An Honorable Deception (The Imposters #3)

Chapter 19

NINETEEN

Two weeks later

Lavinia had to give credit where it was due—Barclay Pearce and his family were thorough and deliberate. He sent packets of updates by post every other day, and the information—written descriptions, photographs, and even diagrams mapping out people’s routines—kept her so busy that she scarcely had time for anything but updating their dossiers and case files.

She didn’t mind the busyness. Perhaps Marigold pretended to complain that her supposed companion was neglecting her, but she had a feeling her friend didn’t mind. Sir Merritt was here on leave for a fortnight, and Lavinia knew well Marigold would rather spend those days and hours with her husband than with her. Not to mention that Gemma and Graham had arrived last night for a few days’ holiday ... so far as they said in company.

In reality, the other two Imposters were here very much for work. Graham had unloaded a treasure trove of schematics they would need for their final plan, and Gemma was hard at work on her part of the plot—and subsequently in dan ger of missing tomorrow’s deadline for her usual column in London Ladies Journal .

Lavinia stood from her place on the floor, stretching sore muscles and blinking tired eyes. The busyness was welcome, but she really ought to have obeyed Yates’s advice and found a better place to set up her work. The desk was too small, but bending over everything on the floor was taking its toll.

The dining table would have worked if it weren’t being used every day. She would have recommended it, had it only been her and the Fairfaxes in residence. But no one had even considered inviting Lady Barremore to eat in the kitchen, nor suggested that their guests continue to dine on nothing but bread and cheese and fruit.

When Lavinia had gone into the kitchen the day they’d returned from London and seen the panic on Drina’s face as Marigold whispered that their guests would be staying with them for several weeks, she’d understood it in a glance. Drina was an acrobat. An aerialist. Accustomed to cooking for her family but not the sort of meals that either Xavier or Lady Barremore would expect.

So Lavinia had sent for the chef from Alnwick Abbey and any staff he needed to bring along, and she’d told him to purchase whatever he needed. Which meant that meals fit for a king—or at least a duke’s son and a viceroy’s wife—were taking up that valuable table space thrice a day, and Lavinia’s neck had to get used to the knots.

She moved to the window and rested her head against the warm pane, drawing in a long breath in the hopes that it would revive her. She still had at least two hours of work to do, and the next packet would no doubt arrive in this afternoon’s post. If it was any thicker than the last one, she’d have to give in and let Marigold or Yates help her.

They didn’t note things to her satisfaction, though. They laughed when she said so—they were their files, after all—but they also stepped out of her way and let her go about her business. Gemma had even given her additions and changes a nod of literary approval.

And no doubt everyone was happier this way. With Lavinia tucked up here out of the way, it meant Marigold was free to dote on her husband. Gemma was free to try to turn last night’s dinner into something that sounded like a planned, well-attended event for her column. And Yates was free to spend his time teasing a laugh from Alethia while Xavier scowled on. Lady Barremore, seeing two of the most eligible bachelors in England competing for her daughter’s attention, seemed to forget for days at a time that they were there for less-than-delightful reasons.

Lavinia rubbed absently at her thigh. She’d strained something a bit during her time in the gymnasium that morning, but she hadn’t wanted to ask if she ought to do something other than stretch to relieve it. She’d taken to rising earlier than either of the Fairfax siblings so that she could go through her routine before they joined her, timing it so that they merely passed on the path from house to outbuilding.

That made it easy to smile, look away, and keep her distance. They didn’t have to wonder if she was keeping up her strength training. She didn’t have to watch Yates chisel the next layer into his perfection and parry Marigold’s hawklike gaze if she looked too long. She didn’t have to either feel guilty over laughing at his teasing or sorrowful when he didn’t offer any.

In the study, the lines were more clearly drawn. Every jest was about her notetaking or recordkeeping. Or her deep pockets. She knew Yates didn’t like taking her money. But this mission was too important for his pride to get in the way. And while she had both necklace and bracelet that she’d tried to give away back in her possession, she knew that Barclay, Lucy, and the rest still had to eat, and they were currently spending all their time and efforts on this surveillance job.

Outside, the gentlemen were playing a game of football, now that they had Graham to even out the numbers. It was he and Yates against Merritt and Xavier, it looked like. He kicked the ball into the makeshift goal as she watched, and applause and cheering broke out from the patio, where Marigold, Alethia, Gemma, and Lady Barremore must be watching.

Last year, she’d sat in that very spot with Marigold and Gemma and Claudia—her mother’s companion, who had come with her as chaperone. Last spring, Marigold hadn’t minded when Lavinia commented on what fine specimens the gentlemen were as they darted about the improvised football pitch. She could flirt with Yates, and Marigold would have thought it was to make Xavier jealous.

