Lord of Deceit (Heiress Games Book 2) (6 page)

And she still needed a bed for the night.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” she said.

Lucy eyed her suspiciously.

“I didn’t,” Octavia said. She drew another breath, hoping her diaphragm would choose that moment to support her voice. “I need to stay here.”

Lucy gave a disbelieving little laugh. “Four years, and you choose to return now? Where were you when Grandfather died?”

Octavia shifted. Her heeled slippers pinched her toes, and she was tempted to ask Lady Maidenstone if they could go to the drawing room after all — but Lady Maidenstone’s eyes, at the mention of her dead husband, had taken on the same judgmental quality as Lucy’s voice.

“I didn’t think I would be welcome,” she said, her voice gone again.

“You wouldn’t have been by me,” Lucy said flatly. “But he would have liked to have seen you. You were always his favorite.”

Octavia blinked, not expecting to hear that now. Their grandfather’s preference for Octavia was another layer of betrayal between them — perhaps the bedrock of it, although Octavia had nearly forgotten it, spending all these years in London instead of at Maidenstone.

But despite it all, there had been a time when the girls had been inseparable. When they had shared a bed in the nursery, when they had shared lessons with their governess, when they had shared dresses and horses and secrets like everything belonged, jointly and completely, to both of them. When no one else’s preferences had mattered because they had each other.

Perhaps Lucy remembered it too. There was a gleam in her eyes that looked more like tears than triumph.

But there had also been a time when Lucy had betrayed her.

And if Lucy didn’t remember, Octavia did.

Finally, Lady Maidenstone intervened. “This is a delicate situation. But I am technically Lucy’s chaperone, as odd as that feels. And I must say that I cannot condone her staying in the same house with a ruined woman.”

There was no animosity in her voice — if anything, she sounded sad.

“But she hasn’t inherited it yet,” Octavia said. “And I have nowhere else to go.”

“What happened to Somerville?” Lucy asked.

For a moment, she sounded concerned. Octavia shrugged. “He wants to marry. I am a hindrance to marriage, as Lady Maidenstone so kindly reminded me.”

Lucy looked sympathetic for a moment. But even knowing that Octavia had nowhere else to go, she didn’t relent. “You can’t stay here. What about Briarley House in London?”

The house had been closed since before her grandfather’s final illness. If Octavia was in London, it would be easier for possible paramours to find her — and harder for her to fend off their advances. She hadn’t told anyone other than Somerville where she was going, and she intended to stay in seclusion until she knew what she wanted to do next.

She shook her head. “That won’t do. A quiet summer in the country would be better for me.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” Lucy said. “I won’t have you ruining my chances like you always did before.”

That statement made no sense. Octavia had never ruined Lucy’s chances — if anything, she had been the one to force Lucy to go out into society. But Octavia didn’t say anything to defend herself. She had seen negotiations in London before. She knew how a negotiation was supposed to play out.

She had nothing to offer. Lucy held all the power.

Four years earlier, when Octavia’s brother was still the heir and Octavia was the toast of London, it had been the opposite. Lucy had trailed in Ava’s wake, seeming happy enough with the role. Or, if she wasn’t happy, she hadn’t complained about it.

But what life would Lucy have wanted, if Octavia hadn’t insisted on a London debut? Was it this one, living in the country, mostly alone? Or was it something else entirely?

There was a time when she might have asked. But she pushed that question away and focused, like the mercenary she’d been forced to become, on the present moment.

“I will remove to the hunting lodge,” Octavia said abruptly. “If you could be so good as to lend me a couple of servants to keep the house, you shall never have to see me again.”

“The hunting lodge is too close,” Lucy said, setting her jaw.

It wasn’t particularly close to the house. Maidenstone Wood separated it from the main portion of the estate. It was a twenty minute walk between the abbey and the hunting lodge, and almost as long by horse since the road curved around the wood rather than cutting through it. Julian had lived there during his last few summers, hosting his friends away from his grandfather’s influence.

Octavia hadn’t been there since the summer before Julian died. She didn’t particularly want to go there now. But she held her ground. “It was Julian’s, the last I remember. Grandfather gave it to him on his twenty-first birthday. Did you think to check with the solicitor about whether it reverted to the estate or whether it passed to me instead?”

Octavia didn’t know the answer to that question — and from the uncertain look on Lucy’s face, Lucy didn’t know either. “It surely still belongs to Maidenstone.”

Octavia shrugged, ready to bluff. “We can write to Rothwell, if that would make you more at ease. But it will take at least a week before he responds. If you don’t want me to go to the hunting lodge, I can take my room here. Your choice.”

