The Lady’s Lover

by Deb Marlowe

  The place had been transformed. It looked like a pasha’s tent—something one would find in a desert oasis. Patterned silks draped the ceiling and covered the walls. Cushions were strewn across the floor. A low chair, lower table and a set of pierced lanterns defined a space in the center.

  “Theater,” Hestia said with a sigh. “He always had a weakness for theater—with himself in the center role.” She stepped in, her head moving to take it all in. “Can’t you see it? He has them escorted here and they are struck by the opulence, the decadence—”

  “And the Eastern supplier he kept by his side,” Crawford added.

  “He received his tithes and notified them all they were to begin dealing in opium as well as flesh?” she asked.

  “That’s what I heard. Some were enthusiastic about the idea. Others were annoyed at losing rooms for their usual business and at the thought of the cost of setting up a space like this.”

  “He wouldn’t have given them a choice.”

  “No.”

  “But he did give them a taste of the wares,” Stoneacre reflected. “The party must have gone on all night.”

  “It did—but that didn’t stop his men from booting them all awake early this morning and moving them all out. Back to London, to get to work.”

  “New revenue streams,” Hestia said, meeting Stoneacre’s gaze. “You’ve been shutting them off, now he’s looking for new ways to make money.” She nodded absently. “Suddenly it makes sense, why he chose this spot.”

  “Why?”

  “Way back in the beginning, Marstoke started his illicit business with smuggling. That’s when he began to recruit malcontented sons of the aristocracy. The ones who weren’t to inherit the family money—and might be willing to commit a bit of treasonous smuggling to make their own. This place has vast cellars and used to be a regular stop along their routes.”

  Stoneacre stood still, absorbing it all. This mission was growing bigger all of the time.

  “There’s more.” Crawford shifted, uneasy.

  “What is it?”

  His man pointed with his chin. “On the table.”

  He exchanged glances with Hestia and together, they approached.

  A sealed letter lay on the table, Hestia’s name scrawled across it.

  “Did you read it?” Stoneacre asked sharply.

  “No!” Crawford raised his hands. “There seemed no need. Everyone was gone and I knew you two would be arriving eventually.”

  Her face ashen, Hestia picked it up and began to read.

  She refused to let her hands shake as she held up the missive.

  * * *

  Hestia, my dear,

  Thank you for coming. The world changes, but I find comfort in the idea that you are always where I expect you to be—chasing after me, always a step or two behind.

  I am grieved that I cannot wait for you, be there with you, right where it all began. Ah, the memories. How young we were. How lovely you were, and how innocent. Have you visited your cell? I have. There are still manacles attached to the wall in there. I have walked all over this house, remembering. The bloodstains still color the cracks in the marble in the solar hearth, did you notice?

  Our games have been magnificent. I have always felt a strong sense of pride in you, even when you enraged me. I feel it now, even as the curtains to our drama draw to a close. I admit that my victory will have a hollow quality, without you to witness it.

  But alas, I must bid you . . .

  Adieu,

  M

  * * *

  An icy chill ran down her spine as Hestia looked up. “There is someone here.”

  “No.” Stoneacre’s man sounded decisive. “I’ve searched the place.”

  “Not all of it,” she returned flatly. She looked to the earl. “One horse.” She waved the letter. “And this—”

  “The whore is correct.”

  They all turned. He stood on the threshold—a small man, short but sturdy looking—and with no expression to be found on his countenance at all. With one hand he tugged down his lavishly embroidered waistcoat while his other held a steady grip on a shining pistol.

  “Move away.” He pointed with the firearm. “Step back from the woman. It is only you who must die, Hestia Wright.”

  She sighed, even as the chill faded and embers of fury began to glow in her belly. Slowly she reached up and began to unwind the scarf from around her head. “He found the secret passageway, did he?”

  The man’s brows raised in surprise. “No. The hidden panel next to the great hearth.” He nodded. “But he’ll be interested to hear about a secret passage. Thank you, for that.”

