A Perfect Secret (Rogue Hearts)

by Hatch, Donna

  “It’s very kind of you,” Genevieve replied, “but I don’t wish to impose on your hospitality.”

  Lady Tarrington drew in her breath sharply and rubbed her swollen abdomen.

  Genevieve gave a start. “Are you unwell, my lady?”

  Lady Tarrington shook her head, a peaceful smile touching her mouth. “I’m well. It happens a bit more often now. The accoucheur says it’s all in preparation.”

  What a cruel twist of fate that Genevieve must find herself in the presence of a lady joyfully awaiting the birth of her child when Genevieve had so recently lost her own, the one good thing that might have come of her horrible marriage. Sorrow burrowed a hole through her heart, leaving a raw, gaping wound.

  Lady Tarrington’s amber eyes opened wide as she looked at Genevieve. “Are you in pain?”

  Genevieve tried to shake her head as a tidal wave of grief washed over her. Uncontrollable sobs seized her.

  “I’ll send for the doctor!” Lady Amesbury cried.

  “No,” Genevieve squeaked. “No. I don’t need a doctor.” She turned her head away and wept.

  The bed sank under a weight next to Genevieve and a small, cool hand covered hers. Lady Tarrington watched her with concern and sorrow. “Forgive me. I’ve been terribly insensitive. The doctor told me you recently lost a baby. And here I am going on about mine.”

  How long since she’d been touched in a gesture of friendship and affection! Starved for human contact, she gripped the woman’s hand. Lady Tarrington gathered Genevieve into her slender arms. She was soft and soothing and motherly. Welcoming long-absent contact, Genevieve clung to her. Lady Tarrington rubbed her back lightly while Genevieve unleashed her grief.

  When her tears finally abated, Genevieve pulled away. “Forgive me.”

  Lady Tarrington’s eyes were red-rimmed with shared sorrow. “No need to apologize. I cannot pretend to understand what you must have suffered.”

  Ann came in bringing her fruit and croissants. “ ’ere ye are, miss.”

  Wiping her eyes, Lady Tarrington helped place the tray. “First, eat. You were so chilled when you first arrived that we bathed you in hot water to try to warm you, but I’m afraid we failed to get all of the mud out of your hair. If you’re feeling strong enough, I’ll have Ann fill a bath for you.”

  “A bath would be lovely, thank you.” Her tears returned, this time in gratitude. “You’re very thoughtful. I wish there was something I could do for you.”

  “There, there. Don’t cry or you won’t be able to eat.” Lady Tarrington’s eyes shimmered.

  Genevieve made an effort to banish her tears. Lady Tarrington cleared her throat and blew her nose. Genevieve turned her attention to her breakfast tray. Her cup contained chocolate again. Sugar and cream sat in small containers and she added them both liberally to the bitter cocoa. After the liquid turned a shade of warm brown, Genevieve picked up the cup of chocolate. The sweetened drink slid comfortingly down her throat.

  Lady Tarrington smiled. “You like your chocolate sweet and creamy, as do I.”

  Shaking off her sorrow, Genevieve returned the smile. “If I wanted to drink something bitter, I’d have coffee.”

  “Exactly!”

  Genevieve held out the cup to her. “Would you like some?”

  “Oh, heavens no. I’ve had two cups already this morning.”

  Suddenly bonded by such a quirk, they chatted comfortably of inconsequential things while Genevieve finished her breakfast. Outside the windows, the sun’s glow painted stripes on the carpet.

  Lady Tarrington gestured to a chair where gowns draped over the back. “I’m too big to wear these now and thought you might wish to borrow them.”

  “How kind.”

  “We have lovely gardens if you desire to take a turn about them.” She smiled. “You’re invited to dine with us when you feel able. We welcome your company.”

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Lady Tarrington’s smile radiated true warmth. “You are safe here. Won’t you please trust me with your name?”

  Genevieve hesitated. If Christian hadn’t told them her name, perhaps he’d chosen to help her, after all. Of course, he might not have decided yet what to do. “My life depends on no one knowing my name, my lady.”

  “I see. Are you … wanted by the law?”

