Courtney Milan Read online

  She needed to run. She was desperate to run. How could she do so, without a penny to her name? “But—”

  “I think we’ve had enough of this discussion in front of Lady Patsworth,” Sir Walter said, reaching over and giving her a pat on her hand. “She is not well and certainly doesn’t need to be bombarded with conversation about such vulgar matters. We’ll continue this later, if you please.” He set his serviette on the table next to his fork and walked inside the house.

  Etiquette. Safety. Responsibility. They sounded like such admirable virtues until Sir Walter got his hands on them.

  He didn’t look like a monster. He didn’t act like one. Mary hadn’t even realized he was one for months. He’d taken away her money, her freedom, her friends, and it wasn’t until she was well and truly leashed, without a penny in her possession, that she’d realized what he’d done. He mouthed all the right words of concern. But the instant Mary’s wants diverged from his, he gently, politely quashed all her hopes.

  The question of her salary was one of those things. He simply refused to pay her. He would advance funds on her account for gloves or other necessary purchases. He even occasionally gave her a few shillings when they traveled so she could handle the necessary vails. But he expected her to account for every halfpenny, and he always—gently, politely—took them back.

  What he was doing was illegal. But what could she do about it when she didn’t even have the money to take a cart to the nearest solicitor, fifteen miles away? How could she prosecute him, when she herself might be brought up on charges?

  When she’d left Southampton eighteen months ago, she’d known her life had changed. Sir Walter had taught her what that meant. She’d lost all control over her future. She was dependent on the goodwill of the men around her. And if she was to have any say at all over what happened to her…

  She couldn’t stay, not with John in the vicinity. Yet she couldn’t run. Without any money at all, she’d only end up worse off than she was now. She might confide her troubles in Sir Walter, but giving the man an extra weapon to use against her didn’t sit well. She wanted to scream. She was helpless, pinned to this house by the slowly shortening leash of her penury.

  But then, so was Lady Patsworth. The woman had pointedly ignored Mary’s exchange with her husband. She sat on the terrace, her spine ramrod straight, and studiously read the London paper.

  “Lady Patsworth,” Mary tried.

  “Cord of silk,” the woman responded. “Do you think that cord of silk might do, after all?”

  “Lady Patsworth, please. Do you think you could ask your husband to pay me my wages?”

  Lady Patsworth did not look up from the paper. She did not acknowledge those words, not with so much as a blink of her eye. “Perhaps,” she mused, “not in white. A black, or perhaps a gold—that would give it a military look. Very sharp, I think.”

  Lady Patsworth was not simple, no matter how she acted. She’d simply learned that it was best if she didn’t attend to the unpleasant parts of life. As so much of her life was unpleasant, she scarcely attended to anything.

  “Or, perhaps, you might be willing to advance me my wages from your own funds.”

  Lady Patsworth set down her paper. She didn’t look at Mary, but she angled her spoon so that the bowl caught the sun, twisting it so it sent bright flashes into the leaves of the trees. “He reads my letters before they are sent,” she said quietly. “He hires my servants. He does not let me leave this property. Do you really imagine that he allows me any pin money? If he did, I would have found some way to get a message to my brother.”

  Mary swallowed.

  “Lady Northword used to make her home here,” Lady Patsworth continued. “I once found what I believe to be a piece of her jewelry, hidden between the floorboards. He won’t even let me call on her to return it. And when she came by to pay a call, he told her I was indisposed. The most I can hope for is what you just saw—that I might be allowed to sit silent and unresponsive when a neighbor comes to call.”

  “Surely there is something that can be done.”

  “No,” Lady Patsworth said. “There isn’t.”

  There was no yelling in Sir Walter’s household. There was no dramatic posturing, no screaming, no fighting. There was only Sir Walter’s indomitable hold.

