An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Chapter 2

TWO

Lavinia paced to the far side of the Fairfax library, less interested in a book than in an excuse. Something to hold in her hands so that Marigold wouldn’t see her sitting idle and ask what was wrong. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have been enough to work—her oldest friend would notice if she didn’t turn pages at the proper pace—but it stood a chance, given her own exhaustion. She had, in fact, gone up to rest, but she promised to be back down within an hour.

Not daring to doubt her word, Lavinia had instead decided on finding false occupation. She pulled a book at random from the shelf and returned to the drawing room. Her muscles felt as though they were made of lead. They’d been feeling that way for months, growing heavier and heavier with each passing day.

She hadn’t mentioned it to Papa. If she did, she knew she’d have gotten that worried frown he’d given her far too often in the last six years, the one she knew was borne of love but which made her feel like a burden. He’d insist she go home to Alnwick Abbey ... which sounded lovely, on the one hand. But he couldn’t go yet, and the last thing in the world she wanted was to be alone at their estate.

There were too many memories there. Too much of Mother still haunted the halls. Too many pieces of Lavinia’s childhood greeted her everywhere she turned, taunting her. Perhaps it was a lie , each room seemed to say. That laughter was false. That embrace was for show. She never loved either of you .

Sitting back on the same sofa she’d occupied before, Lavinia opened the book—and smirked at the title page. One of Graham’s books of architecture, it seemed. A treatise on the medieval cathedrals of France.

Thrilling.

She’d read far more widely during her illness than any of her friends would realize, but she had to admit that books like these rarely held her attention, even when she had nothing else to distract her. Now? Hopeless. And pretending to read it would be as much a giveaway of her state of mind as staring blindly out the window, but with a bit of luck, Marigold wouldn’t notice the title when she came back down.

Luck would have to suffice—because she was not walking down that corridor again. She intended to stay right here on this comfortable cushion and savor the fact that she had no memories of her mother in this room. There were no ghosts to haunt her here. None but the ones in her own heart.

Daughter of a traitor—that makes you half a traitor yourself . Untrustworthy. Unworthy. Unloved.

She flipped past the title page and to the opening paragraphs. Then, for good measure, went ahead and flipped to chapter two, so that when Marigold returned, it would look as though she’d been doing something.

The words blurred as she let her eyes go unfocused, and for the first time in months, she let her shoulders sag. Papa wasn’t at hand to frown and hover and ask her if she was all right. Marigold wasn’t nearby to ask if she needed to talk through her feelings yet again. None of her suitors were here, expecting her to be the perfect earl’s daughter, the perfect match, the perfect future wife.

She leaned her head back and let her eyes slide shut. She almost wished she could have faded into the wallpaper of the Season like most girls—especially ones as old as she. Last year, she’d been determined to make the most of it, to meet the most eligible bachelors, to find a husband to take her away from what she’d begun to realize was a tense situation between her parents.

Last year, though, she’d believed her mother’s betrayal was simply— simply? —infidelity. An affaire de c?ur , horrifying and lamentable but normal. Almost ordinary. She hadn’t realized as she’d danced with the most handsome young lords that her mother was even then planning an assassination. That she was using Papa’s connections at the War Office to sell out their agents to Germany.

She hadn’t known the legacy of treachery she’d inherited along with her mother’s family’s holdings.

No one knew, aside from the Fairfaxes. Because of the top secret nature of the intelligence Mother had been compromising, it had been covered up. A neat, tidy story told of a heart condition that struck her suddenly.

Society thought Lavinia’s quieter demeanor this year was from the grief of losing her mother. And she let them think that. Because what else could she possibly say? “Actually, my mother hated England and loved her father’s homeland more, and all these years she kept in touch with her German family so that she could pass vital intelligence along to them. She only married my father so that she could utilize his connections. And me? I was an inconvenience of that alliance, which she resented. She threatened to kill me to try to control my father. Isn’t that lovely?”

Not exactly polite conversation. Nor could she ever speak the words she thought at each new introduction. How do you do, Lord So-and-So? Tell me, can I trust you with more than a dance, or will you use me and my inheritance for your own purposes and run roughshod over my life, not caring about the wreck you’ll leave behind?

It was no wonder she was exhausted. She’d spent the last four months looking for double and triple and quadruple meanings in every compliment and question. There hadn’t seemed to be any hope of escape since Papa needed to be here for the Sessions, and she wasn’t about to return to Northumberland without him.

But when Marigold had sent a note round this morning saying she was leaving, the plan had formed quickly and completely. Lavinia would simply go with her. Stay at Fairfax Tower, close enough to her own house to feel like home, but with none of the questions glowering at her from each corner and cupboard. She could keep her best friend company, help her in her final months of pregnancy since they had only a skeleton staff left at the Tower, and escape this heaviness for a while.

The front door burst open, which jolted Lavinia and made her lose her fake place in her stage-prop book. Yates? Certainly anyone else would have knocked, and Yates was the sort to burst into a place without warning, but it seemed a bit boisterous even for him. She tossed the book aside and surged to her feet as all expectations for a quiet afternoon crashed to bits.

