Chasing the Heiress (30 page)

Any time someone approached, Ophelia groaned, and Colin nodded them away. As they had hoped, few paid any attention at all to the servant who appeared to be helping Ophelia walk upright.

When they were almost to the front door, Colin heard his name called. It was Barnes, the fiancé. “Get her out of here,” he whispered to Ophelia, then he motioned to his postboy, who was waiting at the door. “Help Mrs. Mason to her carriage.” One of the footmen at the door stared at the pair but, to Colin's relief, looked away.

“I say, will she be all right?” Barnes patted Colin's back as if they were old friends. “I've never seen Mrs. Mason discomfited in this way.”

“She believes she ate something earlier which didn't agree with her.” Colin forced himself to maintain a pose of friendly conversation, even though he wished to bash the man's crooked teeth in.

“I hope not from my table.” Barnes pressed his clammy hands together in false consternation.

“That's unlikely. The indisposition has come on her too quickly.” Colin had disliked Barnes before for the way his vote went to the highest bidder, all while pretending to vote on conscience. But perversely, Colin hated Barnes now for not caring enough about Lucy to recognize her in the most flimsy disguise. Colin would have recognized Lucy anywhere. “I'm sure a night's sleep will cure Mrs. Mason.”

“Barnes!” Edmund called from the ballroom doorway. “We need you to settle a dispute. Cragfield here still believes that Lord Byron authored that novel that came out this summer. You remember the one—
The Vampyre
—but I can't remember the name of the true author.”

Barnes turned back to the ballroom, “Polidori, that's the name you want. Polidori.”

By the time Barnes turned back to finish his conversation, Colin was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Five

“I see you've lost her again.” Charters rolled up his sleeves to throw a dart at a target across the room. “I told you the ball was a dangerous idea.”

“I had men watching every door on the first floor,” Marner objected.

“Then she must have jumped from an upper window. Are you certain her body isn't lying broken in the rosebushes?” He let the derision fill his tone. “Do you need for me to check?”

“She was helped.”

“I thought you said she had no friends”.

“Perhaps she's made some during the season,” Marner snapped.

“That should not have been possible.” Charters aimed and threw, hitting the bull's-eye firmly in the middle. “Did you follow my instructions for events? Someone beside her at all times? Only men who believed in her incapacity dancing with her? The drug timed to make her appear uncertain and, if she spoke, unwell.”

“We did everything.” Marner paced. “But she's disappeared.”

“And what precisely do you wish for me to do about it?” Charters threw another dart with the same result.

“Find her before this unravels.”

“I think my partners and I will sit this act out until you provide the funds you already owe us.” Charters threw a final dart, splitting the first one.

“I haven't got access to that sort of money until I inherit her portion.”

“Then you'll need to find a way to pay our outstanding fee without inheriting the estate. Besides, you had enough blunt to go to the Painted Lady two nights ago, where you won a tidy sum. In fact, you won a full half of what's outstanding to me. We'll take those winnings.” Charters leaned back against the wall beside his desk.

“I need that money to pay my accounts.”

“We know that you paid one of the girls at the Painted Lady to signal you when Farthingmore had weak hands. I could just as easily go to him. Tell him how you won his yearly income. He's not known as a forgiving loser,” Charters threatened. “We don't care what happens to you or to the girl or to your plans. All we care about is our fee. My employer insists that we don't work for free.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

She dreamed he came for her at a ball and stole her away into the darkness. She dreamed that she lay all night in his arms, safe. She didn't want to awaken; she didn't want to open her eyes and find that he was gone, that the bed was her own, and that another day of nightmares had begun.

She moved her arm to touch the cuts, now healed into raised pink bands. She had told herself for months that at least she was alive. If she were alive, there was hope. But now . . . perhaps it had been better for her to have died. Because now she had gone mad, and all her senses were complicit. The sheets felt soft, but the room smelled like tansy, rosemary, and bay. Like another sickroom.

“Lucy.” A man's voice. His voice. Another indication she was mad. Before, at least she had not heard voices. Just seen colors, and distortion, everywhere she'd looked.

“Lucy. You're safe. Open your eyes. I'm not leaving your side again.”

“Yes, you are.” A woman's voice, firm but kind. “Sophia needs to dress her wounds, and put salve on her scars. But you can stand in the hall.”

“I won't leave until she opens her eyes and sees I'm here and that she's safe.”

“If you were in a fairy tale, you would kiss her.” A child's voice, young. “It's in a story Sophie read to me. She will know you from your kiss and wake up.”

Lucy didn't want to be kissed, not the rough torment she had to endure every day since coming to town. The groping hands, the suffocating embraces, the stench of sweat and drink. At least her cousin was prudish enough to allow nothing further.

She heard a chair creak. Beside her bed. How long had he sat beside her? He put his hand on hers.

“Lucy, come back to me.” The kiss when it came was soft, then firm. His mouth opened slightly on hers, and his tongue teased her lips. Gentle, even loving. Soap, he smelled of soap. She breathed more deeply. Soap.

