In the thoroughfare, the sun was blazing brightly. But here, in a muddy lane too narrow for Simon’s brougham to negotiate, the light barely penetrated. On either side, sagging buildings showed crumbling faces. Windows stuffed with rags and newspaper emitted sounds of life: a squalling child; a man’s hoarse groans; the raucous laughter of a woman. Occasionally the sweet strains of a fiddle wisped past, fading like ghosts into the shadows.
Simon noted these details absently, his focus trained on the woman who walked beside him. She stumbled now, but when he reached for her arm, she evaded his touch and walked faster.
His hand curled into a fist, which he returned to the pocket of his coat. What ailed her? On the drive, she’d denied aught was amiss, but the invitation from Hannah Crowley had thrown her into a darker mood than he’d ever witnessed.
Perhaps she was only nervous to show him her old world. He wouldn’t press her now. But once they were back in the brougham, he meant to know the cause of her temper.
“Mind your feet,” she said over her shoulder, her face shadowed by the plain, hooded cloak she wore. “Here and there the gutter runs open.”
He didn’t need eyes to know that. The smell of sewage, of pig offal and rotting vegetables, clogged the smoky air. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. The mud puzzled him most of all. “It didn’t rain in the West End last night,” he said.
“Broken pipe.”
He glanced up the lane, seeing no end to the mud. “A very large pipe, then.”
“Does that surprise you?”
The anger in her voice baffled him. “The size, do you mean? Or the fact that it’s broken?”
She made some impatient noise. “No matter. The mud serves its purpose. Makes kneeling a touch easier on the knees, I reckon.”
He frowned. Was he meant to understand why kneeling should be required? Her stony profile yielded no clue to her thoughts.
“A problem down Mile End way, too,” she went on. “Puts me in mind of the time one of your lot was kind enough to throw me a coin thereabouts. I was up to my knees in the muck, scrambling to find it where it had fallen.”
Ah. “I see,” he said quietly. This explained, no doubt, her reaction to the beggar woman they’d encountered after Lady Allenton’s party.
“Reckon I should be grateful that some fancy folks carry cash with them,” she said. “Otherwise I’d have been crawling for naught.”
Her eyes flashed at him as though he’d been the one to throw the coin. “And then you met me,” he said slowly. “No need to think on such things any longer.”
She flushed. “Asking for gratitude, are you?”
“No,” he said, but his own temper was beginning to stir. If he’d committed some sin against her he’d be glad to learn of it. As far as he was aware, he was not her enemy.
“I expect you think I should be grateful, though! Such a far leap I took to wed you. Why, before you were kind enough to take a notice, I had to fight off the rats for my bread! Thought about cooking one, once, only Suzie said I could take plague from it. How do you like that?”
He came to a stop, staring at her through the scant beams of sunlight that penetrated the stinking gloom. “What in God’s name is this about, Nell?”
Her laugh sounded high and wild. “What’s it about? I reckon you would be asking yourself that—I’ll wager you never thought to wed a woman who might have eaten rat stew! Well, there are more stories where that came from, your lordship. How about the winter me stepbrother took to pissing himself to keep warm? I was right jealous of his aim! How do you feel about your wife now?”
His bafflement was briefly too large to compass. She gave him no opportunity to muster a reply, bounding past him up a stair and striking her shoulder into the door to open it.
“Nell,” he said as he followed her—but found himself alone inside a shabby little entry hall built to house a sagging staircase that he would, in the normal order of things, have hesitated to test with his weight.
She’d already started up it and so he followed. At the first landing, he made the mistake of placing his hand on the banister. The whole thing wobbled in his hand, and a laugh—of astonishment, of unhappiness—slipped from him.
He stepped around the corner to find her glaring down at him.
“If you fall,” she said, “no doctor will be coming for you. It took a month’s hard thieving to earn the money that bribed one of them to meet my mum at a church.”
