A Lady's Guide to Ruin (21 page)

Which was entirely her doing, he noted as he gathered up his things. The scent of her still lingered on his skin. He closed his eyes and savored it, the hint of lavender and spice, remembering the way she moved under him. The way her eyes locked on his, and everything else drowned in their depths, leaving them alone. Perfectly, wonderfully alone.

Less than two weeks left on her delay. Then she would be his, and he hers, for more than just midnight liaisons.

The thought nearly made him skip on his way back to the manor. He found himself whistling and wished he had brought his walking stick to swing at his side. He didn't know how he was going to explain his late appearance—everyone must be at breakfast—or the idiotic grin splitting his face.

Morning stroll, stayed out longer than I'd meant
, he thought, and had it primed on his lips when he swept through the front door—and found chaos.

Mr. Hudson stood in the foyer, hands folded in front of
him and shoulders set, making him look as immovable as a boulder. Farleigh was the tall oak to his squat rock, equally unflinching and standing in his way. Croft hovered to the side, distressed but content to let the marquess deal with the intruder.

“—distressing my sisters and startling the wits out of the servants,” Farleigh was saying. Then he caught sight of Martin. “Oh, good. We can clear this up. Fenbrook, this Mr. Hudson fellow has demanded to see you. He refuses to wait anywhere but here.”

Well, there was one thing: Mr. Hudson's appearance had done a remarkable job of wiping the grin from his face. “Mr. Hudson. What is so urgent that you've shown up unannounced?” Whatever it was, he suspected it was going to quell his wonderful mood.

Indeed, when Mr. Hudson turned, his face was dark, features drawn into a grim arrangement. “Best if we speak privately,” he said. He folded his big hands one over the other.

Martin waved a hand. “Lord Farleigh is aware of my business, and I would sooner have this done with. This is about Charles?”

“No,” Mr. Hudson said. “It's about your cousin, Miss Daphne Hargrove.”

Martin's pulse raced, but his blood felt sluggish and cold. Had he discovered the man responsible for her injuries? “What of her?”

Mr. Hudson glanced around, uncertain of the audience, but Martin jerked forward a step.

“Tell me, man.”

Hudson cleared his throat. It was the only sign of hesitation the man had ever displayed in Martin's company.
“It would appear she fled to Scotland,” Mr. Hudson said. “To elope with a gentleman of a very poor reputation.”

“That's ridiculous,” Martin said. “Unless she rose quite early this morning to do so.”

Mr. Hudson cleared his throat again. Martin felt a sudden chill.

“Explain,” Martin said. His voice nearly broke getting the one word out between his teeth. His eyes roved upward, as if Daphne would appear on the staircase. She could not have gone. Would not have gone.

“Miss Hargrove left for Scotland shortly before you hired me,” Mr. Hudson said. If
delicately
was a word that could ever be applied to the way the man talked, it would be now. “The woman you took into your care was
not
Daphne Hargrove.”

Martin stared at him in mute shock. “That's impossible,” he said.

Mr. Hudson only nodded gravely.

“Then who is she?” Farleigh asked.

Martin's mouth was dry. “No one,” he said. “I mean, he's wrong.” He had to be. “At the house—”

At the house in London, he had cried out her name before she even laid eyes on him. She'd—she'd cried. And done a great deal of trailing off, he remembered. He'd felt as if he'd had to spell everything out for her, as if the wits had been knocked clean from her head. And it had been that way for a little while, on and off, until he felt like he was supplying her life history for her. And then that night, she'd seemed so different, stealing around the house in the dark.

“Joan Price,” he said, and Mr. Hudson nodded. He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. “No. It can't be. You must be mistaken.”

“He's not,” Elinor said. They all turned. She was on the stairs, one hand on the bannister and the other clutching at the shawl around her shoulders. Her eyes were bright. “But we should not speak of it out here.”

“You knew?” Martin asked, voice shaking. “Dear God. You knew who she was?” Still his mind protested. Some part of him insisted, madly, that Elinor must be mistaken. Or lying. The woman who'd been with him last night could not be a criminal and a fugitive. She couldn't have lied to him about everything, from the moment they'd met. It was too much to comprehend, too fanciful a tale to entertain.

But Elinor met his gaze evenly and hope fell away from him. “I knew,” she said. “And I will explain everything. But not out in the open where anyone may hear. Your study, Martin?”

Farleigh led the way. Martin was left to trail behind. He felt as if his thoughts had turned to mice, scurrying away each time he tried to fix a light on them.
Daphne
, he kept thinking, and then all else would fracture, and he was left with only that name.
Joan Price
. One more name. A thousand questions he could not begin to form.

