Of Noble Family (32 page)

Slowly, Jane sat on the sofa beside her. “Vincent has never hit anyone, and would not.”

Miss Sarah raised a single brow. “You did not see him with Sir Ronald?”

Jane barely had memories of Vincent entering the room that night, but she had seen his hand and the deep bruises upon it. She had seen the lingering rage in his eyes. “But … under the circumstances—”

“Frederick always feels justified as well.” Miss Sarah glanced at the clock again. “And there is real anger between them, which dinner will not be enough to cool. But—we have other things to discuss.”

Jane could not help but compare Miss Sarah with Vincent's mother, the Countess of Verbury. The only other time Jane had dined with Vincent's father, she had progressed to the parlour with the countess and the other ladies. Both the countess and Miss Sarah were elegant and had retained their beauty in their later years. But the countess had been placidly elegant and directed the public conversation away from any topic that might have even a touch of contention. Miss Sarah, in spite of the controlled composure she had exhibited during dinner, showed real emotion. Jane would have expected that, as a slave, she would have been more assiduous about avoiding any topics which might endanger her, but Miss Sarah had been direct.

“What would you like to discuss?”

Miss Sarah bit her lips and lowered her voice. “I can mimic Frederick's hand. When you go—and I know you will the moment the baby is born—will you take Louisa with you? I know it involves asking you to deliberately lie, but will you please?”

“Only Louisa? Why not your other grandchildren?”

“I do not worry about them in the same way. Louisa is too pretty. She done catch Mr. Pridmore eye. He has been kept from her only by constant vigilance.”

Jane had seen that interest firsthand and it turned her stomach. “Of course. But I want to also reassure you that Mr. Pridmore is on his way out.”

Miss Sarah shook her head. “No.… Vincent and Frank found evidence of embezzling?“

“Yes. So you see, Mr. Pridmore no longer has a hold over Lord Verbury.”

“He never has.” She leaned towards Jane and lowered her voice. “Frederick told him to do it.”

Jane stared at her and was aware that her mouth had dropped open. “But … but to what purpose? If he wished to pay Pridmore more, why not simply increase his salary?”

“Because Frederick is supposed to be dead. It was presented, of course, as a way of thanking him, with the understanding that Garland would raise his salary when he arrived. But, of course, it was also to create a lever to use against Mr. Pridmore.” She clasped her hands together and addressed one of the walls, as though she had gone mad. “I am sorry, Frank. Frederick did not tell me until he and I were dressing for dinner.”

Frank was clearly standing in one of the coldmonger's boxes and had likely been there all evening. Jane's instinct was to rise, throw open the door, and pull Vincent bodily from the room. Her mind churned, trying to put together the information that Miss Sarah had presented to her. “But why would he invite us to dinner if he had no intention of agreeing to fire Mr. Pridmore?”

“Because he wanted to see you.”

One of the candles on the sideboard fluttered out, caught in a sudden breeze. A thin trail of smoke bent away from the wall.

Miss Sarah glanced from the smoking candle to the door as if it were a signal. “They are coming out.” She leaned back on the sofa and composed her features into an easy smile. “The fashion plates from London show such a widening of silhouette that I have half expected hoops to make a return.”

The fact that Jane was sitting on the sofa with her back to the door now seemed like a calculation by Miss Sarah. It was appreciated, as Jane could not quite match her ease of manner, though she did manage to appear tolerably tranquil when the doors opened. “I had no complaints when my dressmaker in Vienna suggested corded petticoats, because the extra warmth was appreciated. Here, though, the fashion seems at odds with the climate. I find myself longing for the simple white muslin of my youth.”

The faint squeak of Lord Verbury's chair rolled into the room. Miss Sarah smiled and made a show of mock displeasure. “Now we shall have to leave off. The gentlemen will have no interest in a discussion of the most feminine of arts.”

“Flirtation?” Lord Verbury chuckled.

