My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(32)
“No regrets?” she asks, a smile playing about that sensuous mouth.
“Never!” You meet her gaze with enthusiasm. “But, my lady, there are still some things I want to hear from you. So that I might understand why all this is happening.”
Evangeline understands you at once. “You mean how I came to be involved with such a reprobate as Delphine St. Croix?
You nod. Evangeline shrugs with a sigh and then wraps her arm around your waist once more in a familiar, yet still thrilling, gesture.
“When I was much younger, I was in a position somewhat like yours. I could not make my way in the world as I wished—not alone, anyway, as was my desire. I was expected to marry and, well, and submit to the requirements of marriage. But my now-late husband was an older man, and kinder than most any I had met before. He was a politician, and ambitious, but hounded by the fact that he had led a bachelor life for many scandalous years until meeting me.”
“He kept many ladies, then?” you ask. The instant you do, you wish you could erase the words from the air. Evangeline laughs gently.
“Not ladies, my dear.”
Understanding dawns, and you curse yourself for being so simple.
“By marrying me, he could be knighted and come into his wealth, and I thus attained that same wealth and ladyship—a classic mariage blanc. Years later, when he was stationed in Egypt on a diplomatic mission during the war, I met Delphine. We were two young, green women fascinated by Egyptology. We both have facility translating hieroglyphs.”
Now you curse yourself for not knowing how to read hieroglyphs.
“Well, of course I loved her,” she continues. “But she was French, and while I initially suspected that she was loyal to Napoleon, I learned harshly that she was more loyal to her own interests than to any country, belief, or person. She sold valuable secrets—locations and information I should never have shared with her, that my husband had shared with me. I thought I was merely processing the events of the world with a lover in bed, but Delphine thought she was making a mint. She leaked my foolishly spoken words to the French, even though her own father had turned against them. She did it for nothing but money. And since she had acquired this information behind my husband’s back, it caused terrible consequences for him and his career. We were sent back to London not long after. He died with disgrace and regret on his conscience which I put there, because I trusted Delphine. Delphine, on the other hand, never forgave me for not forgiving her. And thus, she is out for revenge.”
You think maybe it’s fine that you don’t read hieroglyphs. Now you wish you could stop reading the look on Evangeline’s face, which is one of tortured, anguished love.
Turn to this page.
You seek out a suitable room for fencing lessons. Mrs. Butts recommends the stables, which have been empty ever since the horses were poisoned by a passing vagabond a few years back. Betsy the mute maid clutches her duster in silent horror at the mention of them. This reaction does not quite convince you of the suitability of the venue.
As you leave the servants’ quarters, you are cornered by Manvers. Your body stiffens at the sight of him. He bears a look you don’t quite recognize. Could it be a mask of contrition?
“I want to apologize for my brusque behavior earlier, my dear,” he says. “Everything has been quite high tension since the death of Lady Craven. She was so beloved, and, I humbly say, so beloved by me that I…I…” You are stunned to watch the man dab a tear from his stoic face. “I do appreciate that you are trying to right some of the wrongs of the house. And it is quite good that the child has you here, to learn from your example.”
You feel a flush of shame for the hateful thoughts you have harbored toward Manvers, even if they were fleeting. “Thank you,” you say, and you mean it.
“If there is anything I can do to help show you the courtesy I perhaps denied you prior to this moment, simply say the word and I will do all in my power—”
“As a matter of fact, we are looking for somewhere to fence. Any notions of a suitable place?” you ask. “Any long hallway could serve as our piste, but most of the halls and rooms I’ve encountered are encumbered with fine artifacts that stand too strong a chance of meeting death by épée.”
Manvers considers unknown options before speaking. “Well, there is the main room in the West Wing—it is suitably large and completely unused. It would be a shame to let it go to waste. Shall I show you the way?”
“Oh, please!” you say, delighted by his suggestion.
You take Master Alexander by the hand, hoist your épée in the other, and follow Manvers through great halls and twisting passages, then up a staircase to an area of the house that seems not to have been used for some time. Yet, despite the closed-off feeling, the rooms are spotless, without a trace of dust.
You find this curious, but only for a moment. Alexander has taken to whipping his blade through the air, yelling, “HYAHHHHHHH!”
Manvers disappears down the stairs before you can thank him. Within seconds you must dive to avoid having your eye poked out by Alexander’s enthusiasm.
“I don’t like this room,” the boy says plainly, before slashing at the rug near the great hearth.
“So you must wish to conquer it?” You cock an eyebrow and lift your blade.