The Forbidden Lord by Sabrina Jeffries (3)

Willow Crossing
May 1819

Since it was the servants’ day off, the rectory was still and the kitchen deserted in the wee hours after dawn. Emily stood at the stove heating watered-down brandy, glad for the solitude on this spring morning as she prepared her father’s breath-sweetening tincture.

She touched her finger lightly to the glassy surface of the liquid. Good. It was finally warm enough. Turning to the table, she poured the hot brandy water over the cloves, wild sage, and marsh rosemary she’d crumbled in the bottom of a china bowl. As a crisp, festive herbal scent wafted through the kitchen, it roused memories of mulled wine and wassail…and feasts served at elaborate masquerade balls given by wealthy nobility.

Sticking her tongue out at the bowl, she dropped into a chair and crossed her arms over her chest. Oh, why couldn’t she banish that wretched night from her mind? Two months had passed since the ball, for pity’s sake. Her period of mourning was over, and she’d been invited to countless dinners and parties since. A young man or two had even paid her some attention. By now she should have forgotten the entire incident.

Lord Blackmore had surely put it out of his mind the very next morning. Although she’d foolishly hoped he might pay her a visit in the days that followed, he hadn’t taken any more notice of her.

Of course he hadn’t: he’d made it quite clear that it had meant little to him. He’d even thrust her away from him as if she were some nasty troll. Obviously her lack of experience had disgusted him. She was the only one foolish enough to dwell on their kisses and savor the memory of his mouth locked to hers, his hands pressing her down on the seat of the carriage…

Oh, wretched, wretched imagination! Why was she so tormented with embarrassing memories?

Because it had been her first kiss. She blushed. No, not just her first. Her first and second and third. How many more might there have been if he hadn’t stopped? She’d been ready to let him ruin her right there in that carriage! The man certainly knew how to make a woman’s first kisses memorable.

Curse him for that. Until then, her life had been mostly content, an ordered procession of small cares, light duties, and casual friendships. She attended church and paid morning visits and tended house for Papa. What did it matter if she sometimes felt a breath of dissatisfaction in her preordained life? If she occasionally found the tedium overwhelming? Her life was better than many people’s, and she’d been taught to thank God for that.

Then Lord Blackmore—Jordan—had entered her placid world, disturbing its unruffled surface and forcing her to see what she’d missed. She hadn’t known a man could startle a woman’s heart into joyous beating or inflict upon it a pain so intense, it was almost akin to pleasure.

Now she understood the poet Thomas Gray’s words, “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” She’d been happy in her ignorance. Gaining wisdom, or experience, about men had indeed been folly. The worst kind of folly.

“There you are,” came a voice from the doorway. Her father strode into the kitchen. “I should’ve known I’d find you here.”

Edmund Fairchild was a tall, thin man who’d never looked like a clergyman. Until her mother died. After that he’d taken refuge in his work, always citing the most restrictive scriptures, the most solemn verses. The mouth that once had always worn a smile now seemed tugged perpetually downward with the weight of his grief. The hands that had often hugged her now fell limp and stiff at his sides.

Guilt settled sickly in her belly as she surveyed his rumpled clothes and blue eyes fogged by sleep. “I’m so sorry, Papa, did I wake you? I tried to be quiet. I just couldn’t sleep.”

Lowering his lanky frame into a chair, he threaded his fingers through his disheveled graying hair, and for once a smile softened his hard features. “You didn’t wake me. Didn’t you hear the carriage drive up outside? Before they could ring the bell and wake you, I came down to see who was calling at this unreasonable hour.”

“So who was the rude creature?” When her father frowned, she added, “I do hope it wasn’t the mayor’s wife, asking for birch-leaf tea again. I’ve told her repeatedly to visit the apothecary, but she insists I’m the only one in Willow Crossing who can help her with her rheumatism. If it was her servant, please tell him my answer is still no.”

“It wasn’t the mayor’s wife.” Her father concentrated on rubbing his bony, arthritic legs. “You know, Emily, lately your answer to anyone asking for physic seems to be ‘no.’ You used to enjoy helping people with your medicines. Now you seem almost fearful of it, unless it’s something inconsequential like the elixir you made for his lordship’s daughter.”

