Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress Page 22

  But it now diverged, as it must inevitably when two people lived such differently winding lives.

  As Joss stared at the leaping fire, the world seemed gray again.

  “This note, Joss.” Sutcliffe waved the paper before his eyes. “To what is Chatfield referring? What payment?”

  With an effort, Joss focused his eyes and mind back on the present. “Don’t trouble yourself about that,” he said. “I told you I would take care of the matter, and I will.”

  He stood, then held out a hand to help Sutcliffe to his feet. “Do call back the butler, won’t you? You must order a bedchamber prepared for your lady.”

  “Yes, you’re right. But not the spying room.”

  “No,” Joss agreed. “The spying room would never do.”

  Twenty

  The next morning’s promenade around the Pump Room felt to Augusta like putting on a glove: a bit restrictive, but so familiar one hardly noticed the resulting loss of sensation. The immense room’s corniced tray ceiling stretched high overhead; the Corinthian half columns marched down the wall, keeping watch over the health seekers who eddied around the urn-shaped fountain that gave the room its name.

  As she threaded through the crowded room at Emily’s side, the room dulled her with its sameness. Always the hushed voices, the bubble and flow of greetings, the sulfurous scent of the mineral waters.

  Unfortunately, she was insufficiently dulled. Just as gloves did not always keep hands from being nipped by chill, so the cocoon of the Pump Room could not keep Augusta from piercing herself on the shock of last night’s passion, of Joss’s confession of love. She was rather glad Lord Sutcliffe had interrupted her and Joss, saving them from causing one another further pain. She should have known—had always known—that Joss would demand more of her than she was able to give.

  She resented him for mentioning love—yet she admired him for being unsatisfied with less. Joss was honest, always, about what he wanted. And there was no denying that he wanted her. Longed for her, he had said.

  “I need to sit down,” she said weakly.

  At her side, Emily walked with sure steps, having recently abandoned the wheeled chair as “far too much fuss.” Without a word, the countess grabbed Augusta’s arm and marched her to the far end of the long room, in which chairs and benches were scattered under the watchful gaze of statues in wall alcoves.

  Emily deposited Augusta in a chair, then plumped down next to her. “Finally, a moment to speak. I feared we weren’t going to talk at all about what happened yesterday. I’ve nearly chewed off all my fingernails.”

  “You have not. And I didn’t say I wanted to talk.” Augusta pressed at her temple. “I said I needed to sit down.”

  Emily signaled for a servant, then turned to Augusta. “So you say. But I am sure if I ever came home alone in a Bath chair after dark, with my hair all tumbled down my back and a suspicious scrape on my cheeks as from stubble, I would tell you all about it.”

  “Because you would have met with your husband? My, what a scandal that would be.” Augusta trailed a hand down the side of her face. “Are my cheeks truly scraped?”

  Emily ignored this, shooting a dazzling smile at the liveried servant who drew up to her side. “My friend is not feeling well. Would you be so kind as to bring her some of the marvelous medicinal mineral water? Let us say…a pint. No, a quart.”

  This was most unkind, as the water was ordinarily drunk out of small glasses.

  “I was not aware that you hated me,” Augusta muttered as the servant went off on his errand.

  “Hate you?” Emily was all innocence. “By no means, dear friend. Your uncharacteristic behavior last night, and your silence about it this morning, prove to me that you are ill. I simply want to help.”

  “I am not going to drink the water.”

  “We’ll see.” As the servant returned from the pump with a silver tray full of glasses, Emily handed him a coin from her reticule and accepted the burden in exchange. “Thank you. This will have her feeling better in a trice.”

  “Honestly, Emily. I am not going to drink it.”

  She expected Emily to press the matter, but the countess looked down at the tray full of glasses as though puzzled. In her simple day dress of yellow muslin, sprinkled with flowers and banded at the sleeves and waist with velvet, she looked much younger than her thirty years, but her eyes were old. “No,” she said. “There’s no purpose to it, is there? It doesn’t help.”

