A Lady's Guide to Ruin (6 page)

“You are more educated than I; I had not realized that the disease seeks out the homely to infect,” Joan said. This provoked a chuckle, which soothed the sudden prickling of sweat at the nape of her neck. Entertaining Elinor was one thing; challenging her was another. She would have to tread carefully if she wished to intrigue Elinor without completely contradicting the fragility that had initially ensnared Martin.

She did not wish to contemplate the squirm in her belly at the thought of
ensnaring
Martin Hargrove.
Lord Fenbrook
, she reminded herself, more forcefully this time. Not her cousin, and certainly not a prospect—even for a temporary arrangement—for the daughter of a failed actor and middling criminal, leaving aside her own subsequent forays into the criminal realm. Leaving aside that she had determined long ago to remain a virgin and had expended a considerable amount of effort and stubbornness to do so.

She might not even have bothered. Few of her friends
were virgins, and more than a few made their living proving it, after all. But desire had never been worth the risk of getting herself with child. Still, virtue could not possibly be hers to claim after the number of almosts her work had necessitated.

Well. Not all of those almosts had been necessary. There was the duke's nephew with the full lips and the wounded gaze and the lithe body that had trapped her against the wall; the trap had two means of escape, and it had been with no small amount of disappointment that she had declined the more pleasurable of them and had opted for refusal instead. That interlude had provided distraction many a night since, but now when she thought of it, it was Martin's arms around her, his knee against her thigh, his lips at her neck . . .

She shook her head. She really was helpless. If Martin felt a measure of her attraction to him, if he was willing to breach propriety for an evening's entertainment with his cousin, she had misjudged him. No, that was a man who would only bed a woman he meant to marry and that was a ludicrous proposition.

“Don't keep your thoughts to yourself,” Elinor said. “There is enough sitting in silence to come, without starting now.”

“I don't think you would approve of these particular thoughts,” Joan said.

“Hmm.” Elinor tapped her finger on her leg, head tilted. “I shall have to ferret them out. But not yet. Listen.”

The rise and fall of the city hubbub had abated. Outside the carriage was a thick sort of quiet—not empty, but full of steady, soothing sounds. Not of the crash and flurry of city noise. Joan held her breath. Not safe, not yet, but on her
way, further than Moses could follow. First to Birch Hall, then—then anywhere. She could cross an ocean with the money the diamonds would bring, and buy comfort on the other side.

“You look as if you have been reborn,” Elinor said. Joan pulled aside the curtain. The light from the window could not match the light she was sure shone from her face. She had done it. She had gotten away from Bedlam, from Moses. She was her own again.

She was free.

*   *   *

Martin had not merely remained behind to see to Daphne's affairs—which was fortunate, since the details she had provided were maddeningly unhelpful. It was like something out of a bad play. Highwaymen with faces in shadow, broken carriage wheels, a maiden fleeing down the cruel, empty road. He jotted off a few brief enquiries and marked the matter settled in his mind. She was safe; that was all that mattered. If she continued to flit through his thoughts, it was of no consequence.

The other matter to which he had to attend was yet more elusive, and many times more important. And he could not turn to Elinor, his usual source of wisdom; no, he could not let her know what he had set out to do, several months ago. He did not know whether this conviction stemmed from a desire to guard her from disappointment, or a fear that she would think him foolish.

He was going to find Charles.

The idea had blossomed shortly after their father's death, but then it had seemed an impossible task. Then came a letter, so battered that he could scarcely make out
the words. It had somehow gone astray for years and was at last delivered by a spry young man who refused an offer of coin and vanished down the road before Martin could wring any details from him.

Charles had penned the letter some three months after his disappearance. Its contents left few clues to his whereabouts. He spoke of an argument he had with their father. Martin had known of the argument, though not its contents, and the letter did not supply any additional help in that regard. He had gleaned one relevant fact, though. Apparently, Father had known all along where Charles intended to go. But of course said destination wasn't spelled out in the text. No, for that Martin would have to go hunting. Beginning with the place from which the letter was sent, helpfully included in the second-to-last line of the letter.

