A Lady's Guide to Ruin (10 page)

“From the looks, sir, some's as old as a few months, and healed over poor.”

“Cuts? From what?” The marks of a belt, perhaps? Even mild-tempered men chose harsh discipline at times, though Martin's own father had been kind enough not to leave any permanent marks.

She hesitated. “I couldn't say, sir. I thought . . . I thought it looked like she'd been
held
,” she said, and then closed her mouth abruptly, with a look of guilt in her eye. “It's not my business, m'lord, I shouldn't have said.”

“I won't tell,” he promised her. “Nor press you further.
Go on; I've kept you too long.” Now he did manage gentleness, though inside was a worse tumult than yesterday's storm.
Months old
, she said.
Held
. And how many terrible possibilities lurked in that syllable. But who could have done it? The fresher bruises might be laid at the feet of the men on the road, but not so the others. Not her father, surely. He seemed such a shrinking man. But if not her father, who? And if her father was not directly responsible, he had nonetheless failed to protect her.

Martin knew, of course, such things happened. He had a classmate at Eton who enjoyed bloodying his knuckles on those who couldn't fight back; Martin had pitied whatever woman took his name. But here, in his own home, it was an incomprehensible thing.

No wonder she hid herself, even in the open. No wonder she seemed so turned in on herself, so self-contained, in those moments he glimpsed her true face.

He lingered in the hallway, listening to the faint murmur of the women's voices. The words were indistinct, the tone unhurried. He began to pace, his hand kneading the back of his neck. He needed more than ever to speak with Elinor and discover what she had learned. In the absence of fact, his mind produced baroque images of the abuses Daphne must have suffered. His teeth ground together. If he ever learned who had done such violence to her—

Elinor stepped out into the hall, shutting the door behind her. She bore the same calm expression she always did, stirring only to register brief surprise at Martin's presence. She put a finger to her lips and indicated the stairs, and took his arm when he offered it. When they were halfway down the flight she leaned into him, dropping her voice.

“Have you taken up lurking now, in addition to staring?” she asked.

He let out a short breath between his teeth. He was not in the mood for her teasing. “Daphne's injuries are worse than you said.”

She pulled away from him and halted. He turned to face her, a stair below her so that their gazes were nearly matched. “I will look after her injuries, Martin. You need not worry yourself.”

“They were all recent, then? From her journey?” He did not wish to implicate the maid but he would have the truth of the situation.

She pressed her lips together. “Her injuries are a private matter, and she has asked me not to speak of them. The trouble is over with, Martin. She doesn't require your protection and she will not welcome your attention.”

“Is that so?” He hid his disappointment—and his still-smoldering anger—with a half-smile. “I take it you have solved the riddle of Miss Daphne Hargrove, then.”

She paused. And then she did something he could not remember her ever having done before: she lied to him. “There is no riddle. She is a young girl with the moods many young girls have. She is generally silly and sweet and though she is not nearly as distressing a companion as I had feared, she holds no mystery at her heart.”

If pressed to articulate why he knew she was lying, he could not have provided a satisfactory answer. He was even less able to produce a reason for her deception. “When we spoke—”

“You were both tired. And perhaps you got a glimpse of the woman she may become. None of us are who we
were at eighteen, after all. But I am afraid you will have to find another subject to intrigue you, Martin.” She gave him a disarming smile and extended her hand. “Will you join me for a walk? I find that I'm eager for another dose of sun after yesterday's drenching.”

“The maid said that her injuries were old,” Martin persisted. “I need to know—”

“You don't need to know anything. Martin, you are searching for a problem to solve where there is none. All has been resolved, and Daphne is safe.”

Yet her voice quavered with the final words and he doubted her once again. She had kept his secrets and he hers since they were old enough to speak. He had comforted her in heartbreak and they had shared in one another's joy. In all that time, she had spoken no falsehood more lasting than a snowflake on the tongue, no lies but those that everyone spun without consequence or malice. It was as if all the world's people had suddenly stood on their heads and declared to him that he was upside down.

“Elinor—” he began, but she cut him with a glare.

“Leave her be,” she said. “For God's sake, Martin, leave the girl alone.”

