The Beast's Bluestocking (The Bluestocking War), Eva Devon [e textbook reader .TXT] 📗

demanded with less understanding than one might have hoped for.

“I am listening to myself. I am speaking reason,” Anthony countered.

Merrill threw his hands up. “That’s it. We cannot continue this conversation at present. I’m going to have to call you out or beat you to a pulp in the ring if we continue on like this.”

“Well, that will be a fair fight,” Anthony drawled.

Merrill snorted. “You don’t care about fairness right now. You are hitting as many low points as you possibly can by insisting your emotional damage is as limiting as your physical, and perhaps you are scarred beyond all repair, Anthony. Perhaps your heart is broken forever, but you must understand that if you insist on clinging to that, you are going to break Phillipa’s heart, and her heart will be broken forever too. So there will not be just one of you suffering. . .”

Merrill leveled him with a hard stare. “But two.”

And with that, Merrill turned around and stormed off.

Anthony watched him go, unable to draw a full breath.

He wondered where his friend was headed.

Probably back to the tavern in town so he could order watch arranged on the road and small towns along the way for Captain Adams.

Anthony turned back to the vast man-made lake one of his ancestors had made to show his dominance on the landscape. It wasn’t natural. It was formed. Seemingly perfect, but only kept going by gardeners and maintenance and sheer will. If it was not tended to. . . it would grow algae. It would become a swamp. Thick. Murky. And eventually, it would disappear, reclaimed by the land.

He looked out at the rippling water and wondered if, perhaps, he was a bit like that man-made expanse. If he did not take care. . . he would fill up with sludge and lose all that had made him worthy of Phillipa.

It was damned upsetting.

He didn’t like to think he might be the reason Phillipa suffered for the rest of her life. Surely, he didn’t have that sort of power over her, did he?

But then he thought about the way she had told him she loved him. And he thought about the deep emotions he felt for her. The way that, after the battle, the very first person he had thought of had been her and how he was going to go to her and propose. . . Until he’d realized the extent of his wounds, until he’d realized Joe had not survived, until he’d realized his brother was dead. . .

“Excuse me, Your Grace.”

Anthony whipped towards his servant.

It was odd to be bothered when clearly seeking solitude, so he knew it was an emergency.

“Yes, Tom?” he prompted, waving his hand to reassure the boy. “Come.”

Tom, in his silver-and-green livery, came through the grass and cleared his throat. “Forgive me for bothering your privacy, Your Grace, but you did say if a certain note arrived, I was to give it to you. . . From France.”

Anthony tensed. “Yes, I did,” he replied, doing his damndest to keep his voice even. “Please give it to me now.”

Tom bowed and handed him the small folded note sealed with red wax.

“That’s all, Tom,” Grey said. “Thank you.”

Tom nodded his russet head, then quickly turned around and headed back along the path.

But just as he was about to crest over the small hill leading back to the castle, he turned around and called, “Your Grace?”

“Yes,” Anthony called, surprised. A note of alarm teased along his spine.

“Lady Phillipa’s father has come to call.”

Anthony’s hand crumpled the note.

The note was an important one, but his concern was suddenly severe.

He had had people looking for Joe for months.

The truth was, he hadn’t quite believed the boy had died. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to. He still didn’t. Some part of him still clung to hope that perhaps he’d washed up on some beach or some ship had picked him up and taken him as a prisoner. And though Merrill knew nothing of it, Anthony wasn’t going to give up until he absolutely had to.

He did not care if that made him a touch mad. He owed that to Joe.

So, he’d sent skilled men out, searching, seeking, and every now and then, a note would come back to tell him that, no, nothing had been found. Joe was still lost, likely at sea, but Anthony still had to try.

It made him feel a little bit better to try.

Yet, at the words of his servant Tom, his heart chilled.

“I beg your pardon, Tom,” he called. “Can you repeat that?”

“Lady Phillipa’s father,” Tom reiterated. “The Earl of Harrowton. He’s come to visit.”

Anthony was unable to make reply. He merely gaped at Tom, not believing his words.

Hadn’t Harrowton gone abroad?

Was the man back in England?

Would he now demand money from him in exchange for Phillipa’s happiness? Would Harrowton make trouble? The man certainly had a reputation for it, and he was certainly capable of duplicity.

But something cold snaked down his spine, some suspicion he couldn’t quite put his finger on. And then his gut tightened.

My God, Phillipa could be in great danger, and it would all be because of him.

Chapter 14

There wasn’t enough tea in the world to repair Phillipa’s confusion and feeling of tumult.

So, she and Clara had decided that a glass of wine just before lunchtime was not the end of the world.

And so, as they sipped their red wine from beautifully cut crystal, staring at each other in not exactly companionable silence, but definitely comforting silence, she wondered what the devil she was going to do next.

Anthony and Merrill seemed to be most out of sorts.

She felt out of sorts as well.

This whole business with Captain Adams was most surprising and horrible.

How far would they have to go to achieve justice?

Would Anthony ever be able to feel free?

Would bringing Captain Adams to justice allow Anthony to permit himself to fall in love with her again? Oh, not fall. That was not the correct word. She