An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Chapter 10

TEN

T he dream had fangs as piercing as daggers, dripping with venom and swaying like a cobra. It was the one Alethia hated most—the one she knew was a dream, and yet the knowing couldn’t break through it. No matter how many times her sleep-silent lips chanted, “It’s only a nightmare,” the nightmare laughed in her face.

She knew that laughter. Hated it. Feared it. That laughter sent her running every time she heard it. Up the stairs, past the courtyard, into her room. Crying for Samira, shouting for her.

In the dream, she could hear Samira’s voice in the darkness. Feel the soothing touch of her trembling hand over her hair. But she couldn’t see her. She could never see her because it was night. Always night, endless night. Deeper than dark as Samira shut her in the only safety they could find, locking the door and hiding the key.

He’ll find you , the nightmare whispered in her ear. He knows exactly where you are.

“Don’t scream,” Samira whispered, the Bengali a cadence of comfort in the treacherous dark. “Whatever you do, don’t scream, or he’ll find you.”

But she wanted to scream. She wanted to clasp hold of Samira’s hands. She wanted to pull her into the wardrobe with her, cry into her shoulder, cling to her. She wanted to beg her to stay where it was safe too.

But Samira never stayed. Not in the dream. Not in life. As a girl, she hadn’t understood it. As a woman, she did. And it made her love her all the more.

Samira! The cry was silent, even in the nightmare, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth by terror and dread and memory and sleep. Samira, come back!

Her absence didn’t feel like protection, it never had. It felt like writhing snakes and sinking sand and rising water. It felt like suffocation and starvation and infection. It felt like bullet wounds burning her side.

“Samira!”

She could hear her, speaking the same low, soothing words she always spoke. Telling her to be quiet. Telling her to pray. Telling her to trust in the God who was so good, despite people being so evil. That beloved voice singing a lullaby outside the wardrobe door until the footsteps came.

Only the words weren’t right. The lullaby had changed. Still soothing, still rhythmic, still the cadence that meant comfort and peace. A hand soothed away the sweat-soaked hair that clung to her cheeks, but it was bigger than Samira’s, stronger.

“Wake now, sweet one,” the voice crooned. “You are safe. It is just a dream, yes?”

The nightmare never wanted to release her, but it always did. Alethia opened her eyes with a gasp, trying to bolt upright but then falling back again at the pain the effort caused.

Zelda shushed, smoothed, soothed. And though late-morning light spilled through the window, her dark eyes were darker still with worry.

Why? Alethia frowned and dragged in a shaking breath. “What day is it? Am I feverish? Infection?” It had felt like that simple, familiar nightmare, but why would that light such concern in the older woman’s eyes? Especially if her famous honey-lavender ointment was helping the wounds heal as fast as she’d claimed yesterday?

Zelda shook her head, confusion joining the concern. “It is Saturday. Master Yates will be home. You are well. But ... you are not well.” Her fingers still traced and retraced their path, from the apex of Alethia’s forehead, along her cheek, down to her chin. “What demons chase you, child?”

The very word made Alethia’s nostrils flare. In England, it was only ever used metaphorically, she’d learned. In India, they knew that demons were real, and they were given names, and they were worshipped.

That was the explanation Samira had given—and it had been too true to Alethia’s experience to ever question it. When you had monsters in your house, how could you doubt they prowled the rest of the world too?

Zelda’s eyes went soft. “My family—my Franco, his brother, their sister—they are good people. The best people. Fifty years now I have traveled with them, part of their family. But my own family—the ones who raised me in the catacombs of Paris, who taught me to steal from foreigners, who sold me when I was twelve years old . . . fifty years is not enough to erase them.”

Strange how Alethia’s throat could go tight, even while the knots in her stomach loosened. “Samira was a child bride, married as soon as her cycles began. Only fourteen when her infant son and her husband both died. Her husband’s family didn’t want her, so they returned her to her father, but he had no use for her either. I don’t how she ended up with us—her father had connections, who in turn had connections to the viceroy’s office. I don’t remember much from before she came. A few glimpses of England, the confusion of arriving in India. We were only there a month before she joined us, became my ayah. I was six.”

