“I’m so sorry,” John said, leaning into her. “I’m sorry I—”
“Oh,” she said in surprise, looking up at him. “I didn’t mean everyone. I didn’t mean you.”
Her eyes were so bright. Her body was so warm. He was looking down at her, their faces mere inches apart.
“You were a little nasty in the beginning,” she said, “but at least you always told me the truth.”
He should have told her right then. But he didn’t. Instead, he slid his hand around her neck. He wanted her. He wanted the woman who stood before him now. He adored her bravery in the face of monsters. He wanted to believe that the light in her eyes reflected the truth of him, not the partial truths he’d given her. He wished this were clean and uncomplicated.
But it was messy and complex. And warm, like the intermingling of their breath. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from leaning over her, his lips brushing hers in a brief prelude.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he let out a gasp of air against her lips—a single, desirous exhalation, before he took her mouth. No more shyness between them—just that heated storm of a kiss. There was no lightning in the air, no thunder on the horizon. But there should have been. The atmosphere seemed charged and humid, as if some great bolt of electricity were about to arc up from the ground, starting right between them.
The entire valley—dark and shrouded in night—seemed to fold itself into their kiss. His hands slid down her back, pulling her close; her lips were soft and yet so demanding on his. He wanted her, every inch of her. The crickets about them seemed to chirp an entire symphony, accompanied only by the distant sound of frogs.
If only the world could shrink to those things—heat and want—and expel the ragged past between them.
He pulled away from her. “Do you remember the first time I saw you? Your father had us all to dinner. And before we went in, you played the pianoforte. All the other men—barbarians, I was sure—talked through your performance. I could only think that it was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever heard.”
“I remember.” She took a breath. “I haven’t played in so long.”
“You were playing some variations.”
“The Goldberg variations,” she confirmed. “By Bach.”
“And after, I went up to you and demanded that you tell me what the point of a variation was—taking the same piece of music and altering it over and over, instead of creating something new. Do you remember what you said?”
She frowned. “Something like, ‘Why limit yourself to one melody, when the music is big enough to lend itself to endless possibilities?’”
“That’s what I think when I see you now,” he said. “I don’t understand most of what you’re saying, except that it makes me angry on your behalf. I can’t compress you into a few words, no matter how I try. I feel like I’m listening to endless variations on a theme of Mary. And I love what I hear.”
Her breath caught. “John.” She didn’t say anything else. She just held him, and when he kissed her, she melted into him again. Kiss after melting kiss—months of dreams and longings, all coming to life. He could make this right, somehow. He could make it up to her. They might have each other after all.
As for everything else? He’d make things right with his sister. He’d find some way to compensate his nephew for the loss. It didn’t matter how impossible it seemed that their families could reconcile; it was more impossible that he would give her up.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmured. “God, I missed you.”
She nestled against him, so right against him that he couldn’t imagine ever letting her go again.
Maybe…
“You mentioned a favor,” he said. “At the beginning. I had almost forgotten it. About Sir Walter?”
She looked up, blinking in surprise. “Yes,” she said. “I…I became distracted. We are going to destroy Sir Walter. You and I.”
She fumbled in her skirt pocket and pulled out a tiny twist of brown paper. This she undid, revealing a piece of jewelry. It glinted in the moonlight as she held it up. “And we’re going to use this.”
Chapter Nine
JOHN DIDN’T THINK HE WAS the sort to be easily overawed, but Northword Hill was by far the most intimidating home he had ever entered. The entry was all mirrors and marble and a vast candelabra that sparkled overhead; the murals on the walls had the rich look of old wealth. Even the corridor that he was led down, when he’d handed over his card and a brief description of his business, was lined with paintings done by a single hand—a beautiful woman, playing the role of a Madonna; a still-life with candlelight on fruit so vivid that he couldn’t believe it was flat paint.
He caught a glimpse of a pianoforte edged in gold through one door, and a library, well stocked with volumes, through another, before he was ushered into a parlor.
“Mr. John Mason,” the footman intoned, bowing, and then taking up watchful residence at the door.
The lady of the estate sat in a seat, the arms carved with delicate patterns. For all that he towered over her while she was seated, he had the impression that she might have been on a throne, looking down on him.
“Lady Northword,” John said, bowing his head.
He had heard that Lady Northword was elderly. But the woman who inclined her head to him looked only old enough to command respect. There was still more auburn in her hair than grey, and she wore it half up, the rest a mass of tangling curls.
“Mr. John Mason,” she repeated. “Please sit.” She waited until he had done so before she continued. “Northword told me about you the other day. You’re the fellow who’s come all the way from Southampton to work on Beauregard’s fields.”
“Yes, my lady. That’s right.”
“That’s quite kind of you,” she said. “The rest of us have been hearing about his swamp for some time now.” Her eyes focused on him. Nothing rheumy or unclear about her, despite her age. “Beauregard says that you asked for no compensation. I find that passing strange.”
He ducked his head. “Not so strange, my lady. I had other reasons to visit the district.”
