The Lady's Legacy (Half Moon House Series Book 3)

by Deb Marlowe

  “No.” He said it flatly, definitively. “I’m not going with you. I’m not going to see her.”

  “She’s given so much, Rhys. And your presence alone would mean so much to her—the best present you could ever give her.”

  “Or the best present you could give her?”

  She flinched at the cynical bent of his tone.

  “Are you going to wrap me up in a metaphorical bow, like you did your virginity?”

  Her shoulders drooped. She’d pushed him too far. She was frightening him away. “No, Rhys. It’s more than that.” She lifted her chin. “And do you know? I think it would be good for you, too.”

  His lip lifted in a sneer. He breathed deep—and she braced herself.

  But then he deflated. Heaved a sigh. Shook his head. “I think you are tender-hearted, Francis. And you mean well. But I think you’ve overestimated how much I could ever mean to Hestia, after all that has happened.”

  “Absolutely not.” She said it with utter conviction.

  “You are too close to the situation to be able to see the truth. I don’t think Hestia has a need to become acquainted with me at all, anymore. I think perhaps she’s found another way to console herself.”

  “What do you mean?” She narrowed her eyes to peer at him. He sounded so serious, so pained, and she could not puzzle it out.

  “Perhaps, having left her own child behind . . . perhaps she needed only to find another to care for.”

  She frowned. “Whose child would it be? I don’t know of—”

  And then his meaning grew clear and she flushed—first hot and then cold. “Oh. No. It’s not like that.”

  He said nothing and she stood abruptly and strode over to peer into his cold, still face—and suddenly she knew the futility of it all. She done it—crossed the line even as she knew how dangerous it was. She’d opened her heart and shared her all with him—but he would never do the same. He would never let her in.

  Was it too much anger built up in there? Too much hurt? It didn’t matter, in the end. He’d do anything, twist anything, to keep from adding to it.

  “Oh that is rich,” she said softly. “Damned rich.” She would have laughed if it hadn’t hurt so much. Her heart wrenched. She’d so wanted to be the one to meet him, to bring him home to Hestia, and it turned out that she was exactly the wrong person for the job.

  “That you could say such a thing,” she marveled. “Feel that way . . .” She bit out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Oh, but that makes things so much easier for you, does it not? Accuse her of neglect and me of stealing your place and you are free to resent the hell out of both of us, are you not? And it leaves you in no danger of stepping beyond your rules, opening your walls.” She let it all out then, allowed hurt and anger and scorn to round out every syllable. “No need to risk real intimacy or allow someone a glimpse of your heart.”

  Spinning about, she marched back to the stairs. She snatched up her reticule, hesitated, and shot a disdainful glance over her shoulder. “I should thank you, I suppose. You’ve made it easier for me to say goodbye, as well.”

  Perhaps later, someone else could approach him. Callie, maybe, with her no-nonsense ways.

  She paused, her head bowed. “Thank you, Rhys, for all the ways that you were kind to me.”

  “Francis,” he said softly. “I . . .” His words trailed away.

  Her chin lifted, then, and she walked away, opening the gate and stepping back out into the street without hesitation. It was late, and she was in her skirts, but she would welcome the chance to let loose her anger on anyone who tried to approach her tonight.

  But there was the hack, after all, tooling toward her out of the night, Geordie’s welcoming grin shining right along with the carriage lamps. He pulled up and she climbed in. Settling into the sparse cushions, she let him take her back.

  No, that was not right. The coach moved ahead, taking her forward. Into her future. Alone.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  My child was beautiful. More wonderful than any other in the history of children. The midwife said every mother felt so, but I knew better. He was big and healthy and looked like an angel. Only five weeks old when he first smiled and I lost my heart utterly.

  --from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  “Of course, I will do just as you ask.” Andor put a hand to the top of the painting. He’d placed it on an easel and now lifted a brow, silently awaiting permission to unwrap it. “But first, may I?”

  Rhys scrubbed a hand over his face and waved his consent. He sank down onto a low seat and deliberately looked away. He didn’t want to see it anymore.

