The Unlikely Lady (Playful Brides #3)(79)

Garrett hung his head. “I have.”

“If you weren’t alive, Garrett, there would be no one to take over the earldom. Think of that. The estate would be passed to a distant relative. I have no doubt Ralph would have grown into a fine earl. But I know there could be no better man to take over the responsibility of the Upbridge estates and titles than you, my son. Your father felt the same way. He told me.”

“He told you?”

“Yes. He was proud of you, Garrett. So very, very proud.”

A lump formed in Garrett’s throat. He squeezed his mother’s hand. “Thank you for that, Mother.”

“I love you, Garrett. I know you’ll do the right thing. You always do.”

*

No drinking today. Garrett waved away the footman who hovered near him. He was back at Brooks’s, but he needed his wits about him. He intended to confront Isabella this afternoon.

Adam and Collin Hunt were playing cards nearby. Since their brother had been named a duke, the Hunt brothers had come up in Society. Garrett was about to go greet them when Claringdon and Cavendish came strolling through the door.

“Upton,” Claringdon said. “Fancy seeing you here again. We were just meeting my brothers.”

“And I’m happy for any excuse to drink in the middle of the day,” Cavendish added.

“Good to see you both,” Garrett replied.

“Come join us,” Claringdon insisted.

Garrett made his way over to the card table where the other men were settling. He greeted the Hunt brothers, who resumed their play, while Claringdon, Cavendish, and Garrett sat together in a small group of large leather chairs.

“You look as if you have something on your mind, Upton,” Rafe said. “Not a happy bridegroom?”

Garrett scrubbed his hand across his face. “That is an understatement.”

Claringdon’s eyebrows shot up. “Trouble already?”

“It was always trouble,” Garrett replied.

Claringdon waved down a footman and ordered three brandies.

“The last thing I need is a drink. I have important decisions to make,” Garrett said.

“On the contrary, sounds as if the first thing you need is a drink,” Rafe replied, with a wicked grin.

“Care to tell us the trouble?” Claringdon asked.

“Suffice it to say I owe someone an enormous favor and the price may be entirely too great to pay,” Garrett replied.

Claringdon steepled his fingers. “You’re talking about Harold Langford.”

Garrett eyed the duke carefully. “You know?”

Claringdon nodded. “I know what happened in Spain. Langford took a bullet for you. But it was no more than what any of us would have done for each other, you must know that.”

Garrett briefly closed his eyes. “You cannot know the guilt I feel.”

“You’re right. I cannot. I do know that you’re directing your guilt into something useful by helping Swifdon champion the soldiers’ bill. You cannot pay with the rest of your life for something that was neither your fault, nor your choice.”

Garrett took a glass from the footman. “Easy for you to say, Claringdon. You don’t have another man’s blood on your hands.”

“I do.” Rafe Cavendish’s two words fell like lead to the rug.

Both men’s heads turned to face him.

“I have another man’s blood on my hands,” Cavendish continued, staring unseeing into the depths of his newly acquired brandy glass. “I know exactly what the guilt feels like.”

Upton shook his head. “No, Cavendish. Everyone knew Donald Swift never should have gone to France. He volunteered and there was no stopping him. He said as much in his letter to Julian. You did your best to protect him.”

“I failed, and an earl died because of me. The man had no children, no heirs.” Cavendish’s voice was heavy.

“He had Julian. Julian is the earl now.”

“You think I shouldn’t feel guilt? Is that what you’re telling me, Upton?” Cavendish asked, a wry smile on his face.

Garrett shook his head again. “No one blames you. No doubt Donald remained alive as long as he did because you were with him.”

Rafe tossed back his drink. “Perhaps, but the guilt gnaws at my soul.” He set his empty glass on the table and looked Garrett in the eye. “The same as it does yours.”

Garrett sucked air through his nostrils. “I understand, Cavendish. I do. But you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

Cavendish cocked a brow. “Perhaps you should take your own advice, Upton.”

*

Garrett strode down the club’s stone steps minutes later. He’d had that drink, after all, and another. What Rafe Cavendish said resonated. Finally. Through all the years and all the nightmares. All the people telling him it wasn’t his fault when he’d believed damn well it was … he finally felt … free. Damn Harold Langford for taking that bullet. Damn Isabella Langford for being conniving. And damn him for allowing his guilt to push him in a direction he had no business going.

It was true. No one blamed Cavendish for Donald Swift’s death. The earl had recklessly volunteered to go on a mission to France for the War Office under the guise of diplomacy. Rafe was one of the best spies the War Office had. Donald gave them away. It had ended in their capture and torture. Rafe barely escaped with his life and had spent the past six months slowly recuperating. Rafe was alive in spite of Donald, not the other way around. But Rafe felt guilt. He was the only other man who understood, the only other person who could absolve Garrett.