by Lauren Royal
He grunted.
“Did you hear Violet come back?”
Another grunt.
Chrystabel’s stomach lurched. “Neither did I.”
When she climbed out of bed, he cracked one eyelid. “What are you doing?”
“Getting dressed.”
Sleep-addled and blinking, he finally sat up. “You don’t think…?”
“That she’s still at Lakefield?” Pulling a pair of stockings from the clothespress, Chrystabel looked to Joseph with a tight nod.
His jaw slackened. “Oh, Chrysanthemum…”
She realized her hands were shaking. “Darling, I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“FORD, WAKE UP!” Violet shrieked, shaking his shoulder. “I must get home!”
His glorious blue eyes fluttered open, and for a moment all she could think was she wanted to stay in this ancient bed with him. Somehow they’d got under the covers, and he felt impossibly warm and wonderful curled around her.
But impossible was the operative word. “It’s morning already!” Rolling out of bed, she was relieved to find herself still fully dressed. She had only to step into her shoes and hook her spectacles over her ears.
Groaning, he pulled the covers over his head. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” She yanked the counterpane from his grasp and threw it back. “I cannot believe we both fell asleep.”
Heaving on his arm, she eventually managed to maneuver him into a sitting position. He looked boyish and adorable, with his hair all rumpled and the imprint of one of the counterpane’s tassels on a cheek—
Faith, there was no time to notice how he looked!
“Ford,” she said between gritted teeth, “if I don’t get home before my parents wake, there’s no telling what they will do. You must take me home! So get up!”
“Criminy, I’m up!” Rubbing his eyes, he staggered to his feet. “Just let me…um, get dressed—”
“You are dressed,” she protested. “I know you’re fastidious about your appearance, but this is no time to fret about fashion—”
“But I have to—well…” His voice trailing off, his gaze strayed toward the chamber pot.
“Oh.” Violet blinked. “Oh!” She looked to the window to gauge the time. “We’ve less than an hour before my parents rise. I’ll wait for you downstairs in the entrance hall. Please hurry!”
On her way down the stairs, she smiled at the worn boards that creaked under her feet, at the paneling on the walls that so badly needed refinishing, at the peeling paint on the beams overhead. None of it bothered her. The truth was, the condition of Ford’s home didn’t overly concern her. She’d just needed to know, deep in her bones, that the man she chose to wed truly loved her. Her, Violet, not the financial boon that would come along with her.
And now she did know that, all the way down to her marrow. Though Ford’s love had always appeared sincere, she hadn’t been able to trust that appearance when it seemed to contradict all reason. But now that she’d realized Ford was incapable of committing selfish or evil-intentioned acts—and deceiving her into marriage to get his hands on her inheritance would certainly be a selfish, evil act—she was forced to conclude that Ford was not deceiving her, and therefore his love must be real.
It was deductive reasoning, pure and simple—as practiced by Aristotle himself.
Of course, the conclusion would invalidate one of her other premises: if Ford loved her, the premise that she was unworthy of his love must be false. Though she was having trouble accepting this particular reversal, she had to remind herself she’d been wrong before—about Ford. So very, very wrong.
Perhaps she’d been wrong about herself, too.
Thankfully, the route to the entrance hall proved clear. It seemed Hilda and Harry were still abed. She finger-combed the top of her hair using a spotty old wall mirror with a rusted-out frame, then paced the entrance hall while she waited for Ford and thought about her new life—the wonderful new life the two of them would have together, here at Lakefield.
The life that could begin tomorrow—if she could somehow persuade Mum to forego the extravagant wedding. Which was an enormous if.
But even if she had to wait several weeks or months—and even apart from her profound feelings for Ford himself—she was excited by the prospect of moving to Lakefield House. She felt a growing kinship with the queer old manor. She supposed in some ways the place reminded her of her eccentric family—a little disregarded, a little misunderstood. She couldn’t wait to help restore it to its former glory.
She expected her dowry would cover the immediate renovations. That ought to leave more of his funds available to improve the estate, which in turn would allow it to run more profitably. She was anxious to go over Ford’s plans. Since she wouldn’t be publishing her book for many years, she planned to suggest they use her inheritance to accelerate the improvements. The investment would surely come back to her long before she needed it.
Now that she knew Ford wasn’t marrying her for her inheritance, she wouldn’t mind him making use of it. In fact, it made little sense to let all that money sit idle for years.
Her gaze went up the empty staircase. What was taking him so long? Wondering if the sun was over the horizon yet, she jerked open the front door.
A shocked face was on the other side. Violet screamed, and the young boy turned tail and began running.
“Wait!” she called.
He stopped and pivoted back. “I have a letter, madam.” Rather cautiously, he approached the door, holding forth a rectangle of sealed parchment. “Will you give this to the lord?”
“Of course. Let me just…wait.” Below the mirror, she’d noticed a bowl of coins sitting on a marble table that needed a serious buffing. Dashing inside to retrieve a coin, she pressed it into the boy’s hand on her return. “Thank you.”
He touched his cap and took off.
