An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Chapter 3

THREE

P ain seared, throbbed, stabbed. Sometimes it was pinpoints, focused on her chest and side and leg. Sometimes it was an agony that devoured her entire left side. Alethia’s throat ached, too, which she dimly suspected was from screaming.

When had she been screaming? She knew better than to scream. People could hear screams, and then they would come to investigate, and then she’d be in such trouble. The threats would begin, bruises would appear ... then the questions. Questions would start. Questions were her worst enemy.

She had to push through the pain. Sit up. Get away from wherever she was. She had to find Samira, make certain she was safe. Together they’d escape the house and find refuge in the gardens. Together they’d sing until the nightmare faded. Her ayah would tell her a story to calm her—the princess and the monkey, or the mongoose and the cobra. Those had always been her favorites.

But it hurt . It hurt more than anything ever had before, and when she finally forced her lids open, the light seared her eyes like a thousand suns. She winced away from it, and even that small movement brought the pain to life anew. A groan escaped before she could stop it.

“Shh. It’s all right. The doctor says you’ll make it.”

Doctor? Make what ?

And whose voice was that? Feminine, but not familiar. Not Samira. Not Mama. Not the cook. She tried again to open her eyes, more slowly this time, squinting. It helped. The blinding light receded, and the room around her came into focus.

Only, it made no sense. Not her room in Calcutta—but of course not. She hadn’t been there in years. England, they were in England, where she could “grow up properly” and “meet the right people.” Where “everything will be right and normal, dearest, you’ll see.”

Only nothing was right, and she didn’t know what normal was even supposed to be, and in England she had no real friends, no familiar stories, no Samira to soothe the nightmares away.

This wasn’t her room in England either, neither of them. Not the austere bedroom at Barremorral Manor, not the spartan chamber on Grosvenor Square. This room, as it came into focus, was something altogether unfamiliar. Pinks and ivories, lace and toile, a four-poster with a beautiful draping canopy in the same cheerful, unfamiliar shades.

The voice. She had to find the owner of the voice. She turned her head to the side, careful now to move slowly.

A woman sat at the side of the bed. Young, though older than her. Perhaps twenty-five, twenty-six? She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she wasn’t exactly not. An understated face. A tired face. She had shadows ringing her eyes, and the braid that fell over her shoulder stretched down to her waist, framing a stomach round with a coming child.

She knew her—no, she recognized her, though they’d never met. Mama hadn’t bothered arranging many introductions to other young ladies in their years at home, other than those she’d met at school. Or at least not unless they had eligible brothers. Marriage was the only goal, she’d said. Not friendships.

Except this young lady did have an eligible brother, but Mama had been too intimidated to ever approach her. Lady Marigold Fairfax, that was her name. Well, it had been. She’d got married last year to an untitled chap who was the presumed heir to his uncle, an earl. She still went by the honorary title she’d been born with and would until her husband inherited a title of his own. So it was Lady Marigold Livingstone now, but simply Lady Marigold in conversation.

Alethia had seen her absolutely everywhere, but here, in this room, it was the simple clothing that had confused her. In public, Lady Marigold never appeared in styles less than audacious—even now, in her condition. Mama had been aghast at the “indecency.” Secretly, Alethia had cheered for her. She didn’t know this woman, but she was being who she wanted to be.

But ... why was she here ? And why was Alethia? She blinked, drew in a slow breath, and tested her throat with a soft clearing. Despite that persistent ache, it seemed functional. Enough, anyway, to brave a whisper. “Where am I?”

Lady Marigold smiled and reached for her hand. “Fairfax House—not so far from yours on Grosvenor Square. We’ve sent a note round to your parents letting them know you’re safe but haven’t had a reply yet.”

“They’re not at home. They won’t be back for a week.” The words tumbled out on their own, and only when she’d spoken them did she realize they were true. Another piece of the puzzle snapping back into place through the fog of pain.

