Chapter 6

SIX

T he sun came in at an angle that said morning was nearly over before Alethia struggled to a sitting position and blinked the fog from her eyes. She knew where she was. She knew why she was there. She knew why the last thirty-six hours were a blur—special thanks to the physician and the medicine he prescribed for an easier journey. Even so, it was disconcerting to wake up in an unfamiliar place, to an unfamiliar vista, and realize that though one had ostensibly been carried to and from a train car, no memory of said journey was to be found in her mind.

Pain still lanced her side from shoulder to knee, but it wasn’t as intense as it had been during her last waking memory ... or else the medication hadn’t completely left her system yet.

On the bedside table was evidence that someone had been checking on her regularly. A jar of honey sat beside a roll of fresh bandages, making her remember the liberal application of the gooey stuff in London, which Marigold had sworn would ward off infection “like a veritable miracle.” Water waited for her, along with a plate with some fruit and a few biscuits. A teacup on the far side of the table, beyond her reach and empty, told her that someone had been sitting in the now-empty chair and having their own breakfast at some point.

She ought to be hungry. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d eaten. It had been before the meeting with Mr. A, but that was ... days ago. Two? Three? Twenty? It was a muddle.

A bellpull hung beside the bed, and for a moment she considered giving it a tug. She didn’t need anything in particular, but the yearning for companionship struck her sharply, without warning.

For a moment, she could imagine herself utterly alone—not just in this room, but in the house, in the county, in the world. She could scream, and no one would hear. Charge from this room, and no one would see. Pound on the door, and no one would feel its tremor beneath her hands.

Foolishness. Sometimes she had wished she were so alone, but she never was.

A light tap came on the door, and before she could convince her throat to work, it opened. Alethia blinked at the woman who entered. She’d expected Lady Marigold again, but no. This woman had olive-brown skin, deep and soft, with eyes as dark as her hair. She looked perhaps sixty, but with a figure still trim and lithe.

Alethia’s breath caught in her chest. The skin, the shape of her eyes, the color and texture of her hair ... this woman could have come from India. She wasn’t dressed in a bright sari, nor did her nose and ears bear the usual jewelry, but the features! Bengali sprang to her tongue. “Good morning.”

The woman smiled, but the knit of her brow said she didn’t understand the words. “You’re awake, I see, my lady. Good.” Her words were in English, but accented. Not, however, by any Indian accent she’d heard.

It shouldn’t make her heart sink. Why would it? She summoned her smile back to her lips and tried her greeting again in English. “Good morning. If we’ve been introduced, I’m afraid I don’t recall it. Forgive me.”

The woman gave her a smile so kind, Alethia found herself blinking back tears. “This is the first you’ve truly awakened since you arrived.” The woman moved to the side of the bed and sat on it, reaching a motherly hand out to rest against her forehead. “No fever. Good, good—it wouldn’t dare, with my honey-lavender on there, I know. I am Zelda. My family and I make our home here at Fairfax Tower.”

It was a strange explanation. Shouldn’t she have said she was employed there? Offered an explanation of her duties? Was she a housekeeper? A maid? Something else?

Amusement twinkled in Zelda’s eyes. Perhaps Alethia’s questions had been plain on her face. “We are Romani—circus performers. His lordship granted us leave to retire here on his property. We help as we can in exchange.”

Romani! That explained the features, the beautiful shade of her skin, even the odd accent. Alethia hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting any Romani in person, but she’d seen quite a few posters advertising traveling circuses and had begged Mama to take her to one.

It had seemed like a promise of home, even if only a glimpse of it. Elephants and monkeys, golden-skinned people with smiles as big as their hearts, bold colors, and pageantry like the English never offered.

Mama had always gotten that pinched look to her face and told her that circuses were dens of robbers and worse, and she wouldn’t ever darken the tent of one.

It seemed the Fairfaxes didn’t share Mama’s feelings, and for that, Alethia was so grateful that for a moment she forgot the pain in her side. All of her mother’s lessons on proper manners flying from her mind, she reached out a hand. “A circus! I have always wanted to see one.”

