Fortune Favors the Wicked (18 page)

She must give it nothing, then, on which to latch. Affixing a cordial yet poisonous smile to her lips, she said, “So have you been, my lord.”

Lady Helena, a buxom Teutonic giant stuffed into wispy silk, knit her blond brows. “You are acquainted?” She sounded affronted. “How does a marquess come to be acquainted with a country vicar's daughter?”

“His lordship”—Benedict swung his cane in a little arc before him—“must be interested in virtuous works. Miss Perry is a notable performer of selfless deeds.”

If he had looked at her, Charlotte would have burst into hysterical laughter. Even Edward's smile grew a little strained.

“Miss . . . Perry.” Randolph's pause grew more conspicuous each time. “Do you intend to leave the vicarage anytime soon?”

“I don't foresee that,” she replied. “Especially not within the next week.”

“I see.” His tone was considering as his gaze flicked over her. Taking in the straitened state of her gown and boots, no doubt. Comparing them to the silks in which he'd last seen her and thinking how far she'd fallen.

But thanks to him, those silks had been torn, and they had got blood on them. This gown—the pretty one with vines and flowers on it—suited her much better.

“If you plan to remain in Strawfield for more than a week, then,” said Randolph, “you'll be present for an exhibition of Edward Selwyn's artwork. We'll hold it in the—what is the name of that inn?”

“The Pig and Blanket?” Edward looked bewildered, but he managed a laugh. “Surely not here, Randolph. Surely? The Royal Academy, after all—the most notable people will still be in London for the Season, and—”

“What matters is who sees the exhibition. Not where it is held.” Randolph's words were for Edward, though his gaze never left Charlotte. “And in a week, Selwyn, you shall have as many illustrious guests admiring your work as you could possibly wish.”

Edward shot a glance at Charlotte. “The, ah, portraits, right? Randolph? We agreed to focus on my portraiture?”

“Oh, yes. Portraits. Most assuredly.” The marquess smiled.

She'd once found the expression intriguing, hinting at secrets and hidden depths. And she'd realized she was right about that. Just—none of them were pleasant.

He had dropped no veiled hints about Maggie, thank heaven. Edward must have kept her parentage a secret. And perhaps he always would. Lady Helena would make his life a misery if she knew he had sired a child with someone as lowly as a vicar's daughter.

“Delightful.” Benedict clapped his hands about his cane. “An art exhibition. Any sculpture?”

“N-no,” Edward said with some doubt. “I do not sculpt.”

Benedict looked reproachful. “A pity. Well, I'll try to enjoy myself all the same. And now, Miss Perry, ought we to be going?”

She was fronted by two Selwyns and a Randolph, and suddenly she wanted to burst from the room in a run. “I think,” she said with tight control, “we ought.”

“Not wanting to overstay one's welcome?” Randolph's voice was a torn silk. “No question of that, I assure you.”

“It's not that.” Benedict stood with a thump of his cane. “I know Miss Perry has old and dear friends here who wish her the best. But you see, her dog is quite ill. It was her sister's hound. The last memory she has of her departed sister.”

“You seem to know a lot about the family.” Randolph again.

Benedict shrugged. “Only what courtesy has permitted as their household guest.”

“You would leave us for a dog?” Edward seemed able to manage nothing but questions.

Charlotte recovered her voice. “For Margaret's dog. You must remember, Mr. Selwyn, how important my sister was to me.”

“R—right,” he stammered, but she dared not look at him closely to see if her warning was received.

They managed farewells that were close to polite, with Randolph reminding her that she had promised to remain for Selwyn's exhibition. “But perhaps,” he said lazily, “I will call on you before then. At the vicarage—yes, I recall. I know where to find you.”

When they exited the house, the sun was warm on her forearms, but she could not stop trembling.

As they descended the front steps, Benedict gave her his arm on which to lean. “Steady, now,” he murmured. “In case they are peeking through their windows. Lead the way off these illustrious lands, please.”