Zelda nodded. “She is your sister, as Drina is mine. Of heart. Of choice.”

Alethia’s fingers dug into the mattress, twisted in the sheets. “She is the only one in my life who ever protected me.”

“Not the only one. Not anymore.” Zelda leaned over and feathered a kiss over her forehead, like Mama used to do before she said good night and left her in Samira’s care while she went off to whatever dinner or dance or event was scheduled for that night. “Tell them, sweet one. Tell Marigold and Yates. Tell Lavinia. They protect you, too, now. You can trust them.” She held her gaze, steady and strong. “Tell them. Let them in. It is the only way they can help you. Help Samira.”

Her throat closed off again, so suddenly that she couldn’t draw breath, that her vision blurred.

“Say a word, and I’ll kill you .”

“Quiet, my sweetling. Be quiet, or he’ll know where you are.”

“No one will believe you.”

“Don’t scream —whatever you do, don’t scream.”

“This is our secret . And don’t you know what happens to little girls who tell secrets? The monsters come for them.”

Zelda sang again, that familiar tune with words that weren’t quite right. Her strong fingers wove through Alethia’s. And the song turned into a prayer.

Her vision returned. Her breath. “Will you help me up?” She had to get out of this bed, damp with the sweat of her nightmare. “Please?”

Zelda nodded decisively. “Sunshine. Fresh air. Perhaps a visit from Penelope?”

A smile won her lips despite it all. She gripped Zelda’s iron-hard arm and let the woman’s strength lift her up. “Mama hated the monkeys—I loved them. There was one that would come to my balcony every day.”

Zelda chuckled. “Because you fed it?”

“I called him Prince. No others came, like Mama said they would. Just him, every morning. He’d talk to me while I shared my breakfast with him.”

“If he was anything like our Penelope, he told you the most amazing stories, too, no?” Zelda grinned and helped her situate herself on the side of the bed.

Alethia dragged in a long breath and wondered at how this manor house on the North Sea that belonged to veritable strangers could feel so much like home. “They were magical.” She would tell them to Samira, those stories she imagined as the monkey chattered and hooted. And Samira would add her own.

“Perhaps later today, if you feel up to the walk, you can meet the rest of the menagerie. We have no tiger anymore—which may be a relief to one from India, no? But our lion will win your heart.”

She’d heard his roar yesterday and managed to walk to the side of the house that overlooked the courtyard. Lady Marigold had been there with the tawny beast, frolicking and laughing and playing with the big cat as if he were an ordinary barn tom. Alethia had never seen the like. Zelda was right about the innate fear of such animals for those from India. When tigers prowled among men, it meant death and destruction. Not a circus act.

But she wasn’t in India. And apparently in England, the king of the jungle could be a pet—at least for the odd collection of wonderful people who called Fairfax Tower home. “I would love to meet the rest of the animals.” And she was feeling better each day. Not good , not normal by any stretch of the imagination. But she could walk a little farther, sit up longer without the agony, and had only taken two naps yesterday. Five days after being shot three times, that seemed like a victory.

Zelda helped her dress and tidy her hair, but before she offered her capable arm for the walk to the balcony on which she’d been breakfasting, the woman paused and met her gaze. “Whoever has told you never to speak of it—you let them win when you obey. Know that, sweet one. Don’t let them win.”

Alethia looked away. “Perhaps we can take the journey to the animals in stages. To the balcony for breakfast, then down to the ground floor afterward. Then ... where are they kept?”

Zelda shook her head, though whether it was over the deflection or the plan she wasn’t certain. “Opposite side of the house. We will do better to walk through it than around it. You could breakfast with Lady Lavinia and Marigold though, over there. They ought to be eating about now. They always do so rather late on Saturdays.”

