Year of Folly Read online

  “Why can I rail freely at your brother’s flaws and your sister’s public shaming, yet the mention of Lilly brings out your claws?” Morgan called, from behind her.

  Emma kept walking. She could not afford to answer. The bridge was just ahead and after that, they would be in a respectable area of town. Perhaps she could escape Morgan and walk back to Kirkaldy alone. That would be best.

  Morgan caught her arm and halted her. “Emma, stop.”

  “Why is an unruffled life so important to you?” she demanded. “And how does that…that wrestling form part of it?”

  His face shadowed over. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “No?” She squeezed her umbrella until the metal spines grated together with muted clicks. “Is gambling against the law here, Morgan?”

  “Not exactly….” He glanced back toward the warehouse, which was hidden behind the high fence.

  “Just something to be hidden away from those who would disapprove,” Emma shot back. “How nicely hypocritical of you.”

  His lips parted. “How dare you…”

  Emma raised her brow. “Uncle Vaughn gave control of my allowance to you, Morgan. I would be irresponsible to not question your motives and your morals, considering what I just learned about you.”

  Two white lines bracketed his mouth. His fury scared her a little. However, Helen was right—Emma must guard her own interests. It wasn’t good enough to presume any man made her concerns their priority.

  “Are you good at wrestling?” she added, as Morgan’s fury rose.

  He breathed heavily. “What do you care? It is immoral, according to you.”

  “I saw one of the bookmakers stuff a whole twenty pounds into his pockets before your first match. That would buy a lifetime’s worth of ribbons and buttons. It would be good to know the true earning ability of your talents, in case you do mishandle my money.”

  His eyes widened. For a heavy heart beat or two, Emma wondered if he might explode. Will and Jack had always punched things when they ran out of words and were angry enough. Morgan looked as though he had just run out of words, too.

  Instead, Morgan laughed. He threw his head back, and gave a great shout that startled pigeons from under the bridge, and sent them skimming over the water. His shoulders shook as he turned and walked toward the end of the tow path. This time his pace was manageable. Emma scrambled after him and was glad to step upon the solidness of the path

  She caught up with him. Morgan walked with his head down, peering at his feet. He was thinking, she realized.

  “It is called backhold wrestling,” he said quietly. “Although everyone here calls it Scottish wrestling.” His anger had evaporated, just like that.

  “Of course they do. Why do you do it?”

  He glanced at her. “To begin with, I thought it might wear me out.”

  “So you can sleep?” she guessed.

  He nodded.

  “Does it?”

  “Not as much as I would like,” he confessed. “Although it is good for other things besides inducing sleep.”

  “Such as?”

  He took another few steps, considering his answer. This was the Morgan she knew. The thoughtful man. The thinker. “Everyone talks about Seth Williams’ famous temper, and how much of his temper his sons inherited. They fail to notice the other black Celt in the family, and that he passed his temperament along to his sons, too.”

  “Uncle Rhys,” Emma breathed. “Do you…is your temper very bad, Morgan?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never let it loose.”

  It was a bleak answer, and typically Morgan-like.

  “So you might not have a temper at all, then.”

  Morgan shook his head. “Oh, I have one.” His tone was ominous. “Will was shot because he let his temper loose. Iefan has always been a wild card, until he found himself sprawled on a roof in Oman, with his leg shattered. I have no intention of following their lead.”

  Emma walked beside him, thought-filled. “And wrestling helps?”

  “It helps,” Morgan said, his tone cool.

  They passed under the bridge, with the lap of the river echoing against the great steel girders beneath, then out onto the footpath proper. There were other strollers ahead of them, taking the late afternoon air.

  “You should probably put your cuffs back on, too,” Emma murmured.

  Morgan gave a soft curse and pulled the cuffs from his other pocket and yanked his sleeve down to attach them. Then he halted and lifted his head. “Uncle Vaughn,” he said.

  Emma turned back to him. “What about him?”

  “That is what you called him. Uncle Vaughn. Not Papa Vaughn.” His gaze pinned her to the footpath. “Why did you do that?”

