The Secret Pearl(96)

The duke still said nothing.

“Yes,” his brother said. “Of course I will leave alone. I really have no choice in the matter if I want to do the decent thing, do I?”

His grace turned his head and looked at him coldly.

“It is just rather a shame that we both fell in love with the same woman, that is all,” Lord Thomas said. “We had a good relationship until Sybil entered the picture.”

“Perhaps it is a shame that we both did not fall in love with her,” his grace said. “I could have lived with her loss, knowing she was happy with you, Thomas. I would have recovered because I loved her. What you have succeeded in doing is destroying all her happiness and all my love. Yes, we did have a good relationship—once.”

Lord Thomas continued to smile.

“I left a message that you were to go to her when you returned from fishing this morning,” his grace said. “Did you go?”

“She is ill,” Lord Thomas said. “I am sure she needed to be quiet.”

“Yes,” the duke said. “It seems hardly worth the effort of visiting her if she is not well enough to be bedded, I suppose.”

His brother shrugged.

“I hope she finally realizes the truth about you,” his grace said, “though she will not hear it from my lips. Perhaps after all the pain she will finally be free of you and be able to make something meaningful of her life. Hindsight is easy. I can see now that I should have insisted that she listen at the start.”

Lord Thomas shrugged once more and spurred his horse ahead to ride beside Miss Woodward and Sir Ambrose Marvell.

Just before dinner that evening a note was delivered to the duke to explain that Lord Brocklehurst and Sir Hector Chesterton were to extend their visit with Sir Cecil Hayward to include dinner and an evening of cards.

And so one rather unpleasant day was almost behind him, his grace thought, though the main order of business would have to be postponed until the following morning. He left a message with Lord Brocklehurst’s valet that his grace would be pleased if his lordship would join him for an early-morning ride the next day.


IT WAS VERY LATE. She should have been in bed long before, Fleur knew, especially since she would have to be up even before daylight. But she did not believe she would sleep anyway. She counted her money once more and cursed herself again for buying those silk stockings when they had been a pure extravagance.

She was not sure she had enough. She was not at all sure. But if there was just enough for the ticket, she would not worry about food. She could go without food for a few days. She had done it before.

She could, of course, try to borrow a small sum from Ned Driscoll. But she would probably never see him again to repay the debt, and perhaps she would never have the money with which to do so.

Besides, Ned was already making a sacrifice for her. He had agreed to take her in the gig before dawn into Wollaston to catch the stage. He had been very unwilling to do so, and she was quite sure that if she had offered him money—if she had had money to offer—he would have refused quite adamantly.

But she had had only her persuasive powers and her knowledge that he had a soft spot for her.

Perhaps he would be dismissed for helping her. But she could not think of that. She could not take yet one more burden on her mind. There was no other way of getting to Wollaston on time beyond stealing a horse. She had never stolen anything.

She looked again at the small bundle of clothing that she had tied inside her old gray cloak and wondered if taking the clothes she had bought with his grace’s money in London was theft. But the thought of putting on the old silk dress and gray cloak made her shudder.

She was leaving Willoughby Hall. That much she had decided in the course of the day. She had felt rather like a bear chained to a post all day long—indeed, she had felt much the same for almost three months. She could take no more. If she stayed even one day longer she would lose a part of herself, of her innermost being, and when all was said and done, that was all that was left to her.

She was going to the only place she could go and maintain her pride and integrity. She was going home—to Heron House. By doing so, of course, she was only going to certain destruction. But there were some things worse, she had discovered in the course of three months, than the prospect of facing charges that she could not defend herself against. There were some things worse than the fear of the ultimate punishment.

If she were hanged, she would lose her life. If she remained as she was, she would lose herself.

He could help her, he had said. He would help her. As Matthew had done? He would save her from imprisonment and death in exchange for certain favors? He had denied it vehemently and she had believed him—almost.