Page 18 of The Duke of Cups (The Highwaymen #3)

HYACINTH FINALLY GOT a reply from Dunrose.

Marrying Champeraigne is perfect. It solves both of our problems and puts you in exactly the right position to poison him, after which you would be a widow and would inherit his wealth.

You’d be able to support yourself well enough, I should think, and you would no longer need to secure a husband for purposes of survival.

Tell him yes. Also, destroy this letter immediately upon reading it.

She crumpled the letter up and threw it in the fire, less because Dunrose had told her to destroy than because it made her angry.

She remembered how she had thought, originally, that Dunrose would wish to rescue her from marrying Champeraigne. Here he was, encouraging it.

She shouldn’t have expected anything different. After all, Dunrose did not actually care about her. He only cared about himself. He was using her, and he had taken her into his bed for selfish reasons, not because he had any true regard for her.

That night, she would go to the ball. She no longer knew if Dunrose would still be sending her a carriage, so she was prepared to ride horseback to Marian’s place.

However, the carriage came when it was supposed to, though it was empty, and Dunrose himself did not appear.

He wasn’t at the ball, either .

She and Marian stayed to the periphery as they had last time, but she knew she could not remain here. She needed to get her dance card filled.

In an attempt to do exactly that, she shared her plan with Marian.

After making the list of eligible men, she had done what she could to think of subjects that they might enjoy speaking of, things it was possible they had in common.

Now, she went with Marian to speak about these possible commonalities as they walked by the men. They spoke loudly and obviously, but it only worked a few times.

She did secure three dances.

Most of the men ignored them, however.

Marian clasped her hand and pulled her back to the periphery to tell her that the plan made her look desperate and awful. “This is beneath you, Hyacinth. Why, allow me to ask my husband to intervene on your behalf. He can convince men in ways we cannot.”

Hyacinth eyed her. “You have that sort of influence with your husband?”

Marian nodded. “Of course I do.”

“All right,” said Hyacinth. “I would be grateful for any such assistance.”

And then she danced her dances.

She could not help but think about, well, going to bed with these men, and she could not bear the idea of it, not with any of her three dance partners. It was wretched. The idea of it seemed absolutely appalling.

How could she subject herself to it with these men after seeing him, Dunrose, with his lithe and muscled body and his beautiful face?

Nothing was ever going to compare to him in that way, was it?

Of course, Seraphine said that Dunrose wasn’t skilled as a lover, so that must mean something.

Maybe she should get some sort of recommendations from Seraphine of men, as Seraphine had offered.

She did not wish to bed other men who had been with her, of course, but right now, she was not sure she wished to bed anyone else, ever, except Dunrose, and that obviously wasn’t possible.

He wasn’t even interested.

The next day, she asked Seraphine for a list of men who were good lovers.

Seraphine began to list them off, a faraway look in her eyes.

But all of them seemed to strike Hyacinth with that same feeling of vague disgust. Not him, no, definitely not him, and she could not imagine him .

“What?” said Seraphine. “What is that face?”

“It is only that he’s so… well, how am I ever supposed to find another man attractive after him?” said Hyacinth.

Seraphine raised her eyebrows. “You mean Dunrose?” She considered. “I suppose he’s sort of pretty, like a woman is pretty—”

“He’s not even remotely womanish,” interrupted Hyacinth. “He’s very hairy, for one thing, and he has a lot of muscles, and then, of course, he’s got his…” Oh, what was she saying?

“Well, I suppose I do remember he was surprisingly well endowed for a skinny man,” said Seraphine. “Usually, men sort of match all over, you see. Big men are big everywhere. But I can’t imagine that was really a good thing for your first time either.”

“He doesn’t even like me,” said Hyacinth. “So, I don’t like him. I’m not in love with him, not anymore, but he’s still…”

“You still find him attractive,” said Seraphine. “I see.” She tapped her lower lip. “All right, give me some time to think of someone, then, someone you might like the look of who I know would be better skilled. I need time!”

And later that day, a letter came from Marian, apologizing because she had spoken to her husband and he had said that he could not agree to help Hyacinth find a husband. He said it was women’s work, but also that everyone was convinced that Hyacinth was not interested in anyone.

Hyacinth felt a fresh wave of despair .

She went riding.

