His look unnerved her, so she peeked around the curtain. As she watched, Ventnor spoke to the zealot, who turned and ran, and Ventnor and Percy laughed.
How farcical, that the zealot had called Lord Luxborough a demon, when true demons like Ventnor and Percy stood right there.
“Some people have done truly hurtful things, yet no one wants to hear about that,” she said. “Why do some people get to tell their stories and others don’t? Why do some people get to say what is truth? And why doesn’t he stop it?” She jabbed a finger at Luxborough. He and Ventnor appeared to be arguing. “It’s one thing for people like me to put up with rumors, but why him?”
“Because Rafe believes it too,” the bishop said.
Her head whipped around. “He believes he’s a witch?”
“He believes he has done something wrong, so he does not argue when people say that he did. In truth, his only sin is to be as flawed and human as the rest of us. But he tells himself he has failed and is not enough.”
“Failed how?”
He didn’t answer.
“You care about him,” Thea said.
“He’s like a son to me. You’ll look after him for me, won’t you?”
“Look after him?”
The bishop’s eyes flickered to the window. Ventnor was stalking back to his carriage.
“I must go.” The bishop slapped on his hat and hooked his coat on one finger. “He’s a good boy. But he’s caught up in false beliefs. It would be lovely if someone would set him free.” He half turned and hesitated. “That jaguar saved his life, you know.”
“How?”
“Ask him about it sometime.”
And with those cryptic words, the Bishop of Dartford swung his coat over his shoulder and sauntered out the door, whistling an unfamiliar tune.
Lord Ventnor was so entranced by his own countenance that he did not so much as glance at the two faces at the window, their features indistinct through the glass.
“I say, Luxborough, congratulations on your marriage,” Ventnor said, hooking his cane between two fingers so he could offer a few sarcastic slaps of applause. “To a shop girl! I did try to warn you about these women, with their coy looks and flattery. But then I daresay a man such as you—” His gaze lingered pointedly on Rafe’s ruined cheek. “—would be more susceptible to flattery than most. And so—dare I say it?—Helen Knight sank her claws into you.”
If only Rafe could see Ventnor’s face when he learned whom Helen Knight had really snared.
“I thought you’d be more grateful,” Rafe said guilelessly. “I sacrificed myself to save your little boy Beau.”
Past the viscount, a smirking dandy with hair the same sandy color as Katharine’s lounged against the carriage, looking pleased with himself. The dastardly knave Percy Russell, no doubt.
“That selfish boy! Fancies himself in love, and cares nothing for the harm such an inappropriate match would do to our entire family.” Ventnor looked Rafe up and down. “I suppose it hardly matters to you, though, considering how you blithely sully your own once-noble title.”
Rafe glanced at Dudley, who looked like he was praying for the earth to swallow him up. “You certainly assist me on that point, Ventnor, with these tales you spread about me.”
“Did you like the little gift I sent you? Useful creature, isn’t he?” Ventnor pointed his cane at Dudley. “You have served your purpose. Go.”
Dudley shot an apologetic look at Rafe and fled, his black robes flapping about his heavy boots.
“Look at him run.” Ventnor turned to Percy, and father and son shared a laugh. “I say a word and like little rabbits they run.” He looked back at Rafe. “You are not amused, Luxborough? My abilities do not impress you?”
“Anyone can start a false rumor. If you wish to impress me, make the falsehoods stop.”
“If you want me to try, you already know what to do: Retract those heinous lies you published about my daughter.”
“That pamphlet contained only the truth about Katharine, and you know it. Katharine was tormented, and no one should suffer that alone.”
Bold claim, but in truth, Katharine always had to suffer them alone, those private horrors inflicted by her mind. Even when she was well, she lived in fear of her mind betraying her again. To this day, Rafe could feel her hands clutching him, hear her terrified whisper, “What is happening to me, Rafe? I no longer even know who I am.” All he could do was hold her, and try to soothe her, and hide his own fear. And when he published a pamphlet about Katharine and the need for better treatments for all those similarly afflicted, Ventnor had swiftly countered by spreading the message that nothing natural ailed his daughter: He claimed Rafe had turned Katharine’s mind through cruelty or poison, and published those lies to cover his villainy. All credit to the viscount. He was dedicated and deployed a creative array of methods, from actors planted around the country to sly anonymous letters to editors and the occasional satirical cartoon. And all those blasted people, so busy gobbling up outrageous rumors that they had no appetite left for the truth.