Grotesque to even think about that. But Harry had escaped, and his wife had too. Her mother had slipped away from Kronos’s grasp. His mother had walked, with her husband, one of Boscobel’s cronies.
Was his mother a suspect? She had to be. Even if she had not been in London. Even more so, because the enchantment had not hit all at once, but had crept up on them. It could have begun after they reached his house. That would put his mother squarely in the centre of whatever happened. Or one of their body servants.
He caught her hand firmly in his, needing the contact. “There’s something you don’t know about my mother.”
She stilled, waiting for him to speak.
“My father took my mother home, and when she came to term, they realised I was an immortal. They didn’t know which one immediately. They were both minor immortals, my mother a nymph, my father a wood sprite.”
“Was he small?”
“Smaller than me.”
She let her gaze wander over his body. When she returned her attention to his face, she was smiling. “Most people are.”
Ignoring the flash of heat her attention had brought him, he doggedly continued. “But something else happened at my birth. My mother recognised that I had inherited one of the principal gods. She felt it, she said, because of the maternal link. The others were waiting to see what I was. But she was in love with me, and she transferred her loyalty from her husband and the Titans to me. She cares nothing for the other Olympians or the cause or anything else, just me.” He would get the next part out before he balked. “She killed my father.”
He carried on, not letting her stop him. Her gasp told him she understood. “She arranged for an accident. My father did not ride well, so she—organised—a fall from his horse when he was alone. He died on impact. Then she told Boscobel that they were mistaken, that she had been unlucky. He came to visit, but she masked my mind, and he read only what she allowed. She would have died for me and she proved it that day.”
She nodded. “Mothers can be warriors in defence of their children.” She understood. Her own mother had been so. “We consider that we owe them a great deal.”
His mother’s constant picking and criticisms were his price. They might appear as nothing to others, but year after year they took their toll. He’d never been as sure of himself as his social façade and his size made it appear. His wife was the first person to see that. But what could he do, when she’d killed for him and lied to one of the most powerful beings alive?
Virginie showed no sympathy, no reaction outwardly, but drew closer and didn’t complain when he cinched her in a tight hug. Now she knew it all.
After a few minutes, she drew back. “So,” she said, watching his face. “The culprit could be your mother, my mother, or a body servant. Someone who could get close enough to us to cast it. Someone we trust.”
Her mind either worked alongside his, or he was sharing his thoughts. He sensed hers in return. She considered it unlikely that his mother had anything to do with it, but they had to consider the possibilities. His mother was devoted to him, so she surely would not have done this to her son? Strangely, the notion of such easy sharing did not worry him. It should have done—he’d always preferred to take the solitary path—but it did not, because the person was his wife. The one person he trusted with everything he had.
“It could be achieved with a potion or with a spell, or a mixture of both. We could be dealing with a witch.” He shook his head. “We can do no more today,” he said.
“I wouldn’t say that.” She laughed in delight, smoothing her hand over his chest. Growling, he caught her hand. “Any more of that, my lady, and our discussion will come to an abrupt end.”
Her laugh was unfettered, full. He kissed the last of it from her lips. “Be quiet, hussy.”
“The queen of all hussies,” she countered, and as he’d predicted, they got no further with their discussion.
Virginie’s temporary maid proved adequate, but she did not have Fenton’s magic touch. Darlestone could not even reach the level of Fenton’s assistant, who she’d also left behind. Virginie sighed. Reminded of Fenton’s possible implication in the plot to enchant them, she had to force herself to admit she might have to do without her excellent services, at least for a time. Clear of the enchantment, they should be able to tell who had done this to them. They could scan minds, watch and work out the possibilities.
She hated the necessity, but they needed to take an immortal as powerful as the one who had cast a net over them by surprise. Harry hated it more, she knew that, and she prayed for a speedy conclusion to the whole business.
Today they were visiting the Simpsons, discovering why they had taken no interest in their daughter’s death and if they wanted to claim Rhea’s children. They could never be heirs, but they could have property willed to them, if the Simpsons had no other relatives.
Virginie knew very little about this family. In common with many of the gentry, they kept their business local. Here they were important. The maids in the house had spoken of them with reverence when they had asked. They had considered asking Sir Samuel and his wife to dinner. But the Simpsons would be more relaxed in their own home, consider the visit from the great Earl of Valsgarth and his wife an honour. Or a necessity, depending on their level of awe and self-importance.
Together, she and Harry could prove a formidable couple, now they were clear of any enchantment. They had to stay that way. By going back to the house, they were walking into the lion’s den.
Harry had sent a pigeon messenger to d’Argento. She smiled that one of Mercury’s tools was something so ordinary, but it made sense.
