Page 64 of A Stolen Heart

“You mean you let him go?” Alexandra asked in dismay.

“Hardly. He accompanied us to the bordello. I could hardly trust that he was telling me the truth, after all. I left him with Murdock in the carriage while I went inside to get you. He was the man who ran away as we were going to the carriage.”

“Oh.” Alexandra vaguely remembered a large figure bolting from the carriage.

“I talked with Murdock last night. He questioned Peggoddy, but he got little information that’s of any use. The man maintained that he had no idea why someone wanted your mother harmed, only that he was hired by an intermediary whom he called Red Bill.”

“Who is this Red Bill? Perhaps we could find him and talk to him.”

“Murdock is already searching for him. I’ve hired a Bow Street Runner, as well.”

“And is he investigating me, as well?” Alexandra asked, brows raised, arms crossed.

“Why do you say that?” Sebastian hedged.

“Because I sincerely doubt that you stopped having your agent make inquiries of my man of business.”

“You’re right,” Sebastian agreed coolly. “I have been investigating you.”

“Tell me. Did you find out anything to support your accusations?” Alexandra waited, brows raised, arms still crossed. “I know you found out Ward Shipping has dealt with my agent for years and that I have the proper credentials and letters of credit. What about the rest of it? No doubt you’ve been looking for frauds and schemes, people who have swindled innocent victims out of their money.”

The carefully blank look on Sebastian’s face told Alexandra that she was right. She pressed on. “Have you found anyone I’ve cheated? Any scheme I put over on someone?”

He shook his head. “No,” he admitted slowly.

“But obviously you still have your doubts,” Alexandra said scornfully.

“You are a careful and intelligent woman. I am sure you would not have been obvious or easy to catch in any scheme.”

“Ah. I see. The lack of evidence merely proves that I am good at swindling people, not that I am innocent. I am sure you have some ingenious explanation for this senseless attack on my mother, too. Some way that my wickedness caused it.”

Thorpe hesitated, then said, “Perhaps it is someone who wants revenge on you. Someone who wants to get back at you for what you’ve done to him in the past. Something you’ve taken from him or—”

“Of course,” Alexandra said with a kind of grim satisfaction. “I should have known. It should be obvious—except that I haven’t the sort of narrow, closed mind you have. You decided that I was a villainess, and therefore, everything that happens, you twist to fit that story. Who cares about the facts? Why take into account the fact that during this whole time the only people who have been hurt are me and those close to me? Not the Countess. Not you. Just my mother and me. Ignore the truth—that nothing untoward has ever happened to me in my life until I met you and the Countess. Oh, yes, and ignore the obvious, too, that suddenly someone wants to kill my mother, the only person who could shed light on this whole matter of who I am! Why are you so determined that I am wicked? Why do you hate me so much?”

“I do not hate you!” Thorpe ground out the words. “I simply am not naïve.” He moved toward her, his words falling like stones, his cold silver eyes boring into hers. “I am not gullible and eager to believe any cock-and-bull story someone tells me in the hopes that I might get some member of my family back, as the Countess is. I am not sweet or gentle—”

Alexandra snorted inelegantly. “You hardly need to tell me that.”

“I am well aware of the character of most people, and I look beyond the surface of things. So when a very attractive woman practically forces her way into my house and seizes my attention, I have to wonder why—especially when that woman uses my friendship with her to meet one of my dear friends and feed her a ludicrous story.”

“I did not feed anyone a story, ludicrous or otherwise!” Alexandra protested. “She is the one who told me the story, not the other way around. I never heard of the Countess until I came here, and I certainly had never heard the story of her family tragedy.”

“Then why did you engineer a meeting with me?”

“Lord knows, I wish I had not!” Alexandra retorted. “The truth is no doubt too simple for you. I happened to be in London, and I was interested in your collection.”

“If you know so little about the Countess, why were you sneaking over to Exmoor House to meet someone in the middle of the night? Why won’t you tell me what you were doing there? How could I possibly think you are innocent of wrongdoing when you had a midnight rendezvous at Exmoor House?”

“You want to know why I was there?” Alexandra cried, goaded beyond endurance by his attitude. “And why I was reluctant to reveal it to a virtual stranger? Well, I’ll tell you. I went there because my mother knocked her keeper over the head and took a hackney to Exmoor House. There! Now you know. My mother is not right in the head. She drinks secretly, and she falls into strange moods, and she keeps a little box with her at all times, stroking it and clutching it—and in that box is the locket I showed the Countess. She will not answer my questions, merely retreats into her strange silence. That night, when she escaped the house and I pursued her to Exmoor House, she did not even know me. She called me Simone, just as the Countess did. I have not gotten a coherent word from her since. That is why I did not tell you my reason for going to Exmoor House. Foolishly, I wanted to keep you from thinking badly of my mother. I did not want you to realize that the blood of madness runs through my veins!”

Alexandra stopped, panting with fury, and for a long moment she and Thorpe stared at each other in shocked silence. Then she made a noise and turned away. “I think it’s time you took me home.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE RIDE HOME WAS AN AWKWARD ONE. Neither Alexandra nor Thorpe spoke, except for the merest necessities. Alexandra felt only like crying, and she had no idea what Thorpe was feeling. He looked determinedly grim. She knew that whatever he might once have felt for her was dead. His distrust and contempt had been bad enough, but now that he knew the truth about her mother, Alexandra was sure he must be thoroughly repulsed. Mad people were locked away in wretched asylums, embarrassments to their families, or, if they were wealthy enough, kept guarded in some sturdy room. To have madness in one’s family, with the possibility of it popping out in oneself or one’s children, was terrifying.

It was a relief when they arrived at Alexandra’s house. Thorpe walked her to her door, although she assured him that it was not necessary.