“Thank you, Carroway,” she said. “If there is a note, you may take it to whomever it belongs to.” Though she would insist upon seeing it at some point, just to be certain that no gentlemen had expressed anything untoward to either of the girls.
“I have, miss,” he said.
For the first time she noticed the crisp white note held in his hand. It was small—small enough to have been tucked up between the blossoms of a bouquet—but even from this angle she could clearly see the bold, masculine writing that slashed across it. Miss Poppy Fairchild.
But that was impossible. She’d spoken with hardly anyone at all, and certainly no men—excepting Lord Westwood. And what call had he to send her flowers? None at all, that was certain.
Still, she found herself extending her hand, as if it had belonged to some other person, some young lady of marriageable age who could expect to receive such tokens from gentlemen. Carroway placed it across her palm and respectfully retreated that she might read the note privately.
Her heart stuttered in her chest as she peeled away the sealing wax and unfolded the note to its full size. She was not a woman given to flights of fancy, or to any sort of superstition—but she fancied she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, feel the weight of impending doom settling over her shoulders like a mantle.
I believe I have something that belongs to you, Mrs. Waring.
The Wentworth ball. Midnight, the music room.
Westwood
Time passed in a haze. Poppy had no idea how long she had spent sitting in appalled silence there on the sofa, how long she had spent immersed in her own head, her brain tangled with all sorts of dire imaginings. Her fingers were cold and stiff. She had felt the color leave her face in a rush, felt her heart rattle her ribs in her chest, thumping as if it sought to escape her body.
Her throat had tightened as if in anticipation of the press of his fingers, squeezing the life out of her. At that, she had managed a rusty little laugh—certainly he could not kill her. But just hours ago he had sworn to destroy her, and she did not doubt at all but that he would manage that. With the icy cold fury that had burned in his eyes, she could not have the slightest hope that she would emerge from an encounter with him unscathed.
Tears pricked her eyes. It would be impossible to recover from such a thing—and her carelessness bore a cost beyond that which she alone could repay. He would destroy her, but he would destroy Victoria and Isobel, too, in the doing.
And she had had such hopes for them.
She bowed her head, brushing away the foolish tears. She ought to instruct them to begin packing at once. There was nothing left for them in London—for any of them.
And yet when Isobel tripped down the stairs at last and came to summon her for supper, she found she could not look her sister in the eye and tell her that her Season had come to an end.
“Oh, Poppy,” Isobel breathed, giddy excitement dancing across her face. “The servants are all talking of the flowers. And they are beautiful. Was there a note? Did Lord Westwood send them?”
At Poppy’s startled, guilty expression, Isobel crowed, “I knew it!” Her vibrant gold curls bobbed as she tossed her head in satisfaction. “I knew he admired you! Do you think he’ll offer for you?”
That was an unequivocal no. Poppy rose to her feet, though her knees still knocked in distress, and crammed the folded note into her pocket. “No, Isobel—”
But Isobel, ever the romantic, would not allow her glee to be smothered. “Victoria!” she shouted up the stairs, in a voice that was certain to earn her a scolding from Lady Winifred. “Victoria! Poppy’s received flowers! And they’re from Westwood!”
An answering squeal of delight sailed downstairs, and thundering steps echoed in the corridor above them. Poppy closed her eyes on an upwelling of anguish. She couldn’t tell them—not tonight. Tomorrow, perhaps.
Victoria flew down the stairs herself, and the twins caught each other in an exuberant embrace, jumping up and down gleefully. If the situation hadn’t been quite so dire, Poppy might have been touched.
The bouquet of roses sat upon the table in the entry way, a portent of certain doom. The silky blossoms were the deepest of reds, the furled edges of the petals so dark they were very nearly black. Victoria and Isobel could see only the beauty of the flowers, gripping one another’s arms in delight.
Poppy alone saw them for what they were—a warning; a threat from a man who had discovered her deepest secret, the one thing that stood between her family and utter ruin.
Perhaps she had spent too much of her time in writing her Gothic novels. Perhaps they had overtaken her good sense, filled her mind with all manner of horrors, as Lady Winifred had suggested. But still she could not help but notice that the roses were the exact color of blood.
Chapter Fourteen
She was late. David had kept a close eye on the time since he’d arrived at the Wentworth ball, and though the Fairchild twins and Lady Winifred had arrived hours ago, he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Poppy. He had even undertaken the trouble of lighting a lamp in the music room in advance.
Surely she couldn’t be thinking of avoiding him. She had to know that it would be a futile endeavor, that he could ruin her in just a few words, destroy any sort of respectability to which she might lay claim. And he had been tempted. In those first few hours after he’d recovered her notebook, he had been undeniably furious. He was still furious, if truth be told, though it had been tempered somewhat over the last few days.
To ease it, he had only to recall her face in the moment he had torn that stack of papers, the latest edition of her serial novel, to shreds. He had thought that he had frightened her with the force of his ire—and he had, but not because he had lost his temper in that moment.
