He didn’t have to be alone. He didn’t have to leave some part of himself stuck out there, still on that sea. Maybe he didn’t have to fear himself any longer.
It seemed a foreign concept, odder than anything he’d ever experienced. And still he didn’t know what to say in response. In place of speech, he kissed her hand. When she didn’t draw away, he drew her down next to him and put his arms around her. Even the touch of his lips to hers seemed like an importunity; and besides, he would have to draw back from her to do it. He would have to pull his head from where it rested against her shoulder, and if he did that, she might see there was something suspiciously like moisture in his eyes. She could no doubt tell that his breath was already ragged.
But maybe she knew. And maybe she held him so closely, stroking his shoulder, because he didn’t have to be alone any longer, not even in this final discovery of her. When his breath stopped racking his body, when he let out one last shaky exhale against her collarbone, he realized she’d been right. He was stronger for having her, not weaker. They lay next to each other, exchanging careful caresses. The comfort overwhelmed him.
“Do you know what it means, to help me?” He finally spoke against the edge of her collar. He was drifting off to sleep; his eyes would not stay open.
“Of course I do.” She sounded amused. And then she leaned forward. He could feel the bed shift under her weight, the heat of her against his face. Then she kissed his eyelids slowly. “It means I love you.”
“Oh.”
So that’s what love looked like—not some stifling, too-careful creature, who wanted to cut his meat into digestible pieces for him. It was something bigger, more robust. He ought to say something in return, he knew, but she was still running her hands across him, and for the first time in longer than he knew, he felt safe. Not alone.
He drifted off to sleep.
When he awoke in the morning, she was still with him, a solid, warm presence. Overnight, all of the nonsense, all of his fears, the sheer impossibility of their situation seemed to have become manageable. He knew precisely what they needed to do about Harcroft, and now he finally knew how to do it.
For a long while, he watched her, afraid to disturb her rest. When her eyes finally fluttered open and met his, a slow smile spread across her face. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
Some things were even harder than walking a handful of miles on a broken leg. But then, Ned had gotten quite good at doing things he didn’t want to do. He looked his wife in the eye.
“Kate,” he said softly. He took a deep breath and held her hand, for courage. “I am going to need your help.”
LONDON SOCIETY OFTEN CONSTRUCTED RUMORS out of nothing but glances, and gossip from little more than a few wrinkles on a gown. So it was no surprise when Ned discovered that everyone had taken an avaricious interest in the matter between Harcroft and his wife. Everyone knew that Louisa was staying with the Carharts—and speculation as to the reason ran rampant.
The most likely possibility listed in the betting books, was the one Louisa had announced in the courtroom—she was angry with her husband for putting her dearest friend in jeopardy of life and limb. But there were other theories.
Kate sorted the gossip papers into little stacks on the breakfast table. “Feminine pique,” she murmured. “Feminine pique. Masculine bravado. Feminine pique.” She looked up at him. “That makes three for feminine pique.”
“And nobody,” Ned said dryly, “has noticed there are double petitions filed in Chancery, on the subject of madness?”
Kate shook her head. “These things are kept quiet, you know. And besides, the petitions weren’t posted in a ballroom or penned in a betting book. The ton is substantially less likely to notice them.”
Ned smiled and felt a grim sense of satisfaction. Everyone knew there were only three ways to end a marriage. Divorce—but Harcroft would retain all rights to his son, and so the result was unacceptable. Annulment—but it would be impossible to prove nonconsummation, particularly given aforementioned son. And there was death, but nobody had the stomach to kill the man.
And with Harcroft’s suit pending in Chancery—a suit that claimed Louisa was mentally incompetent—her ability to testify even in divorce proceedings might be cast into doubt. If he had her declared a lunatic, his victory over her would be complete. He would not only be her husband, but her guardian, the trustee of all her care.
For the first time in days, Ned smiled.
Everyone knew there were only three ways for a marriage to come to an end.
Everyone was wrong. And tonight, Harcroft was going to discover it.
