Chapter Thirty-One

It had been four days and Honoria was tired of being stared at with pity. Four blasted days in bandages that the doctor insisted

were "all for the best, my child." He wouldn't even permit her to look in a mirror when he redressed the wounds.

Additionally, Oscar saw to it that a maid stayed with her at all times. He claimed that it was in order to see to her every

comfort, but she felt as though she were under guard.

If she didn't get out of this bed and out of this shroud she was going to go mad.

She felt well enough. Her megrim had vanished after the second day. She was no longer nauseous. Her appetite had increased,

which was not necessarily good when one lay abed all day long. And, frankly, after four days of being swaddled, coddled and

pampered to death, she needed a bath.

Thankfully, before madness tipped her over the edge and as she began to rearrange the pillows around her for the hundredth

time that day, Thea arrived for a visit.

"Oh, fair sister! What news have you brought from the outside world?" Honoria asked in a death-scene voice as she reached

out with a dramatically shaking hand. "Tell me, is the sky still blue? Do foals still frolic over field and fen?"

Thea chortled as she sank down onto the edge of the bed. "Be careful not to say that too loudly around Father or he'll start repeating it before every performance in place of our usual tongue-limbering exercise."

Together they both grinned and recited, " Percival, Peter and Carlton Culpepper ."

"I think the Culpeppers would become quite bereft if we replaced them. They've always taken such pride in being part of our

every performance," Honoria mused.

"But I think Vandemere would prefer it if you never spoke their names again."

"Ugh! Do not say his name to me. I'm thoroughly vexed with that man for keeping me in this pillowed prison. He treats me as

though I'm made of glass. As though I'm incapable of taking care of myself."

It irritated her all the more because he'd told her that he believed she was capable and strong, but he was treating her as

if she were the opposite.

"Perhaps it's because he loves you, hen wit."

Honoria shook her head, adamant. "It isn't that way between us. We understand each other too well for any genuine affection."

"I don't believe that for an instant," her sister fired back. "I've seen the way he looks at you. In fact, I've even taken

notes for a future character in a tragic play."

"And why, pray tell, must it be tragic?"

"Because all the best plays are."

A shiver rolled over Honoria, reminding her not only of the man who wanted to kill Oscar but of the fact that he'd refused

to take the money to save himself.

"Well, I hope your play ends happily when the hero escapes the villain's clutches."

Thea looked at her pointedly. "But do villains simply give up, head to Dover and sail away?"

Because of her foolhardy escape from the parlor and subsequent urn-to-the-head mishap, her entire family knew about the man who was after Oscar. Not everything, of course. He'd played it down as an old misunderstanding with the wrong sort of fellow. The kind of fellow who even her brother would have been wary of encountering. And she made certain to write Truman with a mention of this version of the truth, just in case.

But was she convinced that Ladrón had abandoned his quest for payment and vengeance so easily? No, she was not.

She'd wanted to say as much to Oscar, but the only time she'd been able to speak with him privately was that first night when

the maid was snoring.

He stopped by to visit during the day. Short, chaperoned visits.

However, he had crept into her chamber at some point each night. She knew this because she would find him asleep in the corner

chair beside her bed if she woke before dawn from a troubling dream. Seeing him there and feeling comfort in his presence

would help her fall back to sleep.

But he was always gone before she woke up later, as if he'd never been there at all.

He was good at leaving, she thought grimly. Hadn't he told her that he'd spent his whole life doing just that?

"I plan to talk to him about it... if we can ever have a moment alone. I feel as though I've lived three lifetimes in this

bed. And I really don't feel poorly at all. My head is sore when I touch it, but I saw the bandages when the surgeon removed

them yesterday, and there was no fresh blood."

"Does your face itch? Mother always says that when a cut is healing it will itch, and we must not scratch it."

"Not on my face but definitely in my hair. It drives me positively insane. However, that could be because I need a bath."

"You definitely need a bath," Thea teased, pinching her own nose and earning a playful swat. Then she sobered and looked at

her with concern. "Are you worried about what you'll find?"

