A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Stafford grinned and tried to hide it behind a hand. Brook’s cheeks went red. “That was entirely different.”

  Ella slashed a hand through the air. “It was not.”

  “It was! He was my best friend.”

  “Well, Cayton is my friend.”

  He shouldn’t be. He should have found another way from the start, refused to go near her. He should have the good sense not to be glad to hear her declare him her friend.

  Brook waved an arm at him, as if to say, “How could he be? Just look at him.” And she had a point. “You barely know each other!”

  Hopefully Ella wouldn’t point out that they had gotten to know each other rather well over the last month. It would only remind Brook of all she didn’t know.

  Ella rolled her eyes. “We don’t all have the good fortune of falling for our childhood friends, Brook.”

  Good. No, no, bad. Very bad. Cayton straightened, nearly brave enough to interject that “falling for” was not the appropriate phrase.

  “Falling for him?” Brook went still, her eyes firing bullets. She spewed out something in French far too fast for him to keep up with.

  Whatever it was, it must have been strong and pointed. The adoration shifted to anger on Stafford’s face, and he stepped forward. “That’s enough. You don’t have to like him. You don’t have to like the idea of them courting. But please don’t speak that way of my cousin, not now. Not when he has worked so hard to become a better man.”

  Cayton hadn’t realized he’d been amused by the situation. Not until it faded, hardened, turned achy. Until he wished he’d followed the rapid French. And then thought perhaps he should be grateful he hadn’t. Whatever she’d said, it had probably been right. Certainly used to be right. And might be right again if he didn’t manage to keep Ella—heart and body—safe.

  He couldn’t manage that if Ella were falling for him. Heaven only knew why she would, but—but he wasn’t strong enough to hold out forever if she kept up those smiles and laughter and jesting and seeing right through his gruffness. If she kept looking at him as she’d been doing and finding excuses to touch his arm or hand. If she kissed him again like she’d done ten minutes ago.

  He couldn’t protect her from himself if she stayed so close to his side.

  He pushed to his feet, met no one’s gaze, though he kept his up in the same range as theirs. “You’re right, Brook. I have no idea what you said, but I can guess. And you’re right. I’ve proven myself to be a weak-willed and selfish man. Certainly not good enough for your friend, and just using her for my own means. In this case, to protect myself from Rushworth’s threats. I kissed her for my own purposes, my own pleasure, with no intentions of following it up with any noble offers of marriage. With no intentions, even, of asking her brother for permission to court her. So . . . ” He spread his arms, let them fall. “There we have it. Perhaps I haven’t changed as much as I thought.”

  He had meant it to push Ella away. Not for it to sound so . . . true.

  But it was. He was still everything he hated, everything he wished he’d never been. How, if the Lord removed his sin as far as the east was from the west, did he keep ramming into it every time he turned around?

  Ella materialized before him, her face cut from stone. Her hair still down around her shoulders, where he’d put it. Her eyes blazing. She stepped close, too close, and lifted her hand. He expected . . . something deserved. That slap he’d asked for, a poke, a prod.

  She settled her hand over his heart, fingers splayed. “Don’t believe the lies, Cayton. Push me away if you must, but don’t believe for a moment that you’re still that man.”

  Blast. Why did she have to be so . . . Ella? His nose ached. And his eyes. “Go home, Ella. You’re not needed here.”

  Her smile looked sad. “I would. But I can’t. I can’t leave you.”

  Brook made noises that were no doubt a protest. He couldn’t really hear her over the rushing in his head. He couldn’t look away from Ella’s eyes. There were no eyes in the world like hers. No soul in the world like the one behind them. “Go home.” Don’t beg. Stay strong. “I don’t want you here.”

  Her other hand touched his face, traced his jaw. “I know.”

  She did, too much. Too clearly. She knew the why behind the words, and she was just too stubborn to budge. He closed his eyes, though it did nothing to erase the image of hers. “Go home. I . . . I don’t even like you.”

  Her lips touched his. Her voice, at his ear, said, “I love you too.”