When her maid pulled her hair too tight, Virginie put up with her tweaking. When she’d done, she made her loosen the style and pile her curls on top of her head in an ordinary knot. Only a few were allowed to escape in artful disarray. She wore a gown that was simple by her standards, but in her favourite blue and a fine watered silk. Only the hem was embroidered with her signature forget-me-nots, and a mere double ruffle of lace adorned her sleeves. She had ordered a fall of ribbons for her stomacher. Not the more elaborate lace or embroidery she would have customarily decided upon, to give a touch of luxury to her relatively simple gown. She stood, shaking out the skirts over her modest hoop. She had decided against face paint too. At the last moment, she succumbed and clasped a bracelet of cameos around one wrist. After all, too simple and their hosts might consider her appearance an insult.
She joined her husband in the hall. The weather was warm. Too hot for outer clothing. His smile showed her he enjoyed her appearance. They had spent yesterday in bed, catching up with their sleep and each other, but they had slept well. None of that feverish waking where they had to—had to—climb over each other, or die.
She felt altogether different. Free of encumbrances and in love.
Harry led her out to the carriage. He’d ordered a charming vehicle, a little like a barouche, but built higher in the body, so it wouldn’t scrape against the uneven roads. The coachman took the reins and they travelled into the village in style.
Like their house, the more substantial establishments in the village were built of grey stone, with darker grey tiled roofs. Next to the brilliance of the green hills behind them, or the blue lake the village bordered, the houses appeared almost dull. But they melded with the background more than other styles would. Virginie tried to imagine the half-timbered houses of fifty miles south, near Harry’s home, set here, and failed. They would not work as well.
She kept her hand tucked in his, even though they both wore gloves, in deference to the formal visit. She was happy. When had she last experienced that emotion in its purity? She could not honestly remember. Perhaps last summer, sitting in her garden in France, her head tipped back in a guilty enjoyment of the sun. Or—no, not her childhood. Her mother had done her best, but her upbringing had not been optimal. With their worries far from over, a simple carriage ride with the man she loved had given her a sim
ple appreciation of the moment.
They drew up at the gate of a substantial house on the other side of the village. Harry stepped down and helped his wife to alight, before he turned, her arm tucked through his, to take her to the front door. To their surprise the door did not open. When they approached a door, they tended to magically open, operated by well-trained footmen. Harry glanced at her as he pulled the doorbell, one brow raised. So when a stout man in neat brown opened the door, she was laughing.
Dreadfully rude. Aware of her faux pas, she stifled the mirth his grimace had provoked in her and turned it into a polite half-smile. The man at the door waited.
With a grunt that Virginie knew signified his own quelled laughter, Harry reached into his pocket and drew out his card case. “Lord and Lady Valsgarth. I believe we are expected.”
“Of course, my lord.” The man took the card, bowed and at last stepped back, after, presumably, allowing anyone passing by to have a good look at them.
The entered into a hall with a black and white tiled floor. A staircase curved up one side, and doors opened either side of the square-shaped space. The size was much smaller than anything she was used to, but that very fact appealed to her. It was elegantly appointed, and the man stood ready to take their outer clothing. She chose to remove her gloves, although strictly she did not have to. But she wanted to appeal to these people she didn’t know. Perhaps take them off guard so that she could read the emotions in the air, their minds, a little.
The man—either a footman or butler, it being unlikely that a footman to a squire would wear full livery—took them upstairs. A formal salon, then.
He opened the door and announced them. Virginie went first, her society smile and mask firmly in place.
A woman stood to greet them. She was shorter than Virginie, and rounder, but still handsome. Dressed in a dark green gown with white petticoat showing under the open front, she had a modest string of pearls around her neck. The room was furnished well, the upholstery dark brown over good English walnut, highly polished. The floor was polished boards with a couple of smaller rugs, one before the unlit fire, the other under the table that stood before one of the two windows. A modest room, but with some elegance. Virginie liked it.
Used to assessing her surroundings quickly, she stepped forward and dropped into a slight curtsey, mirroring the deeper one Lady Simpson swept her. Then she gave her hand for the husband to bow over.
Sir Samuel Simpson was a man of some avoirdupois. His brown coat and waistcoat were all but undecorated, braid edging the pockets of his coat and the edges of his waistcoat. But his neckcloth was crisp, white and neatly tied, and his shoes were well polished, decorated with cut-steel buckles. The edges had blunted somewhat with time and polishing so the effect was softer than intended. His bob-wig was freshly powdered, but when he smiled briefly, as he rose from his bow, his lack of teeth became apparent. At least he had the four at the front, but behind those, the rest were scarce. The join between the real teeth, yellowed with age, and the ivory teeth that had replaced the missing ones was oddly apparent.
Virginie tried not to stare. After Harry had greeted them, they sat on the sofas that faced each other either side of the fireplace. Virginie sank down in full knowledge that her skirts would dispose themselves properly. She folded her hands in her lap over her fan, in a pose that displayed her hands to their best advantage.
Lady Simpson offered tea. They accepted and the maid duly entered with a tea tray. Sir Samuel asked them about their journey while the maid disposed the tray on the stand by her mistress’s elbow.
After the maid left, Lady Simpson said she had heard that Virginie had been ill. “I am so sorry you were indisposed, my lady. You do not travel well?”