When the study door closed, he jumped. Elinor sat in the chair, the one where Daphne—
where Joan Price
—he could not bring himself to finish the thought. He turned away, forcing himself to take steady breaths.

“Tell me,” he said hoarsely. For the first time in his life, he had the very real urge to do harm to his sister, sitting there serenely in the chair. Did nothing stir her? She was always so quiet. So very calm and collected. He knitted his hands into fists.

“Joan and I have been trying to locate Daphne,” Elinor said. “You should know that, first. We had hoped that
letting Joan take her place would provide shelter for both. Joan would be protected from her brother, and Daphne . . . Daphne could return to her family, her elopement a secret between a few of us and her reputation intact.”

Martin started to speak, but Farleigh silenced him with a hand across his arm. “Let her finish,” he said.

“At first, Joan only wanted a way out of the city,” Elinor said. “If you know who she is, then you know who she flees from. I cannot blame her for that, not when she thought Daphne was only entering an unwise marriage. Then I discovered who she was. That night the storm came. We made a deal. We would find Daphne and bring her home, and she would stay a little while longer. But then . . .” She fingered the edge of her shawl and watched Martin with sad, half-lidded eyes. “Do not think she toyed with you, Martin. Her feelings for you were very, very real, and I wish only that she had more control over them.

“Yesterday we learned that Daphne had left Scotland. Not with the original . . . gentleman. With someone else entirely. We believed she may be in danger, and that it was time to tell you and Lord Farleigh, so that more . . . dramatic measures could be taken. She will need to be found. And so Joan is gone. We must find Daphne immediately.”

“Agreed,” Farleigh said with a sharp nod. “Mr. Hudson, was it? Do you have men at your disposal?”

“I do,” Hudson said. “We'll need a place to start.”

Elinor reached into the pocket of her dress and offered a small, ribbon-bound stack of folded pages. “All the letters we received,” she said. “And a summary, drawn up last night, in the hopes of expediting the matter. We had hoped to handle this quietly, but it seems the time for silence and caution is at an end.”

“Oh, don't fret,” Hudson said. “I can do quick and quiet. It's something of a specialty. We'll have her back and no one the wiser. Hopefully none the worse for it, neither. Could be I drop by and have a little chat with this beau of hers, too. See he doesn't go telling tales.”

Martin stared at him. It occurred to him, the thought coming as if through a molasses fog, that Mr. Hudson had never spoken so many words together in his presence. “Good,” he managed. “Dispatch your men immediately.”

Two weeks. She'd meant two weeks to find Daphne. And then she'd tell him she was a thief, a madwoman. And she was right. He would not have married her after that. Daphne Hargrove could not have committed a sin dire enough to keep him from marrying her, but Joan Price was another matter. Good God. How could he have been so foolish? She'd lied to him from the beginning. Whatever Elinor said about the truth of her feelings, she had been nothing but false all this time.

A shriek split the air. It came from the hallway outside, and it sounded very much like Mrs. Hickory. Then came a storm of footsteps and a pounding at the study door.

“M'lord,” a young, female voice called. “M'lord!”

“What do you think you are doing?” Mrs. Hickory's shrill voice pierced right through walls, Martin thought. He stared at the door.

“Martin,” Elinor said. He stared at her dumbly. When he didn't move, Farleigh stepped forward and yanked the door open onto a strange tableau.

Mrs. Hickory had hold of the ear of one of the maids. The redheaded one, the one Daphne liked. Joan, he reminded himself, not Daphne. The maid's front was muddied. Hem, too, and her hair in disarray. She clutched
something dirty to her chest. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

“Fox?” he said, voice dull to his own ears.

Maddy jerked free of Mrs. Hickory's grasp and hurried forward. The dog whimpered and shivered in her arms. “He crawled his way halfway home, m'lord. I tried to find Miss Hargrove—”

“Miss Hargrove is gone,” Martin said curtly. He reached out for the dog, but thought better of it, only smoothing his hand over the poor thing's head. Fox bumped a weary nose against his palm. Blood mixed with the dirt along the puppy's side and his breathing was labored. “Mrs. Hickory, fetch the groom. He'll know how to help.”

“She wouldn't leave,” Maddy said.

“I'm afraid she did,” Martin said. The sight of the pup had a strange effect on him. His voice was suddenly gentle, and the maelstrom in his breast had soothed to a sort of constant roll. He felt as if he stood on the deck of a ship. All the depths of the ocean beneath him, but a sturdy barrier between them. Yes, this was better: feeling nothing. Nothing but concern for the poor little creature.

