Of Moths and Butterflies - By V.R. Christensen Page 0,2

want to know.”

She knew it was true. Since the day, nearly three months ago, when she had quite suddenly come to realise the nature of her value to her uncle, and to the gentlemen who came to borrow money from him, she had begun to see the world in a very different light. She understood now what dangers lurked behind the seemingly innocent smiles and glances offered between a man and a woman, the friendly touch of a hand on her arm. How quickly these turn into something more, crossing the lines of propriety when no obstacles are set in place to check them. To such things, her uncle had turned a blind eye. If it meant keeping business then who was he to deny a man some little reward for his trouble?

Roger had always treated her with respect, but she was no fool. She knew very well that, underneath it all, he was little different from the others. For the names of the card rooms, and the gaming houses, and those other houses, all of which she ought to have known nothing, were the same, whether they were mentioned in reference to her cousin’s exploits or to her uncle’s more practical business dealings. Perhaps they were all the same at heart, these “gentlemen”. But Roger would never hurt her as others had done. He would never force her to give him what he desired. She knew that. But neither could she freely give what had already been taken. Not to him. Not to anyone.

“What is this?” Roger said, observing the letter that had been dropped upon his entrance and which now lay haphazardly on the floor. He picked it up and, with a look, made his request.

She nodded her answer.

Roger unfolded it and read. Finishing it, he laid it down and looked up at her in astonishment. “What do you make of this?”

“What do you think?” And she really wanted to know.

“It looks to me as though your darling uncle has attempted a last gasp attempt to buy back his soul, if you want my opinion. It should be a relief to you, truly. You may live your life as you like now.” He examined her a moment. “You should be happy.”

“With my family, everyone I’ve ever known, looming over me, ready to prey upon my good fortune? Do you think my aunts will be happy to know that my uncle overlooked them in favour of me?”

He rubbed at his forehead. “And so what do you propose to do?”

“What can I do? I’m not yet twenty-one. I’ll still require a guardian for another year or more. A year, Roger! My aunts will insist, and what then?”

Roger sat down beside her and watched. A dark coil of hair fell across one shoulder as she lowered her head to hide the tears that would come, however hard she tried to stop them. He brushed her hair from her face, and a tear or two as well.

“Dear Imogen?” he said, that pleading look once more in his too penetrating eyes.

Imogen moved to free the strand of hair he’d just taken between his fingers. “Roger…please.”

“What other choice do you have?” He was clearly trying to be patient, but the effort showed. “Besides, of course, the one I’ve been persuading you to consider these many months now.”

“Which you know you don’t mean.”

“I know no such thing. Imogen, I am in earnest!”

“So am I.”

“You will not marry me?”

“I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” he said with a wave at the letter that now lay on the side table. “You can do whatever you like now.”

“The money, Roger. It complicates things.”

He rose to his feet and began pacing before her. She waited for his remonstrance, for some vain assurance. It did not come.

“I don’t mean to accept it. I don’t want it.”

Roger started, his eyes wide as he faced her. “Are you mad? This is what you’ve been waiting for. For heaven’s sake, take it and set yourself free!”

“I can’t take it and have any respect for myself. It’s payment.”

Roger stopped and turned to her once more, a look of disgust upon his face. “No. No it isn’t,” he said, his hand slicing the air as if scolding a wayward child. “Not like that. It’s—”

“They’ll wonder why he gave it to me,” she said interrupting him. “I’ll never have a moment’s peace. They’ll wonder why and they’ll find out if they can, though I’m sure they know enough already.”

“Drake Everard was a vulgar brute and deserved to