Chapter Seventeen

By the time Quin caught up to Augusta and delivered her safely back to the stables—against her will—the situation had worsened. Thunder banged and crashed in the sky so loud that Quin wondered if ordinance had deployed and exploded and war had broken out again. The electrifying wind mercilessly tore at Augusta's skirts, which also caused her bonnet to be ripped off her head. As a result, they were both soaked through and through.

Together, they bypassed the stables and rode to the main house, where he quickly passed off Crab's reins and handed them to Ellis. He dismounted and rushed to Augusta to help her dismount.

"Quickly," Quin shouted to Clifton and Fish, the first two footmen to rush outdoors. "Get Mrs. Prendergast inside."

"And you, sir? Will you be following?"

Shivering uncontrollably, Augusta turned to face him, her icy blue eyes shooting daggers.

"No. I must return the horses and confirm the stables are in order." She was about to protest. The tell was there, but her anger, and the powerful cold and damp pulling on her limbs prevented her from making a move toward him. "They are my responsibility."

Another loud clap of thunder overpowered them.

She shrank back, overtaken by fear. Luckily, Ellis was there to stave off her panic.

"See that my wife gets everything she needs." His eyes locked with hers, the desire to take her upstairs and bring her body back to life gripping him. And while explaining why he'd done what he'd done would satisfy his need to apologize to her, it would do nothing to safeguard their futures. The horses and stables came first. If anything happened to them—"I'll be back soon. I promise."

He didn't wait to watch Augusta enter the house. The danger necessitated speed. Confiscating Crab's reins while soothing Careless, he struggled to mount the saddle, the cold reaching in and seizing the muscles in his bad leg as he found his seat. Grimacing, he led the horses back to the stables and hedged his way across the short distance. Mud thickened the ground, saturating the land, with courses of water already streaming past. Dense sheets of rain reduced his visibility, but knowing his direction by heart, he slowly made his way to shelter, gritting his teeth.

His thoughts quickly turned to Augusta, and he said a silent prayer that no harm would come to her in his absence.

"Sir!" Jimmy's shout carried on the wind when he arrived. The boy wore a sealskin coat, the oiled garment a man's best defense against the deluge. "Sir! Where is yer mistress?"

He rode into the courtyard, Jimmy following and shouting to make sure he was heard.

"Mrs. Prendergast is at the house."

"Is she well, sir?" he asked, his voice filled with understandable concern.

Dismounting, he handed Jimmy the reins to Crab. "She will be." Indeed, a hot bath and some brandy should set her back to rights, even though he would rather hold her in his arms and warm her blood himself. As for her anger, well, that was debatable.

"I 'ope ye 'ad time to enjoy yer picnic before the rains came." Water drained off the roofline and onto Jimmy's face. "I've been fearin' for ye both. The land can be treacherous on 'orseback."

"We made it. Thankfully, Mrs. Prendergast didn't get lost on the Downs. She is an excellent horsewoman."

"That she is," Jimmy agreed.

"Aye. But even the best horseflesh can react wildly in a storm," Hatt said, appearing to take Careless's reins. "Thank the good lawd ye've trained these horses well, else I hate to think what might have become of the two of you."

"Nothing happened, so let's focus on the stables." He quickly changed the subject so his head didn't have to spin around the topic. He was worried enough about Augusta as it was. Thankfully, however, she was resilient. Inspecting the building, he asked, "What about the new wing?"

"There's been a bit o' damage." Hatt and Jimmy exchanged worried expressions. "And the new stalls are flooding."

Shock yielded to fury, but Quin tamped down his ire, knowing every stage of a new venture had pitfalls. Storms disrupted the best laid plans. "The horses are our major priority now. We'll address the building when this tempest blows off. Let's get Careless and Crab paddocked and rubbed down."

If only a pat and a rubdown could win Augusta's heart.

Augusta walked thehalls of Rolleston-on-Dove alone, putting each alcove and room to memory. She conferred with Mrs. Banks. Coordinated with the housekeeper and several maids. Wrote letters to Delphi and her mother, and read in the library to pass the time, all the while under orders not to leave the house.

