Anne Barbour (8 page)

His first instinct had been to hasten to the Grand Hotel, there to yank Martha Finch from her triumphant repose. Then he would pack her aboard the first coach to York. Or no, what he should do is report her to the authorities and let England’s dubious system of justice take its course.

He soon perceived the impossibility of either of these options. Mrs. Coppersmith would no doubt be completely overcome if he created a disturbance in the hotel in the middle of the night. A different sort of disturbance, a scandal of the worst sort, would erupt if he was to turn her over to the tender mercies of the law.

Thus, Bran contained himself for the remainder of the night. Very early the next morning, after calling his valet for a shave and a change of clothes, he set out for the hotel.

“What do you mean, gone?” was his astonished response to Mrs. Coppersmith’s tearful greeting.

“Peters came to me not a half hour past,” the older woman sobbed, “to tell me that Felicity’s bed had not been slept in and the poor girl was not to be found.”

“She is not Felicity,” snarled Bran, leaping upon what seemed the only salient point in Mrs. Coppersmith’s tale.

“What?” came the blank reply. “What do you mean? She—”

“Never mind.” Bran put a hand to his head. “What is this about a note?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Coppersmith snatched up a screw of paper from a nearby table. “See, it has your name on it. I did not read it, of course.”

Bran stared blindly at the little piece of paper. He contemplated his name. scrawled on the outside. Strange that he did not recognize the handwriting, when every facet of her had become so familiar to him. But then, he reflected bitterly, he really hadn’t known her at all, had he?

Dear Bran,
she had written, and he was seized by a momentary rage at the use of the name he’d offered her in his deluded affection.

I am sorry. I can no longer continue the falsehood I began so many months ago. I am not Felicity Marshall. I can tell you only that I know that she perished in the shipwreck. She is truly lost to you. I can only apologize deeply for the pain my deception will cause Lord Canby—and perhaps, you as well. I am leaving London and I shall not return.

Martha Finch

“Does she really think,” were Bran’s first words, “that she will escape so easily—with a simple, ‘I am sorry’? By God, she shall not!”

He tossed the note to Mrs. Coppersmith, turned on his heel, and ran from the room.

Once in the lobby, Bran hurried to the desk. Here he was doomed to disappointment, for Simmons was absent from his post. He was about to turn away, when the sound of voices drifted to him from the little office behind the desk.

“But, ma’am,” said one of them, immediately recognizable as Simmons, “there has not been time to contact the Grand Vista in Harrogate. I am sure there will be no problem, for Mr. Williston is looking for help there—and you would be eminently suited for the position of assistant housekeeper—but it would be wise to—”

“I’ve no doubt you’re right, sir,” a woman answered, in obvious distress.

Bran halted, his eyes wide. Spinning about, he hurtled around the reception desk and into the office.

“However,” Martha Finch continued, “I do not wish to stay—

She looked up, startled, at Bran’s abrupt entrance. She whitened, and her attempt to rise was thwarted by his heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Of course, you do not wish to stay,” snarled Bran. “I do regret thwarting whatever plan you have concocted to escape your just punishment, Mrs. Finch, but you will come with me—to Canby House, for now.”

All but jerking Martha to her feet, he turned to Mr. Simmons, “And as for you—sir, I shall have something to say to you later.”

Mr. Simmons, pale but composed, stood and placed himself between Martha and Bran. Bran stepped forward belligerently, but at Martha’s gasp, he swung instead to face her.

“Madam,” he said icily, “you will do me the goodness to come with me. Now.”

Gazing into Martha’s stricken gaze, Bran became aware of an appalling urge to pull her into his arms. To comfort her—to tell her that none of it mattered. Good God, what was the matter with him? He had the adventuress in his grasp, and by the Lord Harry she was going to pay. Grasping her arm, he pulled her toward the door.

“My lord,” Mr. Simmons said, stepping forward once again. “It appears the lady does not wish to accompany you.”

Bran did not deign to answer, merely putting up an arm preparatory to pushing Simmons out of the way.

To his surprise, the manager resisted—and in a surprisingly forceful manner.

“I am very sorry, my lord, but I cannot allow you to bully a defenseless female,” he said resolutely.

