A Scandalous Lady Page 26

  She gripped the grooved handle, tossed it up and down to test its weight. “I haven’t held one of these in years.” The blade tapped against the one Faith held. “Good heavens, pardon me.” Another tap. “Oh, pardon me, again!”

  Clutching the grip of her own cutlass, Faith warily eyed the duchess.

  “Perhaps you should move aside, young man. I seem to be a bit clumsy with this big knife.”

  Without hesitation, Scatter moved out of Lady Brayton’s way. “That’s a good lad,” she said.

  Then she struck the pose. “En garde!”

  Faith jumped back, both surprised and alarmed. “What are you doing, Your Grace?”

  “Avenging my brother’s honor.”

  “I’m not going to cross swords with you!”

  One dark brow arced. “Have you no honor of your own to avenge, Miss Jervais?”

  And in that moment, Faith understood that, to back down would mean giving up any claim she had to innocence, to dignity, to pride. Aye, even to her place—whatever it was—in Troyce de Meir, third Baron of Westborough’s life. And with a tight-lipped, “En garde” of her own, she struck the pose.

  The clash started out a slow ringing of metal on metal as each woman felt out the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Faith knew that her weaknesses far outweighed any strengths, for the closest experience she had with swordplay was with the sticks she and Scat used to use to beat off the rats. Her steps were awkward, her arc often low. But when she struck, she struck swift and accurately.

  Lady Brayton on the other hand, was an obviously accomplished—if rusty—swordswoman, with a graceful flair for design and a sure, confident aim.

  “ ’Tis a pity that you could not attend the ball, Miss Jervais.” One point.

  “Oh, I was there, Your Grace. And I had a glorious time.”

  One point.

  “I thought the roses were an elegant touch, didn’t you?”

  Faith’s cutlass clattered to the floor. Bloody hell. Sighing at the fact that her suspicion had just been confirmed, she picked up the instrument, gave the duchess a silent touché salute, then bent her leg and lifted one arm over her head in readiness.

  Again, blades rang as they danced about the study. Their skirts dusted the floor, and Lady Brayton’s bustle struck several figurines, but their eye contact remained steady.

  “Strange how your dress reappeared, isn’t it?” Faith thrust, in as close to an accusation as she dared. “And how your brooch simply appeared in my room?” Two points, with a bonus for audacity.

  “ ’Tis nothing less than I expected from a dockside tart,” the duchess parried.

  Emotions began to heighten, the rhythm grew quicker. Steel on steel echoed through the cavernous stone halls as the combatants moved from the study to the entrance hall.

  “I never asked to be here, you know,” Faith said.

  “Then why are you?” the duchess demanded from her higher position on the stairs.

  “Because it’s better than where I was heading.”

  “I can sympathize with that.”

  Shocked that the two might actually have something in common, Faith stumbled and nearly lost her grip.

  “Careful, Miss Jervais, mistakes like that can cost you the match.”

  She picked up her footing and crouched. “Does Lord Miles know that you’re in love with him?”

  It was a cruel blow, one Faith didn’t even realize could cripple a woman until she saw the great lady’s knees buckle.

  “Your Grace!” She tossed the cutlass to the floor and raced up the stairs to help lower her to the step.

  For several long, silent moments, only the sound of the battle echoed in the hall.

  Then Faith heard a tear drop.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace, I did not mean to cause you pain.”

  Lady Brayton wiped her eye with a lace kerchief she pulled from her wrist. “That’s your greatest weakness you know, and it will lose you the battle.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your heart is too soft.” Her shoulders lifted, her tears dried. “You are a worthy adversary, Miss Jervais,” she said, and Faith swore she’d heard a note of praise in her voice.

  “I don’t want to be an adversary. I never did.”

  “Somehow that does not surprise me.”

  With a sigh, the duchess stood and gathered the cutlasses, then laid them in Faith’s arms for her to put them away. For a moment, brown eyes met silver, and Faith felt as if she were being measured.