Rising suddenly from her chair, she turned her attention to the duck that needed plucking for dinner. Papa must never know the real reason she was afraid to dabble in medicines anymore. “I’m making breath sweetener for you, and that’s a help, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s not the same thing as making physic.” When she said nothing, he added, “If this concerns your mother—”

“Of course not! I-I’ve merely lost my interest in doctoring.” That he would even mention Mama surprised her. They’d grieved apart, neither one encroaching on the other’s remembrances, as if speaking of Mama might make the world explode. Their unspoken agreement had grown more strained of late, however.

Quickly, she changed the subject. “If it wasn’t the mayor’s servant at the door, who was it?”

Papa slapped his head with his palm. “My word, I forgot! Lord Nesfield’s footman is waiting outside with his lordship’s carriage.”

“Lord Nesfield? I thought he was still in London for Sophie’s coming out.”

“I thought so, too. But it seems he’s returned.”

She began to pluck the duck’s feathers with sharp, angry strokes. “And of course, the first thing he did was demand your presence at a ridiculous hour. You’d think you were his blessed servant. You’d think—”

“No, dear. He didn’t send the carriage for me. He sent it for you.”

The duck dropped onto the counter with a thud. “For me? Why?”

“Lord Nesfield wants you at Ormond. His footman said it concerns Lady Sophie. And you are her particular friend.”

Wiping her damp hands on her dimity apron, Emily stared at her father. Sophie? Had something happened to Sophie? But why would that prompt the marquess to send for her when he thought so little of her friendship with his daughter?

The last time she’d seen Sophie had been at the ball, when she’d given the girl the nostrum…A horrid chill slinked down her spine. Goodness gracious, what if something had gone wrong with it?

No, nothing could have gone wrong. The thing had been perfectly mild. And surely Lord Nesfield wouldn’t have traveled all the way from London to lecture her about a harmless collection of herbs.

But what else could have brought him here and prompted him to call for her?

Her father apparently misinterpreted her uneasy silence. “I know you don’t like the man, but it would be wise for you to go, my child. He is my patron, after all.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll go at once.” Untying her apron, she set it on the table. She had no choice but to leap when Lord Nesfield snapped his fingers.

While Papa spoke with the footman, she took a few minutes to change into her sky-blue sprigged muslin, the only one of her day gowns suitable for an audience with the haughty marquess.

When she descended the stairs, Papa was pacing the hall, the lines in his face etched more deeply than usual. “Don’t let Lord Nesfield’s ill humor rouse you to harsh words, Emily.” He bent as she lifted her head to kiss his cheek. “We owe him a great deal. He may be troublesome, but he’s still one of God’s creatures. Try to remember that.”

“I will, Papa. Don’t worry. I’m sure this is nothing at all.”

Later, however, as the Nesfield carriage rumbled up in front of the ancient mansion set amidst acres of tenant farms and forest, she found it increasingly hard to be nonchalant. The imposing facade of stone and brick with its myriad windows emanated an awesome power. The Marquess of Nesfield held complete sway in Willow Crossing. If he wanted to ruin her and Papa, he could do so with a snap of his cruel fingers. And unfortunately, she’d given him the wherewithal to do it.

A shudder passed through her. When she descended from the carriage and entered the gilt-edged foyer to find Lord Nesfield himself waiting for her, the shudder grew to a raging alarm. Something was amiss, to be sure. But what? How could it possibly concern her?

It must be terribly important. His lordship’s attire, usually extravagant and self-important, was casual, mussed, and grimy. He looked as if he’d just now arrived from London. He was treading a circle around the foyer like some great vulture surveying a dead carcass, and his ivory cane beat a choppy rhythm on the marble floor.

As soon as he caught sight of her, his frown added more wrinkles to his aging brow. “At last! You took your sweet time, didn’t you, Miss Fairchild? Come with me. We have much to discuss.”

She bit back a hot retort. She would never get used to Lord Nesfield’s utter lack of courtesy toward anyone beneath him. He barely allowed the butler time to take her pelisse before he clasped her by the arm, dragging her to the drawing room as if she were a recalcitrant child. Dear heavens, what was going on? She’d never seen Lord Nesfield so agitated, and he made a profession out of peevishness and agitation.

As soon as they entered the lavishly appointed room, he released her. She surveyed her surroundings, discovering to her surprise that someone awaited them there. A woman of substantial proportions filled up a large wing-backed chair like a great stuffed peacock.

