Twice Fallen (15 page)

Different in every way.

And awash in the blissful aftermath, with his hands tangled in her hair and their damp bodies pressed together, she understood how to finish the painting.

“I

Lily laughed. It was genuine and spontaneous and sparked by the appreciation of a like spirit. They’d become friends almost immediately their first season, and while Lily had been popular and pursued until her downfall, and Vivian had not nearly had the same success despite not having a catastrophic scandal, their instant affinity for each other had not changed over the course of the past four years.

In short, they liked each other.

And what was better than a loyal friend?

The path was strewn with some fallen leaves and their skirts brushed them as they walked, their pace a stroll, the afternoon cool but clear. Soon it would be crisp and chimney smoke the order of the day, but at the moment it was simply a lovely day in the park, and it was rather crowded too, with everyone out and about.

“I mean,” Vivian went on doggedly, clutching her parasol, “Lord Gregory could not tell a petunia from a
weed and I am supposed to consider marrying him? That is perhaps not his fault, and maybe a gentleman doesn’t even have to possess that knowledge, but…
still
.”

“At the risk of committing blasphemy, Viv, not everyone knows their plants.” Lily sent her friend a mischievous sidelong glance. “Most of the aristocracy employs gardeners for that purpose. Though, just to impress you, I confess I do know a petunia.”

“
You
happen to possess a working intellect.” Vivian frowned and then sighed. “But I’m told I’m too particular—mostly by my disapproving mother’s standards. My father doesn’t pay much attention, which actually I am grateful for, but then again, he is a botanist.”

Had she never been subject to family censure, Lily might not have understood so well. She murmured, “Yes, well, I’ve never been terribly good at pleasing others either. My inclination isn’t to disappoint everyone, but then again, I’m not willing to live my life differently just so that society approves of me.”

“I’m not sure I know how to
get
them to approve of me.” Vivian’s voice had grown quieter. “I have suitors, just none I like. I know I am considered odd, but truly, I enjoy my work. I always have had an interest in growing things, and I happen to be quite good at it. I have never understood why plants are considered so unladylike. Every simpering debutante shows off her embroidery, which usually involves roses and daisies and fields of tulips. I can’t stitch them, but I can
actually
grow them. Why is that so
outré
?”

A wayward leaf was caught by the breeze and danced across the path and Lily deflected it before it caught in her hair. She stifled a laugh. “I think it is the dirt involved.”

“Wet earth is a lovely smell. It reminds me of spring,” Vivian said defensively. She looked particularly pretty today in a yellow day gown that complemented her dark hair, though her chignon was a bit careless, with raven tendrils escaping to frame the oval of her face, and a disgruntled expression drew her fine brows together.

“I am not arguing, take my word.” Lily thought of her family home in Berkshire with the green fields and meandering river. “I love spring, and yes, it smells like damp soil and growing things.”

Vivian smiled in approval. “The stirring of the world coming back to life. There are times when I have wondered if I would not love to live somewhere tropical and exotic like I have read about. Where it is always lush and warm and I understand the variety of plant life is staggering. But I fear I would miss England and its seasons too much.”

“Not to mention the pesky insects and snakes and other nasty creatures in those jungle climes,” Lily pointed out, “and the abysmal heat, which is quite bad enough here in long skirts and undergarments, but there I imagine would be unbearable.”

“I could don native garb, I suppose.” Vivian laughed, her green eyes sparkling. “I’ve heard some of the women go bare-bosomed. Can you imagine?”

“Not really.” Lily had read of that too, and considering the merest glimpse of her ankle was forbidden, the idea of it so foreign it was a little intriguing. “That sounds like a bit much. Your complexion is much too lovely.”

“And a bit pale for it, I suppose. Those Celtic ancestors did not frolic in the sun often.”

“That too.” Lily lifted a brow in amusement. “But there wasn’t much sun for them to frolic in either.”

“So how was your stroll with Lord Damien Northfield the other evening?”

