The Highlander (4 page)

When the St. Vincents purchased the stately manor of Grandfield bordering Birch Haven, the baron had seen a chance to save his only child from encroaching spinsterhood.

A disease had been eating at his bones, one he'd kept hidden from Philomena until he succumbed to it mere months after her marriage, leaving her alone in this world but for a cruel husband and his hateful family.

Now Birch Haven was gone. Her father, years dead. And there was no sunshine or warmth in this world.

The cold pierced Mena before consciousness fully returned, and she knew for a fact she was not in heaven. Even before she blinked open her eyes and saw the face of the devil calling her name, an eye patch affixed over a grim, scowling, but satirically handsome face.

“Don't move, Lady Benchley,” the black-haired, black-eyed devil was saying as he tucked something around her shivering body, something with warmth in its heavy folds. His cloak, perhaps? “Don't look,” he softly ordered.

There was a man yelling, not far from her. Mr. Burns? The voice made her skin crawl. Her face throbbed with pain. Screams of madness and cries of joy echoed from women among the chaos of authoritative male voices out in the hall.

A sickening crunch sounded, and despite the devil's orders—despite her own dismay—Mena looked.

Mr. Burns dropped from the grip of a familiar auburn-haired mercenary. The orderly's neck crooked at an impossible angle and his eyes stared sightlessly at the cold, white walls.

Mr. Burns had been terrified in his last moments, and Mena was glad of it.

“He shouldn't have put his hands on you,” the killer stated in that toneless, stony way of his.

“Mr. Argent.” A fair-haired man in a perfectly pressed suit leaned into her cell from the doorway, his light brows drawn down his forehead with somewhat paternal disapproval. Though he couldn't have been much older than either Dorian Blackwell or Christopher Argent. “Did you just
murder
that man?”

Argent toed at Burns's limp shoulder, his chilling features a smooth, blank mask of innocence. “No, Chief Inspector Morley, I—found him like this.”

The chief inspector glanced from Christopher Argent down at Mena, his blue eyes full of compassion, and then to the devil crouched over her. The director of Scotland Yard was no idiot, and Mena could tell that he ascertained the situation within a matter of seconds.

“Blackwell?”

“Bastard must have slipped whilst accosting the lady.” Dorian Blackwell, the Blackheart of Ben More, shrugged as he touched gazes with Argent, and then slid his notice back to Morley.

A tense and silent conversation passed between the three men, and after a moment where even Mena forgot to breathe, the chief inspector dropped his shoulders and nodded. “I'll send for a doctor for the viscountess,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “A
real
doctor, as I intend to see the one running this institution hanged.”

“I'll dispense with this heap of rubbish.” Taking Burns by the ankle, Argent dragged the limp and dirty orderly away as though he weighed no more than a gunnysack.

Turning back to Mena, Dorian tilted his head so he was regarding her solely out of his good eye. “Stay still a while longer, Lady Benchley,” he said with a gentleness Mena hadn't known such a villain capable of. “My wife, Lady Northwalk, is waiting in the carriage. Once the doctor says it's all right to move you, we're taking you away from here.”

Mena fainted again, this time from profound relief.

 

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Hallucinations. Delusions. Waking dreams. All symptoms of absolute madness.

And yet every time Mena pinched herself, the pain didn't wake her.

This was really happening.

She blinked rapidly against misty-eyed gratitude as she looked at the two women occupying their own chaise longues, enjoying their second day of watching Madame Sandrine and her efficient minions fit Mena with a new wardrobe. If she were to paint them as they were now, she'd name the work
Seraphim and Seductress.

Farah Leigh Blackwell, Countess Northwalk, perched on Mena's right, a study of feminine, angelic English gentility. Her ivory muslin and lace gown played with the few gold strands in her white-blond coiffure as she sipped tea from a delicate cup. One would never at all suppose that she was the wife of the most notorious Blackheart of Ben More, king of the London Underworld.

