by Eloisa James
And lastly, Prudence’s habit of murmuring blessings was extraordinarily irritating. Only vicars and other clergymen were qualified to bless people, as far as Willa knew. Prudence’s father may have been a missionary, but ordination wasn’t hereditary.
Shaking all that off, she summoned a polite smile as Prudence trotted toward her, her face pinched and anxious.
“Miss Ffynche, Miss Ffynche!” she cried as soon as she was close enough. She came to a stop before Willa, panting and wringing her hands.
“Good afternoon, Miss Larkin. Is something the matter?”
“It’s Miss Belgrave,” Prudence gulped. “Miss Diana!”
Willa waited.
“Verily, she has made up her mind to eschew the bonds of matrimony and has returned from whence she came!”
“Ah,” Willa said. This news was not particularly surprising, given that Lavinia had said that Diana was gathering herself to make this very decision.
“She left no note, and she didn’t even take her maid,” Prudence gasped.
“What?”
“Miss Belgrave instructed me to ask you to break the news to Alaric.”
Willa’s brows drew together at this informality.
“I mean, to Lord Alaric!” Prudence said defensively, adding, “He should be the one to tell Lord Roland.”
Diana had left without a word to her fiancé? Willa’s mind spun for a moment, thinking of the longing, pain, and desire with which Alaric’s brother regarded his fiancée.
Diana should have found the courage and grace to inform North herself.
Willa didn’t entirely blame her for leaving. A woman ought to love her spouse, no matter how advantageous the match. Still, there were so many better ways to handle a delicate situation like this than running away.
Prudence was still wringing her hands.
“Miss Belgrave told you?” Willa asked, unable to contain her incredulity.
“I saw her go.” She hesitated. “I followed her and asked her where she was going. I knew she was fibbing to the butler because she had a hatbox. Why would she take a hatbox to the village?”
That made sense. Prudence was always watching from the corners and she was just the sort to spring out and demand an explanation.
“Very well,” Willa said with a sigh. “I’d better find Alaric.” She scooped up Sweetpea and returned her to the basket.
“I know where he is,” Prudence said, taking her arm and tugging.
Willa held back. “How would you know that?”
“I watched from the window as Alaric went down that path.” She gestured away from the castle. “I shouldn’t watch him, but it is a hard habit to break. I am trying.” Her cheeks were pink, her voice pained. “I have decided to return to London.”
“We’ll all be leaving soon,” Willa said, trying for diplomacy as they began to walk.
“I shall leave tomorrow.” Prudence’s chin led the way. “I tell thee the truth: Alaric has disappointed me. I wrote a play for him; I dreamed of him; I loved him. And how did he repay me?”
“Betrothing himself to me had nothing to do with you,” Willa said, untruthfully. “He didn’t even know you were alive, remember?”
Prudence threw her a bitter look. “We will catch up with him soon.”
Willa stopped. They had reached the stone wall at the eastern end of the garden. The neat gravel walk had branched off and led them to a heavy wooden door, half-obscured by rosebushes, that Willa had never before noticed.
Prudence dropped Willa’s arm and pushed open the door, which moved easily, given its heft. On the other side, the gravel was replaced by wooden planks that led straight into Lindow Moss, the peat bog that they had been warned in no uncertain terms not to enter.
The bog where Lord Horatius had lost his life.
Prudence curled her arm through Willa’s again. “Shall we?”
“I’m turning back.” Willa jerked her arm away from Prudence’s. Sweetpea jolted from side to side and sat up with a little hiss, curling her claws on the side of the basket.
“No, you are not,” Prudence stated.
“Don’t be daft,” Willa said, exasperated. “Could you try to be more rational?”
“Did you think I don’t know?” Prudence asked in a low, throbbing voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about you?”
“Insulting me will not put you in Lord Alaric’s good graces.”
“Everyone knows how you wooed him!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Willa said. The afternoon sun was making Prudence’s eyes sparkle like cut glass.
