She lit a single candle, washed quickly in the ice-cold water, dressed in her warmest clothes, packed her belongings and wondered if her luck would hold while she tried to leave the house undetected.
She had not packed everything. She had left his signet ring on the washstand. And one other thing. She wasted several precious moments gazing at it, spread across the top of the chest of drawers, where she had put it the night before. Should she take it? She wanted desperately to do so. It would be the one memento. But she would not need a memento. And it had been too extravagant a gift, especially under the circumstances.
She set one fingertip lightly to the gold star on its chain and then left it where it was. She did not go back into the bedchamber. There was a door leading directly from the dressing room to the corridor beyond.
It had always seemed rather silly, she thought as she made her way cautiously downstairs and let herself out of the front door, to talk about a heart aching. How could a heart ache? But this morning it no longer seemed silly. She hurried along the driveway to the road, past the still-stuck carriage, relieved to see that the snow had melted sufficiently that she should be able to walk to the village without any great difficulty.
Her heart ached for a little gold star and chain that would fit into the palm of her hand. And for the Christmas star that had brought such joy and such hope this year and had lured her into a great foolishness. And for the man whom she hoped was still asleep where she had slept with him a mere half hour ago.
She would never see him again, if only she was in time for the stage. Never could sometimes be a terrifying word.
She would love him forever.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT TOOK Julian three months to find her. Though even then he had the merest glimpse of her only to lose her again without a trace, it seemed. Just as he had lost her on Christmas night.
He had woken up by daylight and been half amused, half exasperated to find her gone from bed and from their room. He had washed and shaved and dressed in leisurely fashion, hoping she would return before he was ready, and had then gone in search of her. Even when he had not found her in any of the day rooms or in the kitchen he had not been alarmed, or even when he had peered out of doors and not seen her walking there. He had assumed she must be in the only possible place left, Mrs. Moffatt’s room, admiring the baby.
The morning had been well advanced before he had discovered the truth. She was gone and so were all her possessions except the star and chain. He had picked up the necklace, squeezed it tight in his palm and tipped back his head in silent agony.
She had left him.
Why?
He had returned to London the same day, having concocted a whole arsenal of new lies for the edification of Bertie, Debbie and the Moffatts. And so had begun his search for her. She had left her job at the opera without a word to anyone there. She had not gone to any other theater—he had checked them all. And none of her former coworkers knew of her whereabouts. They had not seen or heard of her since before Christmas.
Eventually he bribed the manager of the opera house to give him her address, but it was a false one. There was no one by the name of Blanche Heyward living there, the landlady informed him, and no one of her description, either, except that Miss Ewing, who used to live there, had been tall. But Miss Ewing had been no opera dancer and nor had any other lady who had ever rented her house. The very idea! She had glared at him with indignation. He became almost desperate enough to travel down to Somersetshire in search of the smithy that had been her home. But how many smithies must there be in Somersetshire?
Blanche clearly did not want to be found.
He tried to put her from his mind. Christmas had been an unusually pleasurable interlude, largely thanks to Blanche, and sleeping with her had been the icing on an already scrumptious cake. But really there was no more to it than that. One could not carry Christmas about all year long, after all. One had to get back to the mundane business of everyday life.
But he did at the end of January make a three-day visit to Conway, where he was greeted with such affection by his parents and such a scold from his youngest sister that he almost lost his courage. He found it again when sitting alone with his father in the library one afternoon. He would not marry Lady Sarah Plunkett, he had announced quite firmly. And before his father could draw breath to ask him—as he was obviously about to do—whom he would marry then, he had added that there was only one woman in the world he would consider marrying, but she would not marry him and anyway she was ineligible.
“Ineligible?” his father had asked, eyebrows raised.
“Daughter of a blacksmith,” his son had told him.
“Of a blacksmith.” His father had pursed his lips. “And she will not marry you, Julian? She has more sense than you.”
“I love her,” Julian had said.
“Hmm” was all the comment his father had made. Perhaps that was all the comment he had thought necessary since the marriage seemed in no danger of becoming a reality.
Back in London Julian had searched hopelessly, aimlessly, until the afternoon in March when he spotted her on a crowded Oxford Street. She was on the opposite side of the street, coming out of a milliner’s shop. He came to an abrupt halt, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes. But then her eyes locked on his and he knew he was not mistaken. He started forward as she turned abruptly and hurried away along the pavement.
At the same moment a gentleman’s curricle and a tradesman’s wagon decided to dispute the right-of-way along the street, whose width had been narrowed by the presence of a large carriage picking up two passengers loaded with parcels. They confronted each other head-on and refused to budge an inch for each other.
The tradesman swore foully and the gentleman only a little more elegantly; the horses protested in the way horses did best. A whole host of bystanders took sides or merely gathered to enjoy the spectacle, and Julian got caught up in the tangle for a few seconds too long. He was across the street in less than a minute, but during that minute Blanche Heyward had disappeared totally. He hurried along the street in the direction she had taken, peering into every shop and along every alley. But there was no sign of her. Or of the young girl who had been with her.
