A Notorious Countess Confesses (PG7) (22 page)

“It will eventually hurt her, I can assure you. She’s not a stupid girl, Amy.”

“She wants my title. She’s excited by my looks—do you see how she blushes when I’m about? She wants to be seen on my arm. What harm is there in wanting her money? She has a good deal of it. Surely you of all people would understand that.”

She ignored this. “Has your reputation really run you aground into Pennyroyal Green? Have you really exhausted your options for heiresses? I know your financial straits are likely dire by now, and no woman should be consigned to a lifetime of you. But I won’t see Amy Pitney hurt.”

His handsome face went rigid with a suffusion of fury. He quickly mastered his features, but it lingered in how hard he squeezed her hand.

“Don’t you believe people can change, Evie? Haven’t you?”

She was genuinely surprised by this. “I haven’t changed at all, Haynesworth. I was a courtesan. Which isn’t a character flaw. Whereas raping opera dancers could be construed as one.”

Again, eyes locked in again in cold antipathy, they circled the room.

“Did she tell you it was rape?” he sounded bored. “Typical melodrama. Annie O’Hara was always the hysterical sort.”

Evie didn’t dare look at Adam Sylvaine as she circled the room. She felt tainted by the touch of Haynesworth in the moment, and she was sure he’d be able to read it in her face. And yet he was safety and goodness and protection, and she couldn’t resist the flick of a glance.

“Well, well. What does the large vicar in the bad clothing mean to you, Eve? You ought to have seen your expression when he delivered you at the end of the waltz.”

She said nothing. She didn’t want to hear Adam’s name in this man’s mouth.

“Like that, is it?” He gave a nasty little laugh. “Imagine how easy it would be for me to change his impression of you. I still want you, Eve. I know you can pleasure me in any way I please. And I know how to give pleasure to even the most jaded of women. It comes with a goodly amount of experience.”

“So does the pox,” she said briskly.

His face went lividly dark then.

“Don’t ruin this engagement for me, Eve. Or I’ll ruin you.”

“You can’t ruin a woman who’s already allegedly been ruined, Haynesworth. And they know all about me. There’s an adage about lightning striking, and so forth.”

“I never dreamed you’d say something so naïve. Ask yourself this: Do you really think Miss Pitney will forgive you for shattering her dreams about me? Do you really think she’ll thank you for confirming that all I want her for is her fortune, not her womanly charms? Do you really think a plain woman will want to hear a beautiful woman confirm for her how worthless she is apart from her fortune?”

Oh, God. And Eve knew he was likely right about all of those things.

She waited a bit too long to reply. So Haynesworth likely knew she was realizing he was right.

“She’s a sensible woman,” she tried.

He gave a short, confident laugh that tempted her to trod on in his instep. Damn his flawlessly made boots.

“Now that’s a contradiction in terms, Lady Balmain. My offer stands.”

WHAT HAD COLIN said? Her past is likely to crop up at unlikely moments, and not in pretty ways.

In the form of smug, flawlessly handsome London aristocrats who smiled enigmatically and put fixed, false smiles on Evie’s face, for instance.

The morning after the Assembly, Adam sat at his desk, dragging the feathered end of his quill beneath his nose in thought. He could hear Mrs. Dalrymple moving about in the kitchen; the inviting sound of a rolling pin smacking down on dough. Some of his endless supplies of preserves would become a tart, it seemed.

He was supposed to be going over the vicarage’s accounts. Thinking about ways to use the small plot of land that came with the living in order to bring in more income.

Instead, he was going over and over his waltz with Eve.

And thinking about Haynesworth.

And suffering.

Never let it be said he couldn’t do several things at once.

What and who was Haynesworth to Eve? For it was clear he was something. Adam had watched Amy Pitney being led away by her dance partner for that waltz, and she’d craned her head over her shoulder at Evie and Haynesworth, her face worried.

She was a clever girl; she’d sensed it, too.

And after that, Eve had vanished without, to his knowledge, bidding anyone farewell. Like Cinderella racing against the clock. Though Haynesworth seemed to be everywhere out of the corners of this eyes for the rest of the evening. Smoothly smiling, calmly attentive to Amy Pitney. And more than once aiming what appeared to be a knowing smile in Adam’s direction.

