by Cara Elliott
“Oh, dear. This must be serious indeed, if the mention of walnuts is bringing that look to your face.”
Blinking back tears, she gulped down another swallow of the whisky-laced tea. “Oh, Gussie, after all your wise teachings, how is it that I’ve been such a bloody fool of late?”
Augustina reached over to squeeze her hand. “Come, dry your eyes and tell me what’s happened. I promise you, it won’t seem half so bad when you share it with me.”
Sniffs yielded to a watery smile. “Or it might seem twice as horrible when said aloud.”
“Go ahead and spit it out,” said her friend.
Eliza sucked in a deep breath and then let it out in a rush. “Haddan hates me!” she blurted out, letting her fears tumble out helter-pelter. “And now he thinks I’m a criminal as well as a strumpet. His friend must have found out…and…and it gets even worse.”
“Worse?” murmured Augustina.
“Yes, much worse! I-it turns out that he’s the author of those beautiful essays.”
“Hmmph.” A pensive pause. “So he’s not only handsome as sin, but smart as the devil?” said her friend with a wry smile. “I should think that would be cause for dancing on the table, not crying into your teacup.”
Sniff. “He hates me!” Sniff. “I saw it in his eyes. That’s because of Brighton and his dastardly plan of art forgeries—oh, and the baronet wants me to marry him.”
It was Augustina’s turn to blink. Pulling a handkerchief from her apron pocket, she passed it over. “Blow your nose, my dear, and then let us start at the beginning and go through this a little more slowly.”
Eliza explained about Harry’s summons to London and the baronet’s two-pronged proposal.
“The dastard,” growled her friend. Her fingers curled around the butter knife. “As for Harry, his cods should be cut off. A brother should be protecting his sister from predators, not throwing her to the wolves.”
“Yes, well, we both know I can’t look to Harry for any help.” Letting her shoulders slump, Eliza leaned forward and pressed her palms to her brow. “I feel as if I’m trapped between a rock wall and a slab of stone,” she said in a small voice. “There seems no escape, Gussie. Any way I turn, I see only disaster looming.”
A swirl of wind rattled the casement, and rain began to patter against the panes. “It’s so confusing. Do I let Harry go to debtor’s prison? Do I let Leete Abbey and all the people who depend on me sink into ruin? Do I accept Brighton’s odious offer and hope that he doesn’t crush me like a bug?” In the quiet of the kitchen, the drops sounded like bullets ricocheting off the glass. “I can’t even decide which is the lesser of all the evils.”
“We’ll find a way out of this crevasse,” said Augustina stoutly, but her face betrayed a shade of worry. “But before we turn to that, tell me how Haddan fits into all this.”
Eliza explained about the meeting in Grosvenor Square, and how the marquess had come to Leete Abbey earlier that afternoon.
Her friend caught the faint flash of color as she lowered her hands from her face. “What’s that on your palm?”
“A dragon,” she admitted.
“Ah. I take it that songbirds were not the only winged creatures fluttering in the sunshine of your garden.”
Her cheeks grew uncomfortably warm. “I seem to throw all common sense to the wind when I am around him.”
“I can’t say that I blame you, my dear,” quipped Augustina. “He is a very attractive man.”
“Yes, and I couldn’t resist temptation,” said Eliza with a hollow laugh. “So now I find myself cast out of my little Garden of Eden—in a manner of speaking. It was actually Haddan who left in a rush, and on thinking back over his curt comment on painting, I fear it’s because he learned of my sin.”
“It’s Brighton who has sinned, my dear, not you,” objected Augustina.
“But in Haddan’s eyes, I’m painted with the same tainted brush as the baronet,” she pointed out. “And that is how everyone will see it.”
To which her friend had no reply.
“It’s awfully ironic that I should discover we have more in common than physical lust,” went on Eliza, trying to keep her voice from cracking. “Haddan and I share an appreciation of nature.” She bit her lip. “But that doesn’t really matter anymore.”
