Page 6 of The Lady Who Left (The Flower Sisters #4)

T he remnants of Archie’s sandwich—the thick slice of ham slathered in mustard and slabs of fresh sourdough bread—bounced off his window, and he immediately regretted his actions.

His assistant popped his head of white hair around the door to Archie’s private office, almost, but not quite, suppressing his wince at the state of the room. Mr. Jasper Patmore had retired three years before as the secretary for a large legal firm in London to spend the rest of his days with his wife. Sadly, she had passed shortly after, and the man needed a project to fill his days.

Getting Archie organized was his chosen project and, based on the progress made in the last six months, Jasper would be working until Archie himself retired.

The outer parlor of the storefront was Jasper’s domain, but the private inner office resembled the chaos in Archie’s mind. His space was approaching a state where Jasper would allow clients inside without gasping aloud. Archie had unpacked all (most) of the boxes, and the pair of mismatched chairs facing his desk no longer served as supplementary bookshelves. The chipped bust of Aristotle, one Archie had rescued from a rubbish heap on a dare while in university, sat in the corner with Archie’s bowler plopped on its head and a discarded bow tie around its neck. Jasper did his best to maintain order, dusting with a ravenous urgency whenever Archie took luncheon outside the office, and kept the stacked files that defied the laws of gravity from spilling over.

“What happened this time?” Jasper said, raising one eyebrow at the display below the window.

Archie scowled, acting more like a petulant toddler than a business owner and one of the most promising attorneys in Yorkshire. “I got a letter back from Lancashire.”

Jasper flattened his lips and retreated, returning a moment later with another, far fatter, ham sandwich. “Here’s mine.”

“Then you won’t have anything to eat.”

His assistant enjoyed being of a martyr, and Archie had no issue tolerating the behavior. Jasper was a saint for holding the practice together. He experienced a burst of gratitude for the man’s endless patience and obscene competence. While Jasper’s salary was nearly the same as the rent, Archie’s fledgling business would have disintegrated into a pile of discarded newspapers and unanswered mail had Archie not hired him.

“I’ll eat my secret sandwich.”

Archie raised his brows. “You have a secret sandwich? ”

Jasper held up his hands. “We’re not getting into this now. Can we discuss why you’re throwing your luncheon at the window with enough frequency that I have to prepare secret sandwiches?”

Archie dropped his spectacles onto the pile of papers on his desk and pressed his fingertips to his temples, rubbing idly. “I wrote the Countess of Whitfield about Mary, and she finally responded.”

“I’m assuming she had no information for you.”

“None.” Archie lifted the paper, scanned the lines of tidy script and read them aloud. “ No one by the name of Mary is employed by my household, nor is anyone who matches your description a friend or relation of a member of the Burnley Hornets. I wish you the best with your search. “ He balled up the letter and tossed it towards the rubbish bin. He missed, of course, and Jasper winced.

“I suspect she doesn’t want to be found,” Jasper said for what was likely the thousandth time.

Archie wouldn’t listen to what he didn’t want to hear. “I need to know what happened, what I did wrong.”

Jasper huffed as he left the room, presumably to eat his mysterious secret sandwich, but not without a parting remark. “ She’s the one in the wrong, if you ask me.”

Archie had never asked him, but his assistant had offered his opinion multiple times during the past three weeks, after Archie had returned from Lancashire in a tizzy, desperate to track down the mystery lady who’d left him. He’d written letters to everyone with even a passing affiliation with the Burnley Hornets , inquiring after a woman named Mary who had dropped a piece of jewelry he was looking to return. A lie on his part, as she had provided no such Cinderella-esque clue to her identity, but it was the best ruse he could come up with.

He turned towards the window, taking in the breathtaking view of the coal chute and rubbish bins of the cheese shop next door, almost identical to the vista from his flat on the floor above. Except from his bedroom, he could see edges of the patchwork of slanted medieval roofs stretching over the Shambles and the towering spires of York Minster beyond.

His logic screamed something was amiss, that he’d overlooked something crucial about their interactions that night. And if he could only identify it, he could find his way back to her. The magic of their evening had burrowed into his soul, unlocked a part of him that had laid dormant since he was old enough to understand his responsibility to his family, how his choices impacted more than himself. He’d felt joy , freedom again with her. And he wasn’t about to let that go without a fight.

