Lord of Deceit (Heiress Games Book 2) (5 page)

Here he had drawn a breath, hugging her tighter, until she wasn’t sure whether he was still comforting her, or whether he was comforting himself. And he’d whispered, even more quietly, so low that she wasn’t sure she’d heard it correctly, that he didn’t wish to sleep with a woman.

They had never spoken of that night again.

That memory stretched between them now as she met his gaze. Her love had softened, faded, until it was something a sister might feel for a brother. And she had pitied him, to some extent, when she thought about it. Somerville was entirely too consumed with his political career, but he had been kind to her when no one else was. His preferences in the bedroom had shocked her at first, but at least she understood why he never tried to kiss her.

She would likely never find someone to love, or at least not someone who would be able to marry her.

But then, neither would he.

But for all that she was grateful for what he had given her, she had never quite forgiven him for what he could not.

“I do not know if I can do this again,” she said.

Somerville blinked. “My friend will be a perfect gentleman.”

“That is what worries me,” Octavia said.

For some reason she thought of Lord Rafael. Of the kiss he had brushed over her knuckles and the gleam in his eyes. The way he had seemed to notice her as a woman, not just as a decorative companion.

And she was angry again. Angry at Somerville, who could abandon her without more than a fare-thee-well, because it suited him. Angry at her grandfather, who should have guaranteed that she had as much of a chance as Lucy at inheriting Maidenstone. Angry at Lucy, as she always was — both for what she had done, and for the loneliness caused by losing her.

And angry at herself, for finding herself back in exactly the same position that she had been in four years before. Ruined, penniless, dependent on men for security….

And entirely without affection. Irrationally, what angered her the most was that she had turned down Lord Rafael. If she’d known Somerville was going to abandon her, she never would have let Lord Rafael go.

She stood. Somerville stood when she did, ever the gentleman. “You should leave,” she said. “I need to sleep if I’m to pack in the morning.”

“Do you want to move to my friend’s house? He might need a few days to prepare….”

“No,” she said, cutting him off. “Your friend can hang. So can you, for that matter. I’m going to Devonshire.”

“What is there for you in Devonshire?” he asked, sounding bewildered.

Nothing
. But she didn’t say it. She had saved her pin money and might survive on it for a few months. The jewels he had given her would set her up comfortably for at least a year beyond that — perhaps longer, depending on her needs.

Her mind was already spinning with all that she would need to do to leave London as quickly as possible. But she spared him another glance. “I shan’t stay here and endure the looks again. Being ruined as a debutante was one thing, but being jilted as a mistress is quite another.”

“No one will think anything of it,” he said earnestly. “I said it before — you could be the best courtesan in London.”

She could. She knew it. She knew all the rules. She knew how to converse with men, and how to dress herself, and how to dance even when she would rather be in bed, and how to laugh even when she would rather be reading a novel.

But Lord Rafael flashed through her mind again. Did she want to flirt, mercilessly, until she found some man who would pay to keep her?

Was she ready to give her body to whoever bought it?

Or did she want something else?

Maybe she was a coward. But that night, all she wanted was to go home. To go home, and to find out why she hadn’t been invited to the Maidenstone party, and to see if there was a way for her to inherit the estate she loved. And maybe, if she could, to find a way to make everything right again.

“Goodbye, Somerville,” she said. “I wish you very happy with whomever you marry. But it’s time for me to make my own path.”

S
omerville’s driver
wasted no time in dumping her bags and boxes on the steps leading up to Maidenstone Abbey. The butler hadn’t even opened the door before the driver started unloading her possessions.

“You might wait until I know whether anyone is at home,” Octavia said to him.

He grunted and tossed another hatbox to the ground.

Word of her exile had spread like wildfire through Somerville’s staff. During the two days she’d spent packing, they had all made it abundantly clear what they thought of her position. As Somerville’s mistress, they had tolerated her — had even been kind to her.