To hell with this treatment. He did not deserve her scorn. He’d done nothing to merit such a manner. “They would come,” he said through his teeth. “For the Earl of Rushden, they would come anywhere in the goddamned world. That makes it all the more galling for you, I suppose.”
Her face whitened. She whirled and continued up the stairs. At the next landing she threw her fist against the first door, which opened immediately.
A short, spare, silver-haired woman stepped out, smiling. “Nell!” she exclaimed. “Now here’s a lovely sight for sore eyes.”
He paused on the last step as his wife moved into the woman’s arms. The sight of her strained face turning into the older woman’s bosom—the ferocity with which she wrapped her thin arms around the woman’s waist—touched off a cold foreboding in him. She looked … crushed.
Whatever troubled her had nothing to do with coming to Bethnal Green. His gut informed him that it had everything to do with him.
He stepped onto the landing. The older woman glanced up with a frown. “Who’s this?” she asked as she pulled free of Nell.
Nell also turned to look at him, and in her expression, he saw something dark and tight and ungiving. His throat tightened.
It had been years since he had felt a shadow of his old awkwardness, of his inability to satisfy or charm—but in this rickety, pathetic hallway, he suddenly remembered with visceral force what it had meant to be judged and found miserably wanting.
He racked his brain. What had he done?
“That’s my husband,” Nell said, and then walked past the woman into the Crowleys’ flat.
Hannah cast down her knitting and rose from the rocking chair to give Nell a hug. As Nell let go, her eyes fixed on the chair. Not eight or ten weeks ago, she had sat in that same seat (had sat there as still as possible: the chair lacked for one rocker, always had done) and felt so easy in her skin. Now she felt the last thing from easy. Her skin didn’t seem to fit her anymore. Her misery had caused it to shrink around her.
Simon was taking Hannah’s hand, murmuring some empty flattery over her knuckles. Nell wrapped her arms around herself. She’d never let herself want the things she couldn’t have, and now that she knew that she couldn’t depend on having him, the very sight of him hurt. If only he weren’t so beautiful—dark and lean and graceful, even in his oldest togs.
Mrs. Crowley had known with one glance that he didn’t belong here. Arrogance was stamped in his bones. For eyes bred in the Green, it was obvious he was somebody to fear.
She sat heavily into a Windsor chair. Her idiocy burned in her chest. God help her, she’d imagined them equals. She’d thought him bound by the law as completely as she was. Her rotting, broken brain! How had she forgotten the lessons of the world? Everything worked differently for his kind.
She’d known it was too good to be true.
She had nobody to blame for her breaking heart but herself.
Hannah was trying to give the rocking chair to Simon. “Keep it for yourself,” Nell said—too shortly; everybody gave her a look of surprise.
“But it’s the largest we’ve got,” Hannah said. “And he saved me from jail, didn’t he?”
Mrs. Crowley brightened at these tidings. “Why—of course he did! Sure and I’m a fool for not putting two and two together. I’ll insist on another hug from you, lad.”
Over the woman’s shoulders, Simon met Nell’s eye and winked. He didn’t understand that he might have been winking at a stone. He’d never faced anyone who didn’t bend to him in the end.
My father didn’t bend.
The thought gave Nell strength. Aye, she would be like stone to him. Let him do as he will. Let him think what he liked. Let him sneer, even.
The vision rose up sudden and vivid: his chiseled lips curling in contempt as he looked her over.
She’d told him she’d begged on her knees. God above …
She gritted her teeth and made her hands into fists, hidden in her skirts. Yes, she had told him that, and if he sneered, she wouldn’t care. She’d sneer back at him.
He took a seat in the rocker and looked around the room, inspecting it like one of the do-gooders on their home visits. But the Crowleys didn’t require his pity. Their flat had three well-ventilated rooms, the largest of which faced the Green itself. The fresh breeze that passed through the window carried the scent of growing things in the park, clean and pleasant. Nell had always loved passing the time here—a safe and spacious place, blessed by a family that cared for each other.
