Page 50 of To Dare the Devil

Grace’s expression was full of sorrow and anxiety, and Kathy knew she was a true friend, one that had risked her own reputation and that of her child to ensure Kathy was safe.

“Yes,” Kathy replied, nodding, though the word tasted bitter on her tongue. “Yes. I do see.”

She got to her feet, needing to get away, to be alone with her thoughts, for she could not think at all with little Beatrice sitting in the corner of the room, playing with her wooden bricks. The child looked up as she rose, and Max’s eyes looked back at her. She swallowed a sob and forced a smile to her lips.

“Goodbye, Grace. Thank you for what you did and don’t worry about me. I’m fine, truly.”

“No, you're not,” Grace said softly, reaching out and taking her hand again. “But you will be. We’re a lot stronger than we realise, you know. It took me some time to discover that, but you will too.”

“I will,” Kathy replied, leaning down to kiss her friend’s cheek.”

“You should take your dare,” Grace said as she straightened. “Cat is in town with her parents. I’ll ask her to send it to you. It will give you something else to focus on.”

“My dare? Oh,” Kathy said, realisation dawning. “Yes. Why not? Thank you.”

“Goodbye, love. I’m staying for a few days if you want to talk again.”

Kathy nodded, struggling to keep the smile fixed in place, it felt unnaturally stiff. “Yes. Thank you. Goodbye, Grace. Goodbye, B-Beatrice.”

With that, she hurried to the door and left.

Chapter 16

Thorn,

I am a lot of things, but I don’t touch innocent girls. Christ! If anyone else accused me of that, I’d break his bloody nose.

The child is Jenny’s. I swear I did not know. As I told you, we parted company. It was months ago now and a mutual decision I had believed, for she implied she had another protector in mind, but now I doubt this was true. She was a good woman, a kind one, and she knew what trouble this baby would bring me. I think she hid the pregnancy from me. I had left her financially secure so she would have wanted for nothing, but she died, Thorn. Poor Jenny died bringing my child into the world and I shall never forgive myself.

And now I am stranded here, pretending to be a widower — Mr Russell, with a squalling infant I do not know what to do with and a blackmailer who will tell Father all if I don’t pay him off. I know I can’t keep it from them forever, but I can’t confess yet. Father is already frustrated with me, and I dare not make things so much worse. You know how he feels about men who leave bastard children in their wake.

Thorn, I can't bear to see the disappointment in his and mother’s eyes. I have let them down, but I cannot let this child down, this little girl. I have a daughter, God help me. And she’s so tiny, so helpless and yet she makes me feel helpless too. I won’t be though. I shall make this as right as I can, but I need time. I need your help. Please, brother.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Philip Barrington, Earl of Ashburton to his younger brother The Lord Thomas Barrington (Sons of Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Most Hon’ble Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

19th June 1842, Covent Garden. Parish of St Giles.

“Valentine!” Burt exclaimed, his leathery face crinkling with pleasure at the sight of Max. His smile faded as he took in the sight before him, though. Max knew he must look a sight, in his rumpled clothes and unshaven, and with the heart having been ripped out of him. He assumed that was visible, too. Something that felt so catastrophic must leave some physical mark, surely.

“Come in, lad,” Burt said, his voice kind as he stepped back and ushered Max inside.

Max went in and sat down at the table in his usual spot. A part of him wished he’d never left. He could still be Valentine, couldn’t he? He was good at stacking boxes, loading and unloading carts. It didn’t take brains, but it took muscle and stamina, and he’d gained both in the months after his recovery. As tempting as the idea was, he knew it would be cowardly. He’d promised to make amends, and just because it was hard, that was no reason to stop, but a reason to keep going. If he was truly repentant for his sins, he had to try harder than ever, not give in.

“What’s wrong, lad?” Burt said, pulling up a chair beside him, his expression full of concern that Max did not deserve. “Tell old Burt what’s happened to put that look on your face.”

He realised absently that no one but Burt had ever asked him that before. As a child, his parents had seen him for an hour each day, during which he was neatly dressed and on his best behaviour. He would answer their questions, thank them for any present they gave him, and otherwise sit quietly whilst they spoke with each other and mostly ignored his presence. He could never remember them asking him what was wrong, or if he was happy, or sad, or… anything at all. Servants were there to clean up skinned knees and bloody noses, and besides, only girls cried, so that wasn’t allowed. Then he’d been sent to school and barely saw them at all, thrust into the merciless world of Eton and bigger boys who’d thrash you for the fun of it.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories, and took a breath. Before he left, he must get Burt and Pike settled somewhere safe, persuade them to accept enough money to keep them that way and to help anyone else they chose to, and explain that he was going away. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Turning to Burt, he tried again, but his eyes burned, and he snapped his mouth shut before he made a fool of himself. Burt reached out and placed a gnarled, arthritic hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, Valentine. Take a deep breath and try again. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, eh? And there’s no judgement here, you know that.”

“Perhaps there ought to be,” he managed. “Everything is such a mess, Burt. I ruined everything without even knowing what I was doing. I was such a cruel, selfish….”

He broke off and put his head in his hands.

“You’ve told me this, afore, lad. I know you behaved badly in the past, but you’ve been doing good things, making the world a better place. You seemed happier too. Why are you beating yourself with the same stick all over again?”

“Because someone ought to!” he exploded, wishing someone would beat him, beat the vileness out of him until he felt he could bear to wear his own skin. “Because I’ve no right to happiness and it’s all become so much worse. I’ve hurt someone else, someone I love, and… and I don’t know how to live with the fact that she hates me.”