Had it been? She didn’t know anymore. But she didn’t think so. Xavier had been, at the time, someone new. Someone who had the potential to take her away from here, from the secrets she was beginning to discover about her mother. There had been allure in that, and Xavier had been pleasant company.

But she’d teased Yates because she’d wanted to see the flash of his smile. She’d twined her arm through his and skipped with him to the stables because he’d made her feel like no one else ever could, like she was the person she wanted to be. Someone bright and full of life and happy.

She watched the game for another minute, until Merritt evened the score, and then she turned back to the files.

Zelda stood in the doorway, a tea tray in hand and a soft smile on her face.

Lavinia’s throat went inexplicably tight. “Zelda, you don’t have to do this. I told you yesterday.”

“You work too hard.” She moved into the room and slid the tray onto the empty desk. “Eat too little. Spend too much time up here alone.” Not in the habit of brooking arguments, Zelda poured a cup of tea and put a cake on a plate. “You look as though a stiff wind could blow you out to sea.”

She felt like it, too, most of the time. But it had nothing to do with how much she ate. “Well. Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”

Zelda gusted out a breath—a fair warning that Lavinia should brace herself, though she didn’t know for what. She’d known this woman all her life, but not like Yates and Marigold did. She’d been Zelda, performer and novelty. Then Zelda, not-quite servant. Zelda, secret seamstress who made Marigold’s every jaw-dropping ensemble.

Never before Zelda, her friend. Her caregiver. Her lecturer.

The older woman sat on the leather sofa pushed back against the bookcases and patted the cushion beside her.

Lavinia hesitated a moment. Not because of any objection to sitting beside a Romani, not at this point in her life. Only because she didn’t know if her heart could take either kindness or chiding right now. And Zelda was sure to offer one or the other. Or both.

But her feet obeyed the command anyway, and she took a seat beside her.

Zelda reached for her hand. “I will say this once. And then I will seal my lips. Who am I to interfere in such things?”

Lavinia moved her gaze slowly from their hands with their contrasting tones up to the beautifully lined face.

Zelda met her gaze when Lavinia’s lifted, held it securely. “Fight for your man.”

Lavinia looked away again. “I don’t have one.”

“Rubbish. That boy’s heart has been yours since the day he offered you a flower when you were three years old and you put it in your hair like it was a crown and kissed him on the cheek.”

Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them back. She had no memory of such an exchange, but Zelda wouldn’t make up such a story. “I ruined it. Years ago.”

“You let your mother’s opinions frighten you.” The strong fingers squeezed hers. “We all let fears, even borrowed fears, hold us back from time to time. But that doesn’t mean we can’t break free.” She paused, leaning forward in a clear bid to catch Lavinia’s gaze. “Why, do you think, knowing what you know of her now, that she thought what she did of our boy?”

She wanted to ask how Zelda even knew about that—any of it. But she knew even that was her fault. Back then, Zelda had been almost invisible to her. Who knew what she or her mother had said in her presence, not even pausing to wonder if anyone could overhear?

And the question was enough to ponder. Her brows drew together as she remembered her mother’s sneer, the way she dismissed Yates so thoroughly. Insulted him so fully.

But never in Papa’s hearing, because Papa adored Yates. Said he was the finest young man he’d ever met and hinted none too subtly that a match between their families would be well received on his part.

Mother never liked that. She always got that pinched look around her eyes and offered a tight smile and said something about not limiting their darling daughter to a neighbor, that there was a whole host of young men out there who might provide the perfect match.

Why? Why hadn’t Mother liked him? Because he mucked stalls so that the stable-boys he called friends would have time to play with him? Because he soaked up the lessons the Caesars had to teach? Because he’d never been constrained by what people told him he should or shouldn’t want?

Realization hit like a punch to her gut. “She didn’t like him because he wouldn’t be controlled. He never cared what anyone thought. She couldn’t use him—and worse, he was unpredictable. He didn’t follow conventions.”

Zelda’s grin made crow’s feet fan out from her eyes. “And you wanted her approval—because we always want the approval of those who refuse to give it.” She released Lavinia’s hand, but only so that she could rub a hand over her back. “You ruined nothing, sweet girl. You only needed time to grow up. To become who God in His goodness wanted you to be—rather than who she did. Who anyone else did. And now here you are.”

“Here I am.” Broken and disillusioned and jaded. No wonder Yates had run the other way. Her eyes fell shut. “He doesn’t want me.”

Zelda only chuckled low in her throat.

