A Lady's Guide to Ruin (9 page)

“Why do you do that?” Martin asked, voice hard.

She settled into stillness. Not freezing, which implied suddenness. It was a slow drawing in, drawing down. “Do what?” she asked. No chirp in her voice now.

“Pretend to be . . .” he waved his hand. “Whatever that was.”

He had sat with his back against the hearth, one knee up and the other leg stretched before him. She settled, legs to the side, across from him, her back at the leg of a rickety old table. She regarded him, and did not speak. He let her have her silence, because it was truer than the words she'd peppered the air with since he'd returned with the wood, and because in her truer moments she was beautiful. When she had spoken without the guise she took on and off so readily, she had been beautiful as well; it was the false mask that repulsed him, for it fit her poorly.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice mouselike in its passivity. He let out a long sigh, and looked away. He had hoped for a moment that she would answer him honestly.

He wished he had any notion of an answer himself. He
could only think that she had some objection to being taken seriously. Or to forming any genuine connection with those who might otherwise enjoy her company. As for the why of that . . .

In the days since she'd departed, he had thought of a number of reasons why a woman would be reluctant to invite the friendship of a man, and to hide behind silliness, even if that man were a cousin. All those reasons involved some root of betrayal or misuse, of trust broken and affection battered. But he had heard no such tales in relation to Daphne. Few tales, indeed, except of her harmlessness and the need to keep close watch on her. He would have called her guileless before meeting her.

“Don't be sorry,” he said. “I should be sorry. I spoke to you like a brute. Only do not cry; I think it is wet enough outside, without adding any moisture to the interior.”

She gave a quick little nod and bit her lower lip. “You know,” she said, a little breathlessly, “before the dratted rain, we were having the most lovely time. Elinor is not so sick as she used to be, but she is . . . no longer accustomed to anything but sickness. I think that if she could be more active, do the things that used to make her happy, she would . . . be more happy.”

“She is too weak yet,” he said. “She may never fully recover.”

“She isn't weak,” she said. “Not from anything but lack of effort, at least. She thinks it's easier for you to worry about her weakness than her loneliness.”

He took a sharp breath. The words cut. Yes, with the sting of truth. He had kept Elinor from the world to protect her, as was his duty. But he had neglected his duty by her with the same act. Perhaps it was not for her sake that he
had so encouraged her to constrain her movements, or that he had failed to help her find a match after Matthew's death. He could not bear to think how alone he should be if she left, but that was the ultimate selfishness.

“Cousin?” Daphne called him from his heavy thoughts. “You're thinking and overthinking, I think,” she said, and he could not tell if the repetition was playful or stumbling. Ah, there: the sly hint of a smile, hidden at the left corner of her mouth. She was playing her role, but now she was enjoying it.

“I am,” he said. “My instincts say you're right. And much as I badger my instincts, I do trust them. Even drenched in cold rain, Elinor had more color in her cheeks than she has in some time. So I will accept your proposal. Perhaps we will begin with archery, once everyone has gotten a proper night's sleep in real beds.”

Something in Daphne's smile was a bit fixed. “That sounds wonderful,” she said. Then, “The rain has stopped.” She looked toward the dark rafters. For a moment, half a moment, the mask slipped again. And in that half a moment, he made up his mind.

She would not let him bully her out from behind her façade, so he would have to coax her. To catch her unawares. To convince her, somehow, that he could be trusted with her solemn heart.

Joan woke with light against her lids and Elinor's back against hers. When sleep had finally crept up to claim her, she had joined the other woman on the blanket. Their shared warmth had been more than enough for a comfortable night, though she supposed that Elinor, being used to more luxurious sleeping arrangements, might argue with the adjective.

She yawned widely and sat up. No sign of Martin. Just as well; she had seen quite a bit of him in her dreams. She was glad she did not talk in her sleep or there might have been a few things to explain to him about both the contents of the dream and the vocabulary she possessed to comment on them.

Elinor stirred. She might have had a few things to explain to Elinor, as well. She could not forget that their deal was not done. It still relied on reassurance of the real
Daphne's well-being and on Elinor's continued regard for Joan. Right now she was only dangerous enough to be interesting; if she proved a true threat, she had no doubt that Elinor would reveal the whole thing to Martin in an instant.

Joan rose before Elinor had roused herself completely from sleep. The sun was just now trudging its way up from the horizon; they had not missed dawn by much. She leaned against the sill, heedless of the grime it deposited on her hands. The whole world glittered. She had rarely left London, and not the nice parts of London at that. So much green, decked in water drops like gems, did something queer to the speed of her pulse.

Elinor drew up behind her, the blanket folded and draped around her like a shawl. “Beautiful, isn't it?” she said.

Joan nodded. A figure was moving toward them over the grass. Martin, leading two horses, one white and one a dappled gray.

“Our hero arrives,” Elinor said.

“I don't know how to ride,” Joan whispered.

