was even more critical for Sarah Fairfax.
Who would have been his sister-in-law. If Bartholomew hadn’t failed to bring Edmund back alive.
Bartholomew’s throat convulsed as he shrugged into his greatcoat. Was he really going to present himself to her after being unable to return her intended to her arms? Sarah was not only facing a future without Edmund, but a lifetime of being shunned by her ex-peers, as soon as they discovered she’d birthed a bastard child.
It was Bartholomew’s fault. And there was no way to stop it. The only way to avoid that fate would be to marry as soon as possible. But who would wed a pregnant bride?
He squeezed the back of his neck. What would Edmund want him to do? Surely not marry his bride. To rescue Sarah from ruin would be to consign her to an even greater hell: a lifetime wed to the crippled failure who’d let her true love die.
If Bartholomew’s mother had any inkling of her impending grandchild, she would approve the match in a heartbeat. To hell with anyone’s wishes—Daphne’s, Bartholomew’s, or Sarah herself. One hint that Sarah was increasing, and Bartholomew’s mother would happily hide her and the child away in Kent for the rest of their natural lives.
Would that be a better or worse fate for Sarah and the baby?
He turned toward the door.
Crabtree was there waiting.
Bartholomew straightened his shoulders. “Landau?”
“Ready for you, sir. With a warming brick inside.”
Bartholomew nodded and reached for the door.
“Wait!” Fitz careened around the corner bearing an armful of sundry accessories. “You cannot go to a wedding in those ancient gloves, sir. What can you be thinking?”
He snatched Bartholomew’s trusty linen gloves from his fingers and replaced them with a more starched, less comfortable version of the same.
Bartholomew smiled dryly. “Thank you, Fitz. You have saved me from certain embarrassment. Do I now meet your high standards?”
Fitz eyed him critically, the edges of his thin lips turning down with displeasure. “Something is missing. Something important.” His eyes lit up as he clasped his hands together in delight. “Of course. A walking stick!”
Ah, yes. Bartholomew’s wry humor faded. No matter how one dresses a cripple, he remains a cripple. No amount of starch in his gloves would change that. “I don’t think—”
“But you must! Oh, it’s not because of…” Fitz flicked pale fingers in the direction of his master’s vexing prosthesis and fixed him with beseeching eyes. “It’s a vital accessory, sir. You must take it. A natty walking stick is the crown jewel to a princely appearance.”
He dashed from the room and returned in a trice, this time bearing a freshly buffed walking stick. Beaming, Fitz presented it with both hands. ’Twas the walking stick with the claw handle and the hidden sword.
Bartholomew’s stomach twisted. He used to love that walking stick.
Now? He hated it. Hated that he needed it, rather than carried it for show. Hated that everyone knew he needed it. That without it, he risked going down like a rock, just like he’d done in front of his parents and Daphne. And Captain Steele. And a footman.
His muscles tensed as he snatched the walking stick from his valet. Steady. He was not going to fall. He would not humiliate himself. No one was going to laugh at him.
He’d survived war. Surely he could survive a marriage ceremony.
Particularly since it wasn’t his.
He pushed out the front door and clapped a hand over his hat when an icy burst of wind threatened to whisk it away.
The tiger leapt from the coach and rushed forward. The arm he held out was tentative, as if he wasn’t certain whether the major was more likely to require his assistance or crack him on the head with his walking stick for trying.
Bartholomew refrained from both courses of action. He’d had enough of violence. But he would go to the devil before his damnable pride permitted him to clutch a schoolboy’s arm
Who would have been his sister-in-law. If Bartholomew hadn’t failed to bring Edmund back alive.
Bartholomew’s throat convulsed as he shrugged into his greatcoat. Was he really going to present himself to her after being unable to return her intended to her arms? Sarah was not only facing a future without Edmund, but a lifetime of being shunned by her ex-peers, as soon as they discovered she’d birthed a bastard child.
It was Bartholomew’s fault. And there was no way to stop it. The only way to avoid that fate would be to marry as soon as possible. But who would wed a pregnant bride?
He squeezed the back of his neck. What would Edmund want him to do? Surely not marry his bride. To rescue Sarah from ruin would be to consign her to an even greater hell: a lifetime wed to the crippled failure who’d let her true love die.
If Bartholomew’s mother had any inkling of her impending grandchild, she would approve the match in a heartbeat. To hell with anyone’s wishes—Daphne’s, Bartholomew’s, or Sarah herself. One hint that Sarah was increasing, and Bartholomew’s mother would happily hide her and the child away in Kent for the rest of their natural lives.
Would that be a better or worse fate for Sarah and the baby?
He turned toward the door.
Crabtree was there waiting.
Bartholomew straightened his shoulders. “Landau?”
“Ready for you, sir. With a warming brick inside.”
Bartholomew nodded and reached for the door.
“Wait!” Fitz careened around the corner bearing an armful of sundry accessories. “You cannot go to a wedding in those ancient gloves, sir. What can you be thinking?”
He snatched Bartholomew’s trusty linen gloves from his fingers and replaced them with a more starched, less comfortable version of the same.
Bartholomew smiled dryly. “Thank you, Fitz. You have saved me from certain embarrassment. Do I now meet your high standards?”
Fitz eyed him critically, the edges of his thin lips turning down with displeasure. “Something is missing. Something important.” His eyes lit up as he clasped his hands together in delight. “Of course. A walking stick!”
Ah, yes. Bartholomew’s wry humor faded. No matter how one dresses a cripple, he remains a cripple. No amount of starch in his gloves would change that. “I don’t think—”
“But you must! Oh, it’s not because of…” Fitz flicked pale fingers in the direction of his master’s vexing prosthesis and fixed him with beseeching eyes. “It’s a vital accessory, sir. You must take it. A natty walking stick is the crown jewel to a princely appearance.”
He dashed from the room and returned in a trice, this time bearing a freshly buffed walking stick. Beaming, Fitz presented it with both hands. ’Twas the walking stick with the claw handle and the hidden sword.
Bartholomew’s stomach twisted. He used to love that walking stick.
Now? He hated it. Hated that he needed it, rather than carried it for show. Hated that everyone knew he needed it. That without it, he risked going down like a rock, just like he’d done in front of his parents and Daphne. And Captain Steele. And a footman.
His muscles tensed as he snatched the walking stick from his valet. Steady. He was not going to fall. He would not humiliate himself. No one was going to laugh at him.
He’d survived war. Surely he could survive a marriage ceremony.
Particularly since it wasn’t his.
He pushed out the front door and clapped a hand over his hat when an icy burst of wind threatened to whisk it away.
The tiger leapt from the coach and rushed forward. The arm he held out was tentative, as if he wasn’t certain whether the major was more likely to require his assistance or crack him on the head with his walking stick for trying.
Bartholomew refrained from both courses of action. He’d had enough of violence. But he would go to the devil before his damnable pride permitted him to clutch a schoolboy’s arm
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