  Emily’s voice was so quiet and suddenly bleak that Augusta reached out for a glass. “Maybe not, but it won’t hurt. I will drink it if you want me to. Well—not all of it, but some.”

  The countess gave her an odd little smile. “No need. It was nothing but a petty revenge on you for keeping secrets from me. But you’ve a right to your secrets.”

  “I’ve a right to my secrets? Have I heard you correctly?”

  “You have. What you did not hear me say was, ‘I don’t wish to hear all about it.’ Because, my dear, I do.” Emily hefted the tray of mineral water glasses and laid it on the floor before her chair. “I could use the distraction. And you could stand to be less distracted.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Emily narrowed her eyes at Augusta. “I mean—you’re running away from everything. You ran away with me to Bath, and you ran away from your own name. You keep seeking out Mr. Everett, but then you run away from him too. It’s terribly unfair.”

  “Unfair, you say.” Augusta narrowed her eyes right back. “It’s unfair that I—what? That I told a lie that doesn’t affect you at all?”

  “To what do you refer?” Emily’s voice took on a crisp edge. “To whatever nonsense with which you fobbed off Mr. Everett last night, or to the fact that you are using my name as protection for your false identity?”

  Darting her gaze around—good, it did not appear anyone was close enough to listen—Augusta fumbled for a reply. “The…the second thing you said.”

  This brusque Emily was a formidable creature. Gone was the softness of uncertainty, the shadow of fatigue. Her chin held high, she looked down her nose at Augusta. “You think that doesn’t affect me, merely because I permitted your falsehood to stand? I allowed your lie for your own inscrutable reasons, but you trade on my reputation every day. All of Bath knows that Lady Tallant has given house room to Mrs. Flowers. And when Mrs. Flowers comes home all of a tumble, Lady Tallant damned well has the right to know what is going on.”

  “You want to know?” Augusta could lift her chin too, all the higher to avoid the crawling feeling that Emily was quite correct. “Fine. He told me he loved me and he did…things.”

  Emily’s imperious posture loosened a bit. “Nice things?”

  “Very nice things.”

  The tautness in the countess’s posture melted away. “Good. And what did you tell him in return?”

  “Ah—nothing.”

  “What did you do, then? Nice things?”

  “Well…no.” Augusta pressed at her temple again. How lovely it would be if she was alone with Joss again, and he was pulling the tight pins from her hair. This time, she would be ready for him; she would…

  What? What would she do differently?

  “I did not do anything to him.” She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. “But I think I hurt him very much. And I—I don’t know how else to be.”

  Emily patted Augusta’s arm. “I know. You have forgotten. And that’s why I allowed you to pose as Mrs. Flowers. But you are still you, Augusta, and thank heaven for that. You must find yourself again.”

  In a fidget, Augusta stretched out her legs and bumped the tray of glasses on the floor. A clatter recalled her, and she collected her posture into a neat bundle: ankles crossed, hands folded in her lap. A perfect lady from the outside, just as her mother had always wanted her to appear.

  And just like that, a damp b
lanket of gloom descended. “Most of the people who loved Augusta are dead. Or they never existed at all. Why shouldn’t I be Mrs. Flowers for good?”

  Emily arched a brow. “Who would you like to be?”

  Six words. Six syllables. Such a small sentence to hold such a large thought. And Augusta had no answer; she could only stare.

  “I beg your pardon.” A masculine voice, low and beautifully familiar, broke into her surprise. “Lady Tallant. Mrs. Flowers.”

  “Joss.” The name escaped Augusta like a sigh.

  “Mr. Everett.” Emily covered the lapse in formality with a perfectly polite smile, a hand outstretched to shake.

  And all Augusta could think was: Joss. Thank God you are here. Joss. He stood before them with hands folded behind his back. In his plain black coat and waistcoat, his gray pantaloons and worn boots, he looked as elegant as a prince.

  Who would you like to be? Had Joss ever doubted the answer to this question? No, he had told her his dreams with utter certainty. He knew the direction of the path he wanted to take, now and next and onward.

