by Lynn Kerstan
She moved his chair closer to the window, gave him a drink of water spoonful by spoonful, and watched his eyelids begin to droop. Not long after, she adjusted the blanket over his frail body and navigated the labyrinth of screens and bookshelves that separated the hideaway, for surely that’s what it was meant to be, from the library.
Her promise, bitter in her mouth, had to be kept, so she endured an hour in unpleasant company before deciding she’d done her duty. Happily, none of the women at Beata’s luncheon had paid her the slightest attention. It was only the men who ever noticed her, trailed after her, found excuses to approach her. But this afternoon, to her great relief, all the men were elsewhere. In the gaming room, probably, or taking part in the archery contest down by the river.
She wished it were possible to join them. Her father had put a small bow and arrow in her hands when she was six years old, and over the years she had become a good shot. A very good shot. But it was a useless talent, because she could scarcely wander around London armed like Robin Hood.
If only her father had taught her to shoot with a small pistol. Now that would have been worth something.
She was on her way back to the library when a tall, black-haired man came out of a room farther down the passageway.
Michael Keynes. It had to be. Except . . . The vibration that always signaled his presence had not warned her. Turning swiftly, she darted through the nearest door and closed it behind her.
She would have locked it or dropped a latch, but there wasn’t a latch bar or a key. Never mind. Keynes had been turning the other direction, so there was no reason to expect he’d noticed her. She would wait here for a few minutes, here in this . . . this linen closet.
Good heavens. It was larger even than her bedchamber, lined with tall shelves on both sides, all of them piled high with table covers, napkins, towels, sheets, and pillowcases. At the opposite end from the door, a bottle-glass window admitted light while shutting off the view more effectively than curtains.
She looked around, she couldn’t have said why, for somewhere to conceal herself. Apprehension swept over her like a cold wind. He had seen her. She smelled it on the air, his determination, her own fear.
Danger came closer. Reached out. Raised the latch.
She forced herself to stand in place, directly center of the room, and waited.
It was his powerful build that she saw first. The wide shoulders. The heavy black hair.
Her heart galloped in her chest.
He moved inside and closed the door behind him. “I thought it might be you,” said the man she had come to London to kill.
Paralyzed by memory, she could only stare at him, wide-eyed and mute.
“And what are you doing in this”—he waved a hand—“whatever it is? I had got the impression you were one of Beata’s tenants, but it appears, Miss Holcombe, that she has employed you as a servant.”
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she said, her voice commendably steady. “Did you require some towels?”
His eyes narrowed. “How is it you recognize me? We have been adversaries, after a fashion, but surely we’ve never met.”
She knew what he was fishing for. “Not that I recall, but perhaps your memory is better than mine. It was you, after all, who followed me in here and addressed me by name. As for your identity, it would be immediately apparent to anyone who has met your brother.”
“Ah, yes. He is in residence here as well, I have just been informed.” Displeasure knitted his forehead. “A strange coincidence, not to my liking. Perhaps knowing my . . . my interest in you, he has seized an opportunity to fix his own. An old habit with us, two brothers squabbling over the same toy. But do not think to find an ally in that quarter, my dear. Like all Keynes men, he is unprincipled and savage. He might befriend you to spite me, or to use against me, but when you have served his purposes, he’ll spit you out again.”
The duke regarded her speculatively. “On the other hand, we are both men of varied and demanding appetites. I expect there are other uses to be made of you.” He sent his lewd gaze to her slippers and let it roam languidly up her body, pausing where men generally paused to look before moving on to another place of interest.
With apparent indifference, she endured the examination. All the battle was being fought deep inside her, as she compressed her fear and rage into a white-hot ball and contained it there. Fuel, she thought, stored up, made ready. One day she would strike tinder and send herself, and this monstrous creature, in a fiery plunge to hell.
His lips curled. “The shoes are nothing out of the ordinary, but where, I wonder, did you come by the funds to purchase that gown? Have I been neglectful? Have you established a concealed bank account?”
“Had we money to store in an account, I’ve no doubt you would have unearthed it.”
“My solicitors are thorough,” he agreed. “Which means you must have been stealing from me. Your uncle was a collector, I am told, and his castle stocked with a lifetime’s accumulation of antiquities. It seems I let you run tame there overlong. Have you left me anything of value, Miss Holcombe? Or must I retrieve what is owed me directly from you?”
“You are mistaken, Your Grace. Everything of worth was sold off years ago by my uncle to fund the restoration of his castle, which was his obsession. What little remains might bring you a hundred pounds from the ragpickers. As for my gowns, they are castoffs from ladies of quality, sold in Cheapside markets and made over to fit me. I have taken nothing that belongs to you.”
“But then, you dispute that anything once owned by your family belongs to me, whereas I claim everything down to the last button. Where, by the way, is the young wastrel who landed you in these circumstances?”
“Cousin Robert remains in India, so far as I know. If you are intent on collecting the debts owed you, perhaps you should go in search of him.”