Of course she’d heard. Her maids were probably related to the maids at Harry’s house. “Travel does not suit me,” Virginie said. “But I enjoy seeing different places. When Harry suggested I see some of his estate, I was delighted to come here first.”
“My lady is not the best of travellers, it is true, but I needed to see you and she insisted on accompanying me.”
Virginie glanced at Harry. “We are still in the early days of our marriage.”
“Yes, my lord. We were pleased to hear of your marriage. We both hope you have many happy years together,” said Sir Samuel, as if reciting from a script. Then he glanced at his wife, who smiled. Perhaps she had written the script.
“However,” Virginie said, deciding it was high time they got to the subject of this visit, “we came here to convey our condolences on the death of your daughter, Rhea.” Before they’d arrived they’d ascertained that the news of Rhea’s death had reached the village. Otherwise her statement would have caused turmoil. Not that she wasn’t above causing turmoil, but not in this case.
Lady Simpson met her gaze head-on. “We have no daughter of that name.”
Harry’s sharp intake of breath sounded loud in the quiet room. Virginie accepted a dish of tea, passed to her by her ladyship. The dish trembled in the saucer. “You do not,” she said. “Not any more.”
That explained a lot. Why they showed no sign of mourning, not even a black armband or mourning jewellery, and why they had not gone to London. But she would persist. If Lady Simpson asked her to leave, what of that? But she could not bear the tension snapping the air. She had to do something to break it. To lose one’s daughter was bad enough, but to deny her existence…
Virginie suppressed her shudder of revulsion. “We are so sorry to hear of her death, but she had two children. They are being cared for by someone, but if you should want them back, we can help you arrange it.”
“As my wife said,” Sir Samuel said, no tremor in his tones, “we have no daughter. Not any more. She is dead, and what is gone is gone.”
Virginie contacted Harry, feeling his total support. He would intervene if she needed it, but she was the best person out of the two of them to try to question them. “I will support everything you say. But I will not allow them to distress you.”
She sent him wordless thanks. “Does this mean that you will not claim anything she left behind?”
“It does.”
So Lyndhurst would have to care for the children a while longer. Perhaps forever. He was a rich man—he could do that. But to disown one’s flesh and blood? She couldn’t understand it. “Was Rhea your only child?”
Lady Simpson shook her head. “We have five daughters and two sons.”
They were not lacking in offspring. Virginie let the conversation pass to discussion of the other children. They were not in evidence, something that surprised her mildly, but perhaps they knew she would bring up their other daughter in conversation. The one that didn’t exist. However many children she had, whatever they did, Virginie knew for sure she would never turn her back on any of them.
They heard of the achievements of the youngest boy, currently at Oxford and destined for a church career. They heard of their eldest daughter’s marriage to a local dignitary. Quite an adventure, when he came to court Mary. Through the recital, Virginie listened, smiled, occasionally asked an undemanding question and showed every indication of interest. Gradually she built a picture of the family. Important at a local level, with contacts and connections they were building through marriage and business. The squire disdained trade, as he put it, but she found it interesting that he had invested in some small shipping ventures. A little risky, he conceded, but the syndicate he belonged to would help offset any chancy cargoes. He was sure his lordship knew what he meant.
A note of triumph sounded in Virginie’s mind. Harry had found something. “I do have some investments in similar companies,” he said smoothly. “I believe I even own a ship or two. I could send you some information by my man of business, if you are interested in such matters. However, I would advise you not to invest more than you can afford to lose.”
“I have told him the same, sir,” Lady Simpson said, and she shot a glare at her spouse. “We have children to provide fo
r and a tidy estate. Why should he want more?”
By which Virginie assumed Sir Samuel’s ambition was greater than his wife’s. Another opening, should they need it. Clever of Harry to make a connection.
“Men are always looking to the future,” Virginie said, and smiled at Lady Simpson. Her cheekbones seemed starker, more prominent, and her pale blue eyes larger. Virginie gently spread her thoughts, opening her mind to receive the impressions she could.
She was right. Her ladyship was not unaffected by her daughter’s death. Was it her husband who had insisted on the denial of her grandchildren?”
Harry understood what she was at. He must have done, because when he suggested gently that the business talk must be boring the ladies, her ladyship took the hint. “I would be honoured to show you my gardens. Would it fatigue your ladyship too much to take a tour around them?”
“No indeed,” Virginie said, with every impression of relief. “I know that once you begin to discuss investments you can be a complete bore, my dear. I would love to see the gardens and to get more of the invigorating fresh air in this part of the world.”
Lady Simpson took Virginie down to the back hall, much like the front, except smaller, where she sent a maid for Virginie’s hat. “The summer is arriving apace. Although our flowering season is later than in the south, many of our plants are in good heart, and some are in bloom.”
Normally Virginie liked flowers, enjoyed discussing them with gardeners, but today she was after a completely different quarry. To get her ladyship alone. “I merely enjoy walking among them,” she said.
Forged by Love: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 4 Page 22
