A Lady's Guide to Ruin (22 page)

Because of her.

He tried to speak. Blood frothed at his lips. He choked and coughed. “Shot me,” he managed. “Why'd he—?”

“No, don't speak,” she said. “Shh.” She petted his leg. He showed no sign that he thought she was there. “It's all right, Moses,” she said. “It's all right. I love you, Moses, and I'm sorry I ran away.” She couldn't say in that moment how much of it was a lie.
I hate you,
she thought, and couldn't be certain it was the truth.

He rolled his head to look at her. His eyes moved laboriously down to her hand, where it rested near his boot. Then back to her, then to the boot. Then he shuddered. Shook. One last burbling breath sounded in his throat, and he was still.

A hoarse cry tore itself from her throat. She hadn't wanted this. Not this. She bent over his leg, a sob shaking her.

“You didn't even like him,” Hugh spat.

“You clearly don't have siblings,” Grey said, sounding disgusted.

He'd looked at his boot, Joan thought. Why—?

Because he kept a knife there. She kept herself bent, letting her too-real sobs rip their way free of her. But her
hand found the edge of the boot, snuck under. There. A little thing. Better suited for cutting cheese than for stabbing. Moses had wrapped its handle with twine. And beneath the twine, short, sturdy picks. His kit, he called it.

She folded her hand under her body, sliding the knife carefully between her breasts. He hadn't meant to take the bullet for her. But he'd saved her all the same.
Thank you, Moses,
she thought.

He had protected her, in the end.

A search of the grounds had turned up no sign of Joan Price. Martin's teeth were on edge now, his mind playing out gruesome possibilities. When she'd seen Moses in the village, Daphne—
Joan
, he corrected himself—had been terrified. He couldn't leave her to that. He had to find her. Save her. Bring her home.

Which he could not do. Damn his traitorous heart. He could not love a thief. Only heartbreak lay in that direction.

No, heartbreak was here. He'd found it already. She'd led him straight to it, knowing that there was no other way it could end. She could have stolen every candlestick and silver spoon in the manor and he would forgive her. But this was too much.

“Martin.” Farleigh strode across the lawn, his face an expressionless mask. “There's nothing to find here.”

“The village,” Martin said. He should have thought of
it at once, but it was as if his thoughts were tethered to a post: they seemed to move, yet came back to the same spot again and again. “He'll have been seen there. Someone might know where he's taken her.”

“If she was taken,” Farleigh said. “She might have gone willingly.”

“She wouldn't leave Fox like that,” Martin said.

“You don't truly know her.”

“Perhaps not,” Martin said. “But I know she wouldn't let harm come to that dog. She isn't like that.” She loved that damn dog.

Farleigh regarded him sadly. “I hate to see you like this,” he said. “I know what I said in front of Elinor, but the truth is, if it weren't for you I'd leave her to her fate. But Elinor is right, isn't she? You'll kill yourself for guilt and not knowing if we don't find her. Damn it all. The village, then. I'll get the horses.”

Martin watched him go. Harken was by the stables already, talking to the maid Maddy. She had Fox in her arms again, having been assured that, aside from a split ear and a very sore middle, he was likely fine. The puppy mostly seemed desperate for a kind embrace. As Martin had been.

She'd taken advantage of that desperation. Or had she? She hadn't thrown herself at him, and his desperation had been very specific. He'd wanted
her
. And not for her name or her station, either, as meager as Daphne's was. He'd wanted to see her laugh, he remembered.

And she had laughed. Many times. As if laughter were a revelation, and so was he.

As soon as the horses were saddled and bridled, he flung himself atop one. The horse sidled under him, champing at the bit. Harken and Farleigh were with him.
Hudson, too, though he looked ill at ease atop his broad gelding.

“Not much of a rider?” Harken asked, sounding sympathetic.

“Like my feet on the ground,” Hudson replied, and then they were off. It was all Martin could do to keep from spurring his horse to a full gallop and leaving the others behind. As it was, they ate up the distance to the village, hoof- and heartbeats melding in Martin's ears.

They were streaking past the weathered fence that marked the edge of Mr. Darby's pasture when Martin caught sight of something pressed down in the ditch alongside the road. He wheeled his horse around. It reared up on its hind legs before settling, prancing in place and shaking its head. The others turned more slowly, fetching up short as he stared—and the girl in the ditch stared back. She had crouched so low that only the top of her head showed. She was streaked with filth, her dress torn and turned to a uniform gray. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders.

“Do you need help?” he asked, sounding stupefied. He'd been so fixed on their purpose that for a moment he'd forgotten other people continued to exist.

She looked behind her. She was shaking, he realized. “I . . .” She looked up at the lot of them. And then her eyes rolled up, and she slumped forward in a faint.

