Camilla shut her eyes. “Yes.” Her voice shook. “He reminded me at regular intervals that I had very little hope at redemption. He told me I was a disgrace and an embarrassment and that I should consider myself lucky to have my half pay.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Martin. “Sounds like him. Go on.”
“And I tried,” Camilla said. “I tried, I did, but every week I did something wrong. I was too friendly or not friendly enough, or maybe my gaze lingered somewhere too long or I looked away too quickly—nothing I did was ever right. And then Mr. Hunter visited—serving as a valet to a guest—and we became stuck in a room together, and the rector tossed me out and told everyone I’d been—” She cut herself off. “Kissing. Among other things.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Martin again. “And you hadn’t?”
“No!” And then, because the woman was watching her with narrowed eyes, she added, “Not that time. Not with him.”
“Go on, then.”
“So I thought of you. I know you’d talked to the rector months ago about a charity donation. And he had mentioned that you were angry about something earlier when I was in his presence. Did he misuse funds you donated? We want to know because we despise him and wish to expose him as a fraud.”
“My goodness.” Mrs. Martin shut her eyes. “That was an excellent effort. I feel myself wanting to give you money just for that. Dear God, that was good. Sir, you need to let this young lady conduct your fraud. She’s much better at it.”
“We’re not after your money,” Mr. Hunter said in aggrieved tones.
“Speak for yourself,” Camilla snapped. “I’ve been working for half-wages for eighteen months. I’ll take anything.”
Mrs. Martin cackled.
“But technically, we’re really not after your money. We just want to know what happened. Will you tell us about your experience? Did Rector Miles convince you to donate money?”
Mrs. Martin sighed and shut her eyes. “To my great dismay. Worst experience of my life—excepting, of course, my marriage.”
Camilla leaned forward.
“Tell me more.”
“So here I am, imagine.” Mrs. Martin threw her arms out. “I have one living relation in the world—my nephew. Like all men of his ilk—which is to say, men in general—he had lived upon the expectation of an inheritance from me, his aunt. I cannot begrudge him that, I do not think.” She looked dubious, as if her grudges were growing lonely and she would not mind giving them company.
“Mmm,” Mr. Hunter said, and Mrs. Martin sighed.
“But he came to visit me, as he does, to flatter me and try to convince me to part with a portion of my money before I kicked off this mortal coil. And would you believe what he did?”
“I…” Camilla swallowed. “Um, the way you said ‘men in general’ just now, it suggests…?”
“Precisely. He kissed my maid, and I do mean kissed, and not anything more, because I happened upon them in time. She hadn’t wanted it, and thank god I interrupted. I told everyone he did it, and not one person listened—not the constable, not anyone. They all just said ‘boys will be boys,’ but Susan—she was the girl who did for me, and she’d done for me ever since her mam became too ill to continue, and I thought of her as close to my own daughter as could be—”
Mrs. Martin looked around the room, sat down, and, after carefully setting her cane to the side of her chair, pulled out a handkerchief. She didn’t dab her eyes with it; she waved it angrily, as if she were gesturing some unseen bull to charge.
“In any event, I am not here to tell Susan’s story. In a fit of rage, I gave her as much of my money as I could make her take, but she told me she didn’t want anyone to think she was greedy. And after what he did to her!”
“Your nephew sounds like a cad.”
“So, of course,” the woman continued, “I had to get rid of the rest of my money. He isn’t getting a half-pence from me. I went to the rectory, and I specifically asked if I could make a donation to assist women who were down on their luck in that particular way, if you catch my drift. Before I’d handed over my money, they assured me that they’d use it as I directed. It was only after I’d given them two thousand pounds that the excuses began.”
“Excuses?”
“The explanations. The lies. The money had gone into the parish purse in general without being specifically marked, Miles said. He had to do so, as there were no wronged women needing help from the parish—as if that could be believed! Are there men in this parish? Yes? Then there are women who need help. It’s that simple. Eventually, he claimed they’d used the money for renovations for the church, but absolutely nothing has changed. What renovations?”
