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She was going to be sick. Thoroughly, eternally sick. What had Lilias forced her into with this marriage? Her husband wasn’t just a stranger, he was . . . he was what? In love with another man’s wife? Caught up in a web of violence and destruction? Out to ruin a family that was doing nothing more than trying to regain its footing after a disastrous match? Regardless, he had brought a curse into his home. He had willingly accepted items tied to evil. Perhaps
that
was what she had been feeling skitter up her spine since they arrived at Delmore. The clashing of forces beyond her sight.

He had the jewels. The Fire Eyes. He had them . . . and he hadn’t seen fit to mention that little detail when he supposedly told her what they were doing here an hour ago.

“Ignore my brother.” Catherine slid an arm around Rowena’s waist and led her onward. “Whatever Nottingham’s reasoning had been at the time, I daresay everything has changed now.
You’re
his wife, not Brook. He must love you fiercely to have wed you so quickly, so put all thought of our previous theories from your mind.”

“Yes, of course.” But he wasn’t in love with Rowena. He barely knew her. Certainly didn’t trust her.

The question was, did he
want
to trust her? Did he
want
to love her? Because . . . because she knew all too well that being married to one woman didn’t guarantee a man’s heart was hers. How many secrets had Father kept from Mother?

One, at least. Annie, with her innocent eyes and unwitting resemblance to the man supposedly only her stepfather, was proof of that.

“I’m such a dunce. Forgive me, I beg you. I wanted to be a friend, not ruin everything with such talk before we’ve any time to get to know each other.” Catherine’s brows were drawn, lines of distress evident around her mouth.

“Dinna fash yourself, Kitty. Please.” Rowena tried a smile again. “I promise—I’m not upset with you.”

Her shoulders relaxing, Catherine returned her smile. “Thank you. But let’s not talk anymore of such things. Tell me how my cousin is faring—I do still care for her, despite our recent enmity.”

Rushworth snorted. “That, I suppose, is why you’ve been seething that she probably regained her figure more quickly than you did, how she—”

“Well, a girl is entitled to a bit of jealousy, isn’t she? It keeps her on her toes.” Her grin was so bright, so light-hearted that Rowena couldn’t help but laugh. Catherine’s step took on a bounce. “How am I
not
to compare myself to her when all of society does it every time one or the other of us steps out? And she forever shocking everyone as she does—trousers and cheek kissing and lapsing into French and Monegasque at the drop of a hat.”

But it wasn’t bitterness in her tone, nor envy, nor spite. To Rowena’s ears it sounded merely like the love of a good scandal, a tale to tell. Catherine, it seemed, was a gossip. Another something Rowena was well acquainted with, being from a tight-knit village. Perhaps not the most admirable trait, but it was hardly criminal.

They spoke of light things for the remaining minutes of travel, but Rowena’s mind wasn’t really on the activities planned for the rest of the house party or whose dress was the finer among the guests. It had drifted back to things her husband hadn’t seen fit to tell her even existed. Of the diamonds . . . and of their curse.

Did he believe it? Understand it? Or was he like all the other English, quick to dismiss it as superstition, despite all the evidence to the contrary?

A tremor started in her hands, and she clasped them together before her hostess could note it. Perhaps he had taken them as a favor to Brook. But did he plan on giving them back, or were they his? Perhaps he meant to sell them—though so far as she had seen, he had no need of funds, nor did the Staffords or Whitby.

But Catherine did. So if her claim to them was valid, why would he not just give the jewels to her?

No. No, if the curse were real, they should not wish it on anyone else.

They turned into the hall where the music spilled from the ballroom, where electric lights were lit and laughter filled all the crevices.

One of the ladies who had sneered at Rowena earlier rushed from the card room. “There you are, Kitty! I’m afraid I need your assistance. My darling husband has been too much in his cups again. Can you fetch servants to return him to his room?”

“Of course.” The congenial hostess was back, all vulnerability tucked away behind her smile. “Excuse me, Rowena. Rush.”

The two ladies hurried off together. It took Rowena a few seconds to realize that left her alone with Lord Rushworth in the hallway. And that he had turned to her with cold, unyielding eyes and a firm-set mouth.

She folded her arms over her middle, trying to find wits enough to make her excuses and leave. Unable to do anything but stare into those eyes—so very frigid they looked lifeless—and think how familiar they seemed. How like her father’s they were.

He edged nearer, but not so close she felt the need to back up. Just close enough that he could murmur, “Don’t hurt her. I don’t know what you’re about, Duchess, but please. She’s been through enough. If you dangle friendship before her nose only to use it against her—” Nostrils flaring, he shook his head. “Don’t. I beg you.”

She shook her head, trying to tell herself he was only concerned for his sister. Not like Father at all. Though her shaking hands were unconvinced. “I wouldn’t, my lord. I promise you. I have no ulterior motives.”

“I want to believe that, but I don’t know if I can.” Sighing, he turned to watch Catherine’s skirts disappear around a corner. “She’s all I have. I cannot help but worry for her. She may jest about how blessed she is to keep all this for my nephew, but the truth is, the debt is overcoming her. And there’s only so much I can do to help her now.”

“But if you had the diamonds, if you could sell them. . . .” If they could all be rid of the things and their curse, and someone could come out the better for it . . .

His face, for the first time, took on feeling. Soft and gentle, but also dismissive. “An ‘if’ that doesn’t bear thinking about, Duchess. They will never be ours. Your husband would never give them to us, not in a millennium.”

But why, when having them seemed to bring nothing but strife and division? Rowena tilted her head. “What if I convinced him? Have you someone who would buy them?”

He hesitated, his face now tormented. “Pratt had someone lined up, but Duchess, don’t. I beg you. It’s far too dangerous. If your husband discovers you trying to help us . . .”