Chapter Twenty-four
KATE WAS NOT ENTIRELY SURE of their ability to succeed when they arrived at the musicale. Her role for the evening had been set out and discussed, time and again. She was to keep Harcroft away from Louisa for as long as she could, and make him as angry as possible in the process.
This objective turned into a dance—one in which the steps were constantly thwarted by the other members of the ton, who hoped that Lord and Lady Harcroft would strike public sparks. Kate led Louisa from one room on a pretext; minutes later, Harcroft followed. On one of their stops, Kate caught a glimpse of the Lord Chancellor, decked out in his full regalia. The gold-embroidered stripes on the sleeves of his robes glittered in the shining lights.
He turned when he saw Kate and Louisa enter the room, but it wasn’t yet time for Kate to make their introductions. Besides, the Chancellor was Ned’s bailiwick. She ushered Louisa from that room quickly.
It was only when Harcroft began to show signs of distress—a tight line drawn across his forehead, and his hands clenching in his gloves—that Kate brought Louisa to the last refuge.
With everyone in the music hall and the adjoining rooms, the ballroom was dark and deserted. In the corner, a screen had been set up; behind it, a door led to the servants’ quarters. The two women hurried across the room. Kate left Louisa behind the screen and turned to face the entry.
She heard the door open behind her.
It took Harcroft a few seconds to find her shape in the darkness. She saw his silhouette in the doorway. He stared at her and shook his head. Finally, he started toward her, footsteps slapping in percussive rhythm across the floor.
“And what have we here?” Harcroft sounded tired. “Why, it’s Kathleen Carhart. Are you proud of yourself? Do you wake every morning, delighting in the knowledge that you bested me? Your success won’t last long.”
“What sort of nonsense is this, Harcroft?” Kate did not let her voice drop. She could hear her response echoing throughout the hall, around the parquet dance floor. She hoped their words carried far enough. “Bested you?” The door to the servants’ quarters was behind that screen, she reminded herself. He couldn’t see behind it—and Kate still had not heard that door close behind Louisa. She would just have to trust that this would all work out.
“So you’re playing the innocent.” He stepped forward again. “You’ve made a mockery of my marriage, and all in the name of…shopping. You made the sacred frivolous. You’ve stolen from me.”
He advanced on her. Slowly she backed away from him. Her back hit the ballroom wall distressingly quickly.
“Harcroft, I think you might need to sit down. Rest a bit.”
He grabbed for her wrist and twisted it.
“Don’t do that.” Kate spoke calmly, although she could feel her pulse beat threadily in his grip. Nobody could see her; at best, she had to hope that someone would hear what was happening. “Harcroft. Let go of my wrist. You don’t need to resort to violence. Not again. We can resolve this rationally.”
“I don’t believe I hit you hard enough last time.”
He raised his fist; Kate ducked. She pulled her wrist from his grasp, and his hand hit the wall behind her.
“Be careful—you might hurt yourself,” she suggested, and the glint in her eyes made the suggestion less kind than her solicitous tone suggested. “Harcrof
t…”
He whirled around swiftly. “Goddamn you,” he spat out. Before she could react, he set his hands against her shoulders and shoved, pushing her off balance at an odd angle. The hard wood floor smacked against her backside with bruising force; her head missed the wall by inches. He dropped to his knees and leaned over her, pinning her shoulder to the floor.
Kate smiled up at him in sheer relief. Thank God; she’d goaded him into showing his true nature. She’d won. They’d won.
For the first time since they’d come into the room, Kate didn’t pitch her voice to carry. This, after all, she didn’t want overheard. “In the stories,” Kate whispered, “the heroine slays the dragon.”
A puzzled frown lit his face.
“She lops off his head and brings it to the villagers. And they build a bonfire, and everyone celebrates because darkness has been banished from the land.”