“He is being tracked down. But in the meantime, there is no reason I should not feast on his inheritance.” Another step closer. He was enjoying this. For him, it was a game.
She held her ground. “That would be the castle, which my uncle willed to him. But you have no legal claim to the estate entailed to my father, nor to our family home.”
“Except that I do claim them, and who is to prevent me from seizing them? An old man who can neither move nor speak? A young woman who can only whimper that she is being wronged?” He stopped directly in front of her, the yellow diamond pin in his neckcloth inches from her eyes. “Is that why you are in residence here, Miranda, where all Society congregates? Are you seeking a champion?”
She looked up, met his eyes. “Among the dandies of London? No, indeed. I seek precisely what every other female of my age is frantic to secure. A husband.”
“You astonish me.” He seemed genuinely amused. “Obscure family, no fortune, an old stick of a father to care for, enormous debts to a powerful man. Suitors must be queuing in the streets.”
There was nothing to be said to that, and just as well. With him so close, she required all her strength to keep from trembling.
“Or perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, a new look in his eyes, “there are customers queuing for your services. I begin to think you have acquired fashionable clothing and lodging in the time-honored manner—on your back. Is that the case, my dear? Are you whoring yourself?”
“People may begin to imagine so, Your Grace, if I remain closeted here with you. And that will make it all the more difficult to bring a gentleman up to scratch, for as you have observed, I have little to offer a husband save loyalty and my virtue.”
“Is it intact, your virtue?” His expression sharpened. “Are you intact?”
The question was not unexpected. He was making sure, that was all, and she had prepared herself. In this one thing, the telling of lies, they were well matched. “There has been little opportunity for dalliance
,” she said calmly, “even were I so inclined. But a woman has only one way to prove her virtue, and that is in the very act of losing it. You must inquire of my husband, should I manage to snabble one, after our wedding night.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine there will be a wedding night, or a husband who wants to breed on you. For in addition to your other inadequacies, there is the small matter of deformity.” He took hold of her hand. “I cannot help but notice your unusual glove. It makes me curious to see what it conceals.”
Had it been her left glove he was peeling down her arm and from her hand, she would have resisted. But he’d chosen her right hand, so she held herself still and watched his eyes as he examined her middle and ring fingers, webbed together like one great, thick sausage. Or so it felt to her, especially when he recoiled slightly and let go of her hand with a snort of disgust.
“As I surmised. Your cousin was similarly afflicted, save that all his fingers were conjoined. He could not even deal cards properly. The affliction runs in the family, I take it.”
“To an extent.” Pride kept her voice level. “My aunt, Robert’s mother, had hands very like mine. There are no other examples, but then, we are a small family.”
“And one that will quickly die out, for no man will wed you at the risk of having his children inherit your disfigurement. So what will you do, Miranda, when I have stripped you of everything? When you have a father to provide for and nowhere to turn? If you have managed to preserve your virtue thus far, will you yield it on his account?”
“There are other means of earning a living.”
“Not for a female with a spoiled reputation.” He gripped her wrists, brought them behind her back, leaned over her. “Keep still. I want to know what you have under that gown, decide if it is worth sampling before you are put out to sell yourself on the streets.”
“N-no.” She couldn’t help herself. Couldn’t draw air. With his free hand he took her chin, lifted it as his lips came against hers, cool and dry until his tongue licked out. She thought she would be sick then, sick all over him, except that she was suffocating.
Fingers stroked down her neck. A hand passed over her breast, stopped, squeezed hard.
The pain brought her to her senses. He still had hold of her chin, and now her breast. He’d let go of her wrists! In an instant she had drawn out her knife, brought it around, slashed at the hand on her breast.
Swearing, he seized her wrist and wrenched her arm up behind her, applying so much pressure she was forced to drop the knife. He put his foot on it and thrust her away. Her back hit the shelves. When he bent to pick up the knife, she tried to slip past him to the door, but he grabbed her shoulder and threw her in the direction of the window. She struck the wall beside it and sagged there, sucking in great gulps of air.
He would beat her now, she was sure. Her fault, her fault. She had been foolish and arrogant and unprepared. Had imagined she could confront the Beast, could emerge with him defeated and her unscathed.
She watched him, waiting for punishment, failure acrid in her mouth. He was studying the back of his hand. From the cut she’d made, blood dripped to the floor. After a moment he went to a shelf, took a napkin, and wrapped it around the wound. Moments later, blood seeped through the fabric, turning it scarlet.
He tossed the napkin aside and glanced over at her. “Come fix this, you bloody-minded little bitch.” But it was said almost without rancor, and the heightened color of rage had left his face.
She gathered softer napkins and applied them one by one, exerting pressure until the bleeding slowed to an upwelling. The cut was shallow, she saw with regret, but it would leave a scar. Folding a fresh napkin, she placed it on the back of his hand and secured it with what looked to be a curtain tie. All the while he said nothing, and she focused her attention on binding up his wound.
When she was done, she took one step back, expecting him to strike her, preparing for the blow.
