by Lauren Smith
Edmund repressed another shudder. Now he was grateful for Miss Lennox’s rejections. Hugo’s plan no doubt would have made them both miserable, and money could compensate for only so much in life.
Whatever Waverly was planning, Edmund wanted nothing more to do with it. He preferred staying alive. Waverly had protection from the Crown, it was true, but Edmund had no such luxury. And if someone died from Waverly’s games, well, Edmund might be the one to hang for it.
“Should I assume our business is concluded then?” Edmund asked quietly.
Waverly stroked his chin, his black eyes looking at something in the distance that Edmund could not see, and for a moment he feared he might have to repeat his question.
“Yes, I am done with you. My office will tender a final payment in the morning, and I will see no more of you.”
Edmund couldn’t agree more on the last point. He hastily retreated into the crowds, smiling at his good fortune. Another thousand pounds would be lining his pocket, and all he had done was chase Joanna Lennox into the arms of someone else. Lady Fortune was smiling upon him, at least.
He tried not to think whether or not Fortune would soon frown upon Miss Lennox.
Hugo stood at the edge of the ballroom, lurking in the shadows kindly afforded by an unlit lamp in his corner of the room. He watched the oblivious couples dance. His wife was out there tonight, no doubt dancing with some fool. He didn’t care if married ladies weren’t supposed to dance except with their husbands. His wife enjoyed dancing, and since he could not give her the time for a dance, not while seeing to his plans, he was content to let her have her amusement wherever she could find it.
A flash of pale-blond hair caught his attention, and he had to keep his heart from racing as he saw Ashton Lennox on the dance floor, his Scottish bride in his arms.
My prey…so close. He had to keep himself from reaching for the small blade he kept on him at all times. The dagger that he dreamed nearly every night of plunging into the hearts of every last member of the League of Rogues.
Only a few days ago they had held the key to destroying him in their hands, and yet they had chosen to burn it. He still could not reason out why. Not that it mattered. He would not stop; he would not show mercy.
I will bring you down, one by one, with a death of a thousand cuts. And one of those cuts will be Joanna Lennox.
All he had to do was let it slip to the right Highland clans that Lord Kincade’s father had betrayed his countrymen, and that the Englishman who had helped him was Ashton Lennox. And he knew which clans held their grudges for generations.
They would kill Joanna, Lord Kincade, and likely Ashton as well. Even if Ashton somehow survived Highland justice, losing his sister would destroy him. The sweet irony would be that Ashton himself had just destroyed the very evidence that might have saved her.
And no one will be the wiser that I played a part in any of it.
It was so easy to be the devil at times—so very easy.
4
Joanna slipped into the silent, still house. Everyone was likely still at the ball. Her shoulders dropped in relief. She would have some time alone to collect herself after the disaster she’d created after that last dance with Brock. She thanked the footman who met her at the door and snuck down to the kitchens where their cook, Mrs. Copeland, was kneading some bread for the next day. The cook’s dark-brown hair, streaked with gray, was tucked beneath a white cap, and her cheeks were red with her exertions as she kneaded dough on a counter.
“Miss Joanna!” The cook grinned and retrieved a small wet cloth to wipe the flour off her hands before she hugged Joanna. Mrs. Copeland was like a favorite aunt to her. She’d always taken good care of the Lennox children and had been their cook for more than fifteen years.
“Mrs. Copeland, do you have any peach tarts?” Joanna glanced about the tidy kitchen, hoping to find at least a little something to eat before bed. She, like some ladies, was often too embarrassed to eat at a ball. She wasn’t plump by any means, but she was very conscious of her figure, and it seemed a bad thing to appear to hover about the refreshments when men were watching.
Mrs. Copeland chuckled. “Do I have peach tarts?” She walked over to the cooling rack and lifted up a blue-and-white plaid cloth off the plate, revealing several glistening, sugary peach tarts.
“Take as many as you like.” Mrs. Copeland winked at her. “And there’s a bottle of sherry in the cupboards if you’d like a wee nip before bed.”