But as she followed Simon’s regard, his presence twisted her view. She noticed for the first time the shabbiness of the rough lath-and-plaster walls, chipping in some places, yellowed in others from the damp. The crude wooden floorboards didn’t fit together as much as they battled each other in a hopeless bid to lie flat. The crockery on which Mrs. Crowley now produced biscuits and cake had a substantial piece missing from the rim.
In the world she’d just left, this was wretched living, and no doubt of it.
She turned her eyes back to Simon. He could judge her all he liked. But if by word or look he made her friends feel bad, she’d carve out his heart with a spoon.
Evidently he’d decided to ignore her. With a smile, he took a biscuit from Mrs. Crowley. His thanks made the woman blush. Then he settled back, somehow making himself comfortable in Hannah’s seat—occupying it with a look of ease, for all that his knees rose higher than his thighs—and made some friendly remark to Hannah, who laughed.
When Nell relaxed slightly, he sensed it—glancing toward her, his brow lifting. Was that a question on his face? Or did he think he should be congratulated for daring to eat with the laborers?
“Mum used to have a chair like the one you’re using,” she told him. “We had to burn it one winter to keep the fire going. Would have frozen to death, otherwise.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Hannah’s startled look. Simon said neutrally, “Was that the same year Michael pissed himself to stay warm?”
Mrs. Crowley made a choking noise. “D-dear me,” she sputtered, as Nell felt her face catch fire. “Tea went down the wrong way.”
“Michael pissed himself to stay warm?” Hannah asked, her eyes very round.
“Why don’t you tell Nell and his lordship your news?” Mrs. Crowley said hastily.
“Oh! Your stepbrother came by,” Hannah exclaimed. “Nell, he left you something!”
Nell ripped her eyes from Simon’s, hesitating a moment before taking the small bundle of cloth that Hannah had plucked off the table. Michael was not a gift giver by nature. “Poison, I reckon?” she muttered. “What did he say?”
“Open it,” Hannah urged. “We thought the same, but then he showed us—oh, just open it, Nell!”
“But perhaps hold your breath while doing so,” Simon said.
She surprised herself with a short, hard laugh. “Aye, that’s a bright idea.” Her hands trembled a little as she unrolled the cloth.
A fine silver spoon winked up at her.
“What on God’s green earth?” She lifted the spoon. Turned it around in her hand. The handle was engraved with scrolling initials: CRA.
Simon held out his hand. Arrogant cheek, she almost called it, but then he said, “May I?”
Reluctantly she passed it to him. “It looks like a christening spoon,” he said immediately. “CRA: Cornelia Rose Aubyn.” He lifted a brow. “Well,” he said softly. “How interesting.”
A bit too interesting, Nell thought. “Why on earth would he have had it?”
“He said it was your mum’s,” Hannah offered. “He found it tucked under a floorboard along with a Bible.” She grimaced. “Which I’m sure he didn’t know what to do with. Probably moldering in the rubbish right now.”
He’d probably sold the Bible. “Why didn’t he pawn the spoon? Did he have a story for that?”
Hannah shifted in her seat. “Well, he didn’t hand it over, precisely. That ten pounds you left me—”
“You gave that to him?” Nell slammed her palm onto the arm of her chair. “That was meant for you! I told you if I didn’t come back—”
“But it was yours,” Hannah said. “Calm down, then, Nellie! I didn’t have a choice in it. He came by wanting me to speak to you about buying it—I reckon he thought you’d be willing to buy it at a better rate than Brennan would. And you know Michael; if I’d waited for you, he’d have gone off and gotten blind drunk and been robbed of it—or gamed the spoon away, maybe. And I couldn’t let that happen, could I? It’s proof! Ain’t it? That spoon must have been yours!”
“You did very well,” Simon said, as gracious as a lord of the manor with his peasants. “And we’ll recompense you for what you spent. With interest,” he added, ignoring Hannah’s protest as he continued: “This is a very fortunate development, as you say.”
“Which I still don’t trust an inch,” Nell said to Hannah. “If that spoon belonged to Mum, he’d know what it meant. He could have bullied and bribed me for a good deal more.”
