A Lady's Guide to Ruin (24 page)

And yet her ghost remained. He still caught himself cataloguing amusing facts and turns of phrase in the hopes of entertaining her, still waited to hear her footsteps on those sleepless nights he wandered the halls.

He found he could no longer bear to be alone, but Elinor was growing weary of his company and had taken to tucking herself away in rarely-used rooms. Today he found her in the library, perusing a volume of philosophy. She had selected the most ostentatious armchair they owned, a great swooping thing that dwarfed her form. It had been their father's favorite, and she had been forbidden to sit in it when they were young, or to read any of the books on
the shelves surrounding it. Whenever he found her here, he knew she had been thinking of the old man.

“Oh, dear,” Elinor said as he entered. “It was just getting interesting, too.” She shut the book with a snap and examined him over delicate spectacles. He frowned. When had she started using spectacles? “While I was visiting Kitty in London,” Elinor answered.

“You shouldn't do that,” Martin said. “It's disconcerting. You'll be burned as a witch one of these days.”

“My point being, I have been using them for months and you have only just noticed today,” she went on as if she hadn't heard him. “I would think that six months was enough to recover from a few weeks of romance, however dire the heartbreak. She isn't dead, Martin.”

“We don't know that,” Martin said, somewhat irritated at the degree of angst in his voice. “She left with nothing. I should have sent someone with her, given her money . . .”

“I gave her traveling money,” Elinor said. “Did you really think I wouldn't? And she's very much alive. She writes me regularly.”

He gaped at her. “She what?”

“Writes. You did know she was literate, didn't you?”

“Yes, but— We insisted she never contact any one of us again.” Farleigh had been quite emphatic on that point, lecturing Joan on the terms of her release while Martin hovered out of sight.

Elinor waved a hand dismissively. “That's why I didn't tell you. I shouldn't have told you now. You look a bit green.”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“If I tell you that, what will you do?” Elinor asked.

He started to speak, stopped. There ought to be a simple
answer to that question, but he had none. He crossed to a shelf and examined the titles there, eyes skimming over the words without comprehending them. If he were completely honest, the image most prominent in his mind was one of him explaining to Joan in exacting detail all the ways in which she had wronged him, expressing it in such an eloquent manner that she could do nothing but admit to her fault and beg his forgiveness, and then—

And then the image faltered. Would he turn on his heel, stride away while she wept? It brought him vicious pleasure, but he recoiled from the feeling. Would he gather her in his arms, tell her all was forgiven?

But it wasn't. And even if he could bring himself to absolve her of her sins, she was still Joan Price, a thief and a fugitive, and he was an earl.

“I can't know,” he said softly. “You must never tell me. It must be enough to know that she is safe. She is, isn't she?”

“If anyone is looking for Joan Price, they won't find her,” Elinor said firmly.

He turned back to her. His vision was blurred with unspent tears. He suppressed them, and forced a smile over his features. “Oh, Elinor. I do not know how I will survive when you leave me.”

“You won't,” she agreed. “We will find you shriveled and dead in the corner of your study. I will ensure a tasteful funeral, however, so you need not worry.”

“I think I may need to get drunk again,” he said.

“Oh, excellent. May I join you? But first, there is a letter you should read.” She retrieved the missive from beside her, and held it out. The name on the front was decidedly his, but she had opened and read it already. “We really
must stop keeping secrets from each other,” she said as he took it.

He opened the letter with trepidation and skimmed the first lines. “My God,” he said, and looked up to meet her eyes.

“Now we drink,” she said, smiling, and he nodded in mute agreement.

Joan was glad she had opted to ride, rather than risk a cart on these rough roads; she would have knocked every tooth from her head with the jangling. She'd reached the house at last, a fine farmhouse with fresh white paint and goats roaming behind a nearby fence. Fox eyed the goats with interest, but he did not stray more than a few feet from her horse until she had looped her reins about a hitching post and made for the steps—and that was only to move closer to her side, his flank brushing against her blue skirts.

The sun was high and unbearably hot. She could feel sweat trickling down the back of her neck, but it couldn't be helped. “Mr. Cotter” had not come to town in the week she had been camped out waiting for him. It was time to take direct action.

She rapped squarely on the door and waited. Fox dropped his hindquarters on the wood porch and scratched
furiously at his ear, but when the door opened he jolted back to his feet. A small, wiry-furred terrier exploded from the door, wriggling furiously, and a second later both dogs had rocketed off, each in pursuit of the other. Joan and the man who had answered the door stared after them a moment. Then she shrugged and turned to regard him.

“Mr. Cotter?” she asked sweetly. Mr. Hargrove, rather. She had no doubt this was Elinor and Martin's brother, for all that he hid that fine jaw under a dark beard. He had the same long nose and dark eyes, and the same keen intelligence shining within them.

“I am,” he said. “Who's asking?”

He'd done a marvelous job of roughening his accent, she thought with a certain amount of admiration. She extended her hand. “Miss Stone, if you please.” It was her name now, and no more a lie than any other she could give.

He took her hand and shook it. She turned her hand quickly and shook back, and one of his eyebrows raised a notch. Yes, definitely their brother.

“I'm here to speak with you regarding your inheritance,” she said.

She'd expected a denial. Instead the brow rose still further. “Is that so? You had better come in then,” he said, regarding her with new interest. He turned abruptly and walked, giving a piercing whistle. The terrier hurtled back in, nearly knocking Joan over. Fox skittered to a halt at her side, panting and looking thoroughly in love.