And with such brilliant feathers! Emily couldn’t help but stare. The woman’s expensive-looking satin gown was so vividly purple it made her pink-cheeked face look like a peony floating in a sea of violets. Emily judged her to be about fifty, though it was hard to tell since she wore a turban of golden satin over her hair, and the plumpness of her skin smoothed out any wrinkle that would dare to crease its surface.

One thing was for certain. Only a woman with utter confidence in herself could effectively wear such an outrageous ensemble.

Lord Nesfield broke the silence. “Ophelia, I present to you Miss Fairchild, my rector’s daughter. Miss Fairchild, this is Ophelia Campbell, the Countess of Dundee. Lady Dundee is my sister.”

Emily gave a deep curtsy, her curiosity thoroughly roused. So this was the formidable Lady Dundee. According to local gossip, the woman had turned down offers of marriage from an English duke and a marquess to marry her Scottish earl. Some said she’d married for love, and others said she’d married to spite her indifferent parents. Whatever the case, rumor had it that her wit, intelligence, and forthright speech had garnered her respect and power among Scottish society despite her English upbringing.

She straightened to find Lady Dundee examining her like a jeweler perusing uncut gems.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you here, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Nesfield continued. “As you know—”

“Randolph, must you be so rude?” Lady Dundee scowled at her brother. “Let the poor girl sit down first. And call for some refreshment, for heaven’s sake. We’ve been on the road for days, and I’m dry as a bone.” With a regal nod cast loosely in Emily’s direction, she added, “You must forgive my brother’s ill manners, Miss Fairchild. He’s very tired. We traveled all last night to make up the time we’d lost to poor weather.”

Gesturing impatiently to the settee across from his sister, Lord Nesfield barked. “Sit down, Miss Fairchild,” then strode to the doorway, and bellowed for a servant.

Emily did as he bade at once, not daring to do otherwise. While they waited for the tea, Lady Dundee peppered Emily with questions—about her parents, her upbringing, the sort of books she read. By the time the tea arrived, Emily was on the verge of rudely informing Lady Dundee that none of it was her concern. Goodness gracious, was this some sort of test? Or did all women of exalted society interrogate their guests?

“Now then, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Nesfield began, “as you may have guessed, I’ve brought you here because I need your help.”

Her help? How very strange. “Your footman said this concerned Sophie.” Emily sipped at her tea, all too aware of Lady Dundee’s intrusive gaze on her. “She’s not ill, is she? May I see her?”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Lady Dundee answered for her brother. “My niece is at my estate in Scotland with her uncle.”

“Scotland!” Emily set her cup down so abruptly that tea sloshed over onto the delicate china saucer. “But I thought she was in London having her coming out!”

“She was.” Lord Nesfield shoved his hands in his coat pockets, his expression grim. “Until she tried to run off with some bounder.”

Emily forgot about her tea completely. “Sophie? Timid little Sophie? Off with some man?”

“Yes. Timid little Sophie, off with some man,” he echoed sourly. “That’s when I whisked her away to Ophelia’s in Scotland. And that’s where she’ll remain until I find out who the scoundrel is.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you know who he is?”

“Unfortunately, no. One night a few weeks ago, I heard a sound and went downstairs to find Sophie sneaking out of the London house. I ran through the open door after her. A carriage awaited her in the street, but when the driver saw me, he set off at a frantic pace. I called for my horse and gave chase, but it was too late, of course. The man had disappeared. And I never got to see who he was. I still do not know.” A dangerous look entered his eyes. “But I will find out. You can be sure of that.”

Emily might have thought this some strange joke if not for two things. One, Lord Nesfield never joked. Two, Lady Dundee was loudly seconding her brother’s vow to find the scoundrel.

But who would have believed that shy, skittish Sophie would ever attempt elopement? Then again, Sophie had made that odd comment about the footman.

Something in her face must have alerted Lord Nesfield and his sister to her thoughts, for they both burst out together, “You know who he is!”

“No! Truly, I don’t! It’s just that…well, she was so nervous about her coming out that she jested about…running off with a footman.”