As Somerville’s cast-off mistress, they had no reason to serve her. The driver, who once seemed eager to take her on her errands in Mayfair, had barely acknowledged her during the trip to Devonshire.

Only Agnes remained loyal. But she had grown up in Devonshire and would be glad to be home. She nudged Octavia toward the door. “I’ll see to your baggage, miss.”

Octavia looked up at the grand entrance to Maidenstone Abbey. The steps leading up to the door were still familiar to her, even after four years. The weathered divots and cracks in the stones were the same. The double doors had been repainted and the knocker polished to a high sheen. Not that anyone should need to knock — the drive was long enough that a footman would notice any arrival before guests had the chance to climb the steps.

They had spent the previous night at an inn less than an hour away, which the driver had grumbled about — but Octavia had forced the issue and he had eventually backed down. She had wanted time to freshen herself up this morning before arriving at the abbey. This wasn’t an interview she wanted to conduct while underdressed and short of sleep.

Not that she had slept the previous night. She took a breath and mounted the stairs. The family motto crossed her mind.
Briarley contra mundum
— Briarley against the world. It was on the coats of arms in the older wings of the vast house, but it was as applicable to her now as it had ever been to her ancestors.

There was nowhere else in the world that she wanted to go. And nowhere else in the world where she felt so unsure of her reception.

The door opened. The butler, Claxton, had seen his share of shocking events in his tenure there. He had been one of the first to arrive at the scene of the horrific crash that had killed Octavia and Lucy’s parents. He had attended to the guests at Julian’s funeral. He had said farewell to her when Somerville had taken her to London without a hint of judgment in his voice.

But he didn’t look happy to see her. “Miss Ava,” he said, with a bow that was no deeper than absolutely necessary. “We didn’t expect you.”

“There wasn’t time to send word, Claxton. Can you see to airing my room?”

He looked beyond her to the growing pile of luggage in the drive. “Are you planning to stay, Miss Ava?”

She nodded. She wouldn’t explain it to him. Soon, she wouldn’t have to explain it to him. If the London papers hadn’t reached the house ahead of her, they eventually would. News of her dismissal as Somerville’s mistress would be all over England within the week.

Claxton frowned. “You should talk to Miss Lucy, Miss Ava. She is with Lady Maidenstone in the orangerie.”

Lady Maidenstone
. Octavia had never met her grandfather’s absurdly young second wife. Octavia had seen her grandfather in London several times before his last illness had confined him to the country, but he had never brought his young wife with him. And Octavia hadn’t returned to Maidenstone for her grandfather’s funeral. Her grandfather had always been happy to see her, but Octavia had never wanted to see Lucy again.

Perhaps she could appeal to Lady Maidenstone instead. But from the way Claxton spoke, she guessed that it was Lucy who ran the house, no matter what the order of precedence should have been.

“I’ll find her,” Octavia said. “Agnes can direct the footmen to take my things.”

He didn’t look like he wanted to agree with that, but he didn’t stop her as she swept past him into the foyer. The main entrance to Maidenstone Abbey was in one of the newer wings of the house, added in the last few decades. Her ancestors had a penchant for building, but did not feel similarly about tearing down — and so the abbey that the estate was named for, built for monks during the Gothic period, was surrounded and nearly entirely subsumed by the Tudor, Jacobean, Palladian, and now Georgian wings. From a distance, the house looked like something out of a mad fairy tale, with spires and crenellations rising behind the stately symmetry of the newest rooms. It was all surrounded by gardens and outbuildings, follies and fountains, stretching from the house back to the last remaining scrap of the ancient Maidenstone Wood.

Octavia had known every room, every shrub, and every rock. She had no trouble making her way through the passageways and connecting rooms to the library, which gave out onto a terrace overlooking the gardens. There was an odor of fresh paint and the furniture was as perfectly polished as she had ever seen it. But nothing else had changed in any of those rooms — no artwork had been moved, no carpets replaced. Lucy and Lady Maidenstone had lived there for almost a year since the earl’s death, but it appeared that they hadn’t changed anything at all about their surroundings.