She slowly closed the door, turning the letter in her hands. It looked long and very official. There was no return address, but she hoped…could it be from Daniel Quare, the watchmaker?
Her heart pounded at the thought.
She sent a furtive glance up the stairs before slipping her fingernail under the seal.
My dearest Lord Lakefield, she read. It is my sad duty to inform you that I have received a foreclosure notice on your estate.
Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins as her eyes skimmed down the letter.
…you have thirty days…
…mortgage in arrears…
…tenants may face eviction…
The parchment fluttered to the floor, her heart sinking along with it.
“You’ve dropped something.”
Startled, she whirled around to see Ford reaching the bottom stair. He approached and knelt to retrieve the fallen letter. “What’s this?”
“A letter—” Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat. “A letter for you.”
Frowning, Ford turned the sheet over. She watched his expressions change as he read the first few lines. Surprise. Anger. Horror. Finally raising his eyes to her, he opened his mouth.
But she jumped in first. “You lied to me.”
He looked genuinely confused—but then, she already knew he had a talent for pretending. “What did I lie about?”
“I believe the term you used was ‘not dire.’ In reference to your estate—the estate you’re apparently about to lose.”
“I didn’t know!“
She gave a dry, brittle laugh. “How stupid do you think I am? You met with your solicitor less than a week ago, yet you expect me to believe he didn’t mention any of this?”
“I swear to you, I didn’t realize—”
“Save your breath.” She sucked in her own breath as another realization hit her. “This is why you were so insistent about marrying quickly, isn’t it? You knew you’d need my money soon. Or you meant to secure my vows before I caught wind of the truth. Or both.”
What will happen if we don’t mar
ry today? she’d asked him.
Nothing will happen…
Another lie.
Your tenants may face eviction.
With this letter, the last puzzle pieces fell into place. She’d believed it was logically impossible for Ford to be both a well-meaning person and a selfish liar. And she’d been right. But if he was in fact a selfless liar…if he sought her fortune for the purpose of saving his tenants from eviction, rather than merely enriching himself…
Well, that wasn’t a contradiction at all. It was perfectly in line with his character.
And what’s more, it was a better explanation than Ford loving her, since it also left that one troublesome premise intact. She’d been right there, too: a man as handsome and brilliant and good as Ford Chase—and despite her pain and fury, she still thought him good at heart, for his deception was meant to serve the good of others—could never love someone like Violet.
“I knew it was too good to be true,” she whispered, her soul splintering into a thousand pieces.
She whirled to leave, but he seized her arm. “Violet, stop. I…I know this looks bad. But I swear to you, on everything there is to swear on, that I love you. I love you. Isn’t that all that really matters? Please—whatever else you may think of me, whatever lies you think I’ve told—at least say you still believe my feelings are real. If you believe that, I know everything else can be fixed.” Incredibly, his eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
He’d missed his calling with science; he belonged on the stage.
“I let you fool me once,” she said, wrenching her arm from his grip. Finally she was able to reach the door latch. “But rest assured, I’m a fast learner.”
“Violet—”
She was already out the door.
But she didn’t make it far. On the last step down, she stopped dead in her tracks, though she suspected Ford wasn’t far behind.
Which was worse, she wondered…the heartache behind, or the carnage ahead?
“Are those your parents?” Ford had reached the step above her.
Violet couldn’t seem to move. Wonderful. Apparently she’d be forced to manage both nightmares simultaneously.
Barreling forth from the Trentingham carriage, Father and Mum advanced with more menace than a thousand-strong army. Violet didn’t know whether to cower or weep. She felt rather inclined to both.
“What have you done to my daughter?”an enraged Mum hollered.
While at the same time Father bellowed, “Lakefield, you’re marrying my daughter tomorrow!”
SIXTY-TWO
FORECLOSURE.
The single word was like a jab to Ford’s gut. More than an hour after receiving the blasted letter, he still frantically paced the laboratory, reading and rereading it. He’d had no idea his situation was this bad. Never again would he allow himself to stay ignorant of his finances.
He’d thought if he put his mind to the task—and the funds he usually spent on his science into the estate—he could make Lakefield profitable and dig himself out of debt. And that was true, according to his solicitor. But now it would be much more difficult than he’d imagined.
Foreclosure.
In lieu of selling or surrendering the estate, his solicitor had outlined an emergency plan to save it, but it certainly didn’t include funds for the cosmetic restorations Ford had promised Violet. All of his income would have to go into the fields, purchasing livestock, fixing the stables, and repairing crofters’ cottages so new tenants would have a place to live.
And foreclosure wasn’t the worst of his troubles…
The scene with Violet’s parents had been bad, but the way he’d left things with Violet herself was unbearable.
In the wee hours of the morning, he’d finally managed to earn her trust. He’d seen it in her eyes, felt it in her touch. Before, there had always been a part of her holding back from him, measuring his actions, questioning his motives, although he hadn’t realized it. Not until last night, when he’d watched the mistrust begin to melt away.
But now her faith in him was destroyed, and Ford was back to square one. Worse than square one. Square negative one. Square negative one hundred. He saw approximately zero chance of Violet ever trusting him again.
