Fortune Favors the Wicked (4 page)

“Ah. He's a soldier! No, a sailor? I can never recall how those types are called. He was the sort that sails around, I think.”

“A sailor, then.” To cover her suddenly nerveless fingers, Charlotte set down her discarded bonnet and veil and began to tug at her shawl. “Would he by chance be a lieutenant?”

“I believe so, though he doesn't care to be called by his rank. Frost is his name.”

Shite
.

Failing at untying the knot, she tugged the shawl over her head and yanked it off. “Well, I look forward to meeting him.”

This was not exactly false, but not quite true either. She would have to meet him again knowing he sought the stolen sovereigns, and he knowing she did, too. Knowing he had found her veiled and giving a false name.

And knowing he was blind, about which her reverend father seemed not to be aware. Had Frost lied about writing a manuscript? Was he truly friends with the son of a duke?

If he was, how the devil did such disparate worlds collide in this tiny vicarage in a nothing village in a rough bit of the Peak District?

Because of gold. Because of the royal reward. She'd never have come back here—she couldn't think of it as home—if not for the chance to get five thousand pounds for herself and Maggie. And once she did, she'd be a proper maiden aunt to her niece, living in an equally proper village somewhere. Charlotte Pearl, and Charlotte Perry, and Mrs. Smith—they could all vanish. Good riddance to them.

She swooped up her shawl, bonnet, and veil, intending to take them up to Maggie's bedchamber, but a knock sounded at the front door.

“It is he! Earlier than I expected.” Her father's knobbly limbs seemed to fly about in all directions. “That knocking must not be allowed to disturb your mother. She is at a delicate stage in her translations—oh, shall I ring for tea?”

“First we ought to answer the door. Shall I fetch a servant to answer it, or shall I do it myself?”

“Answer it, answer it. Barrett is never about. She
would
hang the washing out to dry, though we've a guest arriving. What will he think, seeing sheets everywhere like a flock of sheep?”

“I do not think he will mind.” Charlotte stowed her items under a chair. Summoning a polite smile, she headed toward the door through which she had just passed. A proper greeting was all ready on her lips, with a faint hope that maybe Frost wouldn't recognize her voice at once.

But when the door opened, and she saw the tanned, craggy face she had not expected to encounter again, she found her smile changing from polite to genuine. “Hullo, Mr. Frost.”

His brows lifted with surprise, and he smiled, too. “Why, Mrs. Smith. This is an unexpected delight. Are you employed here at the vicarage?”

“About that. Right.” Rather than letting him into the small house, she stepped out to join him on the stoop. “Before you enter, there are a few things I ought to tell you.”

“—hereabouts I am known as Miss Perry, maiden daughter of the Reverend John and his wife. I do not live at the vicarage. The good people of Strawfield believe that I spend much of my life traveling to dull corners of the world doing virtuous works.”

Benedict nodded, half listening to the words as he sank into the lilt of her voice. Without the ability to admire the traits beloved by most red-blooded males—the curve of a breast, the line of a thigh—he was drawn to the line of a voice as it rose and fell, or the curve of a woman's scent about him. Mrs. Smith-turned-Miss Perry smelled of the breeze, heavy with the promise of rain.

He breathed in deeply, feeling clean-scoured after the winding walk through village to vicarage, broken by many pauses to inquire his way of whomever crossed his path.

For the first time, Hugo's letter of introduction to the Perrys felt like good fortune rather than just another cane on which to rely.

She paused, evidently waiting for a reply, and Benedict stepped in with a question of his own. “You tell me what the people of Strawfield believe. But how much of that is true—or how much am I meant to believe is true?”

“You are meant to believe what you like, Mr. Frost. It's quite true that I am the daughter of this house, that I was born Miss Perry, and that I return here seldom.”

“So the bit about the dull corners of the world, and the virtuous works? Is that
not
true?”

When she replied, he could hear the smile in her voice. “That depends on which parts of the world one considers dull, or the sort of work one considers virtuous.”

“Miss Perry, I confess myself intrigued by your notion of virtue.”

“When in Strawfield, do as the Strawfielders do, Mr. Frost. My notion of virtue is unassailable at the present moment.”

At the present moment, maybe. But Benedict was increasingly curious about all those other moments.

“Mr. Frost.” She drew in a deep breath. “I didn't tell you my true name at first because I never expected to see you again.”

“Wouldn't that make more sense the other way 'round? People often share the truth in moments of no risk.”

“But that does not apply to me. Not here. Charlotte Perry must be connected only to this vicarage and to the blandest of purposes.”

Charlotte
. At last, his new acquaintance had a Christian name to go with her multiple surnames. He could tell she was of middling height for a woman, and the soft sounds of
Charlotte
coaxed to mind a flaxen fluff of curls, a pert nose, and great blue eyes.

