Prologue

Every chair in the drawing room was filled, but the room was heavy and still with silence. No one dared speak above a whisper. Even the lawyer, reading the will, was barely more audible than the parchment rasping under his hands.

But even in the silence and the stillness there was joy, Laura thought. Joy, hidden under the dabbing of black handkerchiefs to faces. Glee suppressed by a tightening of the lips. And anger too — a quick motion controlled, a narrowing of the eyes.

Laura sat back in her chair near the lawyer’s table and watched the room from under the obscurity of her veil. The will held no interest for her; she already knew her husband would have left her nothing. But she was fascinated by the emotions surging beneath the stillness of the room. Joy for those who received. Anger for those who did not. But sorrow? Was there anyone here who felt sorrow? Had anyone here loved her husband?

She knew her father, sitting impassively in the back row, had not. For the past two years, he had refused to lay eyes on Laura and her husband, bearing them both a grudge for their scandalous elopement. Even now, he refused to let his eyes meet hers across the room. She could not understand why he had come. To spit on Mr Maidstone’s grave? Or perhaps he thought she would inherit a slice of Mr Maidstone’s fortune. If so, he would be disappointed.

She followed her father’s gaze to the lawyer and lit thoughtfully upon the man sitting beside him. Mr Percival, her husband’s friend and executor, might have liked him, she mused. There was no joy or anger in his face, only a strange uncertainty. She thought it signified guilt. It would only be natural, if he had held Maidstone in any regard, for him to feel something of that emotion. But perhaps, she thought cynically, it was only that he had a stomach ache. His digestion never had been good.

Her gaze drifted further and became cold as it landed on the most prominent chair in the room.

Frederick Maidstone, her brother-in-law, certainly had not loved Mr Maidstone. Whenever the lawyer read out another factory or business now under his control, he would pass his handkerchief over his face to hide his twitching lips. But the will was coming to an end now, tailing rapidly through a number of small bequests to servants or lesser relatives, and Frederick had managed to assume a sombre expression at last.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “…And finally to my wife, Lady Laura Maidstone” —Frederick smiled again and Laura felt a flicker of alarm— “I leave a single shilling…”

Laura stiffened. A sudden hush of murmurs echoed around the room.

“…to be given her immediately upon the reading of the will. Signed, Mr Thomas Maidstone. Witnessed, Mrs Chamber, Mr Chamber.”

Laura stared dumbly at the lawyer. She had known Maidstone hated her, but she had never expected public humiliation. Then even in death, her vile husband would find ways to wound her.

The lawyer turned to Mr Percival. “We should fulfil the last bequest now.”

Mr Percival looked a little shame-faced, but rose from his chair and came over to stand in front of Laura. His eyes would not quite meet hers, and there was a pink tinge to his normally pallid cheeks.

“Lady Laura.” He held out his hand. There was something in it, bright against his black gloves. “Your portion.”

A shilling, new-minted and gleaming.

At the back of the room, her father stood up abruptly from his chair. “Is it necessary to do this now?”

“It is as Mr Maidstone wished.” Mr Percival hesitated. Laura hoped he wasn’t going to say anything stupid, with everybody watching. But he only muttered awkwardly, “My condolences, my lady.”

She reached out and closed her hand around the shilling, hiding it from sight. No one in the room dared speak.

Then, in the silence, Frederick sniggered.

The old flame of temper, always ready to leap to action, flared inside Laura. She hurled the coin at his fat, grinning face. It missed, snapping against the wall behind and clinking to the floor, where it spun on its edge a moment, before falling flat. A woman in the crowd gasped; Frederick only laughed once more and bent to pick up the coin, which had fallen next to his foot.

“Why, thank you, dear sister,” he mocked. “Thank you kindly. I shall put this to good use.”

“You may pay Charon with it,” she snarled, “and go to hell!”

Before anyone could say anymore, she turned and strode from the room, her black silk snapping against her heels. Behind her, the mourners broke out in whispers, and Frederick broke down into laughter.

Outside on the front steps, Laura stopped, chest heaving, and leaned against a pillar. Her rage died, and died as quickly as it had sparked to life, leaving her drained and frightened.

Where was she to go from here? The husband she had loathed was dead, but she was not free. Could not be free while she stood, without a penny in the world, a home to go to, or a friend to trust.

Frederick would never support her. He had hated her and she had hated him. Nor would any of her female friends be able to offer her help. Their husbands would either not stand to have a woman of Laura’s reputation in the house — or be dangerously willing for it. Mr Percival might want to help her, but he was in no position to offer her financial support, and that was the only support she would wish to ask from him. And her father…

There was the sound of a footstep behind her, and she turned to see the very man. He had his cloak on, was holding his cane and top hat in hand. He regarded her impassively for a long, silent moment, then turned away and walked slowly down the stairs. On the gravel drive, he paused. His carriage was approaching, the coat of arms freshly gilded and glinting palely under the weak November sunlight.

“I suppose you had best come with me,” he said, not looking at her. “Run in, and fetch your most vital belongings. The rest can be sent on. I do not wish to linger.”

Not even a greeting. Not a single word of hello or how do you do. Laura stared at the shining, balding patch on the back of his head.

“Quickly now.”

She was too cowed, too exhausted, too frightened to refuse. And besides, there was nowhere else for her to go. She muttered a vague assent and ran indoors to stuff a few favourite dresses and trinkets in a net bag. There was little that truly belonged to her now, and it didn’t take long. When she got back downstairs, her father was already in the carriage, with the door open and the groom waiting to hand her up.

It was a long and silent coach-ride home for the two Brockets. They had never been friends. Laura had grown up under the gentle instruction of governesses and nursery maids and companions, rarely even seeing her father until she was just old enough to be considered a woman. And then she had discovered that she did not like him, and he had discovered that he did not like her. He was not fond of the company of women to begin with; he considered them stupid. His daughter could not convince him she was otherwise. She resented his prejudice and scorned his discipline. In return, his discipline grew stricter. He became an order-giver; she became an order-defier. Stubborn and contemptuous, he had sought nothing but to control her. Mutinous and angry, she had convinced herself she even hated him.

But she didn’t know then what hatred truly was.

Mr Maidstone had been pleasant when she first met him. It had been easy to believe herself in love with him. Or perhaps she really had loved him — the image of him that she had created. So easy to create it, when she saw him for intervals of only a quarter of an hour at a time. A pleasant dance, a few minutes of his sharp, cynical wit —how droll she had thought his cynicism in those early days— and then a smiling goodbye. And days, weeks, before their next meeting, in which to gloat over her memories, relive his wit, and daydream of the meetings yet to come.

It hadn’t been long after their elopement that the image had started to warp. It had started in a very small way. He had been saving a piece of brisket for his supper, and it had gone missing. Insignificant, really. But it had been enough to make his cynical wit turn upon her. His smiles had grown smug and angry.

“I know you ate it,” he said. “You cannot lie to me. And I don’t mind. I really don’t mind. But you must know that I know when you lie.”

Her protests of innocence had been met with nothing but more smiling, smug anger: he did not like that she lied, he knew she lied, how deceptive a woman he had married.

She had found the servant who had stolen the brisket. The servant had confessed, and she had fired him. Chidingly, indulgently, Maidstone had turned to her afterwards:

“What a fuss you make of these things. There was no need to fire the servant. It was just a bit of brisket.”

Until it was a stain on his best coat. The shillings he had lost while coming home drunk. The sherry he did not remember drinking. Conversations she had had with his gentleman friends.

He never would believe her. The more she protested her innocence, the more he thought her a liar. The more he laughingly made jokes to his friends about his duplicitous wife. The more his friends believed him.

And after the baby had died…

It hadn’t been her fault. It could not have been anyone’s fault. But he blamed for it. And that was when he had stopped loving her at all. That was when his laughing jokes had become savage and angry. When his disbelief had turned to resentment, his resentment to anger, his anger to blows.

Laura found the view outside the carriage glass blurred and blinked. No. She would not cry. He was dead now and could hurt her no more. Mourn his death? She would celebrate it. Her gowns might be black, but for the first time in two years her soul and heart were white and flying.

The view outside the glass proved to be familiar and she turned to her father in surprise.

“Why, we are in Leamont already. I’ve not been marking the time.”

Her father looked up from his newspaper. “So we are. And how do you find it, after all this time?”

“I find it well.” She turned her eyes again to the sloping fields, streaked with gold from the afternoon sun slanting through the trees. “Yes. I shall enjoy being home very much.”

More than she had ever enjoyed it before. She hardened her heart against her former self. How ungrateful she had been. How stupid. Her father might have given her orders, but he had never laid a hand upon her. She was safe now. Safe in the place in which she had been born.

“I am glad you feel so,” her father replied, rather properly and distantly, as though trying to remember his manners. “Here. We are almost there.”

He folded away the newspaper as they rounded a clump of laurels and the house came into view. The sun lay behind it, gilding the edges of the roof and chimneys. She’d forgotten how beautiful it was.

“I must thank you, Father,” she said softly. “For bringing me home. For supporting me, when Mr Maidstone would not. I will be a burden to you now.”

Her father looked surprised. “But you are of use to me, my dear. Do you not know?”

A glow of relieved gratification washed over Laura. Her father had never said anything so kind to her before in her life.

His next words drained it away again.

“You’ll marry again. Forge a new connection. I do not underestimate your worth, my dear. A woman of your looks and birth, proven fecund, but unencumbered by a child, and still young enough for six or seven more… You still have value indeed.”

Laura’s voice shook. “I do not think I will marry again, Father.”

“You think you will not. And I know you will.” Her father’s eyes met her own for the first time in two years, and she saw now that they were as disdainful as ever. “It was not for charity that I brought you here, Laura. Do not ask me for that. I will not give it.”

For a moment, the whiteness of her soul darkened. But Mr Maidstone had tempered, if not her defiance, her expression of it. She gazed mutely through the glass. Marry? To another man who might prove to be just like Mr Maidstone — or worse?

She would rather die.

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Author Note: though this is a sequel to Lady in Rags , and references several characters and events in that story, it can be read as a stand-alone.

Note 2: Richard’s story finally begins!!! With the disreputable Brockets, who were mentioned in Lady in Rags, and may not be entirely as bad as Neil believed. Or might, in fact, be worse. We’ll see. Happy Valentine’s Day, my lovelies!

Part One: The Mistress - Chapter One: Feminine Company

— One Year Later —

Richard stepped down from the carriage, wincing as the familiar pain shot up his right leg when he hit the ground. He was sure the pain was getting worse. He was getting old, or rheumatic, or fat, or— a tinkle of feminine, flirtatious laughter floated out from the open door of the mansion in front of him —cowardly.

Yes. There was something about feminine company that made his crippled knee decidedly worse. He should have stayed home in bed. For his health. Yes. That would have undeniably been the wisest course. But Lord Brocket had been one of his father’s closest friends, and, even if there had been no love lost between father and son, Richard could not lightly turn down Brocket’s invitation.

With a sigh, Richard thanked his groom and limped up the steps of the house. At the door, a butler stepped officiously forward, halting his progress.

“Your card, Sir?”

Irritated by the formality, Richard took his card from his pocket and handed it over. Lord Brocket had said it would be an intimate, relaxed dinner, but every candle in the grand chandelier was lit, and the pile of cards in the silver bowl on the hall table suggested dozens of guests had already arrived.

“Your cloak, my lord?

Richard unclasped his cloak and let it fall from his shoulders, revealing his stunted, narrow form. He felt a stab of blunt jealousy as a tall, broad footman came forward to take it from him. An absurd jealousy, Richard thought self-critically; even more absurd for the fact that if it weren’t for the sound of distinctly feminine voices from the next room, he wouldn’t be feeling it at all.

“And your cane, my lord?”

“The cane comes with me.”

The butler’s gaze dropped to the thick, ugly walnut cane Richard held in his left hand. The gleaming copper handle, shaped like a boar’s head, leered out from between his fingers. A faint sneer of distaste rose briefly to the butler’s lips.

But only briefly. He perfected his expression once more and moved smoothly to the doorway of the salon. Richard limped after him, banging his cane savagely on the marble tiles.

As they reached the door, one of the footmen beat a gong. For a moment, the room quietened, and scores of pale faces turned curiously to Richard before turning disinterestedly away again. It was a reaction he was used to, perhaps even a better reaction than the sympathetic curiosity his lame leg sometimes elicited, but somehow tonight it galled him.

“Lord Albroke,” announced the butler.

Richard had good hearing and managed to catch one or two murmurs as he limped forward to greet his host:

“…father died a few months ago…”

“…got a fortune, lucky bastard…”

“…worth it to be a countess…”

Or perhaps they didn’t care if he did hear. While his father had commanded respect and fear from the ton , Richard had never managed to command anything more powerful than indifference or sycophantism. Even now that he had inherited his father’s title and become the Earl of Albroke, little had changed. The indifferent continued to be indifferent; the sycophants continued to be sycophants.

Lord Brocket came forward from the crowd to greet Richard with a wide, thin-lipped smile. “Good to see you, Albroke,” he said. “I’m glad you came. How’s the leg?”

How’s the leg? Why was it always the first thing people asked?

“As usual,” Richard said stiffly, shaking hands.

“Good to hear,” Brocket said, without caring. “I’ll recommend you my physician.”

“Thank you,” said Richard, to end the conversation, knowing the recommendation would never be passed on. But Brocket followed Richard as he stepped into the room.

“Can’t have you going to seed yet. You’re still young, you know. Now, let me introduce you to someone.”

With a sinking feeling, Richard realized he was going to be set up. He stopped short and stared in dismay at Brocket. For the first time, he noticed a faint red mark on the older man’s pallid cheek. He wondered what it was. Port-flush? But Brocket had always drunk very sparely.

“Something wrong?” Brocket asked.

“I — I just remembered.” Richard floundered for an excuse and lit upon one with relief. “I have not given my compliments to Lady Laura. Is she not to host tonight?”

If there was anyone he could rely upon to ruin a set up, it was the embittered, querulous Lady Laura. He’d never heard her speak a good word of another woman in her life. And her opinion of him was worse.

Lord Brocket flushed, and the mark on his face deepened, showing for a moment, very clearly, the outline of a small, feminine handprint.

“She is… unwell tonight.” Brocket touched his cheek briefly. “She will not be attending. I’m afraid her health has been delicate since Mr Maidstone’s death.”

“It has not been long.”

“A year.”

“But that isn’t long. Not when you love someone.” For a moment, Richard thought he had said too much. He hurriedly went on, “You must give her my compliments. And my condolences.”

“I certainly shall, my dear boy,” Brocket said. “Now, do let me introduce you to Miss Oliver.”

But the gong sounded again, and another guest was announced at the door. Richard took the chance to slip away into the crowd. There was no doubt he would have to be introduced to Miss Oliver sooner or later, but he didn’t see why it shouldn’t be later. Perhaps so late that there wouldn’t be any chance for more than hello before he could make an excuse to say goodbye.

He ducked under an ostrich feather blooming from a woman’s hairpiece and skulked behind a group of fat old men, who hid him from view of Lord Brocket. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a woman he knew, sitting down out of the way by a vase of palm fronds with a deep frown on her wrinkled face. Miss Dalrymple, about eighty years old, and a sort of charity case in the Leamont parish. Her manners were awful, but she was the last of a very good family, and somehow no one dared deny her a place at their table. She was the perfect armour against flirtation. Richard went over to her in relief.

“Good evening, Miss Dalrymple.”

She looked up, saying nothing. Her brown eyes directly on his, she cracked a nut in her bony old hands, ate it, and stuffed the shell into the crack of the sofa.

“Oh that’s not—”

“Don’t you start,” she said warningly.

“But you’ll attract mice to Lord Calloway’s house.”

“Shan’t.” She cracked another nut. “It’s too full of snakes for the mice to have a chance. Did you see his daughter slapped him?”

“I have not seen Lady Laura for some time,” Richard said. “Now do give me those shells and I’ll find a servant.”

“I told you not to start.” She cracked another nut and tossed the shell in the vase of palm fronds. “There’s too many nosy young footmen in the dining room. I had to take the nuts and run.”

“A not unusual occurrence in your life, I think.” Richard eyed her reticule. “Dare I ask what else you’ve absconded with?”

“There’s nothing in there but my powder!” she sniffed. “You could use some yourself, my lord. You’re looking dreadfully peaky.”

“I thank you,” Richard said drily.

“It’s your health,” the old lady continued remorselessly. “I suppose you’ve got gout, or rheumatism, or venereal disease.”

“I do not!”

“Then it’s your diet,” she decided. “Not that it’ll improve tonight. His Lordship loads his table with butter and lard. Even these nuts are too rich.”

“That does not seem to stop you eating them.”

Miss Dalrymple was silenced. No sound came from her but the rhythmic crack of a nut and the dull crunching of her last remaining teeth. But Richard didn’t dare leave her side, for Lord Brocket was now making his way around the room, performing introductions and playing the part of the genial host. At the moment, he was talking with a tall young man whose face was vaguely familiar to Richard. Familiar, and somehow unpleasant. Frowning, he tried to remember where he had met him before.

Miss Dalrymple finished her nuts and deposited the last of the shells in the tufts of the sofa back.

“The Honourable Giles Fordham,” she said, following Richard’s gaze. “One of your rivals. And I fear you’ll lose out to him in looks, my boy. He might have stepped out of a fashion-plate.”

Giles Fordham. Richard shuddered. No wonder he hadn’t recognized him. It had been years and years ago, when they were both at Oxford together. Barely more than boys. And afterwards Richard had done his best to forget Fordham and the whole event.

Then, Miss Dalrymple’s words sunk in. “What do you mean by ‘my rivals’?”

“Don’t you know?” Miss Dalrymple grinned maliciously. “Lord Brocket’s brought all us old ladies and mothers to chaperone you young fellows while you chase after his daughter. Wants to marry her off again.”

“Not to me, I can assure you.” Richard shifted his weight uneasily. “Lord Brocket had once hoped my brother would marry Lady Laura, but he never entertained the same idea of me.”

“And you with the title?” Miss Dalrymple looked at him skeptically. “Why not?”

“I suppose he thought I was too old for her.”

Richard was lying, but it came easily to him on this matter. His father and Brocket had always desired a match between their children, but a violent fever in Richard’s youth had left him infertile, and so his father and Brocket had agreed a better match for the families would be if Laura married Richard’s younger brother, Neil. Only that had thankfully never come off.

“Not more than twenty years,” replied Miss Dalrymple, counting on her bony fingers. “That’s not so much of a difference.”

“Twenty years!?” Richard turned indignantly to her before he realized she was hiding laughter in her pursed lips and bright cheeks. “Miss Dalrymple, you jest indeed.”

“As I ought, when you utter such horseradish. Too old for her! It can’t be more than ten years between you!”

“Eight, if I remember her age right. But it does not signify. Her father plans no match with me.”

“It’s her choice that matters in the end,” said Miss Dalrymple. “But you’d lose out to that Honourable Giles anyway. Look how tall he is. And such fair hair.” She cast a rather sympathetic glance at Richard, who was short and dark and by no means handsome. “Let me powder you up a bit.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Richard scanned the room and noticed now that there were rather a large amount of men he knew to be bachelors, and rather few truly handsome young ladies. Certainly, it had the appearance of being a miniature marriage mart, not an intimate dinner at all. Richard cursed himself for being naive enough to come. He should have known Brocket hadn’t asked him for the pleasure of his company.

At the other end of the room, the dinner bell was rung. Richard offered Miss Dalrymple his arm.

“Shall we go in together?”

“Humph,” she grumped, taking it. “You ought to be chasing one of those pretty young things, not an old woman like me.”

Richard did not think it polite to tell her that the very reason he was talking to her was to avoid the pretty young things.

It was a rich dinner, and a dull one. At the table, Richard found himself at last introduced to Miss Oliver, who sat on his left and was so very pretty and scantily dressed that he hardly dared look at her for fear of being unable to control his eyes. This forced him to give more than fair attention to the young lady on his right, the equally pretty but more decently dressed Lady Eliza Handleby, who pressed her advantage by heartily agreeing with every phrase Richard uttered, no matter how inane.

It was a surprise to Richard to realize that he was squeezed between the two prettiest girls in the room, and not entirely a pleasant one; he had to talk to them, or at least to Lady Eliza, which was hard on him, and he could have appreciated their looks more if they had been seated directly opposite. But it proved to him one thing: if Brocket intended to match his daughter, it was not to Richard. Rather, Richard thought he had been invited as a distraction for Lady Laura’s rivals.

Running his eyes around the table, he picked out the men he suspected might be candidates for Laura’s hand. Each had position and could provide powerful connections to Lord Brocket. Each was seated between old or unavailable women. And each was saddled with the blackest of reputations.

Lord Denbury had abandoned his own mother to a poorhouse. Sir Frederick was widely known to be a spendthrift and gambler. Lord Yardly had at least three mistresses, in three separate townhouses in London. And Giles Fordham, seated in place of honour next to Brocket himself…

Across the table, their eyes met. Fordham’s expression was cold and hateful, his jaw set, his eyes narrow. He knew Richard. He recognized him. Of course he did. How many other men in London had such a limp?

Richard dropped his knife on his plate and turned hastily to Lady Eliza.

“What do you think of the fish?”

“But what do you think of it?” she hedged. “I’m sure you must know better than me.”

“As you can see, I haven’t tried it yet,” Richard said. “Is it worth the eating?”

“Oh…” She looked horrified to be asked so direct a question, and he felt almost sorry for intimidating her. She could not be much more than sixteen, and her family needed her to make a good marriage. “Oh… Um…”

“I take it I should pass on the fish,” he said, and relief flooded her face.

“Yes, yes, indeed, I think that a very good decision, my lord.”

He smiled at her to ease her anxiety, and pityingly gave her some more opinions to agree with. When he next dared turn around, Fordham was deep in conversation with Lord Brocket and would not meet his eyes.

After port, when the men returned to the women in the salon, Richard sought out Miss Dalrymple again, but she was deeply involved in a game of cards and shooed him away. Richard had no other escape. He stood in aimless conversation with Lady Eliza and Miss Oliver, painfully aware that he was boring them and wishing they would go away. At last, a young woman at the other end of the room proclaimed a violent desire to dance and called for music.

Brocket demurred: he had no musicians. Richard suspected he had no intention of allowing a dance if Laura could not join it. But Miss Dalrymple, who had been losing at cards, offered instantly her arthritic fingers to the cause and was seated at the piano before Brocket could stop her.

Music soon filled the room, space was cleared, and some eight or nine couples began to dance. Lady Eliza accepted Sir Frederick’s hand and went off with him. Miss Oliver looked wistfully at Richard. He tapped his cane against his knee and even felt a little sorry for her.

“I’m afraid I can’t dance.”

“It’s no matter,” she said, though her face fell. “I prefer conversation.”

But Richard could not supply it, and when Lord Yardly approached her a moment later, she went off without a backward glance.

Abandoned, alone, Richard took the chance to slip unseen out of the salon and across the hall to Lord Brocket’s library.

There was a fire inside, but the room was otherwise unlit. After the glittering salon, Richard was almost blinded for a moment. He felt his way to the shadows of the bookcases before he heard a faint noise and realized he was not alone.

He stared at the vague silhouette on the sofa. His eyes became used to the light, and he recognized her.

“Lady Laura.” He inclined slightly over his cane. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to intrude.”

“Well.” She barely moved. “You are.”

He would have left. Later, he told himself he should have. But it had been several years since he had last seen her, not since well before her scandalous elopement. And as his eyes grew used to the light, he found it interesting to examine her face and see how it had changed. She had always been beautiful. But there was something sharp and hard in her beauty now, like beneath the soft flesh she was turning to stone. Beneath her hands. Her lips. Her eyes.

He wondered what had changed her, and wondering it, could not leave until he knew. He abandoned the bookshelves and lowered himself to the couch opposite.

“Yes. I am. How do you do?”

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A/N: And Richard returns. This scene takes place about two or three months after the epilogue of Lady in Rags .

Chapter Two: Leave Me Alone

Laura felt a surge of anger as Richard— no, he was Lord Albroke now —sat down. Then her last night of freedom was to be stolen — and by Richard .

It was three or four years since she had last seen him. She had known him all her life, but after her coming out they had come across each other only at rare intervals. An opera in London. A drive in the Park. Jane Gardiner’s wedding. Lady Harriet’s birthday. And a few other scattered, chance moments. She had never sought him out, but nor did she avoid him when she saw him. At each meeting she had marked the passage of years by a new line scored across his brow, a new grey hair, a new scar, and amused herself by imaging what might have caused them.

It disconcerted her now that he seemed rather younger than when she had seen him last. There was something… lighter about him. Softer. Calmer. Perhaps it was just by comparison; she felt heavier and harder and stormier inside than ever before.

All she wanted was for him to go away and leave her alone. It was the last night of her full mourning, a year and day after her husband’s death, and it had not been a pleasant one yet. Her father’s quiet dinner party had turned out to be more of a ball. Knowing his intentions to launch her into society again, to dangle her in front of the men he wanted her to marry, she had refused to go. He had shouted. She had slapped him. And run away to hide in the stables where he and his servants would not find her. Now that she had dared sneak back indoors for the warmth of a fire, all she wished for was solitude and silence.

But no. Richard would stay. Richard would speak.

“My condolences, on your loss,” he said, in the stiff, pompous manner Laura remembered so well.

She bowed her head a moment. “I thank you, my lord.”

“It must have been hard. You weren’t married long.”

Every day had felt like forever. She shrugged.

But still Richard would not get the hint. He pressed her, anxiously,

“Your father said you were ill? I hope your health—”

“Oh pray spare me your good manners,” snapped Laura. “I don’t want them.”

He jumped as though he’d been bitten. “I — I apologize.”

“And there you go again,” she said. “Can’t you ever think of something interesting to say?”

He was silent. After a while he said irritably, “You make it rather hard!”

“I came here to be alone,” she said.

“And I told you I’m intruding.”

“And I wish you wouldn’t.” She turned her face to the fire and wrapped her arms around herself. She had been outside for hours and was half-frozen, but there was no fire in her room tonight — her father’s vengeance for the slap. She shivered slightly.

Richard must have seen the motion. “Are you unwell? Should I call for a maid?”

“No! I don’t want my father knowing I’m inside.” For a moment, there was almost plaintiveness in her voice. She corrected it. “All men are a pestilence. Leave me alone.”

But the words, Leave me alone, cannot be other than plaintive, no matter how sharp the tongue, and Richard did not move.

“Is something the matter? Is there something I can do?”

She almost laughed. “When did you become so kind, my lord?”

Richard stiffened. “I mean—I’m only— you mustn’t think me unconcerned. You do not look very well.”

“I’m not unwell. And I thank you for your kind appraisal of my appearance. As it happens, I am only ugly.”

“You do your best to twist concern into an insult!”

“It is.” Annoyed, Laura slipped to the floor and sat down on the rug in front of the fire, for the warmth, and to put distance between Richard and herself. “I don’t want concern. I don’t want pity. I don’t like them.”

There was silence for some time, but Richard did not go away. After a while, Laura grew used to him. He wasn’t like other men after all. He didn’t know how to flirt, so when he demanded her attention he did it by no more than awkward silence.

It was she who broke it.

“I’m not going to marry you, Richard. If you’re thinking you can get a head start on the other men my father brought here tonight to woo me…” Her voice was bitter. “Well, you can’t. I’m not going to marry anyone.”

“I’m afraid your father didn’t bring me here for that purpose,” he said drily. “I rather gather he still considers me an inferior match for you. He wishes for me to distract your rivals.”

Laura laughed. “You? But why would they be distracted by you? Oh, your title I suppose, but you’re… well.” She hesitated to point out his deformed leg and limp. “But still.”

But she hadn’t offended him. He only smiled. “You can see I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

For a moment, she almost smiled back. She turned her face to the flames instead.

But he was right. Her father never had considered Richard a suitable match, despite his title. Her father had always wished for Richard’s younger brother to marry her. And, as Neil was handsomer, taller, younger, and generally more pleasant, she had been almost willing to agree with her father on the matter.

“Why did my father never consider you?” she asked idly.

“I suppose he thought me too proper.”

“No. It must have been something dreadful.” She gasped. “Oh. You’re not— you don’t—”

“Don’t?”

“…Like men?”

“I do not!”

She turned around, pleased to see him blushing. “But what else could it have been? For you are the elder, and the superior match, and yet he never considered it.”

“I…”

“I shall not condemn you,” she added. “And you never did marry. It does make sense, doesn’t it? Oh, I never guessed, Richard. I am glad my father had the sense at least to—”

“Stop it, please.”

Again, she turned around, and this time felt faintly guilty to see the pained look on his face. But it was beyond her to say sorry, so she merely turned away again and hated Richard for making her feel guilty. Hated her father, too, because she needed no excuse for that.

“It’s because I can’t have children.”

He spoke softly but she jumped anyway. Hot shame swelled through her, followed by hotter anger.

“Your father and mine hoped for our families to be united by a child. So I was not suitable.”

She ought to say sorry. She knew she ought. She had been rude, as usual. But she didn’t want to. She hated saying sorry.

Richard continued, “For that, I will never be suitable, in your father’s eyes. So you need not fear me as a suitor.”

“I don’t fear anyone,” she grumbled.

It was growing too hot by the fire. Her cheeks were burning. She shifted away, sat back on the couch, the same one as Richard this time. With disinterested curiosity, she eyed his figure. It wasn’t bad. To be sure, he was short, but he was trim, neat. Perhaps more handsome at thirty-five than twenty-five, for around him, other men, once young and handsome, were growing fat or florid or jaundiced, and set him off by comparison. And his features, a little bony, his eyes that strange, too pale brown, but not unpleasant by any means. With his title and wealth, he could have found a beauty content to believe herself in love with him.

“You still could have married though. Anyone you chose. Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged, and she knew instinctively there was a reason.

“But do tell me. Even you, my lord, must want for company at times.”

“Not really.”

“But don’t we all?” She curled back her upper lip. Company in one degree she wanted. Mr Maidstone had always been gentle in bed. She had been surprised, in the months after his death, to want for that. To want for it, and have no way of getting it, without making the marriage she planned never to make.

“ I do not.“

“Liar.” She shifted closer. “Those girls in the other room, they’re pretty, aren’t they?”

“Very. And young. Very young.”

“You’re not so old.” She raked her eyes over his face. Yes. It seemed younger, less lined, than when she had last seen it. Freer of cares. “You might marry one of them you know. Both of you might be very happy.”

“I do not think any of those women could make me happy.”

She laughed at his pomposity. “What about me?”

He stiffened. She walked her fingers over to his coat sleeve and played with it.

“What about me, Rich? Could I make you happy?”

“Madame, are you trying to seduce me?”

She laughed again. “Not exactly. I’m just wondering when last it was you dared flirt with a woman. Dared do more.” She skimmed her fingers over the back of his knuckles. “I see things differently now I’ve been married. When you’re a virgin you don’t know what it is to want it. Now I know, and I want. And I want to know how it is you can sit there saying you don’t want.”

Richard squared his stick on the floor and levered himself to his feet. “I should be getting back to the others.”

She rose after him, took his wrist. “Richard.”

He turned. He was short enough not to be able to look down at her — not more than two inches anyway — but there was something withering in his scorn. Something withering, and intriguing.

“Is it that you’ve never done it?” she asked softly. “Have you never been with a woman?”

“Have some self-respect, Laura.”

“Kiss me,” she said. “Go on. I don’t believe you’ve ever done it.”

“I’ve nothing to prove to you, Laura,” he said coldly.

“Really?” She ran her hand up his coat, feeling the warmth of his body though the fabric, until she came to his chin and brushed his lips with her finger. “Damn it. I almost even want you to kiss me.”

He took her wrist and moved it away. “Are you drunk?”

“No. But you’re too sober.” She twisted her hand around so that she held his. “Tell me, Rich, do you ever steal kisses in darkened rooms? Do you ever warm that cold voice of yours to whisper sweet nothings in another’s ear? Or are you dust and mud and dried all through?”

She was leaning close, hardly sure now if she was merely teasing him or truly flirting. A rapid warmth had stolen over her when he had taken her wrist. What a waste it had been — from fifteen to twenty-five, locked away, unable to kiss, to touch, to love, unable to even smile at a man without her father’s approval. And then those two awful years with Mr Maidstone. Awful, but for the nights she spent in his bed. And now, back to lonely purgatory, until some other man would take her from her father, torment her in the daylight hours, and, if she was lucky, give her something to make up for it at night.

Richard’s thumb had been gently rubbing back and forth on the back of her hand. She didn’t think he was even aware of it. His eyes were still cold upon hers.

“Have you ever been with a woman you didn’t have to pay?” she whispered.

“No.” Something hot and angry came into his eyes. “I haven’t.”

And he kissed her. A hot, angry kiss. His stick clattered to the floor as he pulled her against him. She hadn’t realized how strong he was — small for a man, but still with a man’s strength. For a moment, she couldn’t have drawn back if she wanted to.

But she didn’t want to.

She clutched at his coat lapels, a strange aliveness blooming through her. He bit her bottom lip and withdrew, but kept his grip on her waist. She could see his pulse beating in his neck, rapid and heavy. She knew now she wasn’t teasing him. She wouldn’t have dared, not when he had that look in his eyes. Hungry and angry and lonely. The very mirror of her soul.

Wordlessly, unanimously, they decided.

Anyone would have done perhaps. For either of them. One of those stupid young women in the drawing room for Richard. One of those stupid young men for her. But Richard was the one there. To pull her against him. To press his lips hotly to her neck. To sink down on the couch after her. To fumble at her dress. To bite her bared shoulder. To fill the aching need within her. To fall breathless on top of her.

She ran shaking fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. His head rested on her chest, his breath arcing over the breast he had bared.

Her first rational thought was that she didn’t feel guilty at all. No. She stroked his neck as he shifted to a more comfortable position. She felt only… relieved. Like she’d stretched after sitting for too long in the same position.

He spoke into her hair.

“We ought not have—”

“Don’t regain your manners here, my lord,” she interrupted. “The bedroom is no place for manners.”

“I can’t help but notice this is a library.”

She bit off her peal of laughter. The music had died outside, and they might be discovered if they were too loud.

“Laura, I must offer—”

“Don’t.” She placed a hand over his lips. “Don’t. Richard, can’t you see? I don’t wish to marry — never again.” Tears rose to her eyes, but he must have thought the tremble in her voice was for her husband.

“I’m sorry. It has not been long.”

She let it pass. Their intimacy had not made her stupid. She could not trust Richard with that secret.

Recovering now, her thoughts took a more usual track. Her father. She smiled to herself.

“But my father would be furious if he knew,” she said, not hiding her smile, her anger.

Richard raised his head. “What?”

“That— well you said yourself, he has no wish for me to marry you. Certainly not… for this. In his own library. At a ball where I’m to marry Lord Someone or Sir Moneybags.”

“Did you…” Richard frowned. “Did you seduce me only to anger your father?”

He sat up, began to arrange his disordered clothing.

“But no!” Her voice rose. “That—”

There was a sound outside. They looked at each other in panic.

“That way,” she whispered, pointing at the door to her father’s study. “Get dressed in there.”

She ran to grab his stick from where it had fallen and gave it to him. He hastily limped off. As the study door shut, as she pulled her dress to rights, the door to the hall opened. Miss Dalrymple peered in.

Laura sighed in relief. A woman so old could not have sharp eyesight surely.

“Is Lord Albroke here?” Miss Dalrymple enquired. “I thought I heard his voice.”

“He, um, has just gone, Miss Dalrymple.”

“Ah.” The old woman came into the room, swinging her overfull, lumpy reticule. “He’s quick on his feet when he wants to be, isn’t he?”

“He had to— um. Consult his coachman.”

“Such inconvenient timing.” Miss Dalrymple idly picked up an unlit candle from a table and slipped it into her reticule. “I wished to say goodbye before I went home.”

“I am sure he will not be long. May I have that candle, Miss Dalrymple?”

“Oh.” Miss Dalrymple looked down. “Silly me. Always picking things up without realizing.” She handed it rather reluctantly to Laura. “But still, I am rather surprised by his lordship. He said he was not in the race, and here I find he’s already won it.”

“Won what?” Laura asked.

“But I would have my money on his pony anyway.” Miss Dalrymple looked abstractly around the library. “Oh dear, those couch cushions are all rumpled. Your servants must be disgracefully slovenly.”

Blood rushed to Laura’s cheeks. “Yes. Yes, it’s dreadfully hard to find good servants these days.”

Miss Dalrymple smiled brightly at her. “Well well, goodnight, my lady. I shall be off now.”

She was gone, leaving Laura to straighten the cushions and steady her beating heart.

–

A/N: I’m trying to keep it vague enough to still be within Wattpad’s non-mature content guidelines. If you read Lady in Rags, you’ll begin to understand now that Laura is a very different kind of heroine to Verity.

Chapter Three: The Only Decent Thing

Richard rearranged his clothing in the dark study and waited until his heartbeat subsided and the heat in his cheeks had cooled. Then, reluctantly, he returned the other way to the salon where the dancing was over and people were settled round in clusters talking in low voices or playing cards.

There was no opportunity the rest of the night for him to think about what he had done. He was too busy pretending to be sociable and friendly, so as not to draw suspicion to his long absence. Had he known it, there was nothing he could have done to draw less suspicion to himself; he was so habitually brusque to even his closest friends that his sudden change of temper left everyone he talked to in deep confusion. But Lord Brocket didn’t have the imagination to light upon the truth of Richard’s absence, and no one else cared enough about him to wonder at it.

It wasn’t until the next morning, waking in his own bed, that Richard had the solitude and peace of mind to reflect on it. He lay, staring at the ceiling, and cast his mind back over last night with shock and— he tried to squash it, but it was certainly there —pleasure. The image of Laura’s flushed face and bared breast rose up before him and he blinked it away. The ghostly sensation of her heart beating against his cheek teased him, and he wiped his cheek hastily. The smell of her hair—the sound of her suppressed moans— My father would be furious if he knew.

He kicked himself hastily out of bed and went to the window, where a cool chill was echoing off the glass. Outside, it was raining, and his estate was blurred into streaks of grey and green.

Her bitten off laughter echoed in his ears, and for a moment he thought he felt the tensing of her fingers against his back. He shook himself. Pathetic. That he should be so effected by a woman whose only true desire was to defy her father. That he should be so wanton as to have done such a thing in the first place.

And the only decent thing to do now was marry her.

He watched the rain flood down in sheets and toyed with the idea. Years ago, he had seriously attempted to find himself a bride and been unsuccessful. Not even his wealth and title could convince one of the women he approved of to marry him. As years had passed, he had given up on the idea, withdrawn further into his own company. And then, unexpectedly as an earthquake, he’d fallen in love… with his younger brother’s wife.

At one time (it may have been as recent as the previous evening) he had believed that this unrequited love meant that he would never marry, that there was no point. His mésalliance last night had thrown into sharp relief a certain absence in his life — an absence which could filled by others than Verity.

A pleasant daydream rose up before him, in which the empty, echoing hallways of his house were filled by a pleasant, soft voice; in which his coffee was poured by fair, gentle hands; in which he fell asleep at night to the lullaby of a woman’s breathing.

My father would be furious if he knew.

The dream shattered. There would be no companionship with Laura, even if she had given him pleasure. She was not an unknown quantity on which he could build a daydream. He had known her forever. Even as a little girl, she had been bad tempered, cutting, and cruel. And now, grown woman as she was, unlikely to change, he would be scarred again and again by her vicious wit, her cynical heart, her spiteful mind.

And the only decent thing to do was marry her anyway.

For several days, Richard wrestled uneasily with his conscience on the issue. He was not an unscrupulous man. Rather, he was ruled by a set of principles so strict they could almost be called prudish. They had always forbade him from indulging in the sorts of foibles so common to the upper class gentlemen who could have anything they wanted for the taking. Now, they compelled him to make Laura an offer of marriage, which he had no doubt, in the cold light of morning, she would accept. But the more he considered marrying Laura, the more he realized how unhappy she would make him. Even that night, as she had seduced him, she had done so with words that wounded.

And, he told himself, it’s not as though I’m the one who seduced…

He was accustomed, in December, to spending two or three weeks at his brother’s place in Cumbria. The night before his departure, he sat alone after dinner in his dining room, sipping port. It was a large dining room, almost cavernously so, and seemed larger tonight, with the curtains shut tightly against the darkness outside, and the few candles giving such dim light that the far end of the room faded into shadows. Portraits of long-dead ancestors glowered down at him from the blood-red walls.

“Gloomy, isn’t it?” Richard remarked to himself. “Needs some light. Some air. A woman’s touch.”

The walls did not answer back, and the portraits of his ancestors looked down sternly, as though they did not approve this levity.

“And she’d do a good job of it, too,” he mused, holding his port up to the light and watching it glint. “She’s clever.”

A footman stepped into the room. “Did you call, my lord?”

Richard started, blushing almost the colour of his wine. “No—but wait. Tell Thomas to saddle my— no, tell him to get the curricle ready. I have urgent business with Lord Brocket.”

The footman was taken aback. “But you leave for Cumbria at dawn, my lord. You won’t be back from Leamont until past midnight if you leave now.”

Richard was already rising, leaving his port unfinished on the table. “No matter. I can sleep in the coach. This business must be done.”

Done, he thought, though he still didn’t know what he was going to do about it. He only knew that he could not go off to Cumbria before he knew, and if there was one thing that would decide him, it would be talking to Laura herself.

It was past nine when he arrived and most of the house was in darkness, but Lord Brocket kept late hours and was reading the newspapers in his study when Richard was sent in. He set down The Times as Richard entered.

“Well this is a surprise.”

“My Lord.” Richard seated himself in an arm chair and suddenly realized that he had not thought to come up with an excuse for the visit. The truth would hardly suffice. Lord Brocket could certainly not find out about the incident in his library. “I suppose it is. I hardly knew I was coming until I was here.”

“And why have you come?” Brocket stood. “Sherry?”

“Thank you.” Richard waited while Brocket poured the drinks and brought one over to him. When Brocket was back behind his desk, he said, “Actually, my lord… I think we need to have a conversation.”

Lord Brocket raised his eyebrows. “This sounds dire.”

“A little.” Richard sipped sherry, trying to play for time. Then it came to him. “I hope you’ll forgive me for what you may see as interfering behaviour, but I believe… I believe I may have some information of value to you.”

“About?”

“But first I must know… there are rumours you are trying to … help your daughter find a husband?”

“What use is a woman without one?” Lord Brocket gave a thin smile. “She wounded me greatly, Richard, when she ran away with Mr Maidstone. I don’t think I ever expressed my grief to you.”

“It was not a matter I thought fit to speak of.”

Lord Brocket put his unsipped sherry down on the desk. “No. It was a delicate time, for all of us.”

Indeed, three years ago, Richard’s father had first started getting sick, at a time when he was so estranged from his other son, Neil, that the burden of care had fallen almost entirely on Richard’s shoulders. Lady Laura’s sudden elopement with a wealthy businessman had appeared to Richard as a very distant and unimportant bit of gossip.

“She was very ungrateful, to oppose my wishes, to run away with a cit .” Brocket sneered. “She did it just to spite me, did you know?”

“I did not.”

“Oh yes.” Brocket picked up his sherry to swirl it in the glass but still did not drink. “It was the only reason she did it. If I had approved Mr Maidstone, she would have scorned him.”

“She does have a… stubborn nature.” Reluctantly, Richard admitted to himself that, even if it had not been her primary motivator, Laura would have found a savage pleasure in flouting her father’s rule so publicly. “But, my lord, do tell me, you wish to find her a new husband, now she is a widow?”

“Certainly.” Again, Lord Brocket put his sherry down untasted. “She is my only daughter. I must see her situated well.”

“It’s on that matter I came here.” Richard looked at the clock. “I suppose she’ll still be awake. Can we call her down?”

“She is not at home,” Lord Brocket said, with a regretful shrug. “And I must say, Richard, if you intend to put yourself forward, well…”

“I’m not good enough?” Richard suppressed a smile.

“She would dearly like a child,” Lord Brocket said, bowing his head. “She has confessed as much. She still grieves for the one she lost.”

“She lost a baby?”

“Not a year into her marriage.”

Richard hadn’t known that. He thought he understood now, some of the new bitterness that seemed to lie under Laura’s flesh, and felt an instinctive rush of sympathy for her. But he was not naive enough to believe it was for her happiness that Brocket wanted Laura to marry. Brocket’s wishes only ever served his own ends.

“That’s very sad. Very sad for her. But…” Richard had an instinct. “It’s not to put myself forward that I came here. The men I saw at your dinner… I believe there is a certain complaint about one of them that Laura should hear. Something perhaps only I can tell her.” And that was true enough, Richard thought. It was fair to warn her of Fordham’s true character. And it would give him the chance to speak to her, and understand his own feelings. “When does she return?”

But Lord Brocket shook his head. “I can’t imagine until nearly dawn. And she will be out tomorrow afternoon too. Whatever you have to say, I will pass it on to her if it is important. Who is the complaint about?”

“Mr Fordham,” Richard said bluntly.

Lord Brocket met Richard’s eyes levelly. “Giles Fordham?”

“Indeed.”

Lord Brocket’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’d best tell me what it is then.”

Richard had no alternative but to go on with it. He could see Lord Brocket had no intention of letting him see Laura tonight, or telling him where she was. He always had been controlling, but Richard wondered if he could possibly suspect even part of what had really gone in the library next door. Certainly not the whole of it, or he would not be so genial now, but there was something more than the usual cynicism in his eyes.

Richard cleared his throat uneasily. “You know that he has spent the past fifteen years in India.”

“Yes. I believe he has.”

“Do you know why?”

Brocket paused. In the silence, the clock over the fireplace gave a loud tock. “Yes. I do.”

Richard was stunned. “And you… would allow a man like that the chance to marry Laura? That sort of — evil?”

“He was young then,” Brocket said calmly. “It was a mistake. He is not so careless now.”

But it had not been a mistake. It had not been carelessness. It had been much worse that that. Richard stared aghast at Brocket and wondered how on earth he could be so calm.

“I am not concerned about Fordham.” Brocket drunk his sherry at last, in one gulp. “If that is all you came for, then… I think you may consider her warned.”

Richard wondered if Brocket would tell Laura. If Brocket even knew the whole of the sordid mess. Surely, if he did, he would not be so cavalier about it. Not even Brocket. But unless Richard could see Laura to warn her himself, there was nothing he could do about it. At least she’s not likely to marry him, he thought in relief; she had been certain she did not want to marry anybody.

“Then I see I have made a long journey to little purpose,” Richard said slowly. “And I apologise for bothering you.”

“A welcome distraction,” Lord Brocket said blandly, rising to his feet as Richard stood. “You won’t stay a little longer?”

“I’ve a long journey tomorrow. I’ll be late as is.” Richard nodded at Brocket. “I thank you for the sherry. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Lord Brocket did not follow him out, and Richard waited for his carriage in the hall alone. While he waited, he noticed, for the first time in years, the life-size portrait of Laura hanging up on the wall over the stairs. It had been done ten years ago by a prominent London painter, when she was a debutante of seventeen. She stood in a white, high-waisted gown, with a black sash around her waist, blowing in an imaginary breeze. Her head was tilted back slightly, a smile on her lips. But it was a cold smile, and the eyes above it looked bitter. Indeed, Richard thought, it was more of a grimace. She looked bad-tempered, beautiful, and unruly.

An accurate portrait, in fact.

My father would be furious if he knew.

The suspicion that he had been used only to spite her father sharpened into sudden certainty. It cut deep. And even before then, had she not been cruel to him? What they had done was wrong. And if she had been a virgin, or if there might have been a child out of it, then he would have had no choice but to accept the consequences of it and marry her. But she had not been a virgin. There would be no child. And no one knew about it but themselves.

There didn’t have to be any consequences.

He turned his back on the portrait and left, decided at last to have nothing more to do with Laura Maidstone. And the portrait watched him go, still laughing, still mocking.

–

A/N: My glasses prescription is out of date and everything is blurry and soft. Do we have typos? I’m sure we do! Did Richard make a mistake? I’m sure he couldn’t possibly!

Chapter Four: Choice

The attic window looked out over the side of the house, so Laura could not see the carriage arrive or leave, but she heard it, and wondered who it was who called so late on a night when her father was not entertaining.

Curiously, futilely, she opened the window and peered out over the short drop of slate tiled roof. It was dark outside, but the moon had appeared through the thinning clouds and cast a faint, grim light over the garden below. There was not much of it: a bleak square of mud enclosed by a brick wall and black pines, and just beyond, the tip of the stable roof, damp and gleaming with rain. From around the corner of the house, the sounds of the carriage and horses faded slowly away.

Laura sighed and shut the window but the view within the narrow, whitewashed room was little better. The narrow wooden bed against the wall took up most of the space. Crammed between the bed and the wall were a rickety wash-stand, a small square table, and a chair. On the table lay the tray of her half-eaten supper, and on the wash stand a jug of water and an empty china bowl. Beneath her feet, a strip of oil-cloth made a slatternly attempt to cover the splintering floorboards in front of the door. But other than those scant articles, and Laura, the room was completely empty.

The boredom was the worst part of it. For six days now, she had had nothing to do but sit on the bed, or in the chair, or at the window. Meals were a luxury, not for the food, but for the diversion. Thrice a day, for a minute or more, she got to see the face of another living human being, to speak a word or two, and be spoken to.

And once a day, her father opened the door, sneered in, and asked her if she was ready to come out yet.

If he hadn’t given her a choice, she would have bullied the stupid maid servants to let her escape and fled his house. But he had given her a choice: attend his dinners and have her freedom, or attend nothing and be locked in the attic. It was slighter punishment than she had expected, on seeing him the morning after she had slapped him and fled the house — but she understood why soon enough. It was no choice at all really, for there was no freedom in marriage, and marriage was what his dinners and balls and soirees would lead to. Her only true choice was of where she would like her imprisonment to be: a father’s cold attic, or a husband’s cold mercy.

She preferred the attic.

There was a heavy footstep in the hall outside and then the sound of the key in the lock, and the door opened. Laura turned her head dispassionately. The maid had come to collect the supper tray. In the doorway behind her stood Lord Brocket. Laura wondered why he had come; he had already visited her once today.

The maid ducked into the room and snatched up the tray, so hastily she almost spilled the wine.

“Careless!” Laura said chidingly. “Now don’t take that away. I’m still going to drink it.”

She slipped off the window sill and seized the carafe and wine glass. She was not normally overfond of drink, but she knew how her father hated a drunk woman. And besides, there was nothing else to do in here.

“Yes, my lady, sorry, my lady,” the maid muttered, bowing her head. She backed out of the room, carrying the tray with the remains of a poussin, winter greens, bread, and baked chestnuts. They weren’t starving her; she’d have a hard time finding a husband with hollow cheeks and bony shoulders. Laura met her father’s eyes and poured herself a generous glass of wine.

“I’d wish you good evening but in truth I hope it’s terrible,” she said cheerfully.

“It was not superb,” her father said drily. He remained in the doorway, planted squarely on his two feet. “How long will you persist in this stubbornness?”

“I have made my decision, Father. I will not remarry.”

“Hmph.”

But her father didn’t leave. He stood there, watching her drink. She let the wine trickle down her throat and felt its buzz rush over her. She never had been a heavy drinker, and the wine was strong.

She had just taken another sip when her father spoke again:

“Lord Albroke paid a call.”

She swallowed without tasting. A strange fear pulsed through her, and she stared at the wine glass to avoid meeting her father’s eyes. She was sure her secret was suddenly written naked on her face for the reading.

“He asked about you.”

She drank more wine, her head spinning slightly. Had Richard given it away? But no, he was too much a gentleman to kiss and tell. And if she lost her composure now, her father might begin to suspect something. She looked up, forcing a smile to her face.

“And what did you tell him?” she asked.

“That you were out.” Her father narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a fool. It was you he came to see. Asked about you the night of the dinner too. I’ve an idea he thinks of marrying you.”

“And that displeases you?” Laura drained the glass with a grimace. She didn’t want to marry Richard any more than she wanted to marry anyone else.

“It’s not to my plan.”

“I’m surprised.” She looked at her father out of the corner of her eyes. “He outranks you by five degrees, father, and if he’s not as wealthy as you, he’s certainly wealthier than… whose ball did I not attend last night? Lord Denbury’s?”

“Sir Frederick’s.”

“And why is Richard Armiger — sorry, Lord Albroke — less worthy than Sir Frederick? I can’t fathom your reasoning.”

She knew, of course. She was her father’s only child, and he wanted his line to continue through her. He would never allow her to marry a man who could not have children.

“I’ve known him all his life,” her father said crossly, “and I think you can do better.”

“Alone is better. But Sir Frederick most certainly is not. What is wrong with Lord Armiger?” She played with her wine glass. “I imagine it must be something dreadful, if he’s worse than Sir Frederick. I’ve heard Sir Frederick strangles his mistresses.”

Her father’s eyes went cold and ugly. She knew he didn’t like her talking of such things.

“Sir Frederick keeps his peccadilloes out of sight.”

“Which is all very well and good, if you’ve got them. But I’m quite sure Lord Albroke doesn’t.” Laura reached for the carafe again to pour herself another glass of wine. “Well. Bring him up and let him propose. I’ll enjoy refusing him.”

“I’ve no intention of letting him near you. That family is going to the dogs. They were once a worthwhile connection, but no more.” Her father sneered. “Have you met the woman Neil married? A complete nobody! A love match, Albroke called it. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word!”

Laura wondered what her father’s definition was, but didn’t ask. Either way, the interview seemed to be over. Her father seemed satisfied with her reaction to the news. If he had any suspicions, they were of Richard, not her. He left, locking the door behind him once more.

When Laura finished her meal, she lay on the bed and thought it over. So Richard had called. Had wanted to see her. Did she want to see him?

She shut her eyes and imagined the heat and urgency of his lips pressed against hers. She trailed a finger over her lips, trying to evoke the sensation. Useless, of course.

And if he had seen her tonight, if they had had a moment alone together…

Her heartbeat quickened. It had been good . From the first kiss, to the moment after, when he lay in her arms with the warmth and heaviness of his body pressing down comfortably upon her. Good until she had stupidly said those words. And she knew what she’d do when she saw him again.

Her eyes flew open and she stared at the ceiling.

But she wouldn’t see him again. She would not leave the attic.

She continued to believe it for another eight days. Hour by hour, day by day, she grew more and more frustrated with her confinement. When she was alone, she cast herself into fantasies, drifting from one impossible waking dream to another. But their currents could never keep her submerged long, and she would always surface to find herself staring at the white-washed ceiling and hating it.

When the servants came to bring her meals, she would endeavour to trap them in conversation. As they were servants, and as she had never had the sort of manner that could break down the differences between them, they said very little more than their duties required, and left her lonelier still.

One night, she sat on the windowsill under the light of the full moon and listened to the chatter and noise swelling out from the dining room below. It was a dry, chill night, and she shivered, even wrapped in the blanket from the bed, but she kept the window open anyway, stayed at her place beside it. Her boredom had coalesced into a dull, throbbing anger, but tonight the dullness sharpened. She hated everybody in the dining room below, every servant, every guest, and certainly her father. Hated them for laughing and talking when she could do nothing but sit and listen to the blur of sound their voices made. Hated them for making her want to listen.

Below, a woman gave a shrill, ringing laugh and Laura’s hands tightened into fists. She momentarily lost her balance on the sill and swayed forward over the ridge of tiles. Beneath her, the black hard earth gleamed grey under the moon. Her hands met the sill again, and clutched tightly.

If I fell, she thought distantly, I’d probably die.

If I jumped…

She took in a cold, careful breath of air and tasted it. She had no real wish to die. Life had not been kind to her, not always, but she had no wish to quit it, and certainly not in a painful manner. It was only the thought of her father’s face, his guests screams, as her body hurtled past the dining room window, that made her dwell a moment on the thought, filled with a savage glee.

It was not a serious consideration. It was but another pleasant daydream. But it kept her occupied, shivering in the cold, until at last she emerged from it and realized the chatter had grown silent. The guests must have adjourned to the drawing room on the other side of the house.

She wondered if Richard was there or if her father’s suspicion of him would have kept him from issuing the invitation. Richard might be too useful for her father to avoid him. He was an earl. He had connections, and wealth, and power. If her father thought she wasn’t coming to dinner, he might have risked asking Richard. And if Richard had received an invitation, he would likely have come, for the chance of seeing her again.

And he would want to see her again, she decided. She had no doubt of her own beauty and its effect upon men. Probably, she thought, Richard would be below now. Perhaps in the library, hoping, waiting.

That was another pleasant daydream, broken shortly by the door opening and a maidservant peeping through. She had come for Laura’s supper tray.

“Excuse me, m’lady.”

In a flash, as the door opened, a strange conviction came to Laura that Richard must be in the library downstairs. She slipped down from the windowsill and crossed the room in two strides.

“Oh, m’lady, no!” The maid trotted after her. “It’s not allowed!”

“Go about your business,” ordered Laura. “Go on. Don’t follow me.”

The maid stopped still, wringing her hands at the top of the attic stairs. “But the master said… But… my lady…”

Laura ignored her and trotted quickly down the backstairs to the service passage near her father’s study. Piano music and off-key singing floated distantly through from the drawing room. She ignored it, slipping into her father’s study, and made her way across the room in darkness. There was a glow coming from the crack under the door. Someone was in the library. Her heartbeat quickened. She put her hand to the doorknob.

And then she heard voices from the other side. She froze.

“Do you think something’s wrong with her?” Laura did not recognize the voice, clear, cold, and rather high-pitched but definitely masculine.

“Wasn’t there always?” Laura recognized Sir Frederick’s throaty chuckle.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met her.” There was a pause, and then two or three faint, hollow sounds. “I’ve heard she’s a real bitch, but bitches can be tamed. It’s her health I’m thinking of. Feels like Brocket’s hiding something.”

Laura waited behind the door, her heart pounding in her chest. Two of the men her father wanted her to marry were behind the door — and the way they spoke of her! Her cheeks burned with indignation.

“Brocket’s a crafty type,” Sir Frederick said thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t trust him an inch. And he hasn’t let her be seen in months.” There was another pause, and another hollow, soft clap, which Laura recognized now as a cue striking a billiard ball. It must have gone in, for Sir Frederick continued, “It’s been a year since Maidstone died. Perhaps there’s a baby coming too late to be his. She always was a damned flirt.”

Laura tightened her grip on the door and considered opening it, but a moment’s thought convinced her that it was better to stay and listen — as long as the men would keep talking.

“That can be tamed out of a woman too,” the first voice said coolly. “But he wouldn’t be pressing us to marry her if there was a bastard on the way. Whatever it is, it must be something else. Syphilis, perhaps. Damn. Your turn.”

There was a pause, and again the sound of billiards.

“Are you really interested in marrying her?” Sir Frederick asked.

“I doubt it. I can have any woman I want for the choosing. Why should I choose a sickly, aging widow?” More billiards. “What about you?”

“I don’t mind if she’s a widow, even a sickly one,” Sir Frederick said. “I need money, and Brocket’s got it. Five points. If I get this one in hole it’s a match.” The cue banged, and Sir Frederick swore under his breath. “Not that Miss Prim would ever accept me.”

“And if I get this one, it’s my match,” the other man said.

There was a pause in the conversation for some seconds, and this time Laura didn’t hear the bang of the cue, but knew it had happened when Sir Frederick swore again.

“Thank god we didn’t bet on it,” he said miserably. “And I used to think I was good at this.”

“I’ve told you,” the other man said, “gambling’s a vile habit. If you stopped it, you wouldn’t need Brocket’s money.”

“If I stopped it, I wouldn’t have any money,” Sir Frederick complained. “Well. I’m not up for another. Let’s go back to the ladies. That stupid girl has stopped her caterwauling now.”

There came the sound of footsteps, and then a door opening and closing. Laura stepped softly away from the library door. Her fingers were shaking.

As long as they don’t see me, they’ll say whatever they want, she thought, sinking down upon a chair. Her father couldn’t know what people were saying about her, or he would have forced her into company somehow. If her reputation was truly tarnished — and it had never been snow white to begin with — then all his plans for her marriage would be dust. But who would dare tell him what people were saying about her? No one. Not until it was far too late for the damage to be undone.

And could she bear her reputation to be so sullied? Even to spite her father? There had been enough gossip when she had been married to Maidstone. The irony of his irrational jealousy had been that it caused people to whisper that there must be some truth to his fears. And she had never liked it. Never liked walking into a crowded room and seeing a chorus of raised brows and sidelong looks. Never liked being alone and imagining what people might be saying about her.

The library door opened suddenly, spilling soft candlelight into the study. Laura started to her feet, but it was only her father with the servant maid behind him.

“What are you doing here?” her father demanded, squinting into the dark. “Why did you leave the attic?”

“I felt like it.” Laura glared at him. “Are your guests still here?”

“Yes. And I’ve been forced to abandon them to look for you. Get back to your room.”

“No.”

She slipped past him into the library, where there was a mirror over the fireplace. Her dress was decent enough, even if she had been sleeping in it for two nights, because it was crepe and didn’t show the wrinkles. But her hair was in an untidy braid down her back. She twisted it up into a knot, smoothing back stray hairs, and seized a quill from the desk and threaded it in to hold her hair in place. Her father watched her, his eyes narrow.

“Then you have given up at last?” he asked.

“I never give up.” She stuck another quill in her hair, and hid the tip of the goose feather under a curl. “There. Quite decent. I’ve simply changed my mind.”

“You will marry.”

She would not do that. Could not. She met his eyes in the mirror as she checked her appearance for the last time.

“I’ll go where you please and talk to who you want,” she said, “but I won’t promise you that anyone will want to marry me.” She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “I’m an ageing, sickly widow, don’t you see?”

–

A/N: I forgot I had to post this today! So, I haven’t proof-read. Let me know if there are typos please!

Chapter Five: Mistake

Most of the important families of the district surrounding Leamont were home for the winter, to rest and recuperate from their adventures in Brighton or London or Paris. The first week of her reluctant reentry into society, Laura went to four dinners, a ball, and two afternoon teas. Smiling and listening to people talk wearied her, and she was painfully conscious of the curiosity in people’s sidelong glances at her. A natural curiosity perhaps, as it was the first time in three years that she had seen most of her acquaintances, but an uncomfortable curiosity all the same.

The only person she truly wished to see again was Richard. She knew he was absent through December, knew her father was avoiding his company, but their social circle was so small that, sooner or later, they must meet. And what then?

She tantalized herself by imagining what might happen next time she saw him. It was a particular joy to her, when pretending to listen to one of her suitors, to bend her thoughts instead towards Richard and that night in the library. She could not know how those thoughts made her smile, how much encouragement her unwanted suitors mistakenly took from those smiles, and she was surprised by how warmly Lord Denbury and Lord Yardly received her aloofness.

To Sir Frederick, she was downright cruel. She could not forget that he had called her ‘Miss Prim’. The first time she saw him face to face, she took pleasure in assuring him she did not recognize him now he had grown so old and fat. By the end of the week, he dared not go within earshot of her. Her only regret was that she still did not know the identity of the other man who had been in the library with him, and could not bully that man too.

It was almost February when at last Laura saw Richard again and learned the identity of the other man in the library. Lady Harriet Hunstall was holding a small dinner at her house. Laura went with her father, rather miserably, as Sir Frederick was not to be there and she would have no one to bully. As she entered the drawing room, her expression was gloomy, her brows drawn, her gaze downcast. For that reason, she did not at first see Richard, sitting in a corner talking to Lady Harriet’s middle-aged companion, Miss Wilson. It was only when Lady Harriet flung her arms around Laura and kissed her cheek that Laura’s gaze was forced up, over Lady Harriet’s shoulder, and she found herself staring directly into Richard’s eyes across the room.

Laura’s gloom vanished. Richard, meanwhile, went pale. A sudden quickness of emotion in his face was hidden from Laura as Lady Harriet pushed her back to kiss her on each cheek.

“My darling Lady Laura,” she cried. “It’s been an age! You missed my birthday party — my fortieth, you know.”

It had, in fact, been closer to Lady Harriet’s fiftieth, which Laura well knew, but she said nothing and returned the kiss, tasting the bitterness of rouge on Lady Harriet’s cheek. It gave her the chance to look over Lady Harriet’s shoulder again and seek out Richard’s eye, but he had turned back to Miss Wilson and all Laura got was the dark curls on the back of his head.

“The salon was such a crush, one could hardly move,” Lady Harriet continued blithely. “You should have seen it!”

“I was in mourning,” Laura said, impatient to be done with Lady Harriet. “I could not have come.”

“Of course!” said Lady Harriet. “Your poor husband! I remember I was simply devastated when my Roger passed — and that ten years ago.” A glittering tear rose to Lady Harriet’s eye. “I loved him more than any woman ever did love a man.”

There was no point being offended by Lady Harriet. Her cruelty came from stupidity, not malice. Laura only bit back an angry smile and said a polite nothing in return.

She was lucky, for Lady Harriet transferred her attention to Lord Brocket, kissing each of his cheeks with a smack and allowing Laura to slip away. Laura laughed at the look of horror on her father’s face. It was Lady Harriet’s chief ambition to marry again, despite her dear Roger, and any widower was her hapless victim. In fact, thought Laura, if it hadn’t been that Lord Denbury was to be here tonight, her father wouldn’t have dared come at all.

It was a small party, of six men and six women, and most were already arrived and seated by the fire. Laura ignored them and went to sit by the window with Richard and Miss Wilson. Miss Wilson gave Laura a shy, confused smile, but Richard did not look up from his attentive speech:

“…and a stable three per cent is infinitely better than an unreliable eight per cent. Not that there ever can be complete security. If we take Thorton’s as an example…”

Finances. Of course Richard was the type to give an elderly woman financial advice at a dinner party. And by the frightened, confused look on Miss Wilson’s face, she didn’t understand any of it either.

“Don’t bore the woman, Richard,” Laura interrupted lightly. “Good evening, Miss Wilson.”

Richard turned briefly around, nodded, and then turned back again. “…but I believe the new regulations will continue to improve the safety of our banks and I wouldn’t wish to frighten you from…”

Laura frowned. She had expected Richard to be eager to speak to her, but he was avoiding her as desperately as Sir Frederick did. She did not understand it.

Before she could attempt to get Richard’s attention again, the butler appeared to announce dinner, and the party rose to its feet. As was only polite, the men offered their arms to the women nearest them. Laura turned automatically to Richard, but he had already folded Miss Wilson’s frail arm within his own. Laura turned back around. Her father had been claimed by Lady Harriet, and anyway, it simply wasn’t done to take your own father’s arm. But every other man in the room had already attached himself to a woman, except for one whom Laura had never met before: tall, blond, and — very handsome.

She regained her composure and held her hand out to him with a smile.

“Go on,” she said, “give me your arm. At your age, you ought to know a woman needs a man’s support to brave the dangers of a dining room.”

The room broke out briefly in laughter, and the awkwardness of the moment passed. The blond man went a little pink in the cheeks but bowed silently and came over to take Laura’s arm.

Laura had planned to sit next to Richard at dinner, but as she went first into the room and Miss Wilson last, she ended up instead far down the table from Richard, between the silent blond stranger and Lady Harriet’s pimply nephew. Only when the soup was being served did Laura’s companion speak, in a smooth, cold, rather high-pitched voice, which Laura recognized instantly. He was the man who had been in the library with Sir Frederick.

“I suppose we’d better introduce ourselves, as no one else seems to care to do it for us,” he said. “I am Giles Fordham.”

“And my name is Laura… Maidstone.” She added the last bit only reluctantly.

He nodded once and then turned his attention to his soup. Now that she knew who he was, she looked forward to bullying him, the way she did Sir Frederick, but Fordham did not give her the chance. He talked little, mostly to Lord Brocket across the table. Not that he was cold or cruel to Laura either. No, she was surprised and rather annoyed to find him entirely indifferent to her. What he had said of her in the library must have been true. Her mood turned sour, and she was distinctly surly to the pathetic, pimply nephew on her right. She was not used to being spurned by men, and now it had happened twice in one hour.

After the meal, the women rose to go to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port and cigars. Laura was in a foul mood by then and, making an excuse to Lady Harriet, stalked off to the water-closet beneath the stairs where she sat for a full ten minutes brooding, with her face buried in the nosegay.

She was not done brooding when she left, but her quiet fury had melted to an indignant self-pity, which was much more bearable and perhaps even a little pleasurable. As she made her way back to the drawing room, she heard another door open in the hall and looked back to see Richard hobbling off towards the back terrace, alone.

Laura’s heart beat faster and her self-pity vanished. She made herself sit down with the other women. She forced herself to say some irrelevant words of conversation. But she kept her fan fluttering in front of her face all the while and soon complained of the heat of the fire.

“I’m afraid I need a little air,” she said sweetly, rising and going to the French door that opened out onto the terrace. “Would anyone like to join me?”

The door, as she opened it, let in a gust of chill air that dampened the flames and made every woman shiver.

“I don’t think so, my dear,” Lady Harriet said kindly. “Not that I don’t like to move a little after a meal for the figure but at my age—”

Laura shut the door on her voice.

Outside, the white marble terrace gleamed under the light of the full moon but Richard was no longer on it. Going to the balustrade, Laura saw him slowly pacing the gravel walk below. She slipped down the stairs after him. When her footsteps crunched on the gravel, he turned.

Closed his eyes. Sighed. “I suppose we must talk.”

“Must?” Her voice was loud and sharp in the stillness of the night. She forced herself to speak more softly, lest they attract attention from the house behind. “Why so reluctant, Richard? You were never so reluctant to speak with me before you slept with me!”

He winced, and she felt contrite immediately.

“I don’t mean it — you know how my tongue runs away with me. I don’t like being ignored, you see.”

“I do see,” he said drily.

“Then why have you been ignoring me? And for a dowd like Miss Wilson too!”

“Am I not a dowd myself?” Richard lifted one corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t a smile.

“Why, Richard?” Laura took a step closer. “Why ignore me after… what we did?”

He gave an uneasy shrug.

“Richard. Tell me.” She took another step closer, noting that he made no move to step back. “Is it that you feel guilty? —You have no need. Is it that you didn’t like it? —No, it can’t be that. Is it that you have betrayed another woman? —But you have no other woman to betray.”

She could not prevent the airy, taunting tone from coming into her voice as she said it, and hated herself for the look of hurt it brought to his eyes.

“It’s that I’ve no wish to be a pawn in your vicious games against your father.” He stepped aside, the point of his cane slamming into the gravel. “That I’ve no wish to be your pet whipping boy.”

“But you’re not.” She reached for his hand before he could walk away. “Wait, Richard, please.”

He waited, looking impassively at her. The steadiness of his gaze disconcerted her. It prevented her from saying what she knew she ought, so she said instead, in a breathless rush:

“You’re not my pawn. Come with me, right now. I’ll prove it to you. It’s you I wanted, and want.”

He withdrew his hand from hers. “Laura,” he said, in a low, distant voice, ever more hostile than anger or even hatred, “what we did was a mistake, and I have no intention of repeating it.”

“A mistake,” she echoed, uncomprehending.

“Yes.” His voice softened slightly. “My mistake, as much as yours. I don’t blame you alone. But I will not repeat it.”