“You were terrible,” she said in a shaky voice. “By which I mean you were perfect. Thank you.”

“Me?” He lifted his brows. “Did I do anything so unusual? Anyone would have been honored to meet the devil. Or, barring that, the next best thing.”

He kept up a flow of pleasant talk as they strolled across the Selwyn lands, his words calm and cheerful, asking nothing of her. She was caught between the scent of the hothouse flowers that seemed trapped inside the house and those rare blooms outdoors, so thin that one stumbled into their sweetness unexpected.

All the while the trembling came from deep within her, untouched by sunlight.

But there was one thing that warmed her. In a room with a man who had ruined her and a man who wanted revenge on her, there had also been a man who took her part. Now he had drawn her hand within the crook of his arm, and she knew he would hold it as long as she wanted him to.

She still shook, but less so with someone to hold. And so she stopped walking, raised herself onto her tiptoes, and kissed him on the cheek.

He blinked. “Why, thank you. What was that for?”

“For being you.”

“It's the thing I'm best at,” he granted, though he looked puzzled still. “I'm sorry you had to meet with Randolph. Did you get anything useful from that conversation?”

“I don't know.” She began walking again, and Benedict fell into step with her. “The exhibition—there's something to that. Randolph wouldn't go out of his way to do Edward a kindness.”

His biceps tensed. “Not even as thanks for directing him to you?”

“No. It's not enough. Randolph wants to hurt me. He . . . likes hurting.” The sun was far away again.

“How can portraits of a bunch of society nobs hurt you?”

“I don't know,” she said again, though she thought she might have an inkling. If Randolph found paintings of Charlotte . . .

But no; Edward had insisted. Portraiture. If he were supplying the paintings for the exhibition, he would see to that.

The stone wall was before them at last, and Charlotte clambered over it. Benedict handed her his cane, then sprang over the wall himself.

When they passed by the stable, Captain picked up her head from her usual tired huddle and gave a bark of greeting.

“Still banished to the outdoors, is she?” Benedict asked.

“Indefinitely,” said Charlotte. “Mama's decree since Captain's mess indoors. Here, let me pet her a bit, since she gave us an excuse to depart.” Caring for Captain was almost like caring for Maggie. It was showing the girl love without being too intense, too smothering for someone who ought to be an aunt.

An aunt
. Her knees went watery, and she collapsed onto the ground beside the dog. “Benedict. Randolph can't be allowed to see Maggie; he'll understand right away. Her coloring is too much like Edward's. Randolph—he is shrewd, and he'll put together the pieces. He'll know she's mine.” The trembling again. This time it shook her into action: she stumbled to her feet, boots and skirts in a desperate tangle. “I have to—I have to leave with her. Right away.”

He stepped closer. “If you run with her, it will show Randolph how precious she is to you.”

Oh, she could have
shrieked
with impotent anger. She smacked a fist against the door of the stable, setting the rusty old lock to rattling. “I could not go anyway. I have no money on hand, nothing I could sell in time. My penknife—maybe I could get a few pennies. This cameo was my grandmother's. My trunk itself . . . perhaps, and I could use bandboxes instead . . .”

“Charlotte. Stop. You shall not beggar yourself to stay safe.” His hand found hers, brushed it, then fell to his side. “If you wish to leave Strawfield, I will lend you the money you need.”

“No!”

“Because . . . ?”

Because I don't want you to help me leave you.
She stopped herself. That was not a rational protest. She had to think about his offer. She drew in a deep breath. Another, until the desperate edge of her feeling was blunted.

He had money from the sale of the family bookshop, and no one would expect him to give it to Miss Perry of Strawfield.

“But your sister,” she said. “You were going to send the money to her.”

“We can spare the costs of your travel. She will be fine.” He smiled, lashes a dark shadow over dark eyes. “Besides. It's only a loan. You'll have to pay it back sometime, which means even if you leave, I'll get to see you again.”

How easily he hopped on board an adventure—and yet reassured her. It was like being held.