On Mena's left, Millicent LeCour draped her scarlet-clad body across her chaise like a luscious libertine, twirling an ebony ringlet about her finger. She narrowed catlike midnight eyes in assessment and bit through a soft truffle, rolling it in her mouth with sensual enjoyment.

“I know you're self-conscious about the breadth of your shoulders, dear, but if you roll them forward like you're doing now, you convey submission and doubt. You've a lovely, statuesque figure and
must
use it to your advantage. Throw your shoulders back and roll them down from your neck, like you have angel wings you need to stow.” Unfolding her legs, Millie stood to demonstrate her instruction, her posture the very image of confidence and authority. “And another thing, keep your chin parallel to the floor. Look anywhere you must if you can't meet someone's eye, but whatever you do, don't drop your chin.”

Lessons in comportment from the most famous actress on the London stage; Mena could scarce believe it. She did her best to imitate Millie's posture of regal grace and checked her progress in the mirrors surrounding the dais upon which she stood.

Her shoulders were the solid picture of dignity, wide and imposing. Her bosom thrust proudly aloft, although it was crushed into her new corset to make it appear smaller, pressed against the plain, elegant black buttons of her green and gold plaid day dress, the perfect uniform for her new position as governess.

It was her features that killed the effect.

Mena's tongue touched the healing split in her lip and she realized the swelling had gone down dramatically in the three days since she'd been rescued from Belle Glen. Her eye had blackened and swelled until she couldn't see from it. But she'd applied cold compresses provided by Lady Northwalk, and finally her features were beginning to look like her own again. Though the color from both bruises remained angry.

Much like the man who'd put them there.

Millicent LeCour's fiancé, Christopher Argent, had snapped Mr. Burn's neck easy-as-you-please. Mena wondered if the actress knew what her intended was capable of. She must, for one only had to gaze upon Argent to ascertain that he was a lethal man. The arctic chill in his ice-blue eyes only melted for the actress and her cherubic son, Jakub. Mena would be ever grateful to the man, as he'd pulled Mr. Burns off her unconscious body, saving her from the indignities the monster had intended to inflict.

Mena felt as though she should be horrified at having witnessed the ending of a life. But she was glad, grateful even, that Burns was no longer able to torment the helpless. And more thankful, still, that these two women had taken her under their respective wings, going so far as to pay for a new trousseau made by the most sought-after seamstress in all of London, as well as a bevy of undergarments, shoes, and haberdashery.

She suspected that Madame Sandrine was in the employ, as well as a tenant, of Dorian Blackwell, and thereby likely used to keeping secrets.

“There you have it,” Millie encouraged. “I think that captures the effect precisely. No one would dare to doubt your confidence and authority.”

“I've never had any authority … or much in the way of confidence, for that matter.”

“That's why it's called acting,” Millicent prompted, moving to make way for Madame Sandrine as the tiny, dark-haired Frenchwoman bustled in with a basketful of frippery. Setting it down, the seamstress bent to check the hem of the final dress to be added to Mena's new trousseau. “And I've found that, frequently, whatever you convey you can trick yourself into believing.”

“Millie's right, dear.” Farah abandoned her tea to a side table and stood to join her friend. “Often we must seem to have confidence, and in doing so it tends to appear.” Her clear gray eyes inspected Mena's face with just the right mix of sympathy and encouragement.

“Your wounds will heal,” Millie reassured her. “They already look much better. I think we've concocted a brilliant story with which to explain them.”

“A brilliant story all around, I'd wager,” Farah agreed. “And this position is not forever. Dorian has already started on your emancipation from the insanity verdict, though the process is infuriatingly slow.”

“Let's go over the lines again.” Though she had the demeanor of a seductress, Millicent LeCour possessed the single-minded work ethic of an officer drilling a regiment. “What is your new name?”

Mena took a deep breath, trying to be certain everything was stored correctly in her memory to match the entirely new persona Dorian Blackwell had created for her. “My name is Miss Philomena Lockhart.”

“And where are you from?”

“From Bournemouth in Dorset originally, but these past four years from London, where I was employed as a governess.”

