Page 7 of An Honorable Deception
But ... why was shehere? And why was Alethia? She blinked, drew in a slow breath, and tested her throat with a soft clearing. Despite that persistent ache, it seemed functional. Enough, anyway, to brave a whisper. “Where am I?”
Lady Marigold smiled and reached for her hand. “Fairfax House—not so far from yours on Grosvenor Square. We’ve sent a note round to your parents letting them know you’re safe but haven’t had a reply yet.”
“They’re not at home. They won’t be back for a week.” The words tumbled out on their own, and only when she’d spoken them did she realize they were true. Another piece of the puzzle snapping back into place through the fog of pain.
Mama and Father had gone with Uncle Reuben to a houseparty she’d had no desire to attend. She’d had to pretend to be ill to get out of joining them, but she’d done so successfully, and they’d left her in London. It was the only reason she’d dared to search for Samira and then, when she failed to find her, contact the private investigator whose card she’d found at Mama’s favorite ladies’ club, the Alexandra.
The Imposters. DiscreetDisclosures for the Most Discerning.
She’d followed the directions printed on the back and sent an inquiry to an address she’d never heard of before. A reply had promptly followed, with instructions on where to meet the investigator.
And then ... what? A church, she’d gone to a church. But after that, it was fuzz and darkness.
No clues eased forward to explain why she was here, in the home of Lord Fairfax and his fashion icon of a sister. “Wasn’t I ... at a church?”
The lady smiled. “You were indeed. The church of our friend James Parks—he’s the son of our former steward. We grew up together. My brother visits him regularly when we’re in London, and he happened to be there when you were attacked. He and James brought you here straightaway.”
Her brother—Lord Fairfax—and James. A vicar, from the sound of it. They’d brought her here, after ...? “I was attacked?”
Shouldn’t she remember that? She didn’t—yet even the mention of it lit a fear all too familiar, yet all too new. The pain, the fire consuming her left side, burned hotter. She didn’t remember an attack, but she remembered the fear that had inspired her to reach out to the Imposters to begin with.
Samira was in trouble. Samira was missing. And every question she’d dared to ask had been shut down—except Victoria must have known something was wrong, to insist upon a meeting to give her information about Samira. Why hadn’t she shown up?
And then Samira’s friend had been . . . what? Hauled away, though she didn’t yet know why or to where. Her demands for answers certainly hadn’t yielded anything beyond a few condescending sneers from Victoria’s own husband.
And what of the investigator she’d been meeting? Had he been there? Was he injured? Or, worse—was he working with whoever was behind Samira’s disappearance?
Surely not. That would have been too coincidental. Wouldn’t it have been?
“You were shot,” Lady Marigold said in answer to the question she’d forgotten she even asked. “Three times—though the physician reports that God certainly must have set His angels to protect you, because nothing vital was hit. He’s removed the bullets and says that you’ll make a full recovery so long as we can ward off infection—which I am confident we can do with the help of an amazing honey mixture we keep on hand.”
Her expression not shifting from its calm lines, she continued, “Two people, it seems, followed you to the church. You’d been speaking to an older man, and he reported it to us. You seemed to recognize the men who entered, though he didn’t see their faces. My brother and James hurried out, and this man suggested they take charge of you and bring you somewhere safe, where the men wouldn’t think to look. That’s why you’re here instead of in hospital.”
Hospital. A shiver coursed through her. She’d never been in one, and she was glad of it. People would ask questions in hospitals. “That was ... very kind.” She didn’t botherasking how Lord Fairfax and this reverend friend knew who she was, to send a note round to her parents. Perhaps they’d never been officially introduced, but they were featured in the same papers, she and Lady Marigold.
Her one victory that was entirely her own. That single act of stubbornness—the jutti shoes—had worked in her favor rather than ruining her when Mama had deemed her finally ready for a Season this past spring. For whatever reason, the columnists had decided the Indian articles made her a stand out rather than a misfit. And society had followed their lead. Perhaps they scorned her behind her back, but to her face, they exclaimed over her pashmina shawls and beaded shoes, her Indian handbags and too-bold jewelry.
Every last bit of it belonged to Samira, even if her ayah had hated each and every piece. Shackles, she’d called them. But still, they werehers, the only physical link she had to Samira. When Alethia had chosen to wear them, it had been a statement. Hence the outrage that had burned in both her parents’ eyes when they realized what she was doing. But it had been too late by then.
“We are happy to help a neighbor in need.” Lady Marigold leaned closer, concern in her eyes. “In addition to the gunshots, you hit your head. Dr. Keats thinks it likely that you’re concussed and said he would be very surprised if you remembered anything from the hour leading up to the incident.”
Not a question. But a question, nonetheless. “I remember going to the church but not actually getting there. And nothing afterward, until now.”
The lady nodded. “As expected. The man with whom you were speaking...” She paused, brows lifted, waiting to see if Alethia was going to expound on who he was.
She didn’t. How could she? All she knew was that his wasthe favorite private investigation firm of aristocrats, and that he answered to Mr. A. She knew that he’d instructed her to take the penitent’s side of an old confessional in that church, and to quote a particular line of Shakespeare to let him know that she was his potential client. Beyond that, she hadn’t a clue.
Apparently her silence wasn’t about to deter Lady Marigold. “He’s an investigator—a good one,” she said. “He suggested we get you out of London immediately. For your own safety.”
Out of London. Hope and fear, want and want-not, warred within her. She hated London, so leaving it would be a boon. But she had to find Samira. Yet, how could she do that if she was dead? If whoever had followed her to the church found her again? She pressed her lips together.
Lady Marigold nodded. “He said you would object, but that we ought to assure you that he is on the case and will see to your concerns here.”
He was? Relief sang through her now, and it sounded like a Bengali lullaby. She sagged against the pillow, not even realizing that she’d been tense beforehand. “Does he need more information?”
“You apparently had a few documents with you, which he collected from your seat. And we gave him our direction in Northumberland so he could keep you updated, or even come for another interview if necessary.”
“Northumberland?” She’d never been there. And she oughtn’t to bring this family of strangers into her problems simply because Lord Fairfax had the misfortune of being there when her enemies caught her up.