She must have risen earlier today than she had the previous ones. “You don’t think they’ll mind?”

Zelda gave her a strange look. “You are their guest. They will be glad.”

She was indeed their guest—one thrust upon them by fate and the Imposters and their own sense of Christian duty. That didn’t mean that the two ladies who had been friends all their lives would want her intruding upon their private breakfast, despite how kind they’d each been.

But Zelda knew them both better than she did, so perhaps it did mean that. “All right then. Thank you.”

Zelda led her through the house and out a door still on the first floor but overlooking the courtyard rather than the lawns, and the moment she opened it, laughter trilled to her ears on the breeze. Such laughter didn’t always make her feel welcome in a place—gatherings of girls her own age always made her keenly aware of how little she was like them. But these two had already proven that they weren’t the catty, social-climbing sort. And when she stepped into view, still using Zelda for support, genuine joy lit both their faces as they called out her name in greeting and pushed to their feet to welcome her. Lavinia pulled up another chair, and Marigold moved the cushion from her own to the new addition.

Zelda nodded her approval. “I will tell Drina to add an extra bowl of porridge and plate for fruit.”

Alethia thanked her and eased into the chair.

“We had a wire from my brother,” Marigold volunteered as Zelda moved off, smiling. “He ought to be home in another hour, at this point. He indicated that his meeting with Mr. A was informative.”

She’d been wanting to ask how the Fairfaxes knew the Imposters, what they’d hired them for in the past—because how else would they be acquainted? And how had it resulted in what seemed like more than the usual investigator/client relationship?

She didn’t dare, though. People didn’t hire the secretive firm, it seemed, for anything they wanted to become public knowledge. Discreet disclosures were their byword, after all. It would be rude to press for details they hadn’t already volunteered, and she had no desire to offend them.

She focused on the news instead of her curiosity, offering a smile. “Excellent. And again, I am in debt to you for going so out of your way—I still can’t believe he went back to London to pass my information along to Mr. A firsthand.”

Marigold shrugged. “Quicker than the post, and more dependable than a private courier. Besides, he no doubt slipped into the Session underway.”

“My father said there was nothing of import up for vote this last week.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “Not that his opinion is a reason for anyone else to duck out of the Sessions.”

Marigold looked amused. “Everyone takes a week off here and there at this point in the summer, my lady. I daresay they’re eager to call the Sessions over and escape London for a while.”

“Where did your parents go?” Lavinia asked the question innocently, and why wouldn’t she? It was a reasonable question. “You mentioned a house party?”

Alethia nodded and rubbed a damp palm over her leg. The wound there was beginning to itch. “Yes, near Ipswich. A friend of my uncle’s.”

Lady Marigold narrowed her eyes as if she were reading some mental list. “Your ... mother’s brother? Your father has only two sisters, if I recall.”

It shouldn’t surprise her that the lady knew those details—she was everywhere, at all the best parties. To say their families moved in the same circles was an understatement. The true surprise was that they’d never officially met before. “That’s right.”

Lavinia’s fingers went tight around her teacup. “I imagine your extended family was glad to have you back in England after your father’s term in India, though they were no doubt proud of him.”

Small talk—so why had that made her hand go taut? “My aunts received us home very happily, yes. My uncle visited regularly in India.” She paused, hesitating over the usual response. But it would be rude not to ask, wouldn’t it? “I’m afraid I know little enough about the families of the aristocracy that my mother has deemed me hopeless. Do either of you have aunts and uncles? Cousins?”

Lavinia glanced at Marigold, who smiled. “None that close for Yates and me. We do have a distant cousin who grew up here as our father’s ward—Graham Wharton. He’s an architect based in London, married to one of my dearest friends, Gemma, who is the daughter of our former steward. They are the closest thing we have to family on either side these days—well, aside from the Caesars.”

Alethia smiled at that. Then her gaze drifted back to Lavinia. “And you?”

