by Lynn Kerstan
She frowned. “You failed to confess, then?”
“I expect I did, on the principle that I’m usually guilty. After the second bottle, I’m capable of just about anything. Well, except remembering later what I did earlier.”
“You play games with me, my wolf. And now I expect you will be leaving my villetta for the great house in Berkeley Square.”
“Not until they’ve scraped the bits and pieces of my predecessor from the flagstones. For now, being of a sudden wealthy, titled, and rid of a troublesome relative, I’m going out to celebrate.”
“Excellent.” Her eyes gleamed. “Celebrate here, where you will not be mobbed by the rabble.”
“But I am the rabble, signora. Permit me a few nights of debauchery among my own kind. Then I shall return and let you teach me how to behave.”
“Mah! I wish you here tonight, as my trophy. But promise you will make it up to me, and I shall send to you a bath.”
He left her with a grin instead of a promise, but she sent the bath anyway, and an hour later he was in her stable, hiring one of her small carriages for the day. It had begun to rain again, one of those slow, relentless rains that would last for hours and provide him a little concealment. It would also make for the men following him an uncomfortable day, which gave him a degree of malicious pleasure. Had they been enemies, he’d have found a way to render some of them incapable of keeping up with him. But they were decent men hired to do a job, so it would require ingenuity and effort to elude them.
First, though, he’d bore them silly.
Beata, who liked to see everything, had protruding mirrors on her coach panels to accord passengers a view to the front and rear. He put them to good use, and by the time he entered his bank for the second time that morning, he had marked the two chaps assigned to stick close to him and the skinny fellow who followed at a greater distance. There were others on his trail, he was certain, but they would reveal themselves soon enough.
For now, he made life easy for them. Already conspicuous in a black multicaped greatcoat and a wide-brimmed beaver hat, he carried a silver-handled sword cane and wore, for effect, a crimson wool scarf around his neck. News had not been slow to leak out. On every street corner, urchins hawked broadsheets telling of his startling release from the Tower, his false confession, and the mysterious woman in widow’s weeds who had visited him and remained the entire night. He only wished that last bit were true.
He proceeded across the entrance hall, aware of heads swiveling in his direction, and caught sight of a straight-backed female wearing smoked glasses and carrying a leather case. She marched past him as if he weren’t there.
In his banker’s office, he read the message Miss Pryce had left for him and burned it in the fireplace. What she had planned would require hours for her to arrange, but as it happened, he needed every one of those hours. There was another message, informing him that while his brother’s solicitors had granted access to the Tallant records, they refused to give over the records themselves without instructions, in person, from the new duke.
So it was off to Lincoln’s Inn for an unpleasant confrontation with several lawyers who almost certainly had a lot to hide, and then to Doctors Commons and the nearby street where his own solicitors kept their offices.
Under the circumstances, he doubted his brother’s affairs would ever be entirely sorted out. And with his life measured in days, he must concentrate on arranging for the welfare of his sister-in-law and her daughters. Miranda had been right. The records disclosed that little provision had been made for them, save for the bare minimum required by law.
He gave instructions for everything unentailed to be secured for them in ways least subject to challenge after his conviction for the murder. Then, with several hours to pass while the assets were inventoried and papers drawn up, he took a meal at a crowded tavern, dropped by a jeweler’s establishment, poked around a bookshop, and with his arms full of parcels, wandered aimlessly, or so he hoped it appeared, through the various offices and courts that made up Doctors Commons. All along, his goal was the office kept by the Archbishop of Canterbury, where he quickly purchased what he had come for and moved on.
By late afternoon, when the papers had been read and signed, his carriage entered the part of the city known as the Rookeries, wound its way to a street in Seven Dials, and pulled up in front of a tall building. Behind its staid exterior, Madame de Beauvoir, formerly known as Molly Buttons, presided over London’s most notorious brothel.
He was in a hurry now. Within a few minutes, bare chested and with a drink in his hand, he showed himself briefly at a third-story window. A thoroughly bare female wrapped an arm around his waist and used her other hand to draw the curtains. Then she sat him down and applied a droopy brown mustache beneath his nose, a wart to his chin, a wig to his head, and a kiss to his mouth. All in all, he decided while pulling on tattered wool trousers and a shirt reeking of garlic and beer, this had been the best part of his day.