Joanna grinned and fetched the bottle. “Only if you have a glass with me.” She retrieved a couple of small sherry glasses and filled them. Mrs. Copeland put up only a small protest before taking her glass, her hazel eyes twinkling. It was a post-ball ritual to have a tart and a glass of sherry with the cook.
“Now then, how was the dancing?” Mrs. Copeland asked after Joanna daintily cut into her tart with a fork.
“It was…”
Divine.
Wretched.
Dancing with Brock had been simply wonderful, but what had happened afterward… Shame burned the back of her throat, and she blinked away tears.
“What’s the matter, dearie?” Mrs. Copeland patted one of her hands. “You look ready to cry. I thought balls were supposed to be wonderful.”
Joanna banished the tears. The last thing she wanted was to appear foolish. Even though she’d been friends with Mrs. Copeland most of her life, she had never dared to tell anyone in the house her troubles with suitors—or the lack thereof.
“Do you believe in perfect kisses, Mrs. Copeland?” she asked.
It was something she dared not ask her mother. Regina Lennox was a lovely woman, Joanna admitted that readily, but the idea of asking her mother about such things seemed terrifying. Her mother would likely question her fiercely as to what she meant by asking and whether there was a gentleman out there whom Ashton should be bring to heel as a husband.
“Perfect kisses?” Mrs. Copeland’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Have you been kissing some young buck, Miss Joanna?”
“I…no,” she lied. “I was just thinking about them, you know. It’s not as though I have a beau with whom to practice.”
“Practice?” The cook snorted. “’Tis only the men who need practice. If the kiss isn’t perfect, blame the man, I say.”
There was no blame she could give at all to Brock. His kisses were perfect. And that was exactly the problem.
“Mrs. Copeland, did you marry Mr. Copeland for love?” The cook’s late husband had been the head groom for their horses in the country. After his passing, Ashton had insisted on the cook traveling with them. Joanna had suspected it was because Mrs. Copeland missed her husband and the country house reminded her of him almost everywhere.
“Love? My Albert? Lord no, not at first. He was simply a handsome lad with straight legs, dark hair, and all his teeth. And when he smiled,” the cook said with a sigh, “I fairly turned to a pot of butter melting in the sun.” Mrs. Copeland added, her tone softer, “Love, though, that came after.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled.
Joanna clung to the words. “Love came after?” Could it be possible to marry someone and let love follow? She believed it might be possible for her, but she wasn’t sure if Brock could fall in love with her in return.
“When I was young, I married ’cause I had to in order to support my younger siblings since my parents were dead. Albert was strong, had a good position with your family, and your mother and father had no issue with their cook being married to their groom. It was a match that suited everyone. Albert was handsome, as I said, and it made bedding pleasurable. But it was the small things that came later, the things you may not notice at first, mind you, where he began to show his love for me, and I for him.”
Joanna took another bite of her tart, fixated on Mrs. Copeland. “What kind of small things?”
The cook sipped her sherry. “He would sneak into our room before I was done in the kitchens and have a footwarmer under the sheets, and he’d h
ave a fine fire lit to keep our room warm in the winter. I used to make sure his boots were polished each night after he came to bed. They would get so dusty in the stables. Just before bed, he would cuddle me close and whisper, ‘Have sweet dreams, my Nellie.’ Then he kissed my temple.” Mrs. Copeland sighed, her eyes overbright with tears and her voice a little rough.
This time Joanna was the one who patted Mrs. Copeland’s hand.
The cook wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “Now, you tell Nelly, what’s all this talk of kisses and love? Have those silly gentlemen finally gotten wise to how pretty and intelligent you are?”
“No,” Joanna said. That was the truth, as far she knew. Brock had offhandedly proposed to her, but that didn’t mean he thought she was pretty or intelligent. He wanted her, yes, but he was so impulsive about it all that she wasn’t certain why.
“What the devil is wrong with those men?” the cook said with a huff. “You’re pretty, you’re intelligent, and you’re far too sweet.” Mrs. Copeland waved the glass of sherry to accentuate her point.