  Emma tried to recall what she had said. Only the last few minutes were a jumble in her mind, filled with high emotion. She couldn’t recall much beyond the astonishing realization that Morgan thought he had a temper so bad it must be controlled and channeled lest he descend into another of the family disasters he abhorred. “Of course he is Papa Vaughn,” she declared, her heart pattering with alarm.

  “So why would you call him ‘uncle’?” Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Does it have something to do with Lilly?” he added.

  Emma’s throat squeezed. She hurried up the path. She could not answer the question and Morgan would force an answer from her if she stayed there.

  “Emma!” Morgan called after her.

  Just lie! she told herself. What did it hurt?

  “Emma!”

  She didn’t stop. She could not.

  Morgan didn’t grip her arm as he had last time. He inserted himself in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders, halting her more thoroughly than an anchor. “Stop, stop,” he said gently. “There’s no need to run away.”

  Only there was. It was all mixed up in her chest, making it ache. The hot feeling of defensiveness which had gripped her when Morgan dismissed Lilly’s affairs as merely inglorious adventures.

  “Please let me go,” she whispered.

  Morgan released her. “You may as well tell me, now.”

  “Another scandal to add to your worry beads, Morgan? I don’t think so.”

  His mouth lifted at the corner. “Then there is a scandal at the bottom of it. You’d best tell me now, or I’ll spend the rest of my life waiting for the storm it will create to break over my head.”

  Emma didn’t know where the tears came from. They were suddenly there, making her eyes prickle hard and her throat to squeeze. “The famous Seth Williams temper you deplore, Morgan? That is my temper. Seth is my grandfather, you see.” Her tears spilled. “Not just an honorary one. He is my blood kin.”

  Morgan didn’t react. He simply stood there, as if he was so shocked, all other emotions had frozen, and his muscles, too.

  It was too late to retract her statement. She could only finish the confession now. “Lilly is my mother,” she made herself say, and put her hand over her eyes. The tears tore at her throat. She mustn’t break down here in public, where anyone might see them. Crying while standing in front of a man would be interpreted in far the wrong way.

  So she fought to hold the sobs in, which only made them hurt even more.

  Morgan stirred. “Here,” he said, his tone rough. He tugged on her wrist. “Over here,” he said, guiding her. “There is a bench,” he added. His hand on her back encouraged her to walk a few steps and sit. She was grateful for the assistance, for she could see nothing properly.

  A clean, folded handkerchief was pushed into her hand and she used it to dry her cheeks and chin, while her shoulders shook.

  Morgan sat beside her in silence.

  When she had sufficiently recovered and could breathe properly once more, he said, “You haven’t told anyone this, have you?”

  “It isn’t only my secret,” she whispered.

  Morgan leaned forward, rested his hands on his knees, and gave a great, gusty exhalation. It was ungentlemanly and quite un-Morgan-like, too
. “This explains…so much,” he added softly, watching ducks float under the bridge in a long row. “I remember Lilly’s first Season. She was the first of the family to be presented at court. I was twelve, I think, and it was all so solemn and grand. A ball in her honor and all manner of pleasant things. Then, abruptly, she withdrew from society and took up residence with Elisa and Vaughn…” He shook his head. “The same year, Elisa and Vaughn adopted you, and I never—not once—associated the two things.” He looked over his shoulder at Emma. “You did not, either, from the sound of it.”

  Emma shook her head. “I didn’t know any of it. How could I? Lilly was my governess, who also happened to be my cousin. Then she married Jasper and went away to the north…”

  Morgan sat back and straightened his now properly fastened cuffs. “That is why you have never been presented.”

  Emma sighed. “They were forced to tell me, because I wanted to be—so badly.”

  Morgan looked down at her. “You’ve not had an easy time of it, lately, have you?”

  Emma grimaced. “They were probably wise to pack me off to Kirkaldy, at that.”

  Morgan grimaced. “So Bridget is your aunt, in fact.”

  “Bridget does not know any of this,” Emma warned him. “I would not have burdened you with it, either, Morgan, but you insisted.”

