Undoing of a Lady (23 page)

“Lizzie, you did not!” Alice clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Yes I did,” Lizzie said unrepentantly, “and he said that he had not cared for her in years and would rather have a wilful minx to wife. So I think—” she cast her eyes modestly down and traced a finger over the struts of her fan “—that my plan may be working.”

“It sounds as though it may,” Alice agreed.

“So then I told him that was merely a line to persuade me back to his bed,” Lizzie went on, “and he said—”

“Enough!” Alice said, holding up her hands.

Lizzie laughed. “All right. Where can Miles and Nat have got to with those ice sculptures? They will be quite melted.” She scanned the room, catching sight of Mary Wheeler, who was speaking to Viscount Jerrold but looking as miserable as sin.

“Poor Mary,” she said. “What can be the matter with her? Do you think she is ill? She looks ever more sickly by the minute.”

Nat and Miles returned at that moment and placed a bowl of strawberries and ice before their wives. The ice was indeed melting in the heat of the assembly rooms and Lizzie pushed at it unenthusiastically with her spoon.

“Come and dance with me, since you have no interest in the dessert I specially procured for you,” Nat said, smiling.

“Dancing is another thing like card-playing at which you are indifferent to bad,” Lizzie said, pretending to sigh as they took their place in the set of
country-dances, “but as I am your wife I feel I have to comply. It is my duty.”

“You seem less than eager to do your wifely duty in other ways,” Nat pointed out with an expressive lift of his brows.

“And you accuse
me
of a lack of patience!” Lizzie marveled. “Truth to tell, I enjoy making you wait. It means that you talk to me more.”

“I enjoy talking to you,” Nat said.

“You sound surprised,” Lizzie teased. “We were friends once, Nat. We used to talk a lot.”

“Yes,” Nat said, and Lizzie could hear a shade of discovery in his voice, “but not like we do now. It feels different. I feel different…”

The movement of the dance took her away from him then and Lizzie felt as though she was as light as thistledown. Everything was changing; she could feel it in the air and the tingle in her blood.

She danced only once with John Jerrold, who remarked whimsically that the next
on dit
would surely be how unfashionably in love Lord and Lady Waterhouse were with each other.

“I seem to have missed my chance,” he drawled.

“You never had one, Johnny,” Lizzie said pertly, but his words warmed her. It was true that Nat had seldom shown much desire to dance with her in the past; he had sometimes squired her to the assemblies but had had little interest or aptitude for the dancing. Now, though, he danced with her several
times and showed no desire to leave her side in between. It was extremely pleasurable to have his undivided attention, to feel him watching her, to exchange the lightest and briefest of touches with him, touches that shimmered through her whole body leaving her breathless and happy.

It was raining later when they came to leave, steamy summer rain that made the cobbled square in front of the assembly rooms smell of dust. Sir James and Lady Wheeler were bemoaning the fact that they had walked to the ball.

“I had no notion that it was going to rain this evening,” Lady Wheeler said, looking as though she was taking the weather as a personal affront. “James does not have even so much as an umbrella to protect us with and our evening cloaks will be soaked—”

“Here, take my umbrella,” Lizzie said, holding it out to Mary, who was nearest and was standing huddled in the doorway. “Nat and I will manage perfectly well without—” She stopped at the look on Mary’s face. The girl was shaking and white and as Lizzie impatiently waved the umbrella at her she recoiled as though it were a snake.

“You know, don’t you?” she whispered. Her eyes were huge and terrified. “You’re trying to trap me!” And then she gathered up the skirts of her evening gown in both hands and ran away down the darkened street, the soles of her evening slippers slapping in the puddles.

“Mary!” Lady Wheeler called. “Mary, come back here at once! You’ll ruin your gown! What on earth is she about?” She turned to Sir James. “What has got into that girl lately?”

Lizzie turned to Nat. “What was that about?” she said blankly.

“Lizzie, let me see that,” Nat said abruptly, taking the umbrella from her hands and holding it up to the light. He shot her a look. “Is this yours?”

“No,” Lizzie said, puzzled. “It belonged to Monty. I took it with me when I left Fortune Hall. It unscrews here—” she pointed to the chased silver engraving around the handle “—and I think he kept a brandy flask inside. You know what Monty was like…Oh!”

She stopped as Nat turned the silver band at the neck of the umbrella and it came apart in his hand. Lady Wheeler screamed and recoiled, much as her daughter had done only a moment before, for protruding from the handle was a knife, long, wickedly pointed and stained with blood.

“No!” Lizzie said, comprehension breaking over her with the force of a storm. “Mary!” She caught Nat’s sleeve. “Why would she murder—” She broke off in stunned disbelief. “She
cannot
have done!”

Nat was staring down the darkened street in the direction that Mary had run. Lady Wheeler was screaming and looked as though she was about to faint and people were rushing from the assembly room doors out into the road to see what the commotion was all about.