Zelda didn’t hesitate to clasp her hand and hold it between her own. Her palms bore the callouses of hard work, though her skin wasn’t rough. “I would find it odd you have not, eh? But they tell me you were raised in India.” At Alethia’s enthusiastic nod, she grinned. “My people come from there, they say. Long, long ago. My husband and his family and I, we have traveled much, yes? Across Europe—even into Russia. But never to the subcontinent. I wonder how I would like it.”

“Oh, you would love it. Everything is so vibrant and bold and beautiful. And warm! England is dreadfully cold in comparison.” Even thinking about the weather here made her shiver, despite having grown acclimated ages ago—more or less. Her parents said she had, anyway.

The shiver lit new pain.

Zelda patted her hand. “Perhaps you will tell me about it, yes? During your stay.”

She smiled through the ache. “I would love that.”

“Good. Now ... you need more medicine?”

“No!” The exclamation earned her a lifted-brow question, but Alethia only shook her head—carefully—for emphasis. “I would like to have my wits about me. The pain is better today. In fact...” Did she dare to even ask this? Was it too soon, a foolish thought? She hazarded it anyway. “Do you think you could help me dress? I would love nothing more than to get out of this bed, even if only for a few hours.”

The purse of Zelda’s lips made it none too clear whether she would agree or not. But at length, she gave a nod. “Slow and careful, though. And only to the sitting room next door. I know Lady Lavinia means to visit you momentarily, and Lord Fairfax.”

She told herself it was the effort of pushing herself more upright that made her cheeks flush—exertion, not the thought of finally getting a proper introduction to the most elusive bachelor in Lords.

Minutes later, she nearly regretted her request but wouldn’t let herself declare defeat, despite the agony feasting on her. It wasn’t Zelda’s fault. The woman was gentle and capable, as if she’d assisted with costume changes thousands of times despite not being a lady’s maid. But then, she chattered on about the circus costumes she’d created over the years—clearly trying to distract Alethia from the pain—so no doubt she had assisted with such changes.

At last, Alethia sat on the side of the bed, a loose day dress in place—though no corset underneath it, given the circumstances—catching her breath and waiting for the blood to stop pounding so ferociously in her head.

Zelda pulled one of Alethia’s pashmina shawls from a drawer, tracing a finger over the design and smiling with clear appreciation. “Beautiful.”

“Thank you. It belonged to my ayah, once.”

Zelda’s eyes studied the fabric a moment more, then moved slowly to Alethia’s face. “Your ayah, you say? A piece as fine as this?”

Alethia’s fingers curled into her palm. “All the other pieces from India too.”

The woman’s gaze darted back to the chest of drawers. Had she been the one to unpack her things? If so, she’d seen the beaded shoes, the bangles, the hammered gold jewelry.

She must have done. Because the gaze she turned her way again said she saw more than the obvious. “Fine things. She left them with you?”

Her fingernails dug into her palms. “A parting gift. She said she didn’t want them, but she did want me to remember her.”

As if she could ever forget. And as if she didn’t know exactly why Samira had left every single luxurious fabric, every pretty bead, every gleaming piece of jewelry behind her.

Zelda opened the shawl with a flourish and settled it over Alethia’s shoulders. It wasn’t so cold that a shawl was needed—it was August and had been the hottest week of the year in London. But the air here, coming in through the open window, was a good deal cooler. And Alethia still longed for climes a good deal warmer. She welcomed the familiar embrace of the fabric. “Thank you.”

After giving her a moment to rest, Zelda helped her to her feet and slid an arm around her. Alethia, at first, doubted whether the older woman could really be enough help, but within a few steps, she found her concerns ungrounded. The woman may be small, but she seemed to be made of pure muscle, and all but carried her out of her bedroom and into the one directly across the corridor, which proved to be a sitting room. Soon, and with surprisingly little discomfort, Alethia was settled on the sofa.

“I shall fetch your breakfast. Or would you prefer porridge? And tea?”

She must be hungry, despite not feeling it yet. “Tea and the plate from my room will be perfect. Thank you so much, Zelda.”

