Page 13 of Lady Farah Creates a Scandal (The Season of Secrets #2)

T wo days later, they set off for Malahide.

As the carriage rattled along the uneven road, Rockwell and Farah exchanged worried glances.

The verdant Irish countryside passed by in a blur.

Farah wished she could take it all in, but maybe on the way back, once they’d found Lucien, she could relax and enjoy this trip.

At the moment, the two of them had their thoughts firmly fixed on their missing friend.

Rockwell, his normally composed demeanor slightly frayed around the edges, broke the tense silence. “What am I going to say to him if I find him?”

Farah, her brow furrowed with concern, leaned forward in her seat. “Be truthful, Rockwell. If he deserves your censure, then do so. It seems unlike him not to send word home or not to go home. If it is him, I fear something dreadful has occurred. Maybe he’s being held prisoner.”

He reached across the space and squeezed her hand. “I’m almost hoping that’s true.” He shook his head. “How awful is that?”

“You’re just being honest. His disappearance hurt you, too.”

He turned to look out the window and she left him to his thoughts.

She too had tossed all night, wondering if this romantic image she had of Courtney and Lucien was a charade.

If he had run from his obligations and family, she’d make Rockwell swear that when they returned to London, he’d say Lucien was dead.

She could not bear to hurt her friend by revealing the truth.

“What time will we make Malahide?”

He gave her his attention. “We should be there just after lunch. It will give us time to do some initial scouting.”

She was pleased that she wore gloves to prevent her nails from being bitten to the quick.

“Why did your brother refuse your marriage to the Conte?”

Gosh, where had that question come from? What had Rockwell been thinking about? Perhaps the most likely outcome of this adventure. A scandal-ridden engagement and marriage. Not if she could prevent it.

“You know why. He thought Philippe was after my money and not good enough for me. Blackstone has a grand dislike of the French.”

“Didn’t you explain to him you loved him?”

She didn’t know how to respond to that question.

Had she loved Philippe, or was it simply because a handsome man had shown interest in her, and she saw a marriage to him as a way out of her brother’s grasp?

To always live under her brother’s rule, even though his behavior stemmed from love for her, never knowing if he’d approve of anything she did…

It was so tiring. Farah saw that she would have to stand up for herself because no one else would.

When they returned to London, she’d make Blackstone see her.

Make him understand she was an intelligent and capable woman.

Although if he finds out about this trip, any chance of that will vanish.

“Of course, but he didn’t care. I think I would have been content with Philippe.”

“Content? Is that enough for you? I thought you told me you want a grand love like the one between Tiffany and Wolf.”

“I didn’t back then. But I’m older and wiser now, and I know what I want. I don’t think Philippe and I would have had a grand love affair, but we could have been happy.” She paused and took in the look on Rockwell’s face. “What is it? What is on your mind?”

He shrugged. “I’m just thinking of Ashley and Ivy. Both Wolf and I would do anything to protect our sisters, but we would also want to ensure they have happiness in their lives. I can’t imagine Wolf or me forcing them to do anything they didn’t want to.”

“Is that what you did for Ashley? You let her make her own choice, regardless of the scandal?” What was the scandal? She was dying to know. Would he tell her?

“Absolutely. I love her and we would both do anything for her. That’s why I cannot understand Blackstone’s treatment of you.”

She turned to look out the window. “You are nothing like my brother. If you were, I would not be in this carriage with you. I would have been sent home and married off with no say in the matter. Is my scandal going to be so different from Ashley’s? She’s survived hers. Surely I can survive mine.”

“Yours is nothing like Ashley’s.” She watched Rockwell’s hands clench into fists. The venom in his voice shocked her into silence. What on earth had happened to Ashley? The mood in the carriage thickened.

Finally, he said, “You think you’re this timid, shy woman, but I think you are stronger and more determined than you realize. I’m pretty sure you can survive anything. Ashley proved to me just how strong women are. Women are called the weaker sex and it’s absolute rubbish.”

She hugged herself inside. He sounded as if he admired her.

Or was he simply telling her this so she would fight being forced to marry him?

It would set him free too—and his honor would remain intact if she declined him.

She eyed him warily but couldn’t ascertain his true thoughts on the matter.

She guessed she’d learn her fate when they returned to London.

After a few hours, their carriage finally rumbled into the quaint village of Malahide, a pretty village by the sea. She shook herself awake, since she’d dozed the last few miles due to lack of sleep the night before.

She peered out of the carriage to take in cobbled streets that were lined with charming cottages and bustling with locals going about their daily routines. Farah’s gaze scanned the surroundings, searching for any sign of their friend.

“Let’s start at the inn where we’re staying,” suggested Farah, her voice tinged with determination. “Perhaps someone here has seen him or knows of his whereabouts.”

The inn wasn’t up to the standard of their accommodation in Dublin, but it was clean and had two rooms available. It also had a private dining room, which they could use for meals.

After refreshments and other needs were taken care of, they made their way through the village, inquiring at every shop they passed. Despite their efforts, the answers they received were vague and inconclusive. They were told in no uncertain terms that no English gentleman lived here.

Rockwell sighed heavily, frustration evident in his voice. “It’s as if Lucien has vanished into thin air. But we can’t give up hope just yet.”

Farah nodded in agreement, her resolve unwavering. “Perhaps they are suspicious because we are English? We’ll continue our search. We owe it to Lucien to leave no stone unturned.”

Rockwell pointed back toward the inn. “I’ll go and speak to the blacksmith. Surely he must service all those around this village. Do you want to wait at the inn?”

Farah shook her head. “I’ll visit the church at the top of the hill. It looks out over the sea, so at least I’ll take in a beautiful view. Besides, I’ll stop at the vicarage. The vicar must know all his congregation.”

