Once dressed, she fitted Sweetpea into her harness, put her into the basket, and made her way downstairs and out into the rose garden. The day was warm, and the roses were blooming in such tawny-yellow and golden profusion that it looked as if a pride of lions were all sleeping on top of each other.
She had been in the garden only a few minutes when she heard a patter of feet. She was stooped over, tickling Sweetpea, but she straightened to find Prudence Larkin running toward her.
Her first inclination was to turn and quickly walk away.
There was something about Prudence she disliked, beyond the simple fact that the woman was in love with her fiancé. For one thing, Willa couldn’t dismiss the idea that Prudence had written Wilde in Love with the intention of disgracing Alaric, even if it had produced the opposite effect.
At the same time, she was convinced that Prudence was watching for an opportunity to get Alaric alone and attempt to compromise him.
And lastly, Prudence’s habit of murmuring blessings was extraordinarily irritating. Only vicars and other clergymen were qualified to bless people, as far as Willa knew. Prudence’s father may have been a missionary, but ordination wasn’t hereditary.
Shaking all that off, she summoned a polite smile as Prudence trotted toward her, her face pinched and anxious.
“Miss Ffynche, Miss Ffynche!” she cried as soon as she was close enough. She came to a stop before Willa, panting and wringing her hands.
“Good afternoon, Miss Larkin. Is something the matter?”
“It’s Miss Belgrave,” Prudence gulped. “Miss Diana!”
Willa waited.
“Verily, she has made up her mind to eschew the bonds of matrimony and has returned from whence she came!”
“Ah,” Willa said. This news was not particularly surprising, given that Lavinia had said that Diana was gathering herself to make this very decision.
“She left no note, and she didn’t even take her maid,” Prudence gasped.
“What?”
“Miss Belgrave instructed me to ask you to break the news to Alaric.”
Willa’s brows drew together at this informality.
“I mean, to Lord Alaric!” Prudence said defensively, adding, “He should be the one to tell Lord Roland.”
Diana had left without a word to her fiancé? Willa’s mind spun for a moment, thinking of the longing, pain, and desire with which Alaric’s brother regarded his fiancée.
Diana should have found the courage and grace to inform North herself.
Willa didn’t entirely blame her for leaving. A woman ought to love her spouse, no matter how advantageous the match. Still, there were so many better ways to handle a delicate situation like this than running away.
Prudence was still wringing her hands.
“Miss Belgrave told you?” Willa asked, unable to contain her incredulity.
“I saw her go.” She hesitated. “I followed her and asked her where she was going. I knew she was fibbing to the butler because she had a hatbox. Why would she take a hatbox to the village?”
That made sense. Prudence was always watching from the corners and she was just the sort to spring out and demand an explanation.
“Very well,” Willa said with a sigh. “I’d better find Alaric.” She scooped up Sweetpea and returned her to the basket.
“I know where he is,” Prudence said, taking her arm and tugging.
Willa held back. “How would you know that?”
“I watched from the window as Alaric went down that path.” She gestured away from the castle. “I shouldn’t watch him, but it is a hard habit to break. I am trying.” Her cheeks were pink, her voice pained. “I have decided to return to London.”
“We’ll all be leaving soon,” Willa said, trying for diplomacy as they began to walk.
“I shall leave tomorrow.” Prudence’s chin led the way. “I tell thee the truth: Alaric has disappointed me. I wrote a play for him; I dreamed of him; I loved him. And how did he repay me?”
“Betrothing himself to me had nothing to do with you,” Willa said, untruthfully. “He didn’t even know you were alive, remember?”
Prudence threw her a bitter look. “We will catch up with him soon.”
Willa stopped. They had reached the stone wall at the eastern end of the garden. The neat gravel walk had branched off and led them to a heavy wooden door, half-obscured by rosebushes, that Willa had never before noticed.
Prudence dropped Willa’s arm and pushed open the door, which moved easily, given its heft. On the other side, the gravel was replaced by wooden planks that led straight into Lindow Moss, the peat bog that they had been warned in no uncertain terms not to enter.
