The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora Page 29

  "I'm sorry, your grace, but have you considered that she tricked you too?"

  "She is the most honest woman I know."

  "Yes." Sir Henry gave him a pitying look. "She only lied to you about her name and who she is."

  Annoyed, he exclaimed, "I shall take her back to Darnley Abbey in the morning. This has gone on long enough. Surely you are satisfied now that this is all rumor and supposition."

  "On the contrary, your grace. There are too many questions unanswered. I'm afraid she will be held in custody until the case can be heard in full. Whatever is not known of her actions and motives, the one certain fact remains that she took another woman's place and assumed her identity for a great many years. 'Tis fraud and deceit at the very least. It could even be more if the real Lady Flora cannot be found. She must face justice. She must be held to account."

  He discovered that while he spoke that day to Sir Henry she was removed from the house and taken to a "secure" place to await trial. They had not even decided yet upon all the charges. Testimonies were being taken by those with an axe to grind against her, and there were several.

  "I would advise you, your grace," said Sir Henry, "to distance yourself from this woman and this affair. Who knows where it might all lead and what may be revealed in time."

  "Abandon her?" he growled. "Never."

  He might be furious with her for lying, but he would not desert her.

  * * * *

  Friends came to speak on her behalf. After the gale of accusations, it was a welcome relief. Persephone Radcliffe was among the first to step forward. She spoke of Flora's generous nature and her good heart.

  "She is not a woman who would plot to harm anybody. She has always lived her life with joy and looked to give others the same. Her loyalty as a friend cannot be faulted, and I have known her ten years. Without her I would have been an outsider in society for I was often looked down upon, even after my marriage to the Marquess of Holbrooke. I was seen as a young upstart who married for money and consequence. Flora was once the only person I knew who treated me with warmth and kindness, apart from my husband. In her company I can always be myself, without fear of judgment or of having my confidences shared at large. I fear I cannot say the same of most fine ladies with whom I am acquainted."

  Francis Chelmsworth also came to her defense. "In my definition of the word she has been my sister for as long as I can remember. She has cared for me with greater devotion than the rest of my family could ever manage. Without her I would have known a miserable upbringing with people whose first interest was always their own financial comfort. Flora showed me that there was more to life, that I could be my own person, out of their shadow. She taught me that I had nothing to fear. Yes, she is my sister, sir, whatever else she might not be. And the whatever else is of no concern to me, for it does not change her character or her heart."

  And then, according to a report in the newspaper, Nicholas, Viscount Fairleigh, the duke's son and heir, made a surprise appearance before Sir Henry to give his own opinion. Standing proud and tall, his voice never wavering, the young man declared that "Lady Flora" had made his father content as nothing else ever had. "My father is a man without fault, sir, but I do not believe he has ever been genuinely happy. Until now. He is a man of exemplary judgment and if he sees in this woman goodness worthy of his time and affection, then nobody should question it."

  * * * *

  Flora read the account of these accusations— which was now expanded to include possible acts of witchcraft— and the speeches made in her defense, a show of support and affection that brought tears to her eyes.

  She had never known the positive effect she had on other people's lives here. To know that they all spoke up for her in this time of need was gratifying and heart-warming.

  "Nicholas insisted on speaking," said Persey, who had brought her the newspaper. "He came from school to do so. Even the duke did not know of his plans."

  Flora smiled. "He is a sweet, dear young man." She could not even take issue with that statement about his father having no faults. Nicholas saw his father through the innocent eyes of pure adoration. Maxim was a god to him, as it should be.

  And on that subject, where was Maxim? Was he furious with her, too incensed to see her? She was allowed visitors, but he had not yet come.

  "Why do you not tell them who you really are?" Persey asked softly.

  "I have tried. But there are many women's lives I recall. Rose, Flora, Ivy, Violet, Daisy, Camellia. I do not know which is mine. Sometimes I think they all are."