She turned around, circled a tiny patch of gravel, trying to understand. It had not been a mistake. To her, it had been the one bright spot in an otherwise black winter. But there was a firmness to his voice that told her she could not persuade him. She turned again to meet his eyes, but there was no weakness in them, no hope of changing his mind.

He held out his arm for her. “Now, let me take you to the drawing room. It must be almost time for coffee, and you are not dressed for the weather.”

Her pride prevented her from taking it. She bit her lip.

“You don’t intend to ever see me again if you can help it, do you?”

“I think it would be prudent,” he said gently.

“Prudent? Well. I admit I value imprudence more.” She laughed back the pricking tears in her eyes. “No, I will not take your arm, my lord. I can walk myself — and better than you.”

She knew only that she could not stay with him a moment more or she would start to cry. And if she started to cry he would no doubt bring out his clumsy, polite kindness, and she would crumble before it.

She was just below the terrace when his footsteps quickened behind her and he caught up with her again. She tried to hurry up the stairs but he grabbed her wrist, pulling her to face him.

“Wait,” he said urgently, leaning very close. “I forgot — there is something I must tell you.”

“Oh, there they are,” Lady Harriet cried above them.

Richard and Laura both jumped. Lady Harriet, Lord Brocket, and Mr Fordham were standing on the terrace above them, starkly illuminated under the clear moon. Just as starkly illuminated, Laura knew, as she and Richard would be — her wrist in his, his head bent to hers. Her heart sunk.

“Ah,” Lady Harriet cried, fluttering her hands excitedly, “but what must you say, Lord Albroke?”

Richard dropped Laura’s wrist abruptly. “It was a private matter.”

Lady Harriet put her hands convincingly over her ears. “Oh. Of course. But we shall not listen. Do not fear us and speak, my lord.”

Lord Brocket gave her a dirty look and then glared at Laura. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Getting some air, Father.” She moved around Richard and went up the stairs. “But I’ve had enough now.”

She drifted back into the drawing room, where the coffee tray had arrived, and foundered somehow on an empty couch. A moment later, Lady Harriet, Mr Fordham, and Lord Brocket returned. Lady Harriet bustled into the room to start an excited, whispered conversation with Miss Wilson, who looked much more interested in this than she had been Richard’s financial talk. Brocket and Fordham stayed by the door a moment, where they had a brief conversation in very low voices. Then Brocket sat down, pointedly far from Laura, and Fordham went to the coffee table.

The door opened and shut once more and Richard came in, not looking at Laura or at anyone at all. He ignored the coffee and went to the furthest corner of the room where he occupied himself by pretending to be interested in the music sheets on top of the piano.

Laura realized that Mr Fordham was standing in front of her, holding two cups of coffee. She took one from him listlessly and did not protest as he sat down next to her. She did not even speak at all, staring into her cooling coffee for some time before she noticed that neither was he. She looked up and saw that Fordham was watching Richard at the piano, his eyes as baleful and unblinking as those of a cat watching a bird.

“Do you — know Lord Albroke, Mr Fordham?”

“I was at Oxford with him.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I hate him.”

–

A/N: this is 24 hours late because it took me AGES to edit. Ages. Things start to move again in this chapter. As always with me, towards a cliff.

Chapter Six: Damp Scandal

There was nothing that could stop Lady Harriet’s tongue once she got her eyes and ears on a juicy bit of gossip, and scarcely had she seen Lady Laura in the embrace of Lord Albroke than the entire country knew about it.

It had been a slow, dull winter for the country, damp weather and damp scandal. A divorce had fizzled out into an informal separation. A baronet’s son had threatened to elope with his mistress, but his parents raised his allowance and he dropped the matter. An actress had reappeared on stage after a nine-month sabbatical, but as her lovers hadn’t a title between them, no one could find it in themselves to care very much about it. Upon this barren ground, the gossip about Lady Laura and Lord Albroke fell like a thunderstorm. Lady Laura already had a reputation for being a spitfire and a flirt, and the fact that Richard had never done anything worth gossipping about before did not make him a less interesting target now. Quite the opposite, in fact: it gave people free rein to imagine whatever dire untruth they wished about him. And the most dire, appealing untruth they could come up with was that he was madly in love with Lady Laura who, like Anne Neville, would not have him — yet.

It was enough to put Lord Brocket in a sour mood for the rest of winter. Even if the gossip were not true, the mere fact that other people believed it threatened to ruin all his plans. There were few men amongst Lord Brocket’s list of prospective husbands who could afford to cross a man of Richard’s connections and influence. Two weeks after the party at Lady Harriet’s, all of Laura’s lovers had faded quietly away from her side.

Then, to Lord Brocket’s pleasant surprise, two things happened: Lord Albroke returned to London early for the year, and Giles Fordham, who had previously never been interested in her, became one of Laura’s strongest admirers.

Lord Brocket questioned neither event, only smiled, and let fate do its work. Smiled though his daughter never did.

It was cold, snowing February morning when things came to a sudden head. Lord Brocket was sitting at his desk in his study, dealing with his correspondence. There was a soft knock at the door, and as he looked up a maid entered, holding her hands behind her back.

“What is it?” he asked sharply, not liking to be disturbed by the staff at his work.

“If you please, my lord, there’s…” the maid blushed. “There’s been a letter, my lord.”

“The post arrived an hour ago.”

“It didn’t come by post.” She came nearer, brought her hands out from behind her, and slipped a letter onto a desk. “A man gave it me by the gate.”

“Which gate?” Lord Brocket eyed the letter, which was unaddressed, but sealed with wax.

The maid blushed red. “The — kitchen gate, my lord.”

She was lying. Lord Brocket eyed her steadily and pieced it together. She had been outside the grounds, no doubt slacking off, perhaps meeting a lover. He would tell the housekeeper to keep an eye on her, likely fire her within the month, but no need to get her guard up now.

“What kind of man?”

“Why, a gentleman’s groom, I should think. He had a sort of manner about him.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“Not much, my lord. Said he’d give me a crown if I gave this here letter to my lady. But I didn’t know as you’d like it, my lord, so I took it straight to you.”

“And did you get your crown?”

“No, my lord.” The maid looked virtuous.

Lord Brocket gave a thin smile. She was lying about that too. A month? She wouldn’t last two more weeks.

He took a crown out of his pocket and passed it gravely to her. “You’ve done very well. Do not tell my lady a word about this. It was right not to take it to her.”

The maid curtsied and left, clutching her coin. Lord Brocket waited until the door was shut before he opened the letter.

Dear Laura,

There was something I meant to tell you on the night of Lady Harriet’s dinner, but we were interrupted before I had the chance. The matter concerned one of the gentlemen your father thinks suitable for you to marry, of whom I have a personal and particular knowledge. Later that night, your behaviour convinced me that I had no cause to worry, that you would not become interested in this man, and that he had not become interested in you. I decided, therefore, to tell you nothing of the matter.

It was not until recently that I heard that since that night, things have been different. The man in question is Giles Fordham. Gossip, reliable gossip, now informs me that he is to be considered the chief amongst your admirers, that your father is doing all he can to commit Fordham to the act, and that you show no reluctance. I cannot know how true are the rumours. Perhaps they are all lies and this warning is unneeded, but on the chance you are seriously considering him in the light of a—

There was a rather large ink-blot here, almost obscuring the next word:

—lover, I believe I must inform you of a secret of which I have long been the uncomfortable, lone possessor.

Fordham and I were at university together, were in the same college, our rooms next to each other. We were not friends.

There was another student at the college, a dependent servitor. I forget his name. Smith, or Jones, or something. Sometimes I even forget his face. He lived in the same college as Fordham and I, and Fordham often availed himself of the privilege to send him on errands or chores. It was to humiliate him, more than anything, for Fordham had his own valet. Fordham was like that.

There was also a woman (I shall not say her name, though I remember it), a family relation to the Dean. She was very pretty and known to all of us. Fordham fell in love with her and she encouraged him. If you will burn this letter, please: she encouraged every handsome student in the college. She was not just Fordham’s lover, but also the Servitor’s lover — I remember his name now, Evans, a Welshman.

Well. Eventually Fordham found out that Evans had been sleeping with her too. He ordered Evans to his room on an excuse, to the light the fire or something, and there thrashed him with a horsewhip. My room was next door. I heard the first lash, and counted the first ten. I thought he would stop then. I told myself that when he did stop, I would go in, and help Evans.

But Fordham did not stop.

I blame myself for waiting so long to interfere. Our rooms were far away from the others, and I don’t think anybody else could hear the man scream. By the time I dared enter Fordham’s room, the floor was covered in Evan’s blood, and he was half-unconscious on the floor. Fordham folded away the whip as I entered. His face was calm, not even a little pink in the cheeks. He asked if Evans’s screams had disturbed me and said if I cared to wait downstairs, he would finish it up. He was politeness itself, and on the floor Evans was dying.

I don’t think Fordham intended to murder him. But I know he didn’t care that it ended that way. His anger was cold and self-righteous. He saw himself as a justified punisher of wrongs, I think. He could not conceive that he himself had been in the wrong.

Fordham used his connection, his privilege, to escape the consequences. Evans’s family was one little old mother with no money and no connections. She had no chance of justice for her son. The woman in the question, if she loved either, could say and do nothing without ruining herself. The Dean was only too happy to keep the incident quiet. It was passed off as a schoolboy duel gone wrong. The sheriff and the magistrates perhaps even believed it. It never reached the assizes.

I could not forget that if I had acted earlier, I might have changed how it ended. Unable to forgive myself, I exerted myself, begged my father to exert himself, and between us we persuaded Lord Farncote to send his son abroad. The Dean did not precisely send Fordham down, but he made it clear that Fordham would not be allowed to return, if ever he did come back to England.

It was fifteen years ago now. I do not dare now publicize the incident, when Fordham and I are the only witnesses now living. However, if his character is yet disguised to you, I hope this may persuade you that he is no man worthy of your hand. Indeed, I would beg you avoid even his friendship, his acquaintance.

Yours, Richard

Lord Brocket pursed his lips and tapped the letter on his desk. He had known a little of the incident, but nothing more than that a scandal had required Farncote to send his youngest son abroad. He had assumed the scandal was a sexual one, for scandals generally were. A hot-blooded murder was different; he had no desire for Laura to be in physical danger. But the element of the account that stood out to him was that it was the male rival Fordham had thrashed, a man of much lower status, practically of the servant class. The woman in the equation seemed to have been left unscathed.

While he was pondering that matter, there was another knock at the door, and Fordham was announced. Brocket folded the letter as his guest sat down.

“Cold weather for a journey,” Brocket remarked.

“I don’t mind the cold. Better than the heat. I’ve had enough of heat to last my lifetime.”

“Ah. India. Did you like it there?”

“Hated it.”

“Then why stay?”

Fordham rubbed his knee. “Oh, you know, the old man and I had a disagreement. Wish we could’ve patched it up before he died but he was stubborn.”

Brocket watched him carefully. He was cold, calm, unperturbed. There was no hint in his eyes of a guilty secret. Brocket got up, went to the fire, and burned the letter, watching the letters shrivel. A fragment floated away from the fire, landed near Fordham’s feet. He picked it up and raised his eyebrows.

“I hope this may persuade you… no man worthy of your hand… A love letter?”

“Indeed.” Lord Brocket took the scrap back and threw it in the grate. An idea came to him. “That fool Albroke sent a secret letter to my daughter this morning. The maid intercepted it, thank god.”

Fordham stiffened. “Then the rumours are true?”

“I suppose it depends which you’ve been listening too. All I know is that Albroke wants Laura more than anything else in the world. He swore as much in his letter, at least.”

Fordham looked closely at Brocket. Then he looked down at his trousers, played with an imaginary speck of dust on his knee.

“I don’t suppose,” Brocket said delicately, “you would regard him in the light of a competitor…?”

“What do you mean?” Fordham looked up sharply. “Him? Compete with me? “

“It seems very odd to me indeed,” Brocket said carelessly, going back to his desk and sinking into his chair. “I don’t think a man would say he could possibly compete with you in anything. But women can have such odd opinions about men, such senseless affections.”

He paused a moment, watching the series of mute, doubting expressions shift across Fordham’s face.

“You see,” Brocket added, “if I can’t find someone better to marry her, I might just let Albroke have his chance to persuade her. And you’re all I’ve got that is better, now that he’s come onto the field and those cowards Denbury and Yardly and Chatfield won’t dare risk stealing a woman he’s halfway fond of. So I’d like to know: are you his competitor, or should I give her up to him?”

Brocket thought he might have laid it on too thick. But it wasn’t his intelligence Fordham was known for. He sat, frowning at his knees for several minutes.

Eventually he said, rather petulantly, “He was going to kiss her at Lady Harriet’s, wasn’t he?”

“I hope she wouldn’t have let him,” Brocket said, genuinely indignant.

“It looked that way,” Fordham said.

There was another silence. Fordham went to the window, where he looked out upon a gently falling snow.

“It really did look like he loved her. And now everybody is saying he does.”

“I can assure you that the letter he wrote her made it quite certain he does,” Brocket said silkily. “The only question is do I give her up to him, or will you save me from having to give her to a sour-faced little cripple?”

Fordham let out an unexpected grunt of laughter. “Sour-faced little cripple! That’s about right!” He became silent again, tracing his finger back and forth on the window sill. “I’d wanted someone younger… but she wears it well. And if he…”

Lord Brocket waited patiently, knowing, by then, that he had won. And after all, the Farncotes were an old family, with good connections, and very respectable, at least as the public thought of them. It was not a bad match, and the grandchildren would surely be very handsome.

“I suppose you ought to write Albroke your own letter,” Fordham said at last. “Tell him he’s poaching on my ground, if he dares write another letter like that again. She’s mine. He wants her, but she’ll be mine.”

There was a very unloverlike satisfaction in Fordham’s voice, but Brocket, who knew exactly where it came from, did not remark on it.

__

A/N: Now we know what Fordham did that was so bad. It’s probably worse than you expected.

Chapter Seven: No Lie

Laura lay on her bed with an unopened book in her hand and stared listlessly at the snow falling outside. She had not thought it possible but she was as bored in her own room, with every luxury of entertainment available, as she had been in the attic, with nothing. It was almost a relief to hear the knock at the door and imagine some trifling servant problem to be solved, but her heart fell as she sat up and saw her father enter.

“What is it?” she said sullenly, falling back down on the mattress.

Her father came to the end of the bed, rested his hands on the bedboard, and stared down at her. She did not like the hint of a smile about his eyes.

“Mr Fordham is waiting downstairs. He wishes to speak with you.”

Laura sighed. She was quite fond of Fordham, when he was silent. When he was silent, he made a pretty picture of masculinity, particularly when propped up against a suitable landscape, such as a roaring fire or a library full of books he had never read. But conversation, when he attempted it, ruined the effect of his good looks. In the company of men, she knew, he could warble at length about whatever manly topic was on offer. But in the company of women his conversation became pedantic and static. His conversation with a woman was confined to three topics: her health, the weather, and Fordham’s Grievances Against the World. As Laura’s health was always good, as the weather was consistently bad, she was, after two weeks of acquaintance with him, more intimate with his every complaint than she ever wished to be. She knew he resented his brother for being the elder and having the title and money that came with it. She knew he had hated India and his father who had sent him there. She knew he had been wronged by his family, even the dead aunt who had left him a fortune. She knew he thought his valet was cheating him and that his new boots pinched his toes.

The one topic on which he had not been forthcoming was his hatred of Richard. Laura had tried to coax the story out of him, but he had fallen back upon a strange reticence. All she knew was that they had been at university together, and that Richard had wronged Fordham somehow. As the world in general seemed to have wronged Fordham, this was not very enlightening.

Laura rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. “Tell him I’m ill.”

“You’re not and I won’t. Now get up and come down.”

Laura twisted again and opened one eye a crack to glare at her father. “Why does that peacock want to talk with me anyway? He never says anything worth listening to anyway.” She buried her face again in the pillow and spoke, muffled, “What a pity it is that all the handsome men are stupid and all the intelligent men are ugly.”

Her father ignored this last bit. “He’s going to ask you to marry him.”

Laura sat up at once, sending a pillow flying. “What!?”

“Yes.” The hint of a smile on her father’s face was threatening to become a grin. “Now, will you go down and talk to him?”

Laura stared at her father. Her heart was drumming against her ribs and a strange terror had lit inside her. Above her bodily feelings, her thoughts ran strangely cold and logical: She could not marry Fordham. Her father would try to force her. She could not persuade her father. She could not reason. She could not refuse. Her only hope was to make Fordham change his mind and leave her alone.

And Fordham, stupid Fordham, could be persuaded, surely?

An electric combination of hope, fear, and a strange, perverse excitement flooded her. She slipped off the bed and went to the mirror to check her appearance. Her dress was rumpled and her hair untidy. But perhaps it was best that way. Fordham was fastidious with his appearance and did not like untidy people. She gave her hair only a cursory pat.

“No argument?” her father boomed behind her, suspiciously.

“I’ve stopped fighting losing battles.” She turned and smiled sweetly at him. “I don’t think he likes me that much, see?”

“Enough to marry you.”

“Likes you enough to consider it,” she retorted. “What a pity it is you men can’t marry each other and leave us women out of your political alliances.” She tucked a curl severely behind an ear and noted with satisfaction that, having stayed up late last night, there were bags under her eyes. Fordham would not be pleased. “Very well. I am coming.”

She was still nervous when she went downstairs and met Fordham in the library, where he was at his best leaning against a bookshelf. He got up when she came in and bowed, the golden curls on top of his head gleaming in the candlelight, for it was snowing too heavily outside today for only natural light.

Lord Brocket had come down with her but he went straight to the door to his study and paused there, with his smile now stretched to make two deeply shadowed crevices either side of his mouth. He rarely smiled, and the effect was eerily like a Venetian mask come to life.

“Now that my daughter is here to keep you company,” he said significantly, “I’ll return to finish my correspondence.”

He left, shutting the door behind him. For a moment, the room was very quiet. Fordham hovered by the books, a rather confused look on his face. Laura decided not to make it easy for him. She went over to the window to look out upon the snow. Behind her, Fordham’s boots squeaked as he moved closer.

“A cold day,” he said.

“It is winter. What else can one expect?”

“But you must feel it.” He stepped forward, until she could feel his breath against the back of her neck. “Aren’t you cold in only that thin shawl?”

She had not expected him to move so soon to physical seduction, and was surprised by how swiftly he closed the distance between them, taking her shoulders in his hands and rubbing them lightly.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately,” he murmured against the back of her neck. “I’ve been thinking I might marry you.”

“It never crossed my mind.”

“But you are too modest.” His fingers tightened, and his grip was suddenly one of restraint, not affection. “Marry me.”

“I think it best not.”

“I’ll persuade you.”

He dropped his lips to her neck. She screwed her eyes shut but her body did not betray her here. No spark of desire lit inside her. Nothing but a cold flame of annoyance that his lips and fingers were so cold against her flesh.

She shook him off. “Enough of that. I won’t marry you.”

He stepped back, a frown marring his high, smooth forehead. “Why not?”

She knew then what she had strongly suspected before: he didn’t love her. Hadn’t even fooled himself into imagining he loved her. There was no sorrow in his face or voice, only confusion and annoyance.

“Because I don’t want to,” she said flatly. “And you don’t want to marry me.”

“Oh yes I do.” He reached out for her hands but she pulled them away. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“We both know that’s nonsense.” She looked at the door to the study and wondered if her father was listening from the other side. “Two months ago, before we had met, I stood behind that door in the dark and listened to you and Sir Frederick have a conversation while you played billiards in this room. I remember it very clearly. ‘I can have any woman I want for the choosing. Why should I choose a sickly, aging widow?’”

Fordham shrugged. “Opinions change.”

“Yours hasn’t. I know very well you don’t care about me. Not one bit. Why on earth, then, do you want to marry me?”

Fordham was quiet for a long time. He even left her and went over to the fire, where he played with a bit of coal that had fallen from the grate, grinding it into pieces on the hearth. She wondered if perhaps she should just leave, but she didn’t think he had accepted her decision yet. At last he said, with something almost of amusement in his voice:

“I suppose I might as well tell you. It won’t change your father’s mind, even if he knows. All he cares about is the marriage contract.”

Laura felt a flicker of fear on hearing the amusement in his voice. She had never before heard him laugh, except the stiff little fake laugh he gave when he was pretending to flirt.

“Go on,” she said warily. “Tell me.”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “ I don’t want you at all. I’m absolutely indifferent.“

“Then go away and leave me in peace.”

“Oh no.” He shook his head and returned from the fire to stand in front of her. He was much taller than her, much broader. It wasn’t something that had ever made her afraid before, but now she stared at his long, heavy hands and realized that if he wanted to hurt her, she would never be able to stop him. “That would ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“Revenge.” He ran his eyes down her figure and then back up. “It’s that gimp Albroke who wants you. Hanging after you at Hunstall’s. Sending you love letters. Doting fool.”

Laura took a step back. “Love letters?”

Fordham ignored her. He was in one of his self-involved tirades again. “That bastard ruined my life. Sent me to hell on earth for fifteen years. Exiled me from the only home I knew and the only woman I ever loved. All for him and his blasted sense of honour. And now he’s in love with you. I thought he might be when I saw you and him in the garden at Hunstall’s. Trying to kiss you, wasn’t he? Soft, sappy look on his face. Seen it before. Can’t imagine what it will look like when I bed you.”

Despite herself, Laura broke out in a gurgle of laughter. Fordham broke off from his tirade abruptly.

“What’s so funny?” he growled.

“You are. You’re a damn fool.” She flung herself down on a couch. “You’ve got to be the stupidest man I’ve ever met.”

Fordham’s face darkened. Laura smiled up at him.

“That’s the pettiest reason for marrying anyone I ever heard,” she said clearly, “so I won’t do it. Know that to begin with. It cannot be done. Know this too: you’ve got it all wrong. Richard is not in love with me.”

“He wants you.”

“He does,” Laura said complacently. “If you looked like me, he’d want you too, Giles darling, and what would you do then?”

Giles scowled. “Don’t think you can put me off. I saw the letter. The sap wants you, and I won’t let him get it. Even if it means marrying you.”

Laura raised her upper lip in disgust. “Even if…? But I told you: I won’t marry you. I won’t marry Richard either, if it makes the pill go down easier. But I can’t imagine you’re very disappointed.”

Fordham stepped forward and stood over her, his bulk blocking out the light. “It’s not you who matters. It’s him. I’m going to take what he wants, and you’re it.”

There was something in his stance that warned Laura that No would not be accepted. She stared up at him, wondering if there were any way to persuade him to give it up at all. And perhaps… there was one.

“It’s too late,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For you to prevent him from having me.” She could not speak louder; her throat wasn’t working properly. “He already has.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s my lover.”

There was a dead silence, so deep she could almost hear the sound of snowflakes falling outside. For one moment, there was a quick motion in his hands and shoulders, and she thought he would hit her, but it was controlled and he stilled again. Then, abruptly, Fordham strode to the door and left, slamming it behind him. A moment later, Laura heard shouting from the hall. Fordham’s voice, and her father’s. She went to the window and waited, feeling strangely numb inside.

The shouting stopped. Fordham appeared on the drive, whipping his horse furiously over the trampled snow. Laura turned away from the window, her hand over her thumping heart.

The door clicked, and she jumped. Her father stood in the doorway. The smile was gone now, and the crevices with it. His lips were pressed tightly together and his cheeks were flat and white.

“I can’t tell if it was a lie or not,” he said grimly. “Fordham believes it.”

Laura let her gaze fall to the couch where she had slept with Richard months ago. Suddenly, her strength failed her, and she sank down onto a seat.

“Does it matter?” she asked wearily.

“Tell me. Was it a lie?”

She covered her face with her hands. She felt guilty. Not for what she had done with Richard. For what she had just done to him. For what she was about to do.

“It was no lie.”

–

A/N: another late update, but only by 24 hours!

Chapter Eight: Nobody to Love

Richard leaned back in his chair and sipped his brandy. His club was quiet, almost unfashionably so, though it boasted amongst it members dukes and marquesses. Tonight, it was quieter than usual, for most of popular society would not return to London for another month or more. There were only a handful of half-asleep old men in the coffee room with Richard, while downstairs the card and smoking rooms were empty. The only activity in the entire building came from the liveried waiters, who were taking advantage of the quiet to dust bookshelves, sweep floors, and order receipts.

Richard had never been one for crowds and bustle but even he found the club uncomfortably solitary tonight. Earlier in the evening, he had left his townhouse in Grosvenor Square because the dead stillness had become somehow oppressive. Every room had been darkened but his study on the ground floor, and he had felt the weight of the ten black, quiet rooms above pressing down upon him like a gravestone. None of his friends were in London yet or he might have made one of his rare social calls. Instead, he had called for his coach and come through the empty, snow-glazed streets to his club in the hope of company.

But even here, he found himself alone and surrounded by oppressive silence. None of the old men around were his friends; besides, half of them were asleep and gently snoring, and the other half required no company other than their newspapers.

Richard finished his brandy, but didn’t signal the waiter over for another. Instead he sat there, slowly spinning the brandy glass round and round on the table. He did not want another drink, nor did he want to go home. And he felt vaguely self-conscious about sitting alone and doing nothing. At least the waiter had his books to dust, the old men their newspapers or their snores and dreams. Richard had nothing but his glass. And it was empty.

Richard had just convinced himself to get up and go when downstairs in the hall the entry-door slammed. One of the sleeping old men near Richard jerked awake mid-snore.

“Wassat?” he shouted, waking the other sleeping man. “Who’s there!?”

“Good evening, Lord Wiltshire,” Richard said drily. “Just the wind, I think.”

But it wasn’t just the wind. A moment later, there were heavy, rapid footsteps on the stairs outside and, with another door-slam, Giles Fordham burst into the coffee room.

By now, no one was sleeping, and all the men with newspapers had dropped them to their laps to glare myopically at the intruder. The waiter too had stopped dusting the bookshelves and stepped forward to the door. Fordham ignored him and strode into the room, his eyes pinned upon Richard.

“Albroke!”

Richard raised his eyebrows. “Fordham.” He turned to the waiter. “Another brandy please.”

The waiter set down his duster and went to obey. Fordham was not to be so easily disconcerted. He came close and stood over Richard. His hands were clenched tight at his sides, but his manner was now controlled. That was what he was like, Richard remembered uneasily. Even as he had whipped the life from Evans, Fordham had never been anything other than cold and controlled.

“I didn’t know we were members of the same club,” Richard said lightly, trying to hide his unease.

“We’re not.” Fordham wrested his glove off and flung it on the floor by Richard’s feet. “I’ve come here to call you out.”

“Call me out?” Richard laughed. “What on earth for?”

“For seducing the woman I was to marry.”

Richard stared speechlessly at Fordham. Around them, every man was now peering forward curiously. Lord Wiltshire had even cupped his hand behind his ear to hear better. Richard knew the scene would be all over town by noon tomorrow. His throat went dry.

The waiter returned with the brandy, and Richard sipped and swallowed to ease the contraction in his throat. Fordham breathed over him, like an angry bull.

“I confess you’ve got me at a disadvantage,” Richard said, “for I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about you seducing L—”

“—Me? Seduce?” He forced a laugh and turned to Wiltshire, who was still eagerly listening. “Can you believe it, Wiltshire, with my looks?”

The old man chuckled. “Not likely to be him, Fordham. You got cuckolded by another.”

“No. It was him. She told me so herself.” Fordham raised his voice so that even the deafest old men in the furthest corners of the room could hear. “Laura Maidstone says Lord Albroke is her lover. And I would have married the strumpet.”

After that, the room was deathly silent. Richard opened his mouth to deny it, to call Laura a liar, and then shut it again. She wasn’t a liar. She might be every other awful thing, but not a liar.

Slowly, Richard took another sip of brandy. “Even if that’s true— and I’m not saying it is —I don’t see why it’s any business of yours to call me out,” he said mildly. “If you are not to marry her, then her affairs are nothing to do with you.”

Richard set down his brandy and looked up at the waiter, who was hovering by. “Now, this man is not a member of this club and is annoying me. Do see him out, won’t you?”

“It’s alright.” Fordham’s eyes glittered as he stared down at Richard. “I’m leaving.”

And he did leave, turning on his heel and moving sharply for the door. There was no slam this time, only his footsteps fading away. Richard breathed out slowly, his heart pounding. For a moment, he was almost angry with Laura, but it passed as quickly into dread. If it got around town — and it would — her reputation would be ruined. There had been rumours enough when she was married to Maidstone. They would add fuel to the fire. And her father would never stand by a ruined daughter — Richard knew mercantile Lord Brocket too well to hope for that.

He left his brandy unfinished and got up to leave. Wiltshire raised a finger to halt him.

“Go on,” he said, “tell me: is it true?”

Richard scoffed. “I wish it were. But you and I, old fellow, we’re not exactly Casanova now, are we?”

Wiltshire’s grin stretched across his fat face. “Eh. Some women go for something deeper than looks. Like pockets.”

“And Lord Brocket has pockets deep enough of his own without his daughter trying to get her paws in mine.” Richard noticed Fordham’s glove still lying on the floor, frowned, and stooped to pick it up. “He left it behind. Stupid fool.”

“Going to give it back to him? At noon in a deserted field, perhaps?”

“No. I’m going to have my bootboy leave it on his doorstep.” Richard pocketed it. “Without even a note. I’m not a fool.”

“Ah well,” Wiltshire said regretfully. “It’s not like the old days.”

Richard took up his stick and limped downstairs. The entry-man gave him a rather stiff bow as he opened the door.

“My lord.”

“Thank you, Carruthers.” Richard dropped a gold coin in his hand. “Sorry about the bother tonight. I didn’t imagine I was going to be chased down by a mad fool.”

“We never do, my lord,” Carruthers said obligingly. “Goodnight, my lord.”

Richard had sent his groom and coach home earlier that night, for he had not known how long he would stay. He could have gone for a cab now but his house was not more than a fifteen minute walk, even at Richard’s pace. He set off into the dark street, burying his chin beneath the collar of his great-coat. Before he had gone more than a few dozen yards, a figure moved out of the shadows to join him. He jumped.

“Fordham. Again.” He sighed. “I’ve told you, I’ve nothing to do with Lady Laura.”

“She was quite clear you did.” Fordham sneered. “Are you in love with her?”

“My goodness, what business is it of yours?” Richard demanded irritably.

“It’s of interest.” Fordham loped easily by Richard’s side, though Richard was hurrying. “If you love her, I’ll marry her. Wouldn’t that be nice? Me, having the woman you wanted.”

“A sensible man would have what he himself wanted,” Richard said coldly. “Here. You left your glove behind.”

He took it out from his pocket and threw it at Fordham. It hit him in the chest and then fell limply to the ground. Fordham ignored it and continued to follow Richard.

“I suppose you’re not in love,” Fordham said. “She said you weren’t, but I thought she was lying. And yet you sleep with her.”

Richard said nothing.

“I was in love with Diana,” Fordham said abruptly. “I’d like it if you were in love with Laura, so you’d know how it feels. To be in love. To have someone steal your lover from you.”

Still, Richard said nothing.

“And I would have forgiven her. I would have married Diana. But instead, you and my father, but it was mainly you, sent me off to that godforsaken hellhole.”

At last Richard spoke. “You’re lucky it was India and not the noose.”

“The noose?” Fordham spat at Richard. “I would have preferred it. Do you know Diana’s dead?”

Richard went cold inside. “I did not.”

“Well she is.”

A gas lamp cast a greenish ring of light on the snow just ahead. Before they could step into it, Fordham put a heavy hand on Richard’s shoulder, pressing so tight it hurt.

Richard tightened his grip on his stick. “Let go of me.”

“She died not a week before I came back to England. Fifteen years I waited for her. The first thing I did when I got here was go to see her. And I was just in time to see them lay her grave. Fifteen years.” His voice was low and cold and controlled. But his hand on Richard’s shoulder squeezed like a vice. “I wanted to take Laura from you, to make you feel what it’s like, but you don’t love her.”

“No,” Richard said, to save her more than himself. “She’s nothing to me.”

“And who is something?” Fordham asked, his voice deadly.

“No one,” Richard lied. “I have nobody to love.”

Not his brother. Not his sister-in-law. Not his niece and nephew. He could not risk Fordham turning his irrational desire for hurt upon them.

“I see.” Finger by finger, Fordham’s grip on his shoulder loosened. “I should have known. Who would love you? I bet you had to pay her for it.”

Richard staggered off, into the circle of light. There was another dozen yards or so of darkness ahead of him before he reached the light and safety of Oxford street. He set out doggedly for it. He had to get home. Send another letter to Laura. Send one to Lord Brocket. Warn them about Fordham. And a letter to his brother, and—

He stepped into the shadow again, and from behind him, heard the sound of running through the snow. He knew the blow was coming and had only enough time to tense and half-turn towards it as he was knocked to the ground. He kept his hold on his stick and tried to push Fordham away, but Fordham wrenched it from his hand, pulled it against his knee, and snapped it in two.

After that, Richard could do nothing but curl in a ball and try to shout for help while Fordham kicked and beat him with the jagged shards of his own stick. But the streets were deserted, and the falling snow muffled his cries.

And just as he teetered on the brink of merciful unconsciousness, he heard the sound of a carriage coming down the road and someone shouting.

And then he fell.

–

A/N: yeah Fordham’s an asshole.

Chapter Nine: Silver Lining

Laura sat at the window in the garret and stared down at the white square of snow-buried garden, caged in by the black pines surrounding. She hadn’t slept all night for worrying, futilely, about Richard. What people would think of him if it got around. What he would think of her when he found out what she had said. Now, late afternoon, the snow had finally stopped, leaving deep white drifts banked up against the house, and Laura was aching with tiredness. Her eyes kept slipping closed of their own accord, and there was a strange giddy liquidness to her spine.

She wasn’t hungry though, which was a small mercy. Since her father had locked her in yesterday afternoon, she hadn’t had anything to eat. She wasn’t naive enough to assume he’d forgotten to tell the servants to send food to her; it was a deliberate punishment. There had been water enough in the wash-jug for her to drink, however, so she wasn’t thirsty.

Leaning drearily against the windowsill, she stared at the snow-bleached sky and thought of Richard. She needed to talk to him again. She needed to apologise for exposing their affair. The burden of that thought rested heavily upon her. A small voice whispered to her that perhaps, just perhaps, he would never forgive her. No, probably, very probably. And she needed him to forgive her. Somehow, she could not bear the thought of him hating her. With a pang of sorrow, she realized she liked Richard. His clumsy kindness, his inelegant good manners, his awkward well-meaning. They had once seemed laughable, even irritating, but now they endeared her.

Laura was disturbed from her reverie by footsteps in the hall. A moment later, the key turned in the lock and the door slammed open. She turned her head listlessly towards it. Her father stood in the doorway, two bright red spots burning in his pale cheeks. He looked, she realized with a tinge of unease, triumphant.

“Richard Armiger is dead.”

For a moment, all Laura could do was stare at him. Her hands tightened on the windowsill until splinters of wood bit into her palms. The bright spots on her father’s cheeks deepened.

“It’s in The Morning Chronicle . You’re in it too. Back page, or I’d have read it this morning. Fordham murdered him outside his club last night.”

The hard, cold sill beneath Laura seemed to drop away beneath her.

“No. No. It cannot be true.”

“It is.”

“No! I don’t believe it!” She squeezed her eyes shut. “You’re lying!”

Her father spoke calmly, rapidly: “Blood and Horror in the West End. Body of a peer found in a London street by a member of his own class. Murderer seen running away, the prodigal son of the last Lord Farncote. Investigations elicit an altercation in his club. Members talk of a scurrilous accusation about a lady. That’s you, I suppose. The end of it is, in two days, the entirety of London will be talking about how Albroke’s mistress, you, got him killed.”

Laura stared at her father, shocked more than anything to see the thin smile on his face. Then slowly, the smile became real to her, and the words he had said.

“I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “It can’t be true. He— he can’t be— stop smiling !”

Her father ran his finger over his lips, smoothing out the curve. But his cheek was still twitching after, as though he could barely keep from laughing.

“You’re right, it’s a shame, really. A shame,” her father repeated, “because once your name gets into it, there won’t be a man in London who’ll marry you. You’ve ruined all my plans. Albroke would have at least been a compromise, after that. But he’s dead now and I’m stuck with you.”

Whatever instinct of self-preservation Laura might have had was buried under shock. She only stared at her father through a blur of tears and realized it must be true or her father would never have admitted defeat.

“What am I to do with you now?” he mused.

“Nothing. Just go away and leave me,” she begged in a whisper. “It can’t be true. I can’t have—”

She could not finish that thought. Her father came forward and stood looking down at her. As though considering. As he had on the steps of Mr Maidstone’s house. Only this time, the answer he came to was sure to be different. Marriage was no longer an option. That was her silver lining. But it came on the dull edge of the blackest of clouds.

“I’m sending you away,” Lord Brocket said at last. “There’s an asylum in Scotland. It’ll be worth twenty pounds a year not to hear your footsteps in my attic. And maybe there you’ll learn to respect the kindness I gave you. And maybe there my friends will forget about you, the daughter who betrayed me.”

Laura stared listlessly at the rumpled blanket on the bed. “I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She looked up. It came to her, through the veil of her shock, that she hated her father. Hated him, as she hated Mr Maidstone, hated her brother-in-law, hated Mr Fordham. And she wouldn’t quietly go away somewhere she could be forgotten about. If shame would stick to her, it should stick to her father too.

And she knew, with a cold, clear certainty, that there was only one way of doing that. And almost smiled to see the chambermaid pass through the hallway behind Lord Brocket and pause, watching, in case she was needed. It was good to have a witness.

“I have a choice,” she said. “You can’t take it from me.” She raised her voice so the chambermaid could be certain to hear. “This is your fault, Father! You have driven me to it! Don’t forget—”

But her last words were lost for Lord Brocket understood too quickly what she was doing and lunged forward to grab her. She flung herself backwards over the short slant of tile. Her father’s fingers grazed her sleeve. The sharp gutter scraped her thigh. And then she was weightless, and then weighted, and falling.

The chambermaid screamed. Her father shouted her name. Laura thought she might have screamed herself, but before she could the breath was knocked out of her body and a wave of icy snow cascaded over her.

For several moments, Laura could do nothing but lie there, staring at the white sky and wondering if this was dying. Her father’s head poked out from the window above, and she knew, with almost sadness, that it wasn’t. It wasn’t anywhere close. The deep drift of snow had softened her fall. But for losing her breath, she wasn’t even hurt.

She lay very still and stared up at him, snow melting through the front of her dress. When his head withdrew into the room again, she crawled to her feet and stumbled forward, holding the wall to keep herself upright. Nothing was broken, but she didn’t seem to know which was way up and which was down.

There was no time to lose. Drunkenly, she ploughed through the drifts towards the gate that led to the stables. Her feet seemed to tangle up in themselves and in the snow, but by the time she reached the gate her head had started to right itself and she knew exactly what she was going to do.

They’ll know where I went by the tracks in the snow, she thought, I’ll have to be quick.

Holding her skirts up, she ran into the stables, where Prince Stygnio, her father’s prized hunter, was nickering in a stall. From behind her, she heard someone shout — her father.

She dragged the horse’s blankets off with trembling fingers. There was no time to saddle him, but he had a halter and lead on, ready to be lead out for his daily exercise, and she was a good rider. She hooked the lead on his halter, coaxed him out of the stable, and used the trough to help her climb up onto his back.

“She must have gone to the stables,” her father shouted from the garden behind. She pointed the horse towards the road, gripped him tight, and tapped his rump with her hand. He took the outer gate so sharply that she almost fell off. She clung on and righted herself. The stable-master, talking with a chambermaid under the shelter of the wall, started up with a curse and made a lunge for the horse. But Prince Stygnio was too quick for him, too excited for the exercise, and shied away from his grasp. Laura clung on desperately, her grip only spurring the horse on more. With a self-pleased snort, Prince Stygnio started off at a gallop.

The servants had swept and trampled the roads that morning, and there wasn’t a horse in the county that could catch Prince Stygnio for dust. Before nightfall, Laura would be in London. And free.

–

A/N: Sorry this is a bit short. Originally, this and the last were one big chapter but it was too long to put up in one go. Also, for the next two weeks or  so, Widow in White will be in the Wattpad featured list, yay! :)

Chapter Ten: A Velvet Prison

The townhouse in London had been decorated by the late Lady Albroke on the occasion of her marriage and left to moulder ever since. Forty years had faded the wallpapers, shredded the fitted carpets, and scratched the varnish on every matching Sheraton chair.

Downstairs, effort had been made in the study and dining room, which were needed for business and pleasure. The furniture had been polished. The curtains washed and mended. Rugs put over the bare patches in the carpet. Upstairs, the drawing room and salon were kept in dust-sheets. Further up, the best bedroom was looking distinctly shabby and ugly. The ugliest item of all was the giant canopied bed, sitting directly in the middle of the room.

The canopy itself was a mass of brown velvet brocade, heavily decorated with gold lace and tassels and fol-de-rol. When the curtains were drawn, the bed felt like a velvet prison. For that reason, they were never drawn, and instead hunched darkly at the head of the bed like an undertaker over a coffin. Shadows gathered deeply in the sagging creases of the canopy body above, for it was too high for the light from the windows to reach, except on the brightest of summer mornings. There was a dark stain of mysterious origin in one corner, near the bedpost. Richard rather thought it might be blood.

There was little for Richard to do, in bed, except ponder the origin of the stain above and the ugliness of his bed canopy. For two full days, when he had not been sleeping, he had been occupied in either task. He could not lie on his side and occupy himself with the ugliness of his walls or fireplace, for on his side he could not breathe. He could not sit up and occupy himself with the ugliness of his chest of drawers, for sitting up exhausted him. The only thing he could do was lie on his back like an upended tortoise and stare at the canopy.

And he was sick of it. An impotent anger rose within him. He moved, tortoise-slow, pain arcing up his ribs. There was a bell on the chair beside the bed. Before he could reach it, there was a brisk footstep in the hallway and a knock at the open door, and the butler sauntered in.

“A visitor for you, my lord.”

Was it Neil already? But no, the letter could not have even reached him yet. He would likely not arrive for another four days at least. Richard blinked at the butler. Even that motion made his head ache.

“Who is it?” Richard rasped.

“A Miss Dalrymple, my lord.”

Miss Dalrymple. Richard was even more surprised by that. He struggled to sit up, and the butler came forward to assist him. There was the general rearranging of pillows and the canopy slipped out of sight above him. Instead, propped up against his pillows, Richard had the slightly less charmless view of the chest of drawers against the wall, and the various accoutrements of illness — ointment bottles, rags, bandages — sitting on top of it.

When Richard had his breath back, he said, “Send her up. She steals things, so don’t leave her alone. Bring a tea tray for her. She’s got a sweet tooth.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“And,” he added savagely, “I want this damn bed canopy removed. Today.”

The butler gave the canopy a grave look, as though weighing its sins. “I will have it done, my lord.”

The butler left again, and Richard pressed a hand to his ribcage and breathed out slowly. Three broken ribs, Doctor Cavendish had said. And nothing to be done for them but rest, willow bark, and the foul-smelling ointment that stained all Richard’s nightshirts yellow. Nor anything to be done for his stiff muscles or the blooming black bruises all over his back and stomach. Nothing but rest, rest, rest. As though he could do otherwise, when he could hardly move.

A dainty footstep in the hallway alerted Richard to Miss Dalrymple’s arrival, and he twisted his neck slowly as she entered the room and looked curiously around her.

“I’ve never been in a gentleman’s bedchamber before,” she said cheerfully. “Do I need a chaperone?”

“Only if you want one.” Richard winced at the effort of speaking. “Sorry. I can’t get up. Please, sit.”

“No, no, no,” she said, drawing up a chair and perching herself on its edge with her cavernous reticule clasped firmly in her hands. “I quite understand. You must have put up a brave defence. Got him with the…” she paused, frowning, “…one two?”

“I’m no pugilist,” Richard grunted. “I didn’t get him at all.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Not once?”

“Not once.” He sneered, remembering how he’d been able to do nothing but curl his arms around his knees and hope it would stop. “Not even once.”

“But he has left the country,” Miss Dalrymple said. “He got on a packet and he’s gone for Paris. I thought that meant you’d beat him.”

“It meant he had some sense,” Richard grunted. “I can’t prosecute him if he’s in Paris.” Or if I’m dead, he thought. And it had very nearly come to that. Might have come to that, if Lord Therrywhistle and his groom hadn’t interrupted. He breathed out slowly through his teeth.

Miss Dalrymple watched him shrewdly. “What if he comes back?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged and hissed as pain bloomed in his shoulder. “I suppose I’ll have to. But to haul him up before a magistrate… an earl’s son, thrashing an earl… it will be a dreadful scandal. It already is.”

“Yes.” For a moment, Miss Dalrymple’s merry brown eyes went cold. “I’ve been reading the newspapers and listening to the gossip. Dreadful! The false things that they are saying about you and Lady Laura — have you heard she is missing?”

“Missing?” He sat forward, a flame of strange fear streaking through him that was somehow more painful than the jolt of agony in his ribs. “But Fordham could not have—”

“—No. Not him.” Miss Dalrymple paused as a maid entered, bearing a tray loaded with tea and cakes and sandwiches. “Oh. How kind of you.”

“Eat as you please. I’m afraid I won’t join you.”

And for a few minutes, Richard was denied any reassurance for his anxiety, because Miss Dalrymple did eat, munching her way steadily through a piece of cake and a lemon tart and pouring herself two cups of tea. She slipped several apricots into her reticule while he watched, but he had no interest in stopping her. If she would finish telling him what she had begun to say, he would let her walk off with his entire pantry.

It did not come to that. Twenty minutes later she was ready to talk again, between sips of tea and mouthfuls of biscuit.

“She ran away.”

Richard relaxed back against his pillows. That was not so bad. Laura could look after herself. He only feared what Fordham might do to her if he found her. But if he was in Paris, there was little chance of that.

“She jumped out an attic window,” added Miss Dalrymple. “Should have broken both her legs, I’d think, but it was all snowed up below. A maid who heard it from a groom who saw it told me but The Chronicle is saying her father pushed her. Anyway, she wasn’t hurt by it. Stole one of her father’s horses, and galloped off. No one’s seen her since.”

“How long has it been?”

“Two nights ago. The morning papers are all speculating where she’s run off to.”

Richard pressed his hand to his ribs again. But there was no need to worry for her. And he had no right to. No reason.

“Her father mismanaged things,” Miss Dalrymple said shrewdly. “He never did understand her.”

“Does anyone?” Richard smiled despite himself. “Do you?”

“Probably not at all.” Miss Dalrymple slipped another apricot in her reticule. “It’s you I understand.”

“Me?” He moved too quickly and came to a short stop, gasping. “Ouch.”

“Now don’t do that,” she admonished. “If you lie very still for a month or two, you’ll quite likely heal up to being a normal cripple again.”

He almost laughed, and the air pressed like a knife against his ribs.

“And I do understand you,” Miss Dalrymple said. “At least, I always thought you were a nice, gentle type of boy under your scowls. And perhaps just a little lonely. I had an idea she might make good company for you.”

“May I remind you, Madam, that I am more than five and thirty years old?” Richard said archly. “And in no need of matchmaking.”

“You’re a boy until you’re sixty,” she retorted, “and by then I’ll be a hundred and ten, so you’ll be a boy forever to me.”

Savagely, she ate another slice of cake, sending crumbs scattering over the carpet.

“It doesn’t signify anyway,” she said, through a mouthful. “I must’ve got it wrong. I thought she’d be here, with you. Unless you’re hiding her somewhere?”

“I haven’t seen her in weeks.” Richard watched bemused as Miss Dalrymple slipped to the floor and peered suspiciously under the bed. “I assure you, she’s not here.”

“Then where is she?” Miss Dalrymple looked up, her cheeks red with exertion. “She’s only a girl you know.”

“A full grown woman of seven and twenty!”

“Practically a baby!” Miss Dalrymple got to her knees with a creak and a pop and then to her feet with a grunt. “Do you promise you don’t know where she is?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Well. Bother. I hope she’s not done anything stupid. She does, you know.”

“I never guessed,” Richard said drily.

Miss Dalrymple began to meander around the room, peering at his things. A comb slipped as if by magic into her reticule while her eyes were fixed saintfully on a portrait of Richard’s mother.

“Charming picture.”

“Can I have my comb back, Miss Dalrymple?”

“What? Oh! Can’t think how it got there.” She smiled brightly. “Lovely little ivory thing.”

“Indeed,” Richard said dryly, reaching out for it. Even that small effort made his fingers shake. Miss Dalrymple looked down upon him, something dangerously close to pity in her face.

“I’ll recover,” Richard said bluntly. “You tell everyone that I’m not dying, you hear?”

“I will.” Miss Dalrymple frowned. “And what about Laura?”

“Laura?” He watched Miss Dalrymple uneasily. “Should there be something about her?”

“If there’s something you want to be said about her…” Miss Dalrymple blinked encouragingly. “I might be the one to say it.”

“Are you asking me to gossip?” Richard said stiffly.

Miss Dalrymple sighed, as a governess might over a stupid student. “Everybody is gossipping already. If there’s any antidote to gossip, it’s the truth.”

“And if the truth is only further poison?”

“But is it?” Miss Dalrymple cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “Ah, Lord Albroke, you have surprised me.”

Richard flushed and turned his head peevishly away. “I’m tired, and you should leave now. Go on. I need my sleep.”

But Miss Dalrymple was not finished with him. She went around the other side of the bed to meet his eyes and frowned at him.

“I won’t say anything to anyone if you ask me not to, but it would help Laura if you had it put about that you were engaged. The newspapers would pick it up. It would make her look decent.”

“Well she’s not decent,” grumbled Richard. “And we’re not engaged.”

“Are you really not?” she enquired.

“Of course not!”

Miss Dalrymple gave him a skeptical look, but turned and left. After he heard the front door shut, Richard called for a servant and had the pillows rearranged again so he could sleep. When he next woke, the bed canopy was gone. And he realized, with a twist of annoyance, that the bed canopy had not been the problem at all.

–

A/N: Miss Dalrymple is my favourite. I’m sorry everyone was so caught up in the ‘newspaper says he’s dead’ thing last time. I thought it would be apparent from the way I’d written the previous two chapters that the newspaper had got it wrong. The point was for Laura and Brocket to believe it, but not my poor readers! No!

Chapter Eleven: Sharp Edges

Richard’s brother, Neil, arrived five days later, just as the bruises on Richard’s back were turning yellow. Richard was almost relieved it hadn’t been earlier. The first few days after what he now termed ‘The Accident’ he was barely able even to feed himself. Merely spooning soup from a tray on his lap had exhausted him. He had had to rely upon his servants to dress him, bathe him, shave him, sit him up, lie him down, as though he was an infant. It was a humiliating state, and Richard was faintly grateful that Neil hadn’t arrived in time to witness it.

Instead, when Neil came, Richard was in his dressing gown, lying on the sofa in his bedroom and reading a novel. He was so immersed in the tale that he only looked up when Neil dropped a stack of folded newspapers to the floor with a bang.

“Oh,” Richard said, “you’re here.”

“And what a welcome I receive!” In his mock offense, Neil did not quite cover his smile. “You don’t look bad at all! And to think I worried all the way down here. And there you are, reading…” He came closer and peered at it. “Oh goodness! The Lustful Turk !? You must be well!”

Hastily, Richard dropped the book to the floor. “Yes, well, people have been sending me all types of books to read and I don’t know who sent this one but they were very wrong to do so. It’s not to my taste at all.”

“Of course not. Not at all.” Neil pulled a chair closer and sunk into it. He relaxed and smiled. “But I’m really very glad to see you well. When I got your letter, I feared the worst.”

Richard gave him a thin smile. He didn’t want to tell his brother that he had been practically carried to the couch this morning, and that already his muscles were beginning to ache. That beneath his dressing gown and cravat were vile yellow purple bruises. That it was not yet noon and already he was thinking of retiring to bed.

Neil, however, did not see his hesitation. With a burst of nervous energy, he dived to the floor to gather up the newspapers he had dropped there.

“The past few days, I had nothing else to read in the carriage,” he explained, getting back in the chair and thrusting a newspaper at Richard. “Have you seen them? They’re awful. Hardly better than your Turk I fear.”

Richard had been reading only his usual Times and skimming the bits of it that mentioned himself or Laura. He turned the paper over cautiously and started at the back, where all the dirty gossip was usually kept. A paragraph leapt out at him almost immediately, insinuating cheerfully:

No one admits to having seen Lady Laura Maidstone since she quit her father’s house in an unusual fashion on Friday evening last week. A report from a source close to her suggests that she is increasingly likely to remain invisible for nine months or more. Lady Laura was widowed more than one year ago and has not yet remarried.

The next paragraph down, allegedly of no relation, began:

It is widely discussed that last week a certain Gentleman in a London street thrashed a certain Lord A—— who had made a guy of him over a Lady. We have now received disturbing reports that this certain Gentleman is continuing his path of sin in the insalubrious confines of a Parisian house of ill-repute…

Richard put the paper down with a sigh. The next one Neil handed him played even looser with the facts:

The (dis)Hon. Mr F—— has fled to the Continent after the Murder of a Member of our Valued Peerage. He is known to have Ruined more than one Woman, including the grand-daughter of a Marquess, who attempted for her Honour to do as Lucrezia Did but for her Salvation was prevented by Divine Providence, as proved by the Testimony of a Witness. The Scandal would be Hushed but the Press has a Duty to keep the Public In The Know about the Sins of our So Called Betters.

The founder of that particular paper was currently in prison for libel, but it had not prevented his paper from flourishing. It seemed the Public had an appetite for spiteful gossip.

“Do people believe this trash?” Richard asked Neil, dropping the paper in disgust to the floor.

“Probably,” Neil said, prodding the paper with his foot. “I had trouble not believing it myself. You might have said in your letter that you weren’t badly hurt. I wouldn’t have rushed down so urgently.”

There was a hint of accusation in his tone. Richard winced. Unable to find the words to express it, he slowly, silently, pulled apart the neck of his dressing gown and pushed aside his silk cravat until the bruised, pummelled flesh was visible, right down to where it disappeared under the bandage around his ribs.

The colour drained from Neil’s face.

“I am not as well as it might appear,” Richard said softly, closing his dressing gown again and busying himself with his cravat to avoid meeting Neil’s eyes.

Cautiously, Neil leaned forward and patted Richard on the shoulder. Normally, his gesture of affection was to grip him there and shake slightly. Even his gentle touch now made his bruises twinge.

“That filthy, evil bastard,” Neil said, his voice low and choked. “Dishonourable, cowardly brute. If he ever comes back— I’ll never forgive him. Or Laura. Stupid lying bitch.”

“She’s not the one who beat me,” Richard said.

“She dragged you into it. It’s in the papers. She told Fordham that you were her lover. She must’ve set him on you. Lying little sneak.”

“Neil…”

“To bring you into this, for no reason but to solve her petty love squabbles—”

“Neil…”

“—it proves nothing more than what they always said about her is tr—”

“Neil, it’s not a lie.”

Neil stopped short. “What.”

“I— am — was. I suppose. Her lover.” Richard winced. “It was only once. But it is true.”

A deep flush slowly suffused Neil’s cheeks.

“It just sort of… happened,” Richard said helplessly, feeling his own cheeks burn.

For some time, Neil occupied himself with buttoning and unbuttoning his coat front. Richard rearranged his weight on the pillows and leaned back further; he was getting tired and his back hurt. At last, seemingly having accepted it, Neil broke the silence:

“She still had no reason to tell him.” Doubt came to his face. “Was it she who told him?”

“Fordham said it was. And I certainly didn’t tell him.” Richard couldn’t keep the note of bitterness from coming to his voice. “I didn’t think she’d betray my confidence.”

“She always was a shrew. I can’t imagine why you would— but she’s pretty, I suppose.”

Richard didn’t think it had been just her prettiness. But he wasn’t going to detail his motivations to Neil. He wasn’t even going to detail them to himself.

“And she must have gotten worse,” Neil added, “to boast about it to another man — another lover perhaps. No. I still cannot forgive her for what she did.”

“Fortunately, you don’t have to,” Richard said drily.

Neil shot him a look. “Then you have forgiven her?”

“I don’t know.” He gave a long pause. “Probably not.”

“I don’t see why you should forgive her,” Neil said slowly. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Perhaps you’re right… but even if I don’t, I may have a certain… responsibility towards her.”

“Responsibility,” echoed Neil. Then, more fiercely, “What kind of responsibility?”

“I don’t know.”

“You won’t be fool enough to marry her, will you?”

Richard thought of the way she had refused him — twice now. “Probably not.”

Neil templed his fingers over his knees and looked doubtfully at Richard. “Then what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I can’t know until I see her again. Have the papers said she turned up? Miss Dalrymple has told me she’s missing.”

Neil raised a palm face upwards. “Rumours of a gutter in Glasgow, a brothel in Paris, and your own bedroom, I’m afraid. My guess would be she returned to her father’s house, tail between her legs.”

It didn’t sound like Laura to do so. Moreover, despite his anger, Richard was worried for her. Or perhaps, only guilty. He knew very well that if anything happened to her, it would be partially his fault. Oh, Fordham and her father and she herself were also to blame, but their culpability did not lessen his.

He shifted again the chair, trying to ease a compressed ache in his spine. “I can’t move from this room. And I must see her. Neil, will you find her for me, and bring her here?”

Neil hesitated.

“You didn’t come here to nurse me,” Richard persuaded. “You came to help me. This is the help I need.”

Neil shuffled his feet awkwardly in the pile of discarded newspapers. “I think the best thing is if you have nothing more to do with her.”

“I tried that. It failed.” Richard sighed. “Please, Neil. I must speak with her. I must at least know that she is safe and well. And she must know that, if she is in need of help, I will offer it.”

Neil chewed his lip. “She’s got sharp edges, Rich. I think the more you have to do with her, the unhappier you’ll be.”

“I think she is unhappier than you or I have ever been in our whole lives.”

“Yes, I can believe that. Because don’t unhappy people always make others unhappy too?” Neil shook his head. “Never mind. If you want to see her, I’ll find her. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

__

A/N: I’m running consistently one day behind on updates! Oh well, at least it’s consistent. This one is shorter than normal but don’t worry, next one will be a normal length. Thanks for reading!

Chapter Twelve: Among the Ashes

Laura poked the fire and shivered. The wood she had found in the stable was damp, and smouldered rather than burned, and the kitchen was large and open, full of stony, frozen surfaces and drafts. It was hard to keep warm down here. She’d found an old set of footman’s livery in the attic and a pair of boots under the stairs, and put them on over her dress and slippers, but even then her fingers were blue and her toes numb. She didn’t dare light a fire upstairs, where the rooms were smaller and easier to heat, for she feared someone would see the glow through the shutters and investigate the cause. She doubted her father would think to look for her here, in the shut-up house in Southwark that had once belonged to her mother, but she didn’t want to risk being arrested for trespassing either.

The fire let out a  jet of smoke with a hiss and died to a faint glow under the blackened wood. Laura curled her feet, in their clumsy servant’s boots, up beneath her skirts, and reached in the pocket of the footman’s coat for the over-greasy pie she’d bought from a street hawker an hour ago. She was beginning to get used to greasy street food. It was a far cry from the delicate meats and puddings of her father’s French chef, but her appetite, sharpened by hunger, made the greasy pies or glutinous pea soup or pungent fried eels somehow tastier than the richest turtle soup.

She nibbled at the crust, which was burned, and wondered what to do next. Her money was running out. She’d sold her father’s hunter to a carter before the London toll-gate, but he’d only given her five crowns for it, and she was spending sixpence a day on food. And even then, she had to find a more permanent situation than skulking in the basement of an abandoned house. She had friends in London who might help her, with money or with finding a position somewhere, but somehow she shuddered at the thought of asking them. She didn’t want to be in anyone’s debt. And she dreaded meeting their eyes — Lady Hunstall’s, Mr Percival’s, Miss Dalrymple’s, and scores of others from over the years. They would know her now for what she was: a liar, a slut, and the nearest thing to a murderer she could be, without having struck Richard herself.

The pie had gone cold and soggy in her hands. She forced her thoughts away from Richard and Fordham. It was the only way she could keep breathing, to pretend neither of them had ever existed and it had not happened. Tomorrow, she thought firmly, I’ll knock on doors and ask for a job, anything, anything at all. She forced herself to bite into her soggy pie, tasting nothing.

Mid-chew, she heard a pane of glass shatter from somewhere at the back of the house. She froze. Had it been next door, or in the street? But no, a voice said something, too distant to decipher. They were in the hallway of the ground floor above her. The floorboards creaked as they moved.

Laura got silently, swiftly to her feet, throwing the rest of the pie on the ashes of the dead fire. She could not leave without being seen. She’d been going in and out by the French doors in the dining room, which had a catch that could be toggled from the outside with a thin stick. The heavy footsteps above began to descend the hallway stairs. Panic rising, Laura darted into the pantry, shutting the door behind her. Even as she did so, she heard the kitchen door open.

“Room’s empty, Sir.”

“Wait.” Footsteps, sharp on stone, came into the room. “The ashes are smoking. She’s been here. Not long ago either.”

Laura’s heart pounded. She recognized the voice but could not place it. She looked desperately around the pantry for a hiding place. There was nothing but empty shelves, all the way up to the ceiling. And a rusty bread knife, lying abandoned on the lowest of them.

In the other room, the scullery door opened and shut. Laura grabbed the knife and held it shakingly out in front of her. If it was her father’s servants—

Light streamed into the room as the door was yanked open. Laura brandished the knife at the man. He jumped back and raised his hands defensively.

“George, help me!”

But now she recognized his voice, and then his face and figure, taller, slenderer, and more elegant than it had been eleven years ago. A strange sensation of unreality washed over her; the knife slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor. Of course. Neil would have to come to London, for Richard’s funer—

“Don’t you dare faint,” Neil ordered, as behind him another man, a stranger in servant garb, appeared.

Laura drew herself up straighter. “I have never fainted in my life! What the hell are you doing here?”

He ignored her question, darting forward to kick the knife out of reach behind her. She stared at where it now lay, glinting in the shadows.

“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” she said flatly. “Not once I knew you.”

“Maybe.” He laid a heavy hand on her arm and pulled her back out into the kitchen. “Are you ill? Hurt?” He stared at her, eyes narrow and hawkish. “…Pregnant?”

“No!” She shook him off. “Why are you here?”

“I was sent to find you.” He pressed his lips tightly together. “Now I have. What the hell are you wearing?”

She looked down at the coral and silver footman’s frock coat and vest she wore over her dress, the clumsy black boots beneath her delicate linen petticoat. For the first time, it occurred to her that she looked absurd. She raised her eyes to meet Neil’s again.

“Why, it’s the latest mode from Paris.”

Neil had never appreciated her sense of humour, but the servant behind him sniggered. Neil turned to him, frowning.

“Thank you, George,” he said. “We’ve found her now. You did well. Go and see to the carriage, will you?”

“Yessir.” The man touched his hat to Laura and left.

As his footsteps faded away above, Neil looked at Laura and Laura looked at Neil. There was a beaten, wearied look to him that she had never seen before. She felt suddenly bad for having made a joke, under the circumstances they were in. The words began to leave her lips before she even knew what she was saying:

“I — I cannot apologise — it’s useless to say any such words. But I must — I must say them. It is my fault and—”

“Yes,” Neil said coldly. “It is.”

Her guilt became immediately anger. “I couldn’t have known he would do such a thing!”

“And could you not have known it was utter madness to say anything at all?” Neil snapped. “Is there no conception of right and wrong in that pretty, foul head of yours? Are men’s secrets not worth keeping? Men’s lives not worth protecting?”

“There is, and they are, they are!” She covered her face with her hands. “Neil, I’m so…”

The word she hated to say hung in the silence between them.

“…Don’t say it,” Neil warned. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now. I only want to speak to you alone for a moment, before I take you back.”

Back. Dismally, Laura realized that her father must have asked Neil to find her and bring her back. Neil would have been at Albroke, of course. It was within riding distance from her home — her father’s house. They would have had things to talk about — Richard.

“I want to say this now,” Neil said slowly, “so that we’re absolutely clear. And then this matter need never be spoken of again. It doesn’t matter what you do or what you say. I cannot forgive you for what you have done to Richard. I will not. And after this, I never want to see you again.”

She couldn’t disagree with him. She only nodded mutely.

“Now let’s get out of this hovel. Come.”

He directed her towards the door. She hesitated.

“Wait. Is there anything I can say to… to get you not to take me back? I do not wish to go.”

“You want to stay here, among the ashes?” He raised a familiar sardonic eyebrow, in a gesture that reminded Laura achingly of Richard.

“I’ll go to France. Or Manchester. Or Dublin. Become a forgotten woman, like so many others.”

“Perhaps. But not before he sees you. He asked me for that, and I will not fail him.”

“Why? Why does he deserve anything from you, let alone me?”

Neil stared incredulously at her. “How can you say that after what you did?”

“And what he has done! Neil, please, I cannot bear to see him! Leave me here, and I will do as you wish, and you will never see me again. You lose nothing by it. Why you would even do his bidding to begin with, I cannot think. He is nothing to you!”

“Nothing to me!?” shouted Neil. “My brother! Nothing!?”

His voice echoed around the vaults of the empty kitchen. He had her elbows grasped tightly, painfully, in his hands, but Laura did not notice.

“…Brother,” she repeated, smally. “Is it not my father who sent you? Is Richard…”

The room spun wildly around her. She could hear Neil speaking but understood nothing of what he was saying to her. And then she was somehow on her knees, and the chill of the stone floor roused her.

“I told you not to faint.” Neil was leaning over her, still gripping her elbows. It was all that kept her halfway upright. But his eyes were still cold and hard.

“Is Rich— is Richard alive?” Her voice was cobweb thin and weak.

“Yes.” He jostled her as she started to sway. “He’s very ill, but he won’t die.”

She shut her eyes. “Thank God.”

She was weightless and unanchored with relief. Even with her eyes shut, she had the sensation of spinning. Neil jostled her again.

“Can you stand? Can you walk?”

“Yes.” She stumbled to her feet, wiping her eyes on her muddy sleeve. He kept a hand at her elbow. “It wasn’t Richard I was talking of. I thought it was my father who sent you. He said Richard was dead. I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have said that of Richard.  What happened to him? How is he?”

“Poorly,” Neil said brusquely. “You will see how poorly soon.”

He refused to answer her other question until they were in the carriage, rolling at a slow-pace down the packed London streets. With his gaze out the window he asked, “What did you think happened?”

“My father said Fordham murdered him.”

“Not quite.” His mouth went tight and grim. “It was a close thing.”

It was not calculated to make her feel at ease, and by the time they arrived in Grosvenor Square, she was shaking with fear and hope. As soon as the footman opened the door, she slipped under his arm and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She had been to the house before, years ago, and knew the layout. Richard’s bedroom was on the second floor, at the front.

He was lying in bed, seemingly asleep, with only the back of his head showing to her. She came closer without speaking. He stirred at her footstep, rolling clumsily to his back, and, seeing her, sat up suddenly. The movement made him wince and blanch.

“What’s wrong?”

“My ribs,” he said, through gritted teeth. “I forgot about them.”

She stopped where she was and stared at him. There was something crushed and faded about him. He had lost weight. The hand that clutched at his ribs seemed weaker than the hand that had pinioned her waist against his.

There were more footsteps, and she turned to see Neil standing breathless in the door.

“She ran up before I could stop her.”

“It doesn’t matter. I was awake. You can leave us, Neil. I wish to speak to her alone.”

A mutinous doubt rose to Neil’s face, but he shut the door behind him and left. Laura turned back to Richard, who was frowning uneasily at her.

“Sit down.”

It felt more like an order than a request. Laura sank down into the chair next to the bed. Her head was spinning again.

“I’m glad to see you looking well,” Richard said. His voice was thin somehow, as though compressed.

She opened her mouth to speak but found she could do nothing but breathe in.

“I was worried that your disappearance had put you in danger.”

“No.” She swallowed. “No danger. Are you—”

He waited expectantly but she didn’t know how to finish it. Are you — well? He was not. Are you — angry? He was. She could tell by the faint tightening of his bottom lip. He was angry, and trying not to show it.

They fell into a prickling, uncomfortable silence. Laura fiddled with a hole in her dress. Richard opened his mouth several times to speak and then did not.

At last he said, very softly: “I think— I want you to listen, this time —I think we should get married. It seems to be the… only thing for us.”

If there had been the slightest hint of warmth or affection in his voice, she might have accepted this time. Might even have been grateful to do so. But his reluctance, his anger, no matter how he tried to disguise them, vibrated beneath the surface of his words.

She shook her head.

He sighed, with relief not sorrow, and made no further attempt to persuade her.

“Then should I send you back to your father’s?”

“No!”

He frowned. “Then to a friend or cousin, perhaps?

She looked away. “I think I have no friends or relatives who will care to know me now, Richard.”

“Then what will you do?”

Her earlier dreams of taking any work and disappearing into anonymity seemed laughable now. She shrugged.

For some moments, he played with his quilt and she looked out the window. It started to rain, a gentle spray upon the glass.

“Do you have anywhere you can go?” he asked at last

“I thought of going to Paris, or Dublin,” she said lightly. “I hear there’s lots of work for women of my reputation there.”

“Don’t be cavalier, Laura. You’d end up a twopenny prostitute.”

The contempt and anger rose openly to his voice now, and she flinched as though she’d been burned.

“It’s not your problem if I do,” she said sullenly. “It’s not your problem where I go or what I do.”

“Yes it damn well is and you know it!”

He raised his voice, making her jump. She stared at him. As she watched, he put his hand back to his ribs and breathed out slowly. His face was rather white again.

“I don’t know it, Richard,” she said, in almost a whisper. “I don’t see how it is at all to do with you. It is my fault and my problem alone. You are not responsible for my fate.”

Slowly, the colour came back to his face. He shifted gingerly back against the pillows.

“You’ll stay here,” he said at last. His voice was compressed again. Speaking above almost a whisper seemed to hurt him.

“I won’t marry you.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” He darted a scornful look at her. “I simply said that you’ll stay. There’s nowhere else for you to go, so you must. At least until we figure something out.”

“But…” She stared helplessly at him. “I don’t want to be…”

He looked coldly, questioningly at her. It occurred to her for the first time that she hadn’t said sorry. Before she came in, she had planned to. But she didn’t dare do it now, not when he was looking at her in that cold way.

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him. But she knew quite well he was right. She could not go back to her father. She dared not believe she could turn to her friends. Richard’s home was the only safe harbour open to her now.

“I suppose I’ll stay then.”

“Wonderful.” His voice was dry and weary. “You have the run of the house. I’ll ask the servants to prepare a room for you.” He paused, and seemed to be waiting for something. When she didn’t supply it, he said, pointedly, “Do shut the door on your way out.”

–

A/N: This is my favourite chapter so far. So. Much. Drama.

Chapter Thirteen: Raining Indoors

The next morning, Neil came to Richard’s room before breakfast, looked down at him, and said, bluntly, “What are you going to do with her?”

