He felt her blow against his chest, but didn’t register the physical pain.
His soul was shattering.
“I wanted to punish you,” she whispered. “You deserve it for what you did to him.”
He closed his eyes. “Freya.”
“He doesn’t go out anymore,” she hissed, tears glittering in her eyes. “Not for years and years. We used to try and corner him in his town house in Edinburgh. Try to draw him out, or simply talk. He refuses to converse with anyone. Lachlan spent a year, screaming at him, pleading with him, begging—”
She choked and he opened his eyes.
Freya was weeping, her green-gold eyes wide open even as the tears leaked out. Her face ruddy with her wrath.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
She slapped him.
His head jerked back as his jaw began to burn. He pulled her into his arms even as she hit him open handed, pummeling him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.
Knew at the same time that there was nothing he could say to make this right.
It would never be right again.
Ran was gone—destroyed—and it was his fault.
He waited, holding her, as she sobbed and struggled and gasped. Clutching at his chest when she gave up hitting him.
After a bit he sank to the cold, damp ground, still holding her. He stroked her hair, letting her weep on his chest, and continued to murmur his sorrow.
His regret.
At last she heaved a great breath and grew silent.
The sun was all the way up now, shining in the sky. Tess had come to lie beside them, her head on Christopher’s knee. They’d have to return to the house soon or risk being found to be missing.
He took a breath. “Did Ran tell you what happened?”
She shook her head. “He was brought home by Julian’s uncle the Duke of Windemere’s men. They said he’d tried to elope with Aurelia but had murdered her instead in a fit of insanity—”
“But did he tell you?” he asked.
She frowned, a small crimping of her red lips. “He was too injured. He caught a fever almost at once.”
He nodded. “Then please listen.”
He felt her tense and prepared himself to hold her, but she did nothing.
She was listening.
He watched as Tess got up to dig at the foundation of the well house. “We were young. That is the most important thing. We were too young.”
She scoffed, but didn’t interrupt.
“Ran came to Julian and me and said he needed to marry Aurelia.”
“Needed?”
He shook his head. “Apparently her uncle was against the union for some reason. Ran was determined to marry Aurelia before her uncle could make another match for her.”
She hadn’t known that—he could tell by the frown incised between her brows. “That’s why he was going to elope.”
“Yes.” He carefully stroked her hair. The last time he’d seen Freya she’d been eleven or twelve. A sweet younger sister.
She was no longer sweet.
And he didn’t feel at all brotherly now.
“Wasn’t Julian upset?” she asked. “After all, Aurelia was his sister and only sixteen.”
“No.” Christopher considered. “He was irritated that Ran was so insistent that they elope right away, but I don’t think he was angry. If anything he wanted to make Aurelia happy. You were young. Perhaps you don’t remember how…vital she was. How charming. We all adored her.”
“I remember,” she said in a stiff little voice.
He hugged her closer. “Then you know that once Aurelia had made up her mind to elope with Ran nothing would’ve dissuaded her. No one would’ve stopped her. She was beautiful and spoiled and young.”
She moved to look at him, and he saw that her eyes were swollen and red.
The sight struck a chord within him—an urge to protect and shelter, though she was the last woman to need protection. An urge to lay his mouth against hers again, though she would surely bite him if he did.
“How did she end up dead? Murdered?” she demanded.
Christopher shook his head. He could feel sweat running down his back. It might’ve been from the duel, but he thought it more likely was the memories.
The awful memories. “I don’t know exactly.”
Her lip curled. “How can you not know?”
He took a breath, aware that whatever he might say, it would never be enough for her. “You have to remember that we were all only eighteen. All of us beside Aurelia, but she was probably the most certain of us. We thought it was a lark. A grand adventure. We made plans to meet at Greycourt House, by the stables at midnight, and ride away, over the border to Scotland, so they could wed. But…”
She frowned. “What happened? What changed?”