Lord Nesfield’s face fell. “It was not a footman, I assure you. The scoundrel is of higher consequence than that, for I have had Bow Street Runners by the score trying to discover the driver of the hired hack to no success. It is as if the bloody carriage disappeared into thin air.” Lord Nesfield lifted his lorgnette to peer at her. “Didn’t she tell you anything else? Write you about any man she had met?”

“If you’ll recall, Lord Nesfield,” Emily said stiffly, “you forbade her to write to me. And Sophie is always careful to honor your wishes.”

Lady Dundee’s muffled laugh provoked Lord Nesfield’s anger. “Well, she wasn’t so bloody careful when she ran off with that bounder!”

Emily glared at him. This wasn’t her fault, after all. “But surely she was willing to tell you who it was once the elopement failed.”

“No, damn it all!” His grizzled cheeks puffed out in indignation as he punctuated each word with a tap of his cane. “She won’t say anything!”

“Calm down, Randolph. Your dramatics won’t help the situation.” Lady Dundee smiled thinly at Emily. “It seems my niece has suddenly grown a spine. She refuses to reveal her true love’s name. No one can break her silence, not even me. All she’ll say is that they’re in love, and she’ll marry him no matter what we do or say.”

“I would have brought the insolent girl here to see if you might get the truth out of her,” Lord Nesfield grumbled to Emily, “but I feared that the blackguard would come here as well. At least he will not think to look for her in Scotland.”

“What about Sophie’s maid? Couldn’t she tell you anything?”

“She, too, ran off on the night of the attempted elopement.” Lord Nesfield sat down on the other end of the settee. “If I find her, I will string her up by her sassy tongue, I will. Never did like that maid. She was a bad influence on my Sophie.”

Emily bit back a smile. She’d yet to see a single person whom Lord Nesfield regarded as a good influence. Sophie’d had six different maids in the last five years, and this one had stayed on longer than most, given Lord Nesfield’s mercurial temper.

Lady Dundee reached forward to pour herself more tea. “About all we can determine is that Sophie met the man in London. How else could she have been put in the company of such a blackguard?”

“How else indeed,” Lord Nesfield growled. “And we know he is a fortune hunter, to be sure. If he were respectable, he would have asked me for her hand.”

With difficulty, Emily stifled a retort. Lord Nesfield’s reputation might have cowed even a respectable man. Then again, elopements seldom occurred between people of equal wealth and station. Perhaps Lord Nesfield’s concern was justified.

“He’s probably a titled man without a fortune, or some second son eager to snatch an heiress,” Lady Dundee said. “Such men would have enough family influence to keep their attempt secret from Bow Street Runners.”

Clearly, neither of them thought it was simply a man in love, someone who knew he’d never have a chance with Sophie otherwise. Given Sophie’s lack of experience, they could be right.

Lady Dundee leaned back in her chair, settling her violet satin skirts about her like an unfurling sail. “Now you see why we’re in a bind, Miss Fairchild. My niece is eager to return to her secret suitor. If we don’t discover him soon, I fear he’ll make a second attempt. And he just might succeed. We can’t keep the girl hidden in Scotland forever. People will talk. Her other suitors—and Randolph says there have been several—will want to know where she is. We must tell them something. But first we must unmask the scoundrel who started this.”

“Then I can deal with him—offer him money to be rid of him or threaten to discredit him,” Lord Nesfield put in. “But I cannot put an end to the scheme until I know who is behind it.”

Emily sighed. “I see what you mean. I only wish I could help you more. But as I said before, Sophie never spoke of being in love with any young man.”

“Ah, but you can help us,” Lady Dundee said. “We’re relying entirely on you.” Two pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on her, and the weight of their combined power hit Emily with the same force as brilliant sunlight after the curtains are opened.

Oh, no. There was more to this than she’d realized.

Lady Dundee rose from her seat and moved to sit beside Emily on the settee. That in itself was alarming, but when the woman took her hand, Emily’s fears were confirmed. Something was afoot, something she wouldn’t like.

“You see, my dear, Randolph told me of your friendship with Sophie. When we set off for Willow Crossing, it was in hopes that you would know something. But in case you didn’t, we made a plan for discovering the identity of Sophie’s lover.”

“And it involves me?”

“Yes. If you’re willing to help us. For the sake of your friend.”

Emily shifted uneasily on the hard settee. She cast a speculative glance at Lady Dundee, but avoided looking at Lord Nesfield. Lady Dundee might at least pretend that Emily had a choice. But Lord Nesfield wouldn’t give her one. He would command that she help them, knowing that Emily daren’t refuse.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked warily.

