Page 49

E ugenia marched through the corridors of Pendleton Castle. Portraits of stern-faced Pendleton ancestors seemed to watch her progress with disapproving eyes.

It was rare that she marched anywhere.

In fact, her usual mode of travel was languid and ladylike, but it was rare that she was fueled by such indignation.

No, rage. That would be a better word for it. The emotion burned in her chest, heating her cheeks and making her normally steady hands tremble.

She found Lord Thornton reading a news sheet in the depths of a leather wing chair in one of the two drawing rooms. The familiar scent of beeswax polish and leather bindings filled the air, and a fire crackled softly in the marble fireplace despite the mild weather.

A couple of guests were chatting a little distance away near the pianoforte, their tone convivial, their words mercifully muffled by the thick Turkish carpet.

Glancing about her to ensure that they were sufficiently private and distant not to be overheard, Eugenia sank down onto a straight-backed chair opposite and huffed out a breath. The chair’s rigid posture matched her own.

Slowly dropping the news sheet, Lord Thornton raised his head and sent her an enquiring smile. The afternoon light caught the silver at his temples, reminding her painfully of all the years they’d known each other.

“Eugenia, my dear… Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the ball? Instead, you look strangely ready to do battle. Why, I have never seen you in such high dudgeon since that morning at Almack’s when young Lord Rutherford spilled punch on your new silk gown.”

The reference to their shared past only fueled her anger.

Eugenia clasped her hands in her lap to stop them trembling and said with a low hiss, “I have always considered you an honorable man, Lord Thornton. Indeed, I have always admired you highly. I’ve wished for your high esteem and that is the reason I proposed the wager.

” Each word felt like it was being torn from her throat.

Pursing his lips, he studied her with interest, his keen eyes missing nothing of her distress.

The newspaper crinkled as he set it aside.

“I almost think I’m about to hear that you believe me guilty of committing some egregious crime that has caused me to fall from this lofty pedestal upon which you once placed me. ”

“To so cruelly play with the hearts of decent, honorable young people purely so you can claim my Persephone is beneath you, Lord Thornton. That is what I wished to say.” She rose, lancing him with a final look of disgust as she prepared to depart, her skirts rustling with the force of her movement.

“I really have no idea what you are talking about, Eugenia,” he protested, and despite herself, she halted as she was about to walk away. The genuine bewilderment in his tone gave her pause, but she could not let him have the last word.

“You know very well, for if you did not write that note to Miss Fairchild, then you set someone up to do the job. Mrs. Perry, perhaps?” She heard the sarcasm that dripped from her tone and didn’t care that the couple at the far end of the room had ceased their conversation to look at her, their teacups frozen halfway to their lips.

“I know nothing about any letter,” said Lord Thornton carefully. His usual easy manner had vanished, replaced by a gravity that might have given her pause had she not been so caught up in her own righteous anger.

Eugenia tried to control her breathing, conscious of the tight band of emotion constricting her chest.

“I do believe I am owed an explanation, Eugenia,” he said, mildly. “What is this letter of which you speak?”

“Miss Fairchild received a letter purportedly from Sir Frederick that cut her to the quick. She showed it to me in the gardens just a few minutes ago. He derides her outmoded clothes, denigrates her mind, and makes it clear that he has no wish to be associated with her. Do you think this is the kind of letter she was expecting after we’d observed the closeness of the pair of them these past couple of nights? ”

“No, but love does not spring up overnight. He may well have decided the kindest course was to ensure she was disabused of any expectations.” A muscle twitched in his jaw as he spoke.

“Sir Frederick would not have couched such a let down in such cruel terms.” The certainty in her voice surprised even her.

“Then surely Miss Fairchild knew it was not from him.” Lord Thornton drew himself up, his shoulders squaring beneath his perfectly tailored coat as he added, clearly offended, “And it certainly was not from me.”

Eugenia wrinkled her brow, studying the face she’d known for so many years. He did seem to be sincere. But of course he would be embarrassed.

“Lady Pendleton set you up to it, did she not? For some reason, she does not wish me to win my wager. I think she would go to any lengths to stop it, from what I know of my old friend.”

“Then take your accusations to her, not me, Eugenia.” Lord Thornton picked up the news sheet he had set down and looked at her over the top of it.

