Little White Lies

by Sara Ackerman

  As her sister, it would be easy to hate Bea. Gorgeous, intelligent, and witty—women had been despised for less, but Amelia never could. She alone knew the guilt Beatrice carried with her every day. After all, it was Bea who had convinced them to lie and thus gotten them cursed in the first place. Both she and Evie had forgiven Bea long ago, but Beatrice never forgot.

  So in spite of Clarisse’s protestation it was Evie who bore the harshest curse of the three sisters, Amelia knew it was Beatrice. For not only did she carry the weight of the gypsy’s spell, but she had to live with the knowledge that their one lie had cost an innocent man his life. Amelia would rather be forced to tell the truth than forever bear the hardship of that guilt.

  Amelia rubbed her arms against the sudden chill accompanying her musings and noted the conversation had moved on without her. Clarisse, as usual, was defending her. “We are speaking of the curse because your sister is having a difficult time with it this evening.”

  “It’s only going to get worse, I’m afraid,” Bea said with uncharacteristic sympathy. “Mother wants you to meet someone.”

  Oh, no. Not again! As she was unable to secure a proposal within her first season, her mother, Lady Anne Westby, had made it her personal mission to see Amelia married. It didn’t matter to whom, and as long as he was male and had a title, Amelia was forced to meet him. The last gentleman she met had been over seventy and deaf as a post. When Amelia resisted due to his advanced years, her mother had said he’d be dead soon, leaving her a wealthy widow. As tempting as the promise of independence was, Amelia refused to marry a man over three times her age.

  “Who has mother picked out for me this time?” Amelia asked Bea and Clarisse, with a feeling of impending doom. “It must be someone important, because she sent both of you to get me.”

  “I don’t know his name,” Bea hedged, “but Mother says he hasn’t been in London since your debut. I know almost everyone who is in Town for the Season, and I don’t recall seeing any new faces.”

  “Maybe he’s recently arrived?” Amelia wondered, trying to recall if she’d heard any gossip about new arrivals in the last several weeks. If the Season weren’t still so young, there would already be rumors circulating regarding a new face in the crowd. Too bad the gossip mill was not functioning at full capacity yet.

  “Oh! I know who it might be!” Clarisse said, interrupting Amelia and Bea’s conversation. “It could be Lord Stanton.”

  “Lord Stanton? I’ve never heard of him. Have you, Bea?”

  “No, I haven’t.” Amelia didn’t quite believe her, and that was the problem with Beatrice’s curse. It was always difficult to tell whether she was lying or telling the truth, and right now Amelia was almost certain her sister was lying to her.

  Amelia noted Beatrice avoided her eyes and looked to Clarisse for answers instead. “What do you know about him, Clarisse?”

  “He’s recently inherited the title, and I heard Mother telling Father he’s come to Town to look for a wife.”

  Lord Stanton? Amelia scanned her list of acquaintances, a woefully short list for a young unmarried woman, and realized his name was unknown. “Where is he from, do you know?”

  “I think Scotland,” Clarisse responded, but she was no longer paying attention to Amelia and Beatrice. She moved to the open door of the ballroom and peered inside. Whispering over her shoulder, she beckoned the two of them. “Your father is announcing Evie’s betrothal to Lord Newgate.”

  Beatrice and Amelia hurried over and stood behind Clarisse, craning to see over the crowd of people who had gathered for her father’s announcement. With a few words from Lord Westby, a ready blush from Evie, and a chaste kiss from her betrothed, Amelia’s baby sister was engaged.

  Backing away from the door, Amelia felt a strange hollowness having nothing to do with her curse and everything to do with her status as spinster. Amelia didn’t want to be alone the rest of her life. She wanted happiness like Evie had. Maybe she had been too hasty in dismissing all those suitors her mother had arranged for her to meet. Maybe it was past time for her to find her own special someone.

  “Mimi?” Beatrice asked, following Amelia into the shadows of the hallway. “Are you well?”

  “When am I to meet this man, this Lord Stanton?”

  “Are you sure? No one will force you to meet him. I’ll talk to Mother and—”

  “No, Beatrice. I…I want to do it, so please tell me when.”