Lady Dundee’s anxious expression softened. “We need a spy, dear, someone to circulate among Sophie’s friends and keep company with her suitors…someone whom this scoundrel of Sophie’s can approach to find out information about her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Randolph has seen men watching the house in London, and Sophie seems convinced that her young man will pursue her until he succeeds. So we need a woman about Sophie’s age who can appear sympathetic to this man’s plight. If he confides in her, begs her for help in reaching Sophie, we’ll have the bounder.”

“That is why we need you,” Lord Nesfield said bluntly as he neared the settee. “We want you to be our spy.”

Emily looked wildly from Lady Dundee to Lord Nesfield, who was closing in on her. “Why, that’s absurd! Who of your set would confide in a rector’s daughter? Who could possibly believe that I could help him get to Sophie?”

“You’re quite right, of course,” Lady Dundee said smoothly. “If we introduce you as Sophie’s friend—a rector’s daughter from Willow Crossing—it will look suspicious. Even if we continue with our current story that Sophie is too ill to attend the balls, people will find it odd that you’re attending balls instead of staying by your friend’s sickbed.”

Lord Nesfield leaned toward her with a fervent gleam in his eye. “So we don’t want you to be a rector’s daughter. We want you to masquerade as Ophelia’s daughter.”

When Emily stared at him in slack-jawed amazement, he went on eagerly, “We’ll say you’re in London for your coming out. You look youthful enough to pass for eighteen. Both of Ophelia’s real daughters are too young yet to come out, and by the time they reach the proper age, most people will have forgotten all about you. All you need do is speak soulfully of your dear cousin Sophie and how distraught you are over her illness. A few balls, some breakfasts, and I’m sure our man will approach you.”

Forgetting that she was just a nobody and they were two very important members of the nobility, she said, “You’re both mad! It cannot work! Be a spy? Try to entice some man to approach me on Sophie’s behalf? It’s insanity!”

When they merely stared at her as if waiting for her to finish a tantrum, she fumbled frantically for some argument to convince them. “No fortune hunter would come near me, and certainly not if I pretended to be one of the family! He’d be a fool to approach a supposed family member when he knows you’re all looking for him!”

“But unless you pretend to be a member of the family, he won’t believe you have the power to help him,” Lady Dundee said in a placating tone. “So this is what we propose. Once we reach London, we’ll make it known that you and your Uncle Randolph dislike each other. We’ll portray you as a willful girl who ignores her elders. That will make you seem sympathetic to the lovers, and possibly gain you the man’s trust.”

“If by some chance your supposed position as an heiress would attract the fortune hunter to yourself instead,” Lord Nesfield added, “that would work very well, too. That would demonstrate his fickle nature to my daughter and make her abandon her hopes.”

Goodness gracious, they’d thought this out carefully, hadn’t they? They’d planned an entire deception around her before even asking her to help them. And now they thought she would go along with it!

“I can’t participate in such a deceit,” she protested. “It’s not right!”

Lady Dundee patted her hand kindly. “Don’t think of it as a deceit, my dear. It’s an adventure, one that will help your friend. You do want to help keep Sophie out of the hands of this fortune hunter, don’t you?”

“Of course, but—”

“It’ll be fun,” Lady Dundee went on as she tightened her grip on Emily’s hands. “You’ll see. Think of all you can experience. A girl like you would never get the chance for a London coming out. This will allow you to enjoy the town, to wear expensive gowns and go to the most prestigious balls.” Leaning closer, she winked at Emily. “Who knows? You might even catch a wealthy husband of your own. Isn’t that a temptation?”

Jerking her hands free, Emily leapt to her feet, every inch of her body bristling. “No, Lady Dundee, it is not! I don’t know what sort of frivolous girl you think I am, but I don’t desire expensive gowns and a wealthy husband gained through deceit and trickery!” At Lady Dundee’s surprised expression, she took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm. “I’m sorry about Sophie’s predicament, but I don’t think she’d wish me to do something as abominable as this to help her. I cannot do it. I will not!”

Lady Dundee cocked her head and ran her gaze over Emily, as if seeing her for the first time. “How very interesting. A young woman with principles. It’s so rare these days, I hardly recognized it.” She folded her hands in her lap with a shrug. “Very well, then. I see you won’t serve our purpose.”

