here. She made him feel weak, because his need for her was so great. He needed her gone from his life and to accomplish that, he needed to take care of Avendale.
Luke swallowed more whiskey and settled back into his chair. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She knelt on the floor beside him, placed her hands on his knees. “I told my father I was going to see Winnie, but I didn’t. I just told him that excuse knowing full well that I was coming here. I didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”
“Catherine—”
“I’m here only as a friend.” She turned her face toward the portrait and rested her cheek on his thigh. “I can see the similarities so easily now.”
“I remember so little about him.”
“I think he would have been proud of his son as a man.”
Luke chuckled low. “Where do you find your faith in me, Catherine?”
“From coming to know you.”
She stayed with him, just as she’d promised. In his bed. Doing nothing more than holding him, allowing him to hold her. Something more than friendship, something less than lovers. But it was comforting. And while Luke didn’t sleep, neither did he drift into the realm of memories. Rather he concentrated on how it felt to have her in his bed: the feel of her, the fragrance of her, the sound of her breathing.
Before dawn, he escorted her home with the promise of seeing to her problem posthaste. He returned to his residence for breakfast and to read the Times. He was grateful to discover that the front page did not announce that Lady Catherine Mabry had been spied at a gaming hell, even more grateful to discover no tidbit of news whatsoever about all that had transpired last night. It would come, though. Surely it would come.
It was late morning by the time Luke arrived at Marcus Langdon’s residence. Luke was dressed in his finest, and he knew, with no doubts, that he appeared every bit the lord that he was.
The butler told him that the master and his mother were in the drawing room. Luke found them there. Marcus was reading a book. His mother was concentrating on her embroidery. What a harsh life they led.
Mrs. Langdon put down her needlework, obviously disgusted that Luke had made an appearance in her sanctuary. Marcus closed his book.
Luke cleared his throat. This was harder than he’d thought it would be. “I wanted you to know that my memories have returned to me. If you continue your efforts through the courts, you will be wasting your money, for I am the Earl of Claybourne.”
“Quite convenient that they would return now, when your position is threatened,” Mrs. Langdon said. “But that will not stop us. My son is the rightful heir.”
“No, madam, he is not. My parents were murdered by your husband.”
She gasped, paled. “That’s a lie!”
“I wish it were. I have a witness.” Jack. He’d drag Jack into court if need be in order to testify about what he’d done. “But I have no desire to bring more shame to this family than it has already experienced these many years. One murderer in the family is enough, and as I’ve never denied my deed, I see no reason to cause you further embarrassment by revealing what your husband—my uncle, my father’s brother—set into motion.”
“You were raised to lie, cheat, murder, and steal, to take that which does not belong to you—”
“You lost a silver necklace that had three red stones in it.”
She stiffened. “What do you know of my precious jewelry? It was a gift from Geoffrey, on the day we wed.”