Lady Maidenstone touched Lucy’s arm. “There are advantages to having Ava at the hunting lodge, dear. At least you’ll know where she is, depending on how the party progresses. And Rothwell shouldn’t be bothered about the hunting lodge until the estate is settled.”

That was an odd statement. But Lucy seemed to take it to heart. “You may go to the hunting lodge. But I would prefer not to entertain you here again. You understand, with your reputation….”

Something inside Octavia snapped at that. “I only have my
reputation
because you ran to Julian and told him about Chapman. How dare you judge me for that?”

“You have your
reputation
because you always did what you wanted, no matter what it did to others. It was always about you and your bloody suitors and your bloody dresses and your bloody parties. You were the one who left — you can’t expect me to be happy that you’ve returned. Goodbye, Octavia.”

Lucy swept past her, kicking the shears aside. Octavia was too stunned to say anything — too stunned to even turn around and watch her go.

“It might be best if you leave now,” Lady Maidenstone said gently. “You’re welcome to the hunting lodge. But Briarley House in London would be better, I think.”

Octavia felt tears build and panic well up in her throat. She couldn’t go to London even if she wanted to. Somerville’s driver was no doubt already gone, and it would take more money than she wished to spend to get back in a private coach. And if the gossips heard that Madame Octavia was roaming around southern England in a public conveyance, the caricatures would turn ugly.

That left the hunting lodge. “I will go to Julian’s house. And I will make sure to stay away from Lucy.”

Lady Maidenstone sighed. “I had wished that you would reconcile, you know. She misses you.”

“Did she ever actually say that?”

Lady Maidenstone’s silence was answer enough. Octavia laughed bitterly. “Lucy can go to the devil. It was lovely to meet you, my lady.”

Lady Maidenstone nodded. Octavia left, walking out of the orangerie and slowly crossing the gardens to return to the house.

The house she would never sleep in again. With the cousin she would never speak to again.

The cousin who had not only betrayed her, but still refused to acknowledge that she had done anything wrong — that anything that had happened after was her fault.

The cousin who would inherit Maidenstone by default, even though she was responsible for the heir’s death.

Octavia couldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of the house, where scores of servants who had known her since childhood might be watching from the windows. Nothing good came of indulging in self-pity. The only thing that could save her was action.

Action. And money. And a place to live — preferably one where she wouldn’t have to provide sexual favors to a man who had rented it for her.

She could have that if she took Somerville’s offer.

Becoming his friend’s mistress was the logical course of action. But even though she should have been thinking solely of a plan, the memory of Lord Rafael returned to her.

Lord Rafael wasn’t for her. She might never see him again. And if she did, she couldn’t marry him. She pushed him out of her mind…as she had had to do, more than once, since their encounter in Somerville’s house. Had it really been less than a week since he had kissed her hand?

Less than a week since she had lost everything, again?

She needed money and a place to live. Something that couldn’t be taken from her, no matter what happened or how someone else might betray her.

All of that was in front of her, in the house she loved.

All she had to do was ruin Lucy. If Lucy was somehow made ineligible to inherit, it would force Rothwell to reconsider Octavia’s position. Octavia was convinced she could win him over if she had the chance.

“
Briarley contra mundum
,” she said out loud, almost like a vow.

For the first time since she’d arrived, her voice was strong.

She would find a way to destroy Lucy. She would win Maidenstone and buy her freedom from society.

It was wrong, and it was evil to even think about it — but that was the Briarley way.

R
afe sat
in the public room of Salcombe’s only inn, his back to the wall, nursing a glass of whisky. Not that he needed to nurse it. He’d bought the whole bottle, and he had all night.

Boredom would kill him before the whisky did.

After three weeks holed up in the backwater village of Salcombe, Rafe’s nerves were fraying. He hadn’t been this idle in years. Decades. Spain had had its moments of boredom — all men on campaign grew bored, of the rations and discomfort if nothing else. But blood and gunpowder had outweighed all of that.

His brother Gavin, the Duke of Thorington, sat across from him, scowling at his cards. Rafe tapped his fingers against the table. “Play.”

Thorington tossed his cards down and pushed the pile of money between them toward Rafe. “I’m done for the night. Take the earnings and buy something better for your health than whisky. A late supper, perhaps?”

“It’s a shame you were born to wear a duke’s coronet — you would have made an excellent governess,” Rafe said, exaggerating his pleasure in his next sip of whisky. “Or perhaps a vicar. You could join the church and leave the dukedom to me.”

Thorington sighed. But he didn’t continue the lecture. He would lecture their siblings until their ears bled — which was his right, since he’d practically raised them and still paid their way. But Thorington and Rafe were close. Close in age and close in spirit, even after Rafe’s years at war.