This did not sit well with her for many reasons. The first being she was prepared to hire to travel back to London to discover what else her family knew about Mrs. Pigeon, or more correctly, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon. From there, she would purchase a ticket to Lyme where good company by way of a most beloved sister would bolster her spirits.

Every attempt had been thwarted thus far, however.

Days had passed without Quin making an appearance, though Ellis assured her he checked in occasionally for a meal and a change of clothes. Flooding was rampant. Workhorses in the field were missing. Tenants required help. The expanded shed's roofline collapsed, damaging the new wing of the stables. Fortunately, none of Quin's prized horses suffered any harm.

Meanwhile, with nothing better to do but twiddle her thumbs, Augusta meandered through the house, feeling frustrated that someone had caught her attempting to go to the stables on the guise of helping her husband. What they didn't know was that she had every intention of borrowing the carriage. Perhaps convince Jimmy or Hatt to accompany both her and Louisa.

Seeking solace in the grand room, she stroked several keys on the pianoforte, the meticulously packed picnic ever-present in her mind, and Quin's confession concluding in disaster. She touched her mouth, recalling how close they'd come to sharing a kiss. The dance, the push and pull, quite like the one they shared at the Claremont's ball, a mixture of pleasure and panic, each drawn to the other but unable to connect.

Even now, the melancholy pained her.

Quin.

Everything had been a lie. The thought of looking into his eyes and hearing his smooth, baritone voice explain his deceit made her nauseous. Had their meeting all been a ruse? A ploy? She had to devolve herself of such notions. Though she knew in her heart that Quin had been nothing but a gentleman, there was still that niggling fear in the pit of her stomach.

And yet, she'd never been more alive than when she had been with Quin. She wanted that feeling back. Hated that it had been stolen from her. Longed to feel his powerful arms about her, to experience the press of his warm lips against her mouth. To breathe in his breath and have it fill her as if they were one being, not two.

Was this love? Could she love this man after the lies and betrayal? They'd only been together a short period of time. Was what she felt real?

Lottie and Grey had been apart seven years, only to come back together and forgive the misunderstandings that had separated them. Kilverstone had fallen in love with Thenie almost immediately, though the baron had used a game of truth or dare to win her heart.

Moving into the library, she stopped short of dismay. How long did Quin intend to stay away? How long would this despondency go on inside her without him?

She walked to the window overlooking the great expanse of the lake and sat down on the window seat. Pulling out a series of letters she'd just received from Delphi, she read the beautiful script on the foolscap again to stave off the doldrums, tears filling her eyes.

Dear Augusta,

I write to you from Basingstoke, our first stop on the way to Lyme, and as I sit here next to a navigable canal, I realize I hardly know how to function without you nearby. Do you feel the void as deeply as I do? The sense that you have lost a part of yourself even though you appear whole in the looking glass. I miss the way we used to talk about anything and everything, endless discussions about our experiences, thoughts, what we have heard, and the people we have met. Now, we limit thousands of conversations to letters penned after losing thoughts. Gone forever.

I am lonely, though Grey is handsome and entertaining, and I appreciate his companionship. In time, I know this feeling of isolation will lessen, and the distance will not seem like such an abyss. Do not fret over me, sweet sister. You have always known what I was thinking, and I—well, I know you are going through so much on your own adjusting to your wedding, your new station, the move to Kent, and your new life with Mr. Prendergast. The joy and euphoria will surely overshadow the loneliness hampering new beginnings.

I have to chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all—the scandals eluded, the marriages of convenience and partings. Oh, the web we weave. Where would we be now if Thenie had not played Kilverstone's game? Surely attending balls and dabbling in flirtations, just as we planned, and given more time to entertain childhood fantasies. Laughter being the best medicine of all.

Can you believe I wait for you to finish my sentences, pretending you are here, beside me? But strangely, when I look around, you are not here. And I wonder, in those quiet moments, how I am to rely on others, to trust and move on in a world separate from you. Do you feel the same way? I imagine you do. We are the same, you and I. Two peas in a pod and ever in each other's confidence. And so, for now, we must share our feelings and desires in letters, knowing in our heart of hearts that this connection we share will never allow us to feel the barest sense of loneliness.