“M'lord. Meaning no disrespect, m'lord, but she wouldn't have left Fox. Not like this, sir. He's . . . It was a boot on his ribs, I think. There was a bit of polish on him.”

He reflected that it must take a great deal of courage for her to speak to him like that. To push her way past Mrs. Hickory. She'd come to him, not the groom. Because this wasn't only about the little hound.

“What are you saying, girl?” Farleigh asked.

She cast her eyes down at the ground. “She left things behind, things she wouldn't have. Fox, and . . . and other things.” She stopped, cradling Fox and leaking two bright
tears. “I don' think she left the way she meant to, m'lord, I think someone took her.”

“Oh, God,” Elinor said. “Martin. Her brother was in the village. If he found her . . .”

“It's none of our concern,” Martin said roughly. Let her brother deal with her. She deserved no better.

She fixed him with a sharp look. “I know you mean that now, Martin, but if she's hurt you will wake up one night and realize you were a fool. You love her, even if by a false name. You will not be able to let her go unless you are sure she is safe. Which she apparently is not.”

He wanted to argue with her but the last sensible part of him knew she was right. He scratched Fox's ears gently. “Watch out for him,” he told the maid. “He'll be all right. Banged up a little, that's all.”

She nodded. He turned to Farleigh, jerked his head. “Elinor is right. We should go.”

“That she is,” Farleigh said. “And though I have no idea who this Joan Price is, I've rather enjoyed her company the last few days. I would not wish to see her harmed. I'll get Harken. We'll find her soon enough.”

“And then?” Maddy asked. She bit her lip, hard, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, but she didn't back down.

“We'll see,” Martin allowed. He hadn't thought that far. She was wanted for something, wasn't she? At the least, wanted back in Bethlem. He shuddered. Hudson had said she wasn't mad, but she was a criminal. A liar. Elinor had to be wrong. She could not love him and lie to him that way. If she loved him—

He did not know what she ought to have done. Anything but this.

The groom had come, looking nervous. It was safer to move, to act. Not to think, worrying over each word she had spoken like a dog at a bit of gristle. Martin gestured wordlessly toward Fox and strode out past the groom, a sound like breaking waves in his head obscuring all else.

“I think I have it,” Daphne whispered. Joan stifled a moan of relief. She'd been fighting the tension in her limbs but she felt pinched together with nerves. She'd had no idea how painful it was to wait for a novice to accomplish what she could do in moments.

The ropes went slack at her wrists. She wriggled free and drew her hands around front, massaging feeling back into them. Daphne beamed. She bit back a sharp comment. She needed Daphne functional and confident, and letting her frustration out on the girl wouldn't help.

“It's a start,” Joan allowed. She turned to Daphne's bonds. Her hands were tied in front of her—good, that made things easier. The girl hadn't done much struggling. The knots weren't pulled impossibly tight, but she still ripped two nails working them free. She bit her lip against the pain. Then looped the ropes around Daphne's hands again.

“What are you doing?” Daphne hissed.

“They could come back any time. Here, see? Turn your hand. There's plenty of slack. Just brace against something—your foot is good—and pull your hands free. But it looks like you're still tied, if they look in on us.”

She showed Daphne a quick knot she could slip easily, then left the girl practicing it while she explored the limits of her confinement. She held the chain that connected her to the wall in both hands so it would not clink, and felt along the bottom of each wall. If she could find something, anything to pick the manacles with, she might be able to get free. But she found nothing. She cursed her short hair and the shears that had cut it at some length before Daphne interrupted.

“I think I have it,” Daphne said. Joan turned back to her. No, she wouldn't be able to get the iron loop from the wall, or the chain from her ankle. But she could get Daphne out. Before the others returned, or they'd lose their chance. If Daphne could get free, if she could get to Birch Hall, if the others came—it was a lot of ifs for her fate to rest on, but it was the only plan she had.

A footstep sounded outside the door. Daphne stifled a gasp. Joan waved at her to lie down, and the girl flopped to her side. The ropes were loose, and wouldn't stand up to close examination, but at a glance she looked convincingly tied up. Joan looked down at her own hands. Too late to bind hers.

The lock clicked, and the chain slid out of place. The door opened, spilling light onto her face. She squinted. Moses looked down at her and grunted. “Figured you'd slip the knots. Bloody mess, isn't this? But it's your fault, you know.”

“Says the snitch,” Joan said, and spat.

Moses rubbed the back of his neck with a spade-like hand. “Well, you shouldn't 'a' gulled that nib, Joan. Told you so, didn't I? Too risky. Hugh said it, too. But you wouldn't listen.”

