A Lady's Guide to Ruin Read Free Page B

misfortune. That does not appear to be your dress.”
    â€œNo,” Joan said, squelching the automatic
ma’am
that rose to follow it. “I’m afraid . . .” She widened her eyes, let the dry air prick at them. Perhaps sensing tears, Martin cleared his throat—he did seem to do that a lot—and swept a hand through the air.
    â€œA long tale,” he said. “She’ll need to borrow some of your things. I want you both to leave right away. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”
    â€œShe cannot simply borrow my things, Martin. Well, maybe the green,” Elinor said, pondering. “It is too small for me; I was going to have it let out. But anything else will drag the carpet and fall about her shoulders. They will need to be taken in and up, and that takes time. Or perhaps we could simply take another trip into town,” she said, with an air of repressed mischief.
    â€œDare I ask how much today’s trip cost me?” Martin asked. Joan tensed before she realized that there was only a familiar, fond annoyance in his voice.
    Elinor laughed softly. The sound put Joan in mind ofrunning her hand through a puppy’s fur. A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed it down, not quite sure where the sudden pang of envy had come from.
    â€œYou dare not,” Elinor told Martin. She folded her hands in her lap. “The maid, Maddy, is a quick hand with a needle. And the green until then. If that suits you, Miss Hargrove.”
    â€œI am grateful for anything you can provide,” Joan said, doing her best to make her gaze dewy.
    â€œWe will provide whatever you need,” Elinor assured her, and placed a slender hand over Joan’s own.
    How long it had been since she saw such genuine affection. She dabbed at her eyes. The tears there were feigned, she told herself; and if they were not, it was only exhaustion spurring her to sentiment.
    â€œShe’s worn through,” Elinor said chidingly, looking to her brother.
    Martin tugged at his jacket. “Of course. How foolish of me.” He made a gesture and a maid appeared from the hallway. Joan had to admire that—she’d been perfectly camouflaged in the shadows a moment before. “Show Miss Hargrove to her room, will you?” He stood as Joan did, and cleared his throat one last time. “You need not worry about anything. I will write to your parents, and . . .”
    Joan had been ready for this. She gasped theatrically. “You can’t,” she said. She had no intention of remaining in place long enough for such a letter to reach its destination but there was no reason to invite scrutiny, however far down the road. “They’ll make me go home. And I would so rather be at Birch Hall than . . .” She trailed off. The wonderful thing about trailing off was that most people could not abide an incomplete sentence and would readily finish it, sparing her the trouble of a lie.
    â€œSwansea? I should think so,” Elinor said drily.
    Oh, dear lord. Swansea? Was Daphne Welsh?
She hadn’t sounded Welsh, and Joan’s accent, carefully cultivated through years of practice, did not seem to raise suspicion. Not Welsh, then, but perhaps unfashionable enough to cover for some of Joan’s missteps.
    If she managed to fence those diamonds, she was going to track dear Daphne down and give her a nice wedding present.
    Later. First, get out of London. She let her knees go lax, shaking. “If you could only tell them that I’ve arrived safely . . .”
    Martin considered, then nodded. “Very well. And I shall enquire after the well-being of Mrs. Fowler. Speaking of escorts . . . ?” He looked to Elinor.
    â€œMrs. Wynn will be asleep by now,” Elinor said. “The purchasing of gowns quite exhausted her, I am afraid. Your room is next to hers, Daphne; you shall have to live with the snoring.”
    No one could