Whistling a more cheerful rendering of “The Last Rose of Summer,” Broderick strolled through the halls for the music room.
The door hung open as it had since the last time he’d gone in search of her. He entered again, doing a quick sweep and confirming that she was still not there. Disappointment swept through him, and along with it, the realization that his days with her were numbered. That soon she’d leave and have her music hall . . . and others would know the gift of her voice and her clever wit and resilience . . .
A pang struck his chest.
Drawn to the pianoforte, with one finger he plucked the notes of that song she’d so hauntingly played. And another image floated forward. Reggie stretched out upon the instrument, a fertility goddess, reveling in sexual splendor.
A smile ghosted his lips.
“Pretty silly grin for a man to be wearin’ when ’e’s facing down a hangman’s noose.”
Broderick’s finger slid, accidentally strumming a G sharp; that discordant clang brought reality rushing in.
His arms folded across his spindly chest, Stephen glowered back.
“Stephen.” Heat splotched his cheeks as he made a show of straightening his cravat. “Shouldn’t you be in your lessons?”
Blushing. The minx had set him to blushing.
Stephen pulled the door shut hard behind him and stomped over. “Oi finished them two hours ago. Ya’re smiling like the cat who got the cream, and this arrived.”
The same pit of dread settled around his stomach as he accepted the note from Stephen. He turned it over in his hands. Only this time, it was not fear for his empire and the inevitable loss of power and wealth and control.
It was a loss of something that had almost been. A dream that he’d not even known he’d carried until now. Nay, until her. He’d let the Devil’s Den consume him. It was all he’d been and done. He’d dedicated his energy, his blood, and his very life to seeing it thrive. So much so that the world had continued on around him, without Broderick playing a part in any way that truly mattered. He’d not thought of the dream of a family . . . a wife . . . children . . .
An image flashed to mind. A little girl with riotous red curls and a freckled face.
He crushed the note in his hands.
“Ya ain’t even going to read it?” Stephen snapped.
“I trust you’ll tell me what it says.” Nor did it matter. Not truly. The outcome would, as the marquess had reminded him, remain the same.
“He said it will be this week, Broderick. There’s no reason to wonder anymore.”
Your time is up . . .
How much of it he’d wasted before. Bent on his rise to power and prestige. And all along? What had it been for? How much did one truly need?
Oh, Broderick. What you could never see was that you didn’t need a link to the nobility. You have always been noble . . . for who you are in here . . .
Since his father’s treachery against the earl, he’d spent his life trying to prove himself different. He’d thought the way to do so was to amass wealth and power, failing to see what truly defined a man.
“Did you hear what I said?” Stephen shouted in his clipped King’s English. “You’re woolgathering when you should be plotting. Is this because of her?”
The jaded soul of this child was just one of the dark legacies he’d leave behind. I allowed him to become this . . .
“There’s no plotting,” he said quietly, tucking away the note. “There’s no more scheming. It’s done.” And then something tickled the back of his mind. He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘because of her’?”
“Spark,” Stephen snapped. “Because she’s gone.”
“Gone where?” he blurted.
Stephen narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know.”
Warning bells blared. “What?”
“She left,” his brother said with a little shrug.
She left. Just that: two words, and Broderick couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Surely, he’d misheard—
He stormed off.
“Broderick?” Stephen cried after him.
Abandoning any usual show of calm, he sprinted through the halls, startling squeals from a pair of maids. He stumbled and took off running around them. All the while blood rushed to his ears. Stephen was wrong. He’d misunderstood. Broderick reached her rooms and shoved the door open.
A chambermaid squeaked, dropping the white linen sheet she’d been laying upon the bed. “Mr. . . . ?”
He stalked into the room. “Get out.”
The girl bolted past him.
Broderick tossed open the armoire.
He shoved aside satin gown after satin gown, hanging neatly in place.
Brown. Brown. Where are the brown dresses?
Dropping to his knees, he dug around, searching the shoes arranged in a crisp line. He flung each delicate article over his shoulder. Looking for—
“Oomph.”
He wheeled around.
The grey tabby in Gertrude’s arms hissed at Broderick and leapt to the floor. He raced behind her, darting out into the hall. She rubbed at the spot where a slipper had struck her. “Stephen sent me to you.”
“Where is she?” he demanded.
Gertrude cocked her head.
“Reggie,” he clipped out.
His sister blinked slowly and then chuckled. “Well, I assure you, you’ll not find her in the armoire.”
He surged to his feet. This wasn’t a damned game. “Gertrude!”
She sighed. “I sent her away.”
The earth stopped moving, and he tried to make sense out of those four words. “What?”
“I sent her away,” she repeated. Gertrude lifted a finger. “Though in fairness, I describe it more as giving Reggie ‘her freedom.’” She smiled. Smiled. She flashed a damn smile, now? “Freedom, which she took. Which she was deserving of.”
His hand went slack, and he released the slipper he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. That emerald shoe landed on the tip of his boot and then with a thump hit the floor. Air hissed through his teeth. “You did what?”
“Do pay attention, Broderick. I explained to her that as my Season was officially concluded, I no longer required her to serve as my companion, and—Broderick!” she shouted as he tore past her, thundering for his horse.
She’d simply left. She’d lain in his arms, given herself to him, and all along, it had been nothing more than a damned goodbye.
Anger pumped through him. Fueling his strides. By God, she didn’t get to simply make love and leave without talking about . . .
What had happened.
And what became of them from here.
He bounded down the stairs. A servant stood in wait with the door held open. Ignoring the cloak he held out, Broderick snatched his top hat and jammed it on his head. Gathering the reins of his mount, he climbed astride.
Nudging Chance on, he set off through crowded streets at a breakneck speed that earned shouts and cries of fury from the respectable gents who claimed Mayfair as their own.
They could all go hang. Regina had opened his eyes to the truth: a person’s worth wasn’t decided by blood or wealth or connections.
But then, Regina Spark had always possessed a remarkable sway over his thoughts and the decisions he made in the name of the club and oftentimes fairness.
She eventually had helped him to see the narrow view he’d had of the world, and his place in it. She’d opened his eyes to the truth that rank and title and wealth mattered next to nothing when compared with how a man lived his life and treated others.
And she’d simply left.
Without even a damned goodbye.
He fixed on that. His fury. That turbulent swirl of emotion that roiled under the surface. It kept him from focusing on this latest betrayal, how easy it had been for her to simply leave him.
That bloody establishment he’d stolen out from under her came into focus. Where in the past, this end of the street and that building had been quiet, now activity vibrated, with men carrying boards atop their shoulders through the double turquoise doors that hung open.
Broderick was jumping off Chance before the mount had even come to a full stop.
“You, there,” he barked. A tiny lad came loping over. “There’ll be more when I return,” he promised, handing over the reins and purse to the wide-eyed lad.