By Love Unveiled

by Deborah Martin

  “An acquaintance of mine knew her fairly well,” came a bored voice from down the table.

  Marianne darted a glance at the slightly built man who’d spoken, wishing she could just silence him with a look. But he wasn’t even gazing at her.

  He was flashing a taunting smile Lady Swansdowne’s way. “He was one of those… oh, you know, terribly earnest students who think to learn all the mysteries of life from books. Told me he was her father’s pupil. Even claimed to have stolen a kiss from her. You’ll be happy to hear, Clarisse, that he also claimed she was quite a beauty and not the tiniest bit dark at all.”

  The fork dropped from Marianne’s hand, clattering loudly on the pewter plate. “Excuse me,” she murmured, reaching for her glass of wine. She took a large gulp. Never had she dreamed her one innocent kiss would come back to haunt her like this.

  “Sad then that she killed herself,” Hampden said beside her. “I wouldn’t have minded meeting such an intriguing creature.”

  Marianne tried to tell by Hampden’s tone whether he’d guessed the truth, but he didn’t seem to realize the irony in his words.

  Had Garett? Was it possible Garett could have heard everything and not have guessed the truth? She doubted it, yet her heart clung to the hope that he hadn’t pieced together the facts.

  As the meal went on and the conversation drifted to other matters, she clutched that shred of hope in desperation. If he had guessed the truth, then the time had at last come for her to test the “bond” he claimed was between them, and she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

  She forced herself to look at him. She could read nothing in his expression. Determined to pretend nothing was amiss, she smiled at him. He nodded briefly, and her heart sank.

  He knew.

  Don’t assume the worst or you’ll slip and say something you shouldn’t. It’s possible he didn’t guess at all.

  She schooled herself to act normally, to trade witty remarks with Hampden as always. Although eating was difficult with her stomach roiling and her heart racing, she lifted the fork over and over to her lips with mechanical precision.

  Lord Wycliff suddenly stood. “I wish to drink a health,” he announced.

  Everyone grew silent.

  Marianne bit back an oath. The drinking of healths was popular among both the nobility and the common folk, but once it began, the dinner would drag on endlessly until every man had pledged a multitude of healths.

  Lord Wycliff began:

  Five times I drink the health

  Of Helen, my heart’s desire.

  Each of the five can only hint

  At the depths of my love’s fire.

  Despite her tumultuous emotions, Lord Wycliff’s crude rhyme made Marianne smile. She watched as he drank his full glass, then repeated the rhyme and drained a fresh glass four more times.

  She’d heard of this custom, popular on the Continent. Men drank healths to the women they loved, even to their mistresses, according to the number of letters in the woman’s name. Often the women were absent, as was the case with Lord Wycliff’s love. As she saw Lord Wycliff’s face grow flushed from his wine, Marianne found herself wondering what Helen was like.

  Then Hampden stood, and she gazed up at him in surprise. Ruefully he winked, then began his own pledge:

  Seven is the number of perfection,

  As perfect as my lady Tabitha,

  And though she may scorn my passion,

  I’ll drink her health as is the fashion.

  When Hampden sat down after drinking his seven healths, he leaned over to Marianne and whispered, “Not much of a poet, am I?”

  “You’re better than Lord Wycliff. But tell me, who is Tabitha?”

  “My latest love, though she’s been playing coy with me. I thought I’d press my case. She’s not here, but her brother is sitting next to Lady Swansdowne, and he’ll be certain to tell her if I don’t drink her health.” He grinned. “At least her long name gives me an excuse to get thoroughly foxed.”

  Marianne laughed, but the laugh died as Garett stood. The room fell silent again, but she felt certain everyone could hear the loud beating of her heart.

  He gave her a brief glance, then lifted his silver chalice.

  Fair is the lady I speak of,

  Her walk and her speech so sublime.

  But she veils her person with false words,

  Now for us is the unveiling time.

