Small comfort to Diana Price. He had not made her his whore for a night. He had left her with her virtue while denying her a lifetime's comforts.
He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. She had been happy here, he was sure. It was smaller than his room, of course, but well-appointed and cheerful. It suited her. Without thinking too much about it, he stretched out on the bed and he picked up the book.
He woke nearly an hour later. He could remember reading. It was a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. He had read and enjoyed them many times before. But the surprising warmth of the room and the peace of it had overcome him. Was it the quality of the light through the windows? Perhaps, when he had chosen his own room, he should have taken this, rather than the master suite. He had rested better during the little nap than he had in his own bed. And now, he was shaking off the vision of a pretty young girl with wide dark eyes, sitting in the window seat of this very room, legs tucked under her skirts, a half smile on her sunlit face and the book in her lap.
In his dream, she had looked up at him, where he lay on the bed, and put down the book to come towards him. The glint in her eyes was as welcoming as he might wish, and she had smiled. And then, thank God, he had awakened. If the dream had gone as he expected--with her lying in his arms--he was sure that it would have ended in a nightmare, once he'd realized who she was.
He got up quickly, trying to clear the fog from his brain, then left the room, locking the door behind him and dropping the key into his pocket. Then he bypassed his own room and went down the stairs to his study. Or was it Edgar Price's study? He was no longer sure. He had been so proud, when he'd first won this house, although much less so of the rest of that evening. There would have been room for Helena and Rosalind, and Mother as well. They would have lived happily enough, he was sure, once he had found some way to persuade them that he had come by it properly.
He had meant to break the news to them gently, making sure that everything was legal and the way prepared. His mother had never approved of his gambling to make the rent. She had wanted him to find an honest trade to help contribute to the family. And if she had realized how high the stakes had risen, and how quickly? If it upset her that he was winning coins off navvies or a few quid off of drunken clarks to help pay the bills, then she would have been appalled to see what he had won from Price.
It would not do to drop his family into a house full of unwilling servants, with the previous owners' possessions strewn about and Price's pipe still burning on the mantle. So he had toured the premises, released any servants that did not feel they could make peace with a change of masters and arranged things so that his mother need never again be troubled with the butcher's bill. He topped up the household accounts with several more fine scores at the tables. When he was through, the place would run like clockwork. His mother need never think about the time he'd spent gaming for the money she lived on, or waste her fading energy in sympathy for the source of their wealth.
But it seemed that fate was working against him, yet again. For no sooner had he finished his plans, than he was set upon by a press gang. He did not wake from their tender ministrations until he was onboard ship and well on the way to France as a member of His Majesty's Navy.
When he had managed to make his way home, he found the house little different than it had been when he'd left it. He had returned to a life that was quite comfortable, and further gambling had made it even more so. But it meant nothing if there was no one to share it with.
And now he could not shake the feeling that it was not his life that he was living, but one that rightly belonged to another. He gathered paper and pen, and addressed a hurried letter to Miss Price, care of the Carlow family.
And what did he mean to say to her? 'I am sorry,' hardly seemed enough, nor would it do any good to explain himself. It might appear that he thought he had suffered more than she, and he doubted it was possible to compare burdens. At last, he decided to leave the contents blank. Then he turned out his purse and piled the folded bank notes neatly inside the paper, reaching for the wax to seal it all up tight before sending. He almost marked it, but thought better of it. She did not need to know the sender, nor the reason. After this afternoon, she would not wish to take a penny from Mr Dale for fear of encouraging his attentions. And if she should discover the real reason he had done it, he dreaded her response.
But if he could reimburse her, in some small part, for the damage he had done.
It was not enough. It could never be enough. But perhaps he could find other ways to help her, without giving the wrong impression, when her position with the Carlows was at an end. It was better than nothing.
But nothing was what he had done in the past, and he found it would no longer content him.
Chapter Six