  “Midnight.”

  Amelia nodded, determined to grab whatever happiness she could find. If Lord Stanton was new to Town, as Clarisse said, then perhaps she had a chance at establishing a relationship with the one man in London who didn’t know of her affliction.

  “I’m sure,” she repeated, as much for Bea’s sake as for her own.

  “Then I wish you luck, darling.”

  The opening chords of Evie and Lord Newgate’s first waltz started as the clock chimed the half hour.

  “Oh, la! Is it that time already?” Beatrice drawled. “I’m off to a card game, and you”—here she adjusted Amelia’s bodice so it showed more of her ample bosom—“have a date with a Scotsman.”

  Amelia watched Beatrice disappear down the hall before turning to Clarisse. But her friend wasn’t standing by the door, nor was she in the hallway. Looking into the ballroom, Amelia was scanning the sides of the dance floor when a familiar pink dress floated past. Clarisse was dancing with a gentleman she had long admired.

  With no one left to distract her from her thoughts, Amelia paced the hallway, obsessing about her decision to meet Lord Stanton. The mere idea of meeting another strange man had her flushing as perspiration dotted her brow.

  Why am I doing this? Men find me too direct. This one won’t be any different, and I’ll be back where I started, unwanted and alone.

  Tears pricked her eyes at those ugly unbidden thoughts, but Amelia recognized them as truth. Men didn’t like her, and meeting Lord Stanton would only show her again she was unworthy of finding love. A clawing panic worked its way up from her stomach to lodge in her throat. Amelia wasn’t up to the task of meeting the mysterious Scotsman. She might never be. On an impulse born of desperation, she fled the house.

  The moment Amelia stepped outside she was calmed, always finding comfort and peace in the outdoors. She looked up at the clear evening sky and found her favorite stars twinkling above. On a deep breath, Amelia detected the faint scent of the honeysuckle and roses that bordered the walkway to the stables. She sniffed again, alerted to a more potent odor. And cigar smoke? No one was supposed to be smoking near the stables. All the groomsmen knew it, too. Her father would dismiss any one of them on the spot if they so much as puffed a cigar near his beloved thoroughbreds.

  Picking up her skirts, she raced down the pathway to the stables. As she rounded the far side of the building, she ran into something solid and warm and definitely male.

  “Oof!” she screeched. Strong arms reached out to steady her, and Amelia, caught unawares and frightened, kicked her leg into what she hoped was a gentleman’s “sweet spot.”

  She heard a grunt of pain, and a rough voice close to her ear hissed, “You little minx!” before Amelia’s world turned upside down.

  Chapter 3

  Tavis McGuire was having a bad night. His informant had arrived with nothing of import to tell him. In fact, he wasn’t telling Tavis anything he didn’t already know. Tavis stared at the younger man, the moonlight on this side of the stable illuminating his beady eyes and sullen face.

  “How is it in your six weeks of surveillance with the family you have yet to find any concrete evidence implicating our target?”

  The man shifted on his feet and whined, “He’s very secretive, my lord, and keeps his affairs close to himself.”

  “You can’t even tell me if there have been frequent visitors to the house for his lordship, or if he leaves home for long periods of time?” At the uneasy look on the other man’s face, Tavis sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Meeks, you must have something you can tell me!” he exploded in exasperation.

  “The ladies do receive frequent visitors, and one visitor in particular is at the house on a daily basis.”

  “Yes, yes, Meeks. You’ve already mentioned Lady Clarisse Thornston, and I believe I’ve already told you we have cleared her and her family of any suspicion.”

  “I am sorry, my lord. There’s not much more I can tell you.”

  “Your search of his study yielded nothing useful? No hidden compartments or secret doors you can investigate later?”

  With only continued silence from Meeks, Tavis gave up. “Go away, Meeks. Unless you have something useful for me by tomorrow morning, you will be reassigned and no longer connected to this mission.”