Hannah’s lips parted but for a moment she didn’t speak. Then, hesitantly, she said, “Ten pounds, Nellie. It’s no small amount.”
Nell felt her skin crawl. “Of course.” She cast a quick, abashed glance toward Simon, expecting to see smugness: he’d said much the same to her once.
But what she saw on his face was something else entirely.
She looked quickly away, down to her hands in her lap, the blood pounding through her face. The sympathy in his expression felt harder to bear than a smirk. She felt exposed by it—and caught up in the strange idea that he understood her better than she’d guessed.
But it made no difference. If he’d truly understood her, he’d never have lied to her. He would have dealt with her plainly instead of cozening her into his bed.
“Well,” Simon said. He tucked the spoon into his jacket pocket, asking, as an afterthought, “May I keep this for you?”
Nell realized the question was for her. Highhanded, even on his best behavior. “Go ahead,” she said.
His tentative smile struck her like a knife. Her traitorous heart trembled. How beautiful the world had seemed when she’d thought they were going to walk through it together.
God save her but she was weak! The idea of getting back in that coach with him suddenly terrified her. He’d ask again what ailed her; he’d start in with his questions and she had no faith in herself not to bend, not to give, not to yield again. She’d come so close to loving him completely; her feelings for him felt like a fatal crack running through the core of her. If she let him close now, if he hit on that crack, he’d break her clean apart.
The matter of the spoon settled, the ladies took up their drinks and chattered on, trading the easy gossip of women reuniting after an absence. Meanwhile, Simon found himself listening with a sense of increasing disbelief.
Harry Connor had lost a finger to the cutting machine. David O’Riordan had been picked up by the coppers for lying dead drunk in the road; his wife had come down to the pub and struck deals with three separate men, out in the alley, to get the money to post him. A weaver had caught one of his apprentices thieving, and had chased him into the lane with a whip; nobody would have objected to a thrashing, but he’d not laid off at the sight of blood. It had taken all the women coming into the lane to pry him off, and he’d still not apologized, which didn’t seem right, did it? And so Peggy Hart and the Miller twins had decided to box his ears for good measure.
Crises and solutions, street justice and casual cruelty, heartbreaking, told in the cheerful voice of harmless gossip.
He looked at his wife, who was smiling faintly, nodding to show that she listened, and steadfastly avoiding his regard. She had grown up in this rough place, ducking her stepbrother’s fist, working at a place where men lost their fingers to feed their families. And somehow, in the midst of all this, she had fashioned herself into a strong, honest, intelligent woman.
His temper slipped away from him. Its loss left him altogether flat.
A half hour later, as the conversation wound down, his wife finally seemed to recall his presence. She stood, and he followed suit, only to hear her say: “I’m staying here for the night.”
The words seemed to startle her as much as they did him—and her friends, who exchanged a speaking look.
“No,” he said. He was not leaving her in this godforsaken neighborhood.
Her expression darkened. “Just for the night,” she said.
He was across the room at her side in three steps, where he took her by the elbow and said to their wide-eyed hostesses, “Thank you for your hospitality,” before leading his wife straight to the door.
She yanked free of him as soon as the door closed behind them. In silence they descended the stairs. As they stepped into the lane again, he said, “If you wish to spend more time with them, you are welcome to invite them to the house.”
“Of course,” she said tonelessly. “Until my money’s in your accounts, I reckon I’m too valuable to be risked in the rookery.”
He pushed out a breath. God knew the denizens of this street would find nothing novel in the sight of a public argument. Indeed, it might be educational to them to learn that a whip was not required to settle their differences. But he did not quarrel in the road.
The mocking look she gave him said she knew he was biting back words. “Imagine your fine friends seeing you now,” she said. “Strolling with a guttersnipe in the filth.”
“With my wife,” he said.
The smile that curled her lips was slow and unpleasant. “For how long?”
He walked faster, longing ferociously for the bend in the lane that would yield the first glimpse of his carriage.