The evening was over when Evie vanished, as far as Adam was concerned, but he was obliged to stay, and he did.

And why shouldn’t Eve’s past follow her to Sussex? She was the sort who inspired powerful, wealthy men to reckless competition for her affections, to shooting each other and falling from balconies. And who was to say she wouldn’t ultimately choose a future with one of those men?

It was a serrated thought. He couldn’t move or breathe for it.

Who was to say she wouldn’t, in fact, see Haynesworth while he was here? Why shouldn’t she? There were freedoms in being a widow, after all. Haynesworth was everything to which she was accustomed; he was her old way of life. And perhaps a reminder of what she missed, despite the broadsheets. Gossip was fickle; ultimately, it would tire of sucking the marrow from the Black Widow nonsense and perhaps the ton would welcome the return of Eve.

But Adam knew he would see her today at the O’Flahertys.

It was this thought he lingered over. Anticipation made him breathless.

Somehow … somehow he would know the truth by looking into her face.

Or at least he told himself that much.

“Is the vicar in? Mrs. Dalrymple made free to let me, given that I’m a relative.”

Ian stood in the doorway of his office.

“The vicar’s in to you. Did you bring me any jam or embroidered pillows?”

“I need to bring offerings to get an audience with you these days? Very well, how about this: I did bring a bit of news that might interest you. John O’Flaherty was seen in the Pig & Thistle last night.”

Adam leaned back in his chair. And then sighed at length.

“I prefer jam,” he said.

“Sorry, old man. But I knew you’d been doing some work on their home, and I thought you’d like to know what you may need to contend with.”

“Was he drinking?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Ned Hawthorne served him?”

“It seems he’d brought in his own flask.”

Adam dropped his quill and stood immediately. A reflex, an instinct. He wasn’t due to round up his volunteers to go out to the O’Flahertys’ for a few hours yet, but something told him he should go now. He kept a horse at the vicarage.

He reached for the coat he’d draped over the back of his chair and shoved his arms in.

And then paused. He hated to ask it. But he couldn’t help it.

“Ian … by the way, do you know anything about Lord Haynesworth?”

“Haynesworth … well, he’s land rich and cash poor. Describes a lot of aristocrats, doesn’t it? Likes to gamble. I don’t know him very well but don’t care for what I do know. Seems a bit too polished, if you know what I mean, and when you’re that polished, all that reflection is usually for the purposes of hiding something.”

Which is what Ian was doing at the moment: hiding something. Adam sensed it.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

Ian stared at him, hesitating. And then he sighed. “I do believe he fought a duel over Evie—sorry, Lady Wareham—some years ago. But then fighting duels over Evie was all the rage at one time.”

Adam’s expression must have been eloquent.

“Sorry, old man,” Ian said gruffly.

“For what?” Adam’s voice had gone taut.

“For whatever it is you’re feeling right now. Because judging from your expression, you’re not enjoying it.”

Adam gave a short, humorless laugh. “Have you been talking to Colin?”

“I always talk to Colin,” Ian said innocently. “And the most advice I’m qualified to give is keep your head down. You’re a grown man. If you want to know more about Haynesworth, there’s a bloke called Mr. Bartholomew who lives a few miles outside town who had some business dealings with Haynesworth, if you’d like to know more. He’s a barrister, and I think there was a good deal of trouble there. And now I’m off to see a man about a horse, and I’m late. Au revoir, cousin. Good luck with O’Flaherty and … everything else.”

Chapter 16

“HENNY, YOU’VE HAD that sniffle a good long time now.”

Evie was in the kitchen packing a basket with a few things for the O’Flahertys before she departed—some seedcakes freshly baked by Mrs. Wilberforce, a few old London broadsheets for fresh admiral hats, a quarter of a wheel of cheese—while together with Mrs. Wilberforce they planned a shopping list of things to purchase in town.

Henny was busy grinding her nose into a large handkerchief, so it was a moment before she could speak.

“ ’Tis all this greenery here in Sussex. Me lungs are fit only to inhale coal smut.”

“Speaking of filth and unpleasant things … you’ll never believe who appeared at the Assembly last night. Lord Haynesworth.”

Henny froze and stared at her over the wads of her handkerchief. And then revulsion shimmied over her face.

“Shall I snap his neck like a chicken for you?” Henny said idly. “Rotten git.”

