Beyond Seduction (7 page)

"I've put events into motion," she said. "It's only a matter of time."

"You've threatened," corrected Althorp, his voice like curdled scorn. "You've pleaded, you've lied, and you've spread a fair amount of gossip. Beyond that, I have yet to see you act."

"I shall act. I had to warn her. To give her a chance."

"A chance to do what: talk your husband round? Even I know your daughter better than to think a warning will suffice. Dismiss the maid, Lavinia. Only that will teach her you mean what you say."

His arm rose and his large gloved hand formed a V against her neck. His hold was so firm she could barely swallow.

"You're hurting me," she whispered.

"Am I?" His eyes glittered strangely in the fog, watching her mouth, watching his hand. His color was suddenly higher, his breath more swift. "You used to like when I did this; used to melt like butter in July."

"Patrick." His Christian name wrenched from her. She hadn't meant to use it, not ever, not again. The

slip seemed to satisfy his urge to shame her. He smiled and dropped his arm.

He was gone before she could protest, before she could plead with him to escort her safely home.

Coward, she thought, her chin quivering on the verge of tears. She had never hated herself more than when she knew she would obey his every word.

*  *  *

Always an early riser. Merry was half dressed by the time the maid came in with a tray of tea and biscuits. She was young; new, Merry thought without surprise. In a household like theirs, the staff

was subject to frequent change. This, to Merry's mind, was all the more reason to cherish an old

retainer like ...

The thought ground to a halt as an awful suspicion formed. She closed the book she'd been reading

and rose from her chair.

"Where's Ginny?" she demanded, the words as sharp as striking hooves.

She willed the maid to tell her Ginny was in bed with an ache or a creaky knee. Instead, the girl cut her eyes away like someone who does not want to break bad news. She fussed with the arrangement of the tray. "Er, I'm not sure who you mean, Lady Merry."

"Don't lie to me," Merry snapped, her hand flashing out to catch the maid's retreating arm. The girl trembled, her eyes showing white. Merry forced her voice to soften. "I'm not mad at you. I understand why you don't want to tell me. But I really need to know where Ginny is."

"I—" said the maid, then cleared the nervousness from her throat. "I heard she's been let go, sent off to her sister in
Devon
."

"What? This morning?"

"Yes, Lady Merry. Mr. Leeds put her on the first train out of St. Pancras. Your mother—begging your pardon—didn't even give her time to pack. Said her things'd be sent after."

Merry released the maid's wrist and thrust both hands through her tousled hair. Ginny was gone.

Shoved on a train like a sack of bad potatoes.

She stood and paced to the window, needing air, no matter how cold.

Her mother had fired Ginny

And Papa had let her do it.

This changed everything.

If her parents could do this to an innocent, to an elderly woman who'd never done anything but serve them faithfully and well...

They didn't deserve her consideration, didn't deserve the love that even now twisted painfully in her heart.

A rip sounded as Merry inadvertently tore her green satin drapes.

The maid gulped back a frightened whimper. "Shall I— Will you be wanting my help to finish dressing?"

For a moment, Merry could not answer: she was so caught up in what this meant. When her mind

cleared and she once again saw the agitated maid, her decision was already firm.

"Yes," she said. "Please lay out the dark-brown habit with the velvet trim."

The maid bobbed a shaky curtsey and withdrew. Merry scarcely noticed. She knew what she had to do, down to the smallest detail, as if she'd been planning it all along.

First, though, she was going to give the best performance of her life. Otherwise, the duchess would not believe she meant to visit Isabel in
Wales
, where—so Merry would claim—she intended to contemplate the error of her ways. She'd protest and she'd plead, but mostly she'd be shaken. She'd imply she might well marry Ernest Althorp on her return.

Once that ground was laid, she'd give Isabel a stack of letters to mail on her behalf, carefully composed

to demonstrate the progressive weakening of her will. Thankfully, her mother was an incurious correspondent. In her supreme self-absorption, she wouldn't think to ask for details about either her daughter or her supposed hosts. A mention of the weather or some dull specific regarding the earl's assumption of his duties would have her eyes glazing with indifference. Only signs of remorse would catch the duchess's attention, only hints of capitulation. And if her mother should make demands or probe, Isabel could fake Merry's hand well enough to dash an appropriately evasive postscript.

Add to this a trunk full of clothes "for
Wales
" and her mother would be convinced her daughter was where she said.

Merry knew her friend would love the scheme, if only for the spice it would add to her long, dull days

in mourning black.

Her sole regret was that Ernest, even more than her mother, was sure to believe the lie.

