Of Moths and Butterflies (48 page)

She returned to bed, where she lay awake, thinking, regretting, through the darkest part of the night, until, at last, she heard the sound of stirring in the adjacent room. She saw the sliver of light beneath the door, and watched as it flickered, was broken and interrupted by he who had employed it. Once more she wished for him to come to her. Feared it too. But of course he would not. And when that pale light was once more extinguished, she at last succumbed to her dreaming, while ghostly visions and dark thoughts took on bodily forms, took on eyes, and hands, and mouths that sneered. As they had done before, they grabbed her and held her. They breathed wrath and loathing…and lust upon her. And did not let her go until her screaming sent them flying to the far corners of the room. She sat up in bed, sweat drenched and terrified. There was no one to come to her this time.

OGER ENTERED THE
breakfast room to find Miss Montegue preparing herself a plate. The covered dishes and platters welcomed him, though a wiser man would have waited until a more convenient hour. A wiser man would have breakfasted alone. He had never prided himself on wisdom.

She looked up as he entered. “You slept well, I trust?”

“Like a dead man.”

“I have no doubt of it. You had enough to drink to render the average bear insensate.”

“How do you know that?”

She glanced in the direction of the sideboard, whereon the brandy was kept.

“The decanters were full last night. Sir Edmund is not here, and as Archer—”

He cut her off with an exaggerated bow. “I beg you’ll forgive my intemperance, ma’am.” And he took his place at the table.

Claire sat down at the furthest corner opposite, a continent of tablecloth between them.

“My cousin has not yet arisen, I take it,” Roger asked of her.

“I’m sure she’ll sleep quite late.”

“She retired early.”

“Yes, but, according to Mrs. Hartup, she has not been sleeping well. She has much on her mind. I believe your interview with her yesterday gave her much to ponder, and she has Archer’s sudden departure to consider. And Gina—”

“Imogen.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Her name is Imogen.”

Claire laid down the toast she had been just preparing to eat. “Gina is short for Imogen?”

“Imogen is short for Imogen. She despises the other.”

“Then why—”

“Because at the time she left her uncle’s house, she despised herself.”

“So why Gina? What is the significance in that? If she despises it so.”

“The name was used by someone who was particularly loathsome to her. If you are not familiar with her history, you will not understand.”

“This Mr. Osborne? It was not he who called her this?”

“So she did tell you.”

“Yes, she told me of him. But she’s never objected to being called Gina. Even Archer calls her by it.” She stopped suddenly, seemed to consider, then looked up again. “Perhaps he should not.”

“No. He shouldn’t. And he knows better than to do it, too.”

“But he doesn’t know her history.”

“Not yet. No. But it was the name she used as a servant in his house. That should be enough.”

“I’m sure it’s just an innocent habit.”

“Then he’d best break it.”

“Yes, you may be right.”

“May be?”

“You needn’t be nasty, Mr. Barrett. I take your point. But my cousin, I assure you, means no disrespect in the use of the name he grew accustomed to in his earliest association with her.”

“Better that they had never met.”

Claire stiffened and raised her chin. “That is your opinion, Mr. Barrett, and you are entitled to it. But this marriage might do no end of good for my cousin, if he will only make the effort.”

“Well that’s all well and good for him, isn’t it? What a little money won’t do for the landed and titled.”

“That wasn’t my meaning at all. For the first time in his life he has something worth fighting for, something for which he must sacrifice. He’s a good man at heart. She will help him to realise the potential I have long seen in him. And he will do the same for her. She has been controlled and manipulated too long.”

“And this is different?”

“He loves her, Mr. Barrett. He may not have yet learned how to properly show it, and the way this has come about is indeed regrettable, but all is not lost. If he can teach her to love him, if he can persuade her that she is worth loving, think what good might come of it?”

“I think you greatly overestimate my concern for Mr. Hamilton’s well-being.”

“And insofar as it affects Gina’s—”

His warning glare served as the necessary reminder.

“Imogen,” she corrected. “You care nothing then for how his success or failure will affect her?”

Roger chose not to answer this, and yet he maintained that pointed stare.

“No. No. Of course you don’t,” she said, turning back to her toast. “So long as the ends agree with your ultimate desires.”

“My ultimate desire is to see her happy.”

“By your own terms. And at any cost?”

Again, he did not answer. He refused to think it out so far. His hope being so newly resurrected, he was not yet willing to stifle it for any reason. Worthy or otherwise.

“I suppose what you really mean to say is that had you married her, her happiness would have been guaranteed. You may be right. But would it last? When you went back to your former ways—”

“And what ways are those, Miss Montegue?”

“Again you interrupt.”

“You presume to understand me so well. Pray enlighten me as to my weaknesses, will you?”

“You are a man of the world, Mr. Barrett. Are you capable of changing in order to earn the right to the love of one woman? Or will you always be looking over your shoulder at what you left behind, and what you might have again?”

