My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(98)

The last sentence pulls your focus so tightly that you gasp for breath.

“You mean, after he died?” Lady Evangeline asks.

“Oh, that’s right. Men die, don’t they?” Madam Crosby signals to a rather handsome manservant for another bottle of champagne.

“Whether he died or not, you said he lost his mind. A most curious sentence,” you say.





“It isn’t so curious when taken as point of fact,” Madam Crosby drawls. You can’t place her accent. American? French? Nova Scotian? “Lady Caddington’s first husband was a renowned theater critic in his day. The flourish and restraint she showed on the stage, he commanded on the page. It’s how they met, you know. He had taken her to task on an off night, when she was doing a version of Othello. He had written some line about a distracted performance. She consulted us all on what she should do. I initially thought it merely a blow to her vanity, but she turned to me and said, ‘The way he phrased it. How he saw it, how he heard. So few have that sense. It is the language of the soul, and he thinks me a novice speaker.’ I suppose if one must love a man, one who is able to speak the language of the soul is acceptable. Of course, he wrote only favorable reviews of her from then on. What they say is true of language: If you do not use it, you lose it.”

Madam Crosby is a woman who knows when she holds another in her thrall, and she has the presence of mind to pretend ignorance to her considerable power. She also has quite the tolerance for alcohol. Your mind, however, is far adrift in a sea of champagne. You attempt to anchor yourself to the weight of her words.

“So you’re saying,” you force out between hiccups, “that the mad first husband…is still…alive and well?”

“Alive, certainly. Well…,” Madam Crosby downs her sparkling beverage as if it were water. “How well can anyone be when they’ve spent the better part of their twilight years in Bedlam?”

“Bedlam?” you say, stunned.

“As you know, my dear, Bedlam is the vilest asylum in all of England,” Madam Crosby says, regarding you with a gaze of practiced calm, laced with something like primal anger. “Which Mrs. Caddington knew full well when she sent her first husband there to rot.”

“Why the devil did she do that?” you say. You reach for a finger sandwich from a tray the handsome manservant produced moments ago. You take a satisfying bite and relish the late-night pairing of watercress and intrigue.

“Why wouldn’t she?” counters Madam Crosby. “He could no longer give her good, or even interesting, reviews. He could not feed her ego or pay her bills. He could, however, be secreted away in a living death while she moved on to a wealthy nobleman to solve some of her other problems.”

“You can’t mean…Lord Granville? Benedict’s father?” Your eyes widen, and you help yourself to just one more sandwich.

“I can and do,” Madam Crosby responds, and her voice is edgier than before. For a moment, you see the whole history of this heartless Mrs. Caddington written on her face. Perhaps they were lovers, perhaps very close friends, but in any case, the lady Madam Crosby so admired had taken a turn for the very dark when she sent her first husband away.

“This means Cad’s claim is invalid. Benedict’s claim is safe. Cad is still a damnable bastard. I must tell them so at once. Madam Crosby, thank you. Lady Evangeline, please. Let’s away back to Kent.”

You grab one more watercress sandwich for the road and hurry to leave, but you run smack dab into…Benedict!





Turn to this page. Go on now, git!





“You failed!” you hear Manvers cry out, stiffly, to an unknown conversation partner. “The chit should be gone by now! Did you not give her the false diary? Did you not warn her of the sinful beast that she dares to bed, desecrating the memory of my lady?”

“I tried!” cries a familiar voice you cannot yet place. “But the young lady turned out to be made of stronger stuff than either of us realized!”

“No, it is you who has turned out to be weak and incompetent! The girl needs to go or, I swear, I will expose you and ruin you for your sinful exploits with my sweet lady!” The manservant’s voice rises and becomes uncharacteristically agitated. “My lady was not made for your base desire! Nor for Lord Craven’s! She was pure and true, and you tried to muddy her waters!”

“I muddied nothing! I was naught but her plaything!” cries the second voice. “She used me. She took my joy for vanity! We were all her playthings, until she tired of us! Me. Craven. We were wanted until we were no longer desired.”

“Do not speak ill of my lady!”

You cannot take it anymore. You throw open the door of the morning room to see Manvers arguing with none other than…

“Reverend Loveday?!” you cry, unable to contain your surprise. The handsome vicar cowers in shame. “What have you done, sir? What have you done?”

The vicar drops to his feet. “The late Lady Craven, many times over,” he weeps. “I should have married a simple girl. But Lady Craven was so exotic, so fiery, so…hungry. I could not stop myself. I am sorry! I am shamed!”

“You ruined my life!” Lord Craven cries, raising his hand as if to strike the Reverend Loveday. He lowers it almost immediately, upon seeing the angrily arched eyebrow you throw his way.