The switch in subject came somewhat unexpectedly, though Lily had assumed from the dowager’s reaction that their brief exit from the ballroom had been noticed. However, Vivian paid no attention at all to gossip. Because of that exactly, she didn’t dissemble. “He can’t dance, so the offer of a breath of fresh air, which I’d prefer anyway, was what he suggested instead of a waltz.”

“That is a sensible alternative, I suppose, and you are not some giggling ingenue he has to cart around with a chaperone in tow.”

“Thank you.” The response was ironic.

Her friend sent her a reproving glance. “You know I didn’t mean it in an offensive way. Neither am I, for that matter. I simply was stating that there is a certain freedom in our on-the-shelf status.”

“Perhaps.” A small bevy of ducks flew past, low and swift, their wings in a silent ballet of synchronized motion. “The season is about over.”

“It is. There is no use but to be pragmatic about it.” Vivian sighed dramatically, a touch of becoming pink in her cheeks due to the breeze. Dark curls danced against the collar of her walking dress. “I will still be as unmarried as ever, or at least I hope so. Lord Gregory is
not
an option I wish to consider.”

“I have Sir George hanging over my head,” Lillian pointed out. “Despite his age I think I am supposed to be grateful he is willing to overlook my reputation.”

“What nonsense. You are a beauty, Lily.”

“So are you.”

Vivian made a small face as they strolled along. “I have some mannish habits that make me less than desirable, as we just discussed.”

“There is nothing wrong with your hobby.”

“Most of the
ton
does not agree with you.”

It was hard to argue the point and they
were
both stuck in a similar position. “Still,” Vivian said, her skirts brushing the grass. “I am glad I have waited. It is possible I am flattering myself, but I am not an empty-headed foolish girl who wants to have a man to take care of her. Call it absurd romanticism, but I wish to meet a man who will intrigue me. Who will challenge me intellectually, who will find my interests to be similar to his own; who
likes
me. Is that foolish?”

It was rather difficult to not think of Damien Northfield with his enigmatic smile, dark eyes, and air of mystery, not to mention his interesting background. What could be more intriguing than a former spy?

“No,” Lily said quietly, the breeze brushing her face. “It isn’t foolish at all.”

He’d never done it before and it was a bit daunting.

Odd to think, as he’d climbed rocky hills in the pitch darkness, scaled fortress walls, interrogated prisoners, infiltrated enemy lines, and hunted traitors, and yet he’d never formally called on a young lady.

It was a thought-provoking commentary on his life, Damien decided as he alighted from the carriage and limped up the steps. He was very, very good at subterfuge and inept at the simple social act of presenting his card, waiting for the summons to the drawing room, and conversing politely about mundane subjects.

Lucky for him, he didn’t think Lady Lillian was interested in mundane either.

But before he called upon a lady for the first time, he needed more information. That was much more comfortable for him, as gathering intelligence was a necessary step before embarking on any mission.

“Is Lord Sebring at home?” Damien asked the sour-faced servant who answered the door. “Damien Northfield calling.”

His old friend was there, he discovered, and he was shown into his study moments later, Arthur rising with the familiar affable smile on his face. “Northfield. This is a pleasant surprise. How many years has it been?”

“Too many,” Damien replied, because while this wasn’t precisely a social visit, he’d been gone from England for what now felt like a lifetime.

Arthur indicated a chair. “It’s good to see you. Can I offer a glass of claret?”

Wine was not what he’d come for, but Damien said pleasantly, “Thank you.”

His host poured a glass for each of them and Damien glanced around the room. It was welcoming: wood-paneled tall bookcases, several average oil paintings of hounds and horses on the walls, and a cluttered desk that spoke of a man who took care of his business affairs.

Why, then, hadn’t he taken care of Lily?

He took the proffered glass and sank into a chair that creaked comfortably under his weight, and studied his friend. Arthur had actually changed very little since their days at university, still good-looking and athletically built, though there were a few lines that hadn’t been there before around his mouth, and his blond hair was thinning a little,
but essentially the same physically. They were of a like age at thirty-two, so he’d have to have been subject to enough seasons of debutantes to have had his pick of lovely young, willing ladies before he’d settled on Lily and persuaded her into a folly that had destroyed her reputation.