  “Yes, sir,” Meeks replied and skulked away into the night, leaving Tavis to ponder what he had learned. Or not learned, as was the case. Six weeks of surveillance gone, and he was no closer than he was when he started. Without the documentation he needed Meeks to find… Tavis groaned. I’ll have to proceed to Plan B. His hand grasped his neck, already contemplating the hangman’s noose tightening if he didn’t ferret out the traitor’s secrets.

  Pulling out his pocket watch, Tavis checked the time. “One more hour.” He felt the noose pull tighter.

  “Hell,” he snorted, patting his horse on the rump. “This whole year has been some sort of Shakespearean tragedy.” Tavis lit a cigar and walked out into the warm evening air to lean against the smooth wooden stable walls. He assessed the expansive Mayfair mansion alight with glittering candles. Even from where he stood, puffing on his cigar, he heard the faint strains of music spilling from the house into the May night. He sighed. This was not how he wanted to spend the evening. But ever since his brother’s solicitor had tracked him down on the Continent almost three months ago to inform him of his brother’s death, Tavis’s life had not been his own. Now the heir to the earldom of Stanton, Tavis had all the responsibilities which accompanied the title.

  And none of the fun.

  He remembered the day the solicitor found him on a battlefield in France and told him he must come home.

  “Home?” Tavis demanded. “Stanton hasn’t been my home for years, not since John assumed the title of earl, and Ballywith has never been my home. I will not return.”

  The solicitor, a Mr. Alfred T. Coombes, had been nervous and a little afraid of him. Tavis supposed he had looked less than civilized in his torn and bloodied uniform, having recently survived a hellish battle against the French. Mr. Coombes had taken one look at his blood-streaked dirty face, saw the musket Tavis had grabbed upon his arrival, and paled, but he did not back down.

  “Mr. McGuire, sir, while you may not have made Stanton and the Ballywith estate your home for several years, it is now yours. You must return and assume your responsibilities. It is imperative.”

  Tavis had never liked being told what to do. In fact, most of Tavis’s life had been in the pursuit of doing exactly what he wanted to do. Being the second son, he always knew he was not destined for the earldom or the entailed responsibilities which accompanied the title. From the day he was born and sent to live with his aunt, he lived a carefree life, never bothering to learn about estate management, finances, and the like because he knew the earldom was in the capable hands of his elder brother, John.

  So when this nervous solicitor tracked him down and told him he had to return to take over the responsibilities of the title, Tavis objected.

  “What do you mean I must assume my responsibilities?” He advanced on Mr. Alfred T. Coombes, his voice calm but menacing. “Who gave you the authority to uproot my life and to tell me what I should be doing?” Tavis had cornered the solicitor in his tent. The man had by now a kind of wild-eyed look to him, and Tavis grabbed him by the jacket.

  But Mr. Alfred T. Coombes was not a complete idiot. Realizing his words had angered the new Earl of Stanton, he backtracked. Adam’s apple bobbing, he said, “Ah, well, you see, it’s…ahem, aside from your inheriting the title, it was also the express wish of your brother that you be found and brought home.”

  Tavis’s grip on the solicitor’s jacket tightened. “What do you mean it was the express wish of my brother?” Tavis and John had never been close; a twelve-year gap had separated the two brothers. By the time Tavis was old enough to be of interest to his brother, John had disappeared, leaving Tavis to wonder about the brother he never knew.

  Mr. Coombes rifled through his pockets—a difficult feat, what with Tavis’s iron hold on his jacket—and managed to produce an envelope. Thrusting it under Tavis’s nose, he explained, “Your brother’s dying wish was for me to find you and give you this.”

  Eying the letter and the unmistakable seal of the Earl of Stanton, Tavis released the solicitor and took the letter.

  “Leave me!” he ordered. Mr. Coombes had been only too happy to oblige as he vacated the tent and left Tavis with his thoughts and his brother’s letter.

  Tavis had sat for hours staring at the letter in his hands. He didn’t want to believe his brother had died and made him earl, and to Tavis’s mind, opening the letter would somehow make true everything the twit Coombes had said.

  At last, with shaking hands, Tavis broke the seal on the letter and read his brother’s last words to him.

