Everything she’d imagined—all of it as insubstantial as smoke.
Her total humiliation had been made worse by the fact that rather than permitting her to lapse into another swoon, they had instead all very decorously introduced themselves. Strathrannoch’s estate manager, Mr. Palmer—a bespectacled older man with deep brown skin—had been the very picture of soothing comfort. In between words of consolation, he’d fetched her a warm blue-and-green plaid and a wet cloth. Lydia was not sure whether to use it on her face or her slippers.
Mr. Trefor, the stable master, had been tasked with securing chairs for the room, which was mostly empty, aside from scattered books and a few incongruous children’s toys. The state of the castle’s interior did not surprise her, from what she knew of the Strathrannoch earldom’s finances. She supposed that the furniture and candlesticks and anything else that might fetch some coin had been carted off and sold.
Eventually, Lord Strathrannoch himself returned from a long absence, bearing a pot of tea and a hefty bottle of whisky. He added a hearty splash of the whisky to her teacup and then rather grimly filled his own cup nearly to the brim. She could not discern if he looked worried or furious, and when she caught herself staring at his face, she lifted her teacup to her mouth, abandoned decorum, and gulped.
The alcohol-laced concoction brought some feeling back into her fingers, and after a moment, she lifted her gaze to the menarrayed across from her. Mr. Palmer was the first to speak. “Are you feeling better, my dear?”
She was not feeling especially better. But she nodded anyway.
“She’s here because Davis tricked her,” said Lord Strathrannoch bluntly. “Meant to take her fortune, no doubt. If I was not already of a mind to kill the bastard when we find him, I’d be plotting murder now, damn it.”
“When you find him?” Lydia asked in surprise.
At the same time, Mr. Palmer’s brows rose over his wire-rimmed spectacles. “Take her fortune? However did he mean to do that?”
A roomful of eyes swung in her direction. She made a small, involuntary whimper. There was nothing—nothing—more calculated to discompose her than a vista of interested strangers peering into her face.
She directed a pathos-filled glance at Georgiana, who gave a delicate shrug.
Lord Strathrannoch reached over and poured some more whisky into her teacup. Mr. Palmer coughed meaningfully, and Strathrannoch added a splash of tea as well.
Lydia drank again, grateful for brothers, secret liquor stashes, and Ned in particular, whose commitment to the proper behavior of society ladies was negligible. She did not even cough at the whisky’s endless burn.
And when she felt herself capable of it, she stared down into the teacup and, as quickly as possible, explained her marital intentions toward the Earl of Strathrannoch.
Herformermarital intentions, back when she’d thought she’d known the man. This whisky-pouring giant was a stranger who had seen her faint and vomit in close succession. A wedding did not seem imminent.
“I’d meant to propose a mutually beneficial arrangement,” she informed the teacup. “I am an heiress—”
“Very rich,” put in Georgiana helpfully.
Lydia shot her friend a brief glare. Georgiana did not look repentant.
“I would not have come empty-handed into the agreement,” Lydia went on. “It was not purely self-interested. I had something to offer.”
She felt absurd saying the words. She hadmoney. That was what she meant. That had been her enticement: The Strathrannoch estate needed money, and she could provide it.
She knew she had other good qualities. She was clever and well-read. She had a head for figures. She’d had a hand in the elections of at least half of the decade’s most progressive Whigs and had personally organized the downfall of a corrupt MP who’d championed the death penalty for political protestors.
She was an excellent sister, recent deceptions notwithstanding. She tried to be a good friend.
It was just that, in her plan to propose marriage, her inheritance had seemed by far the most appealing part of her person, and she’d intended to capitalize upon that.
It felt surprisingly painful to say so aloud.
“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Trefor. “Why would Davis pretend to be Strathrannoch? What could he have hoped to gain?”
“For God’s sake,” said Strathrannoch, “he wanted her blasted fortune. Thought to play her like a fiddle, get her money for himself somehow.” His ears had gone rather red again; he looked furious.
Lydia shook her head, compelled to set him straight despite her instincts urging her to hide underneath the plaid. “I don’t think so. I don’t see how he could have known of my fortune. My identity is closely guarded by Belvoir’s—I would trust thepatroness with my life. In fact, Idotrust her with my life. I could be charged with sedition and imprisoned for those pamphlets.”
Mr. Palmer nudged his spectacles up his nose. “If not for money, then perhaps for information. You said you spoke of politics?”
“Yes,” Lydia said slowly. “It’s possible. I assume he was a radical, looking for more information about radical causes?”
The three men all made various noises of scorn and disbelief, and she blinked.