He stiffened. His hand closed reflexively at his side. Elinor met his gaze evenly. “Forgive me,” he bit out. “I have business to attend to.” She began to say something more, but he turned on his heel and strode down the stairs before he could say something he would later regret. He slowed his pace only when he reached his study again. He shut the door and left his palm resting against the wood.

Why would Elinor lie? Even if she suspected his feelings—which even he did not know the exact nature of—she would speak plainly. If she disapproved, she would
dissuade him with reason and gentle words. She would only lie if she did not trust him.

Or, perhaps, if Daphne did not and had wrung a promise from Elinor to keep her secrets from him. He had given her ample reason to trust him—but those wounds had been old, and perhaps they ran deeper than the skin.

It complicated things, but it did not change them. Whatever ills she had suffered, she was safe now. He would have to convince her of that. Whatever Elinor's intent, she had only solidified his determination.

There was more work for Mr. Hudson to do, he thought grimly. For he would not send the girl from Birch Hall without knowing whose hands had done this damage. And preferably, removing those hands from the accompanying wrists. Personally.

Elinor's arrow struck a scant few inches off center with a satisfying
thunk
, and she gave a tight nod, pleased. “I haven't entirely lost my skill,” she said. “Though I would once have called that shameful.”

They stood on the lawn before the great house, several hounds lolling behind them—along with Mrs. Wynn, who was perched on a stool brought out for her comfort—and three targets arrayed at a respectable distance. Elinor had insisted on the first shot and on stringing her own light bow. Joan, clad in her favorite of the gowns Maddy had tailored for her—a dove-gray with sleeves that clung without restraining and a frothy petticoat just showing beneath—hung back.

Martin stood near her, though not
too
near, a distance that felt carefully calculated. Despite the bright day, the only clouds being some wispy things off in the middle
distance, his patch of lawn seemed overcast. The man was withdrawn. More than that,
brooding
. Yesterday had been entirely without incident. She could not imagine what left him scowling so. It was not a good look for him. Or at least, not one she preferred. He was handsome even in such a dark state, and she knew plenty of girls who would swoon all the more for it, but unhappiness had never allured her.

“It is your turn, cousin,” Elinor said. Joan hefted her own bow, smaller and lighter than Elinor's. It was no more than a length of wood in her hand. She might have more luck walloping the targets directly.

“Perhaps we should move the dogs,” she said, a little desperately.

“You won't shoot backwards,” Elinor pointed out.

“If it can be done, I'll manage it,” Joan said, and for once Joan and Daphne spoke as one. “Someone will have to show me. Else I will not be responsible for the mayhem.” She widened her eyes a bit at Elinor—the safer instructor of the two. Elinor started forward.

“Here,” Martin said, striding forward before his sister could reach her. “It's easy enough to get it going in the right direction, at least. And once you have that, we'll work on your aim.” He offered her a smile—a strangely delicate smile, like one might offer a small child one didn't know. He stood beside her. She cast an apologetic glance at Elinor, who only shrugged. Nothing for it.

“Hold the bow in your right hand. Yes, like so. Now, do not draw yet but make the motion.” He demonstrated, drawing his hand back toward his ear. “You will be able to sight down the arrow, to see that it is straight. There, yes. No, your elbow is too low, lift it up.” His hand twitched, like he'd been about to correct her with a touch, but it
stilled. He walked her through the steps of drawing and releasing once, twice, three times, all without moving closer than five steps from her.

Which was a good thing, she reminded herself for the hundredth time, but still she could not help a little sigh when he handed an arrow to her from as far away as their arms' length allowed.
There must be some middle ground between broken hearts and pure standoffishness,
she thought peevishly. She fitted the arrow to the bow. It slipped from the string when she tried to set it. When she got the end fitted rightly, the head drooped off the bow like a nodding tulip. She caught herself just before she uttered a very un-Daphne-like curse.

Martin's curse was quiet but her ears were sharp. She looked at him with an eyebrow raised in mimicry of his habit. He did not seem to catch the reference but closed the distance between them. “May I show you?” he asked, voice clipped.