“I have to find her,” Lizzie said suddenly. Her heart was pounding. She felt dizzy. “I need to know what happened.”

“No! Wait!” Nat grabbed her tightly. She could feel the tension in his hands as he held her. “Don’t go,” he said. “It could be dangerous.”

“But this is
Mary,
” Lizzie argued. She did not want to believe it. “Mary couldn’t hurt a fly, least of all Monty! This must be some terrible mistake, or else it was an accident. I need to find her, help her—”

“No,” Nat said again. “Lizzie—”

Lizzie slid out from beneath Nat’s hands and sped off down the street.

“Lizzie!” Nat bellowed. She could hear his running footsteps behind her, but she did not check. She had to find Mary. Could it have been her friend who had taken Monty from her, the brother who was so vain, so selfish and so monumentally dislikable, and yet whom against the odds, Lizzie had loved? Could Mary really be the culprit? Of course, she thought wildly, Mary had not known, had not understood, how important Lizzie’s small family had become to her when she had lost so much. She had hidden her affection for Monty and Tom well beneath a laughing veneer that made light of their faults when really she had had such a tenacious fondness for them because they were all she had had…She ran, driven by anger, driven by loss, her grief suddenly as wild as an animal tearing at her chest.

The rain was harder than she had thought, stinging her cheeks, whipping the hair into her eyes, blinding her. The night was thick with cloud and hot, as though they were being smothered under a blanket. Where had Mary gone? Lizzie dived down an alleyway toward the river, hearing Nat crash into something behind her and swear ferociously. And then suddenly she saw the slight, hurrying figure before her in the fitful light of the street lanterns.

“Mary!” she shouted, and the figure turned and Lizzie saw the pale blur of her face and the wide staring eyes, before Mary ran to the edge of the bridge and disappeared into the chasm of water below.

“M
ARY! No!”
Lizzie ran down to the river, stumbling in the darkness, her feet slipping on the wet stones. She could see a shape in the water, tossed on the current like a piece of wood, a face, an outstretched hand…She plunged into the river, gasping as the shock of the cold water hit her, buffeted by the current, the mossy stones slipping beneath her feet as she stretched desperately to reach Mary. She grabbed at her, caught her arm and pulled with all the strength she had. The sodden material of Mary’s gown ripped beneath the clutch of her fingers but then they were out of the grip of the current and they landed in a panting heap on the wet stone at the side of the river. Mary was as slack as a doll, as though all the strength had suddenly left her. And with it went all Lizzie’s furious anger and misery, leaving nothing but numb despair.

“Why?” she said. “Why did you do it, Mary?”

Mary looked up. Her face was dull, wet and pale. “It was his fault,” she said.

“Whose fault?” Lizzie wanted to shake her. “Monty’s?” she demanded.

“Stephen left me because of him,” Mary said. “It was all his fault. He brought that trollop back from London and Stephen left…” Her head was bent, the water dripping from her dark hair in rats’ tails.

Lizzie frowned, shaking her head in disbelief. “You blame
Monty
for Stephen Armitage jilting you? What madness is this? Lord Armitage ran off with a courtesan—”

Mary’s face crumpled into excruciating pain and misery. “It was his fault,” she repeated. “He brought her here.”

There was, Lizzie supposed numbly, a desperate sort of logic to Mary’s thinking. It was true that Sir Montague had brought Louisa Caton, Miles Vickery’s former mistress, from London in an attempt to sabotage Miles’s betrothal to Alice. Instead of forcing Miles and Alice apart, Monty’s actions had ruined Mary’s future for it was
her
fiancé who had run off with the lightskirt. But to hold Monty to blame…

“He ruined my life,” Mary said now. “I loved Stephen with all my heart.” She looked up, her eyes suddenly bright with anger. “And then he had the audacity to propose to me himself!”

“
Monty
did?” Lizzie was dumbfounded.

“We quarreled about it,” Mary said. “I went to Fortune Hall to beg him not to make me a formal offer because I knew that my parents would insist that I take it. But Sir Montague only laughed at me and
on the night of our dinner he renewed his attentions. So I knew I had to do something to prevent him from asking my father’s permission…”

“So you killed him,” Lizzie said dully. She rubbed her forehead hard. A headache was building behind her eyes. “And Spencer?” she said. “What had he done to hurt you?”

“I thought he was Tom,” Mary said, emotionlessly. “I made a mistake.”

“And Tom had done…what?” Lizzie pressed. Mary’s reasoning seemed both mad and ruthless at the same time. She had lost her judgment, almost lost her mind, and yet she sounded so sane. It was terrifying.

