CHAPTER TWO

Perhaps she had misheard? As Malice stared fixedly at the score the nib had dug on the blotter, she hoped so. She wanted those shoes.

Twice on bended knees? She should laugh. Men always lied about things like that. But the second to the last time she had seen Cyril she had gone to his door. It was at the country inn in Yorkshire they were staying in, spending their wedding night. It was Aunt Carter’s idea that she marry him, five years ago now. In fact it wasn’t just her idea, if it had been just her idea, Malice would have disabused her of it. No, it had been in the old dragon’s will they marry in order to inherit the family fortune. Cyril wasn’t a stranger to her. He was her cousin twice removed. But whether it was twice or ten, it wasn’t far enough.

The humiliations, the snide remarks, the stings and insults she had endured from him throughout her childhood had been every bit bad enough. For Aunt Carter to visit that plague upon her by insisting the only way to get her hands on that money was by marrying him, when she knew full well how Cyril had treated her, when she had allegedly promised Malice’s allegedly dying mother she would do everything in her power to protect her, had been the vilest thing the aged old bat could do. A hand that had reached from the grave and strangled the life’s blood from Malice. Then.

She had done it of course, despite being leeched dry. And that night, their wedding night, thinking that just maybe, just maybe some good could come of it— he wasn’t unhandsome after all, and actually, oh very well, she had fallen that teeniest, tiniest bit for him—what had he done? Had three whores at the ready. Their laughter had echoed in her ears that she could dare think herself a wife, as she ran back down the stairs.

Bended knees? Malice dug the nib harder, ripping holes in the daisies she’d drawn.

“Know him? Of course I—” She bit her lip. How could she lose it all so quickly? She had her life, didn’t she? Her grace? Her serenity? As well as losing the shoes, why should it trouble her that Lady Grace’s laughter might also echo in her ears, a woman of twenty-three, who knew her way in life? Well?

The best thing was simply to refuse when he was plainly so desperate for the money at stake here. Mallender, was a complete fabrication since her maiden name was Studds. So he was hardly going to know it was her and why she didn’t want to oblige him. And what were four new pairs of shoes to her really?

“—-don’t. Not personally. There is no need for me to know any man until he requires our services. But—”

“Good. Then you will accept him as a client?”

Accept? She eyed the woman opposite. Flame haired as Malice was dark, rosy cheeked as Malice was ghostly white. Elegantly dressed too, although Malice always dressed simply to meet clients. If this was justice, there wasn’t any such thing.

Had Cyril really hurt her so deeply she couldn’t take the commission? End the charade that she had ever possessed such a thing as a wedding ring? And come by five new pairs of shoes while she was about it? Perhaps even six to compensate for the fist that sat in her chest clutching her heart? Perhaps find herself some other man?

It wasn’t even as if Cyril could have any money. The last time she had seen him had been their first anniversary. Then he had turned up drunk on the doorstep of the miserable little house she was renting in Sodbury Street. In those days she still spoke to their solicitor who must have told Cyril where she was, a mistake she had never repeated. Aunt Carter’s fortune was well and truly spent. Malice had given him a bed on the sofa for the night. In the morning Aunt Carter’s best silver teapot was gone. Aunt Carter’s gold locket and lorgnette too. Twenty guineas was missing from the kitchen tea caddy. And, for good measure, the contents of the salon port bottle. So, unless he had been doing the same to unsuspecting women up and down the land, how could he have any funds?

Money. It was what this was about, wasn’t it? Lady Grace must have a fortune that Cyril had unfortunately discovered. And as Malice didn’t have any, why not get rid of her? The logic was simple. Probably not even personal. After all, he was hardly going to divorce her for non-consummation. What? And have everyone think he was impotent? He’d be a laughing stock.

She swallowed, hoping to ease the tightly burning constriction in her chest and strove for her formidable front, the one that had grateful virgins planting ceremonious kisses on her hands. Their men—she never met their men, she left that to her girls—their men sending her flower bouquets. Expensive, sweetly perfumed gardenia ones.

Accept? And yet this room had been completely unscented for the past three weeks. A temporary lull in the divorce court’s proceedings, which was why she couldn’t afford these damned shoes either.

She wasn’t really going without a fight, was she? Why should she? Why should he get away Scot free to ruin another woman’s life as he had hers?

No. That damned swine was the one who deserved ruining. Ruining such as he had never seen. And she was the one to do it.

She steepled her fingers together. “You can be assured I will make all the necessary arrangements.”