A Lady's Guide to Ruin (11 page)

Then hesitation was gone. He pressed his lips to hers and her body against him, his hand at once firm and impossibly light on her back. She nipped his lower lip, sending a shiver through him she felt to her core. His hands ran into her hair, down her shoulders, as to map her by touch, settling at last at her neck and the small of her back, gentle pressure holding her in place. He parted her lips with his. His tongue slipped into her mouth. She returned the gesture playfully, and then hungrily. The hand at her back crept to her ribs. His fingers chanced against the underside of her breast. Then—

He drew away abruptly. They stared at each other.

Elinor
. Her promise. She cursed herself and looked away from him, trying to ignore the hammering beat of her heart.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“You apologize too much,” she chided him.

“Then I shouldn't be sorry?” His voice was low. It sent a shiver up her spine. She swayed into him, reached up. Tangled her fingers at last in that dark hair, gave a tug. He let out a sharp hiss of pleasure. She rocked her hips against him, lifted herself onto her toes, and kissed him. Slow and sweet, this time, once more and for the last time.

She fell back on her heels. He leaned in toward her. She stopped him, her hand to his chest. “You should not be sorry,” she said. “But we cannot do that again.”

He folded his hand over hers and lifted it to his lips. They touched each finger in turn. She bit her lip, held her breath.
Let me go
, she thought, and hoped he wouldn't.

“I would never let anyone hurt you,” he said. “Never let anyone touch you.”

“I cannot be what you want me to be,” she said.

“What is it you think I want?”

“I—” She didn't know. She had thought he wanted only to look after his cousin, but that kiss left all such thoughts in ruin. He was not a man to lie with his kiss. She tasted enough such lies to know the difference; told them, too, with moans and sighs and false caresses. She had not lied, either. She wished to write essays worth of truth on that skin. She tilted up her head, squared her shoulders. “You will say you want to wed me, but that is only because you are a man of honor confronted with dishonorable desire.”

“I do desire you,” he said.

“But not a wife.”

He did not answer. She'd hit her mark, square in the center, and they both knew it. It didn't matter that she had no desire to
be
a wife; he would never ruin his cousin by
making her his lover, and she would not betray Elinor that way. Nor him.

“I think I shall try to sleep after all,” she said. When she moved past him, he made no attempt to stop her, or to follow. She kept a steady, forced pace until she reached her room and the door was shut behind her. Then she leaned her head against the wood and pressed her hand between her breasts.

“You fool,” she whispered. “Oh, Joan, you fool.”

The darkness gave no comfort or reply.

*   *   *

Martin watched her go and said nothing. He wished her accusation were unjust. He wished that he could fall to his knee then and there and pledge that it was her hand he wanted, above all else. And he did want
her
—not only her body, but her company, her trust. But not marriage. Not yet, at least.

He could not propose to Daphne without telling her about the search for Charles—ensuring that she understood that his title was a tenuous thing. And he could not tell her that without telling Elinor, and he could not tell Elinor yet. Not until he was certain, one way or another, what had happened to Charles. He couldn't bear to raise her hopes only to see them dashed.

Maybe he could go ahead with it. Propose, explain later. He would still have his money if Charles was found, and he liked to think that kiss had nothing to do with the
lord
before his name. But that would mean proposing under false pretenses.

He knuckled at his brow at the point between his eyes. What if he called Hudson back? What if he let Charles
stay dead, and stayed Lord Fenbrook? But, no. He could not abandon hope of seeing Charles again, of making peace with him.

He struck the mantle with the side of his fist. Perhaps he should go back to London, so that he did not have to see her each day. It was a kind of madness, this preoccupation. Watching the mask slide on and off, straining to catch those moments when she laid it intentionally aside. She wanted him. He wanted her. Why could it not be as simple as that?

But there was Daphne, and Daphne's role. There was Martin, and the title. The inconvenient half could not be tossed aside, however much they ached for it.