“Sneaking him into your bedchamber,” she hissed. “Did you think I wouldn’t know it? Or that I won’t write a play about it? Wait until Wilde in the Country makes its way onto the stage. Everyone in London will clamor to see it!”
Oh, for goodness’ sake.
“If you write that play, you will ruin Alaric,” Willa said, making her voice very, very reasonable. “You love him.”
“I believed I did,” Prudence said. “Perhaps I should give him another chance.” She cocked her head. “No, I think not.” She slid her hand out of the side slit in her gray dress. “I would like you to walk down the path now.”
She was holding a small pistol that looked as if it had been made for her hand. Unbelievably, it seemed that Prudence had been carrying a weapon in her pocket, which she was now pointing directly at Willa’s head.
“May I just say that Wilhelmina is one of the ugliest names I’ve ever heard?” Prudence said, breaking the silence as Willa stared dumbfounded at her. “I hate to offend you, but I have a writer’s soul and a reverence for words.”
“I’m going to return to the house now,” Willa stated, stepping back again.
“Perhaps you assume that I will miss,” Prudence said, her white teeth gleaming. “Allow me to disabuse you of that error. I am an extremely good shot, even at a distance—and this is not much of a distance. We practiced regularly in Africa, because sometimes the only thing that can stop a crocodile is a bullet through the eye. Did you know that?”
Willa shook her head.
Prudence gestured with the pistol. “My belt holds additional gunpowder and bullets, in case you’re wondering. Go on. Get in front of me. You’re going to walk through this door and down the path.”
“Why?”
Prudence’s brow furrowed. “You have to ask? Because you’ve stolen Alaric’s soul. Men are weak and prone to sins of the flesh. He won’t be able to make a reasonable decision until the doxy is removed from his sight.”
Willa’s mind was whirling. Where were the duke’s gardeners, or a groom, or even another guest? With great reluctance, she started down the plank path, because something in Prudence’s face suggested she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
They continued in silence while Willa racked her brain for a way she might save herself. She walked as slowly as she thought she could risk without provoking her captor.
“Do you know that Puritans consider plays to be the work of the devil?” Prudence said abruptly. “My father was convinced of it.” Her voice took on a sing-song cadence. “ ‘Such spectacles are filthy infections, such as turn minds from chaste cogitations, dishonoring the vessels of holiness, leading to a state of everlasting damnation.’ ”
“He sounds like a blunt man,” Willa replied. The wooden planks under her feet were placed on relatively firm hillocks. Darker green patches indicated water holes, if she remembered correctly.
“A good description for my father,” Prudence agreed. “He abhors unsavory morsels of unseemly sentences.”
“Most alliterative,” Willa said, trying to stay calm. Might she be able to lunge backward and knock Prudence off the plank, in hopes the woman fell into a bog hole? Was she capable of allowing another human to drown?
No.
What if she didn’t have time to rush back to the castle and fetch men to pull Prudence out? What if Prudence thrashed and sank quickly? Look what had happened to
Horatius.
What if she could somehow knock the pistol into the swamp?
“May I put Sweetpea down?” she asked, slowing to a stop. If they went much farther she would lose sight of the castle.
“My father scorns filthy, lewd, and ungodly speeches,” Prudence hissed. “But the words of truth … the words I told him were rooted in my heart, those he also condemned as lewd.”
It seemed the missionary hadn’t believed his daughter’s story about Alaric’s adoration for her.
“Keep walking,” Prudence barked.
Willa continued, more slowly. “Do you intend to shoot me? It is obvious Alaric is nowhere ahead of us on this path. Do you mean to commit murder?”
“Absolutely not!” Prudence snapped. “You are a harlot, yea, an openly shameful woman who belongs in a brothel, but it is not for me to take your life.”
“In that case, where are we going, and why?”
“You will go into the bog,” Prudence replied, her voice once more clear and amiable. “I cannot abide to exist near such a filthy thing as you are. Alaric has eaten of your words and tasted of your body. He is poisoned.”
