Fortune Favors the Wicked

by Theresa Romain

  “So the bit about the dull corners of the world, and the virtuous works? Is that not true?”

  When she replied, he could hear the smile in her voice. “That depends on which parts of the world one considers dull, or the sort of work one considers virtuous.”

  “Miss Perry, I confess myself intrigued by your notion of virtue.”

  “When in Strawfield, do as the Strawfielders do, Mr. Frost. My notion of virtue is unassailable at the present moment.”

  At the present moment, maybe. But Benedict was increasingly curious about all those other moments.

  “Mr. Frost.” She drew in a deep breath. “I didn’t tell you my true name at first because I never expected to see you again.”

  “Wouldn’t that make more sense the other way ’round? People often share the truth in moments of no risk.”

  “But that does not apply to me. Not here. Charlotte Perry must be connected only to this vicarage and to the blandest of purposes.”

  Charlotte. At last, his new acquaintance had a Christian name to go with her multiple surnames. He could tell she was of middling height for a woman, and the soft sounds of Charlotte coaxed to mind a flaxen fluff of curls, a pert nose, and great blue eyes.

  He was probably wrong about all of that. But still. Charlotte. He liked knowing her name.

  And convoluted though her explanation was, he understood. “While you are in Strawfield, you don’t want any of the villagers to recognize you unless you are playing the part of the vicar’s daughter.”

  “Correct. My reasons for being here are the same as yours, Mr. Frost: I seek the stolen coins so that I might claim the royal reward.”

  “Ah, then we are allies in our shared purpose.”

  “Or foes in competition with each other.”

  Damnation. He could not tell if she were jesting or not. “What shall I call you, then, now that I am possessed of the full complement of your names?”

  She paused. “Call me Miss Perry while we are at the vicarage. I do not expect we will meet each other anywhere else.”

  Hmm. He would see about that. “Well, I have the same name everywhere. If you like, you can simply call me Frost. And now may I meet the others in your family?”

  “Of course.” Her hands made a flutter; air eddied across the backs of his own bare hands. “We’ve been out on the stoop for too long already; let us go in. Take one step forward, then one up.”

  Benedict did so. The air closed about him; he extended his fingertips and brushed the frame of a door. “Next?”

  “Straight forward for—oh, about three yards. Then a turn to the left. My father awaits you in the front parlor.”

  “Very good. Lead on, Miss Perry.”

  She reached behind him to shut the door, then stepped away. The thump of his cane on the floor—it gave the shallow wooden echo of parquet—revealed the accuracy of her words. They were in an entry corridor. Three yards, she told him, then trusted him to find his own way.

  Very good indeed.

  Charlotte preceded him into the parlor and spoke a few words of introduction. With a gentle pat of pages, her father closed a book.

  “Lieutenant Frost, honored to make your acquaintance. That letter of Lord Hugo Starling’s—” His voice wavered, as though he were swooping down in a bow, then back up. “Marvelous. A marvelous account of your accomplishments.”

  Benedict hadn’t actually been told the content of Hugo’s letter. Judging from the vicar’s careful bow, it seemed to have omitted an important fact. “Vicar, the honor is mine. Thank you for welcoming me into your household. You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I seem not to address you directly? I am quite blind.” He gave a laugh that sounded almost genuine. “I suppose Hugo forgot to mention it. He is always doing so.”

  “You call Lord Hugo by his Christian name . . . Of course. Yes. Any friend of . . .” The Reverend John Perry occupied a slim, tall space. Rustlings told Benedict he was fidgeting with furniture or shuffling his feet on the carpet. Was he unsettled because his guest was not as expected, or was this always his way?

  “Did you—ah, truly write a book?” The vicar posed the question delicately.

  “I hoped it would be a book. Thus far it is merely a manuscript. An account of my recent travels through Europe.”

  “And you—ah, wrote it yourself?”

  “Every line of it.” Benedict took pity on the reverend’s confusion. “I use a device called a noctograph. Later I can show you how it works, if you like. It allows writing in complete darkness.”

  “Mama would find that helpful for finishing her work when the candle burns to a stub,” Charlotte mused.