  Marianne scarcely noticed the whispers that rose around her concerning Garett’s odd pledge. She sat with her breath held as Garett drank the health, then refilled his glass. Her blood quickened every time he drained it, then refilled it. She counted the number of healths, her heart leaping into her throat when he passed four and went to five.

  The Earl of Falkham wasn’t drinking to the gypsy girl Mina or even the false widow Mrs. Pidgen. He was drinking to Miss Marianne Winchilsea.

  Numbly she witnessed him give the eighth health. For the first time since he’d begun, he fixed his eyes on her face, and the cold fury there made her mouth go dry.

  Then he drained the glass and sat down.

  Marianne was aware of several things at once. Hampden whispered something soothing in her ear that made her realize he hadn’t guessed why Garett had drunk the eight healths. Lady Swansdowne sat back in her chair with a smug smile, apparently convinced that the eight were for the letters of her name—Clarisse.

  And Marianne’s shred of hope that Garett hadn’t guessed the truth disintegrated in her hands.

  Others were talking around her, but the clamor in the room did nothing to banish the silence in her heart. She’d taken her chance. And judging from Garett’s now grim expression, she’d lost.

  Not caring who noted the sudden paleness of her face or the trembling of her hands, she stood shakily to her feet.

  “Forgive me,” she choked out. “I’m afraid I feel suddenly unwell.”

  Then she fled the room.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Women, like flames, have a destroying power,

  Ne’er to be quenched till they themselves devour.

  —William Congreve, The Double-Dealer

  Garett rose. His hands gripped the table so tightly that his knuckles whitened. “I beg your pardon, but I must see to my ill hostess.”

  As he strode from the room, he ignored the murmurs rising up behind him. He wanted only one thing—to corner his deceitful mistress and determine the full extent of her lies.

  He was halfway up the stairs when Hampden called to him. He paused to fix the marquess with a stony glare.

  Hampden marched up the steps, his expression filled with righteous anger. “Just leave her be, for God’s sake. What did you expect her to do? Sit meekly by as you pledged the health of another woman?”

  “You mean, after all that talk you didn’t even guess at the truth? God, you must be nearly as besotted with her as I.”

  Hampden stared at Garett as if he’d gone mad. “What are you babbling about?”

  Garett wasn’t about to explain the situation to Hampden until he knew everything. “Don’t worry. Mina knew exactly to whom I drank my healths. Something else has her upset—something that is none of your concern.”

  Turning his back on Hampden, Garett continued up the stairs. In moments he was at the door to the bedchamber Mina had occupied since the day he’d forced her to remain at Falkham House. Without knocking, he threw open the door.

  Mina stood beside the bed, stuffing her meager clothes into a canvas sack. For a moment he paused to watch her, unable to reconcile the vision of loveliness before him with the criminal she was believed to be. Could that innocent face and those gentle, caring hands belong to a murderess?

  No! every part of him cried out.

  Still, she had lied to him. So he steeled himself against the soft feelings that threatened to overcome his resolve. Stepping into the room, he slammed the door.

  She jumped, then continued her packing with grim purpose.

  “Going somewhere, Mis
s Winchilsea?” he snarled.

  She stiffened but refused to look at him. Wordlessly she turned for the bureau, where she drew forth her bag of herbs and liniments, which she put in the sack along with her clothes.

  The way she ignored him maddened him. He stepped forward to grip her wrist. “Stop that packing this instant! You’re not going anywhere!”

  She met his gaze with a look of utter desolation that made his heart twist. “Am I not? Either you’ll give me over to the King’s Guard or you’ll cast me out. But I’m certainly going somewhere.”

  He stood there thunderstruck. He’d been prepared for defiance, even resentment. He’d expected her to try to defend herself and convince him she wasn’t guilty.

  He hadn’t been prepared for this sad acquiescence. It clawed at him, making him irrationally angry with himself for tormenting her.

