A Lady's Guide to Ruin (3 page)

“Oh, yes,” Maddy said. “Lady Elinor's said I'm to look after you, like a proper lady's maid.” She beamed. “Anything you need, I'll see to it. Anything at all.”

“You're very kind,” Joan said. She had always found kindness a marvel, like a bauble to be turned in the hand as it caught the light in myriad ways. She treasured it now all the more.

“Only doing my job, miss,” Maddy said, and ducked her head. “I'll show you to the bath if you like, miss.”

Joan had expected a basin and ewer, but Maddy showed her to a room outfitted with a large tub filled with steaming water. They must have taken one look at her and decided a basin and rag wouldn't be up for the task of getting her clean. A whole room for bathing. And the water was
hot
. She wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or weep.

Kind as Maddy was, Joan banished her from the room, and sank into the bath with a satisfied sigh. She'd had time to rub a little water from a pump over her face and arms before getting swept up in this mad play, but her skin still felt grimy. Still permeated with the filth of that place. Bedlam, or more properly Bethlem Hospital, home of the criminally insane—though she debated at times whether that described the doctors or the patients. She was sure there were worse hells. She hoped whoever built the place was in one of them.

She scrubbed her skin until it was pink. She washed her hair and dabbed at her body with lavender oil, and then lingered in the dingy water until the heat bled out of it. She had no desire for any more immersion in frigid waters than she had already endured, so she rose and wrapped herself in a towel that covered her bust to calves, and made a thorough examination of her reflection. Better. Still emaciated, but the dark circles under her eyes had abated, and there was some color in her cheeks. She could not bring herself to hold aside the towel and see her body in full, though. Not yet. Let the bruises fade and the flea bites recede. Then she'd dare see what imprisonment had made of her.

A pounding brought her out of her reverie. It filtered up to the window that overlooked the rear of the house. Someone was thundering on the back door. She crept to the window and drew aside the curtain, wedging herself beside the wall so she could just see the back stoop. Her breath caught in her throat. Moses.

Her brother did not stand or walk as a normal human being might; he shuffled and lurched, loomed and lurked. He was a hulk of meat and muscle, his nose thrice-broken and his body adorned with crude tattoos. Wrapped in a shirt and trousers, he looked no less bestial. She knew from experience that those spade-like hands of his could grip tight enough to break a bone or strike with enough force to knock a grown man into a wall. She'd seen noses splinter to pulpy flesh and gouts of blood at the touch of those knuckles. He'd never touched her, though. When he'd forgotten all their father's other rules, he'd abided by that one. He had only ever raised those hands in protection of her.

When he destroyed her, he had used only words.

She shuddered. He knew. He knew she'd been home,
and that she'd taken the diamonds. He somehow knew where she was. She hadn't thought she'd been followed, but she was out of practice. Could she escape? Out the front door, perhaps? No. Hugh would be there. They wouldn't leave an entrance unguarded. Out the window, across the roofs? No chance. There was nothing to cling to. Even six months ago she couldn't have managed it and that was before poor diet and forced inactivity had stolen the strength from her limbs.

The door opened at last in answer to Moses's assault. Joan held her breath, straining to hear what Moses was saying. She thought she heard her name. Then another voice, answering in measured tones. Moses again, getting angry, his hands closing to those brutal fists at his sides.

“. . . know she came here,” he was saying. The reply was the same calm, measured tone. The door shut. Moses froze, as if shocked at this blatant refusal to cede to his wishes. He stalked back a step. Moved up as if to pound the door again—and then turned. Smacked a fist into his hand. He was going to leave. Walk away. He strode three steps from the back door—and turned, looking straight up at her window.

She gasped and leapt back. The movement overbalanced her. She toppled to the floor. Her elbows struck the hardwood.

“Miss?” It was Maddy, trying the knob. She'd locked it, hadn't she? Yes. The knob rattled, but the door stayed shut.