He swore and swung down. Harken was nearly caught up to him by the time he reached her side, turning her so that her face did not press against the grass. He touched her throat to feel for her pulse. Quick, but strong.

He took her in, lying in his arms. Small, bird-boned. Dark hair. Darker eyes, when they'd been open. She looked . . .

Rather a lot like Joan. “It can't be,” he murmured.
Could it?

“We should get her to the village,” Harken said. Martin nodded. Even if he was wrong, a girl in this condition with a passing resemblance to Joan could not be a coincidence.

Faintly, he wondered when she had shifted so firmly to
Joan
in his mind.

He helped Harken lift the girl in front of Farleigh—the best rider, with the strongest horse—and returned to his own mount. Hudson had caught the reins for him so the beast wouldn't sidle right back to its stall. It seemed put out at this, and sighed when his weight settled back into the saddle.

Martin cast another frowning glance at the pasture. Had she come from that direction? She was the key to this. She'd help him find Joan. As soon as she woke.

*   *   *

Joan huddled in the corner of the shed. Every part of her ached. After they'd moved Moses's body away, laying him out at the edge of the clearing, Hugh had resumed his questioning. He hadn't been satisfied when she insisted that she'd told him the truth, that the diamonds were in the cottage. If Grey hadn't been there, she would probably be dead along with Moses. He'd reined the younger man in, talked some sense into him.

We won't get anything just by beating her,
he'd said.
Give her some time. She'll realize there's no way out of this
. Hugh wasn't smart enough to realize that Grey no longer cared about the diamonds. She could see the calculations behind his eyes, and they didn't have anything to do with money. He was trying to see a way out of this
that didn't involve a courtroom. If it had been done quickly—diamonds found, Daphne “rescued”—he'd have come out of it rich and redeemed. All hope of that was gone, now.

Which only made it more dangerous for Joan. Eventually he'd realize that the fewer witnesses, the better. He might be able to threaten or cajole Daphne into lying for him, but he'd never believe Joan would do the same.

So she forced herself to move. She edged as close to the wall where the chain was anchored as she could manage, then braced herself against the corner, rising enough to work her bound hands under her rear. Thank God she'd kept up her stretches, though the extra padding at her hips didn't help matters. The ropes bit into her wrists, but then she had them up under her knees. She rolled onto her back to get first one foot, then the other over the rope, feeling like an upended beetle. The chain ran between her arms now; she couldn't help that. But she had enough play to reach her bodice. She teased out the blade and turned it ever so carefully in her hand. When she had it angled against the rope she started to saw back and forth. Back and forth.

She listened intently for Grey and Hugh but Hugh had gone off to look for Daphne. They'd move her soon. As soon as he got back. They should have moved her already, but Hugh wasn't thinking clearly, and Grey wasn't made for this kind of deception. He didn't like victims who fought back.

She'd parted one of the ropes. The rest came loose easily enough, and she could move her hands again. She breathed a sigh of relief. Now the hard part. She unwrapped
the twine enough to prize out the two picks from Moses's kit, and fit them into the manacle.

It was painstaking work, made worse by the rasp of metal on metal that she was sure Grey would hear. Sweat dripped down her brow to the bridge of her nose and fell to darken her skirt. The image of Martin played through her mind, striding up to the shed with the devil's fury in his eyes. Sweeping Grey aside. Drawing her up against him.

I don't care who you are
, he'd whisper.
I want you.

She couldn't sustain the fantasy. It dissolved. He'd know by now; Elinor would have told him. They'd have no idea she hadn't left willingly. He wasn't coming. Even if Daphne reached them, he might not come. Not for Joan Price.

The locked clicked. She eased the manacle from her ankle. If she was going to get free, she was on her own.

She moved beside the door, flattening her back against the wood, and waited.

*   *   *

Martin carried the girl to a room himself, with the innkeeper's wife a buzzing presence around him at each step. The girl was already stirring groggily when he set her upon the mattress. He lowered himself beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Daphne?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Her eyes flew open. They rolled side to side, taking in the cluster of men and the dim rafters above. She wetted her lips. “They have her,” she said.

“Joan?”

She nodded. She started to sit up and froze, sucking in a breath at the pain. Farleigh moved forward. “Take things slowly,” he said. “Tell us what happened.”

She shook her head. “There isn't time,” she said. “They still have Joan.”

“Where is she?” he asked, mouth dry.

“I went east,” she said. “I just ran east, until the road.” She grabbed at his hand. “They'll kill her,” she said. “You have to help her.”

“I will,” he swore. He looked to the others. Agreement shone in their eyes. “You'll be cared for here,” he said. “We have business to attend to.”