  “What makes you think I’ll do either?” he asked, unable to keep the tone of bitter reproach out of his voice.

  Tears started in her eyes, which she brushed away with the back of one hand. “What other choices have you? You’ve pledged your loyalty to the king, and I’m His Majesty’s proclaimed enemy. If you allow me to slip away, you can claim I escaped and thus not lose any honor. If you give me to the soldiers, you’ve done your duty. But you can’t harbor me. That I understand only too fully.”

  Her sadness struck him profoundly. One part of him ached to reassure her, to tell her he’d protect her with his very life. The other part reminded him that she’d lied to him from the very beginning. She’d played on his sympathies until he’d been a puppet dancing to her tune. Well, no more.

  “Did you commit the crime you’re accused of?” he asked, more forcibly than he’d intended. The question had eaten at him all evening. “Did you indeed prepare the poison found in your father’s medicines?”

  She went rigid. Eyes ablaze, she whirled on him. “You need to ask? Oh, but of course you do. I’ve forgotten what a treacherous woman I am in your eyes.”

  “Mina—”

  “Don’t call me that, my lord,” she hissed. “ ’Twas a nickname given to me in love by my mother. It stands for my middle name, Lumina.” She gave a bitter laugh. “You’d love the irony of it. In the language of my mother’s people, it means ‘light.’ Once you spoke it with what I thought was affection. Now I see I was misled. March me off to the hangman, then, if that’s what you wish. But remember it’s Miss Winchilsea you’re sending to die. Mina died the day she foolishly gave her future into your keeping.”

  “Damn you!” he cried, clasping her by the shoulders. “I’ve risked my life for you. The least you can do is give me the truth!”

  At those words, all the fight seemed to drain from her. She went limp in his hands. With a soft cry, she pulled away, going to stand by the window.

  For several long moments, she remained silent. When at last she began to speak, it was in a toneless, flat voice that Garett scarcely recognized as hers. “I suppose you do deserve the truth. Well, then, I didn’t put poison in my father’s medicines. I’m certain he didn’t, either, for my father was never a traitor.”

  “So how did it get there?”

  “Someone clearly planted it, realizing he’d be blamed, but I don’t know who hated my father that much. He had no enemies. Yet someone wanted to ruin him forever.” A sob caught in her throat. “And then kill him.”

  For a fleeting moment, Garett considered telling her that her father was alive. Then he thought better of it. For one thing, Garett couldn’t be certain her father still lived. For another, the king suspected that her father was part of some conspiracy. If that was the case, then she might be part of the same plot and shouldn’t be trusted with the crucial knowledge that her father was alive.

  “You say someone else planted the poison,” he told her. “But by all accounts, you gave the medicines directly into your father’s keeping, and they never left his sight.”

  She shuddered. “I’ve heard what they say. It’s true that I gave them to him as soon as I’d prepared them. But what happened after that, I don’t know. I wasn’t with him after he left the house. Perhaps he laid the pouches down somewhere or someone switched them.” She leveled a defiant gaze on him. “But when they left my hands, they were pure. I swear it.”

  Faced with her determined air, Garett was hard-pressed to believe she lied. God, how he hoped she told the truth. If so, he would leave no stone unturned until he proved her and her father innocent.

  Then he reminded himself of all the times she’d lied in the past. Could he trust her? And there were so many nagging questions she still hadn’t answered. “Why did you return here, of all places? Why not flee England altogether?”

  She gave a shaky sigh. “I had thought—actually had hoped—that if I stayed in England, I could find the man who’d painted my father a villain. That hope proved fruitless.”

  She fell silent. Garett thought back to the first two times he’d encountered her. So many things he’d wondered about made perfect sense now… her disguise… her fear of being brought to the constable… her ladylike demeanor. Only one thing still perplexed him.

  “You feared me when you first met me. I suppose it was because you knew I was the king’s man. So why didn’t you flee when you had the chance? Why continue to put yourself in danger?”

