Needing no encouragement, her knees so weak she feared they might fail her, Thea picked up her skirts and ran inside. She raced straight past the bishop and into the front parlor, where she stood behind the curtain to watch, heart racing, nausea building, as Lord Ventnor’s carriage arrived.
It was a grand coach-and-four: a shiny black carriage pulled by four perfectly matched gray horses. The viscount’s coat of arms was emblazoned on the side, and on the back rode three footmen, also perfectly matched: all the same height and build, dressed in the same royal-purple livery, with the same white wigs on their heads. They leaped down the moment the carriage stopped. One pulled open the door, one folded down the steps, the third unrolled a royal-purple carpet on the street.
Then they lined up along the carpet, as if for the Prince Regent himself.
From the depths of the cavernous carriage emerged a long, thin, silver-tipped ebony stick.
Then one long, thin, black-clad leg.
Then all of Lord Ventnor, long, thin, and impeccable in a silver-and-gray striped waistcoat and black coat, with a tall black hat on his long white hair.
He stepped down onto the carpet. Planted the silver tip of his cane and rested both gloved hands on the silver knob. Raised his chin and tapped one foot. In perfect unison, the three footmen bent at the waist in identical deep bows. Only when they had straightened did Lord Ventnor step forward to greet the earl.
He looked exactly as he did in Thea’s memory of those nightmarish minutes in the ballroom, which played over and over in her mind like a never-ending cotillion. That night, Ventnor had seemed to stretch to ten feet tall and everything became too close and yet so far away. Her confused mind had struggled to understand, to argue, to find just one word—No! Liars! False!—but shock had stolen her voice, and so she’d simply stood, like a hunted rabbit, until Lady Ventnor gently guided her out of the ballroom, and Percy Russell gloated.
And he was there too: Percy Russell himself. Stepping down onto the carpet, smirking at the footmen as they bowed for him too. His clothes were the height of fashion: a bottle-green coat over a mint-green waistcoat, with the high, starched points of his collar scraping his pink jaw. The years had been good to him, but then cads like him always prospered, for it was not only coats and boots that were tailor-made for them; it was the whole world.
“I hate him. The Honorable Mr. Percival Russell.” She slid a sideways glance at the bishop. “I know it’s wrong to hate someone.”
“Eh,” he said, in a tone that suggested otherwise.
“Aren’t we supposed to love everyone?”
“We’re supposed to, but…” He shrugged. “Some people are such vile snots.”
A surprised laugh burst out of her mouth and she hastily stifled it. He met her gaze serenely.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought you were a bishop.”
He grinned. “It surprises me sometimes too. What were they thinking?” He stepped back and bowed with a flourish of his sleeves. “Nicholas Landcross, Bishop of Dartford, at your service. Rafe’s father was my cousin. Which means you and I are family now.”
“Um.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not as terrible as they say.”
“I mean…”
A glance around the curtain showed Percy lounging against the carriage, while Luxborough and Ventnor faced each other on the street. Luxborough looked completely at ease, while Ventnor brandished his walking stick. She had never seen him use the stick to walk; as far as she could tell, he used it only to menace other people.
It occurred to Thea that Luxborough had no reason to hide her from Ventnor, unless he knew the viscount would be unkind and he meant to protect her from any unpleasantness.
If only she had had the courage to stand up to them all that night, when Ventnor called her names and his elegant guests stared at her as if she were horse dung on their shoes. She hated her own weakness as much as she hated them. Her life had never been in danger, but her body reacted as though to a real threat. But if someone had stood by her side—as her parents would have done, of course, if they’d known the truth—then she might have found her courage.
How lovely it would be, to have someone always at her side, who thought her worth fighting for. Someone big and strong and powerful, who could fight off savage beasts and civilized lords. Not Lord Luxborough, of course. But someone.
“I have something to confess,” she said to the bishop.
“No, no. Please don’t.”
“I’m doing bad things. I’m lying and stealing and…bad things.”
He sighed. “A physician friend of mine cannot pass an hour with the newspapers in his favorite coffeehouse without someone telling him about their ailments. I suffer a similar problem: Everywhere I go, someone wants to confess their sins.”
“Oh, I do beg your pardon.” Thea considered this. “Actually, that sounds rather delicious.”
“It would be, but most people’s sins are terribly dull. So, my dear, I understand your conscience is bothering you, but you need not let it bother me too.”
“It only bothers me sometimes, when I fear I’m tricking someone who is good, for I have vowed to trick only the villainous and powerful. Should I feel bad?”
The bishop shrugged. “Eh. Why bother? It’s probably good for them. Yes,” he added, his expression growing thoughtful. “I think it is probably very good for them indeed.”
His look unnerved her, so she peeked around the curtain. As she watched, Ventnor spoke to the zealot, who turned and ran, and Ventnor and Percy laughed.
How farcical, that the zealot had called Lord Luxborough a demon, when true demons like Ventnor and Percy stood right there.
“Some people have done truly hurtful things, yet no one wants to hear about that,” she said. “Why do some people get to tell their stories and others don’t? Why do some people get to say what is truth? And why doesn’t he stop it?” She jabbed a finger at Luxborough. He and Ventnor appeared to be arguing. “It’s one thing for people like me to put up with rumors, but why him?”
“Because Rafe believes it too,” the bishop said.
Her head whipped around. “He believes he’s a witch?”
“He believes he has done something wrong, so he does not argue when people say that he did. In truth, his only sin is to be as flawed and human as the rest of us. But he tells himself he has failed and is not enough.”
“Failed how?”
He didn’t answer.
“You care about him,” Thea said.
“He’s like a son to me. You’ll look after him for me, won’t you?”
“Look after him?”
The bishop’s eyes flickered to the window. Ventnor was stalking back to his carriage.
“I must go.” The bishop slapped on his hat and hooked his coat on one finger. “He’s a good boy. But he’s caught up in false beliefs. It would be lovely if someone would set him free.” He half turned and hesitated. “That jaguar saved his life, you know.”
“How?”
“Ask him about it sometime.”
And with those cryptic words, the Bishop of Dartford swung his coat over his shoulder and sauntered out the door, whistling an unfamiliar tune.