The bog where Lord Horatius had lost his life.
Prudence curled her arm through Willa’s again. “Shall we?”
“I’m turning back.” Willa jerked her arm away from Prudence’s. Sweetpea jolted from side to side and sat up with a little hiss, curling her claws on the side of the basket.
“No, you are not,” Prudence stated.
“Don’t be daft,” Willa said, exasperated. “Could you try to be more rational?”
“Did you think I don’t know?” Prudence asked in a low, throbbing voice. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out about you?”
“Insulting me will not put you in Lord Alaric’s good graces.”
“Everyone knows how you wooed him!”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Willa said. The afternoon sun was making Prudence’s eyes sparkle like cut glass.
“Sneaking him into your bedchamber,” she hissed. “Did you think I wouldn’t know it? Or that I won’t write a play about it? Wait until Wilde in the Country makes its way onto the stage. Everyone in London will clamor to see it!”
Oh, for goodness’ sake.
“If you write that play, you will ruin Alaric,” Willa said, making her voice very, very reasonable. “You love him.”
“I believed I did,” Prudence said. “Perhaps I should give him another chance.” She cocked her head. “No, I think not.” She slid her hand out of the side slit in her gray dress. “I would like you to walk down the path now.”
She was holding a small pistol that looked as if it had been made for her hand. Unbelievably, it seemed that Prudence had been carrying a weapon in her pocket, which she was now pointing directly at Willa’s head.
“May I just say that Wilhelmina is one of the ugliest names I’ve ever heard?” Prudence said, breaking the silence as Willa stared dumbfounded at her. “I hate to offend you, but I have a writer’s soul and a reverence for words.”
“I’m going to return to the house now,” Willa stated, stepping back again.
“Perhaps you assume that I will miss,” Prudence said, her white teeth gleaming. “Allow me to disabuse you of that error. I am an extremely good shot, even at a distance—and this is not much of a distance. We practiced regularly in Africa, because sometimes the only thing that can stop a crocodile is a bullet through the eye. Did you know that?”
Willa shook her head.
Prudence gestured with the pistol. “My belt holds additional gunpowder and bullets, in case you’re wondering. Go on. Get in front of me. You’re going to walk through this door and down the path.”
“Why?”
Prudence’s brow furrowed. “You have to ask? Because you’ve stolen Alaric’s soul. Men are weak and prone to sins of the flesh. He won’t be able to make a reasonable decision until the doxy is removed from his sight.”
Willa’s mind was whirling. Where were the duke’s gardeners, or a groom, or even another guest? With great reluctance, she started down the plank path, because something in Prudence’s face suggested she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
They continued in silence while Willa racked her brain for a way she might save herself. She walked as slowly as she thought she could risk without provoking her captor.
“Do you know that Puritans consider plays to be the work of the devil?” Prudence said abruptly. “My father was convinced of it.” Her voice took on a sing-song cadence. “ ‘Such spectacles are filthy infections, such as turn minds from chaste cogitations, dishonoring the vessels of holiness, leading to a state of everlasting damnation.’ ”
“He sounds like a blunt man,” Willa replied. The wooden planks under her feet were placed on relatively firm hillocks. Darker green patches indicated water holes, if she remembered correctly.
“A good description for my father,” Prudence agreed. “He abhors unsavory morsels of unseemly sentences.”
“Most alliterative,” Willa said, trying to stay calm. Might she be able to lunge backward and knock Prudence off the plank, in hopes the woman fell into a bog hole? Was she capable of allowing another human to drown?
No.
What if she didn’t have time to rush back to the castle and fetch men to pull Prudence out? What if Prudence thrashed and sank quickly? Look what had happened to Horatius.
What if she could somehow knock the pistol into the swamp?
“May I put Sweetpea down?” she asked, slowing to a stop. If they went much farther she would lose sight of the castle.
“My father scorns filthy, lewd, and ungodly speeches,” Prudence hissed. “But the words of truth … the words I told him were rooted in my heart, those he also condemned as lewd.”