But I persevere, understanding that we must dedicate ourselves to our new lives, living apart, knowing what we can overcome. I will defeat my illness. Of this, I am certain. Worry not in my stead, for I am determined. I will recover and we will be together once again.

Your loving sister,

Delphi

She had to recover. There was no other alternative Augusta could bear. Tearfully, she folded the letter and set it aside, then reached for the second one that had arrived with it.

Dear Augusta,

We have made it to Salisbury, the home of the picturesque Gothic cathedral, after traversing muddy roads. Grey tells me the spire is over four-hundred-feet high, though I have no recollection of that fact. Can you imagine? The Resurrection painting on the large east window reminds me of the works of Sir Joshua Reynolds, however. And the grand market is full, the area much improved since our last visit.

Dear sister, I press on with an important confession. Before I left Mayfair, Lottie visited me and confessed something that changes everything. A secret neither of us have ever been privy to understand, truths kept from us for our protection. Prepare yourself. Lottie's mother did not die in childbirth. She is alive and living in London. Yes, it is true. She's well-situated but forced to remain anonymous, because she is, in fact, Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon, the Black Widow of Whitehall!

She lowered this letter with a gasp. Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon is Lottie's mother? But how can that be so? She is also Quin's cousin. What are the odds? And was this the other part of Quin's secret that he refused to reveal? Mrs. Dove-Lyon had come to their dinner party because of Quin. Perhaps that had been her plan all along, to bring them together in order to be closer to her daughter. The looks beyond the veil made much more sense now. She'd had the overwhelming impression that the widow had taken particular interest in Lottie.

Determined to learn more, she read on.

While this is shocking news, she explained further that Mama raised Lottie at Mrs. D-L's request in order to prevent anyone from finding out she was the daughter of a courtesan. Yes, that means Mama and Papa always knew, which is why they were always protective of Lottie. The sacrifice it takes for a mother to give up her very own child for the greater good has flooded me with respect for the widow of Whitehall.

No! Mama and Papa knew too? All along, they were privy to information that might have influenced her, and yet said nothing. For pity's sake, was she the only one in attendance who hadn't been aware of Mrs. Dove-Lyon's connections? She gasped and reread Delphi's perfect script.

The sacrifice it takes for a mother to give up her very own child...But Uncle Bertie is Lottie's father, which means—

She covered her mouth to keep from crying out in alarm. "Am I the last to know?"

She read on.

The cost of keeping this secret is great, trickling down to us—your betrothal and my sudden spree to Lyme. It is a confidence so vast and deep there can be no threat of its ever-reaching Society. Perhaps the possibility I may go to my grave never knowing the truth spurred Lottie to reveal a confidence confirmed by Grey on our journey. But Grey also revealed a surprise more directly related to you. Oh, Augusta, my sweet sister. If I were sitting beside you, I would break this to you more gently. However, there is nothing to be done other than to come straight out with it. Mrs. Dove-Lyon is Mr. Prendergast's cousin. There, I have said it. Indeed, your husband went to the Lyon's Den seeking a wife. Grey was in attendance when the widow added Mr. P's name to Papa's list, the very one fashioned for our use.

After the miraculous circumstance of your meeting Mr. P in the park and his connection to Lottie's mother, I am now more convinced than ever that you have married the right man. However she managed it, Mrs. D-L discovered your connection to Mr. P in the park and worked diligently to reunite you. And when my health improves, I will travel to Sevenoaks to visit you and tour the grounds. By then, your love for Mr. P, and the countryside, will have surpassed the secrets and the lies told to keep them.

For now, I travel to Lyme. I look forward to seeing Aunt Beatrice and the sea. Aunt B has always been wonderfully attentive to us, having no children of her own, and will no doubt have access to the best physicians and apothecaries. Though I confess, she will never be a replacement for you or Mama. How I miss you both terribly. I will be forever grateful that we met Mr. P, and he suggested a seaside convalescence. I am looking forward to walking in the sand and feeling it natural and soft between my toes. Scandalous!