Richard looked up groggily from his pillow. “I don’t know. Go away.”

“Is she going to stay here?” Neil demanded. “She can’t. You’ve got to get rid of her. It’ll ruin your political career.”

Richard groaned and folded his pillow over his face. “Go. Away.”

“No.” The bed dipped as Neil sat down on its end. “When the papers hear of this there will be no end of trouble! A woman staying alone under a bachelor’s roof?”

“A woman slept under your roof once,” Richard said sleepily. “You married her.”

“And if you married Laura, it’d be worse trouble!”

Despite himself, Richard laughed. He let the pillow fall back and sat up and looked at Neil.

“I’m not going to marry her.”

He was clear on that now. He could not marry a woman he did not trust, and he did not trust Laura. Not after she had betrayed him to Fordham. He had only been able to force himself to ask her last night because he was fairly confident she would again refuse.

“And what of your career?” demanded Neil.

“My career will survive,” Richard said drily. “At the very least, I’ll know whereof I speak now, when it comes to discussing adultery bills.”

Neil fixed him with a skeptical look. Richard shrugged.

“She won’t be here long. A few days, perhaps a week or two. I’ll think of something.” An idea came to him. “Jane is in New York now. She might take Laura under her wing. And Americans will forgive anything for a title, even a courtesy one.”

“That’ll take months to organize, even by steamer post. And I doubt either will be willing. They were never friends.”

“It’s worth a try. I’ll write to her today.” That reminded Richard. “And her father — we have to tell him that she’s been found and is safe. Can you run down to Leamont today and do it in person? While you’re there, you could ask for some of her old clothes.”

“I could ask for him to take her back.”

“She won’t go.”

“Between the two of you, you could make her.”

Richard hesitated. “Perhaps. But I’m not sure I should. He’s different to our father, but in his own way, I think just as cruel.”

Neil chewed his lip thoughtfully. “You might be right. But what if he wants her back, when he knows where she is?”

Richard shrugged. “Then he must want.”

As it happened, he didn’t want. Neil returned home with a carpetbag full of Laura’s oldest clothes and a curt message from Lord Brocket: Better Albroke than me. Laura, called down to Richard’s room in a nightgown borrowed from a housemaid, flinched when she heard it but said nothing. In silence, she grabbed the carpetbag and went back to her room. Neil and Richard were left staring at each other.

“And not a word of thanks,” Neil grumbled. “I had a job to persuade Brocket to give me anything of hers at all. He says he bought them, so they’re his, not hers.”

“She’s probably upset.”

“That’s no excuse to be rude,” Neil said more firmly. “What was it like with her today?”

“It wasn’t.” Richard shrugged. “Her maid says she didn’t leave her room.”

Neil looked surprised. “Not even to come down and ask if you needed anything? Not even to say hello?”

Richard shrugged. “I suppose she didn’t feel like company.”

She didn’t seem to feel like company the next day either. But Neil must have had a word with her about it, for the next afternoon and every one thereafter she came down to Richard’s room and sat with him for a little while. Her conversation was desultory and tinged with bitterness. Often they were left sitting in an uncomfortable silence. If Neil was there too, there was certain to be conversation, and Laura was certain not to participate in it. It made Richard uncomfortable to see her watching and listening silently, and it was always a relief to him when she got up and left.

Richard took to inventing errands to keep her running up and down the stairs, or asking her to read to him, so they would be spared the burden of silence. It was twice the burden for him, for in the silence he found himself looking at her, and trying not to be caught looking. Even in faded cotton day dresses, even in bitter silence, even without trying, she tantalized him. Once, when she was leaning over him to arrange his pillows, he found his head almost at her breast, his forehead brushing her shoulder. The scent of her hair, freshly washed with rose oil, clouded around him. It took his every effort of will not to wrap his arms around her and pull her closer.

Neil, even if he would not let her ignore them completely, did not like having her in the house. He annoyed Richard by constantly suggesting other places Laura might go: to their sister Elizabeth’s house; to be a companion for Miss Dalrymple; to Laura’s cousin in Ireland; to their friend Prothero in France, who needed a governess. They were having an argument about it one morning when the sound of piano music floated up from the drawing-room below. Richard broke off mid-sentence.

“It must be Laura,” he said.

For a moment, they listened without speaking. It was a sonata, full of brassy notes, but quickly, lightly played.

“I’ll have to get the piano tuned,” Richard said. “It’s been years since anyone’s played it.”

“Jane’s letter will come in a few weeks,” Neil said. “Laura might be gone as quickly. Is it worth the bother?”

Richard hesitated. “Jane might not agree to take her. She might not agree to go.”

“And then she must go somewhere else.” Neil narrowed his eyes. “You can’t let her stay forever. It simply isn’t done. Every paper in town is reporting that she’s your live-in mistress.”

Richard was silent. On the one hand, he knew Neil was right. On the other, he hadn’t yet dared bring up the matter with Laura yet. He had realized through their brief conversations that she was under the impression that this was a permanent arrangement. He did not know how to explain to her that he was already looking for a way to safely get rid of her. Not that she was happy to be here; there was unhappiness in her every motion, every word, every glance. But he had a suspicion she would be even less happy when she was told she had to leave.

“Richard?” Neil pressed.

“The piano needs tuning anyway,” he dodged.

Neil frowned and said nothing. That night, however, as Richard was lying in bed after dinner, he heard the footsteps creak in the bedroom above and the murmur of voices: Laura’s and Neil’s. He sat up to listen, but they were too indistinct for him to make out any words, except for once when Laura cried out, “No, no, no!”

A moment later, Neil came back down the stairs and went into his own room. Richard waited for a while, thinking that Laura might come down and speak with him, but there was no further motion or sound, and soon he fell asleep.

The next morning, Richard was getting dressed when his door opened suddenly. Richard turned to see Laura standing in the doorway, hand on the knob, staring at him, her eyes wide and face pale. He looked at the mirror, saw his own form, which he had never liked, covered in a rainbow of fading bruises, which did not improve it. Even two weeks after the accident, he was still more bruise than flesh.

“I’m not Louis the Fourteenth,” he said. “I don’t need an audience to dress.”

Laura stumbled backwards out of the room, her white cheeks burning red. “No. No. I didn’t…”

She shut the door without finishing what she had started to say. Richard turned back to his valet, who was holding out his shirt and looking perhaps amused. But the sight of his master’s bruises had long since ceased to shock him.

Laura avoided him the rest of the morning. Richard suspected she wouldn’t come in the afternoon either. He debated with himself over attempting to climb the stairs and find her — he was able to hobble about a little now — but in the end decided it would be a lot of effort for what was probably going to be a lot of trouble. But he was mistaken anyway, for she came down in the late afternoon, when he was wrapped up on the couch and feeling rather drowsy after an early dinner.

She sat down on a chair nearby and he began to sit up.

“No, don’t get up,” she said, in a low, flat voice. “I won’t be long if you’re tired.”

He eased himself back down, rather thankfully. If she wasn’t going to stay long, then she couldn’t be about to start an argument over what Neil had said to her last night.

He was wrong about that too. After a moment she said, in the same flat voice, “Neil told me you are planning to have me go and live with Jane in New York.”

“I sent her a letter. We thought it would be suitable for you.”

Richard waited for her appeal or censure, but it did not come. Instead she only said, “Oh,” and fell silent.

“Would you… be happy with that?”

She raised her shoulders slightly and then dropped them, a flinch more than a shrug.

“It will take some time to arrange, of course.”

“Neil said I could go somewhere else in the meantime. Perhaps my cousin’s.”

“If you would like to.”

She met his eyes, and by the look in them, he knew quite well she didn’t like. But rather than speak, she got up and stoked the fire, which had fallen low. When it was going again, she stayed there looking down into it, poker in hand.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He almost did not hear and at first did not understand. But she came back over and dropped to her knees on the floor by his couch so their faces were level.

“I meant to say so before,” she said, in a trembling voice. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. My fault you’re…”

Richard sat up, sending a pillow falling to the floor, but she remained kneeling by his side.

“I made a terrible, terrible mistake,” she continued, in the same low, trembling voice. “I could have… you might have died.”

“But I didn’t. I’m getting better.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“Then how bad was it before?” She looked up and then bowed her head quickly. “I never imagined Fordham could do such a thing. He… He said he hated you… that he wanted revenge… He wanted to marry me, to hurt you. He thought you loved me. So I told him we’d already… I was so stupid . I just wanted him to go away.”

It had never before occurred to Richard to wonder why Laura had exposed their secret. He had assumed it had been some malice or vanity or indiscretion. He hadn’t thought she could be backed into a corner. Not without biting back.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “He didn’t lay a finger on me… only you. I didn’t think he was like that. When my father told me, I— I couldn’t believe— but he said you were dead— that was worse—”

She said something else. A few more, disjointed, incomprehensible phrases. Richard waited until she ran herself into silence, her breast heaving. He wanted to know what if she had meant what he thought she had.

“Did you not get my letter? Did you not know what he was?”

“What letter? He mentioned a love letter — I didn’t understand.”

“No love letter. I tried to warn you. I knew what kind of man he was. That’s why he hates me. I should have made sure you got it. I was careless.”

“I shouldn’t have needed a warning. Don’t make excuses for me. I was wrong to tell him — and now all London knows. I’m so sorry, Richard. For everything. I… I just wanted you to know that. Before I leave.”

“I know.” He watched tears swell and glitter in her eyes. He couldn’t remain angry with her. Not now he knew. Not when she was trying not to cry. But it was an awkward thing, to accept an apology, and he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. “I understand now. I… Laura, thank you for  saying so.”

On the floor, she continued to blink back tears. He had the feeling he hadn’t said enough. She looked as if she would break if he touched her.

“You made… a mistake. And I forgive you,” he said. “I want you to know that.”

She swallowed. “But what I did—”

“There’s no buts about it,” he said gently. “It’s done.”

She wiped her eyes, her breath coming in rags. He wondered if he should try putting an arm around her shoulders, but he thought if he did he might end up kissing her, and it didn’t seem right, not when she was almost crying. Instead, he waited until her breath was almost normal and then asked her to read to him. She seemed glad to have a solid task to do, and as she read, her voice grew steadier.

Slowly, Richard found himself slipping further down the couch, until eventually he was aware that the dull murmur of her voice had stopped. She moved closer, and her scent closed around him. She was adjusting his blankets. He felt her fingers briefly upon his face too, smoothing down the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. He thought she might leave then, but through the gentle shallows of a dream he remained aware of a presence by his side.

Then — it must have been quite a long time later — the door opened and Neil spoke.

“Rich, can I—”

“He’s asleep,” Laura interrupted, in a low voice.

“Oh. I guess it can wait.” But Neil’s footsteps came closer. “…Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.”

“My mistake,” Neil said, “I see now it’s only raining indoors.”

She let out, for the first time, a sob, and got up and swiftly left. Richard waited a moment. Then Neil’s footsteps retreated and the door shut with a click. He dared to open his eyes, and saw that darkness had fallen outside and Laura had forgotten to draw the curtains. But she must have attended to the fire while he slept, for there was a new log on it, and the book they’d been reading was put away on the table, with a paper spill to mark their place.

__

A/N: This is also another of my favourite chapters. Angst. Angst. Angst. I just love it. And look, I’m on schedule! Friday update! Happy Easter, guys!!!

Chapter Fourteen: An Acquired Taste

If Richard hadn’t been kind, Laura might have been able to take spirit from self-righteous anger. But his kindness, however gentle, left her with no possible refuge from remorse. Drained of tears, exhausted by emotion, she lay on her bed and wondered bleakly how on earth she was going to live with herself for the rest of her life, every heartbeat, every breath, shadowed over by her own cowardice and mendacity.

It was not an enduring state of mind. She did not have the sort of character that could sustain constant self-reprobation. By the time morning came, she had persuaded herself that there was possible redemption: to be as kind as possible to Richard in however many days she had left here.

She went downstairs the next afternoon determined to do so. It was one of Richard’s bad days, when he was in pain, and Laura’s resolve was put to test almost immediately by his impatience and peevishness. He did not want her to read to him. He did not want her to play cards with him. He did not want to go to sleep. Calmly, meekly, Laura persisted. At last, she got the reluctant admission from him that he would not consider it a nuisance if she happened to play the piano downstairs and he happened to be able to hear it. Relieved, she went downstairs and played for well over an hour. She only stopped when she noticed a shadow in the corner of her vision and turned to see that Richard was standing shakily in the doorway, holding the frame for support.

“Richard!” She was at his side in an instant. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I decided to go for a walk.”

As they spoke, Neil came halfway up the stairs from below. His eyes went first to Richard’s face, and then to Laura’s hand, hovering at Richard’s elbow. Slowly, he came the rest of the way up the stairs. Richard slipped past Laura into the drawing room and began to hobble around the room. Laura wasn’t used to seeing him walk without his stick. He could do it, but he had to slide his right foot forward, rather than step, and then hastily hop with his left.

Neil joined her at the door. “Was this his idea?”

“Of course!”

“And could you not have stopped him?”

“Of course not!”

She was angered by his paternalism and the faint, accusing note in his voice. He was always so ready to believe the worst of her. But, remembering her resolution to be kind to Richard, she decided not to pick a fight with Neil. Instead, she went over to Richard, holding onto the back of a chair to rest, and held out her arm to him.

“I’ll be your stick.”

He gave her the first genuine smile she’d seen from him in months. “Thank you.”

After that, Richard began to hobble about the house frequently. His ribs were healing, and Doctor Cavendish said a little gentle walking might help him. Laura was always happy to lend him her arm or, when he was exhausted and back down on a couch, to sit near him and entertain him with talk or games. Soon, he started to join them for dinner, which lightened what had been for Laura the most dreadful meal of the day, alone with Neil’s chilly company. The first night she came down and saw Richard waiting in full evening dress at the table, Laura found herself strangely self-conscious of her own faded and shabby morning gown. Neil had always dressed for dinner, but somehow that had never signified.

Still, she was as kind to Richard as she knew how to be. She refused to allow herself to indulge in bad temper or to fall back into the bitter silence she usually retreated into when she was unhappy. And as he responded to kindness with kindness, she found herself warming to him in ways she never had before. In twenty-eight years of acquaintanceship, she’d never thought of Richard as a friend. Now, in the space of no more than a week, he had somehow become exactly that.

It all would have been very pleasant if it weren’t for Neil. Whenever he was with them, the air became damp and prickly again. If Laura made Richard laugh, Neil was sure to frown. If Richard leaned close over the piano while Laura played, Neil would sharply tell him to sit down and rest. Laura realized that Neil was jealous. As it was only Richard she was determined to be kind to, she took pleasure in it.

Very often now, Neil would say in her hearing, “Richard, do you think we ought to write to Mrs Prothero about Laura?” Or, “I got a letter from Verity yesterday. She says her grandmother might take Laura for a few weeks.”

“Let’s wait until Jane’s letter comes,” Richard would say every time. And as Jane’s letter might not come for a month, that was not unpleasant for Laura to hear.

Only once did Neil say something that truly hurt Laura, and that was when he mentioned at dinner one night that he had seen her father.

“He says he wishes for a reconciliation,” he hinted.

“No. No I will not do it.”

“It would be better to have a distant relationship than no relationship,” Neil said. “He’s no drunkard, no wife-beater. You’re his only child.”

“Would you send your only child to an asylum?” She saw the alarmed look in Richard’s eyes and softened her tone. “I am nothing to him, Neil. Nothing.”

Richard reached across the table and touched her hand. Neil caught the gesture, and Laura caught him catching it. But he dropped the subject and didn’t pick it up again.

Later that night in the drawing room, Laura took vicious pleasure in leaning over the back of Richard’s armchair and running a hand through his curls. Neil’s eyes widened. Richard looked up abstractedly.

“You need a haircut,” she said.

“Do I?”

“Yes. Look, it goes all the way past your eyebrows.” And she smoothed down the curls to prove it. “Don’t you think so, Neil?” she added sweetly.

Neil scowled. “Leave it to his valet, Laura.”

After that, whenever Neil was cold towards her, Laura found herself being over friendly to Richard in return, correcting his cravat, or brushing his coat, or making some other excuse to touch him and spark irritation in Neil’s eyes. Richard accepted these attentions with a bemused smile but never reciprocated. Sometimes Laura wondered what would happen if she started up these flirtations when she and Richard were alone, but somehow, if Neil wasn’t in the room with them to scowl and glower, she never dared.

---

About two weeks after she had come to Richard’s house, Neil came to her room very late one night and knocked on the door. She was braiding her hair at the dressing table and regarded him through the looking glass. He must have been at his club, because he was in white silk stockings and black breeches.

“Is something wrong?” Laura asked.

“A little. May I close the door so we can talk in private?”

“As you please.” She slipped a lace around her hair and tied it. “What is it?”

He shut the door behind but remained standing by it. “I heard a lot of talk tonight, about you and Richard.”

“Should we be concerned?”

“As a brother, I’m concerned.”

She bit back a twinge of guilt. “A man’s reputation isn’t as delicate as a woman’s.”

“But it simply isn’t done, to take a woman into a bachelor’s house.”

“And yet it has been two weeks now since he has done it.”

“And two weeks ago he should have sent you elsewhere.” Neil bit his lip. “I spoke with Charles Maidstone today. He’s offered to let you live in his house near Portman Square for a week or two. He’s your brother-in-law. It would be respectable.”

The memory of Charles’s smug face made Laura’s stomach turn. “No. I won’t do it.”

“Not even for Richard’s sake? You do care for him, don’t you, Laura?” His coaxing tone irritated her.

“This past week or so, I’ve rather had the impression that you wanted me to care a little less for Richard.” She stood up and came closer. “Why the sudden change?”

“You’re mistaken in your impression.”

“Ah. Then you wish for me to love him?”

He went silent, and she allowed herself a smile of triumph. It didn’t last long, however for he asked a simple and very unexpected question:

“Do you?”

Before she could answer he went on.

“The past week or two, you’ve been… well you’ve been flirting with him, haven’t you? And I’m not often home. You’re alone together a lot. And well, you’re very pretty. I’ve been wondering if perhaps… if perhaps the rumours aren’t coming true.” He flushed. “Or if they already have.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to deny it, but she noticed his flush and rather enjoyed it. She only smiled sweetly.

“I’ve learned not to kiss and tell.”

“Laura.” He closed the distance between them and took her hands earnestly in his. “I love my brother.”

“And he’s worth it.” She was just as earnest as him now.

“I want him to be happy.”

“I hope he will be.”

“You will bring him so much unhappiness.” Neil’s eyes were soft and troubled. “Can’t you see it? He will never make the connections he needs in his party with you here. He needs a Whig wife, not a Tory mistress. He needs someone who can host his parties and entertain his friends and adore him with every fibre of her being. You’re not that woman, Laura. You know that. He knows that. The sooner you leave, the happier he will be. He’ll always keep you safe. He’ll always help you. But he can do that without you living under his roof. And you’ve already brought him so much sorrow.”

If he had left on those words, she might have eventually persuaded herself he was right. Richard was worth loving. Laura wasn’t a woman worth loving him, even if she could have. She didn’t need Neil to tell her that. But Neil had to clumsily press on.

“And it’s not as though you could really enjoy being his mistress, is it? I mean, you’re beautiful and he’s…”

She yanked her hands from his and went to the door and opened it wide.

“Goodnight, Neil. I think I’ve heard all I need.”

“Then you won’t—”

“I will not.”

His face fell. “Right. Goodnight, I suppose.”

He went, leaving her fuming behind him. For some minutes, she paced the floor, wishing she had thought of something crueler, something cleverer to say. As a child, she had had rather a fancy for Neil, but she had never known him well, and now she knew him better, she liked him less. Conversely, the more she discovered of Richard, who she had never particularly cared for, the more she appreciated his character, and consequently his looks. The idea that she would be his mistress, against her own inclinations, offended her — on Richard’s behalf.

She glanced at the clock and saw that it was past midnight. Richard would be asleep, but Neil would still be undressing and washing in his room. And Neil’s room was opposite Richard’s, and the floorboards in the hallway creaked.

The mischief came to her in a flash, and she acted upon it as quickly. She undressed to nothing, flung a wrapper around herself, and skittered down to the stairs to the men’s rooms below.

She traipsed across the floorboards, which groaned, and opened Richard’s door. Perhaps she would have shut it again and gone back to her room, content with that, if Neil hadn’t at that moment opened his own door opposite and peered out through the crack. She curtsied at him, displaying her bare calves, and slipped into Richard’s room and shut the door.

She intended only to sit by the dying fire for half an hour or so, then return to her room and go to bed, but Richard wasn’t asleep after all and spoke as she crossed the floor.

“Who is it? Laura?”

“Yes. Only me.” She came softly closer. “Don’t make a fuss. There’s nothing wrong.”

“But why are you here?” She had woken him. He had that confused, dishevelled look, his curls tossed the wrong way across his head. “What are you doing?”

“We’re having intercourse. If you’ll give me leave, I’ll moan a few times and pound the mattress. Then we’ll be done and I’ll go.”

His confusion became a sudden smile. “Do explain, properly.”

“Well.” She sat on the edge of his bed. “I have just had a most elucidating conversation with Neil. Apparently, I am your mistress.”

“ Are you?“ His half-lidded eyes seemed suddenly more awake.

“The idea of you making… making love with me, distressed him. Greatly. And. I confess. I rather like distressing Neil.” She had a sudden flash of doubt. “Do you mind very much, my little joke? I thought you’d be sleeping and not notice.”

She had half-thought he’d be offended, but he only laughed softly.

“You’ve been teasing him all week. ‘You need a haircut.’ ‘My dear Richard, let me fix your tie.’ Wasn’t that enough?”

“No.” She absently smoothed his disordered curls. “Did you find it funny? I could never tell.”

“He’s my brother. I’m fond of teasing him too, as it happens.” His lips quirked. “He didn’t insult you, did he?”

“Not intentionally.” She didn’t want to start an argument between the brothers. “He means well.”

“And we don’t always do well when we mean it.” Richard caught her hand and pressed it gently. “He remembers you too well from when you were a child, and…”

“…I was not the sweetest of children. I know. I’m not the sweetest of women either, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m beginning to think you’re an acquired taste.”

“I like that.” She bit her lip. “Richard… Are we flirting?”

“Probably.” He still held her hand in his. “Now, is it just to annoy Neil?”

“No. Not even a little bit.”

His eyes were soft and dark under the dim light and he was smiling. There were shadows at the corners of his lips. She drew closer and kissed them. It wasn’t like the first kiss in the library at all. It was gentle and unhurried, lingering and testing. When she drew back, his cheeks were flushed and his hands were at her waist, hot through the silk of her wrapper.

“You are not wearing anything underneath.”

“No.”

His hands slid around the tie and stopped there. He met her eyes, the questioning in them, she thought, more for himself than her.

She waited.

He hooked the loops in his fingers and pulled. The wrapper came loose and she shrugged her shoulders until it slipped to the bedclothes. His eyes went wide and rather stunned, which made her want to laugh. He ran a hand over her waist and up to her breasts. She felt fire in his wake and breathed in through her teeth.

“Come closer,” he said, and she obeyed, bringing her legs up onto the bed and gingerly sitting over his thighs.

“Not too heavy?”

“Here.” He pulled her closer. “The left leg is better. Kiss me again.”

She did, and his hands moved slowly across her body, exploring, tasting. There hadn’t been time in the library in for this. But there was no impatience now, no anger. Only delicate, warming discovery.

Then he was out from under the bedclothes, and she was tugging at his nightshirt. And when it was off and gone, she saw him in his entirety as she had never had before. Slender, with a tapering waist and flaring shoulders, and soft, brownish skin, lightly downed with dark hair. He’d lost weight in his illness, and the ribs showed visible under his fading bruises, but she knew what he’d look like filled out again — just the right type of slender. She kissed his shoulder. Trailed kisses downwards over his chest.

He flinched.

She stopped and looked up. “I’ll hurt you.”

“No.”

“I did hurt you.”

“Only a little.” He saw the doubt in her face. “It will be worth the hurt. Don’t stop now.”

She didn’t stop. She had long ago forgotten Neil, forgotten her reason for entering the room. Forgotten everything but the present moment and the present touch — and the present yawning ache to be touched deeper. And he satisfied that ache, and she lay in his arms, dizzy, bewildered.

There was no hurry to get away now, no fear of discovery. He seemed to want her there. He had his arms around her anyway.

“I did not mean for this to happen,” Laura said softly, almost regretfully. It would be even harder to leave him now.

“Nor did I,” he murmured. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I was very firm… mustn’t kiss… mustn’t touch…” His hand slid caressingly the length of her hip and thigh. “I had the best of resolutions…”

He fell asleep soon after. She kissed his temple, slipped out of the bed, and went back to her room. The floorboards creaked in the hall, but this time, if Neil heard, he did not look out.

__

A/N: soon!

Chapter Fifteen: The Inevitable Conclusion

Laura slept late the next morning and woke to the sound of raised voices. She sat up, heart pounding, and listened. It was Neil, from Richard’s room below.

“…don’t treat me like a halfwit!

There came the low, indecipherable rumble of Richard’s voice.

“It’s obscene and you know it! Get rid of her!”

Again, the low rumble, louder this time but still indecipherable. Laura slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Opening it a crack, she could make out Richard’s words.

“…certainly not by your command.” His tone was controlled but irritation vibrated beneath it. “Not by any command but her own.”

“Oh? Is that how it is then? She gives the orders and you follow them? I’ve never known you to follow an order before!”

“Not yours! Not in my house!”

Laura flinched at the virulence in his voice. She snatched up her wrapper from the floor and fought to get her arms through the sleeves. She was still doing up the sash as she ran down the stairs. In Richard’s room, both men were shouting now:

“…You’re making a goddamn fool of yourself—”

“—I’m doing exactly as I think I ought—”

“—Oh come on! She’s leading you by the—”

“—Please don’t!” begged Laura, stopping in the doorway.

Neil shut his mouth with a snap. He twisted on one heel and glared at her, his lips drawn, his jaw clenched. Behind him, Richard was standing and grasping a chair for support, his cheeks burning red.

“Please don’t fight. Please.”

Neil raised his hands helplessly in the air and shook his head. “You—” His mouth opened and shut several times, then he strode forward and pushed past her into the hall. His footsteps clattered rapidly down the stairs. A moment later, the front door slammed shut.

Laura was left staring at Richard. His chest was heaving in and out and his knuckles showed white under his skin. She watched anxiously as his breath slowed and his grip on the back of the chair relaxed.

“He’s right, you know.” Laura fought to speak through the aching lump in her throat. “I should go somewhere else.”

Richard met her eyes. “You don’t want to go.”

She bit her lip and said nothing.

Richard kept her gaze for a moment and then straightened up and limped heavily to the dresser. He began to roughly brush his hair, which was swept up in a lop-sided crest over his forehead. Other than that, he was already fully dressed in a waistcoat and cravat and shoes. Laura hovered in the doorway. She should leave. Not because it was obscene. Because Richard and Neil were fighting over her and would not stop as long as she was there. The bitter feelings Neil had been biting back the last few weeks were going to come out now — now that Richard was well enough to endure them, now that she had provoked them beyond repression.

“You’re right,” Richard said, making her jump. “I need a haircut.”

Her alarm faded slightly. “Oh. Yes. You do.”

He ruthlessly combed down the crest until it was half-way flattened. Then he laid the comb on the dresser and limped towards her.

“It’s not your fault. Neil was bound to lose his temper sooner or later.”

It was neither a command to go nor a request to stay. She shrugged.

“And I was bound to sleep with you. Sooner or later.” Richard gave a small, half-bitter laugh. “I thought I could control myself.”

“I provoked both of you.”

“Provoked?” Richard ran his eyes up and down her figure. “You provoke me just standing there. Your hair come out all round your shoulders. Bare feet. Sunlight streaming through that thin gown. You are constant provocation, just breathing. Don’t you know?”

Self-consciously, Laura tried to tidy her ramshackle braid.

“And now you’re only provoking me more.” He gave her a wry smile. “It’s hopeless. Just how long will I manage to keep my hands off you, with you in sight and reach every day? After last night, I don’t even give myself a week.”

“Then I think you should stop trying.”

His smile became a perplexed frown. “But you don’t want to marry me.”

“Richard, somewhere out there, there is a nice young woman who is perfectly suited to be your wife, who will love you as you deserve to be loved. I’m not that woman. You must know that.”

“Oh, I know.” Richard kept his eyes steadily upon hers. “But what happens to that nice young woman when I happen to meet you in a library at a dinner party neither of us wishes to be at?”

Laura could make no reply.

Richard turned away and began to pace the room from chair to window and back again, resting a moment at each to catch his breath. He didn’t seem to want help, and right now Laura didn’t dare offer it. But his face grew paler and paler, and she was relieved when he stopped at last by the chair and gripped its back for support.

“Answer me honestly. You don’t want to leave?”

“No.”

“And you don’t want to marry me?”

“No.”

“Then what do you want?” He threw his hands helplessly in the air. “To be my mistress? Because that seems to be the inevitable conclusion of such an arrangement. I want you. I want you so much I know the only thing that will ever stop me from having you is if you don’t want me. And if you do want me, why on earth would you not want to be my wife? God knows there are enough women who’ve wanted that without wanting me at all.”

He let out a heavy sigh and Laura ached to hear it.

“I want you,” she said. “Believe me, I want you.”

“Then… then marry me and we’ll both get what we want.”

For the first time, Laura did not dismiss the prospect out of hand. Richard was kind and decent. He was a good man. He would be a good husband. But even as he came towards her and tilted her face towards his to kiss, she remembered: once upon a time, she had thought Mr Maidstone would be a good husband too.

“I’d rather be your mistress,” she said as his lips touched hers.

Richard froze. Slowly he drew back and released her. For a moment he seemed about to speak, to protest, then he pressed his lips tightly together and studied her. There was a painful, reluctant frown on his face. Laura was sure he was about to tell her that not only would she not be his mistress, she must leave his house. But at last he said quietly,

“Very well then.”

He limped to his dresser and unlocked the top drawer. She heard the crackle of paper, and then he limped back over, holding out a sheaf of bank notes towards her. She stared at them.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Mistresses get paid, don’t they?” He gave her a one-sided smile. “It’s only wives that do it for free.”

---

Laura did what Richard thought she would not, and took the money. Then she went out to spend it, but not before courteously helping Richard down to the study on the ground floor. He wanted to write a letter.

Now he stared at the piece of paper, entirely blank except for the salutation:

Dear Verity,

There was no way to ask her advice without confessing what he had just done. And he needed her advice. He knew that Neil would have none to offer. Nothing but censure, and that entirely deserved.

Laura was not, in fact, the first woman to have claimed the title of Mistress in Richard’s life. She might have been surprised to learn that she had three predecessors, but Richard was determined that she would never find out. Even now, he felt ashamed of it. He had purchased kisses and smiles and laughter and warm bodies on cold nights. Purchased them, because no woman would choose to freely give them to him. Because he wasn’t worth the giving of them.

It had been nearly ten years since he had sent his last mistress on her way. Nearly ten years since he had told himself never, never again. And now…

He stared at the empty paper and slowly wrote half a sentence:

I’ve made another mistake…

But perhaps it was less of a mistake than taking Laura as a wife. He didn’t love her; he only wanted her. Wanted her as once upon a time he had thought he had wanted his mistresses. And if he married her, there would be no sending her on her way when he began to taste the coin in her kisses. He really ought to be grateful she had so flatly refused him. She’d likely saved him a lot of trouble.

He crumpled the paper into a ball and took up a new sheet.

Dear Verity,

I’m afraid I’ve taken Laura as my mistress…

Except what had really frightened him was the suspicion that if he didn’t, she would leave. And what then? He could see that there was something cutting her up inside. Something that made her cold and angry and occasionally cruel. He might not love her, but he felt responsible for her, perhaps even cared about her. He didn’t want to send her away to suffer in silence.

He scowled at the paper and methodically began to tear it into tiny fragments. It was useless. This was not the sort of information you could convey in a letter. He needed to speak with Verity in person.

The front door opened and shut, and Neil’s footsteps echoed slowly across the marble of the entry hall. Richard dropped the last fragment of paper and breathed in through his teeth. Better to get it over with, he thought miserably, getting to his feet and limping to the doorway.

In the hall, Neil was just about to start up the stairs, but he stopped still, his hand on the newel post, when he saw Richard.

“Oh. You’re down here.”

“Thought I’d write a letter. You weren’t long.”

“I only went for a walk. To cool my head.” Neil hesitated, then crossed the hall and spoke in a low, uncomfortable tone, “I’m sorry about this morning.”

“So am I.” Richard tried to smile. “Come in here, will you? I want to talk.”

He held the door open for Neil and then shut it softly behind them. Neil leaned against the edge of the desk, and Richard, his legs and back aching, sank down into an armchair.

“Laura and I have come to an arrangement,” he said flatly.

For a moment, relief broke over Neil’s face, then he frowned. “What kind of arrangement? Where are you sending her?”

“She’s staying here, Neil. I’m sorry. She’s agreed to be my… mistress.”

Neil stared at him. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Neil ran his hand savagely through his hair until it all stood up on end. “Why?” he demanded at last. “Just… why?”

There was no way to explain without giving Neil more reasons to distrust and dislike Laura. Richard shrugged.

“I want her and she is willing.”

“What a perfect justification. No, I’m sorry. I won’t argue with you again.” Neil shook his head. “You’ve made your decision. But it’s going to make a bad scandal worse.

“Other people are always having scandals of this sort. Yet they survive.”

“And lose half their friends in the process!”

“Will I lose you?”

Neil paused. Slowly, he breathed out. “You know you won’t.”

“Then I lose no one important.”

“But while she is in your house, Verity, Annie, Podge, they won’t be. You must understand that.”

Richard felt a twinge of doubt. He knew that Neil was right — it was impossible to invite his sister-in-law and her children, who he loved, to the same house as his mistress, who he did not. An unfair price for him to have to pay for Laura.

“I do understand.” He sighed. “Eventually I’ll come to a different arrangement — clean up that little place in Chapel Street, perhaps, and set her up there.”

“Like father used to, with his courtesans?” Neil sneered. “That house ought to be burned to the ground.”

Richard wasn’t entirely sure he disagreed. His mother had died when he was twelve, but he still remembered the resigned, broken expression she used to wear when his father was around. And the tormented, wondering expression when he was not. But he had done worse to her than merely be unfaithful, and in any case, Richard had no wife to betray by being with Laura.

Neil pushed himself off the desk. “Thank you for informing me, at any rate. If you don’t mind, I’ll be heading out again. I probably won’t be back for dinner.”

“Not in the mood for conversation?”

“Not in the mood to face your mistress!”

“I’m sorry, Neil.”

“And so am I.”

At the door of the study, Neil paused.

“You know, I think I ought to return home now.”

“Now?” Richard felt a quiver of alarm. He had no wish to return to the old days of estrangement between him and Neil. “But why?”

“Because you’re much better now. And because it’s been nearly a month, and I miss my wife and children. I think now is the right time for me to return home.”

But Richard knew perfectly well that was not the reason.

__

A/N: Oh, bit late eh? Er… Well. Richard sure isn’t thinking with his head in this chapter. Or exactly with his heart either.

Chapter Sixteen: All of London Knows

Neil left London just as most of England was arriving in it. Coaches and carriages trundled daily into the metropolis, carrying bundled-up and bored parties of wives, mothers, daughters, sisters, maidens, and maids. Silk-slippered toes surface from between the folds of fur-trimmed gowns and fish for the iron grilles of coach steps. Slender white hands slip out from brobdingnagian muffs to lay two delicate fingers on a footman’s guiding palm. The silk-slippered toes land in London mud and track it up the white-washed doorsteps of London houses. The slender white hands hang idle as housemaids unwrap shawls and untie cloaks and unbutton spencers. The silk-slippered toes patter softly up silk-carpeted stairs into silk-curtained drawing rooms. The slender white hands drop brobdingnagian muffs to couches and their owners drop down after them. A husband, a son, a father, a brother, a master, or a bachelor is fetched from his study and steps into the room. Greetings are uttered. And then a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister, a maiden, or a maid drawls:

“Now, dear, do explain to me what on earth Lord Albroke is doing with that woman.”

That woman herself could not have explained. Laura did not know. So far it seemed that Richard was doing nothing with her. Five days had passed since he had agreed to make her his mistress, three since Neil’s brooding presence had ceased to shadow the air, and still Richard had not so much as hinted she perform the duties for which he had engaged her. Indeed, they were spending less time together than ever. With Neil gone, Richard had to take up the business responsibilities Neil had been performing for him while he was ill, and he was often in his study for hours on end, talking with his men of business. At the end of those discussions, he was often in no mood to do more than lie on a couch with his arm over his eyes while Laura played the piano. It almost made Laura wish Neil was still there.

At least now he was coming down to every meal with her. Hobbling down the stairs, one step at a time, leaning heavily on the banister and having to rest and catch his breath on every landing. It hurt her to watch him, hovering uselessly by his side while he insisted he did not need her help.

“I have to start getting stronger again,” he said.

“Not by overtaxing yourself!”

“I know I’m a cripple, Laura, but I can walk.”

“But you don’t even have your stick.”

“I am capable of managing without it.”

But he wasn’t, not really. And the stick itself lay in two pieces in the bottom cupboard of a bookshelf in his study. She’d found it one day, when frankly snooping. He had been upstairs with Doctor Cavendish, and she, returning from a shopping expedition, had wandered curiously through the open door of his study, which had always previously been closed.

It was a long, narrow room, but well lit, with two tall windows overlooking the square. Bookcases lined the long wall, while a fireplace took up most of the narrow one, with a portrait of Richard, Neil, and their sister Elizabeth as children hanging above it. Laura crossed the room to examine it and laughed to see the identically surly expression on all three faces. None of them seemed happy to have to pose.

Laura moved away from the fireplace, dodging between a shabby footstool and two comfortable-looking armchairs, and went over to the bookcase. A large number of books were bound in pale green calf-skin and embossed in gold. These were all the sort of typical books you could expect to find in a nobleman’s library: Latin and Greek classics and histories, and English religious poems and sermons. Laura knew instantly that it was Richard’s father who had bought them. The other books, with miss-matched bindings, with threadbare spines, had to be Richard’s. Shakespeare, Voltaire, Dante, Montaigne, and, both more esoterically and closer to home, Laurence Sterne, Maria Edgeworth, Henry Fielding, Fanny Burney, and a number of more recently published sentimental novels, whose presence surprised her. She noticed with pleasure that she and Richard shared similar tastes.

There were closed cupboards beneath the bookshelves, and she opened one curiously. It was full of perfectly normal things: a broken globe, some rolled up maps and charts, a quilled embroidery box, a stack of candles… and Richard’s stick. In two parts, with matching splintered ends where it had been snapped.

She had picked it up, both parts, and run her fingers over the boar’s head handle. She could see the imprint of Richard’s hand on it where the brass shone bright. He must have been using it for years. Casting her mind back, she couldn’t remember a time, until now, when it hadn’t been at his side. It seemed almost a part of him.

There had come a sound at the door, and Laura had turned to see Richard standing in the hall with Doctor Cavendish. She flushed with guilt, feeling like a child caught with its fingers in the jam jar. Richard only looked placidly at the stick.

“Oh yes. It broke.”

“He broke it.”

Richard gave a one-shouldered shrug and turned to Cavendish. “I’ll see you next week then.”

“Next week.” Cavendish took his hat from the footman and bowed to Laura. “My lady.”

She curtsied back, and then he was gone. Richard limped into the study and looked thoughtfully at her.

“Something wrong?”

“You kept it,” she blurted.

“I suppose one of the servants put it there. I thought it had been thrown out. I’ll have to get a new one, I suppose.” He gave her a puzzled look. “What were you looking for?”

“Looking for?”

“In the cupboards. I don’t think there’s anything in them but maps.”

“No…” Laura carefully put the two bits of stick back where they had been and shut the door. “I don’t know. I thought maybe…”

She racked her brain for an acceptable excuse. Richard raised his eyebrows in amusement.

“I have no secrets except you, my dear, and all of London knows that one.”

“I wasn’t looking for secrets,” she flashed.

The amusement died on Richard’s face. “You’re welcome to use the study, you know. You’re welcome to use anything in the house. This is your home. You are not a guest. You are my…”

But he hadn’t finished the sentence, and Laura, going back to her own room a little later, had no idea what she was to him.

It was a difficult position for her to be in. She already felt obligated to Richard for supporting her. It was double the obligation now she was being given forty pounds a month and asked to do nothing for it. She chafed against her own guilt, her own sense of inutility. And Richard went to bed every night alone.

One night, when they were lingering at the supper table, she nibbling at walnuts and he sipping claret, he surprised her by mentioning he would be returning to the House of Lords the next week.

“Are you well enough?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It’s mostly just sitting and listening to old men cough and mumble. I’ll be alright. It’s you I’m worried — thinking about. You’ll be alone a lot.”

“I’ll amuse myself.”

“You could invite friends to tea or luncheon or…” He frowned. “Cards?”

“What do you normally do when you’re alone?” she asked curiously.

“This and that,” he said vaguely.

“Then I suppose I’ll do the same thing.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t worry . I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

“I’ve never been lonely in my life,” she lied, and got up from the table.

He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, leaning rather heavily on the table. He never remained in the dining room to drink port after Laura had left it. Maidstone had always insisted on the privilege, even when they were alone for the evening. At first it had offended Laura, but gradually she’d come to savour the peace of those lonely hours.

Richard held the door for her and they started up the stairs. He stood back to let her go first, but on the third step she stopped and turned back. He was leaning heavily on the stair rail, a pained frown on his brow.

She stepped back down and put a hand on his elbow.“Let me help you.”

He shook her off. “Laura. I can’t walk around on your arm the rest of my life.”

“I know. It’s only to get you upstairs.” She touched his hand. “Until you get another stick, Richard. Please.”

For a moment, he seemed about to relent.

“I can’t bear seeing you in pain,” she added.

“I’ve been in pain every day of my life,” he said gruffly. “I’m used to it.”

He dropped her hand and leaned again on the stair rail. Laura sighed and gave it up. They did not talk much that night, but later, Laura lay awake in her bed wondering where this was going. Since the day she Richard had agreed to take her as a mistress, there had been a barrier between them. She didn’t know if she had done it or if had. Probably they both had. But now he was refusing even her help up the stairs, which previously had never been a point of contention. And still he was paying her forty pounds a month, while accepting nothing from her. She had to do something to lessen the obligation.

The next morning, she did it, creeping out before breakfast and heading directly to Bond Street. It took longer than she expected, because the first two shops were not equipped to do what she asked, and the clerk in the third refused to serve a woman at all.

“We are an establishment for gentlemen ,” he hissed, practically sweeping her out with his broom.

In the fourth shop, however, she found a man who not only could help her, but would. That also took longer than she expected, and by the time she paid for Richard’s present with money he’d given her, it was well past ten o’clock. She hurried back to Grosvenor Square only to find that Richard was locked up in his study with a visitor.

Nervous and impatient, she hovered on the second floor landing, peering down through the banisters at the study door. When it opened at last, she saw Richard come out into the hall with another man. Their backs were to her, but she recognized instantly the other man’s voice and walk.

“I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity,” Jonathan Percival said, reaching out to shake Richard’s hand.

What was Mr Percival doing in London? Laura drew back, her pulse quickening as she remembered the last time she’d seen him, at the reading of Maidstone’s will. And before that — but Percival was harmless, she reminded herself. Any other one of Maidstone’s friends might have borne her ill-will, but Mr Percival had always been kind to her.

Nevertheless, she did not wish to go down and greet him, so she waited, stepping back from sight, while they finished talking below. Richard seemed to be in a hurry to get rid of him, and Mr Percival seemed to be trying to make excuses to linger.

“…Dreadfully kind of you,” he said. “When we’ve hardly a passing acquaintance before, too.”

“Yes, well, commerce knows no strangers,” Richard said, rather impatiently. “But I’ll reserve my decision until I’ve seen the papers.”

“Of course! I’ll be sure to send them to you immediately. But it’s dreadfully kind of you, even to speak to me.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Well.” There was a silence. Percival seemed to have run out of ways to say thank you. “I’ll send those papers immediately.”

“Good day now,” Richard said firmly.

A moment later, the front door opened and shut. Laura waited a moment before going downstairs and leaning through the doorway of the study. Richard was now standing in front of the fire, holding a visiting card in his hand.

“Don’t burn it,” Laura said. “Not if it’s Mr Percival’s card.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He dropped it on the mantelpiece. “You know him?”

“He was… a friend of my husband’s. He can be gauche, but he means well.”

“I had that impression.” Richard tilted his head at her. “What’s that you’re holding behind your back?”

“Oh. Um.” Feeling almost shy, Laura came forward and brought his present out from behind her back. She held it out to him. “I, um, I had them take the handle of your old stick. And put it on a new one, so you can use it again.”

He stared at the cane in her hands. It was as similar to the old one as she could find, thick brown walnut, smooth and tapering. The boar’s head fitted seamlessly on top of it, winking under the light. It was almost like his stick had never been broken.

A strange, almost horrified expression fell over Richard’s face. Then, before Laura could start to defend herself, his lips quivered and he broke out into laughter.

Laura’s doubt crystallized into humiliation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, catching his breath. “It’s just that — oh, Laura, I’m so sorry, but I always hated that thing.”

“Oh.”

“I thought at last I’d seen the back of it and then you unearth it from a cupboard, patch it up…” He took it from her, testing it on the ground. “It feels the same — it’s the right length.”

“I had them measure it from the broken one,” she mumbled.

“But really.” He held it up by the shaft between them, squinting at the handle. “A boar’s head — my father’s sense of humour. A reminder for me to be persistent, for my fifteenth birthday. I feel like a stupid little coward boy again, just seeing it — I should have bought a new one years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for.”

“But I thought… well it doesn’t matter. I was wrong.”

He rested the stick on the ground, his weight upon it, just like in the old days, and frowned at her, perplexed.

“I think it’s very kind of you,” he said.

Kind, and useless. She bit her lip.

“Laura.” He touched her hand. “I really appreciate it.”

“But you don’t even like it.”

“And yet somehow I like you better for it.”

She didn’t know what to say. She thought if she did speak, she would snap at him. So she said nothing and looked bleakly at him. His eyes softened. He touched her cheek and moved closer. Like an entranced bird, she watched as he closed the distance between them and kissed her.

An awkward kiss, landing on the corner of her mouth. A strange kiss, for like Galatea she came to life beneath it and found herself able to lean her head back for a better angle.

He kissed her again and dropped the stick so he could take her shoulders in his hands. Under his touch, she felt her blood quiet and her heart slow. When it ended, he kept his arms around her.

“I want you to choose me a new one,” he said. “Not a boar. Your own taste.”

“What if you don’t like it?”

“I promise I’ll love it. We’ll go together if you want.”

She touched her cheek to his.“Very much.”

He didn’t kiss her again, but that night, after the servants had gone to sleep, Laura crept downstairs and slipped into his room. He turned over in the bed as she approached. Raised an arm and with it the blanket. She slipped beneath and curled up against him. Then blanket and arm closed around her.

And for the moment, Laura knew exactly what Richard was doing with her.

__

A/N: I realized after editing this that I probably should have written this chapter from Richard’s perspective. It happens sometimes that a perspective change makes everything work better. But that would mean a delay in posting, again, while I rewrote it, so I decided not to.

Chapter Seventeen: Flouting Tradition

That night was the beginning of their affair, though not, Laura realized, the end of the reserve between them.

It was in him — in his watchful eyes, in his preoccupied frowns, in his distant, shielding smiles. She knew there were things he was not telling her. He might not have secrets, she thought, but he certainly had shadows within himself.

It was in her too — she could not bring herself to stay the night in his bed. She would count his breaths until she was sure he was sleeping, slip out from under the covers, and tiptoe back to her room. Sometimes he half-woke and tried to pull her back, murmuring some persuasion— he liked just to hold her —but she could not be persuaded, she would not be held.

And Laura couldn’t tell, really, if she wanted the reserve between them to fall or not.

One morning in late April when Richard was out, Laura had her first caller at his house. She hadn’t expected anybody to call at all— indeed, if she happened to pass an acquaintance in the street, they were sure to pretend that they did not recognize her —and the first dreadful conclusion she came to was that it was her father. As she reached out to take the card from the maid, her hands trembled.

It was not her father. It was Jonathan Percival.

Laura breathed out. Richard had mentioned to her a few days ago that he’d rejected Mr Percival’s offer of business. It had no legs, he had told Laura, and she’d been unsurprised but worried to hear it. Mr Percival had no head for business. He was too timid, too soft-hearted, too disposed to thinking the best of others and the worst of himself. He had inherited his father’s factories at twenty-five, and by thirty had nearly run them to the ground. Capital and competence might yet have saved them but Mr Percival had neither.

And now Mr Percival had come to call on her, probably to beg her to change Richard’s mind about investing. Laura’s heart sunk. Mr Percival was a damn fool.

But she could not refuse to see him. He was perhaps the only person she could not refuse to see.

She got dressed and went downstairs to find him sitting patiently on the most uncomfortable chair in the drawing room, his hands folded neatly in his lap, his heels touched together. He launched himself to his feet as she entered and swept a low bow.

“Lady Laura. It’s an honour to see you looking so well.”

She curtsied but did not hold out her hand for him to shake in case he was fool enough to kiss it. He was not looking well. He was paler and thinner than usual, with shadows under his cheeks, and new, sharp creases between his eyebrows.

“Thank you for calling,” she said. “Unless it’s my husb—” She shut her mouth with a snap. Husband. Yes, Mr Percival used to call to see Mr Maidstone. Used to ask to see Maidstone as a pretext for seeing Laura, because Maidstone did not like Laura to have friends of her own. And Laura had very, very much needed a friend.

“He’s dead,” she said, letting out a short, sad laugh. “For a moment I almost thought… You brought it back.”

Mr Percival went from white to grey. “I’m sorry.”

That was Mr Percival all over. Apologizing for things that were not his fault. It made Laura feel better. She held out her hand to him and he shook it limply.

“You haven’t come to see Lord Albroke, have you?” she asked, sitting down and pointing at a chair opposite.

“Not really.” Percival sat and chewed his bottom lip. “I don’t think I can interest him in investing in the factory.”

“He said there’s no point. It’s going to lose you and all your investors a lot of money.” She met his eyes. “Chiefly you. He thinks you ought to sell out.”

“I don’t have the money to sell out,” Percival said with a wince. “This is my last factory. My last chance.”

“Well it’s not going to work so you’ll have to find another one.” She found herself talking to him the way she talked to dim-witted servants but it was impossible not to. He demanded direction. “I can’t persuade Lord Albroke to provide capital, if that’s what you’re thinking, but perhaps I can help in other ways.”

Percival shook his head. “I didn’t come here for your help, Laura. I…. I came to see…” He started chewing his top lip now. “What I mean is — are you well?”

“Very.”

“But — do you — do you need anything?”

“That you can provide?” She almost smiled. “It’s very kind of you to ask. No. I do not.”

“But—” He bit down hard, his lips white. “—Are you happy?”

“Of course I’m…”

She hadn’t thought about happiness in a long time. She’d almost forgotten there was such a thing. It was an alien notion, happiness, and she found she could not answer.

“If you’re not happy here — with this — with, um, Lord Albroke — I’ll help you leave. I know I’m not much, but I can help — surely I can do something. You must let me do something.”

He leaned forward and touched her hand, made a motion to hold it. She drew back.

“If I were in need of help, Jonathan, and if you were capable of offering any, I would be grateful it. But I don’t need any. And you can’t give any.” A hurt look flashed across his face and softened her tone. “You did once, you know. And I’m very grateful to you for that. But I’m — I’m in much better circumstances now. And yours are worse. It’s I who ought to be offering to help you.”

“It’s not a gentleman’s place to ask for help from a lady,” he said stiffly.

“Don’t be proud,” she begged. “Don’t be foolish. I owe you something. And Richard will help if I ask him.”

But she had offended Mr Percival. He got to his feet and bowed deeply.

“I came here only to ask if I could help you,” he said. “And I cannot.”

“No.”

There was disappointment in his eyes. She knew if she could get him to stay a little longer, he would apologize once more, would perhaps, with a little persuasion, accept her offer of help. But there was a danger, she thought, in encouraging him too much; he had always been fonder of her than was wise. She said nothing, and after a pregnant moment he bowed again.

“I am pleased to hear that you are well. I am very pleased to hear that indeed.”

He left, and Laura stayed in the drawing room, thinking. Not about Mr Percival; once out of sight, he was always out of mind. About happiness. She was perplexed by the very notion of it, had to remind herself of its name, reacquaint herself with its shape. She had once been happy, she thought. As a child, she must have been happy. Even in the very early days of her marriage with Maidstone, she had been happy. It had been a naive happiness, true, but it had been happiness. And now?

No, she decided, with sudden clarity. Now was not happiness. Now was better than what came before. Now was better than the ignorant ecstasy of her honey moon. Now was safe. Now was good. But it was not happy.

And perhaps, she thought, that meant that happiness was not so important after all.

Her reverie was disturbed by a knock at the open door. It was the maid again.

“A Miss Dalrymple enquires if my lady is at home.”

Laura was surprised again but this time pleasantly. “I am,” she said. “Please bring tea and cake.”

A moment later, Miss Dalrymple came trotting up the stairs and into the room. Laura stood for her and said hello. Miss Dalrymple, however, remained standing, ramrod straight, and looked Laura up and down with narrow, scrutinizing eyes. Finally she said, in a tone of absolute satisfaction,

“If my mother could see me now, she’d turn over in her grave.”

“Really? And why is that?”

“Oh, she was a Wesleyan,” Miss Dalrymple said excitedly, plumping herself down on a couch. Laura sat down next to her. “I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing. Lady Godfont is so jealous. She peaked when she eloped with her cook, you know, and no one ever so much as blinked at her since, no matter how low she wears her gowns. And here, the whole of London is straining for a glimpse of you!”

“I’d rather they weren’t,” said Laura. “I hate people gossipping about me.”

“By the time you’re eighty-five, you’ll wish they did,” Miss Dalrymple said. “It’s been fifty years or more since I was talked about.” She sighed. “But never mind, I do recall, they talked plenty then.”

Laura could believe it. She had no doubt that Miss Dalrymple had been as self-interested and self-ruled at thirty as she was at eighty.

“Are you in London for the season?” she asked, to be polite.

“I’m staying with my god-daughter,” Miss Dalrymple answered. “Her house is in terrible disorder. I’m helping her fix it.”

“How generous of you.”

“I try to help where I can,” Miss Dalrymple said. “But I must confess, sometimes I do think Helen is a little ungrateful about what I do for her. But no matter. My work will be done.” She looked abstractly around the drawing room. “You look very good in black.”

Laura looked down in some confusion at her skirts. “This is jonquil.”

“I know.” Miss Dalrymple squinted at her. “Makes you look a little sunburned.”

“So I should wear black instead?”

“Why, yes. It would make for a most striking effect, I think. Lady Laura, in black, against the backdrop of, say, a glitteringly-lit opera box. Lady Godfont would be frightfully jealous. She looks peaky in black.”

Laura blinked. “Has Lady Godfont offended you somehow?”

Miss Dalrymple pressed her lips together. “All I say is that running away with a cook, does not give one license to count the sugar spoons. But that is neither here nor there.” She fixed Laura with a glare. “The problem is you.”

“Oh. Is it?” Laura eyed Miss Dalrymple’s ever-present reticule. “I don’t count sugar spoons, but I have counted the miniatures on the wall of the stairs.”

“Hmph. So have I. There are eighteen of them.”

“Then how am I the problem? By not being in the opera box, wearing black?”

“Exactly,” Miss Dalrymple said. “It’s flouting tradition, you know, to become a man’s mistress and not flaunt his money and your looks. You need to make a spectacle of yourself a little. Give London a chance to gawp and blush.”

Laura shuddered. “No thank you.”

“It’ll help that boy of yours.”

“Help Richard?”

“Oh yes.” Miss Dalrymple nodded. “When’s this tea coming? I hope it’s not seed cake. Seed cake always reminds me of my Aunt Mildred.”

“But what does Richard need help with? Is he in trouble? Have I caused him trouble?”

There were footsteps in the hall outside and Miss Dalrymple twisted her head to the door.

“Have I caused him trouble?” Laura repeated, more sharply.

Miss Dalrymple turned back, her expression momentarily surprised and then softening. “It’s not exactly a perfect arrangement for an unmarried young man of political ambitions, is it, my dear?”

Laura looked away. “Not exactly.”

The maid entered with a tray of cakes and tea, and Miss Dalrymple was distracted. Laura tried to collect herself. Richard had agreed to the arrangement. Richard was a man. Men did not have reputations to lose. Not exactly.

“How would it help him?” she asked eventually. “How would it help him if I went out?”

Miss Dalrymple looked up from a lemon tart. “Eh? Oh. Well. It’s mostly that you’re rather — quite definitely I ought say — beautiful.” The lemon tart disappeared and she balanced two more in each of her knobbly, wrinkled hands. “And a man with a beautiful mistress commands admiration amongst other men.” One of the lemon tarts slipped by magic into her reticule. She took a bite out of the other. “At least, if she ever lets herself be seen with him.”

“But I’m his mistress whether they see me or not.”

“But it doesn’t matter if you’re beautiful if you’re not seen.” Miss Dalrymple prodded the seedcake with a fork. “Take my word for it, my lady. If he takes you somewhere, looking beautiful, somewhere public, and gives them a little to talk about, there’s more who’ll raise their hats to your lord than who’ll raise their noses.”

Laura bit her lip.

“If it helps,” Miss Dalrymple added kindly, “think of them as crocodiles. You have to throw them a bit of fish every now and then so they don’t eat you whole.”

It did not help. Not when Laura was the fish. But she understood a little the kind of man who might admire Richard more for showing off his mistress than for hiding her away. Perhaps, amongst his colleagues, there might be some grudging respect for him openly flaunting his beautiful mistress. It made her feel a little sick.

Downstairs, the front door opened and shut and Richard’s footstep sounded in the hall. But he did not come up, and a moment later the study door sounded shut. Miss Dalrymple cocked her head to the side.

“He’s a lot better now, isn’t he?”

“Mostly better. Still healing.” That wouldn’t have garnered him any respect either, being beaten by another man. The sick feeling in Laura’s stomach turned to anger. She took a slice of the seedcake Miss Dalrymple hadn’t touched and savagely bit into it. “He can work again at least.”

Miss Dalrymple left not long after — despite her Aunt Mildred, with half a seedcake squashed into her umbrella; the reticule was already full of lemon tart. Laura could not stop thinking over what she had said. There was reason in it. And Laura had been hiding from public, keeping to the house except for when she desired to shop or needed a walk. She hadn’t even tried to call upon any of the acquaintances who might, despite her position, be willing to admit her. Opera and playhouse and assembly hall aside, she hadn’t even attempted to go to a gallery or a museum.

She went downstairs silently, still unsure. The study door was open now, and Richard was at his desk, bent over a sheaf of papers. She stood at the door, watching him write, pause, tap his pen, and scratch out whatever he had written. A speech for the Lords, she supposed.

He looked up, frowning, and then his frown rose into surprise as he saw her.

“Laura.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Mmm.” A thought came to him, and he bent his head and scribbled something rapidly. “What is it?”

He was too distracted for her to want to linger, but she knew if she didn’t ask now she’d never dare.

“I want to go to the opera. Will you take me?”

He glanced up. “Tonight?”

“If it’s suitable. If you’re not busy.” She was almost hoping he was, but he shook his head and looked back at his paper.

“I’ll call the carriage for nine.”

__

A/N: I fell off the planet, I know. In fact I moved house and threw out my old (dying) laptop which I’d been doing all my writing on. It took me some time to get back into the pattern of things. A lot of time, actually. Sorry.

Chapter Eighteen: Lady Roynor’s Opinion

Laura dressed not in black but in white. She hadn’t bought any black gowns with the money Richard had given her and, despite Miss Dalrymple’s advice, she found she preferred white. Black was too much of a reminder that she was still supposed to be in mourning for her husband.

It was only before dinner, as the maid was doing her hair, that Laura realized she had neglected to buy herself any jewellery with Richard’s money. Nor did she have any of her own. All her jewellery was still at her father’s place. She would never get any of it back now.

She looked critically at herself in the mirror. She was hardly likely to cause a spectacle like this. It was true that the shoulders of her dress were very low, but this only made her throat seem all the more bare. She was unlikely to raise an eyebrow in a church, let alone an opera hall.

But there was nothing she could do about it now and she hated to keep Richard waiting. She shrugged an indigo shawl around her shoulders and went down to dinner.

It was a silent, slow dinner that night. By the shadows under Richard’s eyes, she could tell he was fatigued. She was too preoccupied to provide him with conversation either. She had not been properly out in London since before Maidstone died. She was afraid of it, of the crowds, of the gossip, of the stares.

Over the port and nuts, she tried to back out.

“We don’t have to go tonight, if you don’t want to,” she said. “We can go another time.”

He looked up from his port, which he had not yet sipped. “I’m sorry. I’m not much of a conversationalist tonight. But we can go. After all, I haven’t really taken you anywhere yet. You must be bored.”

“It’s the pleasantest boredom I ever had.”

He gave her a weak smile and twisted the wine glass in his hand.

“Did you finish your speech?”

He frowned. “What— oh. Yes. I’ll fix it up tomorrow.” He took his watch out of his pocket. “Five to nine. If you don’t mind, I’ll go change my cravat.”

“Please.”

He left his port untouched on the table. Laura, finding the nuts unenticing, abandoned them there too and went next door to the study to wait for him. His low mood oppressed her. She could tell he was falling into one of his silences again. Something was wrong, and he didn’t want to let her know what.

The papers he had been writing lay strewn across the desk. She hesitated only a moment and then crossed the floor and glanced down at them.

It was not a speech. It was a letter. A few legible phrases leapt out from her, between lines of scratched-out words:

…I thought from you of all people I could expect some measure of support…

…I am responsible for her welfare, certainly responsible in part for the position she is in — a position not unsimilar to yours, once upon a time…

…Your words give me pause, but I see no way out, no possible answer, that preserves Laura’s safety. And I would sacrifice my honour, if any such thing remains…

A step on the stairs warned her in time, and when Richard entered the room she was intently examining the bookshelves.

“Should I start on Cicero next?” she said lightly.

“It’s in Latin I’m afraid. I only keep it there to frighten my lawyer into thinking I’m an intellectual.”

She laughed, turning to him, and then broke off. “What’s that?”

‘That’ was a flat, black velvet box, held open in his hands. Something sparkled within it. And she noticed that he had not changed his cravat.

“A bit of nonsense, really. But they’ll go with your shawl. And your eyes.”

He came closer, and she saw that they were a deep blue, sparkling stone necklace and two matching earrings. He slipped the box on the bookshelf, took out the necklace, and draped it around her neck. It was cold and heavy.

“I can’t, Richard. They’re too much.”

“Don’t make a fuss,” he murmured in her ear. “They’re only paste. The real ones are in a vault at the bank.”

He turned her around and looked her up and down, and he didn’t need to utter a word for her to know exactly what he was thinking.

“Now,” he said, dragging his eyes away, “I’ll leave you to do the earrings, because I don’t know how they work.”

She gave a subdued laugh. “Men.”

“Women.” He gave her a smile, and his weariness seemed to disappear in front of her eyes.

Because of that more than anything else, she blindly twisted the earrings in.

“Do they look alright?” she asked.

“Perfect.” He squared her face in his hands and kissed her. “Come. The carriage.”

It was now Laura who felt fatigued, and Richard who seemed carefree. He made a game of kissing her fingers in the carriage and it was all she could do to laugh and pretend she was amused. Perhaps she did not pretend well enough. He abandoned it as they arrived in Haymarket and got stuck in a slow-moving line of carriages.

“Do you have a box?” Laura asked.

“I sent out to my brother-in-law. We have the use of his tonight.”

“Oh. Your sister married — he’s Lord Farthingdale now, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“But I remember him,” Laura said, casting her mind back. “His mother brought him to the hall one Christmas. I pushed him in the cow-pond.”

Richard gave a shout of laughter. “He must have had five stone on you at least! How did you dare?”

“I went for the knees. He toppled like a bowling pin. I do hope he’s not here tonight. Is he still fat?”

“He is not. My sister rations him on soda bread and broth when he gains an ounce. Poor man. He was destined to pushed around by… cruel women.”

“And I was destined to be cruel. I remember calling you all sorts of names as a child.” She felt a sudden flash of shame for the sins of years ago, which until now she had almost forgotten. “I’m sorry about that.”

He made a sound, as though to brush it off, then he changed his mind and kissed her fingertips once more. “Thank you.”

She didn’t know what he was thanking for.

They drew up before the theatre entrance, and Richard helped her down. There was a crowd outside, and as they got down, the buzz of chatter and noise suddenly hushed and a chorus of stares greeted them. But if Richard was aware, he showed no sign of it, only tucking her arm into his and heading for the doors.

No one stepped forward from the crowd to greet them, and Richard did not linger there, instead taking her in to the entrance hall, where the acrid smell of gas lamps met them. At the bottom of the stairs to the boxes, he had a quiet word with the attendant and then took her straight up.

The pit was already filling, but there were few people in the boxes yet, most preferring to linger and gossip in the hall. Richard watched the crowd below, but Laura kept her eyes upon the boxes, scanning the people slowly filtering into them and feeling flushes of nerves when she saw those she knew and flushes of relief when she saw those she did not.

Laura soon realized that there was one woman in another box, across the other side of the theatre, watching her. She tried to make out who it was, but it was too far for her to discern more than dark-hair and a pale flash of face, obscured by a set of opera glasses. Laura felt a burn of anger at being so openly scrutinized, but without opera glasses of her own she could not recognize the woman.

The more the boxes filled, the more eyes fell curiously upon Laura and Richard. Richard ignored them so perfectly that Laura wondered if he didn’t even see them. When the music started, he relaxed back in his chair and seemed to have no conception at all that the maligned Lady Godfont was staring beakishly at him from the next box and whispering loudly to her companions. Several times, when the music and rush of the crowd dipped low, Laura heard their names mentioned. She was beginning to hate the opera; she wished she had never come. When the first interval came and there was no music to pretend to be distracted in, she was suddenly so profoundly embarrassed she could hardly think. Richard turned to her and asked her if she wanted a drink and, desperate to be out of Lady Godfont’s sight, she said yes.

They went down to the coffee room, where Richard pressed through the bulk of people and found her a glass of champagne. While he was gone, she stood with her back against a table and noticed, despairingly, that though everybody was looking at her nobody was willing to meet her eye.

Miss Dalrymple had been very wrong indeed.

Then Richard was back. She sipped champagne and hoped the alcohol would soothe her nerves. It didn’t seem to be doing much. Her heart was racing faster and faster.

“How do you like the music?” Richard asked.

“It’s very fine indeed. She sings so well,” Laura said, without having any idea what the singer was like.

“A fine soprano indeed. Though not a good actress. And I’m not sure the conductor isn’t drunk.” He frowned. “Not that it’s easy to hear the orchestra above all the talk.”

“No. I can hardly hear myself think in all this.”

He contemplated her a moment. “Perhaps you’d rather we go—”

Before he could finish, he was interrupted by a fat old woman stepping out of the crowd in front of them.

“Lord Albroke,” she cried, overloud and overjoyful. “What a rare pleasure! You, at the opera!”

“Lady Roynor,” Richard said helplessly, bending to kiss the withered, bejewelled hand she held out to him. “What a surprise.”

Those near them turned to watch. The Duchess of Roynor commanded great weight with the ton. Her husband had been a leading supporter of the Whig party when he was alive, and she continued to voice her opinion about things which really the Whigs wished she wouldn’t.

“And Mrs… Maidstone, isn’t it?” The duchess turned to Laura. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Albroke?”

“You appear well-informed already,” Richard said, trying to smile to take the edge off his tone. “Your grace, this is my friend, Lady Laura Maidstone. My lady, this is Her Grace, the Duchess of Roynor.”

Laura curtsied and briefly took the duchess’s hand. It was so cold and smooth under her touch that she could hardly tell where the duchess’s hands ended and the many rings that covered them began.

“And aren’t those beautiful sapphires,” Lady Roynor said, her eyes sparking with interest. “Really, the exact colour of your eyes. You ought to be careful you know, someone might mistake them for gemstones and pluck them right out.”

Laura smiled weakly. “I hope not.”

The duchess gave her a strange smile and moved off into the crowd. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, people seemed to make a path for her. Then the sea closed over again and she was gone.

Laura gave Richard a confused glance. “What was—”

“—Lord Albroke!” A woman, who until now had been standing two feet from them without even looking their way, as though completely unaware of their presence, suddenly gave Richard her hand. “How lovely to see you.”

“Lady Grantours,” Richard said, rather grimly. “Do let me introduce you to my friend, Lady Laura.”

After that, they could hardly get back to their box for people waylaying them. It was well into the second act by the time they got there. Richard shut the box door behind them with a sigh.

“Is this why you wanted to go to the opera tonight?” he asked, leaning against the door to catch his breath. “Was it planned?”

“Not by me,” Laura said, fanning herself. “Miss Dalrymple suggested it.”

“Miss Dalrymple,” Richard said severely, “has a bet with Lady Roynor that by the year’s end you will no longer be my mistress.”

“Does she really?”

“Yes. Interfering old woman. No doubt she thought being shunned in public might send you away.”

Laura frowned. “I suppose Lady Roynor forestalled her. I only hope Miss Dalrymple hasn’t bet more than she can afford to lose.”

“Five hundred pounds,” Richard said drily. “But I won’t chuck you in. Not even for her sake.”

Across the theatre, the dark-haired woman was again examining Laura through her opera-glasses. Laura tried to keep her gaze on the stage.

“Are there other bets, Richard?”

“I’ve heard of several.”

“Ah.”

The strains of the music —someone was dying, loudly, over seven stanzas— swelled forth. Laura waited until the actor fell to the floor of the stage.

“Are you going to tell me about them?”

“No. I will not.”

Perhaps it was better that way.

The second interval was as sociable as the first, and in the last few minutes of the third act, Richard turned to Laura and asked if she would mind leaving early to avoid the crush in the entry hall.

She was as willing for that as he was, but as they crossed the marble floor of the empty hall, a low, melodious, feminine voice echoed forth from behind them.

“Richard.”

They turned, and Laura saw it was the dark-haired woman who had been watching her through the opera-glasses. Up close, she was a tall, broad woman, some years older than Laura, and handsome rather than beautiful

Richard sighed. “Oh. It’s you. I thought it might be.” He held out a hand glumly, and she gave him two fingers to shake. “Sorry about the box. Farthingdale said you wouldn’t want it tonight.”

“Farthingdale was wrong.” Now, Laura recognized Richard’s sister. It had been fourteen years since they had last met, but Elizabeth’s manner didn’t seem to have changed. She always had been cold, imperious, and disapproving.

“Lady Farthingdale,” Laura said, giving the briefest of curtsies.

