“Oh, I know you don’t give a monkey’s,” Charlie continued as he began to gather the trail of dirty clothes Eddie had left around the room. “But some of us ‘as some professional pride, see,” he said with a little dignified sniff. He crumpled the gathered items into a ball and stood tall, as tall as he could, and favoured Edward with his snootiest expression. “If that will be all, my lord?”
Edward felt his lips twitch but swallowed his laughter. No point in offending one of the few people whose company he could stand. “It will. Thank you, Charles,” he added, amused by the warm look of approval that entered the fellow’s eyes.
Sighing, he walked to the window just in time to see the carriage as it came into view. Violette, no doubt, with her new husband. Oh God, how he was going to get through the next weeks without planting the fellow a facer, he really didn’t know. If it wasn’t for the fact he was really rather fond of Violette, he wouldn’t even contemplate it. Twenty-two guests, most of whom he’d happily run a mile from in normal circumstances. He was fond of her, however, and she’d had the devil’s own time of it over the past couple of years.
Leaning against the window frame, Eddie tried to remember those years. Years where he had lived like all the other rats scrambling for survival in the filth of the Seven Dials, the most notorious slum in the whole of Britain, possibly in Europe.
The only thing he remembered with any real clarity was the fights. Bare knuckles and an opponent who needed the prize money to keep a meagre roof over his head and food in his belly, just as much as Eddie did. Because back then, he’d forgotten all of this, forgotten the marquisate, Longwold, the grand houses and the family name and the pride and all of it. Back then it had been him and his fists against the world, and damn if he didn’t miss it.
Charlie thought his memory had gone, less because of the severe blow to his head he’d suffered at the battle of Waterloo, and more because his mind had been broken. Edward reached up and rubbed the thick scar hidden beneath his hair, the result of standing too close to an exploding mortar shell. The stench of gunpowder and burning flesh filled his nostrils, and he was back in the midst of battle, forcing back the desire to retch as his guts clenched in revulsion. Images flooded back to him, blood, mostly, and men broken like so many toys, pieces of them scattered for acres and impossible acres. It was like the world had ended and hell had risen up to claim the earth as he waded through blood and the obscene waste of life that had graced those final days of the war.
He thought that if he could forget it again, now that Violette was safe - or safe enough, at least - then he would do so in a heartbeat. He would walk away from the grand house and the money and the title, and go back to the Dials and the filth and a little peace of mind. If only he could leave those images here.
He watched the carriage draw nearer and knew that wasn’t entirely true. There was one other reason that kept him here. One other reason to stay and face the nightmares of the past, and bleakness of the future. For if he was believed dead and gone, his despised cousin would once again be the Marquess of Winterbourne. The position he had enjoyed in the years while Edward had been believed dead.
Gabriel Greyston, Viscount Demorte.
Gabriel had wanted to destroy him for as long as Edward could remember. He’d even tried to marry poor Violette, and kept the truth of Edward’s reappearance from her, from everyone. Because of course the eighth marquess had been just a little put out at the seventh marquess’ reappearance. He’d tried very hard to make sure that Edward didn’t return at all. Ever. And that could not be forgotten.
As the carriage finally came to a halt Edward noticed another appear in the distance and groaned. Damnation. That would be the old battle axe Lady Russell. Good God, a more terrifying old woman, Edward had yet to encounter. And he had to be polite to her until this bloody farce was over!
He’d never make it.
With the mien of a condemned man, Edward straightened himself and took one last look in the mirror. He didn’t really recognise the haughty looking figure who stared back at him with eyes as dark green as those of his sister. He didn’t know who this man was anymore, or who exactly he was supposed to be. But after everything she’d been through, everything Edward had put her through, Violette deserved the party she had demanded of him. So he would suffer through it as best he could, and hope that at least was good enough.
***
Aubrey did his best to swallow his misgivings and return Violette’s eager smile as she led him into Longwold. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or appalled at her previous offhand references to her home, which seemed to bear little relation to what he was seeing. The lovely stone house which was referred to by the family simply as Longwold, was actually a vast Tudor castle that sprawled over what appeared to be acres of ground in a dizzying profligacy. Aubrey was perfectly certain the place could swallow a legion of soldiers, never to be seen again. He was undoubtedly going to get lost.
According to Violette, the Winterbournes were relative newcomers to the place, having bought it back in the fourteenth century, as the origins of the place could be traced back to Roman times. Aubrey stepped over the threshold and withheld a shudder as he pondered the likelihood that there would be at least one, and possibly many, ghosts in residence.
An icy-looking butler stepped forward, flanked by more footmen than Aubrey thought strictly necessary. As the man looked upon Violette, however, his face broke into a rather jaunty smile. “Lady Violette,” he said, beaming at her.
“Oh, Garrett, you’re back!” Violette gave the man a kiss on the cheek and Aubrey bit back a smile as the rather daunting fellow actually blushed. “The whole of the staff have been reinstated just as before,” he replied, his voice actually trembling a little.
Violette beamed at him and dashed away a happy tear. Her brother had promised her that all of the staff that Viscount Demorte had so cruelly dismissed during his time here would be found and returned to their posts immediately. Apparently, he’d kept his word.
“Puddy?” Violette demanded, grasping Garrett’s hand and looking rather anxious.
Garrett nodded. “The queen is back and ruling her kitchen with a rod of iron, just as you would expect, Lady Violette.”
Violette gave a little crow of delight, and then turned as footsteps were heard behind them.
“Eddie!” Violette cried and ran to her brother who had just descended an impressive stone staircase with the air of a king greeting the plebs.
To Aubrey’s surprise, however, as soon as his gaze settled on his sister, that rather austere countenance softened. The marquess swept her up, spinning her in a circle until she shrieked like a hoyden and demanded he put her down. It was something that Aubrey would never have expected from his own interactions with the man, and he allowed himself a glimmer of hope that the fellow wasn’t determined to be as intimidating as he’d found him to date.