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“Show him in to the parlour,” she told the maid.
She closed her eyes, and suddenly she was back in the hospital, Sebastian’s hand in hers, and her brother was standing at her side saying the words that had ended all her dreams of a happy ending . . .
“Let me tell you about the rumour, Lavinia, before you make a complete fool of yourself and ruin everything.”
“What rumour?” She knew her eyes were wild. Distraught. Sebastian lay on the narrow bed before her, his head swathed in bandages, while what little she could see of his face was as white as death. And now her brother was saying something about rumours.
“The good Captain was sent to find your husband during the heat of battle. They were seen together just before Patrick was killed.”
“They were together?” she whispered. Her fingers were tangled in Sebastian’s, heavy and warm.
“Yes. When the cannon fired its fatal shot, Captain Longhurst was seen to push Patrick, as if in the way of it. As if he wanted to injure him.”
She shook her head.
“The two men had fallen out. Over you, Lavinia. Everyone guessed that you and Captain Longhurst were lovers.”
He must have seen in her face that it was true, and he shook his head at her. “You are a fool, Lavinia.”
She opened her mouth to tell him everything but stopped herself. Oliver’s parentage was a secret she could not share.
“You were lovers and Captain Longhurst wanted Patrick dead. And now he is.”
She stared up at him with her thoughts racing. She remembered the last conversation they had had, Sebastian asking her how she would feel if Patrick died. Was this her fault? Had she led him to believe she would welcome such an action? In her guilty heart she wondered if perhaps Sebastian had read her mind.
She shook her head violently. Her thoughts had been her own. She may have wished for a happy outcome between herself and Sebastian, but she would never have wanted Patrick’s death as part of the deal. And neither would Sebastian.
“No,” she said. “No, no! I don’t believe it. Sebastian would never . . . he is an honourable man . . . he and Patrick were friends, Martin!”
“Friends who refused to speak to each other. The Duke of Wellington had to pull them aside and reprimand them. Patrick had everything Longhurst here wanted, so he took it.”
She shook her head.
But Martin was determined and his voice went on and on, and though she continued to argue, her guilty conscience caused her to begin to wonder and then to doubt, and then to believe. He took her arm and helped her up and she went with him, and left Sebastian in the hospital alone.
Nine
Autumn 1816, Mockingbird Square
Lavinia was taking her time coming downstairs. Sebastian knew he’d pushed her by insisting she see him, and he wouldn’t have been surprised if she sent him another excuse by way of her maid. It wouldn’t have mattered. Whatever she said he was determined to see her, even if he had to force his way into the house and search every room until he found her.
Thankfully it hadn’t come to that. The door to the parlour opened and he looked up. She stepped into the room and closed it behind her, not once meeting his eyes. Her simple pale mauve gown clung to her hips and thighs as she walked, and her hair was not so elaborately arranged as it had been the other night at the theatre. In fact she was a little untidy.
He remembered making her untidy. He remembered all too well how she could look when he had her in bed with him.
His throat went dry and he had to force himself to recall why he was here.
He bowed. “Lady Richmond.”
Her face was still and calm, not a ripple of emotion. Nothing like it had been the other night when he’d thought she might faint. Some ruthless urge to test her made him say abruptly, after they were seated, “Are you well? I noticed at the theatre you seemed . . .” upset “. . . indisposed.”
“I have been living a cloistered life, and I am still not used to crowds,” she said, as if her answer was planned and ready. She straightened her shoulders and looked at him at last and he searched her face, trying to see what she was thinking, what was going on in her mind, but she was wearing her Ice Maiden mask.
He wished he could reach out and shake her until the mask crumbled and the real woman, the woman he had once thought he knew so well, appeared. The Lavinia he’d held in his arms must still be there, somewhere, inside the mask.
Frustrated, he ran a hand over his head, trying to calm himself, to find the words he needed to say. “Lavinia . . .” he began.
“Lady Richmond.”
