by Candace Camp
“I am glad you consider me a friend. I cannot imagine how awful it would be to have no female to talk to, accustomed as I am to living with my sisters.”
“I hope the dinner was not too awkward.”
“No, it was quite pleasant,” Mary lied. She had not enjoyed it, but that had not been Sabrina’s fault.
“Royce was …” Sabrina sighed. “Well, I had hoped that with time he would get over his bitterness. That we might be friends again. Obviously he could not. He was so hurt.”
Mary looked at the other woman, her curiosity rising. “You and Sir Royce were friends?”
Sabrina turned to her, her eyes opening a little wider. “Do you mean—you did not know? No one told you?”
Mary shook her head. “Know what?”
“Sir Royce and I were once desperately in love.”
Mary stared at Sabrina. She felt as if her heart had suddenly plummeted to her feet. “What?”
Sabrina nodded, her face wistful. “We were very much in love. But it was one of those sad stories—my parents did not like the match. And the earl was against it as well.”
“Why—when—I’m sorry, I had no idea,” Mary finished weakly. She wished that she were anywhere but here. Her head whirled with the news, but she struggled to conceal her shock. She could not let Sabrina guess that she had any feelings for Royce.
“I am surprised you did not hear it from the servants or Charlotte,” Sabrina went on. “It was quite the story around here. Of course, it has been ages now. We were both too young, no doubt. Perhaps our parents were right. But at the time, it hurt a great deal.”
“What happened?” Mary suspected that Miss Dalrymple would tell her that her question was rude, but she could not keep from asking.
“My family’s lineage is quite good—my mother’s cousin is an earl, and my father is the son of a baron. However, they had no fortune, and it was necessary that I marry well. They refused to let me marry Sir Royce.”
“But I thought Royce was—”
“Royce’s fortune and name are quite adequate. But my parents were in dire straits; they needed much greater wealth. And Lord Humphrey sought my hand as well.”
“They forced you to marry him?” Mary asked, appalled.
“No, they were not so brutal. But they forbade my marriage to Royce, and I could not go against them.”
Mary could not envision being in love with one man and marrying another, no matter what one’s parents wanted, but she held her tongue.
As though she guessed Mary’s thoughts, Sabrina released a small sigh. “No doubt you think me poor-spirited. You would have answered them with that bold American defiance. But I could not be responsible for my family’s ruin. Perhaps it is different where you come from, but here, among people like us, one marries as one’s family wishes. Lord Humphrey is a good man, a kind man; he has been the very model of a husband.”
Mary thought of her own mother’s defiance of her father’s wishes. She thought it was not so much an indication of one’s nationality as of one’s nature.
“I cannot regret what I did,” Sabrina went on softly, her eyes sparkling with tears. “But I do regret hurting Royce. He was so angry at me. He wanted me to refuse to do as they wished. We should run away to Gretna Green, he said. But I could not—the scandal would have made my family’s problems worse. I feared Royce would create a dreadful scene, but the old earl and Oliver shipped him off to one of the Talbot holdings in Scotland. I hoped that in time Royce would forgive me, that he would find wedded happiness, too. But he has never married.”
Of course he had not.
It was all clear to Mary now. Everything Royce had done made sense—dreadful, appalling sense. No wonder he was short, even rude to Sabrina. It was too painful for him to be around her. He blamed her for breaking his heart. He had loved Sabrina; indeed, his feelings for her had probably never died.
“I-I am sorry to hear about … your past sorrow,” Mary said, groping for the right words. She wanted only to get out of here, to rush home, to hide in her room and try to absorb this news. Why had Royce told her none of this?
“You are kind.” Sabrina squeezed her arm affectionately. “It is such a relief having someone in whom I can confide.”
Mary smiled noncommittally, hoping she would not have to hear any more confidences. Sabrina, as though sensing her mood, strolled back to the other women. Mary slipped into the space between Rose and Camellia on the sofa.