Zelda’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “It is my pleasure to help you, sweet one.” She moved back into the hallway and must have been saying something to herself, but the words were in a language Alethia had never heard. Romani, perhaps? It had similarities to those she’d heard in India—the rhythms were the same, and perhaps even a few words that sounded like cognates. Alethia would have leaned forward had she dared, to better listen to it.

Perhaps Zelda would teach her some of it while she was here. Surely her fluency in Bengali could help her pick it up.

Or maybe the Romani wasn’t talking to herself—a different voice answered, deep and vaguely familiar, and then a third, lyrically female. The Fairfax siblings. Her ears told her the truth even before her eyes verified it a moment later when they came through the door, all smiles and welcome.

Her throat went so tight as she looked at them that she found herself grateful to have the excuse of her injuries to account for what was no doubt a strained expression on her face. And with a bit of luck, they’d blame the flush in her cheeks on the exertion.

“Good morning, my lady.” Lady Marigold came straight for her, hand extended, and clasped Alethia’s fingers in her own as she sat beside her. “How good it is to see you up and about. Are you in a great deal of pain?”

Alethia made herself focus on the lady instead of her hulking brother. She offered a small smile. “Some. Not as bad as I feared. Thank you again for your generosity and hospitality.”

“Our pleasure, I assure you. Now, allow me to make official introductions.” The lady nodded toward her brother. “You have met him before, given that he carried you into our house, but we’re glad you’re now awake to remember. This is my brother, Lord Yates Fairfax. Yates, allow me to present Lady Alethia Barremore.”

His lips twitched, no doubt at the formality of the introduction given his previous carrying—multiple carryings?—of her unconscious form. But he inclined his head with as much decorum as if he sat across from her at a tea. “How do you do, my lady?”

The ridiculousness of the English gentry’s preferred greeting, given the situation, made her own lips twitch. “I’ve been better, to be frank. But I would most certainly be worse without your intervention, so I am grateful. And you?”

“Happy for an excuse to leave London.” Just as when she’d seen him through the crack in the doorway in London, good humor sparkled in his eyes. His hair looked damp, where it waved onto his forehead, making it nearly black. Strange how Alethia could at once see the resemblance in the siblings’ faces and yet marvel at how different they appeared. He with that dark hair, Lady Marigold’s so fair a brown as to be only a shade or two off from blond. He so tall and broad, she so slight. He wearing the shared features in a bold way that made him without question among the handsomest men she’d seen in England, while on his sister, they were understated—not unattractive, by any means, but also not attention-grabbing.

Both, however, looked at her with intelligence and a sort of honest care that put her at ease. And then made her unease redouble.

These were good people. Kind people. Faithful people. And she was putting them in danger by her mere presence. She never should have consented to this arrangement, despite having no idea what alternative would be better.

Lord Fairfax darted his gaze to his sister before settling it back on Alethia, the amusement in his eyes snapping into seriousness. “I can see you mustering your resolve, my lady, but please don’t. I assure you, we invited you to our home with our eyes fully open to the risks. It is our deepest desire to help you in this time.”

She didn’t doubt the sincerity of his words—she couldn’t, not given the way he looked at her as he delivered them. What she doubted was the wisdom of them. “But why ? You know how dangerous the people I’ve angered are.” She motioned to the bullet wounds that bore testament. “Why would you willingly put your own family at risk to help me? We’ve never even met before now.”

He lifted a brow. “Are we not called to help our neighbors?”

Her cheeks flushed, and her side ached. “The Good Samaritan may have picked up the broken pieces, but he didn’t fight off the bandits. My concern, my lord, is that you would be called upon to do both—because this attack was targeted, not a crime of opportunity by highwaymen.”

“All the more reason to lend our aid.”

“Perhaps you ought to assure her that you’re no stranger to dangerous situations.” The new voice came from the doorway, dragging Alethia’s gaze from her handsome host to another face that looked somewhat familiar.

Lady Lavinia Hemming—that was it. Yet another young lady of her own generation that her mother had deemed a rival and hence had never bothered with introductions to, despite the fact that their London homes were so near each other. But Lady Marigold had mentioned that they were Northumberland neighbors, and that Lady Lavinia would be staying with her too. Because the newcomer wore a bright smile, Alethia offered one back.