She opened her eyes and looked into his eyes. He broke off the kiss and smiled. His smile. If she were mad, this was a heavenly madness. To have found a safe place in her mind to live when they chained her to the wall like Molly. Perhaps she would stare all night at the moon, imagining it to be his face.

“There. She knows you're here. Now go. Take Lily back to the nursery.” Behind him, she could see the kind auburn-haired woman she dreamed had helped her at the ball. And behind her Lady Wilmot, holding the hand of a small dark-haired girl.

“Lucy, you remember my cousin, Ophelia Mason, and Sophia, Lady Wilmot. Remember?” He squeezed her hand in parting, but she held it fast. “And this is Lady Wilmot's daughter, Lily.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. He leaned down. “What, darling?”

“Am I mad? Or dead?” she whispered.

He did not laugh. Only a sad, gentle look passed over his face. When he spoke, his voice was kinder than she'd ever heard it. “You are neither. You are safe. I will never let them harm you again. Even if I had not the power, you have met my brother, the duke. Already he helps protect you.”

* * *

Sophia joined Colin, Aidan, and their brothers in the drawing room.

“What can you tell me?”

“I will only tell you if you promise that you will do nothing without your brother's approval.”

“Tell me.” He glared. “Or I will go look for myself.”

“And terrify her?” she said. “What will you do? Challenge someone to a duel, then leave her without protection?”

“You think I would lose.”

“I think you have yourself suffered a wound from which you have not fully recovered.”

“It's been four months.”

“Yes, and you still wince when you pull yourself onto a horse. You don't yet raise your arm to full height. Another month, two, and you will be well, but not now. You might die if you challenge someone. Your brother is a fierce man. Let him pursue this for you. You take care of her.”

He agreed, reluctantly.

“It's clear she's been malnourished, whether by choice or intention, I can't tell. She's clearly suspicious of food, but Judith was able to get her to eat by eating from the same plate with her. The bruises on her arms and ankles indicate she's been bound, and I have to say, from the look of them, that's happened repeatedly. She has cuts in both places in various stages of healing. At some point, fairly recently, she's been beaten, but carefully. None of the bruises would show in everyday or evening dress. The scars on her arms are perhaps three months old, fully healed, but still pink and thick.

“She tried to kill herself.” His heart fell at the thought.

“I don't think so. What hand does she prefer to use?”

“Left to fence. But that could be just a learned advantage.”

“The direction of the cuts only makes sense if her arm were held down and someone else cut it.”

“They tried to kill her and make it appear a suicide.”

“But then they doctored her wounds. It doesn't make sense. But the cuts have healed. In fact,” she said, “I found nothing that won't or hasn't healed . . . in her body at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“Until we determine what exactly she has been given, we can't determine whether she will heal fully in mind or if there are some effects of body we cannot see. We need her to talk to us, tell us how the drug made her feel. If I know that, I can consult the
Materia Medica
and try to determine what substances would fit. But there's some good news: whatever it is, she doesn't seem to want it yet. If it were opium, she would be wanting more by now.”

“Tell Aidan,” he said. “I'll try to get her to talk to me.”

“Perhaps I can help.” Walgrave stepped through the doorway.

Colin stiffened.

“But, first, the Home Office would like to make a formal apology to Colin.” He stretched out his hands, palms up, toward Seth, Sophia, and Aidan. “And to all of you. We had no indication that Lady Marietta was in any danger. No sign that she or her child was at risk.” He turned to face Colin directly. “Had we known, we would have sent you with appropriate reserves and support. You would never have been left without protection on a rural road.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Colin said gracelessly, but Walgrave ignored it.

“I am sure you have heard the latest scandal. After you left Marner's ball, Barnes's fiancée disappeared entirely. Apparently she has wandered off before, so Marner had footmen at every exterior door . . . to protect her of course.”

“Of course.” Colin spoke through clenched jaws.

“When he discovered she was gone, he called every one of the footman before him and the company for an interrogation, then after raging at every one of them, he fired the lot without references.”

“And . . .”

“One lad—you might have seen him—at the front door, fell at Marner's feet weeping. Apparently, he is the only breadwinner in his family, five children, parents dead, begged not to be let go or at least to be released with a reference. But Marner was unmoved. He even kicked the lad down the front stairs.”

“Oh, that is terrible.” Judith stood up. “He was at the front door, you say? Aidan, we cannot allow the lad to suffer. We must find him. Certainly, you can find a place for him in your service.”

“Not necessary, your ladyship.” Walgrave stepped to the window and pulled back the curtains to the front yard. A thin boy about twelve stood waiting beside Walgrave's carriage. “I hired the lad myself. Turns out he is great friends with Marner's cook.”

“Stop the pretense, Walgrave. You know we helped Lucy escape, or you would not be here. And you would not have hired a cast-off servant just because he cried—though I am grateful for your foresight.” Colin looked out the window. “What does the lad know that we can use?”

Walgrave smiled. “Then I am forgiven?” He held out his arms to embrace Colin.

“It depends on what you know.” Colin knocked his arms aside to avoid the embrace, but held out his hand in conciliation. “If it helps, I will be in your debt.”