“Aurelia,” he said and swallowed. “Something happened to Aurelia and she was killed.”
Freya sat up straight. “You don’t know how she was murdered?”
“That’s my mistake,” he said, watching her. “I got there after Ran. There was shouting and I almost turned away, but I saw Ran being beaten in the courtyard and I went to him. Julian came forward and held me back. His face was so white it was near gray and he said, “Don’t.” Just that. Don’t. He told me that Aurelia was dead. That her bloodied body was in the stables and that Ran had killed her.”
“He didn’t,” Freya said fiercely. “Ran wouldn’t kill anyone, let alone Aurelia. He worshipped her.”
“I know,” Christopher said, his heart leaden with old, old grief. “I knew that then. But in the night, with Julian telling me that Ran was a murderer, with the Duke of Windemere bellowing and his men beating Ran…”
She shook her head wearily. “Ran was your friend. How could you betray him so?”
“I was weak.” He looked at her and told her his shame without any hope of sympathy. “I failed him that night. That’s why I wore his ring: to remind me of my failure. To remind me to do what is right no matter the personal cost. To remind me to never retreat when I can and should take action to help another.”
She pulled away and he let her, watching as she stood and shook out her skirts.
Freya looked at him, beautiful and stern. “Your regret can’t restore Ran’s severed hand. It won’t give him the ability to draw again or to forget what happened. He’s spent fifteen years entombed just as surely as if he’d died that night.”
“Freya,” he whispered, and bowed his head, feeling the weight of her censure.
But still she wasn’t done. “I cannot forgive you.”
Her footsteps were quiet as she left him.
Chapter Seven
The man was tall and slender, with eyes as purple as a wood violet. His thick hair stood up in tufts and was as silvery gray as the ashes on a hearth.
He grinned a foxy grin. “Good fortune and well met, Princess Rowan.”
Rowan scowled. “Who are you and how do you know who I am?”
“I am Ash,” the fairy said—for of course he must be a fairy. “And I know many things…including where your friend is.”…
—From The Grey Court Changeling
Three nights later Freya sat at the side of the Lovejoy ballroom and watched Harlowe partner Arabella on the dance floor. The Lovejoys had thrown a small ball for the evening with rented musicians.
Harlowe and Arabella moved well together. The duke wore a pewter-colored suit edged with silver embroidery. Arabella had on a new frock—a pretty sky blue with white lace accents. Her golden head was a striking contrast to Harlowe’s dark hair.
Arabella was smiling—a bit shyly, but perhaps the lovelier because of that. Harlowe watched her indulgently.
They made a beautiful couple.
Freya grimaced and glanced away. The thought of Harlowe with Arabella was a thorn in her side—and not simply because of the Greycourt tragedy.
He’d explained his part in the crippling of Ran.
Indeed he had acknowledged his guilt.
He’d apologized.
She couldn’t forgive him, but she could no longer see him as evil incarnate, either.
Freya sighed. Such a basic impression of Harlowe had been rather childish anyway—probably the result of her having formed her opinion at only twelve. In all the years since, she’d never had opportunity to amend her thoughts about him.
But now that she’d actually met him again—as an adult—she could see that he was obviously more than the monster she’d hated all these years.
He was arrogant, true, but he was also tender with Tess. He had offered her money when he’d thought her merely a companion. He was kind to the Holland girls.
He was a man, both good and bad and everything in between.
A man who made her very aware that she was a woman of blood and bone and wants.
Freya shook her head irritably, turning her thoughts to her mission. Sadly, she’d learned nothing new in the last several days. She’d attempted to talk to the Randolph housekeeper or another servant. But when Freya tramped over to Randolph House, she’d found to her puzzlement that no one would open the door, even though she’d seen smoke coming from the kitchen chimney.
The entire thing had been most frustrating.
And not at all helpful in keeping her mind off the duke.
