The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London Book 2) Read online

  Mrs Hibbet rubbed the back of her neck. “I am to blame as much as Rose. I know you don’t like us going into the woods but the snowdrops were out, and my mother used to take us on a walk to see them every year.”

  The woods held no fond memories for him. Then again, the night he’d kissed Rose there would be forever ingrained in his memory.

  “What I’m trying to say is, I knew Rose wasn’t a maid come from London. I saw her once, walking near the boundary of Morton Manor. For a moment, I thought I’d seen an angel.” Mrs Hibbet’s eyes lit up. “And then, just when I thought our problems here could get no worse, she appeared like a glorious vision in the night. That’s when I knew the Lord had answered my prayers.”

  He could not chastise his housekeeper for her lofty ideas. He’d thought the same, too.

  “One cannot deny that Rose is a special person.” The sudden pang in his chest almost robbed him of breath. “But she had her own reasons for coming here. We should not make more of it than what it is.”

  “That brings me to my second point.” The woman’s lips twitched as she struggled to suppress a smile. “Rose told me she loves you, and that she never meant to hurt you.”

  Christian dug his fingernails into the leather chair. The words were bittersweet. A warm feeling filled his chest, coupled with the pain of regret. Did Rose have strong feelings for him? He would never know.

  “It’s not too late, my lord. Happen Rose would forgive you anything.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Hibbet. I shall give the matter consideration.” He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off all he’d lost. “I shall take the children for a walk this afternoon. In the meantime, you can find me here.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Christian dropped into the chair behind the desk, shuffled papers and waited for his housekeeper to leave before a string of curses fell from his lips. With his head in his hands, he considered Mrs Hibbet’s comments. Had experience forced him to judge Rose too harshly? In truth, he didn’t care if her brother was an earl. His reaction stemmed from jealousy. Who the hell was Lord Cunningham? And what on earth made Rose believe she loved him?

  Christian pressed his fingers to his temples to ease the mounting tension. He couldn’t think about Rose, not now. When that didn’t work, he opened the drawer and removed Cassandra’s letters. Rose had taken her blue diary, the one she’d used to hide the notes. His mind drifted again, and he wondered if she’d written anything about him in her little book.

  Was that why she wanted him to read it?

  He shook his head. He should stop daydreaming and focus his attention on discovering which one of the bastards had made him a cuckold.

  Vulgar was too mild a word to describe the obscene nature of the missives. The content failed to rouse any emotion. Indeed, he felt numb, cold, indifferent. Rose was right. The graphic descriptions bore no resemblance to the passionate moment they’d shared. He’d been right, too. Rose had given everything of herself in that tender moment. Regardless of the other lies, the truth existed in every kiss they’d ever shared.

  On a weary sigh, he continued reading about Cassandra’s moments of sexual gratification. Every letter said the same. There were no clues to the person’s identity. Nothing to lead back to Taylor, Wilmslow or Mr Watson.

  The knock on the door drew his attention. Foster entered the room and walked over to the desk, the silver salver balanced on his palm.

  “This arrived from The Talbot Inn, my lord. Mr Parsons begs an apology. He meant to deliver it yesterday but his wife misplaced the missive.”

  Christian took the letter from the salver. “Thank you, Foster. That will be all.”

  Upon breaking the seal, he looked for a signature and found Rose’s name at the bottom of the paper. Instinctively, he brought the letter to his nose and inhaled, hoping to find a trace of her unique scent, something to stir excitement in his chest. When that failed, he brushed his finger over her name, desperate to feel a connection.

  Rose.

  He scanned the missive quickly, impatient to understand her reason for writing, and frowned. Various quotes from the Bible filled the first half of the page, one from Matthew, another from Isaiah, all relating to forgiveness. At first, he presumed the letter was an apology, but then he noticed Rose’s message written at the bottom in a different hand.

