A Lady's Guide to Ruin (18 page)

“It isn't your fault,” Joan said. “Lord Farleigh should have put a stop to it.”

“Lord Grey is very good at fooling men,” Elinor said. “Nearly as good at fooling women. You have to tell Martin that he didn't realize who you were. Or he will do something rash. If he knows that Lord Grey believed you to be one of the maids, he may listen to reason.”

Joan stared at her. “Don't know if you remember, but
I'm worse than a maid,” she said. “It's all right because it was meant to be Maddy?”

“That's not what I meant,” Elinor said. “It's awful. Obviously. But the consequences are different.”

Joan shook her head. She knew it was true; it had always been true. She might hang for palming a brooch, while Lord Grey did what he liked and went unpunished. It wasn't Elinor's fault, and it wasn't anything that could be changed, but she was sick to death of all of it. “For Daphne, you'd all hush it up. You
are
hushing it up for her, keeping her life tucked neatly together. Maddy would lose everything. She's seventeen. Fifteen when she came here, which means she was younger when Lord Grey first started watching her. And she doesn't matter?”

“She matters,” Elinor said flatly. “But not to most. I cannot change that.”

Joan turned away, furious tears burning in her eyes. She would never belong here. It was all money and blood to them, and hers ran muddy. “I'll speak with him,” she said. “If I can find him alone.”

“Not too alone, I hope,” Elinor said. “I'm not angry with you for breaking your promise. I only hoped I could spare you some pain.”

“I love him,” Joan said. “And I'm leaving. I'm not sorry about what we did. Don't think I'll have that kind of feeling again, so it's good I got it once, isn't it?”

“It will hurt you all the more,” Elinor said.

“Only if I let it.” Joan stood. “You think about Matthew and you remember nothing of what you had. You think only of grief. I won't let that happen to me.”

“You think that I let this happen?” Elinor asked. “You think that I
chose
to let Matthew's death consume me?”

“Yes,” Joan said. “Every day that you convinced yourself and Martin you were weak and ill. Years of it, Elinor. Of course your grief is still so raw. It is the only company you have had for nearly three years.”

Elinor looked away sharply. Her cheeks were wet. Joan bit her lip, guilt flaring through her. But she knew she was right.

“You have been happy, these past days,” Joan said. “And you thought you could never be again. It was there when you reached for it. So reach. Elinor, promise me. Don't let grief own you anymore. I couldn't stand thinking I left you that. So kick it in the teeth, and find yourself some happiness.”

Elinor didn't answer. Joan supposed she did not deserve an answer. It was a miracle that Elinor had tolerated her this far. A thief, as low born as one could get. She'd learned to speak prettily and use the right fork in service of her father's clever schemes, but she'd never really been one of them, and never would. She mattered as much as Maddy—only to some, and only a little.

“I'll speak with Martin,” Joan said, defeated. Her shoulders sagged.

“There's more,” Elinor whispered. She picked up a letter from the table beside her. “We have had word at last. Maddy brought it to me this morning.”

The letter had already been opened. Joan smoothed it open and read. Danny had found Daphne, or at least found where she'd gone. She'd left with a man, not the one she'd arrived with. She'd headed back toward England, exact destination unknown.

Joan let out a long breath. “I'll talk to Martin,” she said again. “And then I'll leave. Martin must be told about
Daphne. He will have better resources than we do. She must be found.”

“I don't want you to leave,” Elinor said roughly. “But you're right. It is best for Daphne if you go now.”

“Tonight,” Joan said. “My things are already packed.”

She left Elinor there, neither of them daring to look at the other. They had been friends for a time, but that time was done.

It was time to say her farewells. The dream was over.

Joan did not manage to locate Martin before the evening's festivities. When she finally got word of his whereabouts, she learned that he and Lord Farleigh had left together for the village while she convened with Elinor.

Maybe Lord Farleigh could talk some sense into him. Sense. When had she started to think about all of this as
sensible
? Martin ought to have laid Lord Grey out on the floor, kicked him a few times, and put the fear of God into him. That was the way
sensible
people did things. All this prettying it up so no one would have to feel awkward grated on her.

When supper finally approached, Joan was stuck in the midst of the full contingent of ladies, down to Mrs. Wynn nodding in her chair. They had arrayed themselves along one side of the dining table. Despite the insistence that the men serve them, Joan noted, the servants had still spent
all the afternoon cooking and polishing and laying out their places.

“Here they are,” Phoebe whispered. She was seated at Joan's left, and had been anxiously pinching at the tablecloth for several minutes. Joan did not know if she pitied or envied her that this was the height of excitement in her life.

The men had indeed arrived, and all four women gave little gasps. Phoebe's was of delight; Kitty's sounded more akin to disbelief. All four had donned sheets draped in Roman style—over their full set of clothes, Joan noted, with some disappointment. Not one extra inch of flesh to enjoy, for all the effort. They had fashioned Lord Grey a laurel crown that sat crookedly on his head, and each carried a circlet of woven flowers and ribbons. Crowns for the victors, Joan supposed. She eyed Lord Grey's offering with unease. Surely he would go to his wife to deliver the prize?