God, though. That kiss. Not her first, clearly, which was a prospect he did not care to contemplate. But however she had obtained the practice, the result—

He touched his lower lip, imagining he could still feel the slight bite of her teeth upon it. When she had pressed against him, her breasts against his chest, her hips rolling forward to push against him . . . He was getting hard at the memory. He'd wanted to pin her against the wall, to let his mouth find all the places she
hadn't
been kissed. To hear her moan again.

He wrenched his thoughts from that path. Charles, first. And the truth of what had happened to Daphne. When he had the proper picture of things, he'd know what to do. How to win her. He could wait. Pure torture as it was, he could wait.

Joan could not say if she was avoiding Martin or if he was avoiding her, but whether by intent or happenstance they did not do more than nod to one another in passing for the next several days. She thought Elinor had noticed, but she made no direct comment. Still, when Elinor burst into the Blue Room with a strained look on her face, Joan started with guilt.

“She isn't there,” Elinor cried, then cast a worried look behind her. The hallway was clear, but she shut the door. She held something clutched in her hand—a letter, Joan realized, and finally put it together.

“Daphne?”

A tight nod. “My letter reached the inn where she was staying. The proprietor wrote that she had been there with this—this
man
,” she said, spitting the word, “but that he left without her. She left soon after, unaccompanied and
in a state of great distress.” Her own features were pinched, her lips pale and pressed together. “I should have sent Martin after her at once.”

“It's my fault, if we're to lay blame on someone,” Joan pointed out. “I was the one who took her place and kept the truth from you, after all.” She would not undo a moment of it. She might be dead or worse if it weren't for Daphne's poor judgment.

“Out of desperation. I refuse to blame you,” Elinor said firmly. “But we shall all be at fault if we do not strive to find her now.”

Joan's thoughts churned. Elinor meant them to tell Martin. That would be the end of her. She had to run, now, or else find some other way. She thought briefly of convincing Elinor to wait, to see if Daphne showed up, but she cast the thought away. Elinor would never agree. And perhaps it was Elinor's bad influence but Joan could not help but feel compassion for the girl. By the sound of it, she had been manipulated with false promises and abandoned to an uncertain fate. If the girl was anything like Joan's impersonation of her, she would not do well alone and far from home, and it was thanks to Joan that no rescue knew to come.

She could write to Danny, she realized. That would delay Martin's involvement, preserving her charade a little while yet. Danny had stars in his eyes for her once but had left for Scotland when his brother promised him work. And since Hugh had once had Moses snap three of Danny's fingers for welching on a debt, he wasn't likely to tell tales to them. On top of all that, the man could read. Haltingly and out loud, yes, but still.

“We don't need to tell Martin yet,” Joan said. “I know
people who can try to find her. Quietly. Not the sort of people who could talk to your sort of people, you see. Not the sort who could cause trouble for Daphne.” For women like Daphne and Elinor, everything rested on reputation. If there was a chance to keep this quiet, Elinor would take it, Joan was sure of it.

Elinor regarded her for a long moment, considering. “Very well. We can try your people first. But we should make preparations in the meantime—in case we need to get you away quickly. The . . . items that were in your brother's possession. Where are they?”

“Safe,” Joan said evasively. She'd hidden them as best she could in the room, tucked up in a nook of her vanity the maids couldn't reach to dust. “I'll put what I need to make a quick exit at the cottage. And meanwhile, I'll need paper and a pen and money. The help I can call doesn't come free.”

“You'll have whatever fee you need to convince them, and more besides for your journey. I have some set aside,” she said. “I'll have Maddy fetch the paper and pen now, and have her post the letter herself when she walks to the village tomorrow. Better it not be seen at all in Birch Hall.”

Joan nodded. She would rather only the two of them see it, but she trusted Maddy. The girl enjoyed keeping their secrets—and was half in love with Elinor, Joan had noticed. It was not the sort of thing she would have realized if she hadn't known a few women who made such friendships with one another in Bedlam. If Elinor swore her to silence, silent she would be.