Yates, yes. He strode into the room with a look she’d only seen on his face once before—when he stood in the line of her mother’s weapon, ready to die if it meant helping others get to safety. But this time, he carried a figure in his arms, who not only lolled unconscious against his chest, but whose lovely white day dress had gone crimson with blood in three different places.

Vaguely she noted that the front door closed again, and James Parks ran in behind Yates, no room in his expression for anything but worry. “What about Dr. Sterling?” he asked. “He’s trustworthy.”

“His wife’s one of London’s fastest-tongued gossips.” Yates moved directly toward Lavinia—no, toward the sofa. “Do you mind, Vinny? And would you spread that old blanket out first?”

For a single second, she blinked, no idea what he meant. All she could think was that he hadn’t called her Vinny since they were five years old, when her mother had threatened to forbid him from playing with her and Marigold if he dared to use such a horrid nickname again. Then she realized he needed the sofa for whoever the unconscious woman was, and she leapt to spread the blanket before backing away, muttering something incomprehensible like “Yes, sorry, here, what?”

James had darted around her and was arranging pillows in a way that made no logical sense whatsoever. “Dr. Jaffrey?”

“On holiday in the Med.”

“What about Keats?”

“Hmm.” Yates eased the woman down onto the cushions. She didn’t so much as stir. “Yes, he’ll do. And Butterfield at Scotland Yard—no one else.”

“Right. I’ll ring them both up.” James darted from the room, not so much as glancing Lavinia’s way.

Understandable. She darted to Yates’s side and looked down. Her throat went tight. That wasn’t just any girl. That was Lady Alethia Barremore. “Yates?” The question ended on more of a hiss than she’d intended, but what was she supposed to do? He’d said he was stepping out for an ap pointment, and he returned an hour later with a bloodied daughter of a viceroy in his arms. She snaked out a hand and fastened it to his arm like fangs. “Tell me she isn’t dead. You wouldn’t be fetching a doctor if she was dead, would you?”

She couldn’t be. The blood was still seeping, staining, growing. Lavinia’s head spun, her vision blurring.

“Her pulse is steady,” Yates said by way of answer, crouching down and pressing big fingers to the graceful column of Lady Alethia’s neck, wanting to verify his words anew.

It wasn’t Lavinia’s head that was spinning—it was the whole world. She had to reach out again to Yates to find something steady, gripping his shoulder this time, since he’d escaped her hand so easily. “What did you do?”

Only when she heard the words fall from her lips did she realize how they would sound. She didn’t mean to imply that he had caused whatever wounds afflicted the young lady—she knew Yates too well to think him capable of that. But how had he found her? Was he with her? Were they...?

She drew her hand away again and immediately regretted it. But rather than reach out a third time, she stumbled to the nearest chair and fell into it. It wasn’t that Yates didn’t have a right to court whatever pretty young socialite he pleased. But she should have known it. Marigold should have told her. The fact that she hadn’t meant that Marigold didn’t know, and if Yates’s sister didn’t know, then it meant he was sneaking about, and that was an outrageous thought.

But then why was James with them? The vicar surely wasn’t involved in any secret trysts.

Yates shot her a look she couldn’t begin to decipher. “Where’s Marigold?”

“Resting.” She would offer to go and wake her, but that would mean leaving Yates alone with Lady Alethia, which didn’t seem proper. So instead, she got up again and moved to kneel beside him. Her throat went tight. “Are those ... bullet wounds?” She was no expert on types of injuries, but these were telltale.

Not like Mother’s had been. The rifle shot that had stopped Mother from killing Marigold had left a wide, gaping wound. These were smaller.

Yates somehow shifted to block her view, his hands landing on her shoulders, lifting her back to her feet and pushing her away all at once. “She’s apparently angered some dangerous men with some questions she raised. She ... ran into James’s church for assistance, but they caught her up. James and I brought her here straightaway. It didn’t seem wise to take her to hospital with such men after her. She’d be too easy to find.”

Her eyes went wide, and she craned to see around him. “How fortuitous that God led her to James and you!”

He shifted to block her view again. “Vinia. You don’t need to look. I know...”

She squeezed her eyes shut but only for a second. One second to gather the mask she didn’t think she’d need here in her best friend’s house. To become Lady Lavinia, heiress to Lord Hemming again, rather than her . Then she lifted her chin. “I am perfectly capable of helping. And would never forgive myself if I didn’t.”

Yates scowled. “Don’t you dare do that with me.”

She planted her hands on her hips and scowled back, even if it did require craning her head a bit. “Don’t force me to.”

He stared at her for a moment and then huffed out a breath. “Stubborn as Marigold. Fine. Will you stay with her a moment while I fetch said stubborn sister of mine?”

She couldn’t have said why the question made the shell fracture and fall away again. But her shoulders relaxed. “Of course.”

He ran from the room, and she heard him taking the stairs at a pace that said his long legs were swallowing at least two or three steps at a time. And she wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he rode the railing down again either. She’d seen him do it—and not a decade ago. Last week.

