“Poppy, dear.” The marquess beamed at her. He made an unlikely villain, with a pleasant face and cherubically curling blond hair. “You vanished from your home! I was so worried about you.”
This. This was why she had wanted to go to France. So she would never be caught unawares by this—this creature pretending to be a gentleman. Her stomach pitched and roiled. Her guard was gone again, and the attention of the crowd was back on Edith and the orchestra. There was no one to help her but herself.
For the flutter within, she would do it. She would do anything. At least Nithsdale didn’t know of it. Leo was the only person she had told she was pregnant.
She lifted her chin and stared him straight in the eyes. “Were you truly worried, Lord Nithsdale? If you cared about my well-being, you ought to have obeyed when I screamed for you to stop touching me.”
He blinked, then shook his head as if dismissing the thought. “I can’t imagine what you mean! You know I’ve always been very fond of you. Here, walk with me for a bit. What a performer you are!”
“In everything I have told you, my lord”—the words were sour, and she spat them out—“I was completely genuine and honest. I never wanted you to touch me. I do not wish to accompany you.” Where was her guard?
“Nonsense!” He laughed. “We always had a good time together. You’re a romping gal. Come, let’s be off.”
She could only goggle at him. “You cannot fathom why I do not want to be with you?”
“Not at all! Most unsporting. Why, you ought to treat an old friend of the family better than this. Your cousin thought so. He’s the one who told me how to find you. He’s as worried as I was!”
Was her cousin worried? Had he confided in Nithsdale? Had she been wrong about how upset Cousin Hayworth was? Maybe he had been angry with Poppy, not with his friend.
Then Nithsdale’s fingers closed about her upper arm, tugging—and her questions vanished like a balloon being popped. No. She knew what was real, and what the marquess had done, and how her cousin had reacted. “You’re wrong,” she said, and his fingers closed more tightly.
She knew where this would go, where it had already gone once. The smile that never fell, the pale eyes that held no feeling at all. His veneer of courtesy covered selfishness so deep, there seemed no person within it.
So she wrenched free, and she ran. Leaving her case behind, with her sturdy shoes, her cloak—all of it. She ran with all the fearful energy bottled in her body as she’d hung from the tightrope; she ran, wincing as stones pressed into the thin soles of her slippers. She would run forever if she had to.
Or—no, she couldn’t. She had run into a wall of shrubbery that stretched off to the left and right, and she couldn’t go forward. Was that his breathing, harsh behind her? Quick as thought, she darted off to the left, running deeper into the park.
Her breath grew short; her strides wanted to slow. She mustn’t! Not now. To get away from him, she’d turned in absolutely the wrong direction. Here, the lamps were strung farther apart, and some were not lit at all.
“Poppy! Poppy, wait! I only want to talk to you!”
He was far too close. Not much more than an arm’s length behind.
“No talking!” she gasped. “No touching!” My contract clearly states I am not to be touched.
“Poppy, really.” Somehow, he laughed. He sounded amused, the devil. “You can’t imagine how many women would love to be in your place right now.”
“Zero!” she shrieked over her shoulder, willing her rubbery legs to carry her a bit farther.
And then she saw something that made her feel a bit more fortunate: a darkened tent at a distance, and between her and it, a pool of darkness. A pit dug into the earth at the side of the path?
The boxing match. She’d found where it had been held, and she’d found one of the Duke of Vauxhall’s traps. Bless you, Edith, and your beautiful gossiping tongue.
Had Nithsdale noticed it? Maybe not. He was focused on following her, catching up a little more with every stride, so her spine fairly prickled with the feel of him at her back.
She pounded toward the pit, then skated its edge. As her path bowed, she was counting on darkness and Nithsdale’s urge to be quick as an arrow shot to lead him right into it.
He fell, with less a sound than a sudden lack of it. No more crunching of twigs, no more heavy breathing at the nape of her neck.
Momentum carried her forward a few more steps, and then she bent double, heaving for air. Wrenching her head around, she looked for him lest he had escaped. Tricked her. Again.
The patchy light of the occasional lamp revealed nothing. The tent was silent. The path was empty.
And from the pit, dug deeper into the ground than a man’s height, came a mighty bellow of rage.
Once her racing heart had slowed, Poppy crept nearer the pit. Not to the edge, just close enough to see the marquess’s disheveled form hopping about.
He looked up and caught her eye. “Poppy!” His anger was all pleasantry in an instant. He extended a hand. “Help me out, there’s a love.”
“ ‘There’s a love’?” she mimicked, putting her hands on her hips. “Really, Nithsdale? A term of endearment?”
“What?” He reached for the edge of the pit. She scooted back, keeping her toes well out of reach. “Come on, help me out. You’re a strong girl, Madame Haut.”
“Not strong enough.” She eyed him, then decided. “No. You can stay down there.”