  “It’s a wonderful device. If Mrs. Perry is fond of working into dim hours of the day, she might find a noctograph useful,” said Benedict. “Is she present? May I make my hostess’s acquaintance?”

  “Yes, yes! Of course you may,” blurted the vicar. “Only—that is—one would not wish to disturb her in her study—”

  “My mother will be delighted to meet you as soon as she realizes you have arrived, Mr. Frost. Which might not be at once.” Rescued once again by Charlotte.

  Benedict smiled. “I’m familiar with scholars, being a friend to Lord Hugo as well as having been raised above a bookshop. A fit of genius is not to be interrupted under any circumstance short of fire or flood.”

  “And I’m not certain about the flood,” replied Charlotte. “In the meantime, would you care for some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I was well fortified at the Pig and Blanket.”

  “What of your trunk? Will it be arriving soon?”

  “Held at the Pig and Blanket. The owner promised to have it delivered before the dinner hour.”

  Reverend Perry spoke up. “Ah, you will want some time to refresh yourself before the meal!” A whisper. “Charlotte, I do not know whether your mother ordered a dinner.”

  “I saw to it, Papa. All is settled; we dine at five.”

  Miss Perry had said she was rarely present at the vicarage? Benedict had only been within its walls for a few minutes, and already he could not imagine how they got along without her.

  “Mr. Frost, let me show you to your chamber,” she said. Did the vicar make a sound of protest? If so, she spoke over it with a quick farewell that Benedict echoed. He was not going to pass up an opportunity to traipse about with Charlotte Perry.

  Once they retraced their steps into the corridor, the close walls trapped her scent. She still reminded him of the breeze, of bright grass, and the promise of rain.

  More prosaically, he guessed that she had walked through a field. But prose sometimes fell short.

  “My mother’s study is at right,” Charlotte said. “If she is within, then the door is closed and is not to be opened unless, as you suggested, fire or flood overtakes the earth. She is as fluent in ancient Greek as she is in English, perhaps more so. Her translations are noted around England.”

  “Indeed. They caught the notice of Lord Hugo.”

  She seemed indifferent to the name that so impressed her father. “Right. The dining room is farther on, and here are the stairs to mount to the upper floor. Shall I count them?”

  “Please.”

  A few murmurs ensued. “Eighteen,” she concluded. “And they’re shallow, so place your boots with care. We’ve lost more than one tea tray when a servant made a slip.”

  Arse over teakettle, quite literally. “Noted. Thank you.”

  He noted, too, that back stairs were not in use by the servants. The vicarage must be an older design, with a single staircase in use by all. The rooms were small, too. On the upper floor of the vicarage, Charlotte directed him to a washroom and demonstrated how to work the pump, the handle of which required a tricky twist. She noted for him the location of the two bedchambers for family, then guided him into the chamber for guests.

  “Let me think . . . how shall I orient you to the room? If the door is south—”

  “The door faces north.”

  She was sile
nt for a long beat, during which he imagined her rolling her eyes. “Very well. The door is north. Therefore the fireplace is west. There is no fire at the moment since the day is fine, but you must ring for one whenever you wish. A servant will lay one at night, of course.”

  From there she oriented him to the essentials of the room. The bed, the washstand with pitcher and ewer. The writing desk and chair.

  As she ended this explanation, he heard the faint creak of the door across the passage as it opened and was quickly shut again.

  “Is someone else at home?” he asked. “I heard a door.”

  “That would be Maggie. You shall meet her at dinner. She is my parents’ grandchild, a fine girl of ten years.”

  “Your niece?”

  “Indeed. My late sister Margaret’s child and namesake.”

  A sighted man might have missed the tightness in her voice. But such a man would have instead noted some expression of grief, perhaps. This was a sentence that had hurt her to speak.

  “I am sorry for your family’s loss,” he said.

  “Thank you.” With the barest of pauses, she spoke again, rapidly. “The bell-pull is at right. To the north of the bed. To close the bed-curtains or window-curtains, you can simply—”

  “Miss Perry. Please. Stop. You have explained all I could desire, and more.” As though he would need to adjust the window-curtains! Not since his sight failed, darkening day by day, had he cared whether the sun was covered or not.