“I think,” he continued, “you might go to Edinburgh. I could give you my letter from Lord Hugo, which would be like a letter of reference for finding lodging. Even a post, if you decide to stay up there. Maybe you could stay in his house—did I mention he has a house there? Dukes, you know; they have so many houses, they like to strew them about a bit and give them to random relatives. Even their younger sons.”

Edinburgh.
How far could Randolph reach? Certainly across the border, though the shield of the Duke of Willingham's name might provide some protection.

Benedict's calm recital had helped to ease the trembling within her. She had choices. She had a—friend, for lack of a better word.

If she fled now, she would never stop running. And she would be farther, always farther, from Maggie. From everyone she knew.

From Benedict Frost, who must know they would never meet again if she left him now.

What was the point of being safe if one must be always alone?

She mulled over his suggestion, remolding bits of it in her mind. “I have a different idea, one that will not separate me from Maggie for long. But we will have to talk to my parents' whole household about it. I want to . . .” Another deep breath. “I want to ask for help.”

Letting more people into her life, telling more about the vulnerable bits of it. This was the opposite of how she had lived for a decade.

But fleeing alone hadn't worked before. She was ready—sort of, almost, maybe—to try something different.

Benedict offered her his arm again. “Then come inside the vicarage and ask.”

* * *

Anyone watching the mail coach's evening arrival at the Pig and Blanket would have seen Miss Perry, garbed and capped plainly, board in the company of her heavily swaddled maid. “My servant is recovering from influenza,” she said loudly. “Will you give her room inside, please?”

Squeamish passengers rearranged themselves, and the vicar's daughter presented the coachman with her trunk. Stephen Lilac, the Bow Street Runner, searched the belongings of every traveler that departed Strawfield, and he gave his nod of approval for Miss Perry and her maid to embark.

Mr. Potter liked to watch the passengers come and go, and he noted this departure with some interest through the front windows of the inn. “That Barrett from the vicarage looks poorly. Never seen her wrapped up so tightly.”

Mrs. Potter was in a genial mood due to the day's high receipts and only commented that folks who treated their servants as skinflinty as the vicar mustn't be surprised when they took ill. “They'll be lucky if she comes back a-tall from wherever she's accompanying Miss Perry. Can't imagine a life of good works being worse abroad than it is here.”

Privately, Mr. Potter thought the vicar did kindly by his few servants. But he only shook his head and emptied the till. “She'll be back. Been in service here since she were a mite of a girl.”

His prediction proved right, for Barrett did return the next day on the mail coach—still swaddled, and with a muffler about her face.

Potter stepped out and hallooed her from the doorway of the Pig and Blanket. “Back without yer missus?” He never missed a chance to collect a little gossip. It was lifeblood to an inn, as much as the ale that flowed from the taps.

She bobbed her head. “Havin' chills,” she murmured in her thick Yorkshire accent. “ha' to coom back 'efore Miss Perry was ready, but she met a frien' to share her journey.”

Potter stepped back. “Are you ill, then?”

“Bit o' the influenza. But none too ill for a pin', if yer offerin'.”

“Ah—well, now, maybe you'd best get on back to the vicarage. They'll want to know how you're doing.”

Reluctantly, the maid agreed and trudged off.

“She looked right peaky,” Potter murmured to himself as he went back inside the inn. “Thinner than when she left yesterday. Must be a powerful bad sickness.”

He decided to drink a measure of gin as proof against the influenza, in case Barrett still carried about the contagion. It would be only prudent.

* * *

The swaddled figure, for the benefit of anyone observing, passed through the vicarage's kitchen entrance, cursing in a thick Yorkshire accent as her gloved fingers fumbled with the latch.

As soon as she let herself inside, she stripped off the muffler and gulped in fresh air. “Hullo, everyone.”

Benedict had been waiting at the worktable, feet atop it. They slammed to the floor with an eagerness that made her smile. “Charlotte?”