  The world froze. He couldn’t move, couldn’t open his eyes, couldn’t even breathe. If he did, it would all shatter, and the truth would drown him, and he’d have to face again the guilt of a broken heart laid at his feet. He just wasn’t sure if it would be hers, this time, or his own.

  There was more shouting. A flurry. Ella’s hands fell away, and his lips went cool. Brook shouted something about Ella leaving. Ella shouted back her refusal. Then the massive library door crashed into the shelf.

  Stafford was the first thing Cayton saw when he opened his eyes, and he looked as angry as his wife. At his wife. “Aren’t you going to go after her?”

  Brook threw herself into a chair, jaw set. Answer enough.

  Stafford spun on him. “Cayton?”

  His feet were part of the floor. He couldn’t even convince his eyes to follow Stafford as he moved.

  And move he did, with an exasperated huff and a Gallic toss of his hands into the air. “Fine, I’ll go after her. You two try not to kill each other for five blasted minutes, if that’s not too much to ask.”

  The silence ticked. Then it tocked. Then it was ruined by Brook’s loud exhalation. “Am I judging you too harshly?”

  His heart, he was fairly certain, wasn’t even beating. “No.”

  “He says I am. And my father says I need to forgive you. But you . . . Are you even capable of a good relationship? I don’t mean it to be cruel, but . . .”

  But she was Ella’s friend. It was understandable. Cayton curled his fingers to his palm. “I . . . don’t know.”

  She studied him too intently. And he had no idea what she saw. “Do you love her?”

  He tried a swallow, though his throat felt tight and raw. “Does it matter? I thought I loved Melissa.”

  She rubbed a hand over her face and muttered a French phrase he’d never heard. “You do. So why are you pushing her away?”

  She, of all people, ought to know the answer to that. Cayton straightened his fingers again. “Because if she stays, she’ll get hurt. We have to get her away from here. Send her home.”

  Lifting her brows, Brook said, “She won’t go. What am I to do, drag her out of the house?”

  She had to go. It wasn’t a choice. He sighed. “No. I think we need to be more extreme than that. I think we had better send for her brother.”

  Brook’s eyes slid shut. “Who ever would have thought that we’d agree on something?”

  It was probably a sign of the apocalypse.

  Twenty-Four

  Kira slid the paper onto the counter at the telegraph office, praying she didn’t look as nervous as she felt. Another letter from Andrei had arrived yesterday, filled again with sweet nothings that were only a decoy for that final line, in Russian: Send me word, milaya. Or I send you a helper.

  Helper—one of his thugs, he meant, who would come less to help than to intimidate.

  The man behind the counter greeted her with a vague smile. “Afternoon, miss.”

  “Good afternoon.” She’d written her reply to him in French. I am well, and working hard. You needn’t worry for me, my friend. A little while longer and I shall return to Paris.

  She had no idea if the words about her return were truth or lie—but she wasn’t about to send any more detail than that over the wire. She would have to write a letter detailing all Rushworth had said about them having had rubies, not the diamonds. Explaining that all her searching through Catherine’s things had yielded nothing helpful, tha
t she must rely now on what else she could overhear. She would write it in Russian, as he had instructed her before she left Paris. Using the code words they had agreed upon.

  But that would take time, and he was getting impatient. It had seemed prudent to send something today.

  The man looked over the page she’d provided, tapped a finger to the direction, and consulted a chart on his counter for the price. While she fished out enough coins to send the short message to Paris, noise outside drew the operator’s gaze up. A smile touched his lips. “I’ll get this right out, miss, just as soon as I see what the duchess needs—though yours will be in the queue ahead of hers, of course.”

  “Oh.” The duchess. Her stomach dropped, twisted. “Of course. That is no problem.” To prove it, she spun away, as if to study a map tacked to the wall.

  But from the corner of her eye, she watched through the glass window as a servant opened the door of a car, as Brook climbed out and surveyed the street, offering a smile and wave to someone nearby.

  Her mouth was tight, though, as she came in, and there was tension in her shoulders. She had always carried herself well, with a grace and poise taught to her by her actress mother and the royal tutors. But Kira could see unease behind the usual good posture.