Lavinia forced a swallow. “Alethia will make him happy. She deserves the love he can give her. And she fits so well here. With you.”

Zelda hummed, gave her back one more pat, and stood. “Strange, yes? How something can be so true ... and yet not be real?”

Lavinia frowned. “Haven’t you seen them together? It’s real.”

“Is it? Or does he want it to be because it isn’t so big a risk to his heart?” Zelda shrugged, picked up the cup and saucer, and handed them to Lavinia. “Go outside for a while, sweet one. Soak up a bit of sunshine. Be reminded of how the God who created such an intricate world is at work here and now too.” She lifted a challenging brow. “Talk to your friends.”

She took the cup. She might even seek out a few minutes of sunshine after her tea. But she didn’t know, anymore, what to say to her friends.

Zelda let herself out, and Lavinia did her best to push the conversation from her mind and think about the information Barclay had sent instead as she sipped at her tea.

It hadn’t been completely disastrous that Yates had first had Barclay following Lord Barremore more closely, rather than Lord Babcock. They’d had Babcock starred anyway, since he was listed as a founding member of the board, and even noted in that initial article as one of the three men who’d devised the idea. They simply hadn’t realized he was Jane Barremore’s brother. That he was the one who had grabbed Samira when he saw her in Hackney—not knowing, it seemed, that Mrs. Rheams had seen him do so.

Did he even realize that she’d confronted her husband about it? That it was why she was “randomly mugged” while he was away? Had it been his suggestion or Mr. Rheams’s? And then poor Saanvi ... another victim punished for what she’d seen. Marked for removal from the Ayahs’ Home because she’d seen him force Samira into his automobile too.

Lavinia’s fault. Her failure. All her work in the files, drawing out and writing down connections, and she’d missed that one.

So obvious in retrospect.

But they’d pieced it together. Barclay’s crew had picked up the trails of both Barremore and Babcock within hours and had been watching them closely ever since. The problem was that the two had extensive holdings throughout Town—throughout England. They visited all the locations frequently, but not in any given order. That’s where Barremore had gone off to the morning they told his wife what he was involved in. A property in Herefordshire. Then one in Oxford. And those two were barely scratching the surface of what he owned. Then add in the equally long list of places Babcock owned...

Samira could be at any one of them if the men were working together, as Lady Barremore assumed. The businesses could be fronts. The houses could be branch locations of the Empire House. The buildings of flats could be clever ways to get around the legal definition of a brothel, with no two women sharing a living space. Or they could be exactly what they appeared, and they could bring harm to innocents if they interfered.

Zelda was right, though—Lavinia had spent too many hours poring over the files. A headache was starting behind her eyes, and the tightness of her neck wasn’t helping. She finished the tea, palmed the cake, and turned toward the opposite side of the house from the football match.

September had always been one of her favorite months, a month of apples and leaves beginning to turn to brilliant reds and oranges and yellows. She breathed in as she stepped outside, tilting her face to receive the sunshine. Papa would be home soon. He’d sent a wire yesterday saying he expected to wrap up his London business in the next week or ten days. It would be good to see him. She missed him.

And yet ... even the thought of her father made her chest feel heavy and tight. She’d stayed the second two nights in London at home with him, and instead of it feeling like he was happy to see her, it had felt as though she were causing him new anxiety. He’d looked almost disappointed when she’d stepped into his study, his “You’re supposed to be with the Fairfaxes” ringing like an accusation in her ears.

He loved her. She knew he loved her. She also knew he worried about her, about how hard Mother’s deception had struck her. But only when he frowned at her unexpected ap pearance did she realize that the worry had eclipsed everything else again, that she’d become a burden once more. That he saw her reappearance not as a pleasant surprise, but as a sign that something was wrong, something he didn’t know how to fix. First the illness, now this. Always there was something to put shadows under his eyes when he looked at her.

Even with the house between them, she could hear the shouts of laughter from the pitch. Lavinia sank to a seat on a bench in the courtyard. Last year, she had been part of the laughter. This year, it was Alethia.

Fitting. Right. Alethia needed the laughter. Yates needed that gentle spirit she exuded. Marigold needed to know that the woman her brother chose wouldn’t turn around and stomp on his heart.

Sitting wasn’t going to suffice. She stood again, pacing around the edge of the sand beneath the trapeze, rubbing at her sore muscle. It didn’t hurt as it had that morning, so it must not be too serious. She tried not to think about what she was missing out on, how she felt she had to watch the trapeze practice from her window, unseen, rather than out on the balcony. About how she wished that Zelda was right, and he loved her still.