  “A bit of icing to go atop my death?” She could hear the hard edge to her own voice as she let the scarf drop.

  The man shrugged, still flat of manner. “I’ve been given the job. You know him. You’ll know I must complete it.”

  “Oh, no.” Stoneacre words emerged softly, but carried deadly intent. “You must not.”

  She looked over to see him pointing one of his dueling pistols at the newcomer.

  It didn’t unsettle the man in the slightest. He merely raised his other hand and widened his stance, standing with his arms angled and covering both of them with a weapon.

  Angry flames licked higher inside her. They tightened her chest and climbed into her throat and threatened to block her words. She forced them out. “Know him?” She spit the question as if it were a bullet that would take him down. “Oh, yes. I do. I’ll wager I know you, too.” And she let all of the revulsion and loathing she felt show in her face. “Someone, somewhere, possesses something that you feel should be yours. Curse the whims of fate, someone else has inherited the estates or won the girl or covered himself in glory that should be yours. Likely a mixture of all three.” Gesturing, she sneered. “Look at you. Well fed. Well shod and clothed. Manners. Education, presumably. And those lovely pistols earned some gunsmith a month’s good living. All blessings in your life, without doubt. But you cannot see or appreciate them over the bitter taint of envy that has permeated your soul.”

  The first sign of emotion showed in him when his mouth dropped open a little.

  “I can see I have the right of it.”

  “That’s enough.” He frowned. “You don’t know. The army? Because it’s family tradition?” he scoffed. “Why? What should I do there? War’s over. Laurels have all been handed out. No chance to have my reputation made in battle dispatches. No opportunity to capture enemy supplies or pay and share in the booty. Shall I rot in some wilderness or babysit a failed, fat emperor on a wasted island?”

  “You might protect your country, perhaps? See to her interests at home and abroad? Or find some other occupation that would satisfy your family and let you follow your own interests? But no, so much better to join with a traitor and kill women at his bidding. Is he still promising to overthrow the monarchy? To do away with primogeniture? Because you are so much more likely to inherit based on . . . what? Merit? Your honor?” She laughed.

  “Stop talking,” he said, raising the weapon pointed at her a little higher.

  “Or what?” Damn him. Damn them all. She scarcely recognized herself. That damned insulting letter had jolted her mask loose and the appearance of this poppycock of a would-be assassin had knocked it clear away. If she were meant to die, she would do it with a curse for Marstoke and his morally weak minions on her lips.

  Stoneacre made some slight move and the stranger glared his way. Smoothly, Hestia pulled the tiny Queen Anne pistol from her pocket, her hand just as steady and her resolve as set as the man who meant to murder her. Her finger caressed the trigger. She braced herself—

  And the stranger jerked and dropped as another gun barked. A red hole bloomed at his temple as he fell. Hestia spun and glared. Stoneacre still stood at the ready, but Crawford was lowering his smoking weapon.

  “I was ready to—”

  “I know you were,” he said respectfully. “But I didn’t like to think of
you carrying that death around with you for the rest of your days.”

  Hestia opened her mouth to answer him, then shut it again. He’d meant it as a kindness. It was a kindness. Why, then did it feel like another blow? Another man believing she couldn’t do what needed to be done?

  “A sense of pride,” she muttered, her gorge rising. She stared at the dead man. Fury choked her. Anger, grief and despair threatened to crush her with their combined weight. Gasping for breath, she stumbled out of the room.

  Yes. Light and air. Space. She leaned a hand against the wooden mantle on the fireplace and fought to breathe. Hollow victory be damned, she cursed silently.

  Her gaze fell on the marble surround. Oh, saints in heaven, he was right. Bloodstains still color the cracks . . . Revulsion speared her from brain to gut. She flung herself away, shuddering.

  Damn him. Damn her. Damn them all.

  “Hestia?”

  Stoneacre and his man stood in the doorway. Their eyes widened as she raised her pistol and aimed for those loathsome stains.

