Page 23 of Of Lies and Earls (Inglorious Scoundrels #2)

Dear Lydia,

I’m writing this letter knowing full well that you cannot respond—that there’s nowhere for me to send it. And yet, I write it anyway, if only to temper my restless hands.

Where are you? Is Thornton still beside you? Have you married him yet? Are you happy? Are you safe?

I worry about you every minute of every day. I know you told me not to, but I can’t help it.

A lot has changed for me in recent days. Some developments I can’t wait to share with you, others I dread to even voice. But nothing you need to worry about… not yet.

I only wish you were here, close enough for me to reach. I need your advice, your support—just as I’m certain you need mine.

Write to me as soon as you can.

Love,

Honor

T he night of the dinner came too soon and somehow not soon enough at the same time. Honoria was not ready—not that she ever would be—and she was too winded, her mind exhausted overthinking every little thing that might go wrong.

She had been a bundle of nerves for days, leading up to this confrontation.

All for naught. Because Bradshaw had arrived alone, citing his wife’s poor health.

Of course, she was in poor health. You caused it, you bastard!

Honoria paced the length of the bedroom after Jacob had relayed the news that the countess hadn’t joined them for dinner.

She paused by the window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The street below was quiet, bathed in silver moonlight.

She would not let this setback deter her. In fact… Her reflection stared back at her, determination hardening her features. This was the perfect opportunity.

With swift movements, she dressed in her simplest walking gown and fastened a plain cloak around her shoulders.

She stole into the night, telling the footman she would be back soon, and not to worry the earl. She dashed out of the house through the servants’ entrance, making her way down the darkened street.

She navigated the familiar roads, her feet moving of their own accord, muscle memory guiding her through shortcuts and side passages until she stood in front of the dark, imposing townhouse that haunted her nightmares and her waking fears.

Bradshaw’s house.

She knew every entry and exit from her years as its mistress. She knew how to get inside unnoticed, how to move through the shadows where servants rarely ventured.

She slipped through the garden gate and entered through the conservatory. Then she navigated her way upstairs, past the portrait gallery with its judging ancestral eyes, and finally to the countess’s quarters.

She stood outside the door, gathering her courage. She remembered herself in this very room, suffering in silence. She raised her trembling hand and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” called a delicate, feminine voice.

She entered, her eyes adjusting to the dim room lit only by a single bedside candle. It was just as it had been when she lived there. Nothing had changed. The same heavy crimson draperies, the same ornate carved bed that had once felt like a prison.

Except now, a different woman lay on that bed, her face covered with a bundled wet cloth.

“Leave the tea by the bed, Martha,” the woman said, her voice muffled by the cloth.

She had mistaken Honoria for the maid. That was expected. But it meant the maid was coming. Honoria didn’t have much time. She stepped farther into the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Lady Bradshaw,” she said softly, trying her best not to frighten the woman.

Lady Bradshaw lowered the cloth from her face, revealing a dark, ugly bruise blooming across her right cheekbone, spreading toward her eye, which was swollen nearly shut.

Honoria flinched.

“What are you doing here?” Lady Bradshaw asked, confusion giving way to alarm, until tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. “How dare you come into my room and act this brazen! Are you looking for Bradshaw in my room now? Is that a new torture he’s concocted—bringing his mistresses to my room?”

Honoria reared back in shock, her carefully prepared words evaporating. He truly had not changed at all, had he?

“No, that’s not it.” Honoria stood rooted in place, her eyes sweeping over the bruise on her face. “He did this to you, didn’t he?”

Lady Bradshaw’s hand instinctively rose to cover the evidence of her husband’s cruelty. Her voice was brittle when she spoke again. “If you are not his mistress, then who are you?”

Honoria swallowed. “I was you six years ago.”

“What are you talking about?” Lady Bradshaw shifted in bed, the silk coverlet rustling beneath her trembling hands as she clutched it closer, as if it might shield her from Honoria’s intrusion.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, and for the way I entered your home—but I’m here to help you. I promise.”

“Help me? Do I even know you?”

“No. But I used to be you,” Honoria repeated. “Six years ago. I had a cruel husband who mistreated me badly. Just like yours is mistreating you.” She paused, weighing her words carefully. She didn’t want to overwhelm the woman with too many details, with the complete, unvarnished truth. And despite the pity that constricted her heart, she could not trust Lady Bradshaw not to report to her husband about this interaction.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you get into my house?” Lady Bradshaw’s voice rose slightly with each question. Her eyes darted toward the bell pull, though she made no move to reach for it.

“It’s not important. I’m sorry, it’s not. I don’t have a lot of time.” Honoria glanced nervously toward the door, then looked around the room and found a piece of paper and a pencil on the desk by the window. She rushed toward the desk and, with hurried strokes, wrote down an address on it.

“Here’s what’s important,” she continued, approaching the bedside. “My husband nearly killed me six years ago. But I escaped.” She paused to let the other woman process the information. “And I want you to know that there is an escape for you, too. But it’s up to you.”

She handed the piece of paper to the woman lying in bed. Lady Bradshaw reached out her hand, and there were bruises there too, on her wrist—dark, purplish finger marks.

“What kind of escape?” the woman asked, her voice small.

“Not an easy one,” Honoria said truthfully. “One that would ruin you in society’s eyes. But it won’t kill you. He might.” She punctuated her words with a direct stare at the bruise marring Lady Bradshaw’s delicate features, and the woman ducked her head.

“If you decide to escape, send a note to this address by post boy. No need to sign your name—just write one word: Help. Then wait for me to contact you. And whatever you do, don’t tell your husband I was here. He might punish you for that, too.”

The door opened, and the maid walked in, carrying a silver tray with a steaming pot of tea. She froze mid-step, seeing an intruder in her mistress’s room, her eyes widening in shock. “Pardon me, I didn’t know—” she stammered, nearly upsetting the tray in her surprise.

Honoria turned and glanced at the familiar face. She’d worked for Bradshaw before, too—but she used to be a scullery maid, if Honoria wasn’t mistaken. Martha had been young then, barely more than a girl.

Did she recognize her? After all these years?

Honoria hoped she didn’t.

She threw one last meaningful glance at Lady Bradshaw, a silent communication passing between them.

Without another word, Honoria gathered her skirts and hurried away.