  She hesitated before speaking. At last she stammered, “I’d rather not… answer that… my lord.”

  He strode up to grip her shoulders. Her eyes were dry now, but they held a trace of fear—fear of him—that rekindled all his anger.

  Shamelessly he used her fear against her. “You have no choice but to answer,” he said with cold formality. “I’m the only thing standing between you and a dank, dark prison. So I suggest you tell me what I wish to know.”

  For a moment, revolt flared in her eyes. Then she mastered her emotions. “As I said before, I wanted to find the man responsible for my father’s arrest. I couldn’t leave until I did.”

  Her evasive manner made him persistent. “If you had no idea who the man was, why stay here? Why not look for him in London?”

  Her gaze remained steady and calm even though he could feel her tremble. “Think, my lord. Who stood to benefit from my father’s demise? Who would be unable to realize all his dreams as long as my father remained at Falkham House? Who?”

  A chill gripped him with such force that he felt turned to ice. “You thought that I had planted the poison?”

  “I thought you had caused his arrest and somehow arranged to have him implicated in a crime. I wasn’t certain who’d killed him. But you must admit you were the only one with reason to want him out of the way.”

  He thrust her away with a curse. “You thought me such a monster?” As her suspicions sliced through him, he gritted his teeth against the pain. “When did you stop believing me capable of it? Did you believe it when I made love to you? Did you actually lie in my arms believing I murdered your father?”

  “No!” Tears welled in her eyes. “By then I knew you couldn’t have been responsible.”

  That was something. It would have destroyed him to think that their nights together had been a sham—that she’d pretended to enjoy them when all the while she’d hated him.

  “I wanted to tell you all,” she went on, “especially once I realized… I had planned to tell you soon. But I was afraid of what you’d do with the truth.”

  “When did I ever cause you to fear me?” he bit out. “How many times did I promise I’d protect you no matter what?”

  “You didn’t know what you promised. I couldn’t rely on such promises.”

  Her answer wounded him, for he’d meant every word and had thought that he’d convinced her to trust him at least a little.

  In his pain, he remembered another subject about which she’d been evasive. “What of your relationship to my uncle? How does he know you so well?”

  “He tried to buy Falkham House back from Father. He tried all manner of villainies to force Father to sell to
him, including spreading rumors about me and Mother. But Father refused to sell. I couldn’t tell you before because I couldn’t let you know my father had owned Falkham House. That should be obvious.”

  Her answer made sense, but he couldn’t accept it entirely. Other conversations now filtered into his memory, conversations with the king about the attempted assassination. “Why did my uncle stop trying to force your father to sell?”

  She shook her head, clearly bewildered by all his questions. “I don’t know. Perhaps he realized Father was going to stand firm.”

  “Or perhaps there was another reason entirely. Did you know the king suspects my uncle of having been involved with the poisoning attempt?”

  She stared at him oddly. “I wondered once if he could have done it. But knowing you were returning to claim your estates, why would he have wanted to help you regain Falkham House?”

  “He didn’t know,” Garett responded. “He didn’t know for certain that I lived until the day I actually arrived in London.”

  Her face darkened. “Then he could really have been the one who—”

  “Yes,” Garett interrupted. “He hates the king. He truly would want to see him dead.”

  She grasped his arm. “So Father was innocent! Sir Pitney did it all, then had Father murdered in his cell!”

  Knowing that her father hadn’t been murdered, Garett couldn’t entirely accept her version. And there was the problem that Sir Henry had never let the medicines out of his sight, according to all witnesses. Besides, why would his uncle take such elaborate measures to rid himself of Sir Henry? Why not simply kill him?

  “There’s another explanation,” he remarked coldly. “My uncle and your father could have worked out an arrangement that both found satisfying. Perhaps your father agreed to do Tearle’s dirty work in exchange for my uncle’s agreeing to give up any hope of repurchasing Falkham House.”