Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (32 page)

"Finalize it how?"

"I've had an acquaintance of mine, a Mr. Thumberton, go into court and have the entire debacle rearranged. He's an honorable and reliable London solicitor, and he's your new trustee. He's written you a letter of introduction and explanation."

He held it out so she could cross over and read it, but still, she didn't budge.

"Do you know what it says?" she inquired.

"Yes. He's sent money with me—in case I located you—and he begs that you use it to hire a companion and travel to London to meet with him. He has employees who will help you get settled in the style to which you're due. They'll assist you in buying a house and hiring servants, and they'll purchase whatever else you need."

"Buy a ... a ... house? Are you mad?"

"You're very wealthy now, Margaret. You'll never have to struggle again." His voice cracked, charged with emotion he could barely contain. "For the rest of your life, you'll live in ease and harmony."

There was a chair next to her, and she sank into it. She must have looked as if she was about to swoon, and she definitely felt like it, for he grew alarmed and hurried over.

He reached out to take her hand, but in the end, he didn't, and she was relieved. She was anxious for solace and empathy, for guidance and counsel, but the time when she might have turned to him for support had vanished in the fog of their bitter past.

"What can I get you?" he asked. "What do you need?"

There were so many things she needed that she couldn't begin to list them all. First and foremost, she had to review the papers he'd brought, while she decided what to do next.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Just surprised—and a tad overwhelmed."

"Understandable."

When he was hovering, she couldn't concentrate, and she pushed herself to her feet and walked across the room so that the sofa was between them. He was assessing her intently, as if he was about to reveal something she couldn't bear to hear, and a hideous notion dawned on her: If what he asserted was true, that she really had inherited a fortune, then she'd suddenly become an heiress.

Is that why he'd sought her out? Is that why he'd volunteered to chase around the country, picking through every village and hovel till he stumbled on her? Why else would he have been so determined to find her?

She'd once loved him beyond imagining, but he'd forsaken her because she was poor. Would he have the gall—now that she was allegedly rich—to declare himself infatuated? Could he be that crass? That tactless?

Her heart broke all over again, and she forced a smile and indicated the door, wanting to be very clear that their appointment was over.

"I appreciate your coming," she said very calmly, "but you'll have to excuse me. You've given me so much to contemplate, and I must have some privacy while I consider my options."

"Certainly." He bowed, but didn't depart. Instead, he peered around the dilapidated space, his astute gaze missing no detail of how appalling it had been.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and he approached till he was directly in front of her.

"For what?"

"I didn't know that Lavinia had sent you away. She claimed you'd gone into seclusion, lest there was a babe, and she said that—"

She held up a hand, halting his tirade. He might feel the urge to confess his sins, but she was hardly the person who had to listen.

"Please, Lord Romsey, it's all in the past."

"I was about to come after you. I wanted to be with you, but then—"

"Please!"

"I've been searching for you ever since, to be positive you were all right. I'm ... I'm ... so glad that you are."

He appeared so lost and forlorn, and he seemed to need something from her, something she couldn't give him.

"Leave it be," she quietly implored.

"Would you like me to stay on? I'd be happy to help you interview for a companion, or to pack your things. If you wished, I could escort you to London."

"It's kind of you to offer, but not necessary. I'm an adult woman, and I've learned that I'm fully capable of making my own way."

He scrutinized her, taking in her features as if memorizing them. "If you ever need anything from me— anything at all—promise me that you'll notify Mr. Thumberton."

"I won't ever need anything from you."

"You just never know," he mused. "I'll come straightaway."

She kept her expression blank, furnishing no hint of the spark of hope he'd ignited. Evidently, she was still smitten and foolishly ready to leap to folly and ruin, once again, when she truly didn't think she could survive another go-round with him.

Finally, his evaluation complete, he stepped away and went to the foyer. At the last second, he glanced over.

"Do you ever wonder what might have happened if we had—" He stopped. Waiting .. . waiting . .. "No, I never do," she lied.

He nodded, then left, and she sagged down onto a chair. She perched there till his horse's hooves clopped away; then she staggered to the window, watching till he was a tiny speck on the horizon. She returned to the sofa and picked up the papers he'd conveyed.

She clutched them to her chest, praying they were genuine, and knowing that—whatever else he might be—Romsey wasn't the sort of man to have perpetrated a hoax. Very likely, she was now incredibly wealthy.

She stood in the dingy, silent chamber—just her and her trust documents and the envelope of cash he'd delivered.

Eventually, the landlady came in to light a lamp and kindle the fire.

Without a word, Margaret headed for the stairs, climbed to her room, and shut the door.

Chapter Twenty-two

Jordan gazed up at the decrepit boardinghouse where Margaret had ended her flight from Gray's Manor. He tried to imagine what the passing months had been like for her, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the reality of her repugnant situation.

If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would never forgive himself. At least he'd found her! At least he'd had the temerity to keep searching.

What if he'd given up? What if he'd decided she couldn't be located? The notion—that a lack of persistence on his part would have sentenced her to squalor for the rest of her days—was too shocking to ponder.

He couldn't blame her for being cold and distant, but oh, how it hurt to learn that her prior affection had vanished. She'd once held him in such high esteem, but none of her strong emotions remained. How could he have expected them to endure? What had he ever done to sustain an attachment?

Their lengthy separation had galvanized his feelings, but obviously not hers. Finally, he had the courage to admit how much he loved her, how much he would love her forever, but she despised him.