I must away. When I think of you and your new life, I ask you to be compassionate to your husband. There are bigger things at work here than either of us can imagine, and I wonder with awe at how happy you must be to have your very own home. Worry not for me. Once my health improves, you may find me at your door, come to govern your children.

Your loving sister,

Delphi

Augusta lowered her hands to her stomach and glanced outdoors, regarding the once calm lake now muddied by the tempest. The sight mirrored the turmoil coiling inside her. Quin knew. He'd known all this time about Little Lottie, and about the scandal surrounding Thenie. And he hadn't told her, even knowing the wedge this information would put between them, introducing his cousin as Mrs. Pigeon.

Silent and defeated, she raised her hand to her mouth. Mama and Papa had known all along who Mrs. Pigeon was! The irony overwhelmed her. Dove. Pigeon. Quin's mother's name, Mary Dove. Why hadn't she connected the dots?

But she had, hadn't she?

Mrs. Pigeon. Mrs. Dove-Lyon. Widow's weeds. The staunch need for privacy, the refusal to lift her veil even to eat...

The interaction between Uncle Bertie and Mrs. Pigeon had suggested something untoward had happened between them.

Bruised hearts and regret? His preference for a particular courtesan during the ball Mama had thrown for Lottie. Had her uncle and Mrs. Dove-Lyon once been involved? Was Mrs. Pigeon the Black Widow of Whitehall?

The betrayal she felt was an indescribable agony somehow now seemed a minor infraction, especially because it was done to protect a confidence, not inflict hurt. It was as if she'd instinctively always known the manner of things, suspecting the connections. The enormity of it all, the improbability had held her back.

Now she knew why. She understood Quin. He was afraid she'd hate him when she learned the truth.

She did not hate him. She loved him. He'd been the first to rush to Delphi's side when she collapsed, carrying her like a knight to safety, protecting her dignity, all the while Lord Boothe watched and waited like a spider.

She got up and strode to the desk. There, she spruced a sheet of parchment, dipped a quill in ink, and earnestly wrote Delphi back.

Dearest Delphi,

Thank you for your letters. Their arrival makes my heart soar. Sweet sister, words cannot describe the loneliness I feel without you here. You are my best friend, and our bond has always provided me with a sense of wonderment and wholeness. I pray for your health every day, and want you to know that even though miles separate us, we are still very much connected. Neither of us can or ever will be alone. We began our journey in life together, and we shall end it the same.

First, I am very happy to hear that your journey to Lyme with Grey is going smoothly. I hope the roads have cooperated. Secondly, I owe you a debt of gratitude for sharing the secrets which our family has held dear all these years. The information sheds light on so many things I have taken for granted. I am hurt to learn that I have been kept in the dark, but it brings me comfort to know that our family acted in our best interests. Thusly, I will not harbor ill will against anyone. The lives we lead result from said secrets. Lottie has always been devoted to our family, and our family has always been devoted to her. She and our uncle have come to our rescue frequently, and even now, I am indebted to Mrs. D-L for my current happiness.

Know that you will always be welcome at Rolleston-on-Dove. How I wish you could see this place with its grand home, gardens, lake, and stables. You will be happy to know that I recently learned Quin asked Papa to send Bellerophon to Kent. I cannot think of a greater wedding present than to be seated on my beloved horse once more. Meanwhile, I am taken with a mare named Crab. Yes, it is nonsensical to name a horse Crab, but she has a brilliant sideways step which earned the moniker.

There is so much I want to tell you about my relationship with my husband. He is a good man and has lofty plans to raise race horses. And he surprised me with a picnic, of all things, on our ride together. Sadly, the weather chose inconveniently to ruin our—

She dropped the quill, smudging the foolscap and nearly tipping over the inkwell in her haste. Righting the topper and saving her letter from destruction, she sprinkled sand on the page then sat back as a brilliant idea struck her.

Quin had come and gone at intervals to repair the damage done to the stables. He's been wet and cold and hungry, clearly not thinking of himself. I may not be able to go to him, but I will make sure he comes to me. And I know just the way to earn his attention.

If the household could transport a picnic to the hills, why couldn't she order one to be set up in the library?