Her mind went back to the list of properties. Other members of the board had plenty of such things too—it was nothing unusual, really. The aristocracy owned a huge percentage of the land and buildings in England. Her own father had extensive holdings, in and out of Northumberland.

Even with Barclay, his family, his crew, and his friends looking into everything they could, it was still too big a haystack for the one needle they needed to find.

Samira. Before they brought down the Empire House, they needed to find Samira. Otherwise, they might never find her. She could be one more face that vanished from the streets and never resurfaced.

She couldn’t be. Not on Lavinia’s first case. Not when she dared to claim as a friend the young woman who had come to them for help.

Wind gusted, drawing her gaze to the leaves—most still green, but the impatient sentinels near the gates were already decked out in their autumn finery, and their color soothed a jagged edge of her soul. From the stables, Franco whistled, and seconds later, the standoffish peacocks and their hens strutted and fluttered his way, eager for the feed he’d scatter.

She stopped. Blinked.

That was it. They didn’t need to chase Babcock or Barremore around, looking for a clue as to where they’d put Samira. They needed to lure them out. Promise them something they wanted. Dangle the carrot, scatter the seed. But how?

“Alethia, dearest, did you see where I left my magazine last night? I can’t seem to—oh!”

Lavinia spun at Lady Barremore’s voice, and the woman laughed when she turned, pressing a hand to her chest.

“Oh, forgive me, dear. I’ve thought it before, but I’ve proven it now, haven’t I? You look so like Alethia from behind.” Her expression twisted, then fell. “If you would be so kind as to refrain from mentioning that I did that. She’ll think I don’t know her as I should.” Rapid blinks. “Perhaps I don’t.”

Lavinia summoned a smile. “Even if that were true, you’re changing it, aren’t you? That’s what matters.” Lavinia motioned toward the house. “Alethia is watching the football match.”

The lady nodded, half turned away, and then gave a wry grin. “Foolish mistake, really. Alethia would never be out here in this breeze without one of those shawls she so loves.” She said as if to say, See? I do know her.

A far different meaning unfurled in Lavinia’s mind. She stood there while the wind danced around her and the peacocks squawked over their food, and the plan took shape. Then, once it had, she darted around the house to find the others.

The game was breaking up, and from the looks of it, Yates and Graham had won. All four were sauntering back toward the house, toward the ladies, laughing and poking fun at one another.

She ignored them and dashed straight to the girls. “Alethia. I have a favor to ask.”

Alethia turned from whatever Gemma was saying, a warm smile of greeting on her lips. “There you are! You’ve missed the fun. And you know you can ask anything.”

Her heart was thrumming, and she didn’t think it had anything to do with the run around the house—she wasn’t even out of breath, surprising as that was. “I need to borrow a shawl. And perhaps a pair of your shoes. For a good cause, I promise.”

Questions filled her eyes, but she didn’t ask them. Lavinia suspected that she’d put together that Yates was Mr. A and that, by extension, the rest of them were involved in the Imposters. But if she did, she hadn’t breathed a word about it. She was rather like Xavier in that. “Take anything you like. It’s in the topmost drawer of the wardrobe, help yourself.”

“Thank you. Gemma?” Lavinia motioned her to follow and turned to the door. “I’m about to help you with your column.”

“Oh! Bless you. I’m coming.”

Lavinia didn’t wait for anyone to ask any questions. She hurried inside, up the stairs, and through the open doorway to Alethia’s guest room. She’d been in here several times over the month of Alethia’s stay, so it didn’t feel dreadfully odd to stride over to the wardrobe and pull out what she needed.

The teal and gold pashmina shawl would pair perfectly with both a day dress and an evening gown that Lavinia had here with her but which she’d never worn in London—and there was a coordinating pair of slippers too. She added a wide bangle, a hammered gold necklace, and was leaving the room again as Gemma huffed her way to the top of the stairs, rubbing at the small of her back.

“I swear there are twins in here. There is no way one child can make it that hard to walk up the stairs.”

Lavinia smiled at her friend’s complaint and motioned her down the corridor. “You should petition Yates to install a lift.”

Gemma snorted. “That’s likely.” She sent Lavinia a pleading look. “Tell me we don’t need to walk to the study.”

It had been her first thought, but Gemma had been working from a sitting room a good deal closer to where they stood now, and it would be no less useful. “Your newly dubbed office will be fine.”

“Good.” Gemma led the way. “Now you can tell me why your robbing Lady Alethia is going to solve my deadline woes.”

“It’s quite simple. Lady Alethia is about to make an appearance back on the London social scene after her trip with her friend from school, and G. M. Parker is going to report on it.”