“Goddesses!” Lord Farleigh declared. “We humble mortals bring you offerings.”

The four stepped around the table. No, Lord Grey was approaching
her
. Damn. Martin watched him with unconcealed dislike. Joan suspected she did not do a much better job of schooling her expression.

“For the Lady Minerva,” Martin said. He settled a bluebell-strung crown on his sister's hair. It landed lopsided; he hadn't taken his eyes off of Lord Grey. Elinor gave him a peeved look and righted it with a flick of her delicate fingers.

“And the Lady Proserpina,” Lord Farleigh said. Daffodils for Phoebe, who made a face.

“I couldn't be Venus?” she asked wistfully. Her brother scowled. The goddess of love was perhaps a more decadent icon than he imagined for his sibling.

“For the Lady Juno,” Captain Harken said, and reverently set a wreath of forget-me-nots at Kitty's temples. She blushed and stared down at the table as he stepped away.

Joan tilted her chin up to meet Lord Grey's eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he drawled, “And she who bested me, Lady Diana.” He lifted the crown of roses. Joan saw the thorn, jutting out where it would set against her scalp. She bit the inside of her cheek. She would not give him the satisfaction of crying out at his juvenile ploy.

She bowed her head to accept the wreath.

He pushed it down with a jerk of his fingers. The thorn bit into her scalp. She curled her toes and dug a nail into her palm, but did not flinch. Did not react. Blood, warm and wet, trickled from the spot, but the wreath and her hair would hide it. “My thanks,” she said. “But I believe the goddesses demanded a meal, gentlemen.”

Lord Grey's expression was peculiar as he stepped away.
He was a dangerous man,
she thought,
but not a strong one. Strength confused him.

The men bowed and flowed out again. Off to get the first course, Joan assumed. Phoebe was giggling and touching her crown, setting the flower heads bobbing.

“That was marvelous,” she said.

“It was entertaining,” Kitty allowed. One finger trailed along her neck, at the edge of her hairline.

“Kitty's no fun anymore. I'm beginning to think that getting married is terrible for one's personality,” Phoebe said.

“I'm only tired,” Kitty said. “And don't let Mother hear you say that. She despairs of finding anyone who will take you. Although once Lord Fenbrook is off the market, perhaps she will cast a wider net.” She gave a sidelong look at Joan.

“I think next year we will reopen Birch Hall properly,” Elinor said. “I will need your help, Kitty, to decide who to invite. And then, maybe you can find a suitor for yourself,” Elinor added to Phoebe. “We were rather famous for it, once.”

“Infamous, even,” Kitty said, and for the first time Joan saw a spark of something lively in her eye. “If Phoebe comes, you shall need a crowbar to pry Lord Farleigh from her side. Your parties have a reputation for more than engagements.”

“Oh, I know about that,” Phoebe said dismissively. “I'm not the sort to fall insensibly in love. Everyone thinks me very silly,” she confided in Joan.

“There are worse things than being silly,” Joan said. “It makes it easier to surprise people when you prove clever as well.”

“I don't know how clever I am,” Phoebe said, but she was beaming. “And here are our servants with the soup!”

They had not appeared, but the great clatter outside the doors gave away their presence. Joan stiffened as they trailed in at last, Lord Farleigh's toga now decorated with a splash of orangey soup. The order—yes. They meant to stick her with Lord Grey all night. She had bested him at the last, but she would have gladly lost if it meant putting a few extra feet between them. Martin looked no more pleased at the prospect.

The soup was set before them. Lord Grey's hand trailed down her back as he straightened. She shuddered. The touch had been well-hidden. And it would doubtless be the first of many. How many courses were there?

The men stepped smartly back. Joan ate, feeling the heat of Lord Grey's gaze on her neck. The thorn scraped
against her scalp each time she moved her head. She barely tasted the soup, but she forced it down. She would be eating on the road after tonight. No sense wasting good food.

They swept away the soup when the bowls were empty. This time Lord Grey's touch was one finger down the side of her ribs. She fisted her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. But when the next course came, with a palm against the small of her back, she could not force down more than a few bites.

“Are you well?” Phoebe asked, concerned.

Joan gritted her teeth. “Quite,” she said. “Only less famished than I would prefer, with such a lovely spread before me.” It didn't sound the least bit convincing to her ears, but Phoebe only frowned and began to turn back to her own meal. Then—

“You're bleeding!” Phoebe gasped.

Joan's fingers flew to her neck. The blood had trailed down, escaping the concealment of her hair and trickling in a fine line to her throat. “It's nothing,” she said, as Martin made a choked sound and took a halting step forward. She lifted off the crown. The thorn managed one last scrape against her skin as she did. “A thorn snuck past our faithful servants, that's all.” She set the crown before her on the table. “No real harm.”

“What the hell are you playing at, Grey?” Martin demanded. Joan twisted in her seat.
Don't make a fuss now
, she wanted to tell him. The last thing she wanted was everyone upset and alert as the evening wore on. She'd hoped the feast would leave them in a languid stupor.