A faint sneer appeared on Elizabeth’s lips, uncomfortably familiar in expression to one Richard occasionally wore, but she did not turn to Laura nor give any indication she had even heard her. So much for Lady Roynor’s opinion. Elizabeth had always had her own standards.

“I was going to visit you earlier,” Elizabeth said, “but it did not seem suitable. No matter. I will be sure to come by some time. Bye-bye.”

She turned and went back the way she had come, without waiting for Richard’s reply. At the door, the footman called that their carriage was ready, and Laura and Richard left in silence.

“I didn’t know your sister was in London,” Laura said as the carriage rolled off.

“She doesn’t call on me often.” Though he tried to keep his tone light, Laura could tell he was unhappy. She reached out and took his hand, and he squeezed her fingers faintly.

__

A/N: we meet the last of the three Armiger siblings, Elizabeth.

Chapter Nineteen: This Bad Business

After their encounter at the opera, Richard expected a visit from his sister immediately. The thought of it made him nervous. Like his father, she had the gift of making him feel small and stupid with no more than a single arch look. During the off-season, she was too busy in Brighton or at her husband’s home in Kent to bother him much, but always during the London season, when other entertainment grew tired, she would come by for a few hours to bully him about his singleness and demand presents for her ever multiplying children. He dreaded to think what she would have to say about Laura.

However, for over a week, she did not come. Instead, Richard was constantly plagued by cards and calls from acquaintances who just the week earlier would not have seen him had they passed him in the street. Even a few of his female acquaintances deigned to visit, under the secure chaperonage of husbands or brothers. At first, Richard had hoped that Laura might manage to make or renew a friendship with one or more of his female callers, but she remained discreetly out of sight whenever he had a guest. He could not tell if she was trying to be mindful of his reputation or if she was only trying to avoid people.

One afternoon, when he’d just managed to release himself from a tedious visitor, he went up to the drawing room to talk to her about it. She was copying piano sheets as he entered but put them down to look up with an inviting smile.

“Looking for more pleasant company than… was it Lady Hunstall?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I recognized her voice.”

“You would have seen her face if you’d come down.”

“I didn’t wish to.” She turned back to her music sheets. “I can play if you want.”

“No. I’ve got work to do. In between callers.” He leaned on the table and watched the back of her head, caught up in a plain knob that threatened to come loose with just one touch. His fingers twitched. “It would help me if you’d receive people.”

She looked up, doubtful. “But surely no woman would dare call. And I would not trust a man to respect me as I am now.”

“I know. But…” For a moment, Richard wished Verity was there to chaperone Laura. But that was impossible, and Verity hated London anyway. “At the very least, Major Calloway is a cousin of yours.”

Laura raised her lip in an unattractive sneer. “I wish he weren’t.”

“The Duchess of Roynor is beyond the age where her reputation might be harmed by calling upon you.”

“I can’t imagine she would be anything close to a friend to me. Vulturous.”

“But I don’t want you to be isolated because of me. If you lived elsewhere then at least your friends could pretend to believe we were decent — but it’s too late for that.”

“Much too late.”

He saw the troubled look flit across Laura’s face and dissolve when he said too late. Yet, for himself, he could not see the appeal of the arrangement to her. He was growing fond of her and suspected she was growing fond of him, but beneath his feelings, his principles and experiences were in quiet revolt against their situation. He could not understand a woman who seemed to delight in the violation of order and decency.

There was a knock at the door and the butler entered, carrying a silver tray.

“A visitor for my lord.”

“Thank you.”

Richard took up the card and glanced at it. The name sent a quiver of surprise and anxiety down his spine. He dropped it back on the plate and looked at Laura, who was copying the piano sheets again.

“Laura.”

She looked up.

“It’s your father.”

He saw her pupils dilate to an inky blackness.

“Why?”

“I’m going to go down and ask him.” Richard turned to the butler. “Tell him to wait.”

He waited, watching Laura, until the butler had left. “I think you should see him.”

“I don’t want to,” she said immediately.

Richard pulled out a chair and sat down. He took Laura’s hand, resting on the table, and played with her fingers. Her pulse was racing.

“I’ll be with you,” he said. “And I won’t let him hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of him.” She pulled her hand from his. “Don’t think I’m afraid.”

Richard took in her wide eyes and pale face. “No, of course not,” he said pleasantly. “My mistake.”

She shot him a dirty look. He sighed and tried again.

“Laura, I suspect it’s you he has really come to see. And if he has, he will take a final dismissal only from you. I can see him alone and send him away if you please, but if he wants to see you, he will be back.”

Her chest rose and fell through a deep breath.

“You might be wrong,” she said.

“I might be wrong.”

He waited. He knew her well enough now to know that further persuasion would be more likely to make her refuse than quiet patience.

“Go down first,” she said at last, in a flat tone. “Go down first and if he wants me — then I’ll come. I’m not seeing him if I don’t have to.”

“I can do that.” He stood, then leaned down to kiss her. “Thank you.”

Downstairs, Lord Brocket was waiting in the study with his hands in his pockets, staring with narrowed eyes at the family portrait over the fireplace. He turned when Richard entered.

“Good afternoon, Lord Albroke,” he said, in a pleasant, sociable tone.

“Lord Brocket.”

Richard ran his eyes down the neat, expensively dressed figure, the calm, superior expression, and was surprised by the flame of anger within him. It was not right that Brocket could be so calm and self-satisfied when his daughter was so splintered and wounded — mostly, Richard thought, by his own doing.

“Why are you here?” Richard asked, leaning against his desk and folding his hands over the handle of his stick in front of him.

Brocket looked surprised. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“I’ve come to arrange a reconciliation.”

Richard narrowed his eyes. “With Laura.”

“She is my daughter. Not that we can ever be friends, I think.” Lord Brocket flicked a speck of dust off his coat sleeve. “But if she’s going to be your wife, I can’t be seen to be at odds with both of you.”

Richard was speechless for a moment. “ If she’s going to be my wife.“

“That is your plan, isn’t it? I don’t believe this mistress game. It’s not in your character.” Brocket’s cold, colourless eyes bored into Richard. “You’ve probably been planning to marry her for months, despite my disapproval. Well, you’ve cornered me now. I can no longer disapprove.”

Richard played with his stick, twisting it and digging it into the carpet between his feet. “I’ve certainly considered marrying her. More than once.”

“The sooner the better. This charade has gone on long enough. It’s time for both of you to clothe yourselves in the semblance of decency again.”

Again, Richard eyed Brocket’s sharply tailed waistcoat and suit. His stockings were creaseless. His collars sharp as knives. Clothed, Richard thought, in the semblance of decency — and barren of the actuality of it.

He pushed himself away from the desk and went to the door. “Perhaps you ought to see her,” he said, ringing the bell for the butler, who appeared almost instantaneously. “Fetch Lady Laura, please.”

There was silence in the study. Brocket looked up again at the family portrait.

“It’s a pity that there won’t be children,” he said flatly. “If you could have children, you’d not have been my last choice.”

Richard said nothing.

There were footsteps outside, and then Laura appeared, hovering in the doorway. Her father held out his hand to her, but she only looked at it.

“What do you want?” she asked.

The corners of Brocket’s mouth turned up and his teeth flashed visible between his thin lips. “That’s a hurtful manner from a daughter.”

“What do you want,” she repeated, darting a glance at Richard who shook his head sympathetically.

Brocket sighed. “I suppose first I should admit Fordham was a mistake. That’s partially my fault.”

Laura’s eyes were wide and baleful. Slowly, cautiously, she came into the room, shutting the door behind her, and stood, away from her father, close to Richard. He thought about reaching out and holding her hand, but it didn’t seem right with Brocket in the room.

“What do you want?” Laura repeated quietly. “Get to the point.”

Anger flickered in Brocket’s eyes, but his voice continued smooth and calm. “Reconciliation with my only child.”

“No.”

“I’m not saying we have to be friends, Laura. But at the very least, Lord Albroke is an old acquaintance, the son of a dear old friend, and a neighbour. And you are my daughter. The best end to a bad business is that you marry him quickly in a good church and let me give you away.”

Laura’s mouth opened slightly then shut. She turned to Richard and then back to Brocket. To Richard’s surprise, a faint smile curved across her face.

“But when has any of us ever done the best thing for anybody?” She glanced at Richard. “Well, you have, I’m sure, but Father and I are not of the same material.”

“You won’t let me give you away?” Brocket demanded.

“I won’t marry him. I enjoy this bad business.”

There was a light in Laura’s eyes now — a not entirely pleasant light, but something better than the fear it had replaced. Richard breathed a little easier. It was going better than he had expected.

Brocket came over from the fireplace and stood in front of them. As he did so, Laura stiffened slightly but did not step away.

“You said you’d considered it.”

“I have,” said Richard. “As has she. She has decided she will not. I thought you’d best hear it from her. She has quite made up her mind.”

Brocket went over to the window and looked out pensively. The square was in the bustle of early afternoon, and Richard suspected he was looking out for the purpose of being seen in Lord Albroke’s study window rather than for collecting his thoughts. It wasn’t going to be as easy as telling him no.

“I have a matter of business to discuss with Lord Albroke,” Brocket said. “Go away now, Laura.”

“In my house,” Richard interrupted, “she moves freely where she will.”

Laura met his eyes with a grateful smile. “In fact, I have a yearning to read now,” she said, going over to the bookshelves and running her hand along the spines. “You’ll have to discuss your business another time, Father. Or stand me overhearing it.”

For a moment, Brocket seemed likely to argue. Then he turned on his heel and went to the door, stopping only to bow at them. After a moment, the front door shut. Laura turned back to Richard. Her face, now that her father was gone, was troubled and pleading. He stepped forward and put his arms around her, pulling her close to him. He meant to comfort her, but after a moment, she struggled free and pushed him away.

“He’s going to be back,” she said. “And I’m not going to speak to him next time.”

“I won’t ask you to.”

He watched her and wondered if he dared try to pull her closer again. Her pulse was visibly racing at her neck. She was trying not to show she was frightened.

“You handled it well,” he said flatly, keeping his hands to himself.

“I don’t need your praise.”

“Laura.” She flushed at his tone and he softened it. “I’m on your side, remember.”

She lowered her gaze and went to the door. “I know.”

Then the door shut behind her and Richard was alone in his study. He rubbed his face. On her side, but with reluctance, he thought. Lord Brocket was right: it was not in his character.

__

A/N: A shorter one this time. I’m kind of nervous about how people are going to take the next ten chapters of this book. It’s drama, but it’s not drama like Lady in Rags with people drowning and annulments and babies out of wedlock. It’s a much quieter, interpersonal drama. It’ll be interesting to see how people take it. And no, there’s not ten chapters left. There’s ten or so chapters and then part 2 begins.

Chapter Twenty: Something Less than Love

Richard did not expect Lord Brocket to give up so easily, and he wasn’t wrong. It was only the next morning that Brocket called again. This time, he did not ask to see Laura, instead confining his attack to Richard. Despite Richard’s best efforts to obscure his feelings, it wasn’t long before Brocket managed to elicit a reluctant confession from Richard that if Laura wished to marry him, he would do so.

It wasn’t even for honour alone. Not now. The past two months with Laura had convinced Richard of the one thing he’d been in denial of all his life: he was lonely. And where once the solution to loneliness had seemed love or nothing, Richard was now beginning to realize that something less than love might suffice. His feelings for Laura were a bittersweet cocktail of lust and compassion and fondness, garnished with a generous sprig of frustration, but they were feelings enough that, when she left his bed as she did every night, he would feel a twinge of disappointment, a shadow of the loneliness returning.

He tried to keep that hidden from Brocket. Perhaps he succeeded. As soon as Brocket realized it was Laura who was his foe, not Richard, he switched tack, arguing that, if Richard himself attempted to persuade her, Laura would submit to marriage. Here, Richard at least had the relief of being able to argue in accordance with his feelings: he believed nothing could persuade Laura.

They were still arguing, some hour after Brocket had first arrived, when the doorbell rang for a second time that morning, and a moment later Elizabeth came sailing into Richard’s study like a man of war, fluttering three fingers at the butler and telling him not to bother announcing her.

Brocket stood up, though Richard didn’t, and bowed.

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, sliding her gaze over to Brocket. “Do stay, my lord. I came here to quibble with Richie about your daughter.”

There was nothing Richard hated more than being called Richie. And Elizabeth knew it. She gave him a sweet smile.

“It’s really a tragic situation. They must either marry or be removed from each other. It’s only the proper thing.”

“I agree,” said Brocket. “And exactly why I’m here is to persuade your brother to marry her.”

Elizabeth’s eyelids flickered. “How shrewd of you.“From her tone of voice, Richard could tell it was not the option Elizabeth favoured.

“What I’ve been saying,” Brocket said, “is that Richard should hold a dinner party, a family affair, for me, and Laura, and you, and Farthingdale, and that between us we must persuade her to see reason.”

It was not what Brocket had been saying. His dinner party had been for him, Richard, and Laura alone. And Richard had flatly refused to entertain the idea of it.

Elizabeth bit her forefinger. “Hmm. It might be a clever idea, my lord.”

“Laura will not attend,” Richard said.

“Then make her,” Brocket and Elizabeth said simultaneously.

Richard raised an eyebrow. “What? Carry her downstairs and tie her to a chair? No. I think not.”

Brocket pursed his lips. “Your powers of persuasion over her could surely manage that.”

“I doubt it.”

“And once that is done,” Elizabeth added, “between us all I’m sure we can make her see reason. I don’t remember her ever being a stupid girl.”

“Yes,” agreed Brocket. “You persuade her to come to dinner, and we’ll do the rest. Tell me when it’s done.”

He got to his feet, bowed to Elizabeth, and took his leave. Elizabeth waited in silence until the front door shut before turning to Richard.

“You’re not going to give that dinner, are you?”

“Why not?”

“Because I cannot come! With her reputation!”

“You’re my sister,” Richard said, shrugging. “If Duchess Roynor can unbend to me, you can.”

“I have daughters,” Elizabeth sniffed. “Think of them!”

“They’re not invited.”

“Well!” Elizabeth flung herself down in a chair. “I really am ashamed of you, Rich!”

“A great change.”

“This is worse than usual! Taking a mistress under your own roof! Even Father had the sense to keep his affairs discreet!”

“Until Laura, I kept mine discreet too,” Richard said blandly, and had the satisfaction of seeing a sudden deep flush stain Elizabeth’s cheeks; she always had been over proper.

“And her sapphires?” Elizabeth’s colour was still high. “God knows how often I’ve begged you to let me borrow the sapphire set, and you toss them at that harpy like they’re bottle-glass. They were mother’s .”

“I’d let you wear them,” Richard said, “but as I’ve told you before, those sapphires demand a delicate beauty.”

Elizabeth shot him a dirty look. “Only a cripple would have the audacity to say that to a woman.”

Richard shrugged. He knew that if he lost his cool with Elizabeth, he’d never regain it. But she seemed on the way to losing her cool with him, and if that happened, he would probably win out.

“It was indecent to let her wear them,” Elizabeth grumbled. “If you had a wife—”

“And should I marry her then? Is Lord Brocket right about that?”

She stopped. “I’ve heard the rumours. Even when she was Maidstone’s wife… She never was a good woman.” Her tone took on a veneer of pleasantness. “You deserve a good woman.”

“Do I?” Richard asked, raising an eyebrow. “And what I have I ever done to deserve that? I do believe last year you told me I was a selfish, mean, invalidish old nag. Have I changed so much meantime, by adding adultery to those charges?”

“Oh, you are my brother,” she said, waving the charge away. “It’s only natural I want better for you.”

“Better than I deserve.” Richard smiled.

Vexed, cornered, Elizabeth got up and went to the window to look out at the street below. The sunlight flat upon her face threw into sharp relief the peevish lines about her mouth and forehead. No cream, no powder, could conceal her bad temper.

It wasn’t as though Richard disagreed with her or Brocket in essentials. He knew his arrangement with Laura could not last forever. If he were honest with Laura, he might tell her that the only reason he had agreed to it was to protect her from her self-destructive stubbornness, her impossible independence. But he wasn’t honest with her. Did not tell her the sapphires she wore were real. Did not tell her he protected her. Did not tell her that he pitied her. Did not tell her the cost their illicit arrangement took upon his conscience — a cost all the greater for the yawning desire she aroused within him.

“You really ought to send her away,” Elizabeth said simply. “Lord Brocket’ll try and get you to marry her, of course, because that’s in his best interest. But yours? Ours? Neil’s marriage was bad enough. But he’s the second son. You’re eldest. You should do things… properly.”

“Hmm.” Richard had no intention to change the arrangement yet. Not while Laura was still so vulnerable. But he knew that, where he might be able to ignore Brocket’s pressure, if Elizabeth chose to oppose him, she would grind him down until he acceded. “I’m going to throw that dinner party,” he decided.

“What?” She turned to him, aghast.

“Yes. With every person involved, I think we can make a good effort at persuading Laura. Persuasion, mind, not force. And if you feel your reputation is at stake, send Farthingdale in your stead”

“Farthingdale would be useless,” Elizabeth said contemptuously.

“Then come.” Richard stood, took up his new cane, and stepped out from behind his desk. “Tuesday?”

“Duchess Roynor’s ball is Tuesday.”

“I guarantee you, her grace will not notice your absence.”

Elizabeth glowered. “Just because you like being a wallflower—”

“Tuesday,” Richard said, going to the window beside her. “And look, Laura’s coming back from her walk, so you’d best leave, for the sake of your reputation.”

Elizabeth did leave, but not quickly enough that Richard did not have some anxiety as he heard from the hall:

“Lady Farthingdale, good morning.”

But it seemed Elizabeth was determined to cut Laura again, for there was no reply, and a moment later Laura’s footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Laura,” Richard called, limping to the door. “Come here, please.”

She came back down the last few steps. She was dressed in a modest blue walking gown, which really appeared more a mockery than a repair of her reputation. Richard bit back his sigh.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes. I had to do something you won’t like.” He stepped back to allow her through and then shut the door after her.

“What is it?”

“Your father called again.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And what did you do?”

“I invited him to dinner. This Tuesday. Along with my sister and her husband.”

She scanned his face. Then, as if not finding the answer she was looking for, turned away and began to take off her gloves and shawl.

“I’m not coming to this dinner, Richard.”

“I’d like you to, very much.”

She sank down into the same chair Elizabeth had recently vacated and folded her hands in her lap. Richard saw anxiety more than composure in the action.

“Why?” she asked, her voice cold and firm.

“Because I want us to meet this together. It’s our problem, Laura, not just mine.”

“It’s not theirs.”

Richard shrugged a concession. “Maybe so. And how do we convince them of that?”

“I don’t see that we need to convince them at all.”

“I won’t pretend not to be at home to my own sister if she calls, Laura.”

Laura was silent, but her eyes spoke of mutiny and distrust.

“My sister is sure to take some of the edge off your father,” Richard coaxed. “If we’re lucky, they’ll bully each other instead of us.”

Still, Laura was silent.

“And no matter how many times I tell them I will not let you go and— and won’t marry you unless you yourself wish it, it’s only you who can make them believe it.”

She let out a sudden short breath. “No. I can’t, Richard. I won’t see him.”

Richard waited a moment, just in case she would change her mind, but she only looked half-pleadingly, half-warily up at him.

“Never mind,” he said bitterly. “I can’t uninvite them, but I will host alone.”

“I—”

“Never mind, Laura.”

She made yet another motion to argue, but stopped herself and got up and left. After she had gone, Richard wondered if she would ever consent to marrying him. And if maybe he ought not be grateful she wouldn’t.

__

A/N: I know, I know, this chapter is 3 days late and super short – but still, it’s here now.

Chapter Twenty-One: A Personal Matter

Laura hardly spoke to Richard for a week, and his bed remained empty every night. It was part of his vanity that he never asked for her to come to him, but it wounded quite another part of his vanity when she didn’t. He blamed it entirely on her fit of temper, unaware that his manner was so brusque towards her that she assumed it was he who was in a bad mood and did not want her. But his bad mood, in the end, paid off. It was she who relented, she who took steps to make amends.

On Tuesday evening as he was dressing for dinner, Laura came into his dressing room, dressed in a coquelicot evening gown of the very latest cut: full in the skirts and very low and broad in the bust. Her shoulders were bare, but for the two little puffs of silk masquerading as sleeves, and the pale swells of her breasts fluttered lightly with her breath. A gold satin sash was tied in a large bow around her waist, just waiting to be unwrapped. Richard forgot himself for staring at her and only eventually drew himself to the fact that she seemed to be waiting for something.

“Are you… going somewhere?” he asked, confused.

“I’m coming to dinner.”

He saw her peace offering for what it was and pretended not to notice the warp of petulance in her voice. “Are you? Well thank you very much.”

Still, she hovered in his doorway. “Can I wear that necklace again?”

“Would it not be too much?” he asked, worried that Elizabeth might say something about it to her.

“That’s really the point. I ought to look like a mistress.”

“You look like heaven.”

She flushed until she was nearly the colour of her dress. He dragged his eyes away from her and tried to concentrate on tying his cravat.

“I’m not going to be able to think straight with you dressed like that,” he said, not looking at her. “Can’t you add a fichu or something?”

She came forward and stared at herself in his mirror, her expression suddenly doubtful. “Don’t you like it?”

“Laura my dear, I like it too much.” He restrained the impulse to kiss her, because it would crush her gown. “And when we are alone one night, perhaps you’ll wear it again so I can appreciate it properly. But tonight, I would prefer my wits about me.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on her face, then she turned and left the room. Richard finished his cravat and went into his bedroom to unlock the safe. The sapphires were impossible, of course, but there were some pearl earrings that he liked and that Elizabeth did not care for, and he thought they would suit Laura.

When he came into her bedroom, she was involved in tucking a black net fichu into the neck of her gown.

“Thank you,” he said, bending to kiss the top of her head. She looked up as he did so, and his kiss landed rather awkwardly on the corner of her mouth. And that demanded righting, so it was some time before they disentangled themselves. But he had avoided crushing her dress, he thought with relief, and remembered the pearls.

“Here,” he said, getting on his good knee and searching the floor beneath her chair for the pearls he’d dropped. “I think these will do.” He found the box and opened it before her. “Alright?”

“Very. Are they real?”

He did not wish to lie to her again. “Afraid so. But you’re only wearing them in the house, so no harm can come to them.”

She fixed them in her ears and examined herself critically in the mirror. “Thank you. They’re lovely. Though I’ll have to change my belt.”

She stood and rooted through a drawer, coming out with a white satin ribbon, which replaced the gold brocade.

“You see,” she said with a sad laugh, “I’m spending your money well, my lord.”

“You are worth every penny of it twice over.” He watched her busy fingers tie the white ribbon around a buckle. Her week’s absence and her lurid dress lit the desire within him. “I wish I could chuck this dinner and spend the night alone with you.”

She looked up. “They’ll have to leave eventually.”

There was something profoundly erotic about the words, and if the doorbell had not rung that moment, Richard probably would have chucked it. Instead, he went downstairs and greeted Lord Brocket while Laura finished dressing. He was surprised that Elizabeth had not arrived first — she normally turned up inconveniently early. But it was raining, and perhaps the traffic was bad.

“Good evening,” Brocket said, shaking his hand as though they were the most polite of acquaintances. “I hope you’re well.”

“Well enough.” Richard looked at the clock. “My sister is late.”

“We can get on without her.” Brocket sat down in an armchair and crossed his legs, as content as a man in his own home. Richard suppressed a surge of irrational anger. “I hope you’ve been thinking about what I said.”

“I’ve been thinking, certainly.” Richard played with his stick. “I can’t say with any optimism.”

“I have connections that will be of service to you.”

“As my father’s son, I have those connections too,’ Richard pointed out. “This is a personal matter, Brocket. Not a political one.”

“Person is politics,” Brocket said, with steel coming into his voice. “At least amongst our class.”

“You forget,” Richard said with a cold smile, “that I’m a Whig.”

“Your Mother would not be proud.”

“Of my politics, or my person?”

After that, there was no pretending that they were anything other than antagonists. Brocket’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but Richard met them with a glare of his own.

Laura entered the room, interrupted any further comment. Richard stood and after a moment Brocket did too. He held out his hand to his daughter. She looked and then coldly shook it. But Richard noticed that she wiped it discreetly against her skirt as she sat down.

“Quite the family reunion,” Brocket said, his smile not meeting his eyes. “Don’t you think, Laura?”

“No. I don’t think,” Laura said after a pause. “We never were united.”

“There’s gratitude!” Brocket said sneeringly.

Laura shrugged. “I have nothing to be grateful for.”

Brocket raised his eyebrows. “Nothing to be grateful to me for, but something for young Albroke here? Really, Laura. You do not know where your loyalties lie.”

It was going worse than Richard had expected. He looked anxiously at the clock. A quarter to eight. Where was Elizabeth?

“I was the one,” Brocket continued, “who fed you, raised you, clothed you. And yet you have nothing to be grateful for. Please. Do tell me what else I could have done.”

“Well I used to dream that you would love me,” Laura said, in a high, throbbing voice, “but now I’m beginning to think it’s a relief you never did. In a way, it makes this much easier.”

Richard made the excuse of getting up for a drink and brushed the back of Laura’s shoulder on his way to the sideboard. It was the only comfort he dared offer with Brocket watching, but Laura didn’t seem to even feel it.

“Madeira, Brocket?” he asked.

“No thank you,” Brocket said, with the thinly veiled superiority of one who knew a distraction when he saw it.

To make it look as though he had got up with purpose, Richard poured a glass of soda water for himself and splashed in just enough lime syrup to make it not look like an excuse.

“This is an accusation against which I can have no guard, as there is no proof,” Brocket said in the background.

“There is ample proof,” Laura argued. “I have seen the proof every day of my life.”

Hastily, Richard sat back down, this time closer to Laura. “Perhaps that’s a topic for another night,” he said, putting his glass on the table next to him.

“No. We can have it out now,” Laura said instantaneously. “I know love when I see it. And I know when I don’t. Where’s the love in sending your only child out of sight in the attic to be raised by strangers? Where’s the love in trading me off like chattel to a man who th-thrashes others like a dog? When have you ever even smiled at me, or talked to me for the pleasure of my conversation? Never.”

Her eyes glittered dangerously. She seemed to be either on the verge of tears or the verge of shouting. But downstairs, the doorknocker banged, interrupting them.

“That will be Elizabeth,” Richard said, relieved.

But it wasn’t. When the butler entered, he came alone but for the silver letter platter with a half-folded note on it. He held it out to Richard, who squinted to read it in the dim light. An apology for being unable to attend the engagement; a child was sick and needed nursing. Richard breathed out slowly. He doubted it was true. Elizabeth’s children were too well-mannered to get sick without her permission. He saw, in the excuse, that Elizabeth had reconsidered the idea last minute, had perhaps deliberately backed out so that Brocket would come alone.

“What is it?” Laura asked.

“Her daughter is sick and they can’t come,” Richard said.

“Why, then we’ll dine alone,” Brocket said easily.

It would be beyond rude for Richard to cancel the dinner now. He looked carefully at Laura, who seemed suddenly rather pale. Her eyes met his, wide and accusing. Richard looked back at Brocket, who had a faintly triumphant gleam to his eyes.

“It seems we must. Though I’d like to remind you, my lord, that any guest in my house is expected to show due courtesy to any woman in it,” Richard said.

“That’s a little rich, coming from you.”

“What do you mean?”

Brocket leaned forward, speaking to Richard, his eyes on Laura. “I mean that you have done a great discourtesy to my daughter.”

Richard watched him impassively.

“She’s only getting older,” Brocket said cynically. “Nearly twenty-eight. Your dalliance with her means she’ll never marry another man. Never have children.”

Richard cast a sidelong glance at Laura but was too late to identify the expression she suppressed on her face. Anger, he hoped. Better than pain anyway.

“Never regain her reputation.” Brocket scowled down at his feet. “Never rejoin society. Never be even one-tenth of the person I raised her to be.” He looked back at Richard, his eyes cold. “That is what you have done to her. She will have no children to care for. No reputation to protect her. No friends to help her. No family to support her. You have ruined her. And the only way to make amends is to marry her.”

“I don’t think that’s true, my lord.”

“Isn’t it?” Lord Brocket gave Richard a narrow, contemptuous glare. “Think a little further, Albroke. You’ve never enjoyed good health. What happens if you fall ill? What happens if you die? Without you, Laura has nothing and nobody.”

A sudden chill ran down Richard’s spine.

“Marriage protects her. Is the only real protection she can ever have.”

“I will do whatever Laura asks of me.”

“And I don’t ask that,” Laura finished quietly.

It was the signal for Brocket to turn on her. He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs.

“Then what do you think will happen, on the day Albroke either can’t or doesn’t want to look after you? Do you think you’ll come crawling back to me?”

“Oh no,” Laura said, “you’ll die before he does, I’m quite sure of it.”

She sounded so sanguine that Richard almost laughed. He pressed his lips together and forced himself to sip his warming lime soda.

“Always with the quips.” Brocket sneered. “You’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. If you were, you wouldn’t have run off with a man like Maidstone.”

Laura stiffened.

“Thank God he’s dead,” Brocket said. “But there’s no need for you to make your life and mine worse by throwing yourself away becoming somebody’s mistress! I can only imagine you do it to cast shame on me — the sort of petty, helpless thing you would do. You never think ahead. You never have any caution. Never even any manners. You’re a cynical, hard-hearted, depraved little woman intent on digging every hole you’re in deeper. I’m ashamed that you’re my daughter. Ashamed that the legacy I leave upon the world is of a spiteful little shrew who gave away every advantage she ever had for nothing more than a whim. Sometimes I think it’s a relief your mother didn’t live to you see you grow up into what you are.”

“Mother?” Laura choked. “How can you say that! If mother weren’t dead I might know what it is to be loved — you certainly don’t love me!”

“If I didn’t love you I wouldn’t be here, trying to do what’s best for you,” Brocket said imperturbably. “I’m probably the only who does — Albroke’s passion can’t be more than passing or—”

“—Please,” Richard interrupted. “Some courtesy, Lord Brocket.”

“I think we’ve passed the point of pretending to be among polite society,” Brocket said sharply. “If it weren’t my daughter you disgraced, Albroke, I’d have cut you along with the rest of the ton. But it is my daughter, and so I’ll see you do your duty and marry the ungrateful bitch.”

His words echoed like a gunshot in the quietness of the room. Richard had never seen Brocket lose his temper before — hadn’t even known he could lose his temper. He stared in surprise at the twin spots of colour on Brocket’s pale cheeks.

Beside him, Laura stood up, her hands clenched and clawing at her side.

“You!” she said, in a strange, strangled voice. “You’re the one who’s ungrateful — you can’t be grateful, you never have been, for having a daughter. You’ve resented every day that I was not a son.” She stood, shaking, over him. Her jaw was clenching in and out. “I’m glad you never got one. You don’t deserve one.”

“But what did I ever do to deserve you?”

Her clenched hand shot out and slapped him across the face. For a moment, after the sound of the slap, there was a dead silence. Brocket blinked and tentatively touched his cheek.

Before Richard could speak, Brocket got up and loomed over Laura, his hands hovering around her shoulders, his face contorted with anger. Laura flinched, and Richard hastily interposed himself between them.

“No. Not in my house,” he said. “Please, Laura, will you go to your room?”

She cast him an angry, wild look, but twisted on her heel and silently left the room. Brocket watched her go, the faintest shadow of regret of his face.

“Would you have hit her?” Richard asked quietly.

“Never hit a woman in my life. I’m no animal.”

Slowly, Richard stepped away to the door. “I think you’d better leave.”

“Are you going to marry her or not?”

“She won’t marry me.”

Brocket looked Richard up and down. “You can persuade her.”

Richard shook his head. “You’d better go. Give it up. I’ll take care of her — I will make sure of that.” Better care than Brocket ever had. “You needn’t worry about her.”

“I don’t worry.”

Richard didn’t doubt it. He pointed his stick at the door. “Come on.”

They went downstairs, Richard trying to make up his mind if it was worth trying to keep his tone conciliatory or not. At the bottom of the stairs, Brocket decided him by saying:

“She never did know what was good for her.”

Silently, Richard unlocked the door and held it open. “I don’t think you should come back.”

“But we must change her mind.”

“But you will not be admitted into my house again,” Richard said, holding the door.

“She’s my daughter.”

“Then why do you treat her so cruelly?” Richard forced himself to lower his voice again. “You’d better leave, Brocket. Save your dignity.”

And he did leave. Richard watched his back down the stairs and then shut the door on it. It was only with the greatest difficulty he prevented it from slamming.

Upstairs, Laura was in her room at her dressing table. Richard stopped in the doorway, watching her. With shaking fingers, she was removing the jewellery he’d earlier given her. The mad fury seemed to have left her now. She looked defeated.

“I underestimated Elizabeth,” Richard said softly. “I’m sorry. She outwitted me by staying home.”

Laura patted a washcloth to her face, hiding her expression from sight. “No matter.”

“It does matter. For what happened… I shouldn’t have asked you.”

She shrugged, left off the washcloth, and began to brush her hair. Her movements were stiff and stumbling.

“Laura.” Richard held out his arms, beckoning her into them. “Come here.”

“No.” She laid down her brush with shaking fingers. “No.” Then, explosively, “I hate men.”

He came forward and touched her shoulder. “Even me?”

She shook him off. “Go away, Richard.”

And he did. He went downstairs where he ate dinner alone and where, after he was finished, a housemaid came to assure him that Lady Maidstone had done ate most the tray she’d taken her. He remained in the dining room some time, trying to think things through. That his relationship with Laura was already turning sour did not surprise him, but it hurt more than he had expected. He didn’t wish to risk seeing her again while he felt so wounded, and stayed in the dining room until it was late enough to justify going to bed.

But hours past midnight, sleepless and aching inside, Richard heard his door open and shut again, and bare footsteps pad into the room.

A figure slipped between the sheets. “My Lord?”

“I’m awake.”

She kissed his bare shoulder, confounding him. Why had she come now but refused him before? She kissed him again, and her hand came sliding over his waist.

“My Lord?”

He knew he would surrender. Knew she knew it. But he held out as long as he could, and when he at last gave in and turned to her, it was with the comforting that thought that one day she would surrender too. One day she must surrender.

Or, he thought later as he vaguely woke to find her slipping out from his bed, maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she would rather die fighting.

__

A/N: This is actually Brocket’s last appearance on stage in the book. He gets away with a lot less than most of my villains would. I might have to make a note in the epilogue that he got deaded somehow to satisfy everyone.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Very, Very Close

Laura knew it wasn’t easy for her father to give up on anything. Even with Richard’s door closed against him, Laura feared he would attempt to approach her in public places, or by subterfuge gain entry to her home. For some weeks, this fear haunted her, until it was suddenly relieved when, riding in the park, she turned a corner and came suddenly upon her father, walking with a friend of his.

For a moment, she almost reined her horse in, and, sensing her distraction, it lazily slowed. Then she dug her heels into its sides and it trotted reluctantly on again, but not before she heard her father’s companion say:

“Isn’t that your daughter, my lord?”

And her father’s cold reply: “You are mistaken. I have no daughter.”

It was a relief and a humiliation for Laura to hear it. What had decided her father to cut her, she did not know. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he had learned to give up. Or, more likely, he had come to believe it served him better to distance himself from her and Albroke than to continue his attempt to persuade them to marry. But either way, the next few times she accidentally ran into him in public, she had the relief and satisfaction of seeing him turn away and pretend not to see her.

By now, the season was progressing, and Laura was becoming used to being a sensation just as people were beginning to grow bored of her. She no longer caused a stir when she walked into a room — that privilege was reserved for a certain young actress who had married an elderly duke, or for a continental princess who had, it was whispered, murdered her three husbands and come to London to find a fourth. With fewer eyes upon her now, Laura found she could even enjoy society, in her own small way. She liked dancing, for one thing. Richard did not dance, nor did she have entrée into any of London’s exclusive clubs, but a private ball offered partners enough and the music was no worse there than at Almack’s. Plus, there was an intriguing and gratifying novelty in dancing with another man with the approval of her own. Richard liked seeing her dance and had none of Maidstone’s obsessive jealousy to poison her enjoyment of it.

Conversation, too, when it was not about her, began to have some appeal. Laura could not deny she was curious about the continental princess or the clever actress herself. And there were the usual joys of London shopping and play and park and museum, which she had the freedom and finances to fully exploit for the first time in her life.

One rainy day in late June, she was idling amongst some stone tablets in the museum when, coming around a display, she came face to face with Lady Elizabeth, who was leading a little girl and a little boy either side of her and followed behind by a nursemaid loaded with umbrellas and parcels.

Laura said hello, not expecting any reply, but Elizabeth surprised her by saying, rather archly,

“Good afternoon, Lady Laura.” She then nodded her head at her children. “My son, Frederick, and my daughter, Margaret.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Laura said, curtsying helplessly before the two ivory-faced children.

The little girl executed a perfectly formed curtsy and the boy a stiffly angled bow. Neither said anything, and their eyes stared glassily back at Laura. They looked exactly like little china dolls. Not a curl was out of place. Not a wrinkle on their stiff white clothing.

“How very… well behaved they are,” she said helplessly, thinking it was the compliment Elizabeth would like best.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, with grave pride. But the interview was not over yet. She dropped her children’s hands. “Go with Nanny around the displays, children,” she said, as a general might to an army, and the children stepped away from her side and dutifully started to march around the displays with their nanny shuffling after them. Laura noticed that they stared at the inscriptions for several minutes each, though she was sure the boy was too young yet to read.

“I’m glad I chanced upon you,” Elizabeth said, directing Laura into a little alcove near a window, where the light trickled in greyishly through the rain. “I have decided for my children’s sake that I cannot visit Richard’s house while you are there, but there is no one to see us here so we might have a little chat.”

From Elizabeth, this was downright friendly. Laura eyed her suspiciously.

“If you wanted to talk to me we might have arranged a meeting.”

“Oh no, quite impossible.” Elizabeth shook her head. “I must think of my children. And your reputation. Really, my lady, you’ve quite barred my own brother from me.”

“He would come if you sent for him.”

“But you have him quite under your thumb.” Elizabeth gave her a knowing, unpleasant smile. “I’ve never seen him so took in before. I always thought he was the clever one. But it seems, every man has his weakness. Only women are immune.”

“From being taken in by men?” Laura laughed bitterly, the sound echoing in the empty stone hall. “Hardly.”

There was an intelligent, interested look in Elizabeth’s eyes, like she was filing that laugh away for later. Laura grew cautious again.

“What was it you wanted to talk to me about? I hope you’re not going to try to persuade me to leave him. I won’t, you know.”

“I wouldn’t be so crude.” Elizabeth looked over at her children, out of earshot on the other side of the hall. “They were supposed to be hers, you know, when she came of age.”

“What were?” Laura asked, puzzled.

“The sapphires.” Elizabeth looked jealously at Laura’s bare neck. “Did he say he’s given them to you? He can’t. They belong to the family, you know. Not to him alone.”

“They’re only paste,” Laura said defensively.

“Paste!” Elizabeth scoffed. “No one in my family has ever worn paste! Don’t tell me that.”

It wasn’t a surprise somehow. Perhaps Laura had always suspected it. There was something a little too convenient about Richard having paste jewellery lying about his home.

“It’s one thing for you to spend his money,” Elizabeth said, in a low, threatening voice, “but I won’t have you taking from my children what is their due. As long as Richard is unmarried and childless, my daughters have certain rights, certain expectations from their uncle. I want you to know that. Richard seems to have forgotten.”

Laura bit her lip. Elizabeth, looking her up and down with contemptuous, knowing eyes, seemed to see her point had gone home.

“He’s at the time of life when a man begins to make stupid decisions,” she said, in an almost confidential, amicable tone. “I don’t really mind, you know, since you’re not as bad as if it were, well, what Neil did. You’re at least of our class. But I want you to know there is a limit. You may run his house, you may head his dinner table, sleep in his bed, spend his money, wind him around your clever little fingers, but don’t touch my daughter’s inheritance. I won’t let you.”

“Can you even stop me?” Laura asked automatically, but she was seeing the honest look in Richard’s eyes as he murmured ‘they’re only paste’ and wondering what else he was lying to her about.

“I’ll find a way. I look out for my daughters.” Elizabeth stepped out of the alcove. “You have been warned.”

Elizabeth’s footsteps echoed across the stone floor, and a moment later, she and her doll-like children and the trailing nanny had gone through into the next room. Laura stayed by the window, watching until the rain slowed to a drip, and then walked home. Richard was in his study with a visitor when she got back. She waited in the dining room until she heard his guest leave and then came through to see him. He looked up from his desk with a smile that faded when he saw her expression.

“What’s wrong?”

“I want you to take the jewellery back.”

Richard stiffened. “What?”

“The pearls. The chains. The jet. The garnets. And the sapphires.” She squared her palms on the edge of his desk and looked down at him. “I know they’re real. You lied. I wouldn’t have worn them if I had known .”

By the flash of guilt on his face, she knew he had intended to deceive her.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was indecent, Richard. It made me look like a—”

Mistress. Which she was. But.

The silence hung in the air for some time. Then Richard broke it with a sigh.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have done it. But these things don’t mean the same to a man. I didn’t see any harm in it.”

Elizabeth’s words had hurt her more than she knew. Laura looked away unhappily. The sapphires belonged to the Armiger family. To Richard’s wife . And even if she didn’t yet exist, that didn’t make it right. She could imagine what people had thought. It must have looked grasping, covetous.

“I’m sorry,” Richard said softly, getting up and coming round the desk to touch her cheek. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

She nodded slowly and let him kiss her. He drew back and looked into her eyes. Then he raised his hands to her ears and gently prised off the pearl earrings she’d forgotten she was wearing. She rolled a chain from her wrist and dropped it in the palm of his hand. His fingers closed over it.

“Keep them for your nieces,” she said. “I don’t want what’s theirs.”

“What about something that’s all yours?” he said, with a small smile. “Before we go to Albroke for the summer, will you allow me to buy you something of your own?”

“You pay me a stipend.”

“This would be a gift.” He dropped the jewellery on the desk behind him and kissed her again. “Let me give you something. I want to give you something.” He spoke between kisses, his lips close against her flesh. Despite her dark mood, Laura felt the familiar tug of want rising inside her.

“You already give me so much,” Laura protested, turning her face away.

Undeterred, he kissed her hair, and then her cheek, his hands running lightly up and down her waist and leaving a weightless, sparkling sensation where they passed. “But how many presents have I ever given you? None. I want to give you a present. From a— friend. To a very good friend.”

Somehow, her face was towards his again. He kissed her persuasively. The ache of want swelled within her. He locked his hands behind her and pulled her suddenly close against him, making her gasp.

She clutched at him, the desire flaring through her whole body. It wasn’t fair, she thought with distant rationality, that she was his mistress yet he seemed so entirely to be the master of her body and senses. She traced her finger down the line of his cheek, her breath coming fast, though he’d stopped kissing her and was only holding her now — very, very close.

“Friend?” she said dizzily, seeking any attempt to distance herself, to take back the control which he seemed to have in his lips and the tips of his fingers. “No, Richard, we’re not friends, we’re—” his face suddenly fell and she reversed her intent “—we’re lovers.”

The word seemed perhaps too strong to her, too intimate, but there was no taking it back now. Besides, what else could she call it? His hips were square against hers and she was almost painful with the desire to have him inside her. That was not the desire of a mistress. A mistress was supposed to please, not be pleased, not be struck senseless by her master’s pleasuring of her.

“And lovers can never be friends?” he teased, a sudden smile on his face. He kept one hand behind her, locking her in place against him, and with the other arrested her own, which were attempting, seemingly of their own accord, to undo the buttons of his trousers. “Now what are you doing with that, my love?”

“Making friends with it,” she said stubbornly.

He burst out laughing and she found herself smiling despite herself. She gave up and kissed his hand.

“Buy me a present then,” she said, her bad mood blowing away. “From to friend to friend or lover to lover as you please.”

“Oh?” He sobered and kissed her again, more urgently this time. “Thank you. But I insist on being both, my dear.”

__

A/N: Elizabeth comes back! There are a lot of italics! And Richard and Laura are really quite sweet to each other. I haven’t double-proofed this because my eyes are not so good today (too much sunlight) and there may be errors.

Chapter Twenty-Three: A Bad Mother

The London season came to an end, and Richard prepared, with more happiness than usual, for his return home to Albroke at the end of it. Anything more than an hour or two in a coach was sure to make his bad leg ache with stiffness, and riding was even worse, so the full day’s journey was tiring, painful, and generally put him in a bad mood for a week, but there was something about the idea of taking the journey with Laura by his side that made him somehow look forward to it. Then there were the further pleasures he anticipated, of showing her once more around Albroke and letting her see what he’d done since he’d inherited the vast estate from his father, of the novel pleasurableness of company in what was often an echoing, empty manor, even of the possibility of nostalgia: she’d spend some time in Albroke as a child, and though he hadn’t particularly cared about her then, he rather thought those memories would now have greater importance to him.

His happiness, however, was disappointed when at the last minute a sudden business matter delayed him in town three more days, and, as most of the rooms of his townhouse were already closed up and most of his servants already sent home, he decided that it was best for Laura to go on ahead without him, while he stayed in a hotel for two nights. They were two long nights and three long days. It was the first time he’d been apart from Laura in several months, and he missed her more than he had expected. Then, for the long and painful journey home, over dry, dusty roads, he had only the consolation that at the end of it, Laura would be waiting to greet him home.

As his carriage rolled up the sweep under a blazing afternoon sun, he looked hopefully out for her on the steps to the manor, but when the front doors opened they revealed only the butler, and as he went, limping rather more than usual for his leg was cramping, into the hall he could tell there was something wrong. It was too silent. Then there was a footstep on the mezzanine, and he looked up to see Laura standing at the head of the stairs. There was something grim about the twist of her mouth and she was making no move to descend. Richard’s first thought was that she was in one of her moods. But before he could take the stairs to greet her, there was another footstep from the drawing room, and he turned, confused, to see Elizabeth stepping out of it, her youngest child in her arms.

There were servants in the hall still, so Richard could not say the words which rose to his lips. Instead, he turned, rather surprised, back to Laura, and saw her shake her head.

“Richie,” Elizabeth said, before he could say anything. “How lovely to see you.”

“And what a surprise to see you.” He stared at the infant. “And — Margaret, is it?”

“Catherine,” his sister said reproachfully. “Margaret is my second daughter.”

All of his sister’s children were well behaved, and Catherine only stared silently at him from incurious blue eyes as he carefully took her from his sister and joggled her in his arms. She was not quite two, but getting to be leggy, and would probably be as tall as his sister.

“Give your uncle a kiss, Catherine,” her mother ordered, and Catherine politely, dutifully, kissed Richard on the cheek, much the same way, Richard thought, as she would have kissed the king, or a sweep, or a marble bust. Not that Neil’s children weren’t more trouble but it was a trouble that was somehow endearing.

“Thank you, Catherine dear,” Richard said. He glanced upwards and saw that Laura had disappeared from the mezzanine. In a way, that made it easier. “Let’s go into the drawing room. Hup. You hold my cravat, Cate, because I must use my stick.”

“Catherine,” Elizabeth corrected, leading the way.

In the drawing room, they sat, Catherine very properly beside Richard with her legs straight across the couch and her hands in her lap. Doll-like, she glanced up at him occasionally, but said not a word nor made a motion.

Now that they were out of earshot of the servants, Richard could speak freely.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “You didn’t tell me you were coming at all!”

“No,” Elizabeth said. “I thought you might refuse. You can be so mean about things. After all, this is the house of my birth.”

“I wouldn’t refuse,” Richard said, exasperated. “But really, a word of warning would have been appreciated! Did Laura turn up to find you here?”

“I didn’t think you’d have her in the house,” Elizabeth said reprovingly. “The dowager cottage is empty, after all.”

“As are all of the bedrooms here, bar mine.” Richard narrowed his eyes. “Where are you and Catherine sleeping?”

“The nursery is shut up, so I put Catherine next to me, in the red room.”

Which meant that Elizabeth had commandeered the two nicest bedrooms in the place, one of which he had meant for Laura.

“I hope you haven’t relegated Laura to the attic,” Richard said sharply.

“Of course not!” Elizabeth sniffed. “She refused to go to the dower house, as it happened. She has set herself up in the blue suite.”

Richard smiled. The blue suite had once upon a time been Richard’s mother’s, as Laura must have known. Even if it wasn’t as richly furnished as the two state rooms Elizabeth had taken for herself, it certainly sent a message.

“The arrangement will have to stand then. How long will you be here?”

“It sounds as if you want me to leave!”

“Not at all. But I’ll need to alter my plans for the summer now.” The worm of an idea came to him. “Are your other children not here? Perhaps I should ask Neil and Verity to come with theirs and entertain Catherine.”

“I do not think that is necessary. As it happens, I have isolated Catherine from a sort of pox that my other children have caught. I would prefer her not exposed to potential contagions in the form of” —her nose twitched— “Rodger and Anne.”

“You would not rather nurse your others?” Richard asked, surprised and almost angered. “Surely a nanny can take care of Catherine. I will happily engage to keep her here until it’s safe for her to go home.”

Elizabeth’s pale cheeks reddened. “I cannot leave Catherine alone in a house with your… woman. Do not be silly. And as for nursing my others, no. I simply cannot risk Catherine getting any sort of contagion. She is so delicate.”

Richard looked at Catherine, who was as plump, pink-cheeked, and sturdy looking as any child ought to be. She blinked up at him.

“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” Richard said at last. “But I do wish you had only given me some notice. I would not have refused.”

“Well.” Elizabeth folded her hands in her lap. “You have been so intractable lately. About other matters.”

“I’m afraid, Sister, that I have been intractable all my life,” Richard said drily. “A family trait, I do believe. Now. If you will both excuse me, I must talk to The Woman.” He stood, and paused at the door. “Will I see you at dinner?”

“Naturally,” Elizabeth said. “Though Catherine eats with her nurse.”

Limping upstairs, Richard found Laura in the blue suite, sitting at what had been his mother’s dressing table and examining the effect of the slender gold chain and amber bauble he had bought her in London. In a pale primrose dress with gold trim, she looked like a princess out of a fairytale. She turned as he came in and let the bauble, unclasped, fall to her lap.

“Has she been very cruel?” he asked.

She shrugged. “My consolation is that so have I. She has trained the poor baby to scream every time I enter the room. She says Cate has delicate sensibilities.”

There was something more broken-hearted than bitter in her voice. Wordlessly, Richard went over and bent down to kiss her.

“I missed you,” he said, “and I’m sorry about Elizabeth.”

Laura wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her head against his ribs. “I missed you too.”

There was a sudden warmth within Richard that had nothing to do with kissing alone, but seemed to demand more of it. He kissed her again, tangling his fingers in her hair, and wondered if he could persuade her to get undressed before dinner. Even as he was wondering, the gong rang downstairs, and Richard drew back in surprise. By his watch, it was only half past five.

“Dinner at six? I normally take it at seven in the country.”

“Elizabeth has been managing the household,” Laura said with a sigh, turning back to the mirror and correcting her hair. “I was woken up by breakfast in bed the other day. I can’t stand eating in bed. And the chambermaid was blushing to speak with me.”

“I’ll have a talk with the servants.”

“Don’t,” Laura warned, picking up the amber necklace and fixing it around her neck. “This is a woman’s war, Richard. A man on the field will only become a casualty.”

He laughed, and managed to get a reluctant smile from her.

---

Richard was late to dinner, having had to wash the dust of the road from his face and hands and change his suit, and came down to see the dining table laid for three at one end, and Elizabeth, not to his surprise, sitting at the head of the table.

He wasn’t one to argue on that account and sat down next to her, opposite Laura. What she had said about being a woman’s war might be true, for Elizabeth was dressed in puritan propriety, her dark hair hidden under a cap, her dress white and thick and very high at the neck, and closed off there by a discreet pearl necklace. Laura, on the other hand, was almost glittering under the candlelight, and there was rouge on her cheeks, which she rarely otherwise bothered with.

The meal was emasculating. There was not a single fowl, joint, or fish to carve. Here, Richard saw Elizabeth’s touch. But if she had intended to prevent him serving, she was outmanoeuvred.

“Let us not stand on ceremony,” Laura said, waving away the footman. “We can serve ourselves, Thomas.”

“Very good, m’lady.” The footman retreated backwards, and they were left alone in the dining room. Laura dug a spoon into the curry.

“Richard and I often serve ourselves,” she explained to Elizabeth. “It’s so much more intimate.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “Humph.” She manoeuvred the tongs for some kippers. “This is why Catherine cannot join us.”

“Because she can’t use the tongs? But we could do that for her, and cut up her food.”

“Because you make no disguise of your indecency.”

“Indecency undisguised is so not so terrible as indecency disguised, is it not?”

“Better there be none at all!”

“But there isn’t none, is there?” Laura nibbled on asparagus. “Not amongst us? For as Richard and I certainly have our… situation. You, well.” She looked doubtful.

“What, about me?” Elizabeth asked dangerously. “I have always conducted myself according to propriety. I raise my children the same way.”

“And I had a proper upbringing too,” Laura said, her voice growing cold. “I was taught to say please and thank you and do as I was told. I was taught that every feeling must be hidden away behind a smile and a pleasant word — but not too pleasant, lest we look too warm. And when I was eight years old, I had the flu and my nurse and the doctor hid all my feelings away behind the baize door of my nursery, and I thought I would die. I cried for my mother, who was dead, and my father, who did not come. How very proper it is of you to raise your children to hide their illness from you. How perfectly proper. How incredibly indecent.”

There was a fixed smile on Laura’s face by the time she had finished speaking. Her voice could have been no more pleasant had she been enquiring after Elizabeth’s health.

“You know nothing of my children’s health,” Elizabeth said. “Nothing of Catherine.”

“I know that it’s wrong to coddle one perfectly healthy child while your others suffer at a distance.”

“I am doing the best I can!”

“I know. That’s why it’s so much more of a tragedy that it’s not good enough.”

Richard, bewildered, watched them, sipping his wine and wondering if he should intervene. But Laura seemed to be the one in control; her eyes glittered with angry amusement and not fear or sorrow. Meanwhile, Elizabeth’s, pale and only pecking at her food, seemed at the very least uncertain. She had always been good at hiding her emotions, and Richard suspected her to be a great deal more upset than she was letting on.

“But what is wrong with Catherine?” Laura asked, still in that pleasant, vicious tone. “Is she unhappy? I think she must be. I’ve never seen her smile.”

“You don’t make me smile either.”

“I shouldn’t,” Laura said. “My object is to make your brother smile and the methods by which I do that can only make you frown— see, you are frowning right now.”

In fact, Elizabeth looked on the verge of drawing back her chair and leaving the table, but she stiffened herself and took a sip of water.

“But really,” Laura continued lightly, “it’s a mother’s duty to make her child smile, and you’ve never done that. I don’t think the child is very unhappy, but I doubt she even knows what happiness is. It may not be a polite emotion, but it is rather a good one.”

Elizabeth turned over the salad on her plate with a fork, digging and turning, like a crow hunting for a worm in a pile of leaf litter. The hard lines around her mouth and forehead were deeply evident.

“Even if I am a bad mother,” she said at last, in a quiet, dangerous voice, “at the very least, I am a mother.”

Laura, who had been about to drink, dropped her wine glass on the table. Red liquid flooded the white cloth and the glass rolled, whistling, to the edge of the table, where it dropped off, shattering on the floor.

The colour drained from Laura’s face and she looked, eyes huge and disbelieving at Elizabeth, her lips half-open, some unspoken word frozen on them.

For a moment, Richard doubted Elizabeth had meant what Laura had clearly taken her to mean, but he looked to Elizabeth and was shocked to see the angry gleam of triumph in her eyes.

Laura stumbled to her feet and drifted from the room. She ran into the doorway as she left, with a bang that must have hurt. Richard was on his feet and half-way after her when Elizabeth stopped him.

“Shouldn’t you call someone to clean up that glass?”

He stopped and turned. Elizabeth was still sitting complacently at the table, but she had laid down her fork. She’d found the worm she was looking for.

Richard strode back over and put his hands either side of her chair to look down into her eyes.

“You disgust me,” he said, his voice curling. “You are a lucky, lucky woman to have never lost a child, never once miscarried, never once mourned. Holding that over a woman who lost her only one — you are beyond cruel. You are beyond wrong.”

Doubt warped her features for a moment. She turned her head away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes,” Richard said. “You did.”

Her mouth trembled. “I’m sorry.”

“And you’ll tell her that. Tomorrow, not tonight. Not now.” He pushed himself away from her and limped savagely back to the door, his stick crunching through a shard of shattered glass. “And I hope you’ll mean it.”

When he reached Laura’s room, he found the door locked.

He knocked softly. “Laura?”

He thought he heard a sound from inside. But after several minutes, there was no answer even though he called again, so he slipped away and, finding a chambermaid in a corridor, had a quiet word with her. A moment later, the housekeeper came, bringing with her the ring of keys, and Richard went back to Laura’s door.

“Laura?” he called again.

Still, no motion or sound. He slid the key silently in the lock, twisted it, and slid inside.

Her room was on the east side of the house and dim at this time of evening, but he could make out the lump of pale yellow she made on the bed and went over to her. She was lying on her belly, her face buried in a pillow.

“Laura?” He touched her shoulder. She made neither motion nor sound. “Talk to me. Let me… let me help you.”

She jerked away from him. “Go away.”

There was a venom in her voice that shocked him, and he drew back.

“Go away. Just go. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want your advice. I don’t want anything from you, Richard.” She turned around at last, and sat up and glared at him, her eyes dry, her face ugly with anger. “Don’t you know where you’re not wanted?”

She spoke to hurt him, and he knew it, and it hurt anyway. He stood there in silence a moment, and then, his pain dulling down to a sort of stunned realization, decided it was best to leave her alone, and did so.

__

A/N: I actually really like Elizabeth. She’s one of my favourite characters, even though there’s nothing heroic about her and she never really does anything good for anyone. However, I give you all free rein to hate her ;)

Chapter Twenty-Four: Fondness Despite

The past was better not thought of, not at all, but that night, Laura spent many waking, fretful minutes thinking of it. She was angered more than she was saddened, until the moment when she was so crushed by sadness she could hardly breathe, and all that could lift her out of it was the burning anger inside her once more.

She would never have a child. She would never marry again. All she had was that poor dead thing that had come out of her, and the ghost of the husband who had turned upon her for it. That a woman like Elizabeth existed in the world — a woman who had children and could leave them, ill and hurting, without a backward glance — hurt her. It wasn’t fair. That Richard, a man who would surely have been a good father, could not have children, that he could not give her a child, hurt her more. In the depths of her grief, she wished for all that could not be. And after dropping into a restless sleep shortly before dawn, woke to the double mortification of blood on her sheets and between her legs.

The fit was over by then, however. Laura was now less angry and hurt than embarrassed. She had allowed Elizabeth to get the best of her, and worse, had been unjust and cruel to Richard, who was everything good and never deserved it.

She cleaned herself up and went for a long walk around the garden to avoid seeing either of them that morning, but when she returned and slipped late into the breakfast parlour, she was dismayed to find that they were both still there. It seemed they were waiting for her: Richard still drank coffee, but the cold remains of their meals lay on the plates in front of them. As she came in, Richard stood for her and held out her chair. There was something stiff and hurt about his expression. Laura’s smile of thanks wilted beneath it.

“Elizabeth,” Richard said warningly as he sat down again.

Elizabeth looked briefly up from the egg-shells on her plate but said nothing. Richard’s mouth tightened, and Laura had the faint relief of realizing that at least some of his disappointment was not for her alone. She got herself some cold, dry toast and spread butter on it mechanically. Richard resumed his coffee. Then Elizabeth said abruptly,

“I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

Laura stared at her toast. The pain came dully back to her and she felt momentarily sick with sorrow. Then she realized, by Elizabeth’s jerking, nervous movements further down the table that she was supposed to reply, and said, with effort,

“I’m sorry too.” Laura didn’t think she really was, but she wanted nothing more than for this moment to be over. “I said some things that were… wrong.”

Perhaps neither of them really meant it, but Laura wearily hoped it signified a truce. Sparring with Elizabeth alone she might savagely enjoy, but bringing Richard into it was only going to hurt his feelings — they’d been hurt enough already.

Elizabeth seemed to think it was over at least. She collected her cutlery neatly on her plate and stood up. But at the door she stopped and turned back.

“There’s something I must say. To both of you.”

Richard sighed over his coffee. “Then please do.”

Elizabeth straightened her skirts. “I am praying,” she said severely, “praying every night that there will be no child out of this. You’ve no right, either of you, to bring a child into this mess. That’s all.”

A hot flush spread over Laura’s cheeks. Richard’s mouth opened and then shut.

“That’s not something you need to worry about,” he said at last.

“It’s for you two to worry,” Elizabeth said, sweeping from the room.

The door shut behind her, and the room was momentarily silent.

“Elizabeth doesn’t know that you can’t have children?” Laura asked after a moment.

“No,” Richard said flatly.

They fell into silence again. Laura managed to chew half a piece of cold toast before giving it up. She drank lukewarm coffee instead, which wasn’t much better. She was still embarrassed about last night, even ashamed. She knew quite well that Richard had meant to be kind in coming to see if she was alright. It wasn’t his fault that in her pain she wished for nothing more than to be alone.

She dropped her toast on her plate and reached to take his hand resting on the table. He started at her sudden touch and then relaxed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What I said last night — I didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

There was something strangely, frighteningly cold in his tone still. He pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows on the table, looking down.

“I know when you’re hurting,” he said. “I know when you’re biting out because something’s biting you inside. Like last night. But that… doesn’t make it hurt me less. And I’m not the one— I hope I’m not the one hurting you.”

“Never you.” She got up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind, burying her face in his neck and kissing it. “I’m sorry, Richard.” She kissed him again, trying to make ingress between his hands which still covered his face, but he wouldn’t turn to her, and when she said again she was sorry and again tried to kiss him, he slid out of her hold and stood up to face her.

She shrank back against the dark expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Richard.”

“I know very well that you are. But kisses and apologies — or crawling into my bed — doesn’t fix anything. And this keeps happening — you keep losing your temper with me and then seducing me after as though that’s making up.”

He broke off suddenly, just as his voice was getting uncomfortably loud and sharp, and shook his head helplessly. She stood paralyzed before him, unsure of what he wanted or what she should do to make it right. She dared not reach out and touch him again, and knew no other way of regaining his good favour. Instead, she stood motionless and watched him pace back and forth, stick thumping, as he slowly regained his composure. Eventually, he came to a stop in front of her, resting both hands on his stick.

“I know you only hurt me because you’re hurting,” he said gently, “but I don’t know why you hurt. Maybe if I understand better, I can help you. Will you tell me about it? Will it make you feel better if you tell me about it?”

Her heart, which had slowed, suddenly started racing again.

“You lost a husband,” Richard continued. “A baby. I know that much. And you’re still grieving, aren’t you? You never stopped.”

The memory came flashing back to her of the day of the birth — the fatigue, lying drained in her damp bed, listless, careless — the sudden flaring, panicked realization that the room was silent— silent for all but adult whispers — then Maidstone’s figure looming over her, his voice like thunder in the still room — what did you do?

What had she done? Maybe she had done something. No. No, she’d done nothing, she was sure. Not then.

“Laura?” Richard touched her hand.

“I— I can’t, Richard.” She took a deep breath, almost a sob. “No. I can’t.”

For a moment, he was silent. “Then you can’t.”

That Richard misjudged her marriage shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. And it was impossible to explain it to him — even if he could understand —and he could, she thought— she could not talk of it. There was too much pain there. Too much pain, better left in the past.

Instead, she savagely blamed Elizabeth for so provoking her, for bringing up the event in such a cruel way. In the two days they’d been alone in the house together, they’d sparred many times, but it was the first time Elizabeth had sunk to such lows. Laura could only determine that she would not let Elizabeth get between her and Richard. Her reasoning for coming to Albroke was so tenuous that Laura flatly disbelieved it, and Laura could not forget her warning in the museum. Very well. If Elizabeth was determined to break them up, the least that Laura could do would be to restrain her own hurt and not bite back at Richard — who had never hurt her.

She tentatively turned into him and buried her head in his shoulder, not for kisses this time but comfort. His arms came around her, his stick dropping to the floor.

“I’m going to try,” she said into his collar. “I am trying. But sometimes… sometimes I need to be alone. So that all my… hurting only hurts me.”

“I don’t want you to hurt at all.”

“It’s too late for that.”

His arms tightened around her. Her fear and sorrow drained away to an uneasy, exhausted calm. Then the door opened suddenly and a chambermaid shrieked. They broke apart in some confusion, while the chambermaid made her blushing excuses and backed away.

Richard swore under his breath. “We weren’t even kissing. Country servants. I did wonder about putting you in the dower cottage…” He looked at her consideringly a moment. “But I want you here with me.”

It was a matter of fact statement. There was nothing romantic about it. Nothing that should have made Laura feel suddenly strangely fluttery inside.

“We’d better leave and let them clean the breakfast things,” she said, to cover her confusion. And then abruptly, as she went to the door, “I want to be here with you.”

She did not turn back to see how Richard reacted. She was too embarrassed and ill-at-ease to dare. And perhaps that was best, for his sudden warm smile would probably only have made her more confused and fluttery inside.

---

After his argument with Elizabeth, Richard half-expected her to give up and return home immediately. It was that, he thought, or she would double down on her efforts to persuade him to abandon Laura. When in following days she made no move to leave, he prepared for the worst, and was confused and surprised when it didn’t happen. Instead, Elizabeth appeared content with ignoring Laura’s existence and distancing herself from Richard as much as was possible while living in the same house with him.

At meals, where she could not avoid either of them, she remained silent and looked disapproving. During the day, she avoided their favoured rooms and walks, and sat doing her work or teaching her daughter in the less-used and less-comfortable state rooms. She was not entirely inofficious; one evening she called on the parson and had a long, earnest talk with him. As the parson was Richard’s old friend Charmers, present in the living through Richard’s generosity, this had very little effect other than to remind him to stroll over to Richard’s house and consume a bottle of port and the high notes of London gossip with him. As he was leaving, he did pause at the door, and add, in his usual, uncertain voice,

“Oh yes, er, um, Lanny, old boy, if you ever do decide to get riveted to the Brock Girl, you will think of me, won’t you?”

Richard, a little tipsy, laughed. “Charm, you’re the only man I’d ever ask for the job.”

Later, when he was sober, it made Richard laugh again to think that Charmers had offered the exact opposite of what Elizabeth wanted. He told her that, one morning, finding her lying on the couch in the drawing room, to tease her. She looked up at him, frowning.

“I don’t see how you can find it at all funny,” she said, in a thin, tired voice. “It’s not funny at all.”

“I think it’s hilarious. If you wish to split Laura and me up, you’ll have to find someone better for the job than Charmers.”

“Richard,” she said painfully, “do go away.”

He stared down at her, perplexed. He noticed now she was rather pale. And she was not the type of woman who enjoyed being idle. “Are you alright, Liz?”

“I have a headache.”

“Do you need the doctor?”

“I need you to go away.”

And he did go away, annoyed that Elizabeth was not to be teased today.

In fact, where he had feared at first that she would be trying to bully him out of keeping Laura, he soon began to feel a little disappointed that she was not giving him any sparring opportunities at all. Her strict avoidance of them, apart from at meal times and Sunday church, which she could hardly avoid and which Richard could hardly spoil by bickering with her, meant that he never saw or spoke to her except upon polite terms.

But even that didn’t mean that Richard was free of censure. He had hoped that with Elizabeth and Catherine staying with him, Neil might reconsider his decision and bring Verity and the children down with him for the summer. With that in mind, he’d written to Neil and asked him down. After the cold way they’d parted in March, Richard had been eager to see him again and make up. However, the refusal he received was curt and direct, a mere repetition of Neil’s earlier sentiments towards Laura. What was worse was the longer, more delicate letter Richard received from Verity a few days later. Her opinion was weighted the other way: where Neil wished for Richard to send Laura away and set her up in the country somewhere, Verity instead urged him to marry her.

…if you have any affection for her at all, then you must marry her. If you are without affection, send her away — but I cannot believe that you are doing what you are doing without affection for the lady — and in that case, marrying her is not only what is right for both of you, but I believe must also be what is best for your happiness. You are worth taking a wife who is fond of you — Neil will give me no virtues of which I can blindly accuse her, but I must be sure of that at least — if she were not fond of you she would never be your mistress, but insist on being your wife — and if such is the case, what stops you from marrying her? I cannot understand it.

It hurt to read it. Richard sensed behind her kind words a judgement and a criticism that she was too soft-hearted to voice. Criticism of his arrangement with Laura, and criticism too of his silent, unrequited adoration for Verity herself. ‘Go and marry,’ she was saying; ‘go and marry and forget you ever loved me.’

He took several days over his reply. Letters to Verity were always difficult, and this one was of a more delicate subject matter than most. Eventually, there were little more than a handful of sentences he dared risk on the subject, and those not entirely candid:

I do not deny that I hold my lady in affectionate regard, but I am unsure that that is enough to make for a good marriage. You do not know her virtues, and so I will give you one: she is, I believe, fond of me. And what stops me from marrying her — fondness is all we have. No commonality of spirit unites us, no possibility of children or family, no similar goals, nor even, very often, compatible temperaments. I am fond of her despite what she is, and she is fond of me, I believe, despite all I am.

To which Verity wrote, in a post-script of the next letter of Neil’s:

Darling Rich,

I am very cross and I take back my words. If fondness despite isn’t enough for you, you never deserve to marry.

He could not tell if she was serious or not, but he had the uneasy suspicion that she was right. Either way, he thought, it did not matter: as long as Laura was unwilling to marry him, his own feelings on the matter could be of no import.

__

A/N: I normally avoid writing about women getting periods and other bodily functions but I thought it necessary this chapter because otherwise I might get people going ‘oh, Laura’s pregnant.’ No. She is not.

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Dirty Matter

Elizabeth had made up her mind not to interfere in her brother’s entanglement. It was a dirty matter and she preferred to keep her hands clean. But as the weeks passed in his house, no matter how much she attempted to avoid them both, she could not help but become aware of how very peculiar their situation was.

She had expected to find her brother fully at the command and persuasion of his mistress. That was the natural order of things where Richard was concerned. It was in his character to see himself as second-best. There was a humbleness there that had often irritated Elizabeth, though she had never been irritated enough to wish to correct it by kind encouragement. However, to her critical and unpleased eye, it appeared to be quite the opposite: there was a submissiveness in Laura that Elizabeth could neither understand nor like, a tendency to look to Richard for judgement, a desire to please him. Elizabeth, who had never submitted to any man, never looked to any man for judgement, and never sought to please anyone but herself, was made more uncomfortable by this behaviour than she was by the occasional kisses she witnessed or endearments she caught whispered between them. She was naturally irritated that Richard would sully the respectability of their family name by his attachment, but it was Laura who truly disappointed her. Once, Elizabeth had approved of Laura for her independence and spirit. Now it appeared that spirit wished to be tamed.