  “You fell in love with him, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  A heartbeat passed. Then she asked, “Is there any chance you’ll be increasing?”

  Softly, sadly, Faith answered, “Yes, Your Grace. There’s a chance.”

  Though Lady Brayton’s expression remained neutral, Faith thought she saw anguish flash in her eyes before she turned away. Then, she started up the stairs, chin high, posture proud.

  “Your Grace?”

  The woman paused and looked over her shoulder, her brow lifted questioningly.

  “I’m truly sorry you lost your son.”

  Chapter 18

  Faith returned the cutlasses to their place on the study wall. She wasn’t sure what had just happened between her and the duchess. She wanted to believe they’d reached some sort of truce, but it seemed too much to hope for. Not that it mattered either way. Once the baron returned, she’d be leaving anyway. It was for the best. She’d not be able to stay on and watch him make a life with another woman, feeling the way she felt about him. Not when he couldn’t trust her.

  Still, she wished she knew where he’d gone. It wasn’t like him to leave without a word. And hard as she tried, she couldn’t rid herself of the image of him lying bleeding on the ground the day of the stoning. She didn’t want to think the villagers would hurt him, but neither could she forget how much they despised him.

  The sound of horses outside drew her to the window overlooking the front lawn. Faith peeled the curtain aside, dreading and hoping to see his broad-shouldered figure riding up the drive. Chadwick greeted two finely garbed men on lathered horses, neither of whom resembled Lord Westborough. Faith’s heart stuttered. He’s a grown man, he can take care of himself. Yet it was obvious that the visitors had ridden hard.

  Aware that they would need refreshments, Faith left the study.

  As she was returning to the dining room with a tray of tea, water, and cookies freshly made that morning, a voice traveled down the stone corridor.

  “This is Inspector Jones, I am Inspector Riley of Scotland Yard.” Faith peered around the doorway and spotted one of the men in the entryway reaching into his coat. He withdrew a square of paper and handed it to Lady Brayton. “We have reason to believe that this woman is employed in this household. Her name is Faith Jervais. She also goes by the name Fanny Jarvis.”

  Scotland Yard?

  He’d called in the authorities?

  “What’s your business with her?” Lady Brayton asked.

  Faith didn’t wait to hear their reply. She dropped the tray onto the dining room table and raced up the back steps to her room, betrayal slicing through her breast.

  She could hardly believe he’d called in Scotland Yard! Though why it should surprise her, she didn’t know; he’d warned her what would happen if she stole from him again, and aye, though she’d known the risks, she’d confessed. Maybe deep down she’d fooled herself into thinking that, in diverting the blame off Scatter, he would be easier on her.

  Well t’hell with being honorable. Even if she told him of her suspicions, she doubted it would change anything. He’d already proven that he would believe the worst of her. The bloody coward couldn’t even tell her what he’d planned to her face.

  She and Scat were getting out of here now.

  Focusing her thoughts on escape, she nearly ran Lucy down in front of her room.

  “Lucy! What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. Lady Brayton sent m
e to warn you that there are a couple of men downstairs looking for you. You must leave immediately.”

  Why would the duchess want to warn her? Why not simply turn her over to the inspectors? Unless . . .

  Had Lady Brayton been behind the “thefts” all along? It made sense. She’d been wanting to get rid of her since the day they’d met and this was her chance, because Faith knew as well as the duchess that once she left, she could never return.

  “I can’t leave without Scatter.”

  “ ’Tis not him they’re after, ’tis you. And unless you want to spend the rest of your life in prison, you must leave this moment.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without Scatter.” Even if it meant getting caught. A promise was a promise. Mates didn’t leave mates, and she’d given her word that she’d not leave him behind again.

  “Then I’ll find the lad and bring him to you.”

  Footsteps up the front staircase snagged their attention. Panic exploded in Faith’s breasts.

  “That must be them—they requested to search the house.” Lucy grabbed her arm. “Come with me. I know a place where you can hide until it’s safe to leave.”