  The worst part was, Mary couldn’t even figure out how to voice a complaint. It would not sound so awful if she told someone about it. He never hit his wife; he’d never touched Mary, and she’d seen enough of the world to be thankful for that. But it would almost have been better if he had struck out. At least then she would have had tangible proof of his character.

  She had to leave. She couldn’t go. These two facts butted heads with one another, but neither came out the victor.

  “Is there not something you can do?” Mary asked in desperation.

  But Lady Patsworth had already picked up the paper, folding it back to the fashion page. And that was answer enough.

  Mary could do only what Lady Patsworth did: She could endure, and pretend that none of this was happening.

  MARY’S AFTERNOON WALK WAS NOT, it seemed, to be a dash for freedom today—just an amble around the boundaries of her cage. Her absence was strictly timed, and the stable grooms were always positioned—Sir Walter said—to prevent her from accidentally intruding on the neighbors’ properties and incurring their wrath. Besides, he didn’t trust the laborers at Beauregard’s farm to treat her with the respect that a well-bred lady deserved. For her own good, she had to be confined.

  The end result was the same. She had only a few fields to explore, a small slice of land squeezed between the neighbors’ hedges. Her terrain stretched down the hill north of Doyle’s Grange, terminating at the creek in back. Forty-five minutes of leisure multiplied by the months that they’d been in residence meant that she knew every inch of that space. She would have no escape today, just a temporary change of prison. Still, she tore out of the house and down the hill, wanting only to get away.

  Late summer was the worst season to wander. The path between the hedges had grown over. By now, the thistles were tall enough to scratch her calves under her skirts. As for the nettles… Her arms were bare, and the nettles had grown waist-high. All that rain last May had gone straight into producing tall prickly stalks and stingers, all determined to thwart her temporary flight for freedom—or at least solitude. Her pace slowed to a walk and then to a few steps at a time.

  There was a trick to stinging nettles. If one walked right through them, one would end up red and itching all over. But only the bottoms of the leaves stung. If one were careful, one could take hold of the plant by pushing down on the tops of the leaves, and then very carefully moving it to the side…

  “So,” a voice said behind her. “I’ve found you.”

  The man spoke just as she held the offending plant at maximum distance from herself. Mary let go in surprise; it sprang back into place, slapping its stingers against her bare arm. It felt as if she had been attacked by a half dozen ants all at once.

  She bit her lip and muffled an oath, slapping her gloved hand over her smarting flesh.

  “John,” she gasped and then, when she took in his folded arms and disapproving stance, remembered that her actions the last eighteen months had erased any claim she had to intimacy. “Mr. Mason,” she corrected herself. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  He was wearing a long coat and thick, dirt-stained gloves. “I’m walking parallel to the creek,” he said. “Seeing how the water drains off the hill.” He gave her a pointed glance from head to toe; his gaze lingered impolitely on the exposed expanse of her lower arms. It felt just as rude when he turned his head sharply the other way. “Unlike some, he said, with a disdainful emphasis on that latter word, “I’ve dressed for the terrain.”

  If she took her coat on a warm summer day, Sir Walter would wonder if she planned a longer journey, and he’d insist on relieving her of her burden. For her health, of course. Always for her health.r />
  She looked up at the clear, blue sky pointedly and then looked back at him. “Really. You’re seeing how water drains when there’s not a cloud in sight.”

  “There’s your mistake.” His eyes were dark and accusing. “You think I need to see rain to know the lay of the land? I don’t. I can see the shape of the hills. I can test the soil. As for the water itself… That patch of snake’s head likes the damp, so I can surmise that water collects there, then follows the trail laid by the pink of ragged robin down that slope, where it empties in the soft soil where the meadowsweet grows.” He looked at her, and she was quite sure in that moment that he wasn’t just talking about wildflowers. “I don’t need to stand in a rainstorm to know where to lay the blame. The system is all of one piece.”

  “I see.” She swallowed and looked away.

  “So I’ll skip the part where I lay out the evidence of your guilt. Where is the money, Mary? Guide me to that, and I’ll bother you no more.”

