A Lady's Guide to Ruin (17 page)

“But then he died,” Joan said.

“Yes. Killed. A drunkard who thought he had cheated with cards. When Matthew refused a duel, the man went and fetched a pistol and shot him through the heart.”

Joan felt her face grow pale. Of the hundred ways she'd imagined her death, bleeding out from a bullet frightened her the most. To think of a thing so small burrowing
through her body and leaving ruin in its wake made her stomach tighten in a knot. “I had thought maybe an accident, or illness,” she said. “I hadn't imagined . . .”

“Now you know. Lady Elinor was disconsolate. It caused a relapse of her illness, or . . . Or maybe that was only a convenient way to describe the crushing effect of her grief. It has been a long time since I saw her as happy as she is now. You enliven her.” He paused. “And yet she does not want you to marry her brother.”

“You know about that, too?” Joan shook her head. “You neither keep secrets nor allow them to be kept from you, do you?”

“What is it that you promised to tell Lord Fenbrook, two weeks from now?”

She did not answer. She looked straight out ahead instead, and tried to fix the landscape in her mind. She'd miss this when she left, though she would be relieved to cast off a few layers of the lies she had wrapped around herself.

“I will know it, sooner or later,” he said.

“Not sooner than he does.”

“Lady Elinor knows.”

“Lady Elinor worked it out on her own,” Joan snapped. “Lord Farleigh,” she added, biting the words out. “And you will know. Some, if not all of it. Everyone here will know. But not before Martin does.”

He regarded her as they walked the next several yards in silence. “If you did not love him, I would get it out of you. But you do. I'm glad.”

“You shouldn't be,” she said. “We won't be able to marry.”

“He doesn't seem to think that.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “He heard what he wanted to.
When I told him I could not marry him, and I would tell him all in two weeks, he heard that I could not marry him
until
I told him all. He is certain that nothing could change his mind.”

“But it will.”

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes. And more people than he and I will be harmed if you pass that
truth
around before its time, so I trust that this once, you can keep your silence.” Her voice grew rough, Joan sneaking around Daphne's soft edges. If he pressed, and the secret came out, her chance to escape would evaporate.

Perhaps she should concoct some false answer, but each time she thought of one, she thought of Martin's immediate solution.
I'm engaged
would be met with
I don't care
;
I'm barren
would hardly be credible;
My father would never allow it
would only prompt Martin to begin a campaign to convince him otherwise. No, silence was the safer option, however torturous it might be for both of them.

“You have my word on it,” Lord Farleigh said. “For two weeks.”

They would all have to know, of course. Daphne's reputation could not be saved without their complicity. They would all have to agree to the subterfuge.
It would not be a problem for most
, she thought;
Lord Farleigh would lie to save a young woman's reputation, surely.
She doubted only Lord Grey, but the others would bully him into line. Elinor would handle it.

Joan would be gone, and all trace of her passing would be smoothed away.

The days dragged. Lord Grey stayed secluded until the third morning and emerged so terse that Martin feared he had been worse off than they'd imagined. He had always had trouble reading Roger, though he was not tight-lipped like Captain Harken or mercurial like Kitty. He always struck the middle note in any conversation, Martin reflected. He simply . . . blended in. He wondered how he had not noticed that until the man stopped playing the part.

Daphne had avoided him the entire time. Subtle interrogation of the staff had turned up no new knowledge regarding the knife or the events of that evening, and his one attempt to ask Elinor about anything regarding Daphne had earned him a long, silent stare, followed by a grim directive to
leave the girl alone.
As that ship had sailed, he decided to treat it as a suggestion rather than an order, and ignored it entirely.

And now he was on the lawn, in the midst of them all, the sun streaming down and Daphne laughing at something Phoebe had said. He felt absurdly wounded by this. That laugh was his to draw out. He had worked so very, very hard to earn it, and now here she was laughing every third minute of the day.

Or at least twice since the others arrived, in any case.

They had resurrected the archery targets. Phoebe had arranged them in a sort of tournament. The women were paired with one another, and the men, and the winner of each would compete on behalf of their whole sex. The prize had been left up to the winners to declare. Given the amount of giggling among the ladies—even Kitty had managed a chuckle—they had a few ideas already.

Martin's ideas were not fit for mixed company. Or any company but Daphne's, alone in a dark room. Night and darkness transformed her in ways that made the daylight seem pale in comparison, and he longed for the sun to set and offer the possibility of another shadowed encounter.

“Your go,” Farleigh was saying. For the third time, Martin realized.

Martin tore his eyes off of Daphne and gave a little shake. Farleigh gave him an exasperated look and moved away. Martin was against Captain Harken, who was a crack shot with a pistol but only middling with the bow. Since both of them knew it would be Lord Grey at the last, they had made a private wager between them of a few pounds. Martin suspected he would be handing over the money shortly.