He was probably wrong about all of that. But still.
Charlotte.
He liked knowing her name.

And convoluted though her explanation was, he understood. “While you are in Strawfield, you don't want any of the villagers to recognize you unless you are playing the part of the vicar's daughter.”

“Correct. My reasons for being here are the same as yours, Mr. Frost: I seek the stolen coins so that I might claim the royal reward.”

“Ah, then we are allies in our shared purpose.”

“Or foes in competition with each other.”

Damnation. He could not tell if she were jesting or not. “What shall I call you, then, now that I am possessed of the full complement of your names?”

She paused. “Call me Miss Perry while we are at the vicarage. I do not expect we will meet each other anywhere else.”

Hmm. He would see about that. “Well, I have the same name everywhere. If you like, you can simply call me Frost. And now may I meet the others in your family?”

“Of course.” Her hands made a flutter; air eddied across the backs of his own bare hands. “We've been out on the stoop for too long already; let us go in. Take one step forward, then one up.”

Benedict did so. The air closed about him; he extended his fingertips and brushed the frame of a door. “Next?”

“Straight forward for—oh, about three yards. Then a turn to the left. My father awaits you in the front parlor.”

“Very good. Lead on, Miss Perry.”

She reached behind him to shut the door, then stepped away. The thump of his cane on the floor—it gave the shallow wooden echo of parquet—revealed the accuracy of her words. They were in an entry corridor. Three yards, she told him, then trusted him to find his own way.

Very good indeed.

Charlotte preceded him into the parlor and spoke a few words of introduction. With a gentle pat of pages, her father closed a book.

“Lieutenant Frost, honored to make your acquaintance. That letter of Lord Hugo Starling's—” His voice wavered, as though he were swooping down in a bow, then back up. “Marvelous. A marvelous account of your accomplishments.”

Benedict hadn't actually been
told
the content of Hugo's letter. Judging from the vicar's careful bow, it seemed to have omitted an important fact. “Vicar, the honor is mine. Thank you for welcoming me into your household. You'll forgive me, I hope, if I seem not to address you directly? I am quite blind.” He gave a laugh that sounded almost genuine. “I suppose Hugo forgot to mention it. He is always doing so.”

“You call Lord Hugo by his Christian name . . . Of course. Yes. Any friend of . . .” The Reverend John Perry occupied a slim, tall space. Rustlings told Benedict he was fidgeting with furniture or shuffling his feet on the carpet. Was he unsettled because his guest was not as expected, or was this always his way?

“Did you—ah, truly write a book?” The vicar posed the question delicately.

“I hoped it would be a book. Thus far it is merely a manuscript. An account of my recent travels through Europe.”

“And you—ah, wrote it yourself?”

“Every line of it.” Benedict took pity on the reverend's confusion. “I use a device called a noctograph. Later I can show you how it works, if you like. It allows writing in complete darkness.”

“Mama would find that helpful for finishing her work when the candle burns to a stub,” Charlotte mused.

“It's a wonderful device. If Mrs. Perry is fond of working into dim hours of the day, she might find a noctograph useful,” said Benedict. “Is she present? May I make my hostess's acquaintance?”

“Yes, yes! Of course you may,” blurted the vicar. “Only—that is—one would not wish to disturb her in her study—”

“My mother will be delighted to meet you as soon as she realizes you have arrived, Mr. Frost. Which might not be at once.” Rescued once again by Charlotte.

Benedict smiled. “I'm familiar with scholars, being a friend to Lord Hugo as well as having been raised above a bookshop. A fit of genius is not to be interrupted under any circumstance short of fire or flood.”

“And I'm not certain about the flood,” replied Charlotte. “In the meantime, would you care for some tea?”

“No, thank you. I was well fortified at the Pig and Blanket.”

“What of your trunk? Will it be arriving soon?”

“Held at the Pig and Blanket. The owner promised to have it delivered before the dinner hour.”

Reverend Perry spoke up. “Ah, you will want some time to refresh yourself before the meal!” A whisper. “Charlotte, I do not know whether your mother ordered a dinner.”

“I saw to it, Papa. All is settled; we dine at five.”

Miss Perry had said she was rarely present at the vicarage? Benedict had only been within its walls for a few minutes, and already he could not imagine how they got along without her.

“Mr. Frost, let me show you to your chamber,” she said. Did the vicar make a sound of protest? If so, she spoke over it with a quick farewell that Benedict echoed. He was not going to pass up an opportunity to traipse about with Charlotte Perry.

Once they retraced their steps into the corridor, the close walls trapped her scent. She still reminded him of the breeze, of bright grass, and the promise of rain.

More prosaically, he guessed that she had walked through a field. But prose sometimes fell short.

