Courtney Milan (10 page)

“He’d done so much for me—I thought that I could do just one thing for him. He wrote his final note explaining why he’d taken his life in the account book where he’d documented his thefts. I could see that he had done it for me—to give me a chance that no other girl in Southampton had, to buy me gowns, to give me lessons, to make the world right for me. He’d done it all for me.”

“He wrote the note in the account book,” John said slowly. “That’s why you took it, when first you left?”

“Yes. I didn’t even realize what else was in the volume until a few days later.” She sniffled. “I suppose I should have checked, but it was not my most rational hour.”

“And that’s why, when you sent it back, two pages had been sliced from the middle. You didn’t want anyone to find his note.”

She nodded.

He’d wanted the truth. It was this: There was no money left to recover. Mary hadn’t stolen it. He’d lied to her, accused her, and threatened her, when her crime had been having too loyal a heart. He had his arms around her now in false pretenses. He’d only pretended to be her friend, but she’d been his in truth. Everything he’d accused her of doing to him, he had done to her.

And the hell of it was he wouldn’t have taken his arms from her in that moment. Not even if it would have meant the return of every missing guinea.

“It took me months to grow angry with him,” Mary was saying. “I never asked him to steal for me. I didn’t need vastly expensive pianoforte lessons in Vienna. It wasn’t even originally my idea—it was his. He said he did it for me, but he didn’t. He did it for himself.” Her whole body trembled against his. “That’s all everyone ever does—they hurt me, claiming it’s for my benefit. My safety. My wellbeing. And it’s all lies. It wasn’t for me at all.”

His arms were still around her. She hadn’t pushed him away. And she was the woman he could have held for the rest of his life. She’d been changed by what had happened to her, but she’d not been destroyed by it. He could scarcely see her, flush against him, but he could feel the strength of her.

“I’m so sorry,” John said, leaning into her. “I’m sorry I—”

“Oh,” she said in surprise, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean everyone. I didn’t mean you.”

Her eyes were so bright. Her body was so warm. He was looking down at her, their faces mere inches apart.

“You were a little nasty in the beginning,” she said, “but at least you always told me the truth.”

He should have told her right then. But he didn’t. Instead, he slid his hand around her neck. He wanted her. He wanted the woman who stood before him now. He adored her bravery in the face of monsters. He wanted to believe that the light in her eyes reflected the truth of him, not the partial truths he’d given her. He wished this were clean and uncomplicated.

But it was messy and complex. And warm, like the intermingling of their breath. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from leaning over her, his lips brushing hers in a brief prelude.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he let out a gasp of air against her lips—a single, desirous exhalation—before he took her mouth. No more shyness between them—just that heated storm of a kiss. There was no lightning in the air, no thunder on the horizon. But there should have been. The atmosphere seemed charged and humid, as if some great bolt of electricity were about to arc up from the ground, starting right between them.

The entire valley—dark and shrouded in night—seemed to fold itself into their kiss. His hands slid down her back, pulling her close; her lips were soft and yet so demanding on his. He wanted her, every inch of her. The crickets about them seemed to chirp an entire symphony, accompanied only by the distant sound of frogs.

If only the world could shrink to those things—heat and want—and expel the ragged past between them.

He pulled away from her. “Do you remember the first time I saw you? Your father had us all to dinner. And before we went in, you played the pianoforte. All the other men—barbarians, I was sure—talked through your performance. I could only think that it was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever heard.”

“I remember.” She took a breath. “I haven’t played in so long.”

“You were playing some variations.”

“The Goldberg variations,” she confirmed. “By Bach.”

“And after, I went up to you and demanded that you tell me what the point of a variation was—taking the same piece of music and altering it over and over, instead of creating something new. Do you remember what you said?”

She frowned. “Something like, ‘Why limit yourself to one melody, when the music is big enough to lend itself to endless possibilities?’”

“That’s what I think when I see you now,” he said. “I don’t understand most of what you’re saying, except that it makes me angry on your behalf. I can’t compress you into a few words, no matter how I try. I feel like I’m listening to endless variations on a theme of Mary. And I love what I hear.”

Her breath caught. “John.” She didn’t say anything else. She just held him, and when he kissed her, she melted into him again. Kiss after melting kiss—months of dreams and longings, all coming to life. He could make this right, somehow. He could make it up to her. They might have each other after all.

As for everything else? He’d make things right with his sister. He’d find some way to compensate his nephew for the loss. It didn’t matter how impossible it seemed that their families could reconcile; it was more impossible that he would give her up.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmured. “God, I missed you.”

She nestled against him, so right against him that he couldn’t imagine ever letting her go again.

Maybe…

“You mentioned a favor,” he said. “At the beginning. I had almost forgotten it. About Sir Walter?”

She looked up, blinking in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “I…I became distracted. We are going to destroy Sir Walter. You and I.”

She fumbled in her skirt pocket and pulled out a tiny twist of brown paper. This she undid, revealing a piece of jewelry. It glinted in the moonlight as she held it up. “And we’re going to use this.”