She did not know if it was twenty minutes or two hours later when Hugh returned, swearing to make a sailor proud. She gripped the knife tight in her hand and held her breath.

“There's nothing to do but move,” Hugh said. “If that chit goes telling tales, we'll have company before long.”

“We'll have to drug her again,” Grey said.

“Then we'll drug her. You grab the rag. I'll grab the girl.” Their footsteps diverged. Joan shifted her weight, staying crouched down beside the door. She'd have one chance at this, and one only.

The chain dropped to the ground. The door opened. Hugh was silhouetted for a moment, pausing while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Joan lunged.

She whirled around the doorframe, swinging the knife. It plunged hilt deep in Hugh's leg, and she gave it a savage
yank. He screamed, clutching at his leg, and fell backward to the dirt. She dove forward. She scrabbled at his jacket until her hand fell on the pistol's grip. She pulled it free while his hands were still busy grabbing at his bleeding leg and hurtled forward, keeping her body low to the ground. In the middle of the clearing she bounded to her feet and swung her arm around.

Grey had his own pistol, and it was level with her heart. She kept the barrel of her weapon fixed on him, but her hand shook so much she could scarcely keep her grip. “Ever shot one of those before?” he asked lightly. His horse, still tied to a trunk behind him, flattened its ears against its skull, shifting side to side with nervous energy.

“No,” Joan said. “But you know I'm a good shot.”

“So am I.” He paused, sparing half a glance for Hugh, who had struggled to his feet with both hands clapped around his thigh. Blood oozed out between his fingers, and flecked his lip where he'd bitten it. “There's another gun in my saddlebags,” he said.

Hugh gritted his teeth and staggered forward a step. Damn. She'd thought the wound worse. He hobbled to the horse, while Grey covered her with the gun. She could try to run. But she could imagine the ball tearing through her back. She didn't want to die like that. Like Moses, still lain out at the edge of the clearing. She tried not to look at his still form. They could have at least covered him.

Her fear had given way to anger now. She was sick of this. Tired of running. Tired of being tied down.

Hugh had found the other gun. He aimed it in her direction and pulled back the hammer with some effort, leaning against a tree for support. She'd seen him shoot. He wasn't a good shot, but he might be a lucky one.

“Put it down now, love,” Hugh said. He bared his yellow teeth at her.

She was going to die, one way or another, she realized. But she didn't have to go alone. “You killed my brother,” she said flatly. She flicked the barrel of the gun to the side, and fired.

Smoke billowed around her as the powder lit. The horse screamed, hooves stamping. The pistol's kick jerked her hand to the side, and she followed it, fearing the answering shot. It never came. The smoke cleared slowly, dispersing with a leisurely wind. Hugh lay on the ground, throat a bloody wreck. She staggered, bile at the back of her throat and her eyes stinging from the smoke. He was dead. She'd killed him. The pistol dropped from her hand.

Grey stared at her. Her one shot was gone, and he knew it. Her stomach churned, though whether it was fear or disgust at her own actions, she couldn't say. She lifted her chin.

“Do it, then,” she spat.

*   *   *

Martin jerked in the saddle. “Where did that come from?” he demanded.

They'd left Daphne at the inn, the innkeeper's wife hovering over her with food and enough warm blankets to suffocate her. Her directions had been vague, scattered. It was one thing to run east and find a road. Another to track west and find a single wooden shack in the woods.

“That way, I think,” Hudson rumbled, pointing. Harken nodded in agreement. Martin spurred his horse forward, leaning over its neck as it ran. Too fast for safety, with roots reaching up to snare at them, but he didn't care. Only let her be alive. Let that shot have found some other mark.

He spotted the weathered side of the shack up ahead—and then spotted her. She stood in the middle of a clearing, wisps of smoke still coiling around her, her eyes wide with shock. A dead man lay across from her, his shock of blond hair spattered with blood from the wound that had opened up his throat. Grey stood off to the side, surprise sketched over his features.

Grey spun, raising his pistol.

“Don't!” Joan cried, and made to run forward. A shot rang out. Martin half expected to feel the impact, but a tree took it instead—behind Grey. Harken drew up beside Martin, swapping the spent pistol for the loaded one he'd held in reserve. Grey froze as Harken raised it in leisurely fashion.

“Next one's not a warning, Grey,” Harken said. The others drew up. Grey sneered, then dropped the gun to the ground and took a step back, hands raised to the sides.

“I wasn't going to shoot,” he said. “You startled me. This woman—”

“Is Joan Price,” Martin said. He swung down from the saddle and strode over to her. His knees nearly gave out. She was alive. Whole. And looking at him with unconcealed disbelief. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.