“I think you'll have to,” she said.

One hand closed around her right, adjusting her fingers. His touch was firm, his skin warm against hers. He took her left hand next and guided her to nock the arrow to the bow. His breath was against her ear when he spoke. “There,” he said. “Can you see?”

Not really. This was a terrible idea. Standoffishness was preferable.
His chest was against her back, so close she could feel the heat of him. His fingers, gentle as their touch was, were like brands against her skin. And the scent of him—
cloves,
she thought,
and honey, and saddle leather.
She wanted to turn her face against his neck and drink him in. “I see,” she whispered.

His hand moved near her hip, but he did not touch her.
But she could feel the touch, where his hand would have rested, how his fingers might have splayed, pressing flat the fabric of her skirts. “Widen your stance,” he said. “You need stability. Drop your shoulders. Your strength is in your chest as well as your arms. Now draw.”

She drew, and he moved with her, guiding her hands, sliding his fingertips out to her elbow to mark the straight line of her arm. She sighted down the arrow. It meant nothing. His touch meant nothing. Not to her, not to him. It could not mean anything.

“It helps if you think of someone you despise,” Elinor called.

“And breathe out before you let go,” Martin told her, voice a growl in her ear.

Moses
. She almost whispered the name as she loosed. The string sang. She heard an intake of breath from behind her. The arrow struck. Dead center. She stared. Then Elinor whooped and clapped, and Joan grinned. Even Martin laughed, and turned her around with his hands on her shoulders.

“Quite the Diana we have,” he said. She darted a glance at his hands. One thumb rested on the neckline of her dress, a millimeter's grace from bare skin. He followed her gaze and flinched, dropping his hands.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“For what?” she asked, mystified. He only shook his head.

“Try again,” Elinor urged. “Let's see how far your talents will take you.”

Martin stepped back, hands folded behind him, and inclined his head. She scowled as she drew the next arrow.
Hugh,
she thought, aiming at the rightmost target.

Thunk
. Center.

Another arrow. Another draw, another release.
Joan Price
, she thought, and the arrow struck the left target at its heart.
If only I were Daphne.

Elinor was cheering. Martin had a dumbstruck look on his face, and then he grinned, storm cloud banished.

“Diana indeed,” he said. “Our goddess of the hunt! You've played us, certainly. You've shot before.”

She shook her head. Slings and rocks, a brick or two, clots of mud, a post heaved like a spear, once. But never a bow. “It is only that I am standing so close,” she said. “And I got lucky.”
And had excellent targets
.

“Not to mention the finest of instructors,” Martin added.

“Well, then, we'll have to see how long your luck holds,” Elinor said. “Martin, won't you take your turn?”

“I don't think my pride can withstand it, matched against the two of you,” he said. “I am content to watch.” He gave a formal bow and retreated again to a safe distance. Joan took up another arrow. Imagined his hand on her waist, setting her stance, then on her shoulders, her elbow. Running down her back. Imagined him behind her, a solid wall. Not taking the shot for her, but steadying her.

This time, the arrow went wide. It struck the target, but barely, wobbling at the edge. She sucked in a breath through her teeth. “D—rat,” she said, catching herself short of worse blasphemy.

Elinor chuckled. “Oh, good. I had worried you would never miss and I should have to hang up my bow for good. You let yourself think too much, but that's all right. You'll have it in your limbs if you keep practicing, and the limbs are slower to forget than the mind.”

Joan nodded and set her teeth. She wouldn't let a round of straw and burlap conquer her.
Moses
, she thought.
Hugh
.
She and Elinor stood aligned and the arrows sailed one after the other. And all the while she felt Martin's eyes on her.

*   *   *

He had feared he would harm her by his touch. That she would flinch or shrink from him. But she did not, any more than she had on that excruciating ride. Now, as then, it was all he could do not to lean close, feel her hair against his cheek. Let his hands wander to her back, her waist. Creep higher. Hell. He might as well think of tearing her gown from her in full view of Mrs. Wynn, the dogs, and the damned gardener.