He lost track of his thoughts and jumped when a knock sounded at his door. Before he could respond, Jasper pushed into the room, looking uncharacteristically flustered. “Sir, um…” He glanced from his open notebook to Archie and back again. “There is a potential client here to see you. Lady Croydon, the Marchioness .”

He hissed the last word as though it were an ancient incantation, and, were Archie in a better mood, he might find Jasper’s agitation amusing. “A friend of Lord Valebrook?”

Jasper shrugged. “If so, she didn’t mention it. Shall I send her in? ”

Archie rubbed his temples and sighed as he imagined what asinine complaint he was about to hear.

He swallowed his bitterness; the marchioness couldn’t help that Archie was plagued by memories of a woman who’d disappeared. “Would you mind asking the questions?” He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “I have a blasted headache again.”

Jasper looked at him askance. “After all that nonsense with the sandwich, you didn’t eat it, did you? Again?”

His stomach growled. “What time is it?”

Jasper glared. “Half past four.”

Oh, hell .

“My apologies, Jasper. I lost track of the hour.”

“Again. No remorse is necessary.” His tone said otherwise. Archie suspected he’d be eating anchovies on toast for the next week as a consequence. “Shall I bring in the marchioness?”

Archie mumbled an affirmative around a slice of ham, stumbled to his feet, buttoned his jacket, and pushed his spectacles up his nose. Shoving a second piece into his mouth, he chewed furiously as the door opened, and—

He choked.

The partially masticated bit of meat froze in his throat along with his breath, his entire world ceasing to orbit as he hacked, wheezed. His eyes blurred, and for a moment he thought Jasper’s blasted secret ham sandwich had sent him to the great beyond and he was experiencing a heavenly vision.

Because Mary, his Mary, was in his office, staring at him agape as he coughed and spat the offending morsel into his handkerchief .

Mary— the Marchioness of Croydon , for Christ’s sake—stared at him, her pale cheeks and parted lips the only indications of her unease. Jasper landed a wholly unnecessary slap on Archie’s back before pinching the soiled handkerchief between his finger and thumb and shoving the lot in his pocket with a grimace.

Archie stared at her, unable to make sense of what he saw. Flowers and a tuft of feathers clung to the wide-brimmed silk and tulle hat hiding her lovely brown hair. Her dress was the exact shade of the daffodils that covered the hill around York Castle in the spring, nipped in at the waist where Mary— Lady Croydon —knit her fingers together, the digits wrapped in kid leather gloves the same yellow as her dress. She looked like a ray of sunshine in his dingy office.

A ray of sunshine that had crushed him like a weed beneath her pristine boots.

Jasper cleared his throat. Oh lord, not the staring again .

“Lady Mary,” Archie croaked, and Mary’s eyes widened. “I mean, Lady Croydon, seat a have, I mean, chair.” He pointed at the piece of furniture in question, and Jasper groaned.

She shook her head. “This is a mistake. I should g-go.” She started for the door, but Jasper held out a stilling hand.

“My lady,” he intoned, sounding as though he’d been educated at Eton and not at a local parish school. “Please forgive Mr. Grant. He hasn’t been feeling well, but I’m sure he will recover shortly.” He leaned on the last phrase, and Archie fought the urge to wince.

“Whatever we can do to support the great Marquessate of Croydon,” Jasper continued, “would be our great honor. ”

She nodded once, sucked in a deep breath, and spoke in a rush. “I need a d-d-d—” Another breath, a heavy swallow. “I want to d-divorce my husband.”

The air disappeared from the room. Archie wondered if he’d fainted, hit his head next to the sandwich spot on the window, and was, in reality, lying in a heap under his desk hallucinating this entire encounter. That was a far more plausible explanation than whatever this was.

Jasper recovered faster. “Perhaps you should have a seat.”

She cast Archie the briefest of glances, and what she saw must have indicated he wasn’t likely to leap across the desk and call her a harlot, so she sat gingerly, crossing one ankle over the other and folding her hands over her reticule.

Those hands scratched your chest while you fucked her with your fingers—

The next thought was far more sobering. She cheated on her husband with you .

His stomach threatened to expel itself from his body as he dug his fingertips into the arms of his chair. Adulterer. No, he wasn’t at fault. She was. Although, he’d never asked, never inquired about any specifics of her life beyond the party.