There was also in Elizabeth a strong preference for the well-being of her own sex. She would not have called herself a radical, but she had spent the first seventeen years of her life in fear of her father, and the next seventeen in contempt of her husband, and between them both she had come to believe that all men were either brutes or fools. What started as disdainful curiosity into her brother’s affair became then surprised interest and at last a righteous concern. Laura admired Richard too much. She was in his power. It was a dangerous position for a woman to be.

For some weeks yet, Elizabeth managed to control her desire to correct this strange course of events. But the country bored her, and at last she persuaded herself that it was her duty as the older and the wiser of the two to guide Laura to a better path.

With that in mind, she waited for a morning when Richard was out of the way in the far reaches of the estate with his steward and hunted Laura down in the library, where she was lounging on the couch with a novel Elizabeth shut the door behind her and waited for Laura to look up, but Laura only turned another page of her book placidly as though she hadn’t heard her come in.

Elizabeth was not one for meaningful coughs. She sat directly down upon a hard-backed chair near Laura and said her name. Laura sighed, let her book drop to the floor, and reluctantly sat up.

“What is it?”

The insolence, which demanded to be corrected, must yet be faintly approved of. There was spirit in Laura still, and spirit might save her from being entirely Richard’s captive.

“There’s no need for impertinence, my lady. I merely came to have a little chat with you.”

“Did you?” Laura raised her eyebrows. “Goodness. Whatever could this be about?”

“It’s about you and Richard,” Elizabeth said directly, because she never saw the point prevaricating with a woman.

Laura rolled her eyes, in a manner annoyingly reminiscent of Elizabeth’s eldest daughter. “I really don’t think you’ve anything to say upon the subject that I want to hear.”

“Yes, but we don’t always want what we need.” Elizabeth straightened her posture. “I insist you listen, my lady. I have decided I must give you warning. You are getting too fond of Richard.”

Laura opened her mouth and frowned in confusion. “I’m sorry. In my position, should I not be? Ah. But perhaps you are worried I will marry him. You need not worry. I won’t.”

Elizabeth did not know if she was relieved by that or not. A few years ago, she would have welcomed a marriage between Laura and Richard, but its practical objections now could not be ignored: Laura’s first marriage had brought her into a lower circle, and now that she was Richard’s mistress, she had nothing left in money or connection to offer him in marriage. On the other hand, Elizabeth could concede that marriage was not only a matter of commercial interest. There was the moral question to think of as well, which could only be answered by a marriage between the two. Then there was the need for Richard to have a son — a legitimate son. Elizabeth eyed Laura’s slender figure speculatively. Marriage between the two, though not the most desirable event on earth, could not be an evil if a child came of it. Or precipitated it.

She smiled at Laura. “You have me quite mistaken. I cannot condone your current circumstances, but if the day comes when Richard’s happiness is secured by making you his wife, then I will welcome you as a sister.”

Laura stared uneasily back at her.

“Indeed,” Elizabeth continued, in as sweet a tone as she could muster, “I have no ill feeling for you in particular, it is only this situation that gives me pause. Natural concern for my brother, yes, but also concern for you.”

“For me?” Laura was now incredulous.

“Yes. For you. I have seen in recent weeks that it is not at all as I had thought. I had assumed he was under your thrall — but I find, instead, that it is you who adores him. And to adore any man, let alone one who is attached to you nothing more substantial than his current whim, is a dangerous position for a woman.”

Laura blinked, open-mouthed. “What on earth are you saying?”

“I’m saying that you need to be more cautious,” Elizabeth said patiently. “You are in danger of breaking your heart over him.”

With a burst of hard laughter, Laura got to her feet. “Oh, Eliza, if that is the worst danger you envision, I welcome it.”

“You must see the danger in it, surely.” Elizabeth frowned up at her. “You seem to admire him very much. But he — I think he is only amusing himself with you.”

“Amusing himself!?”

“I have seen no evidence that his deeper feelings have been touched. But I can tell even now that yours have.” The flush in Laura’s cheeks and the anger in her eyes told Elizabeth that. But Richard — his phlegmatic nature had not been disturbed. “I seek only to warn you. You are too open with him. You give him too much of yourself.”

“No. You don’t.” Laura looked down at her, her brows drawn, her eyes dark and narrow. “I can see exactly what you are doing. Rather than doing me any kindness with these cruel words, you seek to make me distrust your — your wonderful brother. You see that you cannot persuade either of us to quit this and think that you can sabotage us into ending it. Well you can’t.”

“That is not what I mean at all,” Elizabeth said, frustrated. “I am thinking only of your welfare.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous!” Laura tossed her head. “You came down here for the purpose of splitting us up — no other reason. And soon you return home and this is your last chance. You have bided your time certainly, but I won’t be taken in.”

“I came because Catherine—”

“—Is perfectly healthy and in no danger of getting a pox.” Laura’s eyes flashed. “Let me give you a gentle warning, too, Elizabeth. Your children will not forget nor forgive you for abandoning them at such a time.”

“I had no choice,” Elizabeth said, her irritation becoming anger.

“You had every choice in the world. And you chose against your children.” Laura flung herself back down on the couch and picked up her book again. “I can imagine no reason for that, no excuse. Nothing but selfishness. Unforgivable in a mother.”

Elizabeth’s anger rose and burned inside her with self-righteous fury. She had meant to be kind to Laura, and to receive not just ingratitude but such accusations inflamed her. Her children were the only creatures in the world whom she truly considered superior to herself. She loved them with the sort of fierce pride that would have seen her cheerfully murder anyone who threatened their happiness — the sort of fierce pride that could never bear to consider she herself did not always know what made them happy.

“I would die nursing a child if I had to,” Laura said, her voice throbbing with contempt.

“That’s easy to say when you have no risk of dying,” Elizabeth snapped. “It’s my health that’s delicate, not Catherine’s. It’s me who was ordered away to avoid the pox.”

Laura froze and then slowly raised her head from the book. Elizabeth felt a vicious pleasure in seeing the guilty shock on her face.

“You didn’t say a word,” Laura said. “Not even to Richard.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “He could hardly help.”

Slowly, Laura sat up and leaned forward. “Are you — are you very ill?” she asked tentatively.

“Not so much anymore.” Elizabeth wondered if she should keep it back or not, and decided to tell it all. It was getting to that point anyway. “I’m having another baby. The doctor says that catching the pox in this condition could kill me, and certainly would kill the baby. Otherwise, I assure you, I would be at my children’s bedside. But I thought they needed me alive in future more than they needed me with them now.”

“Oh.” Laura’s mouth opened in surprise. “I— I congratulate you.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said primly. She was a little regretful to have revealed so much, but pleased that she had triumphed over Laura.

“Does Richard know?”

“Not yet. I’m going to tell him when he gets back — you won’t say a word to him first, will you?”

Laura shook her head and gave a small, rather wobbly smile. Still tasting the sweetness of triumph, Elizabeth had the graciousness to feel a slender tug of compassion for that smile — she suspected whereof it came. So she paused on her way to the door, looked back, and extended a dry twig of an olive branch.

“Everything I have said today, I mean. I hope you can see that now. I act according to principle, Laura.”

“Your principles must differ from mine,” Laura said. “But I thank you for your advice, my lady.”

Elizabeth was content to call that a truce and left full of satisfaction with the interview. Later, when she heard Richard return, she went straight to his dressing room where he was changing out of his riding clothes. In a few short words she explained her situation, and, pleased to see him smile broadly on hearing it, accepted the hug he gave her without complaint.

“I thought you were looking pale lately,” he said, letting her go and stepping back. “I congratulate you — and Farthingdale too.”

Elizabeth nodded graciously. “Thank you. If it’s a boy I plan him for the church.”

“I hope he likes it.” Richard went to his dresser to find a cravat, but Elizabeth kept her gaze upon him. After a moment, he looked up. “What is it, Elizabeth?”

“Well you’ll keep a living for him, won’t you?”

Richard rooted through the drawer a moment before answering. “Elizabeth, I will gladly help any of my nieces and any of my nephews with their futures. But I do think you might wait until he — or she — is born and until he — or she — has developed some interests and abilities of his or her own before I set it in stone.”

“Infants don’t have the wisdom to decide on their own futures so we must do it for them.”

“But young men and young women do. And they very frequently decide against the wisdom of those who chose for them.” Richard sighed. “Sometimes, I just think, you’re setting yourself and my nieces and nephews up for a lot of trouble in the future, Liz.”

She pressed her lips together. “Richard, what on earth do you think you know about raising children?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He shrugged. “It was just a thought. How much longer are you staying on? There’s a huge cluster of blackberries coming out on the east side of the woods. I thought I might take Cate on a drive there with me next time I have to go.”

“Catherine,” Elizabeth corrected, shuddering at the name and the thought of her sweet, clean little daughter covered in blackberry juice. But it was good for Catherine that Richard took an interest in her, so she nodded her consent. “I’ll be here another week or so. I don’t know. Farthingdale has written to say the boys are nearly out of their scabs, but I don’t feel well enough to travel yet. I’ll leave when I think I can.”

“Then we’ll have your company a while yet.”

There was another smile with that, and something resembling cheerfulness in his voice. Elizabeth contemplated asking him if he was merely trifling with Laura or not. But she doubted he would be honest with her, and anyway, she had already warned Laura, and considered her duty done.

__

A/N: There. Elizabeth’s cruelty explained. Originally this chapter was written from Richard’s point of view, but I thought it really needed Elizabeth’s thought process. One of the things that changed in it was when Elizabeth nods her head – in Richard’s point of view, she nods her head imperiously. In her own, she nods her head graciously.

Chapter Twenty-Six: All in the Past

When the shock of Elizabeth’s news wore off, Laura surprised herself by laughing at it. She had spent the past month assuming Elizabeth had come to Albroke for the purpose of dividing her from Richard, and had hated her for it. To hear now that there was no reason to hate, to realize that she had wronged Elizabeth in all her assumptions, amused her. Elizabeth was so pompous and self-assured that it could never seem a very great fault to wrong her. She thought very briefly about what Elizabeth had said and then cheerfully dismissed it: Richard deserved more fondness than she or anybody else gave him, and Elizabeth was a fool if she could not see it.

It was that night, lingering in bed, that she and Richard discussed it.

“Are you happy about her baby?” Laura asked, idly stroking his bad knee as she lay against his chest.

“Mmm.” He nuzzled at her hair. “I love all my nephews and nieces really.”

“Even Catherine.”

“Even Catherine.” He nibbled at her earlobe. “She’s stopped screaming when she sees you.”

“I found her crying in a cupboard a week ago with half a pot of jam all down her white dress,” Laura said smugly. “I cleaned her up and told her no one ever has to find out.”

“Bribery and blackmail in the one shot.” He kissed her neck lightly. “You’re a resourceful woman.”

“She’s only a child really,” Laura said. “I wish Elizabeth would let them be.”

“She does what she thinks is best.”

Laura was silent a moment. “I think she’s very often wrong.”

“Perhaps.” Richard pulled her closer against him. “I wish I had the chance to be wrong.”

Laura closed her hand over his. Sorrow swelled at the back of her throat, for both Richard and herself. She swallowed it back down.

“I didn’t use to want to,” Richard continued, no longer playing with her body but simply holding her, his hands clasped over her waist. “When I was younger, all I thought about it was that Neil would have to be the one to sire an heir. It wasn’t personal. And then I got older and Elizabeth had her children — she does love them, in her own way — and Neil had his and he loves them very much. And then it started to be personal. Then I started to want it.”

“Because of your nieces and nephews?”

He nodded, his chin bumping the back of her head. “I think when Annie was born, that changed me. I was there that very day. She’s still my favourite, and I think she knows.”

Laura smiled faintly. “You’re not supposed to have favourites.”

“Well I do and she’s it. Besides,” he added, “I’m only the uncle. Uncles can have favourites.”

The sadness grew. Laura turned over onto Richard’s chest, burying her hands in the pillows behind him and pressing her face into the hollow of his sternum. Once, she had thought herself protected by his infertility. There would be no child to bind her to him. Now, she felt only a strange, impotent anger that there could not be. She raised her head to find him watching her with an inutterably sad expression in his eyes.

“You never speak of it,” she said softly.

“There’s nothing to speak of. It is what it is.”

“So many things are as they should not be.”

“Yes.” He tried and failed to give her a smile. “There’s three things I wish I never did in my life: I wish I’d never got on that horse the day I broke my leg. I wish I’d never told my father that Neil had remarried. I wish I’d never gone to my aunt’s place the day I caught that fever from my cousin.”

“The consequences could never have been foreseen.” Laura settled back down on his chest. “Is that any consolation? Your worst mistakes were ones you could not have avoided through wisdom You’ve never been foolish.”

“I certainly have.” He rubbed the base of her spine. “You can never tell me what I did to my brother was not foolishness. I should have trusted him. Instead, I did everything as my father would have done. Sometimes I think I didn’t begin to live until he was dead.”

Perhaps that explained why Richard was so different now from what he used to be. Laura remembered his previous bitterness — but surely, surely that could not have been lost only through the death of his brutal father. It had to have been replaced with some kind of happiness. Or else would she not have been happier when Maidstone died? But she had not. She had been relieved, but she had not been happy. She could not even say she was happy now — though Richard sometimes made her feel happy, she always returned, when alone or when scared, to the sort of unhappy fretfulness that had come upon her when she married Maidstone.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Richard asked.

“Nothing.” She tried to smile. “It’s not a very happy conversation, is it?”

“Then let’s not speak,” Richard said, wrapping his arms around her. “Just stay here with me.”

She had still never fallen asleep in his bed, and did not think it possible tonight — not when the sadness inside her demanded solitude. But it was not yet eleven and she wanted to be with him a little longer, so she stayed, thinking about what he had said, and what Elizabeth had said. It was strange that Elizabeth had thought it was she who gave too much to Richard — he gave so much more to her. Since their argument in the breakfast room, Laura had been particularly conscious of how her words might wound or try him, particularly gentle in her manner towards him. But that was not quite giving and certainly not openness. Richard was the open one, in telling her of the sorrow inside him, and she hurt, both for not knowing what to say in return and for her own inability to speak of her own, to shut it up away inside herself, where it could never be seen. Like a coward.

Her throat tightened. She gripped Richard tighter and he stirred, waking up from the doze he’d fallen into.

“Laura?”

“I want to tell you,” she said.

“Tell me what?”

“About the baby.” She squirmed and sat up, a sudden surge of nervousness compelling her to move. “And what happened before it.” And afterwards — afterwards was worse.

Beside her, Richard sat up too, running his hand calmingly up and down her bare back. “You can tell me.”

But her mouth would not open and her throat was tight. The image of Maidstone’s face, distorted with anger and jealousy, came back to her.

“But you don’t have to,” Richard added gently.

“No, I do.” She trembled and slipped naked to the floor so she could pace the carpet, her arms around herself. Richard watched her from the bed. “Did you know Maidstone?”

“Only by repute as a savvy business man.”

“He was.” She swallowed. “He was a brute too. I didn’t know it when I married him — I was too stupid to see it.”

Surprise flashed over Richard’s face, then his expression tightened with something of sorrow.

“I was so relieved — so happy when he died, Richard. I never grieved for him. Not once.”

Behind her, Richard silently got up and put his dressing gown on, then reached for hers, lying on the floor where she’d dropped it. But she ignored him. Her heart was racing and she could only think that Richard, knowing this, would think her ungrateful and unloving. She could not stop, having said only this.

“I was pregnant within a month of marrying him,” she said, trying to control herself. “So I had — I had three or four weeks, I think, after that, where I thought— I thought we were happy.”

“And were you happy?” Richard asked, draping the dressing gown over her shoulders.

She shook her head and allowed him to tie the gown half-closed. “Never. But it… it only started going wrong after that. I started seeing— he started going wrong.”

For a moment, Laura was bewildered by her own memories. They were so bizarre. So irrational. So unbelievable. She sat down on the edge of the bed and clutched the gown closer about herself. After a moment, Richard sat beside her and took her hand in his.

“What did he do?” he asked, drawing her gently back to the present.

She stared at Richard, all patient faith and open kindness, and the past seemed ever more unreal by comparison. The grand magnitude of it could not be comprehended, so she focused on one of the small moments, of which there were so many, blurred by the distance of time into a single monolithic shadow on her memory.

“There was one time, when I was a few months in, he threw a dinner party.” She blinked and squinted at a patch of carpet on the floor, seeing instead the old dining room in the Manchester countryside, silverware glittering under the candlelight, plumes of steam rising from the dishes. “It was just his male friends and I. He started a joke — but it wasn’t a joke — by saying that one of the men around the table had got me with child, and giving odds to which one. And maybe — maybe he did mean it as a joke at first. But by the end, Richard, it wasn’t. He — I don’t know why, I’d given him no reason — he believed it.”

Laura buried her face in her hands and breathed through her fingers, feeling the humiliation and anger and sorrow tear dully within her. She thought again that she was telling this all wrong. It had started before then, it had started with even smaller things. Every joke of his, even the ones that had made her laugh, had carried barbs and splinters. His awful cynicism, his awful suspicions, quicker to light upon her than anyone else, had started as small cuts until they had become so many they covered her soul and bled it dry.

“I cannot explain,” Laura said through her fingers. “I don’t know how to explain him. He was the worst mistake of my life. I should have known what he was before I married him, but I was blind — blind until it was too late.”

“Don’t blame yourself.” Richard touched her knee. “You could not have known.”

“Oh my father warned me.” She laughed bitterly and let her hands drop to her lap. “He sent me a letter, when we’d come back from Scotland. He told me everything I had done wrong in choosing Maidstone. He knew every fault of that man’s character and I did not want to believe.”

She sniffed back a tear and swallowed. There was shame in that too. Her father had been right and she had been wrong. And more impotent anger — her father must have suspected something of her situation. Why had he done nothing to protect her?

Too easily, the answer came to her: she had been useless to him then. Was useless to him now, too, probably. But she would never need saving from Richard.

She met his eyes and then slowly dropped her head to his shoulder, clutching at his dressing gown. His arms surrounded her and pulled her closer.

“And when the baby died,” she heard herself say, in a flat, thin voice, “he was a boy — he was born dead—”

The dreadful silence of the birth room came back to her.

“What happened then?” Richard prompted.

“Maidstone said that was proof.”

“Proof of what?” Richard was stroking her arm, lightly and continuously.

“Proof I’d been unfaithful.”

“Oh god. Laura.” For the first time, Richard’s gentle, peaceful tone broke. His arms around her tightened and his face pressed against her hair. “Oh no, darling. No.”

“Yes.” She drearily kept talking, though his hands, tight around her, almost hurt now. “He kept asking me what I’d done. He said, very gently, he said, that if I’d just tell him he’d forgive me.” The awful, treacherous gentleness in his voice — so like Richard’s gentleness now that she had to force herself to keep speaking. “But I couldn’t tell him because I hadn’t done anything. And he kept — he kept asking.” Until his gentleness had faded and the anger had come back. “So I just said — I said I’d— I lied. I told him there was a man — I lied.” And for what purpose? So that when he’d beaten her until she could neither move nor beg for mercy, he could have the satisfaction of believing he was right. “I hated him before then. I’d hated him a long time. But he’d never hit me until then. And after that…He didn’t care, after that, if he hurt me or not.”

“I had no idea.” Richard buried his face in her hair, and she had the sudden surprise of feeling warm, damp tears on her cheeks — his, not hers. “Oh god, Laura, if I’d known — I wish… no, no it’s too late to wish. There was no one to help you, was there?”

“No.” She wiped his tears from her face, surprised her own eyes were dry. “Oh, maybe there was. Maybe if I’d begged, you would have helped. Or my father. Or any of my friends. But I didn’t beg. I was too proud.”

“It’s not your fault.” Richard kissed her shoulder. “It’s not.”

It made her feel better. Just sitting there with Richard made her feel better. She felt her heart slow and breathed in Richard’s familiar scent and warmth. It’s all the past, she realized. Maidstone, his friends, his vile family, his expensive, gaudy house, they were all in the past and didn’t matter anymore. She was never going back there. She was under Richard’s roof and within his arms. She was safe, as she never had been before in her life.

She breathed out shakily and continued her tale.

“It was fourteen more months until he died. He had this — this thing in his head. He thought I had betrayed him. He believed I was betraying him. Every day. I could not speak with a footman or one of his friends, or leave his sight, without him making up in his head about how I’d betrayed him. He believed his own lies.”

A flash of memory came to her, about the time she’d let his brother into the house and the accusation Maidstone had made thereafter. Her composure stalled and she tightened her grip on Richard’s dressing gown.

“You don’t need to keep talking about it,” Richard said. “You don’t need to tell me.”

“No, I want to.” It was somehow a relief to let it be known. She waited a moment to catch her breath, which had got away from her again. When she spoke next, she was able to speak of it properly, without repeating herself, though her voice was flat even to her ears.

“Sometimes when Maidstone was being very bad I would try to get him to bed because he — he wasn’t bad to me there. When I’m scared I do that with you.”

“ I’ll never hurt you.“

“I know,” she said. “But knowing doesn’t always mean believing, Richard. And I’m sorry, for the way I sometimes behave, even knowing you.”

“Don’t apologise.” He kissed her. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is, in part. I shouldn’t treat you like him. And he’s dead.” She raised her face to look him in the eyes and wiped away a tear from his cheek. “I’m trying to be better.”

“I’ve noticed.” He smiled faintly but it faltered. Something came into his eyes and then died. “You’re so brave.”

“I’m a coward, really.” She shifted to a more comfortable position, bringing her legs up onto the bed beneath her. “Do you want to know the — the funniest bit?”

“Funny?” He tried to pull himself up likewise, but his right leg would not bend, so he held it straight out in front of him, by her side. She ran her hand over the down of his scarred thigh, feeling desire flicker in her belly again, despite the heavy mood.

“Almost funny.” There was a dark humour in it. “I had a maid, to dress me. She got with child and I dismissed her. Richard — it was Maidstone’s child.”

“Not funny.” Richard winced. “How did you feel?”

She shrugged. “I had no idea until after the baby was born — my maid came back to ask Maidstone for help and I found out then. All that time, he had been suspecting me of doing everything he was doing.”

Richard was looking at her, pity and regret in his eyes.

“You’re not surprised are you?” she asked.

“It seems the way it normally goes, doesn’t it? Those who don’t trust do so because they know they are not to be trusted.”

He shifted further onto the bed, his calf pressing against her thigh. She met his eyes and wondered what would have happened if they’d encountered each other during the time she was married to Maidstone. Richard was more percipient, more wise to the ways of the world, than she had ever suspected. Would he have helped her? Would she have let him?

But it was idle speculation. Suddenly cold, suddenly tired, Laura threw herself back on the bed and half-pulled the coverlet over her. Richard lay down beside her and pulled her closer for warmth.

“That was a month or so before he died,” Laura said wearily. “Me finding out about the maid, I mean. God knows what else I never found out about. But I — I was so angry. I decided I would make his — delusions come true.”

Richard’s arm tensed around her, and Laura raised her guard again.

“But then there was the hunt,” she said. “And he fell. And died. And I didn’t get my chance.”

Richard was silent for a moment.

“I’ve never said this about any man before,” he said, “but I’m glad he died, Laura. I’m glad you’re free.”

__

A/N: This was the hardest chapter to write so far. I rewrote it about five times.

Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Sudden Decision

Over the next few days, Richard heard more about Laura’s marriage to Maidstone, in brief, quiet conversations that left both of them drained and exhausted. He was almost ashamed now that it had never occurred to him that Laura’s marriage had not been happy, let alone never suspected the level of brutality she had been exposed to. In hindsight, it seemed so obvious. As a child and a young woman, she had been barbed, but never broken. He ought to have seen something had broken her, he ought to have guessed what. Instead, he had thoughtlessly assumed her reticence about her marriage came from a grief not yet dulled by time, had never questioned the origin of her unhappiness.

It horrified him to realize that she had never asked for help to leave her marriage, nor even told anyone else about it before. But there had been no one to help her — her elopement had made her an enemy of her father, and her marriage had taken her into Lancashire, far from anyone she’d ever called friend. And now that she had Richard to call friend, there was nothing he could do but listen and regret with her.

Late at night, after she had left his bed and gone back to her room, Richard would lie awake worrying about it. He thought she was better now than she had been months ago, certainly better off than that night in November when she’d seduced him out of what he could now see was nothing more than fury at the world. But he wanted her to be more than better. He wanted her to be happy. And he wasn’t sure she ever would be truly happy while she remained his mistress. There was too much pressure in such an arrangement for her to keep him happy, to allow her to properly think of her own happiness. All she could hope to be was safe — and safe only as long as she was with him, for the world in general scorned to protect a woman content to call herself a mistress.

He wrote to Neil again, asking his advice. A cautious little letter, saying only that Laura’s husband had broken her spirit and that he thought his arrangement might be doing her harm in the end.

He wasn’t surprised to receive prompt reply, an encouraging, rather optimistic reply, in which Neil urged Richard to end the arrangement and set Laura up in comfort and quiet somewhere far away.

“I’m sure she would like France,” Neil wrote. “Or I could give her some introductions in Italy. I’ve no wish to hurt her, Rich. But from what you say, it seems like it would be best for everyone to terminate the arrangement, and for her to be somewhere out of public sight and condemnation.”

It was a letter that made Richard thoughtful, but he wrote back declining Neil’s offer and saying that he saw no need for Laura to leave England. Privately, he thought that would be worse than the current situation: alone in another country she could only be more isolated than she was now. More vulnerable.

Richard had still not decided what to do by the time Elizabeth was prepared to go home. Her morning sickness was calming enough for her to travel now, and her children were quite recovered from their pox. At dinner the night before Elizabeth left, Laura pleased Richard by her solicitude to his sister, her well-wishes for the new baby, and her concern for Elizabeth’s comfort on the journey home. There was perhaps a shadow of gladness to her solicitude, as though she was relieved to see the back of Elizabeth, but Richard could not begrudge that enough not to appreciate that Laura really was trying to be nice — to someone other than him.

Elizabeth was tired that night and went to bed early, leaving Richard and Laura alone in the drawing room. They drank their coffee and then she played the piano. Richard watched her fingers on the keys, the pale curve of her cheek, her face half-hidden from him. A lock of hair curled down in front of one ear, and he ached to push it back. To run his hand behind her head and kiss her. To feel her hands clutch his coat and then close around him.

He shivered, coming to a sudden decision about the matter. Then he abruptly stood, went over, and kissed her, the music ending in a harsh jangle of notes as he startled her. When he drew back, her eyes were wide with surprise and the curl by her ear was floating up over her temple like an antenna. He bit back a laugh and smoothed it down.

“What was that for?” she asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Just because.” He kissed her again. “Look, I want to go up to London with Liz tomorrow — I’ll only be gone a few days — do you mind?”

“No, why should I mind?” She hooked her hands around the back of his waist. “What do you have to do?”

“To speak with my lawyer.”

She frowned. “Couldn’t you just write?”

“Not about this.”

“What a nuisance.” She sighed. “I’ll miss you.”

His heart skipped a beat. She cared for him — she must care for him. And he cared for her. More than he dared tell her. It had started out nothing more than lust and curiosity, but he’d always known it wouldn’t stop there. He wasn’t the kind of man who could be intimate with a woman and not develop feelings for her. It almost hurt him now to realize that she was — in all probability — the first woman who had ever developed feelings for him in his life. Ending this would hurt them both.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, frowning at him.

“I’ll miss you too,” he said. “That’s what’s wrong.”

“And in a few days I’ll be waiting on the front step to welcome you back.” She ran her hand up his waist to the lapel of his coat, trying to pull him closer. “I promise.”

It was a long, intimate goodbye between them that night, which left him holding her in his arms and hoping, wishing she would not eventually leave. But inevitably she did, slipping out from his bed with one last sleepy kiss. He no longer tried to persuade her to stay. He knew now why she left. But the morning after, at dawn — they were leaving early — he went into her bedroom and woke her to kiss her goodbye again. She looked sleepily up at him.

“Do you really have to go?”

“I’ll be back in five days,” he promised, kissing her again. “It’s not long.”

She tangled her fingers in his hair and looked up at him with a softness that made his heart quicken. “Then travel safe,” she said, and went back to sleep while he watched. He stayed there a few moments, watching her and wondering if he was doing the right thing, then he heard Elizabeth’s irascible step in the hallway and hurried out to meet her.

They did not often travel together and when they did travelled mostly in silence, so the first half hour or so of their journey passed without a word. Then Elizabeth, who was holding a sleeping Catherine on her lap, made a motion to Richard and he took the child, understanding when Elizabeth buried her mouth in her handkerchief.

“Some air?” he asked.

She nodded, and he let the glass down so she could breathe in fresh air through the window. Catherine squirmed a little but then closed her eyes again and drooled contentedly over Richard’s collar. After a few minutes, Elizabeth sat straighter and the colour came faintly back to her face. Richard felt a strange pity for her; she was ordinarily so resolutely healthy.

“I owe you an apology,” he said wryly. “I thought you came down to Albroke to interfere with me about Laura. You’ve not said a word since that day in London.”

Elizabeth shrugged, seemingly still unable to speak. But at the minutes passed by she said, in a rather tired voice, “I’ve long learned that it’s useless to persuade men against their own temptation. You know better and you’re not doing it. No reason will change that. No persuasion will make you do what is right. Not until it’s too late.”

Richard watched the countryside roll by. “You’re right — and wrong. I do know better. That’s why I’ve come up to London. To get it sorted out.”

Elizabeth’s mouth made an o of surprise. For a moment, there was silence, then she said, rather distantly, “I don’t dislike her, you know. I feel sorry for her, really.”

“Sorry for her?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “She could have been so much more than what she chose to be.”

__

A/N: I know it’s only a short one. I generally try to merge short scenes together to make longer chapters, but there was nothing to merge this one with. There’s only two more chapters left before this arc concludes and we start part 3 of the story.

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Bittersweet

Laura missed Richard more than she had expected, but not so much she couldn’t enjoy the anticipation of his return. On the third day of his absence, there was a letter for her at breakfast. It was an effort of extreme control not to open it immediately, but to drink her coffee and eat her bread and jam, and hold onto that pleasant shiver of intrigue within. A pleasant shiver that quickly became chill disappointment when on opening it she saw, instead of Richard’s rather stocky and angular hand, Elizabeth’s long, elegant one.

She tossed it away in disgust without reading it, drank more coffee, ate more toast, amused herself with sundry chores, forgot all about it, and then remembered it suddenly in the late afternoon, when, bored and restless, she decided she might as well read it as not.

She found it on the dining room table where she had left it and took it with her to a couch. It was briefer than she expected, little more than a few lines.

My Dear Lady Laura,

I write from London where I stop overnight. I hope you will forgive the impertinence of my interference, but I find it necessary to speak my mind. My brother informed me earlier today that his purpose in London is to settle the situation between you and him. He is not an unjust man, and I have no fear that he will fail to account properly for your future well-being, but I have sympathy for the woman who finds herself at the disposal of a man, and I wish, though I may be heaping coals of fire upon your head, to give you warning of what lies ahead upon his return, that you may be prepared to meet him with a guarded heart and a controlled mind.

Regards, Lady Farthingdale

Laura, at first, thought it was some cruel trick of Elizabeth’s, to hurt her. But she read it once more, and knew that Elizabeth was not the type for mean tricks. And it made sense. Richard had been strange since he had learned of what really happened in her marriage with Maidstone. Distant, worried. Then the reality of it all was too much for him. Or perhaps he could not forgive her for what she had done, at the end. Perhaps he was simply not willing to be part of a life with a woman who was so broken and broken-edged.

The first day after receiving the letter, Laura was filled with anger towards Richard, a sense of betrayal. She had done as he asked. She had made herself vulnerable to him. And for that, he was leaving her. Angry too at Elizabeth, who thought she could heap coals of fire on Laura, who had no reason to be grateful to her at all. Interfering, ignorant Elizabeth, who had never met a person without misunderstanding them and never tried to be kind without doing hurt.

But the next day, after reading the letter again many times and seeking for hidden meanings in it, Laura remembered her vow to be kind to Richard and realized Elizabeth’s unconscious wisdom in warning her. It gave her the chance not to guard her own heart, but his. He had done her nothing but kindness these past six months, and he owed her nothing. No, it was she who was in his debt. Perhaps this, of all things, she could do for him: not fight. When he came home, she thought, she would make it easy for him. He deserved that much. Besides, she knew the toll she had taken on him, socially and politically, even personally. It was too much to ask a man to share her sordid past. It was better to leave and let him be whole, and perhaps —her heart trembled— perhaps one day he would marry someone else with whom he would be happy.

It was a bitter resolution, but it was resolution enough that when he returned two days later, she was still determined to make it as easy as possible for him. However she could not bring herself to go down and greet him as she had promised, so she waited in her room by the empty fireplace, her hands folded in her lap, a strange sense of dread upon her. Not long after the front doorbell had sounded, she heard his uneven step in the passage, and he came in, still dressed in his travelling coat and boots, his hat and gloves in one hand.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No. Nothing.” She was determined not to let on that she had been warned.

“But you’re sitting here in the dark! And you didn’t come down to meet me — I was looking forward to it.”

His mood, half-anxious, half-energetic, confirmed Elizabeth’s letter. Laura suppressed the quiver of anxiety within her.

“I’m sorry. I forgot.” The effort to control the anxiety in her voice made her tone listless.

“You? Forget?” He came closer and put a hand to her forehead. “You’re not ill are you?”

“I’m quite well.” She could not help the frigidity of her voice and cursed herself for it. He stood back and frowned at her.

“Are you? Because I’ve been thinking we ought to talk.” He breathed out slowly. “And I don’t think you’re going to like this.”

If she had had any doubt to give her hope, it died then. She backed away, almost tripping on the hearthstone.

“Elizabeth sent me a letter,” she said, her voice wavering, “and I know what you’re going to say.”

“Did she?” Irritation sparked in his eyes. “Interfering old witch.”

“She means to be kind. And so do I.” Laura clenched her fists in her skirts. “And if you want to end this then… then I won’t give you any trouble.”

He dropped his hat and gloves to the floor and looked at her steadily. Then he closed his arms around her and kissed her with such suddenness and hunger that it hurt. The marble of the mantelpiece pressed into her back and one of her arms was pinched between them.

“God damn Elizabeth,” he said when he withdrew, and went to kiss her again. She pushed him away.

“Was she wrong?” she begged.

“No. She’s not wrong.” He kissed her again, more urgently still. “I want to end this. You being my mistress. I want to marry you.”

---

It was out. Richard kissed her one last time, with the urgency that came from knowing it might be the last kiss, and then let her push him away entirely, so she could stare at him with horrified eyes.

“Richard— no. Please. I won’t.”

“Hear me out,” he said. “Listen to everything I have to say before you refuse me for the — is it the fourth time now?” He winced. “It is the last, I promise you that.”

She shifted on her feet, watching him warily, then sunk down into the chair again, her hands around her knees. “I’ll listen.”

In six months, he had that from her. That tiny concession. He breathed out, thinking perhaps it would be possible, one day. He had to believe it was possible, or he was tying himself to a lost cause.

“I’m not the sort of man who ever kept a mistress,” he explained. “I tried, several years back, when it seemed no wife would have me, and I found I did not like it. I knew that when you asked me. I’m hidebound. A prude, if you will. But I agreed, even though this situation grated upon my conscience every day. I thought if I didn’t accept, you would refuse to accept my protection and — and do something stupid.”

She bit her thumb. “Rich… If you want to guilt me into marriage…”

“Oh, there is worse coming, Laura.” He looked around him for another chair, and, not seeing one, stood in front of her, leaning on his cane. “I won’t kneel. We both know it would be a farce. I took you as my mistress to protect you from yourself. Well. I was wrong. There’s no one who can do that to any other person. I shouldn’t have tried.” He hesitated, honesty compelling him to add, “It’s not as though I didn’t also… enjoy it. There was… lust there. But the arrangement weighs uneasily on my conscience, more uneasily now that I know I cannot change who you are. I can’t unbreak your heart.”

She blinked away tears and he knew what she would say before she said it.

“I won’t do it, Rich.”

“You’re not listening.” He took her chin in his and lifted it so she would meet his eyes. “Either we marry, or we part ways.”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head wordlessly.

“I’ll protect you either way. Refuse me, and you may name anywhere in the world, and I will buy you a house there and settle a yearly allowance that allows you to live in perfect comfort. Accept me, and you will receive every protection of wealth, comfort, and position that you know being my wife would offer.” He wanted to add that he would like to see her in those sapphires again, but he thought, if anything, that would make her say no. “But I cannot continue as we are. You know as well as I do what people have been saying. You perhaps don’t know the insinuations I’ve received in private. The ribald comments I’ve had to endure about you. The queries people have made as to my rightness to be deciding a point in the Lords . At very best, I have gained the reputation of an eccentric. Which perhaps I can’t even deny. But it isn’t worth damning myself if I cannot save you.” He cupped her face in his hands and his voice shook when he spoke. “And I can’t.”

“Richard…” She pressed her hand over his. “Please.”

“No.” He tried to smile. “I know I have all the power, and you nothing but supplication. Well, I always had all the power between us, and you will have to accept it. And I will not be pleaded out of my decision. You are no longer my mistress, Laura.”

Her expression faltered. “Let me… think.”

“You have time for that.” He slipped his hand into his pocket and removed the folded sheet of paper he’d gone specially to London to get. “A marriage license, signed and ready. If you don’t want to use it, rip it up. If you do, tell me within a week.”

She took it from him and stared numbly at it. Then, as though to check it was real, she unfolded it, ran her eyes from their names at the top to the signature at the bottom, and then let it drop to her lap. She bit her lip.

“Did you hate it, that much?”

“The word mistress leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. But you — you made it bittersweet.”

Her cheeks coloured. “I did not think it was so bad.” She touched the license, then dropped it again as though it burned. “I’ll have to think,” she repeated.

“You have until next Wednesday.”

“And if I can’t decide?”

She was testing him, seeing if there was any chance for her supplication to work. He had expected that.

“Then we part ways.”

She drew in a slow breath. “I see.”

He wondered if he should kiss her. He wanted to. But he had a feeling that if he did, somehow, it would be the last kiss, so he only walked away and asked at the door,

“Will I see you at dinner?”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.”

“Should I tell them to send a tray for you?”

“I’m not hungry.”

But he told them to send it anyway, even though his own meal tasted like ashes in his mouth.

__

A/N: This is actually one of the first scenes I ever wrote of this novel. I started in the middle with the most exciting scenes and then sort of worked my way back and forth and then patched things together a bit. You can probably see some of the patchwork showing through this chapter.

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Rain Stopped

Laura had never expected Richard to be the one to break their arrangement. Somehow, she had always thought she would be the one to end it. The first day after his proposal, she went about numb and shocked, hardly daring to look him in the eyes. She felt abandoned. Lost. Rejected.

On the second day, she came to her wits once more, and attempted to persuade him to change his mind. But he was firm and gentle, and she knew it was impossible. She must leave him. Or marry him.

She thought she had already decided. She should have told him then that no, she could not marry him, they must part ways. But she found she could not. She could only leave the room to pace the terrace outside, her mind revolving around the choice: leave or marry.

He would treat her decently either way. She knew that now. But that didn’t mean they would always be as happy as they had been the past six months. That didn’t mean she should marry him. There had been nothing in his proposal — in any of his proposals — to suggest he loved her. And despite everything, despite all her experiences, her beliefs, her own feelings, she did not think she could marry a man who did not love her.

The week passed with Richard making no further attempt to persuade her, and Laura still unable to decide. She did not want to leave Richard. She had grown fond of him. Fonder than she wished she had allowed. Fond enough that she could not do as she thought she must and leave him — not without hurt.

On the last Wednesday, she woke with a feeling of dread hanging over her. When she came down to breakfast, Richard greeted her with an apprehensive good morning. It was not a good morning. It was a grey, drizzly, unexpectedly chilly morning, and as the day passed the clouds grew blacker and the rain heavier. In the early evening, the servants lit the fires in the dining room and drawing room though it was only the first week of September. Richard asked her again at dinner what she was choosing, and again she was able to give him no reply. After the meal, she went into the drawing room and sat by the fire and tried, futilely, to come up with the courage to tell him she was leaving. She must leave. They could not marry.

He gave her perhaps half an hour’s contemplation before he followed and sunk down into an armchair. It was dark outside now, though not more than eight o-clock. Richard met her eyes once and then looked away.

“Have you decided?”

“I can’t decide.”

He looked at her again, then at his watch. “At midnight, I will decide for you, my— love.”

Laura could not tell if it was merely an endearment —said before often enough— or something more. She stared into the fire, watching a splinter of a log blacken, crinkle, and fall with a hiss of sparks.

“I want to promise you one thing,” Richard said. “Regardless of whether you are my wife or only my… ex-mistress, I will always be your friend. And that means that if you are ever in trouble of any kind, I will help you the moment you ask.”

“I know.” She didn’t need him to tell her that. Richard was everything kind and helpful. Even if the time came when she could not call him friend, she would never hesitate to rely on him. A strange, full-body relief came over her, and with it the impulse to throw herself into his arms. She suppressed it. She could not marry him.

She could not leave him.

The rain continued to drum outside. At one point, Richard got up and went upstairs. It was black outside when he came back down, a dressing gown over his unbuttoned shirt and the fuzz of dark hair on his chest visible. Laura looked away.

“It’s past eleven,” Richard said and sat down. A few minutes later, a maid brought him a nightcap of spiced warm milk, and he offered Laura a cup. She laughed, because it seemed so normal and normal seemed so strange, and refused it.

The clock ticked. The rain drummed. Richard finished his milk and the maid came and removed the empty tea tray. And then Laura knew she had decided — decided when Richard had first asked her — but could not utter it. Dared not. She could only watch and wait as Richard shifted uneasily in his chair. He was not even pretending to read or occupy himself. He waited only for her. And she could not bring herself to speak and end his suspense.

The clock struck midnight.

Laura turned to Richard. He kept her gaze a moment then shut his eyes. The clock kept sounding. And then, with a grind of the mechanism, it went silent. Richard opened his eyes.

“That’s it then.” He seemed to be trying to smile, but his lips were pressed whitely together. “I won’t change my mind— I won’t let you be my mistress anymore.”

“I know.” Laura felt the weight of her feelings roll off her. It was over. She thought she should apologize. Instead, she stared into the dying flames so that she wouldn’t have to see Richard leave the room.

The door opened behind her.

“Then I wish you goodnight. And that shall be the end of all this.”

Laura said nothing and the door shut behind him. She was alone in the room except for the faint hiss of the fire and the steady dripping of rain outside. She was rather shocked, which helped to numb the pain — but there was a lot of pain all the same, dull and throbbing in her chest. She felt as though if she tried to stand her knees would give out, so she stayed on the hearthrug, her fingers tangled in the coarse hairs. Tomorrow she’d have to start packing her things, she supposed. Or perhaps he would go back to town again, and remove himself from her presence, give her a little more time to—

The door opened again, slamming into the wall. Laura jumped as Richard strode back into the room.

“No,” he said, almost to himself. “This cannot be it. I must try again. I don’t care how many times it is — I will try again—”

He threw himself to the floor, so heavily Laura was sure it hurt him, and very awkwardly, with his bad leg straight out in front and his left shaking beneath him, knelt before her. Laura scrambled to her feet, startled.

“I will beg,” he said. “I will plead. I don’t care how many times it is — I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife — none other. I never— I never meant to marry — but you— you and me — we’re perfect. We’re both broken. We’re both trying. I’ll give you every happiness I can — Laura, please will you marry me? I don’t— I don’t want to let you go.”

Laura looked down into his eyes, and was shocked to see they were bright with tears.

“Is it that you love me?” she asked, her voice trembling.

He stared up at her and a strange confusion settled over his features. Then he looked away, frowning.

“May I stand?” he asked eventually. “My leg hurts.”

She helped him stand up and he paced a little to stretch his legs, wincing.

“You didn’t have to kneel,” she said quietly.

He met her eyes. “I thought it was worth a shot. I— I meant never to ask again but I really do want to marry you. I think our best chance of happiness lies in each other. And I don’t— I don’t think I can say that isn’t love.” He shook his head, the way a dog shakes water from its coat. “I’m not in love with you. I missed it, somehow. That moment where somebody seems perfect, where you can see no wrong, where you think of them every minute. I never felt that about you. So you need not fear I’ll be disappointed in the end.”

She didn’t know how to feel about it. She had once thought that falling in love would be the end of them both, but here she was, hurt that he was not in love with her, relieved to find that— what was it, that it was not not love? What a double negative that was. Could he not have said it plainly?

“You’re not… in love with me?” she repeated, aware she was begging for the compliment and hating herself for it.

“No…” He limped heavily to the window and stared out into the wet darkness of the garden. His dressing gown was cut narrow, the slenderness of his waist emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, and she had the sudden impulse to put her arms around him and rest her head against his back. But she couldn’t. Not when she was no longer his mistress. Not when she would not be his wife.

“You ought to know this. I shouldn’t have asked you without telling you.”

Her heart quickened.

“I’m in love with someone else.”

And skipped a beat.

“She doesn’t love me, and it’s impossible anyway. But I’m in love with her. I’ve been in love with her for years. I’ll go to my grave in love with her.” He looked over his shoulder at Laura. “I would go to the altar with you, being in love with another woman.”

Once, that might have been a relief, but it wasn’t now. The stab of jealousy came clean and sharp as a needle in her belly. She breathed out slowly, the air guttering against her teeth. But it was stupid to be jealous. She wasn’t going to marry him. What did it matter who he loved?

She waited until her heartbeat slowed before speaking again.

“Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter. She will never be mine. So I can be all yours except for that one small part of me.” He managed a smile at last and touched his heart. “Just one corner of it. The rest is all yours.”

She laughed, even though as she did she was still wondering if she’d ever met the woman Richard loved.

“I’m very fond of you,” Richard said. “Don’t think I’m not. I didn’t come dashing back in here because I was indifferent.”

Her heart lightened a little. “Oh, I’d never have guessed.”

He was smiling properly now, like he thought he was winning her around — and he was, she knew. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever been this good friends with. You’re the only woman in the world I’ve ever wanted to be my wife . The one I love — she’s not for me and I always knew that. And every other woman who’s scorned me over the years — they were proper choices and nothing more. But you’re improper, darling, and you’re the only one I’ve ever met who makes me think, ‘yes, she’s for me.’”

She laughed and sobbed at the same time. Richard, throwing caution to the wind, came closer and took her hands in his.

“I’m not Maidstone,” he said in a low voice. “I will never hurt you. And I trust you.”

“I know. I trust you too.”

“Before I kiss you again,” he said, “I must know — tell me — will you be my wife?” He tugged her closer. “Will you be my wife yet?”

She met his eyes and knew it was over — it had been over since the moment he’d slammed open the door. Or perhaps even before then. There was a hope, deep within her, despite all he said, despite all she was, that maybe this time it would be love. A hope like that could not be ignited in a moment.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” she said helplessly.

“Darling, I’m flattered, but that is not an answer. Will you marry me? Is this is the dozenth time I’ve asked?”

“I’ve lost count,” she said dazedly, and dimly realized that was not an answer either. “Richard, darling. Ask me one more time and I’ll say it properly.”

He pulled her close and cupped her face in his hands, looking down into her eyes. His chest against hers was heaving and his heart was thumping against her own. But he had to know it was over too, she thought, because it was excitement that moved him, not uncertainty.

“Will you marry me, my love?”

“Yes.” Her breath came deep and fast. “Yes. I’ll be your wife. I’m yours.”

The words made her happier than she expected. He kissed her — an urgent, excited kiss, all awkward gripping hands and force, raising her even off her feet, pressed against his chest. When he let her go again he held her a moment, looking into her eyes, and then laughed for the pure joy of it.

She found herself smiling too — anxious, yes, but happy above that, and tugged him closer again. Outside, the rain stopped, and inside, the fire died, leaving the room dark with no one to see.

It was the last time she made love to him as his mistress.

__

A/N: Whew. I probably oughta revised this one more. Some of the patchwork coming through again (half of it is new, half is very old). But hey, I think I surprised some of you guys with what she picked!

Edited note: I’m going to be taking a brief, deliberate break from updating for the next couple of weeks because I start university again (my second diploma - I’m going to regret this) and because I need to write some more chapters in order to have stuff to post. This is also a good time to take a break, because they’re quite happy.

Part Two: The Wife - Chapter One: Ten Conversations

SEPTEMBER

Neil read the letter twice, just to make sure, then tossed it back on the table with a snort of discontent. Verity looked up from buttering Annie’s toast.

“Bad news?”

“More or less.”

“Richard’s not ill, is he? That’s the second letter he’s sent you in two weeks.”

“He’s… well he’s not ill. Though he might be out of his mind.” Neil drained his coffee without tasting it. “He’s married her.”

Verity dropped the knife with a clatter on the floor. “What!? Oh drat! There’s butter everywhere!”

To Neil, that seemed less important than the news the letter had brought, but somehow it was cleaning up butter that occupied the next ten minutes of his life. Once that was done, it was time for Annie to be sent to the nursery again. Normally, Verity would go with her, but today she stayed behind in the breakfast room with Neil.

“Did he really marry her?” she asked, coming close and making a fuss of smoothing the shoulders of Neil’s coat. “Oh, Neil, I hope— I hope he’ll be happy.”

“Happy!?” Neil was confounded by the notion. “Oh, so do I but—”

“But you don’t like her.” Verity nudged him gently. “You are going to write to congratulate him, aren’t you?”

“Should I?” Neil asked bitterly. “He didn’t invite us to the wedding. He didn’t even have a wedding — or just barely. Nine o’clock in the village church on a Thursday, with no one to attend but a gaggle of tenant farmers!”

“That sounds quite romantic, really.” A smile twitched on Verity’s lips and Neil’s anger faded. “He must really love her.”

“I hope so.” Neil looked into his wife’s eyes a moment then pulled her into his lap and kissed her. “But oh God, if she hurts him I will—”

“—If.” Verity drew back reproachfully. “Give her a chance, Neil.”

But, thought Neil, it was easy for Verity to say that — Verity had never met Laura.

•    *    *

“Neil has sent his congratulations,” Richard said, rather stiffly. Laura looked up from her own letter — ever since the news of her marriage had got around, acquaintances whom she hadn’t spoken to in years were writing to congratulate her.

“Should I write back and thank him?”

“He’s not happy about it.” Richard sighed. “I knew he wouldn’t be, but I didn’t think it would be this bad, listen — ‘as you refused my earlier advice, I shall neither waste ink nor risk offense by offering more, but content myself with sending my regards to her ladyship and my best wishes for your happiness’. He must have cribbed it from a book of manners.”

“Give him time,” Laura said, her heart sinking. “I know he never loved me, but he does love you. He’ll come around.”

“The post-script says he can’t contain his surprise with how events turned out,” Richard grumbled

“We were a little abrupt,” Laura pointed out.

“That’s not what he means. He warned me about marrying you months ago. Said you’d be a mistake, or something along those lines. Honestly, back then, I agreed with him.”

Laura flinched. Richard leaned over the breakfast table to take her hand.

“It didn’t take me long to realize I was wrong,” he said. “You’re not a mistake. You’re wonderful.”

OCTOBER

“I’ve been thinking,” Elizabeth said as she did the flowers in Farthingdale’s study. “It’s not such a bad thing after all.”

Her husband looked up from his newspaper. “Isn’t it?”

“I mean, they certainly were improper about it, and tongues are wagging, but all in all, I think he might have done a great deal worse.”

“Oh, indeed,” Lord Farthingdale agreed. “One can always do worse than one gets, my lady.”

“And there will have to be a child out of it sooner or later, with any luck, a son first. She’s not very young, but a way off from thirty yet.”

“A son would be very good,” Lord Farthingdale said. “It’s always nice to have a boy.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I might have to write to them. Perhaps I’ll invite them down for Christmas — they won’t come, but if they’ve any sense they’ll be flattered by it.”

“Excellent,” Lord Farthingdale said promptly; he hated visitors. “You send them my regards too, Lady Farthingdale. That will be very proper, won’t it?”

“Perhaps in the post-script,” Elizabeth said, to keep him in his place, and swept from the room to write the letter.

Once she was gone, Farthingdale chewed his lip thoughtfully for a moment, then readjusted his newspaper and searched for his place. It occurred to him briefly that he hadn’t the faintest idea who or what Elizabeth was talking about, but he had long since ceased caring about his wife’s intrigues, and shrugged it off.

*     *     *

“Elizabeth is rather pleased with us,” Richard remarked as they lay in bed one night. Laura raised her head from his arm.

“Why bring her up now, Rich?” she said sleepily. “I was very comfortable, lying here and thinking of nothing but pleasant things.”

“She sent me a letter this morning,” he said. “I’d forgotten about it until now.”

“You have a very strange mind,” Laura said reprovingly, rolling to the edge of the bed.

“Probably.” He kissed her wrist. “Don’t go.”

She paused, half-way out of the covers.

“Don’t go,” he repeated. “I want to wake up tomorrow with my wife in my arms.”

Slowly, hesitatingly, Laura lay back down. He circled his arms around her, aware of the sudden tension in her body. To put her at ease, he told her about the letter.

“She was very congratulatory. Told me that on reflection she’d come to believe that marrying you was a good decision for me, for the Armiger family, and for the Court of England too. Invited me down to Kent for Christmas to show her my new wife. I think she wants to be friends with you.”

“Oh no,” Laura retorted. “She wants to be friends with the Countess of Albroke.”

“And that’s you. Because I’m the Earl of Albroke, and you are my wife.”

“You know what I mean.” The tension in her body suddenly relaxed. “I really like it when you say that.”

“What?”

“When you call me your wife.”

NOVEMBER

“It’s five hundred pounds,” Miss Dalrymple said, through a mouthful of ginger cake. “How much you owe me.”

Lady Roynor sniffed. “I don’t owe you, Margaret. Lord Albroke did not abandon Lady Laura. He married her. We neither win.”

“I win,” Miss Dalrymple said, swallowing the cake. “I never bet he’d abandon her. I bet she would no longer be his mistress, and she’s not. She’s his wife.”

Lady Roynor’s toad-like eyes slowly blinked.

“I wrote it down,” Miss Dalrymple said helpfully, digging into her reticule. Crumbs scattered over the carpet and a snuff box fell out and landed on the floor. “It’s in here somewhere.”

But Lady Roynor was no cheat. She silently stood and went to her desk. A moment later she came back and without a word passed a signed bank note to Miss Dalrymple.

Miss Dalrymple folded it into her reticule and then bent to pick up the various oddments that had fallen to the floor while she dug around in it.

“I suppose the woman’s pregnant,” Lady Roynor said in a dirty tone. “Well, at least he’s doing the decent thing by her.”

Miss Dalrymple finished collecting her things and sat up. “I don’t think so. I think they married for love.”

“Would you bet on it?” A glimmer of light came back into Lady Roynor’s eyes.

“On love or a baby?”

“A baby,” Lady Roynor said. “Three hundred pounds to whomever guesses correctly the month their first child is born. A hundred, if we’re both wrong, to whomever is closest. I guess May.”

Miss Dalrymple drummed her fingers on the table and used the motion to cover slipping a teaspoon into her sleeve. “Very well,” she said, as Lady Roynor’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I say December — of next year, not this.”

“Done,” Lady Roynor said instantly. And then, to Miss Dalrymple’s annoyance, “Maggie, you’ve just won five hundred pounds from me — do you need to steal my silverware too?”

*     *     *

They’re laying bets again,“ Richard murmured between kisses.

Laura stepped back to look him in the eyes. They were in the entrance hall, Richard having just returned from a short parliament in London. It had been a very, very pleasant reunion, lingering in the shadows of the hall while the servants scurried about the business of unpacking with their eyes averted.

“Of course they are,” she said. “What is it this time? I’d like to lay odds myself. We’ll not divorce. I’ll not run away with an Italian waiter, and you’ll not take up with an orange-seller.”

“And we’ll not have a child, six months after our wedding day.”

Laura drew back again, disconcerted. “Oh. Is that what they’re betting on this time?”

“Yes.” Richard lifted her chin and softly kissed her. “Sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I’d have found out sooner or later.” She locked her hands around the back of his neck. “Richard, if…”

“If?”

“If… if perhaps Neil or Elizabeth had… a spare…”

“A spare?” Richard kissed her again. “Oh, darling. Would you want that? To raise somebody else’s child?”

“I don’t know. I might. Would you?”

He looked into her eyes for a long moment. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. One day… maybe. Maybe I would.”

Laura’s heart ached. She rested her forehead against his shoulder, unsure if what she was feeling was relief or sorrow.

“For now,” Richard said softly in her ear, “I just want you.”

DECEMBER

“So then Richard isn’t coming up for Christmas this year?” Verity asked.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Neil said shortly.

“Did you write to invite him?” Verity pressed, coming over to his desk where he was doing the accounts and looping her arms around his shoulders.

“He normally just writes that he’s coming.”

“Then perhaps this year we’ll be polite and invite him.” She kissed the point where the scar at his temple ran into his hairline. “And his wife.”

Neil stiffened beneath her touch.

“How long are you going to hold a grudge?” Verity asked. “I know you don’t like her but if Richard loves her — and he must, from everything he’s written, I think he really must — then you have a duty to at least be civil to her. If only so that you can be friends with your brother again.”

“It’s not that,” Neil said, throwing down his quill with a sigh. “It’s not that I don’t like her. Though I don’t. It’s that I don’t trust her.”

Verity looked skeptically down at him. “Do you trust Richard?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust his judgement.”

Neil sighed. “Verity, my dear, of all people, a man in love is the last person whose judgement ought to be trusted.”

•     *     *

“You’re happy then?” Richard asked, as they sat in the drawing room after Christmas dinner, Laura in his lap, resting her head rather tipsily against his shoulder.

“Yes,” she said, “though a little drunk.”

“Two glasses,” Richard said reprovingly. “My wife is a feckless inebriate.”

She giggled and nestled in closer against him, and he felt an ache of fondness for her.

“It’s the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” she said.

“We didn’t do anything special. Church yesterday evening, and mead with our meal tonight instead of wine.”

“Mead is much nicer than wine,” Laura said dreamily. “But really, it’s been lovely. I’ve never felt so at home in my life as I have this Christmas. My father always insisted on taking me with him to my uncle’s house, and my uncle — why he really is not a nice man, and his poor wife was always so sad, and all his friends were so very unpleasant. It wasn’t comfortable, being there. And Maidstone… it brought out the worst in him.”

Laura sighed heavily and Richard tightened his arm around her.

“You had a good Christmas, didn’t you?” Laura asked, her head slipping further down his shoulder.

“Of course. I had you.”

“But you… well you must have missed Neil, and his wife, and their little children, surely? You normally go. We should have asked to go.”

Richard bit his lip. It had been strange, the first Christmas in three years at Albroke. Despite having Laura with him, despite loving her, he had been acutely conscious of the absence of his brother’s family.

“Maybe next year,” he said, “Neil will have stopped being such a fool about you, and ask us to come.”

JANUARY

“Feelin’ better now, m’lord?”

The whore ran one toe caressingly down Giles’s calf. He sighed and got up, going naked to the table where he poured himself a glass of wine. In bed, the whore rolled over and gazed admiringly at him.

“I’m right surprised an ’andsome man like you’d need a woman like me,” she drawled. Her accent was cockney, another thing to despise about her, but she had smutty blue eyes and cascades of black hair, the kind Giles liked. And she was new to the brothels. Giles only ever took women who were new; he had a horror of catching syphilis.

“I thought you’d be ’avin a wife’f your own,” she continued, reaching out and taking the wine glass from his hand. “’Less you do?”

“I don’t,” Giles said. “Does it matter?”

“Not ’ticularly.” She drank a deep draught of wine. “It’s nice to ‘ave an Englishman for a change. We can talk. What’re you doin’ in Paris then?”

“There was a ruckus in England. I had to get out for a while.”

“What kinda ruckus?” She eyed him suspiciously. “You pay yer debts, don’t you?”

In answer, Giles took a purse from his pocket, extracted a handful of coin, and scattered them over the woman’s bare thighs. Some fell to the folds of the bedcovers and disappeared, others clinked to the floor and rolled away. The woman sighed.

“You ain’t gonna pick ’em up, are you?”

“No,” said Giles, putting the purse away. “You can. On your hands and knees. Go on.”

“You ’ave to pay extra to get me on me ‘ands and knees,” she said, drinking more wine. “You un’appy or somethin’?”

“I’m not unhappy. Why would I be unhappy?”

She looked up at him from under her heavily kohled lashes. “Coz you don’t ‘ave a wife and yer sleepin’ with an ’ore.”

Giles took his wine glass back and briefly considered smashing it in the bitch’s face. But if he did that, they’d never let him back here again, and it was the best brothel in town. He drained his glass, considered her figure again, and decided he was up for a second round.

“How much extra do I have to pay to get you to shut up?”

•     *     *

“It’s freezing,” Richard said, kicking at a lump of snow and watching it scatter into powder. “Why the midnight wanderlust?”

“Because I wanted to see the stars,” Laura said, pulling her cloak closer around her and looking at the sky. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I do have to come. When my wife leaves the house in the black of night in mid-winter, I follow. There might be—” he paused and looked around the snow-covered lawn, pristine and silver under the moonlight “—bears!”

Laura laughed, her breath frosting in the air. “In England? On the lawn of a country manor?”

“I was worried about you actually.” Richard crossed his arms against the cold. “It seemed a strange thing to do, go for a walk alone on a night like this. I thought you might be unhappy.”

“Richard, it was just a whim.”

“Then you’re not sad?”

“No. I’m very, very happy.”

“Oh. Good.” He looked upwards at the stars. “Then I’ll stay out here and be happy with you.”

A sudden warmth of feeling sunk over Laura, despite the chill of the night air. She watched her husband as he stood, hands in his pockets, staring upwards at the night sky, and let it swell within her. There was something right about the world. Something right in the snow crunching beneath her feet, something right in the stars glittering overhead, something right in simply being.

“I love you,” she said.

It was the first time she’d told him, though she knew now it had been true for a long time. For a moment, he was motionless, then he turned, came close, and guided her hand to his chest, pressing it against his heart, which was racing so fast and so strong that it felt like a bird trying to take flight under Laura’s hand.

“I love you too,” he said. “I love you very, very much.”

__

A/N: Part Two begins. With a weird chapter that covers 5 or 6 months and most of the cast. I wanted to skip to the interesting bits next year, in the book timeline, but there was some information that needed to be given out first.

Chapter Two: No Precautions

London, early May

The baby was all wide, stunned blue eyes and slow-blinking black lashes. Laura, gazing into those eyes, felt the strangest mixture of happiness and pain, sickness and pleasure.

“She’s grown so big,” she said. “She was tiny when I last saw her.”

Elizabeth, leaning back on a mound of cushions on the couch, gave a self-satisfied smile. “My children always grow quickly.”

Laura grazed the baby’s cheek with her finger and elicited a gurgle of contentment. Her heart ached at the sound.

“I couldn’t be happier,” Elizabeth continued with a sigh. “Unless she were a boy, of course.”

A mute anger rose up inside Laura. In her arms, the baby started abruptly to cry, and Elizabeth hastily sat up and reached out to take her back. Almost instantly, the baby quietened, snuggling against her mother’s breast and giving a drooly yawn. It was a wonder to Laura that Elizabeth could say what she said, could evidently feel it, and yet the baby was instantly at peace in her arms.

“She’s tired,” Elizabeth said, an unexpected gentleness to her voice. “Silly bub.”

Laura flushed, having the sudden presentiment that she was eavesdropping on an intimate conversation — a ridiculous presentiment, for Lord Farthingdale and Richard were talking politics over by the fire and a nurse was sewing baby’s linens by the window.

“And you? Are you tired?” Laura asked, noticing the deep circles under Elizabeth’s eyes. The creases between her brows and around her mouth seemed deeper too — and deepened as Laura asked.

“Why do you say that?” she grumbled.

“Well it’s hard, isn’t it?” Laura said hastily. “Having a baby, I mean.”

“Having seven of them now.” Elizabeth’s brow uncreased slightly and she looked almost thoughtful. She glanced surreptitiously at her husband and lowered her voice. “I have to confess, I hope this is the last.”

Laura felt a stab of hurt.

“It is wearying,” Elizabeth admitted, her voice sinking lower. “I didn’t really want this one, when I found out. Now that she’s here, I like her well enough, but I don’t want to have to go through it all again.”

Laura stared at the sleeping baby in Elizabeth’s arms and felt again the mute anger rise up inside her. It wasn’t fair. That Richard could not have children. That Elizabeth could and did not want to. Elizabeth was looking expectantly at her, as though awaiting a reply. Laura reminded herself that it wasn’t Elizabeth’s fault.

“It’s hard,” Laura said, with as much sympathy as she could muster.

Elizabeth looked down at her baby and then across the room to her husband. Her eyes were narrow and thoughtful.

“He’s told me he wants another son,” she said, her voice still low, with something of resentment coming into it. “Or else, you know, I might be able to persuade him to stop.”

“Stop?”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

“Oh.” Laura glanced over at Farthingdale, ginger and balding, with long, thick fingers, at the moment sprawling loose in his lap. Laura looked away again quickly, feeling faintly sick. “Oh dear.”

“I can’t make him see reason,” Elizabeth continued, the resentment now clearly in her barely audible voice. “He has no thought for the distress it puts me through.”

“I can imagine,” Laura said politely, glancing over at Richard and trying to catch his attention. Anything to interrupt the conversation. But he was frowning politely at Farthingdale and nodding, with a look of the sort of intent concentration Laura by now knew meant his thoughts were very far away indeed.

Elizabeth shifted the baby to one arm and reached out to clutch Laura’s wrist. “I want you to help me.”

Laura blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“There are things that can be done, aren’t there, to avoid getting with child?” Elizabeth’s voice was now so low as to be barely audible. “I’ve heard that there are ways to avoid it — a way without letting Farthingdale know what I was doing?”

“I don’t know!” Laura spoke so loudly in her surprise that Richard and Farthingdale looked over. “I don’t know about any of that!”

Certainly, there had never been any need to worry about it — Richard could not have children. He need not be embarrassed by an illegitimate child from his mistress. He could never be pleased by a legitimate one from his wife.

“Then what did you do?” Elizabeth looked almost desperate. “Surely, you took some precaution?”

They’d never taken any precautions. There was no need to. Laura bit her lip.

But Richard was getting up, and Farthingdale was picking up his newspaper again. A moment later, Richard sat down in the chair next to Laura and held out his hand to touch the baby on the cheek.

“She’s more adorable every day.”

““You’ll have your own soon enough, I suppose.” Elizabeth was miffed now, and even the compliment could not please her. “I thought by now you would, after the way you got married so suddenly.”

Laura felt her cheeks grow warm.

“Maybe one day,” Richard said, after a pause.

“I hope you have a son first,” Elizabeth continued. “It would be best if you did.”

Richard caught Laura’s eye and made a face. Elizabeth didn’t notice.

“Can you imagine Neil’s Roger becoming Lord Albroke one day!?” she said. “I can’t! They call him Porridge.”

“Podge,” Richard corrected. “He’s a nice little boy.”

“But he can’t be earl.” Elizabeth straightened and looked firmly at Richard. “It would look very bad, you know. Given what his mother is, given how Neil behaves. I can’t bear to imagine it.”

“What his mother is?” Richard said sharply. “She’s every bit a lady, that’s what she is.”

At his tone, Elizabeth flushed and made a great deal of rearranging Edwina’s blanket around her. After a moment, she continued more quietly, “But I must say, and I have always said, Neil is not fit to take the title. He simply isn’t proper. He doesn’t behave right. For all your problems, Richard, one need never be embarrassed of you.”

“Such high compliment,” Richard said drily.

“He’d be one of those rustics,” Elizabeth continued, “hibernating out in the country eleven months of the year and coming in on the twelfth to drag mud all over the Lords.”

“Really, Liz, he’s not uncouth.”

“Well he is rude!” Elizabeth shrugged her shawl tighter around herself. “He doesn’t seem to respect blood or birth. He doesn’t seem to care for his own position. And once he’s made his mind about something he can never stand to admit he was wrong!”

“He can be stubborn,” Richard agreed with a sigh.

“And rude,” pressed Elizabeth. “Would it kill him to just once not say exactly what he thinks about a person? In that cold, smug way of his? Can you imagine him at court or in the Lords? It would be a disaster. Our family name would be mud.”

Richard was silent. Elizabeth looked suspiciously at him.

“Have you nothing to say to that?” she sniffed. “You normally leap to his defense.”

“Well he is rude,” Richard said with another sigh. “God knows he can be. And he does say what he thinks.”

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “Have you two argued?”

“No. No, we’re not arguing.”

They weren’t arguing, Laura thought with a twinge of guilt; they couldn’t argue if they wouldn’t talk, and the letters between them had faltered somehow after Christmas. Laura knew why. Neil did not like her. He liked her even less as Richard’s wife. And Richard did not like that.

Elizabeth watched Richard shrewdly for a moment. “Well,” she said eventually. “I hope then you’ll see what I mean, when I say it would be best if there was a child soon. A boy.”

Richard stared down at his hands. “Look, Liz,” he began. “These things aren’t always in our control. In fact…”

With a sudden throb of misgiving, Laura realized that Richard was about to tell Elizabeth he could not have a child.

“In fact it’s not very pleasant to have this kind of conversation,” she said sharply. “Really, Elizabeth, I don’t like it, hearing all this talk about when we must have a child and what we must or must not do about it. It is beyond the power of your interference.”

She broke off. Elizabeth was looking rather pink and the baby had woken up with a startled cry. Richard touched Laura’s hand.

“She’s right, Liz,” he said. “It’s not an easy discussion for us. So, please, don’t.”

Elizabeth sniffed. “Very well then,” she said. “I won’t. But one day, it will happen.” She played with her baby’s fingers. “I hope you’ll tell me when it does.”

They left soon after that, a relief to Laura. She didn’t feel up to dealing with Elizabeth today. She felt tired and not entirely well — she hadn’t been feeling well lately.

They’d taken no precautions.

The thought slid into her mind like a cat through a crack in the pantry door. She pushed it firmly out again. Irrelevant, she told herself. Wishful thinking. Impossible.

“I almost told her,” Richard said, looking out the window as they travelled slowly home through the London traffic. “I’m sorry. I ought have asked you first. You don’t want me to, do you?”

Laura shook her head. “I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone. I’d rather no one knew.”

“It’s your secret as much as mine now.” Richard sighed. “They’ll all know, sooner or later. I mean, everybody. London. Elizabeth. Because as years pass and it’s just you and me…”

The carriage went over a rut and Laura’s stomach jumped. She swallowed. “Let them figure it out,” she said. “Why tell them what doesn’t concern them?”

“She is my sister.”

“And she’s a perfectly rational human being, too, is she?”

Richard flushed. “Are you alright, Laura? You seem upset.”

“I am.” She breathed out and the feeling of sickness suddenly passed. There, she thought, it’s nothing. “She upset me.”

“I’m sorry.” Richard took her hand and Laura was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of contrition.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re not the one I’m angry with. But please don’t tell her. Please.”

“I won’t.” He kissed her hand and then her wrist. “You’re right. It’s better that she doesn’t know.”