  “I did,” he agreed, his voice low. “I’m glad, though, you had a chance to tell someone.”

  “Even if it was you, the man who is repulsed by drama?”

  “This is not the self-inflicted style of crisis I object to,” Morgan murmured, as if his thoughts were far away. “Do you know who…” He glanced at her, pausing delicately.

  “My father?” Emma drew in a breath. “No, I don’t know who he is. Lilly said that…that I really did not want to know the truth. Not now. Not yet.”

  Morgan considered. “Or perhaps she wasn’t ready to tell you.” He got to his feet. “Come along. I’ll find one of the cabbies to take us back home. Your eyes are quite red. You’ll scare everyone if we walk back.”

  Chapter Seven

  Northallerton, West Yorkshire. At the same time.

  When Warrick cleared his throat in the soft, wary way he used to draw her attention to something important, Lilly lifted her gaze from the big ledger open on the table in front of her and rubbed her temples. “Oh, it’s quite alright to disturb me this morning, Warrick. Figures and I do not agree with each other right now.”

  Warrick took a step farther into the little morning room Lilly used to manage the affairs of the estate. “There is a gentleman to speak to you and Mr. Thomsett, my Lady.”

  “Both of us?”

  “He was most insistent. I’ve sent a man to collect Mr. Thomsett from the sheep yards. The gentleman is in the drawing room.”

  The best room in the house, instead of the sitting room where they usually greeted guests. “Are you trying to intimidate the man, Warrick?” Lilly teased him. “Did you manage to pry his name from him before sending for Jasper?”

  “I did, my Lady. He says he is a Captain Shore, although he wears no uniform.”

  The lack of the uniform to go with the name had made Warrick uneasy, Lilly realized. Then she properly processed the name. “Cary Shore is here?” she asked, amazed. She lurched to her feet and closed the ledger with a thump. “Shore fought with Mr. Thomsett in the Crimea war, Warrick. I hope you did not completely deflate the man. He is a good friend, even though Jasper hasn’t seen him since…good Lord, I do believe it has been thirteen years!”

  Warrick frowned. “He really was an officer, my Lady?”

  “A very good one,” Lilly assured him. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It is close enough to morning teatime, Warrick. The fruit tarts and the sponge cake would be most welcome.” She paused. “Oh, and the brandy, too.”

  Warrick’s mouth lifted in a knowing smile. “I’ll see to it, my Lady.” He moved away with a dignified pace.

  Lilly touched her hair, tucked loose strands back into place, then hurried through the house to the drawing room.

  Cary Shore sat on one of the old corner chairs, his walking stick propped against him, and his boot extended, while he dug his fingers into the flesh above his knee. Lilly was startled to see his hair was completely gray, almost silver. He’d had wheat blond hair the last time she had seen him.

  Shore reached for the walking stick and brought his foot back under him.

  “No, please don’t get up, Captain,” she said quickly and sank onto the armchair closest to him. “It is good to see you. Jasper will be so pleased! It will take him a few moments to return from the sheds. I hope you don’t mind my company while you wait. I’ve arranged for morning tea.”

  Cary Shore gave her a tight smile. “Tea would be good,” he admitted. “I had to walk from the station. Northallerton doesn’t seem to run to cabs.”

  “It does, only the annual lamb sale starts in three days’ time,” Lilly said. “The entire county is busy preparing. Even the cab drivers get pulled into a day’s work on the local farms.” She got to her feet and pulled a side table closer to the pair of them, so Shore would not have to get up again. “How does Mrs. Shore fare?

  “Jeannie is well,” Shore replied. “My oldest is twelve now, can you believe that? It seems like only yesterday….” He shook his head.

  “Running an estate seems to suit you,” Lilly observed. “You manage well enough, with your leg, clearly.”

  Shore dropped his hand to the same knee. “It only bothers me now and then, mostly when it is about to rain. Managing an estate is marvelous work—Major Thomsett was right about it suiting me. I’m my own man, and the quiet is relaxing.” He smiled. “I always considered myself a city lad. I grew up in London, then spent years moving from one battle to the next war. I thought I would miss the busyness and the noise.”