“Good idea.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll meet you up there.” He strode off down the hill toward the sounds of the smithery.

Farah took off her bonnet and let the crisp sea air clear the tension headache that had been building all morning.

The view as she walked was breathtaking and for one moment, she forgot all her troubles.

Soon she game to a rickety iron gate that was the entry to the graveyard.

She could see the vicar’s cottage further up the hill, but she wanted to read all about the people who had lived and died in this little village.

She wandered through the weathered gravestones in the yard, her footsteps muffled by the damp grass beneath her feet. The sun cast a glow over the ancient burial ground as she trailed her fingers along the cold, moss-covered stone markers.

Her eyes scanned the inscriptions, each one telling a story of lives long gone.

Some names were faded with time, barely legible, while others stood out in bold relief, their memories preserved for centuries.

Farah paused at one particularly ornate tombstone, tracing the elegant script with a gloved finger.

Lost in thought, she was startled by the sound of light footsteps approaching. Turning, she saw a little girl, only around three or four, her dark hair tousled by the wind, racing toward her with a wildflower clutched in her hand.

“Dia dhuit,” the girl said breathlessly as she skidded to a stop in front of Farah and handed her the flower.

Tears welled in her eyes. She recognized that smile, and the look around the eyes, and the child’s hair coloring were the same.

She smiled warmly at the child’s kindness, taking the offered bloom delicately between her fingers.

“Thank you, sweety,” she said, her voice carrying the lilt of a foreign accent that piqued the girl’s curiosity.

The child tilted her head, studying Farah intently. “Who are you?” she asked, in Irish English this time, her blue eyes wide with wonder. “And why do you talk funny?”

Farah chuckled softly at the girl’s blunt question, kneeling to meet her gaze. “I am Lady Farah Perrin,” she replied. “What’s your name?”

The child eyed her as if judging if she should talk to a stranger, but she must have thought Farah was nice because she said, “I’m Ava-Marie.”

Farah’s excitement grew at hearing the name Ava. It couldn’t be a coincidence. She looked around the graveyard. “Are you here alone? I’m a friend of your father’s. Is he here?”

The girl’s eyes widened in awe at the mention of her father. “Daid?” she repeated, the word rolling off her tongue. “He’s visiting with Máthair.”

She held out her hand. “Shall we find them?”

With a sudden burst of energy, Ava-Marie took Farah’s hand. “Or we could play a game,” she said with a mischievous grin. “Would you like to explore the graveyard with me? I know all the best hiding spots!”

Farah laughed, her heart warmed by the innocence and enthusiasm of the child. Taking the girl’s hand, she rose to her feet. “But I haven’t seen your father in a very long time and I’d love to say hello.”

“I suppose. But we could play afterwards. Daid always finds me, though.”

Ava-Marie skipped along beside her, chatting, sometimes in English and sometimes in Gaelic. Farah’s heart was so full. He was alive. But with that came a dread regarding questions. Was this child the reason he hadn’t returned home? Was he ashamed that he’d been unfaithful to Courtney?

They rounded the corner of the church and she saw a man over by the tree, standing over a grave. She could tell he was talking and she could also see it was Lord Lucien Cavanaugh, Viscount Furoe, the heir to the Earl of Danvers.

“Daid is talking to Máthair.”

The truth hit her squarely in the chest like a cannonball—Ava-Marie’s mother was dead.

Just as they drew near, he leaned down and cleared some old flowers off her grave and placed fresh ones on the headstone.

She saw him wipe a tear from his face. As he heard them approach, he swung round to face them.

She hardly recognized the man in front of her.

His beard was full and his face had a deep slash from the top of his right forehead down his cheek.

“I’m sorry. I hope my daughter hasn’t been bothering you.”

In an instant, Farah knew something was very wrong. There was no recognition in his eyes and he spoke with a heavy Irish accent. But it was Lucien, all right. She drew in a breath before saying, “No. She hasn’t been bothering me. I’m here in Malahide looking for someone.”

“Oh, you’re English. I’m John Collins. This is my daughter, Ava-Marie,” he said, swinging the little girl who looked so much like her father it hurt, into his arms. His Irish accent was broad. A commoner’s accent.

“Yes, she introduced herself to me.” To fill the awkward silence, she asked, “Have you always lived here in Malahide?”

A frown crossed his face. “No. I think I lived in England before coming home, because I got injured in France, I believe. Or so my wife used to tell me. I can’t remember anything from before five years ago.” He touched his head near his scar. “A head wound took my memories.”

Farah bit down on the urge to stamp her foot and yell into the breeze.

Someone had told a man who had so obviously lost his memories, lies to keep him here.

He’d never fought in the war with France.

She was out of her depth and wasn’t sure what to do when a voice behind her boomed out, “Christ. Lucien, oh, my God you are alive!” The next minute Rockwell came barreling into them, hugging Lucien and his daughter while tears poured down his face.

Lucien began to struggle and Farah could see the panic in his eyes. She pulled hard on Rockwell’s coat, pulling him away from Lucien. “He doesn’t know who you are, let alone who he is. He’s got amnesia.”

Rockwell stumbled backward, shock and then relief on his face. Farah guessed what he was thinking. Lucien hadn’t deserted his family. He just didn’t remember them.

Farah focused her attention back on a shocked Lucien.

“Mr. Collins. This is my—friend—Lord Rockwell Ware, and he has been looking for you for a long time. He’s simply overjoyed at finding you.

” She smiled at the man she’d known most of her life, who now looked at her like a stranger.

“Is there somewhere we could go to explain why we are here?”