He drew, leveling the first shot.

“Bit to the left, don't you think?”

He jerked and loosed at the sound of Daphne's voice.
The arrow went left—very far left—and finally struck the lawn at a low angle a distance away. Daphne had somehow crept up close to him. She smiled. Her hair was longer, curling at the edge of her cap.

“My fault,” she said.

“Stop distracting the man,” Captain Harken called. “This is serious business. Take the shot again, we won't count it.”

“Who is in charge here, Captain Harken?” Phoebe called back. “Perhaps I prefer to let him live with the consequences.”

“Permission to take the shot again, sir?” Martin sang out.

Phoebe waved a hand and tossed her head in practiced indifference. “Oh, go on.”

“I'll try not to distract you this time,” Daphne said quietly.

“I rather enjoy being distracted by you,” he said. He set a standing quiver at his feet and drew out a new arrow. “Left, you said?”

She pursed her lips, looking out at the last arrow's track. “A bit less left, maybe.”

He loosed. The arrow flew true and struck just off center. Harken groaned good-naturedly. Elinor clapped. Two more.

“Remember to think of someone you don't like,” Daphne said. “Though I can't imagine who that would be, since you like nearly everyone.” That did not sound entirely like a compliment.

“How about Moses Price?” he asked, and loosed. Not as good as the last but still nearer the mark than Harken's shot. “You improve me,” he said.

“He hasn't been seen again.”

“No. But he's here. I know it.”

A nod from her. He nocked the last arrow.

“No one else?” she asked. “You are entirely too good-natured, if an obsessed thug is your only enemy.”

“I have others,” he said lightly. “But you haven't given me their names yet.”

He loosed again as she watched, lips slightly parted. It was a distracting mouth. Probably why the shot went off course, striking well off center. Though it at least made contact, this time. “Well,” he said. “I think I owe you five pounds, Harken.”

“I think you do,” Harken said cheerfully.

He turned to Daphne but she had melted back into the female cohort already. She sat beside Elinor, which cheered him. A chilly silence had sprung up between the two after that marvelous and perplexing night, but it hadn't lasted out the day. Whatever Elinor knew, it must not be so terrible, if Daphne could set her mind at ease in the space of a day.

Unless Daphne had quieted her worries by assuring her that they would
not
wed. He frowned. But they would. They couldn't
not
, after that—not only the act, but the laying bare of themselves. He knew she felt what he did, and that was not a feeling that could be denied, if one wished to stay sane.

Roger handily outshot Farleigh, then Harken, while Martin gazed over at Daphne. He knew everyone could see him doing it, but the chaperones had retired to an afternoon of their sort of fun, whatever that was, and he didn't much care what anyone else thought.

When it was Daphne's turn to shoot, he sat up. “Is she as good as you say?” Harken asked, with some interest. If he hadn't been so obviously and unattainably in love with
Kitty, Martin might have had a stupidly male reaction to that, but he reined himself in.

“You'll see,” Martin said.

Daphne cast a look back at him. Then she took aim, and he wondered what name she whispered as she loosed.

She shot passably well, but he frowned. She could do better. She was paired against Phoebe to begin, though, which meant she easily took the round. Phoebe, who he was convinced
could
shoot better but preferred to watch, happily skipped back to her seat on the grass. Elinor edged out Kitty in the next round, which left his two favorite women paired up for the final. It was a near thing; Daphne won by an inch on the last shot. But there was something in her stance and the easy way she lined up each shot that did not quite match her performance. She and Elinor had gone out together nearly every day since that first, practicing out where he and Mrs. Wynn could not interfere. Yet she was no better today than previously.

“Talented,” Farleigh said. “No Diana, though. I think you may need your eyes checked, Martin. Maybe Phoebe will let you borrow her spectacles, since she refuses to wear them.”

Phoebe had leapt to her feet. “And now it's Lord Grey against Miss Hargrove,” she declared. “On account of my fiendish whims, Lord Grey will shoot first.”

Daphne was still standing, bow in hand, as Roger rose. They passed close to each other, and as they did he murmured something. She looked up at him sharply, face pale. Martin felt an odd chill in the pit of his stomach.

Roger had turned up the sleeves of his shirt while the women shot. He set an arrow to the string and drew—and
Martin sucked in a sharp breath. A scabbed-over cut ran from wrist to nearly elbow, half-obscured by the guard on his forearm.

I did it to myself.

The knife. Her gown, torn.

I had a nightmare.

His pulse pounded in his ears. He could hardly speak. He looked at Daphne, watching Roger with unconcealed hatred in her eyes. Looked at Kitty, who watched not her husband but Fox, her hand stroking his fur again and again.