“I'm fine,” Joan called, voice shaking. She sat up, rubbing gingerly at her elbows and retucking her towel about her. “Only a slip.”

“Do you need help, miss?”

“No,” she said. He hadn't seen her, had he? He couldn't
have. Not from that angle. He'd just happened to look up, that was all. She forced herself to take several deep breaths and schooled her voice into smooth sophistication. “No, Maddy, I'm quite well. Thank you. If you could return in a moment to clear up, I would be most grateful.”

A moment's hesitation, then, “Of course, miss.” Then footsteps, leading away. Joan waited until they had faded before letting her breath out in a rush. She held her head in her hands. Only a few hours more. Then she would be out of London, and away from Moses forever.

Martin was in the study when the shouting began. He closed his book on his lap and gripped the arms of his chair. His fingers pushed against the brass tacks in the chair arms until they hurt. Garland would deal with the commotion. Martin did not doubt his competence but it was agony to sit and do nothing.

Garland had occasionally commented that he was the shortest butler in England; nonetheless, his level, blue-eyed stare put giants in their place on a regular basis. The sight of the diminutive man pacing, rail-straight, in front of sweating footmen left no room for doubt that he could handle whatever lout had come to the back door.

And yet Martin's pulse quickened. First that fury at Daphne's pitiful state, now this. His temper was getting worse. More than anything, he wanted to ride out in the morning with the girls and spend a proper summer at Birch
Hall. Hunting, riding, a boxing match or two. Not all this endless paperwork. He had never been meant to take on the duties of the estate, much less the title; he was not made to be an earl, and his father had known it. Yet the man had made no effort to fetch Charles home after that ludicrous row. Had made only the most nominal effort to find him before declaring him dead. All those years that Charles was gone, Martin had prayed for him to appear on the doorstep, ready to make up with their father. He never did. Seven years to the day from his disappearance,
C
harles was declared dead. Only weeks later, so was their father.

Which meant that Martin could not go and see what Garland had to contend with at the back door. Nor could he leave for Birch Hall just yet. Not until further arrangements were made, further meetings attended. Meetings for which he was always late, despite Garland's best efforts and the services of a talented but increasingly harried chauffeur.

He rose and paced. Eyed the irons by the fire. He did not like to think of himself as a violent man. He was not prone to fits of temper, never had the real urge to strike another man—nor, God forbid, a woman or child. But in the past year, something hot and dangerous had been coiling within him, tightening by the barest degree with each solicitor he met and each social obligation he attended to. Of all the cruelties their father had enacted upon them, this was the worst: that Charles, who had loved the managing of the estate, should be cut off from it, and that Martin, who wanted nothing to do with it, should have its keeping.

At last the back door was shut, cutting the shouting off abruptly. Martin nodded with satisfaction but also a small note of disappointment.

A great thud sounded upstairs. He glanced up worriedly, but no further commotion followed; only Elinor, drifting into the room in that wraithlike way of hers, as if her feet did not quite meet the boards.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Nothing to trouble yourself over, I'm sure,” he said, not certain if she meant the thump or the shouting. “You should be resting.”

“I am not weary,” she said. Nonetheless, he moved to her and guided her into the chair he had occupied shortly before. She sat willingly and covered his hand with one of hers upon the arm of the chair. “I was glad to come to London,” she said. “And now I am very glad to be leaving.”

“Perhaps you should have stayed at Birch Hall this year.” As she had the year before, and the year before that one. Had it really been so long? Since her fiancé's death, certainly, and that was three years past now. Elinor loved the Season best from afar, but managed to forget that fact each year. Even when she was young, before the illness that had stolen her strength, she had only enjoyed herself once the Season was over, and it was all stories told rather than lived. He wished that just once she would remember how weary it all made her.

“There wouldn't be any stories to tell if I didn't make the effort every once in a while,” she said, as if reading his mind. And sometimes it seemed as if she did. They were twins, born scant minutes apart; through the years, more than one person had made the suggestion that there might be some supernatural link between them. If there was, it was purely one way. Only by chance did he ever guess at what thoughts cartwheeled through her agile mind.