Three

Farnham let Nic sleep till
noon
.  At which point he must have lost patience with his master's sloth. The evening before had been bad enough: having to pry him from his bed just to change that broken frame

for the duke of Monmouth. Nic hadn't wanted to go, but he supposed he was glad Farnham forced him, even if he had sat for an hour afterward at the police station, waiting to give a description he sincerely doubted anyone wanted to follow up.
London
's bobbies couldn't be bothered investigating crimes that hadn't happened. Nor had they been pleased by his refusal to reveal the victim's name. Why they expected him to, he couldn't guess. They knew as well as he a servant could be dismissed for sillier reasons than having the misfortune to be attacked.

Nic wondered if Farnham would let him sleep if he knew his master had been a hero.

Deciding it wasn't worth finding out, he shaded his eyes as the butler threw open the drapes. Sadly, the precaution was unnecessary. The fog lingered, curling against the windows.

Nic groaned at the gloom that enfolded him at the sight. He hated winter in
London
. Hanging would be better than waking up to this.

"I've brought coffee," said Farnham, "and the paper."

Nic pushed himself blearily upright. "What? No more letters from my mother?"

Farnham denied this as solemnly as if he didn't know what sarcasm was.

"What about a caller? A young lady on the small side. Fair curly hair. Might have been interested in sitting?" Though Nic didn't really expect the girl to change her mind, Farnham's answer still disappointed.

"No, sir," he said. "But a young man did come by looking for employment."

From the carefully uninflected tone of Farnham's voice, Nic could tell he'd wanted to help. Spit and

polish notwithstanding, his butler was a soft touch.

"Can we use him?" he asked, straightening the covers across his lap.

Farnham settled the tray before he answered. "The gardener is getting on in years, and Mrs. Choate

could keep him busy in the kitchen for the winter."

"Seem likely to steal the plate?"

"No, sir. He was surprisingly well spoken. Must have gone to one of the national schools. He said his parents work at the gasworks near Regent's Park."

Nic pulled a face. The two great chimneys across the park did their bit to add another layer of foulness

to the pall now smothering
London
. The working conditions were atrocious. No one who'd seen Doré's engraving of the works in South Lambeth could doubt it. Like one of the circles of Hell. Twelve hours a day. Seven days a week. He didn't wonder a boy would rather scrub pots than follow his parents there.

Pushing this disagreeable thought aside, he took a sip of Farnham's varnish-peeling coffee. The powerful brew inspired a pleasure no depression could obscure. Mrs. Choate had her virtues—an excellent pickle being among them—but Farnham made coffee fit for a man.

"Shall I hire him then, sir?"

"Mm?" said Nic, still wallowing in the drink.

"The boy. Would you like me to hire him?"

Nic shrugged. "Don't see why not. When Mrs. Choate returns from her sister's, I imagine she'll enjoy having someone new to boss around."

"Very good," said Farnham, and handed him the freshly ironed paper. Since the butler continued to

hover, Nic suspected he was in for another of that worthy's lectures.

"Yes?" he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"If you wouldn't mind my saying, sir—"

"And if I would?' Nic muttered.

"It has been my experience," Farnham pressed on, "that some light physical activity, or perhaps a visit

to a friend, would do far more to lighten your mood than this ... this torpor."

Nic narrowed his eyes. "I happen to like this torpor. As for my moods, they're an unavoidable outgrowth of my gift."

"I'm sure it's comfortable for you to think so, sir, but—"

"Farnham," said Nic, the warning razor sharp.

Like any old campaigner, the butler knew when to retreat. "Very well, sir," he said. "I'll be in my pantry should you need me."

As soon as he'd closed the door, Nic moved the tray and threw off the covers. Sparring with his butler might not be the twenty laps around the house Farnham had in mind, but it had put a bit of heat in his veins.

He finished his coffee as he dressed: trousers today rather than a robe. He thrust his arms into a clean, starched shirt, then frowned at the line of garish waistcoats that hung in his cedar wardrobe. Bother that. And bother shoes as well. He wasn't going anywhere, and no one was coming here.

He might, however, have just enough energy to send a note to his man of business. See if any new commissions had come in. What Nic wouldn't give for a trip to
Paris
! Not tomorrow, perhaps, but in a week or so—once he was back to his old self.

Too lazy to button his shirt, he clumped down the stairs with the tails flapping around his hips. "More coal!" he called as his bare feet hit the chilly marble inlay in the hall.

From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow flit in the direction of the kitchen. It couldn't have been Farnham because it didn't stop.

"You there," he said. "New boy."

The shadow froze, then reluctantly turned without coming closer. The boy's gangly shape inspired a nostalgic humor. Nic remembered being that age, all legs and elbows and fits of shyness. If it was shyness. The way the boy hunched into his shoulders made Nic wonder if he were expecting some sort

of scold.

"Settling in all right?" he asked more gently.

The shadow mumbled something that probably meant yes.