His smile cracked. “What are you talking about? Of course I’m not going to stay down here.” His fingertips scrabbled in crumbling dirt. “Come on, Poppy. We’ve always been fond of each other. Help me out, do.”
If she lived the rest of her life in France, she would never forget this night. The familiar, choking scent of bitter oranges in his favored cologne. The sky full of bright, lingering smoke. The dark earth holding him like a secret.
She took another step back. “You’ve always been fond of me, have you? Was that fondness when you locked us in the conservatory together? Was it fondness when you tore my clothes away despite my pleas? Fondness for me that made you force yourself on me, though I screamed for help and clawed your face? Anything to try to stop you?”
The look on his face was that of a man who didn’t understand a word, and was waiting for her to stop talking.
It was unbelievable. Yet here he was. She shook her head. “You don’t think you did anything wrong, do you? You think you can take whatever you want.”
He sighed. “Enough, Poppy. I can tell that you are overtired. Go get some help for me, would you?”
“Helpless though I am? Helpless though you thought me? Why, I don’t know if I’m capable.” She spoke sweetly, but her teeth were gritted hard. “No, I don’t think I am quite capable of fetching someone to drag you out of the dirt.”
When he opened his mouth to speak, she plunged ahead. “For your edification, Lord Nithsdale, I am betrothed to the Duke of Westfair. Perhaps he can see to you getting what you deserve once I tell him how you have treated me tonight.” Sorry, Leo, for dragging your name into the matter. Though it was a comfort to speak his name, as though Leo were there with her for an instant.
“How I’ve treated you?” Nithsdale was all indignation, picking up his hat and punching it back into shape. “All I wanted to do just now was talk to you, and you ran away. Very rude of you.”
“Oh, you want to talk? Fine. Talk. I’ll give you two minutes.” She gave a little kick with her slippered foot, sending dust into his face.
“Why…” He settled his hat on his head again. “It’s not so much that I have something particular to say. Just that I wanted to speak to you. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you.”
“Not long enough.”
“But well done you, getting engaged to the Duke of Westfair.” He winked, his cherub face all smudged with dirt. “Does His Grace know you were mine first?”
“His Grace,” she snapped, “knows that I am a person worthy of respect. And I know that too. And I was never yours. I belong to myself.”
With each word, she felt taller and stronger. The rubbery weakness had left her legs; her heart thudded with steady certainty.
“What a shame,” she added, “that you didn’t treat me as I deserved. As anyone deserves. Perhaps a night alone with your thoughts will help you understand how you wronged me.”
She turned on her heel and walked away from the pit, ignoring the pleas and curses that issued forth from the marquess. Back she went toward the part of the gardens where the lamps were better lit, where one could hear the orchestra and see people celebrating. Back where she had real shoes, if no one had stolen her case, and a cloak to wrap about herself.
Every stone she stepped upon hurt. And she still wished she were in France and that she’d never had to see the Marquess of Nithsdale again.
But while they were both in London, at least she had put him in his place.
***
Morning had become afternoon by the time Poppy awoke in her rented room, footsore and still tired after troubled dreams that had not claimed her until dawn.
But she had much to do today. Another performance tonight, at the grand ball marking the end of the Prince Regent’s celebrations at Vauxhall. And before then, she needed to warn Leo. Since she had used his name to help shield her from Nithsdale, it was entirely possible word would get about in Society.
For a fake engagement of imminent expiration, this was not good.
She dressed in a dark green gown she thought rather pretty, cut square across the bodice, and with little sleeves trimmed in embroidered flowers. Had she a lady’s maid, she might have looked like the gentleman’s daughter she was. Had been.
Fortified with tea and toast to settle her rebellious stomach, she donned a bonnet and her dependable old cloak, then wound her careful way through the warm London streets to the Westfair town house. As she plied the door-knocker, she tested phrases in her head.
Before I tell you what I said to Nithsdale, I want to promise you I didn’t mean it.
Have you ever seen someone tossed into a pit? No? It’s worth a look. Here’s how I know…
Before she could settle on the proper approach, the butler opened the door to her, revealing an entrance hall stacked with trunks and valises. Some were more battered than others, but all had been used on a journey. Their leather was marked with seawater splashes like tearstains.
Her fingers shook as she undid the ribbons of her bonnet. “Is someone planning a journey? Surely not His Grace, after being in London only a week and a half.”
She spoke with a laugh in her voice. For the suggestion ought to be ridiculous, ought it not?
The butler looked at her with what she could interpret only as pity, and a cold, worried feeling grew like a weight in her belly. “His Grace is leaving?”
No. He could not be leaving again. Where would his sense of duty drive him this time, and for how long?
No, he couldn’t go. She needed him in London, familiar as a childhood home. She was the one who was supposed to leave.
Before the butler could reply, Leo thundered down the stairs. “Melchett, have we any more—oh, Poppy! Good afternoon. I didn’t realize you’d called.”