Chapter Nine

J
OHN DIDN’T THINK HE WAS
the sort to be easily overawed, but Northword Hill was by far the most intimidating home he had ever entered. The entry was all mirrors and marble and a vast candelabra that sparkled overhead; the murals on the walls had the rich look of old wealth. Even the corridor that he was led down when he’d handed over his card and a brief description of his business was lined with paintings done by a single hand—a beautiful woman, playing the role of a Madonna; a still life with candlelight on fruit so vivid that he couldn’t believe it was flat paint.

He caught a glimpse of a pianoforte edged in gold through one door and a library, well stocked with volumes, through another before he was ushered into a parlor.

“Mr. John Mason,” the footman intoned, bowing and then taking up watchful residence at the door.

The lady of the estate sat in a seat, the arms carved with delicate patterns. For all that he towered over her while she was seated, he had the impression that she might have been on a throne, looking down on him.

“Lady Northword,” John said, bowing his head.

He had heard that Lady Northword was elderly. But the woman who inclined her head to him looked only old enough to command respect. There was still more auburn in her hair than gray, and she wore it half up, the rest a mass of tangling curls.

“Mr. John Mason,” she repeated. “Please sit.” She waited until he had done so before she continued. “Northword told me about you the other day. You’re the fellow who’s come all the way from Southampton to work on Beauregard’s fields.”

“Yes, my lady. That’s right.”

“That’s quite kind of you,” she said. “The rest of us have been hearing about his swamp for some time now.” Her eyes focused on him. Nothing rheumy or unclear about her, despite her age. “Beauregard says that you asked for no compensation. I find that passing strange.”

He ducked his head. “Not so strange, my lady. I had other reasons to visit the district.”

“Had you, now.” She contemplated him as if wondering how villainous his reasons were. “And now you’ve come all the way from Beauregard’s farm to see me.”

“Yes, my lady.” His hand played over the metal in his pocket.

“Passing strange,” she repeated.

“Not so strange,” he said. “You’re the only one I can give this to.” He opened his hand.

In that moment, faced with Lady Northword’s regal demeanor, the plan suddenly felt foolish. Some tenant might have lost the earring in the decades since Lady Northword had resided at Doyle’s Grange. And even if it had belonged to her, what did a viscountess care about a twist of gold and a bit of peridot? She likely had far finer pieces to adorn her—including the pearls at her ears now.

But her eyes widened and she stood up half out of her chair, reaching for the metal.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, her voice growing temporarily raspy, “how extraordinary.” Her fingers touched the earring, pressing it into his palm. “I had never thought to see this again. I lost it so long ago—before my marriage, even.”

She took it gently from him. John said nothing as she peered at it, lost in a long-ago time.

Finally, she looked up. “My brother Magnus gave me this for my twenty-first birthday. He passed away just a few years ago.” Her fist closed around the jewelry, and she pulled it close to her chest. “Where did you find it? How did you know it was mine?”

“Lady Patsworth found it at Doyle’s Grange.”

She frowned. “But if she found it, why were you tasked to return it?”

“She is not allowed to pay any calls.” John was unsure how much else he would have to say to convince the woman.

But Lady Northword leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Ah.”

She’d been a viscountess and the leading lady of this region for nearly half a century. What Lady Northword would have seen in that time, John could only begin to guess. She was no fool, that was for certain. She inclined her head to look out the windows in the direction of her onetime home.

“All is not well at Doyle’s Grange,” she said softly.

“No, my lady.” He drew a deep breath. “Lady Patsworth sends this to you with her regards, and her most desperate plea for your assistance. She would have brought it herself, were it allowed. She needs you.”

Lady Northword looked still to Doyle’s Grange, unmoving, as if caught in the grip of some long-ago memory. “Nobody should be imprisoned like that. What must be done?” she asked.

“Invite her to dinner,” John said. “She needs to get away from her husband’s domain. You’ll have to make the invitation in person…”

He trailed off, realizing he was giving commands to a viscountess. But she simply raised an eyebrow and motioned him to continue.

“And you’ll have to insist that she come—no excuses allowed. If her husband complains, insist that Beauregard and I have seen her strong and well. You own Doyle’s Grange, do you not? And as nobility, you and your husband are the only ones in the area that Sir Walter cannot truly refuse—if you insist. Insist, and we’ll manage the rest.”

Her eyebrow rose even higher. “We? That is you and…Lady Patsworth?”

He met her eyes straight on. “Lady Patsworth has a companion. We were once engaged.” He frowned. “In fact, as the engagement was never officially broken off, we are still betrothed.”

She sat back in her chair and gave him a curiously pleased grin.

“You see,” he repeated. “There’s nothing strange about it.”

“Consider it done,” she said. She raised the piece of jewelry in the air. “And give Lady Patsworth my compliments, if you please.”

M
ARY DID NOT OFTEN MOURN
the loss of her gowns. But a week after she and John had made their plans, as she dressed for the dinner party, she wished she still had one of her finest. Her blue silk, for instance. She was, after all, preparing for battle. The right gown could serve as both sword and shield.

She’d contemplated her Sunday best, but the dove-gray gown had no pockets. If everything went well tonight, she might never return to this room. And if she was going to be restricted to the contents of her pockets, she wanted those pockets to be as large as possible.