The Ravishing One (11 page)

“He deserves better.”

“Than what?” she demanded, stung. His words prodded the temper lurking beneath her chill composure. He’d touched her, caressed her. Now he looked at her with loathing, implying that she sullied a dead woman’s necklace simply by wearing it. “Better than
me?
James is quite capable of determining what he does or does not deserve.”

“Listen to me, Fia. I know you’re trying to involve
James in some sordid intrigue or other. I won’t have it. Do you hear me? James Barton is a decent, honorable man and I
won’t
let you drag him down.”

Exaltation briefly flared to life, for a moment banishing her anger and hurt. If Thomas had heard rumors then others had, too.

Thomas read the triumph in Fia’s expression and mistook it for gloating. He buried the … the thing that had momentarily distracted him. Call it lust, for want of a better term.

For a short time he’d believed in a chimera: a Merrick with a heart. He’d imagined he’d seen wistfulness in Fia’s fading smile as she watched Barton’s carriage drive off. He’d thought then that she’d purposefully hurt Pip in order to keep him from a deeper hurt. And when he had touched her … how to explain the quickening, the surge of desire and tenderness? God help him, yes, tenderness. For her.

He could not believe his idiocy. A Merrick with a heart? He doubted this one had a soul. When had he become a vapid romantic instead of the realist life had made him? His hands ached to punish her for being beautiful and false and pitiless and for so effortlessly imitating something else.

“I’m warning you, Fia.”

“That sounds like a threat … Thomas.”

“No,” he said. “It’s a promise.”

She laughed, quicksilver and bright. But still, God help him, it sounded as though it hurt her to make that quicksilver sound, like razors stropped her heart
to make it. Against all reason and all his hard-earned knowledge, he almost reached out to her.

But then she turned and walked away, heedless of being alone and unchaperoned. He followed her at a discreet distance until they reached the street, where she hailed and entered a carriage.

Chapter 8

Y
e look done for,” Gunna said flatly.

“ ’Tis your imagination,” Fia said, her needle flashing in and out of the small hooped frame she held. Needlework, she’d discovered from one of Cora’s nurses, was a soothing occupation.

Across the room Kay studied one of his school-books. His unexpected arrival yesterday had been not altogether welcome. Fia had canceled her plans for the evening, unwilling to let Kay roam the town house un-supervised. Thank heavens Mrs. Littleton’s Academy for Young Ladies, which Cora presently attended, did not allow their charges to hie off as Oxford apparently did.

“And is it my imagination or my failing eyesight that has yer eyes lookin’ red-rimmed and yer voice
hoarse as a bittern’s call?” Gunna said, interrupting Fia’s thoughts.

“Honestly, Gunna. I am fine.”

In truth, she felt worn thin. The interminably long nights of posing and posturing were taking their toll. Too often she felt light-headed and started each day trembling with exhaustion.

Her confrontation yesterday with Thomas hadn’t helped. Ever since, she’d felt irritable and tearful—she, Fia Merrick, queen of self-possession—and her much-vaunted composure was strained to near breaking. She did not know how much longer she could keep this up. But it wouldn’t do any good to admit that to Gunna. The old woman would only fret, and when all was said and done, her fretting wouldn’t change a thing.

“It’s not natural to live like this, changing day to night and night to day,” Gunna grumbled.

Fia shot a sharp warning glance in Kay’s direction. Kay did not know about her reputation and Fia wanted him to remain in ignorance as long as possible.

“Drinking and riding and carrying on …”

Fia looked at the old woman with a mixture of exasperation and affection. Apparently Gunna had decided not to heed her unspoken warning.

“Well, it’s day now and here I am,” Fia said with false brightness, “awake and alert, ensconced in my own home, blamelessly embroidering, and yet still I manage to invoke disapproval.”

“Don’t use that tone on me, Lady Fia MacFarlane,” Gunna said. “It’s yer own good I’m lookin’ after and—”

“And I appreciate that, however inappropriate,” she cut in, once more looking in Kay’s direction.

“Cannot we quit this place and go back to Bramble House and take up where we left off?” the bent woman asked for the hundredth time. Fia had never told Gunna everything about the arrangement she’d made with Carr.

