Page 22 of Unmasked by the Marquess
She spoke before she even drew another breath. “I’m not Robert Selby. That was a lie too. My name is Charity Church.”
His expression was totally blank and his silence stretched out so long that Charity wasn’t sure he had understood her. “But that’s a woman’s name,” he said finally.
“I’m a woman.” This, the miserable fact of the matter, felt more dishonest than anything she had thus far told him. “A foundling. I went to live with the Selbys as a housemaid. When Robbie died, Louisa would have had nothing because the estate was entailed.” And because nothing had been set aside for her, but she wasn’t going to speak ill of Robbie. “So I pretended to be Robbie. For Louisa.” The explanation was so shabby, so inadequate, when put so baldly.
“You are awoman.” He stared at her, plainly incredulous. “Youare a woman.” He ran his eyes over her body, so slowly and searchingly that she could not hold back the blush. “Why are you telling me this? Can you possibly think that my knowing of this additional—and far greater—deceit will absolve you of the lesser one?”
“No,” she protested, her hands gripping the back of the chair so hard she could barely feel her fingers anymore. “I wanted you to know that I meant you no harm, never intended to harm you. I’m a woman,” she explained, the words sounding pathetically feeble, “so there could be nothing to blackmail you about, you see.”
“Nothing to blackmail me about? You see nothing in this situation that might reflect poorly on me? Nothing that might bring me shame? Good God. Your sister—” He shook his head rapidly. “Notyour sister. Miss Selby, I mean. She had to know of this deception.”
He meant to destroy Louisa. “She was only a child when it started,” she said hurriedly. “I went to Cambridge instead of Robbie when he and I were only eighteen, and Louisa had nothing to do with it. She’s blameless, I promise you that.”
“Oh, and I’m quite confident that your word is very valuable, Mr.—” He let loose a single bitter laugh. “Miss Church. You say you went to Cambridge under the name of your master when he was still alive.”
To hear Robbie referred to as her master was enough to force tears into her eyes, but she would not cry, she would do nothing that would seem to ask for this man’s pity. “Robbie was never interested in book learning, so we agreed—” But Pembroke didn’t give a damn how they had come to the arrangement. He only wanted to know the extent of her deceit. She lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his glare. “Yes, I lied to everyone at Cambridge as well.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You must have been... close... to your employer.”
That was meant to be an insinuation, but whatever he was insinuating was nowhere near as complicated as the truth. “It was Northumberland,” she answered. “Very close to Scotland,” she added, irrelevantly. “Servants often play alongside their employers’ children.”
“Next you will tell me that stealing the name and fortune of one’s dead employer is also an ancient Northumbrian tradition.”
He was mocking her now. She resolved to get through this with all the dignity she could muster, then somehow, later, figure out the rest of her life. For now, she simply would not cry. “We were friends.”
“I should damned well think you were.”
More mockery, then. She would force herself to bear it. “I look on Louisa as a sister. She is my only family.” She would tell the truth even though he could never understand.
“Miss Church.” His voice was so venomous as to practically be a hiss. “But you are not Miss Selby’s only family. She has, I recall, a cousin. Mr. Clifton. Am I correct that he was Robert Selby’s heir?”
For a moment, Charity thought she might actually faint. Oh, why did today have to be the day she finally developed feminine sensibilities? She should not have told him about her masquerade. She saw that now, but it was too late. Now he would destroy her and Louisa too. Louisa would have nothing—no reputation, no friends, no money. She’d be in a worse position than if they had simply let Mr. Clifton inherit, and it was all Charity’s fault.
“Well?” His voice was a poisonous drawl.
She watched the firelight flicker off the signet ring he always wore. He was a marquess, a peer of the realm, and he could ruin her and Louisa with scarcely any effort. Oh, why had she not taken his offer of a thousand pounds? That would have padded Louisa’s dowry and funded Charity’s disappearance. How very stupid she had been to confess to this powerful man, and for no better reason than because she was too fond of him.
“Yes.” She met his icy gaze. “He ought to have inherited Fenshawe. And he will, once we stop.”
“Once you stop? Good God. Let me tell you, Miss Church, that I’ve had the misfortune to deal with all manner of confidence artists and swindlers since my father died and left me to pick up the pieces of the estate. But never once have I met one as hardened and shameless as you.” He shook his head, as if in disbelief. “I have not decided what I’ll do with you. For now, be gone.”
At least she reached the street before the tears came.
Chapter Seven
Alistair had never been in such sympathy with his father. He would have liked nothing more than to follow the late marquess’s example and get mightily drunk, run off to some Mediterranean idyll, and proceed to thoroughly abandon his responsibilities. He settled on a few glasses of brandy, which did nothing to improve his outlook and only solidified his gloom into a hard ball of anger that seemed to settle in his stomach.
He couldn’t take comfort in any of his usual pursuits. He could not ride his horse in the park or seek solace at his club lest he run into Selby. And the reason Selby—Miss Church, rather—might be in those places was that Alistair himself had put him—her—there in the first place. Alistair had practically rolled out a red carpet to make his new friend at home in this world. He had been so charmed and blinded that he had failed to protect himself.
Nor could he flee to the country, because—mortification of mortifications—he realized that he would have to go through with his blasted ball. The invitations had long since been sent out, and even now the house was swarming with servants, polishing and preparing for a ball there now was no point in holding.
The only way out would be to feign grave illness, but the hint of fraudulence reminded him a bit too much of Selby.Miss Church, he reminded himself very firmly, although it was impossible to think of him—her—as such. There was nothing for it but to stand his ground, survive the next few days, and then retreat to the country as soon as the last guest had left the ball.
He considered rescinding the Selbys’ invitations, but that would look very strange indeed after he had gone out of his way to take them under his wing. Perhaps Miss Church would behave like a gentleman—oh dear, the irony—and decline to attend. He could tolerate Miss Selby as long as he didn’t ever have to look upon Robin again.
Robin.Oh God.
Of course, he could tell the truth, make a frightful scandal, and have Miss Selby and The Impostor cast out of decent society as pariahs. That would be their just deserts, after all. But he would look so foolish. Alistair had too much pride to let himself become the butt of any jokes. He had too much respect for the name and title he had salvaged from the last generation’s misdeeds to cast it back into the trash heap of ruined reputations. He had been so blinded by his affection for this deceitful conniver that he had nearly destroyed all his work. He was furious with Miss Church and he was furious with himself.
