Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Page 2

  Still, she ought to count her lucky stars that her secret was safe. Brockhurst had kept her aura-seeing ability to himself—perhaps out of guilt or some belated sense of honor. She would never know because he hadn’t approached her again, and she’d avoided him with equal fervor.

  Not all that came from the incident was bad. She’d learned two important lessons, after all. First, the family tradition of marrying for love would not apply to her. No man would fall in love with a girl who was plain and peculiar. Second, it was a reminder that emotions were different from thoughts and actions. She’d glimpsed attraction in Brockhurst’s aura, but his behavior spoke the truth: she’d been no more than a prank to him.

  A way to prove his prowess to his friends… to win a hundred quid. Just because she saw an emotion didn’t mean she knew its cause or meaning, and she’d be well served not to make assumptions in the future.

  Seeing the worry that continued to flicker around Rosie, however, Polly refocused her thoughts. The present trip was about Rosie’s future. After everything the other had gone through this Season, she needed Polly’s support.

  Polly touched the other girl’s sleeve. “We don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to. But if you want to continue on, I know you’ll do fine. You always do.”

  “You’re a dear. And, no, I don’t want to turn around. This was my idea, and I must follow it through.” Rosie straightened her slim shoulders, her jade green eyes determined. “I’m going to prove that I’m not the flighty flirt everyone believes me to be.”

  “Everyone doesn’t believe that,” Polly protested.

  “Half the ton does. The other half doesn’t deign to notice me at all because I’m a bastard,” Rosie said flatly.

  Polly’s chest tightened in sympathy.

  Rosie had been born out of wedlock, the result of her mama Marianne’s youthful indiscretion. Since then, however, she’d been publicly acknowledged by her paternal grandparents as well as her aunt, the influential Marchioness of Harteford. Moreover, Ambrose had adopted her after his marriage to Marianne, and the Kents had brought her unconditionally into their fold.

  For the beau monde, however, none of this seemed to matter. Although they didn’t give Rosie the cut direct, what they’d done was even crueler, to Polly’s mind. They’d allowed Rosie the illusion of acceptance into their exclusive sphere. Since her debut, Rosie had enjoyed enormous popularity, her beauty and charm rightly winning her the admiration of countless gentlemen.

  Yet in recent months it had become painfully clear that popularity was not the same as respectability. Flirtations had not led to offers, nor promises to proposals. Most unfair of all, Rosie’s reputation had suffered from the men’s fickle behavior: she had been the one labelled brazen—a flirt.

  “It matters not. I’ve put it all behind me,” Rosie declared. “Once I reform my image, I’ll have eligible suitors vying for my hand. Which is why I must carry on with the visit today. To show them all that I’m charitable, respectable, and all the things a lady ought to be.”

  “And perhaps doing good will be reward in itself,” Thea suggested. “You sing like an angel, Rosie. When we give our performance, I’m sure your voice will lift many a downtrodden spirit.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Rosie smoothed her hands over her skirts. “Well, since I’m to attempt to cheer up some cracked pots… how do I look?”

  Rosie had inherited her mama’s exquisite bone structure, corn-silk hair, and stunning green eyes. She had an unerring instinct for fashion as well, and her white sprigged muslin, with its au courant flounced butter-yellow underskirt and ribbon trim, set off her slender form to perfection. To complete the ensemble, she’d worn matching yellow kid boots, and a spray of buttercups adorned her bonnet.

  “Beautiful as always,” Polly said sincerely. “You do know how to put an outfit together.”

  “If that’s the case, I do wish you’d let me dress you. That sack you’re wearing,”—Rosie gave a shudder—“it’s a travesty.”

  Since this was a familiar conversation, Polly didn’t take offense. She knew Rosie had her best interests at heart, but what the other didn’t understand was that Polly wasn’t like her. Not everyone could be beautiful. And not everyone wanted to be noticed.

