Tangled Webs (16 page)

Her eyes were not cold or filled with disdain, but they were not as welcoming as her daughter’s had been. “Ana, my husband said to expect you. I am so very sorry to hear of your
loss. So young to already be a widow.”

Becky’s hands squeezed Arista’s arm. In the carriage, Arista had explained to Becky what Wild had told her. They were to stay with a merchant who owed him a favor; the story was that
she was a young widow, in London to settle her late husband’s affairs.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Arista said, careful to keep her voice low and neutral. “Truth be told, I did not know Sir Reginald very well, and had only met him on one occasion
before we wed. His death was most sudden and unfortunate.”

The grip on her arm turned viselike and Arista squeezed back, a gentle but firm reminder that Becky should remain silent. Thankfully, aside from a low murmur in her throat, Becky did not speak.
With their lives so full of deceit, Becky knew well how to play along.

“Come inside, both of you—you must be weary from traveling such a long way,” the woman said. “I am Marguerite Sinclair.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair,” Arista said, following the woman as she turned and made her way down the foyer.

Paintings hung on gleaming wood-lined walls. A modest staircase rose to the left, and there were three doors to the right, all closed but one. Marguerite stopped in front of the second door,
which was open. “Wilson will show your maid to your rooms. My husband, Robert, would like a word with you before you rest, please. Thank you, Ana.”

Each time someone said the name Ana, it wedged the lie a little deeper under her skin, like a thorn. Arista wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. Her throat went dry and she tried uselessly to
swallow. The man inside that room knew she was not who she claimed to be. No more pretending. She glanced at Becky, but her maid could not help.

Sophia led Becky away, and Marguerite waved her hand to indicate Arista should enter. “Thank you,” Arista said faintly. She stepped into the room—a study, judging by the wall
of books and dark wood paneling. In the middle of the room sat a huge desk, and behind the desk a man watched her with a steady gaze.

The door clicked shut behind her, and Arista fought the urge to run and fling it open. Instead, she clasped her hands together and faced the man. Men, she could deal with.

“Have a seat,” he said. His voice had a low but not unpleasant timbre. She studied him as she sat, looking for the typical signs of anger. He simply observed her with a guarded
curiosity.

“You have met my wife and daughter.” It wasn’t a question, but Arista nodded. “If not for the
favor
owed to Mr. Wild, you would not be sitting across from me in my
house.” His tone held no animosity, only simple truth. And perhaps a small bit of warning.

“And if not for circumstances outside my control, I would not be here either, sir. This was not my idea. I have…” She hesitated, but only for a second. She admired his honesty
and wanted to return it. “I have nowhere else to go, and given the choices, this arrangement was the most practical. In truth, I expected much worse. And I did not know your family existed at
all, until your daughter called out from the balcony.”

“Ah yes, Sophia. She is impetuous and spoiled, and unaware of our agreement. As is my wife. My son is readying one of our ships so we won’t see much of him. I trust you will conduct
yourself properly inside these walls. I also trust that nothing will go missing while you reside here.”

Anger surged to the surface. “I am not a thief,” she replied, a little too hastily.

He lifted an eyebrow, and heat splashed over her cheeks. She looked away, unable to deny the accusation in his eyes. How could he know that she had stolen all her life, but only to appease a
cruel man? How it had been a matter of survival? She wasn’t like the others. But in his eyes, she was the same.

“I won’t take a thing that isn’t necessary for my stay here,” she said, finally meeting his stare. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded.

“I was told you would have odd hours and a need for privacy, so despite my daughter’s pleading, I have decided to give you the rooms at the rear of the house. There is a door that
leads to a small, private garden, as well. My wife has seen to the rooms, and I assure you they are presentable.”

Arista blinked. He took her at her word, just like that? No questions, no demands? No threats? Again she nodded. “Thank you.” He seemed surprised to hear her say that.

“I’m not without manners, sir,” she said, slipping into her Lady A voice.

The man sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. Heat crept into her cheeks when he said nothing—just watched her. Out of habit, she fingered the handle of the knife strapped to
her thigh. Not because she feared for her own safety, but because she needed something familiar. Something to ground her.

“You’re not what I expected,” he finally said. “How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen, maybe? So young to have such a debt on your shoulders. To owe someone like the Thief
Taker General, who walks on both sides of the law.”

If he only knew how long her list of transgressions was. She refused to answer, but something in her face must have given it away. It unnerved her to have her thoughts read as easily as she read
other people’s.

“How did you come to know Wild? I assumed since he used blackmail to place you in my home, you were one of his cohorts. But you don’t seem the type.…”

“Neither do you,” she shot back.

A flash of admiration crossed his face before he carefully schooled his emotions. “I think we can agree that often, decisions are made in less than favorable conditions, with future
consequences unimaginable.”

Arista swallowed loudly. Perhaps they had more in common than she had first thought. “We won’t overstay our welcome, sir.” She almost blurted out that she would be gone as soon
as she had enough money to leave London, but she stopped herself. He didn’t need to know how truly destitute she was. “When my business is concluded, we will leave promptly.”

He studied her for a few more seconds, then stood and walked to the door. Wilson appeared as soon as it opened.

“Please show our guest to her rooms,” the man said.

“Very good, sir.” Wilson inclined his head toward her. “This way, miss. Your maid is waiting.”

As she moved toward the door, Mr. Sinclair stepped aside to let her pass. She glanced up and what she saw in his eyes almost stopped her cold. Understanding. Compassion. No one had ever shown
either to her. She stumbled and he reached out to steady her.