“Neither does Daphne. He'll put you in front of him,” Elinor said, a crease appearing between her brows.

Joan frowned at her. “He is not making it easy to follow your dictates.”

“You shall simply have to outwit him,” Elinor said lightly, but there was a threat behind the humor.

“Does Daphne know about archery?” Joan asked.

“Not that I know of,” Elinor said.

Joan let out a little sigh of relief. “Good. Because apparently we are to start shooting arrows at things for sport tomorrow, and I have never so much as held a bow.”

Elinor groaned. “He'll want to show you that, too,” she said.

“So?”

“He'll have to . . .” She touched Joan's elbow. “Lift your arm,” she barked, in an uncanny imitation of Martin's gruff voice. Her hand went to Joan's waist. “Keep steady.” Her back. “Stand up straight.”

Joan shivered at the touch.

Elinor raised an eyebrow. “You see the problem?”

“I promise to be very, very irritating,” Joan said.

“Do,” Elinor said drily. Then she pressed her hand to Joan's. “I don't mean it to be cruel, Joan. I like you. That's why I have asked you to stay a little while longer. But we both know that you will have to leave soon enough.”

“I know,” Joan said. “I wish . . .”

Elinor gave her fingers a light squeeze. “Guard your own heart as well. I can see how the two of you look at each other. How you spoke, when you let Daphne slip away. If life were just, you would not be a thief, and he would not be an earl. But these things are true. And until the day they are not, you cannot have each other. You will only break against one another, and part less than you were. It is better to risk losing your heart than to cage it, but a flirtation with Martin does not risk loss. It guarantees it. And a caged heart is better than that.”

It was Joan's turn to squeeze Elinor's hand. She had put together a picture of Elinor's past through supposition and inference; she knew that Elinor had lost her love, and still nursed the wound. Joan could not blame her for wanting to protect her brother from that. And it moved her that, even knowing who Joan was, she did not wish it for Joan, either. She could not betray that, whatever feelings stirred within her.

“He's here,” Elinor said. And indeed he was, looping the horses' reins around an old post and striding toward the door
with his usual, purposeful stride. He knocked twice, then waited—more prudent than yesterday, Joan noted.

Elinor admitted him and let out a pleased exclamation when she saw that he had brought not only a hamper of food, but a bag packed with riding clothes for each of them. With Martin decamped back to the front of the cottage to afford them some privacy, they stripped off their soiled and musty things and pulled on fresh clothes from chemise outward. Joan noted Elinor's gaze lingering on her bare form, a spark of sympathy in her eye. She had no need to hide her injuries any longer but still she pulled on her garments quickly and dodged Elinor's look.

“Some of those need tending,” Elinor said softly.

“They'll heal.”

“You do not want infection to set in, and several of those scabs look like they opened during yesterday's exertions. You will let me look at them and treat them as needed. It is now a condition of our arrangement.”

“Will you keep changing the conditions as it pleases you?” Joan snapped.

“As it is necessary to protect my family, myself, and you, yes.”

“And in that order,” Joan said under her breath.

“You cannot expect otherwise.”

“No, of course not,” Joan conceded. “I'm sorry. It is only . . . this is all very strange. And not a little bit frightening for me.”

“I am the one with a criminal madwoman for a companion,” Elinor pointed out.

“Best keep sharp things from me,” Joan agreed solemnly.

“Ah. What was that you said about archery?” Elinor asked, mock nervous.

By the time they strolled out of the cottage to the impatiently waiting Martin, they were stifling laughter. Martin, bemused, only shook his head and spread the much-used blanket once again. The three of them sat upon it to eat, making light and silly conversation. Daphne was easy to keep up with the topics light, though Joan decided she was playing the girl too enthusiastically when Elinor snorted with laughter in the middle of a bite, and had to pretend she was choking.

Martin, for his part, flinched with every harebrained interjection. He seemed relieved when at last they were done and he could hand his sister up onto her horse. True to Elinor's prediction, he expected Joan to ride before him. She allowed herself to be lifted up, trying to think of his hands on her waist as nothing but tools, inanimate objects meant for a utilitarian purpose. Tried, too, not to think of the strength of his chest where it touched her back or the way his arms encircled her. He seemed to suffer no such struggle. He stared straight ahead or looked at Elinor. She might have been a sack of potatoes in his arms.

The manor was too long coming into view, and it was longer still before the awkward ride had come to an end. When Martin helped her down, it was with perfunctory grace. Then Elinor's maid, a wheat-haired girl with an overlong neck, was whisking them off, tutting over the state of Elinor's hair. Her own hair, Joan supposed, was beyond the tutting stage.

As she passed through the doors, she caught Martin watching them. Watching her. There was something in his
eye. Determination, she decided, though toward what end she could not say.