The paper trembled slightly in his usually steady hands.

“Frankly, I am offended. I thought you knew me better than you obviously do. I thought you knew that I would never resort to such underhand dealings. Of course I want to win your Persephone, but I am not a cheat. And what you have called me by your insinuations is tantamount to being a cheat.”

The hurt in his voice struck deeper than anger would have done. For the first time since entering the room, Eugenia felt the first stirrings of doubt.

*

“If you could raise your arms a little higher so I might put on your shirt—” Sir Frederick’s valet began before halting in embarrassment, his eyes fixed on the lattice of scars visible in the mirror’s reflection. After a moment, he added, “I beg your pardon, sir. Your injury—”

“Why, I had quite forgotten my injury, Dombey.” Sir Frederick smiled, remembering the gentle concern in Amelia’s eyes when she’d noticed his discomfort. “Miss Fairchild suggested a salve made by one of the servants here—your sister, perhaps? It has been quite helpful.”

Indeed, the scars on his back had almost been forgotten when prior, they had pained him each time he stretched.

As for his leg, the pain came and went, but he looked forward to many pleasant evenings when Miss Fairchild—Amelia—would perhaps use her hands to massage the pain away. The thought brought warmth to his chest that had nothing to do with his injuries.

When she was his wife, that was.

“I’m very glad to hear it, sir. Miss Fairchild is a very amenable young lady,” said Dombey, carefully adjusting the fall of the shirt. “Why, it turns out we even share a birthday. She said she’d remember me when the 21st came around in three weeks’ time.”

“Indeed?” Sir Frederick turned so quickly Dombey nearly dropped the brush he’d been about to use on his master’s coat.

Dombey looked embarrassed, his face reddening as he busied himself with brushing invisible specks from the coat’s shoulder. When he didn’t respond, Sir Frederick pressed him. “And how did this joyful exchange come to pass? When did the pair of you discuss birthdays?”

“My sister, Jenny, is lady’s maid to Miss Fairchild while the visitors are here, and I had to speak a word to her just outside the door when Miss Fairchild was having her hair brushed.

” Dombey’s accent grew broader with his nervousness.

“She must’a overheard Jenny saying that our ma ’oped we’d both have an afternoon off to eat a cake for coming into my majority—as you gentry call it—and I heard her tellin’ me Jenny that she came into her majority the same day. ”

“Oh. September 21, did you say?” Sir Frederick was glad he’d gleaned the date from what sounded like an innocent exchange. Three weeks’ time. He felt something expand in his chest. Enough time to plan a wedding. It would be a fitting date for a double celebration.

“Yes, sir.” Dombey hesitated, then added in a lower voice, “Me sister told me later that when I’d gone, Miss Fairchild put her head in her hands and looked like she were cryin’ and when Jenny asked what were wrong, she said she were set to lose everythin’ on September 21.”

“Good lord, she said that?” Sir Frederick’s reflection showed his shock.

Dombey nodded, clearly wishing he hadn’t spoken.

With his coat smoothed nicely and his cravat tied to perfection, Sir Frederick was about to head into the reception rooms in the hopes of seeking out Miss Fairchild when there was a short rap upon the door. A few seconds later Dombey returned bearing a note addressed to him on a silver salver.

The paper was expensive, scented with lavender, and sealed with an ornate ‘P’. Breaking the seal, Sir Frederick unfolded the missive:

My dearest Sir Frederick,

I write in haste, my heart heavy with concern for your future happiness. While I have held my tongue these past days, I can no longer stand silent while watching you be ensnared by one who is so clearly unsuited to a man of your vitality and charm.

Miss Fairchild may present herself as a paragon of virtue and intelligence, but I have it on good authority that her “scholarly pursuits” mask a calculating nature.

Even now she plots to secure you before her fast-approaching majority, when (as I have learned) she stands to lose what little independence she possesses.

Would you truly wish to shackle yourself to such dreary respectability? To spend your evenings listening to improving lectures while society laughs behind their fans at your dowdy bluestocking wife?

If you would know more, meet me in the library at midnight. I have evidence that will open your eyes to certain truths about your “proper” Miss Fairchild.

Your sincere friend, Catherine Perry

P.S. I have procured that volume of Byron you expressed interest in. The one containing certain… passionate verses. Perhaps we might read them together?