There must have been an attraction there and Damien understood that well enough—he was also attracted to the winsome Miss Bourne—but Arthur had bowed out and let her bear the brunt of a torrid scandal.

Then he had married someone else.

And no one seemed to know why.

But Damien was curious as hell.

Besides his interrogation of Colton, which hadn’t been all that enlightening, he’d asked a few discreet questions in other circles and gotten nothing from it. Hence this direct visit.

How to play it is always a bit of a gamble
. He was much more used to dealing with those who were gifted in the art of deception and he doubted Arthur belonged in that circle. Damien took a sip, sat back, and said conversationally, “I understand Richard Seasons has opened a stable near Newmarket.”

Arthur’s well-known affinity for horse racing proved a perfect segue into old familiar conversation, though Damien was well versed enough in human nature that he still sensed a wariness signaling that while they might have been friends at one time, Sebring noted this visit as unusual.

Interesting.

On his second glass—it was Arthur’s third, he noticed—of wine, Damien casually brought up the subject he’d really come to discuss. “You’ve married, I hear.”

No imagination or great sleuthing skills were required to see his friend’s features smoothed into a stony mask. “Yes,” Arthur said shortly, finishing his drink by tossing it back abruptly.

“My felicitations.”

“Thank you.”

“Three years?” Damien lounged back, much more comfortable in his role as subversive interrogator than social acquaintance, his sprawl in the chair casual but his intense scrutiny anything but. If he was going to glean the information he wanted from this visit, it was now.

“Yes. Three years.”

Was there the slightest edge in his host’s voice at the affirmation? Maybe so.

“I understand her father is very influential in Parliament.”

Lord Sebring leveled a look at him. “Is that why you’re here? To talk about my father-in-law?”

He hadn’t been as subtle as he thought. Or… it was a sore subject. Damien lifted his brows at the acrimony.

Arthur stood abruptly and walked to the window, staring outward. “I’m sorry I was just so abrupt.”

Something was off. Damien recognized the signs. The set of Sebring’s shoulders was tense, and his hands braced against the sill as he stared out the glass.

Damien murmured, “No offense taken.”

Arthur took in an audible breath. “My marriage is a difficult topic to discuss at the moment.”

“I see.” At this point maybe he should make his excuses and leave, but then again, he had enough experience to sense that wasn’t exactly what his friend wanted either.

“No, you don’t, unless you are privy to information I’ve told no one else.” There was a mirthless laugh. “My wife and I are estranged.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Damien deliberately kept his voice even and unemotional, which he was quite skilled at doing after years of practice. “Though hardly unusual for our class.”

“I suppose not.” Arthur’s profile was remote, austere. “I was never sure what to expect from marriage anyway, but I didn’t think I would experience…
this
.”

A strange statement indeed. “I’m not sure what you are referring to, but I am certain you are not the first man to feel it.” He wanted to bring up Lily Bourne, but his companion’s demeanor stopped him.

With a mirthless laugh, Arthur turned, his expression cynical. “I am sure you did things during the war that did not appeal to you, Northfield, did you not?”

“Many.” No exaggeration there.

“I hear you were quite a gifted operative for Wellington. Maybe you can help me.”

Damien shrugged, but he was suddenly very attuned to the conversation.

Slowly Arthur spoke, “How would you feel if the world—
your
world—found out about them?”

“Them?”

“Every dirty little secret. Those tasks you performed that were perhaps not to your liking but you did them anyway because that is what you had to do.”

His now empty claret glass dangling from his fingers, Damien took a moment to answer, wondering exactly what was at stake. He finally said, “I don’t think anyone wants their foibles common knowledge.”

“I am not talking foibles.”

“No?”

“No.” Arthur squared his shoulders. “I am talking sin.”