Paying the Virgin's Price (Regency Silk & Scandal #2)(56)

She began stuffing gowns into a carpet bag, thinking little of what the casual arrangement might do to the fabrics. She picked up the beautiful dress she had worn on the previous night and shuddered. It had been very foolish of her to squander a portion of the windfall on something she had no reason to wear. But at the time, she had been happy and in love, and giving no thought at all to what would happen after. And then, her hand fell upon the little book, at the bottom of the wardrobe.

All that he had given her could be tied neatly in a package. It was but a small part of her small life. But it was not quite all he had given, for there was still the letter that Honoria had just handed to her. She was sure it came from Nathan.

She reached out to where she had set it, on the bed next to the portmanteau. It felt thick enough to be an apology, but not so thick as to be the pile of bank notes that she would probably need, now that she had no position.

She wished that she had the strength to fling it into the fire, to show him and the world what she thought of the gifts of a man such as him: a gambler, a liar, a betrayer of women...

She closed her mind to the anger. For while some of the accusations might be true, they did not tell the whole of the story. And while she was not sure how angry she had a right to be, she could not afford to be a fool. If there was any chance that the letter contained more money, she would need to open it. His last gift had more than equalled what she had accumulated after ten years of work. He had seen that this day might come, and it was as if he had given her a gift of time. A year, perhaps, in which to plan what she might do next without worrying about her expenses. She cringed at the sight of the letter, because if there was money there, it would feel like a payment for the previous evening. But she needed all the help that she could get at the moment. With the options available to her in this crisis, it would not do to be too proud.

She steeled herself to read the actual words. They would hurt whether they were entreaties of love, apology, or the gloating comments of a rogue. They did not matter to her, for all were equally unimportant.

But the paper was blank, just as the first had been. And then, another paper fell out on the floor in front of her.

Her hands were shaking as she picked it up. The deed to her father's house. With her name written upon it, plain as day. After all this time, he had given it back to her.

There were at least a dozen reasons why she should return the thing immediately. He could not mean to give it without strings or obligations, for it was too large. It was too valuable. This was too much to grasp. Something would have to be exchanged for it. Although she suspected that he had been pleased with the activities of last night, her pragmatic mind would not flatter itself into thinking that anything she had done was worthy of an entire house.

He was trying to draw her back to him.

And it was working.

As though sleepwalking, she stood up, turned and exited the room, leaving her possessions behind her. She went down the stairs and out the front door of the Carlow home, not bothering to tell anyone why she was leaving. It hardly mattered any more that she was going out. Marc had made it clear that he wanted her gone. How and where would not be so important as when.

It could not be wise to go back to Nathan Wardale. And so soon after leaving him. But she had to know the reason for this latest gift. Did he expect her to live publicly as his mistress?

Surely not. She hoped not, at least. She had almost convinced herself that such behaviour was beneath him. But why had he given her the deed? Whatever he wanted from her, she must return it to him, or she would be no better than the opportunist the Carlows thought she was.

Her feet carried her home, from Albemarle Street to Hans Place without even thinking of it, although she had long avoided the neighbourhood because of the painful memories it brought. And there was her old front door, no different than it had been ten years ago when she had left it, or this morning when she had left it again. She reached out with hesitation, and took the knocker in her hand, letting it fall once against the wood of the door with a satisfying clunk.

Benton opened for her, and in a move totally inappropriate to his station, reached out to her and pulled her into the house, encircling her in a fatherly hug before she could speak. 'Miss Diana. You are finally home. When he told me what he had done, I hardly dared hope. But you are here now.'

And then he released her. And straightened. And said, 'Ma'am,' with a respectful bow and a slight twinkle in his eye.

'I don't understand.' Which was perfectly true, although it was clear that she had at least one friend left, no matter what might happen. She straightened as well, so that she did not appear broken by her circumstances. 'I wish to speak to Mr Wardale, please.'

'That is not possible, I'm afraid.'

'If he is from home, than I shall wait.'

Benton shook his head again. 'It will do no good to wait, Miss Diana. He made it quite clear to us when he'd finished his business this morning, that he would not be returning. He said you were the mistress of the house and we were to obey you as we had him. Or better.'

The realization staggered her, and she would have fallen, had Benton not pulled her the rest of the way into the house and helped her to a chair. 'He has gone. And left me the house.'

'Yes, Miss Diana. He said to me, "It was hers all along." And he sent back all the things he had won from others as well. If he knew the owner of something, he bundled it up and shipped it off with the first post. And then, he left with the clothes on his back and a single bag.'