Laura leaned against his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “What will we do about Neil?” she asked. “It’s not fair on you that he’s being this way.”

“Nothing,” Richard said firmly. “She’s right, you know. He is stubborn. He hates admitting he’s wrong. But he is wrong, and sooner or later he’ll realize it.”

“Or later,” Laura said.

Richard went quiet.

“This is the man who ran away to Italy for seven years and never told you when he came back,” Laura reminded him. “Maybe you need to give him a gentle nudge, Rich. Write him another letter. Invite him and his family down. I’m your wife now. He has nothing to fear from the association. Who knows, perhaps we’ll even become friends.”

It was hard to get all that out. If it were for herself, Laura would be perfectly content never to see Neil again. But she knew it made Richard unhappy to be in this indefinite state, neither arguing nor being friends, and she wanted Richard to be happy. Even if meant occasionally sharing a Christmas or a summer with his irritating brother.

Richard thought about it for several moments, still holding her hand, lightly rubbing the back of her palm.

“I’ll write to Verity,” he said at last. “Verity’s sensible. She’s said she wants to know you. She’ll know how to bring Neil around.”

It was the first Laura had heard this. Richard did not often talk about Neil’s wife.

“What’s she like?” Laura asked curiously. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“Oh. I suppose so.” Richard tightened his grip on her hand slightly. “She’s tall. Dark.”

“So’s Elizabeth.”

Richard laughed. “They have nothing else in common, I assure you.”

“Well. Then I want to know her too.”

Richard smiled but said nothing more.

__

A/N: It occurs to me now that I should be labelling these Chapter Twenty-Nine+  rather than starting the chapter number again at part 2, but to be honest, I’m not very good at counting, so I’ll probably get in a muddle if I do that.

Chapter Three: Hereditary

A week passed and Richard sent no letter to Verity. Instead, in the mornings he would write a few lines, and in the evenings he would scribble them out. At last one afternoon, while Laura was trying to prompt him to finish it, he swore, crumpled the paper into a ball, and threw it into a corner of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I just can’t do it. It’s not right to ask her to solve our squabbles like we’re children and she’s our nanny!”

“Then are you going to write to Neil?” Laura asked.

“No.” Richard flung his pen down with a sigh of exasperation. “I’m going to go to my club. Lady Roynor has an Opinion about the import of champagne, and we are all going to drink brandy and weep about it.”

And he did, leaving Laura alone in the house and the letter crumpled in a corner of the study.

Laura, a few minutes after he had left, came back into the study and cautiously, guiltily uncrumpled the letter. She sat down in a chair and read it through. Despite Richard’s many crossings-out and rewritings, it was a competent, plainspoken letter, asking Verity to clear any clouded air between Richard and Neil by acting as intermediary between them. Laura didn’t think it was wrong for Richard to send it.

It would, however, be very wrong if Laura sent it for him.

She sat there and considered it very, very carefully. She still wasn’t feeling quite well — it wasn’t anything more than that. A tendency for her stomach to make queer little leaps for no reason, and a general fatigue. No point thinking too much of it, she told herself. Too many rich dinners, too many late nights.

But if she was — sick, she told herself, then Richard would need his brother’s — friendship.

Her stomach continuing its now familiar gymnastics, she read the letter again, trying to make up her mind. Then, decided, she sat down stealthily at Richard’s desk and made a fine copy of it in her own hand, with a post-script to clear her conscience, admitting that she was sending it without his permission. Then she copied the address, franked the letter with Richard’s franking stamp, and hurried to the front door to go to the post office and send it.

And as she opened the front door, she ran straight into Neil, his hand poised to reach for the knocker.

Laura stared.

Neil stared back.

He was pale, his eyes shadowed, his mouth tight and weary. Her gaze drifted down his suit, crumpled and dirty. She had never before known Neil to be anything but overdressed. Something was clearly wrong.

“Can I come in?” he asked, and Laura realized she was blocking the doorway. But she no longer needed to go out to send the letter anyway. Confused, she stepped back, hiding the letter in her sleeve, and she and Neil went into the hall. In the street outside, Neil’s groom started to unload the trunks from the top of the coach.

“Where’s Richard?” Neil asked, before Laura could think of what to say to him.

“He’ll be back later this evening.”

“I need to talk to him.”

“Urgently? I can send a servant to find him — I think he’s with Lord Roynor at his club.”

“No. No, not urgently.” Neil kicked his boots against the wainscoting, scattering flakes of mud over the polished floor. Laura bit back her irritation. “But I need him.”

“Can I help?” she asked.

“No.” He shook his head and paced the floor, grinding mud into the rug. “Not you.”

If Neil hadn’t looked absolutely defeated, if she didn’t want Richard to be friends with him again, Laura would have snapped at him already for his poor manners. Instead, she stood there and wondered why he had come — alone, uninvited, and poorly dressed.

“Is something wrong?” she asked at last, when the groom had taken the last of the trunks upstairs and the front door had been shut again.

Neil shook his head but said nothing.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t send for Richard?”

Again, he shook his head. He looked as though he planned to stand there in the hall until Richard returned. Like a dog waiting for his master to come home, Laura thought with a twist of humour and pity.

Determined to be nice to him for Richard’s sake, Laura laid her hand on his arm to guide him into the study.

He jerked away from her, jolting the entry table and upsetting the bowl of cards on it, sending them scattering to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” Neil said, bending to pick up the bowl and set it on the table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— my son is ill. That’s why I’m here. To find a doctor.”

Laura, who had been ready to lose her temper, felt a bolt of horror slide down her spine. She reached out to touch Neil’s arm again, then thought the better of it and drew back.

“Why don’t we go into the study,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”

“No. No tea.”

But he did follow her into the study, where he sunk down into an armchair. After a moment he looked up at her.

“Can I have a drink — a real drink?”

“What would you like?”

“Anything strong.”

Laura had doubts about men’s recourse to strong drink in times of crisis, but she dutifully went to the decanter on the shelf and poured a generous measure into a glass. The smell of the alcohol made her stomach start leaping violently. When she’d given it to Neil, she sat carefully down in one of the other chairs, her hand over her stomach. For a moment, she thought she really might be sick. Then she noticed Neil was staring at her over his glass and dropped her hand to her waist. He looked away again, and Laura breathed slowly and deeply until the feeling passed.

They sat in silence while Neil sipped his drink. Laura dared not ask him about his son and could think of no other topic of conversation. Nor could she leave him. He looked lost and hurt.

“How long will you stay?” she asked at last. Then, realizing it sounded ungracious, “Not that I want you to leave but it will affect my housekeeping.”

“I don’t know. A week, perhaps. I’m here to look for a surgeon.” The port seemed to be doing something after all; Neil was speaking more firmly now. “Once I’ve found one, I’ll be going straight back home.”

There was another long silence. Laura wondered what the surgeon was for. Had the little boy broken a bone? But that could surely be set by a village doctor. Was it something more delicate? A tumour? Laura tensed at the thought.

Over another long silence, Laura’s mind returned to practical matters.

“Um. We’re going out to dinner tonight,” she said. “Should I ask the servants to prepare something for you?”

He shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

Laura marked that down as a yes. A man not hungry at five pm might be starving at six. They fell into silence again. Laura watched the clock tick. She could think of nothing more to say to Neil, except for the burning question of what was wrong with his son, and that she dared not ask.

At last, the front door opened, and Laura got to her feet, calling out Richard’s name. He came into the study, holding his arms out for her, then stopped as he saw Neil.

“What on earth—”

“Rich. Hello.” Neil raised his half-empty glass in greeting. “Sorry. I didn’t have time to send word.”

Richard’s eyes travelled to Laura. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t really know,” she said, moving to the door. “I have to get changed. Neil can tell you about it.”

But Richard caught her around the waist and pulled her closer. “When did he get here? Why is he here?”

“Ask him.” She made to kiss him, remembered Neil was there, stopped, and then kissed him anyway. “Remember to get dressed in time for dinner.”

Laura shut the door behind her and went upstairs to dress. The coquelicot gown that Richard liked so much was pinching at the arms and bust. Laura tugged at it while her maid did her hair. Too many rich dinners, she told herself.

As she went back downstairs, she found herself suddenly needing to sit down, which she did on a sofa on the landing. Her fingers trembled where they rested on the couch-seat. It was definitely getting worse — how long had it been now? Two weeks? Three? Surely not a month?

She was still puzzling it out when the study door opened below and the two men came out. They came up the stairs. Neil passed her without even a glance or a nod. Laura felt hurt and irritated by it, but she tried not to let it show on her face as Richard stopped in front of her.

“This one,” he said, looking down at her dress with approval.

“Well it’s only Lady Harriet,” she said with a smile. “You won’t need your wits about you tonight.”

“No.” He ran his finger lightly over her collar bones, then down over the swell of her breast to the neck of the gown. “Darling, did the dress get smaller, or did these get bigger?”

“You’d better get dressed,” Laura said, to cover her confusion. “We’ll be late.”

“Just one moment.” Richard stooped and kissed her, careful not to disturb her dress or hair. “There. I’ll go now. And we’ll only be a little late.”

She went down into the hall to wait for him. Her heart was beating rather fast, and she was trying very hard not to connect the pinching of her dress to the sick feeling in her stomach. You’re imagining it, she told herself sternly, you’re imagining it because you wish it were true, and you know it’s not.

But if it’s true—

She shuttered the thought, and instead focused on picking up the visiting cards that had fallen to the floor. Lady Roynor — good for Richard’s career even if she always managed to cause offense. Lord Duvalle — a distant relative of Neil’s by marriage, not very important. Miss Dalrymple — not a card but a scrap of greasy brown paper with her name scribbled on it. Mr Jonathan Percival — the sick feeling in Laura’s stomach intensified. What was he doing calling on Richard again? Yesterday morning too. Laura stared at the card, then, as she heard Richard’s footstep from the hall above, buried it underneath the others. 

In the carriage on the way to Lady Harriet’s, Richard explained to Laura what was wrong with Neil’s son.

“It’s the same problem we had as children,” he said. “Something with the bones in the knees. There’s an operation that can be done, but of course that brings dangers too.”

Laura looked down at Richard’s right leg, held as always when he was sitting straight out in front of him at an awkward angle. She knew too well how it hurt him — a constant pain.

“Will he be like Neil, or like you?”

“It depends on the operation. Neil’s operation was successful, mine, not so much. But it was breaking my leg that really did me in.”

“That poor little boy,” Laura said, running her hand down Richard’s thigh and gently massaging his knee. “What’s Neil doing down here then?”

“Trying to find a reliable surgeon, and probably another doctor. Theirs has no idea what to do. He’s not even sure if it’s best to give Podge the surgery or not.”

“They’d not fix it?”

“There are dangers with surgery — and it might not cure his pain.”

Laura was silent for some time, her heart aching. She kept up her steady, soft stroking of Richard’s bad knee.

“How about Annie?” she asked at last. “There’s no problem with her?”

“No. She’s fine. That’s why it was such a shock. He was walking just fine until a few weeks ago, and then he stopped. Went back to crawling, started crying…” Richard trailed off. “It’s only the boys, it seems. Neil and I, Podge, my uncles on my mother’s side. It must be hereditary.”

“Hereditary?” Laura felt a quickening of alarm. “So, if you had a son— could have a son?”

Richard nodded. “But it was Neil’s next I was thinking of. Every time, he’ll have to wonder. Have to worry.”

“Is there going to be a next?” Everybody seemed to be having babies. Not me, Laura told herself. Not us.

“Well not yet. At least, Neil didn’t say so and I don’t have any reason to think there will be. But Verity’s still young. She’s only just turned twenty-five. One day, there will be more.”

He stared thoughtfully out the window. “Were you serious, when you talked about adoption, Laura? I’ve been thinking about it. And I’ve come to believe… well it’s our only chance, isn’t it? And I’d rather like to be a father.”

Laura’s heart stammered in her chest. “I haven’t thought about it much since then.”

“Neil and Verity would never consider it, but Elizabeth might be open to such an arrangement — perhaps for Catherine.”

“I don’t know.” Laura’s stomach gave another wobble. “I— I think I’d rather not talk about this now, Richard.”

He looked carefully at her. “We wouldn’t have to jump into it all at once. We could borrow one or two of her daughters for the summer, perhaps, keep them at Albroke with us. A kind of trial.”

Over the summer. Well by then she’d know if— Laura shut the thought down. She did know. Richard could not have children.

But all the same, she said, “I’d rather not talk about this yet — not, now.”

__

A/N: There’s a river in Egypt, Laura…

Chapter Four: A Friendly Possibility

The maid brought Laura her chocolate in bed as usual the next morning, but at her first sip, Laura’s stomach gave a violent lurch. She managed to get to the washstand before she threw up — bile, foul-tasting and clear.

Her fingers shaking, she wiped her face and gingerly sipped some water. When the maid returned, Laura told her to tell Richard that she wouldn’t be down for breakfast that morning, then lay back down in bed, her hand over her leaping stomach, her mind racing.

She approached the matter circuitously. How long had she been feeling ill? She could not be quite sure — a few weeks at least. And was it getting worse? By the bile still drying in her sink, it certainly was. Well there. There was definitely something different about her. Now what might the cause of this difference be? It might be cancer. Yes. That was a lovely, friendly possibility. She might be dying. She made herself acquainted with the notion. It had to be a possibility after all. But there were other possibilities too, weren’t there? Her hand slid down to her belly, soft and flat.

She didn’t feel like she had cancer. She didn’t feel like she was dying. She felt tired and nauseous and her dresses were too tight in the chest. She’d felt this way once before.

But Richard could not have children.

In which case, she could not be pregnant.

But she rather thought she was.

In which case, Richard could have children.

Was going to have one.

She was out of bed in an instant, her heart racing, to tell him. But at the door that led to his room she stopped herself. What if she was wrong? What if she really was just sick? No. Before she told him, she had to be absolutely sure. She went back to bed where she sat counting the weeks on her fingers, trying to remember when she’d last bled and when the nausea had started. It had been shortly after Edwina was born — in April then? March?

It was the second week of May already. Laura’s heart skipped a beat. Not cancer, she hoped. The other thing.

There was a knock on her door and Richard came in, still half-dressed.

“No breakfast today?” he asked.

“No. I— I’m not very hungry.”

“Hm.”

He sat down at the edge of her bed and narrowed his eyes at her. She blushed, feeling as though he was reading the thought she dared not yet tell him.

“It’s because of Neil, isn’t it?” Richard said finally.

Laura breathed a sigh of relief. “No. I— I just drank too much champagne last night at Lady Harriet’s. I don’t feel very well.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So it is because of Neil.”

“Richard.”

“You never drink too much,” he said, poking her gently in the ribs. “I don’t want you to be afraid of Neil.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then why are you avoiding him?”

Laura opened her mouth to argue, then realized it was better to let Richard believe it. She shrugged.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t inflict ourselves on each other first thing in the morning. In the afternoons, I think we might get on better.”

Richard pressed his lips tightly together then released them. “Well. If that’s how you feel.”

He leaned in for a kiss, but Laura pushed him away, still uncomfortably aware of the taste of bile on her lips.

Richard looked surprised. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No. No, darling.” She stroked his hand. “But I think I need to brush my teeth.”

He gave her a narrow look then leaned forward and kissed her hair. “I won’t be back until late tonight. Try not to let Neil try your patience while I’m gone.”

She gave him a weak smile, her heart beating fast. When he was gone, she got up and carefully drank more water and brushed her teeth, swallowing back the impulse to vomit again. After that she went back to bed, feeling tired, weak, and unwell. There was nothing she wanted more than to run downstairs and tell Richard how she really felt and what she hoped the cause was, but caution kept her in her room, alone and silent: she was not sure, barely more than suspicious, and it would unfathomable cruelty to give Richard such a hope and then snatch it away from him again.

It was past eleven before she felt well enough to get up. Downstairs, she found Neil was home, sitting in the morning room and flipping through a newspaper with such an impatient lack of attention that Laura didn’t think he was reading any of it at all.

Laura took up her work basket and sat down by the window. There was no conversation between them, no sound but the flick of his newspaper or the snip of her scissors. Eventually, Neil dropped his newspaper to the table next to him and leaned back, shutting his eyes. Laura watched him guardedly. He looked a little better this morning, less tired, and someone —probably Richard’s valet— had pressed his suit. But worry still creased his brow.

“Richard told me about your son,” Laura said, before she even knew what she was saying. “I’m sorry.”

Neil opened his eyes a slit. “It’s not your fault. Don’t apologize for it.”

Laura wondered if his gruffness hid anger or awkwardness. He shut his eyes again and she returned to her sewing. Her fingers moved slower and slower, and eventually she stopped altogether, put her work into her lap, and stared through the window into the small garden outside where it was raining. If she was right, and there was going to be a baby, then she needed to make a friend out of Neil. It would be unfair to bring a child into a family where one half did not trust the other. It wasn’t like with her father who she had cut off without a backwards glance; Neil wasn’t evil or cold or cruel. He was obstinate and rather vain, blunt and sometimes cutting, but he was also principled and decent, and Richard loved him.

“Richard hasn’t been happy this past year, with the way things have been between the two of you,” Laura said, turning to Neil.

He opened his eyes and slowly sat up. “I think I’d rather hear this from Richard.”

“He won’t tell you. He’s afraid of making things worse. No, don’t go!”

For Neil had got up and was heading to the door. He stopped, considered it a moment, and then turned back.

“I’ll hear you out,” he said. “But I really think this is between Richard and me.”

It was something. Laura put her work aside altogether and pointed to the chair near her. Neil sat back down.

“I want you and Richard to be friends again,” she said. “I want him to be happy.”

“So do I,” Neil said after a pause.

“I think for that to happen, we have to be friends.”

Neil’s jaw played in and out.

“He loves both of us,” she said. “It’s not fair on him for us not to get on. Or for you to avoid him for the sake of avoiding me. Neil, for him, can we friends?”

Neil’s lips pressed into a thin white line. “Friends? Laura, no. I’m sorry, but I can’t become friends with you just like that. I can’t become friends with anyone like that.”

“But especially not me.” Her heart sank. “You really hate me that much.”

“I don’t hate you.” He met her eyes. “I don’t. But after everything you did to Richard last year, I can’t trust you. And I can’t be friends with anyone I can’t trust.”

“Everything I did?” Laura echoed. “Neil, what did I do? I made one mistake.”

“Which nearly cost him his life.” Neil’s voice rose and Laura flinched, but he lowered it again immediately. “How long until you make another mistake, Laura?”

“Giles Fordham is gone,” she said. “He’s in France. He’s not coming back. And I had no idea he hated Richard, he would hurt him. I couldn’t have known.”

“It’s not about the consequences alone. You betrayed Richard’s trust when you alerted the world he was your lover. If you can do it once, you can do it again. You can hurt him, again.”

Laura found tears in her eyes and blinked them back. “I won’t.”

“Don’t cry,” Neil said, exasperated. “I’ll be civil to you. I can be that. But I can’t be your friend. And we’re going to have live with that. Richard too.”

He left before she could say another word. Laura patted at her eyes. That was another thing, tears came easily to her these days. But still she couldn’t be sure.

To take her mind off both problems, she picked up the newspaper Neil had left behind. It was a business paper, of little interest to her, but a name she knew caught her eye.

Bankruptcy of Percival’s Factories

• Manchester factory owner Jonathan Percival ruined after his last factory fails. The son of Edward Percival, who inherited twelve factories and a fortune, has lost it all…

She let the paper fall to the floor and put her head in her hands. Poor Percival — he wasn’t suited to the world of business. But it explained why his card had been on the hall table. He must have swallowed his pride and come to ask her for help — but it was far too late to help him now.

*     *     *

Giles didn’t know how it had happened, but the whore had become a habit. Perhaps it was because she looked like Diana — the same long, soft fluff of black curls, the same sky-blue eyes. And it was nice to talk to someone — in English, that was. Giles could speak French well enough, but it wasn’t the same.

She seemed to like hearing him talk too. Having learned he was the son of an earl, she was forever plying him with questions about the dinners he had eaten, the people he had met, and the houses he had lived in.

“I used to live in a grand ’ouse,” she told him one night as they lingered in bed. “But they never let me go abovestairs, see, so I never got to see any of it.”

Despite himself, Giles was intrigued. “You were in service then?” he asked. “I thought you were born into this trade.”

“No one’s born into this trade.” She grinned at him. “Yeah. In service, I was.”

“Why’d they fire you?”

“’Ow do you know they did?”

“Because you’re a whore, in a brothel, in Paris.” He pinched her nipple until she yelped. “Tell me why they fired you.”

“Weren’t my fault,” she grumbled.

“It never is, with your type.”

“Oh? And you’re in Paris through no fault of yer own either?”

This time he slapped her, but not hard enough to bruise. She sat up on the mattress, rubbing her face. “Be nice,” she said. “Or I’ll tell Madame on you.”

“Fine.” He went to pour her a glass of wine — that always placated her. No doubt she’d be a drunk by thirty. “Why’d they fire you?”

“I got the chickenpox,” she said. “Me little brother gave’t to me, and Lady F thought I’d gived it to ’er brats — nursery maid I was.” She drank wine and then laughed, colour coming to her cheeks. “Eh, well, probably I did, but there weren’t no ’arm done. They none of ‘em died. Anyway, Lady F sent me packin’ without reference. Didn’t ’ave much choice but to try the streets, and I’d rather Paris than Lunnun. Don’t want me mam to be ’shamed of me.”

Giles didn’t think she’d tried very hard to avoid it. She seemed to enjoy their rooting, at least judging by the cooing and moaning she gave during it.

“She almost forgot about it though,” the whore added regretfully. “What with the fuss of the sick babes and ’er brother getting married, weren’t til after she came back from Albroke that Lady F ’membered to send me off.

At the name, a sort of cold fire exploded within Giles’s heart. “Albroke?” he demanded. “Your mistress’s brother is Albroke — he’s married?”

“Yeah.” The whore drained the glass. “Talk o’ the town that was. Married ‘is mistress. Lady F was pretty mad about it. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why she remembered to fire me.” The whore mused on the matter. “Lawd, but weren’t she a toity piece o’ work. Sometimes I think I’m better off ’ere. Least no one ’ere preaches at yer.”

Giles was no longer listening. Then that little gimp Albroke had married Laura Maidstone — then Albroke got all the happiness a man could wish for and more, and Giles — a tuppeny whore in a dirty Parisian brothel, and exile from his home.

The anger, never far at bay with Giles, burned higher and closer.

__

A/N: Because of the length of the story and my slowness with updates, I think some people will have forgotten who Giles and Percival are. Giles is Giles Fordham, the man who beat Richard up at the beginning of the first part. Percival is Jonathan Percival, a man who visited Laura once about half-way through the first part and was friends with her first husband, Maidstone.

Chapter Five: Joy Bloomed

Two weeks passed, and Neil was still staying with them. He was, as he had promised, civil to Laura, and she did her best, despite his avowal that they would never be friends, to be pleasant to him, but it was awkward between them. Richard seemed to feel it too; he was a little chilly towards Neil, gruff. Laura had hoped that they would make up, now that they were talking in person, but instead, they seemed to be settling into a cool, polite state of affairs.

Laura despaired what might come of it if she did have a baby. That was seeming more of a probability every day now. She was sick every morning, sometimes more than bile, which meant that at night she would slip out of Richard’s bed and back to her own to hide it from him. And despite the sickness, she was gaining weight. But still she didn’t dare tell Richard what she suspected — there was a chance yet that she was wrong.

One morning towards the end of May, when Laura was lying in bed waiting for the nausea to pass, her maid came up to tell her she had a visitor. As Laura read the name on the card, a feeling of trepidation sank over her.

Jonathan Percival.

“Tell him I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” she said.

She spent that fifteen minutes rubbing rouge on her cheeks to hide her pallor and breathing slowly to try and settle her stomach. When she came down to the drawing room, it was empty but for him — thank God that Neil wasn’t here today.

He stood up and held out his hand limply towards her. She shook it.

“How pleasant to see you again,” she said, with some of Neil’s polite civility. “How are you?”

“Not very well.” Percival hovered by the fireplace wringing his hands. “How are you? You look very well.”

She didn’t feel it, but she took the compliment with a nod. “Thank you.”

For a moment, there was silence in the room. Percival seemed to be trying to persuade himself to speak; his mouth opened several times before shutting again. At last, Laura could bear it no longer and spoke herself:

“If you’ve come here to ask for my help, Mr Percival, I think it’s beyond that now — I tried before but—”

“I know.” He went red. “Perhaps I should have listened. But that’s not why I came here.”

Then why had he come? Laura felt suddenly uneasy.

“I’m just not cut out for this — this town life, this business,” Percival said, running his hand through his hair. “I never should have tried it. I always had this dream of living quietly in a small cottage in the country, with a bit of land… and a family.”

Laura’s unease became definite anxiety.

“Then you should have sold out when you inherited the factories,” she said, knowing it was cruel. “Then you could have had all that. It would have been more than enough to get a small estate, and with what was leftover you could have padded your losses.”

Hurt flashed across his face. He turned away from her to stare down into the empty grate of the fireplace. Laura watched his back, wondering if she was in danger or not — not that Percival could ever mean any harm, but very often weak people didn’t.

“I’m thinking of going to the colonies,” he said after a while, in a quiet voice. “My cousin has a sheep farm in New South Wales.”

“Can you do that?” Laura asked. “I mean, aren’t your investors — and your debts — going to want you to stay?”

“If I can get on a ship, I can do it. And it’s not like I can pay them back if I stay here. I’m ruined either way.”

Laura’s anxiety subsided. If Percival went to Australia, she would never see him again. Perhaps he’d find what he wanted amongst the sheep. She smiled to herself at the thought of Percival marrying a shepherdess — well, he probably had more chance of happiness in that than anything else.

“Then can you get on a ship?” she asked in a slightly more encouraging tone.

“There’s a packet setting sail tonight. I know the captain. He’ll do me a favour.”

“Then you’re leaving.” Laura felt a weight lift off her. “You came to say goodbye.”

“No.” He turned to look her in the eyes, and she saw beads of sweat on his brow. “I came to ask you to come with me.”

There was the briefest of silences.

“No,” Laura said flatly. “Percival, no.”

“Laura.” He took a step closer then stopped. “Laura you know I always loved you — always. There is no man on earth who will ever love you like I do.”

“There is my husband.”

Percival bit his lip. “My lady, I swear I love you more than he ever will. For years, I have adored you.”

Laura took a step back, speechless with surprise, anger, and sudden terror — if a servant heard — if Richard found out. Her heart was suddenly acid with fear.

“I watched you from afar when you were with Maidstone,” Percival continued. “I didn’t think you knew until—”

“—I knew,” Laura interrupted, sense coming back to her. She had to keep him from talking. She had to get him to go away. “Of course I knew, all along.”

“Then come with me.”

“No.”

Percival shook his head, as though arguing with himself. “But—”

He broke off and looked around the drawing room, recently redecorated and repainted under Laura’s direction. It was no longer the shabby and neglected house it had been in Richard’s bachelor days. It was now elegant, comfortable, and in the height of fashion. Sunlight streamed through the grand windows, glowing off marble, gilt, and polished walnut.

“I can see why you’d want to stay here,” Percival said with a sigh. “He’s very rich. I daresay your curtains cost more than most families spend in a year. And this carpet is Turkish silk, isn’t it?”

“No. It’s English-made,” Laura said. “And wool. What’s the point of putting silk where it’ll be trod on?”

Percival blinked. “Well. Still. You’ve got all this — I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave. But I love you. More than he does — and I can believe he does, but not like me. I’ll make you happy. I’ll do everything I can to make you happy.”

“Happy?” Laura looked scornfully at him. “Do you even realize what you’re asking? You’re asking me to leave my husband, because of your ill-conceived and unreturned passion. You’re asking me to face a world of judgement and scorn because you think you love me. You’re asking me to run away with you to a sheep-farm on the other side of the world, to live in your cousin’s smallest bedroom, with no money, no marriage, and a hundred angry creditors behind us. How on earth would that make any woman happy?”

But Percival had nothing left to lose, except hope. He could not be so easily dissuaded.

“I love you,” he repeated, coming closer. “Love will make everything alright.”

He grabbed her before she could stop him, his hands hard on her waist, his breath hot against her cheeks. She shoved him away, so hard he stumbled and almost fell into a couch.

“Don’t touch me!” she snapped, wiping her mouth, suddenly close to tears. “What does loving me make a difference? I don’t love you.”

“You did once.” He got to his feet again, rubbing at his wrist as though he’d hurt it. “You loved me once.”

Again there was silence. Laura blinked back her tears and stopped half-way to the bell to ring for the footman.

“You made love with me once,” Percival said, almost accusingly. “What did that mean?”

A feeling of dread sank over Laura. Two years — Two years and six months. That’s how long it had taken Percival to speak of it.

“It was a mistake,” she said, in almost a whisper. “You know it was a mistake. You told me so yourself.”

“It was the best mistake I ever made.”

Laura felt sick. This time, it wasn’t because of the baby. And suddenly she was absolutely sure there was a baby — her earlier doubts seemed ridiculous. She had known, and not dared believe. And with a baby on the way, she couldn’t have a man like Percival hanging around, in love with her, reminding everyone of the old rumours from when she was married to Maidstone. Perhaps even trying to prove them true.

“I used you,” she said, in a low, tight voice. “I used you to get back at Maidstone, because I knew you were in love with me and would do whatever I wanted. And you know what, Percival? I needn’t have bothered. Maidstone died before I could even tell him what we’d done. I was going to tell him. You begged me to keep it secret but I planned to tell him. That’s how little I cared for you. What do you think he would have done to you, hm? He needn’t have beat you like he did me. He’d just have called in your debts to him. Ruined you even earlier than your own stupidity and incompetence did.”

His face drained of colour as she spoke. The remarkable thing was that everything she said was true. She’d pitied him, lied to him, and used him. She hated herself for it, and hated him even more for what he was making her do now.

“Australia?” she said, her voice high and shrill. “Go there. Don’t come back.”

He took a half-step towards her. His hands reached out. Then they faltered, trembled, flopped back to his side. He turned and left the room.

Laura listened to his footsteps going down the stairs, dizzy with emotion. As she heard the front door shut, an impulse made her rush to the next room, looking over the front of the house, to watch him leave.

She stopped in the doorway. Neil was sitting at a table by the window writing a letter. Her heart froze.

He looked up, his face expressionless, then turned back down to his letter.

Had he heard? He must have heard. But he said nothing, seemed completely unperturbed.

“Do you need something?” he asked, looking up again.

Laura realized she was still standing in the doorway with her hand on the knob.

“I was thinking of redecorating in here too,” she said. “Do you think — burgundy walls?”

Neil looked around the room then shrugged. “I think it’s fine as it is.”

He couldn’t have heard. Neil would never have heard what had passed and said nothing. Laura’s heart slowed.

“But perhaps it would be too dark,” she said. “I’ll think about it more.”

She turned to leave. Upstairs in her bedroom she lay down again to let her heart slow and the anxiety pass. Her hand crept to her belly and stayed there. She would tell Richard tonight. She would tell him as soon as he came home.

At the thought, joy bloomed over her, and all thoughts of Percival faded from her mind.

__

A/N: I’ve been wondering for a long time how people are going to take this chapter. Anyway, I’m really looking forward to the next two or three.

Chapter Six: From Suspicion to Conclusion

Once Laura was gone, Neil put his quill down and leaned thoughtfully back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

Then Laura had been unfaithful to Maidstone. Neil had wondered about it. He knew that gossip had a way of running away with the truth, and he hadn’t really believed the rumours, until now.

It wasn’t really that, however, which disturbed him. It was the cold, cruel way she had dismissed Percival — that, he thought, was the Laura he knew. That, he thought, was the woman Richard had married.

His heart sank. As much as he distrusted Laura, part of him had been relieved to find that Richard seemed happy with her. But no woman who had seduced a man in order to get revenge on her husband could ever make a good wife. No woman who then confessed to it, in that hateful, almost gleeful tone.

What to do now?

Neil hesitated at the thought of telling Richard what he had heard. For one thing, Richard would hate Neil for doing so. But more importantly, it would cast a shadow over Richard’s happiness, perhaps even destroy his marriage. And what did he have to say anyway? That Laura had been unfaithful to another man — a man who had treated her ill?

Would she be unfaithful to Richard?

He considered it slowly and carefully. To Richard, she was affectionate, attentive, and gentle. There was no pretence in her behaviour either, no attempt to charm. She was fond of Richard, perhaps even loved him.

But would that keep him safe?

For an hour or more, Neil lingered in the front room thinking about it. Ideas came and went; the idea of talking to Laura about it, however, never occurred to him. In the end, he decided there was only one thing to do: keep his eyes open, and his mouth shut.

For the rest of the day, he remained in the house, but Laura had no more callers and stayed in her room until early evening. When she came down, she was already dressed for dinner and the ball they were going to afterwards, in an ill-fitting dark blue gown that made her look rather wan.

“Is Richard not back?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Neil said.

She passed the time with him then, picking away at a song on the piano and looking at the clock every five minutes. At eight, they went down to dinner alone. She said that Richard wasn’t normally late and Neil said he expected he would be here soon. He was not, and Laura spent most of the meal fiddling with her fork or looking anxiously at the clock. As they started dessert, a footman came with a note saying that Richard was delayed and would meet them at Lady Roynor’s ball later that night. Laura’s face fell.

“Something wrong?” Neil asked quietly.

“I don’t feel like going to the ball,” was all Laura said.

“You don’t have to go.”

She shook her head. “It’s important for Richard to be on her good side.”

It was a long drive out to Lady Roynor’s mansion in Wimbledon, and Laura was silent the entire way. Neil watched her from his side of the coach and tried to puzzle it out. If he said nothing about what he had learned today, Richard might be unguarded against hurt in the future. On the other hand, if he told Richard, he might destroy Richard’s present happiness. There was no safe choice.

When they arrived, the ball was already in full swing. They were greeted by Lady Roynor, who told them that Richard had not yet arrived. They went to the salon, where Neil got Laura a glass of champagne, which she fiddled with rather than drank. After a few minutes, the current dance ended, and a fat and bumbling Lord Somebody came up and asked Laura for the next. She winced but agreed, pressing her untouched glass of champagne into Neil’s hand as she left. He drank it as he watched the dance.

Laura was not as good a dancer as Neil remembered. She seemed to be stepping on her partner’s toes at least as often as he stepped on hers. When the dance ended twenty minutes later, she sank into a chair by the wall. Neil let his eyes drift around the room. He wouldn’t have minded dancing himself — not with Laura. With someone whose conversation he might enjoy.

Lady Harriet was standing over by the wall, looking over-rouged and over-hopeful. Neil’s gaze slid onwards. Miss Dalrymple was by the refreshments table, munching on nuts with a glass of champagne in one hand. Her reticule looked empty yet. Further on, a group of three very pretty young girls were lingering rather hintingly on the edge of the dance floor. Neil wondered about asking one of them to dance — but they were young, and obviously out to catch a husband. A married woman would be best. Someone who knew he wasn’t flirting and wasn’t too inclined to think he was handsome.

His eyes slid back to Laura before he could stop himself. But he was too late anyway; a young man was bending over her, smiling warmly. She was smiling back, but shaking her head. The music started up again. As it did, the young man sat down in the chair next to Laura. They held a conversation, leaning into each other rather, perhaps because the music was so loud. Then the young man rose from his chair, helped Laura to her feet, and left the room with her on his arm.

Neil cast a glance around to see if anyone else had been watching them, and found that even Miss Dalrymple’s beady eye was occupied with the dance. He waited a moment and then slipped through the nearest door. The hall was well lit, and small groups of people still lingered in it, talking or greeting friends. Neil couldn’t see Laura or the man who had been with her. He went through an open door and found himself in the card room, but Laura wasn’t there either, nor her mysterious friend. Beyond that was the billiards room full of men, beyond that an empty library, and then he found himself back in the front hall again. He hesitated a moment and then went up one side of the grand double staircase. On the mezzanine above, he at last heard a feminine voice echoing faintly from down a dark hallway. He followed it. Soon, a slit of light through a doorway told him where to go. He went softly closer then paused, looking through the crack of the door. Laura was sitting up on a tall, heavily draped bed, her knees up close against her chest, her elbows resting on them, her face in her hands. The young man was standing beside the bed, rubbing her shoulder. Neil put his hand on the door to fling it open, then stopped.

There was something about Laura’s posture — something pained, something stiff. Nor did the man look lover-like. Indeed, if anything, he looked as though he was repressing irritation behind his frown. And there was a strange, unpleasant, sour smell in the air — Neil recognized it as vomit, and then saw too the porcelain basin sitting on the chair near the bed.

“Oh here it is!” said somebody else, and Lady Roynor came into Neil’s line of sight, holding a small glinting bottle out to Laura. “My salts, Doctor Cavendish, don’t you think?”

She wafted the bottle in front of Laura, who gagged and pushed it away.

“Not smelling salts!” the doctor said sharply. “Just let her catch her breath. Is her husband here yet?”

Lady Roynor extracted the vinaigrette reluctantly. “Probably. It’s beyond fashionably late now. I’ll go and ask the butler.”

She was heading straight for the door. Neil realized she would see him — and that she would know exactly why he was standing there in the dark. He opened the door wide and walked into the room, as though he’d just come down the hall to do so. Lady Roynor stopped in her tracks.

“Laura?” Neil said.

She looked up, pale and wobbly. Neil felt suddenly disgusted with himself. He’d believed the worst of her, leapt from suspicion to conclusion, and here she was, sick, and in the company of Richard’s doctor and a duchess.

He came forward and touched her forehead, finding it cool. Then he turned to the doctor, who close up was not so young after all, perhaps forty. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Well it’s not a fever,” Doctor Cavendish said in a carefully blank tone. “Why don’t you sit here with her, while I go see if Lord Albroke has arrived? He really ought to take her home.”

Laura shook her head. “It’s important for Richard to be here.”

“Then I’ll take you home myself and he can stay,” Neil said.

Lady Roynor, who had stopped on her way to the door when Neil came in, hovered closer. “She shouldn’t travel, in her condition — let her stay here tonight.”

“I just need to lie down for a little bit,” Laura said weakly.

“Lie down for a while, and then we’ll see how you feel,” Cavendish said. “I’m going to see if Lord Albroke can be found.”

He left the room. Lady Roynor stayed behind, watching them. Neil looked uncomfortably at her.

“I’ll look after her now,” he said. “You can go back to your ball.”

“I know you’ll look after her.” Lady Roynor’s eyes narrowed as she smiled. “But I was wondering how you felt about it — no green eyes for the coronet, I see?”

Neil wondered at first what she meant, and when he understood, was irritated. “Your Grace,” he said, as mildly as he could, “I’m only concerned for my sister.” He looked at Laura, who now had both hands over her mouth. “I really think you’d best leave us alone,” Neil added, reaching for the basin.

Lady Roynor left rather hurriedly then. Neil held the basin while Laura was sick into it, then when she was done found her a handkerchief to wipe her face.

“All out?” he asked.

She nodded weakly, seeming embarrassed, but Neil didn’t think he should leave her. He put the basin back on the chair and went and poured a glass of water for her. She took it with shaking hands and sipped gingerly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as he took it back from her.

“It’s not your fault. Now is there anything you need?”

She shook her head and leaned back on the pillows with her eyes shut.

“If Richard doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll take you home myself,” he said. “As soon as you feel up to it.”

“Thank you.” She gave a shaky laugh, her eyes still shut. “I didn’t peg you for a nursemaid.”

“I’ve got two small children,” he said. And that was true, but he knew very well it was guilt that kept him in the room, with the smell of sour vomit rising from the basin beside him. He had been very unfair to Laura earlier — he had not seen that she was ill, though he’d the whole evening to notice, and had suspected the worst of her from a mere conversation.

“I wish you’d told me before we came how you felt,” he grumbled. “I saw you were pale — didn’t think to ask why.”

She shrugged faintly.

“And Richard’s going to be very upset.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I mean. Lady Roynor thinks you’re with child.”

Laura’s eyes flew open.

“She’s probably downstairs now telling all her twittering little friends about it. And Richard…” Neil sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It won’t be easy for him, hearing that gossip.”

“N-no,” Laura said, in a very odd voice. “It w-won’t.”

Neil looked at her. Where before her cheeks had been pale, there was now a blotchy flush to them. She seemed to be trying not to look at him. A strange, dizzy feeling came over Neil. He remembered the doctor’s curiously blank tone as he had said it was not a fever. Remembered too that the day he had arrived in London, she had been hovering her hand over her stomach in the same way she was now.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “But. You are. With child?”

Laura slowly met his eyes and then gave an almost imperceptible nod. Neil took a deep breath, bracing himself.

“Does Richard know?”

“…I haven’t told him yet.”

“Is it his?”

She slapped him. Her hands were still trembling, but her slap had anger behind it and stung. Neil gasped and bent over, clutching his cheek. When he looked up again, she was breathing hard, her breast heaving, as though she was about to cry.

And Richard was standing in the doorway behind her, looking bewildered.

__

A/N: I really enjoyed this chapter though it was difficult to write. It’s hard to make Neil both causing trouble for Laura and Richard, but still sympathetic and reasonable.

Chapter Seven: Might

As soon as Richard stepped through Lady Roynor’s front door, the butler told him that her grace had been looking for him.

“Your wife has been taken ill,” the butler said, “and is in her grace’s bedroom above.”

That was enough for Richard to abandon the people he’d come with and limp as fast as he could up the stairs. There was only one lit room above, and as he drew closer, he heard Neil say, ‘Does Richard know?’ and Laura mumble something in reply. Then Neil asked, ‘Is it his?’ and Richard had opened the door in time to see his wife slap his brother on the face.

Neil straightened himself, wincing, then met Richard’s eyes and jumped. Laura turned her head, her eyes going wide and dark when she saw Richard.

“What’s going on?” Richard asked. “Laura, is what mine?”

And then he knew what, by the expression in her eyes. The shock of it ran through him from head to foot. First, the bewildering comprehension of it, and secondly, the anger that Neil could even ask such a thing. He staggered and sat down suddenly upon the chest at the end of the bed.

“Is it… Laura, are you… But you can’t be. Neil, she can’t be. She’s not. Unless—”

But he broke off, because Laura had burst into tears, the kind of sobbing, terrified tears a sick child cries. Neil’s face was subsumed in guilt. He touched her arm but she shook him off.

“You’ve ruined everything,” she sobbed. “Why do you have to ruin everything?”

He jumped back as though he was burned. Shakily, Richard forced himself to his feet, limped over, and pulled his wife into his arms.

“Don’t cry,” he said. “Don’t cry, darling.”

“She’s unwell,” Neil said helpfully. “She was sick before. I offered to take her home.”

“I’ll take her home,” Richard said. “Go and make our excuses and send for the carriage, Neil.”

“But—”

“Go!”

And Neil left. Richard thought if he had stayed, he might have slapped him too. He stroked Laura’s back while she sobbed into his waist. She’s not pregnant, he told himself. I can’t have children. There’s been some kind of mistake.

But she was talking tearfully into the buttons of his coat:

“I wanted to tell you. I was just getting sure and I wanted to tell you myself. Properly. He ruined it.”

Richard hugged her tighter. “It’s fine,” he said numbly. “Let’s go home. You’re not well.”

Laura wasn’t listening. “You told me you couldn’t, so I didn’t know what to think, but I’m quite sure now.”

Sure? Richard felt faint. She couldn’t be sure. Not of that. He clutched at her, the warmth of her body in his arms giving him strength.

“It’s not possible, Laura,” he said. “I mean, what are you saying?”

“That we’re going to have a baby.” She spoke clearly for the first time. “Richard, I’m pregnant.”

Richard stared at the coverlet of Lady Roynor’s bed. It was a deep yellow, diamond print, with glinting silver thread to pick out the details. Far more tasteful than Richard had expected from Lady Roynor, who was always so heavily bedecked with jewels. His esteem of her rose.

“Did you hear me, Richard? Do you understand?” Laura touched his cheek.

“I heard you. I understand.”

He didn’t understand. Not in the slightest. But she was still crying, so he shook himself and found a handkerchief to dry her tears.

“Are you sure you can travel?” he asked, wiping her cheeks.

She shook her head. “I just want to go home. But you can stay.”

“No. Don’t be silly. I’m coming with you.”

There was a step behind him, and he turned. Neil was back, looking rather hangdog.

“The carriage will arrive in ten minutes. But Lady Roynor says Laura can stay the night if she needs.”

Laura shook her head. “Let me go home.”

“Then we’ll go.” Richard rubbed her shoulder. “Can you walk?”

“Yes. I can walk.” She seemed disappointed somehow, but Richard was too bewildered to try and understand why.

They followed Neil back down the stairs, into the hall. Laura had controlled her tears now, but Richard could feel her pulse beating fast and hot in her wrist. When they got to the front hall, he guided her down onto a cushioned bench. She was very pale still.

“Do you want a glass of water?” he asked.

She shook her head, seemingly unable to speak, and shut her eyes, leaning back in the chair. They were not alone; the hall was crowded and people were staring at them. Lady Roynor came bustling forward.

“Your wife isn’t well enough to leave, Albroke. Let her stay the night.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Richard, “but she wishes to go.”

“But really, she can’t possibly be comfortable in the coach! That close air! Those awful roads!”

Richard looked doubtfully at Laura. He rather thought Lady Roynor was right. Whatever the cause, Laura didn’t look well enough to travel. She was breathing deeply, almost heaving, her hand hovering over her stomach. Lady Harriet, Miss Dalrymple, and half a dozen others besides were watching curiously from a short distance. Richard could see by their faces what they were thinking, and knew it would be all over town before midnight. He sighed and bent over Laura.

“Are you really sure you’re well enough to go home?”

She nodded. “Please.”

“If you wish.” He caressed her shoulder as he stood up again. “Lady Roynor, I’m really very grateful to you, but I’ll do as my wife asks.”

“And miss my ball?” There was a crocodile smile on Lady Roynor’s face now.

“Does it make any difference,” Richard asked impatiently, “if I miss your ball by sitting with my wife in a backroom of your house, or miss it by sitting with her in my own carriage? But I will miss it either way. I will be with her.”

The smile widened. “It’s a good thing for you I liked my husbands loyal, Albroke. Or I might have taken offense to that.” She tapped him on the chest with her fan. “Though I’d advise she stay here regardless.”

As she spoke, Miss Dalrymple broke away from Lady Harriet and came inquisitively closer, clutching her reticule in front of her like a squirrel holding a nut.

“Oh dear,” she said with a broad smile, “is the little thing ill now? Oh dear. What could the cause of this be?”

“I’m only a little under the weather,” Laura said wearily, opening her eyes.

Miss Dalrymple patted Laura gently with her withered hand and looked her up and down with a discerning eye. Then she grinned at Lady Roynor.

“It’s nearly June now. That’ll put it about December.”

“You haven’t won yet,” Lady Roynor said. Then she sighed. “Well. I hold you to blame for this, Albroke.”

Richard couldn’t tell if this was one of her strange jokes or not, but on the sofa Laura gave a full body shiver and suddenly neither Lady Roynor nor anyone else mattered. Richard sat down next to Laura and put his arm around her, wishing everybody would go away. Thankfully, the footman announced that their carriage was ready, interrupting further interrogation. Richard helped Laura back to her feet, noticing how she trembled. As he left, he saw Lady Roynor talking busily to Lord Wiltshire and Lady Harriet in a corner, and Miss Dalrymple standing silently by with a smile, but he could not hear what they were saying.

Outside, Richard helped Laura into the carriage then got up himself. Neil started to get in behind them but Richard blocked the door with his stick.

“You can walk.”

“What? But it’ll take me half the night!”

“Yes,” Richard said savagely. “I know.”

“Why!?”

“Because you made my wife cry.”

Neil gave him a look of mute indignation, then shrugged and turned back to the hall. Laura eyed Richard nervously, but said nothing. When the door was shut on them, Richard took Laura’s hand in his and held it, but he didn’t know what to say, and she seemed too ill to speak. He wanted to tell her she must be wrong, she could not be pregnant, but he didn’t want to risk making her cry again, because pregnant women shouldn’t be made to cry.

When they got home, he ordered a servant to make warm milk and took Laura to her room, where he helped her undress and put her to bed like a child. He remained sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking her hair, while she lay listlessly on her side. Soon, her eyes drifted shut, but he remained there for some time, watching her. The shock was slowly passing, but he still didn’t understand it. He couldn’t have children; she was pregnant. The two facts could not be reconciled.

An hour or so later, there was a soft knock on the door and Neil looked in.

Richard’s tenderness cooled. He bent to kiss Laura then left, shutting the door softly behind him. They went downstairs in the dark to the study. Richard lit the candles over the fireplace. When he turned around, Neil was pouring brandy into two tumblers. His shoulders were slumped. He pushed one of the glasses towards Richard then took the other himself and sank down into an armchair.

“Are you alright?” Neil asked.

“Fine.”

“You look pale.”

Reluctantly, Richard took a sip of his drink. He felt the blood rise in his veins.

“How do you feel?”

“I don’t know. Confused.” Richard took another sip of brandy and noticed his hands were shaking. He set his glass down on the bookshelf and hid his hands in his pockets. “I just can’t believe it.”

Neil looked pained. “It… It might be yours, you know. Sir Templeton might have been mistaken.”

Richard looked up. “What?”

“The baby. It might be yours.”

For a moment, the room was so silent that Richard could register a faint buzzing noise in his ears — his blood, he thought dimly. Strangely, it was what Neil had said that made Richard suddenly believe that Laura really was pregnant. Neil treated the fact of a baby as a matter of certainty. It was only its paternity he doubted. A flame of anger rose up inside Richard, burning away his numb shock.

“Might?” he said, in a soft, poisonous tone. “Might!?”

Neil froze.

“If she’s with child, it’s mine. I don’t know how it happened, but it’s mine. And I won’t let anyone — not even you — say such disgusting things about my wife.”

“Richard, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“What other way did you mean it?” Richard demanded, taking another gulp of his drink. “What other way could that possibly be taken? Just what kind of person do you think Laura is?”

“You’ve heard the rumours from when she was Maidstone’s wife,” Neil said. “What am I supposed to think? That she changed when she married you?”

Richard hurled his glass into the fireplace, where it smashed. Neil jumped to his feet, looking alarmed.

Richard forced his fists to relax and took a deep breath, his flood of anger subsiding. He wasn’t going to be like his father. He wasn’t going to be like Maidstone. But he’d never been so angry before in his life. It seemed to burn like fire in his veins.

He forced himself to speak calmly. “You don’t understand her, Neil. You don’t know her very well. She has never betrayed me and she never will. The rumours about her and Maidstone were all cruel, all false.”

Neil was staring into the fireplace, where the brandy was leaking into the hearth. Just as Richard was about to apologise for throwing the glass, Neil said quietly, “They weren’t all false.”

Richard felt the anger returning. “You know nothing of it.”

“I do.” Neil took a deep breath. “There was a man who came by earlier today. I heard Laura speak to him. He said he loved her. That they’d been lovers. She told him it had meant nothing to her, but a way to get back at Maidstone. She didn’t know I was listening. I’m not saying she’s done it to you, Richard. I’m just saying she did it to him.”

Richard watched Neil through narrowed eyes. Neil wasn’t a liar. Nor was there room in what he said for human mistake. But then, Richard didn’t even want to disbelieve it. He’d always suspected that Laura was keeping something back, the night she’d told him how Maidstone had abused her. It had been too easy to guess what. Then she had managed her revenge after all, but Maidstone had died before she could present him with the evidence.

He sighed. “Do you know, this doesn’t change my opinion of my wife in the slightest. What she did before we were lovers is a closed book now. Towards me, her conduct is absolutely unimpeachable. But it does change my opinion of you. I didn’t know you were the kind to eavesdrop and then tell tales.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“Then why didn’t you show yourself and offer her support?” Richard demanded. “Did the man threaten her?”

“No!”

“Did he hurt her?”

Neil hesitated. “I think he tried to kiss her.”

“And you just sat back, listening, leaving my wife to fend off his harassment?”

“She seemed to be in control of it!”

Richard scoffed. “Chivalrous of you, Neil.” He pushed himself away from the bookshelves. “Why is it, that of all the women on earth, my wife is the only one you can’t give even basic respect to? No, don’t answer that. You’ll say it’s her. It’s not her, Neil. It’s you.”

He opened the door and left without waiting to hear Neil’s reply.

__

A/N: This is one of my favourite chapters. I just loved figuring out how Richard would react to all the bombshells he gets hit with this chapter.

A/N 2: you guys get this one early because I am stuck in an airport my flights all delayed and my holiday ruined. Silver linings, right?

Chapter Eight: A Good Wife

Laura awoke late the next morning. She stared at the ceiling, her stomach very liquid inside her, and tried to remember exactly what had happened last night. Sensations came to her — Lord Wiltshire’s expression as she had stepped on his toes, the vile tang of Lady Roynor’s vinaigrette, the sharp snap of flesh against flesh as she slapped Neil’s cheek, Richard’s voice in her ear telling her it wasn’t possible.

Her stomach gave an unpleasant jolt and she queasily sat up. She was alone in the bed, but wrinkles in the sheets next to her told her that Richard had been there with her until recently. She was relieved by that. After his reaction last night, she had been afraid. Part of her reluctance to tell him, she realized now, had been fear that he wouldn’t believe her, wouldn’t trust it to be his. The way Neil hadn’t.

Swallowing her fears, she scrambled out of bed. She had to speak to Richard. She had to know how he felt.

The maid, when Laura called for her, said that he was in the attics. Puzzled, Laura put on her dressing gown and slippers and climbed up two flights of stairs, to where the ceilings were low enough that she could have touched them if she jumped.

It was dark up here, one rather grimy window at the far end of the passage letting in just enough light to reveal warped floorboards and stained walls. A door stood open on the dim landing, light slanting softly into the corridor. She went to it and peered through to see Richard sitting on a crumpled dust sheet on the floor, rummaging through a wooden chest. Around him, the room was cluttered with vague stacks of furniture hidden under dingy dust sheets. Against one wall, a small cabinet and a chest of drawers had been uncovered.

“Richard?”

He jumped and turned, then climbed to his feet. There was dust on his cheek and in his hair.

“What are you doing up here?” she asked.

“Um.” He was holding something in his hand and raised it towards her. It was a wooden toy carriage, missing one wheel. “I woke up this morning and I did a lot of thinking. We—” His voice trembled. “We’re going to need a nursery, aren’t we?”

Relief swept over her: he believed her. She nodded and held her arms out towards him. He pulled her into a tight, clumsy hug, the toy carriage poking into the small of her back.

“All night I kept waking up,” he said into her shoulder, “thinking it had been a dream. I can still hardly believe it now. It’s true, tell me — one more time.”

“I’m with child.” Laura’s throat contracted and she swallowed. “You’re going to be a father.”

Richard’s arms tightened around her. A moment later, she felt something warm and damp on her shoulder and realized he was crying. His hands on her back trembled and the carriage he held dropped to the floor with a sharp thunk. Laura had never seen Richard cry before. She’d seen tears in his eyes, but he’d never cried. And now he was weeping and gripping her like a lifeline. She stroked his hair. She didn’t quite understand it. She’d expected smiles and kisses. But she thought he was happy.

Slowly, he got control of himself, relaxing his grip and steadying his breathing. He drew back, blinking, and rubbed his eyes dry on the sleeve of her dressing gown.

“Are you alright now?” she asked.

“Yes.” She got a smile from him at last. “I’m sorry. I— I’m so happy it hurts.”

“There’s no need to apologise for that.” She wiped a smudge of damp dust from his cheek, the last vestiges of her anxiety fading. “I’m happy you’re happy. I’ve been waiting a long time to tell you.”

He kissed her. “How long?”

“Maybe two or three weeks.” She tilted her head while he kept kissing her, slow, chaste little kisses along her cheekbones. “I was so confused. I knew what was happening, but you’d said it couldn’t, so I didn’t know what to think.”

His kisses paused. “I’m sorry.” He met her eyes. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I mean, not really. But I…” He sighed heavily. “I remember lying in bed, my father and Sir Templeton standing over me, and Sir Templeton saying that was it for me — I’d live, but I’d never have a child. He was so… definite. And I never questioned it. I should have questioned it.”

“You had no reason to.”

“I had you.” Richard looked pained. “I might have made a terrible mistake last year.”

“What do you mean?”

“Before we were married. This might have happened then.”

It hadn’t occurred to Laura until now. “But we would have made that mistake, Richard, and it could never be a terrible one.”

“Wouldn’t it?” He dropped his gaze to her waist and touched her belly. “We’d both have loved the baby, but could we have loved each other, if it had come first?”

“Yes,” Laura said firmly, closing her hand over his and pressing it closer. “I’d never not have fallen in love with you, given the chance. It might have happened a different way, but it would have happened eventually.”

His eyes widened. “Even if that first night, in the library at your father’s place…?”

She considered it. “I think so, yes. We would have married, wouldn’t we? We’d have had to. And I would have been angry at first — I was always angry back then anyway — but if it was just me and you, and then a baby, I would have loved you sooner or later. Definitely.”

He smiled slowly and then kissed her again. “I’m glad we were safely married first anyway.”

“Yes. It would have been a terrible scandal.” She bit back a laugh. “Elizabeth would have been furious. And Neil would never have forgiven me.”

Richard’s smile faltered, and a shadow grew over Laura’s happiness. She shouldn’t have slapped Neil last night. He’d really been very kind to her before then — there was something to be said for a man who would without comment hold a sick basin for a woman he disliked. But it still hurt to remember what he had said to her.

“He knew you— thought you couldn’t have children.”

“Yes,” Richard said shortly. “I wish I hadn’t told him now.”

“Have you talked it over with him?”

Richard’s expression grew dark. “Let’s not talk about him,” he said. “I want to talk about the baby.”

Laura faltered. “You argued with him.”

“I did.” Richard touched her cheek. “Let’s not talk about it now. How long do we have until the baby comes?”

“About six or seven months, I think.”

“Then before we come back to London next year?”

“Definitely.”

Richard nodded and looked around the nursery. “It’s going to need to be thoroughly cleaned and painted — I’ll have the servants start on it once we’ve gone back to Albroke for the summer.”

“We’ll need to tell them about the baby then.”

“Right.” Richard laughed. “I’m looking forward to that — to telling people. Though I suspect it’s the talk of the town already. Most of London’s busiest gossips were watching me half-carry you to the carriage last night.”

She bit back a smile. “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. How do you feel now?”

“Better but still queasy.”

“Can I help?”

She shook her head. “It’ll pass. I think in a while I’ll be able to eat something, and that’ll settle it for a bit.”

Richard rubbed her arm. “Tell me if you need anything.”

She gave him a grateful smile, then stooped and picked up the toy carriage from where it had fallen. In the chest he’d been rummaging through lay a scattered collection of children’s toys — dolls, a flute, a wooden horse. Most of them looked broken.

“We won’t need these for a few years yet,” she said. “They’re for older children.”

“I know. They used to be mine. I got lost in memories.” Richard went to the set of drawers. “There’s more, though, that might be of use, clothes and things. I’m afraid Elizabeth and Neil between them have commandeered most of the good things already, but I— I found this.”

‘This’ was a delicate, champagne coloured piece of net muslin, embroidered with faded silk flowers.

“It’s the dress Elizabeth and Neil and I were christened in. I didn’t know it was here. I don’t know if you’d want… I mean, I thought it might be nice if our baby were christened in it.”

“Richard, it’s lovely.”

“It probably needs mending.”

“I can mend it.” She took it from him and bundled it delicately in her arms. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

He kissed her hand in reply. She sat down with the gown by the window and examined it in the light. The embroidery had come loose in a few places, and some of the ribbon flowers had come undone, but beyond that it seemed in good repair. Richard’s mother must have made it for him, many, many years ago. She was long dead now, but Laura vaguely remembered her as a kind, gentle woman — where Richard must have gotten his gentleness from, for it was certainly not his father. Laura was touched by the thought of using the same gown for their child; it made it feel like, amidst the shambles of what had really been a very cold upbringing for both of them, they had somehow managed to find a real family. She looked up at Richard and smiled.

“We can keep the carriage toy too, you know. Mend all the toys, really. One day he’ll be old enough to play with them after all.”

“Or she.” Richard played with a lock of Laura’s hair. “I like that idea. We’ll have to get a new crib though — unless there’s one hiding under the dust sheets somewhere.”

He turned on that thought, and began dragging at sheets. Clouds of dust rose into the air as he revealed an assorted miscellany of nothings: shabby chairs, empty picture frames, a schoolroom table, and more dinted and faded furniture. There was, however, no crib. And in the end Richard stood looking perplexed around the room while the dust settled across his shoulders and in his hair.

“There must have been one once, or several even, but they’re gone now.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Laura got up and started brushing the dust out of his hair. “A crib is easy. It’s everything else that will be hard.”

“Right.” A smile flashed across Richard’s face. He caught her hand and pulled her close again, kissing her. “You’ll be a good mother.”

A sudden warmth spread over Laura. “How do you know?” she asked teasingly.

“Because you’re a good wife.”

Laura opened her mouth to make some faint protest — the strength of that compliment made her almost uncomfortable — but Richard kissed her again and she lost her chance. Besides, she thought dimly as his arms came up around her, he might be right; she’d been trying so very hard to be good to him that she might really have done it this time. Despite everything Neil thought. Despite everything she’d been to different men in the past. Instead, when there was a breath of space between them, she whispered against his flesh that she loved him, and had the happiness of hearing in return that he loved her too.

__

A/N: This chapter was really hard to write for some reason. Happiness is harder than drama and angst I guess. But don’t worry, this is only the calm before the storm ;p

Chapter Nine: Interfering

Neil spent a bad night of it, tossing and turning in his bed as he ran his mind over the events of the day. Several moments haunted him: The feeling of triumph as he peered through the crack in the door. Laura bursting into tears. Richard throwing the whiskey glass into the fireplace.

It was the last that really frightened him. Neil had never before seen Richard lose his temper. Not like that. The occasional sharp word quickly cooling down to contemptuous distaste, well that Richard all over. But violence — violence was an anathema to Richard. Which meant that Neil had crossed a line he didn’t know existed until now.

What hurt most of all was the realization that Richard was right: Neil had behaved disgracefully when he’d eavesdropped on Laura. It had not been decent to sit and listen while another man attempted to kiss her, asked her to run away with him. Neil realized that he’d half-hoped for Laura to betray some proof that she was unsuitable to be Richard’s wife.

And all she’d done was tell Percival never to come near her again.

Neil turned over in bed with a groan. Weighted by time and guilt, one thing seemed all too obvious: Laura loved Richard. Was in love with him. Neil remembered now her clumsy flirtations with Richard last year, the time he’d found her weeping over Richard while he slept, her gentleness towards him. Her affection had deep roots. Months, perhaps even years — Neil couldn’t tell with Laura.

And if she loved him, her child was undoubtedly his. No matter if it had been a miracle or merely a mistake, it must be Richard’s.

Guilt kept Neil awake until morning, when he came down to breakfast to discover he was dining alone. Afterwards, before he could see Richard, he had an appointment in Harley Street. When he returned from that, the first thing he wanted to do was apologise to Richard and Laura, but the footman said that they were both in Laura’s bedroom. He hesitated on the landing before her door and, on hearing a distinctly giggly squeal from within, decided it would be prudent not to interrupt them. Instead, he went to his own room to compose a letter to his wife, starting with some news about the doctors and surgeons he’d talked with, and then arriving with some confusion at the unexpected proof of Richard’s being able to have children after all. He would have preferred to tell her in person, but by the time he arrived home she might already have heard it from someone else; he knew her cousins the Duvalles would be returning from London soon, and they surely would bring with them any gossip about Richard’s wife.

As he was signing the letter, there was a knock at the door. Neil turned as Richard entered, his suit and hair distinctly mussed.

“I wanted to ask you,” Neil said, “your doctor, what’s his name?”

“Cavendish,” Richard said shortly. “He’s not a surgeon.”

“No, but he knows what it’s like for you, doesn’t he? He might be able to help with Podge.”

Richard stared at him a moment then took his card case out of his pocket and leaned over the desk to scribble on the back of a card.

“He’ll see you this evening, at that address, if you give him this,” he said, pushing the card towards Neil. “Now, Neil, we need to talk.”

Neil winced at Richard’s tone; this was going to be harder than he thought. “Rich, first I have to say I’m sorry. Last night I— I was very mistaken. Wrong.”

Richard looked impassively at him. Neil felt like he hadn’t said enough.

“I’m really, really sorry,” he added helplessly.

Richard gave a heavy sigh and sat down on the bed, his stick in front of him. Then, to Neil’s surprise, he gave a bitter laugh.

“I was happy until I entered this room,” Richard said. “You — my brother — are the one thing to cast a shadow over…” He swallowed and rubbed a hand over his face. “…over the best thing that has ever happened to me. Bar perhaps marrying Laura. I can’t quite tell which is better.”

Neil took in a long, uncertain breath and then slowly released it. He’d felt the same way — not so much, to his regret, with his daughter Annie, but very much so with his son Roger, when he’d first found out that Verity was expecting.

“The day the baby is born,” Neil said, “that will be the best thing that ever happens to you. You’ll know then.”

Richard gave a rueful smile. “Maybe.”

“Definitely.” Neil hesitated then reached out and shook Richard’s shoulder. “I promise.”

Richard leaned towards him a moment, then drew abruptly back. “Neil. It is mine. I need you to understand that — to believe it. I can’t have you… suspecting Laura of things that… suspecting my future child of…”

“I know,” Neil said, when it seemed that Richard was unable to continue. “For God’s sake Richard, I know. I told you: I was wrong. About Laura. About everything.”

Richard didn’t look convinced; instead his expression became doubtful and then grim. “What changed your mind about her since last night?”

“Richard, last night I was shocked and surprised. I said things that in a calmer state of mind I never would.”

“You accused my wife of adultery. Once by inference to her face and the second time quite openly to me. And you were quite calm, really. You didn’t seem very shocked at all. You seemed quite in control of yourself, quite deliberate, really, when you told me things that I wish I’d never heard — not especially from my own brother.”

Neil was silent. By the tight, glittering appearance of Richard’s eyes, he could see that Richard was holding back fury.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. Everything I said was wrong. I don’t know what else to say.”

“It’s not just that.” Richard stood and paced the room. “I can’t believe you stood by eavesdropping on her while a man attempted to make love to her — a brother would have sent that man away. I thought I could trust you.”

“You can.”

“If you can’t trust her, how can I trust you? I can’t. And she — she’s delicate, right now. I don’t want her to be hurt—”

“—I’d never hurt her.”

“You already have!” Richard stopped pacing and pointed his stick at Neil. “What do you think it was, last night? What do you think it’s been the past few weeks? Your manner to her is obnoxious, cold, dismissive. I didn’t want to interfere, I was hoping you’d warm up to her with time, but I noticed.”

“Neither of us have the gift of pretending we feel what we don’t,” Neil said, exasperated. “But I have been respectful to her, I think.”

“What you said about her last night was not respectful. What you did to her yesterday was beyond the pale. I’m offended, Neil. I’m angry. She’s my wife and I love her and you…” Richard trailed off. “If I said such things about Verity, how would you feel?”

Neil looked away. “You wouldn’t say such things.”

Richard shook his head. “Never.”

There was silence in the room for a moment. Neil felt guiltier than ever. There didn’t seem to be anything he could say that would make it right. The damage was already done, and only time — hopefully not too much — would heal it.

“How’s it going with the doctors and Podge?” Richard asked quietly. “Have you made any progress?”

Neil blinked at the change of subject. “I think I’ve done what I can here. I’ve got several surgeons coming down to my place in July. They’ll need to examine him before any further decisions can be made.”

“Then if I ask you to leave, I won’t be doing any harm to him?”

“To leave? You’re turning me out?”

“No. You’re free to stay if you need. But I— I think it would be best for everybody if you didn’t prolong your visit, shall we say?”

Neil opened his mouth to protest then shut it again. He could see there wasn’t any point arguing; Richard had fallen back into his very familiar, contemptuous, cold anger. There was nothing to do with that but wait until he’d thawed again.

“Tomorrow,” Neil said shortly. “I can leave then. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

Richard looked at him, breathing hard, as though he’d expected a fight. “Right then,” he said, and turned and left.

Neil watched him go, then picked up his letter and tossed it in the fireplace.

*     *     *

Having to leave the next day meant that Neil couldn’t waste any time before visiting Cavendish. He went immediately to the doctor’s own house, not many streets away. Cavendish was busy, however, and Neil had to wait some time before he could see him. Nor was it an easy task to persuade him to take the trip up to Cumbria; only when he pointed out that Cavendish would be required to treat any future sons of Richard’s for the same impediment and would be advantaged by the experience of treating Podge did Cavendish at last agree.

When Neil returned home, he found Laura and Richard had gone out for the evening. That spoilt his plans. He’d intended to speak to Laura in private and apologise to her for his behaviour. And probably he thought, he ought congratulate her too.

That he was leaving the next day was a settled matter: he had finished what he came to London to do, and it was clear that he’d made Richard angry enough that he’d only provoke him more by lingering, but he still wished he wasn’t leaving on such a note. It was dawning on him that he’d behaved very badly indeed, not just the past few weeks, but ever since he’d heard that Richard had married Laura. It made him uncomfortable to realize that he’d done to Richard exactly what his father had done to himself: refused to accept his choice in a matter of heart.

He had been jealous — not of Richard, but of Laura. He had been jealous that she had such a call upon Richard now, was so great a part of his life. Childish, silly, poisonous jealousy.

It was a miserable last evening for Neil, all alone in the empty house. He was lingering morosely over his port at the dining table, wondering when Richard and Laura would be back, when the doorbell rang and he heard a vaguely familiar voice talking to the butler:

“No, no I can wait for her. If you’ll just let me up, I’ll wait as long as need be.”

Neil recognized the voice and went out to the hall to see a man hovering on the steps, his hat in his hands.

“Mr… Percival, wasn’t it?” Neil said.

The man jumped, his long, pale hands working on the brim of his hat. “Er. Yes?”

“Come in here.”

The butler melted away and Percival came inside. Neil shut the dining room door.

“Who are you?” Percival asked.

“Richard’s brother.” Neil leaned against the table and looked the man up and down. He was handsome, Neil supposed, in a wilting sort of way, but there was something off-putting about his nervous manner. “Why are you calling upon Lady Albroke?”

“I — I was a friend of Lady Albroke’s when she was married to Maidstone.”

“You had an affair with her.”

The man blushed pink like a girl.

“Why are you here?” Neil repeated. “No lies. Why do you wish to see her now? You were supposed to be going to Australia — why didn’t you get on that ship?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t mean to— I mean…” He glanced away. “I’ve heard the strangest rumours about her, they’re all over London. They say she fainted at Lady Roynor’s ball last night, and I wanted to know if she was ill — I thought it might explain why…” He trailed off. “Then someone said it’s because she’s going to have a baby. And I have to know — is it true?”

Neil narrowed his eyes. “It’s true.”

Percival sagged into a chair. “No wonder she wouldn’t—” he broke off and glanced guiltily at Neil, who guessed what he had been going to say.