She regretted it when those too-familiar shadows flashed through Lavinia’s green eyes. “My father has a sister, though we rarely see her. My mother’s parents are still alive and visit at Christmas most years. And...” She faltered, looked down.

Marigold frowned at her.

Lavinia forced a smile. “And that is all the family I have in England.”

There was something more than that, but she knew those shadows too well to push. Knew that if she did, her own shadows could well spring out again, and despite Zelda’s advice, she had no words to conjure up. No desire to unburden herself on these new friends who had already taken on enough. They were helping her in her quest to find Samira.

Her demons, as Zelda called them, could stay locked away, where they couldn’t harm anyone. But still the woman’s words echoed through her mind as they chatted, as Drina brought their breakfast up, as they ate. “Whoever has told you never to speak of it—you let them win when you obey.”

Words she well knew she’d be chewing on indefinitely. Because as much as they resonated in her soul and as true as she knew they were, they also weren’t.

He’d already won. Years ago. He’d won, and there was no changing that. The damage had been done. Talking about it wouldn’t fix it—it would only make the hurt fresh again.

And it would show them how broken she was. How could that help?

They were still sitting outside when the sound of wheels on gravel met their ears, and though Alethia’s side was growing achy and her muscles weary, she was glad she hadn’t gone in yet. Within a few minutes of the carriage’s halt, Lord Fairfax had found them, looking fresh despite the four hours he’d already spent on a train, his smile bright as he took them in.

“Well if this isn’t a welcome sight. You must be feeling better, my lady. I am surprised to see you up and about to this extent.” Even as he greeted her, he leaned down to kiss his sister’s cheek and then reached over to tug the long braid spilling over Lavinia’s shoulder. “Still doing your routine, Vinny?”

Lavinia snatched her hair from him with a laugh but then, curiously, darted a glance at Marigold and sobered. “As instructed, my lord. And no longer praying for death every time I sit down.”

Alethia’s confusion must have been on her face because Lavinia directed a smile her way. “Lord Fairfax is convinced that in order to regain my full health, I need a regimented exercise routine. He and Marigold have devised one for me, and it is utter torture. The first several days I could scarcely move without muscles screaming that I didn’t know existed before then.”

That would explain the odd clothing she’d been wearing the other day—Alethia had noted it but hadn’t wanted to question her on it. She smiled her acknowledgment now. “And do you feel healthier yet?”

“‘Pathetic’ may be a more accurate term, given that Marigold can outpace me even in her current condition. But she assures me I’ll improve. Eventually. And Lady Alethia,” she continued, directing her gaze back to Yates, who had taken a rather precarious-looking seat on the railing, “has been venturing farther for longer each day. She is a far better patient than you—she’s breathed nary a complaint.”

Fairfax grinned. Alethia frowned. “When were you a patient, my lord?”

“I was gravely wounded last spring saving Lavinia’s life,” he said with such obvious exaggeration that she looked to Lavinia.

She was rolling her eyes. “He took a scratch on the leg and acted as though it had been amputated.”

Alethia smiled. She liked listening to their banter. It reminded her that not all was ugly in the world. Not all was loss. There was friendship, too, and joy, and laughter.

There were also many unspoken things she couldn’t follow. She didn’t know what script was playing out, but she got the feeling Lavinia skipped a line. Fairfax lifted his brows, clearly waiting for something that didn’t come—and when it didn’t, he glanced at his sister with something that looked like accusation.

Marigold stood. “Time to visit Leonidas. Anyone want to join me?”

Alethia sat forward, even as her side sent out a new ache. She wanted to go, but what if she grew too weak while they were away from the house?

“Before that...” Lord Fairfax’s face shifted, amusement falling away, a heavy, serious expression taking its place. An expression he directed toward her , making her stomach go tight with premonition. “I hate to be the one to give you bad news, my lady. But your friend Victoria Rheams . . . she didn’t miss your lunch on Monday. She was attacked—robbed, beaten, and left for dead. I’m afraid she passed away last night. It was in the morning paper.”