Soon he was curled up in a cart under a pile of dirty sheets and being wheeled along a dark alleyway. Inside a laundry room, someone added a filthy coat and hat to his costume and sent him through a series of cellars connected by secret doors. When he emerged from the last building into the street, he bore a pole over his shoulders with a bucket attached at either end. A beer wagon drawn by a sullen horse was waiting for him, and he drove it to the stable marked on a map someone had slipped to him.
By this time, he had shaken all his pursuers. When he rode out of the stable on a horse far better than its looks suggested, no one he passed gave him a second glance. And later that evening, a man of his height and wearing his expensive clothes would emerge from the brothel and return in Beata’s carriage to the Palazzo, where he would pass the night in Michael’s Casina.
Even so, Michael spent another hour laying false trails before heading north to a place called Finchley Common where Hari Singh’s friends and distant relations from the Punjab had formed a small community.
And where a caged tigress waited to spring on him the moment he appeared.
It required two hours’ hard riding to get there, not counting the stop at a tavern to stock up on the brandy that the master of the house, for all his hospitality, would not provide. The bottles were stashed in his saddlebags when Michael approached his destination.
A light streaming from a window guided him to a gatehouse set in the high wall surrounding the property. Anticipation, scratching under his skin for most of the day, sent a new rush of energy through him. Until Varden brought news of his release, he’d not thought to ever see her again. But she was there, just beyond the wall.
His prisoner.
His furious prisoner. He couldn’t help smiling. There would be no warm welcome from Miranda Holcombe, no gratitude for his efforts on her behalf. And he’d have felt the same, had anyone done to him what he’d done to her.
But she was safe, and he would keep her safe, and for a brief time, he would be in her company. He asked little more of life than that.
A gangly young man ran out to open the gate. They’d got word of his release, Rasbir told him as they walked together to the stable, but were not sure he would come to them. The young lady and her father were well. Syr-Sahib looked different than he had done at the wedding.
Michael—Syr-Sahib—remembered how Rasbir followed him around that night, tongue wagging the entire time. Retrieving the saddlebags and their cargo, he left the horse to the boy’s care and set out for the house. Plain, square, and two stories high, its pale stone walls were set with small mullioned windows. As immigrants who are unwelcome in their new country sometimes do, the Punjabis had built for themselves a protected enclave. All the beauty of the home was inside.
The boy who admitted him, bouncing with excitement, led him to a large room laid out with Kashmiri carpets and low divans piled high with cushions. “It’s S
yr! It’s Syr!” cried the boy from the doorway. A score of astonished faced turned to look.
Michael paused at the entrance, whisked off his hat and wig, and bowed respectfully to his hosts. “My apologies for this crude disguise. I would make a proper greeting, but I’m fit only for a barn. Can someone find me a basin of water and a change of clothes?”
Birindar, the middle-aged patriarch of the extended family, rose and crossed to him, smiling. “Sat sri akal,” he said. Welcome. “Your freedom brings us joy. Tell me everything you require, and it will be provided.”
Hari joined them, a question in his brown eyes.
Michael shrugged. “They’ve decided I didn’t do it. How is Miss Holcombe? Fulminating?”
“I do not know that word,” said Hari. “She is sitting with Mr. Holcombe until he falls asleep.”
“Well, when she’s free, I want to speak privately with her. See to it, will you? And it might be better if she comes unarmed.”
Chapter 22
An hour later, when Michael was well into his second glass of brandy, Nageena Kaur brought saucers of olives, chupatti, dal paste, and dried apricots into the room where he was to contend with Miss Holcombe. “The young woman will be here soon,” she said, placing the dishes on a sideboard. “Is there more I can do for you?”
“See to it we are not disturbed, if you will. No matter what you hear.” He smiled at Birindar’s wife, who was practically vibrating with curiosity. “I will not dishonor her. You know that. But I’ll probably make her angry.”
“She is angry now, Syr. But she has not shown it to the family, and she has been kind to the children. We are pleased to have her in our home.”
It was Miranda Holcombe who needed kindness, he was thinking as Nageena Kaur left the room. But she wouldn’t be getting any from him. His intentions were precisely the opposite, and telling himself he would be cauterizing a wound made it no easier. Hell, he wasn’t at all sure what to do, except that the other possibilities seemed even worse than the course he had chosen.
First he meant to rouse her temper, the one she pretended not to have, and prod her into a fight. He was rather looking forward to that. Then, with her too angry at him to notice, he would draw in the net, a little at a time, until she was irrevocably trapped.