  As you know, my brother got married today. While there, I took the liberty of confessing my sins to the Reverend Wilmslow and begged him to give me guidance. He noted a few passages to remind me that God forgives all sins if repented. I hope this example of the reverend’s writing proves useful in your endeavour to find peace.

  Forgive me.

  Rose.

  Christian sat back in the chair. Instead of celebrating her brother’s wedding, Rose had thought of him. A deep ache filled his chest. Mrs Hibbet was right.

  He loved Rose.

  Even though she’d left, he could still feel her in his heart. So what should he do about it? Perhaps he should find a white charger, ride to London and bring her back. He placed her letter on the desk, his mind distracted with thoughts of rescuing his damsel. But what would he do when he got there? He’d given his friend, Vane, free use of the house in Berkeley Square. And he could not leave the children.

  Lost in thought, he stared at the wall until his gaze migrated back to Rose’s letter.

  Bloody hell!

  Christian sat bolt upright. He snatched Cassandra’s love note and held it in his left hand, took the example of the Reverend Wilmslow’s handwriting in the other.

  “They’re a bloody match.”

  Taking a magnifying glass out of the drawer, he scanned them again to be sure.

  “That blasted hypocritical toad.”

  He jumped from the chair, charged from the house to the stables and in fifteen minutes arrived at the reverend’s home. After a brief conversation with the housekeeper, he found Wilmslow in St Martin’s church practising his sermon.

  Christian pushed open the oak doors with both hands and marched down the aisle. The clip of his boots echoed within the stone walls.

  Wilmslow’s head shot up. “Lord Farleigh? Well, this is a surprise.” The reverend’s smile faded as he stepped down from his pew. “I trust all is well.”

  “No, Wilmslow, all is not well.” What had Cassandra seen in this lying snake?

  “Look, I know we have different opinions about dealing with the sickness—”

  “This is not about the blasted sickness, though at least now I know why you’re so keen to search Everleigh.”

  The reverend gulped, and his face grew pale.

  Christian glanced at the stained-glass window, at the rainbow of tiny pieces depicting the crucifixion. “I’ll not discuss a matter of indelicacy in a house of God. I would ask you to step outside.”

  The reverend clasped the lapels of his black coat and raised his chin. “The Lord hears everything. There is nothing a man can hide from him.”

  Christian snorted. Contempt for the reverend oozed from his pores. “Then the Lord must know you’re a hypocrite, the biggest sinner in the parish. Now, follow me outside else I shall drag you out.”

  Wilmslow’s bottom lip trembled. He raised his hands to the heavens. “Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. Is that not the way of God? Is there any need for violence?” Wilmslow spoke in the principled tone he used to convey his superiority. “If I have wronged you, my lord, speak of it now.”

  Christian stepped closer. “Outside!”

  “Very well. Very well.” Wilmslow clapped his hands to together in prayer. One last attempt to persuade the Lord to intervene. “I shall do as you ask.”

  Christian turned, stormed out into the grounds and came to an abrupt halt on the grass amid the weathered headstones.

  Wilmslow scurried behind. “Wh-what is this about?”

  “It’s about the letters you wrote to my wife.” Christian swung around to face him. “The letters you’ve spent two years trying to locate in
case the whole village should discover the depths of your depravity.”

  “Letters?”

  “I have proof you sent them. I know you committed adultery. What I don’t know is how you stand there and preach to the masses every Sunday.”

  Wilmslow withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the beads of perspiration on his brow. “You’ve made a mistake. Everyone knows Mr Watson is the one guilty of the sin you mention.”

  How fortunate for the reverend that Mr Watson had not lived to defend himself.

  “Perhaps I should take the letters to your wife, Wilmslow, see what she makes of my theory.”

  “My wife is in London, gone to visit her sister.”

  London? The woman rarely left the village.

  “I’ll have the truth from you one way or another.” Christian shrugged out of his coat and placed it on the ground.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am accusing you of adultery. Indeed, after you’ve fought for your honour, I intend to hire a solicitor to prosecute you for the crime.”