His words went hollow, distant. She wouldn’t have called Victoria a friend , really—a friendly acquaintance, more like. But they were supposed to have met that day. About Samira . And she’d been beaten? Brutally enough to result in her death?

Nausea churned, but her throat went blessedly tight to keep it down. Words, if such things could even exist in her head, refused to come to her lips.

Fairfax eased a bit closer. “I am so sorry. I know this is a terrible shock.”

Hands settled on her shoulders—Marigold’s and Lavinia’s. The gentle pressure of their fingers couldn’t make it go away, but it was nevertheless a precious reminder that she wasn’t alone.

She forced air into her lungs. “Is it ... does Mr. A think it’s linked to the attack on me?”

He gave a slow nod. “It’s an avenue he is investigating, he said. Especially since the papers report that she did have lunch with a friend, presumably you. I don’t know why they think that.”

Her brows knit. Then flew up. “Oh! I’d completely forgotten. She’d originally asked to meet at eleven, but I sent a note back pushing it to noon and saying I needed to visit the Ayahs’ Home afterward.” How could she have forgotten that bit when she told them of it originally? She shook her head. “I thought I must have confused her and made her think to meet me at the Ayahs’ Home at noon. Regardless, she could well have had the original time in her appointment book.”

Lord Fairfax offered a small, tight smile. “We’ll pass that along to Mr. A. In the meantime...” He stood, motioning toward the stables. “Perhaps a visit to the animals will soothe you. I’m happy to play your crutch again, my lady. It is a bit of a walk, but I won’t let you fall. I promise.”

She could hear her mother in her head, telling her to put aside the grief for a woman she’d only met a handful of times and focus. That this was a perfect excuse to spend more time on his arm. What was worse, she thrilled a bit too much at the thought, which seemed a betrayal of poor Victoria. But she did want to see the animals. So she smiled. “Thank you, my lord. I would appreciate your help.”

He moved to her side, which put him across from Lavinia, who was taking her seat again. “Vinny? Coming along?”

Lavinia folded her hands in her lap. “You go ahead. I have correspondence to catch up on.” When Fairfax turned toward her, Lavinia sent her a small, private smile. Encouragement. A touch of conspiracy. A clear message that it wasn’t correspondence holding her back.

Alethia hadn’t time to dwell on it, given that Fairfax’s hand was outstretched before her, his other coming to her back as it had that first day here. She could move far better today than she had then, but even so, it was no exaggeration that had her leaning on him, letting him support her. She was fairly certain she never would have made it down the stairs otherwise. Marigold skipped ahead, outpacing them in a matter of seconds.

“How was your time in London, other than learning of poor Victoria?” Yes, the strain was audible in her words, but they would distract her from the pain, at least a bit.

He let out a long breath. “Mr. A’s surveillance apparently involved watching a few gentlemen who seemed to be talking about your disappearance—including Mr. Rheams. They seemed quite surprised, he said, that your death hadn’t been splashed across the headlines along with his wife’s attack.”

Dizziness swamped her, and it was no fault of the injuries. Not directly, anyway. She clung to his arm. “They—of course they thought I was dead. Why would they think otherwise?”

“The vicar reported finding no body. So they’re a bit stymied. They linked the two in their conversation, though.”

Her throat felt dry and tight. It was no secret that the Rheamses despised each other. It was one of the most vitriolic matches in recent history, made for political gain but seemingly regretted by both parties. She didn’t imagine Mr. Rheams would regret the loss of his young wife, which was sad on a whole different level. But why would he be speaking of her attack in the same breath as Victoria’s? How would he even know about it?

The implications weren’t encouraging. He must have something to do with it. With both. But why? For a member of the aristocracy to risk such a thing ... there must be more at stake than Alethia challenging him about Saanvi. “With whom was he speaking?” She looked up into his profile, searching it for information rather than cataloging the cut of his jaw. Mostly. “Who were these other men?”

When he glanced down at her, his gaze was sober. “Vernon and Dunne.”