Her voice came softly behind him. “I heard you,” she said.
He swung back. “You heard me,” he repeated. “What does that mean?”
She fixed him with a clear-eyed look, then stepped around him, taking the lead around the turn.
The carriage stood where they’d left it, and the sight of it in the open sunshine—the sight of his footman moving to open the door, to take them both away from this place—made him feel as though he were finally waking from a nasty, senseless dream.
Her next words, however, made it clear that the nastiness was just beginning.
“I heard you with the lawyer,” she said over her shoulder as the servant handed her into the vehicle.
For a moment, one foot poised on the step, Simon did not understand. He’d met with Daughtry this morning to discuss an egregious piece of libel masquerading as journalism, a piece no doubt paid for by Grimston, which claimed that Nell was a clever imposter who, in cooperation with her new husband, was scheming to steal a fortune. Simon had wanted to take action against the newspaper. A woman might be grateful for such husbandly urges.
And then, all at once, he recalled Daughtry’s exact objections to these urges.
He leapt into the landau.
She sat tucked into the corner. “Well?” she asked.
“Before I knew you,” he said rapidly, grabbing onto the strap and taking his seat as the coach lurched forward, “before I really knew you, I asked for Daughtry’s advice—”
“Yes,” she said. “You knew you could end the marriage whenever you wished.”
“I don’t wish,” he said fiercely. The very idea now seemed ludicrous. She was his wife. “Did you hear my reply to Daughtry? Did you hear me say that I had no interest in an annulment?”
“I heard it,” she said. The serenity of her manner struck him as ominous: she had the air about her of a woman who had survived, and now was recovering from, an illness that would not kill her after all. She no longer looked troubled in the slightest. “Tell me, am I meant to be grateful that today, your mood favored me? But what if our plan goes bad? What if a judge isn’t convinced by my face and a silver spoon?”
“Even then,” he bit out. “We are married.”
“Even then?” Her smile looked gentle. “You would consign yourself to poverty for my sake, you say?”
“Yes.” He was astonished by the readiness of his reply—and by the fact he felt no doubt of it. “Yes, I would.”
The afternoon light flooding through the window lit vividly the look of uncertainty that crossed her face, chased by a flicker of … fear?
Then her face hardened. “You talk a pretty game,” she said. “I’ve never doubted that.”
“But you doubt me,” he said.
“You’ve no idea what it means to be poor. Without a penny to your name—your affection for me would be the first thing to go, I warrant.” A little noise escaped her, poisonous. “For all that it’s worth.”
He sat back, briefly speechless. “I suppose you’re right,” he said at length. “I’ve no idea what poverty means.” God knew he liked wealth very well, though. His mind shied at any thought of how he might support them—the notion of teaching music to the whey-faced daughters of the middling classes was laughable.
“But I would find a way,” he continued slowly. “God help me, but if it came to that, I would figure out something.” A million uncertainties could be balanced, couldn’t they, by a single certainty? “You and I …” he said, and then trailed off, unable quite to find the words to persuade her that he saw a hundred reasons for hope in her, and a thousand more for his future with her. These thoughts were new to him; they surprised him as much as they would have done her.
But now that they were unfurling, he found himself riveted by the revelation. Alone, before, he’d never had cause to think ahead, or taken any joy in imagining what the coming years might hold. It had all been today or tonight, the sick rush of immediate pleasures, the empty mornings afterward.
But she had brought a new temporality into his life. Now he thought about tomorrows.
Now, when he sat at the piano, he did not play music for the company the notes provided him. He played the music so she might hear it, and come a little closer to him as she listened.
With dawning amazement, he looked at her and realized that since she had come into his life, he had never once felt alone.
“I would figure out a way,” he said. “But it won’t come to that, Nell. Daughtry feels certain we’ll prevail. The christening spoon only aids us further.”
She looked away from him. Evidently this made no difference to her. Or perhaps it weakened his argument to admit that he’d no belief they would need to face impoverishment together.
