Paying the Virgin's Price (17 page)

          And none of it all his fault. He had played and won, of course. But they had played as well, knowing that losing was all but inevitable. Did they not deserve some responsibility for their actions? If it was not his fault, then why did he keep the things? What earthly good did it do him to hang on to trinkets that meant nothing to him?
And the damned letter.
If he had refused it, or given it back? Then he would not be in the mess he was now.

          He might never have met Diana.

          But perhaps that was a good thing. For neither would he have lost her over nonsense. He was tired of being the sin eater for half of London. 'Benton, bring me paper. And string. Some small boxes, perhaps. I wish to post some packages.'

          He gathered up the box and sat down at the writing desk in his room. It was not hard to remember the owners of the things. In many cases, the names were engraved on the items. But the loss of each was firmly engrained on his memory. Here were the diamond studs of a duke, who had sworn he would shoot himself over the loss. And the ruby necklace of the marchioness. She had thought to bargain her favours for another hand, and had stamped her feet and pouted when he'd demanded the necklace instead.

          And now, she could have it back. They could all take the bloody things back. He cared little whether it might be blessing or curse to receive them, so long as he need never see any of it again. His heart felt lighter after each package. And when the box was empty, there was but one thing left.

          He looked up at the butler and grinned. 'Benton. Go to the safe in my study. Bring me the deed to this house.'

          The butler looked rather alarmed at the prospect, but did as he was told. When he had returned with the paper, Nate signed it over, with a flourish--to Miss Diana Price. Then he folded it carefully, sealed it, addressed it to the Carlow house, and put it in the stack with the rest, ready for the morning post.

Chapter Seventeen

         
T
he few hours of sleep that Diana managed to steal had done nothing to refresh her. The girls must have been out almost as late as she, for when she rose at nine she did not hear them stirring. It was a comfort, for it gave her some small time to prepare for the day, to wipe any traces of the night's activity from her mind. She looked into the mirror, smoothing her expression and her clothing, jabbing the pins into her hair until it was tight and smooth, with not a strand out of place. When she was through, she was sure that there was not a hint of awareness to give her away to the girls as anything less than the same proper, controlled woman who had watched over them for years.

          As she pushed the last pin in place, there was a sharp rap upon her door. It was Peters the footman, coming to tell her that Lord Stanegate wished her presence in the study, immediately.

          Marcus, here? Had he arrived while she slept, or had he come in the night, before she had crept into the house? She should have recognized that returning to the house without incident was almost too fortunate. Her luck could not hold forever. It now appeared that she would face an interview with her employer's son, on this of all days, when she needed just a few more hours to understand the changes in her life.

          When she came down to the ground floor, the house was abustle with the sudden arrival, as though the staff feared that their exemplary housekeeping was somehow at fault. They were behaving as if to placate a man in a temper.

          She'd have understood it in another house. But here it was most unusual. And that the person who had frightened them into the boughs was Marc Carlow made the situation even more unusual. She hurried to the study to see the reason for it.

          She walked through the open door and felt the change in him almost immediately. He was no longer the happy newlywed who had left London such a short time ago. Instead, he glared at her and snapped, 'Shut the door, Miss Price. We must speak in private.'

          She did as she was told and went quickly to the desk where he sat. 'Is something wrong, Marc? There is nothing the matter with Nell, I trust.'

          'I left her in Northumberland. This matter concerns you, Miss Price, and your behaviour in my absence.'

          'I cannot think...' Which was a lie. She could think of several things she had done in the last few weeks that would upset him greatly.

          But then he reached into his desk, and removed the journal that she had taken from Stanegate Court. 'Do you know what this is?'

          'Y-yes.' And she was sure that the stammer was enough to give away the truth.

          'And can you explain to me why it is not sitting with its mates on the shelf in the study off the library?'

          Now that she knew him as a Wardale, Nathan's obsession with the thing made more sense. But it was horrible to think that he had taken the book and rushed back to confront Lord Narborough on his sickbed. 'Where did you get it?'

          'That is no answer to my question, Miss Price.' And there was her surname again, used against her as though she was a stranger and not a trusted friend. 'I received this from a family friend who works in the Home Office. I suspect he received it from a man who is a sworn enemy of my family. The same man who caused my poor Nell so much grief. How did this book leave the house, Miss Price?'