One thing was clear to him. If she had ever regretted running away from Bertie’s hunting box, she regretted it no longer. She had no wish to be found. She had no wish even to claim the second half of her week’s salary.
She had played the martyr after all, then, on that night and with such courage that he had not even known that she played a part. Fool that he was, he had thought her feelings matched his own. He had thought she enjoyed losing her virginity to a rake who had paid for her favors. What a fool!
He gave up looking for her. Let her live out her life in peace. He just hoped that the two hundred and fifty pounds had proved sufficient to cover whatever need at the smithy had impelled her to accept his proposition, and that there had been some left over for her.
But his resolve slipped when he attended a rout at his eldest sister’s in April. Her drawing room and the two salons that had been opened up for the occasion were gratifyingly full, she told him, her arm drawn through his as she led him through. New families were arriving in town every day for the season. But he drew her to a sudden halt.
“Who is that?” he asked, indicating with a nod of the head a thin, pretty young girl who was standing with an older lady and with General Sir Hector Ewing and his wife.
“The general?” she asked. “You do not know him, Julian? He—”
“The young girl with him,” he said.
She looked archly at him and smiled. “She is pretty, is she not?” she said. “She is the general’s niece, Miss Chastity Ewing.”
Ewing. Ewing! The name of the tall lady who had lived at the false address given to the opera house manager by Blanche Heyward. And Miss Chastity Ewing was the young lady who had been with Blanche on Oxford Street.
“I have an acquaintance w
ith the general, Elinor,” he said, “but not a close one. Present me to Miss Ewing, if you please.”
“Smitten after one glance,” his sister said with a laugh. “This is very interesting, Julian. Come along, then.”
“WHO?” Verity asked faintly. She had waited up for Chastity even though it was late and even though they no longer shared a room. She was sitting on her sister’s bed.
“Viscount Folingsby,” Chastity said. “At least I think I have the name correct. He is Lady Blanchford’s brother. He is very handsome and very charming, Verity.”
There was a slight buzzing in her head. It had been almost inevitable, of course. She knew that he was in London—she had seen him—and that therefore, he would attend ton events, especially now that the season was beginning. Since her uncle had returned from Vienna the week after Christmas, brought them all to live with him and was now undertaking to introduce Chastity to society, then Chass would surely attend some of the same balls and parties as him. Verity had just hoped that pretty and healthy as Chastity was, she would be just too youthful to attract the notice of Viscount Folingsby.
“Is he?” she said in answer to her sister’s words.
But Chastity was smiling at her with bright mischief and came to sit on the bed beside her, still clad in her evening gown. “Of course he is,” she said. “You know him, Verity.”
Her heart performed a somersault. “Oh?” she said. “Do I?”
Chastity laughed merrily and clapped her hands. “Of course you do,” she said, “and I can tell from your guilty expression that you remember him very well. He told us. About Christmas.”
Verity could feel the blood draining out of her head, leaving it cold and clammy and dizzy.
Chastity took one of her sister’s cold, nerveless hands in her own. “Dear Verity,” she said. “I daresay you have convinced yourself that he did not really notice you. But I knew it would happen sooner or later. I told you, did I not? How could any gentleman look at your beauty and not be struck by it and by you. No matter who you were.”
“Does Mama know?” Verity was whispering.
“Of course,” Chastity said, laughing gleefully. “She was there with me and our uncle.”
“Uncle knows?” They would all be turned out on the street tomorrow, she thought. Was there any way of persuading him to dismiss her alone? She had already displeased him by refusing to participate in any of the social entertainments of the season. She had pleaded advanced age. Could Mama and Chastity be saved?
“The viscount knew that Lady Coleman went to Scotland the day after Christmas,” Chastity said. “He assumed you had gone with her. Imagine his surprise and gratification to learn that you had not, that you were here in London.”
“What?” There was no Lady Coleman, and he did not know her as Verity Ewing.
“Oh, Verity, you silly goose.” Chastity raised her sister’s hand to her cheek and held it there. “Did you think he would not notice you because you were merely a lady’s companion? Did you think he would not wish to renew the acquaintance? He told Mama how you quietly set about making everyone’s Christmas comfortable and joyful, not just Lady Coleman’s. He told us about the clergyman’s family being stranded and about you delivering the baby. Oh, Verity, why did you not tell us about that? And he confessed to Mama that he had kissed you beneath the kissing bough. He has the most roguish smile.”
“Oh,” Verity said.
“And you thought he would forget you?” Chastity said. “He has not forgotten. He asked Mama if he might call upon you. And he asked Uncle for a private word. They went walking off together. Verity, he is wonderful. Almost wonderful enough for you, I do believe. Viscountess Folingsby. Yes.” She laughed again. “It will suit. I declare it will. And now I know why you have refused to go into society. You have been afraid of meeting him. You have been afraid he would not remember you. You goose!”
