He took her hands and squeezed them, his eyes filled with a bright, glimmering fire. "I know people
say it's unnatural,
Florence
. I know they say it's a sin. But it doesn't feel like a sin to me. It feels like
the way God made me."
"I don't think you're a sinner," she said. The words came slowly as she searched through the tangle
of her emotions. "Maybe if I didn't know you, I would, but I've always thought you a good, kind man. My father used to say God weighs each man's sins in private. We can't presume to know what's on the scales."
"Your father sounds wise."
A smile of memory touched her lips. "When it came to other people's hearts, he was."
"So I can hope for forgiveness from the vicar's daughter?"
"I'm not sure you need my forgiveness."
Sighing, he lifted her hands to his mouth. "I'm afraid there's more,
Florence
, more you deserve to know."
Given what she'd just seen, the story of the footman did not shock her. More disturbing was discovering that Mr. Mowbry was also Edward's solicitor. That her father's old friend would help Edward save Freddie's reputation by engineering a match with her quite stole her breath. Then, when she thought she couldn't bear another blow, Freddie revealed how Aunt Hypatia agreed to help.
"They knew?" she said, her face going hot and cold by turns. Amazement warred with fury in her breast.
"Aunt Hypatia
and
Edward?
They knew what you were and they still wanted me to marry you?"
"They didn't think of it that way. They thought I'd get over it. They knew you needed a husband, and thought I'd be as good to you as anyone."
"But they tricked me! They let me believe you truly cared."
He cupped her face. "I do care. That's never been a lie. If Nigel and I hadn't—that is, if we hadn't—"
"Oh, go ahead," she snapped with a temper worthy of a duchess. "If you and Nigel hadn't fallen in love, you could have spent a lifetime deceiving me."
Freddie blanched as if she'd told him a truth he wasn't ready to acknowledge. He dropped his arm. "
Florence
—"
She didn't care what he meant to say. "You're liars, all of you.
Liars and cheats.
And Edward's the worst of the lot.
By God!"
Her voice rose out of control and her hands fisted in her skirts as if she meant to rip them from her legs. "I can't believe I actually worried what he thought of me. I can't believe I tried to earn his respect. He's a bug. An insect
who
isn't worth the energy it would take to squash him!"
"
Florence
," Freddie chided, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth.
She jabbed her forefinger into his chest. "He's a slimy, slithering fiend!"
Freddie grabbed her hand and tried to soothe it. To her dismay, she saw she still wore Edward's signet. Before he could see it, she yanked her hand away. Her chin quivered but she positively refused to cry.
"Don't judge him too harshly," Freddie
said,
the flash of amusement gone. "I don't say his methods were perfect, but he did what he did out of love. He'd protect anyone he cared about that way.
Including you."
"Hah!"
Florence
barked. She swiped her eyes with her sleeve before they could overflow. "There's a pretty bedtime story. Edward
protect
me? He'd be the first to hammer in the nail."
Freddie protested, but she'd already heard enough. Half blinded by emotion, she spun and left the room. She didn't have to run. Freddie's injury prevented him from following.
Snake, she thought, her skirts kicking fore and aft. What an idiot she'd been to imagine he had a heart. She took the stairs two at a time, panting for breath through her anger and her shame.
They'd all made fools of her, but only Edward had made her a fool for love.
CHAPTER 13
"I don't see
why we have to leave," Lizzie muttered for the umpteenth time since
Florence
had told her
to pack.
" 'Least
not right away. If your heart is set on going back to Keswick, Viscount Burbrooke will see you get there."
Deliberately ignoring her,
Florence
frowned at the contents of her wardrobe. Per the duchess's orders, most of her old clothes had been destroyed. Too few remained to pack only what she'd brought with
her to
London
. With a grimace, she pulled out the simplest of her new dresses. If worse came to worst, she could sell them for the price of a railway ticket. Not that she was comfortable with the idea. Strictly speaking, these gowns belonged to Aunt Hypatia.
Lizzie accepted the first,
a pale
yellow muslin. She smoothed it flat across the bed,
then
folded it carefully around a length of tissue.
Florence
had already warned her they'd be taking no trunks; only what the two of them could carry in their portmanteaus.
"Don't know what you think you're going to do in Keswick," Lizzie grumped, her annoyance still sharp.
"I shall hire out as a companion,"
Florence
said with more confidence than she felt.
"Hah." Lizzie fussed over the lay of a hem. "Those old biddies don't have any more money than we do."
"Then I must convince more than one of them to hire me. I shall collect a perfect harem of old biddies."
Taken by surprise, Lizzie puffed out a laugh. But she turned serious quickly enough. "It isn't right: you and Master Freddie parting ways. Whatever you fought about, I'm sure you can work it out. Besides—" Her look grew dark. "I don't like the idea of us going to stay with that friend of the duchess. I've heard the servants talk about her. They say she's barmy."
