A Lady's Guide to Ruin (23 page)

Joan stood for the last time in her room at Birch Hall, turning slowly as if to imprint it on her mind. She had wanted to set straight out from the woods, but she needed clothes and funds, and a hired carriage had to be called. She was dressed in one of Maddy's frocks, plain and thrice-mended. With the bruise on her cheek, she was a pathetic sight. Nearly as pathetic as poor Fox, who had glued himself to her ankles since she'd returned.

“Joan?” Elinor was at the door. “The carriage is here.”

Joan bent and picked up her one case, throat constricting. Martin had not been to see her. She was glad. She could not bear to see him again after the way he had looked at her. She deserved no better but still it ached more keenly than any wound Hugh had inflicted.

Elinor took her hand. “You must write to me,” she said. “Let me know that you are safe.” They had found no
chance to speak in the last day. Joan had kept to her room; the order to remain there went unspoken, but the one time she stepped into the hall she found Harken waiting, face dour. He'd murmured an apology and nodded toward the way she'd come. She imagined Elinor had found similar obstructions but she should have known the woman would make her way eventually.

“I will,” Joan promised. “When I am far from here.” She paused.

“I wouldn't take it back,” Elinor said. “Lord Farleigh thinks I'm a fool, but I knew the truth of you far longer than they did. I know you, Joan, and I know you are a true friend. I wish you only happiness.”

She pressed a small purse into Joan's hand. Joan thought of refusing, but only tucked it away safely in her skirts. She could not afford to turn down charity. She had no idea where the diamonds had gone, but gone they were. She had only her wits and a few pounds now. More than she'd had plenty of times before, and it had always turned out all right.

“Take care of Martin for me,” Joan said. “And take care of yourself. You've had enough of sitting, I think. Find yourself some excitement.”

Elinor squeezed her hand again. “I will. On both counts.” She dropped Joan's hand and stepped aside. Joan exited into the hall, Fox at her heels. He had been slow and quiet since she returned; he still limped. But the groom had looked him over and declared his wounds superficial.
He might always be skittish,
she thought; they would have that caution in common.

She glanced once toward the study door. It was tightly shut. She had half expected, half hoped to see him there,
waiting to catch a last glimpse of her. Perhaps it was better this way.

She shifted her grip on her case and lifted her chin. She'd known this moment would come. She had never been fool enough to believe that she could avert it. She walked with steady steps to the servants' exit and into the courtyard where the carriage waited.

To her surprise, it was Mr. Hudson in the driver's seat, and Maddy stood, bag in hand, by the carriage. At Joan's look of surprise, she stiffened. “Told you I'd go with you, didn't I?” she said.

“Maddy.” Oh, dear. At this rate she was going to cry again, and she'd done enough of that the last few days to last a lifetime. “I would love for you to come, but I cannot pay you. And I'm extremely unlikely to need a servant.” If Maddy followed her, she'd be throwing away any kind of certain future.

“Oh, don't you worry,” Mr. Hudson said. “The girl's worked things out for you. Now get in, before you both start blubbering.” Then, to Joan's extreme surprise, he
winked
.

Joan shook herself a little and clambered in, setting her case on the far side of the carriage and reaching back for Fox. He allowed himself to be lifted in meekly, and settled between her on the seat, thumping his tail. The carriage lurched forward. Horse hooves clopped, and they rolled forward. Joan peered at Maddy, who sat primly across from her, hiding a smile.

“What did Mr. Hudson mean?” Joan asked.

“I nipped back out to the cottage,” Maddy said. “When you went missing. To check if you'd really gone. When I realized everything was still in place, I thought someone
else might come looking, so I hid those pretty gems. Pardon me, miss, I know I shouldn't have.” But she was grinning now. She held out her hand. Nestled in her palm were two of the three diamonds—the larger two. “Only I think maybe we ought to split them now,” she said. “One each, for us and Mr. Hudson. Seems a fair deal.” She plucked the quail's-egg diamond from her palm and held it out to Joan.

“Mr. Hudson agreed to this?” she said faintly, taking the stone. She turned it, letting it catch the light. Fire winked in its depths.