The men rejoined them soon, and after that the evening wore down quickly. It was clear that Royce was impatient, and even Fitz made little effort to keep the conversation going. In the carriage on the way home, everyone was quiet, even the usually voluble Lily and Charlotte. Mary closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, her thoughts boiling. She went over everything that had happened between her and Sir Royce, viewing it this time from the vantage point of her new knowledge. No wonder he had told her he did not expect to fall in love. He was already in love with a woman whom he could never have. What did it matter to him whom he married?
At least she had not accepted his proposal, which made Mary feel a little less a fool. Still, she could not help but burn with resentment. How could Royce have asked her to be his wife without revealing his past with Sabrina? Granted, he had made it clear that he would never love Mary, but that was not the same thing as admitting that he loved another. Mary could not imagine that any woman would want to marry a man who yearned for another woman he could not have; certainly she had no desire for such a marriage.
Pleading a headache, Mary went straight to bed when they got home, never once glancing in Royce’s direction. She could not bear to have the maid fussing over her, so as soon as Prue had helped her out of her evening gown, she sent her to bed, telling her that she would deal with her hair herself.
Flinging herself down on the chair in front of the vanity, she yanked the pins from her hair, tugging her curls so painfully that her eyes watered. Frankly, she would have liked to cry; it would be easier to give way to a fit of sobs. At least then she could purge some of the emotion churning inside her. But tears came no more easily than sleep, and by the time the sun was first streaking the sky the next morning, she was still tossing and turning in her bed.
She managed to sleep for a few hours, awakening after breakfast had been served. She was happy enough to have nothing but tea and toast brought to her room, where she intended to spend the rest of the day. Let Miss Dalrymple fuss all she wanted, Mary thought. She refused to face Sir Royce yet.
Mary considered going through some of the things in her mother’s trunks again. They had not read all the diaries. Or perhaps she could investigate the nursery, looking for books and such that had belonged to Flora. Neither of those prospects aroused her interest. The thought of the trunks reminded her of the attic, however, and the stack of letters addressed to Sir Royce that she had found. Could those have been love letters from Sabrina? The possibility tugged at her, and she itched to go up into the attic and retrieve the bundle.
It would be wrong, she thought, a terrible invasion of Royce’s privacy, and she must not do it. But it was difficult to deny the urge, and her mind returned to it often as she ate her toast and got dressed. Finally, to distract her wayward thoughts, she decided to take out the ripped nightgown that she had hidden in the trunk more than a week ago and repair it.
Going to the chest at the foot of her bed, she groped under the blankets to bring out the wadded-up gown. It was only after she closed the lid of the trunk that she realized that something had seemed odd. Opening the chest again, she looked thoughtfully at the contents. Then it struck her—the case in which she had carried her papers was not wedged between the blankets and the wall of the chest.
Frowning, she dug into the trunk and felt around the inner walls, searching for the small leather satchel. She even thrust her hand under the blankets and between them, just in case some maid had shoved it out of the way. She was certain she had put the satchel in that trun
k, but just to make sure, she rifled through all her drawers and even searched the bottom of the wardrobe. The case was nowhere to be found.
Stuffing the nightgown into her sewing bag, Mary rang for Prue. The maid had not seen the leather case, but she looked again in all the places Mary had tried, even getting down on hands and knees to look under the bed.
Next, Mary went in search of her sisters, whom she found rather easily by following the sound of their laughter to the library downstairs. She stepped inside and saw her three sisters sitting around one of the tables with Fitz and Royce. Mary came to an abrupt halt, her gaze going to Royce. In her puzzlement over the missing satchel, she had not considered that she might run into Royce. She turned hot, then cold, and her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth. Fervently she wished that she had never entered the room, but she could hardly leave now.
Finally she managed to tear her eyes from Royce and turn to Rose. “What are you doing?” she asked as she glanced around suspiciously. “Where is Miss Dalrymple?”