“Bully!” Bran returned explosively. “Look here, my good man, you are no doubt unaware of the crime this ‘defenseless female’ has perpetrated. In any case, it is none of your concern. You will remove yourself from my path, or I’ll—”

“Please,” Martha whispered. “Lord Branford, please let me explain to you first. I will do whatever you wish after that.”

“Explain!” Bran could hardly get the word out past the lump of anguish that had settled in his throat. At the agony he perceived in her eyes, something within him collapsed. “Very well. If the suite I engaged for you is still empty, we will talk there.”

Martha merely nodded and turned to follow Bran from the room, but not before Mr. Simmons stepped forward once again.

“Are you sure you wish to do this, Mrs. Finch?”

Martha nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Very well, ma’am, but should you need assistance, you have only to reach for the bell pull—or to cry out,” he added meaningfully. When Martha still said nothing, Mr. Simmons produced a room key and gave it to her.

Upstairs, when Martha handed Bran the key, she glanced up at him quickly and in her gaze Bran read a shared memory. With a harsh growl he flung open the door and ushered her roughly inside.

“How convenient for you,” he rasped, “to have found such a stalwart supporter. What did you promise the unfortunate wretch for his cooperation?”

Martha stiffened, and turned even more starkly white.

“Nothing, my lord. I went to him last night to tell him I wished to leave London with all possible speed, but that I had no money. I asked if he could place me in a position in the hotel until I could save up coach fare.” Her mouth twisted. “I am a very good scullery maid. Mr. Simmons seemed to know something of my predicament—that is, he had heard gossip about my reason for coming here and sensed that something had gone awry.” Martha dropped her gaze. “In any event, he allowed me to stay the night in the servants’ quarters, and told me he thought he could place me in another of the hotels in this chain as an assistant to the housekeeper. He said, it would—”

Bran interrupted her with a chopping gesture. “Yes, well never mind all that. Let us speak of your fraud. I must tell you that I already know the basics of your little scheme. You see, my agent came to see me last night, and he told me that after questioning almost everyone who has lived in Tenaby for the last twenty-five years, he at last was informed that—

Martha slumped, interrupting him in a voice that was like dry grasses rustling in a searing wind. “He told you that there were two children found on the beach that morning.”

Into the silence that followed her admission, Bran’s voice intruded harshly. “The other child lived only a few days. I assume it was she—

“Yes.” Bran had to strain to hear her. “The Sounders found two small girls, whom they named Mary and Martha. Mary wore a fine silk dress. I was naked. The silver locket was grasped tightly in Mary’s hand and it was she who was wrapped in the woolen shawl embroidered with her initials.”

“Then who are you?” snapped Bran.

“I don’t know,” replied Martha simply. “Though I cannot recall anything that had happened in my life before opening my eyes to find Josiah Sounder’s face peering into mine, I remember twisting about to find Mary crying weakly beside me. I sensed that she was important to me. When Josiah brought me to Margaret, I watched with her as Mary grew weaker. I was terrified at finding myself in this unfamiliar environment, in the care of strangers, and I formed the belief that Mary was my sister. She became my only connection to a life I could not remember, and I grieved frantically when she died only six days later. I dreamed about her at night—I created fantasies in which we played together as sisters in the loving family we had lost.”

“But,” interposed Bran incredulously, “Felicity had no sister. What would another small girl-child have been doing on the Benningtons’ yacht?”

“I have no idea,” Martha replied again. “In any event, though I was happy during the years I spent with the Sounders, with their deaths, I belonged to no one. A yearning grew in me to discover my identity. It’s hard to explain how badly I longed for a family— my real family. People who loved me and would take me to their breasts.”

“Mmph. And when you discovered that the Marquess of Canby was looking for his granddaughter, you put two and two together to come up with a vision of a tidy fortune for yourself.”

Martha expelled a sigh so full of despair that Bran almost lifted a hand to her.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “More or less. About six months ago I overheard a conversation that led to my contacting a barrister, Mr. Pinfold. I learned very quickly that he is not too nice in his methods.”

“Just the sort you were looking for,” interposed Bran dryly.

