Page 56 of Charity

Desperation, most likely. He’d just begun to imagine climbing in through Agatha’s bedroom window again when Daventry suggested it. But he’d never manage the climb without detection. Not while Birkenstock was in residence. So he’d spent the night away from home, endured Lilly’s amused giggles at his condition this morning, avoided eating any breakfast whatsoever because his stomach was in revolt, and headed out into the London morning in his hastily pressed suit of clothes from last night.

He needed a bath, a shave, and several more hours of sleep in order to feel like a gentleman again and be fit for company. He needed to face Birkenstock this morning and get his agreement for them to marry. He couldn’t do that until he could walk in a straight line without effort.

Oscar grunted as he collided with a dark figure. The man grasped his arm to steady him, and Oscar was incredibly grateful. “Watch yourself there, my lord.”

Kindly pale eyes pierced through Oscar’s thoughts. Mr. Manning. His papa. What rotten timing. He’d be sure to smell the sour whiskey on his breath and notice his rumpled state. Would he be subjected to fatherly scolding now?

“Good morning to you, sir.”

Manning’s serious expression cut into his misery. “No, it is not. Not a good morning at all. Most distressing start to the day. But everyone’s time comes when it will. We are but servants to God’s purpose.”

Oscar frowned. He didn’t understand Manning’s pious ramble, but it sounded damn depressing. Oscar had no time for anyone else’s troubles this morning. He had much to do. “Of course. If you will excuse me?”

The vicar stepped closer and placed a restraining hand on his arm. “You should be prepared for a distressing scene. She was greatly attached to him. She will need you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Why must people speak in riddles at this hour of the day? Oscar thought it far from kind, given his current state, that his papa didn’t just come out and say what he meant.

“Birkenstock. Surely you’ve heard by now?” The vicar looked about him then glanced at Oscar’s clothes. “Were you out carousing all night?”

Oscar felt like a scolded schoolboy again. It wasn’t that unusual to be coming home at this hour and in this state. Hell, he was practically a novice when it came to debauchery. “What of it?” Oscar asked, belligerence making his voice louder than he’d intended. Fierce pain resumed its assault on his head, reminding him of his somewhat delicate state. “What do you mean, Birkenstock? Heard of what?”

“He died last night,” Manning said simply, hands spread before him.

“Dear God, Agatha! Excuse me.”

Oscar pushed past his father and ran for home, despite the fact his head threatened to split in two. How could he have chosen last night to overindulge? Poor Aggie!

Oscar bounded up the stairs, slapped his palm against the wood, and fumbled for his door key. When the door opened before he could insert it in the lock, he gave thanks for his efficient servant. It was only when a hand curled around his arm and held him back that he realized he wasn’t in his own home, or about to gain entry to Agatha’s house via the window. He was already in her house. Her front entrance hall, to be precise. And her butler appeared incensed by his presence.

Oscar shook off the grip. “Where is she?”

“Your mother, my lord?”

“No, not my mother! Agatha. Where is she?”

The butler’s eyes flickered upward involuntarily, and then he scowled, tugging at Oscar’s arm in a fair attempt to eject him from the house. “I must ask you to leave this instant. The mistress is not receiving callers today.”

“She’ll see me.” Oscar evaded his grip and raced for the steps, ignoring the warning voice behind him. He took the stairs two at a time, but at the top, he hesitated. He’d never explored Agatha’s home beyond her bedchamber, but it appeared of similar design to his. Would she be in her bedchamber or keeping vigil?

Oscar chose the latter and quietly made his way toward what he assumed would be her grandfather’s room. His precious girl stood at the foot of the bed, her back toward him, her pale hair slicked into a severe knot, dark mourning weeds already donned to mark the passing. But her gaze remained fixed on the still form lying prone on the bed.

The penny-covered eyes unnerved him, reminding him of his nightmares so much he began to quake. At least there was no gaping hole in Birkenstock’s head. But the waxy-smooth, white skin did set his pulse to racing. He forced the fear down, forced himself to see the remains for what they were. No threat to him. No example of his actions. Thomas Birkenstock had been an old man. He’d lived a full life and appeared peaceful in death. He could do this.

Besides, Agatha needed him.

Forcing one foot in front of the other, he crossed the room until he stood behind her and slowly wrapped his arms about Agatha’s slim form. She didn’t resist or react immediately, but when her hands rose to clasp his arms, Oscar pressed his lips to her temple in a gentle kiss. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

Agatha’s shoulders gave a shake, and she sniffed. “It was his time, but I already miss his gruff ways.”

He hugged her tighter. “I know. You loved him. And he loved you.”

Facing death again wasn’t nearly as unsettling as Oscar feared it would be. He could look upon the lifeless face and when he briefly closed his eyes, he saw peace, not twisted, painful visions. The nightmare had left him, and he hoped it was gone for good.

He scooped Agatha into his arms and carried her from the room. She didn’t protest, didn’t struggle, only lay quiet in his arms, a rushed breath the only sign of emotion.

In the hall, her butler watched them pass with shock clear on his features, mouth agape like a fish at market. Oscar ignored it all and returned Agatha to her bedchamber. He settled down on the bed and held her against his chest. She was alone now. Deprived of the protection her grandfather could give.

“I thought you’d never come,” she whispered.