Katharine Ashe - How a Lady Weds a Rogue

“Milord!” A footman stood in the doorway.

“What is it, Bernard? Can’t you see I am occupied here?”

“Lady Savege’s footman insisted I give this to you without delay, milord.” He hurried forward, extending an envelope.

Carlyle waved the servant from the room and opened the letter, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of spectacles. “Forgive me, Mr. Yale, but if my—” His eyes widened. He scrabbled with the spectacles and got them hooked over his ears.

“My lord.” Wyn bowed, a little dizzy and with a pressing desire to find a blue-eyed lady and kiss her until she admitted every lie she’d ever uttered to him. “I will leave you to your business.”

“Good Lord,” Carlyle whispered. “You see, sir,” he said more forcefully, yanking off his spectacles and jabbing them at the letter. “You are better off without the girl. Troublesome, foolish . . .” He sputtered, but his eyes were watery and he allowed Wyn to take the page from his fingers. Carlyle lowered his brow into his palm. “I told Tracy and Serena that if they brought her to town this would happen. I advised leaving her in Devon where everyone knows her and she cannot throw herself into serious scrapes. Now . . .” He shook his head, his shoulders drooping. “Heedless chit. She’ll come to grief upon the road. Then she’ll end up just like . . . just like her mother.”

Wyn strode for the door. “Not as long as I’m alive.”

“Miss Finch-Freeworth, I have little doubt that you know my purpose in calling upon you today.”

The young lady sitting across the tea table from him blinked expressive hazel eyes, cast a quick glance at the maid sitting on the other side of the parlor and shook her head.

Wyn quieted his voice. “You must tell me. Where has Miss Lucas gone this time?”

Again, the silent shake of the head.

Wyn tried to unclench his teeth sufficient to speak. “You do not know, or you will not tell me?”

She dropped her gaze to her lap.

“I know that you were in her confidence before she embarked upon her last journey,” he said. “I know all about her last journey, in fact. Everything about it.”

Her head snapped up and her eyes widened. “She did not tell me that. She . . . She—”

“She is very fond of withholding truths, but you needn’t mimic that inconvenient vice, Miss Finch-Freeworth. Were you with her before she left Lord Savege’s house today?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly. “And her maid.”

“Tell me where she went, I pray you.”

“I cannot,” she said upon a hard breath. “I vowed I would tell no one, upon pain of the end of our friendship. And I very much wish to cherish her as my dearest friend for the remainder of my life.”

“Madam, forgive me for bluntness, but if you do not divulge to me her whereabouts you may soon no longer have a friend to cherish. The road is dangerous for a gently bred female alone, and I cannot search every Mail Coach that departed London today in order to protect her from that danger, can I? You must tell me which direction she took.”

“Mr. Yale, if you know her character as you are suggesting, then you know that wherever she goes, Diantha makes friends. She will find people to help her on this journey. No doubt she already has.”

Journey? Dear God. He leaned forward and gripped his knees to prevent himself from grabbing the girl and shaking sense into her. “Tell me only her destination, then.”

“I cannot. But I can tell you that she did not go unattended.”

“Another of your loyal maids?” he ground out.

She had sufficient modesty to blush. “Diantha’s own maid from the country arrived in town today. She is a very peculiar woman, really. But she bustled about, muttering about having to wait too long stranded in the country to see how matters proceeded because ‘that man’ had not sent her a single word in days. I suppose she meant Lord Carlyle. In any case, she knew precisely what was best for Diantha, packing her traveling garments and what have you. So you needn’t worry. I believe Mrs. Polley will care for Diantha perfectly well.”

For the first time in an hour Wyn could draw more than half a breath. As long as the old girl remained awake, Diantha would be safe. But when Mrs. Polley dropped off to sleep . . .

“Miss Finch-Freeworth, I know not how to further encourage you to share with me Miss Lucas’s plan. If harm should come to her, I would not forgive myself.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “She said you feel responsible for her, and she doesn’t wish you to. That is why she left. She does not want to ruin your life.”

God, no. He’d been ten times a fool, mistake after mistake after mistake with her. But he would find her and never make another mistake as long as he lived, so help him God. He would be perfect again, but only for her. Every day, every moment.

