A Lady's Guide to Ruin (2 page)

“Tell me what happened.” Who he had to kill. After all the promises he'd made to her father . . . The man had seemed entirely too concerned that Daphne be closely watched. Now he began to understand why.

“I don't know where to begin.”

He spoke in the soothing tone he would use to coax a startled cat from under the furniture. “Begin with Mrs. Fowler. Did she not bring you here?”

A slow shake of the head. “Mrs. Fowler grew ill,” she said. “And then . . .”

“And then?” he prompted.

“Everything was stolen. Everything but my bag. I would have been alone on the road, except for the company of two kind women.” The tears were brimming again. “I had to—to borrow a clean dress, and . . .” A whine started up in the back of her throat, like a dog about to be kicked. He tried to catch her eye, to see the still depths there again, but she buried her face in her hands. He thought he ought to pat her arm, speak some comforting words. But he was adrift.

“It will all be sorted,” he said. “We'll find your bags.”
Unlikely. Her frocks would be dressing some criminal's
ragged daughters by now, and anything else she had of value would pass through all manner of grubby hands before it surfaced again.
“And in the meantime, you can borrow some of Elinor's things. She's taller than you, but I think the fit should be better.” His own clothing would be a better fit than that abomination. “Who were these women?” Whoever they were, they seemed to think it appropriate to allow a young woman to travel through London alone. They ought to have escorted her to his door.

“Miss Smith and her mother. Mrs. Smith,” Daphne said. “They were in such a rush, I didn't wish to trouble them any longer.”

A pair of Smiths. So much for finding them. He suspected he would have better luck with the frocks.

The door eased open then, and one of the maids entered, bearing a tray of tea and food. Martin waved away the maid and poured for Daphne, steadying the teacup with one finger when she threatened to spill it down the front of her dress. Having something in her hands calmed her, at least. She sipped, and eyed the food. He nudged the plate toward her.

He had not realized women were capable of putting away biscuits and cucumber sandwiches with such alacrity. The last caper and smudge of cream was dabbed from the platter before she spoke another word. Her tongue darted out once to catch a stray speck from the corner of her lip. He found himself arrested by the movement. He cleared his throat. He seemed to be doing that quite a bit.

“Now,” he said. “We don't have time to linger in London while we find your things. You will have to go ahead with Elinor and Mrs. Wynn, and I will arrange things here.”
And by the time she was firmly ensconced at Birch Hall, the sting of her lost wardrobe would hopefully have lessened. He could send new dresses—he'd ask Elinor for the specifications, of course, the most he knew was that they should look nothing like her current adornment—and replace whatever other ribbons and fripperies she'd brought.

“Go ahead . . . ?” Daphne said.

Had the wits been shaken right out of her? “To Birch Hall,” he said. “For the summer.”

“Of course,” she said, shaking her head as if to say
silly me
. “Will it . . . be a very long journey?”

“No more than two days, assuming you don't mean to ride at night.” Daphne's apparent penchant for disaster would likely have them in a ditch, surrounded by highwaymen, an hour outside of London. Better not to chance night travel.

“I am so eager to get out of the city,” she said. “I'm sure you understand.” There was that look again, beneath her lashes. The look like the tears in her eyes did not matter; they were water over a smooth, polished stone. A stone that would stand with all the rage of a tempest around it. But he must be imagining it. And, indeed, she turned her eyes to her tea and gave one last hiccup of distress. He sighed. Yes, out of London with the girl. Out to Birch Hall, where she would be safe from everything short of sheep and the occasional fox.

The front door opened out in the hall, and he heard Garland's murmur. “That will be Elinor,” he said. Excellent. Elinor would be better suited to putting Daphne at ease than he.

“Elinor,” Daphne echoed. “I have not seen her since . . .”

This incessant trailing off would drive him mad. “You can't possibly remember,” he said. “You could barely string three words together at the time.”

She broke into a wide smile. “Of course,” she said. “It shall be good to renew our acquaintance.”

Martin raised an eyebrow at the tone, nonplussed, but rose. “I will return in a moment,” he promised, and departed.

Joan had been in many opulent homes in her twenty-two years, though generally her ingress was through upstairs windows or with a footman's hand down the front of her dress. She had never been escorted in through the front door, into an oak-paneled entryway resplendent with carpet thick enough to sink into and paintings older than her on the walls. The house smelled of candlewax and leather, and the smooth spice of good brandy. And she did not know which was more delectable: the feeling of food filling her stomach, or the grave furrow in Martin's brow.

Lord Fenbrook
, she thought, correcting herself. What sort of lord, she wasn't certain; the letter had not told her. She had only moments to skim the contents while he was arranging for the meal, but she was a quick reader. Father had made sure of that, once he'd realized she had the aptitude—and Moses never would.

Dear Daphne Hargrove, it seemed, being some cousin of her more wealthy Hargrove relations, was to be engaged as a lady's companion to Lady Elinor Hargrove. Mrs. Fowler had indeed grown too ill to travel, and Daphne had indeed departed with Miss and Mrs. Smith. However, she had also taken the opportunity to send word to the man of her dreams. She'd written it out that way:
the man of my dreams
. His name was Richard, and on hearing that she had slipped her escort, he had ridden for London to meet her. They were already on their way to Scotland to wed.