  Her heart thundering a hundred beats a minute, Faith let Lucy lead her back down the servant’s steps. They reached the first floor, then Lucy opened another back door. A set of stairs wound around a stone wall, and a dark corridor stretched before them. She’d never been in this section of the castle before and the dank darkness reminded her of the tunnels of Bethnal Green. “Where are we?”

  “ ’Tis an underground corridor that leads to his lordship’s boathouse.”

  Lucy lit a torch taken from the wall. They hurried down the hallway, and the crash of water against rocks grew louder the farther they moved. They reached the end of the hall, and Lucy withdrew a set of keys from her apron pocket.

  After a moment of fumbling, she found the key that fit the rusted lock. A metallic click echoed through the stones, then the door opened. Lucy placed the torch in a holder near the door. It was a storage room of sorts, home to a collection of ropes, wooden trunks, and small kegs, as well as an assortment of seafaring instruments. Another door was set into the far wall, and Faith assumed it led to the cove housing La Tentatrice.

  “His lordship usually keeps a store of food in those trunks and there is water in those casks. That should hold you until I return. Now just stay here. I’ll bring the boy as soon as I can.”

  Before Faith could ask how Lucy knew so much about what the baron kept in the room, the door slammed.

  Faith slid down the cold, hard wall, wrapped her arms about her knees, and waited.

  “Come on, come on!” Troyce smacked his hand against the roof of the hack. “Driver, what’s the delay?”

  “Wheel’s bogged down, milord. We’ll have it freed in a jiffy.”

  The damned rains! He’d been stuck in London two days longer than he’d planned because of the weather, and now this.

  “Never mind, I’ll hire a horse.”

  With the license tucked securely against his heart, he threw open the door to the hack. Rain pelted him in the face. He lifted his collar and adjusted his hat brim.

  He knew it was going to cause a scandal, knew he was sacrificing everything, but he didn’t give a bloody damn. Faith would be his to have and to hold from this day forward, and if anything or anyone tried to come between them, he’d blacken both their eyes.

  He’d known it the instant she’d confessed to taking Devon’s broach, when he knew damn good and well that she hadn’t done it. Thievery from the peerage was a grave offense. That she was willing to go to prison to protect a boy not even related to her was probably the greatest sacrifice he’d ever seen a person make. Could he do no less?

  Hell, he didn’t know they would survive. He had no idea how he was going to pay the last of his father’s creditors or the taxes on Westborough or even if he could salvage the bloody place. But he did know one thing: As long as he had Faith, he could figure out a way.

  “Roses, get your roses!”

  The market monger’s call across the street from the livery drew Troyce’s attention. After leaving instructions for the groom to fetch him his fastest horse, Troyce dashed across the cobblestones.

  “Are they all fresh cut?”

  “Fresh as the day, guv. We got red uns, blue uns, yella uns—”

  “What about silk? Do you have any silk roses?”

  “Comin’ up!”

  Troyce smiled when the man left to whisper frantically to a grubby little boy and send him racing down the wharf. A few more minutes’ delay wouldn’t matter, Troyce decided. He hoped Faith would see the humor in his token reminder of their dance under the staircase. While he waited for the boy to return, he scanned the boats in the river; one day, God willing, La Tentatrice might even join the ranks on the water. In the meantime—

  The thought dropped clear out of his head when his roaming gaze caught sight of a man in a black cowboy hat walking across the street, a woman on his arm.

  Troyce’s heart went numb. He willed her to turn in his direction.

  And when she did, his heart turned to stone.

  Faith.

  No . . . it couldn’t be! She’d sworn the last time that she couldn’t have been the woman he’d seen in London, and although reluctantly, he’d believed her, because she swore she never lied. And yet, only two days ago she’d lied about taking the brooch.

  Or had she?

  Well, by God, he would get to the bottom of this once and for all!