  He heard his friend’s intake of breath, but he didn’t turn. The silence stretched out. And out. At last, he broke and turned to gauge Andor’s reaction.

  His friend stood still and silent, studying the painting. Francis smiled out at him, vibrant and alive. Not cold and distant, as she’d been when Rhys last saw her, walking away. He glanced away. He couldn’t look at it. It filled him with anger. He was furious—and yet also . . .

  Damnation. Parts of him wanted to feel all of the emotions her image dredged up and out of him. Practically ached for it.

  He didn’t know if he could forgive her for that.

  “It is quite brilliant, my friend,” Andor said quietly. “Utterly unique. As is the subject, I’ll wager?”

  Rhys gave a short nod of agreement.

  “Who is she?”

  “She’s . . .” His lover. His friend. He thought of her last words to him. His nemesis. “She’s no one.”

  Andor frowned and leaned closer to the painting. “She has the same pointed chin as your young apprentice. Are they related?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I shall, of course, mail it to this duchess you mention. But what of you? Are you on the search for your next subject? Perhaps you should go tramp about Calton Hill. Plenty of inspiration to be found there.”

  “No. I’m leaving the city.”

  Andor stilled. “Oh?”

  “Florence calls.”

  “Ah, she does, does she not?” Andor sighed. “I do regret that we cannot sample her joys together, as we so often discussed. Alas, my Lorette and I are bound here for a while yet.”

  “And you are all the happier for it, I know.” Rhys said, squeezing his friend’s shoulder. “And I am happy for you, my friend.”

  And it was true, finally. Francis had given him that much, at least.

  Andor glanced at the painting again. “I hope you find happiness in Florence, Rhys.”

  Rhys sighed. “I hope so, too.”

  Rhys sorted through his brushes, discarding the worn ones, choosing which to pack for the long trip. He went over his paints next, picking an assortment of colors to take along. He had to be prepared for inspiration to hit, even though it felt now as if he’d never have the desire to wield a brush again.

  His palettes were a mess. Choosing one, he grabbed a knife to scrape it clean, but found himself faltering. A dozen shades of red gold graced the thing. He dropped the blade and ran a finger over the dried residue.

  How long did he sit there? It didn’t matter. In his mind his finger followed her trailing curls once more. He breathed in the sweet fragrance of her and buried his hands in the bright beacon of her hair—

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Startled, he jumped and dropped the palette as if it were on fire, flushing like a guilty lad with his first racy book. “What the devil is it?” he snarled.

  “A gentleman to see you,” Malvi called.

  Not Andor. There was no one else he wanted to see. “Send him on his way.”

  “He’s looking for your red-haired chit.”

  She said it quietly, as if she knew that’s all it would take for him to open the door—and she was right, damn her.

  He yanked it open. “What are you talking about?”

  Malvi smirked at him, her arms crossed. Behind her stood a man who looked vaguely familiar. H
is beaver hat was in his hands and he worried it as he gave a nod of greeting, turning it around and around in his hands.

  “Mr. Caradec? We met once in High Street. Miss Headley introduced us . . .”

  Rhys scowled. “I remember.” The man who had halfheartedly suggested Caradec might paint his wife. “What’s this about Miss Headley?”

  “It seems she’s gone missing. I’ve volunteered to help Mrs. Spencer look for her.”

  “Missing? That’s absurd.” He rolled his eyes. “That girl can take care of herself.”

  Malvi rolled her eyes and turned away. Her footsteps sounded loud as she ran down the stairs.

  “That does seem to be the prevailing view,” the man said. Larson? Was that his name? “But Mrs. Spencer is worried.”

  “She likely left and headed back to London,” he said gruffly. But he knew she wouldn’t leave without a proper goodbye to Mrs. Spencer and Jasper—and to her tamed pack of street rats.

  “Without her bags?” Larson asked doubtfully. “In any case, I’ve just come to ask if you’ve seen her in the last two days? Perhaps she came to make arrangements for delivery of her portrait?”

