What Happened at Midnight(10)

“If there’s anything I can recover,” he repeated, “I will.” He let her go.

“I have to get back,” she said. “Sir Walter times my walks. He’ll come after me in a few minutes. Please don’t let him find us together.”

But she was only putting off the inevitable. The truth of who she was had caught up with her, and payment was required.

Mr. Lawson had told her she was not a lady, all those months ago. It had taken her months to understand what that meant.

It meant that she saw the darker side of every gentleman. There was no need for politeness, no need to worry about formalities. She could be imprisoned and isolated at whim. Her wages might be stolen; all hope of friendship could be yanked from her. And as bad as all that sounded, Mary knew that she had been lucky thus far.

Her luck had officially run out.

John let go of her. “Go back, then,” he said. “But, Mary… We’re not through.”

Her limbs felt heavy. She was nothing but ice, through and through.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I know.”

It was better this way. She would be ice, and she would survive.

Chapter Four

THE LITTLE COTTAGE WHERE JOHN was staying sat halfway up the hill; the window in the front room overlooked the farm. It had been built years ago for a one-time widowed sister, long since passed away. Beauregard had offered it up as a potential residence during his stay. He’d not meant it seriously—the farm, he said, would have so many more comforts—but John had leaped at the chance. No need to disturb Beauregard in the morning, he’d explained, and besides, this way, he could contemplate the shape of the land from on high.

All good enough excuses, but the real reason he’d opted for the makeshift few rooms up the hill was the solitude he had in the evening.

Tonight, he was too exhausted to talk to anyone. From the morning work supervising the drainage to the whirlwind tour of the best families within riding distance, he’d been busy for every hour of the day.

And then there had been that afternoon meeting with Mary. That had sucked the life right out of him.

With another early morning ahead of him, he’d prepared for bed. But night had come and sleep had eluded him. After an hour spent staring at the darkened ceiling—tired, but not sleepy—he’d donned loose trousers and gone for a glass of brandy. But the spirits hadn’t driven away his cluttered thoughts. They’d only muddled them further.

He hated, absolutely hated, that even now, after he’d discovered the truth of Mary’s character, she still reminded him of the woman he had intended to wed. It wasn’t just her fine, almost fragile, beauty. He’d learned his lesson well enough on that score: Never trust fine appearances.

It wasn’t even her scent, compelling though that was, nor the inviting curve of her lips. No; Mary had always been able to set him back on his heels, and today she’d done it again.

Trust in my greed, if you don’t believe in my morals.

A few offhand inquiries had borne out her claims. She had only two everyday gowns. She rarely left Doyle’s Grange, and when she did, she spoke to no one.

“So it didn’t turn out as she expected,” he muttered, taking a sip of brandy. “Small surprise that criminal behavior didn’t pay.” Maybe she’d lied for her father’s sake, and he’d abandoned her. Maybe she’d had the money but had lost it gambling. He’d been fooled once by her. He’d let her go, so determined to prove by his gentlemanly conduct that he was fair, generous, even though she…

I don’t love you.

He took another long gulp of brandy, but the burn that traveled down his throat didn’t distract him. He didn’t want her. It no longer hurt to remember that he’d fooled himself so badly. So why did it still sting to remember her saying that?

He let out a frustrated, exhausted sigh and took another sip—discovering, in surprise, that he’d reached the end of the tumbler. How was that possible? He’d just refilled it.

The spirits, though, only seemed to increase the weight on his soul—and on his eyelids.

He did believe her. That was the problem. He believed that if she had the partnership’s eight thousand pounds, she wouldn’t be here. If she was a hardened criminal, she’d have changed her name and fled the country. He’d seen the fraying cuffs of her gown—had even recognized the fabric as a made-over version of one she had used to wear back in Southampton.

No doubt things had not been easy for her.

“She brought it on herself,” he said.

He’d believed it that afternoon. He’d make himself believe it again in the morning. But now…

Right now, half-drunk and completely maudlin, some part of him hoped that she had lied to him about at least one thing. He hoped that she had loved him. It was vindictive and cruel of him, but he wished that she’d suffered. That while he’d been back in Southampton, discovering day by day what a fool she’d made of him, she’d missed him. That she still wanted him enough to beg for his forgiveness, all so he could have the pleasure of saying no.

But true anger took energy. He could feel it sapping from his limbs as the night encroached. Sleep was finally catching up with him, and his unquiet thoughts slowly settled into a gentler mode. He set his brandy down and let his wandering imagination take him.

The first time he’d seen her, she’d been sitting at a pianoforte, preparing to play. She hadn’t looked at anyone or anything, not even the sheet music in front of her. She had simply sat, seeming so distant and far away.