“He wouldn’t hurt me.” Much as she doubted Brice’s motives in this situation, doubted his heart, she trusted in that much. He had protected her at every turn, had proven he wasn’t a violent man.

Rushworth backed away, and that emptiness returned to his eyes, so dark and bottomless it made her shiver. “Not with his fists, perhaps. But there are many ways to hurt someone.”

Rustling came from the nearest doorway, though Rowena couldn’t see through Lord Rushworth to know who it might be. But then a voice called out, “Lord Rushworth! Have you seen . . . ?” Ella. And when Rushworth turned, she obviously caught sight of Rowena. She sighed, looking relieved. “There you are.”

Rushworth stepped to the side with a small, polite bow. “Forgive me for not returning her to you more quickly, Lady Ella. When I heard you asking after her I had a feeling she may have taken a wrong turn somewhere, so I went in search. Such a maze, these hallways.”

Just like that, the light of suspicion in Ella’s eyes shifted to amusement. “They are, at that. Were you lost, Rowena?”

She didn’t want to lie—but what good would it do to confess she had gone off with Catherine of her own will? “I never would have found my way back without someone leading me. Sorry if I worried you, Ella.”

“Oh, no matter. You’re back now, safe and sound.” Still smiling, she dipped a curtsy to Lord Rushworth. “Thank you, my lord, for your efforts on her behalf.”

As he bowed again, more deeply this time, and gave Ella a half smile, he came off as charming. Even a bit rakish. “Anything, my lady, to keep the worry from your lovely eyes.” With that, he straightened, turned away, and his posture yet again returned to the passive, meek one that she had first noted.

What a confusing man. Which version of him was real? And why did the question leave her skin feeling slicked with fear?

Ella watched him go, bemusement on her face. “He’s never even spoken to me before tonight. But that smacked rather decisively of flirtation, didn’t it?”

No doubt the belle of every ball she attended, Ella shrugged it off. “Ah, well. We’d best get back to the ballroom. The music has struck up, and my brother would like to dance with his wife.”

Would he? Did he
really
, or was it just part of the charm, part of the story he painted for his friends? Rowena trailed Ella back inside, but her heart didn’t follow.

What hope did she have of ever being enough for him?

Fourteen

B
rice led Rowena down the hall, keenly aware of the tremor in her hand where it rested against his arm—the tremor that had been quite absent earlier in the evening, but which he had noted the moment she reentered the room with Ella and he had claimed her for a dance.

The tremor that perfectly matched the shadow in her eyes. He had wanted to question her then and there, but during a waltz, surrounded by people who made no qualms about eavesdropping, was hardly the time.

His quiet question as to whether she was ready to retire had earned him a quick, grateful nod though. And now a glance over his shoulder proved that no one had followed them, no one else had decided to leave the ball so early. Still, he pitched his voice low. “You said you would find a maid.”

No, no, all wrong. That sounded like an accusation, which hadn’t been his intent at all.

His wife sighed and kept her gaze focused on the dull, scuffed floorboards beneath their feet. This guest wing was in dire need of improvements. “I didna find one.”

“I should have come with you.”

At that, she sent him an impatient glare. “I dinna need my husband walking me to the lavatory.”

Nor did he figure she would appreciate her husband seeking her out there—hence why he had sent Ella on the search when her absence had stretched too long. “But Rushworth found you.”

Her grip on his arm tightened, and a wave of trembling swept over her. If he had laid a hand on her, if he had said anything to upset her . . . “What happened?”

Was the shake of her head a lie? “Nothing.”

He let silence envelop them as they turned the corner into the hallway where their rooms were located. “All right, then . . . What did you think of him?”

Her breath shook when she drew it in. “He . . . he reminds me somehow of my father.” The gas lamps on the wall caught the feeling in her eyes when she turned them on him. “Is he cruel? To his sister, I mean? She seemed fond of him, but—”

“Lady Pratt was there too?” He regretted the harsh question when her silver eyes went blank, shuttered. “I didn’t mean . . . It is only that—”

“Hush.” She came to an abrupt halt, clutching his arm to stop him too. Her focus had gone beyond him, toward their rooms. “Is that . . . ?”

He turned to see what had caught her attention, sucking in a gasp when he saw his door quickly shut and the light extinguish from beneath it. Davis? But his valet would have no cause to blow out the lamp—nor to close his door so hastily.

“Stay here.” He peeled her fingers from his arm and slid away, hurrying over the distance separating him from his door.

Rowena dogged his steps, muttering something about glaikit men.

They could debate his foolishness and hers later. Right now he indicated she should flatten herself against the wall to remain out of sight. He reached for the door latch, paused with his hand upon it. A deep breath, a
Dear Lord . . .

Then he sprang. Pushed open the door, let it bang against the wall. He didn’t leap through, loath to have someone ready to take a swing at his head and leave Rowena without defense. And quite certain that whoever was within knew he was coming.

Rowena had apparently
not
stayed put. She held out an oil lamp that must have been burning on a table down the hall—and offered no apology in the even stare she settled on him either.

What had happened to the timid young lady he had known these past weeks? He took the lamp and dragged his attention back to his room. Scurrying sounds came from within, a scraping, a muffled, masculine curse.

Rowena’s hand touched his arm. “Should I go for help?”

“Not yet.” Even if she managed to find her way, it would be too late to help. “Just pray.” With that, he held up the lamp and eased through the doorway.

The light shone on all the unfamiliar furniture, but his focus went straight to the dark-clad figure ducking into . . . the wall? “Blast!” He charged forward, catching the hidden door just before it slid shut. “Stop! Get back here!”

As if the intruder had any intention of listening. Brice bullied the door open—a difficult enough task that he had to think the sliding panel hadn’t been used in years—and stepped through, holding his lamp high.