In his defense, a woman saying don’t stop is generally a sign they are available for a dalliance, without a husband and children—

Oh hell. Children .

“Lady Marigold Torcross, Marchioness of Croydon,” she was saying as Jasper took notes. “Thirty years old.”

Marigold, not Mary . Mari .

“And your husband?” Jasper prompted.

“Lord Roger William Reginald T-t-torcross, Marquess of Croydon. Fifty-four years old.” He heard the tension in her words, as though she would evoke his presence simply by uttering his name.

The rest of Jasper’s inquiry revealed the basics of her situation: married at seventeen to a man a quarter century her senior, with two children, the eldest the heir to the marquessate.

“He’s d-d-different,” she said, her cheeks coloring as she leaned forward in her seat, showing more animation than she had since the moment she’d seen him. “Reggie, he isn’t like other boys. He won’t p-play outside, or sp-speak if he has nothing to say. He needs calm and routine.” She paused. Her voice had grown loud, passionate, and despite the anger roiling in his gut, Archie felt a bolt of pride in her fierce defense of her children.

“That’s why I need this d-d-divorce,” she continued. “I cannot allow the marquess to make d-decisions about their futures.”

“What does your husband think about this?” Archie’s words fell like a lead weight in the room.

Lady Croydon shifted in her seat. “He d-does not b-believe I’m serious. He’s in London now, b-b-but I’ve moved out of the country house into a t-townhouse on St. Helen’s Square.”

Christ, he’d been searching all of northern England and the woman lived a stone’s throw away. “The divorce will be contested, then. Where are your children now?”

“In Boston with my mother,” she said, returning to her succinct answers from before. Where was the woman who recited three hundred species of bees and stole a tray of caramels ?

That’s right. That woman was a liar, had seduced him and disappeared when her needs were satisfied.

His Mary did not exist. And he was a fool for believing what they shared was real. She’d known her circumstances all along and never told him the truth. Any moment spent with the Marchioness of Croydon would only hurt him more, remind him of the shameful thing he’d done. The time had come to sever her from his life for good.

“A court must have cause to dissolve a marriage if it is contested,” he said, summoning the lowest and most commanding voice he possessed.

She bristled in her seat, and while normally he would stop to assess his client’s mood, he barreled on.

“There are three grounds for a contested divorce. As the wife, you will have to prove two in court. Abandonment is not applicable, as you’ve spoken to your husband —” he didn’t miss her wince, “—in the past two years. Has he abused you or your children?”

A breathless moment passed in which Archie realized he was clutching the arms of his chair, awaiting her answer. If that bastard had put his hands on her or their children, Archie would be on his way to London to ensure it never happened again.

“He’s never st-struck us, no,” she said. “B-but he’s threatened to, however—”

“Words are meaningless,” Archie interrupted, and Jasper flinched. Archie was too far gone to care. “And finally we come to adultery. ”

The color drained from her cheeks as he stood, leaned forward and pressed his hands to the surface of his desk, only skidding for a moment on the loose papers before he held his ground.

“Are you aware of your husband having an affair during your marriage?”

“Yes.”

He glimpsed triumph in her expression, and he briefly regretting having to snuff it out. “Is he currently being unfaithful?”

“I b-b-believe so, yes,” she stammered. “He d-d-d-denied it, though.”

Archie nodded, his blood heating. He’d be a fool to alienate a member of the aristocracy, even if he couldn’t take her case. He had associates in various practices around England who could assist, but all he felt was the sharp, juvenile need to hurt in return clawing at his insides.

“Ah, I see,” he said in a tone that lacked all empathy. “Now, as a hypothetical, we should consider if your husband were to seek a divorce from you. What cause might he find?”

Her eyes widened.

“Mr. Grant,” Jasper hissed, but Archie couldn’t stop.

“Again, abandonment is irrelevant, and I assume someone of your stature isn’t regularly bloodying the marquess.”

Her brows furrowed and lips parted, and deep in Archie’s chest, something shifted and pressed, reminding him he’d gone too far.

But he kept talking. “Which leaves adultery.”

Her pale mien was now a ghastly color, as though she might cast up her accounts on the rug at Jasper’s feet .

“Which would be particularly dangerous for you, as the law states if you were to have an affair, you would lose custody of your children to your husband.”

Lady Croydon stood and pressed the butter yellow glove to her lips. “I need t-t-to g-go. Excuse me,” she mumbled as she rushed out.