          But how had the Gypsy come by the book? Was Nathan a friend to him? Had he worked without knowing, to harm his own sister? Why had she not spoken when she'd had the chance? For it was too cruel...

          'Miss Price, I await your answer.'

          There was little point in dissembling. He knew she was the thief. He'd either guessed, or he could read it in her eyes. 'When I took it from the shelf, I had no idea...'

          Marc shook his head. 'That statement says it all. I could forgive you the theft, Diana. And the damage to the book--'

          'But it was already--'

          He went on, ignoring her interruption. 'It seems I have left my sisters in the protection of a woman who is easily gulled by just the sort of man I wish them to avoid. If you are working with the Gypsy? Even if it is without intention to harm?' He shook his head. 'Leave this house immediately, Miss Price. Your services are no longer required.'

          'But I can explain.' She had so much to tell him. But it was even more important that she explain it all to Nell, who would be much less judgemental if she heard the details.

          'I imagine you can.' The look in his eyes was sad, for it signalled the death of their friendship. 'But it will not move me from my decision.' He was staring at her now, as though reading a book himself. And she was convinced that the thing she most wanted to hide from him was written plain on her face. Then, he said, 'Your heart is involved, is it not?'

          'Yes,' she whispered, letting him assume what he would. For now, it was better that he suspect the Gypsy than the man who was now his brother-in-law.

          'Then you have made your choice in this matter. I have known you long enough to realize that you would not give your affections lightly. But through no fault of our own, Miss Price, my family is at war. You have chosen a side. And it is not ours. Please. Go to your rooms and pack your things. I will explain to my sisters. You are dismissed.'

         
Dismissed.
She walked slowly towards her room. After all these years, that was all. She had done a better job of safeguarding the girls' honour than she had her own. She had thrown that away on a man who was unworthy. She was a thief and a liar. And worse.

          What could she possibly say to Marc that would make things any better? It was bad enough that he suspected her of the theft. But if he believed she was unchaste? What kind of reference could she expect then? Why had she not realized that Nathan Wardale had been talking about the Gypsy, when he said an enemy would reveal his past? He was as trapped by the man as the Carlows had been.

          She reached into her wardrobe, and removed a portmanteau. Then she set it upon the bed and began stacking her small clothes in it.

          There was a shadow from the doorway, with the sound of Marc's shouted, 'No, Verity,' ringing in the background.

          'How could you, Diana?' Verity gave a shuddering sigh and then burst into tears. 'I thoughtyou would never... And with father so ill...'

          Honoria appeared at her side, reaching out to take her sister in her arms. 'We treated you as a member of the family. You were like a sister to us. And this is how you have repaid the family. Come, Verity.' She said the words loud enough for Marc to hear, and then turned back to her, and with an expression that conveyed the urgent need for secrecy, she held out a letter.

          Diana snatched it from her hand, and gave a small grateful nod and a wave of farewell.

          The girls nodded back, as though they understood as best as anyone could, that things were not as they appeared. Then Honoria pulled her sister from the room in a cloud of muttered remonstrations.

          Diana returned to her packing. Even if the last scene had been a sham, Verity was right. Lord Narborough was too ill to face this latest problem, and it pained her to be the cause of it. Perhaps he was at fault for Hebden's death. Or perhaps only for a false accusation against Nathan's father. Whatever had happened, he was to blame for the fate of the Wardale family. Because of him, Nell had suffered, as had Nathan. And in his suffering, Nathan had struck out at her family, and she had struck back. And now, the misery was woven through their lives like a thread through a tapestry.

          Marc had been right when he'd accused her of choosing a side. Without meaning to, she had given her heart and her loyalty to Nathan Wardale. However much she loved the Carlow family, she did not wish to stay with them until the truth was known.

          She walked slowly to the wardrobe and looked down at the small pile of possessions that had accumulated during the course of the years she'd lived there. This was the sum total of her life, after all this time. It had felt very significant, and very permanent, just a day ago. And now it seemed as if she had no roots at all.

          She began stuffing gowns into a carpet bag, thinking little of what the casual arrangement might do to the fabrics. She picked up the beautiful dress she had worn on the previous night and shuddered. It had been very foolish of her to squander a portion of the windfall on something she had no reason to wear. But at the time, she had been happy and in love, and giving no thought at all to what would happen after. And then, her hand fell upon the little book, at the bottom of the wardrobe.

