Page 118 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Rachel scoffed. “There are other Bow Street Runners to do that.”

“They prefer the term ‘constables,’ did you know that?” She huffed. “Not that I care.”

Rachel laid her head on Margaret’s shoulder. Quietly, she said, “I’m sorry you endured such heartbreak.”

“I won’t let him destroy me. I will pick up the pieces and move on. If I can survive marriage to Hennessy, I can survive anything.” The strength of her words filled her heart, healing and motivating her to move past this grief.

Rachel fell silent for a long moment. Then, “You’ve often talked about travel. Do you think a change of scenery would do you good?”

“Travel.” She chewed on that, and inside, a tiny seed of hope took root and sprouted a tender shoot. She could live again. She could see beyond this darkness. “Castles. The Riviera. Perhaps the Sphinx and the pyramids. Ride a camel. Yes, I’d like that very much.”

“That’s the spirit. How soon do you think you can go?”

“As soon as arrangements can be made.” Margaret sat up. “I’ll start with a packet to Calais.” She grabbed Rachel’s hand. “Come with me. We could enjoy the continent together.”

Rachel laughed softly. “Me? I’ve never had a desire to travel.” Quickly, she added, “I would go with you, of course, if you want me to, but bringing me will be twice as expensive. Now that you’re a widow, you’ll need to economize. My allowance provides well for me here but won’t pay for travel abroad, and the sales from my book aren’t that high.”

Margaret fell silent. “You’re right.”

“It would be a lovely diversion, though. Perhaps Cole would be persuaded to send us off on a grand tour.”

“I’m not asking Cole for money.”

She would live, and this time it would be on her own terms. She pushed away her tray. “Perhaps I should meet with my solicitor to go over my accounts and learn whether I have the money to go on such a trip without going hungry for a year.”

Rachel stood. “I wish you luck. I’m off to find my gun to shoot a scoundrel.”

“I don’t believe it’s truly Connor’s fault.” The truth slapped Margaret in the face again. “Hennessy couldn’t love me, either.”

Rachel froze. “Meg. It’s not you.”

“How can it not be me? I gave my heart to two different men, and neither wanted it.”

Indignantly, Rachel said, “It’s not you. Men are pigs.”

Margaret hugged herself. “It’s easy to say that, but the truth is—”

“The truth is,” Rachel cut in, “the only decent men in England are already married, and half of them are closely related to us. Perhaps there are good men in other parts of the world.”

Margaret tried to smile encouragingly but couldn’t quite manage it. Still, Rachel was right. If Connor never cared for her, he shouldn’t have kissed her the way he had, telling lies with his passion. He should never have given her those tender looks, those soft touches, or been so protective when she’d been frightened.

Rachel was right. Men were pigs.

She must find a way to live on her own, standing on her own two feet, without trying to gain the affection of a man or seeking love. Love. The greatest lie of all! She would use the bandage of pretense until her heart healed.

Travel would help, even if she just went as far as The Lake District. At least it would give her a change of scenery.

After Rachel left, Margaret got up and sent a message to her solicitor. With Taylor’s help, she bathed and dressed. The macarons called to her, and she finally nibbled on one. As the sweet confection tickled her tongue, she let out a sigh—and tried not to think of the day she and Connor had helped make some.

After eating, she paced the room. The walls seemed to close in. Perhaps a walk would help. The park across the street might suffice for now. She donned her lightest summer pelisse and a pair of walking boots before heading outside. Her thoughts circled around her head like carrion birds eyeing a carcass. Dark thoughts, but these were dark times.

Silly her. She was safe. No longer wanted for murder. Her brothers believed Finch had gone so far into hiding that he wouldn’t dare make an attempt on her life. The only danger existed within her heart. But she’d soon purge herself of Connor Jackson and be fine on her own. Before she realized it, she’d wandered into Hyde Park.

“Lady Margaret, what are you doing out here alone?” Connor Jackson strode toward her, so heart-stoppingly handsome that her legs turned to water.

Fool! Margaret drew herself up and stared at him like a queen eyeing an urchin who’d dared try to address her, the same look she gave to those in the haut ton who disappointed her. “That’s none of your affair.”

His body went taught, but a soft sort of expression she didn’t care to see came over his features. “I just want to ensure you’re well.”

His words stripped away her protection of haughtiness. “Well? No, I’m not well. You hurt me, Connor Jackson. I haven’t allowed anyone to hurt me in a very long time—not since the first time I found out my cad of a husband, may he forever burn, was a perpetual lying cheat. You hurt me worse than he did.”

He flinched. “I never meant to hurt you.”

Anger and pain at his betrayal choked her, and she chewed on it before spitting out, “Oh, those are fine words. Everyone says them, but no one means them.” She used a mocking voice, “‘I didn’t mean to hurt you with my selfish and thoughtless actions. I never meant for my lies to break your heart.’” Her voice rose until she was practically shouting.

“I never lied.”

Tears stung her eyes, leaving her virtually blind. “You lied with your heated looks and your even hotter kisses. You lied when you made me feel safe and protected and cherished. You lied when you gave me hope that you were different, that maybe not all men were scoundrels, that you might actually keep a vow. And you lied when you made me feel I was lovable.” Tears trailed down her cheeks, burning like acid on the pieces of her heart.

She took a step toward his blurry form as rage burned in her. “But you are just like Hennessy, incapable of love or constancy. I’m glad to know that now—before I fell even harder for you.” She wiped impatiently at her tears. “Don’t you worry. I won’t hurt for long. I’m going on a long trip, and I will forget you because you are nothing to me, and you’ll soon be little more than a bad memory.”

“Meg, I’m—”

“I have one final thing to say to you.” She slapped him so hard he staggered back.

As she marched away from him, she expected a surge of victory. Instead, pain and emptiness devoured her with the ferocity of a lion.