  “Joss,” she said again in a voice that sounded cracked and hoarse. “How are you?”

  He ignored this lukewarm greeting. “I shall be leaving Bath in the next few days, and I wished to give you something before I departed.” From behind his back, he brought forth a few folded papers. “These might be of use to Meredith Beauty.”

  Augusta held out her hand, mystified. The papers were covered with Joss’s elegant writing: notes on plant extracts and fragrances. She flipped a page, skimming a description of shikakai, which appeared to be a powdered plant compound used for cleansing the hair. “What is all of this?”

  “My transcription of my grandmother’s notes.” His hands tapped the line of his thigh, belying the smooth calm of his voice. “My Indian grandmother. She was fascinated by plants, and she recorded many of her observations. Some are in a Hindustani script I cannot read, but some were written in English. These—I—if you think you can use them, you ought to take them.”

  She did not realize until he folded his hand over hers that she had extended the papers back to him in confusion. “Whether you trick Meredith Beauty’s trustees into thinking these are their notions,” he said, “or whether you beat them over the head with your brilliance, just take these notes. If you think you can use them.”

  “You are repeating yourself, Mr. Everett,” Emily observed.

  The paper crackled, dry as a husk between Augusta’s fingertips. Her throat worked, blocked by a lump. “Why?” The word was nothing more than a whisper.

  “Because you have your parents’ curiosity. Because they wanted the best for you, but most of all, wanted you to be happy.” His smile was unfamiliar. Tight. “Maybe if you make things that help women become aware of their own loveliness, you’ll become happy. Or maybe you won’t, but you could still make the company good. It is yours, after all.”

  Like a soldier, he snapped upright before bowing over Emily’s hand. “Lady Tallant. Always a pleasure to speak with you.”

  “But I hardly said anything,” Emily protested. “Here, I could leave you two to your conversation. Let me leave. I could—ah, promenade toward the fountain.”

  “Do not distress yourself. I came only to give Mrs. Flowers those papers. I must go now; Lady Sutcliffe will be arriving at the Pump Room at any moment. I am to help her become situated, then I shall prepare to leave Lord Sutcliffe’s employment.”

  “A great misfortune for him,” Emily said politely. “He will miss you, I am sure.”

  Leaving. “I—did not know,” fumbled Augusta.

  But she should have known. He had left last night; he would leave again. No one stayed in Bath.

  She had not thought of how this moment would feel, though. She had never expected to run out of chances, to have a conversation be their last.

  Then he looked at Augusta, deep and full in the eyes. “I understand why you could not say yes. And it is for the best.”

  He understood? How could he when she herself did not? Joss had shaken up her world, making its chilly sameness ebb. “No,” she said. “No.”

  It was not for the best, but what was? Not Joss, turning on his heel after a perfunctory bow. “What will you do?” The words burst from her lips like a sparking fire.

  He paused. “Lord Chatfield has offered me employment.”

  And then he was gone, a blade cutting through the crowd. He seemed to have sliced Augusta as he left. Though he had done so with kindness, this handful of papers was no substitute for…for something she had told him she did not want.

  Before she could ponder that deeply, a mellifluous male voice rang forth. “Dear ladies!” Leaning on his cane, Lord Chatfield hove into view, stocky yet impeccable in deep blue and a gilt herringbone waistcoat. With a groan, he settled himself heavily into the seat on Emily’s other side. His wooden leg, Augusta knew, often pained the knee to which it was strapped.

  “Good morning, my lord,” she said. “Would you care to take the waters?” She gave the rejected tray full of glasses a nudge with her slippered foot.

  “Not at all. I am here for the entertainment.”

  Emily looked bemused. “What entertainment is that? Is a concert to take place?”

  The marquess’s full face broke into a grin. “It might be a concert of a sort, if one counts wailing and gnashing of teeth. The Right Honorable Lady Sutcliffe is to meet her husband for the first time in several weeks, and I believe we have excellent seats to the show.”