Lord Grey was the picture of confusion. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You left that thorn in intentionally.”

Lord Grey spread his hands. “Why would I do that? It was an accident.”

“Like that cut on your arm?” Martin's voice rose. Elinor rose with it, moving to her brother's side. Harken put out an arm to keep her back, shaking his head. Lord Farleigh simply looked confused.

“What are you on about, Martin? It was a mistake. And what cut?” Farleigh grabbed hold of Martin's shoulder, but Martin shook him off.

“I swear, Grey, if you touch her ever again—”

“
Enough
,” Lord Farleigh declared. He looked at Joan, then Grey. Nodded to himself. “Ladies, please excuse us. Lord Fenbrook, Lord Grey, with me. I believe some things need straightening out.”

The men turned to exit. Joan rose, cheeks hot, and made to follow. Farleigh halted and turned. “You should remain here,” he said.

“No.” She stepped forward, drawing herself up to her full, less-than-towering height. “If you wish to discuss me, I will be present.”

It breached at least a dozen rules of propriety for Joan to go alone into a room with three men, but propriety was already being trampled underfoot, and Farleigh seemed to realize it. He nodded. Kitty only sat, pale and shrunk, against the back of her chair. Phoebe had her mouth unabashedly open and a hand against her throat. Elinor—Joan couldn't read Elinor's expression, or hear what Captain Harken murmured to her, but she took her seat again and stared straight ahead.

Lord Farleigh offered his arm. Joan took it. The other two trailed behind, and she tried to focus on her footsteps. She had done nothing wrong. This would be over soon. So
why did she feel like she was about to face the hangman's noose?

They went to the study. As a nod to propriety, Lord Farleigh left the door open. Joan caught a glimpse of Captain Harken in the hallway, casually leaning against the wall. He did not, apparently, intend to miss this.

“Now,” Lord Farleigh said, depositing Joan near the mantle, “someone will explain to me what all of this is about.”

“What this is
about
,” Martin growled, “is your brother-in-law forcing his attentions on my fiancée.”

“I am not your fiancée,” Joan protested, at the same time Lord Grey snapped, “For God's sake, I thought she was the maid.”

Lord Farleigh's head snapped around. Lord Grey flinched back. “You thought
what
?” he said. The ice in his voice dropped the temperature in the room by at least a degree.

“That redheaded chit. I thought it was her.”

“I will remind you that you are in the presence of a young lady,” Lord Farleigh said. His tone had not changed. His face betrayed no expression. But a cold chill crept through Joan's core.

“I can explain,” Joan said. Lord Grey and Martin began to speak at once. Lord Farleigh cut them both off with a lifted hand.

“Please,” he said.

“Maddy, the maid, came here from Lord Grey's household,” Joan said carefully.
They don't care about her
, she reminded herself. But surely Martin would. In some measure. “She said she was afraid of him. I saw him looking at her. So I thought she might be in trouble. I told her to wait in my room, and I went to hers. And Lord Grey came in. He thought
I was Maddy, it's true. But Maddy wanted his attentions no more than I did. I told him to leave Maddy alone, or I'd see him hurt. He grabbed at me. I cut him.” So much left out there. “I did not really mean to. But I did. That's all of it.”

“You bastard,” Martin ground out. Every inch of him was tensed. It was a wonder he hadn't hit Lord Grey yet. Perhaps she should admire his restraint but the truth was she longed to see it. She had a lovely image of Lord Grey hitting the floor that she kept repeating in her head.

“Is this true?” Lord Farleigh asked.

“That I'm a bastard? You'd have to ask my parents,” Grey said lightly. He scoffed. “Come on, now. If I'd known it was Miss Hargrove, I never would have touched her. The rest was a misunderstanding. Though I wouldn't fight so hard for her. She had a knife on me, for God's sake.”

“Stop talking,” Lord Farleigh said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please.”

“You tore her gown,” Martin said. “Bruised her arm. Did you think she was the maid then?”

Lord Grey just shook his head with a snort. “I don't know why we're arguing about this. No harm was done. Assuming this story doesn't leave this room, at least.” The threat was leveled at Joan. She sighed. She was getting tired of Daphne's reputation being held over her head. A reputation was a rather inconvenient thing and she was glad she'd soiled hers before it ever got use. Inventing a new one was ever so much easier than maintaining her own.

“And it won't,” Lord Farleigh said. “But you will. You will gather your things and leave. There is an inn in the village. You can stay there while you decide where to go next. You obviously cannot continue to enjoy Lord Fenbrook's company.”

“You could at least let us spend the night,” Lord Grey said.

“Oh, Kitty will stay,” Lord Farleigh said. His tone invited no argument. “She will stay, and when she has finished out her visit, it will be down to her to decide whether to return to you or to remain with her family.”

“You can't be serious.”

“You will not be the only husband and wife who maintain different residences,” Lord Farleigh said. “And she may yet forgive you. Assuming that you are very, very good to her.”