  “Two days? Mrs. Spencer hasn’t seen her in two days?”

  “As I said.” The man was beginning to sound impatient. “Have you seen her?”

  “No.” Not since she’d raked him over the coals and left him smoldering. “Has Jasper had the boys out looking? Has Mrs. Spencer notified anyone?” His heart was pounding. Hadn’t Francis said Malvi and her contact had been asking questions about her? He stepped into the passage and let the door close behind him. “Malvi!” he roared.

  No answer came. He pushed past the other man and started down the stairs. “Where have you looked?” He shot the question over his shoulder.

  “All over the city,” Larson answered, following.

  “Not all over, I’d wager. I know a few places to try.” They’d reached the empty entry hall. “Malvi! Come out!”

  “I just saw her head out into the courtyard.” Mrs. Beattie poked her head out from behind the green baize door. “What’s amiss? What’s the girl done now?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’m bound to find out,” Rhys growled.

  “If you think you have somewhere new to look, you should travel with me.” Larson followed him out into the courtyard. “It’ll go quicker in my coach, and delay does not seem advisable.”

  “Thank you,” Rhys nodded, looking around the quiet courtyard. “Where did that girl get to?”

  “Isn’t that her?” Larson frowned. “What in bloody hell is she doing in my carriage?”

  The big vehicle was parked near the entrance to the courtyard. Malvi’s face looked small in the open window. Rhys stalked over and threw open the door. “Malvi, if you know anything about this—”

  Stars exploded in a bright shower in front of him. A shrill ringing started in his ears as he fell forward, his upper half landing on the floor of the coach. He struggled, trying to prop himself up. Malvi was above him. He could see her lips moving from the corner of his eye as she bent over him, but he could not hear her.

  He pushed sluggishly, trying to stand, and another blow hit him from behind. His skull might split in half, the pain was so bad. He slumped forward again, landing near Malvi’s shoes. They looked fuzzy. As his vision blurred, but his hearing returned.

  “Get him in,” Larson said behind him. “Before someone notices.”

  His cheek scraped along the floor as he was pushed from behind. He noted it as if from a distance.

  “Damn, but he’s a big one. Why did you not tell me we’d need an extra pair of hands?” Larson griped.

  “Stop complaining,” she snapped back. “If it were not for me you’d still be trying to actually kidnap that chit. I told you all you had to do was tell him she was gone. And I was right.”

  A soft, caressing touch moved over him, turning his head. He looked up to see Malvi with a vial in her hands. A soft, sweetly cloying scent filled his nostrils. The world fuzzed even further, then faded to black.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My figure slowly came back. Monsieur began to paint me once more. A little more tempting, now. The swell of a breast, the curve of a hip, a long leg lifted from the bath.

  --from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

  The miserable, pounding thrum in his head woke him. Moving, even just a little, brought on waves of sweat-soaked nausea, so Rhys didn’t. Dazed, he lay still and wondered where he was and why was he semi-prone upon the floor and why the regular thumping also seemed to come from outside of his brain box.

  Eventually—it could have been minutes or hours later—he felt well enough to open his eyes. The light brought a fresh stab of agony, so he went back to dozing for a while. He might have stayed like that for a very long time indeed, had it not been for a loud crash, distinctly out of rhythm with the tempo in his head.

  “Hellfire and damnation! Where is that miller’s boy?” It was Larson. No, Welfield. He’d made the sound, entering with a slam of a door.

  Suddenly, Rhys recalled his predicament. Miller’s boy? His hands were bound, but he stealthily felt about, discovering what he could. And it made sense at last. A stack of flour sacks propped him halfway into a sitting position. The creaking, rhythmic thump was the turning of the mill wheel.

  “He’s likely gone back into the city. Laudanum is not so easily come by in many small villages.”

  Malvi. She’d been so quiet and still, Rhys hadn’t even realized she was in the room with him. A storage room, he guessed from what little he could see. He didn’t look around. No reason to rush to let them know he was awake.