“She didn't used to be so quiet,” Martin said under his breath.

“Who?” Farleigh asked, not taking his eyes off of Roger.

“Lady Grey,” Harken said. Martin glanced at him. He knew? He knew something, at least.

A
thunk
nearly sent him out of his skin. Roger's first shot. A good one.

“Well shot, Sticks,” Farleigh called.

Martin's every muscle was tensed. He could not do anything. Not here. Not now. Not in front of the man's wife, for God's sake. So why could he not keep his hands from closing, as if around Roger's neck? He would kill him. Damn the consequences, he would kill the man.

Because there was only one explanation that presented itself. Roger had gone after Daphne—and he could only have intended one thing—and she'd cut him. Martin had never loved her quite so much as he did in that moment.

Thunk
. A second shot, and then shortly the third.

“That has it about in the bag,” Farleigh said. “We'll need to decide on our prize. Well done, Sticks.”

Martin forced himself to remain still as Roger returned, grinning. A fist would fix that grin for him. Fewer teeth,
and maybe he wouldn't think he deserved so much. Martin suddenly remembered he'd never liked the man. Had he always looked so much like a ferret?

He punched to his feet and strode to meet Daphne as she took her position. She glanced back at him, startled. “Beat him,” he growled. “Trounce him. Because otherwise, I'm not going to be able to keep myself from killing him right here on this lawn.”

Her eyes widened. “Martin . . .”

“The cut,” he said. “The knife. Your gown. I'm not an idiot.”

“It's dealt with,” she said.

“It isn't. Not until I deal with it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I do not need you to ride to my rescue. I took care of myself. And I am going to trounce him, if you give me room.”

“He shot well.”

“Martin, he shot well enough to show me up, but he wasn't trying nearly as hard as he would have if I'd given him any indication of my real skill. Now sit your bottom on that grass and let your Diana do her work.”

He stared at her. She bared her teeth. Not quite a smile, but he still wanted to kiss her for it. “My Lady Huntress,” he said, and backed away, sweeping a bow. The cacophony in his ears had faded to a dull roar. He was still going to beat Roger senseless. But he was going to watch Daphne beat him first.

*   *   *

Joan could not decide which she found more satisfying: the sight of her three arrows striking dead center, or the look on Lord Grey's face when she turned around.

And both of those were put to shame when Phoebe, Elinor, and even Kitty leapt up to swarm around her, Captain Harken clapped ecstatically, and Lord Farleigh let out a whoop of pleased surprise.

“Diana, indeed,” he said. He clapped Martin on the shoulder, and she could not bring herself to care that Martin was receiving the adulation for her accomplishment. She grinned at Martin, dagger-sharp. Lord Grey stalked off.

“Oh, don't be a poor sport,” Lord Farleigh called after him, but he did not turn. She wondered if he had any inkling how close he'd come to a few broken bones. Martin's fury seemed assuaged for the moment, but she knew it was not yet over. She would have to do something about that. She was all for breaking a few of Lord Grey's bones, but it was exactly the sort of chaos she didn't need if she was going to slip away cleanly.

“And what shall be your prize?” Lord Farleigh was asking. Joan tilted her head toward Phoebe, who stepped up primly.

“As you have been bested by the resident goddesses, you will attend on them this evening,” she said. “No servants at dinner tonight. Just you. And you had best all be properly attired.”

“Your will is our command,” Lord Farleigh said, and the three remaining men swept a bow in unison. Phoebe giggled behind her hand.

“Well done,” Elinor said softly at Joan's side. “But what was that with Martin?”

“I'll tell you when we're alone,” Joan pledged. She hadn't told Elinor about Maddy and Lord Grey. Elinor already knew Lord Grey was trouble. If she could have done something, she would have.

But when the flurry of congratulations and activity was done, Elinor pulled her aside. They sat together in the Blue Room while Kitty and Phoebe took the dogs for a romp, and Joan told her everything. Elinor grew pale by the end of the recitation. Joan left off when she left Maddy's room. Elinor's lips twisted.

“And that is when you went to my brother's room?” It was a guess, it had to be, but she spoke as if it were well-known fact.

“It was the study,” Joan said faintly.

“How did you keep him from insisting on an engagement?”

“I didn't. But I made him promise to give me two weeks.”

“I cannot believe Kitty is married to that brute,” Elinor said. “I should have been there to stop her. But after Matthew, I could only think of myself.”

“They do not seem fond of one another,” Joan said.

“They were. We have all known each other a very long time. Not Captain Harken, of course, but the others. Colin and Martin were good friends from childhood. Matthew and Lord Grey were the second tier, you could say, and below them all the others who used to come and go. I never liked the Season, you know. But I lived for the summers.”