“You don’t know that,” insisted Augustina. “From what you described, Haddan’s bad news could have been unrelated to you. ‘Enjoy your painting’ could have meant…enjoy your painting.”
“Oh, I know it was me,” said Eliza, recalling the shadows that darkened the green-gold gaze. “And ‘enjoy your painting’ had a darker meaning. I saw it in his eyes. Whatever he learned, it was very personal.” She stared at her hands, unable to keep from thinking what they had been doing earlier that day. “Now that I know he is the author of the essays, I would guess he feels he’s been tricked into buying tainted goods.”
“Well then, we simply have to show him he’s wrong.”
“I don’t know how.” Eliza heard the hollow echo of defeat in her tone. It wasn’t like her to surrender without a fight, but at the moment, she just wanted to crawl under the table. “Oh, Gussie, I’m feeling a little desperate. It seems to me that the only way to get out of this chasm is to do something drastic.” Something dangerous.
“There is no need to panic yet,” counseled Augustina. “We will think of something.”
She didn’t argue, but the reality of it was that things looked very grim. The ride over had provided plenty of time to ponder every possibility. At first, the idea of simply packing up and heading north to lose herself in the Lake District seemed a viable solution. But without Haddan’s commission, she didn’t have the funds to purchase a cottage. Worse, if scandal darkened her name with Watkins and the other London publishers—an all too likely possibility—she would have no future way of earning a living.
Destitute. She would be destitute, penniless and disgraced. Gussie would offer shelter, but the idea of being a burden on her friend’s limited finances was…unbearable.
Looking up, Eliza found Augustina watching her with a troubled look. “Perhaps I will have to consider Brighton’s proposal,” she said slowly. “How bad can it be?”
Her friend reached for the whisky and took a small sip straight from the flask. “How can you ask that? You’ve already endured a forced marriage to a man you did not love or respect.”
“Yes,” said Eliza. “And I survived.”
“Hmmph! Marry that miscreant? Over my dead body!”
Eliza smiled in spite of her worries. “Oh, Gussie, what a fierce dragon you are! I am very grateful that you are willing to fly to my defense, snorting smoke and breathing fire. However, I refuse to let you risk being singed by my family’s scandal.”
“If anyone is going to get burned, it is Brighton,” said her friend resolutely. “So let us put our heads together.”
“Lord Haddan!” Watkins looked up in surprise from his morning tea. “Er, if you have come to inquire about whether Linden has sent any finished artwork, the answer is not yet. I only passed on the first set of final essays a few days ago.”
“No, I didn’t come to ask about Lady Brentford’s progress on the paintings.” Gryff took a seat facing the publisher’s desk and waited for him to finishing mopping the splash of tea from his blotter. “I have some other queries, if you don’t mind.”
The publisher’s face had turned a touch ashen. “Milord, please understand that I—”
Gryff silenced him with a curt wave. “Nor did I come here to rake you over the coals about keeping her identity a secret. I can hardly complain about your integrity in honoring a confidence.”
Watkins blew on his burned fingers, looking visibly relieved. “How did you come to discover her secret?”
“Never mind,” Gryff answered, more curtly than he intended. Tapping his fingertips together, he looked around, trying to decide how to begin. He had come here intending to probe more into Eliza’s character. B
ut what had seemed like a good idea in the sleepless hours just before dawn now took on a different light.
Outright questions on whether she was capable of committing a forgery would cast a pall of suspicion over her, whether she was guilty or not. To blacken her name would be not only unfair, but also ungentlemanly.
Damnation, Cameron was right—he hadn’t a clue as to how to conduct a discreet investigation.
“I trust that there is no problem with the sex of the artist?” asked Watkins hesitantly.
Sex. Gryff snapped to attention.
“That is, the fact that Linden is a female,” amended the publisher.
“I—I haven’t decided,” he muttered, aware that he was making a hash of this. He stood up, and put on his hat. “Thank you for your time.”
“Milord…”
Gryff paused, his hand on the latch.