As long as her father wanted Fia in London, in London she would stay. When he’d told her she would marry whom he said she would marry, she’d agreed. If she didn’t she would lose Bramble House, and she would not even contemplate that. Of course, Carr did not know that. He thought she acquiesced to his demands through fear—of himself and being poor.

“No. We cannot,” she replied. She put her fingers to her temple, rubbing little circles. “You know, Gunna, I do feel a bit fatigued. Perhaps a restorative might help. Would you be so kind as to make me one of your tisanes?”

She felt a soupçon of guilt when she saw the concern flood the exposed half of Gunna’s face and witnessed the alacrity with which the old woman shot to her feet and scurried from the room. But it was surely kinder to give Gunna a problem she could fix rather than have her worrying uselessly about something over which she had no control.

Kay glanced up as soon as the old woman had left. “Gunna’s right. You look pasty.”

“Such flattery. You shall give me a conceit of myself.”

Kay, used to Fia’s calm irony, went back to his reading. At fifteen, Kay still looked very like the boy she’d met six years ago. His expression was still as open, his hair still had a tendency to cowlick, and he still took people at face value. She wondered when that would change and if she would be the instrument of his eventual awakening.

She steeled herself against the possibility. The world’s wisdom, she’d long maintained, eventually seeks those who do not seek it. Indeed, ’twas possible she did Kay a disservice in shielding him. She picked up her hoop.

A few minutes had passed when a shadow filled the sitting room door. Only one person would have the temerity to arrive in her home unannounced.

“Hello, Father,” Fia said, finishing a stitch. Every muscle in her body tensed with anticipation. She’d been waiting for this visit for a long, long time. She forced herself to relax, taking whatever time was necessary to search the cool, tough persona she’d worn so long for any egress. Finding none, she lifted her head.

“Can I help you?”

Her father, resplendent as always in an embroidered copper-colored waistcoat and a blue jacket, idly perused the room. He lifted his silver-topped walking stick and pointed at Kay. Her heart skipped a beat.

“What is that boy doing here?”

She glanced in Kay’s direction, allowed a hint of surprise to touch her features, as though she’d forgotten him. “Oh. That’s Kay. MacFarlane’s boy.”

Kay rose hurriedly to his feet, his expression openly interested.

No, Kay
, she silently begged him.
Don’t make him take note of you
.

“Oh?” Carr murmured. “MacFarlane’s heir, eh?”

“One of two, actually,” Fia said in bored tones. “The other’s a girl. She’s at school.”

“You can afford to keep her at school?”

“Well, the alternative is to have her here,” Fia explained smoothly. “And while society is lenient and my suitors hardly sticklers, I do think they might take exception to me tossing MacFarlane’s children out on the streets. Don’t you?”

Carr considered the matter. “Perhaps. But why is he here, then?”

“He’s leaving,” Fia answered. “In fact, right now. Go away, Kay.”

Kay’s cheeks grew ruddy. His youth and embarrassment made him graceless. He executed a short, awkward bow, and hurried from the room.

Fia watched him go impassively. He’d survive the assault to his dignity. He might even thrive if Carr could find no use for him—say, as a bit of leverage to induce his daughter to do his bidding. But then, for Carr to suspect she held the boy in any sort of regard would presuppose Carr to have imagination as well as heart. No, Kay was safe. Unless something betrayed her feelings.

“Won’t you be seated?” she said after Kay had gone. “Tell me, to what do I owe this visit? You pine for my company, perhaps?”

“If that’s the sort of banal sarcasm you try to pass off as wit, ’tis no wonder you are surrounded by such common men.”

“And here I’d thought there was another reason entirely,” Fia said smoothly. “And one having nothing to do with … 
wit.”

Carr’s lips twisted. “You haven’t learned a bit of humility, Fia.”

He moved across the room, the slight limp he’d acquired on escaping Wanton’s Blush barely noticeable as he made his way to a nearby chair. Once seated, he placed his cane across his lap. “I have come to tell you that I know what you are doing and I shan’t allow it.”

“What I am doing,” she repeated.

“Let me save us some time. I know that you have inveigled Captain James Barton into a partnership wherein you purchase cargo, insure it at twice its value, and have it loaded on one of his ships.”

He held up one well-manicured hand, forestalling her denial.

“Captain Barton then scuttles his ship, collecting on whatever value it has, while you collect the insured value of the cargo.” He turned his hand over, inviting comment. She obliged.