The butler drew up his thin frame and intoned, “I was about to show Miss Hayworth to the study, Your Grace.”
“Good, good. Fine.” Leo rubbed at his chin, which bore a golden shadow of stubble. “I need paper for wrapping a few fragile items in the second bedchamber.”
“This morning’s newspaper ought to serve the purpose,” replied the butler. “If you have read all you wish to.”
“Indeed I have. It was most informative. See the packing done, will you, Melchett?” Leo looked slantwise at Poppy, then tugged the bonnet from her nerveless fingers and tossed it atop a trunk. With a tug at her cloak strings, he removed that garment and sent it flying after the bonnet. “Come along, Poppy. We can talk in the study. There aren’t any trunks there, which is more than I can say for the parlor.”
She agreed, struggling to pull her thoughts into order. Catch up, Poppy. Something’s going on here. Then she followed him to the study, mind racing, footsteps slow.
As soon as the door closed behind them, she whirled on Leo. “You’re leaving London? How could you? What about Westfair?”
“Would you like to pull the furniture into a line and climb all over it while we talk?”
“Of course not!” To soften her words, she added, “I only do that in the parlor.”
The study was a small, cramped room, overfull of books and furniture and darkened by heavy draperies. As Leo stood behind the desk, drumming his fingers on its old wooden surface, he looked different to her. Less like Leo Billingsley, more like the Duke of Westfair. He was tired, the humor in his eyes dimmed. His usual whimsically tied cravat was simply knotted and heavily starched, holding his chin at a lofty angle.
Then he took up a handful of trinkets from the dish on his desk, sifted through them, and chose a little stone ball. Rolling it between his palms, the hard line of his shoulders relaxed. “Do you want tea?”
“No, thank you.” The idea of food or drink turned her stomach. “Why are you planning to travel again? And so soon? I thought you’d be settled here for a long while.”
“I don’t have to be in London to take care of Westfair. Which is, as I have become aware, my primary purpose in life.” He tossed the stone into the air, then caught it behind his back.
“You don’t have to not be in London.”
Another toss. “Why, Poppy, I didn’t know you cared.”
“Of course I care, you idiot.”
This was not, perhaps, the best way to introduce her intended topic. As it turned out, though, Leo did it for her.
“This morning’s scandal papers were most illuminating. Seems the Marquess of N took a tumble into a pit at Vauxhall that no one can explain the existence of. And the newly returned Duke of W is said to be betrothed to Madame H, a performer on the high wire.”
She’d expected as much. Nithsdale wouldn’t have seen the need to hold his tongue. “I don’t know why the papers bother using initials. It’s not as though they’re truly keeping a secret.”
“Ah, but I thought our engagement was a secret. A fabrication? What word ought I to put to it?”
“I don’t know. You made it up, you think of the word.”
He dropped the large marble he was tossing. It fell to his desk with a crack, then rolled loudly across the wooden surface and hid somewhere on the cluttered floor.
“Not again,” he muttered. “It took me too long and a bump on the head to find it last time.”
“It’s here.” Poppy retrieved it from its nook at the base of a stack of books. It looked like a little world, with swirls of every shade of green. “Pretty.”
“It’s jade.”
“It’s a distraction.” She pressed it into his hand. “Are you angry?”
“No. Not angry. Annoyed, maybe. I’ve missed you, and you’ve only come by to fuss at me.”
I’ve missed you too. “Not only to fuss at you. I found your marble, too.”
He smiled, but only for an instant, then asked cautiously, “It was Nithsdale, wasn’t it? Who…abused you?”
Telling him the whole truth felt like sharing a burden. “It was. I’m sorry about the second bit from the scandal papers, our engagement being known. I might have thrown it at Nithsdale a bit.”
“You might have thrown Nithsdale as well, as far as I am concerned. Well done, you.”
She sank into the chair in front of his desk. “That’s what he said about me catching you in a betrothal. He—came to Vauxhall last night and said he wanted to talk.”
Leo sat across the desk from her, hands still for once, as she told him everything that had passed. From Edith’s gossip to nearly falling off the wire to the marquess waiting for her at its end. And the run, and the tent, and the pit, and how she would have said anything to Nithsdale to feel as if she weren’t alone with him in the dark.
Leo’s mobile features had looked angry, horrified, sorrowing as she spoke. Now his expression softened. “I’m glad you said it, then. If it helped you.”
He picked up a little carving of an elephant, then put it down. Fumbled through the marbles and old coins and pretty trinkets in a china dish. “Our fake engagement was always supposed to help you at least as much as me. Which reminds me, in what form would you like your thousand pounds? Do you like coins, or a bank draft? Some of both?”
Ah, yes. The money. The initial reason for her agreement to this scheme. But now that Leo had entered her life again, she would never be contented to have him gone from it, and money for a cottage in France and an annuity would be cold comfort.
