Ring of Secrets (12 page)

Ben took great pleasure in shutting the door in his brother's face.

But it festered, the accusation Archie hadn't the sense to make sound accusing. Ben couldn't ever recall an instance where George and Archie had been in agreement before, and the fact that they were now…a wise man did not dismiss such things. A wise man would entertain the possibility that the rest of the world was right and he was mistaken.

Maybe it
was
only her looks that drew him. Maybe Fairchild saw
the true her, a gentle spirit clothed in simplicity of mind, and Ben had fabricated any idea of depth. Maybe what he had taken to be her admittance that she hid a brain beneath the beauty was really only a momentary serious side to a girl otherwise happy with her frivolity.

Maybe he ought to heed his mother's advice and make this engagement his last at Hampton Hall. Leave Miss Reeves to the honest, upright affections of Colonel Fairchild and find himself another excuse for frequenting balls and soirees.

Uncertainty brewed within him as he dressed and slid on the itchy powdered wig, and it only increased as he climbed into the carriage alongside his mother and brother. He ignored their prattle during the short drive, focusing instead upon his inner questions.

He must examine himself tonight and gauge every reaction to her to determine whether it was only a physical attraction he felt. He must watch her with the thought in mind that he could be mistaken about her and see which theory her actions upheld.

The winter skies were cold and clear as they exited the carriage and went through the open doors of Hampton Hall, but Ben could have sworn a storm brewed, so electric and thunderous were his thoughts. Lightning pierced him when the Hamptons greeted them in the drawing room and he had his first glimpse of Miss Reeves.

She curtsied to his family. “So good to see you again, Mrs. Lane. Oh, and I did not know you were back in the city, Lieutenant.”

“'Tis ‘major,' now,” Mother corrected.

“Oh!” Miss Reeves' eyes went wide, her gaze upon his brother's right shoulder, where the second epaulette now resided. But her blink was empty. “I can never keep these things straight. But congratulations, sir. Mr. Lane, I cannot believe my good fortune, getting to greet you twice in one day.”

Confound it, his tongue felt verifiably twisted. “I…yes…that is…the fortune is mine.”

She wore cosmetics tonight, more than he had ever seen on her before. Perhaps she had, in the past, dusted her nose with rice powder, but he had never seen her wear rouge. Indeed, when he bent over her hand in salutation, he caught a whiff of the beet juice used to color the powder for cheeks and lard for lips.

Her smile was small and halted rather abruptly. Pain flashed through her eyes, though it was quickly doused.

His gaze focused on her right cheek again. Was it swollen? Without question—and the rouge did not quite cover an edge of bruising.

As the rest of the party moved to the furniture, a few of the knots smoothed out within him, though a couple of different ones took up residence. He did not release her hand. “Would you take a turn about the room with me, Miss Reeves?”

“Very well, sir.” She sounded far from enthusiastic and moved to his right side. Undoubtedly so that hers was turned away from him. “I trust you passed a pleasant afternoon?”

He kept his gaze upon her as he led her to the edge of the chamber so that they might walk its perimeter as far from their families as possible. In a low voice he said, “More pleasant than yours, from the looks of it. What is wrong with your cheek, Miss Reeves?”

She turned wide eyes on him, filled with outrage and a grain of amusement. “Mr. Lane, perhaps you are yet unaccustomed to seeing ladies wearing paint, but I assure you, 'tis the height of fashion. I resent being told it looks wrong.”

He may have been tempted to smile, had it not been a matter of her welfare. “It is not the rouge to which I refer, Miss Reeves, as you well know.”

“In which case I have no idea…” Her gaze shifted beyond him, and her smile went completely false and stunningly beautiful. “Lieutenant.”

His brother stiffened. “Major.”

“Oh! Yes, do forgive me.” Her lashes fluttered, but to Ben's eyes she looked far from repentant.

It made a man wonder what had passed between Miss Reeves and Archie before Ben returned to New York. Knowing his brother's habits with females as he did…well, whatever it was, Miss Reeves seemed to know how to handle him.

Still. “Archie, I am about to say something with all fraternal love.” Ben smiled too and clapped a hand to his brother's shoulder. “Go away.”

The major laughed. “Nay, I cannot. Having conversed separately with both of you, I cannot resist listening in on what you talk about together. I mean only to lighten the discussion for Miss Reeves, as she
cannot possibly find anything of import in your talk of scientists and philosophers, Benny.”

She joined her hands together on Ben's arm and moved a fraction closer to his side. She had that look of amused stupidity on her face again. “Oh, you are most correct, Lieutenant. Your brother never speaks with me of imports, neither of jams from England nor silk from Europe. Yet I know not how I could ever survive without them. Can you imagine an existence with only fresh produce?”

“'Tis ‘major.'” He put a bit more rebuke in the correction this time. Then his lips melted back into their usual smile. “And prithee, brother, how could you have neglected such riveting conversation with the lovely Miss Reeves? You must bore her to tears.”

Her grip on his arm tightened a bit and then relaxed. “Not at all, sir. I find your brother's company quite singular. He is the only person I have ever met who called me clever.”

“Did he?” Genuine confusion joined the mirth in the gaze Archie turned on him. “He is usually quite stingy with that particular compliment.”

Mother lifted a hand from her chair. “Archibald, do come tell the Hamptons what you told me of General Clinton.”

Archie sent his gaze to the ceiling, bowed to Miss Reeves, and then spun. “Coming, Mother.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Ben muttered.

Miss Reeves chuckled. “Are you not on good terms with your brother?”

For a moment he stared at the bright red of his brother's jacket. Archie had grown into the sort of man who made friends wherever he went, though often left a few enemies behind him—generally in the form of irate fathers. His features were finer than Ben's, his hair a few shades lighter, his form fashionably slender. But for once he was in the company of a young lady whose head didn't seem to be turned by him.