“Dragons?” Harcroft snarled. “Dragons? What the hell are dragons doing in this conversation?” He raised his hand. In another second, his fist would smash into her face. Pinned as she was against the parquet floor, there was no escape. She ought to have been frightened. Her heart should have been hammering, but instead, all she felt was a heady sense of absolute victory. He couldn’t hurt her. She smiled up at him; his eyes narrowed.
“True heroes,” she told him, “tame their dragons.”
“Harcroft.” The voice came from behind him. “You’d better stop.”
Harcroft turned, his hand arrested in midair.
It was Ned. He’d been waiting in the servants’ corridor. He came forward now, limping carefully, his crutches tapping sharply against the parquet.
“How many times must I tell you?” Ned’s voice was quiet. “Get your hands off my wife. Now.”
Harcroft didn’t move.
“Careful, Harcroft. You don’t want to do anything you’ll regret.”
“Regret?” Harcroft let out a shaky breath. “Regret? You of all people know—what have I to regret? It’s not me.” His hands tightened, digging into Kate’s shoulder. “I— If I had my wife back, it wouldn’t be like this.”
“Oh? You’ve never hit Louisa, then?”
“By accident.” The words were hoarse. “Never on purpose. It wasn’t my fault. Not truly.”
“It wasn’t your fault?”
“You know how it is. I get so angry—she makes me so angry. I can’t let it go. She makes me do it, damn it. They all do. I can’t stop it.”
Ned smiled. “You can’t stop it, Harcroft. But I can.”
“Unlikely. You can’t even walk properly.”
Ned took another limping step toward them. Even wounded as he obviously was, he towered over Harcroft. And then he knelt down on the ground. “I don’t need to.” His voice was quiet. His hand found Kate’s, curling around hers, replacing the cold of the ballroom with that tiny spot of warmth.
“What? What do you mean?”
Ned glanced behind him. “Are you satisfied, Lord Chancellor?”
Harcroft’s head whipped around. “Lord Chancellor? Lord Chancellor? Lyndhurst is here?”
From behind the screen came two gentlemen. One, a short bespectacled man, pressed his lips together. He was dressed in sober brown—the physician, Kate guessed. The other man she’d seen earlier in his full ceremonial garb. In the darkness, the gold stripes on the Lord Chancellor’s robe had faded to ochre.
“Lord Chancellor.” Harcroft stared up at him in disbelief and scrabbled to his feet. “I— That is, what are you doing here? I thought—”
“I’m evaluating whether we need to call an inquiry in lunacy.”
Harcroft glanced around. “But…but my wife is elsewhere. Why would you need to be here?”
“Because I’ve had two petitions brought. One by you, against your wife. And one by your wife, against you. By your own admission, these last few minutes, you pose a physical danger to those around you. One you are incapable of controlling.”
“But—”
The bespectacled man leaned forward. “There’s evidence of hallucinations, too. A potential cause. That talk of dragons.”
“This can’t be right. I took a first in Cambridge—”
“It does happen sometimes. Especially to intelligent men. And there’s so much this might explain, such as bringing that odd suit against your wife’s friend simply because you forgot that she went abroad. Did you truly forget, Lord Harcroft, or did you have another, more dangerous illusion?”
“But—”
“You’ll be evaluated fairly,” the Lord Chancellor promised. “The evidence will be considered by a jury of your peers. Your rights will be considered. We’ll do only what’s best for you. And if you are found incompetent, we’ll appoint a trustee to oversee your properties.”
“A trustee? You’re joking. You would give someone complete legal control over my destiny? Doubtless you think to lodge that responsibility in Carhart, here. This has all been a plot from the beginning, an attempt to get me to give up—”
“No.” The word was softly spoken. But as Louisa stepped from behind the screen, her back was straight and her shoulders unbowed. “I had rather thought they would appoint me.” She looked at him—simply looked—and Harcroft’s mouth dropped open, no doubt tracing through all the implications.
A husband had control over his wife—every husband, that was, except one who had been declared incompetent by the courts. In that case, he controlled nothing. And his trustee…why, she might control everything.
Harcroft sat back on his heels. His eyes fluttered shut, and he put his head in his hands. He’d lost. He’d well and truly lost now.