  Dear Tavis,

  If you are reading this letter, then I am dead. Please do not grieve for me. Death will be a sweet release after years of suffering. I never had the chance to know you, Tavis, the difference in our ages being so great. I wasn’t there, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t care for you.

  By the time you were born, I was already twelve years of age and well on my way to becoming the future Earl of Stanton. Our parents, as you know, had been older when they conceived me, and Mother’s pregnancy was quite difficult. They never thought to have another child. Though Mother was shocked when she found out she was expecting you, she was so happy. I was too, because it meant a baby brother or sister as companion. Father was too worried about Mother to be excited about a new child and frequently predicted Mother would die in childbirth. Well, the old man was right. Her pregnancy was difficult, but she delivered you even though it took all of her strength. Less than a month later, our mother, Lady Janet, passed quietly in the night.

  I wish you had known Mother, Tavis. She was a sweet and generous woman, and she brought warmth and laughter into our home. Her death devastated Father and left him a cold, unfeeling man. He wasn’t always like that, Brother. Oh, he was serious by nature and very shrewd when it came to business dealings, but he was never without feeling, never cruel. But her death broke something in him, and the old man decided you were to blame.

  After Mother died, I didn’t see you again until you were six years old. Father couldn’t bear to have you anywhere around us, so you were sent to live with Aunt Millie, and I was stuck at home with a temperamental, moody father. I will only say that when I left for boarding school, a year after Mother’s death, it was as if the sun finally shined again.

  Most holidays I spent with Father in London; Ballywith was too full of lingering memories of Mother. One year Father was occupied with business, so I was given permission to spend the holiday with you and Aunt Millie. I don’t know if you will even remember that time, but it was the happiest I had been in years. I taught you to ride your first horse, Legacy, and I even taught you how to shoot a gun. I remember you cried when I had to return to university.

  The last time I saw you I was sent to Aunt Millie’s after I contracted lung fever at university. You were eight years old at the time. Father didn’t want me in London, and he still couldn’t bear to travel to Ballywith, so to Aunt Millie’s I went. I lingered near death for almost two weeks. Though I was insensible, I remember you wanted to come in to see me but Father refused. Even through the haze of sickness I could hear him yelling at you to stay out. But one night, Tavis, you must have snuck in when Father was asleep. I remember you held my hand and talked to me the whole night. I don’
t know what you said, but it was you who helped me come back from death. When I awoke, I asked for you, and Father said you had been sent away to school. I was desperate for word of you, Brother, but Father refused to tell me where you had gone.

  After that illness, I was never the same again. I was never as strong again or as well again. I eventually married, a lovely young woman named Mary. Unfortunately, we were never blessed with children. She passed away three weeks ago, and I myself am not much longer for this world.

  I am ashamed, Tavis, because I was never the brother you deserved. I let Father bully me into ignoring you. He forbade me to speak of you or to find you once you left school. He even threatened to cut off my allowance, and as a young man who had recently married, I foolishly believed money was more important than you. Forgive me my cowardice, Brother, and know that every day since the old man has been dead I have been looking for you, hoping you’ll come home to Ballywith.

  I know you’ll say Ballywith has never been your home. Remember a house is a shell, Tavis. It’s not a home until there is love. Mary helped me see that. With her love and strength, I was able to banish all the bad memories from our home for good. We were happy here.

  Find a good woman, marry her, and create your own memories at Ballywith. Make your own happiness.

  Your loving brother,

  John

  Long after the last light of day had faded, Tavis sat with his brother’s letter clenched in his hands. So many nights he had lain awake wondering why. Why was he sent away? Why did his father hate him? Why did John never come back to see him?

  He remembered with clarity those precious moments with his brother at Aunt Millie’s. It was true he cried when John went away the first time. He had admired his brother and loved him with all the fierceness and loyalty of a child. When Tavis was sent away at age eight, it had ripped him apart to be separated again from his brother. Tavis had been sure John would find him. Every day he waited for a letter or a message to come from his brother. Every day he grew a little more disillusioned. Then one day about seven months after he was sent to school, he gave up. He closed up that part of his heart and never looked in it again.