I have found myself in Liverpool, where I shall remain for two weeks, should you wish to tender a reply; I do not expect it, and I do not expect that you will hear from me again.

That alone would not have spurred him to the search. It was the last line that had decided him.
Give Elinor and Martin my love
.

A message they had never received; would not have received, even had the letter reached its intended destination. The old man would not have given them any extra reason for loyalty toward their brother. He wanted them to forget him, to think of him as dead. Just as he did.

Charles and Martin had argued bitterly in those days before his departure. Something about gambling, and a horse. Martin couldn't even remember the details but they
had not been speaking to each other when Charles departed. But Charles's letter suggested that it might not matter. That if his siblings reached out to him, he may yet return.

From Liverpool, he might have gone anywhere. Not in England, or he would have been found by now. Martin had a guess. The clarity of his memories had faded in seven years but he remembered how Charles had spoken of the adventure a man might have in the unclaimed wilderness of Canada.

Don't be absurd,
Martin remembered saying.
An earl in England or a woodsman in the wild frontier—what sort of bargain is that?

Now, of course, he understood. For Charles, it had been the only way to get free of their father. Martin envied the escape, and resented it. If only Charles had waited, they might both have been happy. They might be happy still, Martin reminded himself. If he could only first find his brother, then convince him to give up his newfound Eden. If he had found it, and not perished of snakebite or fever or the bitter cold of winter.

All of which led him to today's errand. Mr. Hudson, the man he had engaged to find Charles, worked from an office in a less than reputable area of town, though Martin's contacts had assured him that Hudson was the most ruthlessly competent man he could hope to hire. The office was up a narrow and alarmingly unsteady flight of steps, wedged between the apartment of an old woman who was at present leaning out her window and flapping a rug so saturated with dust it might have been made of the stuff, and another from which the sounds of several infants rose in distressed cacophony. Martin fetched forth his pocket watch and examined the time.
Nearly twenty minutes late. There was nothing for it but to bull his way ahead. He laid his knuckles against the splintering wood of the door.

“Come in.” It was more growl than words. Martin obeyed, and found himself in a darkened room. He waited in the doorway, not wanting to venture in while his eyes adjusted to the light. Presently he made out a bulky form at the rear of the room. The form bent, a spark was struck, and a lamp swelled to illuminate the room. It was not, as he had expected, shabby, nor cluttered. Shelves at the rear held thin books and great many neatly stacked papers; a desk sat in the center of the room with one chair before it, one behind it. And beside the chair stood a broad-shouldered man sporting a well-groomed moustache. Martin squinted. He recognized the man.

“You box?” he said.

“I did,” Hudson replied.

“I think I bet against you once,” Martin said.

“My sympathies.” Hudson's voice had all the musicality of boulders crashing into one another. “You'll be Mr. Hargrove, then.”

“Lord Fenbrook,” Martin corrected, feeling his ire begin to rise. “I wish to engage your services to locate my brother, Charles Hargrove. I believe he may have gone to Canada.”

Mr. Hudson grunted, hooked the chair with his ankle, and sank onto it. He had no natural grace, but the sort of liquid inevitability of a charging bear.
Formidable
was the word that most readily came to mind. “That's a lot of ground to cover, my lord.”

Martin drew out a copy of the letter. Not the original; that he had under lock and key at the town house. He
placed it on the desk, but stayed standing. Mr. Hudson grunted again, and drew the letter toward him.

“My brother left two weeks after that letter was posted. It should give you a place to begin.”

“Eight years ago?” Mr. Hudson rubbed his thumb along his stubbled jaw, then nodded. “All right, then. You've been informed of my fees?”

“I assume you will need additional funds if you are to travel across the Atlantic.”

“I won't be going myself.”

“I suppose I shall have to trust in your choice of agents, then.”

“You will.” Hudson placed tented fingers over the letter.