He tried a different tack. “An annulment is a legal device. Not a secret plot I fomented against you. Think on it, Nell. When we met, you threatened to kill me. You spoke like a criminal. I knew nothing of you apart from your willingness to commit murder and your miraculous resemblance to a woman I very much dislike. Of course I inquired about ways to safeguard my future, in the event that you and I should fail to deal well together. I thought you—”
The glance she sent him glittered suspiciously. His breath caught. Were those tears in her eyes? “You thought me an animal,” she hissed. “Yes, that was very clear.”
The urge to take her in his arms was nearly undeniable. Only the suspicion of how little she would welcome it held him in his seat. “Listen to me,” he said. “I should have made clear to you that the marriage could be dissolved. I admit that my reasons were cowardly, and I beg your forgiveness for it. But you cannot behave as though my past actions tar the present.”
“You tell me,” she said, “why I should believe your words now, when I was wrong to believe them before.” She tipped up her chin, looking down her nose. “Tell me,” she said, “why I should put my faith in the claims of a man who takes pride in advertising that he cares for nobody’s good opinion. Such an accomplishment, St. Maur—tell me why it should recommend you!”
Her aim was true and her scorn sliced through him like a blade. “What do you think, then?” he said hoarsely. “That I would cast you back into the rookery? Is that what you think of me?”
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I think you lied because it was convenient for you. Because you knew that otherwise, I’d refuse to share your bed.”
He took a sharp breath. “That is the most insulting piece of vitriol I’ve ever—”
“What other explanation do you have?”
“You were skittish.” Christ, that did not sound convincing even to his own ears. He raked a hand through his hair, helpless, frustrated.
The coach slowed, the wheels thumping in a more regular pattern as they entered the flagstone paving of his mews.
“I’ll have my money,” she said at length. “And then”—a hitching breath interrupted her—”we’ll see who wants to end this marriage. An annulment can work for a woman, too. Perhaps Daughtry will advise me on how to be rid of you!”
A cold laugh escaped him. Brilliant. This was bloody brilliant. Not six hours ago, she’d been giggling into his neck, and now she was plotting to leave him. “He’ll advise you of no such thing.”
She slammed her hand onto the seat. “Who are you to stop me!”
He leaned toward her. Anger he could match. Anger was far easier. “Your husband, the Earl of Rushden.”
She stared at him. “And I am the countess,” she said faintly.
“Quite so,” he said. “No matter whom the court decides you to be, that will not change. I’ll still be Rushden, and you will be my wife. And if you think that does not give me every advantage in the world over you, then you’re more naive than I ever imagined.”
A pulse became visible in her throat. “I’m the last thing from naive,” she said. “I see you for what you are, now.”
“Oh? And so you think you cannot trust me? And yet,” he said, “from the moment you first stepped foot into my house, I might have done a thousand things to you far worse than ask you to marry me. So easily, Nell, so easily I could have misused you. You were nobody—nameless—threatening to kill a peer of the realm. My staff would not have helped you. The law would not have aided you. You knew this, once upon a time. You were not so naive then. But you stayed anyway—and why is that? Because you did trust me. You had faith that I wouldn’t abuse you. Did I betray that faith? Did I ever lift a hand to you or make you feel my power?”
Her face was losing color, her eyes widening. “What? I’m meant to admire you for not playing the devil?”
“No,” he said sharply. “You never admired me. But you counted on your faith in me, and you still do—even at this very moment, though you refuse to admit it. This coach in which you ride—this house to which you return—the locks on your bedroom doors—the very clothing on your body—they are mine. I could take them all away, or I could turn them against you; I could turn the locks and order the servants to forget your existence; I could do anything I liked. And yet I do not see you trembling for fear!”
“Maybe I should be,” she whispered.
“Then decide,” he bit out. “Which is it? Will you tremble? Am I a villain who deserves none of your trust? Or are you the villain, here—a coward grown too afraid to own your own feelings, though I have proved to you that I deserve your faith?”