  “Oh, no, I vow I’ve done nothing illegal.” She let out a helpless sigh. “Of course, I suppose trying to drown myself is illegal, but there is no reason for the authorities to be looking for me.”

  Lady Tarrington looked her over in an assessing way. “I believe you.”

  Why that meant so much to Genevieve, she couldn’t say, but some of the tension left her shoulders. “Thank you.”

  “You’re fortunate Christian found you in time to pull you from the river.”

  Genevieve’s heart stuttered to a halt. “Christian pulled me out?”

  “Yes, he did. He came home carrying you like you were a crystal doll.”

  She closed her eyes. “He put himself at great risk.”

  “It must be in the Amesbury blood. They all have a strong code of honor and an innate need to come to the rescue of those in need.”

  “Lady Amebury—”

  “Please, call me Alicia.”

  “Alicia. What a lovely name.”

  “My mother was French.”

  After all Alicia’s kindness, Genevieve had to offer her something of herself. “You may call me Jenny.”

  “So if you aren’t in hiding because you are a fugitive, why are you in hiding?”

  Genevieve hesitated, but Alicia’s gentleness and concern nudged aside her cautiousness. “Someone means to do me harm.”

  Lady Tarrington nodded slowly, her brows furrowing in concern. “Then of course you must stay until you find a safe place.”

  Ann appeared. “The bath is ready, ma’am.”

  Lady Tarrington—Alicia—stood. “I shall leave you in Ann’s capable hands. Let her know if you require anything, anything at all. She’ll make adjustments to the clothing that you require.” She eyed her critically. “You’re tiny; no doubt she’ll need to take everything in a great deal. She’s in training to be a lady’s maid, so anything you’ll allow her to do will help her with that endeavor.” With another serene smile, Alicia left.

  Genevieve sat up and swung her legs over but when she tried to stand, dizziness darkened her vision. She sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Per’aps it’s too soon for ye to be gettin’ out o’ bed, miss,” Ann ventured.

  “Give me a minute, and we’ll try again.”

  Once the room righted itself and the grey fog around her vision lifted, she gripped Ann’s hand. Ann put her other arm around her. Only when Genevieve could stand steadily did they move to the dressing room where she bathed. Ann handled her as if she were made of glass and scrubbed her scalp until her hair finally came clean. Genevieve lay back and soaked for a few moments while Ann sat sewing.

  After bathing, Genevieve sat patiently while Ann coaxed knots out of her unruly curls and wrestled them into a semblance of order.

  “Just twist it into a simple knot, Ann.”

  Ann looked disappointed. “As you will.” The maid coiled a chignon at the nape of Genevieve’s neck. “Oi! Ye ’ave such beautiful ’air. Now that it’s clean, it’s such a lovely shade.”

  Genevieve smiled. “As a child, I was ashamed of my ‘carrot top.’ ”

  “Oh, no. It’s ’most th’ color o’ cherry wood, it is. Verra distinguishing.”

  Very distinguishing indeed. Which meant she could not stay here. Eventually he would learn she still lived. And come after her.

  She must disappear into the night where no one would ever find her. She hated the thought of betraying her host and hostess’s kindness, but she’d probably have to resort to stealing enough money to flee. Somehow she’d find a way to repay them. Perhaps she could sneak back into Lord Wickburgh’s house and take her pin money. It should be enough to get her pass
age to Scotland and provide for her needs until she could secure employment—a governess, perhaps, or a teacher in a lady’s seminary. But she didn’t dare risk one of his servants finding her. He had a veritable army of ruffians he paid to do any number of unsavory activities, not the least of which was hold her prisoner with only her cat and, for a time, her canary for company. It had taken a miracle to escape. She’d need another miracle if she were to truly leave behind her life.

  After styling Genevieve’s hair, the maid dressed her in a borrowed shift, stays, and stockings before lowering over her head a morning gown she’d hemmed while Genevieve bathed.

  “Ach, the fit is all wrong and that color washes ye out,” Ann said with a frown as she fastened the buttons down her back.