But right now she wasn’t going to waste any time shaking her head over his ridiculous antics. She knelt again at Alethia’s side and repositioned the pillows under her so that they supported her head and the small of her back and under her knees. “There.” She spoke softly, having no idea if the young lady could hear her. “I’m Lady Lavinia. We’ve been at some of the same parties but were never introduced. I’ve read about you, though. And we’ve seen each other about in the neighborhood.”

And as those articles sprang to mind—some of them penned by Gemma, who Lavinia had been chuffed to learn a few months ago was none other than her favorite columnist, G. M. Parker—she found her gaze drifting down the young lady’s legs, to the shoes in clear view.

Jutti shoes, their embroidery and beading capturing in a glance what had society labeling this girl an exotic treasure. Not that there weren’t young ladies aplenty who’d spent their childhood in India, but only Lady Alethia chose to proclaim it with her clothing. There was always something from the subcontinent on her person. The beautiful shoes, a pashmina shawl, Indian jewelry...

The wounds were still oozing, and the smell of blood very nearly made Lavinia wish she’d let Yates insist she was too delicate a flower to handle this. And to be honest, she had no idea what to do. Weren’t you supposed to stanch the flow with something?

Even as she thought the question, Clementina flew into the room, towels in hand, whispering something along the lines of “The poor dear!” in a voice perpetually husky. She’d damaged her vocal cords years ago and been forced to retire from the stage, but Lavinia knew she’d once been a renowned actress; her husband must be at rehearsals even now, as Lavinia hadn’t spotted him at the door pretending to be a butler this afternoon. They’d given up the pretense in her presence sometime around June, when she’d pointed out to Marigold that she knew very well who they were, and given that her own family had hired half the staff they’d had to dismiss from the Tower after Marigold’s father death, they could give her a bit of credit, couldn’t they, and admit they were strapped?

Regardless, Clementina knew better than she did how to help, and Lavinia found herself nudged out of the way so gently, she wasn’t even certain how she ended up sitting in the middle of the floor like an absolute dunce. Unnecessary. Useless.

The next moment, Yates flew back into the room, Marigold keeping pace with him. Her cheeks were still pale, but some switch looked to have been flipped. She hurried to Clementina’s side—and the actress-cum-cook didn’t nudge her away. Then James came back into the room, declaring that both doctor and inspector would be arriving soon. When he nearly stepped on her skirt, Lavinia scooted even farther out of the way.

Her heart pounded. Did it hurt? Was it straining? Had her cheeks gone sallow again, the circles made an appearance under her eyes? She closed them, focusing on the rate of her breath, the way her heart felt in her chest. She didn’t think it was in any danger, but how was she really to know? Mother or Papa had always been the ones to gauge her, study her, and insist upon rest when she pushed herself too hard.

Her vision blurred again, but it wasn’t from a lack of blood flow. Had Mother ever really cared whether she died? Had she in fact hoped she would, so that she could be free of what chained her to Northumberland, what kept her from London, where she could better gather the intelligence she sought for Germany? Had she only made those efforts to preserve Lavinia’s health so that Papa wouldn’t be angry and see through her?

Behind her, Marigold, Yates, Clementina, and James kept talking and moving about, running out and in again, fetching this or that. Lavinia set her bleary gaze on the space between one of the chairs and the corner behind it. She’d made herself a little castle in such a spot when she was a girl, draping a blanket over the back of the chair and securing its other ends on the bookshelves that had filled the corner in her own house. She’d brought in pillows and books and her favorite doll and passed many a rainy autumn afternoon there.

Maybe that was why she found herself crawling into the space now without really making a decision to do so. Certainly without giving any thought to how ridiculous she must look—had anyone bothered to look.

It wasn’t her castle. There was no magical light filtering through the thin pink blanket she’d hung, no cushions and pillows turning the floor into a sultan’s tent, no tin of biscuits and chocolates snuck there by a doting cook, no doll waiting to listen to today’s adventure. There was simply a hardwood floor, the corner of a rug, and shadows enough to conceal her.

It would do. Lavinia settled in the corner, her back against the meeting of the walls, and pulled her knees to her chest. An ignominious position for a titled young lady of twenty-three, without question. Had Mother seen her thus, she would have...

But Mother wasn’t here. She would never chide Lavinia for anything again. Mother was dead. Shot because she’d been trying to kill Marigold as payback for Yates and Sir Merritt interfering with her plan to murder both Papa and the German half brother Lavinia hadn’t even known Mother had.

Were she stronger, Lavinia would have been able to keep the tears from pricking for the millionth time in the last fourteen months. Were she stronger, she’d be out there helping care for the wounded Lady Alethia instead of hiding in a corner. Were she stronger, she’d be praying for that young lady’s health and recuperation rather than focusing on her own overwrought heart.

“You’re too weak, Lavinia Rose .” It was Mother’s voice in her head, reciting the phrase that had become her mantra. The reason she couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t go downstairs, couldn’t visit Marigold, couldn’t go to London for a Season when she first should have. You’re too weak.

If only it weren’t so true.