  “It is not a crime to have relations with another man’s wife,” the reverend countered.

  “No. It’s not.” Christian was glad he’d read the letters as he recalled the mention of a lewd act conducted in his orangery. “But I can prosecute you for trespass and misuse of my property. As such, I shall press for financial compensation.”

  The reverend’s face turned ashen. A court case would ruin the man in more ways than one.

  Christian held up his fists as taught in the boxing salons in his youth. “I seek the truth, nothing more.”

  Wilmslow swallowed deeply. He glanced back over his shoulder and then once to the heavens. “The lord tests the righteous and the wicked. How can a man preach forgiveness if he has never sinned?”

  “Is that a confession?” If Wilmslow expected sympathy, he’d get none. Christian lurched forward and grabbed the preacher by his high-cut waistcoat. “Let’s hear it all.”

  “It-it started when I attended Cassandra at Morton Manor.” Wilmslow’s face turned berry red, and his brown eyes flashed with fear. “She complained of hearing the voices of demons in her head.”

  Christian shook him. “And what, you thought to ride the devil out of her?” He didn’t care for his crude comment. He’d not lower himself to Wilmslow’s standards. “I think it’s time you moved to pastures new.”

  “But I have repented every day for what I did.”

  He released the pathetic figure of a man. “You may have the Lord’s forgiveness, but you will never have mine.” Christian threw his entire body weight into a punch that connected hard with Wilmslow’s jaw. The crack echoed through the churchyard. The reverend toppled back and landed between two gravestones.

  “That is for hurting my son. Your antics have caused him no end of misery these last two years, and I’ll make sure you’re never allowed to preach to a congregation again.”

  “Please, my lord.”

  Feeling immense satisfaction and an element of relief, Christian stepped back. “And if I discover you had anything to do with Cassandra’s death, I’ll be back to finish what I’ve started.”

  Brushing his hands to show his disdain, he stepped over the reverend’s quivering body and strode down the path.

  “My lord! Wait! Will you not listen to my explanation?”

  Christian ignored the man’s cries and protests. He had one more call to make, and so mounted his horse and rode to Dr Taylor’s house.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but the doctor got called away on urgent business.” The housekeeper wiped her hands on her apron. “There’s no telling when he’ll be back.”

  “Away?” Suspicion flared. “Has he gone to see a patient?”

  “No, my lord. He’s gone to London, something to do with a meeting at the Wishful, no, the Worshipful Society of the Apothecaries. He left early yesterday morning.”

  Christian swallowed down his surprise. Despite their disagreements, he would have expected the doctor to inform him of his departure.

  A strange sense of foreboding took hold.

  Was it a coincidence that two people from the same small village had left for London a day after Rose? It seemed there was only one way to find out.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What on earth made you think you were in love with Lord Cunningham? Look at him prancing about the floor.” Nicole gestured to the foppish lord dancing the cotillion with Mrs Webster. “I know I’m not a skilled dancer, but I’m sure you’re not supposed to resemble a frog leaping off a lily pad.”

  Rose glanced at the man she might have married had her father not intervened. Lord Cunningham’s chin lacked definition, unlike Christian’s strong jaw. And his eyes didn’t cause a lady’s breath to come in shallow pants. Lord Cunningham’s coat didn’t cling to the muscles in his arms, and his thighs barely filled his breeches.

  “He has a pleasant temperament.” Rose had to defend her lack of judgement. “I doubt a harsh word ever falls from his lips. A woman could never disappoint a man like that.”

  But Lord Cunningham didn’t love her, despite his protestations to the contrary. Unlike Christian, he lacked the capacity to care about anyone but himself.

  She’d learnt a lot about love during her brief time at Everleigh. While love lived in the heart, it shone in a man’s eyes and in the sensual curve of his lips. It was present in his passionate kisses, in the way he gazed into a lady’s soul while claiming her body. Some would call it lust. But love didn’t fade. Love remained in the eyes as a constant reminder.