“Nonsense!” Lord Nesfield had been silent throughout Emily’s emotional outburst, but now he spoke out loudly. “Leave us, Ophelia. I must speak to Miss Fairchild alone.”

“If she doesn’t want to help—” Lady Dundee began.

“Leave us, Ophelia!” he bellowed, making even his formidable sister jump.

With a swish of ample skirts, Lady Dundee stood. “Very well. But don’t browbeat the girl, Randolph, or I shall hear of it.” She cast Emily a penetrating glance. “I may not agree with her motives, but I respect them. Besides, it does us no good if she gives her help unwillingly.”

“She will not give it unwillingly, I assure you,” Lord Nesfield said in a low voice as his sister swept from the room. “Will you, Miss Fairchild?”

Emily’s heart sank as the drawing room door shut behind the countess. She knew what was coming. “Please, my lord, you must understand my position—”

“Silence!” The marquess reached into his embroidered waistcoat, then drew out an object he kept curled in his bony hand. “I was afraid you might balk at this. Never mind that I gave your father his living, that your family has been indebted to me since the day you were born. You think to ignore that obligation. Well, I will not allow it.”

He held out his hand. In it was a small blue bottle containing a few drops of fluid. She knew only too well what it was. Laudanum. The remains of the laudanum she’d made up for Mama, to help soothe her pain from her wasting disease.

The same laudanum that had killed her.

When he was sure she’d recognized it, he tucked it back in his waistcoat pocket with a grim smile. “I see you understand. Until now, I have thought it best to let everyone believe that your mother died of her illness. After all, it would have reflected badly upon me to have it known that my rector’s wife had killed herself. It would have caused a great scandal.”

“I don’t know for certain that she killed herself,” Emily protested. But of course she did.

On the horrible morning when she’d found Mama dead and the empty laudanum bottle lying on the floor beside the bed, Emily had been all alone. Unfortunately, just as Emily had found her mother, Lord Nesfield had arrived to speak to her father. He’d seen everything and had guessed the truth at once.

Distraught, she’d asked his advice. She’d wanted to confess all to Papa, but Lord Nesfield had insisted that she keep silent. He’d pointed out that hearing how her mother had really died would hurt her father deeply—not to mention what would happen if others learned the truth. A rector’s wife committing the ultimate sin against God would be a scandal so far-reaching, it would ruin her father forever. So she’d agreed to tell everyone that her mother had simply died of her disease. No one, not even Papa, was to know about the laudanum.

The sour pain of guilt gripped her as it had so many times before. It was her fault Mama had died—hers alone. If only she’d been more circumspect about where she kept the laudanum! In the throes of great pain, Mama couldn’t resist temptation. And secretly, Emily didn’t blame her. Perhaps it was wicked of her, but she thought it abominable the way the Church passed judgment on such matters.

“Come now, Miss Fairchild,” Lord Nesfield said coldly, “we both know your mother purposely took that laudanum to end her suffering. If I choose to let that be known, your father would be ruined.”

Could he do that? Would he be so awful? Yes, he would do it.

On the other hand, Papa would not want her to engage in such a deception even at the risk to his future. “I-I don’t know…”

“If you’re still balking, let me point out one other matter. I have no proof that she took the laudanum herself. You might have given her the laudanum to end her suffering. This might not be a suicide after all, but a murder.”

Emily stared at him aghast. He had never even intimated…Surely he couldn’t believe…

Without remorse, he lifted his lorgnette to focus his gaze on her. The refractive glass made his eyes appear large and chilling. “I do not know what really happened, do I? All I have is a nearly empty bottle of laudanum. And everyone knows you dabble in physic.”

“But I would never—”

“Wouldn’t you? To save your mother from further suffering? Granted, some might think it a noble gesture.” He patted his waistcoat pocket. “But the law does not. If I decided to unburden myself about the events of that day to…say…my friend, the magistrate, and made it clear that you could have done it yourself, he would be very interested. What do you think, Miss Fairchild? If it came to a trial, whom do you think they would believe?”