He'd let her go—for money! It was a great and terrible shame, and in spite of how fervently he wished it were otherwise, he didn't deserve any kindness or even simple courtesy from her.

When he reflected on events, he could only assume that the entire sordid affair had been a celestial test, which he'd failed. She'd been plopped in front of him as a sign of what mattered, of what was important, but he'd been too obtuse to note what was right before his eyes.

With a sigh, he mounted his horse and galloped away, headed back to London and the shambles of his life. He'd rented rooms in a seedy section of town. Mary and the twins resided there with him, as well as several other half siblings who'd shown up unannounced. In hopes of enticing another bride, he concealed the exact location from High Society, but his furtiveness hadn't helped. As his father's fortunes fell, Jordan's plight had worsened, too.

Girls who might once have been interested were openly hostile and bluntly rude. His difficulties were enough to make him consider leaving England altogether, just hopping on a ship and sailing away. Of course, booking passage would require funds—which he didn't have.

He raced round a curve in the road, lurching to the side to avoid a carriage rushing in the opposite direction. The curtain fluttered in the wind, and he was so distracted by gloomy thoughts that he was quite a distance away before he realized that he'd seen the lone occupant and that he knew her all too well.

Lavinia Gray! He was sure of it!

He reined in and stopped. What was she doing traveling toward Margaret's lodging? Her arrival couldn't be a coincidence.

She'd disappeared from Gray's Manor, slipping away after she'd sent him on his fruitless trip to Brighton. By the time he'd returned—without Margaret—she'd fled, having been aware that he'd be bent on revenge.

Since then, he'd been so busy hunting for Margaret that he hadn't chased after Lavinia. He kept telling himself that he'd deal with her later, after Margaret was safe, yet here she was, like a bad toothache, prancing along behind him.

Had she been following him? Why would she?

There was only one reason: She was hunting for Margaret, too, and he understood Lavinia well enough to know that whatever her motives, they couldn't be good ones.

"Damnation!" he cursed. He pulled his horse around and cantered after her.

■
f

“Hello, Margaret." Margaret whipped around. "Lavinia? What are you doing here?" "Looking for you. What would you suppose?" "Looking... for me?" "Yes."

Lavinia shut the door as she hastily assessed the pitiful room. The small space seemed even smaller with two adult women sequestered in it, and though her own fortunes had plummeted to nothing, she couldn't resist taunting, "You've certainly come down a few pegs since last I saw you."

"We can't all be as lucky as you, I guess."

"Are you making fun of me? Are you? Are you?"

There was a note of hysteria in her voice that she hadn't intended, but she was on edge, having been shoved beyond normal banter or behavior. Her clothes were worn and disheveled, her hair ratted and unwashed, and—as circumstances prevented regular bathing—she smelled.

In the endless period that she'd been hiding and scraping by, she'd had ample opportunity to ruminate over her downfall, and after a significant interval spent trying to leech off friends, she'd been stunned to discover that she didn't have any.

She was on her own, having forfeited all, and she blamed everyone for her adversities: Horatio, Robert, Penelope, Kettering, Romsey, and Margaret. Mostly, she blamed Margaret.

If Jordan accomplished what Lavinia suspected he had, then Margaret had wound up with everything, while Lavinia had wound up with nothing. How could the universe have conspired against her so completely?

"Are you feeling all right?" Margaret asked. "You seem a bit... distraught."

"Why wouldn't I be? I've lost my home, all my worldly possessions, and what remained of my money. My ungrateful daughter married the man I wanted for myself, my lover left me, the law is probably after me, and I've been living off the charity of strangers."

"You have?"

"Yes, and I must tell you, Margaret, that I haven't cared for any of it."

"I don't imagine you have, but why come to me? I must admit that I'm surprised."

"Lord Romsey just visited you," Lavinia accused. "Well... yes, he did. How did you know?" "I've been hot on his trail for months." "For months?" "Yes."

"Have you gone mad?"

Occasionally, Lavinia felt as if she had, but then, with what she'd endured, who wouldn't be agitated?

"What did he want?" she demanded.

Margaret had no knack for deceit, and Lavinia was positive that whatever her reply, it would be false. Lavinia was past the point when patience or cajoling would suffice. She walked to the bed and deposited the box she'd brought; then she opened it and retrieved one of the two pistols she'd been hauling around for this very confrontation.

At seeing that Lavinia clutched a gun, Margaret blanched and stepped back.

"What are you thinking?" Margaret snapped. "Have you tipped off your rocker?"

"What did Romsey want?" Lavinia repeated.

"He came to check on me," Margaret fibbed. "After I departed Gray's Manor so abruptly, he was worried."

"Really?"

"Yes, really."

"As I recall, he was overly fond of you. Was there no lovers' tryst? No secrets shared?"

"No. Now put that thing away before you hurt yourself."

Margaret's gaze furtively shifted to the bed, where there was a large stack of what appeared to be legal documents. Lavinia gestured to them.

"I suppose those are kindling for the stove."

"They're essays my students wrote. I've started a new school."

"You always were the worst liar." She gestured again. "Place the papers in that satchel, then hand it to me."

Margaret hesitated, calculating the odds. Should she rush Lavinia and wrestle for the weapon? Should she race into the hall and scream for help?

"I won't do it," she ultimately protested. "I don't understand what you want, but I no longer have to—"

Lavinia straightened her arm and fired a shot into the mattress, which absorbed some of the loud bang, but not nearly enough. Feathers flew, and smoke filled the air as she grabbed the other gun.