  The crack of the shot was followed by a ping as the bullet ricocheted off of the hardened stone.

  “Hestia!” Both men ducked.

  She stared at the small indentation in the stone and then blindly at the pair of men, then back. It was all too much. Being here was bad enough . . . Rage rose to heights she hadn’t imagined she could reach. She struggled to contain it. She had to . . . She had to . . .

  She ran.

  Out through the passage and down the stairs. Past the remnants of Marstoke’s revels. Out into the clear air. She walked until she hit green lawn and then she breathed deeply, reaching for control.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the two men emerge from the main door. They conferred, murmuring, and then Crawford slipped away, moving down the front of the house and heading toward the wood on the east side. Stoneacre started toward her and she turned away. Still, he came. He was still several feet away when she spun about.

  “Three times!” she spat, throwing a hand out toward the house. “Three times I escaped this wretched place and three times they dragged me back. I never truly despaired, though. Because they never discovered how I got out. And because I knew I would not break, no matter what Marstoke did to me. I would make it out.”

  She paused, breathing her way through horrid memories, glaring at the house. “But the fourth time, it was different then. I prepared thoroughly. I stole a pair of stained breeches from a courier’s saddlebag and took an old tunic a groom left drying in the bushes. I stashed away provisions. I did it because I knew this time had to be different. I couldn’t come back again, because Marstoke had finally done it. He’d finally found a way past my defenses and I feared I truly would break if it continued.”

  She glanced back. Stoneacre stood, tense and still. He’d closed his eyes. “Don’t you want to know how he did it?”

  “No!” he rasped. “I don’t.”

  “He brought another girl into the house,” she continued relentlessly. “Not educated or refined in any way, but very sweet. Bewildered. He brought her along to my room. It was one of the monk’s cells, where I was kept confined, most days. He proceeded as usual, but this time, when I defied him—he punished her.”

  Now her eyes closed. “How long?” she whispered. “How long do you think I could stand by while he struck her? And worse?”

  Stoneacre didn’t answer. He only shook his head.

  “She came creeping back later,” Hestia said hollowly. “To thank me. And she kept coming back. She wasn’t confined nearly as much as I was. I imagined she was too ashamed of her bruises to venture out. Too cowed. Or perhaps she had nowhere to go.” She sucked in a breath. “She brought me extra food from the kitchens. And she talked endlessly about her village and the people there. She said it was far away, and she wasn’t sure which direction.”

  Hestia sighed. “I was furious—and I was worried. I was set to escape, but I knew I couldn’t leave her behind. I had to take her with me—and it was going to make everything so much harder. But I made preparations, and I waited for the right time.”

  Her heart began to pound again as the memories rose up. “Except . . . one day I noticed a bruise—a split on her cheekbone that I had not seen Marstoke make—and I began to wonder what else was happening to her. So, the next time I was released and set to helping the maid with the laundry, I took a stack of linens upstairs—and began to creep about, searching for Beth.”

  Stoneacre started. “Beth? Not that frightened girl . . ?”

  “Yes. The very one. Her manner makes her appear so much younger. But back then, I worried that one of the servants was mistreating her. Bad enough what Marstoke was putting us through. I couldn’t imagine being frightened even when he was not around. None of them had tried anything with me. But they might think they could get away with it, with a timid girl like her.”

  She sighed. “I knew her room was in the upper floors. I went searching, but the bedrooms were all empty.” Her tone hardened. “The solar was occupied, though. Beth was there—on Marstoke’s lap—and not because she’d been forced there. She was grinning and unbuttoning his waistcoat while he complained that it was taking too long for me to trust her.”

  “No!” Stoneacre looked aghast. “She wasn’t . . .”

  “She was. It was all an act. She assured him it wouldn’t take much longer, as I’d accepted her offerings from the kitchen and listened to her stories. She told him I’d soon be talking back—and they would find how I was escaping—and could move on to other . . . plans for me.”

  Stoneacre gave a grunt of distress. Hestia kept going. It was too late to stop now. She had to tell it all.