Jane turned on the sofa to face the gentlemen. Zachary pushed Lord Verbury's chair into the room. Vincent entered slightly behind them. His chin was buried in his cravat and his hands clasped so tightly behind him that she could see the strain in his shoulders. He met her gaze and held it as a drowning man holds a rope.

“Flirtation is an art that belongs to both sexes.” Jane's pulse thundered in the joints of her hands.

“Then perhaps we should turn to an art that is yours exclusively?” Lord Verbury raised a brow. “We were promised a
tableau vivant
.”

Jane could not hear Vincent's thin keen of protest. Nor, with the armour of his coat, could she see him hold his breath, but both must have happened in the face of such a request, delivered in such a manner. Verbury's ability to turn any comment into a blade was staggering. With the knowledge that continuing the conversation would do nothing to promote their cause, Jane could find no reason to remain.

“I do hate to break up the evening early, but I am afraid fatigue has been getting the better of me these last few weeks.”

Lord Verbury frowned. “Do not let us keep you, then. Although I will ask you to indulge me and let me retain my son for a while. You do not mind, do you, Vincent?”

“I am your servant, as always.”

“Of course.” Absolutely not. Jane would not leave her husband with that man any longer. But she could do nothing obvious without betraying Miss Sarah's confidence. “Do not keep him too late, though—we have a glamural to work on tomorrow.”

The feminine arts contained many permutations, and Jane found this moment an ideal time to exercise one of her mother's favourites. She stood, took a step away from the couch and the small table and into a clear area on the dense carpet, and let herself tumble to the ground in a faint.

The response was immediate.

Vincent shouted her name and sprang across the room. As he knelt beside her, Jane forced herself to stay limp, while wishing she could signal to him that it was entirely feigned. Miss Sarah called for Frank, but Jane suspected that she recognised the ruse.

In moments, Vincent had lifted her. “Send for Dr. Jones, please.”

Jane fluttered her eyes open. “No … it was only a faint.” She kept her voice weak but pressed her hand against his chest as firmly as she could. He looked down sharply and she thought, but was not certain, that he understood. “You know how easily I have fainted since … since I was bled. I only stood too quickly, as I did in Murano.”

“It is common with expectant mothers.” Miss Sarah stood behind them. “It happened frequently when I was with Zeus.”

Lord Verbury grunted in response, no doubt studying Vincent and Jane closely.

Vincent's frown deepened as he studied her. “I will insist on staying with you.”

“I want nothing else.” She leaned her head against his chest and took comfort in his warmth and solidity.

Without another word, Vincent carried her towards their rooms. Frank met them in the passage, appearing from a hidden panel in one wall. He held the door for Vincent, face tight with concern, though Jane thought it was about what he had overheard more than her state.

Only when they were safely in the room with the door shut behind them did Jane lift her head. “You may set me down. It was entirely feigned.”

“When you mentioned Murano, I hoped as much.” In spite of that, Vincent set her down on the bed, not on her feet. “Since you never fainted there.”

In fact, she had fainted in Murano, but this was perhaps not the best time to enlighten him on that front. “I am sorry I could not alert you ahead of time.”

“Understandable.” He brushed a strand of hair off her brow. “Now … why?”

Jane sat up and met Frank's eyes. “You heard?”

He nodded and pulled out a chair at the table. He rested his hands on the back of it and regarded Vincent. “Will you sit?”

Looking very grave, Vincent sat at the table across from him. As Frank explained what his mother had said, Jane rose from the bed slowly and kept her hand on the bedpost as she did. The last thing she needed to do was faint in earnest. She crossed the room and sank into the chair next to Vincent. Frank's account was quick and methodical. As he spoke, Vincent's face grew more grave, and new lines appeared around the edges of his mouth.

When Frank finished, Vincent bent forward and rested his head on his hands. “We should not have freed Zachary.”

Jane was at a loss to see how he could have reached that conclusion from Frank's recital. “But it puts him, at least, beyond Pridmore's reach.”

“But we have done it with forged papers.” He had never sounded so dispirited.