  Christian.

  Her heart lurched. How was she to forget him when he lived inside her? How was she supposed to smile and dance when a ballroom was the last place she wanted to be? But Oliver insisted they make a stand, to allay suspicion and quell the gossips.

  “I can think of only one reason why you imagined an attraction to Lord Cunningham. You wanted to escape your father. Cunningham was an easy way out.” Nicole always understood. “And while I disagree with your father’s method, he saved you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”

  “I know.” Had her father not intervened, she would not have met Christian. “How ironic that I feel a deep sense of gratitude.”

  Nicole cupped Rose’s elbow, and they shuffled back until almost obscured by the giant potted fern. “You would never have known true love had you not escaped from the manor.” Nicole’s comment caught Rose unawares. “And you do love Lord Farleigh.”

  “What makes you say that?” Oh, she loved him with all her heart.

  Nicole offered a confident smile. “Because now I know what it’s like to be in love.” With a covert flick of the eyes, she looked across the ballroom at Oliver. “I heard it in your voice when you spoke to Lord Farleigh. The fact you cried for two hours when we left Everleigh was telling, too, don’t you think?”

  Two hours? She’d cried for days, cried until there were no more tears left to shed.

  “And so what I really want to know,” Nicole continued, “is what you intend to do about it?”

  “Do?” She could do nothing other than pine for a lost love. “All I can do is help him solve the problems at Everleigh.” To bring him the peace he deserved.

  “I’ll not allow you to go snooping around town on your own. If you insist on visiting the places listed in your blue book, then you must take Oliver with you.”

  By now, Christian would know if the Reverend Wilmslow was the one responsible for sending the vulgar letters to Cassandra. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the blue book held some importance, too. Why else would Cassandra hide it in a drawer? That’s why Rose brought it to London, in the hope a servant at the address in Bloomsbury might offer an explanation.

  “You know what Oliver said. I’m to put the goings-on at Morton Manor behind me and concentrate of settling back into society.” But how could she forget all that had happened there? How could she not at least try to help the man she loved?

  Sym
pathy flashed in Nicole’s eyes. “It’s because he cares. What really matters is your happiness. Let me speak to him. Perhaps I might make him see what helping Lord Farleigh means to you.”

  Rose captured Nicole’s gloved hand. “Thank you. At least if I’m doing something constructive, I might stop crying.”

  “The only time you smile is when you speak about Lord Farleigh and the children. Come, let us take some refreshment and you can tell me about the day you had a picnic by the lake.”

  Excitement fluttered in her chest. Talking about her adventures at Everleigh brought the moments to life. “If we wait for Oliver to finish his conversation, we’ll die of thirst.”

  “He’s doing what he promised, making sure everyone knows you spent time with him in Italy.”

  “And what shall I do if someone asks me a question about my visit?”

  “Be vague. Mention the spectacular architecture, the warm weather, the insects. Say you came down with a sickness and spent a month in bed.”

  “Lie you mean?” Lies had cost her everything. And while she knew she should try to forget Christian, she was deceiving herself to think she ever would.

  “Sometimes lies are necessary.” Nicole spoke with conviction. “I pretended to be a paid companion to escape a cold-hearted brother eager to wed me to the highest bidder. You pretended to be a maid to escape from a father determined to keep you a prisoner. Please tell me what part of that is wrong.”

  Nicole made deception sound logical. “When you think about it, the similarities between us are striking.”

  “My case is worse if you consider your brother only learnt the truth after we’d been intimate.” A blush touched Nicole’s cheeks. “But don’t tell him I told you that.”

  “And yet Oliver did not turn you away.” A lump formed in Rose’s throat. “That makes my case far worse.”

  Nicole frowned. Her curious gaze scanned Rose’s face. And then she gasped. “You’ve been intimate with Lord Farleigh?” Despite Nicole’s hushed voice, Rose feared the whole world could hear.

  “Shush. Why don’t you ask the butler to make an announcement?”