Mama and Father had gone with Uncle Reuben to a house party she’d had no desire to attend. She’d had to pretend to be ill to get out of joining them, but she’d done so successfully, and they’d left her in London. It was the only reason she’d dared to search for Samira and then, when she failed to find her, contact the private investigator whose card she’d found at Mama’s favorite ladies’ club, the Alexandra.

The Imposters. Discreet Disclosures for the Most Discerning.

She’d followed the directions printed on the back and sent an inquiry to an address she’d never heard of before. A reply had promptly followed, with instructions on where to meet the investigator.

And then ... what? A church, she’d gone to a church. But after that, it was fuzz and darkness.

No clues eased forward to explain why she was here, in the home of Lord Fairfax and his fashion icon of a sister. “Wasn’t I ... at a church?”

The lady smiled. “You were indeed. The church of our friend James Parks—he’s the son of our former steward. We grew up together. My brother visits him regularly when we’re in London, and he happened to be there when you were attacked. He and James brought you here straightaway.”

Her brother—Lord Fairfax—and James. A vicar, from the sound of it. They’d brought her here, after ...? “I was attacked?”

Shouldn’t she remember that? She didn’t—yet even the mention of it lit a fear all too familiar, yet all too new. The pain, the fire consuming her left side, burned hotter. She didn’t remember an attack, but she remembered the fear that had inspired her to reach out to the Imposters to begin with.

Samira was in trouble. Samira was missing. And every question she’d dared to ask had been shut down—except Victoria must have known something was wrong, to insist upon a meeting to give her information about Samira. Why hadn’t she shown up?

And then Samira’s friend had been . . . what? Hauled away, though she didn’t yet know why or to where. Her demands for answers certainly hadn’t yielded anything beyond a few condescending sneers from Victoria’s own husband.

And what of the investigator she’d been meeting? Had he been there? Was he injured? Or, worse—was he working with whoever was behind Samira’s disappearance?

Surely not. That would have been too coincidental. Wouldn’t it have been?

“You were shot,” Lady Marigold said in answer to the question she’d forgotten she even asked. “Three times—though the physician reports that God certainly must have set His angels to protect you, because nothing vital was hit. He’s removed the bullets and says that you’ll make a full recovery so long as we can ward off infection—which I am confident we can do with the help of an amazing honey mixture we keep on hand.”

Her expression not shifting from its calm lines, she continued, “Two people, it seems, followed you to the church. You’d been speaking to an older man, and he reported it to us. You seemed to recognize the men who entered, though he didn’t see their faces. My brother and James hurried out, and this man suggested they take charge of you and bring you somewhere safe, where the men wouldn’t think to look. That’s why you’re here instead of in hospital.”

Hospital . A shiver coursed through her. She’d never been in one, and she was glad of it. People would ask questions in hospitals. “That was ... very kind.” She didn’t bother asking how Lord Fairfax and this reverend friend knew who she was, to send a note round to her parents. Perhaps they’d never been officially introduced, but they were featured in the same papers, she and Lady Marigold.

Her one victory that was entirely her own. That single act of stubbornness—the jutti shoes—had worked in her favor rather than ruining her when Mama had deemed her finally ready for a Season this past spring. For whatever reason, the columnists had decided the Indian articles made her a stand out rather than a misfit. And society had followed their lead. Perhaps they scorned her behind her back, but to her face, they exclaimed over her pashmina shawls and beaded shoes, her Indian handbags and too-bold jewelry.

Every last bit of it belonged to Samira, even if her ayah had hated each and every piece. Shackles, she’d called them. But still, they were hers , the only physical link she had to Samira. When Alethia had chosen to wear them, it had been a statement. Hence the outrage that had burned in both her parents’ eyes when they realized what she was doing. But it had been too late by then.

“We are happy to help a neighbor in need.” Lady Marigold leaned closer, concern in her eyes. “In addition to the gunshots, you hit your head. Dr. Keats thinks it likely that you’re concussed and said he would be very surprised if you remembered anything from the hour leading up to the incident.”

Not a question. But a question, nonetheless. “I remember going to the church but not actually getting there. And nothing afterward, until now.”