“Still, I'm glad you'll be home soon,” he said.

“You should worry less for me,” she said. “And more for yourself.”

“Ah?”

“You are in want of a wife, Martin.”

He laughed. “I don't need one,” he said. “I have no need of money, nor stronger connections, so I am left only with the prospect of love.”

“Which is impossible, of course,” Elinor declared gravely, teasingly.

He sighed. “Love requires a degree of mystery. And you, my dear sister, ensure that I know everything about every woman I so much as ask to dance. Besides which, I have you to look after, and to look after me.”

“Martin, I love you dearly, but you are a poor substitute for a husband, and I am certainly no replacement for a wife.” She left unsaid that she would likely never be married. It had seemed a certain thing when she came out; there had been offers, of course, though Father insisted she wait until she was older, less flighty in her affections. Though really, Martin suspected the old man was waiting for the full bloom of beauty that had, indeed, come some two years later. But by then, the weakness was there, too. Months of weariness, breath that never quite filled her lungs. They had no name for it—or rather, a dozen diagnoses from as many doctors—but it had ruined the prime years of her social life.

When at last she became engaged, it was a relief, but now poor Matthew was dead. Her grief had not lifted for years and now, at twenty-eight, her chances were poor. Oh, surely they could find her some husband—she was beautiful, after all, and rich. But since their father's death they
had pledged not to speak of it. It would be too desperate a process, she said, like she was a dog nosing for scraps.

Any more talk of marriage was forestalled by Garland's arrival. Martin waved him in. Garland entered the room the requisite number of steps and not a quarter inch farther, perfectly poised, though one drop of sweat gleamed on his patchy pate.

“What was the business round back, then?” Martin asked.

Garland's gaze twitched in Elinor's direction but he was by now accustomed to speaking freely in front of her. Martin thought more clearly with her by his side and it saved him the trouble of repeating information when he wanted her counsel. “A man looking for his sister. He was under the impression that she had entered the house.”

“His sister?” He frowned. “One of the servants . . . ?”

“No, sir. By the description, I believe he was referring to the young Miss Hargrove.”

Martin's eyebrows made a play for his hairline. “Daphne? Daphne has no brothers, and if she did, they would certainly not be so uncouth as to hammer at the back door.”

“Of course, sir; it took some time to convince him that he was mistaken, however. I apologize for the delay. I do not believe he will trouble the household again.”

“What did he say, exactly?”

Garland, bless him, turned pink at the cheeks. “I cannot possibly repeat it in front of Lady Elinor,” he said, no small amount of apprehension straining his voice.

Martin stifled a laugh. Elinor's hand went to her throat, one finger idly tracing the vein at the side of her neck; she
had always done this, when holding in a laugh of her own. “On reflection, the exact words will not be necessary, Garland,” he said. “Only the substance, if you will.”

“Ah. Very well, my lord. The fellow stated that his sister had been seen in your company, wearing a—a dress of no great fashion, if you will.” The force of this last phrase told Martin that the man had not been nearly so polite in his description. “That she was recently escaped from Bethlem Hospital, and that she had stolen something of great value from him.”

“Bethlem Hospital?” Martin echoed. Those eyebrows were going to vanish into his hair entirely if he didn't get them under control. He did his best to smooth his features into studied calm. “How alarming. Though from the sound of it, perhaps he is the one better suited to the place.”

“What about it, Daphne? Any trips to Bedlam, recently?” Elinor asked. Martin jerked. Daphne had indeed materialized at the other door, her hand on the knob as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.

The bonnet was gone, and the hideous dress; what remained left his mouth queerly dry. Her hair was cut short, and was combed in lively waves about her ears, somehow making her elfin features all the more feminine. And those eyes—they had arrested him on the street, and their effect on him was only more forceful now. No trace of tears in her, and even the way she gripped at the knob spoke of a desperate strength. One he would not wish on any woman. Looking at her now, he would not believe that she was capable of dissolving into tears.