  “A show?” Augusta was still following Joss with her thoughts; she could not trace the marquess’s meaning.

  “They both possess a secret from the other.” Atop his cane was a sphere of amber; he clutched this, rotating it within his grip. “When they meet, they shall learn this. I expect something rather like the reaction of sodium and water.”

  Emily looked blank. “Which is?”

  “A conflagration.” Chatfield lingered over the word, savoring it.

  “Dear me.” The countess lifted her brows. “How fortunate that we are near a door if we must escape the flames in a hurry.”

  “There will be no need to escape,” he replied. “The fire will burn out quickly. But will it be the destructive or cleansing sort? That, I admit, is what I am curious to learn.”

  As he scanned the crowd, his avid expression reminded Augusta of nothing so much as a parent looking for a child of whom he was proud. His carefully hoarded knowledge was all the family he had, and he took undeniable pleasure in seeing his information translated into results.

  There was something unfeeling, though, about Chatfield’s clockwork determination to see a scheme to fruition. What if Lady Sutcliffe should not wish to be observed as she met her husband? Any public outburst would end in someone’s humiliation.

  But Joss would be at the baroness’s side, Augusta recalled; though he planned to leave Sutcliffe’s service, he would not shirk his duty to his employer. His family. “You have my congratulations,” she said to the marquess. “We have just spoken with Mr. Everett and have learned that he will soon take up employment with you.”

  Chatfield leaned forward to meet her eye around Emily’s form. “Have you indeed learned that? How interesting.”

  “In what way?” Emily leaned forward too, not wanting to be overlooked.

  “I offered him a position. He turned it down.”

  Emily shot a quick sidelong glance at Augusta. “Ah, indeed? We must have misunderstood.”

  Had they? What had Joss said to them? Lord Chatfield has offered me employment. He had not said he accepted it, though. Oh, the canny man.

  It seemed Joss was done with her; he had unburdened himself last night and did not wish to pick up the weight of her company again. Better that she had not said yes, better that she knew nothing of where he went next.

  So he said.
But she disagreed.

  She turned her head, looking down the row of chairs at Emily’s serene elegance, at Chatfield’s bated eagerness. They represented England’s elite; they were wealthy and influential. Yet even so, they had suffered. A scion of the nobility could lose a leg; a countess could lose a child.

  An heiress could lose her parents, then a false suitor too.

  No one had a perfect life. Everyone lied sometimes, even if only when they said I’m quite well, thank you. Augusta had been selfish, so selfish, to act as though her pain was worse. As though she had no hope of recovery. To convince herself that, because she had not been loved once, she could not be loved, and so words of love ought never to be trusted again.

  You are worthy, Joss had told her. Just as you are.

  And this was the other direction in which life could slope. A man could be knit together in trickery and scandal, yet become steadfast and honorable.

  And wickedly, beautifully honest.

  “You asked,” she murmured to Emily through a tight closed throat, “who I want to be. I know who I do not want to be. I do not want to be afraid anymore.”

  She hated being afraid. Of pursuing not out of want, but out of the fear of what chased her. Seeking a lover to evict Colin Hawford. But that would never happen unless she let someone into her heart more deeply than Colin had ever delved. Deeply enough to touch the bedrock of love on which she’d built her life: her family, lost but always remembered.

  “Not wanting to be afraid is a good start,” Emily replied, equally low. “Being Augusta, whether afraid or not, would be an excellent next step.”

  As though the entire Pump Room had overheard Emily’s advice, a piping voice rang out. “Lady Tallant—what a pleasure. Ah, and Augusta Meredith. I thought I recognized you!”

  Toward the chairs walked Little Bo Peep: a golden-curled, doll-like woman garbed in icy, elaborate pastel silks.

  This was not, of course, a figure from a nursery rhyme. It was Lady Sutcliffe, a very real figure who had, apparently, a better recall for names than her husband. “My lady,” Augusta said weakly. “I am now known as—”