The lady nodded. “As expected. The man with whom you were speaking...” She paused, brows lifted, waiting to see if Alethia was going to expound on who he was.

She didn’t. How could she? All she knew was that his was the favorite private investigation firm of aristocrats, and that he answered to Mr. A. She knew that he’d instructed her to take the penitent’s side of an old confessional in that church, and to quote a particular line of Shakespeare to let him know that she was his potential client. Beyond that, she hadn’t a clue.

Apparently her silence wasn’t about to deter Lady Marigold. “He’s an investigator—a good one,” she said. “He suggested we get you out of London immediately. For your own safety.”

Out of London . Hope and fear, want and want-not, warred within her. She hated London, so leaving it would be a boon. But she had to find Samira. Yet, how could she do that if she was dead? If whoever had followed her to the church found her again? She pressed her lips together.

Lady Marigold nodded. “He said you would object, but that we ought to assure you that he is on the case and will see to your concerns here.”

He was? Relief sang through her now, and it sounded like a Bengali lullaby. She sagged against the pillow, not even realizing that she’d been tense beforehand. “Does he need more information?”

“You apparently had a few documents with you, which he collected from your seat. And we gave him our direction in Northumberland so he could keep you updated, or even come for another interview if necessary.”

“Northumberland?” She’d never been there. And she oughtn’t to bring this family of strangers into her problems simply because Lord Fairfax had the misfortune of being there when her enemies caught her up.

Enemies she hadn’t even known she had. Enemies she’d gained because she’d dared to ask questions. She’d always known questions would be her undoing. She just hadn’t thought it would be now, this way.

She swallowed. “I do appreciate your care ... but you have no reason to put yourself to any trouble for my sake. Please, deliver me home, and—”

“No.” No equivocation. No discussion. The lady somehow delivered the single word as if it were beginning, middle, and end. Her smile made it seem like she’d decided on her next hat, not on protecting a stranger from murderous criminals. “As it happens, my husband and I were going home to Fairfax Tower tomorrow anyway, and we were already bringing Lady Lavinia Hemming along with us. Another guest is no trouble.”

“Another guest hasn’t brought gunmen into your life.”

Something strange flickered through her light brown eyes. “Nevertheless. We have no doubt the Lord has crossed our paths for a purpose. Lord Hemming has already volunteered his private train car for the journey, so you will be as comfortable as possible, even given your wounds. We’ll leave at first light. I’ll send another note to await your parents’ return, letting them know where you are.”

Would it not have looked infinitely strange, she’d have asked her not to. Even so, she couldn’t contain another wince. “What did your first note say? You didn’t tell them I’d been shot, did you?”

They’d never let her out of the house again. Especially if they learned this had to do with Samira.

With any luck, her question would simply sound like a devoted daughter not wanting to alarm her parents. And perhaps it did, because Lady Marigold gave her a reassuring smile. “I only said that you’d been injured and we brought you here. I may have made it sound like you took a tumble and turned your ankle. Mr. A led us to believe that your parents were unaware of your contact with him and hence of the situation that led to this. We thought it wisest to preserve the illusion for you, for now. Was that the right decision?”

She let her eyes slide shut. “Yes. Thank you.”

“And now I can simply say that we had such a delightful time talking that I invited you to keep me company during my confinement, and you accepted. They may be a bit irritated, but hopefully not so much that they chase after you before you have a chance to recover.” This time, the smile Alethia opened her eyes again to see looked more like a grin, young and cheeky. “I am at least considered a reputable chaperone, if too bold in my styles, given my condition. Your parents shouldn’t object to you being in my company.”

No doubt Alethia’s cheeks looked as pink as they felt, but she didn’t bother arguing. Especially since Mama had said more than once this summer that she must brave seeking out Lady M’s attention soon, so that they could then finagle an introduction to her brother. Father had apparently tried to strike up a conversation with Fairfax in Lords, but the young earl always seemed to arrive at the last possible moment and slip out of the Sessions before Father could catch him up.

“I’m certain they won’t object,” she murmured. “Though I maintain that it is asking too much of you.”

