A Lady's Guide to Ruin (5 page)

Martin had hoped the light of a new day would banish the night's encounter like a forgotten dream, but the memory persisted. He dressed for breakfast with each word playing through his mind in a loop, as if he were trying to puzzle out some hidden meaning.

If he had not known for certain it had been Daphne in that hallway, he might not have guessed it. Even her voice was different in the dark. It belonged to the woman he had glimpsed a few seconds at a time, watching him through tears she did not seem to feel.

It was a foolish thought, but he couldn't deny the rightness of it. And he could not deny that it had stirred him to feelings that were not entirely gentle and protective.
We should not be
seen
alone in the dark
, she'd said. He gave a shiver thinking of it. If she knew the thrill that had shot through him at those words, she might not have felt so
secure in her reputation. They suggested all manner of things that he should not contemplate.

His curiosity gave way to bafflement as they waited for the carriage that morning, ensconced in the drawing room. Gone were the tears and jumpiness but gone, too, was the woman who had ghosted through his halls last night. Daphne smiled brightly and laughed loudly, a fluttering laugh that gave the impression that there was little thought behind it.

“And how many servants are there?” she was asking, in a voice that threatened to squeak at its highest altitude. She had been prompting Elinor for details about Birch Hall and the Season since waking. Elinor had answered obligingly but Martin could see the strain settling in, her shoulders tensing fraction by fraction. Maybe he had dreamed last night's encounter after all.

He cleared his throat. “The carriage ought to be arriving soon.”

Daphne's eyes flicked to him and the eagerness in them snapped like a tongue of flame. There was something there; he hadn't imagined it. Some part of her that bore no relation to that laugh, or the way she tilted her head now, like a confused puppy. Could she be putting on an act? And if so, which version of her was the false one? “How long will it be until you join us?” she asked. “It seems a terribly large place for only the two of us.”

“A week, at least,” he said. “I'm sure you'll hardly notice my absence.”

“I wouldn't be so certain,” Elinor said drily. She did nothing to indicate Daphne, but her intent was clear. Hopefully, only to him. Daphne smiled on, seemingly oblivious to Elinor's mounting distress. It was one thing for her to
be stuck with giggling girls for the space of a ball; quite another for the entire summer. If only Daphne could act a little more like the woman last night, and a little less like . . . well, whatever this was.

“Brother, perhaps we could have a word before we depart,” Elinor said, her tone unreadable. He looked from Daphne to his sister and found Elinor with one eyebrow slightly arched, her expression curious.

Daphne looked suddenly stricken. “I've forgotten my bonnet,” she declared. Martin started to protest that a maid could fetch it before he realized that she was—clumsily—giving them a moment in private, without the need to dismiss her. She scurried from the room in a swirl of skirts, leaving him to gaze at the space she had occupied.

“Martin, you seem to be
staring
,” Elinor said. “Is there something about our cousin which fascinates you?”

He gave her a startled look. Had he been that obvious? Maybe not—Elinor did pick up on these things more readily than most—but he had not precisely been the master of his expression, he must admit. “You don't find something odd about her?”

“I find a number of things odd about her.” She tilted her head slowly to the side. “She is pretty,” she said slowly.

He choked. “Pretty . . . ? That's not what I—”

“Isn't it?”

“I'm not—It's only that I am—” He paused. No end to the sentence suggested itself.

“What, exactly?”

“Intrigued,” he said at last. He glared at his sister. His thoughts had not so much wandered in the direction Elinor was suggesting as they had strode purposefully, but that didn't mean he appreciated the observation. Nor did he
comprehend his own fascination. The contradiction in Daphne's character alone could not explain the way she arrested his gaze, and however charitable Elinor was, Daphne could not be described as
pretty
in her current state. Nor had he ever found particular allure in eighteen-year-olds as a species, even when he had shared their age.

“And what is there to intrigue you about her?” Elinor asked. “I admit, I have listened to only half of what she has said. Is there some measure of wit in her I've missed?” She pressed her lips together. “No. Ignore me. I am tired, and I am being cruel. She has been through a frightful experience and is trying entirely too hard, but she is sweet. And I am sure she will settle down soon enough.”

“It isn't anything she said. Not today,” Martin said. “Last night, we . . . encountered one another. I could not sleep, and it seems that she could not, either. We spoke for a brief moment and she seemed to me an entirely different person. Though I must be mistaken. I don't see any reason for a girl to pretend to be that silly if she doesn't need to.” He picked at the arm of his chair. She had to be pretending, didn't she? There was no artifice in last night's conversation, but there was certainly something of the theater in her daylight habits.

“I can,” Elinor said. She settled back in her chair. “It quite repels you, for instance.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?” Martin asked.

“Not you, you.” She fluttered a hand. “Men like you. Others, it attracts. Surely you don't believe that every girl who ever giggled at you was as enthralled as she appeared?”

“You
are
being cruel,” Martin said, clasping a hand over his heart. “I am deeply wounded.” What she said
made sense, of course, but it didn't ring true. There was something more he was missing, and it was driving him half-mad.

Elinor examined him in silence for a moment before speaking again. “Should I unravel her mystery, then? Make a report to you?”

“Very well,” he said indifferently, though a pang of something akin to jealousy shot through him. He rather wanted to be the one to uncover that particular mystery.

A floorboard creaked loudly in the hall, signaling Daphne's return. She entered without a bonnet, cheeks flushed. “I was wrong,” she said. “It was packed after all.” She crossed to the settee and fell onto it with the grace of dropped silverware. Elinor shifted her weight, expression carefully blank.