“He said something about how Lady Copeland's rich enough without them,” Maddy said. “He maybe also mentioned that he doesn't like rich folk very much.”

“He's about to have a very poor opinion of himself, then,” Joan said. “I don't suppose he has a place to fence these.”

Maddy nodded. “Mr. Hudson's quite smart. Has it all planned out. We'll go there straight away. And then we can go anywhere we like, you and me. That is, if you want to.” Her eyes were wide. “Go with me, I mean.”

“Oh, yes,” Joan said. “I should like that very much, Maddy.” She closed her hand around the stone. “We can go anywhere we'd like, with this. Where should it be?”

“I'll go anywhere for you,” Maddy declared. “We could be rogues in France, you said.”

Joan smiled. “Perhaps after things have settled. There are a dozen other places, though. More than I could name. More than you or I have ever heard of.” She was leaving Birch Hall for the final time. Leaving Martin, and the fragile dream she had constructed in her days with him. But every road away from here was open to her.

Every road was open, and yet all she longed for was to stay.

It had been two weeks at last. Today was the day he had waited for, certain that whatever Daphne revealed, he could sweep it aside and claim her for his bride.

Birch Hall was no drafty castle, but Martin stalked its passages nonetheless, his anger wrapped around him like shadows. The girls were gone. Daphne, Phoebe, Kitty. Even Elinor, which was just as well. He hated to see her, because each time he did, he remembered that she had conspired to deceive him. She should have put a stop to it as soon as she learned Joan's true identity. She'd left herself vulnerable. She'd left him vulnerable. It was better that she was gone.

Only Farleigh refused to be dislodged.

“Dear lord, Fenbrook, you are giving me a headache,” Farleigh said. He had come up from behind, taking great strides to catch up with Martin's brisk pace. Martin halted
and turned on him, anger lashing through him. Farleigh stood, unperturbed, his hands folded behind him. “If you continue to pace at this rate, you will wear out your floors. You've been at this for days now. How long do you intend to keep it up?”

“Until the urge subsides,” Martin said. “I can walk the grounds, if it would cause you less distress.” His voice dripped condescension. He could not fathom why Farleigh refused to leave him be.

“Are you drinking?” Farleigh asked.

“I want my mind clear,” Martin replied. He had not allowed himself the comfort of oblivion. Not while he was still prying apart his memories, gutting them to get at what was lie, what was truth. He could not trust his wits even when sober. He did not want to discover what tricks his mind might play when intoxicated.

“That is your problem, then. Fortunately, I am well qualified to administer the cure. You will sit with me, and we will get drunk.”

“It's the middle of the day,” Martin said with a growl.

“That only matters when there are witnesses. Now come.” Farleigh departed the way he had come, at a steady pace that made it plain he fully expected obedience. Martin swore at his backside. Farleigh turned the corner smoothly.

“Hell,” Martin muttered, and followed. By the time he located Farleigh in the study, there was a glass of brandy waiting for him. He drank moderately at the most festive occasions. The portion Farleigh had poured would do him for an entire evening, most nights. Perhaps two. He lifted it, noting dispassionately the rich hue imparted by the interplay of light and liquid, and downed half of it in a single swallow.

“Well. Now we can begin to make progress,” Farleigh declared, and slung himself into a chair with the loose-boned carelessness of a schoolboy. Martin sank into a chair opposite—not
the
chair, thank God, he'd had that moved—and rested his elbows on the arms, glowering into his drink.

“What progress is there to make?”

“You can't go on like this,” Farleigh said. “She's not worth it.”

Martin shot him a poisonous glare. “You know nothing about her.”

“Neither do you,” Farleigh pointed out. “At least, no more than I. She's a thief and a trickster, and her antics could well have gotten your cousin killed. She can't have been good enough to make you forget all that, could she?”

It took Martin a moment to realize what he was saying. Martin's face went hot and he rose to his feet. A rebuke rose to his tongue but he had no words to express it. “Don't say that,” he said at last, voice hot and words weak.

Farleigh straightened up. “My apologies. I wanted to be certain.”

“Of what?”

