by Vincy, Mia
He shrugged. “It’s not worth the bother of mentioning. Sally was good for Katharine. The whole arrangement seemed to be good for her. She went weeks without an episode of any kind. I was reading about new treatments for disorders of the mind, out of France. A Quaker is trying something similar in York. I was corresponding with a French aliéniste, and I thought—”
“I beg your pardon? An alienist?”
“A doctor of mental illnesses. I was considering taking Katharine to the Continent. She was happy; we all were. But then—suddenly; I don’t know why—her mind turned on her again. We maintained complete calm around her, and she had had no frights or shocks. Except she read that blasted Gothic novel. She believed it held messages for her. And then the crows… She kept talking about crows, saying they were coming to take her away, and accusing me of being a crow or in league with the crows, or… I don’t know.”
“Why did she believe you meant her harm?”
Curse you, Katharine had hissed, wild-eyed, in the grip of whatever nightmare consumed her mind, while the heavy gray storm clouds crackled and rumbled overhead. Dark and silent as the crow, and with just as evil intent.
“She saw a crow kill a sparrow.”
“That was all?”
He sighed. “A storm was building. She was outside and I was trying to coax her back into the house. She refused, insisting I meant to murder her. I knew we had to be calm with her, but I was tired, impatient.”
“Worried,” Thea suggested.
He waved off her excuses. “I lost my temper and tried to grab her. She escaped and ran to the stables, didn’t even saddle the horse…”
And he, the fool, he had wasted minutes fetching a vial of laudanum before going after her. Precious minutes during which she had mounted a horse and ridden away.
Thea unwrapped her arms from the bestiary and lowered the huge book to a table, frowning thoughtfully as she traced the ornate letters on its front. Just as she had traced the scars on his shoulder, a lifetime ago, back in the lake. Rafe tried to take all of her in, every angle and curve of her face and her body; he might never see her again.
She looked up and caught him studying her. Something flashed across the space between them, swift as lightning.
“Why was Ventnor so shocked to see Sally?” she asked.
“I left England the same day we buried Katharine. I don’t know what happened after that.”
“Did you never ask?”
“What’s the blasted point? It doesn’t change what happened.”
He could never change the past. He could never change Katharine’s death. He could never change himself.
Rafe forced himself to meet Thea’s eyes, forced himself to say, “You have to go.”
She lifted her chin. “Actually, I think I shall stay.”
Chapter 18
Thea met Rafe’s baffled gaze steadily. He was silhouetted against the window, his hair drying into a dark mane, the sun outlining his body under his shirt. How she wished he would accept her comfort, this strong, vital man, so caring, so hurt by life.
So determined to send her away.
Listen to him. He told her his heartbreaking story—of the young woman who endured such torment, and the young man who loved her but could not ease her pain—and then, as if none of it mattered, as if he were not a human in need of compassion or self-forgiveness—he turned around and ordered her to leave.
What else did she expect? True, she had intended to leave today, but that was before she’d discovered his deception, before she’d learned how he had suffered for his first, youthful love. It was impossible to stay angry over his lies, not now she understood his choice.
For a man such as Rafe—in his prime, titled, from an old, respected family—finding a bride would have been easy, despite his bad temper, rumors, and scars. He could have wed some wealthy lady, given her a house and allowance, and never spoken to her again. Such an arrangement would have raised no eyebrows; affection was rarely a consideration in aristocratic marriages. But instead he had chosen this ruse, preferring fraud and deception to marriage of any kind; indeed, he would have foregone the funds completely, so set was he on not taking another wife.
It was the choice of a man who was determined to have no part in the world. Thea should not take it personally, then, that he was sending her away.
It was just that she was so very tired of people sending her away.
Thea was not completely naive. She knew she had nothing to offer him, nothing but silly stories and kisses in the lake. A young woman, a passing diversion, because he was, after all, just a man. She knew this was not her home, nor ever would be.
He had said as much. And then he said it again: “You cannot stay.”
“I can if I want to,” she argued. “Only for a few more days. I shall leave at my own convenience. After all, you brought me here under false pretenses.”
He threw up his hands. “You came here under false pretenses.”
“I would never have come here at all if not for your scheme. I would have stayed quite happily at Arabella’s house, pretending to be Helen, waiting for news that Helen was married and my pamphlet was printed, at which point I would have returned to London. Then you got in the way, all arrogant and earl-ish, and played with us like pieces on a board. But my pamphlet is not yet ready. When I leave, it will be on my own schedule, not yours.”
He went very still. “Pamphlet? What pamphlet?”
“I wrote a pamphlet.”
“You wrote a pamphlet.”
“It tells the true story of what Percy Russell did to me, although I used false names and invited readers to guess whom it concerns. The Tale of Rosamund. Who was cruelly wronged by… You know.”
Rafe said nothing. Frowning, he began to pace back and forth. He appeared vexingly unimpressed.
Thea hurried to explain. “It will be printed in time for the Prince Regent’s costume party, when the whole ton will be in Town, and I’ll have it distributed to everyone. If my plan works…”
He said nothing. Kept pacing.