Joanna finished her tart, feeling no more decided on Brock and his proposal than before. She had hoped that when a man she cared about finally got around to asking her, there would’ve been…trumpets blowing, she supposed, vows of undying love, something worthy of the quest to win her heart. A marriage proposal should not have been thrown out in the middle of an argument in a dark carriage with a man she had just slapped in front of all of Bath.
Weariness filled her with a heavy fog as she tried to think of what she should do, not just about Brock but about her future.
“Why don’t you go to bed? You look dead on your feet, dearie.” Mrs. Copeland took her plate and gave her a gentle shove toward the door leading out of the kitchens. Joanna paused only long enough to look back as Mrs. Copeland put away the sherry, the cook was still wiping her eyes.
How lucky Mrs. Copeland had been to have a love like that. Joanna turned away, and with dragging, defeated steps she sought refuge in the library. Sometimes she was too exhausted to sleep, and a good book would help relax her mind. The library of their townhouse in Bath was smaller than the one at their manor house in the country but still large enough that she could wander between the tall shelves and lose herself within the land of books. As a child, she’d often imagined that a doorway between the shelves would open up and she could step inside the pages of a story itself. Now she wished more than ever that she could do just that. Step into a world apart from this one and forget her troubles.
Joanna took a candle from the table by the door and lit it with a taper from the fireplace. Then she perused the shelves, studying the various titles. Nothing immediately drew her attention, but she continued to look as she moved deeper into the shelves toward the back of the room. If she was being honest with herself, all she could think about was being kissed deliriously by the man who haunted her thoughts now. She touched the spine of a nearby book as if it held the answers she longed for, such as why Brock was back in England now and callously proposing marriage at the worst, least romantic time. Furthermore he didn’t love her, didn’t believe in love matches. What the devil was she to say to that? She believed in love matches and every wonderful thing that came with them.
None of these books would do to distract her. Damned Scot! How dare he wreck a perfectly good night! She might as well just head up to bed. She started back to the edge of the nearest bookcase but froze when she heard voices close by.
When the door to the library opened, the voices echoed along the spines of the books. Her breath stirred the flame of the candle she held close to her face.
“Ashton, we must speak,” Regina, their mother, said. “Please stop walking away from me. It’s important.”
“Mother.” Ashton’s aggrieved sigh would have made Joanna smile, but her mother’s next words forced her to remain silent and out of sight behind the shelf.
“I’m worried about Joanna. You saw her tonight, how irresponsible. So many dances with Lord Kincade…”
“I heard,” Ashton said bitterly.
“And then to strike him? If she had any chance of a match before tonight, she has none now.”
Ashton’s booted steps sounded as though he was pacing before the fire.
“I am worried as well, but not because of tonight. Joanna was pushed to her limits—her frustration at her situation is quite clear. I do not fault her in the least for hitting Kincade. He had no intention of letting her go to another man for the rest of those dances. My concern lies in that no man will take her now, as she is. I put out discreet offers to the best gentlemen, but the moment I utter her name, the men flee. I’ve emptied entire card rooms at my club. I do not understand it.”
Joanna bit her tongue painfully and closed her eyes, feeling very small and useless. Her own brother was trying to sell her off, and not even then would any gentleman take her. Shame closed her throat, and tears burned her eyes.
“If she wants to remain unmarried, that is quite fine. I’m all for women leading an independent existence if they so desire, but Joanna has always wanted to be in love. It’s so clear that she’s unhappy.” Her mother’s voice was closer to the shelf that Joanna hid behind now, and Joanna held her breath, afraid of revealing her position. The shame would only double if they discovered her eavesdropping.
“What if…” her mother began. “What if she were to marry Lord Kincade? He looked most bewitched by her. I daresay five dances is quite an indication of a gentleman’s interest.”
Joanna’s heart leapt with forbidden hopes. Had her mother seen something in Brock’s actions tonight that suggested he might actually care for her? Or was it simply in his nature to cause scandals and break hearts? She desperately wished it was the former, but how was she to know for sure?
