Lord of Legends

If her statement had been truly a lie, she might not have been able to pull it off. But it was at least half-true, for Donnington had shown no more disgust for her than he had affection. He’d simply ignored her, remained in his own room and left the next morning.

He’d said he loved her. Had it been the money, after all? Plenty of wealthy men could never be content with what they had, and she’d brought a large marriage settlement, in addition to her own separate inheritance.

But surely no healthy man would choose not to take advantage of his marriage bed. The other reasons why he might have left her alone were disturbing. And that was why, if the dowager did believe that her son hadn’t consummated the marriage, she must feel compelled to blame that fact on Mariah.

“I’m certain that Giles will return to us very soon,” Mariah said calmly.

“Let us hope you are correct.” Vivian’s stare scoured Mariah to the bone. “You had best go up and change, my dear. Donnington would never approve of your wild appearance.”

And of course he would not. The quiet unassuming wife he’d desired must be proper at all times.

Mariah nodded brusquely and continued up the stairs. Halfway to the landing, she paused and turned. “By the way,” she said, “Donnington doesn’t have any brothers besides Sinjin, does he?”

“Why … why do you ask such a question?”

The outrage in the dowager’s voice told Mariah that she had made a serious mistake. “I do apologize,” she said. “It was only a dream I had last night.”

“A dream?” The older woman followed Mariah up the stairs. “A dream about my son?”

“It was nothing. If you will excuse me …”

Mariah continued to the landing, Vivian’s stare burning into her back, and went quickly to her room.

A hidden brother. How could she have been so stupid? It was all too bizarre to be credible. If she hadn’t seen the prisoner with her own eyes.

You did see him. You touched him. He is real.

Preoccupied with such disturbing thoughts, Mariah opened the door to find one of the chambermaids—Nola, that was her name—crouched before the fireplace, cleaning the grate.

“Oh!” the maid cried, leaping to her feet. “Lady Donnington! I’m so sorry.” She curtseyed, so nervous that she dropped her broom and nearly upset the contents of her scuttle. She bent to snatch the broom up again.

Mariah tossed her hat on the bed. “I’m not angry, Nola,” she said.

The girl, her face smudged above the starched collar of her uniform, paused to meet Mariah’s gaze. “Thank you, your ladyship,” she said, her country accent a little thicker as she relaxed. “I’ll be gone in a trice.”

“No need to hurry.” Mariah sank into the chair by her dressing table and pulled the pins from her hair. She knew she ought to ring for her personal maid, Alice, but she had no desire to be fussed over now.

Not after what had happened an hour ago. Not after visiting a prisoner who had been treated so abominably, worse than any of the patients she had encountered in the asylum.

“Your ladyship?”

Mariah looked up. Nola was standing with her scuttle and supplies, watching Mariah anxiously. “Are you all right?”

It was a presumptuous question from a servant, at least by English lights. Mariah took no offense.

“I’m fine,” she said. She took a better look at the girl, wondering why she hadn’t really noticed her before. Nola must have been close to eighteen, with a round, rather plain face, vivid red hair tucked under her cap, light gray eyes, and a mouth that must smile frequently when she wasn’t in the presence of her supposed betters. “How are you, Nola?”

The girl couldn’t have been more surprised. “I … I am very well, your ladyship.”

As well as anyone could be in this mausoleum of a house, Mariah thought. But Nola’s reply gave her a sudden peculiar notion. If there was one thing she’d learned, both at home and at Donbridge, it was that the servants—from the steward to the lowliest scullery maid—always knew everything that went on in a household. If anyone at Donbridge had heard of a prisoner in the folly, they would have done so.

But she had to be very careful not to frighten Nola. Mariah had few enough allies, and Nola, so easily ignored by everyone else, might be just the ticket. “Sit down, Nola,” she said.

The maid looked about wildly as if someone had threatened to cut her throat. “I—I should go, your ladyship.”

“I’d like to have a talk, if you don’t mind.”

She realized how she sounded as soon as she spoke. Nola undoubtedly believed she was in for a scolding for being caught cleaning up, and that was the last thing Mariah wanted her to think.

“You’re not in any trouble,” Mariah said. “I really only want to talk. I’m alone here, you see.”

Comprehension flashed across the girl’s face. “You … you wish to talk to me, your ladyship?”

“Yes. Please, sit down.”

Nola returned to the fireplace, set down her scuttle and brushed off her skirts before venturing onto the carpet again. She sat gingerly in the chair next to the hearth, her back rigid.

“Don’t be concerned, Nola,” Mariah said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the house, if you don’t mind.”

“I … of course, your ladyship.”

Mariah folded her hands in her lap, hoping she looked sufficiently unthreatening. “How long have you been here, Nola?”

“Well … mmm … almost six months, your ladyship.”

“You must observe a great deal of what goes on at Donbridge.”

Nola blanched, and Mariah knew she’d moved too fast. “I realize you really don’t know me well, Nola,” she said. “If you don’t feel comfortable confiding in me …”

“Oh, no, your ladyship! You’ve never been anything but kind to everyone.” She paused, evidently amazed by her own frankness. “It must be very different in America.”

“In many ways it is.” Mariah leaned forward a little. “The former Lady Donnington hasn’t been kind, has she?”

Nola glanced toward the door. “Why should she care about the likes of us?”

That was close to downright rebellion. Mariah might have smiled if not for her more sober purpose. “I don’t believe she cares much about anyone but her son.”

The girl dropped her gaze. “That’s not for me to say, your ladyship.”

“Please don’t call me that, Nola. My name is Mariah.”

A stubborn expression replaced the unease on Nola’s face. “It isn’t right, your ladyship.”

The subject certainly wasn’t worth arguing over. “Very well. But this is very important, Nola. I believe you can help me with something that matters a great deal to me. Will you answer my questions honestly?”

The armchair creaked as Nola shifted her weight. “Yes, your ladyship.”

“Do you know if Lord Donnington has a relative … a cousin, perhaps … who looks very much like him?”