Chapter 8

The evening ended prematurely. It never recovered from Marcus' brusque manner with his guests. The Dowager Countess of Claydon had mingled with the other guests, spreading poison in her wake. Marcus sat in his study, on the first floor of the castle's eastern wing. It had a vaulted stone ceiling and stone worked grotesque moldings at the corners of the ceiling. A fireplace dominated the room, its stone black. The chimney breast rising from it was inscribed with the Roy family coat of arms.

Armor stood to attention around the room in between dark bookcases lined with dusty volumes. Marcus lounged in an armchair with frayed and faded upholstery, facing the fire. A full tumbler of brandy was in his hand, hanging over the side of the armchair. His dark eyes were lit by dancing flames.

I am worse off now than I was before. I have made an enemy of Claydon, an influential old crow feared more than she is respected. I can count on the fingers of one hand those who did not want to leave at the earliest opportunity, with Luke being one of them. Damnation!

He could see the stories spreading out from this night like a plague. The roguish Duke. The reclusive Duke. Consorting with servants and courtesans. Insulting his guests and berating them for upholding decent and proper values. With a flash of anger, his arm lashed around and hurled the brandy into the fire, glass included. The flames roared briefly higher, and the glass exploded against the ancient stone of the fireplace.

I should ask her to leave. She is responsible. She should have remained in her chambers, but she chose to come downstairs though she was not of sound mind.

But that wasn't fair, and he knew it. Truly, she had not been of sound mind, disorientated by her illness and the trauma that had made her flee Sawthorne. The kiss had been in response to his kindness, an expression of gratitude and relief to be finally somewhere safe. She had no idea of the damage she was doing.

Selina. Selina. What happened to you? What happened between you and my brother? Growing up in this snake pit, he must have been the worst of men, surely. But to have won your heart…

He steepled his fingers before his face, closing his eyes and trying to focus his mind. As a boy, he had fled into the towering Cumbrian hills whenever the world grew too much for him. In the lee of an ancient boulder that had probably watched the Romans march by and found calm within himself. It had become a useful exercise that he could replicate anywhere, though it was always the sight of those brooding hills that he brought to mind to achieve it.

The answer was clear. There were two solutions and only one of them was acceptable to Marcus. A knock at the door disturbed him.

"Not to be disturbed, I said!" he barked.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace. Doctor Livingston has requested a moment of your time," came the voice of Tom Beveridge, the butler.

"Very well, Beveridge. In he comes," Marcus called out.

The door opened and Luke breezed into the room, marched to the sideboard, and helped himself to a generous measure of brandy. Seeing Marcus empty-handed, he poured a second and handed it to him.

"Cheers," Luke said.

"Your health," Marcus replied, taking a swallow.

"Quite the adventure tonight, eh?" Luke added.

"That's one word for it."

"Indeed. The question is, are your bridges burned? You couldn't have picked a worse person to bark at than Claydon's blasted widow."

"I'm aware, Luke. And I've already decided on a course of action."

"Really? Jolly good then. Because as I saw it, your only choice would be to divest yourself of Selina Voss, preferably sending her back to Sawthorne. Then grovel."

"I had realized that," Marcus said, taking another drink, "and rejected it. She has suffered some terrible trauma. And came to me for help. I will not turn my back on her because it is inconvenient."

"She came to your brother for help, old man. Who is dead. Take away that illusion and you're a complete stranger to her," Luke pointed out, sitting forward in his seat and stabbing a finger at the air to emphasize his point.

"I know that. I have to re-evaluate my views of my brother. I have been reading those journals of my father's that we found in the attic. It paints Arthur as the worst kind of creature. Dissolute and degraded. If that is true, what happened to him? Because he clearly was not always so."

"He was ground under your father's considerable boot," Luke suggested. "…So if you will not rid yourself of Miss Voss, then what? The ton will see her as a…pardon my language, but as a whore. They will never accept you in those terms."

"So, I will marry her," Marcus said with finality.

There was silence between them for a long moment. The only sound was the cracking of logs on the fire and the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.

"Marry?" Luke said finally in a tone that suggested he thought his old friend to be mad.

"It is about time, and the Voss name is a respectable one," Marcus replied.

"Even so. It seems…precipitate. Why not just send her to one of your other properties? Or how about Windermere? I should be glad to let her have the run of the place. That way she is out of sight and mind, but you won't have abandoned her."

Marcus shook his head. The house on Lake Windermere had belonged to Doctor Samuel Livingstone, Luke's father. Marcus had grown up there from the age of eight after being exiled by his own father. Now, the house was Luke's. It had occurred to Marcus that he could send Selina away without washing his hands of her. But the thought was not appealing.

I do not want her to leave this house. It makes infinite sense to pack her off to Windermere where no one will associate her with the Roy name, but I will know she is safe. But she will not be nearby. Not be close at hand. I will not be able to see her.

That was what it came down to, but he was loath to admit that to Luke. He wanted her company. Wanted to be close to her. Whether it was purely because of her presence, or the fact she could be the missing puzzle piece to unravel his convoluted life, he was not sure.

She is in love with Arthur. Or was. The longer she stays in Valebridge, the more inevitable it becomes that she will realize that I am not him. Then all might be lost. But I cannot let her go.

"Very well. I do not need to tell you the risks you run," Luke said.

"You do not. I have considered them," Marcus replied.

"What happens when she deduces that you are not Arthur?" Luke asked.

Marcus tossed back the rest of his drink and laughed, a short, mirthless bark. "I do not know. Perhaps an even bigger scandal. But it is the only option."

* * *

Selina sat in a window seat in her sitting room, miserably staring out at the darkness. The maid, Gracie, had brought her a pot of steaming coffee. Selina had used the coffee to rid herself of the effects of the wine. Then, for good measure, she had dunked her own head into the bowl of cold wash water, holding it under until she emerged, gasping for breath. That had been a few hours ago. In that time, she had contemplated leaving Valebridge quietly, the clothes she had arrived in had been laundered, dried, pressed, and returned to her that evening.

I have made a great deal of trouble for Arthur. Trouble that he does not deserve. And what further trouble will I bring? What if father discovers that I am here? What if someone recognized me this evening?

Kissing Arthur in public, in front of such refined guests would hurt his reputation and destroy her own. But she could not bring herself to run away again. For so long now, the goal had been Valebridge and Arthur. Upon finding him, her dreams had come true. He was more handsome and chivalric than she could have hoped, even with the scar that she had somehow forgotten about. Now, Selina simply wanted to be comforted in his strong arms. To feel safe once more.

She changed out of the servant's dress and put on a night dress, as though to confirm to herself that she would remain until at least the morning. For a while she sat at the dressing table, combing out her long, fair hair. It lay now about her shoulders, dark with moisture. Her pale reflection stared back at her in the opaque black windows. Beyond the window was the South Downs. Out there, somewhere, was the Lost Valley. At the heart of that valley was the Fairy Dell.

The recollection of the names that she and Arthur had given to those places made her smile briefly. But the reality of her predicament washed away the good feeling of those memories. Her brow furrowed and she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her bare arms around them. Tears pricked her eyes, and she rested her head on her hands. Sleep had begun to encroach when there came a knock at the door.

Selina lifted her head, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hands.

It will be Gracie. She has been so kind and thoughtful. I should tell her she is relieved of her duties for the night, let the poor girl get some sleep.

"Come in, Gracie," she called.

The door opened. But it was not Gracie who stood there. It was Arthur.