Gemma turned around to look at her, brows knit. “I thought everyone agreed it was too dangerous for her to be seen anywhere near London.”

“Exactly.” At the blank stare, Lavinia strode ahead into the sitting room, snapped out the shawl, and draped it around her shoulders. She kept her back to the door and asked, “Who do you see when you look in here, Gemma?”

“Ahhh, you’re pulling a page from our book. I ought to have guessed, as often as I’ve stood in for Marigold. Add the right accessories and no one thinks to look past them.” Gemma moved to the small desk against the wall and sat in its matching chair. “Though I assume you have some purpose beyond giving me something to turn in tomorrow?”

“We’ve been looking at the problem all wrong—trying to sort out how to find what they have hidden. What we need to do is give them a glimpse of what they have been watching for. A few supposed Alethia spottings and they’re bound to move. She is still the loose end they must tie up. So if they think she’s back—”

“From?” Gemma was scribbling something upon a sheet of paper.

“The south—somewhere that starts with a B .” She paused while Gemma looked to the ceiling in thought.

“Bournemouth?”

“Hardly matters. You could go with Bath—it sounds as though they’d attribute the inconsistency to Lady Barremore’s supposed lack of geographical acumen.”

Gemma smirked. “She’s been delightfully clever about that, hasn’t she? I mean, I hate that she had to be. But—”

“But we can still appreciate the years she put into crafting the appearance that is helping us now.” Lavinia nodded. “Now. G. M. Parker will write a column expounding on how the mysterious lady in her beautiful Indian items was spotted at such-and-such, and it will run in Friday’s edition. But what is more, I’ll make certain she’s seen by people who will report it to Babcock, Barremore, and their cohorts.”

Gemma’s expression shifted to serious. “Lavinia, that could be dangerous. If they see you, grab you—”

Lavinia took the shawl off again and held out her arms. “But don’t you see? These aren’t strangers to her that we fear—it’s her father. Her uncle. They may mistake us from the back or from a distance, but they would never look at my face and think I’m her. What they would think is that I was so jealous of the press she’s getting that I tried to steal her idea.”

Gemma, ever the columnist, lifting a scathing brow. “Social suicide, my dear, if anyone gets wind of it. London’s ladies would feast on that for months.”

Lavinia shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t intend to be there for any more Seasons anyway.”

She had no doubt she would visit London aplenty. But the majority of her time would probably be spent at the estate she’d inherited from her mother last year. She’d not so much as visited it since the will was read—but she’d been thinking about it quite a bit since Barclay had issued his challenge.

Those women, those children, and others like them would need more than a place to find them passages back to their homelands, if leaving England was their desire. More than someone to make sure there was soup in their bowl and bread on their plate. They would need a place where they could heal. Where someone could assure them that God ached with them, for them. That they were loved and forgiven.

Running a place like that would take far too much time to leave any for trivialities like balls and soirees. So much time that she wouldn’t have any left in which to hurt.

Gemma tapped her pen to her page. “You need an escort. Lady Alethia’s momentous return at the very end of the Season had better be grand enough to take up my entire column.”

She was about to say she’d make Yates or Xavier take her, but they chose that very moment to come laughing into the room, along with Graham. And seeing how both of the bachelors immediately searched the space with their gazes, how both sets of eyes dimmed when they realized Alethia wasn’t here, her throat went tight.

She knew very well either would volunteer, especially if it meant being paired with Alethia in a gossip column as beloved as Gemma’s. But neither would want to spend a day or two with her .

Gemma, however, was beaming. “Hello, answers.”

Graham moved over to drop a kiss onto her forehead. The other two looked at her as though she’d lost her mind.

“Pardon?” Yates asked.

Gemma kept on grinning. “A fake Lady Alethia,” she said, motioning to Lavinia, “is about to make a London appearance and thereby solve my lack of a column idea. But she needs to be on a handsome gent’s arm or it’s hardly a story worth telling.”

Understanding dawned in Yates’s eyes and was quickly chased by fury. “No. Too dangerous.”

“It isn’t. It’s the perfect way to get them to make a move.” Seeing that Yates was set to argue more, she turned to Xavier. “What say you, my lord? Save the day and have Gemma give you a sterling write-up as the gent who won Lady A’s heart?”

His grin might look impish, but she didn’t miss the seriousness in his eyes. He knew very well what was at stake, even if he wasn’t privy to every Imposters detail. “When do we leave?”

“Can we take your car?”

“Of course.”

“Then...” She glanced at the clock on the mantel. “In an hour?”

He bowed—and sent a sideways glance toward Yates. “I’ll be ready.”