Jasper popped to his feet to follow her, but Archie heard nothing that passed between them through the roaring in his ears. He fell back into his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples, throwing his spectacles down on the desk. They skittered across the surface and tumbled to the floor, landing near the chair she’d abandoned.

A moment passed before Jasper stormed into the room, a tempest of barely contained fury. “What in the blazes was that?”

Archie gave up and laid his forehead on his desk. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’ll forgive me for being blunt, but I’ve never heard you so rude, let alone with someone so well poised in society. What if she tells others how you acted?”

“She won’t.”

The vibrations from Jasper’s quick, pacing footsteps reverberated through the desk and into his cheek. “She might. And we’re barely holding on. You know that, I don’t have to remind you, and even if we don’t find a windfall case soon—”

“We won’t win that case.” His voice was muffled by a complaint he’d just received from a recent widow who wanted her daughter-in-law to stop claiming the widow’s blueberry scone recipe as her own .

“But we could try. We can get paid for trying, Archie. That’s how this business works.”

“We can’t even take it.” Archie lifted his head. “We can’t go anywhere near it, Jasper.”

His assistant paused. “Why not? What aren’t you telling me?”

“Lady Croydon. Lady Marigold Croydon. Mari.”

Jasper gasped and dropped his notebook to clasp both hands over his mouth. “She’s your Mary? Oh, dear God.” He slumped into his chair. “Did you know?”

“Did I know?” Archie gave a hysterical bark of laughter. “Of course not! I never would have dallied with a married marchioness !”

Jasper tented his fingers and pressed them to the center of his forehead. “This is terrible. She could tell everyone what the two of you did and destroy your reputation.”

“She won’t. That’s why I said what I did.” His stomach lurched at the memory of her wounded expression. “If anyone finds out what we did, the marquess could divorce her with cause and take the children away.”

“Poor thing.” Jasper shook his head and tsked. “She’s in a hopeless situation, and her status makes it harder. She has no legal recourse unless he hits her or the children, and even then it’s nigh on impossible to prove.”

Memories of his mother and sisters cowering in the closet of their farmhouse while his father raged at him, welcoming the blows so they wouldn’t fall on the hiding women, flooded back to him. They never wore the bruises, but they felt the impact all the same. “Threats can be just as damaging as fists.”

“But does the law believe that?”

As a young boy, Archie had thought his father’s behavior to be normal, but as he grew older, he realized his peers never told similar stories, were eager to be with their sires instead of shying away in their presence. By the time he was a teen, Archie was acutely aware of the injustice of it, wondering what horrible lottery he’d won to have a father who believed his own flesh and blood caused all the ill fate in his life.

He’d begged his mother to leave him behind, pleaded with his sisters to flee, to find somewhere safe. Your father never hit me or the girls, she’d said, again and again. She didn’t know that Archibald Grant Sr. dragged his son and namesake outside to beat him, careful to place the wounds where they wouldn’t be visible. And Archie kept that secret, ashamed that he didn’t flee the abuse.

Because if he wasn’t there to protect them, to believe them, who would?

“No,” he said, getting to his feet. His mind was beginning to move, spinning and spiraling, but this time with a purpose, a vague destination in sight. “The law doesn’t believe that—yet.”

Jasper sat back in his chair. “Archie, no. We’re not in a position to go on a wild goose chase to create a new law.”

“This isn’t new law, it’s establishing precedent, redefining existing law.” He scrambled his hands over his desk, looking for a blank piece of paper. Finding none, he flipped over the blueberry scone complaint and began scribbling with a pencil stub he found in his pocket. “The system is already biased against women, requiring twice as much cause to secure a divorce. Narrowly defining abuse makes it even more difficult, particularly when women are encouraged to keep it secret from their neighbors.”

“Why would they keep it a secret?”

Archie looked up, and Jasper must have recognized the deep emotion running through his veins. “Shame. A woman who is abused believes she’s done something wrong, something that displeased the man who promised to love and care for her. Who would admit to that?”

He pulled some loose coins from his desk drawer and shoved them in his jacket pocket with the blueberry scone notes, took another bite of the sandwich, and headed for the door, his mind racing and blood pumping.

“Archie, what are you going to do?” Jasper cried as Archie reached the threshold.

“I’m going to go find the marchioness!”