The room seemed to sway around her. The answer to that question was painfully obvious. She’d have no chance against Lord Nesfield’s power and lofty station; there was no proof of her innocence. Besides, even if she could win such a trial—which was doubtful, given his connections—she and Papa would still be outcasts everywhere. “You wouldn’t—You couldn’t be so cruel—”

“Your poor father. To see his daughter brought to trial for murder. It would kill him.” He gave an unearthly cackle. “It would kill you. And what a pity to see such a pretty girl’s life cut off in its prime.”

She shuddered. “You would lie about me that way? You would bring me to trial for a murder I didn’t commit? How could you?” She grasped at straws. “It would mean scandal for you, to have your rector’s daughter accused of murder.”

“Do you think I care about scandal with my daughter’s well-being at stake? You wish to protect your father.” He pounded his cane on the floor. “Well, I shall protect my daughter’s reputation and future at all costs.”

She stared into the fire, wishing it would spill out and consume Lord Nesfield with all his nasty threats. “Why me? Surely there’s some other poor girl you can blackmail into doing as you wish.”

“Because you are the best person for our scheme.” His impersonal eyes ran over her with the thoroughness of a man choosing a prize race-horse. “You’re genteel enough to pass for nobility, and you’re clever enough to learn what you don’t know. No one of consequence in society knows you, so you won’t be recognized by some friend. The only ball you’ve attended where any of the ton might have met you was a masquerade ball, and you wore widow’s weeds and a mask. You didn’t even dance, for God’s sake.”

Folding his arms over his chest, he said, “So you see, it must be you. No one will know you, nor care when you disappear and return to your safe little life here.”

No one would know her. That wasn’t true! Lord Blackmore had seen her without her mask. Of course, she could hardly tell Lord Nesfield that she’d been alone in a carriage with his enemy, a man notorious for his associations with women. For one thing, Lord Nesfield wouldn’t believe it. And if he did, it would merely give him one more thing to hold over her.

Besides, she wasn’t even sure Lord Blackmore would recognize her. The earl had only seen her briefly by moonlight. He’d probably already forgotten her face.

Still, others might know her, no matter what Lord Nesfield believed. “What about Lawrence, my cousin? If he sees me in London—”

“Do not be absurd. A London barrister does not attend society balls. And if you happen upon him in the street, you can tell him you came to London with Sophie.”

She cast about in her mind for others. “What about the Gormans? And the Taylors?” she said, naming the two most prominent families in Willow Crossing. “They go to London for the Season, and they know me. What of the Drydens?”

“The Drydens’ grandchild has just been born. They won’t leave their estate with the newborn there. The Gormans aren’t going to the city this year, because they don’t want to leave Mr. Gorman’s ill mother. As for the Taylors, their daughter’s coming out last year cost them so much they’ve decided not to go to town this year.”

“But surely there will be someone—”

“If there is, I’ll take care of it.”

“What about Papa? How can I explain why I’m leaving him?”

Lord Nesfield lifted his scrawny shoulders in a careless shrug. “We’ll tell him that Sophie needs you in London. It will be better if he did not know the rest, for he might object. Or would you rather tell him the truth?”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Ruthlessly, she held them back. Wretched man! This was so unfair! If she ever saw Sophie again, she’d strangle the girl for doing this to her!

No, she mustn’t blame Sophie. It was her own fault—if she had been more careful with the laudanum, none of this would have happened, and Lord Nesfield wouldn’t have this hold on her. This was her punishment.

Still, to actively take part in his deception would be an offense against every moral precept! Yet she had no choice. She doubted God would want her to sacrifice her life for such percepts, especially when it would mean heartache for Papa.

“Very well. I’ll do as you wish.” The words were wrenched from her.

“One more thing.”

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “What more could you want from me?”

“You must keep your reasons for helping me a secret, even from my sister, or I swear I will make good on my threats.”

“Lady Dundee wouldn’t approve of your black-mailing, I take it?”

He scowled. “I don’t know. But I don’t want her interference. If you tell her the truth, I swear—”

“You’ve made yourself quite clear.” She straightened her spine. “But if I do this, you must swear to bury Mama’s secret forever.”

He eyed her through his lorgnette. “Certainly. Once I find my daughter’s secret suitor and put an end to his pretensions, you and I will be done with each other.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear it.”

I’ll hold you to that vow, my lord, she told herself fervently as he stalked back into the hall and called for Lady Dundee. Don’t think that I won’t.