“How dreadful, that you could not rely on their representations,” Mr. Hunter intoned.
“Stop trying to say agreeable things,” Mrs. Martin snapped. “I utterly despise it. In any event, I have realized that nobody will listen to what I want. I’m too old and too female. If I can’t do any good with my money, I might as well have fun. Send some pretty young things my way, that’s what I say.”
“I…” Camilla choked. “I will do so, if…I see any? Mr. Hunter may have more expertise in the matter.”
Mr. Hunter looked appalled. “That’s honestly not my forte. I think I’d make a better fraudster, and we all know how that turned out. I wouldn’t know how to obtain men.”
“Men.” Mrs. Martin rolled her eyes. “Did you not just hear my thoughts on men? I buried one man and took his money, and let me just say that the money was the best thing he ever wanted to give me, and it wasn’t worth what I had to put up with. I suppose I shouldn’t say such things aloud, but I’m so old that nobody takes me seriously. I vastly prefer women. Pretty men are nothing but pains all around.”
“I…see,” Mr. Hunter said.
“I wasn’t talking to you.” Mrs. Martin tilted her head in Camilla’s direction. “You,” she said, pointing, “on the other hand—you would do.”
Camilla jumped. “Me? I—I am—”
“No, not you, specifically, not like that. I want a young thing, and you’re, what, nineteen?”
“Twenty.”
“I thought as much. For myself, I have more a young lady of forty or so in mind—not an actual child. Good God. I’m not a man; I have standards. If you’re at all so inclined, you should find yourself a rich woman. Better work than bumbling about the countryside with this fraudster.”
“I…” Camilla swallowed. She could feel her face heating. “I will have to take it under consideration?”
The woman nodded at her sagely. “I thought as much. You had that look about you. We can always find each other, you know. Women can be terrible, too. But here’s a bit of wisdom I’ve acquired over the years: However terrible women are, they’re usually better than men.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Hunter folded his arms in annoyance.
“You’re welcome.” Mrs. Martin smiled beautifully. “You’re entirely welcome. Come back if you ever need to hear it again.”
* * *
Miss Winters shifted uncomfortably on the seat of the hired carriage on their way back to Lackwich. They had a long drive ahead of them—eleven miles passing through several towns—but she did not try to make polite conversation.
She did not look at Adrian. Instead, her hands gripped the seat, knuckles white—and it could not have been the speed of travel that bothered her, as Adrian was scarcely holding the horses above a trot.
It took him five minutes to realize that she was nervous. It took him even longer to guess why. And it took him the longest while yet to figure out what to do about it.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m a bad liar,” he finally said.
She turned to look at him. Her eyebrows rose in something that could have been encouragement. He decided to take it as such.
“Too trusting,” he told her. “That’s what my brother Grayson tells me, and maybe he’s right. When we were children, he convinced me once that chocolate was made
with mud.”
That won a tentative smile. “You didn’t believe that, did you?”
“I’m not that gullible.” He turned to her as much as he could without losing sight of the road. “Um. Not any longer, at least. I learned my lesson. But here’s the thing about being too trusting—I don’t know what to look for when people are lying to me, and that means I don’t know how to evaluate my own lies.”
“Your eyes,” she told him. “They give it all away.”
“My eyes?”
“Yes. You look up and to the right. As if you’re so disgusted with yourself that you can’t help but roll your eyes at your own words.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “I do not!”
“You do. You really do.”
“You see?” Adrian bit back a smile. “I told you that you were a tiger.”
“Oh, am I?”
“You see, tigers are patient. Some predators, if they are discovered, give up and go on to new prey. Tigers pretend to give up and then circle back and try again and again and again. You could have let Mrs. Martin throw us out. You saved everything.”
She made a face. “Where are you getting these tiger facts?”