She needed to think of another plan, but the last three days had been filled with games, jaunts about the countryside, and now a ball. Freya wasn’t even certain when next she might be able to slip away from the party to investigate.
And then there was the Dunkelder. Which of the guests was a secret witch hunter? And had he discovered who she was?
She scanned the room, and her gaze couldn’t help stopping on Lord Stanhope. He was frowning at the dancers as if he disapproved of their merriment. The viscount had a Scottish accent, and most Dunkelders were Scotsmen. If she had to guess she’d choose him as the hunter.
Which might be good—Lord Stanhope hadn’t paid her any attention at all.
The dance came to an end and Freya watched as Harlowe bowed to Arabella. Harlowe hadn’t attempted to talk to her since their duel. Hadn’t even looked at her. She might as well be dead as far as he was concerned.
Which was good.
She’d accomplished what she’d set out to do with him: retrieved Ran’s ring and bested him in the duel. There was no further reason to interact with the man. The fact that he was respecting her on the matter should make her happy.
“You look as if you swallowed a lemon,” Regina said, and plopped rather gracelessly into the chair beside her. She was panting and pink cheeked from the dance, and she vigorously fanned herself. “Mr. Aloysius Lovejoy is quite a good dancer. Did you see? His father went a bit wide on that last turn and Mr. Lovejoy guided us away without missing a step.” She cocked her head, appraising Mr. Lovejoy rather dispassionately. “We could certainly use more dancers like Mr. Lovejoy in London. I don’t know how my toes survived last season.”
Freya sent her a fond glance. She’d spent many a late night after a ball hearing about the clumsiness of society gentlemen. “Then we’re lucky Mr. Trentworth is so graceful.”
“Yes, he certainly is.” Regina’s face took on the dreamy look her beau’s name usually inspired. “I do hope Arabella finds a gentleman just as good at dancing. Wouldn’t it be horrible to spend the rest of one’s life having to dance with a clumsy brother-in-law and never complain?”
“That would indeed be a purgatory,” Freya said solemnly. “However, there may be other attributes we should look for in a gentleman for Arabella.”
Regina blinked as if she’d never considered anything else but proficiency in dancing. “I suppose,” she said doubtfully. “It would be rather awkward if one’s husband couldn’t read, for instance.”
It was Freya’s turn to blink. “Yes, that would be a problem. Erm…were any of your suitors illiterate?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so,” Regina replied carelessly. “Although I always rather worried about Georgie Langthrop. He used to laugh like a horse whinnying.” She shuddered delicately. “Can you imagine that across the supper table every night?”
“No, I don’t think I can,” Freya replied absently.
She noticed that Harlowe had deposited Arabella with Lady Holland and Lady Lovejoy. The Earl of Rookewoode sauntered over and bowed elegantly to Arabella, before whispering something in her ear. Arabella turned bright pink and took his proffered arm. The earl must be her next dance partner.
Harlowe had gone to stand beside the door that led outside to the back terrace and lawn. Freya studied him. She’d noticed over the last couple of days that he often lingered by doors or windows. Perhaps he secretly wanted to escape the party?
What a whimsical thought.
As she watched he jerked his head to someone across the room.
Freya turned her head, following Harlowe’s line of sight, and was just in time to see Mr. Plimpton give a small nod.
When she looked back at Harlowe, he was no longer there. What was he doing? It was none of her business. Neither Harlowe nor Mr. Plimpton was a woman in need of help. They were outside her purview.
Even so, she wanted to know.
She stood casually. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course,” Regina murmured. The next dance was about to start, and she was smiling in the direction of Lord Stanhope. No doubt she’d promised the dance to the viscount.
Freya strolled toward the garden door, making sure not to move too swiftly or in a straight line. She was still yards away when Mr. Plimpton ducked out the door.
She remembered what she’d seen on the trip to the market. Harlowe in intense discussion with Mr. Plimpton, who had looked wary and nearly frightened. What had the duke said to the man to make him look that way? Harlowe had told her that Mr. Plimpton was a cad, but she had only the duke’s word for it.