  Genevieve glanced in the mirror. The butter-colored gown, no doubt lovely on Lady Tarrington, seemed to drain all the color out of Genevieve’s already pale skin, and accentuated bruises she’d received from the debris-filled river.

  “No matter. I’m not trying to impress anyone. And I’ll only go for a short walk in the gardens and then return to my room.”

  Ann clapped her hand on her head. “Shoes. Ye haven’t any have ye?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Wickburgh ensured she never owned a pair of shoes in an effort to prevent her from leaving the house without his permission. The moment they’d arrived at his estate last month, he’d immediately burned the shoes she’d worn on the journey.

  “Wait ’ere,” said the maid.

  Ann returned moments later with a pair of Lady Tarrington’s shoes and placed them on Genevieve’s feet. Genevieve wiggled her toes inside the large shoes like a child wearing her mother’s slippers.

  Ann frowned. “Those simply don’t do—they’re far too big. I’ve never seen such little feet.”

  Papa had called her his little elf. Genevieve smiled at the memory. How she loved him! How foolish she’d been to believe him not only invincible, but infallible. But at least Papa and Mama remained safe. That knowledge lent her strength each time Lord Wickburgh played another cruel game, like the time he’d chopped down her favorite tree, or killed her canary, or each time he flew into a rage ....

  Genevieve shuddered and focused on Ann’s face. “Pray, don’t trouble yourself, I’ll simply remain in my room.”

  “No trouble. I’ll try again.”

  After a foray into the servants’ quarters, Ann returned with a pair of shoes Genevieve could keep on as she walked. Ann still looked unhappy. “Those aren’t good ’nuff fer a lady.”

  “They hardly show underneath the gown, and they’ll stay on when I walk. For now, it’s enough.” If only she had something to give or do for Ann in return.

  After donning a bonnet and a pair of gloves Alicia had provided, Genevieve went in search of temporary freedom. She wandered through the corridor, treading on plush carpet running the length of the corridor, marveling at the beauty of Tarrington Castle. The intricate woodwork in rich mahogany shone with constant care. Genevieve traced the elegant paper in gold and red fleur de lis on the walls. She admired portraits of distinguished ladies and gentlemen of by-gone eras hanging on the walls. The first Lord Tarrington greatly resembled Christian. Crystal wall sconces shimmered in the sunlight from nearby windows, sending rainbows on the walls and floors. The décor outshone even the splendor of Lord Wickburgh’s county seat. She’d always thought of Wickburgh’s houses as his homes. Never theirs. Of course, he’d never made any pretense about loving her. Their wedding night was proof of that. Losing the baby—the one pure thing to have come of their marriage—had been the killing blow.

  Dark grief threatened to overcome her again but she swallowed back her sorrow. She’d been given a chance for escape and she must seize it.

  Squaring her shoulders, she descended the stairs. After entering several rooms, she found a large room at the back of the house. One wall completely lined by French doors opened to a paved terrace. Outside the house, she paused and breathed in the crisp morning air. Her tension eased and she let herself enjoy the beauty around her. She’d heard of Tarrington Gardens, but had failed to conjure the image that now met her eyes. Tendrils of mist clung to the trees, giving them a magical shimmer. Entranced, she wandered along the winding gravel paths, stopping now and then to admire flowers blooming in unearthly beauty amid ponds, fountains, marble statues. At the entrance to the next garden, she halted.

  Christian Amesbury sat bareheaded, his golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, a notepad balanced on one knee. Wearing a snowy cravat, grey and blue striped waistcoat, sky blue frock coat and grey breeches tucked into gleaming boots, he emulated the perfect nobleman, fit for entrance into the most exclusive clubs in London. Yet the haughtiness of his class remained absent. He’d completely lacked the urbane boredom Londoners deemed appealing.

  Apparently he’d found that cool reserve during their separation. But now, so engrossed in his art, he looked so much like the Christian from her past that tears stung her eyes.

  With a pencil in his left hand, he rapidly sketched. She glanced around the garden but failed to discover what had attracted his attention. Christian glanced in her direction with a ready smile. The instant he saw it was she, his smile faded.