He paced in his study. It was long past the hour he should have retired but he could not abide even the thought of lying down, of trying to sleep. She had not flinched from him. Shouldn't she, if she had been ill-treated at some other man's hands?

He did not know that she had been, he reminded himself. He had written to Mr. Hudson, instructing him to quietly investigate the matter, but news on that front would be some time in coming. He could pace all the night and into the morning and it would not speed the information to him. He should rest. He should behave like a sane man, but he did not feel like one.

Daphne clearly did not wish to be handled like a piece of porcelain. Nor did she want him; that was clear enough. Every time he thought she might, whatever Elinor said, she fluttered her lashes and vanished behind her role. If only he could make himself stop thinking of her.

A floorboard creaked in the next room; a scrape of metal sounded. He stiffened. No one should be about at
this hour. Next door was the Blue Room, though the color that lent it its name had long since been replaced with the dull cream his father had preferred. It was where the ladies took their tea. A thump, rustling. Someone was definitely in there. He seized his walking stick where he'd leaned it against the wall and moved with all the stealth he could muster. The door was open a sliver. Warm light spilled from it into the hall. He pushed open the door, wincing at its deep groan.

Daphne knelt by the hearth, stoking a small fire to life. She jerked to her feet when he entered, pale-faced as a thief caught with hands on the silver. She wore a pelisse over her nightgown, the sleeves billowing around her wrists. Her hands were dark with streaks of ash from the grate.

“Daphne,” he said, loosening his grip on the walking stick. “I see you are still having trouble sleeping.”

She cast her eyes downward. “I'm sorry I disturbed you. I had forgotten.”

“Don't apologize. I had hoped that you might find sleep more easily at Birch Hall. Do you . . . is it nightmares, that keep you awake?”

“Sometimes,” Daphne said. “But more often only the racing of my mind. And what keeps the Earl of Fenbrook awake?” she asked lightly. Deflecting his attentions. If he were a kinder man, he would allow it. He had a vague answer balanced on his tongue, and a farewell ready to follow it. But instead he stared straight at her.

“You,” he said. It had the desired effect: the mask beginning to settle around her features dropped and she stared at him with no one's eyes but her own.

*   *   *

She ought to laugh. Or tilt her head quizzically, like a bird examining an insect. But instead she said, “And why would I keep you awake?”

“I worry about you.”

“I'm well,” she said, managing caution, at least, if she could not quite claim wisdom.

He fell silent, and his fingers worked at the handle of his walking stick. “Who hurt you?” he asked after a long pause.

She parted her lips, confused. “I told you I did not know them,” she said. Did he doubt her story? He had seemed sold enough on it in London.

He shook his head once, fiercely. “Not them. Before. The marks on your body are older. Who hurt you? Elinor would not tell me.”

Her breath caught in her throat. There was no answer she could give him. The men who had chained her, held her in the water, cut off her hair—those men did not even have names or faces in her mind. They did not matter. They did not have her, and she did not fear them. It was Hugh and Moses she feared, and to tell him that was to tell him everything.

“I must know,” he said. “Tell me.”

She shook her head. “I can't.”

“I can protect you,” he said. “Daphne.”

She looked away. Yes, Daphne. He wanted to protect his cousin. If he knew the truth, he would not be so forgiving as Elinor. That anger in his voice would be for her, not on her behalf. “I cannot tell you,” she said. “Please don't ask again. It's over. They will not harm me again.”

“No, they won't,” he said. He'd drawn closer. Too close. Close enough to touch. The firelight glowed against his skin, marking the tense lines on his neck and temple. She locked her gaze on the mantle. “Daphne.” He touched her chin. Turned it toward him. She let out a sound she did not recognize, a short hum that turned into a sigh. “You must tell me.”

“I can't,” she said again. His hand had not left her. His thumb stroked her jaw. Made a soft circle. It brushed the corner of her mouth. “You told me I would be safe here,” she said. “I am.” If he did not move his hand, all the promises in the world would not stop her from kissing him. “Martin,” she said. She meant it as rebuke. But he gave a huff as if in frustration and bent, moving his hand to cup her head, turn her face towards his—but she had already tilted her mouth upward to meet his. Their lips brushed once, softly.