“A terrible disease, cholera,” he continued, watching her reaction carefully. “It spreads through tight quarters like Applecross, leaving mass devastation in its wake. A single case is unheard of. So, with a little coercion, as you call it, I learned that a fortnight after MacLean’s death and Dougan’s arrest, a ten-year-old girl vanished from Applecross and Sister Margaret covered up the disappearance, using the excuse of burning a diseased corpse to cover the lack of a body.”
None of this was news to Farah. Having worked next to the records commissioner for nearly a decade, she’d been able to sneak a look at her very own death certificate. “Where did you go after?” she queried breathlessly.
Dorian gave her a wry look. “A complicated search such as that takes money, of which I had none. So, I immediately set out acquiring some, and found a little success.”
Farah rolled her eyes to encompass her lavish surroundings. “Only everyone in the world knows how you set about it.”
“Not initially. For a few years I made my living as a highwayman. In those days, the trains didn’t go so far, and the wealthy often traveled the rest of their distances in carriages.”
Farah straightened in the water before realizing that a dusky nipple bobbed above the surface before she ducked down again. “A highwayman? Did you hurt anyone?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t noticed her mistake.
He had, of course. “I’ve hurt a lot of people,” he told the swell of her bosom. “But we can discuss that later. We’re talking about your past right now. I feel we’ve quite exhausted the subject of mine.”
Farah’s heart leaped like a startled rabbit. “I have no past. I was an orphan and then I ran from Applecross, made my way to London and—”
“Don’t lie to me, Farah.” His soft voice was so terrifying, she’d rather he shouted. “You’re terrible at it.”
She busied herself by groping at the bottom of the tub for her missing soap, using it as an excuse not to look at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know who you were … who you are.”
“Impossible,” Farah insisted. “I’m nobody.” There. She’d found the soap, but pretended to still be looking, as she chased it with slippery fingers.
“You are far from nobody. Farah Leigh Townsend, daughter of the late Robert Lee Townsend, captain of the Prince Consort’s Rifle Brigade in the Crimea, and more importantly, Earl Northwalk. You are the only living heiress to what has to be the most controversial, contested fortune in Britain until quite recently.”
His every word pinned her to the floor of the tub. She sank to her chin, wishing she could just slip below the surface and hide in the murky safety of the water without lethal consequences. He saw too much. Knew too much, and that could ruin everything.
“You’re mistaken,” She made another attempt at denial, hoping that she could convince him of her identity. “Farah is a common enough name, and Leigh a very ordinary middle name, so your mistake is understandable. But, in case you were unaware, Farah Leigh Townsend was recently discovered in a hospital in London, having miraculously recovered from amnesia.” She finally mustered the strength to meet the skepticism bleeding from Blackwell’s every pore head-on. “She married a Mr. Harold Warrington, Esq., not a month ago, to whom she’d been long betrothed. So you see, Mr. Blackwell, it is infeasible for me to be who you claim.”
His eyes narrowed on her and he spoke his next words very carefully, though caustic reprimand leaked like venom from his lips. “Imagine my surprise when I saw the banns in the papers. The long-lost heiress of Northwalk secretly married, the title of earl bestowed upon her husband, who happened to be her deceased father’s steward and of little to no blue blood. Naturally, driven by the oath I’d made all those years ago, I arranged a meeting with Mrs. Farah Leigh Warrington, and knew the moment I laid eyes on her that she was an imposter.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Farah scoffed. “How would you know a thing like that?”
A secret smile threatened the bleak lines of his mouth. “I know a thing or two about imposters, con artists, thieves, and greed.”
“Yes, I’ve heard you’re something of an expert.” Farah usually didn’t possess much in the way of a temper, but it seemed that ire made her feel less helpless than fear.
“Indeed,” Blackwell confirmed. “So believe me when I say that I recognized a soul as black as my own and just as devious.”
“I find it highly improbable such a thing exists.” Farah began to seriously consider an attempt at escape, modesty be damned. It only took one glance at Dorian Blackwell’s long and powerful limbs to squelch the panicked impulse immediately.
She wouldn’t get far, and she could only imagine how he would punish her this time. Farah couldn’t tell if her barbs had affected him or not, but she couldn’t think of another reason he would silently study her for such a long time. “Believe it or not, there are villains out there more evil than I,” he said finally.
“Doubtful.”
The upholstery of the chair protested as Blackwell’s strong fingers tightened on the arms. “I haven’t hurt you, have I? Touched you, even?” His smoky voice echoed with challenge. “I know men who would tear you apart just for the pleasure of hearing you scream. They would make you beg for death before they finished with you. They would use every part of your body and soul until they both shriveled and died and they’d leave you in the gutter like so much filth.” Blackwell stood then, his boots impossibly quiet on the marble as he stalked closer. “I may be a villain and a reprobate, but I am not like them.”