  “I crouched there in the shadows like a fool, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. Couldn’t stop staring. It was like a dream. Marstoke grasped Beth’s chin, rough as usual, but she pushed his hand away. ‘Careful,’ she admonished him. ‘I caught her looking at my cheek—and thinking. Always thinking, that one is.’ She began to untie the laces to her peasant shirt. ‘Pick a spot that won’t show,’ she whispered to him. ‘And make it good.’”

  Hestia cleared her throat and wished she could clear her head of these memories. “I was sick. Almost physically ill at the thought of being played for such a fool—at the thought that she would do such a thing to me, a girl no older than I and yet so—”

  “Evil,” Stoneacre whispered.

  She swallowed and pushed on. “I didn’t make a sound. Didn’t move. But Marstoke bade her fetch his strap and when she climbed off of him, she spotted me. I whirled to run, but she was quick and caught me by the hair and dragged me into the solar. I was beyond livid. And she was mocking. I struck out at her. She hit back and soon we were struggling, while Marstoke watched, all amusement. Finally, I broke free and pushed her away. I headed for the stairs, but Marstoke caught me. It was several minutes before we realized that Beth had gone quiet. She still slumped on the floor. She’d struck her head on the marble when I shoved her. The smear of blood down the surround showed her path down. She lay there still, unconscious.”

  “No more than she deserved,” Stoneacre snorted.

  “For four days, she slept, and when she awoke, her wits were gone. She was scarcely the same girl. Marstoke tried to use her to torment me further, blaming me for her illness and for her new condition.” She shrugged. “I was past caring. She’d earned what she got, as far as I was concerned and nothing he could do could touch me now. I was blank. Empty. Not even defiant any longer, just uncaring.” She gave an ugly laugh. “He tired of that soon enough. If only I had known! I gave him nothing. Neither the terrified surrender he enjoyed with other girls nor the fight he usually got from me—and suddenly he wasn’t interested. He set me free, dumping me alone and penniless, in rags, miles away.”

  She breathed deep, remembering the joy of that moment.

  “Hestia,” Stoneacre reached out.

  She drew back, shaking. “No! Please, do not. I’m fine.”

>   “You are not fine,” he said gently.

  “I am! I got past it. I forgave her, eventually. I’ll never forgive him—but I will defeat him. I just need . . .”

  She was coming undone with the effort of holding on to so many emotions. Her mask. It felt long gone and out of reach. If she could just find it again . . .

  “Please,” she begged. “A moment alone. It’s just, coming back here, and that letter, and that boy . . . it’s dredging up so much . . . Just let me be. I need a moment to push it all back down.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why?” She stared, dumbfounded. “Why, what?”

  “Why push it all down, banish your feelings?”

  “How can you ask that?” She nearly shouted it, lashing out in sudden anger. “Do you think I want Marstoke to define me? Control me? You don’t know—you cannot!”

  “No, I cannot. I cannot imagine the incandescent anger you must feel.” He shook his head, gazing at her in what looked like admiration.

  Admiration? No. That couldn’t be right.

  “I’m in awe of you, Hestia Wright,” he said softly. “You must have carried all of that with you for so long, rigidly controlling it. Allowing it to fuel you, I suspect.”

  She wanted to cringe. She shouldn’t have told him. He was stripping her naked. Seeing right down into her soul.

  “But you paid for that fury with blood, sweat and spite. And now it is out—and you deserve the chance to feel it. Let it out. Let it go. Some of it, at least.”

  She frowned. Shook her head.

  “He only wins, Hestia, if you act against your feelings. Or let them harm you.”

  Harm her? By all the saints, her hate and anger were part of her. But was that allowing Marstoke to define her? Only if she couldn’t control it. She’d always believed that. But this, how she felt now, here, it was beyond anything that she’d had to bury before.

  She turned toward the house—and her breath began to come faster at the idea of it. Could she? But she knew—now that idea was in her, now that the thought of release hung before her—she must.