“If my plan works, society will understand that Percy and his friend lied. My parents will realize they were wrong not to believe me. My reputation will be restored, and I shall return to my life.”
He said nothing.
“I mean, if my plan works, I can make a new home, where nothing can be taken from me, and no one can ever send me away again. If my plan works.”
He said nothing.
“Rafe, say something.”
He stopped pacing. “Your plan won’t work.”
“Oh.”
She waited. No further comment ensued.
“When I said ‘say something,’ I didn’t mean to say that,” she said. “You are meant to say it is a brilliant plan.”
“It isn’t a brilliant plan.”
“Say it is sure to succeed.”
“It is sure to fail.”
And if it failed… Where would she go then? No. She could not let herself believe that.
A chill shivered over her, despite the sunlight.
“Must you be so pessimistic?” she demanded. “Is that another thing you learned at earl school? Lessons in pessimism, after your lessons in presumptuousness, perfidiousness, and pettiness.”
He shook his head. “I published a pamphlet telling the truth about Katharine, but no one wanted to know. Ventnor countered with his lies, and look at the way people ate those up. Even as the lies grew more and more ridiculous, still people preferred them to the truth. Amid all the rumors you heard about me, did anyone ever mention that Katharine had a naturally occurring illness of the mind?”
“No.”
“Think about that. People would rather believe in your wrongdoing than in Percy’s, because that keeps their world the same as it always was.”
“I’m not listening to you.”
“You should. You must. Thea, this optimism of yours, it will—”
“Don’t you dare mock my optimism.” Anger rose in a f
amiliar wave. “Optimism was my family’s food and drink when we had little else. Optimism is how my father rose from the son of a poor warehouse clerk to a wealthy merchant. You aristocrats, never daring to get enthusiastic about anything. We cannot afford to be pessimists, did you never consider that? Of course you’re miserable, when you…” She remembered herself and her cheeks heated. “Forgive me. Your loss was far greater than my own.”
Dismissing her clumsy words with a shake of his head, Rafe crossed the room toward her. “I do not mock you. But have you not had enough heartache without setting yourself up for more? Your openness and joie de vivre—your resilience puts me to shame, and you…”
He reached out and touched her hair, his caress as light as the breeze.
“You do like me,” she whispered.
“They’ll crush you again, and I would hate to see you hurt.”
He did not wish to see her hurt? He said those words while looking right at her, his expression so concerned? Truly, he had no idea.
She stepped back. He dropped his hand and Thea hugged her middle. “The Knight family—I believed we would always be there for each other, and I wanted so badly to do well for them. Then suddenly, everything I believed in was gone. Yet I did nothing wrong.”
“I know.”
“I did what I thought was right, yet I ended up punished and exiled. And I will not accept this injustice, when I have the slightest chance to put it right. You cannot understand, when you have all…” She waved an arm around her. “This. But this pamphlet, my dreams—they are all I have.”
“Not quite true,” he said.
He was right. She did have more: She had memories. Wonderful memories. Of him, of their kisses, their laughter, his strong arms and gentle heart, their conversations and play. How magical and marvelous that she could always take a piece of him with her, of this gentle, caring man who berated himself for failing his wife, when his only failure was that he could not see how much more he had to give. He had given Thea only a tiny piece of himself, true, but that would be enough. It had to be enough. He wasn’t inviting her to stay here in his beautiful house. He wasn’t inviting her into his life at all. He was telling her to leave. He was telling her…
“I beg your pardon?” she said, realizing he had spoken and she had missed the words. “What did you just say?”
“I said, you’ll be rich soon.”
She snorted. “The pamphlet will not make money. It will cost me dearly. I shall sell those items I bought on your account to pay for it.”
“I mean your dowry. Fifteen thousand pounds. When I called on your father in London, he agreed to give it to me. My solicitor is making arrangements so it comes to you instead.”
Her knees failed her, and Thea plopped down on the nearest chair.
“You villain,” she said, her voice cracking. “How dare you do something like that?”
“It seemed right.”
“It makes it hard for me to hate you.”
“It’s better for us both if you do hate me.” He headed for the door. “There is no place for you here.”
“I never said there was.” She sat up straight and donned her most imperious look. “I shall go, of course, but when I’m good and ready, and not before.”
“Fine. Stay. Go. Don’t stay. Don’t go. I don’t care what you do.”
With another shake of his head, Rafe disappeared out the door.
* * *
After Thea had changed into a dry gown and tidied up, she headed downstairs. In the foyer, a pair of maids shot her a look and whispered behind their hands before darting away. But no one came to throw her out, so she went into the library, where she found a thick letter from Arabella and tore it open.
Enclosed in Arabella’s letter was a note from Helen. Thea scanned her sister’s words hungrily, relieved to confirm she had married Mr. Russell at the Scottish border, as planned, and the happy couple were heading to Brighton to flaunt their marriage before fashionable society.
“Perhaps now you’ll believe it’s true love, for we haven’t a single regret between us,” Helen wrote. “Except one: I regret I had to leave that smelly greatcoat behind.”