Roger, irritated, threw his wadded napkin onto the table. He was not quite the villain she supposed him, but what use was such an argument? “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “Neither
can
you, Miss Montegue. I’ll wish you good—”

But she stopped him. “I know what I have been told of you. By your cousin. By my own. And I know what I have seen.”

“And what, pray tell, have you seen?”

“I’ve seen you look at me, Mr. Barrett.”

“What?”

“You sit here and try to tell me that you are in love with my cousin’s wife and yet you make eyes at me, and you impose upon me when your company and attention are not wanted.”

He had been, a moment ago, on the verge of excusing himself. That she had detained him for this seemed implausibly ironic. “Is that so?”

“It is. And you pose and preen still, and under her very roof. Are you not capable of any fidelity or devotion? I doubt you know what the words mean.”

“Well aren’t you a fine piece of work.”

“What I am to you is of little concern to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Montegue. I would hate to think that one deluded woman’s fanciful perceptions should cause me any inconvenience. Believe me, I shan’t trouble myself with the thought again.”

As he turned to leave the room, the door opened.

“Imogen.”

“Roger, what is it? I thought I heard raised voices.”

“It was nothing,” he answered casually. “Miss Montegue and I were just having a friendly chat over breakfast.”

She looked from Roger to Claire and then back again. “It didn’t sound very friendly.”

Claire, too, arose, and crossed the room to put a welcoming arm around her. “Come have something to eat, my dear—Imogen.”

Imogen glanced up and coloured slightly. “He told you. I’m sorry. I meant to. The opportunity never came up.”

“It’s quite all right, my dear. Gina Shaw never was. Imogen. Imogen Shaw Hamilton.”

“Everard.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Imogen Everard.”

“Goodness!”

“I
am
sorry.”

“Nonsense. Sit. I’ll prepare you a plate.”

Roger, still standing, watched on. As irritating, as infuriating as the woman was, that Miss Montegue treated Imogen with so much consideration was no small comfort to him.

“Mr. Hamilton has gone, then?” he thought to ask.

Imogen looked up at him and then to Claire as she handed her a plate. “Yes,” she answered. “Early this morning.”

“He told you where he was going,” Claire asked now. “And why?”

“London.” She smiled stiffly. “I haven’t the faintest clue as to why or for how long.”

“A day or two should do it, I think,” Claire assured her.

“Let us hope,” Roger answered.

“You know then? The two of you know where he’s gone?”

Claire grimaced, evidently uncertain what to say.

It was Roger who answered. “He’s gone to speak with Mr. Watts, my dear.”

“Mr. Watts?”

“He wants to see what might be done,” Claire answered and, observing Imogen’s reaction, sat down beside her and took her hand in her own. “You don’t look pleased.”

“When you say, ‘what might be done,’ what exactly do you mean?”

Her question, asked so tentatively, demanded a certain amount of caution in Roger’s reply. “It’s not certain that there is anything he can do, but it’s plain you cannot be made happy while you live under his uncle’s roof. He’s gone to see what might be done to establish his independence.”

She appeared quite alarmed. “He did not counsel with me about this.”

“He will, Imogen,” Claire answered. “He will, but first he must see if it’s possible. There’s no sense proposing such a scheme if it turns out that there is no way to do it. If the sacrifice will be too great.”

“For him,” Roger said, taking no pains to hide his resentment.

“And for you, of course,” Claire reassured her.

Imogen blinked hard and paled. Claire threw Roger a look. He was not wanted. He hated to leave her like this, but… Perhaps a woman’s touch was what was needed here. He obeyed and left them, uncertain what to do with himself. He would have to find something to occupy his time and his thoughts. But he would leave Miss Montegue to her work. She was clearly capable. Perhaps more capable than he.

*   *   *

“What is it?” Claire asked of Imogen. “What is worrying you?”

“I can’t ask this of him.”

“You do not wish it?”

“That’s not what I said. I hate him. I hate Sir Edmund. To be free of him… But Archer. Sir Edmund is the closest thing to family he has ever had. There is the money. I don’t care, but for him– He would be walking away from it all, the only home he’s ever had, everything. It won’t be easy. If it’s possible at all, it won’t be easy. I would never ask it of him. I can’t–”

“Go on. Why can’t you? Why won’t you ask it of him?”

“I can’t be beholden to him for such a thing.”

“Imogen, he would not expect—”

“Of course he would. There’s only one reason he is doing this. He’s trying to prove himself. I don’t know, after all, that I can be what he wants, that I can give myself quite completely to him, however much I may want to. He doesn’t yet know all he ought.”

She looked truly distraught now.

“If he is doing this for a woman he is soon to despise… I can’t bear it, Claire.”

“Shhh. He has not committed to anything yet. He has only gone to find out what might be done, should he decide to do it. But I think he must. That he’s not done something before now, I can’t understand. He simply took Sir Edmund’s word, I suppose, that it was no use.”