“Gentleman? Have you not forgotten that he kidnapped my fiancée? In the middle of the night, no less, while I lay at death’s door?” Ashton’s tone was hard.
“Ashton, dear, you exaggerate. Death’s door indeed. And need I remind you that you kidnapped Lady Essex, before she became Lady Essex?”
Ashton snorted. “Godric kidnapped her.”
“With your help.” Their mother’s tone was full of amusement and a little judgment. Joanna wrinkled her nose, frowning. Ashton had indeed helped the Duke of Essex kidnap his future wife, and he certainly shouldn’t be casting stones when his own house was made of spun glass.
“Perhaps I’m mad, Mother,” Ashton replied. “But I don’t want to entrust my youngest sister into the hands of an irresponsible brute. I wasn’t old enough to protect Thomasina when she married Lord Reddington, and he had quite the reputation as a scoundrel back then. Thankfully, he turned out all right. But Lord Kincade? He’s irresponsible and reckless. What if Rosalind had fallen ill from tending to me after he and her other brothers had taken her? They were sleeping on the ground in bloody bedrolls. If she’d taken ill, without proper care, she might have died. I dread to imagine how Kincade would treat a wife.”
“Ashton”
“And don’t forget the state of the castle. It’s crumbling to bits. If Joanna were to live there, she would catch her death in winter from those drafts.”
Joanna took a chance to peer around the edge of the bookcase. Ashton was pacing back and forth by the fireplace, his coat discarded and his sleeves rolled up as he moved. Their mother stood close by, playing idly with the fan that hung from her wrist. Both looked upset.
Joanna scowled. She was the one who should be upset, not them. They weren’t the ones with no certain future ahead of them and no chance at love.
“Why do you think he’s a brute?” Regina asked, her tone quiet, more colored with worry now. “You think he’s like Rosalind’s father?”
There was a hesitation, thick and heavy, before Ashton responded. “I don’t believe so, no. But he and the others, they don’t seem civilized. Aside from Edinburgh, Scotland is a land of deep forests, wooded hills, and rivers, populated by fierce people. Joanna is refined a
nd cultured. What sort of life would she have there? She’d be lonely in that dank castle. No more balls, no more parties, no more society.” Ashton had stopped pacing now.
All of that sounded perfectly lovely to Joanna, but if Brock didn’t love her, then she couldn’t agree to marry him.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” their mother said, her tone soft with regret. “But if not Kincade, then who? I don’t want my child to be lonely. You have Rosalind, Rafe is…” Regina sighed and chuckled. “Rafe is likely to be a bachelor forever and quite content with that. But Joanna is like me, a woman who craves love. I simply want to see her happy.”
“As do I,” Ashton agreed. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, and his shoulders slumped with the weight of his responsibilities as head of the Lennox family. “Come, it’s late, and we should both get some rest.”
“Yes. So much to do,” Regina agreed. “The wedding is the day after tomorrow, after all. Everyone is coming. And I do mean everyone.”
Ashton laughed, and Joanna heard the warmth of it, and despite her own sorrow, she was glad. Ashton and her mother had finally repaired a broken bridge between them. Brock’s sister, Rosalind, had so much to do with that.
“Let’s hope not everyone,” Ashton replied, still chuckling. “Mrs. Copeland doesn’t have the capacity of feeding the entire city.”
“Oh, hush, don’t let her hear you say that. She’ll take it as a challenge.”
Joanna heard the creak of the library door as her brother and mother exited. She stayed hidden awhile longer, her heart beating hard but slow, each sound echoing in her head. She gazed at the small yellow-and-orange flame wavering on the candle she held.
Was she lonely? She hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but she was. All of her friends were married now, some even with babes on the way, but not Joanna. She felt frozen, yet she could feel herself aging every day with no husband, no children, nothing to show for it. Her friend Lysandra Russell was seemingly content to be alone. She was obsessed with astronomy and never wanted to attend any balls or dinner parties. Joanna’s passion was reading. Perhaps she could become a novelist, like Jane Austen and spend the remainder of her days writing books. That wouldn’t be so terrible, would it?