“Had you, now.” She contemplated him, as if wondering how villainous his reasons were. “And now you’ve come all the way from Beauregard’s farm to see me.”
“Yes, my lady.” His hand played over the metal in his pocket.
“Passing strange,” she repeated.
“Not so strange,” he said. “You’re the only one I can give this to.” He opened his hand.
In that moment, faced with Lady Northword’s regal demeanor, the plan suddenly felt foolish. Some tenant might have lost the earring in the decades since Lady Northword had resided at Doyle’s Grange. And even if it had belonged to her, what did a viscountess care about a twist of gold and a bit of peridot? She likely had far finer pieces to adorn her—including the pearls at her ears now.
But her eyes widened and she stood up half out of her chair, reaching for the metal.
“Mr. Mason,” she said, her voice growing temporarily raspy, “how extraordinary.” Her fingers touched the earring, pressing it into his palm. “I had never thought to see this again. I lost it so long ago—before my marriage, even.”
She took it gently from him. John said nothing as she peered at it, lost in a long ago time.
Finally, she looked up. “My brother Magnus gave me this for my twenty-first birthday. He passed away just a few years ago.” Her fist closed around the jewelry, and she pulled it close to her chest. “Where did you find it? How did you know it was mine?”
“Lady Patsworth found it at Doyle’s Grange.”
She frowned. “But if she found it, why were you tasked to return it?”
“She is not allowed to pay any calls.” John was unsure how much else he would have to say to convince the woman.
But Lady Northword leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Ah.”
She’d been a viscountess and the leading lady of this region for
nearly half a century. What Lady Northword would have seen in that time, John could only begin to guess. She was no fool, that was for certain. She inclined her head to look out the windows in the direction of her one-time home.
“All is not well at Doyle’s Grange,” she said softly.
“No, my lady.” He drew a deep breath. “Lady Patsworth sends this to you with her regards, and her most desperate plea for your assistance. She would have brought it herself, were it allowed. She needs you.”
Lady Northword looked still to Doyle’s Grange, unmoving, as if caught in the grip of some long-ago memory. “Nobody should be imprisoned like that. What must be done?” she asked.
“Invite her to dinner,” John said. “She needs to get away from her husband’s domain. You’ll have to make the invitation in person…”
He trailed off, realizing he was giving commands to a viscountess. But she simply raised an eyebrow, and motioned him to continue.
“And you’ll have to insist that she come—no excuses allowed. If her husband complains, insist that Beauregard and I have seen her strong and well. You own Doyle’s Grange, do you not? And as nobility, you and your husband are the only ones in the area that Sir Walter cannot truly refuse—if you insist. Insist, and we’ll manage the rest.”
Her eyebrow rose even higher. “We? That is you and…Lady Patsworth?”
He met her eyes straight on. “Lady Patsworth has a companion. We were once engaged.” He frowned. “In fact, as the engagement was never officially broken off, we are still betrothed.”
She sat back in her chair and gave him a curiously pleased grin.
“You see,” he repeated. “There’s nothing strange about it.”
“Consider it done,” she said. She raised the piece of jewelry in the air. “And give Lady Patsworth my compliments, if you please.”
MARY DID NOT OFTEN MOURN the loss of her gowns. But a week after she and John had made their plans, as she dressed for the dinner party, she wished she still had one of her finest. Her blue silk, for instance. She was, after all, preparing for battle. The right gown could serve as both sword and shield.
She’d contemplated her Sunday best, but the dove-gray gown had no pockets. If everything went well tonight, she might never return to this room. And if she was going to be restricted to the contents of her pockets, she wanted those pockets to be as large as possible.
The practical took most of the space available: a comb, a toothbrush, a sliver of hard soap, and a small hand towel—she’d learned in her last desperate flight from home that a lady should never be without a towel.
Aside from that…
She’d been carting around the damning pages she’d sliced from her father’s account book for too long. She couldn’t leave them here to be discovered by Sir Walter; after all she’d gone through to keep her father’s secret, there was no point betraying his shame to her worst enemy.
But she didn’t want to keep those words near her heart any longer. His note had all the sentimental value of a bludgeon. It was time to let the words go.
Sighing, she lit a candle and fed the pages into the flame. But as the edge blackened and smoked, her eye was caught by the numbers on the reverse of his final message—not blank, of course; it was an account book. She’d seen those numbers a hundred times without thinking about what they meant.
The last entries were not surprising or strange. But they’d never before set in motion the cascade of possibilities that rushed through her now. She’d been so used to seeing those words as a chain, holding her in place, that she’d not recognized that they could be something else entirely. She’d seen only what her father had taken—those thousands of pounds, spent on her behalf. She hadn’t thought about what he’d left behind.
The paper caught fire right at that moment, a thin lick of orange darting up. Mary dropped it on the desk and beat her fist into the flame, smothering it before it could consume the future she’d glimpsed.
She brushed away ash and the charred edges of cracked paper before unfolding the pages and surveying the damage.