“But what a delightfully artful plan,” she said. “I only wish I had thought of it myself.”

“You did,” Carr said. “I have looked into the matter extensively. You have been, I will allow, clever. And careful. I could find little concrete information. But plenty that is suggestive.

“So much, in fact, that when tallied, the sum of the various particulars I have uncovered leave but one explanation, the one I have already told you and which you already know.”

She raised her brows. “You have suspicions but, by your own word, nothing else. Certainly nothing you can use as—what is that fanciful term you have for extortion? Oh yes—impetus. And that being so, tell me, Father, exactly
why
are we having this conversation?”

Carr pursed his lips. “Just because I am unable to blackmail your … friend does not mean you are free to do as you wish.

“You still have no home, Fia. And no money. You have nothing of your own except the very nice gifts with which Captain Barton has been attempting to buy his way into your bed. Ah, yes. I know all about that necklace and the ring and the paintings. Sell them all and you’ll be able to live for less than half a year in the style you currently enjoy.”

She allowed him to see her tense, just a little. His smile spread thinly across his face.

“Ah, you wouldn’t like that, would you? No. I didn’t think so. Really, Fia,” he drawled, “while your enterprising partnership with Barton might eventually have brought you within eyeshot of being independent, did you think I’d allow it?

“You, Fia my dear, will marry who and when and where I say. You are not independent. Not now. Not soon.” He feigned a pout and shook his head. “Not ever, I’m afraid.”

She voided her expression of anything resembling emotion. “What do you want?”

He smiled. “Ah! Finally. I feel so much better when there’s real understanding between us, don’t you?” Abruptly his smile, too, vanished. He simply removed it. “I want in. I want your portion. Your share in the partnership.”

She waited half a heartbeat, then invested the smallest hint of anger into her voice. “I can’t do that.”

“I truly hope for your sake you are wrong. Did you know the Marquis of Mannett has been asking after you? An unprepossessing-looking man, what with the gout and those open ulcers, but I am sure—well, relatively hopeful at any event—that they are not caused by the French pox, as is rumored. Ugly things, rumors.”

“You can’t make me marry him,” she said, breathing heavily.

“No. But I can make sure you don’t marry anyone else. By any means necessary.” His eyes were as flat and unfeeling as a dead man’s. She shivered, this time for real.

“I can’t, I tell you—” She broke off abruptly. Took a deep breath. It was imperative she not overplay her hand. “As you yourself noted, Captain Barton has been most careful. There is no evidence. Nothing to use to pressure him into letting you in on the arrangements.”

His gaze met and held hers. “You underestimate yourself, Fia. So unlike you.”

She met his reptilian stare with one equal to his in
blankness. “Are you suggesting I trade my favors for your share?”

If the idea repelled him, he did not show it. Instead, he merely tipped his head back and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “No. I know Barton’s sort. Romantical. As clean-cut a business transaction as that would only give him a disgust of you. No, he’ll have to be wooed. He’ll have to be made to think that in taking me on he’s winning you.”

“Impossible,” Fia said. So close now. She must be smart. Take her time.
Lead
him to it. “Everyone knows I hold you in contempt.”

Again, what naturally would have hurt a father caused not a ripple of disconcert in her sire. “True,” Carr said. “So, you’ll have to find another way.”

She tapped her fingers lightly against the arm of her chair. Narrowed her eyes as though concentrating. “He’ll need to be offered something he thinks I want. Something he’ll feel will win my capitulation.”

“What would that be?”

“I don’t know. Something he’ll think I’ll find irresistible. Something grand enough to make the risk of taking you on as a partner seem worth the obvious drawbacks.” Her smile was humorless. “Though I doubt he’d know enough to ask for the Crown Jewels.”

“Most amusing. Think.”

“I don’t know—Wait. Bramble House.”

“What?” Carr leaned forward. “MacFarlane’s farmhouse? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yes. I know.” Not too much now. A subtle mixture of truth and deception. Hadn’t he taught her that?
“Barton is always carrying on about ‘the pleasures of rural living.’ I have fostered his belief that we share the same feelings about the countryside. He might think to buy it as our love nest. He might think it just the thing to win my favor. And he would like to own it anyway. He’s spoken of wanting to acquire land.”