Thoughtful, Honoria drew in a deep breath. "Strangely, no. Of course, when I first woke up to find my head wrapped in bandages, I was alarmed. But then I saw the way that Oscar looked at me in the same way he has always done, which is to say directly through me—"

"That would be unnerving."

"In the beginning, yes. Quite. But in that moment, a sort of peace settled over me, calming the spiraling storm before it

could sweep me away with worry. And then I remembered who I am," she said with a flippant shrug, concealing the fact that

this one moment caused a monumental shift inside of her.

"Most annoying sister in the world?" Thea supplied sweetly, batting her lashes.

She laughed and took her sister's hand, noticing the worry beneath the dry humor. "I am one of many Hartley women capable

of overcoming any obstacle. Like Mother has always said, ‘We are made of ether and iron, the heavens and earth.' And whatever

waits beneath these bandages, nothing will alter that."

She thought of Ernest, then of Mother. And she wondered if Roxana Hartley had always possessed such resilience or whether

it was a skill she'd had to learn?

Something inside Honoria knew the answer. "Where is our mother, by the by?"

"Having tea in the rose garden with the widows. She brought over cakes and biscuits, in hopes of procuring some of the famed

rose honey. Apparently, they've shared a good portion with Mrs. Brown, who has been selling out of Dunnelocke honey buns every

day."

"I had no idea. That was rather sweet of them to share," she said. And she had a sense that Oscar had had a hand in this.

"If they aren't careful, people will start to like them, and then where will they be?"

Her sister laughed as Honoria lifted her hand to gingerly touch the back of her head where it had begun to itch again. She was trying to be good and ignore it, just as the doctor suggested, but all she wanted to do was rip off the bandages and dig her fingernails into her scalp.

Frustrated that the instant she lightly scratched one spot, the itch would move to another, she dropped her hand to whip back

the coverlet. "Thea, I need your assistance, but I must swear you to secrecy."

A pair of fabric shears slid out from her sister's pocket. "I came prepared, just in case."

***

Ever since Mr. Price had gone—and good riddance to him—Oscar had taken over the duties of the lord of the manner.

He knew from his tutelage under Rowan Warring that a gentleman's main goal was to ensure the longevity of his estate and produce

an heir who would take on those duties one day. And yet—after visiting tenant farms; collecting rents; looking over the fields

of wheat, barley and beans; learning about a potential problem of sheep rot, which he planned to research as soon as he found

a book on it in the library; and hearing an earful about complaints and troubles that Mr. Price hadn't dealt with for years—Oscar

didn't know when a gentleman was supposed to have the time to find, woo and bed the lady of the manor in order to produce

the heirs for which he was trying to provide.

Oscar had pondered this conundrum several times over. But as soon as his mind pictured Honoria as the lady of the manor, brightening

every room and leaving that sunlight-and-biscuits scent wherever she walked, he hated Vandemere all over again.

The promise he'd made to find him was like a knife twisting in his gut.

But Vandemere wasn't here yet. Oscar was.

So the first spare moment he was able to find, he went to visit Honoria.

When he rapped on her door, the maid informed him that she was in the bath.

The floor nearly dropped out from under him at the mention, the images swimming through his mind so heady that he had to prop

his hand against the wall. And when the maid stifled a knowing giggle as she went back to her task, he realized he'd neglected

to shield his cards.

The skills he'd learned as a gambler were slipping already. That was alarming. He was going to need those to be sharp again

soon.

He forced his thoughts away from Honoria. A very naked Honoria... in a soaking tub... with scented oils... and those

oh-so-inquisitive fingers she'd once told him about...

Then again, perhaps he should just go up to his bedchamber and think about it for a few minutes, in depth, just to take the

edge off.

It was his own fault. He'd been leaving a Queen of Hearts card on her breakfast tray each morning and promising to collect

on it later. But they'd never had a single moment alone. So with all these uncollected kisses compiling each day, his need

to feel her lips on his had grown into something just short of madness.

Nearly at the stairs, he was just rounding the corner when the nurse hailed him.

"Good day, Lord Vandemere," she said with a smile, and he returned the greeting. "I was just on my way back to her ladyship's

sitting room with this. I thought you might enjoy reading from another one of your father's books of poetry."