She let out a sound. After a moment, he realized it was meant to be a laugh. “Bedlam? No, I think not,” she said. “Though the past few days have left me feeling a little mad.”

“All the most interesting people are a little bit mad,” Martin declared, and offered his best attempt at a warm smile.

“That man won't be back, will he?” she asked. The words were strained with a fear than ran deeper than simple fright.

“If he returns, we shall deal with him,” Martin said. “You need not worry. And tomorrow you will be gone from here, and he shall have to find another young woman to play his Bedlamite.” This did not seem to have the comforting effect that he intended. She only fixed her gaze upon him, with a slight smile that suggested that she was used to comforting promises amounting to nothing more than air.

Her father described her as having wool where her brain ought to be. He had suggested supplying her with a hefty allowance in the hopes that frequent shopping trips—by all accounts her favorite activity—would provide a respite from her chattering. Had her trial over the past two days shocked her into silence? Or . . .

Martin did not know where that thought ended. He only knew that he wanted, as much as he'd ever wanted anything, to make her truly smile, and if the end result was a fortune spent on ribbons and lace trim, then so be it.

*   *   *

Moses did not reappear, and by the evening Joan had very nearly relaxed. Supper was served by a pair of footmen with acne on their cheeks and matching mops of blond hair. Twins, Joan realized, and wondered if one of the Hargroves had selected them for the novelty, like a matched set of carriage horses. They moved without the trained gait
of the horses, though, and the butler stood at the edge with a pained expression, his lips forming words like
left, dear lord, hold it with your left
, when Martin wasn't looking.

Joan served herself minimally, taking mouse-like bites. She'd wolfed down the food earlier and no doubt left a poor impression as to her breeding. As her charade wore on, she must take more care with her persona.

“How is your mother?” Martin asked politely. She didn't like the way he was eyeing her. It was too intent. Was he suspicious?

One of the footmen had returned with a dish of green beans in butter she had just sent along; she spooned another portion onto her plate—petite, still—so as not to embarrass him for the mistake.

“My mother. She's well,” Joan said blandly, hoping Daphne's family was in good health.

“Recovered, then?” Elinor asked, and Joan cursed her luck.

“Not to hear her tell it,” Joan said, gambling again and this time striking home. The siblings gave familiar nods and wry smiles. She gave a light laugh, bordering on a giggle. “You remember how she is, don't you? Or has she changed since you saw her last? I supposed you wouldn't know if she had changed, since you haven't seen her.” A good babble ended conversation like nothing else. With any luck, they would stop asking her questions to spare themselves the deluge.

“And your father?” Elinor prompted, immaculately polite, damn her.

“Well,” Joan said again, and this time there was no protest. The footman was back, this time with a dish of chicken roulades in a white sauce. It smelled rich; steam
wafted from it. Joan knew the skill it took to manage a kitchen and a household such that dishes arrived piping hot and in perfect sequence. It would be such a shame to waste that expertise by refusing such a delectable dish. And yet, her performance was paramount.

Her mouth watered. She chanced a furtive glance at Martin, just as he was gesturing subtly to the footman's counterpart, directing the green beans back in her direction. He was watching her not with suspicion, but with a type of concern that counted among its relations both panic and guilt. He was worried
for
her, not about her. Relief swept over her like the kiss of a summer's breeze, and she offered him a girlish, silly smile. She couldn't very well distress the man further by failing to feed herself, could she?

She doubled her portion, paused, then doubled it again. The footman drifted away at last, with a nod from Martin. The green beans joined the chicken in a marvelous heap, and Joan tucked in with far less restraint than she had been practicing. Martin gave a pleased grunt, drawing a skeptical look from his sister. He seemed at ease for the first time, if only in the stiffer, military sense of the word.