“My mother's study is at right,” Charlotte said. “If she is within, then the door is closed and is not to be opened unless, as you suggested, fire or flood overtakes the earth. She is as fluent in ancient Greek as she is in English, perhaps more so. Her translations are noted around England.”

“Indeed. They caught the notice of Lord Hugo.”

She seemed indifferent to the name that so impressed her father. “Right. The dining room is farther on, and here are the stairs to mount to the upper floor. Shall I count them?”

“Please.”

A few murmurs ensued. “Eighteen,” she concluded. “And they're shallow, so place your boots with care. We've lost more than one tea tray when a servant made a slip.”

Arse over teakettle, quite literally. “Noted. Thank you.”

He noted, too, that back stairs were not in use by the servants. The vicarage must be an older design, with a single staircase in use by all. The rooms were small, too. On the upper floor of the vicarage, Charlotte directed him to a washroom and demonstrated how to work the pump, the handle of which required a tricky twist. She noted for him the location of the two bedchambers for family, then guided him into the chamber for guests.

“Let me think . . . how shall I orient you to the room? If the door is south—”

“The door faces north.”

She was silent for a long beat, during which he imagined her rolling her eyes. “Very well. The door is north. Therefore the fireplace is west. There is no fire at the moment since the day is fine, but you must ring for one whenever you wish. A servant will lay one at night, of course.”

From there she oriented him to the essentials of the room. The bed, the washstand with pitcher and ewer. The writing desk and chair.

As she ended this explanation, he heard the faint creak of the door across the passage as it opened and was quickly shut again.

“Is someone else at home?” he asked. “I heard a door.”

“That would be Maggie. You shall meet her at dinner. She is my parents' grandchild, a fine girl of ten years.”

“Your niece?”

“Indeed. My late sister Margaret's child and namesake.”

A sighted man might have missed the tightness in her voice. But such a man would have instead noted some expression of grief, perhaps. This was a sentence that had hurt her to speak.

“I am sorry for your family's loss,” he said.

“Thank you.” With the barest of pauses, she spoke again, rapidly. “The bell-pull is at right. To the north of the bed. To close the bed-curtains or window-curtains, you can simply—”

“Miss Perry. Please. Stop. You have explained all I could desire, and more.” As though he would need to adjust the window-curtains! Not since his sight failed, darkening day by day, had he cared whether the sun was covered or not.

She stilled. Sat on the bed, the mattress's ropes creaking. Then sprang up again. “I'll leave you to rest until dinner, Mr. Frost.”

She was agitated; she had been since mentioning her sister and her niece. He wanted to put her at her ease again. “Wait, please.”

Her tread across the floorboards halted.

“What color is . . . everything?”

“Pardon?”

“The counterpane. The curtains. What does it look like?” He hesitated. “I lost my sight only four years ago. I . . . miss the details of appearance.”

Her steps came closer again. “I gave you an incomplete picture, didn't I? All line and no color.”

“Spoken like an artist.”

“Good heavens, no. But I've spent a fair amount of time around those volatile creatures.” She cleared her throat. “Ah—are you fond of art yourself? Or . . . were you, once?”

“No more than most. Painting is lost to me now. Though if I can arrange for a friend to distract a museum guard, I still enjoy running my hands over a good sculpture.”

The throat-clearing turned into a splutter—and then a laugh. “What higher honor for an artist than to have his piece groped?”

Benedict smiled. He was quite sure artists enjoyed having their pieces groped as much as any other man. And from the way Charlotte posed the question, he suspected this was exactly the joke she intended.

Footsteps crossed the floor, and then she stood at his side. “Neither of us is an artist, but we'll rub along well enough. With my description of the room, I mean.”

“I knew exactly what you meant,” Benedict said drily.

“Where to begin? Well, the washstand is a dark walnut. It's scarred on the top where it has been scraped hundreds of times as the pitcher and ewer were dragged free, emptied, and replaced. They are glazed white, and the window is draped in olive. Outside of the window, one has a view of the Selwyn lands. We are on the edge of the moors, but he has some fine grazing land.”

“And Selwyn is?”

She spoke lightly, drawing away. “Edward Selwyn is the local squire, as well as one of those volatile artistic creatures I mentioned. The Selwyns are the most notable landowners hereabouts.”

He stretched out a hand and found a bedpost. “And the bed? What does it look like?”

“The coverlet is patchwork, pieced in floral patterns and pale silks. The frame is the same dark walnut as the washstand, but in better condition. The knobs in here often get polished.”

He had to work to keep a straight face. “Of the bedstead, you mean. Of course.”

“Why, what else could I possibly mean?”

“I cannot fathom.” This was flirtation—but why him, why now? He almost asked to touch her face. She was the missing piece in this chamber, a sculpture unfelt amidst bed, washstand, desk.