“Lucy never dared to change anything,” she muttered to herself.

It was uncharitable to think that. But Octavia wasn’t feeling charitable. It didn’t help that the servants she encountered eyed her with what appeared to be a mix of surprise and unhappiness. She hadn’t expected delight, exactly, but she had thought they might be at least a little warmer toward her than Somerville’s servants had been.

She raised her chin and marched through the library, opening the French doors to the terrace. She gathered her skirts and took her time going down the steps into the garden. By the time she reached the orangerie two minutes later, her steps had slowed to almost nothing.

One of the doors was open. She paused outside it, not quite ready for whatever confrontation awaited her. Coming to Devonshire had seemed like a good idea when Somerville had tossed her out. But sitting silent in a carriage for three days gave her ample time to reconsider. She might have turned the carriage around if she had thought of anywhere else that she might have gone.

But Somerville had already canceled the lease on her townhouse. The furnishings, which were rented, would be gone by now. She didn’t have any friends within the
demimondaine
who could take her in. Her former friends in the ton wouldn’t look her in the eye, let alone invite her into their homes. She had enough money to survive for a few months, but it wouldn’t last long, especially if she had to pay for lodging. And she wasn’t ready to take a new protector.

That left Maidenstone.

And Lucy.

She stepped over the threshold of the orangerie. Inside, she saw the first evidence of change. Her grandfather hadn’t cared much for horticulture. When Octavia had last seen it, the orangerie had been slightly decrepit, although still functional. Orange trees were planted against the thick brick wall along the north side, shielded from the Devonshire winter and heated from underneath the floors. Sunlight came through the large windows on the south, east, and west.

But someone had added new enameled stoves on either end of the building that could produce ample heat when necessary. And there were more trees and plants — not just oranges, but lemons and pomegranates, along with smaller, more exotic flowers on long tables down the center of the room. A formerly unused space in the far corner had been transformed into a seating area, lit by tall windows on bright days and a small but charming chandelier on gloomy ones.

It wasn’t just a garden anymore — it was a haven.

She knew whose haven it was. Suddenly, Octavia wanted to flee.

Lucy stood in the center of the orangerie, half-obscured by the plants and tables between them. A blonde woman was with her. They wore simple country gowns covered with aprons, appropriate for digging in soil. Lucy held a pair of pruning shears, sharp enough to look dangerous.

But from the view Octavia had of her profile, Lucy was smiling. The woman next to her murmured something. Lucy laughed. Her tone was soft, easy. The way she used to sound when she and Octavia were sixteen and sharing secrets.

Octavia’s heart twisted.

She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t see Lucy again, not with the confusing whirlpool of emotion and memory that churned between them.

But even though the orangerie was nearly one hundred feet long, any movement would be noticed — especially Octavia’s red dress, which she had worn for intimidation rather than inconspicuousness. Lucy turned, her expression still easy, as though she expected to see a servant.

When she saw Octavia, she dropped the shears.

The metal clattered on the wood floor. For a moment, Lucy’s raised eyebrows almost seemed excited. Eager. She took a step forward, kicking the shears by accident.

Maybe it was the sound of metal on wood that reminded Lucy of what had come between them. Maybe it was Octavia’s dress, which she suddenly regretted choosing.

Or maybe it was inevitable. Lucy blinked, hard.

“I’m sorry that I startled you,” Octavia said. “I didn’t have time to send word.”

Octavia couldn’t remember the last time she had sounded so uncertain. But her chest had constricted, and her diaphragm had given up the fight, and her voice sounded thready and breathless.

Lucy didn’t have the same reaction. She squared her shoulders, facing Octavia as though preparing herself for a fight. “What are you doing here, Ava?” she asked, her fists clenched at her sides. “Come to ruin something else?”