  Looking deeply concerned, her friend reached over and placed a hand to her brow.

  "I am not sick," Flora assured her. "Not physically at least."

  "Don't let them shut you away in the madhouse. You must take care not to give them any excuse. They do not need many reasons, as it is, to consign a woman to the lunatic asylum."

  "Oh, I have no intention of that happening. I'll fight to the death if I must."

  Persey nodded firmly. "And I shall fight beside you."

  In that moment, Flora felt sure that Persephone Radcliffe had brandished a sword at her side once before. But the idea passed. She must stop her mind from wandering off into other lives. This is the one she must focus on, because these people were fond of her. And this is where Maxim lived.

  She did not want to be in any world without him in it.

  Act Five

  Know-it-All Snobby-Arse

  and the Enigmatic Stranger

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Feed Shed in Suffolk

  1783

  She paused at last. Her throat was sore, her voice grown hoarse over the past few hours. "So there you are," she said. "That is how it all happened."

  Maxim had sat very still while she talked. Leaning forward, elbows resting on his spread thighs and hands clasped around her diary, he listened without interruption, without sound and mostly without expression.

  "Now you know my humble origins, according to Great Aunt Bridget."

  Finally he spoke."You should not be ashamed."

  "I was not for myself," she explained carefully, "but I thought you would be appalled. Your view of the world is not exactly... progressive."

  He looked down at his hands and then cracked his knuckles, making her wince. "Nicholas is not my blood."

  Flora stared. Slowly she pulled his coat collar further up around her face again, because it had slipped. "I don't understand."

  "Of course, if it was ever known that Nicholas is illegitimate, he could not inherit the title and the estate, so I chose to accept him as mine. There is no need to upset the boy and, in practical terms, I need an heir. My marriage, I knew, would never produce another." He blew out a heavy breath, stretched his fingers out. "Amelia was with child when she married me. I strongly suspect it is the only reason she married me."

  She realized then why he told her this. "So had I told you of my illegitimacy you would not have been shocked and cold toward me, as I thought."

  "Another of your bloody misconceptions," he grumbled, lifting his gaze to hers. "You surely knew how I felt about you."

  "How you felt about a woman you thought was Lady Flora, daughter of an earl. A woman you thought was always honest, but who had lied to you ever since you met."

  Maxim groaned. "The most frustrating and challenging of women."

  She took a breath, swallowing a sob that had risen up in her throat. "Where have you been? I thought you had left me here."

  "Plumm and I have been trying to find Lady Flora and proof of your innocence, of course." He looked wounded. "You thought I had left you?"

  "I do not—" She sagged under his coat. "No. Not really. I knew you wouldn't." But when she woke to see him there, that morning, the sheer release of joy had weakened her and then the tears threatened. She wanted to throw her arms around him, but not knowing what he was thinking or why he had come, she'd had to restrain herself. Be patient.

  "But what was Bridget Manderby thinking," he
said, "when she undertook this deceit, using you as her pawn?"

  "They were desperate. Great Aunt Bridget did the one thing she thought might save them from calamity and scandal. I was just the by-blow nobody thought about until I could be of use. She and Sir Roderick threatened me with all sorts if I didn't go along with their scheme and keep the secret."

  "Hmm." He stood, restless now after sitting still so long, but oddly breathless, as if he'd been tossed by a horse and landed on both feet. "But through it all you kept this diary." With one hand he held it up, like an exhibit in court.

  "It was Lady Flora's diary. I continued filling out the pages to practice my penmanship— make it resemble hers. I always kept it well hidden, but a girl must have somewhere to confess her sins or else she might burst at the seams."

  "Especially when she has so many sins to confess."

  She sighed. "Yes."

  He nodded, lips tight, looking at her again, considering, weighing and measuring. "Well, Rosie, I'm glad you finally told me where you came from."

  "You are?" she asked meekly.

  "A man ought to know who he's fallen in love with, don't you think?"