Martin knew that if he were a more sensible man, he would have investigated his investigator already. But the name came to him from a trusted friend who had been put in a difficult position when his brother had run off with a married woman and a great deal of her husband's money. This man had all three—brother, woman, and money—safely home and safely separate within a week, and no one but Martin had ever been told the story. He trusted his friend. More than that, he trusted his instincts. And while he disliked this Mr. Hudson—with an acidic, roiling distaste that seated itself in his stomach and would not abate—he believed absolutely that he could accomplish the task.

“Your brother may not want to be found,” Hudson said.

“I wish only to speak to him. If he will not consent to even that, there is nothing for us to discuss in any case.” Surely Charles would wish to speak to him. Those last words of the letter had promised as much.

If he did not, the bars of Martin's gilded cage would be well and truly shut around him.

Joan had not known what to expect of Birch Hall but in the two days she had spent in Elinor's company on the road, she had begun to think of it with a certain possessiveness. Unwarranted, of course. Foolish, undoubtedly. She would be under its roof no more than a day, two at most, before she made her escape.

And yet as they rounded the lane, stately elms marching up the road beside them, she leaned toward the window with all the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning. And what a present she beheld: three soaring floors, the windows thrown open to catch the light. Lawns rolling away until the forest swept up to meet them, and then farther still the wink of a wide stream and hills, more hills, their flanks dotted with the quick brown shapes of deer. A hound gamboled on the lawn, unfettered, and any moment the servants would file forth to greet them.

“It's beautiful,” she said.

“It is.” When Elinor spoke simply, she spoke most honestly, Joan had learned. And in those two words was only the confidence of a truth that did not need to be proven. “And it is your home, for the next several months at least. And mine, until I am chalky bones.”

“How terrible a fate,” Joan intoned.

Elinor laughed. “More terrible when you consider how little of the grounds and rooms I see, given my restricted circuit.”

“We can remedy that,” Joan said. “I do not think you are nearly so weak as your brother seems to believe.”

“My brother and many fine doctors.”

“Is that so? I should like to see their credentials.” She had a poor opinion of doctors, given the number who had declared her insane. She'd caught a glimpse of one mad doctor's notes when he'd interviewed her. He had written
Clear evidence of insanity: patient claims not to be insane.

After that she'd stopped answering their questions.

Elinor fretted at the lace on her collar. “No, I am not so weak. But so long as he believes me to be so, Martin worries about
me
and not about failing to find me a husband. Not a failure of his, of course, but he would blame himself.”

“What do you need a husband for? You're rich.” Martin would always take care of his sister, without ruling her. It seemed a perfect arrangement to Joan.

“They have their uses,” Elinor said. “Perhaps we should be finding you a husband, first.”

Joan colored. She had no desire to be married—to have all that she owned belong to someone else, to have to share her bed at
his
choosing. Moses had been bad enough and
for all his sins he'd at least kept Hugh's paws from her stays and saved her skin more times than she could count. She wouldn't let herself be subject to a man again. Enjoy a man, perhaps. But she would not wed. With the money coming to her, she wouldn't need to.

“Here we are,” Elinor said, cutting off her train of thought. “And there are the ranks of the enemy,” she added, mock-serious, as the household staff flooded out to stand in rows. Maids, footmen, a plump woman with a stern gaze who could only be the housekeeper; it was something out of a story, Joan thought, a story about some other girl entirely. And here she was in the middle of it. She was sure as hell going to enjoy it.

“And why are they the enemy?” Joan asked.

“They shall try to block us at every turn. I am afraid they are exceedingly concerned for my well-being, you see, and on orders from my brother to ensure that I do not overexert myself. If we are to escape our appointed rooms, we shall need to be quite devious indeed.” She laid a finger alongside her nose and gave a conspiratorial wink.

“Dodging household staff is something of a specialty of mine,” Joan said with a smile.

She would stay two days, she decided. Long enough to get Elinor out for one day to repay her kindness. Such a rare thing ought to be returned in kind, even if it was given without understanding just how precious a gift it was.