Elinor was staring off into the middle distance, her hands folded limply in her lap. Joan covered one with her own. “She will be safe,” Joan said. “We will find her.”

“Be careful with your promises,” Elinor said, “when you are not the one who has the power to see them kept.”

*   *   *

Martin retired to the study to read the two letters which had arrived for him. Elinor had hurried off as soon as hers struck her hand, already tearing it open. He could not imagine what sort of news she was awaiting that would make her so eager. She couldn't be corresponding with a man, could she? She had mentioned nothing of it to him, or shown any sign of interest in the men—young or otherwise—they had encountered in the course of the Season.

His own two letters instilled some apprehension in him, and he shuffled them in his hand, trying to decide which to read first. One was from Mr. Hudson, the other from Colin Spenser, the Marquess of Farleigh and his closest friend since childhood. He had not seen much of Farleigh these past few months, but of his mother and second-eldest living sister, Phoebe, Martin had seen too much. The sister was a lovely girl, Daphne's age, who seemed on the cusp of quite ravishing beauty. Nonetheless, they found nearly nothing of interest in one another and had gamely suffered through her mother's attempts to throw them together for two years now. It had created a conspiratorial fondness between them, but on their last meeting they had confirmed in explicit and unembarrassed terms that neither was the slightest bit interested in marrying the other.

After a moment's deliberation, he tore open Mr. Hudson's missive; he could not change its contents by letting it age.

The note was brief and matter-of-fact. No word yet on Charles, though Mr. Hudson's man had arrived in Liverpool and was combing through old passenger lists. Not
unexpected, though Martin had to admit he had harbored a fantasy of finding Charles still in Liverpool, only waiting for word that he was welcome home.

The bulk of the words were given over to the other matters Martin had set Mr. Hudson to. First, that of Daphne. Initial inquiries had turned up nothing about her belongings, her assailants, or any past rumors of harm done to her. Her father's reputation was sterling; her mother was by all accounts a gentle and retiring soul. Further investigation would take time. Hudson had jotted in a more forceful hand that Martin had his personal assurances that any misdeeds would be uncovered and the investigation would be both thorough and discreet. Martin felt a certain satisfaction; the words and the vicious stroke to the pen confirmed his impression of the man. He was clearly not one to stand by if harm were done to a young woman.

Finally the letter turned to the matter of the men who had broken into the townhouse. Their names were Moses Price and Hugh Green; the sister they sought was one Joan Price, who had indeed recently vanished from the Bethlem Hospital. Here the letter took on an odd tone. Moses and Hugh, Hudson wrote, had the blackest of reputations as thugs and thieves. It was the consensus among those he had spoken to that they ought to have been the ones locked away. Joan Price, for all that she was a thief, seemed quite well-regarded in her circles. If a thief could be said to have good character, it would be said of her. Not one person believed her mad, and indeed several had suggested that Moses and Hugh had manufactured her madness to spare themselves a conviction.

Martin snorted. It sounded as if Mr. Hudson had developed something of an infatuation for the specter of Joan Price.

In conclusion
, Hudson had written,
it is my opinion that your home and cousin be safeguarded against these men, but that no steps be taken which might forcefully reunite Miss Price with her former colleagues
.

Martin reminded himself that given the circles Hudson ran in, he probably numbered a few thieves and thugs among his friends. It was not his moral uprightness that Martin had approached him for. Still, he had a certain sympathy for the last suggestion. If this young woman had rid herself of two such villains, who was he to interfere? So long as they kept clear of Martin's family, he had no reason to think of any of them again.

He set the letter aside with a sigh. No real change, then. No answers on any front but the last, and those might well prove irrelevant. Price and Green had not materialized to menace Daphne again. Likely they had realized their mistake and were nosing down more fruitful trails. And God help the real Joan Price if it were so.