Lady Lavinia took the chair at right angles to her sofa, at the end closest to her. She reached out a hand, her smile still bright and soft and ... something more. Something with depth and shadows, not light and cheer. “Lady Lavinia Hemming. How do you do, Lady Alethia?”

“Improving, thank you.” She squeezed the newcomer’s fingers as she had her hostess’s and then allowed the frown to retake her brows. “But what do you mean about dangerous situations?”

Lady Lavinia kept her gaze on Alethia, but Lord Fairfax had lapsed into a frown of his own, which he sent to his neighbor with a pointed enough look that Alethia knew in a heartbeat that, like the siblings, Lady Lavinia spoke their silent language. He might as well have shouted at her, “Yes , Lavinia, what do you mean?”

Lavinia’s smile went small, pained. “You perhaps heard that my mother died last year?”

She had, in passing. Mama had made a comment about her absence during the height of the Season—and had then been disappointed when she came back to London this year, during Alethia’s debut Season, because she was now an heiress to rival all, beautiful to boot, and had those mysterious shadows in her eyes that seemed to attract men like bees to honey. She nodded.

Lady Lavinia’s expression became more serious. “What you can’t know is that the papers’ report wasn’t accurate. It was no heart attack that felled her. She died in an attempt to harm others.” The lady looked to her friends, who were both staring at her in utter shock. And something more that Alethia couldn’t name. “My father, namely. And when my dear friends the Fairfaxes tried to intervene, my mother turned on them.”

The words were so calmly delivered that, for a moment, Alethia could have believed that she was reciting a story from some novel she’d read, rather than her own tale. Given only the tone and the delivery, she would have doubted the truth of the words. But the lady’s eyes spoke of truth. A dark, ugly, ruinous truth.

“My lady.” Her fingers were still resting on the arm of the sofa, so Alethia covered them with hers again. There were no words she could offer to make that reality any gentler. She could only try to assure her that while she could never fully understand, she did in a way. She understood the pain of finding that someone who should have loved you had secrets dark enough to destroy you. “I’m sorry.”

Lavinia offered the kind of smile that was less about cheer than determination to survive. “Thank you. I bring this up only to tell you that the Fairfaxes are no strangers to encountering danger in their quest to help others. You’ll find them both most capable allies, my lady. Had they not been at hand last year, I fear that neither I nor my father would be alive to reassure you now.”

She believed it, impossible as it sounded. But a lady—a mother—plotting to kill her own family? She’d heard of such things happening now and then, but never among the aristocracy.

And yet didn’t she know better than anyone that a title and money did nothing to make one noble? Didn’t she know firsthand what twisted souls could reside beneath a well-coiffed exterior?

Her nostrils flared with the deep breath she dragged in, which in turn made her side ache. The old dangers, the old horrors might have passed, but a new one had arisen to take their place, and she had no hope of facing it alone. She looked at her hosts again.

Host—if she was being honest. Somehow that intense gaze of Lord Fairfax, as he shifted his eyes from Lady Lavinia to her, insisted she meet it. “I had the opportunity to speak with Mr. A of the Imposters before we left London, my lady. He is happy to come here for another meeting if you request it, or you could answer the questions he sent along now, with us, and we can send them along to save him a trip. That is, of course, if you trust us with such sensitive details. He didn’t break your confidence to tell us what you’d hired him to do, and I’ve yet to unseal the envelope with his questions. I will do so only if you agree.”

She wanted to refuse. Not because these people didn’t deserve her troubles, despite being no stranger to them. But rather because she could see in each earnest pair of eyes that these three were offering more than help. They were offering friendship and trust. And she wanted it so badly that it must be unwise to indulge the desire.

The things she wanted most were always the things that hurt the most when they were ripped from her.

Her mouth didn’t seem to get the message. When she opened it to refuse, she heard herself instead say, “That does seem easiest. I’d hate to make Mr. A travel up here.” And then, as if she weren’t consigning them all to danger, she leaned forward a bit and said, “You see, I’m searching for my ayah, Samira. But she wasn’t where she said she would be.”