"She's not barmy,"
Florence
said, fighting for patience. "She's a woman who's seen her share of trouble. Just like us."
"But—"
Guilt at forcing Lizzie to leave her comfortable place, and anguish at having to leave it herself, shortened
Florence
's temper. "Stay then," she said. "I'm sure the earl will find a position for you.
There's always openings
in the scullery."
All the blood drained from Lizzie's face.
Florence
was instantly contrite.
"Blast," she said. "I didn't mean that. Edward wouldn't set you to scrubbing pots. I'm sure if you asked he'd seek out another lady's maid position among his friends."
"B-but—" Lizzie was weeping now. "I don't want to be anyone's lady's maid but yours."
"Well," said
Florence
, with a humor she thought she'd lost, "it doesn't look as if I'm going to be a lady now."
"You will!" Lizzie declared, flinging herself into her arms. "I know you will."
Florence
patted her back. She took a peculiar comfort in consoling the little maid.
Poor Lizzie.
Deprived of her gaslights and her running water.
She resolved that, however events fell out for herself, she would request that Edward help her. She was certain he would, though she couldn't have said from whence
that certainty came.
"Maybe you could marry the earl instead," Lizzie mumbled wetly against her neck.
Oh, Lord, thought
Florence
. God save her from such a fate.
* * *
The door to Catherine's house was opened by a vision in lavender silk and ecru lace. Coolly blonde, flawlessly feminine, Catherine's niece was even lovelier in person than in her picture. "My, my,"
she said with slumberous eyes and curving lips, "if it isn't the fabulous Florence Fairleigh."
In
Florence
's shaken state, this condescending greeting was more than enough to cow her. "I'm sorry," she said, backing away. "I've come at a bad time."
At once, Imogene sprang into motion. "Nonsense," she said, catching
Florence
's arm. "My aunt would never forgive me if I let you get away. Clearly, you're in distress. If you could see your way to forgiving my atrocious manners, I'd be happy to help however I may."
With this pretty speech, she drew her guest inside.
Florence
hardly knew what to make of this changeable creature and her dulcet exclamations of concern. Whatever Imo-gene's motives,
Florence
had not the will to resist her welcome. Somewhat less happily, Lizzie shuffled in behind.
Catherine came into the hall at the sound of their entrance. As soon as she saw
Florence
, she folded her into her arms. "Poor dear," she said, her tone so maternal it tightened
Florence
's throat. "I feared this would happen. No woman who loved a Greystowe ever failed to come to grief."
"Surely
Freddie
didn't jilt you?" Imogene murmured. Briefly,
Florence
wondered at the familiarity of the question, but it was hard to take offense. Imogene's curiosity was as delicate as the rest of her. It hung in the air like spider's silk, barely there at all.
She pulled back from Catherine's embrace and wiped her eyes. The two women peered at her in gentle inquiry, their brows—one set gold, one silver—
raised
in identical slender arches. Despite their kindness,
Florence
could not answer. Even now, she could not bring herself to speak harshly of the Burbrookes.
"No," Imogene mused, her lambent gray eyes taking the measure of her expression. "Freddie Burbrooke is no heart-breaker, but perhaps the elder
... ?"
"Hush," scolded Catherine before
Florence
could do more than bite her lip. "The girl is clearly grieving. We must not pester her with questions. It is enough that you are here, my dear. We ask no more than that."
She would not hear of
Florence
leaving, though her presence, on top of Imogene's, would make more work for the tiny household. "Your girl can stay with mine in the attic. I'm sure they'll find it perfectly cozy."
Florence
would have preferred to keep Lizzie with her but, bereft of support—even her own, it seemed—she hadn't the nerve to object to the arrangement. "You're too kind," she said, her vision shimmering with tears.
Continuing to cluck, Catherine led her to a guest room on the second floor. More grateful than she could express,
Florence
relinquished her rain-dampened clothes and allowed
herself
to be bundled into bed.
"Rest," Catherine said, her cool hand stroking
Florence
's brow. "Sleep is the best remedy for a broken heart."
The hour wasn't even
, but
Florence
was exhausted. Bertha, the big, sad-faced maid, brought a beautiful white quilt to tuck around her. She glanced back over her shoulder before she spoke. "Things might look better in the morning," she said in a low, hurried tone, as if she were afraid of being heard. "Men aren't as bad as ... as some people like to make out."
Florence
smiled, touched by her advice. She only wished it were true. She waved at the maid as she left. Then, with a weary sigh, she curled around her starchy pillow like a wounded animal in a burrow. She was safe, at least for now.
More than that a woman in her position could not ask.
* * *
The first
time in too many years to remember, Edward drank with the intention of getting drunk. The library's shelves stretched around him, above him, the wisdom of centuries held within their tomes.
None seemed likely to help him—no more than the liquor. By the fourth whiskey, his head was
spinning, his mouth tasted foul, and he could still remember every damn word he'd said.