He gave her, instead, a smile. It was her anticipation of pain he most enjoyed, she understood then. The tightening bands of fear. The awful dread. Yes, the waiting for pain was worse than the pain itself, as he knew. But she could bear it.
What hurt more than anything, what she could not bear, was her failure. She had been alone with him, been given the chance she’d dreamed of and longed for. She ought to have been clever enough to come close to him, create a distraction, slice her blade across his throat. But when her chance came, she had surrendered like a lamb. There was nothing left for her now, save only her shame. And the beginnings of despair.
He picked up her knife and turned it over in his hands, testing the edge of its slender blade with his fingertip, studying the ebony handle set with a single cabochon ruby. “Deadly enough, if properly wielded. Somewhat exotic. From India?”
“I don’t know.”
“You won’t mind if I keep it. A souvenir, if you will, of our first meeting, and a promise that we’ll soon meet again. I had always meant to break you, when time and circumstances permitted, but I’m afraid your destruction is now imperative. Well, nearly so. First I must deal with two other troublesome females who have become an inconvenience, but that shouldn’t take long.”
He went to the door, where he turned and fixed his transparent eyes on her face. “When I return, my dear, the vise will close. First I will take everything from you, including your pride. I’ve a fancy to bring you to your knees”—he pointed to a spot directly in front of him—“begging to pleasure me. Your father will watch everything I do to you. And when I am finished, you will both vanish, and no one will notice that you have gone.”
“Why do you bother?” she asked. “We have nothing you require. Our land is unprofitable, our home undistinguished and in need of repair. We are, as you say, so insignificant that our disappearance would be entirely unremarked. Is it that you dare to prey only on the weak?”
He barked a laugh. “Like every Keynes before me, I am by nature a hunter. A predator, if you like, but it is the chase that amuses me. The target is irrelevant. Weak or strong, it is eventually cornered, and tormented, and put out of my way. Michael is a hunter as well, and a good one, I am forced to admit. But he hunts only because his nature compels him to. He never got the knack of enjoying it. Unless, of course, he is hunting me.”
“You persecute us, then, because it gives you pleasure?”
“That is one reason, yes. And because you have defied me.” Lifting her knife to eye level, he sighted down it as if taking aim at her. “And because I can.”
Chapter 7
After a while, she didn’t know how long it took, Mira had regathered her composure and put everything else—her rage, her terror, her defeat—into the small corner of herself where her nightmares lived. No one else would ever know they were there.
They could all see the blood on her hands, though, and on her gown, unless she made it to her cottage without encountering anyone. Not easy to do any time of the day or night at Palazzo Neri, where the devil himself might come out of a room directly in front of you. But she scrubbed her hands with a rough towel while plotting a route through courtyards and back passageways, and when she left the closet, her arms were wrapped around a stack of linens. They concealed the worst of the stains on her bodice, but there was nothing she could do about the ones on her hem and her shoes.
Luck was with her. She made it outside without passing anyone except a footman, who glanced at the towels and gave her a puzzled look before continuing on his way. Only a short distance to her door, and then she could strip off her dress and burn it in the fireplace while she scoured every trace of the Beast from her body.
But quickly. Soon her father would be awake and needing her. He saw too much, she knew, probably more than she suspected. By the time she returned to the library, she must have herself well in hand.
Planning ahead made her careless about the present. She
became aware of that infernal humming and looked up to see Michael Keynes striding toward her from the archery field, wearing leather breeches and a woolen shirt open at the throat, bronze skinned and aggressively male. A hunter, like his brother, even to the bow slung over his shoulder.
His thoughts must have been elsewhere as well. She saw the moment he realized she was there, the break in his stride as if he meant to shift his direction. His gaze went to the linens she was carrying, slid downward to her shoes.
There would be no escape for her now.
Seconds later he was planted in front of her, sawing a gesture at her skirts. “What happened? Is it your father?”
“My—? Oh, no. He’s having a nap in the library. I cut myself sharpening a pen, only a little cut, but it bled rather a lot before I found a cloth to stop it.”
“Rather a lot of cloths,” he said. “Where did you cut yourself?”
“In the library.” They were relentless, the Keynes men. And this one looked concerned, which was worse than all his brother’s cruelty. “You must pardon me. I haven’t so many gowns that I can afford to ruin one because of a small accident. This dress must be put to soak in cold water straightaway, and I must return to my father before he wakes up. Good day, sir.”
She cut around him, but he was at her side in an instant. “Almost convincing. Now, what really happened?”
“Nothing of consequence, as I have already explained. Not that it is any of your business.”
“Unless I make it so. You don’t have to like it, Miss Holcombe, but I intend to assure myself you are not injured.”
“Oh, bother!” They had come to the small veranda at her front door. Opening her arms, she let the pile of linens drop to the tile flooring. “See? I am perfectly intact. It was a maid hurt herself. I wrapped her injured hand and sent her off to the housekeeper, who will better tend to it. The maid abandoned the linens she was carrying, and to keep her from getting into trouble, I gathered them up. When I return to the villa, I shall see them returned to wherever they belong. Are you satisfied now?”