No. It could never have been something quite so simple as that. She had taken to heart his promise to destroy her—well, not her, specifically, but the author of those wretched novels. Though he supposed the distinction would not have made the slightest bit of difference to her. Both women were her, and she had so much to lose. Of course she had been terrified. What woman in her position would not have been?
Still, as the hours had passed he had recovered himself enough to realize that Poppy was hardly the scheming villain he’d imagined her authoress alter-ego to be. Which was not to say he didn’t intend to make her suffer a little for her deception. She could have blundered into far worse a situation—there was a reason ladies did not go wandering about strange houses. Unscrupulous gentlemen abounded, and had she stumbled upon any one of them, they could have—
Well. They could have done exactly as he had, and dragged her into a darkened corner for nefarious purposes.
Her notebook was burning a hole in his pocket. The moment he had calmed enough from his initial fury to have given up the notion of strangling her, he had realized at once what it represented—leverage.
She had declined to walk with him? It had been her privilege to do so—and now it was his to compel her cooperation. She had unwittingly handed him this advantage, and made the critical error of provoking him into pressing it.
A kiss was not so very much to ask, and she had ceded to him that much before. But as the time drew near midnight with yet no sign of her, he wondered if she intended to thwart him still, even knowing he held her security, her very reputation, in the very palm of his hand. Or pocket, as it were.
All evening he had been pacing the fringes of the ballroom, anticipating her arrival. On this, his most recent circuit, Jilly had at last grown weary of his prowling and caught at his sleeve to stay him.
“She hasn’t come,” she said, sotto voce. “I told you she wouldn’t.”
Yes. She had said that. But he hadn’t wanted to believe it was true.
An irrational surge of guilt had him stepping backward, out of the crowd, lest someone overhear. Jilly followed, tucking a stray curl back into its place. “Did you call on her?” he asked, in what he had hoped was an idle, nonchalant tone.
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“Of course,” she said. “Nora and I went to see her the very next day.” She hesitated, linking her hands together before her. “She would not come down,” she said at last. “I overheard her telling Lady Winifred she was not at home, and I swear I thought Lady Winifred was going to expire of fury on the spot.”
For reasons better left unexplored, the thought of Lady Winifred taking Poppy to task fairly boiled his blood. He had the most aggravating notion that this was just the most recent in a long line of minor offenses to which Lady Winifred had taken exception.
“I thought to invite them to our dinner party on Saturday,” Jilly continued fretfully. “But I don’t know if I care to subject Poppy to more of Lady Winifred’s lecturing if she should decline the invitation.”
A dilemma, indeed. David didn’t much care for the quandary, either. And she would certainly decline an invitation from Jilly if even David’s thinly-veiled threat of exposure hadn’t lured her out of—
As if summoned by the bent of his thoughts, Poppy appeared at last, skittering past the open doors to the ballroom, her navy gown, like all the rest of her gowns, utterly incongruous to the atmosphere of a ball, high-necked and long-sleeved. Defying all reason, all he could think was that he wanted nothing more than to peel her out of it.
“Invite her,” he said to Jilly, squeezing her shoulder in brotherly affection. “She’ll come.” Now he could be certain of it. His summons had compelled her attendance, just as he had hoped—and yet she had arrived so late in the evening, and she had skirted the boundary of the ballroom to avoid attracting attention. Probably she would be successful. He’d only noticed her because he had been looking for her all evening.
He left Jilly with an absentminded kiss to the apple of her cheek, and wended his way through the crowd in an effort to slip out as stealthily as possible, following along the path that Poppy had taken, to the unlit east corridor.
She’d chosen her gown well; the navy blended with the shadows and gave her at least a minor claim to camouflage. He followed at a discreet distance, watching her try door after door, clearly in search of the music room. Of course she had arrived late, and there were only minutes until midnight—probably she expected him to be lying in wait for her. As he would have been, had she elected to arrive with her sisters. Instead he’d been denied the somewhat petty pleasure of seeing her grow more and more apprehensive as midnight had approached.
As he watched her wrestle with a door that had clearly been locked, he was at last moved to pity.
“That would be the east salon,” he said. “The music room is the opposite door.”
He supposed he ought to be grateful that she had not shrieked her surprise. She did, however, give a vicious start and whirl around, her hand pressed to her chest as she sucked in a lungful of air. At this distance, in the scant light, he could not quite make out her features—but he could indeed see the lift of her chin, in what he assumed was obstinate defiance.
“How was I to know that?” she whispered, and even the low sound vibrated with furious intensity.
He shrugged. “I suppose I expected you to arrive much earlier, to spend a bit of time exploring the house. Since you do seem to be quite a proficient little spy.”
She froze, her spine stiffening to steel rigidity. He suspected she would have liked to argue with that assessment, but the wisdom of such an action was doubtful. She might have made it this far, but somehow he imagined that it had taken no small amount of courage to do so—and that she might still be goaded into flight if he pressed her too far. Aside from her sisters, she had nothing tying her to London, after all.