  She stilled. Sat on the bed, the mattress’s ropes creaking. Then sprang up again. “I’ll leave you to rest until dinner, Mr. Frost.”

  She was agitated; she had been since mentioning her sister and her niece. He wanted to put her at her ease again. “Wait, please.”

  Her tread across the floorboards halted.

  “What color is . . . everything?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The counterpane. The curtains. What does it look like?” He hesitated. “I lost my sight only four years ago. I . . . miss the details of appearance.”

  Her steps came closer again. “I gave you an incomplete picture, didn’t I? All line and no color.”

  “Spoken like an artist.”

  “Good heavens, no. But I’ve spent a fair amount of time around those volatile creatures.” She cleared her throat. “Ah—are you fond of art yourself? Or . . . were you, once?”

  “No more than most. Painting is lost to me now. Though if I can arrange for a friend to distract a museum guard, I still enjoy running my hands over a good sculpture.”

  The throat-clearing turned into a splutter—and then a laugh. “What higher honor for an artist than to have his piece groped?”

  Benedict smiled. He was quite sure artists enjoyed having their pieces groped as much as any other man. And from the way Charlotte posed the question, he suspected this was exactly the joke she intended.

  Footsteps crossed the floor, and then she stood at his side. “Neither of us is an artist, but we’ll rub along well enough. With my description of the room, I mean.”

  “I knew exactly what you meant,” Benedict said drily.

  “Where to begin? Well, the washstand is a dark walnut. It’s scarred on the top where it has been scraped hundreds of times as the pitcher and ewer were dragged free, emptied, and replaced. They are glazed white, and the window is draped in olive. Outside of the window, one has a view of the Selwyn lands. We are on the edge of the moors, but he has some fine grazing land.”

  “And Selwyn is?”

  She spoke lightly, drawing away. “Edward Selwyn is the local squire, as well as one of those volatile artistic creatures I mentioned. The Selwyns are the most notable landowners hereabouts.”

  He stretched out a hand and found a bedpost. “And the bed? What does it look like?”

  “The coverlet is patchwork, pieced in floral patterns and pale silks. The frame is the same dark walnut as the washstand, but in better condition. The knobs in here often get polished.”

  He had to work to keep a straight face. “Of the bedstead, you mean. Of course.”

  “Why, what else could I possibly mean?”

  “I cannot fathom.” This was flirtation—but why him, why now? He almost asked to touch her face. She was the missing piece in this chamber, a sculpture unfelt amidst bed, washstand, desk.

  But if he began to touch her, he would not want to stop. How tempting it would be to trail his fingers over the planes of her face, to trace the line of her neck and collarbone. To cover her breast with his hand, to breathe in the scent of her bare skin. She was no maiden, not with her secrets and sly bawdy jokes.

  If he asked to touch her, she might say yes.

  He must not ask. He sought money, not a tumble. There was no reward in attaching a woman to oneself, whether for a day or a week or a lifetime.

  “Would it be too forward . . .” He pressed at the bridge of his nose. “Would—what do you look like?”

  “Does it matter, Mr. Frost?” She sounded wary.

  Perhaps he ought to have said no. But: “Surely it matters at least as much as the nicks atop the washstand, and you told me of them readily enough.”

  “A solid rebuttal.” She sighed. “You have taken the measure of my height, I am sure. My hair is as dark as yours, and as straight as yours is not.”

  So, his hair was still dark. Benedict remembered his father’s head threaded with gray well before the age of thirty, and he had wondered if his was changing similarly.

  The shade of one’s hair seemed an odd thing not to know.

  “What color are your eyes?” he asked.

  “Green, though not a stunning shade thereof. And before you ask, I do not have freckles. My nose is of a middling size, and I have all my own teeth.”

  “What an attractive recital,” he murmured. This jumble of facts left him no idea what she looked like, though it was clear his impression of cloudy mildness was entirely wrong. Charlotte Perry was the Derbyshire breeze in human form: invigorating and stronger than one was prepared for.