          All that he had given her could be tied neatly in a package. It was but a small part of her small life. But it was not quite all he had given, for there was still the letter that Honoria had just handed to her. She was sure it came from Nathan.

          She reached out to where she had set it, on the bed next to the portmanteau. It felt thick enough to be an apology, but not so thick as to be the pile of bank notes that she would probably need, now that she had no position.

          She wished that she had the strength to fling it into the fire, to show him and the world what she thought of the gifts of a man such as him: a gambler, a liar, a betrayer of women...

          She closed her mind to the anger. For while some of the accusations might be true, they did not tell the whole of the story. And while she was not sure how angry she had a right to be, she could not afford to be a fool. If there was any chance that the letter contained more money, she would need to open it. His last gift had more than equalled what she had accumulated after ten years of work. He had seen that this day might come, and it was as if he had given her a gift of time. A year, perhaps, in which to plan what she might do next without worrying about her expenses. She cringed at the sight of the letter, because if there was money there, it would feel like a payment for the previous evening. But she needed all the help that she could get at the moment. With the options available to her in this crisis, it would not do to be too proud.

          She steeled herself to read the actual words. They would hurt whether they were entreaties of love, apology, or the gloating comments of a rogue. They did not matter to her, for all were equally unimportant.

          But the paper was blank, just as the first had been. And then, another paper fell out on the floor in front of her.

          Her hands were shaking as she picked it up. The deed to her father's house. With her name written upon it, plain as day. After all this time, he had given it back to her.

          There were at least a dozen reasons why she should return the thing immediately. He could not mean to give it without strings or obligations, for it was too large. It was too valuable. This was too much to grasp. Something would have to be exchanged for it. Although she suspected that he had been pleased with the activities of last night, her pragmatic mind would not flatter itself into thinking that anything she had done was worthy of an entire house.

          He was trying to draw her back to him.

          And it was working.

          As though sleepwalking, she stood up, turned and exited the room, leaving her possessions behind her. She went down the stairs and out the front door of the Carlow home, not bothering to tell anyone why she was leaving. It hardly mattered any more that she was going out. Marc had made it clear that he wanted her gone. How and where would not be so important as when.

          It could not be wise to go back to Nathan Wardale. And so soon after leaving him. But she had to know the reason for this latest gift. Did he expect her to live publicly as his mistress?

          Surely not. She hoped not, at least. She had almost convinced herself that such behaviour was beneath him. But why had he given her the deed? Whatever he wanted from her, she must return it to him, or she would be no better than the opportunist the Carlows thought she was.

          Her feet carried her home, from Albemarle Street to Hans Place without even thinking of it, although she had long avoided the neighbourhood because of the painful memories it brought. And there was her old front door, no different than it had been ten years ago when she had left it, or this morning when she had left it again. She reached out with hesitation, and took the knocker in her hand, letting it fall once against the wood of the door with a satisfying clunk.

          Benton opened for her, and in a move totally inappropriate to his station, reached out to her and pulled her into the house, encircling her in a fatherly hug before she could speak. 'Miss Diana. You are finally home. When he told me what he had done, I hardly dared hope. But you are here now.'

          And then he released her. And straightened. And said, 'Ma'am,' with a respectful bow and a slight twinkle in his eye.

          'I don't understand.' Which was perfectly true, although it was clear that she had at least one friend left, no matter what might happen. She straightened as well, so that she did not appear broken by her circumstances. 'I wish to speak to Mr Wardale, please.'

          'That is not possible, I'm afraid.'

          'If he is from home, than I shall wait.'

          Benton shook his head again. 'It will do no good to wait, Miss Diana. He made it quite clear to us when he'd finished his business this morning, that he would not be returning. He said you were the mistress of the house and we were to obey you as we had him. Or better.'

          The realization staggered her, and she would have fallen, had Benton not pulled her the rest of the way into the house and helped her to a chair. 'He has gone. And left me the house.'

          'Yes, Miss Diana. He said to me, "It was hers all along." And he sent back all the things he had won from others as well. If he knew the owner of something, he bundled it up and shipped it off with the first post. And then, he left with the clothes on his back and a single bag.'