  In love? With her? Still? Even now that he knew everything.

  Fancy that. And he accused her of flying by her stocking garters.

  "No need for that expression," he muttered wryly. "Love does exist. A very determined young lady once informed me of it."

  "I didn't think you listened to her."

  "I tried very hard not to. But she haunted me for twenty years, damn her." Reaching down for her hand, he gripped it firmly and pulled her up on her feet. "And I'm not going to let her get away again."

  Her lips met his in a kiss that suggested neither of them had known for sure whether they'd ever have another. His rough fingertips stroked the side of her face with anxious tenderness, as if he feared breaking her. By now he ought to know she was stronger than that. Resilient. A true survivor.

  "I've missed you so, Fred," she murmured as he pressed his lips to her forehead. "What of the harvest and my grapevines?"

  "You think of that at such a time?"

  "What else should I think of as I sit here, but everything that we worked for together since last autumn? It has been the best year of my life. The very best. Of any of my lives."

  "I'm taking you out of here," he whispered.

  "They'll stop you."

  "They can try." His jaw was set firm, his eyes dark. "This is nonsense, and you shouldn't even be here."

  She reached up for his hand and brought it to her lips. "The trouble is, they're never going to find a trace of the genuine Lady Flora, not if she went where I think she did." Rosie still had not told him of her dream of the future, a world of concrete, metal and glass, where engines roared like mythical dragons and giant jackhammers tore holes in the ground like angry, confused woodpeckers with a grudge. He was not ready for all that yet. Too many shocks might bring on his Fairfax Disorder, she mused glumly. "When they don't find her, they'll need somebody to blame. I'll never be free of the suspicion, wherever I go."

  "Sir Roderick Manderby must be made to confess."

  She arched an eyebrow. "You've seen the state of him. He'll die before they get any truth out of that wizened, bitter mouth. No, I'm the scapegoat for their deceit, just as I was once their pawn."

  "Then we'll run away together. Back to Italy."

  "And what about the estate? What of Nicholas and those six hundred and thirty-five other folk reliant on you?" She would never let him throw all that away just for her.

  He looked down, shook his head. No, he knew he could not abandon his duties and the son who needed him. The idea of escape had been but a moment's fancy.

  "Malgraves do not run away," she said firmly. "Neither does Rosie Jackanapes. We stand up and face our troubles."

  He looked up again to remind her, "You ran away from me once, through a pair of glass-paneled doors and out onto my lawn, after telling me that I was an unmitigated bore, so stuffed full of my own importance that I was likely to explode."

  "Ouch." She grimaced. "I was an awful brat, was I not? So many mistakes."

  He kissed her again, this time on the tip of her nose. "Nothing we do is a mistake, as long as we learn from it."

  * * * *

  "I'm taking the lady out for a stroll," he announced, striding out of the feed shed with Rosie's hand clasped in his.

  "But, your grace!" The constable, who had been perched on a little three-legged stool by the door, smoking a pipe, leapt to his crooked legs. "You can't. I've strict instructions from Sir Henry."

  "Do you know who I am?" he demanded, imperious.

  "Aye, sir. Your grace, the Duke of Malgrave. Sir."

  "Then you know that it is most unwise to cross me. Stop sniveling. We do not intend to walk beyond that crest. I am not likely to participate in the escape of a prisoner who has wronged me, am I?" He hurried her along, one hand under her elbow.

  "But, sir! Your grace!"

  He turned on his heel to shout at the constable. "Shut up, sit down and smoke your pipe. We shall not venture out of your view. If Sir Henry wishes to object he may take it up with me."

  Flora— no, Rosie, he must get accustomed to that— stumbled over a tussock of grass and her skirt hem, but stayed upright by hanging onto his sturdy arm. "Fancy bringing this gown," she exclaimed. "It's hardly fitting for a gaol."