  She wanted to rush forward, to embrace her friend, kiss her cheeks. Instead, she turned her face away under the guise of studying the things on the walls, so that Brook wouldn’t see so much as her profile. Then, once the duchess was fully inside and heading to the counter, where the man greeted her with familiarity, Kira eased toward the door.

  Rain began to patter down, soft and cool, within seconds of her stepping outside. Kira sighed and opened the umbrella she’d brought along, given the gloomy grey clouds above.

  “Sophie! Give you a lift?”

  She looked up but was rendered immobile when she saw Dorsey behind the wheel of Lord Cayton’s automobile. “Dorsey?”

  “Come on, hen, it’s raining—don’t make me stand here with my head out the window.”

  Her fingers tightened on the handle of the umbrella. This couldn’t be right. In the weeks they’d been here, she’d never once seen anyone but Lord Cayton himself drive the car. Not any of the staff, not even his own valet, with whom he seemed to be on especially good terms. Why would he allow some other man’s servant to take it out?

  She eased closer and checked over her shoulder to make sure Brook hadn’t spotted the infraction—she’d have no compunction about storming out and dressing down any perceived wrong. But Brook’s golden head was still bent over the counter, safely behind the glass of the telegraph office. Kira bent hers toward Dorsey. “What are you doing? Lord Cayton could not possibly have given you permission to take out his car.”

  Dorsey’s eyes went flinty. His smile held fast, though it looked more chiseled in stone than warm. “How else would I have it, then? Are you walking back in the rain, Sophie, or getting in?”

  The rain had gone from patter to steady drumming, and the hillside in the distance had almost vanished behind a curtain of heavy silver. Even with the umbrella, she was likely to be soaked within minutes if that downpour caught her before she reached the manor. Which it likely would.

  “All right.” She hurried around to the passenger’s side and closed up her umbrella as Dorsey leaned over to open the door for her. Barely had she settled on the seat before he took off.

  The look he angled her way was no warmer than the drumming rain. “What were you doing in the village alone? You said we’d get that ice cream the next time we came to the village.”

  Kira could only stare at him, but then said, “It hardly seemed a day for ice cream. It is cold and rainy.”

  Jaw ticking, he faced the road again. “You could have asked me to come with you, at least. Unless . . . Who were you wiring just now? That man you left, that you said you’re through with?”

  Kira’s fingers went tight around the wet umbrella. It wasn’t the words. The words could have been nothing but pouty and jealous. It was the tone, and that flint in his eyes, that made her spine snap straight. “It is none of your business who I communicate with.”

  A mocking laugh whispered from Dorsey’s lips. “Think you’re too good for me, do you, hen? Is that it? Well, I always get my girl. Always.”

  Anlic was already at hand, but for a moment she feared he’d blow right past the turn. She gripped the edge of the seat. “That you may—but I am not your girl. Certainly not if this is how you behave when I dare to send a note home without asking your permission first.”

  He took the turn. Too hard, too fast, sending mud and gravel spraying out behind them. Lord Cayton would certainly not be pleased.

  Dorsey grunted. “Home. To your mum, then?”

  She drew in a breath. So little he knew her, if he thought her mother still alive. So little she had known him, if she had thought him charming. What was that verse Babushka always quoted? “Charm is deceitful . . .” It spoke of women, but it seemed to her it applied just as well to men. And she’d had her fill of charm that did nothing but hide the roiling darkness within a man.

  The car jerked to a stop, and Kira let herself out without so much as a “good day.” It wasn’t one. And no others were likely to be as long as men’s darkness ruled her life.

  The light was terrible. Lamps cast shadows, and he hadn’t had the garret wired for electricity, and even if he had, the light from the bulbs wouldn’t be at all right for painting. Cayton kept darting a glance at the canvas he’d barely put any color on, but he’d only ruin it if he tried to add more. He’d just have to be content with the blue sky and a few wisps of white cloud that he’d done yesterday evening, when trying to put the scene at Ralin behind him. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough to paint the autumn leaves floating down from unseen tree branches.