With his mind preoccupied, it took a moment for him to realize what she held up in front of him. But at the recognition of

the slim red volume, Oscar went still. "Another?"

"Aye. Her ladyship has three of his books in her private collection. I thought you knew." When he took out his battered copy

from the inner pocket of his coat, she issued a sorrowful smile. "Doubtless you thought the books were destroyed with all

of his other things."

"I'd only heard that portraits and papers were destroyed."

She shook her head slowly. "Such a sad day for us all, especially for her ladyship. The late Lord Vandemere was in a tirade.

You see, he'd chosen your father's bride. Said he was to marry an heiress, for the good of the family. But when Master Titus

refused and married for love instead, your grandad just couldn't forgive him. Though, I suspect he didn't know about the books

because your father was clever and kept his name out of them. Had them printed just for her ladyship, he did."

Oscar didn't allow himself to express the tumult of shock sprinting through him. And he couldn't simply ask if Titus Fairfax

had written this. But comparing the two, it was obvious that—if his had been on a shelf for all these years instead of inside

a pocket, day in and day out—the books would look identical.

"Show me," he said.

She beamed. "Right this way, my lord."

A few minutes later, Oscar stood in a drafty tower room and stared at a narrow bookcase with two other volumes. Four in all.

Four books all written by Titus Fairfax.

It finally answered one question, but he still didn't know why or how his own father had attained the volume of Awildian Palace .

Not until he turned his head and saw the miniature hanging beside the mantel. And for the second time, the floor tipped and

seemed to give way beneath his feet.

A miniature that held a face similar to the one that Oscar remembered from his childhood. "Did you know this man?"

"Aye. I was just starting as a housemaid at the time that Master Titus was still here, but I remember him."

"And are you sure... are you absolutely certain that this isn't a Fairfax cousin of some sort?"

She issued a soft laugh as if she thought he was a bit addlepated. "As you know, there are no male cousins in the family at

all."

Oscar drew in a breath. Shook his head to clear it. And yet, no matter how many times he blinked he couldn't discount the fact that Titus Fairfax and John Flintridge could have passed for brothers.

He was already reaching up to study the miniature closer when he saw his hand shake. He lowered it again. Curling his fingers

into his palm, he felt the weight of the onyx ring.

He had to ask. Had to know. "The earrings in the dowager viscountess's portrait. What happened to them?"

"The earrings?" She blinked, confused. Then her index finger pointed to the ceiling. "Aye. I remember it now. That was how

it all began. Master Titus had sent a letter to his mother announcing his marriage. Her ladyship, in turn, sent him her earrings

as a wedding gift to his bride. Oh, but when his lordship discovered what she had done for a son that he'd disowned, he flew

into a rage. Such a sad day," she repeated, clucking her tongue.

Whenever he'd asked Cardew where he'd gotten the ring, his response was the same as it had always been: that he'd won it in

a game of cards from a stranger.

Was Titus Fairfax that stranger who'd gambled it away?

The book. The ring. And now the similarities to the likeness in the miniature. Oscar shook his head, trying to make sense

of it, much in the same way that he followed a hand of cards, calculating the next one played.

Perhaps this was just another in a series of coincidences.

Or perhaps...

He didn't finish the thought. Not even a whisper. And yet, the ghost of it, a mere shadow flitted briefly like a filmy cloud

crossing the moon, and he wondered if possibly...

"It left her ladyship's poor heart in tatters, it did. But when the first of your mum's letters arrived, she started to have

hope."

He blinked. "Letters?"

"Went on for years, it did. They would arrive around your birthday. Lady Fairfax kept them tucked away in this box behind the—" The nurse stopped short when she opened the lid of the small casket, secreted away at the back of the shelf, and found it empty. "Well now, that's strange. Thought for sure they were here. I read them to her myself shortly before your arrival."

Her brow knitted, and her gaze turned distracted as she quietly retraced her steps.

First the misplaced ledgers and now missing letters?

To Oscar, it seemed that there was something more going on than three suspicious widows who believed he was a charlatan.