She reached the door and cautiously opened it, slipping outside.
The summer night was lovely. The sky was clear and lanterns had been placed around the terrace, casting a soft glow.
Mr. Plimpton wasn’t on the terrace, and she peered into the darkness beyond just in time to see him dart between the tall hedges that surrounded the garden.
Freya picked up her skirts and followed, stepping in the grass rather than on the gravel path to avoid making noise. At the hedge she paused, peeking into the garden. She couldn’t see either Harlowe or Mr. Plimpton. Bother. She’d just have to go in and hope she didn’t run into them.
The garden was dark, but the moon was nearly full, outlining a walkway and a fountain at the center. Shadows hid the paths just under the tall hedges, and Freya began walking down the one to her right.
She’d taken only half a dozen steps when she heard voices. Cautiously she crept closer on tiptoe.
“—Let Eleanor’s maid go.”
Freya frowned. That was neither Harlowe nor Mr. Plimpton, but Messalina. Perhaps Freya had gotten it all wrong. Perhaps Harlowe had come out here for an assignation with Messalina.
Strange how her chest hurt at the thought.
But when she peered around the corner of the path she saw that Messalina was talking to another woman.
“But that’s entirely natural. If Lord Randolph—”
Both women turned at the sound of a man’s voice near the center of the garden, and Freya saw that the person Messalina was talking to was Lady Lovejoy.
Why would they be speaking about Lord Randolph together?
“Someone’s here,” Lady Lovejoy whispered.
“Come,” Messalina said, taking Lady Lovejoy’s arm.
They turned toward where Freya lurked, and she hastily stepped off the path.
She stood still, the scent of roses lingering in the night air as Messalina and Lady Lovejoy hurried by.
Freya walked toward the center of the garden—toward the male voices—and as she neared they became clearer.
“—Damned if I’ll give you
even a shilling without them. I’m not a fool.” That was Harlowe, his voice low and angry.
Freya shivered. He sounded menacing.
“But I’ll have no insurance should I do that,” Mr. Plimpton replied, his voice nearly whining. “You can’t think I’ll leave myself so vulnerable.”
“That’s your problem,” Harlowe returned, growling. “You started this. It’s not my fault if you neglected to consider the result.”
“Let me think,” Mr. Plimpton pleaded. “I need to think.”
“You do have them now, don’t you?” Harlowe said, his voice relentless. “I saw a parcel arrive this afternoon for you.”
“I…Yes. Yes.”
“Then quit stalling. Tomorrow night you give them to me.” There was a clear threat in Harlowe’s voice that Mr. Plimpton would regret it if he did not do as the duke told him.
“But—”
Someone shouted at the house.
“They’re looking for us,” Mr. Plimpton said urgently.
“I doubt it,” Harlowe replied, “but you’d better go in.”
Freya heard Mr. Plimpton rush by, and then the garden was silent again.
Where was Harlowe? Had he returned to the house as well?
She thought over what she’d heard. It sounded very much as if Harlowe was being blackmailed by Mr. Plimpton—or at least extorted over some object. The realization gave her an odd feeling. She’d never have thought that Harlowe would let himself be blackmailed. He seemed too contained and arrogant. Too self-confident to care what anyone else in the world thought of him.
Freya shook her head and waited a moment more, but the night was still and quiet. Obviously he’d gone in.
She tiptoed toward the main path, the one leading out of the garden.
A dark shape ran at her, so fast and sudden she nearly screamed. Tess pressed her nose into Freya’s skirts and then backed up a step, her tail furiously wagging.
Freya bent to pet her.
Heavy hands fell on her shoulders, and a deep voice breathed in her ear, “I don’t remember you being such a sneak thief.”
* * *
Freya stilled beneath his hands. Christopher inhaled the scent of honeysuckle in the night air and wondered if she wore it just to drive him insane.
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