A Study In Seduction

chapter Twenty-Four




Lydia hurried into the foyer of her grandmother’s town house. Her fear rustled harder, ominous, about to take wing. “Mrs. Driscoll!”

The housekeeper hurried from the kitchen. “Yes, miss?”

“Is Jane at home?”

“Yes, she and your grandmother just returned from Lady Montague’s tea. They’re in the schoolroom, I believe.”

Apprehension pounding in her blood, Lydia went into her father’s study. The copper box sat in its customary place beside the window, the tarnished metal glowing in a thin shaft of sunlight. She grabbed the box and shook it. Her heart plummeted when no thud of the envelope came from inside. She twisted the lock, but it was fixed shut.

Without thinking, she lifted the box above her head and slammed it hard against the edge of the windowsill.

From the foyer, Mrs. Driscoll let out a startled cry. Lydia fumbled with the lock, then angled it against the sill and brought it down again and again, so hard that dents appeared on the wood.

The lock broke. Lydia pushed the lid open. Though she already knew the contents were gone, a moan escaped her at the sight of the empty velvet interior. She dropped the box to the floor.

“Lydia!”

Her grandmother’s voice was sharp, heavy like an ax. Lydia began to shake. She forced her head up, watching her grandmother’s eyes sweep across the room, comprehending the implications of Lydia’s distress, the broken lock, the empty copper box.

Then… silence. A dry, parched cavern desperate to be filled.

“She… he gave her the locket… I’d hidden the key inside it months ago…”

The words flared and died in Lydia’s throat. She covered her face with trembling hands.

“Did… Has she said anything to you?” she asked her grandmother.

“No.” Mrs. Boyd glanced at the housekeeper, who hovered with anxious confusion in the background. “You may return to your duties, Mrs. Driscoll.”

“Yes, madam.” Mrs. Driscoll hurried from the room, closing the door behind her.

Lydia stared at the box as her grandmother’s shadow moved across it. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs.” Mrs. Boyd nudged open the box with the end of her cane. “Where is the paper?”

“She… she must have it.”

“If she’s told no one, we might still be able to rectify this.” Mrs. Boyd nodded to the door. “Go speak to her, Lydia.”

“If Alexander comes here, keep him away.”

Lydia picked up the broken box and climbed the stairs with a sick feeling of dread. The door to the schoolroom stood half-open, and she knocked before pushing it the rest of the way. Jane stood at the window with one hand flat against the glass.

“Jane.”

The girl turned, her gaze going to the empty box. Lydia moved into the room, her hands tightening so hard on the box the copper edges cut into her palms.

“How… how was Lady Montague’s tea?” Lydia’s voice shook.

“Proper, of course.” Jane lifted her chin and faced the window again. Her slender shoulders tensed. “Delicious. She offered meringues, macaroons. A pain d’épices, she called it. From Rheims. It had orange-flower water and aniseed.”

“It sounds quite lovely.”

“Everything about Lady Montague is lovely.”

“True.” Lydia approached Jane cautiously, then stopped in the middle of the room. “Jane.”

The girl whirled around so fast that her hair fanned around her shoulders. Her mouth compressed, her green eyes hardening. “I hate you, Lydia. I hate you.”

“No.” Terror seized Lydia’s chest. Her hands started to tremble, and she dropped the box onto a table. “Please, let me explain.”

“You lied to me! All this time, you’ve lied!”

“I know, but—”

“Why?” Jane pushed a stack of papers off the desk and grabbed the one that had been locked in the copper box for so many years. “You kept this hidden from me when I had every right to know the truth!”

“No one knew the truth, Jane. No one except Papa and Grandmama.” Tears stung Lydia’s eyes as she reached for the girl, but Jane evaded her grasp and went to the door.

“Why not me, then?” she snapped.

“You would have been taken away from us,” Lydia said. She swiped at her eyes, hating the way Jane looked at her with such animosity. And yet she couldn’t blame her father or grandmother either, for they had only done what they thought was best. They had done all they could to ensure Jane would stay with them. “We couldn’t tell you, didn’t want you to—”

“You could have,” Jane retorted. “You didn’t want to because you knew I’d make things horrible for you. Lord Northwood would never marry you if he knew! But if you kept it a secret from me, you’d have everything you wanted and I’d be left with nothing.”

Lydia’s heart constricted. “Oh, Jane. You’d never have nothing—you know that. I didn’t keep this from Northwood because I wanted him to marry me. I didn’t tell him because no one could know.”

“Why? Why did you have to keep it such a secret?”

“It… it was too dangerous.” Lydia stared at Jane. Flashes of memory appeared—a sculptured face with eyes as cold as glass, the glimpse of a slender, blond man from across the street, the eerie feeling of being watched.

The terror returned, scratching like claws up Lydia’s throat. “Jane, if anything—”

“Dangerous for you, you mean,” Jane retorted. “I know why you haven’t told anyone, Lydia, and it’s got nothing to do with me. It’s because your life would be ruined if anyone knew the truth!”

She spun and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Lydia choked out a cry, her tears flooding over in waves as she sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands.

In that instant, Lydia knew she had to choose between Alexander and Jane. And in the end, there could be no choice at all.


Dear C,

If Lydia was a student of yours, why have you started a correspondence with me and not her?

I confess I have found a document that has caused me no end of questions—all of which lack answers.

I have not asked Lydia for answers. I would first like to speak with you. So I would like to propose a meeting as soon as possible. I am planning a visit to St. Martin’s Hall on Tuesday.

I do not intend to ask Lydia anything. If one has concealed the truth, then one is not owed the truth. Don’t you agree?

Sincerely,

Jane