Olivia came up to the bedroom and found Deb in a tearful heap on the bed. Deb felt her sister touch her shoulder gently and after a moment the tension went out of her body and she allowed Olivia to draw her close and give her a hug. It was unusual for Olivia to be so demonstrative, but Deb found it enormously comforting. She hiccuped a little and reached for a pillowcase to dry her tears. ‘We cannot be forever crying over each other.’
‘No,’ Olivia said, proffering her own scrap of cambric handkerchief. ‘I am sorry, Deb. Sorry that I deceived you, I mean.’ She grimaced. ‘I knew Richard wanted to marry you, and I was so pleased!’ She looked at Deb’s tear- swollen face and shook her head slightly. ‘He loves you very much, you know, Deb, and you love him too…’
Deb bit her lip on a denial. What was the point? She had admitted to herself only that morning that she loved Richard with all her heart. If she had not, she would not be feeling so distressed now.
She twisted her hands together. ‘He did not tell me he loved me,’ she said.
Olivia raised her brows. ‘Did you tell him that you loved him?’
‘No, but that is different.’ Deb blushed. ‘I only realised…’ her voice dropped ‘…this morning, after we…’
Olivia laughed. ‘Oh, Deb!’ She sobered up. ‘It was wrong of Richard to mislead you, but his motives were sincere. He knew that you had no wish to wed again and all he wanted was the opportunity to court you. He was in the devil of a fix, you know, wishing to reassure Ross and myself that his intentions were honourable, but also needing to win your trust-’ She broke off. ‘But you must discuss this with Richard himself. It is not for me to say.’
‘I trusted him,’ Deb said in a tired voice. ‘I trusted him and he betrayed me.’
‘Did he?’ Olivia said, and Deb jumped at the ring of steel in her gentle sister’s voice. ‘You think that you are the only one deceived? And what sort of trust is it that does not even tell Richard the truth of your own situation? I’ll wager that you have not told him about your first marriage, have you?’
Deb froze. She felt simultaneously hot and cold, her heart ice, the prickling heat breaking out over her whole body. ‘You did not tell Richard that I was never married to Neil? Tell me that he does not know!’
‘I have not told him,’ Olivia said, ‘and nor has Ross.’ Her expression was hard. ‘It is your place to do that-if you truly love him. If you trust him, you could tell him anything.’
‘No,’ Deb whispered. ‘I cannot.’
Olivia shrugged, but her hard expression had softened into something like pity. ‘That is, of course, your choice, Deb, just as it is up to you whether or not you marry Richard.’ She stood up. ‘I hope that you will feel well enough to go out later. Do not forget that it is the private view for Lady Sally’s watercolour book tonight.’
Deb caught her breath. ‘I cannot attend-’
Olivia looked cross. ‘You must. Show some spirit, Deb!’
‘Tell everyone that I am ill!’ Deb begged. ‘I cannot bear to go into company.’
‘Since everyone is talking scandal about you,’ Olivia said, with asperity, ‘you will attend to quash the rumours. I have had enough of this, Deb! Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We shall collect you at eight.’
After she had gone, Deb rolled over with a groan and buried her face in the pillow. Then she sat up. What could she do? She could refuse to attend Lady Sally’s soiree but she suspected that Olivia and Ross would drag her there.
She could break her engagement publicly and face the consequences.
She could return to Bath and throw herself on her father’s mercy.
Except that she could not. That was how she had got herself into this difficulty in the first place.
She could marry Richard Kestrel…
She had to marry Richard Kestrel unless she wanted to be ostracised.
She loved Richard and wanted to marry him, but not like this…
‘Damn it!’ Deb said furiously, punching her pillow. ‘Why must I always get into such a scrape?’
She knew that she was going to have to talk to Richard and put matters right. She knew that she was going to have to tell him everything that she had previously held back. She had had the courage to love and trust this far, and now she must take the final step. Then, and only then, she might make the match of her heart-but only if Richard still wanted her. And of that she was painfully unsure.
Chapter Eighteen
There was no opportunity for Deb to speak privately to Richard at Lady Sally Saltire’s ball that evening. It seemed absurd, for they were in the same room, partook of the same dinner and mingled with the same guests. Yet they were never alone and Deb could feel her frustration mounting as each hour passed. She fidgeted with the saltcellar and sprinkled too much on her food, she toyed with the wine in her glass and spilled it on the table and she felt cross and anxious and utterly miserable.
Outwardly it felt as though nothing had changed. They had not formally broken their betrothal, and Richard behaved with the same impeccable good manners towards Deb that he had always shown her in company. Only she was aware of the distance between them; the chilly edge to Richard’s politeness and the withdrawal in his eyes. She wanted to put a hand out to him then, to draw him back to her and see that coldness melt into the warmth and tenderness that she had come to value and rely upon. Only the previous night he had held her in his arms and made love to her with exquisite love and gentleness. Now he was becoming a stranger. Deb felt very lonely.
At some point during the seemingly interminable dinner, Deb resolved that something must be done. She decided to slip away to Lady Sally’s study to write Richard a note, begging him to speak with her the following day. It was the best idea that she could devise and, as soon as she had thought of it, Deb was itching to put it into action. Eventually the dinner ended and the gentlemen withdrew and Deb, without further ado, excused herself from her hostess with vague suggestions of seeking the ladies’ withdrawing room.
She never reached the study. She had passed the ballroom, shuttered and in darkness until the unveiling of the watercolour book took place, and was standing outside the library, when a strange smell reached her and immediately tugged at her memory. She stood still, racking her brains to recall the occasion on which she had smelled it before and wondering why it seemed so important to remember. And then it hit her. It was the odd, musty scent that had permeated the pages of the poetry book. She had come across it when they had found the coded message and she had known then that she would recognise it if she smelled it again.
It was here, a faint perfume in the air, in the passageway of Lady Sally Saltire’s house. Deb stood still, puzzling, whilst her heart started to race. She took a few steps forward and the scent was stronger, battling with the perfume of the tiger lilies that stood on a plinth in the corner. It smelled of old, damp buildings and illness and musty clothes. It seemed to be seeping from under the nearest door like a gas. Stealthily, without pause for thought, Deb opened the door and slipped into the room beyond. She could see nothing. It was all in darkness, the curtains drawn. She was not even sure which room she had entered, except that it was hot and the smell of camphor overrode all other scents and was oppressive now. It made her want to sneeze. She pressed a hand to her mouth. She needed fresh air…
There was a movement behind her and a swirl of clear cool air as the door opened, but she never had time to profit from it. Something hit her hard on the back of the head and she went out like a doused lantern.
Her whole body ached. Her legs were trembling, her arms felt stretched beyond endurance, and in her head was a buzzing sound that made her groan. She tried opening her eyes, but the red and green flashes that exploded in her skull made her close them again. Her head felt unnaturally heavy and her whole body felt weighted with lead. She groaned again.
‘Deb! Deborah!’
The sharp voice spoke in her ear and made her head jerk up again just as she was welcoming the blissful darkness back again. She tried to move, felt herself restrained and caught her breath on another wave of pain.
‘Deborah!’ It was Richard’s voice. ‘Wake up!’
‘Yes, all right,’ Deb said crossly. ‘There is no need to shout!’
‘Thank God.’ Richard’s voice held a wealth of relief. ‘I was beginning to think they had hit you too hard and you would never come round.’
‘That sounds very pleasant at the moment,’ Deb said. It was no good, though. The insistent note in his voice
