Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 65 - Sixty Five

Carcel got up from the chair, opened the curtain to let in more light and stood at the window, his back to the room, a rigid, dark, and utterly silent silhouette against the bright, accusing morning light. He was staring, unseeing, at the cheerful, orderly, sunlit square.

Rowan was still sitting on his chair, a rumpled, exhausted, and profoundly confused man, baffled by his friend’s sudden, cold, and violent reaction.

Carcel’s hands were clasped so tightly behind his back that his knuckles ached.

"Why are you so intent on marrying her off?" He asked. His voice was quiet, reasonable. It was the voice he used at business meetings, the one that held no emotion, and that, for that very reason, was terrifying.

Rowan stared at him, his mouth open. "What?" he asked, as if Carcel had just, very calmly, suggested they burn the house down. "What kind of a question is that? She is a woman. She is of age. It is my duty."

"It doesn’t necessarily matter if she doesn’t get married," Carcel said, taking a slow, deliberate step away from the window, into the room, into the fight.

That was the final blow.

Rowan’s face, which had been pale with exhaustion and confusion, hardened. The fog of his hangover vanished, replaced by a sudden, sharp fury.

"Don’t talk nonsense," Rowan snapped. "Don’t you, of all people, preach to me about duty. Unless you have no intention of getting married yourself, you have no room to speak."

Carcel flinched. The blow had landed. He also had a duty. A title. An estate that needed an heir. A duty he had, for two years, been actively, stubbornly avoiding.

Rowan, now on his own, familiar, painful ground, pressed on, his voice a low, bitter, torrent of guilt and frustration.

"You don’t understand, Carcel. You can’t. Ines... she isn’t like other women."

His gaze fell to the floor, his anger collapsing, as it always did, into a deep, familiar, and weary sadness.

"Ines couldn’t come out into the social world often, even as a girl, because of her illness," he said, his voice a low, pained murmur. "She was... fragile. My mother... if my mother were alive, Ines would have had a woman’s guidance. She would have been... managed. She would have been... happy. She would have had good prospects during her first three seasons. A proper match would have been made."

He rubbed his temples, his eyes squeezed shut.

"But I," he whispered, his voice thick with a guilt so old and so deep it was part of him, "missed that crucial moment of her life. I missed all of it. Because I was at War. I was... away. And I came back to... to a sister who was... who was already...set. Who was already... lost."

He looked up, his eyes, red-rimmed and exhausted, meeting Carcel’s.

"I want to find her a match soon," he said, his voice a raw plea. "Especially now. I failed her then. I will not fail her now."

Carcel just stood there, a silent, dark, statue of his own, complicated, impossible guilt. He could not say a word. What could he say?

Rowan, you did not fail her. I am failing her. I am, at this very moment, in the dead of night, in your own library, becoming the very "fiction" you despise. I am the one making her "unmarriageable" to your safe, boring men. I am the one showing her that passion is real.

Rowan let out a long, shaky breath, pushing himself up, deeper, into the chair, as if he could hide from his own words.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his ducal mask returning, his voice flat. He was embarrassed. He had shown too much. "I didn’t... I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I am... tired."

He waved a hand, a gesture of dismissal, of changing the subject. Of running, fast, from the emotion of the last five minutes.

"By the way..." he paused, his gaze, still a little too sharp, a little too assessing, landing on Carcel.

"Carcel," he said, his voice suddenly, terrifyingly, casual, "do you have anything to tell me?"

The blood in Carcel’s veins did not just run cold. It stopped. It froze, solid, in an instant.

This is it. The abrupt change. The ’by the way.’ The... the look in his eyes. He is... he is toying with me. He is... he is waiting for the confession, before he calls me out. Before the duel.

Carcel’s mind, his sharp, soldier’s mind, raced, trying to find a way out, a defense, a lie.

"Something to tell you?" he asked.

His voice. He heard his own voice. It was perfect. It was calm. It was... confused. It was a masterpiece of acting. He was, he thought, in some distant corner of his brain, a far better actor than he had ever known.

"Yes," Rowan said, his gaze unwavering.

Carcel’s mind raced. Think. Think, damn you. What do I do? What do I say?

He’s asking me. The sudden change from discussing Ines’s marriage... to asking me... Could he be certain? Could he have... guessed? Could he have... heard something?

No.

The logic, cold and sharp, cut through his panic.

No. If he did... if he knew... he would not be sitting. He would not be ’casual.’ He would not be asking me if I have ’anything to tell him.’

He would, Carcel’s mind concluded, with a grim, absolute certainty, have immediately challenged me to a duel, upon seeing my face this morning. He would not have waited. He would not have spoken of poker, or tea, or Ines’s books. He would have, quite simply, killed him. Or died trying.

He did not know.

He was... he was just talking.

The relief was so profound, so immense, that it almost made Carcel’s knees buckle. He had just, in the space of ten seconds, lived, been tried, convicted, and then, at the last moment, pardoned.

He let out a breath he had not even realized he was holding.

"No," he said, his voice still that perfect, calm, confused, inquisitive tone. "I don’t believe so. Should I?"

Rowan, oblivious to the life-and-death drama that had just played out in his friend’s head, finally relaxed. He had, successfully, changed the subject from his own, painful, personal failures.

"I heard," Rowan said, his voice now taking on the light, gossipy, club-man tone he used when he was talking about horses or politics, "that Earl Montclair purchased an estate nearby. The old, ruined, Ashwood pile."

He looked at Carcel. "Why didn’t you mention it? He’s your relative, isn’t he? Your... cousin?"

Carcel was still processing his relief. His mind was... slow. Montclair? Evans Montclair?

He was still suspicious. He was still wary. Where is Rowan going with this?

"A distant one," Carcel said, his voice carefully neutral. He was still thinking, still trying to understand this... this bizarre, left turn in the conversation. "A fourth cousin. Something of that nature. I... I have heard the rumors. About the estate. I did not realize it was... confirmed." He lied, smoothly. He had received a letter from Montclair’s sister three weeks ago, announcing the purchase.

"I heard," Rowan said, his voice still casual, but with that same, strange, focused edge, "that he came together with Countess Beaufort."

Carcel’s confusion... deepened.

Countess Beaufort? he thought, his mind, which had been on Ines, now, painfully, trying to shift gears. Amelia?

He did not answer at first. He was thinking. Why? Why is Rowan...

"Ah," he said, his voice slow. "So I’ve heard."

He had to be careful. He had no idea where Rowan was going with this.

I don’t have much contact with Evans Montclair, his mind supplied, a quick, internal calculation. He is... a fool. A popinjay. We are not, as Rowan said, particularly close.

But his sister...

His mind went to Amelia. Countess Beaufort.

Amelia... Amelia is different.

He had, he remembered, known her for years. She was... intelligent. She was witty. She was one of the few women in London who, like... (his mind supplied the name)... like Ines... had actually read.

We... he remembered... we had a lot in common. Even after her marriage to Count Beaufort... a good man, if a little... dull... we have kept in touch.

She... he remembered the letter... she recently wrote to me. She said they were planning to get a villa nearby. For the... for the ’country air.’

He looked at Rowan. His friend was watching him. Waiting.

But... but I don’t know why Rowan is interested in this, his mind concluded, still utterly baffled. This has nothing to do with Ines. This has nothing to do with... with anything. Why does he...?