  She shook her head. “Everything I knew, I’ve sent on already to Mr. Lawson.”

  “I have little trust in your words. You swore to me once that you knew nothing—and yet, you had an account book in your possession when you left.”

  This was the stuff of her nightmares. The accusations. His face, storm-cloud angry. He took a step closer to her, looming large until he seemed to dominate her vision. The slope of the hill above and the hedgerow to the side shielded them from all watching eyes. He could do anything—hit her, touch her, kiss her—and she had no way to stop him. Her head spun dizzily and little sparks floated in front of her eyes.

  “Please, Mr. Mason.”

  “You should beg,” he said. “Why should I not fetch the magistrate right now?”

  She caught her breath. Mention of the magistrate actually calmed her. If his idea of a threat was to wait for a trial, he presented a fluffy daydream in comparison with the visions that woke her sometimes at night. In the grand scheme of things, gaol seemed only slightly worse than the workhouse, and better than a life of prostitution.

  “Perhaps I deserve to be in gaol,” she said quietly. “But it changes nothing. I can’t help you with the money. As for my father, he’s dead. I saw him put in the ground myself, and there can be no mistake.”

  He blinked twice and shook his head. “Of course you’d say as much,” he finally said. “But you have much to gain from the assertion.”

  “Much to gain!” she cried. She looked around at the only place she could find solitude—a barren, deserted slice of land, inhabited solely by weeds and nettles. Without thinking, she stepped forward and shoved his chest. “Much to gain,” she repeated. “Trust in my greed, if you don’t believe in my morals. If I had a few thousand pounds to my name, do you believe I’d be here, fetching and carrying for Lady Patsworth?”

  He frowned. “Perhaps you’re lying low.”

  “I could lie low, so to speak, with greater comfort and more likelihood of success in a hotel in Boston. Or a villa on the Italian coast.” She couldn’t stop the bitterness from invading her voice. “I could lie low with more than two gowns. With my own servants, instead of lowering myself to do someone else’s bidding. Do I look as if I am so much better off than the world that I fled?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Ask in Up Aubry when you have a chance. Ask them what they think of Mary Chartley. Full of herself, they’ll say—attends church and leaves immediately without talking to anyone. Too good to join the other women for a chat. I’m working for a man who doesn’t let me leave the property unless I’m guarded. If I had a choice, I would be anywhere but here.” She kicked furiously at the nettles.

  “Maybe,” he said slowly, with a great deal of skepticism. “If your father could cheat his partners, no doubt he could cheat you, too. But even if things have turned out badly for you, I deserve—no, I demand—a full accounting. There are thousands of pounds at stake. Do you know what happened to them?”

  God. She’d been dreading this moment. She woke up nights in a cold sweat, thinking of what she’d have to do to account for them.

  “I know,” she whispered. “But—I can’t. John. Please don’t make me.”

  It couldn’t be compassion she saw flicker in his eyes. They were long past that. His lips narrowed. “You’ll tell me everything. And if there’s anything I can recover…”

  She tried to look away, but he took hold of her chin, tilting her head up.

  He’d touched her almost like this back in Southampton. But then, it had been a prelude to a kiss. His grip was firmer now, and there was no warmth in his eyes, no tenderness—only hard calculation.

  “If there’s anything I can recover,” he repeated, “I will.” He let her go.

  “I have to get back,” she said. “Sir Walter times my walks. He’ll come after me in a few minutes. Please don’t let him find us together.”

  But she was only putting off the inevitable. The truth of who she was had caught up with her, and payment was required.

  Mr. Lawson had told her she was not a lady, all those months ago. It had taken her months to understand what that meant.

  It meant that she saw the darker side of every gentleman. There was no need for politeness, no need to worry about formalities. She could be imprisoned and isolated at whim. Her wages might be stolen; all hope of friendship could be yanked from her. And as bad as all that sounded, Mary knew that she had been lucky thus far.