“That it's your heart that's confused, and not just your cock,” he said. Martin let out a sharp bark of laughter despite himself. Farleigh waved a languid hand. “Sit down, Martin, before you spill that brandy. It would be a shame to ruin the carpet.”

“Only if you promise to stop trying to get me to kill you.”

“Agreed,” Farleigh said, and took a delicate sip of his drink. Martin settled back into his seat. The alcohol had begun to wend its way through him, an altogether welcome sensation. He should have started drinking straight away, he decided. “You know, it's really quite funny,” Farleigh said.

“What exactly about this is funny?” Martin asked. He took another healthful swallow. He wondered what quantity he would have to imbibe to forget this mess entirely.

“You remember Marie?” Farleigh said lightly. He was turning his glass to and fro, and watching the light refracted on the far wall.

“Of course.” Martin's brow furrowed. Marie was Farleigh's elder sister. Once, she had been one of Elinor's dearest friends. She had travelled to India with her husband, and died there some years ago. Farleigh never spoke of her. Not for lack of grief, but for too much of it; it was as if he could not bear to even speak her name, and Martin wasn't certain he had heard it spoken in nearly three years. “What does she have to do with any of this?”

“Her husband invested in diamond mines, if you recall. After his death, there was some . . . confusion, where his interests were concerned. When it was finally sorted out, Marie was dead of cholera and the mines belonged to Lord Copeland. And then Lord and Lady Copeland returned to England, showing off those great glinting jewels whenever they could.”

“You think Lord Copeland cheated your brother-in-law somehow?” Martin asked, frowning.

Farleigh sighed. “Not that I could ever prove it, but those diamonds ought to have been Marie's. I've always felt that if she had only come home, instead of staying to deal with all of that unpleasantness, she might have lived. And so when I heard that Joan had chucked those stones in the river, I couldn't help but love her for it, just a little. Liar or otherwise. Which is why I am willing to allow that she may not be merely a criminal, unworthy of your attention.”

Martin's heart sank. He'd hoped Farleigh would shake
some sense into him. This only made matters more complicated. He let out a rattling breath that seemed to reach his toes before it finally faded.

“Oh, excellent,” Farleigh said. “You're turning morose.”

“That's good?” Martin said.

“Oh, yes. Once I have brought you round from angry to morose, I am permitted to hand you over to Elinor for the remainder of your rehabilitation.”

“Dear lord. She had this planned?”

“I was provided with a numbered list,” Farleigh said, no small amount of admiration in his tone.

“At least tell me that she didn't suggest the brandy,” Martin said.

Farleigh laughed. “My own innovation. So. Now that you're no longer attempting to break through the floor or wrap your hands around the nearest throat, tell me about this woman who has you so turned around.”

“You know the story,” Martin said. He didn't see how repeating it would bring any surcease of the tempest inside him.

“Tell me again,” Farleigh insisted. “I still don't understand half of it. So spell it out for me: Who is Joan Price?”

Martin took another pull of his drink and let it settle in his chest before he spoke again. “I wish I'd never met her. I found her standing alone, in the most hideous dress I have ever laid eyes on. At first I thought she was nothing but a silly girl,” he said. “Lost, and in need of help.”

“That last was true, at least,” Farleigh said, and Martin gave him a startled look. “She needed help. If you hadn't taken her in, she would have been taken back to Bedlam or discovered by her brother and that weasel. You likely saved her life.” His tone was matter-of-fact but he watched
Martin intensely over the rim of his glass. More than one man had mistaken Farleigh's bluntness for a lack of wits. Such men had never been pinned by that stare. “Do you regret that?”

“No,” he said after a long pause. He looked at his glass. He had emptied it, somehow. “This is a long story,” he said. “I'm going to need another drink.”

*   *   *

The muggy heat of August had persisted long after the calendar moved on, and Joan was drenched in sweat. Her wine, which had started out sweet and crisp, had warmed and thickened until it was like drinking syrup.

Joan cast around for somewhere to abandon the glass, but every surface in the room seemed taken up with glasses, plates, and inebriated partygoers. She wasn't certain why she had agreed to come. She wasn't even certain whose house she was in. The hosts spoke little English, and she knew no Italian, and yet here she was, in a cramped room hot as an oven, with a drunk man slurring something into her ear.