Joan scoffed. “It was a good scheme. And I could've run. We could've. Just you and me, like it used to be,” Joan said. She'd thought to lie, to layer on the honey in the hopes that he helped her, but there was a note of genuine longing in her voice. It had been better when it was just the two of them, looking out for each other.

“Nothing's like it used to be, Joan,” he said. “Not the way you think. You were always dressed up in those fancy clothes, talking your way through every scrape, and I was stuck with the bruises. Now look at you. Fresh out of Bedlam and you're tog'd out to the nines, sipping tea up at that big house. Making some swell think you love him. Them diamonds weren't enough? You wanted more?”

“I wasn't bilking him,” Joan said defensively.

Moses got a chuckle out of that. “'Course you were. Or did you tell him you're a thief? That your mum was a whore?” He shook his head. “You're the one left me to rot, Joan, running off with your own jobs and your own friends. You're the one got yourself pinched, no one else to blame. I just kept the noose off your neck, saying you was mad. I saved you. And I'll do it again, too. Now, Hugh's going to hurt you a bit. It's only fair, after what you done. Even you can't argue with that. But then I'll let you go.” He nodded, content with the arrangement.

Joan drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. It was exactly what she'd expected. But until he'd said it aloud, a scrap of hope had remained. She'd
let herself believe, when she heard his footsteps, that he might be coming to let her go. “Remember when I was sick, and you brought me a kitten?” she asked.

An expression she couldn't read flickered over his face, then vanished. “I won't let him kill you,” he said again, and shut the door.

She waited, shaking, until the lock was back in place and his footsteps receded. She moved on hands and knees to Daphne, who was already sitting up. “Are you all right?” Daphne asked.

Joan touched a hand to her cheek. It was damp. “Fine. And look—you did such a splendid job with these bindings,” she said brightly, lacing her voice with as much encouragement as she could muster. “Now, we need to do something a little harder. See that gap up there?” She indicated where the wood below the roof tiles had rotted away, leaving a hole no larger than a few hand-spans across. Too high for a woman to reach on her own. Too narrow for even Joan to wriggle through, with her resurgent figure. But Daphne was as much a stick as Joan had been a couple weeks ago, and slighter of build. She could fit.

“I see it,” Daphne said dubiously.

“I'm going to lift you up. You have to get through and drop down, without making a sound. And then you have to run. Stay low, and keep the trees and the building between you and Moses as long as you can. Then you find the road. You find the road, but you stay out of sight, as much as you can. They'll be coming back from Birch Hall, so head for the village. Find people. Tell them you're . . .” Not Daphne Hargrove. Too many people in the village would think her a liar. “Tell them you've been robbed, and tell them you're a guest of Lord Fenbrook. And whatever
you do, don't let Grey take you if he comes. No one at the village would give you over to Hugh or Moses, but Grey might talk them into it. Insist that Lord Fenbrook come to sort it out, and scream and yell if Grey tries to touch you.”

There were tears in Daphne's eyes. “What about you?” she asked.

“Don't worry about me.” Joan smiled weakly. “Moses won't let Hugh hurt me too badly. You heard him.” Speculating on where Moses drew that particular line only brought a fresh spasm of fear and sorrow to her chest. She cleared her throat. “Now, we need to move quickly. You can do this. You have to do this.”

Daphne gripped Joan's hands. Her lips were white, but she nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I'll send help back, I will. I promise.”

Joan only rose, legs protesting, and drew Daphne with her. Moses would protect her, to a degree. But she would not like the end of this. One way or another. She made a basket of her hands under the gap in the roof, and braced her back against the wall. Still she almost fell when Daphne set a dainty foot to her hands. Joan heaved upward, vision going blurry. Daphne's hands caught the edge. A shingle shifted. Daphne caught it, set it carefully aside on the roof outside, and pulled herself upward. Joan pushed up at the same time, levering the rail-thin girl out. Her dress snagged on the gap as she shifted her weight to the roof. Daphne merely crouched and worked the fabric loose, a look of intense concentration on her face. The pitch of the roof would shelter her from view but she needed to move.

“Go,” Joan whispered.

Then Daphne was lowering herself over the edge. Joan
heard the soft
whump
of her hitting the ground, and held her breath. But no noise from Moses.
Go, go
, Joan thought.

She waited, expecting Moses's roar of rage at any moment. But silence wrapped around her, gentle as a lover. Daphne would run. Would get to the village. She had to believe it. And maybe Grey and Hugh wouldn't care, now that they had the diamonds. Or at least, Hugh wouldn't. And Grey couldn't do anything to Daphne once she was in the Hargroves' care.