Which left him with Lord Farleigh's letter. He opened it with a small amount of trepidation, thinking that somehow his mother had conscripted the man into writing on young Lady Phoebe's account. As usual, Farleigh hadn't used a word more than necessary. The letter was short, to the point, and delightfully rude.

Martin—

Can't keep yourself cooped up all summer. Bringing cheer Tuesday next. Mother is not invited. Kitty, Sticks, Phoebe, and Harken are. No arguments.

—Farleigh

Lord Farleigh's mother would have keeled over dead if she'd seen the informal scrawl. Martin grinned. A lively party of friends was just what he needed—it would provide more of a buffer between him and Daphne, if nothing else. And all five were good company. Lady Grey—Kitty—was Farleigh and Phoebe's sister, several years older than Lady Phoebe. Sticks was the unfortunate schoolyard nickname given to Roger Grey, more properly Lord Grey, who had wed Kitty a year previous and who had formed the third leg of their inseparable crew at Oxford. George Harken, Martin knew less well. He had served in the navy and had captured enough ships to earn himself a sizeable fortune in prize money. Other than that, Martin only knew the man was formidable at a card table for three drinks and helpless after four.

The last time Farleigh had invaded Birch Hall with his friends in tow, the summer had ended with Matthew and Elinor engaged. The cast had been different then—Lady Phoebe just off her first Season, another two dozen assorted young men and women appearing and vanishing in the course of the summer—but the echo was enough to draw a pang of sorrow to his breast. Matthew was not the only one of those young men now dead.

It would be good to open Birch Hall again. The victory celebrations in London had been dizzying when Martin left. The whole city was half-mad with patriotic fervor now that Napoleon had been defeated for a second—and God willing final—time. It would do them well to bring a small portion of the frivolity here. They had dwelt on the past long enough.

His gaze went to Hudson's letter. Wasn't that what this quest for Charles was? Dwelling on the past?

No. It was securing a future. For himself, for Charles, for Elinor. And for Daphne, if she would have him.

*   *   *

Joan had come to associate a languid calm with Birch Hall. She knew that the servants scurried behind the scenes—she couldn't help but notice them—but it was a scurrying more for form than function, with so many rooms closed off. Now, though, it was chaos. The whole house buzzed. Maddy had been pressed into cancelling her stroll to the village and was instead rushing from room to room in the guest wing, stripping and remaking beds with her cheeks the color of ripe cherries. Even Mrs. Wynn, confronted with the notion of men of no relation descending upon the house, had risen to a level of consciousness and energy Joan had not thought possible.

Joan did her best to avoid the hubbub. She slipped the letter to Danny under one Martin had left to be posted, and hoped that no one would look too closely at it. Then she slipped back to the Blue Room, where Elinor was bent over her embroidery. After several disastrous attempts at needlework, Joan had been assigned the task of reading aloud while Elinor and Mrs. Wynn stitched. Normally she didn't mind, but today her tongue stumbled over the words. Company at Birch Hall. Every set of eyes was another witness, another chance for her façade to slip. And another person that they—or at least Elinor—would have to convince to be complicit in a lie, if they wanted to pretend that the real Daphne had been at Birch Hall all summer.

She stared at the book. Once Daphne returned home, they would have to make sure that she never encountered any of the people who had met Joan or the ruse would be
uncovered. Daphne would be shut off from the society of her cousins. She would not marry up closer to their ranks, as her parents must wish her to. Six months ago, Joan would not have given the girl's fate a second thought. Whatever her end, it would be more comfortable than the life Joan had struggled to escape since she was a child. But whether it was the air of Birch Hall infecting her or a temporary attack of sentimentality, she felt a chronic ebb and flow of guilt.

Daphne would have ended up in the same situation with or without my involvement,
she thought, defensive against her own ruminations. She had made her own decisions, ruined her own reputation. Joan's presence still helped save her from that more than it hurt. And since when did she care about the degree of comfort afforded a well-born girl?