After all that Harcroft had done, it should have been impossible to feel sorry for him. And yet Kate did, not because he deserved any such emotion from her. But perhaps because he so plainly didn’t. For a second he sat there, almost despairing. Then he stood, stiffly.
He brushed his coat into place and looked over at his wife. For one second, he seemed the old Harcroft again, the Harcroft that everyone always saw—full of charm and grace, doing nothing wrong. He was the man who took firsts at Cambridge, who never missed a point in fencing. He looked one last time at Louisa.
“Louisa,” he said, all confident assurance. “You’ve always known I loved you. You wouldn’t do this to me.”
“I want the very best for you,” she replied. “I hear there are excellent sanitariums in Switzerland.”
Harcroft’s eyes pinched closed, as if she’d spoken the final benediction over his grave. And then, oh so carefully, he adjusted his coat.
“My lord,” the physician said, “we’ll have to take you into custody before the inquiry.”
Harcroft inclined his head and walked from the room.
Kate scrambled to her knees. Ned took her hand in his. She wasn’t sure if he helped her to her feet, after that difficult ordeal, or if she helped him, with his limp.
Perhaps there wasn’t any difference any longer.
“HERE WE ARE,” NED SAID GAILY. “We’ve arrived.”
“Yes,” Kate replied from her somewhat uncomfortable seat on the carriage, “but where have we arrived? You’re the one who directed the coachman, and I have been forced to wear this uncomfortable thing about my eyes.”
“It’s called a blindfold,” her husband told her, which was not helpful in the slightest. “Here. I’ll help you alight.” She reached out her hand blindly, searching for his.
His hand took hers, steady and strong even though he was leaning on crutches all the while.
They’d left the hubbub of London behind them. In the distance, she smelled burning leaves. The air was chilly, but not cold. Cattle lowed.
“Have you taken me to a farm?” she guessed.
“Good guess.” His hand found the small of her back. “But no.” He turned her. The bulk of his body radiated heat behind her. “You can take off your blindfold now.”
Kate raised her hands to her eyes and eased the cloth off her head.
Sh
e was facing a house—a large country house, gray but not uninviting. The grass around her was still damp with morning dew; little wisps of mist rose up around them, restricting her view. She thought there were trees off in the distance, but she couldn’t be sure through the fog. She could see nothing through the windows—no light, no movement.
“It’s an empty house,” she said in confusion.
“Correct,” her husband replied. “But also completely wrong. It’s your empty house.” His arm came around her and he stared ahead.
Kate waited for an explanation, but he just looked ahead of him with a faint half smile on his face. “Very well, Ned. What am I supposed to do with an empty house?”
“As it happens,” he said, “I had a windfall of five thousand pounds. I promised the gentlemen of London to spend it on something for you. There’s a bit of attached land—not much, but enough for a garden.”
He didn’t say anything more, and so she turned around, looking. Behind her stood an empty paddock and barn. “Don’t tell me this is for Champion.”
Beyond the wooden structure, a lake was barely visible through the mist.
“No.” Ned grinned. “Haven’t you guessed, then? Maybe you should see the property.”
Nothing came to mind as she walked the perimeter of the paddock. He followed behind her, his steps uneven. They came to the shore of the small lake, and rocks crunched underfoot.
“I confess. I still don’t understand.”
Ned had been wearing a satchel the entire journey. He slipped it from his shoulders and fumbled the buckle open. “Here. Take this out.”
Kate glanced inside. Sitting on top of a pile of sandwiches wrapped in paper was a pistol—the same pistol she’d stolen from Ned and given to Louisa. She glanced up at him again, but he only motioned once more.
She reached in and took it. The metal was hard against her gloves.
“Over the years,” he told her, “you’ve done a great deal of good. You’ve helped people. And you’ve done it so silently, so quietly that half the ton has never even glanced beyond your face to see who you truly are inside. You’ve hidden yourself away.”
The Carhart Series Page 65