“I hope very much you will give the matter careful consideration, and not hold it against her that she isn’t a man.” Watkins spoke very slowly, choosing his words with care. “It is not my place to speak of her personal life, but it is my impression that she is caught in a very difficult family situation. Not that she breathes a word of complaint. In spite of that, she is unfailingly reliable.” A cough. “I hold her in the highest regard.”
“Thank you, Mr. Watkins,” muttered Gryff. The statement stirred a fresh wave of guilt for believing the worst of her without asking for an explanation. Without further word, he left the shop and turned west heading for Bond Street, determined to do better at his next stop.
Footsteps crunched along the narrow pathway leading around the cottage.
“Ah, thought I might find you here, ’Liza.” Harry swatted a vine of climbing roses out of his way and walked unsteadily into Augustina’s back garden. His face was flushed and the cocked brim of his stylish beaver hat showed a forehead sheened in sweat.
“You’re foxed,” said Eliza flatly, and went back to watering the potted herbs.
“’M not,” he protested. “An’ even if I was, it’s no business of y’rs.”
It was a good thing Gussie was in the shed. Otherwise, her brother would have blistered ears to go with a bilious stomach.
She, too, felt like breathing fire and brimstone, but instead, she simply asked, “What do you want?”
Harry stretched his mouth in a sickly imitation of a smile. “I need t’ have a word with you. In private.”
“We are in private, Harry. Gussie went to fetch her pruning shears and watering can, so you can speak freely.” Not that he would make any coherent sense.
“The thing is, I need y’ t’ come back to London with me. Today.”
“I can’t,” she snapped. “Unlike you, I don’t have quarters at a fashionable hotel, or a fancy curricle at my beck and call.”
“You always stay with Margaret, and she’s happy t’ have you anytime,” he whined. “Especially now, with her husband on a diplomatic mission t’ St. Petersburg.”
“Yes, I’m fortunate to have such a generous childhood friend. But of late I’ve been abusing the privilege. I can’t just keep showing up on her doorstep and imposing on her generosity whenever I choose.”
Harry’s expression turned mulish. “But this is important.”
“It always is.” Breaking off a few spiky leaves of rosemary, she crumbled them between her fingers and inhaled the soothing fragrance. “Tomorrow, perhaps.”
The concession suited her own plans. It had taken a long discussion late into the night—along with a few fibs—to convince her friend that there was no need to spring into action quite yet.
Dear, determined Augustina. The elderly spinster had been all for picking up a poker and banging her way into Brighton’s townhouse, demanding the return of the copied painting. She had reluctantly agreed to give Eliza a few days to make some inquiries in London…supposedly with Watkins, about the possibility of other art commissions.
But the real reason was to…
“What’s keeping you, Leete?”
Eliza felt her insides clench. She now knew why her brother was so nervous. Turning, she saw Brighton’s odious cousin, Mr. Pearce, saunter past the trellis.
“Really, Eliza, you ought to be wearing a bonnet out here in the sun,” he said. “Spots are so unfashionable on a lady, but then, you have always been eccentric in your habits.”
“Please refrain from using my given name, sir. There is no connection between us that allows such intimacy,” she replied coldly, deliberately raising her chin a notch.
“Ah, but we are about to be family,” he sneered. His crop flicked against Harry’s shoulder. “Go see to the horses, Leete. I wish to have chat with your charming sister.”
Her brother slunk away.
Pearce darted a quick look around the garden, then took a step closer.
Eliza calmly took up a pruning knife from her basket.
His eyes glittered with malice as they swung around to meet hers. “As I recall, you were awfully sharp-tongued the last time we met.”
“I’m surprised you remember the encounter, given your state of drunkenness.”
“Oh, I remember, Eliza,” he said softly.
“What do you want?” She began cutting a bouquet of lavender to keep him from seeing the tremoring of her hands.
Pearce shifted his stance, throwing her into shadow. “I suggest you start being nicer to me, Eliza. Cousin Reggie and I are good friends. We share a good many of our possessions with each other—horses, curricles, walking sticks.” He was enjoying himself. “If you take my meaning.”