He released her almost immediately and took a step back. “Thank you,” she said again.

This dynamic confused her. This man should hate her. He would be right to demand that she leave his home and never return, despite Wild’s threat. This family was real. It didn’t need
someone like her, a liar and a fake, defiling their honest lives.

Yet they had welcomed her without question. Even Mr. Sinclair, who knew she was connected with Wild, was still kind. She followed Wilson, and glanced over her shoulder to see that the door to
the office was now closed.

Wilson led her to the right, down a short hallway that led to another hall, and finally to a door illuminated by soft candlelight. The aroma of fresh bread permeated the entire space, and Arista
inhaled hungrily. Though she had eaten well at Wild’s, the edge of hunger never truly left her. Years of starving made sure of that.

“Here you are, miss. The kitchen is there, and Sara, Miss Sophia’s maid, has a room off the kitchen if you need anything.” When Arista made no move to enter, Wilson opened the
door for her.

“Dinner is at six, miss. If there is anything you need, please ring for one of the staff.” With a formal bow, Wilson stepped back, turned around, and disappeared down the hall.

Suddenly, in spite of her good, homey surroundings, the house seemed stifling.

Wild wanted her to live among a family? He knew where she came from, yet he’d thrust her in with people who thought her a lady. Why? He could have put them in any room in any seedy
boarding house and it would have been better than where they had been.

Was this part of his game? To show her what she had missed all her life? If so, it was a cruel move.

Before, survival had taken up almost every second. There was no time to dwell on the possibility of anything different. Here, in this quiet neighborhood, with genuine people just steps away,
people who welcomed a stranger into their home, she saw what she had missed.

She had time to think about it.

Time to wish, in that secret part of her mind, that she really belonged there.

Arista entered the room blindly.

“Oh, miss, isn’t this wonderful?” Becky said from behind her. Her bright smile said it all, and Arista forced the unease aside. Already Becky looked better, more relaxed and
happy. How could Arista relocate them to someplace else, a place that could be much worse?

Everything about the room spoke of home. The yearning was back, so swift that it took her breath away. The pale floral tapestry reminded Arista of a garden. A colorful rug covered most of the
gleaming wood floors. The porcelain pitcher and bowl on a small stand were not chipped at all, and the towel hanging next to them was a beautiful crisp white. Curtains were pulled back from two
windows, through which she could see the gardens. Sunlight streamed inside, casting the room in a golden, almost dreamlike glow.

What would it have been like, to grow up in a room like this? With security and comfort? Love?

And the bed. So far removed from the straw tick that made up her own mattress. Arista had never seen anything like it. White wood with tall posts at each corner, it took up almost half the room.
There was even a small stepladder so you could climb in.

Becky smoothed her hand over the thick quilt. “This will be a good place for us, miss. I can feel it already.”

The longing in Becky’s eyes dug under Arista’s skin like a burr. She had never seen hope on her friend’s face before. Becky had accepted her duties under Bones without one
complaint, but there had never been this light in her eyes.

Resolve straightened her spine. That was why she was doing all this. To give Becky the life she deserved. To get her away from the hopelessness and fear. Arista wasn’t sure if happiness
was something she could ever find, but making sure that the light in Becky’s eyes never dimmed again was within her control.

“I’m going to get some air. I won’t be long.” Arista stepped outside and shut the door behind her. The household noises faded, and were replaced by the distant sound of
children’s laughter. It sliced through her like a knife. She stumbled and dug her nails into her palms.

The pain helped to dull the ache, but it didn’t go away completely.

Her shoes crunched in the loose stone walkway.
One. Two. Three. Four.
She counted the steps under her breath so she would remember them in the dark. Exactly twelve steps to the fence.
Tall shrubs lined the intricate wrought iron, creating an intimate garden space. Brightly colored flowers bloomed despite the lateness of the season, and their delicate aroma hung in the air. Two
benches were placed facing each other in the center—to encourage conversation, she thought.

She could imagine the family out here, with the soft glow of candlelight illuminating animated discussions. What did they talk about? Parties? Politics? She’d known shouting and fear all
her life. Try as she might, she could not imagine these people arguing with hate in their voices. She could not envision them fighting over a scrap of food or a straw bed.

Arista glanced up at the townhouse, which loomed over the garden.

It’s only a house. They’re strangers. They don’t matter.

She repeated it over and over until some of the distance returned.

You are nobody. You are nothing.

The voice in her head dripped with ugly undertones. It was eerily similar to Bones’s, reciting a mantra she’d heard all her life. One which she had desperately fought against, but
which time had proven true.

“I am nobody,” she whispered, turning her back on the house.

A throat cleared from somewhere behind her. “Am I interrupting you?”

Arista froze. Every muscle in her body tightened—first from fright and then from something else. She closed her eyes, willing away her body’s second reaction. It did no good. Heat
coursed through her veins, reigniting a familiar fire.

She heard him take a step closer. Gravel crunched under his feet. She wrapped her arms around herself, a useless barrier against the surge of emotion. She could run out the gate, away from this
place and him, but her legs barely held her upright.

“Father said we had a guest. I’m Graeden, but everyone calls me Grae. And you are?”

Grae is here.
The thundering beat of her heart drowned out all outside noise. Arista swallowed against the lump of dread and excitement lodged in her throat. He was right there behind
her.

“And you are?” he prompted again, so close she could almost feel his breath on her neck.

With no other choice, Arista turned, and looked up into the eyes of her highwayman.