*   *   *

Joan had tamed her hair as best she could and had washed perfunctorily with a basin and ewer, when Elinor arrived at her door, Maddy in tow. The maid carried a tray on which rested a large, steaming teapot and a smaller tray covered with a napkin. Joan looked at it quizzically.

“Inside,” Elinor ordered and both of them obeyed with automatic speed. She shut the door and flicked a hand at Joan. “Undress,” she said. “Those wounds need tending.”

Joan glanced at Maddy.

“It's all right, miss,” Maddy said. “Though there's no shame in getting hurt, you know.”

Joan was less concerned with shame than secrecy but Elinor was clearly not going to allow her to refuse.

“Well, Joan? While the water's hot.”

Joan took a closer look at the tray as Maddy set it on the vanity. The tea was only water, she realized, and beneath the napkin were bandages and a small jar of ointment. She unhooked her dress with a sigh. She had not got dressed and undressed so often in all her life.

When she pulled her chemise up over her head, Maddy gave a little gasp. Joan ignored it and turned, letting Elinor get a full accounting of her defects. The older woman's lips pursed. She shook her head.

“I did not realize it was quite so bad,” she said. “Lie down. We shall start with your back.”

Joan gritted her teeth. The last medical attentions she'd been subjected to had left her with nightmares. She did
not like the thought of someone's hands on her for such a purpose again. But this was Elinor, not the doctor with foul breath and the stink of alcohol always about him. So she obeyed slowly, stiffly, and shut her eyes.

Elinor worked in near silence, only speaking to direct Maddy to bring this or that, or ask Joan to shift. Her touch was light, quick, and gentle. Joan wondered if she had done such things before. There was not much to it, of course: they only cleaned each sore, rubbed ointment into the bites and the welts, and secured thin bandages around her torso until she was covered nearly hips to bust.

Then they were done, and Maddy ghosted away with the tray, leaving Elinor to help Joan dress again.

“It must have been terrible,” Elinor said softly, doing up the hooks at the back of Joan's dress. “It must hurt so.”

“Not so much,” Joan said. “The pain, I mean. I don't mind it, now I'm out of there. It already seems like a dream. Except when I am dreaming. Then it seems real again,” she added darkly. “I said I wouldn't go back. Not my body or my mind. I refuse to think of it more than I must.”

“Where will you go, when you leave here?”

“I don't know,” Joan said. She could not even summon up a daydream, because what she really wanted was
here
. Was, if she dared to let herself break her vow, if only in her mind's eye,
him
. For an hour, for an evening; even in her fantasies, she could not claim him longer than that.

“It's probably better if I don't know,” Elinor said. “Though I hope you'll get word to me, once you're settled somewhere. Not the where, just . . . just to let me know this mad scheme worked out.”

Joan laughed. “Not mad. Don't say mad.”

“No. Brilliant, then. And wild, and foolish.” A pause. “I've written to Daphne. We'll know more, soon. But there's time still.”

“Time enough for archery,” Joan said.

Elinor chuckled. “And a good thing, too. Once the scheme is out, Martin truly will lock me away. I had best enjoy the time I have, hmm?”

“He would never do that,” Joan said. “He would forgive you anything.”

“And it is high time I took advantage,” Elinor said, and they shared a wicked grin.

*   *   *

In the warmth of the new day, it was difficult for Martin to remember the fear that had coursed through him as he rode for Birch Hall or the near panic that had gripped him when he found Elinor and Daphne missing. Mr. Hudson had advised him that it was unlikely the men who had disturbed his home would, in fact, seek out Birch Hall. Nonetheless, he had set the bullish man to look into the matter.

He passed one of the maids, the redhead, in the hallway. He could not for the life of him remember her name. The maids would not complain if he switched their names around, of course; none of the maids would dare complain even if he took to calling them by the books of the Bible, but he had the good grace to feel embarrassed in any case. She was one of the redheads, which meant Maddy or Mary, and honestly, who could blame him for getting those two switched around?

He meant now to pass her by, but he glimpsed the loose snake of a bandage on the tea tray she carried, and halted.
“You've come from Miss Hargrove's room?” he said. He kept his tone light and his voice soft but he was sure she could hear the strain in it nonetheless.

She flicked her eyes up, then immediately down again, and mumbled into the tray. “Yes, m'lord.”

“It's all right,” he said. “I know she . . . needed some treatment. She is well?”

“Well, m'lord, or she will be. Some's old and near healed already, though there's some of those that will scar, I think. The fresh ones, though, should be all right, with the ointment and all. M'lord.”

Her face had blushed a shade no less vivid than her hair, though of a decidedly more pinkish hue. Her words took a moment to penetrate. Old injuries. “Old?” he asked. His voice sounded dangerous to his own ears. She shrank back, eyes fixed firmly on the carpet. “How old?”

“M'lord . . .”

“It's all right,” he said. “You can tell me . . . Maddy.” He had the same chance as a coin flip and apparently fortune favored him. Her name emboldened her. Her eyes roamed as far north as his chest.