Which was why it rankled that Thorington hadn’t taken him into his confidence. There was only one reason why Thorington would have brought them to Salcombe. And even though it was obvious why they were there, Thorington still kept it a secret — as though they were all so dimwitted that he could trick them easily. Or as though he knew he was about to make a mistake, and he didn’t want anyone to talk him out of it.

If Thorington hadn’t inadvertently brought Rafe to exactly the place where Rafe needed to be, Rafe would have left weeks ago.

He reached over and tipped whisky into Thorington’s glass. “If you don’t want to play cards, care to finally tell me what we’re doing here?”

Thorington picked up his whisky and tossed it back in one go. “No.”

Rafe refilled his glass. “And now?”

“Leave it, Rafe. I already told you we shall have a family meeting in the morning — isn’t that soon enough?”

Rafe shrugged. “Depends on what foolish errand you’ve embarked upon.”

Rafe had already guessed the foolish errand. At least, he hoped he’d guessed. Otherwise, he’d wasted three weeks in Devonshire looking for Octavia Briarley, in addition to the four he’d lost in London after she had disappeared.

Thorington had peremptorily told his siblings that they were going to Devonshire for the summer instead of their usual trip to the family’s country seat. Rafe should have stayed in London. He had work to do there, even in the slow days of August when most people were out of town.

But Devonshire was where Maidenstone Abbey was. Maidenstone Abbey was where the Briarley house party would be held, which would determine which lady would inherit. Surely Octavia would turn up there.

She had to turn up there. It was the only chance he had to find her.

She’d gone completely to ground after Somerville had turned her out. Rafe had called on her house two days after seeing her at Somerville House, as agreed, and found men removing the rented furnishings. No one had been able to provide a forwarding address. She hadn’t left cards with any of her acquaintances telling them that she was leaving town. Somerville’s staff was tight-lipped. Octavia had, in effect, completely disappeared.

He was more annoyed about this than he should have been. He told himself that it was because she was surely angry at Somerville — he could pry all the man’s secrets out of her if he found her in the right mood.

But it was more than that. After their conversation, he’d thought of her more than he should have. More than he usually allowed himself to think of anyone involved in one of his missions. She was supposed to be a potential source of information, and nothing more than that.

That didn’t explain why he was quite so disappointed when she had disappeared from London.

“My foolish errand won’t seem so foolish in the morning,” Thorington said, bringing Rafe back to the matter at hand. “Anthony won’t like it, but he’ll adjust.”

Rafe knew Thorington was baiting him. And anyway, Rafe had already guessed that Thorington intended to make Anthony marry one of the Briarley heiresses. It was the best chance Anthony, as a third son with no inheritance, would have at getting an estate of his own.

Thorington was right, at least about the first part. Anthony most certainly wouldn’t like it. Rafe would have encouraged Thorington to pursue the subject with more diplomacy, if Thorington had asked for his advice.

But Thorington never asked for advice.

Rafe yawned. “Fascinating, I’m sure. I think it’s past time you were in bed.”

“The sun has only just set.”

“Country hours and all that,” Rafe said. “If you won’t take me into your confidence, I shall send you to bed without supper.”

They’d had dinner hours earlier, and there was no need for supper. The innkeeper had gone to great lengths to feed them well during their stay. As he should have — Thorington had rented the entire inn for three weeks, and the innkeeper was happy to cater to their every whim. The public room will still available to the villagers, but business had returned to its usual levels after the first week, when the locals no longer came in to gawk at the duke and his family. At the moment, there were a few groups of men and women laughing and drinking around them, but for the most part, the village was quiet.

Too quiet. He’d tried, over the past three weeks, to glean any gossip he could. None of them would say anything, even when he bought ale for the entire room. And even though he saw disapproval in most eyes when he mentioned Octavia’s name, he also saw loyalty. He’d bought information in some of the most close-lipped villages on the Peninsula. But these villagers would die before they said anything disparaging about a Briarley.

Thorington didn’t know anything about this, of course. He was too deep into his own plotting to notice that Rafe also had a scheme — which was exactly how Rafe wanted it. He had enough problems without Thorington mucking up his plans.

So he was relieved when Thorington drained the rest of his whisky and stood up. “I will see you in the morning, then.”

Rafe watched him go. Thorington would check on their siblings before bed. Anthony, Serena, and Portia were upstairs in a room they’d taken as a sitting room, no doubt arguing with each other while playing cards. Thorington didn’t like for their sisters to join them in the public room downstairs, so he kept them penned up — waiting, as Rafe did, for answers.

There was going to be trouble there someday. Thorington meant well, but he’d become rigid in the last decade. Rafe supposed a dukedom, with all the power and all the responsibility, did that to someone. Thorington still unbent around Rafe sometimes, but he rarely treated the younger set as anything more than children.