Just like that, Octavia was Ava again — the impetuous debutante, not the bored, cultured jade she played for the ton. Her face flushed. “Visiting the abbey is still within my rights. Much as you’d prefer it otherwise.”

She sauntered toward her cousin, putting a sway in her hips — the way she walked when approaching a man whose vote she needed for a cause Somerville cared for. Lucy frowned, knowing Octavia was baiting her. “What are you really doing here?”

Octavia didn’t know what to say to Lucy’s question. She’d played it endlessly in her head on the way to Devonshire — whether to throw herself on Lucy’s mercy, or whether to demand a room in exchange for everything Lucy had done. Those options disappeared in the face of Lucy’s unhappiness.

They didn’t want to see each other. And even though Octavia had nowhere else to go, she couldn’t imagine sharing breakfast with Lucy again.

The woman next to Lucy intervened. “Would you be more comfortable in the drawing room?” she suggested. “I could make tea….”

“No,” Lucy and Octavia said at the same time.

The woman sighed. “Briarleys,” she muttered. Then she extended her hand to Octavia. “I am Emma, Lady Maidenstone,” she said. “Your grandfather spoke very highly of you.”

Octavia shook her hand. “And he spoke highly of you as well,” she said. That wasn’t entirely true, although he had seemed fond of the girl in a distant sort of way. But then, he had virtually purchased her from her impoverished parents solely for the chance to get another heir. Octavia doubted there was anything more than vague affection between them — and even that would be a miracle.

Lady Maidenstone smiled. “You’re kind to say that. I would leave you to your happy reunion, but I think I should stay as a witness in case I must testify before the magistrate later.”

Lucy and Octavia both snorted. The girl — her new grandmother, although it was absurd to think that — had more of a sense of humor than Octavia might have expected, given her perfectly arranged blonde hair and wide, innocent-looking blue eyes.

“I shan’t kill Ava until I know why she’s here,” Lucy said.

“And I shan’t kill Lucy until I know why I wasn’t invited to the party.”

Octavia hadn’t intended to say it so soon. She needed a bedchamber more than she needed an invitation — the party was still almost two months away. But seeing the preparations in the main house had wounded her more than she cared to admit.

Lucy and Lady Maidenstone exchanged a glance. “Did you not receive an invitation?” Lucy asked.

“No.”

Lucy looked her up and down. “I didn’t send the invitations. The Duke of Rothwell did. Perhaps he thinks you’re not quite the thing?”

Octavia wasn’t ready to acknowledge defeat. “I’ve seen Rothwell in London. Do you really think he will choose you over me?”

She was exaggerating. She’d seen Rothwell from a distance in the park, but she had never spoken to him. Lucy had always been able to tell when Octavia was exaggerating. She smiled now, already looking like she had won. “No respectable man will marry you, so it doesn’t matter whether Rothwell likes you or not.”

“Are you sure you don’t wish to remove to the drawing room?” Lady Maidenstone asked, sounding desperately polite.

They ignored her. “You haven’t won yet,” Octavia said to Lucy. “Callista could win.”

Callista was their other cousin, the daughter of the earl’s youngest son. Like all the rest of the family, she had a Roman name — another Briarley tradition, stretching back for generations. Octavia didn’t remember her, beyond a vague memory that the girl had the same dark hair as the other Briarleys.

Lucy sniffed. “Rothwell was here in March to make the final arrangements for the party, but he said he wrote to her last November — long before invitations were sent to the other guests. She should have arrived from America months ago. No one has heard from her since before Grandfather died. With the war, she could have trouble reaching England. She might be dead, for all we know. Once I make a respectable match, the estate will be settled.”

Octavia wanted to draw blood. But she took a breath and willed herself to calm down. Of all the ways she’d envisioned this meeting, this was one of the worst ways it could have gone. She’d never played the peacemaker in their childhood squabbles. That had always been Lucy’s role. But she’d spent the last four years in London’s political circles — long enough to learn that diplomacy was sometimes expedient.