“Shh.” Fitz held an admonitory finger to his lips. “We have given her the slip.”
“Cousin Fitz is teaching us faro,” Camellia told her with a grin.
“Yes, and I am inclined to believe Cousin Camellia has sadly misled me about her lack of knowledge of the game,” Fitz added. “She is, I fear, a Captain Sharp. As you can see, she has vastly reduced my fortune.” He waved at the pile of buttons before him.
“I can see you are in drastic circumstances.” Mary sent him a dry look. “I hope you are not leading my sisters astray. Will Miss Dalrymple disapprove of this?”
“Have you not heard?” Lily piped up. “Anything Cousin Fitz does is perfect as far as our Miss Dalrymple is concerned. He has replaced Sir Royce in her affections.”
“I am quite downcast over the matter.” Royce smiled in a way that Mary felt all through her. “You needn’t worry. Faro is a perfectly acceptable game for ladies of the ton.”
Mary refused to smile at him in return. It was beyond irritating that she could feel as angry and hurt as she did and still be affected by his smile.
“Come and join us, Mary,” Rose offered. “We can add another person.”
“No,” Mary refused hastily. “I am doing some, um, darning.” She ignored the eyebrow that Royce raised in polite disbelief.
Lily wrinkled her nose. “I hope you are not going to ask us to join you.”
“No. The thing is, I noticed that my satchel is missing. I cannot find it anywhere, and I wondered if one of you might have taken it.”
Five similarly blank faces gazed at her.
“The case that had our papers in it,” Mary explained.
“Why would I want that?” Lily asked, puzzled.
“I don’t know why anyone would, but you girls are the only ones who are likely to have borrowed it.”
Her sisters agreed that they had not taken the case. Indeed, it was clear that they had not thought of it since they had taken up residence in the earl’s house.
“The case is missing?” Royce asked, frowning. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. Prue and I looked all over my room, and we could not find it anywhere. I cannot imagine where it could have got to.”
“Do you think it was stolen?” Fitz asked.
Mary looked at him, startled. “Stolen? Why would anyone steal it? It had nothing of importance in it, only the deed of a farm that belonged to our father and a bill of sale for the wagon and horses he bought from old Mr. McCready. The earl took out the things that were valuable—our birth certificates and the marriage certificate, the letter our mother wrote—and locked them in his safe in London.”
“Perhaps whoever took it didn’t know that,” Royce offered.
“Are you serious?” Mary looked from one man to the other. “You actually think it was stolen?”
Fitz shrugged. “Probably not. It seems unlikely a thief would break in here and steal only that.”
“True.” Mary thought of the many valuable objects that lay around this house—a leather case would not compare to some of the candlesticks and vases, let alone things like silver epergnes and tea services or the gold and enamel box on the mantel of this very room.
“Still … there must be some reason it is gone,” Royce said. “Some very peculiar things have transpired the last few weeks. When did it go missing?”
“I don’t know.” Mary sighed. “It could have been anytime since we’ve been here. I tucked it in the trunk when we first arrived, and I haven’t paid any attention to it since. It was only by accident that I noticed it today.”
“I will have Bostwick check with the servants. Perhaps one of them picked it up and put it somewhere.”
Mary nodded and started to turn away. At that moment Miss Dalrymple’s voice came trumpeting down the corridor. “Girls? Where are you? It is time for your music lesson.”
Camellia let out a groan, but the girls rose to their feet. Fitz stood up with them, promising gravely to draw their chaperone’s fire.
Mary started to follow the others out of the room, but Royce rose, saying, “Mary—stay a moment.”
Mary did not look at him. “I should join my sisters.”
“I will make your excuses to Miss Dalrymple later.” He came around the table.
Mary’s only hope of escape was to beat him to the door, but she refused to sink to the indignity of racing him. She faced him, squaring her shoulders. “I can think of nothing else to add about the satchel.”
“I had not intended to discuss the missing satchel.” Royce closed the library door and returned to her.