“She wouldn’t go with you because she doesn’t want you,” Neil said sharply. “Are you going to stay around here, bothering her? She was abundantly clear about never wanting to see you again.”

“No,” Percival said, putting his face in his hands. “I don’t know. I just wanted to know if it was true.”

He stayed there, motionless and silent, his head in his hands. Neil watched him and wondered what was the best thing to do. That Percival was besotted with Laura was obvious. Even her harsh words yesterday didn’t seem to have changed that. A besotted man might do a great deal of hurt. He might bother her in public, or reveal their old affair, or lead to some disgrace for her. Perhaps rumour would even credit him with being the father of Laura’s baby, if he made himself too much a nuisance.

“Lady Albroke has nothing to do with you now,” Neil said. “You shouldn’t be here. She turned you away.”

“But I wanted to see her — I just had to know for sure if there was going to be a baby. It changes everything.”

“How?” Neil demanded. “How does it change anything?”

Percival’s hands parted to reveal eyes full of sorrow. “It makes it different. If she’s having a baby, of course she couldn’t go with me. She’d have to stay.”

“No. It doesn’t. She’s another man’s wife either way, and she wants nothing to do with you. She was clear about that.” Neil looked down upon him contemptuously and wondered how someone as proud and unsympathetic as Laura had ever deigned to accept Percival’s fawning attentions. “Why didn’t you get on that boat? It sailed yesterday, didn’t it? I heard you tell her so.”

Percival shrugged. “I don’t have the money.”

“Then you’d take another man’s wife, a woman you allegedly love, to a foreign country on a six month journey without any money?” Neil stared incredulously at him.

Percival shrank back. “It would have worked out — if we could get to my cousin’s place. If she loved me.”

“She doesn’t.” Neil stood over Percival. “Has the ship sailed?”

Percival nodded silently.

“Is there another one?”

“Not that I can get on. I don’t have the money for passage.”

“You’ve got debts, don’t you?”

Percival gave a listless shrug.

Neil took out his wallet from his pocket. He pulled several notes out. Percival watched him, frowning.

“Here,” Neil said, dropping the notes on the table in front of Percival. “This is two hundred pounds.”

Percival reached out his hand to take them but Neil placed his hand on top of them.

“Now, wait a minute. I’m giving this to you on one condition — you get on a ship today. I don’t care where it goes, but it leaves England. And you never come back. You never write to Laura. You never try to see her. You never talk of her or your affair to anyone. You never even think about her ever again.”

Percival stared at him.

“Promise me,” Neil said. “From now on, as far as you’re concerned, she doesn’t exist.”

“I promise,” Percival said, taking the money and standing up. “I’ll be gone by tonight.”

“You’d better be.” Neil added callously, “if you’re not, I’ll tell your debtors where you are, and that you’ve got money on you.”

He looked suddenly panic-stricken, making Neil think he had meant to lie, take the money, and linger in London in hopes of seeing Laura again. But he slouched away to the door, casting only one glance back. Neil watched him leave, thoughtful. He wasn’t sure that either Richard or Laura would be pleased with what he had done. They might think it interfering. But they never had to know. Laura would think her words had warned Percival off, and Richard would never think to imagine what had taken place.

__

A/N: And so at last, and too late, Neil tries to do the right thing.

Chapter Ten: Something So Trivial

It was an awkward goodbye the next morning. Richard had half-reconsidered his decision in the middle of the night: it was so unexpected for Laura to get with child that he might have forgiven Neil’s reaction alone — even his own had been outright disbelief, after all. But in the end, it was Neil’s behaviour about Percival that made him certain. There was something very underhand and duplicitous about that. If Percival had been a real threat to Laura, Richard wondered, would Neil have entered the room in time to protect her?

However it was hard to face Neil at breakfast the next day. Neil barely spoke a word, and Richard had the guilty impression that he’d bullied Neil into silence. Part of him wanted to say it was alright, Neil could stay, he forgave him. Quite a different part of him wanted to slap the forlorn look off Neil’s face and tell him it was his fault for being such a stubborn, judgemental fool to begin with. After breakfast, they lingered awkwardly in the hall while the grooms carried Neil’s trunks into the carriage.

“Um,” Neil said, looking up the stairwell. “Laura isn’t up yet?”

“She’s not well this morning.”

“I ought to say goodbye to her — is she well enough for that, if I come up?”

Richard hesitated and then shrugged. “Probably.”

Richard left Neil waiting outside the door while he went into Laura’s bedroom. She was lying in bed with one hand over her stomach and the other over her eyes. When he told her what Neil wanted, she slowly sat up and he helped rearrange the pillows so she could lean back on them. Richard stroked her hair anxiously. Seeing her so ill made him feel guilty, like he’d damaged her. And terrified, and powerless.

“It wasn’t this bad before,” he said. “I would have noticed.”

She shook her head. “I think this is the worst of it now. I ought to be much better in a week or two.”

“Are you sure you’re well enough to see Neil?”

“I can say goodbye to him at least.”

He examined her, saw more irritation than weariness in her pale face, and realized she was annoyed to be so coddled, so he called for Neil, who came in rather hesitantly.

“It doesn’t feel right to disturb you,” Neil said, hovering by the bed. “But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

Laura gave a faint nod and held her hand out to him. Rather than kiss it or shake it, he took it between both of his, patted it once, and let it go.

“You got what you needed with the doctors then?” Laura asked in a frail voice.

Neil nodded. “They need to look at Podge before we make any further decisions.”

“Right.” Laura looked worried. “I hope it goes well.”

“Thank you,” Neil said. “And, um, I hope it goes well for you too. I mean, with your baby.”

The ghost of a smile appeared on Laura’s face, but she seemed too tired to speak. Richard could see that her hands were trembling. He caught Neil’s eye, and Neil nodded his understanding.

“I just wanted to say goodbye,” Neil said, “and thank you for your hospitality.”

“It was a…” Laura faltered. “I’m glad you came.”

Neil gave a rueful smile. “Be well,” he said, and turned to leave.

At the door, he turned back suddenly, his cheeks pink. “I forgot to say… my congratulations to you both.”

Richard noticed that Laura gave a proper smile then, but she only nodded her thanks. Then Neil was gone and his footsteps sounded on the stairs. Richard squeezed Laura’s shoulder.

“I’ll just go see him off.”

It didn’t take long. Where normally they’d not part without a hug, this time Neil hovered awkwardly in front of Richard for a moment before clapping him on the shoulder. Richard gave him a nod. Then the carriage was rolling down the street and Richard was limping back to Laura’s room.

She was lying down with her eyes shut when he came back, and he thought she was sleeping, but she opened them blearily as he came in.

“Don’t go,” she said tiredly.

“I’m not going.” He drew up a chair by the bed and sat down. There were, in fact, things for him to be doing today, things for him to be doing right now, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave while she looked so pale and fragile.

“Why is Neil leaving so suddenly?” she asked, shutting her eyes again.

“He finished his business here.”

She was silent for a while, but Richard could tell by her breathing that she wasn’t sleeping.

“Did you fight with him again?”

“Yes,” Richard said shortly.

There was another brief silence. “Was it over me?”

“In a way. But it’s not your fault.”

Laura turned and pressed her face into a pillow. Richard wondered if she was hiding tears. Over the last few weeks he had noticed that her eyes were strangely quick to glitter up with emotion. Now he knew why. Another thing for him to feel guilty about.

“I’d hoped to have you make up with him before he learned about the baby,” she said, rather muffled into the pillow. “And now things are only worse, aren’t they?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s probably yours,” Laura said peevishly, pulling the covers over her head. She gave a faint groan from beneath them, and Richard rubbed the lump that was her shoulder.

“It’s probably best if you lie still,” he said. “Just try and rest.”

The covers moved, and Laura’s nose appeared from beneath them. She made a wordless, contemptuous sound.

“Yes,” Richard agreed. “It’s all my fault.”

Her hand wormed its way out of the blankets and groped across the cover. Richard caught it and held it in his. She squeezed his fingers.

“I love you too,” Richard said.

She fell asleep again not long after that, and Richard took the opportunity to leave her. There were a few matters of prime importance that he did not want to delay: he had to talk to his lawyer about updating his will, a dark precaution that he didn’t want Laura to know about right now in case it worried her, and he had to visit Laura’s father and find out how Brocket would react to the news. The first took most of the morning, and the second, far more unpleasant interview, little more than an hour. Brocket had already heard the rumours about Laura, and had assumed, to Richard’s disgust, the worst of her. Convincing him otherwise took some time, and once that was done, it was even more work to convince him to maintain the estrangement between him and his daughter. Richard was seriously concerned about the effect it might have on Laura to be confronted by her father in her condition. At last, Richard managed to persuade Brocket that if, in the present, there was no relationship with his daughter, there might in future be some relationship with his grandson, but that if there was any distress to Laura now, Brocket would never see any of his future grandchildren.

After that, it was a relief for Richard to come home and find that Laura was up and dressed and playing piano in the drawing room.

“Feeling better?” he asked, stooping to kiss her.

“Much.” She pulled him down onto the piano seat with her and wrapped her arms around him. “Elizabeth called.”

Richard almost swore. He’d forgotten that Elizabeth would hear the gossip — and be furious that she wasn’t told first. “Was she very awful?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I told the butler to say I wasn’t at home today, to anyone. The doorbell’s been ringing all afternoon. But Elizabeth must be dealt with, mustn’t she?”

“I’ll deal with her tomorrow morning. Don’t worry about it. She’ll be too pleased we’ve done it at last to be angry for long that we didn’t tell her.”

Laura shuddered. “She’s worse pleased than angry.”

“Yes, at least when she’s angry she does ignore one.” Richard kissed Laura, a sudden surge of idiotic happiness coming to him at the thought that they had done it. “We’re having a baby. What does Elizabeth matter?”

“Not at all.” She kissed him back with a smile. Then she paused. “Richard.”

“Darling?”

“Why did you fight with Neil?”

Richard felt a shadow of dread sink over him. He hadn’t told Laura about Neil eavesdropping her. He couldn’t tell her that without also revealing that he knew that she had — just once — been unfaithful to Maidstone after all. He wanted her to tell him that herself. He had faith that one day she would. Since their wedding, she’d opened up more about her marriage to Maidstone, through brief, sad conversations. It was still painful to her, clearly, but he had the impression that she no longer meant to hide things from him.

She tugged on his coat collar. “Why did you argue?”

“Because I don’t like what he said to you that night,” Richard said, uncomfortable with the half-lie.

Laura’s face clouded. “But, Richard, really… he isn’t leaving because of that, is he?”

“He’s also finished what he needed to do here.”

Laura still looked doubtful. She looked down at Richard’s knee and started to rub it gently. By now, she knew just how to touch him to make the constant ache hurt a little less. Richard felt his muscles relax at her touch.

“You know that night, before you came in, he was really very kind to me,” Laura said. “You didn’t see it, but I was very unwell and he looked after me. For the first time I thought we might really be able to be friends. He was talking to me, like a normal person.”

Richard wondered if that was true — probably. Neil always had liked to imagine himself a gallant when a woman was in distress.

“And this morning, too,” Laura continued, “I could see he was trying to be kind to me.”

Probably, Richard thought, she was right. But it was too little, too late as far as Richard was concerned.

“I want you to be friends,” she said, playing with his fingers. “I want our baby to have a nice uncle.”

Richard caught the twitch of a smile on her lips. “Now you’re wheedling me.”

“I am.” Her smile grew full. “But you will make up with him, won’t you, before the baby comes?”

Richard folded his fingers around hers. Despite his anger towards Neil, he couldn’t quite imagine a future without him. But nor, right now, could he bear to think of Neil possibly hurting Laura — not with fists or with violence, Neil would never do that, but with cold words and colder feelings.

“Richard?” Laura looked doubtfully at him. “You’re not really going to hold a grudge over something so trivial as what he said that night, surely? He clearly believed me this morning.”

“No.” She made his lie easy. “No, I won’t hold a grudge over that. But let me be a little offended for a while.”

__

A/N: Look at that! Two updates in three days! My chapters tend to be a little fluid, but you guys might like to know there’s about fifteen chapters and an epilogue until the end of the story. The end is in sight!!!

Chapter Eleven: Head over Heels

It was raining when Neil arrived home three days later, but Verity was waiting on the front steps with Podge in her arms and Annie sitting at her feet. Before he could even get out of the carriage, Annie had run down the steps and flung herself damply into his arms. Neil grunted at the force of her arrival.

“Papa!” she cried. “You’re back!”

“I am!” Neil hugged and kissed her. “And I missed you so much! Have you been good for Mama?”

“Yes,” Annie said, with suspicious angelicness.

Neil looked to Verity for confirmation. She was coming more gingerly out into the rain, holding her shawl over Podge’s dark curls so he wouldn’t get too wet. She suppressed a smile and then laughed.

“She tied together the tassels of all the carpets in the drawing room,” she admitted. “And she took my scissors and cut off most of Podge’s hair, which was very bad, Annie. You mustn’t do that ever again.”

“Oh, Annie, no,” Neil said. “That’s very naughty.”

Annie’s green eyes welled with tears. “But I didn’t mean to,” she said, starting to wail. “It was clicky and clicky.”

There was time enough for deciphering what that meant later. Neil sighed and hugged her once more.

“Now don’t cry,” he said. “Come on, let’s get inside out of the rain.”

Once inside, he let Annie slip to the floor and pulled Verity into his arms and kissed her, very careful not to squash Podge, who she was still holding, between them. Releasing her, he kept one hand caressing her cheek and let the warmth of her presence wash over him.

“Welcome home,” she said.

“I love you.”

She looked a little surprised at the fervency of his tone, then her expression softened and she freed one hand to touch his own. It said everything that could not be so easily said in front of their children and the staff unpacking the coach. Neil found himself smiling.

“Pa-pa!” Podge said, clawing for him. “Pa-pa!”

Neil took his son from Verity’s arms and pulled back the damp shawl to reveal a very close-cropped fuzz of dark hair.

“My god you look hideous!” Neil kissed him and hugged him close. Podge’s tiny hands clutched at his ears. “How’s he been?”

“He missed you. We all did.” Verity rubbed Neil’s damp coat sleeve. “It will grow back.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Annie said mournfully from below.

Podge, in any case, did not seem distressed by his appearance. Neil shifted him to one arm and slid the other around Verity’s waist. After nearly four weeks’ absence, he found himself aching for her presence. It wasn’t lust — though a separate part of him was looking forward to bed tonight — he wanted just to sit with her, to hold her hand, to know that she was there.

Of course Annie was tugging at his trouser leg and Podge had sticky fingers under the collar of Neil’s shirt.

“Cadge,” Podge said loudly in Neil’s ear. “Cadge!”

“I made a pirate trap!” Annie was saying. “In the pond!”

Ruefully, Neil dropped his arm from Verity’s waist and took Annie’s hand.

“But did you catch any pirates?”

“Not yet!” she said proudly.

“Cadge!” Podge squealed.

“Carriage,” corrected Verity, giving Neil a smile that seemed to say she felt the same way he did. “Why don’t we all have tea and you can tell Papa all about it then?”

They had tea while the children had warm milk, and discussed the matters concerning children over it. Annie had had a very busy and happy three weeks in Neil’s absence. Podge had been less busy, and less happy, but he had still managed to eat at least five things he shouldn’t have, one of which had been his nanny’s shoe buckle.

“And she wants us to buy her a new one,” Verity said, “which I don’t blame her for, except she says they were pearl buckles and I’m quite sure they were only bead.”

Neil jogged Podge gently up and down on his knee. “They’ve got such an appetite for destruction, don’t they?”

“Nannies?” Verity asked innocently. “Well we could always fire her, but then we wouldn’t get any sleep.”

“No.” Neil looked thoughtfully at her, noting weary lines beneath her eyes. “Was it hard, me being away so long?”

“It’s always hard when you’re gone.” There was a tremble in her voice that made Neil ache to pull her into his arms. He would have done it too, if at that moment the said Nanny hadn’t come through the door.

“Annie, go with Nanny now, will you?” Verity said. “It’s time for your nap.”

Annie made rather a fuss at that, huffing and crossing her arms and stomping, but Podge was almost asleep already, and was easily bundled off. When they were gone, the room was quiet. Neil got up and made sure the doors were firmly closed, then came back to Verity, put his arms around her, and kissed her long and hard. Afterwards he rested his cheek against hers, his eyes closed, savouring the feel of having her in his arms again. She leaned her head against his and sighed.

“I’m so glad you’re back.”

“Me too. I missed you so much.” He opened his eyes and touched her cheek. “I needed you.”

She gave him a half-smile. “I need you too. Every day. I love you.”

“Love you.” He kissed her again, and tugged her down to the couch with him, pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her. There would be time for making love to her later; for now, he just wanted to hold her and talk. She nestled into his arms and rested her head against the crook of his neck.

“Something happened in London, didn’t it?”

“Something.”

“It’s not Podge, is it?” The tremble was in her voice again. “It’s not about him?”

“No. No, he’ll be fine.” He held her tighter. “At least, I’ve invited two surgeons and a doctor down in late July, to see him. And they think they can help him.”

“Thank God.” Verity clutched at his hand. “I’m so afraid for him.”

“He’ll be fine.” It was easier to tell Verity that than believe it himself. “Richard is. I am.”

“But it hurts Richard. He’s not fine the way you are.”

“I didn’t break my leg,” Neil reminded her. “And even Richard isn’t so bad really.”

“But it hurts him. And I don’t want Podge to grow up and be in the same kind of pain, every day.”

Neil was silent a moment. That was his dread as well. It hurt him now to see Podge unable to walk, hurt him twice to feel so powerless to do anything about it. In his arms, Verity twisted and buried her face in his collar. He rubbed her waist to try and comfort her.

“It hasn’t stopped Richard being happy. And Podge won’t have it anywhere near as badly as Richard does, I promise.”

He thought it worked, because he felt the tension in her body relax. After a while, she raised her head to meet his eyes.

“Is he happy? I mean, now he’s married.”

Neil took advantage of her closeness to kiss her. “Yes. Very.”

“I’m glad, though I can’t really imagine Richard married. He seemed so definitely a bachelor to me. I think he found it hard to open up to women.”

Neil gave a non-committal grunt.

Verity raised an eyebrow. “Something happened,” she repeated. “What happened, Neil?”

“We had a fight.”

“Ah.” Verity traced the line of his jaw. “About his wife.”

Neil buried his face in her hair with a groan.

“What happened?”

Neil couldn’t explain about eavesdropping on Laura; that wasn’t his secret to tell. He breathed in Verity’s scent, of lilacs and summer, and tried to decide how to approach it.

“Neil?”

He raised his head to look in her eyes. “The first thing I ought to tell you is that… well, it turns out that Richard was mistaken about not being able to have children.”

Verity’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Laura’s pregnant.”

Her eyes went wider still, then creased as she laughed. “Oh. Wow.” She hugged Neil tightly. “Poor Richard.”

“Poor Richard?”

“All this time,” she said, “thinking he couldn’t have children, living such a lonely life. It put him off marrying, you know. He didn’t think there was any point. Thank god he found her. Thank god he married her. He’ll never be unhappy from now on. He was always so unhappy.”

It wasn’t the reaction Neil had expected. He knew Verity too well to think she’d be jealous for Podge’s sake, but he hadn’t expected such compassion for Richard. And it made him feel all the worse for his own reaction.

“I did something stupid,” he said. “I asked her if it was his. That’s why we fought.”

“Neil!” She gave him a reproachful look. “That is stupid.”

He winced. “Yes. I know. I made her cry. And then I told Richard she was… other things. Verity, I think he hates me now.”

“He doesn’t.” Verity stroked his hand. “But he’s hurt.”

Neil sighed and pulled her closer again. “I wanted so badly to believe that she was bad for him. I never liked her — I remember her being a spiteful little girl — and after last year I think I hated her.”

“Is she that bad?” Verity asked softly. “Is she cruel to him? Is there any chance at all, rationally speaking, that it isn’t his?”

Neil shook his head. “No. I told you I was stupid. I didn’t want to believe it, but she loves him. You were right, of course. They married for love. I don’t understand it. She must have…”

“Charmed him? Beguiled him?”

“Fallen head over heels for him.” Neil sighed. “And what I said to her…”

“She’ll forgive you too.” Verity kissed his cheek. “Did you apologise?”

“I didn’t have time. Not to her, anyway. Richard practically kicked me out of his house. I’ve never seen him so angry. And apologising to him didn’t do any good.”

Verity was frowning. “You need to talk it out with him, after he’s had some time to cool down.”

“How? I’m not leaving you again so soon, even for his sake.”

“Then we’ll ask him up here, with his wife. She can still travel, can’t she?”

“I don’t know. She’s in the early stages, but she was very unwell when I left.”

Sympathy flashed across Verity’s face. “When she’s better then. It will give Richard time to cool down too.”

Privately, Neil doubted any length of time would be long enough, but by the determined look on Verity’s face, he knew better than to argue. Instead, he kissed her and pulled her into a more comfortable position on the sofa. The cares and anxieties of the past few weeks melted away. He was home, with the woman he loved, and everything would be alright, as long as he had her.

__

A/N: I think I’ll be putting another chapter up on Sunday because this one’s rather short and I want to get the novel finished before the end of February if I can, which means a quicker update schedule. Next chapter is also one of my favourites - something really terrible happens, so of course I love it >D

Chapter Twelve: A Parting Gift

Jonathan Percival had a broken heart.

He didn’t think anything would make that right ever again, and certainly it needed a stiffer drink than cheap French wine to dull the pain. He was on his second bottle, and the pain seemed only to have swelled and warmly softened within him. The sight of a dark-haired beauty cuddled in the lap of a brawny sailor by the bar threatened to bring him to tears. There was love. There was happiness. The dark-haired beauty kissed her lover and caressed his cheek. Soft words were spoken, too low for Johnathan to overhear. His heart ached to imagine what they might be. The sailor nodded his head towards the door that led to the rooms above. The dark-haired beauty drew back and shook her head with an adorable pout. The sailor said something, then the dark-haired beauty gave a snort of disgust, swung her legs to the floor, and flounced off, showing a great deal of round white calf beneath her cropped skirts. Percival had just enough time to feel heartbroken on the gentleman’s behalf before the woman passed his table and said contemptuously no one:

“Frogs! Skinflints, the lot of ’em.”

Her accent was distinctly cockney, and Percival, who had been in Paris two weeks and was homesick and heart-broken besides, did not think before speaking to her.

“I say, Madame,” he said. “Are you English?”

The woman whirled, her skirts flying up several inches north of plump white knees. She flashed him a smile. “I am. Where ’bouts you from, m’lord?”

She sat down without invitation on the bench next to Percival, right about the moment that Percival realized, somewhat tardily, that she was no sailor’s lover but a lady of the night. By then, of course, it was too late for Percival to ask her to leave. That would be rude. He swallowed.

“Manchester,” he said, in barely more than a whisper.

“Oh, I never been there.” The woman fixed her smutty blue eyes thoughtfully on his bottle of wine. “That’s nearly empty.”

Percival had not observed this fact. In fact, he would have argued that the bottle was yet half-full, if he had the spirit for arguing. But he didn’t, so he made no protest as the woman called the garcon for another bottle and another glass with it.

“That’s better,” the woman said, taking a deep draught. “Warm in ’ere, isn’t it?”

She fanned her chest — a task made much easier by the very low cut of her gown. Percival shifted uncomfortably on the bench and tried to think of Laura, only that started tears pricking in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked in concern.

“I’m in love,” Percival said.

“Ain’t we all.” The woman sighed heavily. “Well then, tell your aunty Nancy all about.”

She was not much of an aunt, being several years younger than Percival, but she was a good listener. And after another bottle of wine, Percival forgot that he was talking to a fallen woman and began to feel quite comfortable with her. She was a clumsy little thing; it was a wonder how often her foot — bare, she wore no shoes — would run into his under the table, or how the slightest commotion at the rowdy bar would make her shriek and duck against Percival for cover. By the time they were on their third bottle of wine, she was beginning to sway, and it seemed wisest for Percival to keep his arm around his waist to steady her.

“But it’s the saddest story I ever ’eard,” she said sleepily, tracing her finger over his chin. “And you’ll never see ’er again now. It’s a right tragedy.”

Looking into the woman’s misty blue eyes, it was beginning to seem less of a tragedy. Perhaps the wine had managed to dull the pain after all.

And then, without quite knowing how it happened, Percival found himself kissing the woman. When he drew back, she had a strange, almost pained look in her eyes. Then it disappeared as she smiled.

“I know a place we can go. Private-like.”

“Take me there,” he whispered, and forgot about Laura all together.

The place wasn’t far from the inn Percival was staying at, but Percival lost his way, because she led him down crooked little side-streets and because he had his eyes on her, not his surroundings. Then before he knew it, they were in a brightly lit hotel room and Nancy was lying down on the bed in front of him, her breasts bared, her skirts pulled up past her waist.

The next morning when he woke alone in the room, Percival couldn’t remember quite what had happened, but he discovered that Nancy had thoughtfully turned the pockets of his coat in again and hung it over a chair, and he considered the robbery a fair price for the task of mending a broken heart. To the end of his days, he could never think of that night without a perverse guilty pride. And he never again thought often of Laura at all, except in a faint, distantly surprised way, to remember that once upon a time he had thought himself in love with such a person.

He never even remembered that, along with his wallet and watch, he had been keeping love-letters to Laura in his coat

*       *      *

In fact what had happened that night at the hotel was that Percival had fallen asleep on top of Nancy before he could even finish the task he’d started. She wriggled out from under him and then shook him to make sure he was properly out. He groaned and then snored.

Nancy looked guiltily down at him. It was true, she felt sorry for him. But she also felt sorry for herself. It had been alright at first. She’d enjoyed being in Paris, enjoyed being able to walk past all the fancy milliners’ and dressmakers’ shops and stare at the fine lace and silk in the windows. It had felt like an adventure. Even the work had been an adventure. Then she’d had the first bad client. She later learned that he hadn’t even been that bad. It was only a busted lip, after all. Some women got it much worse. But Madame hadn’t cared about Nancy’s lip. Madame had even apologised to the client for Nancy’s pertness and docked her cut.

The second bad client was worse. The bruises faded within a month, but after that, Nancy couldn’t face her work with anything approaching enthusiasm.

“I used to think you’d be one of my best girls,” Madame snapped after a client complained, and docked her cut again.

“If you don’t like it, then get out,” Giles Fordham had suggested, when Nancy told him about it. Giles Fordham was one of her good clients. She thought he was soft on her — but she wasn’t stupid, not these days, and she knew that his rough pinches and light slaps were signs of worse to come. But his advice was good. She was getting out. She’d go back to England and return to service. Even the workhouse if she had to.

She snatched Percival’s coat from the bed and, with a deftness born of practice, ran her fingers over its lining. There, in this pocket, and in that one. She extracted his watch from one, registered its worth with a relieved glance, and then took his wallet and a bundle of folded papers from the other.

The papers she discarded on the rumpled bed covers, and the money she counted with a rapid, beating heart. One hundred… one hundred and seventy pounds nearly. Her heart threatened to burst. Until now, she’d been lucky to find a man with five francs apiece. This was enough to pay her passage back to England and her living expenses for several years.

The door opened behind her, and she turned with a guilty start as Giles Fordham entered. Well, even half of it was more than what she needed.

“Over already?” Giles said.

“He fell asleep.” She passed the notes to him. “More than an ’undred and seventy. We’re rich.”

“Hardly rich.” Giles glanced at the notes and his eyes widened. He looked at the man on the bed and then frowned. “What was his name?”

Nancy picked up his coat and began to turn the pockets back in. “Why’s that matter?”

“It just does.”

“Percival. You know ’im?” She hung Percival coat over a chair and, spying his papers on the bed, picked them up to return them to his pocket.

“Never heard of him before.” Giles looked at her again. “What’s that you’re holding?”

“Dunno. Can’t be worth anything though. Just bits of paper with writin’ on.”

“Let me see them.”

Nancy obediently handed them over and Giles flicked through them. A strange, crocodile smile spread across his face. Nancy shuddered to see it.

“They worth money?” she asked.

“They’re old love letters. Only…” Giles paused, still smiling. “Sentimental value.”

Nancy glanced uneasily at the man on the bed. He hadn’t said his lover’s name, but now she assumed, from the money in his pocket, that it was someone very rich, someone Giles knew.

“I tell you what,” Giles said, holding the bundle of notes back out to Nancy. “You take it all.”

“What!?”

“Take it all. His money, his watch. It’s all yours. All I want is these. This is worth everything to me.”

Nancy stared up at him. Something warned her that this was going to go very, very badly for someone. She didn’t want it to be her.

“I used your room,” she said quietly. “You wanted ’alf for the room.”

“Yeah, well, I like you. Tonight, you can have the room free. Go back to London. Buy something nice for your mother. Brother.”

Nancy continued to stare at him. The look in Giles’s eyes made her feel afraid.

“Look,” he said, slapping her on the bottom with the money. “It’s not gonna be long before the gendarme figure out what you’ve been up to. Not gonna be long before you get the pox. Or get with child. So you take this money and you go back home. Consider it a parting gift, from a lover to a lover.”

Still, Nancy didn’t quite dare take the money from him.

Giles scowled, grabbed her hair, and dragged her towards the door. “What I’m saying is, go! I don’t want you here anymore.”

“Fine, I’m goin’.” She snatched the money from his hands and flinched, thinking he would hit her for it. “I’m goin’.”

She went. A week later, she was back in London, in the awe-inspiring surrounds of a bank, exchanging one twenty pound note, signed by a Mister Neil Armiger, for twenty pounds in coins. She did not know that Mr Armiger was the younger brother of her ex-mistress, the brother of the man Giles hated most in the world, and even she had, it would not matter: she could not read.

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A/N: And so the terrible thing happens. Mr Percival will never been seen again. Nor will the intrepid Nancy. I like to imagine she gets her happily-ever-after though. Unfortunately, we will see Mr Fordham again, and more than we’d like.

As a point of reference, bank notes at this time were signed with the name of the person who they were issued to, which is why Neil’s name was on the bank note and Fordham got suspicious.

IMPORTANT: I’ve been getting some spam lately on my works, from bots pretending to be wattpad admin and leaving comments with suspicious links. Mostly, the comments have been disappearing as quickly as they come, but I’d like to remind every please do not click any links in any comments!

Chapter Thirteen: Secrets Between

When the first letter from Neil came, Richard read it with many snorts and then tossed it straight into the fireplace. It contained a great deal of neatly worded phrases, such as “the rashness of my conduct notwithstanding” and “not to dwell on past mistakes when present concerns demand forgiveness”. The second letter was more to the point and contained several carefully blotted out expletives. Richard ignored that too. The third letter, coming at the start of July, as Richard and Laura were about to leave London for the year, was not from Neil but from his wife. Richard read this one more slowly. It ended on the lines,

This is a personal request, from me to you, Richard. Will you please come and visit us this summer with your wife while she can still travel? Neil knows he did wrong and regrets it deeply. And I miss you, my children miss you, and I want to get to know Lady Laura before the baby comes and changes everything. Let’s be family again.

With love, Verity

It was impossible for him to throw that on the fire. He looked across the breakfast table to where Laura was eating her way steadily through two boiled eggs, three pieces of toast with jam, and a pile of ham; her appetite had come back with a vengeance now her sickness was fading.

“How do you feel about travelling?” he asked.

She looked up, licking jam from her bottom lip. “Where are we going?”

“Only if you’re well enough.”

“I think I am. I’m not often sick anymore, and only in the mornings before I’ve eaten.” She looked curiously at the letter. “Neil?”

“Verity.” Richard tapped the letter thoughtfully on the table. “She wants us to come up and visit them.”

Laura chewed on her toast then swallowed. “So Neil asked her to extend the olive branch. I never thought him a coward.”

Richard hesitated. “No… Neil sent two letters already. I didn’t reply to them.”

Laura raised her eyebrows.

“I’m still angry,” Richard admitted.

“I know.” Laura began to shell an egg. “It’s very charming, really, how long you can hold a grudge on my behalf.”

She did not sound charmed. Richard sighed inwardly.

“Do you want to go then?” he asked.

“I think so. I’m curious about Neil’s wife.” Laura sliced the egg and spread it across one of her jammy pieces of toast.

Richard winced. “Laura, that’s a vile combination.”

She took a big bite and chewed curiously. “It is, rather.”

That didn’t stop her eating it. Richard sipped his coffee and thought about the invitation. He’d rather hoped Laura wouldn’t want to accept it. If Verity was asking, he couldn’t say no. The compulsion to agree, to make her happy, was too strong for him. Whatever piece of his heart or soul she had caught so long ago, she still had it.

He looked across at Laura and felt guilty for thinking it. He never had any trouble telling Laura no.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to travel?” he asked. “It’s three or four days by road — not very good road, the last two days — and the weather will probably be hot.”

“We’ll take it in easy stages,” Laura replied sanguinely. “As long as we’re back before the end of September there’ll be no risk at all.”

Richard put the letter down with a sigh. “Right then.”

“It’s settled. Good.” Laura finished her toast and egg and got up. In the full skirts of her morning dress, she looked more plump than pregnant yet, but it had been a few weeks now since her belly had started to round. That had shaken the last, silent doubts from Richard’s mind that perhaps Laura might be mistaken after all. It still bewildered him, however, to think about the fact that, not many months from now, he was going to be a father.

She came over to him on her way to the door and he pulled her down for a kiss.

“Are you sure you can travel?” he asked.

“Yes.” She pushed him gently away. “I’m not made of glass, Richard.”

He knew that. Now her illness had passed, her usual strength of body and spirit had returned. But knowing she was carrying his child made him panickily aware of the danger that lay all around her. If she had a shock. If she were overtired. If she were taken ill. If she were in a street accident. There was no end to the dangers.

And last time, he knew, it had gone badly for her. The baby had been born dead. Early, and dead. She’d told him that much, and just now he didn’t dare ask more.

She rubbed his forehead between his eyebrows. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t get that worried look on your face.” She stood back. “There. Better.”

He laughed, despite himself.

“I can travel,” she said. “And I want to meet her — Verity. And I still think I can make a friend of Neil, if I just have the chance to talk to him.”

Neil had said something similar in his letters. Richard frowned, and Laura prodded his forehead again.

“Don’t do that,” she said.

“Fine.” He forced himself to smile. “Where are you going?”

“A walk in the square.”

“It’s damp today.”

“I’ll wear a shawl.” Laura looked skeptically down at him. “Richard, really, I don’t like this.”

“I know.” He could tell that she found his worrying about her confining. It was too much a reminder, he suspected, of the way Maidstone had treated her. He kissed her hand. “Go on then. I’ve got a letter to write.”

She stopped at the door. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

He gave her a smile. “I know.”

When she had left, he went into his study to write a letter to Verity. Part of him still wanted to refuse her offer, but after what Laura had just said he realized it wasn’t fair to Laura to say no. She wanted to be friends with Neil. And Richard had to let her have that chance, rather than protect her from a danger that — if he was truly honest — probably didn’t exist.

Probably.

*     *     *

On her second turn around the square, Laura was hailed by a voice behind her, and turned to see Elizabeth, striding along with her two eldest children in tow.

Laura sighed. Elizabeth had been very trying since she’d discovered Laura was pregnant. She was full of well-meaning advice, which came out as direct orders. Laura had taken to avoiding her by saying she was feeling ill and retreating to her bedroom, but today she was cornered.

“You’re looking very well,” Elizabeth said, scrutinizing her and directing the children to walk ahead. “You’re starting to show. It’s early for that, a good sign.”

“About the right time,” Laura argued, pulling her shawl closer to hide her figure. She didn’t like Elizabeth’s commendation any more than she liked her criticism.

“Perhaps,” Elizabeth conceded. “You’ve a small figure, so it can’t be as easy to carry as someone like me.”

Elizabeth made it sound like being tall was a virtue. Laura was ruffled.

“If I’d had as much practice with it as you have, no doubt I’d find it easy too,” Laura said archly.

That, unfortunately, only served to remind Elizabeth of another conversation. She lowered her voice. “Farthingdale’s started it up again.”

Laura glanced ahead at Elizabeth’s children and hoped they were far enough ahead to be out of earshot. They were walking sedately, arm-in-arm, in their little white frock and little red sailor-suit, not even watching for the squirrels that were darting amongst the trees.

“I’ve been putting a drop of laudanum in his port,” Elizabeth continued in a whisper. “It makes him too sleepy to know what we’ve done exactly.”

“You can’t do that!”

Elizabeth’s eldest son stiffened for a moment and then continued walking. Laura had the sudden suspicion that he was listening. And the little girl’s ears were pink. She took Elizabeth’s arm and dragged her further back.

“You can’t do that,” she repeated in a low voice. “He’ll become ill!”

“And if he does I’ll be safe from his fumbling—” Elizabeth broke off sharply. “It’s not all I’m doing anyway. My maid introduced me to a woman of ill-repute, and I’ve got a method now. As long as I have a few minutes in private to prepare, I’m safe. And he hasn’t noticed a thing, so far.”

“You need to talk to him about this,” Laura said. “You need to tell him that you don’t want more children. You can’t lie to him for the next six, seven, eight years.”

“Why not?” Elizabeth said. “Most wives lie to their husbands for all of their married lives. I’m sure you have things you’re not telling Richard.”

“I don’t have secrets from him.” Even as she said it, Laura blushed. That wasn’t quite true. Richard did not know about Mr Percival. She had meant to tell him, after Percival had visited, but with all the fuss of Richard learning about the baby and then his fight with Neil, somehow, it hadn’t happened. And now it would be so awkward to bring it up.

Elizabeth looked skeptically at her. “Once, I loved Farthingdale, you know.”

Laura jumped. “What?”

“It’s true. When I was first married — I was only seventeen and he had hair then — I thought him quite handsome. And of course he adored me. It’s easy to believe you love someone when they adore you. But it didn’t last long. Not more than a year, I should think. It rarely does.”

A light rain struck up and Laura shivered, though she wasn’t cold.

“It’s not like that with me and Richard.”

“You’ve not been married a year, and already you’re keeping secrets from him — I saw you blush. What is it? Not a flirtation, I hope.”

“Of course not!” Laura snapped.

“Then you do have a secret.” Elizabeth looked smug.

“It’s not a secret. It’s just something he doesn’t know.” Laura pulled her shawl closer around herself. “I don’t have secrets from Richard, and he doesn’t have secrets from me.”

“I guarantee you, he does. Farthingdale thinks he has secrets from me, of course, but I know them all.” Elizabeth gave an unpleasant smile. “He goes to the theatre only to watch the actresses. He thinks I don’t know that, but I do.”

It was, Laura thought, a rather mild and insignificant secret.

“And he eats crab at his club, though it gives him indigestion and I have forbidden him from it.”

Laura tried to look shocked.

“And,” Elizabeth said, in a voice so soft it could barely be heard, “if I am not around to make him, sometimes on Sundays he doesn’t go to church. His valet told me.”

“Goodness,” Laura said at last.

“I tell you now, a valet’s pocket is the key to your husband’s heart,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t know what I’d do without Williams. He tells me everything about Farthingdale.”

“But does Farthingdale have your maid’s pocket?” Laura asked absently.

She was surprised to see a dull blush spread over Elizabeth’s features. The idea that Farthingdale was using her servants to spy on her seemed never to have occurred to Elizabeth before. She was silent for a long time. Laura wondered what other secrets she was keeping from her husband — probably very silly secrets, Laura thought, probably nothing any sensible person would bother hiding, but secrets that would embarrass her all the same. It seemed suddenly more sad than amusing.

The rain grew heavier, and Laura looked to the sky. “I think we ought get inside,” she said. “Would you and your children like to come in until the rain stops?”

“No thank you,” Elizabeth said, raising her hand to a distant groom waiting in front of a carriage. “I think we’ll be getting home now.”

They left, but rather than go inside, Laura sheltered under a tree and thought for a little while. She didn’t want herself and Richard to end up like Elizabeth and Farthingdale. Elizabeth might not seem unhappy, but there was something ugly and uncomfortable about her relationship with her husband. They were both closed off from each other. Both hiding themselves.

Laura’s thoughts circled back to Percival. He hadn’t been back, and she had heard nothing of him. She supposed he’d left the country as he’d said he would. Then that passage of her life was at a close. But she still had to tell Richard about it. She didn’t want any secrets between them, not even trivial ones, not especially one so heavy and dark.

__

A/N: Look how good I am at updating!

Chapter Fourteen: Foundation

Laura told herself that she would choose the right moment to tell Richard. But there didn’t seem to be a right moment. He was so happy these days that she didn’t want to spoil it by bringing the matter up. Several times, she started to tell him, only to cowardly back out after a few words. The secret weighed on her; every morning, she woke up decided to tell him today, and every night, she fell asleep having not done so.

They left London, stayed at Albroke two weeks, and were on their way to Neil’s house in Cumbria. The journey was harder than Laura had anticipated. She was no longer sick now, but she was easily tired and her back ached from the heat and discomfort of the carriage. By the last night of their journey, she had barely enough energy to eat a light supper with Richard before going to their room to rest. She had a novel that she was supposed to be reading but she hadn’t even the energy to concentrate on it. Instead, she left it abandoned on the bed and went to sit by the window, trying to cool herself in the faint breeze. Despite wanting Richard to make up with Neil, she was nervous about meeting him again tomorrow. For all it would be nice to be friends with her husband’s brother, for all it seemed that Neil himself was eager to bury the hatchet, she could not quite conquer the doubt that they would never truly like each other.

The sun set, and stars began to dot the sky. Laura sat there in the semi-dark until the door opened and a soft glow filled the room: Richard was standing in the doorway, holding a candle. He stopped there, looking at her with a faint smile on his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You. Just you.” He left the candle on the mantel and came over and kissed her. “You make me so happy.”

Her heart beat faster at his touch. He kissed her again, more deeply, his arms winding around her. At first she melted into his touch, then his words sparked within her the memory of Mr Percival saying he would make her happy. Suddenly all she could think of was Percival’s expression when she’d shoved him away. Wounded, like she’d hit a dog or a child.

“What’s wrong?” Richard asked, drawing back.

She had to tell him.

“Laura?” he touched her cheek. “Something’s up, isn’t it?”

She gave him a weak smile. “There’s something I want to talk about.”

“And I’ve been waiting all day for you — no I’ll wait a little longer, don’t hurry yourself.” He drew up a chair and sat down. “Here, now I won’t be tempted. What is it?”

“It’s about something that happened when I was married to Maidstone — something I did.”

An emotion flitted across Richard’s face for a moment, but he controlled it.

Laura sat down on the window sill. “I told you I’d planned to… betray him, the way he’d always said I’d done.”

“Yes,” Richard said, after a pause. “I remember.”

“Well. I went through with it.” She swallowed. “I lied to you about that. I really did it. It was the morning of the day he died. So he never found out. But I did it.”

Richard was looking at her through narrowed eyes. She couldn’t read his expression. Did he hate her for it? She almost hated herself for it.

“Why are you telling me now?” he asked.

“Because I don’t want to keep secrets from you. And that’s a big… secret.” She covered her face with her hands and spoke through them. “Elizabeth keeps secrets from Farthingdale. I don’t want to be like her. She said she loved him once — and I always want to love you.”

“Always,” Richard said, getting up and pulling her hands from her eyes. “Look at me.”

She met his eyes and was relieved to see there was no condemnation in them, only a dull sadness.

“I knew,” he said. “I suspected the night that you first told me about it.”

“What?”

“Yes. You’re not actually a good liar, darling.” He still held her hands in his and squeezed them lightly. “And much later, Neil told me enough to confirm it.”

Her surprise became fear. “No.”

“He said that he overheard you and a man in the drawing room, talking about it. The man you had… been with. It was the night of Lady Roynor’s party.”

She felt faint. “He— he made as though he hadn’t — he listened and…” She remembered the impassive expression on Neil’s face. “Why didn’t he say something?”

“Because he’s a fool.” For the first time, there was the faintest ripple of anger in Richard’s voice. “That’s what we fought about, really. I was furious that he could listen while another man harassed you and not intervene.”

“I don’t know. I was cruel to Percival — very cruel.”

“Did he hurt you?”

She hesitated. “He kissed me.”

Richard’s hand tightened on hers.

“Don’t be angry,” she said.

His hand loosened. “Not with you. I’m angry with Percival.”

“I made him think he loved me. Made him think I loved him.”

“You didn’t make him kiss you.”

“I still used him.” Tears of shame pricked in her eyes. “I used the way Maidstone treated me to make him feel sorry for me. I manipulated him.”

“And that was wrong,” Richard said, brushing her hair back from her face. “But it doesn’t make him kissing you right, and I beg you the privilege, darling, of allowing a husband to be angry with the man who has done that to his wife.”

She gave a weak laugh and caught Richard’s hand, curling her fingers around his own.“He’s not a bad person — he’s just weak. I used that, to hurt Maidstone. And in the end it was useless, and all I did was hurt him.”

“And yourself.” Richard pulled her to her feet. “Are you crying?”

“Yes.”

“Come here.”

He pulled her into his arms and held her close. She clutched at him, feeling raw and drained.

“I’m glad you told me,” he said, kissing her hair. “I trust you, and I want you to know that you can trust me.”

“I do,” she said. “From now on, I want to be completely honest with you. No more secrets.”

“No more secrets,” he repeated. “Laura, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

“What is it?”

“When it went wrong, last time, with Maidstone’s baby… what happened?” Richard swallowed. “I want to know so that… well…”

Laura drew back sharply. Richard let his arms drop from around her and she took the opportunity to turn away from him, going back to the window and drawing the curtains. There was a lump in her throat just thinking about it. She didn’t know how to speak of it.

“You don’t… don’t have to tell me,” Richard said from behind her. “Not if it’s too hard to speak of.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s just that I don’t know. The baby came, and when it did it was dead. That’s what happened. I don’t know why. It just did.”

The breeze from outside ruffled the curtains. Laura fixed them tighter, unwilling to shut the window on the stuffy room. She could hear Richard moving behind her, the rustle of his clothes as he took off his coat and cravat, the thump of one of his boots on the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Another thump, another boot. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No secrets,” she repeated, wiping her eyes and crawling into bed. “You can ask me anything. But I don’t have an answer.”

Richard said nothing more as he washed and finished undressing. She thought he was lost for words. So when he got into bed with her, she told him whatever she could remember.

“I thought I was lucky — lucky to get with child so quickly, lucky to have it so easy.” She traced her hand over the swell of her belly. “It was another of the reasons that Maidstone thought it wasn’t his — he thought maybe it started before we were married because I didn’t bleed after.”

“You eloped with him, and still waited to be married first?” Richard asked.

“That surprises you?”

He nudged her gently. “You weren’t so shy with me.”

“I liked you better.” She took in the wayward curl falling over his forehead, the familiar, friendly lines around his eyes, the twist of his lips. “I was a virgin, see. I was scared. Making him marry me first made me feel safer. I was wrong about that.”

“A natural mistake.” Richard wormed his arm under the pillows, around her shoulders. “I…”

“What?”

“I’m curious about what you were like before you were a… knowledgeable little demon.” He sounded almost apologetic.

“Clumsy,” Laura said decidedly. “And very confused.”

Richard laughed. “Really?”

“Really.” She rested her head on his shoulder and breathed in his scent. His fingers were playing with the sleeve of her nightgown. She was starting to feel better, less raw inside. “I have another secret.”

“What?”

“I want five children.”

“Five!?”

“Five.” She patted her belly. “If you can do it once, you can do it five times. And, Richard, you’ve got the easier half of the job.”

He broke out into wheezing laughter, shaking against her. “Laura, darling… don’t you think we should get this one done with first?”

“We can plan ahead,” she said stubbornly. “We can practice.” She slipped her hand under the blanket and down the inside of his thigh, feeling him respond to her touch. “Make love to me.”

It was a bittersweet love-making that night, with sadness on both sides. But comforting too, to be with him, and to know that this was right. Maidstone had been wrong. Percival had been wrong. But with Richard everything felt right. Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms, Richard tracing circles on her belly.

“It won’t go wrong this time,” he said.

“It won’t.” Laura didn’t know if he was trying to convince her or himself, but she believed it. She felt at peace about the future. No matter what happened, she loved Richard, and he loved her. From that foundation, all ills could be conquered. Her mind drifted to something Richard had told her long ago.

“There’s one secret I want to know,” she said sleepily. “Richard, who was she, the woman you fell in love with?”

His arms around her stiffened.

“I— it was a long time ago.” He sounded bewildered. “I can’t tell you her name.”

“Why not? I wouldn’t repeat it to anyone.”

“Because it’s not my secret alone.”

And like that, a crack appeared in Laura’s foundation.

*     *     *

Giles Fordham came into England through Holyhead by way of Dublin, because he knew his brother had friends in London, and his brother had forbidden him ever to return. He didn’t yet know what he was going to do with the letters, but the mere thought of them filled him with glee. Every night on the ship, he had read them before he went to sleep. There were only three, and they were not long. It was not many weeks before he had them by heart. Still, it tickled him to imagine what Albroke would do when he saw them.

They proved, he thought, that Albroke’s wife was a slut. But it was not the wife he wanted to hurt, it was Albroke himself. And as he travelled, Giles’s unsubtle, slow-moving mind worked away on how he might do so.

__

A/N: Oh Richard, you done screwed up.

Chapter Fifteen: Unbelonging

Neil’s house was smaller than Laura had expected, a very prim and proper country manor of red-brick with two windows to each side of the entry door and five windows on the floor above, and then a set of leering little garrets in the roof. Once they were inside, she found that it was bigger than it looked, running deceptively deep rather than wide. They weren’t standing in the hall more than a moment when there came the sound of footsteps pounding on the mezzanine above and someone — very small — came half-running half-tumbling down the stairs.

“Oof!” grunted Richard, as he caught the child in his arms and swung her up high. “You’ve gotten so big, Annie!”

“Uncle Wichard,” she said coyly, clutching his shoulders. “I’m going to be six foot tall.”

Laura laughed, and Annie turned inquisitive green eyes towards her.

“Who’s she?” she asked.

“This is my wife, your Auntie Laura,” Richard said, repositioning her a little. “You’re too heavy to carry, darling. Can I put you down?”

“I’m going to be tenty stone,” Annie said, sliding down his leg and landing with a thump on the floor. She looked up at Laura. “Hello. How many stone are you?”

“I’m not sure,” Laura said, leaning down and holding out her hand. “What’s your name?”

“Annie,” she said, shaking Laura’s hand with pompous self-sureness. “It’s nice to meet you too. Mama told me you were coming. Why did you make Papa so mad?”

“I didn’t make him mad.” Laura felt a twinge of guilt. “We’re very good friends.”

“Then why does his face go—” Annie screwed up her lips tight and frowned “—when Mama talks about you?”

“Now, Annie dear,” Richard said gently, but a sharp voice from the landing above interrupted him.

“Annie! Get back here!”

Then Neil came running down the stairs, and Annie, casting one glance at him, waddled hastily off the other way. She ducked between the legs of a groom who was carrying in a trunk and out the open front door. Neil completely ignored Richard and Laura in his pursuit of her. He burst through the front door, almost running into another groom. Laura turned, bemused, as the sound of a childish scream and then sobs came from outside. A moment later, Neil marched back in, Annie prostrate and wailing in his arms.

“You have this to look forward to,” he said savagely to Richard as he marched past them.

Annie only screamed louder. Neil marched onwards, up the stairs, and disappeared somewhere over the landing. The screaming faded away.

Laura turned to Richard, bewildered. He looked back at her and shrugged.

“I’ll go see if I can find Verity. Neil seems preoccupied.”

Richard disappeared through a door. Laura sighed and sat down on a bench. Around her, the menservants continued to move their trunks into the hall and up the stairs. After several minutes, Richard didn’t return, and the hall cleared of servants. The front doors shut. All was still. Laura looked around rather uneasily, feeling suddenly out of place and unbelonging. She got up again and set off up the stairs, thinking that a more likely place to find people than wherever Richard had gone. Above, a long hallway stretched dimly down towards a distant window, with doors on each side. Laura heard voices coming from further along and followed them. Going through a door, she found Neil sitting at a dressing table hugging a tear-stained Annie.

“I told you it would be alright,” he said, his earlier impatience vanished. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“But I want them to grow,” she sobbed. “I want to be a tiger.”

“You can’t be a tiger, darling. You’re a girl.”

Laura coughed. Neil looked up.

“Oh.” He looked back down at Annie. “Sorry. I had to cut her nails. Nurse refuses because she struggles so much.”

Annie hiccupped in his arms. He patted her gently. “Wait here,” he said to Laura, getting up with Annie still in his arms and carrying her through another door. From beyond he had words with someone — female. Laura crept to the door curiously, thinking it was his wife, but the women in the room beyond was a broad-figured servant in an apron, a nurse by the look of the two cribs in the room. She took Annie from Neil and sat her down on a chair at a low table, where a tea-tray was set out. Neil turned away and came back to Laura, shutting the door softly behind him. For a moment he stood there, still holding the door-handle, looking at her with a hint of perhaps embarrassment about his expression.

“You look very well,” he said eventually.

“Thank you. Richard went off to look for your wife.”

“She’s in the garden. I suppose he’ll find her. Let’s go downstairs and wait for them.”

They went downstairs without uttering a word between them. Neil took her through one of the doors into a comfortable drawing room, looking out over the sweep one side and with bay windows over a garden the other. In the garden, Richard was coming slowly up the path with a dark-haired woman by his side, carrying a basket of flowers.

“There they are,” Neil said, with evident relief. “Um.” He looked at Laura. “Sorry about earlier. Annie’s a terror these days. You’ll understand soon enough.”

“I think I understand just meeting her. How old is she?”

“She just turned five.”

The conversation faltered. Laura looked to the window, where Richard and Verity had now disappeared from view.

“How have you been?” Neil asked.

“Well,” Laura said. “Tired, I mean, but quite well.”

“Good.” Neil breathed out shortly. Voices came from the next room over, and footsteps. Then the door opened and Richard and Verity came in. There was a broad smile on Richard’s face, and Verity looked quietly amused — like, Laura thought, the cat that got the cream. And then she tried to bury that thought, because it wasn’t a nice one, but the impression of it still lingered over the next few days.

“—for the best,” Richard was saying. “And I won’t have you teasing me about it.”

“I wasn’t teasing. I was ruminating. You know I never tease.” Verity dropped her basket of flowers on a couch and came forward, rather shyly, to stand in front of Laura. She was taller than Laura had expected, very slender, and very, very pretty. She didn’t hold out her hand, but merely looked rather curiously at Laura. Her gaze went down to Laura’s waist and then back up to her eyes.

“You’re probably hungry,” she said. “Do you want something to eat?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

“I’ll send for tea and sandwiches.” She went to the door and rang a bell, and a moment later was giving orders to a servant. Laura sat down on a couch while Neil and Richard looked at each other. Then Neil hesitantly hugged Richard.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “Can you forgive me?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Richard said gruffly. “I’ve seen Annie already. How’s Podge?”

“Not so great right now.”

“Sorry to hear it. You’ve seen Cavendish?”

“He’s coming up in a few days, with the surgeons.”

They sat down, Richard next to Laura and Neil on the couch opposite. A moment later, Verity joined them. She smiled at Laura and then turned her attention to Richard.

“I forgot to tell you — my cousin Sarah married — her cousin, James. You had it right, two years ago when you said they would. But they’re not happy.”

“Of course they’re not happy,” Richard said flatly; “she has no temper, and he no wit.”

“Then how on earth did you know they would marry?”

“She was too jealous of him to let anyone else marry him, and there’s only one sure way to prevent that. And he was too foolish to recognize her scheming.”

“Well, I didn’t see it coming. I just hope they don’t become another unhappy family — there’s going to be a baby too, a little early of course… My grandmother is very annoyed about that.”

“Less annoyed than if they hadn’t married, I imagine,” Neil said drily, and Richard laughed.

From there, the conversation flowed thick and fast. Laura sat back, rather bewildered. Names and information flowed past her. Richard leaned forward over his knees, talking eagerly with Verity. Neil, not so eager, occasionally threw in a dry word of his own. Verity seemed to laugh a lot, but never very loud, and always pressing her lips tightly closed after. When the sandwiches came, there was a reprieve. Laura ate, feeling rather self-conscious of the fact that nobody else was doing much more than sipping at tea. Afterwards, she sat back, and the conversation continued fast around her. She felt more out of place and unbelonging than before; Richard had a past here that she simply wasn’t part of, could not be part of. Occasionally, someone charitably directed a bit of conversation at her, but she could do little more than agree with it; all the talk was about people she had never met, nor even heard of. Eventually, she grew tired and rather irritable, and knew that if she didn’t leave she would embarrass Richard by snapping the next time someone spoke to her. She stood up rather abruptly. Everyone fell silent.

“If it’s alright, I think I’ll go to bed now,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired.”

Richard was instantly on his feet too. “Are you alright?”

“I just need to rest a little.”

“I’ll take you to your room,” Verity said, getting up. “You stay here, Rich.”

She touched his arm, making him start, but he nodded, his eyes on Laura, his expression faintly guilty.

“I’m just tired, really,” she said.

“I know.” He touched her hand. “Go and rest.”

Verity led her up the stairs again, down the long hall, and into a room on the left, large and richly furnished.

“We thought you and Richard would prefer to share a bedroom,” Verity said. “But through that little door is a dressing room, and if you’re more comfortable sleeping alone, we can have a bed made up for Richard in there.”

“More comfortable alone?”

“I mean, in your condition. When I was with Podge, I kept kicking Neil to the floor in the middle of the night.” A smile hovered on Verity’s lips for a moment before she suppressed it, her lips tight and the corners of her mouth quivering. “I think since Richard’s got his leg that might be a little cruel on him.”

“No. I mean, so far, thank you, I’m quite comfortable with him.” Laura sat down on the bed with her hands in her lap. “I didn’t know you and Richard were such good friends — I’m sorry. I ruined last Christmas, didn’t I?”

Verity looked at her a moment then came forward and patted her shoulder. “It wasn’t you.”

Laura gave her a faint smile of thanks.

She stepped away. “Is there anything you need?”

“No thank you. I just want to lie down for a little while.”

“We normally dine at eight in summer, but if you don’t want to come down, we’ll send something up.”

“I think those sandwiches were enough for me.”

Verity looked skeptically at her. “I’ll send something up.”

“Thank you.”

Then she was gone, shutting the door quietly behind her. Laura kicked off her slippers and rolled onto the bed. She lay there, feeling very much un-at-home and out-of-place. Neil was trying to be nice, she could see. It was not his fault he wasn’t very good at it. And Verity was nice, in a rather distant, collected way. Richard was very fond of her too. That ought to make Laura happy, but for some reason, it only made her feel uneasy.

In the stillness and silence of the bedroom, she felt, for the first time, a flutter of movement inside her. She sat up with a gasp and waited for it to come again. There. Ever so faintly, low in her belly. Her heart started to race, and she almost called for Richard then — but it was too faint to be felt by her hand yet. Too faint to be felt except inside her.

She kept her hand on the spot anyway until she fell asleep.

__

A/N: This one was late because I had an exam last week. It was actually written out, too, just needed a quick proof-read and edit. I have to confess that I’ve actually kind of forgotten what the characters of Lady in Rags were like, so I hope Verity still seems like the same person she was just then – just a little older, a little more sure of herself.

Chapter Sixteen: Plain Cold Fact

While the women were gone, Richard and Neil eddied around in the cool shallows of polite conversation. After their argument, some of the old awkwardness between them had returned. Richard suspected that it was partially his fault but, even if he had known how, he wasn’t going to apologise for it. Part of him was still angry about the things Neil had said about Laura. It was a relief when Verity returned.

“Is she really alright?” Richard asked.

“She’s probably asleep by now,” Verity said calmly, sitting down. “Best leave her to it.”

“She looks very well,” Neil said. “She looks much better than when I last saw her. And she never was the delicate type.”

“She seemed no more than tired to me, which is only natural in her condition,” Verity said. “You don’t need to worry about her, Rich.”

“But of course I worry.” Richard rubbed his bad knee, grimacing. “Can you expect me not to?”

Neil shrugged. “Worrying won’t do any good.”

Verity raised her eyebrows. “As I told you two years ago,” she said pointedly.

“And I’m wiser for the experience.” A smile twitched on Neil’s lips and he reached out and rubbed Verity’s hand. Once, Richard might have felt a faint sting at witnessing such a gesture, but now it only made him wish he’d gone upstairs with Laura. He rubbed his bad knee again, stiff after the long days in the coach.

“Did you know she had a stillbirth before?” he said quietly. “When she was married to Maidstone. I’m scared — she won’t recover easily if it happens again.”

A brief silence fell over the room. Verity gave a sad frown. Neil looked worried.

“I’m not asking for sympathy,” Richard said. “I’m just… explaining.”

Or not even that. It was a relief just to speak of it. There was no support that could be offered, nor help that could be found, but naming his fear made him feel less powerless in the face of it.

“We’ll look after her,” Verity said. “Really, Richard.”

“I know.” Richard forced his jaw to relax. “Of course you will.”

There was another brief silence. Verity said timidly, “Is she always so quiet?”

“Not normally,” Richard said.

“She’s always quiet with me,” Neil pointed out. “It might be my—”

But he broke off, because the door opened and Annie came sidling into the room.

“She can reach doorknobs now,” Neil said with a groan, getting up. “Come on, Annie, it’s past seven o’clock. You should be in bed.”

“But I want to talk to Uncle Wichard,” she said beguilingly.

“Tomorrow,” Richard said, holding out his arms so he could give her a hug. “I’ll take you — what do you want to do?”

“Pond,” Annie said instantly. “Pirates.”

“You’d better wear old clothes,” Neil said, slinging her into his arms. “Hup. Come on, Anne. To bed. No arguments, now.”

He paused by Verity, so she could kiss Annie goodnight, and then left. Alone, Verity gave Richard a small smile that tugged on his heart in a way he was beginning to wish it didn’t.

“You’ll have that soon,” she said. “You’re so… lucky.”

He smiled back and then stretched out with his arm over the couch back. “Do you like her?”

“I don’t know. She’s not what I expected.”

“What did you expect then?”

“From what Neil said I thought she’d be… more charming. He called her a flirt, you know, and I thought that might be what that meant, but she seems almost shy.”

“She can be — a flirt, that is. As for shy…” Richard paused, remembering the first night Laura had come to his bed, and the intriguing mix of uncertainty and boldness in her manner then. “…she’s not shy with me. But I think Neil does make her… well, quiet.”

“Afraid to offend.” Verity bit her lip. “I did have words with Neil about it you know. He promised me he’ll try to be nice.”

“He tries very hard.” Richard could not help the steel of anger creeping into his voice. “But she’s not what Neil thinks. I want him to know that.”

“He’ll learn it.” There was a hint of steel to Verity’s voice too. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Right.” Richard softened his tone. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t put it on you to solve our squabbles. But he said things about her that made me so angry. And I think I still haven’t quite forgiven him.”

“Because you care about her.”

Richard’s throat closed over. Care about her? He loved her, more than he’d known he was capable of loving anyone. But somehow it was impossible to say that when Verity was looking at him with her green eyes shadowed over with worry.

“I do,” he said, swallowing.

“What’s wrong?” Verity asked.

He didn’t know.

“She’s good to you?”

“Yes. Very. She’s really very sweet to me. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife.” That was easier. That was plain cold fact. But somehow it felt, well, like Richard would look fickle if he told Verity now that he was madly in love with Laura, when only a few years ago he’d told her he was in love with her.

And the trouble was, he thought he still might be. Even now, he was painfully aware of her prettiness, and wishing he were not. He’d thought it might have faded, now that he had Laura, now he loved her, but at the first sight of Verity in the garden his heart had started racing and a sudden flush of happiness had come over him. He felt guilty for it.

“You do… love her?” Verity asked, frowning. “I thought, well, when you married her I thought you must love her.”

“I married her because it was right. And because I felt for her things that…” That he couldn’t say in front of Verity. He swallowed. “She makes me so happy. I’ve never been happier in my life. But I am scared, about the baby, about her. I don’t want anything to happen to hurt them. I’d die, rather than have them hurt.”

The confusion in Verity’s eyes became sudden understanding. She leaned forward and gripped Richard’s hand.

“I’m happy for you,” she said.

Richard thought he understood what that meant, but knew he wouldn’t be able to ask. Verity released him and sat back again, the worry cleared from her eyes.

“Do you really not regret it?” she asked, bringing up the conversation they’d been having in the garden. “Spending all those years thinking that you couldn’t have children?”

“I don’t. To discover that I was wrong, to discover it through such proof, makes all of those years seem utterly insignificant.”

“You would have married her ten years ago. Had children already. Your fathers would have been very happy. Neil would have been free to marry me.” Verity’s lips twitched. “I regret that.”

“But I wasn’t me ten years ago. And she wasn’t who she is now. We wouldn’t have been happy. She’d never have loved me if…”

“If she hadn’t been hurt by a man like Maidstone?” Verity’s eyes grew hard. “I can’t believe that, Richard.”

“If I hadn’t learned how to love.” Richard had the sense that they were on the edge of what they had never dared speak of. He got up and went to the window so that he could have an excuse not to meet Verity’s green eyes. “I wish she’d never met Maidstone, but I don’t wish I’d married her years ago. I wasn’t good enough for her then.”

Verity was silent for a long time. Then she said, quietly, “Richard, you don’t—”

He thought he knew what she was going to say, but she didn’t finish it.

“I have to change for dinner,” Verity said, getting up and going to the door. “But I’m very glad you’ve come— glad to have met her. I hope we’ll be friends.”

“I hope so too.”

She left the room, and Richard sat down again and took up a paper. He didn’t read it though. It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps Verity and Laura would not be friends. They were two very different women, and neither was the type to make friends easily. Verity could be cold and reserved, Richard reflected, while Laura was prickly and hot-tempered. And while Verity would no doubt be polite, and Laura would no doubt control her temper, Richard did not think that good manners were much of a foundation for friendship.

The door opened again, and Neil returned. He glanced down at Richard’s paper contemptuously.

“Local poison press, that.”

“Is it?” Richard glanced at it and saw the first article was about a noisy ball in a private house. “Seems rather tame.”

“Oh, it does.” Neil sat down and crossed his legs. “But it’s a wonder how much trouble tame can be in the country. The owner’s a local — grocer who made a fortune out of potted vegetables, calls himself a radical. Makes a point of ferreting out complaints about the local gentry, chiefly from their servants, and publishes them every Wednesday as a sort of condemnation of the upper classes.”

Richard snorted. “I take it he’ll not be happy I’m here.”

“Hardly.” Neil sighed. “I admit, I find it amusing to read what he’s written about my in-laws, but it hasn’t been so pleasant the few times his pen has been directed at me. You might want to hide it from Laura.”

“On the contrary,” Richard said, his eye trailing down to a cheerfully savage description of the haste of the marriage of Sarah and James Duvalle, “I think she’ll find it rather amusing.”

*   *   *

Giles didn’t approach Albroke Manor directly. He knew that even if he managed to get in and find Albroke or his wife, there would be too many servants around — some of them strong footmen — for him to manage anything but to get himself arrested. Instead, he went into the shabbiest inn on the edge of the village where he ordered luncheon and ale. When the barwoman came to give him his steak, he stopped her with a word.

“The man what owns this land,” Giles said, trying to modulate his voice to sound like a labourer, “I heard he might have a job for me?”

“The manor’s always hiring,” the woman said without much interest. “It’s Mr Spenser you ought be talking to. He’s the steward for the Big Wig.”

Giles was not interested in Albroke’s steward. “Is he good to work for?” he asked.

The woman shrugged. “He ain’t as bad as some I’m sure, but I never worked for him.”

“What if I wanted to speak to him?” Giles said. “Find out what he’s like before I saw about that job?”

The woman laughed. “What? Just march right into the hall with your boots on? That’d be a sight!”

“Well he ain’t spending all his time in that house, is he?”

“Well I don’t know. He don’t come down to the village much anyway.” The woman raised her eyebrows. “This really about a job?”

“Maybe I knew his wife once. Though she might help an old friend out.”

At that, the woman gave a full-bodied snort. Giles felt a flicker of anger within him.

“You finish your meal and be off,” she said. “Go to the big house if you want, but it won’t do you much good. They’re not here.”

“What do you mean they’re not here?”

“I mean they’re gone off,” the woman said, walking away. “They ain’t here.”

“Where’ve they gone?”

“If I knew I wouldn’t tell you,” the woman said. “And I don’t know.”

Angered, but not defeated, Giles turned his attention to his steak and ale. After all, there would be someone in the village who knew where Albroke and his wife had gone, and if neither of them was here, then he was safe from the threat that one of them would recognize him and stop him from exacting his revenge. He still wasn’t quite sure what that revenge would be yet, but the letters in his pocket gave him hope, and his dull mind ticked slowly, steadily over the possibilities.

__

A/N: I feel very sorry for Richard.

Chapter Seventeen: Providence

Laura woke vaguely as Richard slipped into bed. He kissed her, rather clumsily in the dark on her ear, and she woke more properly.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

“After midnight. We stayed up talking.” Richard put an arm around her and settled in close. “Go back to sleep, darling. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“In a moment. The baby started kicking.”

“What?” Richard fumbled under the sheets for her belly. “Where?”

“He’s stopped now, and you wouldn’t be able to feel it yet anyway. It’s too faint. You’ll have to wait a few weeks.”

“That long?” He kissed the back of her shoulder, rough in his excitement. “Not fair.”

“I’ll remember that when the kicks start hurting,” she said.

“Sorry.” He kissed her again, more gently. She could smell the wine on his breath. It must have been a long, indulgent dinner. She thought he was even a little drunk. “You’re the one who has the hard part.” His kisses were now soft as the touch of a butterfly’s wings, trailing down over her shoulder. “I wish I could do more to help.”

“Darling, you’re drunk,” Laura said sleepily, nestling back into him. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“But I mean it,” he said, but by then she was asleep and did not hear it.

*   *   *

In the end, Giles found out from one of Albroke’s maids where he’d gone, and all it cost him was a few kisses. As a bonus, he learned too that the bitch was pregnant.

“Bit of a surprise for us,” the maid had said with a giggle. “We thought she was just getting fat, you know, now that she was married him, ’til she ordered the nurseries be cleaned. So now they’ve gone off to visit his brother, before her confinement comes.”

At first it angered Giles to hear this development, but he realized, as he rode north in pursuit of his prey, that there was opportunity in it too. Merely revealing the letters to Albroke was too small an act of vengeance, too incomplete. It was his wife who would be hurt by that, not Albroke himself. But now the letters would not just embarrass Albroke’s wife, but cast doubt upon the paternity of her child. Albroke could not help but be humiliated by that.

It still did not seem enough to Giles, but it was a hopeful beginning.

*   *   *

The first few days, Laura continued to feel strangely alone and out-of-place in Neil’s house. Not that he was unkind to her — in fact, she could tell he was doing his best to make her feel welcome. And Verity was very thoughtful in making sure that Laura never had to ask for tea and sandwiches, never was made too tired by long walks or social calls or Annie’s incessant energy. But Richard was very much absent from her.