Which meant that the real Daphne Hargrove was happily out of the way, and no threat to Joan's accidental impersonation. A year ago, she might have leapt on the opportunity for profit. Any number of schemes suggested themselves. Now all she wanted was to get as far from Hugh and Moses as she could. She would keep up her guise only long enough to rest, eat, and nick something she could sell easily. A little spending money was all she needed to get out of London.

She was only disappointed that she'd have to depart dear cousin Martin's company so soon. Perhaps it was that she was starved for interaction, male or otherwise, but his concern, his nearly physical effort to remain comforting, at once delighted her and charmed her. It had been a very long time since a man took such care over her feelings, even if those feelings were feigned. Or perhaps only half-feigned; she had escaped trials in truth, though the specifics were much removed from Daphne's woeful tale.

And, too, it helped that she had never seen quite so bewitching a combination of features. His hair was brown and curled, his lips startlingly dark. He had a small scar, a divot, at the corner of his hard-angled jaw. She wondered
if his stubble would grow in snarled around it. Beneath his coat—still slightly askew—his form was muscular, if lean. Thin, thready scars on his knuckles suggested a familiarity with brawling. Boxing, perhaps? A gentleman, but not always gentlemanly.

She had found herself wrapping her fingers around her teacup so that she would not be tempted to run them through that thick hair. And every time she leaked a fresh set of tears and saw him sit back in disgust, she flinched inside. As if anyone would be attracted to her, tears or not. After months in Bedlam, and no good eating before then, she had withered away until she could pass as a boy. Her breasts felt desiccated, her hips pared down to bone and flea bites. If she had shucked her dress, and he could take in the precise accounting of her ribs, the blemishes, the bruises, he would not think for an instant that she was anything but gutter trash.

Let him think it. Once she fenced these diamonds, she'd be the wealthiest gutter trash in London. Or rather, out of London, as quickly as possible, she reminded herself.

Martin reappeared at the doorway, this time with a tall woman beside him. Her skin was milky pale, her hair dark auburn. The hand tucked into the crook of Martin's arm rested lightly, like a bird taking only momentary respite from its flight. She regarded Joan with an amused tilt to her head. “Oh, dear,” she said. “This won't do.”

“Miss Hargrove—Daphne—may I present the Lady Elinor Hargrove.” He shifted to hold her elbow, aiding his sister to a seat on a settee close to Joan. Lady Elinor did not protest the shepherding movement. She leaned into him slightly, and he guided her with a practiced rhythm. She did not need the help, Joan realized. Her steps were firm and
assured, and the weight she put on him seemed more for his benefit than hers. And, too, there was the fond amusement in her eyes. Eyes as dark as Joan's—as Daphne's. Her proportions, though, were far more generous. Her dress clung just enough to hint at a flare of hips, to reveal the swell of her breasts. She was beautiful. And rich. And yet being helped to her seat by her brother, not an adoring husband.

And they were certainly siblings. They had the same nose, bent downward a little more than was fashionable, and the same small spray of freckles at their cheeks.

“Dear cousin,” Elinor said. “I am glad you have arrived, though it seems you have befallen some great misfortune. That does not appear to be your dress.”

“No,” Joan said, squelching the automatic
ma'am
that rose to follow it. “I'm afraid . . .” She widened her eyes, let the dry air prick at them. Perhaps sensing tears, Martin cleared his throat—he did seem to do that a lot—and swept a hand through the air.

“A long tale,” he said. “She'll need to borrow some of your things. I want you both to leave right away. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

“She cannot simply borrow my things, Martin. Well, maybe the green,” Elinor said, pondering. “It is too small for me; I was going to have it let out. But anything else will drag the carpet and fall about her shoulders. They will need to be taken in and up, and that takes time. Or perhaps we could simply take another trip into town,” she said, with an air of repressed mischief.

“Dare I ask how much today's trip cost me?” Martin asked. Joan tensed before she realized that there was only a familiar, fond annoyance in his voice.

Elinor laughed softly. The sound put Joan in mind of
running her hand through a puppy's fur. A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down, not quite sure where the sudden pang of envy had come from.

“You dare not,” Elinor told Martin. She folded her hands in her lap. “The maid, Maddy, is a quick hand with a needle. And the green until then. If that suits you, Miss Hargrove.”

“I am grateful for anything you can provide,” Joan said, doing her best to make her gaze dewy.

“We will provide whatever you need,” Elinor assured her, and placed a slender hand over Joan's own.

How long it had been since she saw such genuine affection. She dabbed at her eyes. The tears there were feigned, she told herself; and if they were not, it was only exhaustion spurring her to sentiment.

“She's worn through,” Elinor said chidingly, looking to her brother.

Martin tugged at his jacket. “Of course. How foolish of me.” He made a gesture and a maid appeared from the hallway. Joan had to admire that—she'd been perfectly camouflaged in the shadows a moment before. “Show Miss Hargrove to her room, will you?” He stood as Joan did, and cleared his throat one last time. “You need not worry about anything. I will write to your parents, and . . .”