  Her luck had officially run out.

  John let go of her. “Go back, then,” he said. “But, Mary… We’re not through.”

  Her limbs felt heavy. She was nothing but ice, through and through.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I know.”

  It was better this way. She would be ice, and she would survive.

  Chapter Four

  THE LITTLE COTTAGE WHERE JOHN was staying sat halfway up the hill; the window in the front room overlooked the farm. It had been built years ago for a one-time widowed sister, long since passed away. Beauregard had offered it up as a potential residence during his stay. He’d not meant it seriously—the farm, he said, would have so many more comforts—but John had leaped at the chance. No need to disturb Beauregard in the morning, he’d explained, and besides, this way, he could contemplate the shape of the land from on high.

  All good enough excuses, but the real reason he’d opted for the makeshift few rooms up the hill was the solitude he had in the evening.

  Tonight, he was too exhausted to talk to anyone. From the morning work supervising the drainage to the whirlwind tour of the best families within riding distance, he’d been busy for every hour of the day.

  And then there had been that afternoon meeting with Mary. That had sucked the life right out of him.

  With another early morning ahead of him, he’d prepared for bed. But night had come and sleep had eluded him. After an hour spent staring at the darkened ceiling—tired, but not sleepy—he’d donned loose trousers and gone for a glass of brandy. But the spirits hadn’t driven away his cluttered thoughts. They’d only muddled them further.

  He hated, absolutely hated, that even now, after he’d discovered the truth of Mary’s character, she still reminded him of the woman he had intended to wed. It wasn’t just her fine, almost fragile, beauty. He’d learned his lesson well enough on that score: Never trust fine appearances.

  It wasn’t even her scent, compelling though that was, nor the inviting curve of her lips. No; Mary had always been able to set him back on his heels, and today she’d done it again.

  Trust in my greed, if you don’t believe in my morals.

  A few offhand inquiries had borne out her claims. She had only two everyday gowns. She rarely left Doyle’s Grange, and when she did, she spoke to no one.

  “So it didn’t turn out as she expected,” he muttered, taking a sip of brandy. “Small surprise that criminal behavior didn’t pay.” Maybe she’d lied for her father’s sake, and he’d abandoned her. Maybe she’d had the money but had lost it gam
bling. He’d been fooled once by her. He’d let her go, so determined to prove by his gentlemanly conduct that he was fair, generous, even though she…

  I don’t love you.

  He took another long gulp of brandy, but the burn that traveled down his throat didn’t distract him. He didn’t want her. It no longer hurt to remember that he’d fooled himself so badly. So why did it still sting to remember her saying that?

  He let out a frustrated, exhausted sigh and took another sip—discovering, in surprise, that he’d reached the end of the tumbler. How was that possible? He’d just refilled it.

  The spirits, though, only seemed to increase the weight on his soul—and on his eyelids.

  He did believe her. That was the problem. He believed that if she had the partnership’s eight thousand pounds, she wouldn’t be here. If she was a hardened criminal, she’d have changed her name and fled the country. He’d seen the fraying cuffs of her gown—had even recognized the fabric as a made-over version of one she had used to wear back in Southampton.

  No doubt things had not been easy for her.

  “She brought it on herself,” he said.

  He’d believed it that afternoon. He’d make himself believe it again in the morning. But now…

  Right now, half-drunk and completely maudlin, some part of him hoped that she had lied to him about at least one thing. He hoped that she had loved him. It was vindictive and cruel of him, but he wished that she’d suffered. That while he’d been back in Southampton, discovering day by day what a fool she’d made of him, she’d missed him. That she still wanted him enough to beg for his forgiveness, all so he could have the pleasure of saying no.

  But true anger took energy. He could feel it sapping from his limbs as the night encroached. Sleep was finally catching up with him, and his unquiet thoughts slowly settled into a gentler mode. He set his brandy down and let his wandering imagination take him.