A reflection in the glass caught her eye. Thea whirled around, to face Sally and Martha.
It seemed an age before anyone spoke.
“So. You are not really the countess,” Sally said. “You are neither his wife, nor his lover.”
“I was pretending.”
Thea’s voice sounded too small and she didn’t like that in herself. Whatever else happened, she had vowed that never again would she give up her voice.
“I am sorry I deceived you,” she said, loud and clear. “It was to help a friend and my sister. I was pretending to be someone I am not.”
To Thea’s surprise, Sally responded with a broad smile. “We’ve all done that. What woman hasn’t?”
Thea waited. Surely there would be more. Surely they would next tell her how awful she was.
But Martha only shrugged. “That explains the other matter.”
“What other matter?”
“The matter of separate beds. I thought he needed some medicine to help him, but he got upset at my suggestion.”
Thea thought of Rafe’s hard body pressed against hers—exceedingly desirable, he had said—and her cheeks heated. “He was being honorable.”
“If a man could impregnate a woman with a look, you would birth triplets,” Martha said.
“Um.” Thea thought about this. “That’s rather disturbing, Martha.”
The older woman only laughed.
“His lordship has agreed to let me stay a little longer,” Thea added, glossing over the details of their argument. “But I should move out of the countess’s chambers. If you have a smaller room?”
“Moving you will be work,” Sally said. “You want to make more work for us, my lady?”
“Of course not. But I’m not a real lady. My name is Thea. Thea Knight.”
“Have you learned to play billiards yet, Thea Knight?” Martha asked. “We’ll see you after dinner.”
And with that invitation, the pair turned to leave.
Thea stared at their backs, perplexed at their lack of anger. But as they seemed to have no interest in scolding her, she risked another question.
“Sally, may I ask—”
“No.”
“You and Lord Ventnor seemed to know each other.”
Sally hesitated, before turning back. “After Katharine died, I went to London, where I encountered Lord Ventnor. We argued, and he threatened me. I was frightened and I came back here. To my home.”
“Today, you ran away from him. That must have been some argument.”
“It was very unpleasant.”
“About?”
Again, Sally hesitated before answering. “Katharine. It seemed to me that Ventnor did not grieve her suitably. I told him as much, and he didn’t like that.” She sighed. “I beg you, Thea, I prefer no questions. Even if we are friends.”
Without another word, they went out.
Alone again, Thea turned to Arabella’s letter, which contained an account of her trip to London to order a costume for the Prince Regent’s party. The letter ended with a paragraph so astonishing that Thea had to read it twice:
I have long suspected you are withholding information and now I have proof. During our journey, we stopped in a market town, where we watched a short play performed by a traveling theatre troupe. It was astoundingly similar to your pamphlet: It told the tale of Rosamund, a winsome lass who was cruelly wronged by two dastardly knaves. (Although the ending was…surprising.) Why are they performing your story? You will write immediately and withhold nothing of your adventures.
Despite everything—or perhaps because of it—Thea began to laugh. Her impromptu performance in the coaching inn that night must have been seen by someone connected to a traveling theatre company, who thought it worthy of a repeat. Now people were hearing her story in a way she had never dreame
d!
Grateful for the distraction, Thea dropped into the big leather chair and reached for quill, ink, and paper. Much of what she had withheld could not be put on paper, but Arabella deserved something for her nagging. If she wanted adventures, well, Thea could pen a whole novel of them!
Oh. Oh. She had never considered that. The sole purpose of her pamphlet was to clear her name; never had she imagined writing for fun. But it would be fun, wouldn’t it?
And it would certainly help take her mind off…people.
It could begin as a letter, claiming to tell the true story of a young lady, who was—yes! An outcast with a secret fortune. She was kidnapped and taken to a castle by a cruel sorcerer who carried a magical ebony stick. It would be a proper castle, of course, gloomy and crumbling, with skeletons and musty books and creatures in jars. And a ghost, who came out of the portraits. No— Who came out of the lake.
Thea looked past her own reflection to the lawn and the lake beyond. Her eyes still burned with the image of Rafe, wading toward her, brandy-colored eyes intent, water trickling down those hard muscles, his body both powerful and scarred.
Suddenly, every part of her ached. Rafe did not want her, and even understanding why did not ease that hurt. One more day, he had said. What if they did have one more day? What if she went to him now and said, “Just one more evening?”
No. That would be a mistake. Rafe had turned out to be as unreliable as everything else in her world. There was no rock for her to stand on here, nothing but the same shifting sands as everywhere else. Rafe offered nothing but another adventure, to keep her entertained until she found her way home.
Thea forced her mind back to her letter.
Not a ghost, she decided, but a cursed man who came out of the lake. He was the rightful heir to the castle, but the sorcerer cursed him when he was swimming, and now he could not leave the water until the curse was broken.
Which meant he would spend most of the story nearly naked and dripping wet.
Arabella would be appalled. Excellent. Arabella was hilarious when she was appalled.
