Page 21 of A Trickster’s Temptation

I have ruined everything. Mary bit her lip as another tear came.I felt, and ruined everything by doing so.

But I can't stay like this forever.

That was the problem with being a practical person. Even when life gave one ample opportunity to throw all caution to the wind, plumb the very depths of grief and give oneself over to madness, something in Mary wouldn't let her progress past a certain point. It was as if a strict nursemaid lived inside her, waiting patiently for the tantrum to end before giving her a bowl of bread and milk and a stern talking-to.

She couldn't stay in Winnie's cottage forever, moping about the place like a ghost and forcing her friends to take care of her--not to mention eating Winnie's parents out of house and home. Of course, they were wealthy enough, but it was the principle of the thing. But neither could she go home to her parents; her mother and father would notice her ill-humour immediately, and before she knew it she would be undergoing some dreadful rest cure in Switzerland.

If only I didn't have to be myself for a while. Just a little while.As the thought crept into Mary's mind, another tear came despite her best efforts.

Was Adam Hart, the cause of her misery, really going to provide her with her salvation? It wasn't enough that he'd brought her to this point; he had to live inside her as well, helpfully pointing out that there was a simple enough way to stop being Mary Fine for a little while.

I could be someone else. Not for long. But I could be.

No-one happy, of course. No-one glamorous or exciting. But someone who didn't have her grief, her sadness--or better yet, had a good reason for feeling grief rather than her own revolting self-indulgence? Oh, that was possible.

It was more than possible. If she tidied these handkerchiefs away, closed the blasted novel and started thinking hard about discreet hotels in seaside towns, it would take little more than an afternoon of work.

‘Abigail? Winnie?’ Mary tried to sound as matter of fact as possible as she closed the book and stuffed the handkerchiefs into her reticule, wincing as a stray pin pricked her finger. ‘You can come in.’

The door flew open before she had finished her sentence. Winnie ran into the room first, pulling Mary into an embrace. ‘Oh, my dear, you’re—ow! Is that a pin?’

‘Yes. These handkerchiefs are bristling with them. But listen.’

‘My dear, are you well?’ Abigail frowned at her. ‘We have lemon cakes if you want them.’

‘I want nothing. Only for you two to listen.’ Mary took a deep breath as Winnie released her from the embrace. ‘I’m going to be someone else for a little while.’

Winnie and Abigail’s mutual look of complete incomprehension wasn’t promising. Mary quailed for a moment, then continued.

‘Just a little while.’ She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Let me explain.’

'Sir?' The coachman's voice could only faintly be heard over the rattle of the carriage wheels and the faint but persistent grumbling of the horses. 'This is the street.'

Adam blinked, pulled abruptly from his reverie. The air outside the window looked grey and unappealing; the sea was meant to make everything fresh and bright, but perhaps his own dark mood had made such amelioration impossible. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes.' The coachman sounded irritated now. He'd borne Adam's questions and occasional diversions with patience, but he'd evidently reached his limit. 'I'm sure, sir.'

'It wasn't the street with the holly tree at the corner of it?'

'Sir, I'm stopping the carriage here. And I'll do it none too gently if you keep questioning me.'

If he'd taken this journey under a different name, perhaps a titled one, he wouldn't be facing nearly as much impertinence. Alas, he'd done away with all of his identities--even the really lucrative ones--and so Adam Hart was travelling as Adam Hart, no more, no less.

He felt naked. He swallowed as the carriage came to a halt, the coachman knocking on the roof once it was safe to open the door, and pulled his greatcoat more tightly around himself once he eventually jumped out onto the cobbled street.

He'd never been to Whitby, and had never particularly wanted to come. It was a seaside town, much like Brighton, where the worst class of deceiver came to ply their trade: the gentlemen who seduced women for their money, for the fun of it, or both. Adam had never wanted to be associated with men like that, let alone practise the same vile art, and so had clung to London like a limpet for the entirety of his professional life.

But he'd spent the last month in London feeling empty. So empty that he'd begun to feel sure that he was sick, hiding some dreadful malady beneath the surface, and had visited two physicians in an attempt to find a cure. Only once the second physician had put a hand on his shoulder and asked him the same of the woman who'd wronged him did Adam realise, with a jolt of shock, that he was in love.

Desperately in love, in fact. In love with Mary, who never wished to speak to him again, and that single fact made everything seem utterly impossible.

'Well, sir?'

'Oh--yes. Payment.' Adam hurriedly produced a few notes and put them in the coachman's hand, who stared down at them as if they were soiled. 'Is that... is that the correct amount?'

'... Yes.' By the sound of the coachman's voice, he had been expecting something more for the quality of his service. 'Thank you, sir. I'll be at the King's Head when you wish to return.'

He turned around, heaved Adam's bag off of the roof of the coach with considerably less delicacy than Adam would have wished, and let it thud onto the spray-soaked ground. Adam picked it up, biting back a few choice words, and walked away before any more unpleasantness could ensue.

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