“Miss Lucas is a remarkable person, from her kindness to others to her reckless plans . . .” He leaned forward. “ . . . to her determination to marry Mr. H.”

Miss Finch-Freeworth gaped. “She told you about Mr. H?”

“Yes. But until today I was unaware of a crucial facet of his existence that now I cannot but conclude makes him ineligible for her as a husband.”

She drew several long breaths. She was a pretty girl, made prettier still by the gleam of intelligence in her eyes, precisely what he depended upon now.

She nodded decisively. “Yes.”

His heart thumped hard. “Yes?”

“Yes, Mr. H is imaginary.” She nodded again as though casting off some inner struggle. “Her mother— Do you know about her mother?”

“Some.”

“Lady Carlyle was very cruel to Diantha, always telling her she would not attract a husband due to her open spirits and unbiddable nature. She had my friend thoroughly convinced that she was deficient in character and therefore unmarriageable, so much so that when Miss Yarley at the Bailey Academy for Young Ladies—who knows about these matters—tried to assure Diantha she would indeed someday marry a fine man, Diantha laughed at her. Laughed! Then she invented Mr. H.”

“She invented him.”

“Mr. Yale, you are staring. But you know, Mr. H is really much better than many real men. He has excellent manners and is well dressed but not too fashionable. He possesses a comfortable competence, enough to support a wife and several children, and his house is spacious and nicely furnished though not ostentatious. He drives a well-matched pair, hunts only occasionally, and he likes to read aloud at night by the fire. So he is quite the ideal husband.”

Wyn’s chest was remarkably tight. He should be convincing her to divulge Diantha’s plan, but he could not resist. “How—How does he treat her?”

“He is very gentlemanlike and enormously kind to her. But honestly, I’ve always thought him something of a dullard, and I think Diantha does too. Also, he is not handsome.”

Wyn’s brows went up.

She nodded. “You would think if a girl invented a suitor she would make him marvelously handsome, wouldn’t you? Mr. H is tall, and he still has all of his hair. But you see, he has this mole problem.”

“He has a mole?”

“Rather, moles. Big dark knobby brown ones, all about his neck and a few on his face.” She touched a fingertip beside her lips, then by her brow and the side of her nose. Her voice quieted. “You see?”

Throat closed, Wyn could only nod.

“It was her mother who . . .”

He gestured her on.

Her lips were tight but she did not look up now. “Her mother did not only tell her that she was lacking in character.” She paused. “She told her—often—that if she were beautiful she might be able to manipulate a man into accepting her, despite her troublesome ways. And . . .”

“And?”

“Every day Lady Carlyle applied a lotion to my friend’s skin, as though begrudgingly, suggesting that perhaps it could improve Diantha’s appearance sufficient to entrap a man in marriage before he came to know her well enough to avoid such a thing.” Her jaw seemed to lock. “Nearly two years ago this pot of lotion emptied, and Diantha asked the housekeeper where she might purchase another. But do you know what? It turned out that Lady Carlyle had made the lotion herself. It was pig fat laced with perfume.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “Grease, Mr. Yale. Her own mother did this to her, because . . . because . . .”

He struggled to steady his breath. “Because she could not control her.”

Miss Finch-Freeworth folded her hands in her lap. “Diantha is not a ninnyhammer, Mr. Yale.”

“No.”

“Mr. H is a code name.”

“I understand.”

“For her long-held conviction that she will never be good enough for any man to wish to marry her.”

“Miss Finch-Freeworth, I do not want to control her.” Never again. “I want only the best for her. I want everything for her.”

Her ginger lashes flickered. “Do you?”

“If Miss Lucas wishes to pursue her journey, I promise not to hinder her. But you must allow me to give her the opportunity to choose otherwise.”

She seemed to study him carefully. Then she nodded.

Peregrine,

I regret that I am occupied with another Matter at present and must unfortunately decline your invitation to dine. However, due to that pressing Matter, I am obliged to address the substance of your message immediately. In short, although grateful for His Majesty’s magnanimity, I don’t want it. If he and the director truly wish to thank me, I beg of them one thing only: Clemency for a single Act of Villainy that I will shortly commit.