“It was her mother who . . .”
He gestured her on.
Her lips were tight but she did not look up now. “Her mother did not only tell her that she was lacking in character.” She paused. “She told her—often—that if she were beautiful she might be able to manipulate a man into accepting her, despite her troublesome ways. And . . .”
“And?”
“Every day Lady Carlyle applied a lotion to my friend’s skin, as though begrudgingly, suggesting that perhaps it could improve Diantha’s appearance sufficient to entrap a man in marriage before he came to know her well enough to avoid such a thing.” Her jaw seemed to lock. “Nearly two years ago this pot of lotion emptied, and Diantha asked the housekeeper where she might purchase another. But do you know what? It turned out that Lady Carlyle had made the lotion herself. It was pig fat laced with perfume.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “Grease, Mr. Yale. Her own mother did this to her, because . . . because . . .”
He struggled to steady his breath. “Because she could not control her.”
Miss Finch-Freeworth folded her hands in her lap. “Diantha is not a ninnyhammer, Mr. Yale.”
“No.”
“Mr. H is a code name.”
“I understand.”
“For her long-held conviction that she will never be good enough for any man to wish to marry her.”
“Miss Finch-Freeworth, I do not want to control her.” Never again. “I want only the best for her. I want everything for her.”
Her ginger lashes flickered. “Do you?”
“If Miss Lucas wishes to pursue her journey, I promise not to hinder her. But you must allow me to give her the opportunity to choose otherwise.”
She seemed to study him carefully. Then she nodded.
Chapter 34
Peregrine,
I regret that I am occupied with another Matter at present and must unfortunately decline your invitation to dine. However, due to that pressing Matter, I am obliged to address the substance of your message immediately. In short, although grateful for His Majesty’s magnanimity, I don’t want it. If he and the director truly wish to thank me, I beg of them one thing only: Clemency for a single Act of Villainy that I will shortly commit.
In Service to King & Kingdom,
Raven
Raven,
His Majesty promises Clemency. The director guarantees it.
—Peregrine
P.S. Try not to get yourself killed.
Chapter 35
The Mail Coach to Cardiff via Swindon was more cramped than the vehicles Diantha had ridden in from Manchester to Shrewsbury, and much more rickety. But the London driver—who could by all rights be surly due to traffic and rain—was wonderfully friendly.
Naturally, Mrs. Polley didn’t care anything about this as she napped. But the couple sharing the seat with Diantha were full of stories about other journeys they’d taken, with which they regaled her while munching on tasty-looking pies that unfortunately they did not offer to share.
Diantha’s stomach rumbled. It was nearly dusk and she’d long since finished the lunch Cook had prepared under duress. None of Serena’s servants had been happy about her leaving. But they promised silence until the footman who took her and Mrs. Polley to the Mail Coach inn returned home. Then, if asked, they would tell their master and bear the consequences of it.
She stared at the rain-streaked window, thick sadness in her throat overcoming the hunger in her belly. Despite her vow not to trouble others, she had put Serena and Alex’s servants in a difficult position. Mrs. Polley was a dear to come along, and insisted that she didn’t need the position at the abbey, but Diantha suspected that was nonsense too.
She swiped a tear from her cheek. She had purpose now, a new plan with which she could help others without requiring anyone’s lives to change for her, and that would take her out of her family’s hair for a time. Owen’s stories about the horrid accommodations for children at the mines in Monmouthshire had preyed upon her for weeks. With her pin money—which must be a fortune to such children—she could help some of them, especially the sick ones like Owen’s sister. When she spent it all, she would return to Glenhaven Hall. Her stepfather had, after all, tolerated her mother for years. He would tolerate a wayward stepdaughter if she promised to be very quiet and good.
Another tear fell and she was quite certain she was lying to herself now. But she saw no other solution.
The coach swerved, tilting violently, and Diantha’s shoulder slammed against the woman beside her.
“Good gracious!” The woman clutched her bag.
“What in the devil’s going on up there?” her husband demanded.
Mrs. Polley started awake, the other passengers jarring to attention as well. The coach jolted again, and the crack of pistol shot sounded outside. The coach swung to the other side, throwing them against one another anew.
The woman screamed. “Highwaymen!”
Diantha pressed her face to the window. Through the rain obscuring the glass she saw only the dim outline of trees, but the coach was slowing.
“We are to be robbed!” came from behind her.
“Mildred, keep your head about you or we will all be murdered!”
Heart jumping, Diantha patted Mildred’s arm and returned Mrs. Polley’s worried stare with a shake of her head. Muffled shouts came from above, then from the road ahead. Mildred’s bosom rose in preparation for another scream.
“Do not panic,” Diantha said in the calmest tone she could muster. “They will want our money and other valuables. If we give them those quickly, they will go away.” She didn’t know where her words came from. But the others seemed to relax.
Mildred gripped her husband’s hand and he said, “Listen to the young lady, dear.” The man beside Mrs. Polley nodded. Even Mrs. Polley’s round fingers loosened their grip on her bag.
A strange, soft certainty passed through Diantha. This was what she did well. She comforted people. She might be a wretched hash of a lady, a disappointing daughter, and a troublesome sister. But she could give comfort to people that needed comfort, and that was something. It might fill the empty place in her heart, at least a little.
The trouble with that plan, of course, was that her heart was not empty. It was too full, but without the object of her affections with which to share that fullness.
The coach shuddered to a halt. Her stomach clenched. “Remember, don’t panic,” she said quietly.
The door of the carriage swung open and there stood a man pointing a pistol at them all.
Mildred screamed. Her husband made a choking sound. Mrs. Polley’s brow beetled and she crossed her arms with a hearty harrumph.
The highwayman bowed elegantly. Rain pattered on the capes of his black greatcoat and his black hat, and