“Then we shall put your skills to good use,” Elinor said, and the carriage lurched to a halt. Joan surveyed the assembled servants. Maddy and those coming from the town house followed behind at some distance. When they arrived, Maddy might prove an ally—but she didn't harbor
the delusion that the girl would help Joan Price, small-time thief. Well. Not so small-time anymore. Daphne, though . . .

Dear Daphne, whom none of these lovely people had ever met. Her charade could be as thin as she wished, and none could tell the difference. This would be easy, she realized. Elinor was the only threat, and Elinor was half-won already, certain that she was ferreting out a secret side of her cousin, not an ugly deception.

The carriage door opened. A footman stood, wigged, ready to hand them out. Two proper ladies, here to spend a summer of leisure.

Two days
, Joan reminded herself.

Well. Maybe three.

*   *   *

Martin returned home from his latest visit to his solicitor's office to a most disturbing sight. The town house's doors were flung wide open. Garland stood on the front stoop, his head shiny with sweat and one wisp of white hair winging off as if toward the horizon. He was speaking with an unprecedented degree of animation to a constable. Martin had seen the man several times in the course of his residence in the town house but could never for the life of him remember his name.

“Lord Fenbrook,” Garland said as he approached. The words had a trace of a gasp about them. Red had crept up from Garland's collar to the tip of his scalp. He looked ready to fall over.

“What on earth is wrong, Garland?” Martin asked. His hand tightened about the handle of his walking stick. “Is someone hurt?”

“No, Lord Fenbrook,” the constable said. “Only a break-in. No one harmed, and near as Mr. Garland here can tell, nothing taken. Odd business.”

“A break-in? And the culprits?” His newfound temper sparked. This time, he indulged it, letting it build to a thin flame. Thank God Elinor and Daphne were gone.

“One of your footmen saw a man fleeing on foot,” the constable said. “Only from the back, I'm afraid. Not a good description.”

“The man from earlier?” Martin asked, looking to Garland.

Garland shook his head emphatically. “Unless young George mightily underestimated his size. No, the man who came to the door was an ox; this fiend was more the weasel. He ransacked the ladies' rooms.”

Martin clenched his teeth. “I want a man on this house,” he told the constable. “There seems to be a concerted effort by these thugs to disturb the peace of my home. Now. Let me see the damage.”

The constable showed him up; Martin left Garland, with some protest, at the base of the stairs. The man needed to recover the pace of his breathing, even if his wits were still firmly in grasp. Garland was decades past easy physical exertion; Martin saw the day of his retirement drawing near, even if neither of them cared to speak of it.

As he climbed the stairs, he found himself shuffling figures, deciding on the best way to ensure Garland retired in comfort. He did not wish the man to become one of those poor souls who struggled to carry a tray when their hands shook with palsy, for fear of the streets or being forced to return to the care of nieces and grand-nephews they hardly knew. Garland had suffered through his father's tenure, and
helped to shape Martin's into something that both could be proud of. He deserved better than to be forgotten by his employer.

“Here we are, sir,” the constable said. “It's a lucky thing nothing was taken. These thieves grow more brazen every day, my lord. Lady Copeland's Indian diamonds were stolen just a few days ago, and those were locked up tighter than—” he stuttered to a stop. “Locked up tight, they were, my lord.”

Martin gave a curt nod and leaned in to inspect the room. Daphne's bedclothes were on the floor and every drawer in the room hung open. The girl hadn't been there long enough to leave anything worth searching for, but whoever had been in here had made a go at it. The window hung open. Could that be the manner of ingress? He walked to the window.

If the ox of two days ago had seen Daphne—believing her to be this sister of his—perhaps he had sent his compatriot to search her out. If so, he had gone away empty-handed. She had left not even a trace of her scent in this room. Not the scent of her when she first arrived, stale and desperate, nor the sweetness he had detected later, that vanishing note of something—lavender?—that he had strained to catch in the hall.

“And the other room, down the hall,” the constable said.