Martha flushed awkwardly, but continued as though he had not spoken. “I was honest with him, and he apprehended immediately what I intended. He had no objection to the fact that my claim was apparently false. Indeed, he seemed delighted to assist me. The rest you know.”

“And the life you described to me? Your struggle as scullery maid? And the Murchisons?”

Martha flushed again. “Everything was as I told you. I did learn to speak properly there, and to behave in a genteel manner.” She rose from the chair into which she had sunk. “I believe that it is all I have to say, my lord, except that I profoundly regret my actions. I wish I had never embarked on this ruinous deception.”

Bran’s fingers clenched. “May I ask what brought about your remarkable change of heart? A
crise de conscience?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I wanted desperately for the marquess to be my grandfather, and for all the uncles and cousins I have met to be truly mine. And, yes, I did relish the thought of never again worrying where my next meal would come from. But, in the end, I couldn’t do it. The—affection I had developed for Lord Canby”—Martha lifted her head, and the misery in her gaze almost engulfed him. She paused for a moment before adding—”and you—loomed like a spectre at a children’s party, I did not expect to have such a difficulty, but I did—and it became insurmountable.”

She moved to the door. “I beg you, my lord, do not force me to face Lord Canby. What good could come of such a confrontation? I know the anguish I have caused him—but would my admission to him make him feel any better? Or perhaps you have decided to prosecute me for fraud. If so, I shall not dispute your charge.”

Again her voice had become almost inaudible, as though each word she spoke took an unbearable effort.

“No,” Bran answered quietly, thrusting down the pain that churned within him. “I have already determined that the less scandal arising from your despicable action the better. And yes, I suppose you are right about the possible effect of a confrontation with Lord Canby. In short,” he finished, biting off each of the words so that they seemed to splinter against his tongue, “though it would give me a great deal of pleasure to have you whipped at the cart’s tail, I shall simply bid you good-bye and good riddance.”

He moved to open the door for Martha’s departure, but halted suddenly and wheeled on her. “I suppose you intended, as part of your inflated plan, to snabble yourself a juicy parti.” He cursed himself for his weakness in speaking, but he could not stop himself from pouring out the hurt and humiliation that consumed him. “Do you know how close you came to achieving your dream of a golden future? My God, I believed you! I believed you were the playmate of my youth returned to me. A veritable soul mate!” He uttered a ragged laugh. “I was about to propose marriage to you. You could have been a countess.” His laugh was a mirthless bark as he opened the door. “In any event, dear lady, you need not concern yourself about how to earn your bread in the future. I shouldn’t return to your failing bookshop if I were you. Oh, yes, my agent discovered the true state of affairs there. No, you must pursue a career on the stage. I predict a stellar future for you there.”

At this, a cry of such anguish broke from Martha that he turned to look at her.

“Bran—” she choked. “Please be Bran for me just this one last time. There was no pretense in—what was between us. Please believe that knowing I must leave you and that I will never see you again will be more punishment for me than even you could dream of.” Her voice dropped to the merest whisper. “Goodbye, my love.”

She spun away and ran from the room, leaving Bran to stare after her, white-faced. A moment later, galvanized into action, he bolted from the room after her, but she was gone. He moved forward as though to follow, but an instant later, halted, his shoulders slumped and his hands hanging loose at his side. Very slowly, he retraced his steps to the suite. Closing the door, he pocketed the key and made his way mindlessly down to the lobby.

11

Bran did not return to Canby House. He could not face the old gentleman yet with news that would devastate him. Instead, he drove aimlessly through the streets of the city. Eventually, he directed his phaeton toward White’s, where he ensconced himself in the farthest corner of the smallest of the lounges. His expression was such that none of his acquaintances so much as approached him in his isolation.

All during the rest of an interminable afternoon, his thoughts circled in an endless, corrosive spiral. In addition to asking himself again and yet again how he could have been so taken in, he contemplated the unbelievable perfidy of Martha Finch. He remembered her warmth, the pleasure she seemed to take in his company, her seemingly genuine joy in being reunited with her “grandfather.” Above all, he could not rid his mind of the memory of her response to his embrace. God, he would have wagered his life that the sweet heat of her kisses was genuine.