Once Upon a Marquess (The Worth Saga 1)

Judith crumpled the paper, her whole body aching. Two weeks? Camilla had not even had the security of two weeks with them? “Lies,” she said. “Why is everyone lying about my siblings?”

She wrote a letter, trying not to feel bitter, to this Charlene.

The next day, though, brought good news in the post. Somewhat good news. It was from the man she worked with in Edinburgh, the one who sold her designs

Lady Judith, the letter read. The Wittfield factory in Bristol wishes to use your design of circus cats for a production of five hundred units; they offer a payment of twenty pounds.

She looked over the offered terms; they weren’t what she once might have received, but then, her designs no longer earned what they had. Clockwork figurines were no longer quite the rage. The novelty was wearing off. She’d need something different, something that would appeal to more people if she were ever to make as much as she had. Still, any income at all was better than nothing.

She sent back an acceptance.

Friday, the post brought an answer from Aunt Charlene—or, as she was called, Charlene Heilford.

Miss Worth,

I do recall your sister Camilla, and rather fondly, if with some exasperation. She stayed with me for two years. By the end, she was an excellent companion. So excellent, in fact, that I passed her on to my friend, Miss Abigail Troworth, in Bath. I have asked my secretary to enclose her direction below.

Passed her on? As if she were a package or a horse? And companion? Camilla was a young lady, not a companion. Judith tried not to scream. At least Camilla had stayed with the woman for two years.

At least.

At least she’d had time to grow fond of the woman before she was handed over.

Judith should have done more than send letters to her uncle all these years. She’d imagined that her sister had cut off all ties with the embarrassing side of her family. Judith hadn’t realized her sister hadn’t received those letters. Judith should have done more. She should have…

But she hadn’t. Judith’s friends, most of her family, had denounced her entirely and stopped answering her letters. She had assumed that Camilla had joined them.

By now, Judith practically had her letter of inquiry memorized.

Dear Miss Abigail Troworth, she wrote. Your friend, Mrs. Charlene Heilford of Leeds, told me that we had a mutual acquaintance—my younger sister, Camilla Worth, who you so graciously hosted sometime starting in the years 1860 or 1861. I am hopeful that she may still be with you at this time. If she is, might you be so kind as to inform me of the fact, and to let her know that her elder sister is desirous of speaking with her? If not, I would be most obliged if you could pass on whatever you know of her current direction.

She sealed this letter, stamped it, and—before she handed it over to the postmistress—kissed it for good luck.

This time, she’d get a real response.

This time, she would find her sister.

Chapter Fourteen

The dreams had worsened. Christian had woken at two that morning, bathed in cold sweat. Tossing for two hours hadn’t helped. Counting beads hadn’t helped. Even making a list of all the ways he might try to get the journals from Judith—somehow, anyhow—hadn’t helped. Finally, he’d found a robe and wandered the halls of his home, searching for a plan in the darkened rooms.

“One.” He said the number aloud as if it were a flag he could plant in shifting sands, one that would hold them in place. As if this list would fix everything when months of lists had accomplished nothing. The number one was a beginning, and beginnings begat endings. One: He couldn’t count on receiving Anthony’s journals. He’d pinned his hopes on that eventuality, but it might be months—or not at all—before he received them.

He was fairly certain that he couldn’t manage many more months scarcely sleeping.

“Two.” He stopped in front of a window looking out over a side street. The cobblestones were indistinct dark blobs in the evening. “I will have to come to terms with the fact that Anthony is dead, and I am at fault.”

Oh, God. His heart beat faster, shallow and thready, just hearing those words spoken aloud. But that was the crux of the matter, was it not?

Even if his plan was successful, it wouldn’t change anything. Anthony had saved Christian’s life, and in return, Christian had ruined his.

“Three,” he said.

“Christian?”

He jumped, mid-plan, to see his mother behind him. She was watching him with a worried expression. She’d worn that worried expression much over the past months.

“Mother,” he breathed. “Why are you awake?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she shook her head. “This can’t go on.”

No, it couldn’t. He had thought he would sleep eventually, when the exhaustion finally set in. Now, he was almost too exhausted to sleep.

“You have to let me help.” She came to stand by him.

“Not the way you want.” He put his arm around her. “Sometimes, you can’t help in the way you would like. I’m begging you, Mother. I know you and Lillian mean well, but your physician’s suggestions are not the solution. You have to stop asking me about them.”

He was beginning to get desperate.

“But…” She bit her lip. “But you never used to mind, back then. If you would just recall…”

He recalled all too well, more than a decade later. That familiar taste on his tongue. The slow slide into a welcome stupor.

He grappled for an acceptable answer. “Laudanum doesn’t stop dreams, Mama,” he said. “It makes them more vivid. I don’t dare.” His hands shook. “Please. I haven’t the energy to fight you, too. Please. I need you to stop.”

She inhaled. “Christian.”

“Think on it. I love you, but if you can’t stop, I can’t be around you. I’ll take rooms elsewhere.”

“Christian.”

He s

et his hand on her shoulder. “Neither of us wants that. Please let me solve this my way.”

She sniffed. No, she sniffled. He’d made her cry. It was the last thing he’d wanted. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, letting her weep because there was nothing she could do.

Nothing he could do.

Three. There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t change anything in the past. He couldn’t bring Anthony back to life, not with plans, not with lists, not with journals. This was his future: his friend was gone. Death was forever.

Four. He had to find another way.

“I have to find another way,” he said aloud.

He’d let guilt tangle him up for too long. He’d tried to cut directly through it all, to turn guilt into not guilt. He’d focused only on his own feelings.

But maybe there was another way. A better way. A way to take all that guilt and use it. He’d wanted Anthony’s journals because he’d believed that with them, he could reform the past.

But the past was the past. If he got the chance to look those journals over, he’d take it, but even that wouldn’t change what had transpired. Nothing could.

He could only change the future.

Five.

No, not five. “E,” he said aloud. His skin twitched at the sound.

“Your pardon?” His mother stirred in his arms.

He had the sensation that he was seeing the universe stripped to gears and coils, everything laid out in order. Not from largest to smallest, but as Judith had set the pieces of the clock on the table so long before: in order of use.

“E,” he said to his mother. “It’s the ordinal that follows four this time.”

She shook her head in confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m a difficult son. I was difficult from the beginning, and I’m terrible now. I can’t change the past. I can’t make this past year easier for you to bear. But I can change the future. I can be better.”