“Good enough.” Walgrave took Colin's hand and pulled him into a brotherly embrace. “I would never have forgiven myself if you had died on that road, and from what I understand our missing heiress saved your skin. I owe her for saving your life as much as I owe your family for nearly costing you yours.” Walgrave turned to speak to the group. “When Lady Fairbourne was not meeting guests in the drawing room as Barnes's fiancée, she remained locked in her room, and meals would be brought to her on a tray. The boy—Hallett—was often the one tasked with the job, because—despite the appearances at the ball—Marner actually employs few servants in town.”

“The point, Walgrave. Or I might forget we have said pax,” Colin growled.

“When there were not guests or engagements that required her attendance, Lady Fairbourne was often lucid, and Hallett grew to like her. That's why he did not give the alarm when he realized you were helping her from the ball—and why he did not, even with the threat to his family, give away who had helped her.”

“Oh, god.” Colin sat down with dismay. “How did he know?”

“They had become friends, of a sort. Hallett knew her face . . . better than any of the other footmen who were hired just for specific events.”

“Back to her food, Walgrave,” Aidan interrupted. “Clearly someone tampered with it.”

“Whatever she was fed, we might have it in the carriage.”

“And you could not start with that?”

“Well, it is not as straightforward as you hope. And before we give you the baskets, Hallett has several requests.”

“Name them.” Aidan stepped forward.

“He fears what Marner will do if he learns Hallett helped you, so he wants your assurances that his siblings will be safe.”

“Do you have them in the carriage as well?” Judith stepped to the window and looked out. Hallett, looking stoic and brave, held the hands of two rail-thin girls with mops of curling blond hair. Two other faces—both boys—looked out of the carriage windows, then disappeared when they saw Judith watching them. “How many and how old?”

“Three sisters and three brothers. The twin boys are the youngest at five, the girls are nine, seven, and six. They have lost all the others.”

“I will take them.” Judith smoothed her skirts and turned to face her brothers, daring them to oppose her. “If the boy needs assurances that his family will be cared for, then he will have them from me.” The group parted as she strode to the door.

“Someday, that boy is going to regret this day,” Aidan murmured, and Sophia pushed a hand against his shoulder in jovial correction.

“What else?” Colin demanded.

“Hallett wishes to stay with Lady Fairbourne until she is well. Apparently he made her some promise, but he will not tell me what it is.”

“He may stay,” Aidan promised.

“Then you might wish to call for some servants to unload what we have stolen from Marner's house—he has left town and closed the house until his return. We did not know what to take, so we took whatever looked interesting.”

* * *

Within ten minutes, Forster's servants had unloaded seven large baskets of various unguents and salves in small pots, dried herbs and flowers in jars and boxes, and other foodstuffs—as well as tonic waters and other consumables found in Marner's study and the room in which Lucy had been kept. Under the direction of Aidan's valet-cum-butler, Barlow, the baskets had been removed to the kitchen.

“What is this?” Colin lifted a small brown crockery pot. He removed the oil cloth tied around the pot's neck and held it up, so that Aidan could see inside.

“Green marmalade? Butter?” Aidan peered into the jar. “With raisins? Or are those figs? Never seen such a thing.” Aidan stuck his finger in and removing some on the tip of his finger sniffed it, then started to taste the slightest bit.

“Wait!” Sophia crossed the room and wiped the green jam from his fingers. She held the towel to her nose, but pulled it away, shaking her head. “Colin, would you fetch your sister?”

“What is it?” Colin growled. “Has she been poisoned? Will she recover?”

“Colin.” Sophia spoke firmly, tilting her head toward the door. “Get Judith.”

Colin started to argue, then ran through the open door.

“Did you send him away because the news is bad?” Aidan leaned in, speaking low.

“He needs to do something, and I need Judith.” Sophia turned back to the concoction. “If this is what I think it is, then it explains Lucy's symptoms, her waking dreams, her pervasive fear. . . .”

She took a butter knife and removed a portion of the jam, then spread it out onto a plate, revealing both nuts and fruits. “What does the label on the pot say?”

“Label?”

“Yes, no herbalist would leave such a decoction unmarked.”

“Decoction?”

She waved her hand impatiently. “This . . . some plant boiled down for its essential qualities, then the plant parts strained out. But then all these other elements were added. Is there a label?”

“There is a word, written in wax pencil . . . ‘Beautiful Lady'?” Aidan shrugged his shoulders.

“Bella Donna,” Judith translated, entering the room with Colin at her heels. “I assume you need me to smell something dreadful and tell you what it is, though—luckily for me—belladonna is largely scentless.”

Sophia held out the plate with the green decoction on it.

“I wish I had never confessed my talent for this.” Judith leaned forward. “Green—sweet, cloying, but I don't recognize whatever the plant is at the base—hints of orange water . . . and some spice. Not cinnamon.” She sniffed again. “Cardamom. The wildflowers smell vaguely of poppies, so if this is a drug, then opium. The fruits are figs, and honey is part of the butter mixture holding it together.” Judith pulled back grimacing. “It must taste dreadful, and the other bits are to make it edible.”