  “Why not just dose him again with whatever you gave him earlier? We need to get moving.”

  “The effects only last a short time. We need something that will knock him out and keep him out.”

  “God’s blood, but I can’t wait to leave this blighted place behind and get back to civilization.”

  “I can’t wait to get truly warm,” Malvi agreed.

  “I want to get a hold of one of Marstoke’s special cigarillos,” Welfield said on a sigh. “I’ll sit in the library and wallow in good tobacco and brandy.” He shook his head. “Lord, does that man know how to live. My exalted brother can keep the moldy family pile, damn him. I’ll stick with Marstoke, who serves the finest wines, keeps the best cooks, owns horseflesh to tempt a pasha, entertains distinguished visitors, has powerful men dancing upon his strings—and the women!” He laughed. “And he’s doing it all now, living on that fine estate, under the very nose of the government scrambling to find him.”

  “He is like no one else,” Malvi said quietly.

  “And I’ll earn a permanent place at his side when I deliver his reluctant son, as ordered.” He rose to look out of the window. “But we’ll need that damned laudanum. The devil’s too big to bother fighting all the way to London. Where is that boy?”

  Silence reigned for a few moments, then Welfield said sharply, “What? Do not glare at me!”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t think,” the man interrupted. “No, don’t say a word about your wonderful insight. We would have been on the road days ago, had you done your job and seduced the man.”

  “How should I know he’s partial to redheads? Had I known, I would have found a bottle of dye before I met him. And in any case, you were not so successful in luring the girl into your clutches either, were you? We both made mistakes.”

  “And now we run the risk of arriving late and bollixing up the whole plan.” Another slam. “Where is that damned laudanum?” he shouted out the window.

  The floor shook a little as the man began to pace. “Damn Hestia Wright for changing her plans, but we will arrive on time. Even if we have to travel day and night.” The footsteps stopped. “We will make it in time, and when we do, you will say nothing to Marstoke.”

  Malvi laughed. “So I should keep quiet while you pump yourself up in his eyes? If
you wanted the credit, you should have done something to earn it. I more than made up for my part—changing sheets and scrubbing dishes and chamber pots, peering through keyholes and listening at doors, watching this oversized idiot fall for a grubby girl child dressed as a boy.” Her chair scraped. Rhys could imagine her dark eyes flashing as she stood to face her foe. “So no, I don’t think I will keep quiet.”

  “You will,” he insisted.

  “It seems to me,” she said softly, “that Marstoke is a man who is willing to get his hands dirty. In fact, I rather think he enjoys it.” A little silence. “Who do you think he will respect?” she asked softly. “The one also willing to get messy? Or the man who sat back and watched?”

  The stomp of Welfield’s boots echoed loud and sudden in the small space, but the smack of flesh meeting flesh sounded louder still.

  Another crack and Malvi stumbled and fell, landing half across Rhys. He could not suppress a groan at the jostling of his head. He shifted a little and looked up at Welfield as he came to stand over them. The man ignored him, focusing his hate-filled gaze upon the girl.

  “Look!” He flung a hand toward Rhys. “You woke the lout!”

  She wiped a hand across her mouth. “The lout has been awake for some time, you fool.”

  Welfield gawked at her. “You think you know everything.” He sneered. You are nothing but trouble,” Welfield said with a growl. “And you are bound to be even more of a problem later.” He pursed his lips, thinking. “So. You can stay here.” Utterly unexpected and swift, he kicked the girl in the side. “Make your own way to Marstoke, if you can.” He pulled back a foot to strike again.

  But Rhys lifted his bound hands and caught his boot before he made contact. Sitting up, he ignored the screaming pain in his head and pushed hard, unbalancing the bastard and sending him sprawling.

  Fighting dizziness, he made it into a crouch, and then fell on Welfield. The air whooshed out of the other man. Rhys took the advantage and moved to straddle him. Fisting his bound hands, he swung them hard, striking a blow to Welfield’s jaw from one direction and then from the other.