She’d always been attached to the fantasy of their engagement. Faced with Lord Nithsdale, she realized just how much Leo’s support, name, devotion, love would mean to her.
She had to control herself. Yet the need for control came from fear, and she was afraid of what would happen next. After all that had changed, for good or ill, she could not bear for anything else to alter.
“I should not want you to go to any trouble,” she replied slowly. She probably should have told him she didn’t want the money, couldn’t take it after all. But after encountering Nithsdale so unexpectedly, she needed every penny to escape.
Before she could say more, Uncle Bernard creaked into the study. “Poppy! Good to see you. We haven’t heard much from you lately.” An accusing glare at Leo. “You ought to consider yourself one of the family already.”
She’d hoped this moment would not have to come, but here it was. “Ubie, it’s not true. It never was. We aren’t truly engaged to be married.”
“Not anymore,” Leo chimed in. “She has jilted me. It was most cruel. My heart is in pieces.”
“No, Leo.” She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t meet hers. He was looking over her line of sight, his usual mien covered with a lacquer of cool flippancy. “The truth does you more credit than a falsehood.”
Uncle Bernard was looking from one of them to the other, then back. He blinked and blinked, his mouth opened and closed—and then he wavered on his feet.
Leo shoved back his chair, reaching, but Poppy was nearer. She sprang from her chair and caught Ubie about the shoulders. He was hardly taller than her anymore, so stooped had he become. As she settled him into the chair she had just vacated, he looked up at her with a mixture of confusion and anger that wrung her to the heart.
“But Leo said—”
“We both said,” Poppy corrected. “Leo and I. We both agreed to the pretense.” There was no better way through than bluntness, so she blurted, “Leo is a duke now, and he must marry well. And I am carrying another man’s child.”
As soon as she finished speaking, she turned away from the desk. From the room. She picked her way over clutter, the few steps to the window, and looked out between dark brown velvet draperies. The study was at the front of the house, and she could see the street below. It was busy with people and carriages and carts and horses and even a dog. None of them knew what was going on in the room where a woman stood framed by heavy dark curtains. None of them knew how she felt.
When she managed to put a smile on her face, she turned around again. Ubie was staring at her. “You are joking. You are joking?” A corner of his mouth pulled up, as though he were trying to smile. “This is all a trick.”
Leo paced behind the desk, quick choppy strides that skirted the stacks of his brother’s old books. Poppy looked to him, and he made a gesture that unmistakably said, This is your choice; lead on.
So she turned toward Ubie and, in the strongest voice she could muster, said, “It’s not a trick. It’s true—all true except the fact that Leo and I honestly planned to wed. But that falsehood was because Leo wanted so badly to help us both. Not himself and me. You and me.”
The old man’s voice sounded frail. “Both of you were lying to me?”
“If you want to center yourself, then yes.” Leo flicked the edge of a painting, knocking it askew, then set it straight again. “Poppy’s troubles, and my responsibilities, are all really about you.”
“Don’t be impertinent,” snapped Ubie in his usual tone.
“Don’t be selfish,” Leo replied smoothly.
Poppy realized she was gaping at the two of them. She had to seize control of the conversation again. “So you see,” she broke in, “given my condition, it is impossible that I could truly marry Leo. He knew this, and as a friend, he agreed to help me.”
“It was nothing of the sort,” Leo said. “It was a transaction. I only offered you money when you agreed to pretend an engagement.”
He was hardening his heart, and she could not blame him. “Not quite how I remember it,” she replied, “but I don’t suppose the exact timeline matters right now.”
“Of course it matters!” Ubie croaked. “Who is this other man? Why won’t he wed you? How can you be sure you are with child? Is there no chance it’s…well, I don’t suppose it could be Leo’s, since he only just returned.”
Poppy and Leo locked gazes. He smiled—then wiped his expression blank, as though remembering that they were meant to be done with each other.
So she did the same, because her fear about what would come next was intertwined with love. And she couldn’t show him how much she wanted to stay or she would never leave. She would beg him, and he would agree to whatever she wanted, because he was kind and great-hearted.
She couldn’t ask that of him. She couldn’t ask anything of him at all.
“Leo is a good man, and he will make a good duke,” she said. “For both reasons, you understand why I must leave.”
Without waiting for a reply, she stood and crossed to the door. In the doorway, she hesitated, then added, “Thank you both for letting me call on you. Always. And thank you, Leo, for every minute I have been with you.”
Even now, she wasn’t sorry for anything she’d given him: not her help, not her body, not her heart.
Maybe she had more freedom than she’d realized. She could decide what to give and what to withhold. She could decide to walk away with her feet on the ground and her head held high.
Or once more—just once—she could dance on a wire in the sky, and then leave England knowing she had tried to make things right between the people she loved best.