Joan followed Charles Hargrove into the dark house, and back to a sunny kitchen. A fire burned low in the stove. A pot of tea was set out on the table, and Hargrove fetched two teacups before he gestured for her to sit and took the seat opposite. The dogs clattered around them and Fox
stopped to snuffle intently at the door to an adjoining room. Then the terrier nipped his leg, and they were off running again. Outside, Joan hoped, or God help the integrity of the house.

“So,” he said, pouring her a cup, “what did you say about an inheritance?”

She cleared her throat. She had not been sure what to expect once she actually found Charles Hargrove, but this was not it. “I came to convince you to return to England and claim it,” she said.

He tapped the table thoughtfully. “I won't insult you by pretending I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “But what is it to you?”

“I am a friend of your sister's,” she said. She steeled herself. She had come determined to tell the truth; she would not shirk it now. “I was in love with your brother.”

“Was?” he asked, leaning forward with interest.

“Am,” she amended. “But it does not matter. We cannot be together, and it is better if we do not see each other again. When you see him, I ask that you do not mention me.”

“When? Not if? You're sure of yourself.”

She fixed him with a hard glare. “If you knew what I had been through to get this far, you would not doubt my determination.”

“It's not your determination that I doubt,” he said. “Very well, Miss Stone. Tell me why I should return. Why I should wrest control of the estate from my brother.”

“He doesn't want it,” she said. “He hates managing the estate. Hates having you gone even more. Both of them miss you. I know that you fought. Believe me, I understand fighting with your brother. But I can tell you that it does not matter if you fought. You will wish that you had
returned, and at least had . . . had a proper good-bye. Had it sorted out.”

Moses's death was a distant thing now, long past. But still she had to look away, out toward the trees behind the house. She did not know that she would ever decide if she had hated him or loved him in the end, and because of that, his memory was slow to fade.

“You ran all the way to Canada to escape him,” she said. “Your father. Was it worth it?”

“I have a good life here,” Charles said.

“You could have a good life there, too. With your family.”

“Maybe what you say is true,” Charles said. “Maybe Martin doesn't want the title. What makes you think he wants
me
to have it?”

“Because he spoke of you,” Joan said. “He told me how you argued. He said that he wanted nothing more than to return you to your rightful place and to have you as his brother once again. He does not care about the title. He does care about you.” She fell silent, then. She had worked very hard the past year to think about Martin as little as possible. She rarely succeeded but she had at least not spoken his name, or spoken of him at all since the carriage pulled away from Birch Hall.

“And you? Why do you care?” he asked.

“I told you. I love him,” Joan said. “And I hurt him, very badly. I lied to him. I used him. He could have had me arrested. Instead, he let me go. But I almost would have stayed, and taken the consequences, if staying would make him forgive me. I think that some of the agony I feel, he feels for you. I cannot take back the lies I told. But if I could give him back his brother, perhaps . . .”

“He would take you back?” Charles asked roughly.

She shook her head. “No, it is far too late for that.”

“Then why?”

“I told you,” Joan said again.

“You love him.”

“Isn't that reason enough?” she asked.

“I can't say,” Charles said. “What do you think, Martin?”

He raised his voice at the last, and looked over her shoulder. Joan stiffened and turned. The door to the next room opened slowly. Martin stood in the doorway, his face drawn and pale.

“Apparently you have similar sources,” Charles said. “Martin arrived two weeks ago. And it took him that long to say what you've managed in the space of a few minutes. For which I thank you, by the way. I do admire efficiency.” He stood, and cleared his throat. “In any case, it would appear that I have bags to pack and affairs to put in order. I will leave you two to discuss . . . things.”

He departed with heavy footsteps. Joan rose. She wanted to fling herself across the space between them and wrap her arms around Martin's neck, but she forced herself into stillness.

“Mr. Hudson?” Martin asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I asked him to wait to write you. I wanted to do this much for you.” Apparently Mr. Hudson had other ideas.

“He does like to interfere,” Martin said drily. “For a man of his profession, he is quite a romantic. I will have to tell you about . . .” He stopped. “Anyway, Mrs. Hickory's engaged,” he said faintly. “And I'm down a housekeeper.”

And Mr. Hudson involved. It was a story she would have loved to hear, curled against Martin's side. She closed
her hands tightly, driving away the thought. “And Elinor? How is she?”

“Well,” he said. “Much the same, really.” He was looking her up and down. She imagined what he saw: a fine riding dress, deep blue, and smart black boots that shone nearly as much as the garnets at her ears, so dark a red they were nearly black. “Where have you been?” he asked, and the question seemed to encompass everything about her appearance.

“I didn't throw Lady Copeland's diamonds in the Thames,” she said. “I sold them. And went to the continent. Italy, mainly. It turns out I'm quite good with money.” The fortune the two diamonds had bought them had only increased in the past year, all of it under Maddy's name. More than once, Joan had pointed out that Maddy could abscond with their fortune. It was a sign of the girl's deeply good nature that she thought this was merely a very amusing jest. “I left my name behind. Joan Price is dead, as far as anyone knows, and I shall never have to be a thief again.”

“Then you are wealthy,” he said. Then, softly, “And I am not going to be an earl much longer. If only we could have started this way. It might have spared us the past few months.”

She gripped the back of the chair, unwilling to hope. “I lied to you,” she said.

“I know.”

The words had bruised a year ago. Now they were a balm. Those two syllables spoke of forgiveness. They promised that there was nothing more to say, no justifications to be given.

“I thought that I could give you up,” he said. “And perhaps I could have, if you had remained a distant mystery, with only Elinor's word to assure me you were well. But I can't lose you a second time. I love you, Joan.”

She shook her head. “That isn't my name any longer.”

“What, then? What should I call you?”

She raised her eyes to his. “You know,” she whispered.

He came to her then, his hands framing her face. “My Diana,” he murmured. And then his lips found hers, and there was no need for words.