She shook her head. It was a lie. The wound on her face made it obvious enough. It took him everything not to go to her, and at the same time he only wanted to be gone. To be rid of her. She had lied to him. Deceived him. He wanted to seize her, shake her—to hold her, and assure her she was safe. Instead he only stood ineffectually, unwilling to move forward or back.

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Harken and Hudson took command of Grey. Joan looked at him with
misery and hope mingling in her gaze. “Daphne,” she said. “Is she . . . ?”

“Safe.” He gave a curt nod. A bruise was welling on her cheek, and blood had dried down the side of her neck. She held herself with the strange posture of someone compensating for other injuries. His throat convulsed with a swallow. He could not stamp out the urge to go to her, to comfort her. “She told us where to find you. Did Grey do that to you?” He would kill the man.

She shook her head. “It was Hugh. He killed Moses. My brother.”

He would have done anything to soothe away the pain in her voice—and at the same time, an angry part of him twisted with vicious pleasure that she should suffer as he was. The anger was easier. He let it flare.

“I'm so sorry, Martin,” she said. “I'm so sorry.”

The anger drowned in the tide of sorrow at those words. He tried to hold onto the clean, bright edge of it, but there was only dark water and no air to breathe.

“I know.” His voice was a ruin. “But it doesn't matter.”

“Martin.” Farleigh, this time. Martin turned, anger sparking. Farleigh only stared him down. “We need to deal with this. All of this. Right now, before any word spreads. Before anyone official gets involved. We have two dead men. Someone will have to answer for that. And this woman . . .”

“Miss Price,” Martin said, though a part of him knew how ludicrous it was, defending the honor of a common criminal. Or even an uncommon one.

“Miss Price is a wanted woman. She escaped from Bedlam, or need I remind you?”

“And stole Lady Copeland's diamonds,” Grey added.

All eyes turned to him.

He grinned. “You didn't know?”

“I know the Copeland diamonds were stolen,” Farleigh said, and Martin could swear there was a rich, vindictive pleasure in his voice. “But that was . . .” He seemed to be doing sums in his head. “Before she left Bedlam, wasn't it?”

“My brother and Hugh stole them,” Joan said, giving a little sigh. Martin stared at her. “I only took them after.”

“She has them somewhere around here,” Grey said.

“Is
that
how they wrapped you up into this?” Martin asked, incredulous. “
Money
?”

“It's easy to sound so dismissive when you have all the money you could want,” Grey said. Joan made a noise as if he had a point. Then she straightened up.

“I don't have them, anyway,” she said. “I knew I couldn't fence them. I only wanted to get back at my brother and Hugh for putting me in that place. So I chucked them in the Thames. Only told you that rot about the fireplace because I figured you'd kill me if I told you.”

Grey gaped at her. “You can't be serious.”

Martin peered at her. She was lying, he was sure of it. But if he had not spent the last several weeks listening to her lie, he wouldn't have known. It was like when she played silly Daphne, only now she was playing someone else.
Rough Joan,
he thought.
As much an act as Daphne had been.

The slippery thought came to him that he had known her better as Daphne than most people did as Joan. She had been telling him a truth. A long and complicated truth that required a thousand lies to tell.

She met his gaze, and smiled. It was a sad smile. A farewell. He turned away from it.

“It doesn't matter,” Martin said. He wasn't entirely sure if he had directed this to Grey or the universe at large. He fixed each of the men with a hard look in turn. “This is what is going to happen. We are going to tell the truth—to a point. Joan was never here. These rough men believed Daphne to be Joan, and kidnapped her. We will all agree that Daphne is the young woman who joined us this summer. We arrived to discover that Hugh had killed Mr. Price in an argument after Daphne slipped away. Hugh shot at us. Captain Harken returned fire. Grey was not involved.”

This pained him. He would have loved to see the man in irons but it was the only way to guarantee his silence.

“Your freedom for your cooperation, Grey. Will you take it?”

“And what freedom is that?” Grey rumbled. “You'll let me go back to my life? Nothing changes?”

“No,” Farleigh said. He cut Martin with a glare. “I must insist on this. You will not face punishment from the courts, but you will leave England. Permanently. Visit the continent. Go anywhere. I will even supply the funds to keep you in some degree of comfort. Only do not return here.”

“Fine,” Grey said. He sounded surly but Martin detected a degree of relief in his voice. He had expected worse. Far worse. And Farleigh would clearly have loved to give it to him.

“And what about me?” Joan asked. She looked at him with the last embers of hope fading. What she hoped for, he did not have to ask. It was the same foolish hope that beat in his breast, before dying with each word he spoke.

Martin met her gaze, and crushed that flickering hope beneath his heel. “You will leave,” he said. “And we will forget you were ever here.”