“If you allow me to return to the castle,” Willa said, “I will return to London without delay, leaving Alaric behind. You needn’t have my death on your conscience.”
“I won’t,” Prudence said, obviously surprised. “If I had to shoot you, it would be different. But I shall leave your fate in the hands of God. My heart is like a lion’s; I will not shirk from the Lord’s cause.”
When Prudence fell into the rhythms of that particular kind of speech, her eyes took on an unhinged look.
“Don’t you think the Lord might take his vengeance on me on the road to London?” Willa asked. “I could keep walking on this path and not return to Lindow Castle at all.”
Prudence glanced over her shoulder. The castle was little more than a speck on the western horizon, and the afternoon was drawing in. “Time for you to test your fate,” she said. “Get off the plank.”
She waved the pistol at Willa. “Put that animal down first.”
“What are you going to do to her?”
“Nothing,” Prudence said impatiently. “It is an innocent, and as such, must be protected by the godly.”
This was madness in its purest, starkest form. But unquestionably, Sweetpea was better out of the bog. Willa put the basket down slowly, keeping an eye on the pistol.
“Step off the footpath,” Prudence said, almost sounding bored.
Sweetpea sat up so Willa stroked her head with one finger, willing her to stay put.
“You’re not going to weep and beg me for mercy?” Prudence asked as Willa straightened.
“Would it make any difference?” Willa couldn’t jump at Prudence without being shot; the woman’s finger was curled around the trigger.
She would have to cross the bog without falling into a water sink. As soon as she was out of Prudence’s sight, she would sit still and wait to be rescued.
“No difference at all. You are in the hands of God,” Prudence said. “His will be done. We are placed as pilgrims in this flesh, and must keep it pure lest the ungodly contaminate us.”
Down on the ground, Sweetpea had put her paws on the edge of the basket. “No,” Willa said to her. “Stay there. Miss Larkin will take you home.”
With a wrinkle of her nose, Prudence reached down with her free hand and took up the basket. “Putrid animal,” she complained. Sweetpea lost her balance and tumbled on her side. “I’d encourage you to pray, but I have seen from your manner that you are entirely profane. If you feel the wish to prepare yourself for the spiritual life, you may kneel and pray. If you believe the Spirit will move you.”
Willa was pretty certain it wouldn’t, so she said, “I think you’ll have to shoot me, Prudence. I’m afraid to step into the bog.”
“That would endanger my soul,” Prudence explained. “Off you go or I’ll blow this creature’s head off.” She pointed the pistol at Sweetpea.
“You said she was an innocent!” Willa protested.
“It is an animal. You, on the other hand, live in a Temple of the Lord, which you have defiled and polluted. Why are you taking off your hat?”
“I can’t enter the bog in a large hat designed for a garden party,” Willa stated, hoping that Prudence would accept it as a fashion edict.
“That is a work of darkness,” Prudence said broodingly.
The afternoon was fading and their shadows were stretching across the surface of the bog. If Willa delayed any longer, she wouldn’t be able to discern dark moss from lighter grass. What’s more, she had a shrewd feeling that Prudence would find it easier to shoot her as time went on.
Prism had told them that the bog was dotted with peat cutters’ huts, and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a low roof in the distance.
“Go!”
Willa stepped from the footpath, testing a hassock of grass with her toe. A crack of gunfire broke the silence and she screamed. With a hiss, the hot bullet sank into wet grass to her right.
“I’m reloading,” Prudence said, her voice utterly calm. “I advise you to run. If you are godly, you will survive the bog. God will show your feet the way. If you are scurrilous and infectious, you will sink.”
Willa looked ahead, committing to a meandering trail of sturdy-looking hassocks that went as far as she could see. Before Prudence could finish reloading, she threw her hat onto an openly wet area, praying it would float, picked up her skirts, and began to run.
Her entire being focused on reaching one hassock after another. The peat was spongy under her feet. More than once a hassock shifted and rolled under her weight, but she had already left it for the next one.
