The Undoing of a Libertine (Somerset Historicals 2)

* * * *

Jeremy sat down before his legs gave out and he ended up flat on his own arse. A brother… “How is this?” he managed to choke out.

Therese answered him softly. “I met your father in France. He was handsome and charming and vibrant. I did love him, Mr. Greymont. For my part, the feelings were genuine. It was thirteen years ago. I had thought a child an impossibility for me, but alas I conceived Revé much to my surprise. Henri seemed delighted at the prospect, and we were happy, or at least I was.”

She paused in reflection, a melancholy expression lighting her gaunt features. “Our marriage was a short one, less than a year. One night he didn’t return home. I don’t know what happened to him, if he got into trouble with debts and vengeful creditors, or desired to hold on to his freedom, or simply caught up with the wrong crowd. His body was found in an alley behind a gaming house about a week later. He never saw his son.”

Therese was seized with a fit of coughing that delayed her story. Her thin shoulder bones made for sharp edges underneath a Chinese silk shawl of deep yellow that gave the illusion of warmth and cheerfulness that wasn’t there. A mirage, Jeremy thought, his mind in a daze from the information Therese had shared.

“I took the legacy left me by my father and came to England. Made my life here. Revé is away at school right now. He knows nothing of my life aside from being his mamma and this home. He knows his father is dead, but doesn’t know that Henri had another family before. The Velvet Swan and its dealings are also unknown to him, and I wish it to remain as such. I have sold my interests in any case. Luc and Marguerite have been set up and are already in France, and situations are being found for the other servants.”

“Why did you never tell me? All those years you knew and didn’t say anything.” He couldn’t keep the accusation from his voice and knew it showed how wounded he was by her omission.

“I am sorry for that. Deeply sorry. I believed you would resent Revé and imagine my motives to be other than familial in connection. That is all I want from you, Mr. Greymont, nothing more. There is a generous settlement for Revé. My solicitor has all of the details. His education is already secured, and he will have this house…” She trailed off, her voice stuttering with emotion.

Jeremy lifted his eyes to Therese, still dazed, but sure of his feelings. “I have no resentment for my brother. My father, yes, but never an innocent.” He felt Gina’s hand return to take his in a clasp. He looked at her and said, “I have a brother, Gina.” He smiled.

“You do. Jeremy, ’tis wonderful.”

“It is,” he whispered in awe.

Therese let out a sob from across the room. “Forgive me, both of you, please. I now know it was wrong of me not to tell you years ago. I have been so afraid, Mr. Greymont. Afraid of leaving my child wholly alone in this world. Only twelve years old, and when I am gone, not one person to call family. No one to care for him and guide him into manhood. No one to…love him…” She broke down then, unable to hold back her mother’s tears.

Life presented challenges, and sometimes opportunities. This was an opportunity. Jeremy recognized it and embraced it for what it was. He knew what he would do with it.

All those years of feeling unworthy. Of believing he was lacking. He’d been loved by his mother and his grandparents, yes. But not by Henri Greymont. Jeremy’s father had not even been bothered by him, let alone shown a scrap of affection. Why, why, why? No answer would be forthcoming to that question. Nobody knew why Jeremy’s father hadn’t cared for his wife and son. It simply existed as the painful reality.

But a Henri Greymont Jeremy was not. Suddenly it did not matter anymore that his father had been unfeeling and cold. Jeremy would never be that sort of man. He had a life now filled with purpose. He had Gina to help him. He was a loving husband, and someday, God willing, he would be a father who cherished his children for the gift they were.

And he could be more, too. Jeremy could make sure that his flesh and blood knew the love and support of family. He could be a brother, the guide and mentor that young Revé would need in the absence of his mother.

Jeremy rose from the settee once again and walked over to Therese. He put a hand on her trembling shoulder and waited until she looked up at him, her pale face streaked wet with tears.

“My brother will have me,” he told her.

* * * *

With no moon to soften the darkness, only the streetlamps glowed behind their wet, sparkling glass on London’s winding paths and byways. It was the perfect night for taking care of business.

On the corner stood a gentlemen’s club whose heavy door opened and closed regularly as its well-heeled patrons came and went.

One particular patron was watched as he went out. Unaware of course, he made his way to the carriage waiting. The watchers remained hidden and quiet.

When Ned Smith stepped forward to open the door, the man balked at the driver’s strange visage.

“Who the hell are you? Where is Rigby? You are not my driver!”

“No, my lord. I am Smith, sir. I drive for your neighbor, Lord Verlaine. Ribgy took violently ill, quite sudden-like, and sent for me to take his place. I will be driving you home, sir,” Ned replied easily. He opened the door and held out his arm. “Your lordship?”

Momentarily taken aback, the gentleman absorbed this strange information and then shrugged, resigning himself to it, just like that, as if pondering the trivialities of servants becoming ill and substituting drivers a mere waste of his more superior and valuable time.

“Dare I pray to hope you know the way to my house, driver?”

“But of course, Lord Pellton. I know exactly where to take you,” Ned answered politely.

The instant Pellton stepped into his carriage, John and Tom Russell went to work on their prey. Although they subdued him within seconds, and he hardly made a sound over the din of wheels rolling over cobblestone, Pellton did manage to land one blow, with his signet ring no less, onto the left cheekbone of John Russell’s face.

In no time the men had Pellton trussed like a goose for Christmas, gagged and bound on the floor of his own carriage.