Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)(50)

Lord Blakely examined his fingernails in the candlelight. “Lady Kathleen’s father finally agreed not to shoot Ned outright.” Lord Blakely’s even voice was a smooth contrast to Ned’s ragged words. “What else may transpire as the result of this evening is still a matter of ongoing negotiation. Much depends upon what Ned believes he should do.”

Jenny didn’t know where to look. Not at Ned—she couldn’t bear to see that despondent fear writ on his face. Nor could she look at Lord Blakely. She didn’t know if she’d see disinterest, displeasure or disappointment. But she didn’t dare lose the courage to do what must be done.

“Ned.” There was a quaver in Jenny’s voice. “When I told you to rely on yourself, I didn’t mean for you to take the matter of your cousin’s marriage into your own hands. I meant—”

She took a deep breath. There was no shying away from the consequence she feared most. She looked one last time into those trusting eyes. She would never see them look at her with devotion again.

And then she made herself do it.

“I meant,” she continued, “that your cousin is right. I can’t tell the future. I don’t speak to spirits. I don’t have any occult powers. You need to rely on yourself because you cannot trust me.”

Ned flinched with every phrase. But what she saw was not disillusionment, but disbelief. “No!” He looked around the room wildly. “This is some kind of test. To—to punish me for my failure this evening. I know I can show my loyalty.”

Jenny’s heart cracked. “Ned, it’s not a test. It’s the truth.”

“But all your predictions! Your arcane powers. How did you always know what to say?”

“I only told you what you wanted to hear, Ned.”

And still his eyes met hers in denial. His hands trembled. “They can’t be lies,” he said thickly. “What you told me. I need it to be true. I won’t let it be otherwise.”

“I have been lying to you for two years. I just—I didn’t intend this.”

Ned stared at her. “This is some kind of nightmare. Madame Esmerelda—Blakely—someone tell me I’m dreaming.” He bit his thumb and then stared at the digit, as if somehow it had betrayed him instead of Jenny.

Jenny shook her head sadly.

“But—if you have no powers, why is it that this chamber—”

He stopped, registering the austerity of the room in the dim candlelight for the first time. No black cloth. No crystals. No chimes. Nothing but cheap and rickety wood furniture. No hint of the arcane any longer.

“Your name,” he said next. “With a name like Madame Esmerelda, surely…”

Jenny didn’t have to say anything. The realization hit him. His shoulders stiffened. His nostrils flared. He spread his hands on the table in front of him as if to steady himself. Finally, he had accepted that she was a fraud.

Jenny knew his reactions well. And what she saw in the curl of his lip and the hunch of his shoulders wasn’t the disdain she’d feared. It was even worse.

Because what Ned was feeling was self-loathing.

“Ned—”

“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me by my Christian name as if you know me.” He was trying to snuffle his tears away.

Lord Blakely watched Ned in appalled horror.

“Mr. Carhart.” Jenny choked on the unwieldy name. “I owe you a great debt. One that I don’t suppose I will ever repay.” She could not even look away. There was one final sentence she needed to speak.

She owed it to Ned.

And then there was Lord Blakely. She had few illusions about him. Right now, he knew precisely what her selfishness had wrought. She wouldn’t blame him if he never spoke with her again. Whatever he might once have thought of her, surely she’d now lost his good opinion.

And with reason.

If she told him her name, she might never see him again. At best, he’d stay for that one night. He would abandon her, and she couldn’t blame him for it. It was only what she deserved.

But she’d spent all her adult life masquerading as another woman. She’d become Madame Esmerelda to run away from the options she hadn’t wanted. Until she met Lord Blakely, she’d never asked herself what she wanted to run toward. It had taken him two weeks to convince Jenny to claim herself.

On his own merits—ridiculous, excessively rational, and undeniably attractive though they were—she owed Lord Blakely, too. Giving him her name would be the ultimate surrender. In a strange way, he’d given Jenny herself. The least she could do was give herself back to him.

Her mouth was dry, the unformed words tasting like chalk. She forced herself to speak anyway.

“Should you ever need me, my name—” Her voice caught.

Lord Blakely leaned forward. There was no heat in his expression, no hint of longing. Only that blank weariness.

“My name,” she whispered, “is Jenny Keeble.”

Let them do with that as they willed.

CHAPTER TWELVE

JENNY KEEBLE.

Gareth held on to the promise of her name all through the oppressing drive back to the more fashionable Mayfair. Ned sat sullenly on the seat across from him, arms folded.

Gareth repeated her name in his mind when his cousin left the carriage with a wordless nod. And when he sent his driver home, alone, to warm stables, he whispered the syllables in staccato counterpoint to the rhythm of his stride.