“You didn’t ask it.”

“Mr. A did.”

Another smile, this one mysterious. “Mr. A has helped us in the past. Let’s call this a favor to him rather than to you, shall we?”

The Imposters’ fees were steep enough that their payment to him ought to have been all the favor he required. But perhaps he’d gone above and beyond in whatever they’d hired him to do. That was a pleasant thought. “Then ... thank you.”

“And would you like to dictate instructions on what your servants should pack for you?”

“Oh. Yes, please.” If she was going to be spending any length of time in the windswept north, then she’d want her own items of comfort with her. Samira’s shawls, namely.

Marigold stood and moved over to a little desk against the far wall, using quick motions to pull out paper and a pencil. As she did so, a knock sounded on the door, and the lady abandoned her writing supplies to go and answer it.

She didn’t open it wide, and she kept her body in the space she created, which made Alethia think it a man who stood there even before he came into view. He leaned into the opening, shoulder against the doorframe, towering over Lady Marigold by more than a head.

Her brother, Lord Fairfax. She’d seen him across many a ballroom—it was impossible not to notice him. He was tall, yes, though no taller than many other men. But he was broader by far, and the shirtsleeves he wore now in his own home, rolled up above his elbows, revealed arms more muscled than she’d ever seen. And his face, with its square jaw and topped by a wave of dark hair, wasn’t just handsome. It was charming, his eyes always twinkling, his smile always bright. Even now, as he looked down at his sister, despite Alethia’s surely unwelcome presence behind her.

Mama would probably be grateful for the gunshots if she realized they’d landed her in the Fairfax home. Like Austen’s Mrs. Bennet, happy to sacrifice Jane’s health if it meant time spent with the Bingleys.

“I’ve sent a note to Hemming’s people about outfitting the train car properly. Have you seen Vinia?”

Lady Marigold shook her head. “Not since before my nap, while you were still out. I thought you said she was in the drawing room when you and James arrived?”

“Yes, but she vanished in the melee. Clementina said she wasn’t in her room. Did she mention going home for something?”

The lady shook her head. “She can’t have really vanished . Check the gymnasium.”

Lord Fairfax snorted. “You have met Lavinia, haven’t you?”

“She comes to the gymnasium all the time.”

“To talk to you, sure.”

“Library?”

“Empty.”

“Perhaps she’s tucked herself away in one of the upstairs sitting rooms. She can’t have gone far.” A pause, then, “Why are you looking for her?”

A shift in his face, from amused to concerned. “She didn’t look well when we brought Lady Alethia in. Not that she would admit it, but I think seeing her wounds...”

“Oh!” Lady Marigold’s hand flew from the door to her face. “I didn’t even think!”

“Hence why I thought perhaps she’d gone to lie down and didn’t fret overmuch. But I would like to be certain she didn’t faint from the sight of the blood somewhere and knock herself out. One unconscious young lady in the house at a time, you know.”

The door had drifted open another inch or two when Lady Marigold let go of it, and Lord Fairfax darted a gaze past his sister. It caught on Alethia before she could close her eyes again—why was that even her first reaction? Lady Marigold already knew she was awake. He smiled anew, and it was soft and welcoming. “Well. Looks like our guest has awakened, so I suppose that means Vinia’s welcome to faint if she wants after all.”

Lady Marigold turned to flash her a smile as well. “She is, and she’s agreed to the plan. I was about to take down her list of things to be packed.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Find me when you’re done?” The lift of his brow said something more than the words, which his sister could apparently understand without any issue. She nodded, and a moment later, she’d closed the door again.

For one second, Alethia tasted disappoint on her tongue—dry English scones, not a hint of the spice she preferred, that’s what she always thought of when disappointment gripped her. One of England’s most eligible young lords had been looking right at her and still no introduction.

But then, this was hardly the right situation for one. And before she could lament it more than that second, the pain surged again.

There would be plenty of time for proper greetings later. For now, she had better focus on not embarrassing herself with another groan. Or, worse still, inviting the nightmares back with a scream.