Mary glanced toward the closed door. “That is a trifle indiscreet, is it not?”
“Perhaps. But I do not think that either of us would wish to have our conversation heard by everyone in the house.”
“All right.” Mary crossed her arms over her chest, almost as if she could hold in the emotions roiling within her. Trepidation, anger, resentment, hurt, jealousy all warred for supremacy, and she would hate for Royce to glimpse any of them. She wished she had not impulsively come down here. “What did you wish to discuss?”
“Our marriage.”
“There is no marriage.”
“There has to be.” Frustration stamped Royce’s features. “Blast it, Mary, face the truth. Your reputation, your very future are at stake. You must marry me.”
Mary’s brows rose. “I must ?”
“Damn it, Mary, stop acting this way. What is wrong with you? Surely you realize what it would do to your good name—”
“To hell with my good name!” Mary’s eyes burned as her arms fell to her sides, hands clenching. “I told you that I would not marry a man who doesn’t love me. Even less would I marry one who loves someone else!”
He stared at her. “What?”
“Lady Sabrina told me your story last night.” Mary noted with a painful satisfaction that Royce’s face shut down at the mention of Sabrina’s name.
“No doubt that was entertaining for both of you. What did Sabrina say?”
“She told me that the two of you were in love, but her parents refused to let her marry you, that they pushed her to marry Lord Humphrey. You urged her to run away with you, but she refused.”
Royce rolled his eyes. “I see she is still a liar.”
“You deny it, then?” Mary strode closer, her head high. “You did not love her?”
The muscles in Royce’s cheek jumped, and his eyes blazed with an unholy light. For a moment Mary thought that he would not answer her.
But then, turning away, he growled, “Yes! Yes, I did love her. However, the events did not unfold precisely as she says.” He pivoted back. “Her parents did not refuse to let her marry me. It was her decision, not theirs. Sabrina liked me well enough, but her primary interest was money. No, I am wrong—she had two interests, money and position. She thought I had enough of both until Lord Humphrey began to dance attendance on her. She kept me dangling for a while until he came up to the
mark. When he made an offer, she cut me loose—with that sweet smile and an artful tear, of course.”
Mary winced at the sarcastic tone of his last words. Nothing, she thought, could have said more clearly that the wound in him had never healed. He still carried Sabrina in his heart.
“That is why you didn’t join us when she came to call, isn’t it? Why you didn’t want to go to her dinner last night? You could not bear to see her.”
“No, I did not want to see her. I should be quite happy never to see her again. I cannot think why that should concern you.”
“You asked me to marry you, and you don’t think that the way you felt about her, the way you still feel about her, is any concern of mine? You don’t think a future wife might care to know that you love another woman? Your arrogance is astounding. You don’t even think of a wife as a person, just another possession you set somewhere in safekeeping! Something without feelings or understanding or pride.”
“What? No! I don’t believe that at all. Have you gone mad? I’ve never done anything to suggest I think that way of you. Or of my wife.”
“Then why did you not tell me about her? Why did you not say your heart was given to Sabrina?”
“Because it is not! Bloody hell, Mary, but you twist my words. I admitted that I loved her—twelve years ago. I do not love her now.”
“No? You were so hurt by the reminder of her and all she meant to you that you got drunk the night she came to call on us. You went to the tavern and drank, and then you came home and sat drinking and brooding about the woman you loved and lost.”
“I went to the tavern to get information, to find out if anyone had been seen about town. I drank because I was being convivial, trying to loosen tongues.”
“You just happened to choose that particular night to do it?” Mary raised a skeptical brow. “You kissed me that night. You kissed me because you were drunk and I was here and she was not!” Mary stopped, unable to go on for fear tears might spring forth. She would not let him see her cry over him.
“No! That isn’t true!” He took a long step forward, his eyes blazing.
“Isn’t it? You drank too much, trying to forget her. Then you used me as a substitute for the woman you really wanted.”