A lord, family of lords. Would they really have murdered her, murdered Victoria? It was unthinkable.

Except that lords did the unthinkable all the time.

“They mentioned a chap called Courtney?”

“Courtney.” She turned the name over in her mind. Out of context she never would have placed it, but in context... “He’s a handyman for the Ayahs’ Home, though by no means full time. I’ve heard them mention needing to call him in to fix one thing or another.”

“Have you seen him? Would you have recognized him had he been the one to come into the church the other day?”

“Perhaps? There are several faces and names I haven’t paired up. I would likely recognize him as being a worker at Mare Street without knowing exactly who he was.” And there was often a fellow about who she always shied away from, one with a hard look in his eye. She’d seen him carrying tools, so he could well be Courtney.

Lord Fairfax nodded. “Mr. A reported that they were speaking of another charity too—the Empire House. Do you know of it?”

The stables seemed no closer than they’d been at the start, despite how Fairfax kept her moving forward at a slow but steady pace. “A bit. I know their work overlaps somewhat with the Home, but they help women from across the empire, not only India. I sent them a note when I didn’t find Samira where I expected. I received a reply before I left to meet Mr. A, saying they had never heard of her, but that if I wanted to support their work, I could send a donation to...” She trailed off with a small smile. “I think my mother supports them already. She sends something to dozens of places in London that aim to keep women and children off the street.”

“Good of her.” His gaze had settled on her profile now, and it felt too intense for her to turn to face it. “Your mother ought to be home by now, to have read your note. Did you want to send her anything else? Did you want her to visit?”

Bring her mother here, right to her, when those men were no doubt lurking about, waiting for news of her death to be delivered to her unsuspecting family? She shook her head. “Too dangerous. Don’t you think?”

“Openly, yes. But I hear Mr. A has his ways of moving people about without them being noticed.”

This Mr. A fellow was apparently the best contact she’d ever had the sense to make. She rather regretted that she could remember nothing of their interview. Had she even paid him yet? She’d taken money with her, hadn’t she?

As to the question ... “Perhaps I’ll write to her, if it can be delivered secretly. And she could forward a reply somewhere roundabout?”

His grin pulled her gaze up as if by magnetic force. “We can achieve roundabout. No worries there.” The arm around her waist gave her a minute squeeze. “We’ll keep you—and your family—safe, my lady. At whatever cost.”

The cost was the part she feared. “What really happened to your leg? Last spring?”

He started a bit at the question, frowned, and looked over his shoulder toward the house. “Lavinia’s mother stabbed me when I got in the way of her plans. She’d found her pistol again in the next moment, and she would have shot me had Lavinia not rushed in. She protected me , not the other way round.”

She felt her brows knit. “And why did her response concern you earlier?”

“Because she didn’t correct my joke. She did last week, in London, but not today. I don’t know why she’s regressed.”

Alethia’s fault—she didn’t doubt it for a second. Their conversations over the last few days had been wonderful in one respect, but not easy . “She’s told me quite a bit about it all—that’s probably why. Talking to me has made it fresh again. Torn off the scab.”

Rather than filling with relief, his eyes revealed confusion. “Forgive me, but I can’t fathom that she’s opened up to you so quickly. Not that you’re untrustworthy, please don’t think I mean that. But Lavinia...”

“Her heart is fragile—emotionally, if not still physically. She has to protect it.”

His expression melted into a crooked smile. “Ah. Now I understand. Or rather, you do. That explains it.”

A cacophony erupted in the stables, making her jump—roars, hoots, bird cries, and perhaps the whinny of one horse that sounded more like acknowledgment than alarm. “The menagerie, I take it?”

“Other than Spot, anyway. Hector has him out mowing the lawn.”

“Spot?”

“One of the zebras.” He flashed a grin. “They let me name him, and I was in an ironic stage at the time.”

At that moment, Lady Marigold emerged, a smile on her face and the lion at her side. Alethia could do nothing but grin in return.