Page 6 of An Honorable Deception
The wounds were still oozing, and the smell of blood very nearly made Lavinia wish she’d let Yates insist she was too delicate a flower to handle this. And to be honest, she had no idea what to do. Weren’t you supposed to stanch the flow with something?
Even as she thought the question, Clementina flew into the room, towels in hand, whispering something along thelines of “The poor dear!” in a voice perpetually husky. She’d damaged her vocal cords years ago and been forced to retire from the stage, but Lavinia knew she’d once been a renowned actress; her husband must be at rehearsals even now, as Lavinia hadn’t spotted him at the door pretending to be a butler this afternoon. They’d given up the pretense in her presence sometime around June, when she’d pointed out to Marigold that she knew very well who they were, and given that her own family had hired half the staff they’d had to dismiss from the Tower after Marigold’s father death, they could give her abitof credit, couldn’t they, and admit they were strapped?
Regardless, Clementina knew better than she did how to help, and Lavinia found herself nudged out of the way so gently, she wasn’t even certain how she ended up sitting in the middle of the floor like an absolute dunce.Unnecessary. Useless.
The next moment, Yates flew back into the room, Marigold keeping pace with him. Her cheeks were still pale, but some switch looked to have been flipped. She hurried to Clementina’s side—and the actress-cum-cook didn’t nudgeheraway. Then James came back into the room, declaring that both doctor and inspector would be arriving soon. When he nearly stepped on her skirt, Lavinia scooted even farther out of the way.
Her heart pounded. Did it hurt? Was it straining? Had her cheeks gone sallow again, the circles made an appearance under her eyes? She closed them, focusing on the rate of her breath, the way her heart felt in her chest. She didn’t think it was in any danger, but how was she really to know? Mother or Papa had always been the ones to gauge her, study her, and insist upon rest when she pushed herself too hard.
Her vision blurred again, but it wasn’t from a lack ofblood flow. Had Mother ever really cared whether she died? Had she in fact hoped she would, so that she could be free of what chained her to Northumberland, what kept her from London, where she could better gather the intelligence she sought for Germany? Had she only made those efforts to preserve Lavinia’s health so that Papa wouldn’t be angry and see through her?
Behind her, Marigold, Yates, Clementina, and James kept talking and moving about, running out and in again, fetching this or that. Lavinia set her bleary gaze on the space between one of the chairs and the corner behind it. She’d made herself a little castle in such a spot when she was a girl, draping a blanket over the back of the chair and securing its other ends on the bookshelves that had filled the corner in her own house. She’d brought in pillows and books and her favorite doll and passed many a rainy autumn afternoon there.
Maybe that was why she found herself crawling into the space now without really making a decision to do so. Certainly without giving any thought to how ridiculous she must look—had anyone botheredtolook.
It wasn’t her castle. There was no magical light filtering through the thin pink blanket she’d hung, no cushions and pillows turning the floor into a sultan’s tent, no tin of biscuits and chocolates snuck there by a doting cook, no doll waiting to listen to today’s adventure. There was simply a hardwood floor, the corner of a rug, and shadows enough to conceal her.
It would do. Lavinia settled in the corner, her back against the meeting of the walls, and pulled her knees to her chest. An ignominious position for a titled young lady of twenty-three, without question. Had Mother seen her thus, she would have...
But Mother wasn’t here. She would never chide Lavinia foranything again. Mother was dead. Shot becauseshe’dbeen trying to kill Marigold as payback for Yates and Sir Merritt interfering with her plan to murder both Papa and the German half brother Lavinia hadn’t even known Mother had.
Were she stronger, Lavinia would have been able to keep the tears from pricking for the millionth time in the last fourteen months. Were she stronger, she’d be out there helping care for the wounded Lady Alethia instead of hiding in a corner. Were she stronger, she’d be praying for that young lady’s health and recuperation rather than focusing on her own overwrought heart.
“You’re too weak, Lavinia Rose.”It was Mother’s voice in her head, reciting the phrase that had become her mantra. The reason she couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t go downstairs, couldn’t visit Marigold, couldn’t go to London for a Season when she first should have.You’re too weak.
If only it weren’t so true.
THREE
Pain seared, throbbed, stabbed. Sometimes it was pinpoints, focused on her chest and side and leg. Sometimes it was an agony that devoured her entire left side. Alethia’s throat ached, too, which she dimly suspected was from screaming.
When had she been screaming? She knew better than to scream. People could hear screams, and then they would come to investigate, and then she’d be in such trouble. The threats would begin, bruises would appear ... then the questions. Questions would start. Questions were her worst enemy.
She had to push through the pain. Sit up. Get away from wherever she was. She had to find Samira, make certain she was safe. Together they’d escape the house and find refuge in the gardens. Together they’d sing until the nightmare faded. Her ayah would tell her a story to calm her—the princess and the monkey, or the mongoose and the cobra. Those had always been her favorites.
But ithurt. It hurt more than anything ever had before, and when she finally forced her lids open, the light seared her eyes like a thousand suns. She winced away from it, andeven that small movement brought the pain to life anew. A groan escaped before she could stop it.
“Shh. It’s all right. The doctor says you’ll make it.”
Doctor? Makewhat?
And whose voice was that? Feminine, but not familiar. Not Samira. Not Mama. Not the cook. She tried again to open her eyes, more slowly this time, squinting. It helped. The blinding light receded, and the room around her came into focus.
Only, it made no sense. Not her room in Calcutta—but of course not. She hadn’t been there in years. England, they were in England, where she could “grow up properly” and “meet the right people.” Where“everything will be right and normal, dearest, you’ll see.”
Only nothing was right, and she didn’t know what normal was even supposed to be, and in England she had no real friends, no familiar stories, no Samira to soothe the nightmares away.
This wasn’t her room in England either, neither of them. Not the austere bedroom at Barremorral Manor, not the spartan chamber on Grosvenor Square. This room, as it came into focus, was something altogether unfamiliar. Pinks and ivories, lace and toile, a four-poster with a beautiful draping canopy in the same cheerful, unfamiliar shades.
The voice. She had to find the owner of the voice. She turned her head to the side, careful now to move slowly.
A woman sat at the side of the bed. Young, though older than her. Perhaps twenty-five, twenty-six? She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she wasn’t exactly not. An understated face. A tired face. She had shadows ringing her eyes, and the braid that fell over her shoulder stretched down to her waist, framing a stomach round with a coming child.
She knew her—no, sherecognizedher, though they’dnever met. Mama hadn’t bothered arranging many introductions to other young ladies in their years at home, other than those she’d met at school. Or at least not unless they had eligible brothers. Marriage was the only goal, she’d said. Not friendships.
Except this young ladydidhave an eligible brother, but Mama had been too intimidated to ever approach her. Lady Marigold Fairfax, that was her name. Well, it had been. She’d got married last year to an untitled chap who was the presumed heir to his uncle, an earl. She still went by the honorary title she’d been born with and would until her husband inherited a title of his own. So it was Lady Marigold Livingstone now, but simply Lady Marigold in conversation.
Alethia had seen her absolutely everywhere, but here, in this room, it was the simple clothing that had confused her. In public, Lady Marigold never appeared in styles less than audacious—even now, in her condition. Mama had been aghast at the “indecency.” Secretly, Alethia had cheered for her. She didn’t know this woman, but she was being who she wanted to be.