Amazing.

“On the contrary, Miss Reeves, we are on very good terms—when not together.” He turned his head toward her again and smiled, pitching his voice once again to a quiet level. “I have discovered that Archie and I make the best sort of correspondents and the worst sort of companions. We care for each other greatly, but we are too different.”

She nodded, her expression finally absent the layer of performance. “You ought to be glad of that, Mr. Lane. I certainly am. Your brother is…tiring, let us say. Or parrying his advances is so, at any rate.”

He could follow that line and get a few answers, and maybe he would at another time. But there were more pressing concerns to address in the few minutes of semi privacy they enjoyed. “And what is it you failed to parry today, my dear, that resulted in the bruise upon your cheek?”

Her chin lifted. But still it trembled ever so slightly. “Mr. Lane, it is quite rude to draw attention to my clumsiness.”

“It may be, were it a result of such.” Yet 'twas not embarrassment that colored her eyes, but something darker. Something that made fierce instincts clamor up inside him.

Someone had done this to her in the few hours since they had parted ways at the Shirleys'. Someone, no doubt, beneath this roof. If he were a betting man, he would have staked his fortune that the someone
owned
the roof.

She looked deep into his eyes for a few moments and seemed to see the thoughts rioting within. Her fingers soothed over his forearm. “If you think it not a result of my running into something, then you must imagine…well, that is absurd, of course. Though if it
were
the case, you would still have no cause to worry.”

“Would I not?” He led them to the window and halted, so close to the panes that he could feel the cold radiating from them. Better that than being any closer to the rest of the group.

“Indeed not.” Her voice was the barest of whispers, scarcely making it to his ears. “For you see, Mr. Lane, though I can tolerate the order not to think for myself, there are some things I will not suffer. And so you can be sure that if this bruise were the fault of anyone but myself—which, of course, it is not—then it is the first time such a thing has happened. And will without doubt be the last, lest such a perpetrator—who does not exist, mind you—finds his secrets all spilled.”

That eased his mind for only a moment. He had no doubt Hampton possessed his share of secrets he would not want society to be privy to. But a man who would strike his granddaughter on the face was surely not one to let her threaten him in response. He shook his head. “I do not want to see you hurt, Miss Reeves.”

“Nor do I, I assure you.” Brightness bullied its way into her smile.

It made the room feel all the darker. This place, this family, was not where she belonged. Yet he was not the one to rescue her from it, not when his own life would offer her none of what she thought it would. “Miss Reeves…has Fairchild proposed? Or would he, do you think, with the proper encouragement?”

Her hand fell away from his arm as her face went completely blank. “Pardon?”

Ben sighed. “He loves you, you know. He wants to care for you and protect you. With the proper urging, I imagine he would make an offer, and you ought to…he would keep you safe and do all in his power to make you happy.”

Now she folded her arms over her torso. Try as he might, he could not determine what emotion filled her eyes. Not quite contemplation, nor realization. Not exactly disillusionment.

She swallowed. “Is that what you want me to do, Mr. Lane? I must say, 'tisn't what I expected, given your speech on Christmas.”

“It is not what I want, no.” The truth of that pierced him like his brother's sword. “But I want, above all, for you to be safe and well.”

Her lips parted, but apparently she could think neither of truth nor inanity to say. Her gaze fell to the ground, she curtsied, and then she glided her way to the couch to sit beside her grandmother.

Ben stayed at the window and wished for a rousing thunderstorm to shake the panes and match his mood. All he got was his mother's company a minute later.

She touched his arm and drew in a long breath. “You actually care for her, don't you? I cannot understand why. But if that is where your heart is inclined, I will be reasonable. We will host a few dinners and balls, and I will get to know her better to see if she can at least be molded, or else will be willing to let others do her managerial duties in her stead. Will that please you, Bennet?”

Would it? He leaned into the window's frame and stared out at the gray street. “I don't know, Mother. I don't know.”

Eight

F
rost etched lace onto the pane of her window. Fragile beauty, as deadly as it was short lived. Winter traced its outline with a lazy fingernail, looking more at it than the icy world outside. January was well on its way to February, and these past weeks she had rarely been permitted out of the house. 'Twas too cold, they said. The streets too messy.

She thought it more because they wanted no one to see the mottled bruise upon her cheek, and it had taken a dreadfully long time to fade. Grandmother forced her to apply concealing cosmetics whenever they had company, but the Lanes were the only ones she invited. No doubt, bruised or not, her grandmother didn't want to risk Bennet Lane forgetting her. They had come often enough to keep her thoughts in turmoil.

Her breath of mirthless laughter fogged up the window. His reactions to her seemed to oscillate like a pendulum. One moment all concern, the next determined to keep his distance. Frustrated with her for not laying bare her soul, amused by her supposed misinterpretations. He liked her—but he didn't seem to want to.

Ah, well. Winter touched a finger to her cheek. The pain had gone, finally, as had the discoloration. Grandmother had at last deemed her passable for other company, so tomorrow she would entertain Dosia
and Lizzie. After weeks of nearly unbroken solitude, Winter was actually looking forward to an hour or two with her supposed friends.

Much of the past weeks she had spent remembering winters in Oyster Bay. How she would love to strap on her ice skates and glide over the pond in their back field again. To spin round and round with Sally and Mary Townsend until they were so dizzy they fell, laughing, to their bottoms on the ice. To have nothing more to think about than the mulled cider that would be heating over the fire when they returned.

And if she were dreaming, then she would put Mother there, awaiting her return. Reading, perhaps, or spinning wool onto the spool of her walking wheel. Forward and back, round and round, onto the skein until the weasel popped after the one hundred fiftieth revolution.