  As if the fiasco of Lord Brockhurst hadn’t been enough, Polly had suffered yet another indignity in the past year. For most of her life, she’d been a thin, slight girl, but Emma, her eldest sister, had correctly predicted that she’d be a late bloomer. Seemingly overnight, Polly had sprouted curves that strained the bodices of her dresses, and her lower half had undergone the same excessive expansion as well. Coupled with her short stature, her new form was awkward and ungainly.

  How she wished she might be slender and lithe like Rosie. The other was as graceful as a swan whereas Polly resembled the proverbial partridge—in figure and coloring. Her hair was a non-descript shade, as if it couldn’t decide whether to be blond or brown and settled for something in between. Neither straight nor curly, the thick tresses rebelled against pins and hot irons and were the bane of her existence, trumped only by her aura-seeing queerness.

  To Polly’s mind, her only passable feature were her eyes. She liked their clear, light shade of blue-green. Unfortunately, her gaze had a tendency of making others uncomfortable and, thus, she avoided making undue eye contact.

  But as Em would say, there was no use crying over spilt milk. Full skirts were in fashion, and Polly took full advantage of the trend, obscuring her hips and bottom with layers of petticoats. Against the modiste’s protestations, she’d insisted on high necklines, loosely cut bodices, and dull fabrics as well. A partridge’s best defense was camouflage after all.

  “My dress is fine,” she said.

  “It’s got yards of excessive fabric,” Rosie pointed out. “One of your dresses could make two of mine. That garment hides you, Pols—which is a shame. You’ve a lovely figure.”

  “For a strumpet.” She’d caught the way gentlemen ogled her body parts, the animal lust staining their auras. Like I’m a lump of meat, she thought with a humiliated shudder.

  “For a woman. I wish my bosom was as nice as yours, and you’ve the tiniest waist—”

  “It only looks tiny in comparison to my vast hips.” Polly set her chin. “Leave it be, Rosie.”

  Rosie turned to Thea. “Lord above, can’t you talk some sense into her?”

  “I think the most important thing is that one feels comfortable in what one wears,” Thea said.

  “You see?” Polly shrugged. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

  Given the roomy design of her dress, it was hard not to be.

  “When does comfort have anything to do with fashion?” Rosie said, clearly exasperated. “This blasted corset is squeezing the life out of me, and you don’t hear me complaining.”

  “Why are you laced so tightly? You hardly need it.”

  “Try getting into this dress otherwise,” Rosie grumbled. “But don’t distract me from my point.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you shouldn’t hide behind drab and unflattering clothes. How are you going to husband hunt with me if you don’t take advantage of your assets?”

  “I don’t want to husband hunt.” Because I’ve already found the perfect candidate.

  For Polly meant to use the valuable lessons she’d learned. Brockhurst may have destroyed her dreams, but her future was still hers to decide. She didn’t want to be a burden to her siblings forever. She didn’t want to be the spinster sister, shuffling between households with a menagerie of cats. If she couldn’t have love, then she would have the next best thing.

  Rosie rolled her eyes. “You cannot possibly be serious about Nigel Pickering-Parks.”

  As a matter of fact, Polly was. “Why not?”

  “Um, because he’s a pompous bore? Not fashionable at all? Besides, you cannot marry him for the simple fact that he’s already married—to his fossil collection.”

  It was true tha
t Nigel had an avid interest in collecting old bones. Mammal, insect, fish, or amphibian—he was an equal opportunity enthusiast. If it could be dug up and placed in a display cabinet, then Nigel’s interest was hooked.

  To Polly, this was precisely what made him the solution to the problem of her future. In the two months of their acquaintance, he’d been so engrossed in his hobby that he’d never looked that closely at her. He was too wrapped up in his latest acquisition to notice her peculiarity or leer at her figure. He, himself, was comfortable-looking and a trifle pudgy—in other words, her perfect physical counterpart.

  With Nigel, she would have a simple, convenient marriage. He could have his fossils; she’d have her foundlings. She’d devote herself to making their life together agreeable, and, God willing, they might even produce a child she could nurture and love. She would be content. If Nigel ever got around to offering for her, she knew what her answer would be.

  “You could give Nigel more of a chance,” Polly said.