“He wanted to marry me, as well,” Mary said simply. “He tried to force himself on me. He disgusts me.” She shuddered. “And I know that Stephen will come back for me in the end, you see. I love him and I know he will give up that lightskirt and come back…” Mary stumbled to her feet. Her eyes were closed, her expression glazed and she seemed totally unaware of her surroundings. She took a step backward, missed her footing, and even as Lizzie reached out to grab her the water claimed her for a second time. Lizzie’s hand met empty air and by the time she had scrambled to the edge of the river, Mary had already gone. Lizzie ran out into the stream, careless for herself, careless of the danger, but there was no sign. And suddenly she found herself in danger of losing her footing, too. The river ran fast
and deep beneath the bridge and the roar of it was in her ears and she could see nothing but the black shifting mass as it tumbled past her. For one brief, terrifying moment she teetered on the edge, feeling the current trying to snatch her away, and then Nat caught her arm in an unbreakable grip and half carried, half dragged her into the shallow water and out onto the bank. She was breathing in sobbing gasps and clung to him, her arms about his neck, and although she could not see his face she could feel the seething anger in him but something else in his touch, as well.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her breath was coming in sobbing gasps. “I could not save her. I was not quick enough.” She turned her face into Nat’s neck and breathed in the scent of him and the deep reassurance and strength that went with it, and felt safe at last.

She felt the anger in Nat melt away as his arms tightened about her and he buried his face against her wet hair.

“Oh, Lizzie.” His voice was muffled. “You will never stop, will you? You will never stop doing these mad and willful and
dangerous
things.” But though he shook her, he was gentle, and she knew he was exasperated but there was anguish and relief in his voice and in the way he held her.

“I had to try,” she repeated, teeth chattering, her whole body convulsed with shivers as Nat carried her up the bank and onto the street. “Even though she killed Monty and Spencer. She told me, Nat…” She
shuddered again. “They both wanted to marry her, Monty and Tom, but she was so desperately in love with Stephen Armitage that she could not bear it. She thought Armitage would come back for her.” She turned to look over Nat’s shoulder and for the first time saw the lanterns and heard the voices of people down by the river. Miles came up and Nat said: “Any sign?” But Miles shook his head and his face was grim.

“I’m taking you home now,” Nat said.

Alice came with them. By the time they put Lizzie to bed she was shaking and shaking with what felt like a fever. The lights were too bright and swung about her head like fireworks. She felt as though she was burning up.

“She’s taken an ague, my lord,” she heard Mrs. Alibone saying to Nat, in tones of the deepest disapproval, “and what can one expect, jumping in the river like a hoyden? Fine behavior for a countess! First that disgraceful incident with the horse and now this…I was never so shocked in my life! I am not sure that I can work in a household where such things go on!”

“Then I suggest that you find employment elsewhere, Mrs. Alibone,” Lizzie heard Nat say in clipped tones. “No one speaks of my wife like that.”

“I think it is shock and reaction,” Lizzie heard Alice say, after Mrs. Alibone had bustled off to pack her bags, buoyed up on a wave of righteous indignation. “Lizzie is as strong as an ox.”

“I’ll stay with her,” Nat said. Lizzie thought he sounded anxious and she wanted to reassure him, but her limbs felt weighted in lead and her head so heavy she could not lift it, could not speak.

She knew that Nat was true to his word. She knew that he was there through all the fever and the nightmares that followed when she dreamed of her mother running away down the corridors of Scarlet Park, and of Monty striding across the gardens of Fortune Hall that had once been his pride and joy, when she saw Tom’s mocking face before her eyes and she thought she heard a baby crying, and she cried out herself in her anguish of all she had lost. She sensed Nat beside her and knew that she spoke to him and heard him reply, though afterward she could never recall what they had said. But his presence comforted and calmed her and eventually she fell into a deep sleep.

On the third day she woke feeling better, clearheaded and hungry, and found Alice sitting in the chair beside her bed.

“Nat will be so sorry not to have been here,” Alice said, closing the book she had been reading and putting it aside on the table. “He has stayed with you the whole time, Lizzie. I do not believe he has slept at all. He only left you today because he needed to talk to Dexter and Miles to tie up the loose ends of the case.”

“I know.” Lizzie smiled drowsily. “I know he was here. I felt it.” She wrinkled her brow a little trying
to remember. The images were faint but the feeling of warmth, the confidence in knowing that Nat had been with her, persisted. “I spoke to him, I think,” she said, “though I do not remember the words…”

“You told him how sad you were not to be carrying his child,” Alice said, after a hesitation. “He asked me about it, Lizzie, and I had to admit that I knew. I think he was shocked both at the depth of your distress and the fact that you had not spoken to him about it.” She stopped.