Verity could only cling to her sister’s hand and stare wide-eyed. He knew who she was! Somehow Mama or Chastity must have mentioned Lady Coleman to him and he had played along with the game. And he wanted to see her. Why? To pay her the rest of her salary? But she had not earned it. To demand part of the other half back, then? The irony of that was that her sacrifice had been unnecessary. Her uncle had taken over their care and the payment of Chastity’s medical bills within two days of her return to London.
Perhaps he wanted her to earn what he had already paid her. Perhaps he wanted her to be his mistress here, in town. But he knew she was General Sir Hector Ewing’s niece.
She did not want to see him. The very thought of doing so was enough to throw her into a panic, as the reality had that afternoon on Oxford Street.
And yet in almost four months the pain had not diminished even one iota. It only seemed to grow worse. She had even found herself bitterly disappointed, as well as knee-weakeningly relieved, when she had discovered that their one encounter had not borne fruit.
“Verity.” Her sister’s eyes were softly glowing. “You have remembered him. You are in love with him. Do not think you can deceive me. How splendid this is. How very romantic. It is like a fairy tale.”
Verity snatched her hand away and jumped to her feet. “Foolish girl,” she said. “It is high time you were asleep. You have recovered your health even if you are still just a little too thin, but you must not tax your strength. Go to bed now. Turn around and let me undo your buttons.”
But Chastity was not so easily distracted. She got to her feet, too, and flung her arms about her sister. Her eyes shone with tears. “I am healthy because of the sacrifice you made for me,” she said. “I will never ever forget what I owe you, Verity. But you are going to be rewarded. You never would have met him if you had not taken employment with Lady Coleman and if you had not given up your Christmas with us to go away with her. So you see it is a just reward. And I am so happy I could weep.”
“Go to bed and to sleep,” Verity said firmly. “You are drawing far too many conclusions from Viscount Folingsby’s courtesy this evening. Besides, I do not like him above half.”
Chastity was laughing softly as she left the room.
Verity stood against the door of her own room after she had closed it behind her, her eyes tight shut.
He had found her. But did she want to be found? Perhaps, after all, she needed to be. There was a yawning emptiness in her life, a sense of something unresolved, unfinished. Perhaps it should be finished. She did not know quite why he wished to see her—certainly not for any of the reasons Chastity imagined—but perhaps she should find out. Perhaps if she saw him again, if she found out exactly what it was he wanted of her, she would finally be able to close the book on that episode from the past and move on into the future.
Perhaps she would be able to stop loving him.
HE HAD SPOKEN with her uncle the evening before. He had met him again during the morning in order to discuss and settle details. And now, this afternoon, he had spoken with her mother. Mrs. Ewing had gone to send her daughter down to the visitors’ salon in which he waited, feeling more nervous than he had ever felt in his life before.
The door opened and closed quietly. She stood against it, her hands behind her, probably still gripping the knob. She was dressed in pale green muslin, a dress of simple design. Her hair was dressed plainly, too. She had lost some weight and some color. But even if she tried twice as hard she would never be able to disguise the fact that she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. He made her his most elegant bow.
“Miss Ewing?” he said.
She stared at him for several moments before releasing her hold on the knob and curtsying. “My lord.”
“Miss Verity Ewing,” he said. “You were misnamed.”
She had nothing to say to that.
“Verity,” he said.
“I have two hundred pounds left,” she told him then, her voice soft, her chin up, her shoulders back. “I have not needed it after all. I will return it to you. I hope you will agree to forget the fifty pound
s. I did partly earn it, after all.”
The younger girl had been ill. Verity Ewing had taken employment in order to pay the physician’s bills and to buy medicines. She had worked as a companion to Lady Coleman. She had done it for her sister.
“I believe your virginity was worth fifty pounds,” he said. “Where is the rest?”
“Here.”
She carried a small reticule over her arm, he saw. She opened it and took a roll of banknotes from it. She held them out to him and then brought them to him when he did not move. He took the money with one hand and the reticule with the other and set them down on the chair beside him.
“You are satisfied now?” he asked her. “It is all finished now?”
She nodded, looking down at the money. “I should have returned it to you before,” she said. “I did not know quite how. I am sorry.”
“Verity,” he said softly. “My love.”
She closed her eyes and kept them closed. “No,” she said. “It is finished. I will not be your mistress. I will always be a…a fallen woman, but I will not be your mistress. Please leave now. And thank you for not exposing me to my mother and sister. Or to my uncle.”
“My love.” He was not at all sure of himself. Verity Ewing, alias Blanche Heyward, was, as he knew from experience, a woman of strong will and firm character. “Must I go? Or may I stay—forever? Will you marry me?”
She opened her eyes then and raised them to his chin. She smiled. “Ah,” she said, “of course. I am a gentleman’s daughter and you are a gentleman. No, my lord, you do not have to do the decent thing. I will not expose you, either, you see.”
“It was your first time,” he told her. “I could not expect you to understand. You had not the experience. Usually when sex is purchased, it is simply for pleasure, on the man’s part at least. It was pleasing, was it not? For both of us? But it was more. In a sense it was my first time, too, you see. I had never made love before.
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