  Absently, he took and paid for the rose, then started across the street, dodging both hoofed and wheeled traffic in his path. The couple had stopped beneath a canopy in front of the livery and appeared to be waiting for horses of their own.

  “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” Troyce heard her say in a decidedly American cant.

  “Not for much longer, darlin’,” the cowboy said.

  “It’s just so hard keeping up the pretense.”

  “It won’t be for much longer. Think about what will happen if you give up now?”

  She caught sight of him. Her eyes widened at his approach and started to turn away. Troyce gripped her by the arm. “Don’t even think of running from me . . . !”

  “Hey! Get your goddamn hands off my wife, you son of a bitch!”

  “Your wife?” He spun her around. “You owe me an explanation, and I’m not—”

  Anger gave way to shock. The eyes were the same, the features nearly identical. But the difference ended there. The scars of tough living didn’t show in this woman’s eyes, her face was fuller and there was no lightning bolt scar. “You’re not Faith!”

  “What? What did you call me?” Before Troyce could answer, a meaty grip wrapped itself around his arm. Instantly, the woman threw herself at the man to stop him from swinging at Troyce. “No! Jesse, wait!” To Troyce, she asked, “What did you call me?”

  He shook his head in bafflement. “Nothing. It was a mistake.” She only looked like his lady. From a distance it was an easy mistake to make, but up close. . . . “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Wait, don’t leave!” She wrapped her hand over his sleeve. “You called me Faith!”

  “Forgive me. I have confused you with someone else.”

  “Faith Jervais. Please tell me that’s who you thought I was. Please.”

  He stopped in his tracks, his blood went cold. There was something in this woman’s voice, a desperation that made his stomach twist and his heart stall. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Aniste Jervais McGuire Justiss. Faith is my sister—my twin sister. And if you know where she is, mister, I’m begging you, take me to her.”

  Dusk had fallen by the time Troyce crossed the stone bridge to Westborough and led his horse to the stables. The lack of horses told him that the last of their ball guests had departed, for which Troyce was grateful. The reunion between Faith and her sister after a sixteen-year separation was a matter best conducted with
out an audience.

  He dismounted and handed the reins to a young village lad just as the carriage bearing the Justisses rolled up the oyster-shell drive. He imagined Faith’s reaction when she saw her twin for the first time. She’d be shocked, he knew, and perhaps angry. She’d always believed her family had abandoned her, then sent her away. But once she learned the truth, she’d be just as stunned as he’d been upon hearing the story that morning.

  He mustered a weak smile for the couple stepping out of the vehicle. Part of him was glad that they’d been so diligent in their search for Faith and celebrated the fact that the Jervais family would soon be reunited. Another part, however, wished they’d never set foot on English soil. Jervais. It amazed him even now that he’d never made the connection. The name alone resonated with respect, prestige, and wealth, for Anton Jervais had amassed a fortune in shipping and shipbuilding. As one of the most powerful families in the western hemisphere, they could offer Faith everything she deserved, and more.

  A whole lot more than a lowly, impoverished baron could offer.

  And that, he realized, was the real sinker. She wouldn’t need him anymore. Not for a damn thing.

  With a heavy heart, he led the couple into the house. Millie greeted them in the entryway. “Good evening, milord,” she said, taking their coats. “ ’Tis good to have you home.”

  “It’s good to be home, Millie,” he replied. “Bring refreshments for our guests to my study, s’il vous plaît. And send Faith to me as well.”

  “She isn’t here, milord.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, Milord. A couple of men from Scotland Yard came to call yesterday morning. We haven’t seen her since.”

  “Scotland Yard was here? Did they say what they wanted?”

  “My father contacted them to find Faith,” Honesty supplied. “It’s possible that they were the investigators assigned to track her down.”

  “But Faith wouldn’t know that. She has not exactly led an upstanding life before coming to Westborough. If she saw them, she may have panicked.” And if she’d left yesterday morning, she could be anywhere. “Millie, who spoke with the investigators?”