“It was wrong of me to hold so much back.” Lizzie turned her head and looked at Alice’s troubled face. “Yes, I told Nat so little of how I was feeling—about Monty’s death, about our marriage, about the baby…I kept it all bottled up inside me but it was like an explosion—as fast as I pushed it down it jetted up again. All the anger and the grief and the unhappiness had to find a way out.” She looked at the bars of sunlight moving across the ceiling above her bed and felt a deep peace. “I don’t feel like that any longer,” she said. “It has all gone now.” A shadow touched her heart. “I do not suppose there is any news of Mary?”

“None,” Alice said, standing up. “I am so sorry, Lizzie.”

“I tried to help her,” Lizzie said. Her voice caught. “Even though she had taken Monty from me. She was so hurt, Alice, so damaged and twisted and unhappy.” She shivered. “I did not know love could be so destructive.”

“I will go to fetch you some food,” Alice said. “Now Mrs. Alibone has left I am afraid that the house does not function with anywhere near the same efficiency, but it is nice not to have her sinister presence lurking behind every door!”

After Lizzie had eaten the soup and bread that Alice brought she made her friend go home, for she thought that Alice looked exhausted. She lay a little longer in bed, watching the shadow patterns on the wall, and thought about how much Nat must care for her to have sat by her bedside and how she hoped deep in her heart that he loved her. She was sure she had felt his love for her; felt it in his presence beside her, heard it in his words, experienced it in his gentle touch.

Tonight, she thought. Tonight I will go downstairs and we will dine together and talk, and I will tell Nat I love him. Perhaps she had already told him when she had been in her fever. She was not sure, but she wanted to be honest with him and tell him openly of her feelings now. And the more she thought about it the more she hoped, stubbornly, optimistically, that Nat really did love her, too, or at least that there was the chance that what he felt for her would grow and mature into love. Just as her love for him had changed from the childish infatuation of her youth, so she was almost sure that Nat’s feelings for her had also undergone a change in the past week or so. She clung tenaciously to the belief and felt her faith in him like a spark of fire spreading warmth through her body.

After a little while she slipped out of bed. She chose her gown with particular care, shivering a little with sensual anticipation as the green silk slid over the crisp material of her bodice and petticoats. Her skin seemed alive to every touch, anticipating Nat’s hands on her later. They would talk and then they would make love, and this time it would be different, with all that wild passion transformed into something even more blissful because of their deepening feelings.

The maid arranged her hair, restraining the auburn corkscrew curls with a silver clasp. Lizzie dismissed the girl, took one final glance at herself in the looking glass, drew a shawl around her shoulders and was about to go downstairs when she heard the front door open and the sound of voices in the hall.

“Must you trouble me with this now?” That was Nat, his voice cold and hard and very angry. “I’ve told you, Fortune, that you will have no more money from me. It stops here.”

“My dear chap.” Lizzie recognized Tom, smooth, amused, in a parody of an English gentleman. “Nothing was further from my mind. Your little sister’s shocking secret is safe with me, I assure you. I am sure she and your parents have suffered enough—and indeed, you have paid handsomely for her indiscretion, have you not?”

Lizzie froze, willing the stairs not to creak beneath her feet. The shock blasted through her body leaving her weak. Tom had been
blackmailing
Nat—and Nat
had
paid him?
She could not believe it. Not Nat, who had always been dedicated to honor and integrity. Nat would never pay a blackmailer. He would see him damned first. It was not possible. And yet, and yet…Lizzie’s mind spun. Tom had made some reference to Nat’s sister Celeste. Tom must have ruined Celeste, debauched her perhaps, and was threatening to make the news public. It had happened before, with Lydia. Perhaps Celeste might even be pregnant, which would account for why she had been hidden away at Water House these months past. And of course under the circumstances Nat would pay to keep Tom quiet and preserve Celeste’s secret. What choice did he have if he was not to parade her disgrace before the world and destroy his sister’s reputation and his parents’ lives? It was no wonder, Lizzie thought, that Nat hated Tom. But why had he not told her? Had he not trusted her to keep the secret of his sister’s scandal?

With a sick feeling of dread and a bleak sense of disappointment Lizzie remembered the moment when Nat had confided in her about the fire that had taken Celeste’s twin and his own guilt that he had not been able to save her. Was this the secret Nat had been keeping from her? He had come so close to telling her, but then he had drawn back. Lizzie felt a dull pain spreading through her at the thought that Nat had hesitated to trust her.

But Tom was speaking again and Lizzie leaned
closer over the banister, straining to catch his words even as her heart thundered so loudly she was afraid it would give her away; even when she was not really sure that she wished to hear any more.

“No, it is not Celeste who concerns me now,” Tom was saying. “It is Lizzie. I have noticed—we all have—how tragically fond she has become of you, Waterhouse. It won’t do, old chap. It won’t do at all, not when you married her under false pretences.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Nat’s voice was clipped, furious. “What are you insinuating?”

Lizzie heard Tom’s voice grow louder. He must have moved closer to the door. Each word was now devastatingly clear.