  He wasn’t content with sketching. He should have left his garret already. He should be on his way to Ralin, studying Romans with Stafford. Thinking about when he’d make his way down to the library, where Ella would be buried in a mountain of books. He’d toss her an insult; she’d bat it back with a laugh. He’d choose a book from her stack and start reading and pretend that he didn’t glance up every minute just to see her bent over her own books.

  But he couldn’t go to Ralin today. Not after yesterday. And he couldn’t paint. When he told her they wouldn’t be heading to the castle, Tabby had taken Addie downstairs to distract the bedridden Felicity for an hour.

  He spun to the window, watched yesterday’s rain drip from the trees for a minute, and then gave up with a shake of his head. He would change into his riding clothes and head outside. Perhaps the damp air would wash away some of this nervous energy he couldn’t shake. And if he happened to end up at Ralin . . . No, he wouldn’t. Though if Ella happened to be as daft as he and was wandering around somewhere near his land again . . .

  “You’re an idiot, Cayton.” Self-lecture delivered, he nevertheless stormed out the garret door, down the steep steps, and toward his bedroom. Evans would be taking the brush to yesterday’s shoes this time of day, probably downstairs near his sister. He’d have to ring for him. He let himself into his room.

  “Hello, Cayton.”

  He froze rather than jumping. His heart went still rather than racing. His eyes searched the shadows until he found Rushworth there, in the chair by the unlit fireplace. He slammed the door shut. “Really, Rush? My room?”

  Rushworth didn’t twitch. “I assumed, correctly apparently, that you would come here to change before you head to Ralin. Though you’re rather later than usual.”

  And how often had he let himself in here to poke around? The question made Cayton feel prickly as a burr. “Get out.”

  “In a moment.” Rushworth unfolded himself from his chair and stood. His motions weren’t quite as smooth as usual. “We need to talk.”

  “About what? I’m doing as you asked, I’m—”

  “I’ve changed my mind.” Rushworth turned to the window, clasped his hands beh
ind his back. But his fingers twitched. “Stop. Stop courting her.”

  “I beg your pardon?” He prayed he kept the panic out of his tone. The claws of fear that said, Why? Why is he changing things now?

  “I said stop.” His fingers curled, uncurled. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He drew in a slow breath. “You kissed her. I never told you to kiss her.”

  The spy had been watching then—or had just overheard the explosion to follow. He would ask Stafford which of their suspects had been working in the right area yesterday—the housemaid or the kitchen boy.

  It probably didn’t matter much at this point. Cayton let his face settle into the old one he used to wear on social occasions, when he wanted everyone to think him something other than what he was. “You told me to court her. To either win her trust or break her heart. How exactly did you expect me to do that if not by eventually kissing her and seeing how she responded?”

  Rushworth’s lips peeled away from his teeth. “Don’t do it again. Are we clear? Do not ever touch her that way again.”

  Ella, please be on your way home. Far, far away from him. He effected a shrug. “I daresay it’s irrelevant—the duchess isn’t likely to let me in her house again. She was no happier to stumble upon us than you are to have heard about it. So . . . the ball is, as they say, in your court. Pick up the pieces, as you wanted to do.”

  Be halfway to Sussex. Better still, halfway to the Continent. On a ship to America. Anywhere but here.

  Rushworth’s nostrils flared. “If you’ve ruined this . . .”

  Lord, protect us. Protect Addie. Protect Ella. He held his arms wide. “You wanted me to ruin it! To hurt her, to make her hate me. Didn’t you? Isn’t that what your plan was, so you could rush in and convince her to love you? And hand you the diamonds?”

  “If you haven’t sent her running back to Sussex, the diamonds in hand.”

  Cayton loosed a grunt that hopefully sounded just disgusted enough, just disinterested enough. He wrenched open the door of his wardrobe and pulled out his riding clothes, tossed them onto the bed. “What do you want me to do, Rush? Go back over there and try to see her again or let her think I got what I wanted and have lost interest? Just tell me.”