Lord Ventnor was so entranced by his own countenance that he did not so much as glance at the two faces at the window, their features indistinct through the glass.
“I say, Luxborough, congratulations on your marriage,” Ventnor said, hooking his cane between two fingers so he could offer a few sarcastic slaps of applause. “To a shop girl! I did try to warn you about these women, with their coy looks and flattery. But then I daresay a man such as you—” His gaze lingered pointedly on Rafe’s ruined cheek. “—would be more susceptible to flattery than most. And so—dare I say it?—Helen Knight sank her claws into you.”
If only Rafe could see Ventnor’s face when he learned whom Helen Knight had really snared.
“I thought you’d be more grateful,” Rafe said guilelessly. “I sacrificed myself to save your little boy Beau.”
Past the viscount, a smirking dandy with hair the same sandy color as Katharine’s lounged against the carriage, looking pleased with himself. The dastardly knave Percy Russell, no doubt.
“That selfish boy! Fancies himself in love, and cares nothing for the harm such an inappropriate match would do to our entire family.” Ventnor looked Rafe up and down. “I suppose it hardly matters to you, though, considering how you blithely sully your own once-noble title.”
Rafe glanced at Dudley, who looked like he was praying for the earth to swallow him up. “You certainly assist me on that point, Ventnor, with these tales you spread about me.”
“Did you like the little gift I sent you? Useful creature, isn’t he?” Ventnor pointed his cane at Dudley. “You have served your purpose. Go.”
Dudley shot an apologetic look at Rafe and fled, his black robes flapping about his heavy boots.
“Look at him run.” Ventnor turned to Percy, and father and son shared a laugh. “I say a word and like little rabbits they run.” He looked back at Rafe. “You are not amused, Luxborough? My abilities do not impress you?”
“Anyone can start a false rumor. If you wish to impress me, make the falsehoods stop.”
“If you want me to try, you already know what to do: Retract those heinous lies you published about my daughter.”
“That pamphlet contained only the truth about Katharine, and you know it. Katharine was tormented, and no one should suffer that alone.”
Bold claim, but in truth, Katharine always had to suffer them alone, those private horrors inflicted by her mind. Even when she was well, she lived in fear of her mind betraying her again. To this day, Rafe could feel her hands clutching him, hear her terrified whisper, “What is happening to me, Rafe? I no longer even know who I am.” All he could do was hold her, and try to soothe her, and hide his own fear. And when he published a pamphlet about Katharine and the need for better treatments for all those similarly afflicted, Ventnor had swiftly countered by spreading the message that nothing natural ailed his daughter: He claimed Rafe had turned Katharine’s mind through cruelty or poison, and published those lies to cover his villainy. All credit to the viscount. He was dedicated and deployed a creative array of methods, from actors planted around the country to sly anonymous letters to editors and the occasional satirical cartoon. And all those blasted people, so busy gobbling up outrageous rumors that they had no appetite left for the truth.
“I shall retract nothing,” Rafe added. “Never will I deny Katharine’s truth, or pretend she never happened because that makes you feel more comfortable.”
“You selfish boor!” Ventnor hissed. “What about my younger daughter? Daphne is satisfactorily married now, but no man would have chosen her had I allowed your stories about Katharine to stand unchallenged. And I daresay you never spared a thought for my future grandchildren. Can you imagine what cruel treatment they might endure if people knew?”
“Then use your influence to change people’s views. Then we can treat those afflicted as Katharine was with compassion, rather than locking them away in horrendous conditions in shame.”
“Naive fool!” Ventnor spat. “It is easier to convince the world that you are a witch than that madness is not to be feared. So what if it is nonsense? Most people could not get out of bed if they did not have some nonsense to sustain them. I will do what I must for my family.”
Rafe looked at him steadily. “How afraid you are, Ventnor.”
“How dare you!” His whole head quivered. “Those rumors might die away on their own if you behaved like a normal human being, but instead you fuel them, by hiding away on your estate, brewing strange concoctions with heathens and foreigners. But then you always were odd. How your father puzzled over you, the dark, silent boy who preferred to run through the woods like a commoner than behave like the son of an earl.” He sighed. “Shame.”
Ventnor stalked back to his carriage, where the trio of matching footmen still stood to attention. He paused as he stepped onto his little carpet.
“Oh, and you have not yet thanked me,” he added to Rafe, in the affable tone of a man doing another a favor.
“Hmm?”
“For the orchids. If not for me, you would never have come by such fine and rare specimens. So thank me.”
“Hmm.”
Looking uncertain, Ventnor emitted one shaky “ha.” He glanced up at the window, at the indistinct faces of Thea and the bishop. “And for your merchant bride, of course. How desperate you must be for a body in your bed.”
As the viscount climbed back into his carriage, Rafe sauntered over to Percy Russell. Shamelessly, Rafe used his greater size to loom over the younger man, who stretched up like a weasel, leading with his chin.
“I don’t like you, you miserable, sniveling—”
“You cannot harm me,” Russell whimpered. “My father won’t allow it.”
“Hmm.”
Rafe didn’t move. The youth sidled away crabwise, then leaped into the carriage. The footmen performed their ritual in reverse, and the coach trundled off.
On his way to the door, Rafe realized he still held the bills from Thea’s shopping expedition. Her purpose was plain enough, and he secretly applauded her ingenuity. And yet… It would be highly diverting to see what excuses she offered. Just a little teasing would do no harm, and it would take his mind off Ventnor and Katharine and the blasted hopelessness of the lot.
Feeling suddenly and uncommonly light-hearted, Rafe headed back into his house.
Chapter 8
Rafe found Thea in the hallway, tugging at the bow of her bonnet, letting the ribbons flutter against her throat. As she lifted the bonnet from her head, her bosom rose and fell. A hairpin clattered onto the floor and a thick lock of chestnut hair tumbled down her neck.
Rafe twisted the bills in both hands. “Has the bishop gone?”
“Yes. He’s unusual, isn’t he? For a bishop.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I don’t recall.”
She put down the bonnet. One by one, she released the five buttons of her pelisse, the fabric parting to reveal the summer gown below, pale blue with a shiny royal-blue ribbon under her bust. Perhaps he should help her, slide the pelisse off her shoulders and down those smooth, bare arms.