“I still think we should change her name entirely,” Farah suggested. “What about something rather common like Jane, Ann, or Mary?”

Millicent shook her head emphatically. “She doesn't
look
like any of those women, and I know that it's easier to keep track of a lie if there is a shred of truth to it. She'll answer to the name Philomena because it is her own. And it's common enough. We selected Bournemouth because it's near Hampshire, where she was raised, and she's familiar with the town and can call it to memory if need be.”

Farah considered this, tapping a finger to the divot in her chin before declaring, “You're right, of course.”

Miss LeCour's ringlets bounced around her startlingly lovely face when her notice snapped back to Mena. “Whom did you work for in London?”

“T-the Whitehalls, a shipping magnate and his wife.”

“Their names?”

“George and Francesca.”

“Who were their children?”

“Sebastian, who is off to Eton, and Clara, who is now engaged.”

“Engaged to whom?”

Mena stalled, her eyes widening, then she winced as the bruise around her eye twinged with the movement. “I—I don't remember going over that.”

“That's because we didn't.” The actress selected another truffle with the patient consideration of a chess master. “I was demonstrating that you're sometimes going to have to improvise. Just say the first plausible thing that happens to appear in your head.”

“My head seems to be frighteningly empty of late.” Mena sighed.

Farah made a sympathetic noise. “You've been under a lot of strain. Millie, perhaps she needs a break.”

“No.” Mena shook her head, receiving a sharp look from Madame Sandrine. Remembering herself, she stood as still as could be. “No, I'll try harder.”

“What is Clara's fiancé's name?” Millie pressed.

“Um—George?” She plucked the first name that arrived in her head.

“That's her papa's name,” Madame Sandrine corrected from below her in her thickly accented voice.

A hopeless sound bubbled into her throat; even the seamstress was better at this than she. “I've always been a terrible liar,” Mena fretted, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Never mind an actress! I'm never going to be able to pull this off.”

“Nonsense!” Millie planted fists on her perfect hips draped with crimson silk. “You are
strong,
Mena. This is going to be nothing at all compared to what you've already survived.”

No one had ever called her strong before. In fact, she'd been berated for being such a mouse. Perhaps strength wasn't so much her virtue as survival. And she had survived, hadn't she? Because of the kindness of these exceptional women.

A sudden rush of gratitude filled Mena until her throat swelled with emotion. “I—I don't know how I'll ever be able to thank you both for what you've done. Not just the rescue, but the clothes, the new life, securing me employment. I only hope I don't let you down, that I can remember all we've concocted here and do it justice.”

Millie tossed her curls, eyes snapping with sparks. “I wish you didn't have to use it. That we needn't send you far away. But your husband and his parents are on a rampage to find you. Lord, they're
such
—”

Farah put a staying hand on her friend's arm. “You're going to do just fine,” she encouraged.

“I still say you can stay with us,” Millie offered. “Christopher shot a member of your family to save my life. Our home in Belgravia would be the last place in London anyone would look for you.”

Mena's eyes stung again at the unlimited generosity of these women. “You can't know how much your offer means to me, but the police do know that I confessed my family's crimes to save yours. Chief Inspector Morley knows that we are close, I feel that I would be putting your fiancé's new career in danger.”

Millie's frown conveyed her frustration, but she didn't argue the point. Christopher Argent had once been the highest-paid assassin in the empire. Now, because of his love for Millie, he was trying a career in law enforcement on for size. Considering what had happened with Mr. Burns, Mena wondered if the big man was suited to the job.

“We all agree that getting you out of London will be safer for you should your husband or agents of the crown come looking for you here,” Farah reminded them gently. “And arrangements have been solidified in Scotland. Lord Ravencroft has already said he would meet your train tomorrow afternoon.”

The bottom dropped out of Mena's chest, sending her heart plummeting into her stomach. She still wasn't certain how she'd gone from being a viscountess, to a prisoner at Belle Glen, and then a phony spinster governess in such a short time.