The first day, he was away with Annie all morning in the woods, and when he came back, several cousins of Verity’s had come to tea. Richard knew all of them. It was somewhat amusing to Laura, at first, to note how peeved Verity’s female cousins were to see her and how pleasant they were by comparison to Richard. It became less amusing as Richard remained determinedly polite in the face of their flirtations. When the cousins left at last, Richard went out onto the terrace where he paced up and down with his stick thumping savagely against the flagstones.

“It was a great disappointment here, when word came that he was married,” Verity said, following Laura’s gaze. “My cousins were all vying for him.”

“No really? I’d never have guessed.”

Verity gave a half-smile, as if she wasn’t sure if that was a joke or not. “They never had a chance, of course.”

Laura could not feel flattered by that. “They are none of them ugly.”

“Yes, but Richard—” Verity broke off. There was a long pause before she spoke again. “He was rather a committed bachelor, before you.”

That night, Laura had hoped to join the others in conversation after dinner, but the baby had other plans, and she found herself shaken awake at eleven o’clock, where she’d fallen asleep on the couch after dinner, with Richard’s coat laid over her.

“We’re not going to have to carry you to bed are we?” Richard teased as she sat up, his coat slipping from her shoulders.

“No.” She blinked. “Oh dear. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“It’s fine.” Richard pulled her to her feet and slipped his arm around her waist. “You prevented us from becoming a four and having to discuss if anyone wanted to play whist — we never do.”

“Then what did you do?” she asked.

“Just talked.”

She was sorry to have missed it. But, she reflected as she sleepily undressed, she might not have had anything to say.

*   *   *

It was a three-day journey to Cumbria. Giles did not give himself much time to rest, trading one horse for another at every posting inn, and only stopping for as long as it took him to sleep, shave, and eat. As he rode, his mind worked over his plan for revenge. To merely expose Albroke’s wife would be too slight. He had to make Albroke hurt, the same way he had when he had come back to England to find Diana had died. The same way he had when he’d been forced to leave his home, twice now.

Albroke had to be left with nothing. Not his wife. Not his home. Not especially his reputation.

*   *   *

On the third day, Doctor Cavendish and two surgeons arrived from London. That meant that Verity and Neil were occupied all morning with them. Laura looked forward to having Richard to herself for a while after breakfast, however she made the mistake of suggesting a walk in earshot of Annie, who instantly invited herself along with them, killing any opportunity for intimacy. After, as they came back to the house, Laura hoped that perhaps she and Richard might find a secluded room to talk in private, but when they entered by the terrace they discovered Verity sitting alone on the drawing room couch in tears. Annie went running to her at once and was pulled into a tight hug. Richard bent over Verity, while Laura stood awkwardly behind him.

“Then it’s bad news?” Richard said, very gently.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Verity took a deep breath. “I’m just scared. And I don’t want Podge to see that, so I came in here.”

“Mama.” Annie pawed at Verity, almost in tears herself. “Are you ill?”

“No, darling.” Verity kissed her and held her close. “I’m fine.”

Even as she spoke, fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. Richard rubbed her shoulder and looked beseechingly at Laura.

“Can you take Annie upstairs?”

“Of course.”

It was a relief for Laura to leave the room, but when they got to the nursery above, she found it was already occupied. Neil was holding Podge in his arms and talking with Cavendish. As Laura came in, his expression, already sombre, became almost angry. She gave Annie to the nurse and hurried away, feeling suddenly very much an intruder.

Back downstairs, she peered through the drawing room doorway, not daring to enter. Richard now had his arm around Verity’s shoulders, and she was hunched over her knees with her hands covering her face.

“…more surgery next year and probably again after that. They might come back, might keep coming back, all his life…”

Perhaps Laura made a sound. Richard looked up, met her eyes, and shook his head ever so slightly. She slipped away down the corridor and out onto the terrace, where she was alone and had no chance of intruding on anyone. Her hand went unbidden to her belly. If her baby was a boy, they too would face what Verity now faced. After a first flush of anxiety, she became defiant. So be it. She would love a little boy with no legs at all, if it came to that.

She lingered on the terrace, waiting for Richard to come and find her. He would, she thought, want to talk to her about it. At last she heard a footstep behind her. She turned, but it wasn’t Richard, only Cavendish. He bowed.

“I thought I’d come to see how you’re going. Well, I take it?”

“Yes. But very often I get tired.”

Cavendish nodded. “Rest as much as you feel you need. Try not to overtire yourself walking, or going about in this heat. You haven’t done that today, have you?”

“A short walk, but I’m not tired now.”

“You look a little pale.” He came closer and took her wrist with disinterested habit. “Pulse a little rapid.”

“It’s just hearing the little boy has to have surgery. Ours might be a boy too.”

“Try not to dwell on it.” Cavendish let her wrist go. “Their little boy will be all well in the end, and so will yours.”

Laura gave him a faint smile. “He — or she — is moving now. It started a few days ago.”

“A good sign. That probably narrows it down to…” Cavendish frowned. “…Late December, I should think.”

“Around then.”

There was another footstep, and this time it was Richard. While Laura was still deciding how best to get rid of Cavendish, he called out that it was good fishing weather. Richard politely looked up at the sky and agreed. Cavendish mentioned in a hopeful voice that he had heard there was a river on the grounds. Richard was happy to show it to him, it wasn’t far. Laura sighed and turned away to go indoors. Before she could open the door, Richard had taken two strides and stopped her, his hand at her waist, his voice in her ear. If Cavendish had had his hand on Laura’s pulse just then, he might have been very worried indeed. But it slowed resentfully as Richard said, “Look, darling, don’t go bothering Verity just yet, will you? She’s in her room — best to leave her alone for a while.”

“I won’t go bothering anyone,” Laura said, and went to play piano by herself in the empty drawing room where she vented her feelings on some of the angriest, moodiest pieces she knew. When that was done, she could get up and change for dinner quite calmly. Besides, as Cavendish and the surgeons were staying with them, and as Verity didn’t scruple to invite a mere surgeon to her table, it was quite an entertaining dinner. At least until half-way through one very interesting tale about battlefield amputation, Richard interrupted sharply to say that the ladies were not liking it. Laura had been liking it, but when she looked down the table, she saw that Verity was very white. After that, the surgeons were too awed to speak, and Laura was rather irritated with Verity. Not that she didn’t feel sorry for her, but there was something about the way it had been Richard that had leapt to her defense that annoyed Laura. She thought it ought to have been Neil who had done so.

While Verity and Laura were sitting in the drawing-room afterwards, Laura realized that the problem was that she didn’t like sharing Richard. To share him with Neil was one thing, to share him with his work was another, but sharing him with other people wasn’t something she was accustomed to do and it irked her. Particularly when some of those people were as trivial as Verity’s cousins or Doctor Cavendish. And most particularly, she realized with a flash of guilt, when that other person was a dark-haired young woman, quite possibly prettier than herself, and certainly at the moment not so plump.

Verity caught her frowning and gave a start. “I’m sorry, you’re not too tired, are you?”

“Not tonight,” Laura said, rather grumpily, and to avoid conversation took to the piano again. She had an idea that Verity wanted to avoid talking too; they said barely a word until the men came back, and then Verity persuaded everyone to the noisy distraction of a round game. Laura was relieved when at last it was time to retire for the night. After she’d undressed, Laura went back into the bedroom to discover Richard already in bed, his reading glasses on his nose and a book in his hands. She sighed and got in beside him. He looked up, squinting over his glasses.

“You’re in a black mood.”

“No,” Laura said, and turned over on her side away from him.

*   *   *

By the time Giles rode in to the sleepy, hilly, wooded countryside around Houglen, he knew what he planned to do to Albroke. He was prepared to be patient now. It might need to take time. He had to expose the letters to the world before he could move on with the rest of his plan. He flattered himself that it was very clever indeed. It answered in exacting detail all of his wishes to humiliate, hurt, and ruin Albroke, and best of all, he did not think there was any risk to himself. No one even knew he was in the country. He would exact his revenge and leave, and when the business of it all had died down, he would return to England as though he’d never even left.

He was very, very pleased with himself.

*   *   *

On the fourth day, Laura lingered lazily in bed in the morning while Richard got up and did — she knew not what, and did not care to ask. When she came down for breakfast at ten, she discovered that everybody was already there but Verity. Even Annie sat at the table next to Cavendish, peppering him with questions about skeletons.

Richard leaned over as she sat down. “Verity’s not coming down today,” he said. “Will you be mother?”

“Is it really so hard for a man to pour his own coffee?” Laura snapped.

On the other side of the table, Neil raised his eyebrows and then returned his gaze to his boiled egg. Richard looked momentarily hurt and then shrugged.

“I suppose not.”

After that, Laura decided it was best to stay quiet through breakfast. When it was over, she went out onto the terrace to stand in the sun and Richard followed her. He held her hand as they walked.

“You don’t like it here,” he said.

“That’s not true.”

“You’ve been in a foul mood since we got here,” Richard pointed out. “Darling, if you want, we can go home.”

“I don’t want.”

“To be frank, we came at an awful time. Podge is having surgery tomorrow. Neil doesn’t have any patience to spare if you try him. Verity’s out of her mind with worry and shouldn’t have to look after us, and she has been looking after you, particularly.” A faint look of guilt passed over Richard’s face. “I’d almost rather not be here myself.”

It was the look of guilt that made Laura suddenly realize. She’d seen it before when Verity had touched Richard on the shoulder. Then, she had thought it was because he felt guilty for her being tired. Now, in a flash, she understood the real reason, understood why Richard never had a chance with his beloved, understood why Verity had said other women never stood a chance with Richard.

Verity was the woman Richard had fallen in love with.

*   *   *

The house stood halfway up a hill, facing west, with a little wood behind. Giles dared not go too close, for fear Albroke or his wife might recognize him. Instead, he approached it by degrees, first riding past the front and getting an overview, and then circling around behind and meandering on foot through the woods at the back. A mile or so into the woods stood a gamekeeper’s cottage and some outhouses, but they were abandoned, with the windows broken and ivy growing through the walls. Giles ignored it and went on further, along the single, overgrown and crumbling road.

Another mile onwards, he came suddenly to a stone wall with an iron gate, and was surprised to find he was not the only one there. A man, short, plump, and middle-aged, stood peering through the iron bars of the gate at the house beyond. He turned as Giles approached.

“These woods are private land, you know,” he said querulously.

“If I’m trespassing,” Giles said contemptuously, “then so are you.”

“That may be so.” The man’s bald round head bobbed. “It was not that I referred to. Haven’t you noticed the condition of this woods? A man who has a private wood has an obligation to maintain it. Mr Armiger does not.”

Giles narrowed his eyes. “I take it you don’t like the man?”

The man shook his head, his second chin wobbling. “I do not like any of the” —he sniffed— “privileged classes.”

“Then what are you doing here?” Giles asked, irritated.

“I was hoping to see his lordship, or her ladyship,” the man said wistfully. “They are visiting Mr Armiger, you see, so I must find something to write about them.”

“What do you mean, write? As a book?”

“I own a newspaper. You have not heard of it? The Radical Voice.” A hint of pride came into the man’s voice. “We are very popular in these parts.”

It seemed that Providence was on Giles’s side at last. He smiled and put his hand to his breast pocket to withdraw the packet of letters. “I think I know what you might write about.”

__

A/N: I tried to keep this chapter short, but it ended up being really long. Probably should have split it in two, really.

Anyway, Laura finds out. Giles comes to exact revenge. The letters change hands once more. We are, at last, heading for a grand finale.

Chapter Eighteen: A Real Fight

Laura slipped her hand out from Richard’s and took two or three slow steps away from him. Her first reaction was to doubt herself: it could not be true. She was imagining it, jealously imagining it.

“Just tell me what you’d like to do,” Richard said behind her. “If you’re not happy here, I’m not happy here.”

“I’m not unhappy,” Laura said quietly.

“Really?” Richard squeezed her shoulders gently. “Darling, you don’t have to pretend. I can tell you’re not enjoying yourself.”

“I told you, I’m not unhappy.”

“Then what on earth is wrong? Please. Tell me.”

Laura stared blindly out across the garden and ran over it again. There were other signs, now she thought about it. Verity had known Richard would never marry any of her pretty, flirtatious cousins, had even been amused by their flirtations. Richard had refused to tell Laura anything about the woman he loved, which meant she must, in some way, still be in his life. He had no reason not to trust Laura to keep a secret of his; if he kept it back from her, it was because the knowledge would hurt her, not the woman he loved.

“Laura?” He nuzzled at her neck. “What’s wrong?”

She had to know. “Are you in love with Verity?”

His hands, still at her shoulders, went stiff. That answered her as much as anything else. She took a deep breath.

“It’s her, isn’t it? She’s the one you fell in love with.”

Richard’s hands dropped from her shoulders. She turned to face him. He looked at the windows of the house, as though to make sure no one was in earshot, then back to her and gave a small, brisk nod.

“It’s no longer relevant. But it was her.”

Laura found tears welling in her eyes and blinked them back. Richard touched her face.

“Don’t cry.”

“Don’t tell me not to cry!” Laura slapped his hand away and turned away from him, taking deep, shaking breaths. Her heart, her throat, her whole body ached. Her fingers, when she wiped her eyes, were shaking. “You warned me, after all, before we married. You said you’d never fall in love with me—”

“—Laura, please—”

“—No, it’s fine. I was forewarned. You’ve done nothing wrong except—” she had to gasp for air “—make me fall— but I had warning. I ought to have been guarded—”

Richard pulled her close against him, pressing her face against his shoulder. “It’s no longer relevant, Laura. You’re the one I love.”

For a moment, with his arms hard around her and his body solid against hers, she believed it. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

His silence answered her.

She pressed her face against his collar, flooding it with tears, then her pain became pride and she pushed him away. She was almost angry with him, but she remembered what he had told her, the night he proposed for the last time. He had warned her then that he was in love with someone else. And then, before she had truly loved him, it hadn’t seemed such a terrible thing. And perhaps it wouldn’t have been, if she never knew who the woman was. If the woman were not still in his life. But she did know, and Verity would always be in his life. And so Laura would always be second best.

“Laura, let me tell you about it,” he said. “It’s not what you think.”

“I don’t want to know, Richard. I know too much already!” She covered her face with her hands and spoke through them. “I just want to be alone for a while. Let me be alone.”

She was in control of herself now, despite the tears still flooding her cheeks. The pain in her heart had settled to a dull ache. Richard looked at her carefully, then nodded and turned and went back indoors.

Laura left the other way, descending into the garden and meandering aimlessly through the shrubbery. For a time she would control herself, then another painful thought or memory would come to her, and fresh hot tears would fall from her eyes. She gave up wiping them away and walked blindly. Then there was a hand on her arm and a voice in her ear.

“Laura? What happened? Are you alright?”

It was Neil. Laura dashed at her eyes. “Nothing. I’m perfectly well.”

“Clearly that’s not true.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hands, and when she wiped away her tears she saw he looked concerned. “Is there something I can do?”

She took a deep breath and shook her head. Of all things, Neil could not know this.

“I was going for a walk,” Neil said. “Why don’t you come with me?”

His painful attempts at kindness, after all that had happened, were too much for Laura’s temper. She snapped at him, “Just go away, Neil!” and hurried off before he could reply.

Tears flooded her eyes again, and she made for the outer edge of the garden, through the gate to the woods, where no one would disturb her. This time, when a man spoke, she took no heed, hardly heard him, certainly did not see him, or she would have run, or tried to. Instead, she only realized he was there when he grabbed her, and only realized who it was when he spoke low in her ear:

“I hoped I’d find you.”

Laura screamed. Fordham put his hand over her mouth. She tried to bite and struggle, and then felt something pricking at her side.

“Make a sound, and I’ll kill you,” Fordham said.

Laura looked down, her sight still blurred with tears, and saw he held a knife against her waist. His other hand dropped from her mouth to grab the collar at the back of her dress. The knife came higher, up against the bottom of her rib cage.

“You come with me, and you don’t struggle, and you don’t scream, or I cut into you right here,” he said. “Understand?”

“I understand,” Laura said faintly.

•    *    *

Richard went into the drawing-room, his heart heavy. He ought to have known that Laura would realize sooner or later. She wasn’t stupid, and she knew him well. He ought to have been prepared for the pain it would cause her to find out. No, he ought to have told her long ago, before they’d even come here. And now she was hurt, and so hurt that he thought talking to her would only make it worse. But nor could he bear the thought of leaving her alone when she was crying.

Verity came into the drawing room with Podge in her arms and Annie clinging to her skirts.

“Oh, Richard, can you—”

“No, sorry,” he interrupted. “I can’t — I can’t right now.”

She blinked. “But—”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to do something.”

Richard left before she could protest further, and almost ran down the hall to the study, where Neil was sitting at his desk with the steward.

“I need a favour,” Richard said.

Neil looked up. “Now?”

“Five minutes ago.”

Neil raised his brows. “Very well then.” He nodded to the steward. “We’ll get back to this tomorrow.”

Richard waited for the steward to leave before speaking. “I just had an argument with Laura, and she’s crying and—”

“—Surely you don’t think I can do anything?” Neil said in surprise. “What about Verity?”

“No. She’s—” Richard thought for an excuse. “Look, will you just go and find Laura — she’s in the garden — and make sure she’s alright? She won’t speak to me right now, doesn’t even want to see me, but I don’t think she should be alone.”

“You know perfectly well she’ll only bite my head off,” Neil said, getting up with a sigh. “But if that’ll make her feel better…”

“Thank you.”

“If she slaps me again, I’ll take it out on you,” Neil grumbled. “What kind of man argues with his pregnant wife anyway?”

He left before Richard could reply. Richard, also feeling the need to be alone, sunk down into an armchair and tried to understand himself. He loved Laura. Was in love with her, as he had thought he never would be. And yet, still something lit up inside him when Verity spoke to him. He didn’t want it to happen, but it did.

And even apart from that, there were things he liked about Verity. She was genuine and reliable and fiercely proud. She had a quiet, dry sense of humour that could be very funny indeed. Over the years, a steady, comfortable affection had built up between them. He suspected that he loved her better than he loved even his own sister, Elizabeth.

But Laura made him happy, which Verity never had done and never would do. There was a sort of quiet contentment just in waking up next to Laura, a contentment that went soul deep. Everything about her felt right.

Richard sat there in the study for some time thinking about it. When an hour had passed, he thought Laura might be calm enough now to want to speak with him about it. He went into the drawing-room, to find it empty, then upstairs to the bedroom, in case Laura had gone to lie down, but that was empty too. In the hallway, he ran into Verity.

“Have you seen Laura?” he asked.

“No. Have you seen Neil? I can’t find him anywhere.”

“He went out into the garden shortly after breakfast.” Richard frowned. “They might be together, I suppose.”

“Perhaps they went down to the village,” Verity said doubtfully. “Do you particularly need her now?”

“I want her,” Richard said.

“Is something wrong?”

“We had a bit of a fight.”

“Oh dear. A real fight, or a grumpy, tired, pregnant squabble?” Verity poked Richard in the arm. “You have to treat her with kid gloves, Rich.”

For a moment Richard almost told her about it, then he shrugged. “It’s private.”

The smile on Verity’s face faltered. “Oh. A real fight then. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he said, though in a way it was. “I think I’ll go to the village and see if I can find her.”

“Well tell Neil I’d like him back soon if you see him.”

Richard did not see him, nor did he see Laura, and when he came back to the house as Verity was pouring tea for herself in the drawing room, he was very worried. Verity was also concerned.

“She wouldn’t have gone off somewhere in anger, would she?” she asked. “I mean, it’s a very hot day, and she might overtire herself. She ought to eat something too.”

“She’s not stupid,” Richard said, a growl of anger in his voice. Verity looked startled. “I don’t mean it that way. No. No, she would not go off without saying.”

“Right.” Verity looked down at Richard’s untouched cup of tea. “Finish your tea, Rich. I’ll go and send some footmen out to look for her. She might have — sprained her ankle somewhere, or had a faint.”

By late afternoon, it was clear that something had happened. Not only had no one seen Laura since Richard had left her on the terrace at eleven, but Neil was also missing. Verity had sent out to the neighbours to ask if Laura or Neil had called, and no one had seen them. Menservants had wandered the house and grounds looking for them, and no sign of them had been found.

At around six, when Richard was pacing the hall with his stick and cursing himself for not having insisted on staying with Laura, the doorbell rung and Richard opened it to see a stranger, male, middle-aged, and plump, standing on the stoop. Richard stared at him. The stranger bowed. Verity came running downstairs and stopped when she saw who it was.

“Mr French,” she said, rather helplessly. “Can I help you?”

“Er, I think perhaps, I can help you.” The man wiped beads of sweat from his brow. “There came into my possession today some papers, that I believe may be of interest to, uh—” he glanced at Richard “—my Lord Albroke?”

“That’s me.” Richard narrowed his eyes. “What papers?”

The man made a delicate gesture with his plump, rather short fingers. “Perhaps we should talk in private?”

They went into the study. Verity, who was ordinarily an excellent host, made no mention of tea and only looked coldly at the stranger.

“Mr French runs the local newspaper,” she explained. “He does not like that we are hiring a governess for Annie.”

“If the village school is adequate for a blacksmith’s daughter—” Mr French began, before silencing himself. “That is a matter for another day. I came here to tell Lord Albroke that I was approached by a man this morning who gave me some letters. Upon perusing these letters, upon seeking counsel with my wife, I determined the only just course was to bring them to their writer.” He looked at Richard. “Who I believe would be your wife.”

“My wife?” Richard narrowed his eyes. “What letters are these, Mr French?”

“I’ll show them to Lady Albroke,” Mr French said peevishly. “They are hers.”

“She’s not here. Show them to me.”

“Now my wife said that letters of this nature should go right back to who wrote them—”

“—Show me the goddamn letters!”

Verity jumped. “Richard, there’s no need to shout.”

But Mr French was, with a coward’s haste, taking the letters from his pocket. Richard opened them and scanned them, his heart pounding. There was nothing new in it for him, but he felt sick with confusion and fear to see it all the same. Laura hadn’t mentioned any letters between her and Percival — but it was her handwriting clear enough. And what she had written was damning enough. Richard tossed them on the desk.

“You’re not going to print them.”

“As I said, my wife believes—”

“Good. Who gave them to you?”

“He did not give me his name,” Mr French said.

“Did he have red hair? Tall, pale?” It had to be Percival — come back to harass Laura out of— what? Misguided love? Or a desire for revenge?

But Mr French was shaking his head. “I am not good with faces, you know, but I think I would remember him having red hair. And he was not pale. Rather, I would say, sunburnt.”

Richard could not understand it.

“What did he say?” Verity asked.

“He said that he knew Lady Albroke, that he could provide me with a story about her. He said she was with child and—” Mr French hesitated. “Well he gave me these letters and bade me read them. Urged me to print them. Made me promise I would, in fact. But I am not like the gutter-presses of London. I do not deal in sordid gossip. My paper serves to advance justice through rational discourse, not spiteful whispering.”

“Not spiteful to suggest a young girl learns only self-centredness for having a governess,” Verity muttered under her breath.

Richard felt his cheek twitch. “That aside. What did the man look like? Sunburned, you said?”

“Oh yes. And uh, rather youthful. Not more than forty. Very tall, burly fellow.”

“That’s useless.” Richard rammed his hair back from his head. “That could be anyone. Isn’t there anything you can remember about him?”

Mr French blinked baldly. “Why, yes, actually. I asked of his education, thought him quite a well-spoken chap, and I was disappointed to find him another product of privilege — mentioned that he was at Cambridge with you, my lord, as it happens.”

Again, Richard was bewildered. Then his mind cleared. “Was this man… blond, Mr French? Was he a big blond man with blue eyes?”

“Ah, now that you mention it, I believe he was.” Mr French looked pleased to have remembered so much. “Yes, blond, and big, and blue-eyed, with a terrible sunburn.”

Richard sat down suddenly in a chair, faint with dread.

“What is it?” asked Verity. “Who is it?”

“It’s Giles Fordham. He’s taken my wife.”

__

A/N: DUN DUN DUN

(Has Richard started to redeem himself enough yet?)

Chapter Nineteen: Almost a Pleasure

Laura had to walk at a trot to keep up with Fordham’s long strides. His knife pricked just below her ribs, and he twisted her collar tight enough to choke. The tears dried on Laura’s face, and she tried to think how she might get away. If she ran, he would catch her, probably stab her, possibly kill her. If she didn’t run — well he would rape her, she thought, that must be what he planned, and if she didn’t struggle, maybe it wouldn’t hurt much.

She stumbled over a rut and he dragged her upright by her collar. The knife pricked against her skin, and Laura felt the sting of broken flesh.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, trying to hold herself further away from the knife.

He laughed. “What do you think?”

“Rape me I suppose,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“I thought about it,” Fordham said casually. “Maybe I will.”

That was somehow more frightening than if he had said he would. Laura thought of screaming for help, but the wood was silent and empty. Again, she considered running, and again, she decided it was too risky. It was better to stay quiet for now, and wait for her chance to escape. She knew that the road through the woods ended not far from the village. If she could get away from Fordham then, she might be able to reach the safety of other people before he caught her.

But they didn’t go that far. After a mile or so, they came to the clearing where the gamekeeper’s cottage stood. Fordham dragged her through the yard, overgrown with weeds, and towards the back of the house. Laura’s heart seemed to freeze over, and she jerked away on reflex. He twisted the back of her collar until she choked.

“You run, and I’ll kill you.”

She couldn’t run anyway. He had twisted her collar so tight she could barely breathe. All she could do was stumble blindly where he led, her head spinning, her hands grasping at her neck. Around the back of the house were several outhouses and a flagstone-paved yard, all coming up with weeds. Fordham dragged her towards the smallest outhouse, made of stone and set halfway down in the earth. For a moment, the knife left her side as he pulled up the latch. The door was stuck and he had to wrench to get it open. His grip at the back of her neck loosened just long enough for Laura to think perhaps she could escape. Then Fordham had the door open, and she was shoved inside.

Her feet caught on a stone ledge, and then on nothing at all, and she found herself stumbling down a flight of stairs into darkness. She turned her ankle on a broken step and fell the last few, landing hard on her side on a packed dirt floor below. For a moment, she was too winded to move or speak, and terrified she’d hurt the baby. Then Fordham was upon her again, this time without the knife. He grabbed her by her neck and lifted her, shoving her against the wall. Cold, sharp stone scratched her back. She choked for air. His hands tightened, and bright spots danced in her vision. In the dim light coming through the door, she could see his expression, distorted in fury: eyes showing the whites, lips pressed tight, veins bulging at the temples. He wasn’t going to rape her. He was going to kill her.

She tried to raise her arms to fight him off, but she was already too weak. Then suddenly he released her, and she fell gasping to the floor. She sprawled there, heaving for air. Slowly, her vision stopped dancing and feeling came back into her limbs. Above her, Fordham was breathing heavily too, his hands crab-clawing at his sides.

Laura got to her hands and knees and started crawling for the stairs. She’d barely got one step before Fordham kicked her onto her back again, put his boot flat against her sternum, and pressed, pinning her to the floor.

“Don’t move,” Fordham said.

She couldn’t move anyway. With his boot pressing down, she could barely breathe again. But she didn’t think he meant to hurt her this time. There was a wild, almost confused expression in his eyes. He stared at her.

“You can— let me go—” she managed to gasp. “I won’t— tell—”

The boot pressed down hard. “Shut up!”

She squirmed beneath him, her vision blurring into blackness, with one bright rectangle in the centre — the open door at the top of the stairs, seeming very far away.

“I’m not going to let you go. I’m going to kill you, and that bastard Albroke will be blamed. They have to find your body, and blame him, so you have to die.”

It didn’t make any sense to Laura. And her sight was fading. The blurry blackness seemed blacker, and the rectangle of light was mottled over with a dark, moving shape.

The shape yelled something, and moved very fast down the stairs, and then the pressure on Laura’s ribcage was gone. At first, she could not understand what had happened. She was lying very still and the floor was spinning. It started to slow, and she heard swearing and scuffling, and then saw in the dim light that Fordham was wrestling with the moving shape on the floor. Then they were apart again, getting to their feet. Fordham got there first. He kicked the shape while it was still getting up, sending it crashing against a wall, and then turned and scrambled up the stairs to the doorway. The door slammed shut and the hut fell into blackness.

Laura took aching breaths of muddy-smelling air. Behind her, against the wall, the shape staggered to its feet, swearing. She recognized him then and was no less confused for it. Neil was there. Well, after Fordham that was almost a pleasure.

She blinked and spun dizzily in the darkness.

*    *    *

Verity stared at Richard. “Would he hurt Neil?”

“I don’t know. He’ll hurt Laura.” Possibly even kill her. Richard remembered the brutality of Fordham’s fists upon him. “If he touches her, I’ll kill him.”

How he would do that, Richard didn’t quite know, but he would.

“I did think he seemed a very odd man,” Mr French said apologetically. “I take it he is of the privileged classes, and of course, when one insists on such purity of blood—”

“Shut up,” said Richard.

Mr French shut up.

“Who’s the local sheriff?” Richard asked. “We need to search the country for them. Fordham’s got an indictment waiting for him in London. He can be arrested immediately.”

“Paxton,” Verity said. “From the village. The magistrate will have to be notified too — he’s over in Greater Hough.”

“Send a footman to each of them. Ask for any men they can spare to help search.” Richard turned to Mr French. “Where did you see Fordham?”

“In the woods, by the gate to the garden.”

“Then I’m going to go and look for them.”

“No you won’t,” Verity said. “We’ll send some grooms out to look, and then wait for the sheriff and the magistrate.”

Richard ignored her and limped to the door. Verity got there first and blocked it, her jaw set. Richard clenched his fists against a sudden surge of anger.

“I’m not going to wait here and do nothing.”

“Fordham hates you more than anyone else. If you go out alone you’ve as good a chance of leaving Laura a widow as finding her.”

Richard hesitated; last time he and Fordham had met alone, he might well have died. But he couldn’t stand to stay and wait for someone else to rescue Laura. They might be too late already.

Verity took his shoulders in her hands. “Neil must be with her. He’ll do whatever he can to protect her.” Her voice quavered. “I’m sure he’ll make sure they’re both safe.”

Richard bowed his head and shut his eyes. He felt sick.

“I won’t go alone,” he said. “Find me a man, lend me a rifle, two horses.”

“Richard, just wait an hour—”

“—No.” He interrupted her without heat. “It will be dark in two. They might be in the woods still. I’ll start there. And—” He turned to Mr French, who had started surreptitiously scribbling with a pencil in a small leather-bound notebook. “You.”

Mr French looked up, his expression guilty. “Me?”

“You’re coming with me.” Richard turned to Verity. “Now I’m not alone. Are you satisfied?”

Her lower lip trembled but she nodded. “If you find Neil—”

Richard pulled her into a brief, one-armed hug. “Yes.” He broke away. “Now where does Neil keep his rifles?”

__

A/N: I know this is a short chapter, but, well, that’s what it is.

Chapter Twenty: Locked In

Perhaps Laura fainted. It seemed that one moment she was lying on the cold floor of the cellar with her head spinning, and the next Neil was patting at her cheeks, speaking to her. The sounds resolved into words. He was swearing. She moved, and he spoke again.

“Where are you hurt? Is it bad?”

Her head ached. She wished Neil would go away.

“Talk to me,” Neil said. “Laura, say something.”

“Go away.”

He did not go away. He fumbled his way down to her wrists to feel her pulse. “Are you bleeding? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.” Wincing, she tried to sit up. Neil had to help her. Her head pounded and spun. She took shallow, hesitant breaths of air through aching lungs.

“What are you doing here?” she rasped.

“I heard you scream,” Neil said. “Followed you into the woods and saw that man with the knife. I didn’t dare come closer while he was close enough to hurt you, so I followed from a distance, but I lost you at the clearing, or I would have stopped him sooner.”

There was a shadow of guilt to his voice. Laura wondered if Neil realized if he’d been a few minutes later, she would probably be dead. Another time, perhaps, she would tell him that. Right now, her throat hurt to speak, and her heart hurt to think of it.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Neil asked.

“Everywhere,” Laura said. “Let me stand up.”

Her legs were weak, so Neil half-lifted her to her feet. Her head was still dizzy and throbbing. Her chest was tight where Fordham had stood on her, and she was bruised on her side where she’d fallen down the stairs. Her neck ached where he’d strangled her, and there was a sticky, stinging spot at one side where he had cut her. But there was no ache inside, no pain in the belly or between her legs, and Laura felt, with relief, a little flutter of movement low on her left side. Perhaps the baby was protesting at its treatment.

“I think I’m alright,” she said.

“We’ll get you home and to a doctor,” Neil said, letting her go and limping stiffly up the stairs. He stopped before the rim of light coming through around the edges of the door and pushed. The door did not move. He pushed again, harder. Flakes of dirt fell from the ceiling. Then he stopped. “I’m afraid we’re locked in.”

Laura gave a choking little laugh. Neil came back down the short flight of stairs and stopped before her. He was still limping.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m just fine.”

“You’re limping.”

“Bastard kicked me in the knee. You’re the one I’m worried about. What did he do to you?”

“Strangled me, mostly.” Laura shuddered and her ribs protested. “Then he stopped. I think he had second thoughts. But he wants to kill me.”

Her voice quavered. Neil put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed gently.

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

What happened next was later rather embarrassing to Laura, and probably very embarrassing to Neil too. She clung to him. He was very much taller than her and very lean, so it was not very comfortable. Her hands were a bony lump between them, and one of the buttons of his coat pressed hard against her eyebrow. Nor was she crying, which might have excused it. She was simply clinging. Neil made no attempt to remove her, but his arms dangled by his sides for a long moment before it seemed to occur to him to wrap them around Laura. That was better. That gave Laura the strength to, after a moment, break away from him, swallowing hard. Then Neil slipped out of his coat and held it out for her.

“Here. Put this on.”

Laura wasn’t cold, but she slipped into the coat anyway, its silk lining soft against her skin.

“He’ll come back,” she said. “Can we get out before he does?”

“I’m not sure.” Neil went back to the door and ran his hands around the edges. “I don’t think I can break through. It’s solid oak by the feel. And the walls are stone.”

Laura shivered. “Will someone find us?”

“Richard is bound to start a search for you before long,” Neil said, coming back down the stairs and rooting around in the shadowy corners of the cellar. “Here, we can sit on these.”

They were sacks of some kind, but they were more comfortable than the hard-packed dirt floor. Laura sat down against the wall with Neil. His shoulder rested warmly against her own and she was grateful for it. Now that her first shock had passed, she discovered she was very frightened indeed. She was trembling all over.

“Who was that man?” Neil asked.

“Giles Fordham.” Laura shivered. “He- he wants to hurt Richard.” She tried to remember what he said. “He was going to kill me. Said Richard would be blamed. I don’t understand it. He must be quite mad.”

“I see,” Neil said slowly, and then fell into silence. Laura’s eyes were adjusting to the dim light in the cellar now, and she could just make out a bruise darkening on Neil’s jaw. He rubbed at it absently. At last he said, rather stiffly, “I think I owe you an apology.”

“What on earth for?”

“For quite a lot, really.” Neil looked at her, squinting in the dim light. “For one thing, I ought to have accepted it when Richard first married you. I’m sorry I didn’t. It wasn’t fair.”

Laura shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe it’s Richard you ought to apologise to.”

“I did. Or tried, anyway.” Neil sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I did you wrong too. I blamed you for what Fordham did to him last year. I didn’t even try to like you. I didn’t want you to mean what you do to Richard.”

Laura’s gut twisted unpleasantly. She didn’t know what she meant to Richard after his confession earlier. He said he loved her and she didn’t think he was lying, but it hurt, very much, to wonder how he had fallen in love with Verity, and how deep those feelings ran.

“Laura?”

“Fordham might come back,” she said to distract him. “What do we do then?”

Neil was silent, then got up and moved around the cellar, a vague shadow against vaguer shadows, kicking at bits of debris on the floor. He picked up a long something and rapped it hard against the wall.

“If he comes back, I’ll distract him with this,” he said, coming back over and sitting back down, laying the thing against him. Laura saw it was a stout wooden pole, probably from a shovel or pitchfork. “While I’m doing that, you get out of here and go straight back to the house. If I can hold him fifteen minutes, you’ll have time to get home. You can walk, can’t you?”

“I think so.” Laura got to her feet and walked around the cellar. She was still dizzy and achy, and her ankle hurt, but she wasn’t, she thought, greatly damaged. “Yes, I can.”

She sat back down again, shifting closer to Neil and leaning against him. “Can you really fight with Fordham? You were limping earlier. And he’s big - bigger than you.”

“Sixteen stone pure muscle, I imagine,” Neil said calmly. “No, it will be fine. I fear Richard much more than Fordham, as it happens. If I let anything happen to you, Richard will absolutely kill me.”

Laura gave a shaky laugh and wrapped her arms around her knees. Richard would recover, she thought. He had lost his heart to a woman before and survived. And you couldn’t lose a heart twice anyway.

The thought made tears come to her eyes again, and she sniffed and blinked them back.

“What’s wrong?” Neil asked.

“He- he’s not in love with me.”

“Bullshit.”

The certainty in Neil’s voice startled her.

“My apologies,” Neil said. “But a man who is not in love with his wife does not throw a crystal tumbler of his best French brandy into the fireplace when she is insulted.”

“He did that?”

“Yes. And I rather fancy he only narrowly prevented himself throwing it at me.”

Laura was slightly awed by this new information. But she didn’t see that it made a difference. Richard was in love with Verity, and that hurt Laura, like she was being split in two from the inside. She couldn’t tell Neil that. She had an instinct that he knew nothing of Richard’s feelings for Verity, and telling him would only hurt everybody involved.

It was hard to tell how much time was passing, down in the cold cellar. They fell into silence. Laura felt some aches settle into her joints, and others fade. Her head stopped spinning. Despite Neil’s coat, she became chilled, and eventually she began to grow hungry too. She pressed on her stomach to try and lessen the sensation. Neil noticed.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m just hungry.”

Neil patted her knee. “It can’t be much longer before Richard starts looking for you. He might have started already.”

Laura tried to figure out what time it must be. Into the afternoon, at least. The light coming through the cracks around the door and in narrow shafts through pin-prick holes in the roof had swelled some time ago, and was now subsiding. It was almost black in here now, but the woods would block much of the sun.

It grew blacker still. Eventually, there was almost no light at all seeping into the cellar. Laura’s hunger settled down to a dull ache inside her. She felt weak and tired.

Then there was the sound of the yard-gate creaking open, and Neil stiffened next to her. He helped her to her feet and brought her over to the darkest corner of the hut, near the stairs.

“Don’t speak,” he said in a low voice, and left her side again to pick up his makeshift weapon and take his position on the other side of the stairs. Outside, there were footsteps now - not Richard’s uneven step either, but a brisker, heavier step. The orange glow of an oil-lamp pushed through the cracks around the door. Neil’s dark shadow stiffened and he raised the shovel. Laura’s heart pounded.

There came the grating sound of the latch being pulled back, then the door was flung open and Laura was momentarily blinded by the light. She could see nothing but a vague dark silhouette through the glow. Neil shouted something and must have swung his shovel, for the silhouette yelled in pain and dropped both his lamp and the thing he held in his other hand. The lamplight died, and Laura’s vision cleared to see Fordham fumbling with one hand for the thing he’d dropped, and grappling with Neil’s shovel with the other. A pistol. That was what Fordham had dropped, lying glinting on the top steps. His fingers grazed it and he groped.

Laura screamed and shoved at him, hard enough that he lost his balance and tumbled off the stairs the other side, towards Neil.

“Get out,” Neil shouted. “Laura, go!”

She scrambled for the stairs and climbed them on her hands and knees. Smoke was curling up from the ground, and she coughed. The lantern had set some of the potato sacks smouldering. A flicker of flame alerted Laura that the smoke was becoming a fire.

“Neil!” she shouted.

“Get out!” he yelled back.

Laura had reached the top of the stairs. Her hand brushed against a cold, metallic thing, and she stopped. Fordham’s pistol, black and sleek. She picked it up, so that Fordham couldn’t, and got carefully to her feet, clutching the door-frame. Damp, cold air from outside rushed in and her head and lungs cleared. She turned around and looked back.

Fordham was struggling with Neil. They were gripping each other by their clothes and exchanging punches, very close. Neil seemed to be getting the worst of it, but he wouldn’t let go of Fordham’s collar. Then Fordham pulled something from his belt, and punched Neil again, who gave a grunt that was half a scream. He staggered back until he hit a wall and sank down against it, landing amongst the smouldering sacks. Fordham came in close and raised the thing again, and Laura realized it was a knife. He was going to kill Neil. Then her. She didn’t have time to run. He’d catch her, and kill her too.

She raised the pistol, fumbled back the hammer, and pulled the trigger.

__

A/N: Sorry for the delay - I was on holiday again. Thought I could write while vacationing but I was wrong. Also, for some reason my paragraphs aren’t coming out double-spaced anymore and I have to manually input them. Don’t suppose anyone can tell me if this is another wattpad bug or something I can fix somehow?

Chapter Twenty-One: Every Dark Corner

The recoil made Laura stumble backwards and drop the pistol. Her ears rang, and the smell of powder smoke — an oddly pleasant bitterness — filled the air.

Down below, Fordham fell to his knees, but he didn’t stop moving. Laura turned and fled, stumbling through the yard and onto the road. It was very nearly dark by now, and the sunlight slanting through the woods gave the trees long, clawing shadows. Unable to run any further, Laura staggered down the road. She kept thinking she heard footsteps behind her and turning, terrified it was Fordham, but no one followed. Not Fordham. Not Neil.

Neil.

She stopped and leaned against a tree trunk, her breath coming in rags. He’d been stabbed, hurt. The fire would not spread far in the stone hut, but he still might be burned. She looked back into the shadows of the woods. She ought to help Neil. She ought to go back for him — Fordham was hurt, possibly dead — she would be safe. 

Her feet did not move. She stared into the shadows, willing Neil to come walking out of them.

No one came.

*  *  *

As they came out the gate into the woods, a shot rang out in the distance. Richard felt acid dread sink over him. Without waiting for Mr French to follow, he spurred his horse into a gallop along the road. Trees whipped past his vision, but Richard focused on the road in front of him. It had to be Fordham, he thought. No poacher, no farmer, would be near Neil’s woods at this time of evening. He expected at every turn of the path to come across Laura, lying hurt or dead on the ground, and Fordham standing over her.

He rounded a corner and there she was, not lying, but standing still, looking away from him. He pulled up sharply, relief flooding over him, his horse squealing, and swung himself down from the saddle, heedless of the pain that shot up his right leg.

“Laura!”

She turned towards him, her face white, almost grey. He limped forward, using his rifle as a cane, and pulled her fast against him. She was wearing Neil’s coat, and her cheek against his neck was icy cold.

“It’s alright,” he said. “You’re alright now.”

He didn’t know if it was true — she was trembling in his arms and chilled all over, though the evening was warm — but it seemed the right thing to say. He let the rifle fall to the ground and rubbed her shoulders, kissing her hair.

“You’re safe.”

She wasn’t crying, which seemed worse somehow than if she was. She only bent her head against the crook of his neck and took shaky, rattling breaths. She seemed to be trying to speak, but what faint sounds she uttered made no sense to Richard. Behind them came the sound of a horse cantering, and Mr French rounded the corner then reined in his horse.

“Her ladyship, I take it?”

“Yes. She’s hurt.” Richard stroked Laura’s hair, which was gritty with dust and cobwebs. “I don’t know where Fordham or my brother are.”

At that, Laura raised her head. “Neil. He needs help,” she wheezed. “He’s been stabbed. And there’s a fire—” she broke off choking, seemingly on her own breath. Richard stood back a little to give her some air and noticed for the first time blood staining the front of her dress, half-hidden beneath Neil’s coat.

“What’s this?” Richard touched the spot gently and found it sticky and half-dried. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

“I’m fine.” Laura seemed to be getting a hold of herself now, breathing more deeply. “You have to go and help Neil.”

“I can’t leave you.” Now, Richard noticed in the dim light a livid bruise around her neck. “I need to get you back home to Cavendish.”

“No, no I can wait.” Laura brushed his hand away. “Fordham’s here — be careful of him. He might not be dead.”

“We know — what do you mean, dead?”

“I shot him.”

Richard stared at Laura. She took a step backwards, pressing her hands over her eyes. 

“I took his pistol. I shot him. But he stabbed Neil. And Neil’s still there. And Fordham might not be dead.”

Richard, who until that moment had not really worried for Neil at all, felt a flash of fear. “Still where?”

“The gamekeeper’s cottage. Fordham took me there — there’s a cellar in the back. He locked us in for hours. Then he came back with the gun.”

Richard didn’t know what to do. He rubbed Laura’s arm and looked up at Mr French, who was still mounted. 

“If you’ll condescend to take my advice, my lord,” Mr French said, “I think your brother might need you more than her ladyship does right now.”

Laura nodded, rubbing her eyes. “You need to go and help Neil. He needs you, now. I don’t.”

“You need a doctor.” Richard looked back at Mr French. “Can you take my wife home, and tell them to send more men to the gamekeeper’s cottage? One of the surgeons at least, and two or three others beside.”

“And you, my lord?”

“I’ll go and find my brother.”

“No!” Laura managed to speak above a rasp and then coughed. “Richard, Fordham might still be alive. Don’t go alone. Take him with you. I’ll wait here.”

“No, you won’t,” Richard said. “I will not leave you alone and unprotected. You’re going home with Mr French.”

“But Rich—”

“—No. You’re going.” It was the first time Richard had given Laura a direct order, and he didn’t like it, but there wasn’t time for argument now. He pushed Laura towards Mr French. “Here, if I help her up, can you ride with her in front of you, do you think?”

“It isn’t I, my lord, but the horse who will decide,” Mr French said. 

“Well let’s ask him,” Richard said. “Come on, Laura. I’ll give you a leg up.”

“Richard—”

“—You’re going home. You’re seeing Cavendish. It’s not a request. Now, go.”

Laura pressed her lips tightly together in a gesture of mute fury, but she did as Richard asked, stepping on his linked hands and putting her weight heavily on his shoulder. Mr French still had to almost drag her into the saddle in front of him. Richard thought Laura looked doubly furious at the indignity of her position. He didn’t much like it either, seeing his wife in another man’s lap, but Laura was in no condition to ride by herself, even if she had been a good horsewoman, and Richard didn’t think she should be made to walk. 

“Thank you for your help,” he said to Mr French. “Please, send the men as soon as you can.”

“Of course, my lord, of course. I would do the same for any man, you know, lord or labourer.”

“Just hurry,” Richard said.

Mr French rode off at a slow canter, still talking, perhaps to Laura this time. Richard stooped to pick up his rifle, took his horse’s reins in his hand, and started for the gamekeeper’s hut.

*  *  *

The bedroom was in near darkness, with all the candles extinguished and the curtains drawn fast against the last fading light outside. Laura lay — washed, stitched, bandaged, fed — with her head half-buried in a mound of pillows and tried not to think. Flashes of memory — of Fordham falling to his knees, of Neil sinking down against the wall, of Richard walking off with his rifle over his shoulder — kept coming back to her. Despite the hot tisane Cavendish had given her to make her sleep, her heart was beating too fast for her to relax. She did not want to be alone, but Verity’s company made her more anxious and Cavendish was too practical to be of comfort, so she had sent them both away.

Noises from below filtered up to her. Voices, the movement of feet up and down the stairs, the opening and shutting of doors. Just as things seemed to fall quiet, something would start moving again — someone would run up the stairs, or one of the children would start wailing in the nurseries above. 

A quiet came. Laura waited to see what would disturb it this time. The front door slamming open, and a scream — Verity’s. Laura’s heart, already racing, skipped a beat or three. She sat up in bed and listened hard — a flurry of raised voices, running footsteps, and one of the children was crying again. The men must be back, Richard — and Neil.

There came the sound of Verity sobbing, then it faded away and another door slammed below.

Laura could bear it no longer. She slipped out of bed and went unsteadily to the door. In the hallway outside, she had the wall to lean against, which made it easier. When she reached the mezzanine, she saw a servant running into the dining room carrying a bundle of rags. Laura made her way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannister. She had stiffened up all over from her hour spent in bed and seemed to have a thousand new aches and pains that she hadn’t noticed before.

The door to the dining room was opened, and she stopped in the doorway, leaning on the jam and out of breath. Neil was lying on the table, undressed to his trousers, with Verity bent over him with her head against his chest. At first, Laura thought he was dead, because his eyes were closed and his waist was covered in half-dried blood, but then she saw that his fingers were curled through Verity’s hair and his lips were moving. He seemed to be trying to comfort Verity. Behind him, the surgeons were dipping rags into steaming water, and Richard was talking in a low voice with the local sheriff.

“My lady!”

There was a touch at Laura’s elbow and she turned to see Cavendish looking almost angry and carrying a cup of a steaming, bitter-smelling drink. 

“You need to be in bed!”

Richard and the sheriff looked up and Richard hobbled over, clumsy without his stick, the relief on his face quickly fading to concern. “Laura, what’s wrong?”

“I had to — know what happened.” It hurt to speak. Cavendish had told her she shouldn’t, or she might do permanent damage to her voice, but at the moment Laura didn’t care about that. “How is Neil?”

“He’ll be well. Now take her back to bed, my lord,” Cavendish hissed, slipping past them into the room. “She needs rest! And no, sir, you cannot speak with her! She is not to talk!”

That last was to the sheriff, who had sidled hopefully closer. Richard put out his arm to take Laura by the waist then hesitated. Laura looked at his hands and saw that they were stained in blood, that even his shirt cuffs were bright scarlet.

“Back to bed,” Richard said, motioning her back into the hall. “Come on.”

Was it Neil’s blood, or Fordham’s? With Cavendish and the sheriff listening, Laura dared not ask. She hobbled back into the hall, Richard behind her, and they made their way upstairs in silence. In the bedroom, Richard waited until she was back in bed and then disappeared into the dressing room, where Laura heard the sound of splashing water and scrubbing. Then came the thump of Richard throwing off his boots and the creak of the wardrobe doors opening. When Richard came back, he was in a dressing gown over a clean shirt and his hands were scrubbed clean. He sank down upon the edge of the bed next to Laura and rubbed her shoulder.

“You’re not asleep?”

She shook her head against the pillow. “Is Fordham dead?”

For a moment, Richard was silent. “Yes.”

“Did I kill him?”

“I don’t know. When I got to the cottage, the only person I saw was Neil, lying in the yard. Later, when the other men arrived, someone else thought to look for Fordham. They found him dead in the cellar, but the air was poisonous from the smoke. That might have been what killed him.”

Laura could tell he was trying to make her feel better about it. Regardless of whether he died from the bullet or the smoke, if she had not shot him, he would not be dead. But somehow she could not feel guilty for it. She did feel guilty about running away and leaving Neil alone in the burning cellar. That had been cowardly, particularly after Neil had saved her life. That had been wrong. 

“You ought to go to sleep,” Richard said, running his hand down her spine. “Cavendish said you needed rest.”

“I can’t sleep.” She was exhausted, but her mind kept jumping back to the events of the day and reliving them. She did not want to risk dreaming. “Talk to me.”

“Of what?”

“Tell me…” She hesitated; it still hurt, but after all that had happened, she had to know. “Tell me about Verity.”

Richard’s hand, doing circles at the top of her neck, paused. “Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.” Laura turned over on her back so she could meet Richard’s eyes. “I didn’t this morning, but I do now. How did you fall in love with her?”

“I saw her. It took, I think, one glance.”

A lump swelled in Laura’s throat, and it had nothing to do with how Fordham had choked her. “I see.”

“No, you don’t.” Richard grazed her cheek with his knuckle. “I fell in love with her despite the fact that I knew nothing about her, and I fell in love with you because I knew you. Do you really think there can be any comparison between the two of you? A love that is ignorant of every dark corner and twisted facet of a person’s heart, and a love that is knowing of them?”

Laura’s lips trembled. “But you still feel for her, don’t you?”

“I do, but it’s not like what I feel for you. It doesn’t even come close. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you with it. I was scared…”

“…Scared I’d react the way I did?”

“Exactly.” Richard gave her a wry smile. “I’m sorry. I hurt you, because I was too… stupid to trust you. Too stupid, the day I married you, to realize that you were already more to me than Verity ever had been, ever could be.”

It did not quite repair all the pain in Laura’s heart. It would take time as well as words for that, but it helped. She sat up, with some difficulty, and hugged Richard. He pulled her tighter against him and kissed her hair, then he drew back and met her eyes. Hesitatingly, questioningly, he bent his head towards her. She answered him by drawing closer. He took her face in his hands and kissed her again and then once more, lingeringly, then drew back, caressing her cheek.

“After everything that happened today, are you really alright?”

“I think so. Are you?”

He nodded. “Shaken, but you’re safe now, and Neil’s going to be fine too.” He dropped his gaze to Laura’s waist. “How about the baby?”

“I’ve felt him move several times since Fordham attacked me. Cavendish said there’s probably no risk to him, as long as I rest.”

Richard kissed her forehead. “I need to let you do that then. And you really shouldn’t be talking. I can tell it hurts you to speak.”

“It’s alright, I think I can sleep now.” Laura’s heartbeat had slowed and a heavy pressure inside her had lifted. She hugged Richard once more, breathing in his scent — right now, of fresh soap and a faint smokiness, either from the fire or the pine trees in the wood. “I love you.”

“You really shouldn’t be talking.”

“That’s not the right reply.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s not.” Richard kissed her once more. “I love you too.”

__

A/N: As you can probably tell, things are heading quickly for a close with this story. We have some loose ends to tie up still, and of course an epilogue, but the major problems are solved.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Allies

At first, Neil had thought he was alone in the room, but slowly he became aware of someone’s presence near him, of soft breathing, of the movement of fabric. He reached out and groped across the bedsheets for Verity’s hand, his muscles aching with the effort.

“Are you awake? Do you need something?”

It was not the voice he expected. He opened his eyes and groaned.

“Oh God, it’s you.”

“Yes. It’s me.” Irritation crossed Richard’s face. “No, for God’s sake, don’t sit up.”

He pressed Neil’s shoulders firmly down as he tried to move.

“You’re not to sit up.”

Neil couldn’t sit anyway. His muscles quivered with the effort. He sighed and let himself fall back on the pillow.

“Where’s Verity? She was here before, wasn’t she?” He vaguely remembered her whispered prayers between kisses. “Is she alright?”

“Cavendish sent her to bed at dawn. Should I wake her? Do you need her?”

“I don’t know. Am I dying?”

Richard looked pained. “No,” he said. “You’re not going to die. But you need to rest. And so does Verity. She was up with you all night, and later today she’ll have to watch Podge through his surgery.”

Neil swore.

“Charming,” Richard said drily. “When I see her, I’ll tell her you’re doing well.”

“No. I mean it’s not fair. Podge being sick, and now me, and her having to worry about us both.” Neil hesitated. “I’m really not dying, am I?”

“There was a lot of blood, but the wound wasn’t deep. The only danger now is infection, which is why you’re not to move.”

“Right.” Neil sighed and slumped back further back on his pillow. Memories of last night returned to him, in the reverse order, and rather hazily. Verity crying into his shoulder while the surgeons stitched him up. The long, painful journey home carried on a plank of wood. Richard trying to talk cheerfully to him while he tried to stem the flow of blood, waiting for the others to come for them. Crawling up the cellar stairs on his hands and knees, coughing in the smoke. Fordham begging for help behind him, unable to crawl. Laura, standing at the top of the stairs, a feather of pistol smoke dissipating in front of her, then turning and running away.

“How’s Laura? Was she hurt?”

For a moment, Richard was silent. Neil felt a flicker of alarm.

“How is she?” he repeated, trying to get up on his elbows.

“No, stay down!” Richard pushed him down again. “You’ll open the wound again, you fool! She’s… well, you saved her life.” Richard gave a funny sort of dry hiccup and got up abruptly, going to the window and looking out. “You saved her life,” he repeated more steadily. “Fordham was going to kill her.”

“I think she saved mine too.” Neil rested his hand on the aching spot by his waist. “How is she now? She was in pain, I could tell yesterday.”

“Cavendish has put her on bed rest and told her she’s not allowed to talk unless absolutely necessary. He’s mostly worried she’s damaged her voice permanently. But all her other wounds are minor, and she seems to have recovered from the shock.”

“She’s in bed, and you’re with me?”

Richard turned back with a soft laugh. “She sent me out an hour ago in a fit of bad temper. She does not like bed rest, and she does not like being told to keep quiet.”

Then she had to be alright. Relief washed over Neil.

“And the baby? “

“Cavendish says that there’s no sign of trouble, but there still might be a danger if she doesn’t rest. And she is resting, even if she doesn’t like it.”

“Good.” Neil gave a heavy sigh. “I think I’m beginning to get quite fond of her, you know.”

“Are you?” Richard gave a dry smile. “It’s about time.”

Neil tried to return the smile, but failed. “I’m sorry I was such an idiot about her.”

“I know. I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I wouldn’t believe you last time you said so.”

“I don’t blame you. I said something stupid things.” Neil hesitated, tugging at the bed covers. “Are we friends again?”

“Friends.” Richard gripped his shoulder and shook it gently. “Of course.”

*    *    *

There were formalities to be dealt with, of course. The inquest into Fordham’s death was held that evening, not at a local inn as normal but in Neil’s drawing room. The coroner had insisted on the jury being able to ask Laura and Neil questions, and Cavendish had insisted that they both remain in bed. The compromise was that Laura and Neil were carried downstairs and laid up on couches while the jury peered at Fordham’s body, laid out on a table, and asked, in Richard’s view, wholly unnecessary questions. 

Thankfully, it was Neil who took the burden of answering most of them; Laura could hardly speak above a whisper, and as Neil pointed out, there was little she could tell that he could not. However, just as Richard was beginning to feel relieved that the jury were winding down their questions, one man turned to Mr French:

“But I don’t understand, sir, can you explain it to me clearly, why it was that you came to help with the search?”

Mr French cleared his throat and Richard tightened his grip on Laura’s hand. Laura looked at him in confusion. She didn’t know about the letters, he realized. He’d forgotten to tell her, in the panic of all else that had happened. Now, the letters were lying locked in a drawer not fifty feet from where they sat.

“I happened to encounter Mr Fordham at the back gate of this property yesterday morning,” Mr French began. “It must have been only a short while before Mr Fordham kidnapped Lady Laura.”

“Yes,” the juror said impatiently. “We know that already. But why did you return to Mr Armiger’s house later that evening?”

A bead of sweat swelled on Mr French’s brow. His eyes met Richard’s and then he looked away.

“Mr Fordham gave me some… stolen property of Lady Laura’s,” Mr French said miserably. “I came here to return it that evening, upon which point I was inveigled into the search for her.”

The coroner, using Verity’s sewing table for a desk, raised his head. “What property was this, Mr French?”

“Letters,” Mr French admitted.

Laura’s hand, in Richard’s, suddenly tightened. He stroked the back of her palm with his thumb.

“What kind of letters?” one of the jurors asked curiously.

“I— I do not think it right to divulge another person’s correspondence in public.”

The juror turned to Laura. “Perhaps you will allow us, then, to see these letters?”

“I— I don’t know of them—” Laura’s voice was weak. She coughed and Cavendish came closer, but she waved him away. “It’s the first I’ve heard of any letters.”

“Where are they now?” the juror continued. “I think we must be allowed to judge their relevance to the matter at hand, if the dead man took such trouble to bring them.”

A pregnant silence hung over the room. By the tightness of Laura’s hand in his, Richard knew she suspected which letters they were. And it was nothing, he thought with a surge of anger, but impish curiosity on the part of the juror to ask for them.

“Where are the letters?” the coroner repeated, when no one answered.

From across the room, Verity met Richard’s eyes.

“I burned them,” she said loudly. “After my brother and Mr French went out to search, I burned them. They were of a malicious nature, and I thought them best destroyed.”

The juror looked irritated. “Then we are not to conclude our inquest?”

“I think you have the relevant facts,” the coroner said, returning his gaze to his sheets of paper. “If you will give me your verdict, gentlemen?”

There was a buzz of talk around the room. For one moment, Richard wondered dizzily if anyone could be cruel enough to call Fordham’s death murder. A jury of Laura’s peers would never convict her of course, but the mere stress and scandal of a trial would do damage enough. He put his arm around her shoulders.

“We say, sir,” one of the jurors said, “that he brung it upon himself.”

“Death by misadventure,” the coroner murmured.

“Aye,” the juror agreed. “That’s a pretty way of saying it.”

*    *    *

On the way back upstairs, Laura asked Richard which letters they were, already half-knowing the answer. 

“Letters between Percival and you,” Richard said. “I don’t know how Fordham got them, but he planned to get them printed in French’s newspaper, to ruin your reputation. Thankfully, French came to us instead.”

“Then Mr French saw them — and Verity, she too?”

“I’m afraid so, but they won’t tell. And they’re burnt now anyway.” Richard rubbed Laura’s waist. “It’s over now, darling. It’s all over. Don’t worry about it anymore.”

But it wasn’t over. That night, while Richard was downstairs having dinner with Cavendish and the surgeons, there was a soft knock on Laura’s door and Verity came in. Laura, who had been drifting asleep, sat up groggily.

“What is it?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

Verity came closer and sat down on the edge on the bed. In the dim light, Laura noticed she had deep shadows below her eyes. It was impossible not to feel for her, with a little sick baby and a wounded husband. But even then, her mere presence made Laura feel a twist of resentment. An unfair twist; it wasn’t Verity’s fault Richard had fallen in love with her. 

“How’s Podge?” Laura asked, clearing her throat. “Doctor Cavendish said the first surgery went well.”

“He was in a great deal of pain, and he didn’t understand why we were doing it to him.” Verity’s eyes glittered by the light of the single candle by the bed and her face took on a strange sneer. “But I suppose, from a doctor’s point of view, it went well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s alright. I’m only taking it out on you because I daren’t take it out on Cavendish.” Verity gave her a hesitant smile. “That’s not what I came here for though. Here. You ought to have these.”

She drew a thin bundle of papers from the sleeve of her gown and held them out to Laura. The moment Laura took them, she recognized them. She opened the first one with trembling fingers. It was from Percival to her. She remembered the urgent phrases so well she hardly needed to run her eyes over it:

…My feelings for you, so long repressed, overwhelm my senses. I cannot sleep. I do not eat…

…We must marry, my love. It is the only way for us to absolve ourselves…

Laura crumpled the letter up, her heart pounding. “You said you’d burned them.”

“They weren’t mine to burn.”

“You lied in an inquest!”

Verity shrugged. 

Laura looked back down at the other letters — two more of them. She didn’t need or want to read them. She knew what they showed: Percival’s ardency, and her cunning. She shuddered at the idea that thirteen strange men could have read them in public. She had been saved — first by the obnoxious Mr French’s sense of propriety, and secondly by Verity’s catlike inscrutability. It ought to make her like them both more, but instead, she only felt angry with herself.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Did you read them?”

Verity inclined her head. “I saw enough to understand.”

Laura’s humiliation was complete. She unfolded the first letter and held it out towards the candle until it caught fire. Verity watched her, the burst of flame lighting up her cheeks and making the dark shadows beneath her eyes even deeper.

“I want to thank you,” Verity said, when Laura was burning the second letter. “But I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“For shooting Fordham.” Verity’s voice faltered. “Neil said that if you hadn’t done it when you did, he would be dead.”

The flame licked too close to Laura’s fingers and she dropped the fragment of paper. She hadn’t thought of it that way. 

“You don’t blame me, for getting Neil hurt?”

“You’re not the one who stabbed him.” Verity hesitantly laid her hand over Laura’s. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling after all that’s happened, but I want you to know that you saved me and my children, as well as Neil, when you shot Fordham. So if you doubt or regret—”

“—I regret nothing.”

Laura toyed with the last letter, seeing instead the vision of Richard, bruised and battered after Fordham had attacked him, of her unborn child, who Fordham would have murdered along with herself, of Fordham’s hateful, cold blue eyes. 

“Going outside that day, I regret that. Fighting with Richard that morning. Writing these stupid letters. That I regret. Pulling that trigger? Thank God I didn’t miss.”

The tears that came to Laura’s eyes as she spoke made her voice catch, and she coughed. Verity rubbed her hand and then, rather uncertainly, hugged her, an action that made Laura stiffen at first. 

“I feel the same way,” Verity said. “Thank you.” Then Verity released her and sat back. “I really ought to let you rest now. Unless there’s anything you need?”

Laura shook her head and held the last letter out to the flame, watching it flare alight. “This was all, thank you.”

Verity left the room and the last letter disintegrated to ashes in Laura’s fingers. She watched them blacken and cool on the base of the candle-holder. She could not like Verity yet, but she thought that with time they might be friends.

At the very least, they were certainly allies.

__

A/N: This is the last proper chapter, but there will be an epilogue up in a day or two to give a proper happy after for Laura and Richard (we have to find out if their baby is a boy or a girl, don’t we?).

If you can’t tell, towards the end, I was madly trying to shorten the plot, because I’d wanted it to be shorter than Lady in Rags and it was coming out to be much longer!!

Epilogue

It started just after dawn, when Laura awoke Richard with a shove and a hiss and told him the baby was coming, and it ended shortly before noon, with the sun high in the sky and the Thing held upside down by one foot and squalling.

Until it cried, Richard hadn’t realized it was the baby. It was blueish where it wasn’t covered in blood, and much smaller and lumpier than he had expected. When its cry rang out, Laura suddenly loosened her vice-grip on Richard’s hand, and he found himself almost keeping her upright on the bed.

“Laura, stay awake,” he said. “You did it, now stay with me.”

“Just a little more,” the midwife said. “Just the afterbirth.”

Richard shut his eyes. In his arms, Laura tensed again. Richard’s eyes were still shut when the baby hiccuped itself into silence and the midwife could finally be heard to say, “It’s a boy.”

There was then a very confusing time, where Richard was hustled away into a corner and the Thing was shoved into his arms, with blood still in the creases of its wrinkled face. The midwife and the maids were wiping Laura down with cool towels and putting a clean shift on her, ready to get her back to bed. Maids ran in and out, carrying buckets and rags. Richard wiped blood gently from behind the Thing’s — his son’s — ears. Then the Thing — his son — opened his eyes and stared blearily curious up at him.

For some time, Richard had no notion of what was going on in the room around him. He leaned back against the wall, confounded at the world yet somehow still very pleased with it. Then he heard, as though from a distance, Laura’s voice murmuring weakly to the midwife, and with a shock came to his senses.

He stared around at the shambles of the bedroom. The buckets had been removed, but a pile of bloody rags on a table remained. Laura was now lying back on a mound of pillows with the midwife taking her pulse. Her eyes were shut and her face was very white. Richard cradled Thing cautiously against his chest and limped over to the bed.

“How is my wife?” he asked the midwife.

“Exhausted,” the midwife grunted. “Long labour, that. But she seems well otherwise. There wasn’t much blood. Show her the baby, now. Let her see him.”

He sat down on the bed next to Laura and carefully shifted Thing into her arms. Her hair was matted to her temples with dried sweat and her eyelids were heavy. Richard slid his arm around her shoulder and kissed her forehead.

“It’s all over now. Look at him.”

She breathed out slowly. “I’m looking. He’s beautiful.”

“He is.” Richard brushed Laura’s hair back from her face. “You did so well, darling. I’m so proud of you.”

A shade of colour came back to her cheeks and she gave a faint, weary smile. Then it faded to be replaced by a frown. “He came early. He’s small.”

“He’ll grow.” Richard let the baby clutch at his finger. “See, he’s strong.”

“Not very early,” the midwife said. “A week or two, perhaps.”

The baby sneezed and then gave a surprised blink. Richard laughed.

“I think he’s going to be very well,” he said to Laura. “Don’t you fret. How do you feel?”

“Tired. Happy.” She let her head fall to his shoulder. “Very happy.”

“Me too.” Richard kissed her temple. “You get some rest now, alright?”

She did, falling asleep in his arms while still holding the baby. He stayed there, holding her, watching her sleep, staring with wonder at their son. He never wanted the moment to end, and at the same time, he could not wait for the future to come.

The moment did end. After an hour or so, the midwife returned with hot, sweet tea and toast for Laura. Richard woke her, relieved to see some colour return to her face as she ate and drank. Then she had to nurse the baby for the first time, which more complicated and painful than Richard had imagined. After that, she fell back on the cushions again with a sigh. Richard settled back down with his arm around her.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.” Laura stroked the baby’s wisp of blond hair. “Still happy.”

“Me too.” Richard kissed her cheek and managed to drag her attention away from the baby for long enough to kiss her lips too. “I know what I want to name him. I thought it out, while you were sleeping.”

“Tell me.”

“Laurence.” He saw her lips twitch. “No, don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

“You’re supposed to name firstborn sons after their fathers.”

“Yes, but I had this idea — somehow, I don’t know why — that we were going to have a girl, and I’d hoped she’d be a Laura, and now… well I’m very happy he’s a boy. But I still want to name him after you.”

“Well.” She brushed back the baby’s hair until it fluffed up like a little mane. “I don’t mind.”

“You don’t mind, or you like it?”

“Maybe I like it.” Her lips twitched again and she smiled. “Well, I think I do. He’ll grow into it, after all.”

“He will.” Richard smoothed the baby’s hair back down flat on his head and traced the curve of his tiny, upturned nose. “One day, he will.”

__

A/N: It’s over!!!! Finally!!!! It ended up being 120k words. I meant it to be 90k. Oops. Hope you guys like this cute little cap to Richard and Laura’s story. I’ll have a few more words to say in a longer author note, but for now, thanks for reading this story <3

Final Note

Hi guys, Spiszy here!

I want to give a massive thank you to all the readers of Widow in White. Particularly those lovely people who were there cheering me on from the beginning. Nothing motivates me more than people begging to know when the next update comes!

Maybe some of you are wondering what I’m going to do next. Well, what I’m not going to do is publish Widow in White! Like Lady in Rags, it will remain up here on Wattpad for anyone who wants to read it. But am I going to continue writing? Of course!

In fact, I’ve already started my next novel. It’s called An Impossible Deception and it’s about an entirely new set of characters. This time, I’m going to be doing something a little different though. While I’m still going to be serializing it on Wattpad, it’s going to be a part of the Wattpad Next Beta program.

What does that mean? Well it means that An Impossible Deception will be available only to paying readers. I know that not everyone can afford to pay for all the novels they want to read (that’s why a lot of us are on Wattpad in the first place, isn’t it?) but a number of readers have expressed interest in supporting me and I want to see where this goes.

You can read more about the Wattpad Next Beta program at this link: https://nextbeta.wattpad.com/

For those of you who aren’t able to or don’t want to pay for Wattpad stories, don’t worry! Only An Impossible Deception is slated to be a part of the program. Lady in Rags, Widow in White, and At First Light will always remain free and available for all to read, and over summer I’ll be publishing another short story on Wattpad as well.

Once again, thanks for being such persistent, positive, lovely readers :) Oh, and for those of you who are wondering how many children Laura and Richard would end up having, it’s three: two boys and one very spoilt little girl. But their stories will remain unwritten!