  “The fellow declined an invitation to your upcoming birthday supper in order to go looking for fossils. These are old bones we’re talking about, ones that have been lying around for centuries. Why couldn’t he wait until after your party to rush off?”

  “Nigel says fossil hunters are a competitive lot,” Polly said in his defense. “When he gets a tip, he must act.”

  Snorting, Rosie turned to Thea. “You don’t approve of Nigel any more than I do, do you?”

  Thea hesitated. “I don’t know him well.”

  “But you don’t like him, do you?” Rosie pressed.

  “I don’t dislike him,” Thea hedged. “He’s quite… unobjectionable.”

  “See?” Polly said.

  “Quite. In fact, I can see his gravestone now: here lies Nigel Pickering-Parks, unobjectionable husband and passable fellow to all those who knew him.” Rosie huffed. “If you won’t look for a more suitable match, I’ll just have to find rich and handsome lords for both of us.”

  It was Polly’s turn to cast her gaze heavenward. “How are you going to do that, pray tell?”

  The other girl shrugged. “I buy you a bonnet whenever I buy myself one, don’t I?”

  “A husband is not the same as a bonnet!”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Rosie’s eyes widened innocently. “One can’t replace them nearly as easily when they’ve gone out of style, can one?”

  Polly’s lips twitched, but she said severely, “So one better make the right choice the first time around. A title isn’t everything, you know.”

  “Of course it is, silly.” Rosie tapped her chin with a finger. “Who knows? Maybe there’s a pair of twin dukes somewhere. Whoever came out first would technically be His Grace—but the other would likely have a courtesy title. Because I love you so, I’d give you the older brother.”

  “You’d make such a sacrifice for me?” Polly said dryly.

  “What can I say?” Rosie’s expression was angelic. “I’m a martyr.”