Which left only Joan Price to deal with. She sank against the wall, the chain shifting, and wrapped her arms around her chest. Maybe this was what she deserved, after everything she'd done.

No. She wouldn't believe that. Not if those months in Bedlam hadn't convinced her. She didn't deserve Martin, didn't deserve Elinor's kindness and all the rest, but nor did she deserve
this
. She would be free yet. She swore it to herself. And she'd make sure Grey suffered in equal measure to whatever he'd done to Fox.

She sniffled. Oh, God. Not now. She couldn't cry
now
.

If not now, then when?
A traitorous part of her asked. But she dug her fingers into her ribs and stared at the light from under the door and did not cry. Not again. Not until she was free.

*   *   *

Joan must have drifted off, because she jerked awake at the sound of angry voices outside. She stiffened. Had they found Daphne? No. The words clarified, and she relaxed. For half a second, before fear clutched her.

“There was
nothing there
,” Hugh was saying. “Just clothes and a book and a few pounds. No diamonds.”

She wetted her lips. She'd told them the truth. Told them exactly where she'd hidden those three precious jewels. What did it mean that they hadn't found them?

She was about to find out. The chain slithered free of the door and the sun poured in. She squinted. Hugh filled the doorway, as much as his thin frame could. His face was livid. And that was before he raked the shed with his gaze.

“What the
bloody hell
happened?” he roared. He whipped his head around. She could just see Moses off to the side, looking confused. “Where's the other one?”

“In there,” Moses said, waving a hand.

Hugh spat out a curse and lunged into the shed. Joan flinched back, but he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her forward. She spilled forward, barely bringing her hands around in time to keep her chin from clipping the floor.

“Where the
hell
is she?” Hugh demanded. He kicked her, his boot striking her ribs. Her breath rushed out of her. Pain doubled her over. “You little—tell me where she is!” He kicked her again, this time catching her in the stomach. She choked. Bile rose in her throat. She couldn't have answered him if she'd wanted to.

He drew a pistol from beneath his jacket. She stared at it, mouth agape, and a fresh chill of fear stilling her thoughts to silence.

“Hey, now,” Grey said. A stutter crept into his words. Hadn't thought this one through, had he? “That's a bit far, don't you think?”

“Shut it, m'lord,” Hugh said, dripping sarcasm.

“Don't point that at her,” Moses growled. “Hugh.”

Hugh curled a lip in distaste. “You're lucky I don't point it at you, fool. You let the girl get away.”

“I didn't see anything,” Moses said.

“Exactly.” Hugh aimed another vicious kick at Joan, but she rolled out of the way. The pistol tracked her movement. She pushed herself to her hands and knees, wheezing. He couldn't mean to shoot her, surely.

The next kick was aimed for her face. She whipped her head out of the way, but the edge of his boot caught her cheek. Her head rang with the glancing blow. The sharp pain of the impact met the dull thud of her headache and they swelled to a crescendo. She caught a glimpse of Hugh's eyes, wild with anger. He did mean to shoot her. Meant to kill her, but hurt her first. She was going to die, she realized, and the thought was so enormous she could not even get a grip on it. It slid away as quickly as it had come.

Hugh stepped forward, bringing back his foot for another kick.

“Stop hurting her,” Moses growled, and barreled forward.

“Moses, don't!” Joan cried, but Hugh had already brought the pistol around.

Joan thrust forward, shoving her whole body against Hugh's legs. The gun went off with a deafening bang and the acrid scent of smoke. Hugh fell across her, rolling to the side. Grey shouted. Moses stood a moment, a look of utter shock on his face. And then he fell.

“No,” Joan moaned. “No, no.”

He lay on his back in the doorway, staring, blinking, up at the sky. Blood bubbled from a hole in his chest. She thrashed her way free of Hugh and lunged for her brother. The chain caught her up short.

“Moses,” she said softly. Hugh grabbed her hair, yanking her head back sharply. Grey reached over and seized
Hugh by the arm. He pulled Hugh off of her, a clump of her hair going with him, and threw him out to the ground.

“That's
enough
,” Grey said. Hugh raised the pistol. Grey barked out a laugh. “You haven't reloaded it. And even you aren't stupid enough to shoot a viscount, are you?”

Joan barely heard it. She clutched at Moses's leg, the only part of him she could reach. “Moses. Say something,” she begged. She hated her brother.
Hated
him. But the tears were coming swiftly now, and she could barely breathe. He was a brute, but he was her brother, and now he was dying.