No more shots were fired; Prudence shouted something but Willa was too focused to catch what she said.
She stopped only when she lost a shoe, grabbed by the bog when she put her foot wrong. She turned and watched as it sank with a sucking noise, and then took a shattered breath, fighting down a sob.
Meanwhile, the light had turned golden and would remain so for an hour, perhaps longer. Her frantic dash had taken her to a place where she could no longer see the plank path, or the castle on the horizon.
In this light, the jade-green patches were fading to a mossy brown, like the kind of rocks you see in a Highlands stream. But this was no stream. A whole sea of peat gently rolled to the horizon.
Chapter Thirty-one
Alaric spent an hour or so with the ledger containing the buttery accounts, but he kept thinking of Willa’s question about Horatius. It was such a simple one: what kind of person was Horatius? It made him realize that younger Wildes would have little or no memory of their eldest brother, which was inconceivable.
He finally put the ledger to the side and began to write a story drawn from his childhood, about a time when the Duke of Lindow took their family to a hunting lodge high in the Pennines hills one December.
Horatius dug a snow house for Alaric, Parth, and Roland, with two exits and three separate rooms. He’d dropped his dignity and played with them, chasing them on hands and knees through warm, snowy tunnels. Howling at them like the great warrior he was named after.
It was, hands down, the best Christmas of Alaric’s life.
He was just finishing when the door was thrown open and North appeared.
“She’s left me,” he roared.
“What?” Alaric looked up as his brother slammed the door shut behind him.
“Diana’s run away. She’s left me.”
“Bloody hell,” Alaric said, dropping his pencil. “That’s rotten luck.” Of course it wasn’t a question of luck, but he didn’t think his brother was ready to hear that he was better off without that particular woman, or that he’d find someone better.
North ripped off his wig and threw it at a chair; it bounced and fell to the floor. To Alaric’s surprise, his brother’s head was shaved. He took off his coat and threw that to the side as well. “She’s left me,�
� he repeated, obviously stunned.
Alaric leaned back in his chair. “Just now?”
North strode forward and slammed his fist on the desk. “She didn’t even write me a bloody note. Nothing.”
Alaric felt a surge of anger toward Diana Belgrave. To go away without an explanation was rude and unfeeling. Cruel, even. Any fool could see how devoted North was.
“Do you know who told me that my sniveling, cowardly fiancée had fled to London?” North demanded.
“Prism?”
“Prudence Larkin!” he bellowed. “That unmitigated, rubbishing Puritan woman was entrusted with a simple message: ‘Miss Belgrave has changed her mind about the wedding.’ ”
“I wasn’t aware they were more than acquaintances.”
“They aren’t,” North snarled. “As I understand it, if Prudence hadn’t seen Diana sneaking away and demanded an explanation, my fiancée would have left the house without bothering to tell me that she was jilting me. She lied to Prism, who thought she was paying a visit to the village.”
He dropped onto the settee and rubbed his hands over his scalp, his jaw clenched in a rigid line.
“I’m sorry,” Alaric said.
“No, you’re not. You never liked Diana and now you’re proven right.”
“I didn’t dislike her. I just thought she wasn’t as deeply attached as you are.”
“As deeply? She’s not attached at all. She prefers to ruin herself rather than marry me.”
“Is Diana ruined?” Alaric had never paid much attention to the rules of polite society. And, at his brother’s nod, “Simply because she left you?”
“She’s jilted the heir to a dukedom,” North said, his voice quieting. “She won’t be invited to parties next Season, if ever.” He looked up, hands falling into his lap. “Do you want to know the damnable thing?”
Alaric nodded.
“I don’t think she’ll care. I think she is so eager to rid herself of me that she’d rather marry a chimney sweep. I tried—I tried everything I could think of.”
His wig lay on the floor next to his feet. North gave it such a violent kick that it actually lifted in the air before plopping down on the empty hearth.