  “But you do not,” Lilly breathed, pleased.

  “Not for a moment,” Shore confessed, with a smile. “I sometimes wonder if that’s because I’m getting older.”

  “I think it’s because you are happy,” Lilly amended. “A contented marriage can make up for a great many other flaws in one’s life.”

  “As you would know, my Lady,” Shore said.

  “Lilly, please,” she amended.

  They both looked up as Jasper hurried into the room, following by Warrick carrying the big tray with the everyday teapot and the family teacups. Smith, his footman, came behind with another tray holding the tarts and the sponge cake, and the jug of clotted cream.

  “Captain Shore…Cary!” Jasper came over to the man, with a wide smile. “This is a delightful surprise. No, don’t get up.” He shook his hand, pounded his shoulder, then pulled up a second chair, on the other side of the table where Warrick and Smith placed the trays. He ran his hand through his thick curls. “I only paused long enough to wash my hands. I’m straight off the field, I hope you don’t mind. Tommy said it was urgent.” Even his shirt sleeves were still rolled up to his elbows.

  Shore glanced at Warrick, then at the trays. “Are they fruit tarts?” he said hopefully.

  He had changed the subject. Lilly glanced at Jasper.

  Jasper’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He leaned forward. “Oh, and the sponge cake. Good. I could smell it cooking, all day yesterday.”

  Lilly shifted on the chair and poured three cups of tea and passed them out, while Warrick added napkins to the tray.

  “Will there by anything else, my Lady?” the butler asked.

  “That appears to be everything, thank you, Warrick.”

  “Shall I shut the door on my way out, my Lady?” Warrick added.

  Shore winced.

  “That might be best, thank you, Warrick,” Jasper replied, reaching for one of the tarts.

  “Very good, sir.” Warrick swept up Smith and the two of them withdrew. Warrick closed the drawing-room door with a soft snick.

  Shore rubbed at his knee. “I’m out of practice. The man saw straight through me,” he sai
d apologetically.

  “Warrick is discretion itself,” Jasper assured him. “He served with me in India and he helps me when the tenants get out of hand.”

  “He’s also a Fifth man?” Shore asked, startled. “That’s good to know. Very well, then.” His relief was palpable. “I’m sorry to drop in on you unannounced. I didn’t want to put this in a letter, and I thought you should know sooner, rather than later.” He glanced from Jasper to Lilly. “I had a caller, yesterday. A Mr. Ignatius Pollaky.”

  Jasper frowned. “I know that name from somewhere.”

  “Paddington Pollaky,” Shore added.

  Lilly drew in a sharp breath. “The man they talk about in the papers? The…what does he call himself?”

  “An investigator,” Jasper said quietly.

  Shore reached into his fob pocket and withdrew a card. “His card…” He tilted his head to read the card and held it at arm’s length, too. “Pollaky’s Private Inquiry Office.”

  He handed the card over to Jasper. “Pollaky wouldn’t say who employed him. Apparently, revealing such information is a breach of etiquette for these people.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be too hard to figure out, I suppose. He was asking about Blackawton, and how he died.” His gaze shifted to Lilly.

  Lilly’s middle turned to instant, hard ice. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  Jasper got to his feet and moved to her side. He crouched beside her. “Breathe if you can, my love,” he whispered. “Just a sip of air. Remember how it goes…” He stroked her hand where it clutched the arm of the chair.

  Lilly willed her lungs to work. Only a single tiny breath, which would let her take another. Sound wavered around her. She thought Shore had spoken but heard no words in the booming sound in her ears.

  She drew in the sip of air. Then another, which let her breathe out. Her chest unlocked, and she could breathe normally again. Sound adjusted back to normal.

  Jasper kissed her cheek, despite Shore watching both of them closely. “Well done,” he breathed in her ear. He plucked her hand from the arm of the chair and settled on the arm, her hand in his.

  Shore scratched at his chin. “I never wanted to know all the details about the night Blackawton died. I think that might have been a blessing now,” he said softly. “I could truthfully tell this Pollacky person I had no idea what he was talking about.”