The numbers were still there, unburnt.
When John talked of thousands of pounds missing, she’d thought of the money her father had spent. But the way he spoke, he made it sound as if nothing had remained. Her father had taken thousands, but he’d husbanded his ill-gotten gains. The other partners should have recovered quite a bit.
If John thought they hadn’t…
Mary reached out and picked up the paper again. She folded it—this time, not for the words he’d written in front, but for the ones she’d never thought about on the back. And then, for the first time in a long while, she laughed.
Now she was ready to take on Sir Walter.
Chapter Ten
BY THE TIME THE dinner guests adjourned to the back room, Mary felt too wracked by her nerves to speak. She’d scarcely touched her food; she hadn’t dared look at Lady Patsworth, lest her questioning gaze give everything away to her husband.
The closer they came to success, the sicker Mary felt. Luckily, as a mere companion, there was no need for her to join in the conversation. She let it swirl around her, and she waited.
The salon was grandly appointed. The walls were a mix of moss-green and gold, clever carved moldings around the edge telling a story about a nymph and a harp. Windows looked out over the night-shrouded valley, dotted by little flashes of lamplight where there were settlements.
Easier to look out the window than to focus on what stood before it: a pianoforte. That would be Mary’s contribution this evening. She’d never been nervous about performing before. This crowd—just Lord and Lady Northword, John, the Beauregards, Sir Walter and his wife, and two other families—would hardly have flustered her a few years ago. Then again, she’d never had a performance this important.
“Miss Chartley,” the viscountess said, “you keep looking at the pianoforte. Do you play?”
It had begun. The evening was so carefully scripted; Mary had only to do her part, and the rest of it would happen.
“A little,” Mary said, looking down.
“A little?” John, a few feet away, made a sound of disbelief. “That’s balderdash, if you’ll excuse the expression. Miss Chartley is utterly brilliant.”
“A bit of exaggeration, I’m afraid.” Mary put her head down in a pretense of modesty.
“But…” Sir Walter looked up, frowning. “Mr. Mason, I thought you didn’t know Miss Chartley. How would you know that she plays?”
John met Mary’s eyes and gave her a melting look; Mary looked away. They’d decided it would do best to have Mary pretend embarrassment—to have Sir Walter believe that she’d been caught out in misbehavior. Mary didn’t have to pretend at all; a slight pink flush rose on her cheeks unbidden.
“Well,” John said, “I had to find out.”
Sir Walter let out a soft hiss. “But you…”
Mary looked up. It wasn’t difficult to meet John’s eyes. And she wasn’t pretending when everyone else in the room seemed to fall away. There was only his smile, only the light dancing in his eyes.
“Hmph,” Sir Walter said. He gave her a dark look, one that said, Don’t you dare speak to that man.
“Well, Miss Chartley, perhaps you could play for us a little.” Lady Northword spoke as if she hadn’t seen that interchange.
“Of course.” Mary blushed and glanced at John again. “And perhaps, Mr. Mason, you might turn my pages.”
“Miss Chartley,” Sir Walter whispered in harsh tones. “This behavior is most unbecoming!”
But Mary stood anyway and moved to the instrument. Sir Walter glared as she thumbed through the available music. His arms were folded across his chest; his chin promised retribution.
John came to stand by her. His simple presence assured her that she was not alone. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t say anything as she flipped, unseeing, through sheets of music. He was just there, steady and honest and trustworthy.
It wasn’t hard for M
ary to turn to John and give him the largest, most scintillating smile she could muster. She was supposed to be doing it to rivet Sir Walter’s attention. But she had only to look at the man who’d kissed her every night for the last week, and she felt herself burst into bloom. It wasn’t just a smile she gave him; it was her heart, writ large across her face. Her nervousness faded. Her breath eased. The whole room seemed to fade to an indistinct blur—everything except him. He was the only solid thing in a shifting world.
“You know,” he said, leaning down and whispering in her ear. “There’s one flaw with this plan. I don’t know how I will turn your pages. I can’t read music.”
“Don’t worry,” she murmured back. “I’ll play from memory. Just count to twenty-five and turn, and nobody will be the wiser.”
She took out a sheaf of music and set it in front of her, and set her hands on the keys.
It had been so long since she’d touched an instrument. She had worried that she might have forgotten how. But the ivory, cool under her fingers, woke memories that went deeper than a few years’ hiatus. Her muscles still knew what to do. The first sprightly notes came out precise and clear, exactly as she remembered them.
She had always loved Beethoven’s Diabelli variations, in part because the individual pieces were so…various. They were not minor alterations in key and structure, but complete transformations. Chords were taken from one variation and built into a new melody in the next. The notes of the original waltz were still present, if you knew what to listen for—they were just given an entirely different meaning. It was music tied to a common heart, but made without limitation.
Her fingers faltered at first. But the joy of a variation was that it was all too easy to cover a mistake. Those first missteps, she converted into alterations of her own—little ones, at first, and then trills that she added on purpose.
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