“Excuse me, I have to go,” she said, and handed him her glass. He stared down at it in befuddlement, and she took the opportunity to slip away. There were a dozen rooms given over to the party and she wound her way through seven of them before she found Maddy. She had pinned up her hair in fetching ringlets, and her pale skin seemed luminous against the blue of her gown. An afternoon's expert attentions—the best that ill-gotten wealth could buy—had transformed the gawky girl into a swan, and she had been determined to take advantage in the weeks since. She'd even conscripted Joan into teaching her
how to affect a more fashionable accent and the nervous little Irish maid was nearly banished. It was on her account Joan had accepted invitations one after the other, as the locals tried to get the measure of the mysterious heiresses who had come into their orbit.

Maddy was enjoying the attentions of a sandy-haired boy only a few years her senior, who kept leaning down to whisper in her ear. As Maddy understood less Italian than Joan, she suspected the girl's smile was more from the attention than the substance. The language barrier had been a boon to the girl. Without the need to hold up her end of a conversation, she could affect a mysterious persona—and avoid any slips in her accent.

Maddy caught sight of Joan. She started to pull away from her would-be paramour, but Joan shook her head. No need to disrupt her fun. Someone ought to have a good time.

She threaded her way back through the throngs, looking for some kind of exit, and found only an unoccupied balcony overlooking a lush, shadow-strung garden. A few guests had discovered the garden—she could hear them whispering and moaning and laughing in pairs below. A crowd like this, she could have taken the necklaces from their necks and they wouldn't notice. But she was a respectable lady now.

Being respectable was proving remarkably dull. She missed Elinor's conversation, missed even Phoebe and Kitty and Farleigh. And Martin—Martin's name darted through her every time she let her mind wander, and each time it left her with a pinch in her chest like a slender blade. She could not draw a full breath for it. She pressed the side of her hand between her breasts as if to ease the ache, but it would not be soothed.

“Joan?” Maddy emerged from the interior. Her hair had gone frizzy around her temples and her cheeks were bright with color.

“You know you shouldn't call me that,” Joan said.

Maddy cast a scornful look over her shoulder. “None of them can hear it,” she said. She joined Joan at the balcony railing, peering down into the garden. “We didn't need to come.”

“You wanted to go out,” Joan reminded her.

“I wanted you to stop heaving sighs at the drapes,” Maddy said crossly. Two months of honesty had somewhat blunted her worshipful tone. “Now you're just sighing at the garden instead. If you miss him that much, you should write to him, at least.”

“He doesn't want to hear from me,” Joan said.

“He does,” Maddy insisted. “I know a man in love when I see one.”

“Do you now?” Joan asked, amused. “I hadn't realized you had so much experience.”

“My da worked five years on getting my ma to notice him, and he was mad in love with her to the day she died,” Maddy said. “I know the difference between that and . . .” she waved a hand at the garden, just as a little exclamation of pleasure wafted up from a knot of bushes. “And it's the lasting kind Lord Fenbrook's got for you.”

“He's furious with me, Maddy,” Joan said. “And for good reason. He won't forgive me, and I don't know that he should. I used him.”

“That's why you write to him,” Maddy said. “To explain.”

“Maddy, we can't . . . It wouldn't work.” The scales were imbalanced, and there was nothing she could do to
right them. He had given her shelter and safety, and a kind of love she had convinced herself she didn't need. She had repaid him with deception and violence. There was nothing she could do to correct it.

But perhaps there was something she could do to ease the ache in her chest. A last act that would let her rest. The idea emerged slowly, haltingly. She could give him what he wanted above all else. But she would need a bit of help to do it. “I should go,” Joan said. “I have a letter to write.”

Maddy's eyes alit with glee, but Joan only shook her head. It would not be a plea for reunion but a parting gift.

*   *   *

Winter had come to Birch Hall, and with it a curious silence. Even the dogs stayed curled by the hearths and rarely stirred. In the silence, Martin found a peace of sorts. All had settled into stasis; Elinor had returned, Hudson's investigations had stalled, and anger no longer gripped him at unexpected moments.