  But he knew it was her best and a favorite, and he liked her in it. He had never paid much attention to ladies' frocks, but hers always made an impression. Probably due to what came in them, he thought wryly. And the pleasure to be had from unwrapping the treat within those layers.

  "Where are we going?" she demanded, amused.

  "I don't want to sit in that stuffy store shed a moment longer, and fresh air is good for you. We'll sit a while under that tree. There." He pointed to show her the broad oak on the distant crest. "The perfect spot. Or as perfect as we can find for now."

  "But the ground is damp, surely."

  "You can sit on my coat." He was going to propose to her again. Properly this time. He had chosen that tree as he rode up this morning, even before he knew what she would tell him. As soon as the divorce was settled, he wanted her to be his wife. This other business they would sort out. Plumm was working on it now— had said something about owing the lady for a long ago kindness.

  The air was thick, warmer than it had been earlier, and a thin haze rose up from the long grass. Or rather crept over it with smoky tendrils.

  "Harriet Seton came to see me yesterday," he said. "Quite contrite. Seems her conscience troubles her finally. Wanted to know if she could help."

  "Harriet? Ha! Don't fall for her wiles. She's probably hoping to comfort you in your time of grief. She did have her cap set for you when we were young, but you never noticed her it seems." Her arm slipped from his as she stooped to pick a fallen leaf from the grass.

  "I never noticed anybody but you," he muttered, lengthening his stride as the ground sloped uphill.

  She followed, twirling her leaf, her pretty skirt stroking the wet grass. "Why me, I wonder?"

  "Because I had never seen anybody like you. Never heard anybody laugh the way you did. It was as if you came from another world." The mist thickened here, sliding down the slight hill to meet them as they made their way up. "You were unique and, of course," he smiled, remembering his first impression of her. "Beautiful, but in a different way. Not like a flower garden or any of that nonsense. Like a storm at sea."

  She laughed softly. "So possibly deadly then."

  "Most assuredly not safe to be out in." Maxim took a deeper breath of the moist, clinging air. "And not at all in awe of me. Of course I noticed you. It was a game of Blind Man's Bluff, but you wore the blindfold, not I."

  When he turned to grip her hand again, she was gone.

  * * * *

  She woke before the alarm and lay a while, staring up at the ugly light on her bedroom ceiling. The scent of burnt toast drifted
insidiously from the kitchen, followed by muffled voices as her parents argued again over whether or not they needed a new toaster. Her father liked his toast cremated. Her mother liked it soft, barely tanned. She liked to spread her butter without fearing the bread would disintegrate under the knife's blade. He preferred the hearty crunch. Why bother using the toaster at all, he would say, if you only want floppy bread?

  "If I want a mouthful of ash, I'll chew on coal," her mother replied.

  It was an argument that had continued for about five years. First world problems.

  What was the life-expectancy of a toaster, she wondered idly. Really she ought to just go out tomorrow and get them a new one. But her father claimed they were too expensive and too fancy these days— nothing new could replace his old love. Besides, what would they all have to talk about in the morning if the toast wasn't burnt? And who was going to look after them, if she went away to university? At seventeen and a half she was the voice of reason in that house.

  Her phone buzzed. She rolled over to grab it from the bedside table.

  Shelly again. Shelly Trent was in her class at school, had been a sort-of friend since year six and now seemed to be under the impression that they were both in pursuit of the same boy's attentions.

  "How can you have a sort-of friend, Cammy?" her mother had scornfully asked. "She's either a friend or she isn't."

  "You don't understand, mum. We've known each other for a long time and we hang out in the same places. We have the same circle of friends. But we're just not that close."

  "Looks like a nasty piece of work to me."

  Shelly Trent snapped her gum a lot, wore push-up bras and make-up to school when she was twelve, and always had her eyes pinned to her phone. When in a bad mood, which was often, she called other girls by their full name, drawing it out and with heavy emphasis on certain syllables as if it might, in fact, be an alias. Or, in certain cases, too "posh".