Frank cursed a moment later, as he apparently understood something that remained opaque to Jane. How could the papers be forged, when Lord Verbury had given them to Vincent? She chilled as comprehension took her. Because Lord Verbury's handwriting had changed after the stroke, Miss Sarah had drawn up the papers. It would be easy for him to claim that they were counterfeits. The resemblance to Mr. Pridmore and the embezzled funds became clear. Lord Verbury had caught them by encouraging them to commit a criminal activity. If Vincent had merely held the deed and done nothing with it, that would have been one thing, but his father could have made an accurate guess that Vincent would free the young man. Once the manumission entered into the public record, it became a different matter.

Vincent wrapped his fingers in his hair. “I had thought that my very public break with my family would protect me from being seen in collusion, but that same history will be very good for presenting a case that I kept my father a prisoner.”

“But he is still a traitor,” Jane protested. “That has not changed—”

“I hope not.” Vincent sat up, rubbing his brow. “But I cannot help remembering that the reason he was caught during the coldmonger's affair was because his papers were entered into evidence. If there is a forger … with the right solicitor and the right judge, there is no telling what he might accomplish.”

“But this is far-fetched, surely.” And yet, as she spoke, she could see the webs of intrigue as clearly drawn as the lines of a glamour. “Surely this has not all been to get you here and create a case that you forged the papers used in the trial.”

“I do not know. It may be an action of opportunity, or perhaps he is merely manoeuvring out of habit, and wants nothing more than to ensure that I do not take him back to England to face trial.” The tension seemed to have drained out of him, leaving only exhaustion behind. Every line in his figure bent down. Vincent pushed himself out of the chair. “Now, if you will excuse us, Frank.”

Rising, Frank showed every evidence of confusion, but settled back into his role as house steward quickly. “Of course. If there is anything you require, please let me know.”

“I shall. Thank you.” He walked Frank to the door and closed it behind him. Then Vincent leaned his head against the wood. When Jane stood, he did not acknowledge the sound of her chair sliding back, nor the rustle of her gown. Cautiously, Jane rested her hand against his back. Through his coat, the steady rhythm of his heart soothed her. Jane had expected it to be racing, but it beat as though he might actually be calm.

He lifted his head, and turned to her. “Do you trust Frank?”

Jane's first instinct was to answer that she did, but she paused to consider before speaking. “When we first arrived, I did not, but I do now. I take it you do not?”

“I do not know.” Running his hand through his hair, he shook his head. “I had a realisation during dinner about why it took me so long to be comfortable with your family, and before that with Herr Scholes.”

“Oh?”

“I could not believe that their warmth was genuine. I kept looking for hidden mockery and insult. There were none. I am having the same thoughts about Frank now.” Grimacing, he dipped a hand in the ether and began rolling a thread of yellow between his fingers. “I am aware that my judgement is poor right now, but … but the thoughts are still there.”

To live with so little trust would destroy Jane, and it was breaking Vincent. She had been watching the slow erosion of his sense of self and worth without any ability to halt its progress. The revelations tonight had left Jane staggered, and she suspected that there were still more things undiscovered. Almost worse was the understanding that this want of trust was how Vincent had lived for years before breaking away from his family. It repulsed her. The baby kicked against her side, and she put her hand there to try to soothe it.

Vincent caught the motion. “Are you all right? Truly?”

“Your child is practising pugilism tonight.” She slid her hand into his and pulled it against her stomach so he could feel.

He bent his head, closing his eyes as their child beat a protest against Jane's side. The hand that had been working glamour stilled and let the thread dissolve. Against Jane's stomach, the warm pressure of Vincent's hand comforted her, and, just for a moment, nothing beyond them mattered.

Then his composure crumpled. The panic he had hidden earlier twisted his features into a tight grimace. With a ragged growl, Vincent pulled his hand free and shoved away from the door, putting his back to Jane. He strode to the table and leaned against the back of one of the chairs with his head bowed. Even through his coat, she could see the tension in his back. He stood like that for a moment and then slammed his palms against the wood. “God. This is tiresome.”