  A shared look—and they both burst into giggles.

  ~~~

  A while later, Polly stood at the back of the salon waiting for Rosie and Thea’s performance to begin. The room was stuffy, the heavy scent of perfume not entirely masking the underlying human smells. At first glance, the patients filing in appeared well-groomed and fashionably dressed, yet Polly saw the miasma that surrounded them like a fog and recognized it as… despair. Beneath that smothering cloud, bright and clashing colors flitted like desperate butterflies trapped in a glass jar. The suffocating atmosphere made Polly’s lungs strain for air.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Kent.”

  Mrs. Barlow approached in a swish of chartreuse silk. The proprietress wore her dark hair in a simple twist, her jewelry sparse and tasteful. The widow of a prosperous factory owner, she’d purchased this once-ailing resort built upon mineral springs and transformed it into what her pamphlet described as a “haven for healing.”

  From the tour of the house Mrs. Barlow had given them earlier, Polly could find no fault with the advertising. The main house had been redone in a crisp, Palladian style and boasted separate wings for male and female patients. There were spacious rooms for entertainment, including the present salon.

  Although they hadn’t yet toured the grounds or the famed baths, the windows near Polly displayed the manicured splendor behind the main house. Graveled paths wound past flower beds and leafy hedges. Mrs. Barlow had explained that the Roman springs lay just beyond the garden, along with small private villas reserved for her most distinguished residents.

  Everything appeared first-rate, yet Polly couldn’t quell her unease. A large part of it had to do with the proprietress, whose aura was the same color as her dress: a sickly shade of green.

  “As you can see, my charges are on their best behavior,” Mrs. Barlow said, her features schooled in a pleasant mask. “This performance is to be a reward for them.”

  Polly saw the patients filing like obedient schoolchildren into rows of hard-backed chairs. The charges darted nervous glances at the perimeter of the room where attendants, men and women dressed in severe grey uniforms, stood like sentinels. Behind them, sunlight glinted off the iron bars over the windows.

  Polly suppressed a shiver. “I hope the residents will enjoy the selection of music.”

  “Oh, they will.” Mrs. Barlow’s smile had the sharp gleam of teeth.

  A brouhaha suddenly came from the front of the room. One of the charges, a ginger-haired gentleman, shouted at a male attendant, “I do not wish to sit!”

  “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Kent?” Mrs. Barlow said brusquely.

  The proprietress glided over to the resident. She spoke softly to him, her serene expression never changing, and yet the man turned ashen, his glow snuffed like a candle. He lowered himself into the chair, visibly shaking. Triumph wriggled like black snakes through Mrs. Barlow’s aura; with a satisfied smirk, she headed off.

  Polly’s temples throbbed. Hopelessness hovered over all the patients like storm clouds, the feeling so oppressive that she couldn’t breathe. Spotting a nearby door that looked to lead into the gardens, she headed toward it.

  Once amongst the hedgerows, she lifted her face to the sun, willing its warmth to permeate her chilled insides. She sensed so much suffering inside that house—and yet she was helpless to do anything about it. She had no solid evidence, nothing to point to… except her own freakish intuition.

  She kicked a pebble out of her path. She knew she would have to turn around soon, but her nerves were still jangled. Her gaze caught on a wooden structure just past the hedgerows, and curiosity nudged aside some of her unease. Was that one of the Roman baths? A distraction would prove welcome at the moment.

  Drawing in another breath, she went to see what she would find.

  Chapter Two

  Herbert Gerard St. John Pelham—known as Sinjin to anyone who didn’t want a drubbing—dropped his robe and let it fall onto the stone floor. The sulphur-tinged steam curled upward from the hot spring, sheening his bare skin. The bathhouse had been modeled after the ancient spas at Bath, reproductions of Roman columns posted at the corners of the large rectangular pool, a wrought iron torch flickering upon each one. Smooth, golden stone paved the deck around the bath and the surrounding walls. The effect was cavernous, womb-like.

  Sinjin descended the shallow steps into the glimmering blue-green depths of the pool. Christ, that’s good. He waded deeper, nearly groaning as the warm, silky water lapped against the hard ridges of his torso. He was a man of sensual appetites, and Lord knew there’d been no earthly indulgences during the week he’d been trapped in this godforsaken place.

  At least today all the lunatics had been herded to some musicale, and he finally had some peace and quiet. To be fair, he was the one intruding upon their territory: he was no resident, of course, but a special guest staying in one of Mrs. Barlow’s private villas. His father, the Duke of Acton, had brought him here, and at the time, he’d been too disoriented
, too bloody shaken, to take full note of his surroundings or ask any questions.

  Shame rose like a tide. He told himself it was useless to think about the events of the night that had led to his arrival at Mrs. Barlow’s. Even if he wanted to contemplate the sins he’d committed during those damnable hours, he couldn’t.

  Because all that came to him was darkness. The blackness of a hole punched from his memory. He’d tried and tried to remember what had happened, but all he saw was the end result.

  Nicoletta’s battered face and blackened eyes. The necklace of fingerprints around her neck. Her sobbing accusation and pointing finger. He went mad and tried to kill me.

  Sinjin’s stomach curdled, the contents of his lunch threatening to make a reappearance. Revulsion burned through his veins like acid; his fingers speared through his hair, gripping tightly, as if pain could somehow lessen his fear.

  Why can’t I remember? Am I going mad?

  He’d have to be to hurt a woman. Sinjin did not pretend to be a gentleman of high morals, but never had he committed violence against a member of the gentler sex. The notion made him sick.

  At six-and-twenty, he’d led a wild life and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of it. People came and went; in the end, he was the only one he could count on—and thus the only one whose opinion he cared to court. From the time he’d been expelled from Eton through the nightmare years at Creavey Hall, he’d stuck to that philosophy, and he’d survived, with the scars to prove it.

  The idea that he would inflict similar abuse on an undeserving victim? Not bloody possible. As bedeviled as he was, he couldn’t fathom it. Hurting someone less powerful than him went against what little he held sacred. But why couldn’t he remember?

  I’ll teach you a trick, Sinjin, something I do to calm myself. I grab hold of something: a paperweight, a coin, anything. And I concentrate on that one thing—the sensation of that object in my hand—until my mind is steady again.