“He has his eye on Miss Pitney.”

Henny was alarmed. “That poor girl with the fortune and the eyebrows? You’ll tell her about him, aye?”

“I’ll have to, won’t I?”

“Can ye see that on your conscience? I think ye may have enough trouble getting past St. Peter at the gates as it is. Ye must tell her.”

Eve sighed. She knew she did. She didn’t look forward to it in the least. But if Haynesworth intended to speak to Miss Pitney’s father this week, there could be no postponing it.

“And speaking of things that are lovely … did ye dance wi’ the vicar?”

She had danced with the vicar. All night in fact. In her dreams. As if she was a green girl after a first dance, who’d never once awakened next to a nude, snoring, portly MP.

Evie noticed Mrs. Wilberforce freeze alertly in her writing. And she remembered that her sister worked for the Pitneys, and though she was likely trustworthy enough, why feed grist into the gossip mill?

Instead of answering, she asked Henny, “Have we any mail?

“Aye. You’ve another letter, too.”

Eve eyed it, her heart sinking. Yet another.

And Cora typically only wrote if the news was very good, very new, or very bad.

She hesitated, then took a deep breath and broke the seal.

He’s been gone a week now. Little Tommy is teething. The baby looks a bit like you Aoife!

Much love,

Cora

Evie lay that letter down and stared at it.

An anvil seemed to take up residence on her chest.

“Not beef this week, Mrs. Wilberforce,” she said suddenly, just as Mrs. Wilberforce wrote “beef” on her list of items to buy in town.

It was just too costly, when there was only herself and the servants to feed.

Cora, all of her nieces and nephews … how on earth they would all survive if their father never returned. For Eve could only just pay for her household as it was. There was the bit of land that could be worked outside the manor, but she hadn’t the staff to do it, and wouldn’t know to whom to rent it.

Mrs. Wilberforce looked up from her list.

“Very well, m’lady,” she said kindly. “No beef this week.”

SINCE MRS. WILBERFORCE was going into town anyway, Eve rode with her atop their wagon. She would walk the rest of the way to the O’Flahertys’ from outside the cheese shop; they’d agreed that Mrs. Wilberforce would come to fetch her home in an hour or two.

“And Mrs. Wilberforce … will you stop in at the doctor’s surgery and see about some herbs for Henny’s cough? Unless you have a tisane or a posset or some such for it?”

“I do have a tisane for it. But I’ll see to it, m’lady. It never hurts to have a number of options, now, does it?”

A philosophy to live by, to be certain.

Evie embarked on the short remainder of the walk to the O’Flaherty household, singing softly to herself , swinging the basket, enjoying the weather, cold as it was. It was nearly clear, with enough breeze to carry a hint of the sea across the downs.

But she slowed as she approached the O’Flaherty land.

Something was amiss.

There was an air of hush about it. As if the house itself was a frightened, crouching creature. No Molly the dog roared out the door to greet her. Even the chickens looked more subdued, but then they’d been fed more often lately. They eyed her basket with more idle curiosity than anything else. They left her toes alone as she approached the door.

She walked slowly, her senses so heightened the very sound of her own footsteps against the earth made her feel pursued.

Halfway across the yard a voice reached her through the ajar door. A man’s voice, raised and slurred with drink. Trampling over the conciliatory, desperately placating murmur of a woman’s voice.

She didn’t hear the children at all.

Eve stopped. Held herself perfectly still, like a cornered animal. The slurred cadences were too familiar. Her heart hurling itself against the walls of her chest, she forced herself forward through air that suddenly seemed thick and threatening as lava.

“And I want to know who ye’ve been letting into this house in me absence!”

Eve pushed the door farther open, gently, gently, so quietly. Just a few inches.

Straightaway, she saw the children, cowering in a corner. Molly the dog was crouched before them, shivering. The baby was behind them in its cradle, making soft, fussing noises.

No one noticed her.

And a man, stocky, his face the color of brick, his hair likely once dazzling and now faded to an anemic shade of rust, stood in the center of the room.

He’d lowered his face until it was inches from Mary Flaherty’s, and snarling and swaying. Likely Mary’s face was hardly in focus for him. For Eve could smell John O’Flaherty—alcohol and layers of unwashed sweat—from where she stood.