He found himself staring at Daphne again, and studiously looked away. She would be gone within the hour. The next week would give him time to put whatever this was to rest. Likely his protective impulse was spurring him to an overreaction, that was all. As soon as her ordeal was behind her, he could put her out of his mind as anything more than his silly young cousin.

Why did that description seem so very far removed from the woman in the hall?

He ran a hand through his hair, determined not to glance over at the girl in question. Silly cousin Daphne held no allure. The woman Daphne, her voice a murmur and her form a soft shadow, was the very definition of the word.

Elinor would be able to work it out and explain it to him. She would describe in exacting detail how it was that
the two sides of his cousin wove together into an understandable whole. For the moment, though, it was a puzzle he would have to leave unsolved.

*   *   *

The wonderful thing about bonnets, particularly the exuberant specimen Joan had stolen the day before, was that they hid one's face from anything but direct observation. She had resisted the urge to glance left or right, hurried straight to the carriage from the door, and was away. If Hugh or Moses spotted her, they would have no way of confirming her identity.

Despite the bright daylight, the carriage interior was lit only by a pale, flickering lamp; the curtains were tightly shut, on Martin's orders, for fear that Joan's brute of a brother might accost them before they reached the city limits.

The carriage jounced along the road, its course so rough that Joan could not help but stare at Mrs. Wynn, who had already nodded off on the bench opposite. Fixing her eyes on the old woman at least gave her something to focus on other than the riotous mix of giddiness and dread fermenting just south of her breastbone.

She had listened at the door while Martin and Elinor spoke; she had heard every word. She ought to have cursed herself as a fool for letting Martin glimpse anything other than flighty, silly Daphne. But she did not regret that moment in the hall. It was the first moment she had not felt as if she were still within the walls of Bedlam. And if she had let that sensation goad her into bold speech when she should have been demure, surely she could be forgiven. It was only with daylight that she had feared for her guise,
and felt the stirrings of a kind of guilt she would never have allowed herself before Bedlam.

Martin had promised her safety. He had thought he was making the promise to another girl, a girl who perhaps deserved it more. Joan hoped Daphne
was
safe, cradled in the arms of her lover. She had not thought until now, with her own freedom so close she could almost wrap her arms around it, that Daphne might be in some great trouble of her own. Joan had stolen Martin's promise from her. She wished that look, both tender and impossibly fierce, was truly meant for her. But she was only a pretender.

A pretender with no choice. She could not turn back now. Not until she was free of Moses. As soon as she reached this Birch Hall, she would flee. They would find the real Daphne in time. All would be set to right soon enough.

She sighed, the sound doubled by Elinor's exhalation. They glanced at one another with matching smiles, and if Elinor's was a bit forced, she covered it well.

“I suppose,” Joan said, pulling herself free of her circling thoughts, “that I should entertain you with lively conversation.”

“I had imagined you would be too traumatized by your recent misfortunes,” Elinor said. She arched one brow regally. They were a family of active brows, Joan thought, but Elinor had the more skilled approach to their wielding. “You seem somewhat more composed than when Martin brought you home.”

“Do I? A hot soak and several hours' sleep have that effect on me, I find,” she said. Should she sniffle, collapse in the corner? Daphne would—at least the Daphne she had constructed in those first moments in Martin's company. But she had long since learned that it was more effective
to give a mark what they wanted—not always what they expected. After her conversation with Martin, Elinor would be eager to find some hidden depth to her cousin. Joan might as well indulge the impulse. “I am quite appalled at myself, really. I had always thought I would be more stalwart in the face of misadventure. And I am afraid I have never been terribly entertaining company in the morning.”

“Misadventure ought to be embarked upon properly clothed, rested, and fed,” Elinor said. “Else we cannot be held responsible for excess emotionality. Don't you think?” It was clever, the way she spoke, leaning in to give the impression that the rest of the world did not exist. Her voice was an invitation to trust, a portrait of openness. What secrets she must hear. She might have made an excellent criminal. “In any case, tears can be so very useful.”

“Do you often employ them, then?”

Elinor's eyes dropped to her hands. They were such elegant things, folded in a way that made Joan think of the wings of a swan. “No,” she said. “My tears are honest to the last.” And then a slight, wicked smile. “And I am not often honest.”

Joan let out a startled, pleased laugh. “I should very much enjoy being your companion,” she said.

“Such luck that you are, then. We shall do oh so many things together. Sit and read. Sit and sew. Sometimes, sit and talk. Perhaps we might even take a respite and merely—”

“Sit?” Joan asked, sweet as honey. “It is summertime and we are to be on a grand estate, are we not? Will there not be guests? Riding? Archery?”

“Have you not heard that the slightest exertion tires me terribly? My brother is quite strict about the number of stairs I may climb and the amount of sun I may risk on
my pale skin.” Frustration blistered under Elinor's light tone.

“You have a fine complexion,” Joan said.

“No better than yours.”

Joan looked down at her arms. She had once been pleasantly golden from the sun. Not fashionable, perhaps, but it made her feel as if she were drinking the sky itself into her skin. All the color had faded; sallow hints of yellow had replaced the gold. “I am hale and you are ill, yet your skin is the pleasant cream of a proper lady, and mine has more the look of a malarial victim,” she said.

“Have you met many malarial victims? I have not, but I would venture to guess you are significantly more fetching than the majority.”