As if there were all the time in the world, he picked a leisurely path down the corridor, stopping in front of the correct door, which he opened soundlessly. “After you, Mrs. Waring,” he said, gallantly standing aside.
He heard her steadying breath, saw her fists clench at her sides. She sailed past him as regally as any queen, though he could not imagine how she had managed it—she had to be petrified.
But she’d come nonetheless, so as frightened as she had to be, she was at least equally as brave. Rather perversely, he found himself more than a little proud of her, that she hadn’t simply removed herself and her sisters from London, that she had had the mettle to meet him head on.
The music room was silent and dim, the light of the single lamp all he had allowed to combat the darkness. It wouldn’t have done to allow any but the lowest of light, since it might’ve been seen underneath the door, and could very well have attracted unwanted attention. Poppy had paused just inside the door, hesitant to move further into the room.
Her face in the low light was a revelation. Half a dozen emotions flitted across it, and he marveled at them. There was fear there, yes, but also anger, disdain, and…something akin to grief. That small, brief flicker of vulnerability set off an answering spark of protectiveness within him, something he hadn’t felt since—since Jilly had had her heart broken.
Her chest rose and fell in measured breaths, as if it took every bit of her concentration to maintain a reasonably placid mien, but her eyes darted, unable to look at him directly. He wondered if it was fury or guilt that kept her from meeting his eyes.
Slowly, carefully, he retrieved the little notebook from his pocket, and she took a half-step forward as if to reach for it, but stayed herself at the last moment. Her hands remained clenched at her sides, so tightly that if she hadn’t been wearing gloves, he suspected she would have drawn blood.
“I would like my notebook returned to me,” she said, her voice pitched low.
“I’m certain you would. However, I’m not inclined to return it just yet.” It had been only a show of proof, evidence that he could use against her if he were of a mind to do so.
He wasn’t. But there was no reason to inform her of it. He shoved the book back into his pocket and asked, “What the hell were you thinking, Poppy?”
“I’m sure my choices are none of your business, my lord.” How the words had escaped her tightly clenched teeth he would never know. There was a terrible brittleness to her, as if her every muscle screamed in strain.
“They are when you pull your inspiration from my life,” he snapped in return. “Ladies aren’t novelists, and certainly not Gothic novelists. If anyone found out, you would be ruined. Your sisters would be ruined.” And suddenly he was furious all over again, that she’d jeopardized herself, her reputation, for the sake of a little notoriety that she couldn’t even claim.
But she flinched as though every word was an arrow, slicing through her tender skin and leaving her in tatters. “I know that,” she hissed. “Don’t you think I know that?”
“Then why do it? Why would you take such a foolish risk?”
“There was no money!” The words seemed as if they had been torn from her throat. “We could hardly afford to bury Papa when he passed.”
His brows drew together. “But you had a bequest,” he said. “From your grandmother. Lady Ravenhurst said something to that effect.”
A ragged, humorless laugh escaped her. “It was a lie. There was no bequest. We had nothing at all—and Cousin Rupert didn’t want three unmarried girls in his home.”
A vicarious horror seized him. “He threw you out?”
“Before Papa was cold in the ground. Hallston House is entailed, my lord. We had no claim to it.” She glanced away, but not before he glimpsed the frustrated tears that swam in her eyes. “He let the girls and I pack a valise each, for which he insisted we ought to be grateful. Our lives were reduced down to the contents of a single piece of luggage each.”
“My God.” He had never expected it. “But you could have petitioned the courts—as your nearest relative, he owed you his support.”
“And while such a case was determined, should we have politely starved in genteel poverty?” she snapped.
Of course not. He braced his palm against the wall, struggling with the mingled sympathy and anger that warred within him. “And so you took
to fiction instead.”
“There was little else to allow me to support my sisters.” Her chin lifted again. “I was going to be ruined either way, my lord, either through penury or notoriety. But Victoria and Isobel—they have a chance.” Her eyes slid closed as a shudder slid through her, and she corrected tonelessly, “They had a chance.”
Once again he was awestruck. He’d thought she’d decided upon such a ruinous career for the fun of it, despite the damage it could have done to her family—but she’d done it because of them, to save them from poverty, from moldering away in obscurity in some misbegotten corner of the country. To provide them the choices that she had never had. There was a sort of nobility in it. If the career itself was not respectable, then at least her dedication to her sisters was.
His continued silence had unnerved her. He saw her throat work as she swallowed reflexively. “I will leave London,” she said, in a choked little voice. “You have my word that I shall never spy upon you again. I don’t expect your silence. But if you could simply save your recriminations until my sisters are safely married…they don’t deserve to suffer for my sins.”
Oh, lord. She was truly going to cry. Somehow it seemed anathema to her; she was not a woman given to such a thing. She would perceive it as a weakness that could be exploited, or perhaps as a luxury in which she could not afford to indulge. She had had to be strong, he realized, to bear up beneath the burden of survival and make difficult choices.
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