The vehicle rocked to a stop. Silence pressed down between them.
He said, “Which is it?”
Her lips parted, then folded into a mutinous line.
“Fine.” He sat back. “Very well. Let me remove the burden of cowardice from you. I’m glad to play the villain. You will not be leaving me, Cornelia St. Maur. I am going to keep you, whether you wish it or no.”
The door opened. Her eyes remained locked on his, her face a blank mask. She made no move to rise.
“Go ahead,” he said curtly. “Go into the house. You know now that I mean to keep you there. You have no choice in it.”
A shudder moved through her. Then she burst to her feet and slipped down the stairs. Simon waved off the footman waiting to help him out and stared blankly at the spot where she’d sat.
The rage evaporated. It yielding on a sickening jolt to disgust. The Earl of Rushden. Quite right, he thought blackly. Never until this moment had he felt so akin to his predecessor. His own words might have come from old Rushden’s mouth. You have no choice in it.
Was this tyrannical act what she required from him? Did her long familiarity with bullies lead her to trust his threats more than his apologies? Would he do better never to mention love, and to speak instead of lust and possessiveness only?
God help him. He did love her. If she’d listened carefully enough, she would know that. He liked his wealth too well to give it up for anything less.
The humorless smile slipped away as he shut his eyes. After all, he was not like Rushden before him. He would never use his power to bend someone’s will.
But Nell was his wife. Whether or not she believed he meant to keep her made no difference. He did mean to keep her.
And if that made him like old Rushden, so be it. He was not letting her go.
That night, Nell woke to the sound of piano music—some soft, delicate melody so muffled by the walls that at first she thought she was still dreaming. Fairy music, she thought muzzily. Achingly sad, like the dirges old sailors sang when remembering the sea.
She lay adrift on it for minutes, grief seeping through her, until she had to know. To see his face as he played. She slipped off the bed and into the hallway.
Through the window at the end of the corridor she saw the full moon against a sky mottled with midnight clouds. Down the wall, the stone profiles of busts froze in three-quarters profile, their bony noses and sculpted wigs casting strange shadows along the carpet.
The strains of music flitted down the hall like ghosts, drawing her toward the atrium.
In the eyes of the law, she was the mistress of this household. Tonight, it made no difference. She felt as though she were stealing through someone else’s home, breathless, terrified. Every shape in the dark caused her to flinch.
Nearly to the broad balcony, at the very last door, she found the music. Peering around the doorjamb, she saw Simon seated at the piano, his hands, pale in the moonlight, moving fluidly over the keys.
His back was to her. He hadn’t lit lamps or the candlestand at his elbow. She couldn’t see his face. But his posture as he played bespoke a man lost in music sad enough to poison a soul.
She’d never heard this piece before.
It made the other etude sound like a lullaby.
She lingered there a long minute, speared by the notes, riven by impulses she couldn’t obey: to walk over and touch him. To curl up and weep.
The music explained something to her that she didn’t wish to know. Deeper than the level of words, it told her of his pain. If he was lost in it, then he must be hurting as much as she.
What was she to do with such knowledge? It could not help her. It only made her ache more sharply. She’d come so near to giving him everything in her; to trusting him as she’d never trusted anybody—maybe not even herself. And all of it had been based on a promise that was false. He’d always known he could leave her if plans didn’t go as predicted. He’d even planned for it.
Now he said he wouldn’t leave her, but why not? Katherine’s enmity had made plain that they couldn’t count on an easy road to reclaiming her birthright. She might never have what was owed to Cornelia—in which case, nobody would blame Simon St. Maur for ridding himself of a penniless, gutter-bred wife.
The thoughts laid bare a hollow inside her blacker than any hunger she’d ever endured.
I deserve your faith, he’d said.
But she was the one with everything to lose.
To stand here and long for him … to keep hoping for him when he’d already laid plans to arrange for her loss … It might truly kill her.
When the first tear fell, she took a long breath and gathered her skirts for the lonely walk back down the hall.