She had forgotten the truth, but truth it was. She had put the blame for her father's ruin squarely on Nathan Wardale's shoulders for so long, it had never occurred to her that he was not the first to threaten her father with the poorhouse. Nor could she accuse him of using underhanded means to lure her father into the game that had finally ruined him. He had gone willingly at any opportunity.
Benton's frown deepened. 'But Mr Wardale was different. Perhaps it was because he was brought up as a gentleman before his family's troubles, which were no fault of his own. He knew life from both sides. He was deeply conscious of the effect his gaming had on others, and it troubled him. I doubt he spent an easy night in this house, knowing how he had gotten it. In a word Miss Diana? He was unhappy. He had no friends and many enemies. He did not seem to take satisfaction in his endeavours, but it was the only life he'd found that would suit him. It is only recently that I have seen a change in him. Of late, he seemed lighter of spirit.'
Because of me? She thought of the walks in the park and the way her heart had quickened from the first moment she'd seen him. And she wondered: had it been the same for him? Or had it been harder? For if there had been true feeling on his part, he had been forced to sit opposite her in the White Salon at the Carlow house and in the carriage, knowing who she was and what she would think of him should she learn his true identity. And now, she understood the awkwardness of their first meetings and the reason for the curious way he had behaved. He had treated her with the utmost care and concern for her welfare, without giving anything away. He'd opened himself to her gradually, knowing how it would most likely end.
She remembered him, as he came to her last night. When he had said, 'I have not known gentleness...' She had given him that, and he had been glad of it. And she had taken it away again.
Suddenly, she was overcome with need of him, and the desire to be gentle for him and gentled by him. To stay together in the bed upstairs, and to sit before the fire together in the drawing room for as long as life would allow.
When the butler went to find her refreshment, she moved listlessly through the house, haunted by memories of her past. Mostly happy memories: of mother and of youthful innocence. But there were touches of her father, here and there. The chair he used to love was still in the parlour. Although it appeared that Nathan had favoured a different one, for the seat closest to the fire was not one she knew.
And here was the study. She took a deep breath, and then pushed open the door. For whoever had left his mark on this room, there were likely to be memories of a man she wished to forget.
The walls were the same dusty gold colour, and the desk and shelves were just as she remembered from her youth. But the contents of the shelves were different. Her father had favoured atlases, poring over them as though he wished to escape. But it appeared that Nathan Wardale had had his fill of travel. The maps had been replaced with local histories and books on art and drawing.
She turned to the desk, where she had learned the importance of picking simple locks while trying to find enough money to pay the bills. The surface was clear of papers and more orderly than she remembered it. Her father's old glass inkwell had been replaced with a heavy silver desk set. And here was the little locked drawer where Father had kept his purse and his memories of Mother. There had been letters, a miniature in a silver frame, and a lock of her hair, bound up by silk thread.
Without thinking, she pulled a pin from her hair and set about bending it to the shape of the desk key. Then she inserted it into the lock, and gave a jiggle and twist, feeling the mechanism turn, just as it always had.
What had she meant to do, she wondered, other than to prove that she could? There was no need to go through Nathan Wardale's desk, if he'd left his money in the bank for her. Perhaps it was the same curiosity that had led her to keep his note to Marc. Though she might claim that she wished no more from him, she still wanted to know the state of his mind.
The drawer was empty, except for a deck of playing cards. In that, he was not so different from her father after all. In the place where her father had hidden his most precious possessions, Nathan kept nothing but cards. She picked up the deck and stroked it, feeling sad for the man that had owned this house. Then she sat, shuffled and went to lay out a game of patience.
And stopped as she turned up the first card. Apparently, Nathan was something of an artist. He had transformed the cards, drawing little pictures around the pips. The clubs grew in flower gardens, dogs and cats played amongst the diamonds, the spades had been turned into fish.