  “Have you any other questions before I leave you?”

  “None that I dare ask at present.” He pasted on a roguish smile. Let her puzzle that one out.

  A sharp knock echoed up the stairwell, and Charlotte took a quick step toward the doorway. “Likely that is your trunk from the Pig and Blanket—and the servants are all over the place with laundry and dinner. As it often is here. Shall I descend to speak with the innkeeper, Mr. Frost, or would you like to?”

  “I don’t wish to interrupt if it’s a family caller. Here. I’ll follow you to the stairs and can come down if needed.” He counted off the steps from bedchamber to staircase, touching the wall only once to remind himself where the passage wall was split by a doorway.

  Charlotte descended the eighteen narrow steps ahead of him; from the corridor below, her voice mingled with that of her father’s. The vicar’s voice ended: “. . . cannot let the knocking bother your mother,” and the front door was hauled open.

  “Vicar, y’er needed!” The voice was indeed that of the Pig and Blanket’s owner, a man with the local accent and a slight wheeze. “At once, y’er needed at the inn. At once.”

  Charlotte spoke up, sounding puzzled. “Mr. Potter. Have you brought Mr. Frost’s—”

  “I need the vicar.” The man cut her off with a ragged insistence. “Nance, my serving girl—she’s been stabbed. Constable’s been told, and the Bow Street Runner, and a doctor, and there’s nothing they can do to help her. Vicar—come say a few prayers over the poor lamb, will you, in case she perishes.”

  Chapter Four

  From the upstairs corridor, hinges creaked, though not loudly enough to cover a soft cry.

  “Maggie heard that,” Charlotte murmured, a cold prickle racing down her spine. “Excuse me, Papa. Mr. Potter, you have my deepest sympathies. I shall pray for Nance’s recovery.”

  She was fluent in polite language; she could speak it, could curtsy even, as her attention flew to the girl upstairs. Her fee
t followed as she cursed each one of the eighteen shallow steps, brushed past the tall figure of Mr. Frost, and eased into the small bedchamber she would be sharing with the girl who called her Aunt Charlotte.

  Maggie sat beside the bed, a thin figure in a tidy printed gown. Her legs were folded sedately, but her wild tumble of light brown curls still shook, betraying her swift movement to the door and back.

  Next to her was curled the familiar old figure of Captain, a rangy brindled hound of some fifteen years. Captain was stiff and slow, her brown-and-browner coat now graying. Maggie petted the dog’s head, her own face downcast and hidden behind her fallen hair.

  Charlotte seated herself on the bed. It was narrower than Mr. Frost’s, but overspread with the same sort of quilt. She and her older sister had pieced them both as teens, months of delicate work throughout which Charlotte had hated every tidy stitch. She was glad for them now, though.

  Her feet touched the floor beside Maggie. If she dared reach out, she could lace her fingers through the girl’s hair. She could pet her, comfort her, maybe, as Maggie petted Captain.

  Or maybe the one she’d be comforting was herself.

  “You heard what Mr. Potter said, didn’t you, dearest?” she asked.

  A mute, miserable nod.

  Charlotte sighed and ventured a pat on Maggie’s shoulder. A half-grown girl seemed so fragile, her bones slight. But ten years was much too old to allow oneself to be cradled, or to be wrapped in a doting embrace.

  So Charlotte only patted her again, feeling far away.

  “Will Nance be all right?” A small voice issued from behind the wall of curly hair. “I thought she was nice.”

  Charlotte could well imagine what Maggie thought of Nance. She remembered being ten years old, stick-thin and awkward with promise. At that age, a blowsy, vibrant young woman such as Nance seemed the loveliest creature in the world.

  “She was nice, wasn’t she? Is nice,” Charlotte corrected herself. “Mr. Potter said someone hurt her badly. But he has called a doctor, and Papa—Grandpapa—will help her to be at peace.”

  Maggie’s only response was to pet the dark velvet of Captain’s ears. The aged hound thumped her tail and settled her long head in Maggie’s lap.