Trial by Desire (Carhart 2)

But Ned wasn’t here. He’d walked away from her again.

Kate took a deep breath. Harcroft couldn’t know what she was doing. He couldn’t possibly have any idea. She’d do best to keep up her ruse.

“Good heavens, my lord,” she said warmly. “However did you guess? Was it the wet shoes? Or the damp hem of my gown?” She tried to keep her smile friendly; it was like trying to smile at an Egyptian crocodile without noticing the sharpness of its teeth.

Harcroft took a step toward her.

“Perhaps the hour of the day, just before supper.” She reluctantly pulled the stole from her shoulders and folded it; the action gave her an excuse to step away and set the garment down on a table. “Whatever it was, you must tell me how it is you figured out that I was just about to change my clothing. I had thought to wear my blue satin tonight. Do you think my mother’s pearl necklace would suit? Now, if you’ll pardon me—”

“Pardon?” He spoke in a low growl. “There is no pardon for what you’ve done.”

She stared at him, feigning blankness. “You feel strongly about the pearls, then.”

“You think yourself very clever, don’t you? All those backhanded comments, every last word spoken in front of the group. I haven’t forgotten a word of them, you witless woman.”

Kate let her eyes widen in shock. “Oh, dear. How inexcusably rude you are being, Harcroft. I know your delicate emotions are overset by recent events, but I must insist that in my own home, you treat me with respect.”

If he heard her, he didn’t acknowledge it. “No doubt you talked to my wife about marital affairs that ought to stay between husband and wife. No doubt she offered you her own female version of events, calculated in typical feminine fashion to make me appear as awful as possible.” He spat the words female and feminine as if they were the foulest curses imaginable.

If he thought she’d restricted herself only to talk, he really hadn’t the faintest idea what she’d done.

Still, Kate blushed. “Ooh.” She let her eyes drop. “You mean…you knew about that? But how humiliating for you. And no wonder you are rude. All married ladies talk about the marital bed. How else are we to have a point of comparison? Infidelity is gauche. One must rely upon gossip instead.”

“Gossip about the marital bed? But I was speaking of—”

“If you must know,” Kate continued, “it happened years ago. Louisa was curious, and I had questions. We described our respective experiences and asked for advice. When it was Louisa’s turn, it was Lady Moncrieff who made the indelicate comparison to an undersized carrot. I never mentioned it. I promise you.”

That froze him in his spot. He licked his lips carefully, and then looked around, as if to ascertain that nobody else had heard. “An—an undersized carrot?”

“I would never have participated in such an indelicate conversation, I assure you. A lady should not speak about a gentleman’s vegetables. But you are entirely right to reprimand me, my lord. I sincerely apologize for listening. Sometimes, when ladies get in very large groups, our feminine nature takes over. And we do say some indiscreet things.”

“A very large group of ladies had a discussion about…about…”

All his bravado, all that masculine intent, had shriveled up—smaller than carrot size, Kate judged. He looked about the entry wildly, as if expecting a bevy of ladies to leap from the woodwork, all laughing at him.

“Don’t look so abashed. We only spoke of vegetables for a few minutes. I’m positive nobody else recalls the conversation.”

He looked slightly mollified.

“After all,” Kate mused on, “that comparison was rather eclipsed by Lady Lannister’s comment about a maid—”

“A maid!”

“—beating laundry against a metal washboard.”

He had nothing to say to that. His mouth gaped. He stepped back. “It wasn’t—no—have all the ladies been thinking that, all these years, when they see me?”

“Thinking what? About a very tiny root vegetable?” Kate held up her thumb and forefinger, slightly more than an inch apart. Harcroft blanched.

“No,” Kate said, imbuing her voice with all the reassurance she felt. “Not at all.”

He let out a breath.

“There were other descriptions,” she said cheerily. “All equally memorable.”

He stared, appalled, at the inch-and-a-half gap between her fingers. “Well. This is what you’ve done with your…groundless speculation. You helped lay the groundwork for a good woman—an obedient woman—to question her marriage. You raised doubts in her, about her lawful husband. And no doubt it was the uncertainty that you engendered that fevered her mind.” This track, apparently, took his mind off vegetables. Once removed from the horrifing thought of his inadequacy, he remembered his tirade. “You women, with your disgusting analogies—you caused her to forsake me.”

“Analogies! Oh, not at all, sir! They were more in the nature of metaphors.”

He was still underestimating her, and inside, Kate felt faint with relief. He imagined only that she’d encouraged Louisa’s complaints. If he knew that Kate had planned every step of the journey that had stolen his wife from her home in broad daylight, he would have used a stronger word than disgusting.

“Stop looking at me, for God’s sake,” he snapped. “That’s just—it’s just obscene.”

What was truly obscene was what he’d done to his wife. But Kate couldn’t let Harcroft suspect she was capable of actual cogitation—not that he was likely to attribute such a thing to a woman.

“Harcroft, I know you’re upset. But do try to see reason. I never participated in that conversation. You and I have perhaps not been the best of friends, but I’m Louisa’s friend. I want to help her.” All true; she hadn’t participated in the conversation. At the time, she’d been laughing too hard.

He glanced up at her, warily. But before he could respond, footsteps sounded in the hallway behind them.

“Harcroft?” Lord Blakely appeared behind the man. “Good. I’ve been looking for you. In the latest dispatch from London, there’s some rather interesting news. White has uncovered a woman—a nursemaid—who was hired from her home in Chelsea and spirited away.”

Harcroft looked down at Kate, a confused look on his face. “Chelsea? But I was so sure…” He trailed off. “I thought—well. Never mind.”

Kate couldn’t smile now, or they might wonder. And Kate could hardly disclose that she’d hired a nursemaid and a parlor maid answering to Louisa’s description, to take a paid tour of the Peak district. A nice bit of m

isdirection; now, if only the men would oblige her by being otherwise directed.

“It’s a very interesting report,” Lord Blakely repeated, “and we must decide what to do about it.” He turned back down the corridor.

Harcroft cast one glance backward at Kate. “I apologize,” Kate said in a low voice. “The laundry maid comparison was most unfair. I should never have repeated it.”

He nodded, jerkily, once. “Apology accepted.”

Kate held her tongue until the two men left, until their steps receded down the polished corridor and a door closed softly on their conference.

“A most unfair comparison,” she said to the empty hall. “After all, a scullery maid beats her laundry for longer than two minutes.”

“WHAT DO WE DO NOW? Do Jenny and I go to Chelsea, while you stay here, Harcroft?”

As his cousin spoke, Ned shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The council had convened fifteen minutes prior, right after Ned had come in from the field. Jenny, Harcroft and Gareth had all taken places at the long wooden table.

Notably missing from the conversation was Ned’s own wife. Harcroft hadn’t spoken of inviting her, and given what Ned now knew, he was happier not to have her present.

Across the table from him, Jenny shifted on her seat, her lips pressing together. She glanced down the table where Harcroft sat. Harcroft was—had been—Ned’s friend, not Jenny’s and Gareth’s. Ned had made the introduction. At his request, Harcroft had welcomed Gareth and his new wife into polite society. What might otherwise have been a difficult matter for them had turned into a few months of discomfort, forgotten once the gossip had been eclipsed by the newest scandal. Still, for that, Jenny was obligated to Harcroft, and no doubt thought her assistance on this matter would even out that old score.

But it was just obligation.

And perhaps that was why Jenny shook her head. “Gareth,” she said quietly, “it has been several days. If we venture into Chelsea…”

In front of them, papers lay piled. Reports from Gareth’s man of business were stacked neatly to the side of Harcroft’s map, complete with its prickle of straight-pins.