Joan had been ready for this. She gasped theatrically. “You can't,” she said. She had no intention of remaining in place long enough for such a letter to reach its destination but there was no reason to invite scrutiny, however far down the road. “They'll make me go home. And I would so rather be at Birch Hall than . . .” She trailed off. The wonderful thing about trailing off was that most people could not abide an incomplete sentence and would readily finish it, sparing her the trouble of a lie.

“Swansea? I should think so,” Elinor said drily.

Oh, dear lord. Swansea? Was Daphne Welsh?
She hadn't sounded Welsh, and Joan's accent, carefully cultivated through years of practice, did not seem to raise suspicion. Not Welsh, then, but perhaps unfashionable enough to cover for some of Joan's missteps.

If she managed to fence those diamonds, she was going to track dear Daphne down and give her a nice wedding present.

Later. First, get out of London. She let her knees go lax, shaking. “If you could only tell them that I've arrived safely . . .”

Martin considered, then nodded. “Very well. And I shall enquire after the well-being of Mrs. Fowler. Speaking of escorts . . . ?” He looked to Elinor.

“Mrs. Wynn will be asleep by now,” Elinor said. “The purchasing of gowns quite exhausted her, I am afraid. Your room is next to hers, Daphne; you shall have to live with the snoring.”

No one could match Moses for snoring, and they'd slept in the same narrow bed since she was born. She only dipped her head a bit and cast her eyes to the maid, who waited with perfect patience and downcast gaze. Martin dismissed them with another absent gesture and a murmured farewell. The maid whispered a “This way, miss,” and threaded her way toward the stairs.

Joan felt Elinor's eyes on her back all the way up. Her skin prickled, and at the top of the stairs she cast one look back. Elinor was watching her with a closed expression. She swallowed. Suddenly she got the feeling that Elinor was not nearly as convinced of her charade as her brother.

She could only pray it held a few hours more.

*   *   *

The sheets were cool, crisp, and perfect. It was so warm she could have cast them off and slept in only her skin—if not for the chance of a maid cracking open the door and seeing her bare buttocks and the welts they sported—but she burrowed under the sheet and did her best to sleep. It ought to have been easy. No screaming, no shouting, no being roused in the night and dunked into ice-cold baths. More than one of her fellow patients had died of pneumonia after that particular “cure.” None of them seemed any less mad afterward.

Now she was safely removed from all of that, with only the settling of the house to disturb her, but she could not drift away. Each time sleep came close, she shuddered back into wakefulness, her breath catching in her throat.

She had finally sunk into a restful half sleep, her thoughts a slurry, when the whisper of a footstep on the floorboard roused her. She found Maddy, the maid, creeping to her bedside. The redheaded maid placed a folded set of clothes, including a clean chemise, on the chair by the bed. Joan stretched and levered herself up, dismissing her last hope of real sleep. “Whose palm do I need to grease to get a bath around here?” she asked. Maddy startled. Joan swore silently and snapped fully awake. That was not very Daphne of her to say.

But Maddy only hid a small smile. “I'll have one drawn up for you,” she said. She was fighting her thick Irish accent. Here only a few years, Joan guessed, but if she was in service to Lord Fenbrook, she'd hit on some luck. Joan still did not know what sort of lord Martin was. Earl? Viscount? She had no idea. But she knew wealth when she saw it. And she saw it all around her.

When Maddy left, Joan picked through the clothes. The drawers and corset were finer than any she owned, though she'd rented better for a day or two when a scam called for it. The dress itself was sage colored, with tiny bells of lace nipping at the sleeves and neckline. It would plunge low with no bust to bolster it, but not so low that she couldn't go out in public. She smoothed it against herself and looked toward the mirror in the corner of the room.

Her hair. Drat. It stuck up all around her head, less like a halo than a wreath of dead twigs. She combed at it with her fingers, but it only succeeded in rearranging the chaos.

When Maddy returned to show Joan to the bath, she clucked in sympathy. “If you like, miss, I can help you with that,” she said. “Won't look proper, but it'll lie flat. Did you sell it?”

Joan blinked. So did Maddy, a look flitting across her face as if she'd just realized how familiar the question was. Joan supposed she invited such familiarity and sympathy, looking like a wrung-out rag.

“Yes,” she said simply, and hoped Maddy would not ask again. She tried not to think of the hand clenched around her braid, pulling her head painfully back, or the shears as they hacked close enough to her skull that they cut her scalp twice. Because of lice, they said, but she knew the true fate of the hair was precisely what Maddy supposed. Sold for wigs, only she never saw a farthing of the profits. All the girls in her wing had their hair shorn short. If they'd managed to grow beards, no one would have been able to tell the gaunt women from the gaunt men in that place.

She was shivering. Maddy stoked the fire and clucked to herself in sympathy. “You've had quite a trial, miss, but
it's all over now,” she said. “The water's been fetched up. I always feel better when I've freshened up.”

She was entirely too chatty for a maid, and Joan decided that she liked her. “Will you be coming with us to Birch Hall?” she asked lightly. Never mind that Birch Hall would remain a pleasant fantasy for her. As soon as night fell, she'd make her escape.