She thought about marrying Champeraigne and becoming a widow after she killed him.

It wasn’t the worst future she could imagine, she supposed, but one thing about it would be unbearable, and that would be that Seraphine would never forgive her for it.

Seraphine was the closest thing she had to family.

She could not betray her in that way.

On the other hand, what was going to become of her?

She was now a penniless fake Englishwoman who wasn’t even intact. She was a pretend virgin and a pretend heiress.

If she didn’t do something to take care of herself, she would end up all alone, unable to support herself financially, and Seraphine would have to abandon her anyway, because she could not take care of her forever.

Even if Seraphine didn’t abandon her, it would be better for Seraphine if Hyacinth could take care of herself, because then the other woman would not be burdened with her.

Seraphine and Champeraigne could not remain lovers forever, anyway, could they? Eventually, people lost any drive in that direction, didn’t they? Champeraigne might be coming up on that soon enough, though Hyacinth didn’t know when it happened.

Champeraigne was in his fifties, she thought, which sounded very, very ancient to her. Likely, he was not even much interested in doing anything sexual anymore, or very soon wouldn’t be.

So, if Hyacinth did not secure a husband, soon, she would be ten years older, and so would Seraphine and Champeraigne, but they wouldn’t be lovers anymore, because surely in ten years, they’d be too old for it, wouldn’t they?

So, what was she really keeping this man alive for, anyway? How much more pleasure could he even give Seraphine?

And if she killed him, she could have his wealth, and this would mean she was no longer a burden on Seraphine.

Now, Seraphine wouldn’t be grateful, of course. She would never forgive such an act.

But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be doing Seraphine a service, in the end.

Champeraigne, by Seraphine’s own admission, was a very bad man. He deserved to die, and no one seemed to be able to deny that. So, maybe it was better for everyone if Hyacinth simply did it.

She turned the horse and rode back for the house. Once there, she sought out Champeraigne, finding him reading in the library upstairs.

He did not acknowledge her when she came into the room, which annoyed her for no reason she could really fathom. Here she was, coming to this man to try to convince herself to murder him, and he wouldn’t cooperate, and she was annoyed with him for not participating in his own demise?

“Here is the truth of it,” she said to him. “Seraphine has been quite good to me, and I have appreciated that, but what she has taught me, since I was very small, is that I must take care of myself because no one else was going to take care of me.”

“It’s true enough,” said Champeraigne, setting his book down. “Especially when one has no parents anymore or any family. There is no one to turn to, not in that same way. Am I to take it this means you’re considering what I spoke of earlier?”

“Well, I have to say this,” said Hyacinth, crossing her arms over her chest, “I did not appreciate the fact that you did not even ask me. You only spoke to her, and she does not make my decisions for me.”

Champeraigne only smiled.

Hyacinth squared her shoulders. Oh, so he’d done that on purpose, had he?

He’d hoped to awaken her independence, to spark within her a desire to rebel.

He was an intelligent man, after all, imbued with a sense of evil wisdom, and he could influence people.

He had influenced her. “You were serious that we don’t have to, erm, consummate. ”

“I am a liar, my dear,” he said, “but I wasn’t lying about that. Seraphine would castrate me if I bedded you, I think. I like that part of my body.”

Hyacinth made a face. “She won’t like it if we get married.”

“She will hate it,” said Champeraigne. “But she does things that I hate constantly, so I don’t rightly care.”

“Yes, but I’ve never knowingly displeased her.”

“Well, if you wish to take it all back…”

Hyacinth didn’t move. “You’re certain we don’t have to, though, because someone was just telling me that marriages aren’t legal if they aren’t consummated, and I do think he was just saying it because he was interested in bedding me, but—”

“You’re harping on this a lot. You’re lucky I’m not easily offended.” He smirked at her.

She shivered. He was horrible. All men disgusted her in that way these days, but he was ten times as disgusting as any other man.

“It’s true enough, I suppose, that a marriage should be consummated,” he said. “But that is really down to you and to me. All we need do is retire to a room together for ten minutes or so and both claim that consummation happened. No one can say otherwise.”

“Right,” she said with a nod, seeing that this was true.

“And I assure you that I have no interest in that sort of thing,” said Champeraigne. “I’m capable of tricking a woman into it, if I must, but I don’t like doing violence to pretty young things.”