And she would be forced to marry him tomorrow. He should be riding toward London right now, not pacing and stewing. Westminster and the Archbishop of Canterbury were a long ride away, and he needed that special license before the wedding.
How would it feel to be wed to someone who despised him? Even though her accusations were false—he really hadn’t known foreclosure was imminent—he couldn’t deny that he had let her down. He’d promised to care for her, provide her a decent home, and leave her inheritance untouched. But now he couldn’t do any of those things, thanks to his own wretched shortsightedness. And incompetence.
“My lord?”
Ford whirled to face the door. “Please leave me alone, Harry.”
“But I have a letter for you. Just delivered from Trentingham.”
A letter from Violet! His heart leaping with hope, Ford dropped the loathsome foreclosure letter and paced over to retrieve the one from Violet.
Except it wasn’t—instead of her tidy hand, a masculine scrawl marched across the page:
Lakefield,
I hope this missive finds you before you ride for London, because you won’t be marrying my daughter tomorrow. Or ever. Violet explained everything. While I thank you for not compromising her virtue—and I thank our Lord that no one else knows she spent the night in your home, leaving her reputation intact—it is clear she feels the two of you aren’t suited.
Trentingham
“My lord? Are you all right?”
“I told you to leave.”
While Harry complied, Ford stumbled over to lean against the wall. Then slid down it to sit on the floor, because his legs refused to hold him up even one second longer.
Violet was gone.
She wouldn’t be married to him and despise him.
She wouldn’t be in his life at all.
And given his current circumstances—circumstances he’d brought upon himself—he saw no way to win her back.
He could tell her he loved her a thousand more times, but as long as he remained low on funds, she would never stop wondering if he wanted her for her money. And it would take years of careful management to fill Lakefield’s coffers. Surely by that time, she’d have accepted someone else’s proposal.
The loss was a physical ache deep inside him. Empty years yawned ahead. Usually he’d fill them with scientific pursuits, but for now—and the foreseeable future—he couldn’t afford to do that. Besides, pouring all those hours into such tiny advancements suddenly seemed pointless. He knew, with a certainty that crushed him, he’d never again find the same satisfaction in his experiments and innovations. Not without Violet here to share his successes. Not even if Rand managed to—
His thoughts whirled and skidded, his fist closing around Lord Trentingham’s letter. After a moment, the crumpled parchment fell to the floor.
SIXTY-THREE
VIOLET LOOKED UP from her philosophy book, muttering under her breath. She’d read the same page four times and still didn’t understand it. It had been three days since the morning her parents hauled her home from Ford’s house—three days during which she couldn’t concentrate on anything and snapped at everyone within earshot.
“Violet?”
Exasperated, she swung toward the door. “Yes?” she spit out, then bit her lip. Her mother didn’t deserve her misplaced ire. Especially considering how sympathetic and forgiving she’d been about Violet’s midnight escapade—once she’d calmed down enough to hear her daughter’s account.
Of course, Violet had had to endure quite a bit of hollering first. She could still detect a faint ringing in her ears.
Regardless, it wasn’t Mum’s fault that Violet was too plain and odd to find true love.
She closed her eyes momentarily, then opened them, d
rawing on her last reserve of patience. “What is it, Mum?”
“There’s a gentleman here to see you. Not Ford,” she added in a rush, and Violet was chagrined, knowing the leap of hope must have shown in her eyes. “His friend,” Mum said gently. “Lord Randal Nesbitt.”
Rand? Why would Ford’s friend want to see her? “Are you sure he isn’t here to see Rose, Mum? She’s the one who likes languages.”
“He asked for you. He’s waiting in the drawing room.”
Sighing, she reached for her spectacles. In a fit of melancholy that terrible morning, she’d tried to put them away in a drawer, because they’d reminded her too much of Ford. Of her dreams, dashed and broken. But after three or four hours of walking around half blind, she’d decided that was ridiculous. She wasn’t going to forget him anyway, and there was no point in bumping into things for the rest of her life.
She slid them on and made her way downstairs to the drawing room.
When Violet entered the chamber, Lord Randal stood. “Ford doesn’t know that I’m here, my lady, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.”
“As you wish.” She waved him back to the cream-colored chair and took the matching one for herself. “What’s this all about?”
Mum had served him tea and left another cup on the table for Violet. Rand raised his cup and sipped. “Ford wrote to me two days ago, and I thought you should know.”
“Know what?” Taking a biscuit from a tray, she nervously broke off a piece. “I’m confused. I can’t imagine what you mean.”
He inclined his head. “My apologies. I’m just so shocked, I wasn’t sure how to…well…he asked me to sell Secrets of the Emerald Tablet. To take bids on it and then contact Mr. Isaac Newton.”
“Sell Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?” Unheeded, crumbs sprinkled her lap. She remembered Ford clutching the book the day he found it. His declaration that he’d never sell it. His eyes glittering with excitement every time another bit was deciphered. “It’s his favorite thing in the world, his chance to discover the Philosopher’s Stone and bring it to all of humanity. He’d never sell it.”