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“And speaking of sharing…” His voice dropped a notch. “Reggie and I also are partners in that profitable little business he mentioned to you. We’ve just acquired another rare painting that needs copying, so I suggest you don’t dally with your decision to become Lady Brighton.”
“I’ve been wondering something,” said Eliza, making herself focus on gathering information, rather than react to his taunting innuendos. “Why does your cousin insist on the charade of marriage? Blackmailing me with Harry’s debts seems a sufficient threat to make me do your bidding.”
Pearce’s smirk stretched wider. “A wife cannot give testimony against a husband.”
“I see you have thought this through.” Good God, the two of them really were slimier than garden slugs. “Well, so have I.” Eliza forced a show of confidence, though her insides were quaking. “So I have a proposal for you and your cousin to consider. For the sake of keeping Leete Abbey and my brother from utter ruin, I am considering the idea of aiding and abetting your criminal activities. But the only way I will say yes is if your cousin drops the demand of marriage. That I will never consent to.”
“You are in no position to bargain,” said Pearce.
“No? Then go ahead and find yourself another artist.”
His eyes narrowed. “Picture this, Eliza. With no money, the servants would leave, the larders would empty. Leete Abbey would become an abandoned ruin. You would soon find yourself out on the street, and with your brother’s disgrace and rumors of your own misdeeds swirling through the ton, what would you do to survive, heh?” He let out a nasty laugh. “Sell your scrawny body?”
“I am not so helpless as you think.”
Pearce gave long, leisurely look around. “This is a pretty little place. But alas, these old cottages can so easily go up in flames. I doubt that a decrepit little spinster living on a tiny annuity would find it easy to recover from such a disaster.”
The depth of the pair’s depravity was truly frightening.
A wave of nausea churned in her stomach. Choking down the sour sting of bile, Eliza steadied herself against earthenware planters. “You like to play rough, don’t you.”
“The sooner you understand that, the better.” Pearce smoothed the cuff of his expensive glove. “As long as you cooperate, things will go easy for you. Indeed, you might even come to enjoy the arrangement.”
/> This had, she knew, nothing to do with desiring her body. It was all about breaking her spirit.
Clenching her teeth to keep from retorting, Eliza busied herself with putting the cut lavender in a jar of water until she had composed herself enough to speak. “You have made yourself perfectly clear, sir. I will give your cousin my answer shortly.”
He looked about to say more when Augustina rounded the corner, her arms filled with flowerpots. “I didn’t realize we had company,” she said, fixing their visitor with an unfriendly squint.
“Mr. Pearce was just leaving,” said Eliza softly.
His mouth thinned, but after a moment’s hesitation, he touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Eliza. We’ll speak again soon.”
“What did that smarmy man want?” asked her friend, watching the tails of his coat disappear behind the bushes.
“To annoy me,” she answered tightly. Filling her lungs with the scent of the herbs, Eliza stared at the pale purple hue of the flowers, reminding herself of their unspoken message. Be calm.
“Pay him no heed, Gussie.”
Tools clinked and clattered as her friend began arranging them on the potting bench.
Despite the heat and the healing properties of the plants, a deathly chill began creeping up her arms, turning her blood to ice.
“My dear, are you all right?” Augustina’s voice sounded very distant. “You look as if you are going to faint.”
Eliza shaded her eyes. “Mr. Pearce was right—I should be wearing a bonnet. The sun must be too strong for my head. Excuse me for a moment while I go inside for a glass of water.”
“G’day, milord.” The towelman bobbed his head in greeting. “Looking fer a match? Ain’t yer regular day, but I may be able te find ye a skilled enough partner.”
“Actually, I stopped by to see you, Georgie,” answered Gryff. Here, at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon, he felt on firmer ground than at Watkins & Harold. Over the last few years, he had developed an easy rapport with the hired help. The men who worked there tending the leather bags, cleaning the changing rooms, and supervising the sparring were all former pugilists, willing to let their guard down for a lord who was generous with his bawdy jests and free rounds of porter at the nearby alehouse.