“Elinor's.” He turned on his heel. If Garland said nothing was missing, he believed the man, but there was far more that might be damaged or disrupted in Elinor's chamber than in Daphne's. Even with his sister gone, it seemed a wound on her—and him—to think of a stranger's hands among her things, a stranger's eyes on the place where she slept. Anyone who put his sister in danger was nothing to
Martin, a scab to be plucked off, a clot of mud to be scraped from a boot.

But Elinor's room was in far better shape. No disturbed bedclothes; the drawers half-open but their contents largely tucked where they had been left. Not that he had a full accounting of his sister's room, of course, but he knew her habits well enough to recognize them in the placement of her curios, and there was an orderliness to the clothes left in the wardrobe that did not speak of a hurried search.

Except, there, on the table. She had written a letter, complete with ribbon and a dab of wax. But the wax was broken and scattered on the tabletop, the ribbon curled near the edge. The paper was folded, but cast aside in a manner unlike her. He lifted it and, after a moment's hesitation, opened it.

He did not like to pry into his sister's private correspondence. He skimmed quickly, picking out only a few phrases and names. She'd written to a friend of hers, Lady Katherine Grey; she'd mentioned Birch Hall, and Daphne.

He crumpled the letter in his fist. He strode back out into the hall and down the steps, his blood pounding in his ears. “Garland. Please fetch Mr. Hudson for me. You will find his information in my desk. I will have to leave the remainder of the arrangements here to you; I leave for Birch Hall immediately.”

“I will have your horse prepared. I should join you,” Garland said, sounding strained. He still did not entirely trust Croft, the under-butler who oversaw Birch Hall in his absence, despite the man's obvious competence.

“I thought you were to visit your sister,” Martin said.

“It could be postponed, my lord,” Garland assured him.

As Garland's sister was his elder by a decade, Martin
doubted that was wise. “I will manage,” Martin said, having difficulty thinking about such a trivial matter. There was a sound in his skull as if a bird had hurtled by very close to his ear, both indistinct and possessing of great velocity. “Mr. Hudson, if you will,” he reminded Garland.

He was very glad he had his walking stick still in hand or he thought his hands might have leapt around the nearest throat. If his suspicions were correct, those thugs would try to reach Birch Hall next. Which meant that Daphne and Elinor were in danger. He had to get to them—before the enemy did.

*   *   *

Daphne Hargrove was a very lucky young woman, Joan decided. The room she had been given was the size of Joan's childhood home; larger, if one counted the expanse of hall beyond where only servants tread. If she allowed herself to grow accustomed to them, to hardly notice them at all, it would have been as if she were alone in the grand place, but for Elinor.

But she did see them, feel their presence, and somehow they knew she noticed. It left an odd burr in the air when she walked past them—as they shrunk to the side with eyes averted—and she felt them staring at her when they thought she wasn't looking. She didn't have the right rhythm to this dance, not yet, and for all the luxury of the space, she wanted nothing more than to escape. Luckily, this dovetailed quite neatly with her pledge to Elinor, and at noon on the second day of their residence at Birch Hall, she set her plan into motion.

They were in the drawing room, embroidery spread upon their laps. Elinor made tiny stitches, some small as mustard
seeds. Joan mostly tried not to stab her fingertips, which were already dotted with little bandages and red marks. Maddy appeared at the doorway briefly, her arms piled high with linens.

Maddy, it turned out, was a far better conspirator than Joan could have hoped. She caught Joan's eye and gave a nod. The signal. John, the gardener, had nipped off for his midday nap, while Croft, the under-butler, was instructing the newest footman in his art. And Mrs. Wynn—well, Mrs. Wynn would not wake at a thunderclap and it seemed safe to leave her nodding in the corner.

Joan rose, setting her embroidery aside, and went to the tall windows. They opened quietly enough. The drop was a short one, but into a thicket of bushes that might well snag an ankle or tear a dress if one weren't careful. It wouldn't present her any problem, of course. She'd once scaled a three-story house using only loose bricks, then broken in through a locked window while hanging from the eaves. Elinor, though, would need handing down. And convincing.