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Chapter Twenty
Jackson led her by the arm into his study. He was shaking so violently he didn’t know how he was even standing. He had abandoned that appalling scandal sheet in the carriage. He had read it, five times over, or more. He had no need of it. He had practically committed it to memory.
It was Lord Gingham who had showed him, after he had concluded his talk with Lord Withington. The man had sidled up to him, coughing discreetly. Jackson had turned, raising his eyebrows, at the gentleman.
“Gingham,” he said pleasantly. “I have not seen you for a veritable age. How are you?”
“I am well, your Grace,” said the man, pulling at his right jacket cuff nervously. “I…I do not know how to tell you this, so I think I should just show you.” He handed Jackson the piece of paper. “I am sorry, old chap. But better to know and deal with it. All thetonare whispering about it, and better forewarned, as they say.”
Jackson looked down at the paper. It was the Standard’s scandal sheet. Why had Gingham given it to him, and why was the man acting so oddly?
Quickly, he read it. And then read it again. He still could not comprehend it. Stupidly, he had looked at Gingham, as if he needed the man to translate it for him.
“Sorry,” mumbled the gentleman again, colouring, before drifting away from him.
He stared back down at the sheet of paper. Everything was starting to blur; the black type was swimming before his eyes, turning into meaningless symbols.
Patricia had betrayed him.
It was all there in black and white. She had manipulated him into marrying her because her father had gambled away her dowry. She didn’t admire or respect him at all. It had all been a calculating game to get her hands upon his fortune. And everyone now knew it. He was a laughingstock.
He struggled to breathe. She had made a fool of him. An utter fool.
His heart lurched again with pure pain. He had wanted so badly to think that she actually liked him that he had taken her on face value. The way that she had talked to him at that orphanage. She had approached him when he had been standing alone in the gardens there. He had flattered himself that he must have intrigued her, and she didn’t care about his scar at all.
It had all been a lie. One big, elaborate scam to secure his wealth. And all of London’s good society knew about it now.
His eyes filled with angry tears. Like a fool he had pursued her, calling upon her. He had thought it strange when her mother had left them alone in that drawing room. Her mother had been playing a part just like Patricia was. And the young lady had seized her chance, kissing him. She had known that the door was going to open, and they would be seen. But she had done it because she knew he would be honor bound to propose to her.
She and her mother had worked together, seizing the opportunity.
Clutching the paper, he had turned, walking out of the room. He had seen her before she saw him. The beautiful, deceitful Patricia, standing there like a vision of sweet innocence. He had known that every eye in that room had been upon them.
He turned to her now. He hadn’t spoken a word to her in the carriage. She was pale, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. Like a cornered rat.
“Well, madam,” he growled, his heart surging with rage. “What have you to say?”
She wrung her hands. “What can I say but how desperately sorry I am? I never meant to hurt you…”
“Enough,” he spat, his fury almost overtaking him. “I do not care a whit if you are sorry. All I want is the answer to one question. Is it true?”
Her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears. Mutely, she nodded her head.
His heart crashed to the floor.
“That is all I needed to know,” he muttered, striding from the room.
“Where are you going?” she cried, running after him.
He whipped around, facing her. She was gazing up at him. His heart twisted. Even now, he couldn’t stop the instinctive response he felt towards her. Quickly, he smothered it. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve anything.
“Out,” he spat. “I no longer desire to gaze upon your face, madam. Just as you apparently have so much difficulty gazing upon my own.”
She flinched, reeling back, as if he had struck her.
“Please,” she entreated, in a low voice, “let me explain. It is not all as you think…”
“I know enough,” he said curtly, hurling the words at her, over his shoulder. “Do not follow me. Where I am going is no place for a lady.” He laughed nastily. “But you are not quite that are you, madam?A lady.”