But that wasn’t Rafe’s problem at the moment. As soon as Thorington disappeared up the stairs, he signaled the innkeeper.

Mr. Barker hurried over, greeting Rafe with just the right mix of obsequious bonhomie. “Another whisky, my lord? Something to eat?”

“No. Any word about Octavia Briarley? Is she in residence at the abbey?”

The innkeeper’s good humor faded. “Not that I know of, my lord.”

Rafe slid a shilling across the table. “Have you asked?”

Barker looked down at the coin. He picked it up between his thumb and one finger, like it was tainted — but he took it. “My niece is a chambermaid at the abbey, my lord. She said Miss Octavia’s room is empty and that Miss Lucretia hasn’t given orders to prepare it for her.”

Interesting. He slid another coin across the table. “Does your niece know when Miss Octavia will arrive?”

He picked up the second coin, quicker this time. “She thinks Miss Octavia won’t stay at the abbey, my lord. Too much bad blood. It’s the way of things with the Briarleys, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Tragic, it is. Those girls used to be thick as thieves, just like their fathers before them. But they….”

He trailed off abruptly, as though remembering that Rafe was an outsider. But Rafe didn’t need to hear any more. He’d heard enough murmurings to know that Octavia and Lucretia hated each other.

Still, it was odd — why wouldn’t Octavia go to the party? She was entirely ruined, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t inherit. Maidenstone Abbey was too large a prize to forfeit without a fight. Many men would marry someone far less eligible than Octavia if they stood to gain an estate for their pains. And Octavia wasn’t the type to give up. He would have guessed she would attend the party even if she
wasn’t
included in the competition, just to rub her presence in the faces of all the aristocrats who had cut her after her ruin.

He dismissed Barker and swirled the whisky in his glass.
He was glad Thorington had gone to bed. It was harder to feign excessive consumption when drinking with only one other person, especially one as concerned with his well-being as Thorington was.

But he took another sip. This was a conundrum. He’d agreed to come to Salcombe with Thorington because he guessed that Octavia would be there. But the locals wouldn’t say anything about her. From the gossip his London correspondents sent, Octavia’s trail had gone cold. His friends in Bath and Brighton hadn’t seen her, and Rafe could think of nowhere else she might have gone without him hearing of it. She was notorious enough that he would have heard if she’d taken another protector.

She
had
to come to Maidenstone eventually. Surely it wasn’t just his own need that made him believe that. But if the innkeeper was right, she might not be at the party at all.

That simply wouldn’t do. Rafe didn’t want to track her across England, especially without any clues. If he found her elsewhere, it would be clear that he had gone out of his way to find her — and that might spook her.

It would also be clear to Whitehall what he was up to. He was glad that Thorington had managed to secure an invitation to the Maidenstone party — it had given him an excuse to give to his superiors about why he was in Salcombe instead of London. If Rafe were overthrowing a foreign government, they might have applauded him. They wouldn’t feel similarly about him destroying a British citizen’s political career.

Still, if he went to Maidenstone Abbey when the party started and Octavia wasn’t there, he couldn’t waste any more time. He had to find her. Soon, before she took another protector and recovered from any wounded pride she had over being abandoned by Somerville.

Rafe didn’t believe in luck. Not anymore, not after Spain. Or, if he believed in luck, he believed in it the way that the wheel of fortune was often depicted in art — if you were on top of the world one moment, the wheel would inevitably turn and crush you under its weight. He’d felt that way in that tavern in Salamanca the previous year, celebrating after breaking part of the French code that would tell Wellington everything about the enemy’s movements — and then, the next day, being captured by the French.

So even though he wanted to find Octavia — even though she was the key to everything he needed to take down Somerville — he didn’t like, or trust, the suddenness of what happened next.

A stir near the door drew his attention. A woman walked in, dark hair gleaming in the flickering light of cheap tallow candles. She could make any room look like a palace, and then make herself the queen of it.

She strode across the room, tipping her head graciously at the locals. They didn’t bow and scrape as they might to another highborn lady. But they didn’t scorn her, either. They were too wary for scorn.

Rafe’s breath caught in his throat. Octavia Briarley was
here
, in this room, like luck had delivered her to him.

Which could only mean this was about to become a disaster.

She walked straight toward him. He stood, without thinking — he always stood for ladies. And no matter what her reputation was, Octavia was obviously, always, a lady.

She smiled at him. He saw his doom in her dark eyes, saw it all an instant before she spoke — how victory was suddenly within his grasp, and how the wheel of fortune might turn and destroy him just as he seized it.

“Lord Rafael,” she said, her drawling voice as out of place in Devonshire as her elegant gown and her elaborately coiffed hair. “I heard I might find you here.”