  He leaped to his feet. She’d forgotten how tall he was. His commanding presence and that new underlying tension seemed to add to his size.

  He inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Lady Wickburgh. I didn’t see you there.”

  She winced. “I don’t really think we need resume our formality, after everything that passed between us in Bath, do we?”

  He stiffened. “That is exactly why we should.”

  Rather than explain how much she hated her title, and everything it meant, she gestured at the bench. “Pray, continue. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  His gaze passed over her with such intensity that she almost stepped back. He was so different than he’d been in Bath. She couldn’t reconcile the gentle man she’d loved then to this new, hardened Christian. Perhaps she was too emotionally exhausted and beaten down to even try. It didn’t matter. She must leave and never see him again.

  His gaze dropped and he gripped his pencil with whitened fingers. She should leave now. Spending time with Christian could only mean disaster for her heart. But at the thought of leaving, pain raced through her.

  She took a step forward. “What are you drawing?”

  He looked away as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, and made a vague gesture. Then his mouth twitched into a self-deprecating smile. She’d always loved how expressive he was. Although seeing him so clearly angry and disapproving opened up an ache in her chest.

  “I sometimes get fascinated by odd things, common objects other people find dull.”

  She nodded, remembering how often they stopped as they walked together in Bath so he could capture something on paper. She indicated his sketch book. “May I see?”

  He hesitated, no doubt uncomfortable showing her, the jilt, anything so personal as his drawings. Without looking at her, he surrendered the book. The first page held a sketch of a cluster of mushrooms, oddly shaped and distorted. She turned in the direction he’d been facing and spied them huddled in the shade of a fountain. They were exactly as he’d drawn them, but under his pencil lines, they took on an almost magical slant. His art had always had a fanciful flair. She flipped the page back to the previous drawing and saw a single hand, long-fingered, slender and graceful.

  “Amazing,” she said.

  The next page showed a pair of eyes, dark and soulful, filled with such despair that tears stung her own eyes. She quickly flipped to the next. On paper, Lady Tarrington wore a tender expression as she lovingly rested her hand on her rounded stomach. He’d re-created her quiet dignity and serenity. She glowed in maternal joy. Genevieve ruthlessly shoved away her own grief and shut it behind a door.

  She glanced up at him. “You’ve done an impressive job in capturing her spirit. She’s very kind. And so lovely.”


  “Yes, she is.” His voice took on a wistfulness. “She makes my brother very happy.”

  She adjusted her gloves. “I have no gift for art, of course, but I have read a great deal on the subject and have visited a number of public and private galleries. And I saw the Elgin Marbles when they were on display. I’d love to see your paintings.”

  He said nothing, simply stood fisting his hands. The ache in her chest sharpened at his clear emotional upheaval.

  She cleared her throat. “By the way, I failed to thank you. I understand it was you who rescued me from the river. You put yourself in great danger. I’m indebted to you.”

  Despite his overt tension, the barest hint of a teasing note entered his voice. “Think nothing of it. I frequently go about rescuing ladies in distress.”

  She forced herself to smile in spite of the pain in her chest. “I’m not surprised. You would have made a wonderful knight, shining armor and all.”

  His expression was so uncharacteristically guarded that she couldn’t determine his thoughts. If only she could tell him she hadn’t really thrown him over, that she’d done it to save her parents. But that would not help matters. Somehow, though, there had to be a way to smooth over the hard feelings between them. She fidgeted with the ribbons of her bonnet and came up with nothing.

  He cast a desperate glance at the house as if plotting his escape.

  To break the silence, she drew a breath and spoke. “So, you live in London now? I thought you didn’t care for the city.”

  He looked away. “London suits my needs.”

  She studied him, searching for an explanation. He once loved the country best, letting the splendor of nature inspire him to create beautiful paintings. “I thought you would have received a position in the church by now. Are you still planning to go into the clergy?”

  He shook his head.

  She waited.

  He didn’t elaborate.

  She reached down inside and found a smile she could offer him. “Would you be willing to give me a tour of the gardens?”

  Without looking at her, he shrugged and with forced nonchalance, said, “If you wish.”