He took his bottle and glass to a wide, low, cushioned bench, where he settled himself cross-legged with the fire at his back. The loose muslin trousers Birindar had provided were too short for his legs, the tunic fit snug across his shoulders, and his feet were bare, but the wine-colored banyan embroidered with gold thread made him look marginally civilized . . . so long as you ignored a day’s growth of beard. He hadn’t thought his hand steady enough to shave.
Holding out his glass, he watched the brandy undulate. Focused his mind. Willed himself to grow calm.
After a while, the surface of the liquid became smooth and still, like a mountain lake. The lake at Naini Tal, at the end of the tiger’s path, where the goddess had come to live.
He reached to the deepest part of him, to where things he must not reveal huddled in silence, and drew them out. One by one he consigned them to the lake, giving each what time it needed to sink into the black water, for some flaws were more difficult than others to release. Small rituals. Preparations for battle. Hari had taught him how to let go of all but his purpose, to count neither the cost nor the punishment, to be at peace with what he must do.
Empty at last of what he feared and what would make him weak, he raised the glass and tipped the brandy down his throat. Drowning the monsters, he’d used to call it, until he acknowledged the monsters that could never be extinguished. After that, he gave up the name, but could never hit upon a good reason to give up the drinking.
Miranda would disapprove, he supposed. Was there anything about him that she would approve? And why ask, when he bloody well knew the answer?
She arrived as he was refilling his glass, entering so silently that he, who had been watching for her with every nerve end on edge, missed the opening and closing of the door. When he glanced up, expecting to see nothing, there she was. The goddess of the lake.
In an instant, he drank in the whole of her. Gloved hands held motionless at her sides, she stood demure as a nun in her unadorned sage-green gown. Demure except for that wanton tumble of silver-gilt hair over her shoulders, and the fierce passion held barely in check, and the blue eyes fixed on him like a pair of bayonets. If a glacier could go on fire, it would look exactly as she looked at this moment.
His hands started shaking again.
“You summoned me, Your Grace?”
It always amazed him how much expression she could put into that whispery voice. With no perceptible increase in sound, she could shout at you, or rebuke you, or curl your toes with her sarcasm. He’d once confronted, alone and unarmed, a band of Thuggees with less trepidation than he felt at this moment.
“You’d have come after me anyway,” he said. “Drink?”
“I expect you’ll drink enough for the both of us. You recanted your confession, I gather.”
“It stands, except I have to refine it a little, to account for my absence from London at the time of the murder. A simple matter, and I’ll get around to it shortly. In the meantime, there’s your confession to deal with.”
“But you’ve done that already, by preventing me from delivering it. For the time being. You can’t hold me here indefinitely.”
“Why not?” He rested his hands on his knees, trying to look relaxed and in control of the situation. “It won’t be all that long. Once the murderer is executed, no one will care what you have to say. The authorities sure as hell won’t admit they hanged the wrong culprit, and they won’t rush out and hang you as well, simply because you insist on it. They’ll rule you mad, Miss Holcombe, and put you away where madwomen are put.”
She paled. “The truth should be told, sir.”
“Maybe. But it won’t come from either of us, will it? The only question is, which lie will win the day? And because I’ve answered that by having you brought here, what have we left to talk about?”
“Nothing whatever.” She came a little forward, the fingers curled against her skirts betraying more than she realized. “If you won’t listen to reason.”
“I’m all ears, Miranda. Have at me.” The use of her first name was deliberate, and the flash in her eyes told him she recognized the opening move of an aggressive campaign.
“I mean to,” she said with undisguised scorn. “By what authority do you interfere with where I go or what I do? You have no right, none, to meddle in my affairs.”
“I don’t deny it.” How could he? That very morning, he’d said much the same to a meddling Archangel. “But what is that to the point? I’ve done what was necessary, and I’ll get away with it because you cannot prevent me.”
The next he knew, a missile was sailing in the direction of his head. He jerked aside just in time. The object whizzed past his ear, shattering against the fireplace. Shortly after, he heard a sizzling noise and smelled burning olives.
Miranda, eyes round as the saucer she’d thrown at him, looked shocked.
He clicked his tongue. “Is that the best you can do?”
“Is it your habit to ride roughshod over helpless females? Abduct them. Imprison them?” She had clasped her hands behind her back, as if to keep them from misbehaving.
He wanted her to misbehave, to do worse than that. The habit of discipline was too strong in her. “Helpless? I very much doubt it. And you are the one resolved to dive into a prison cell. I merely changed the venue from Newgate to this house. Resign yourself, Miss Holcombe. From here on out, you will do as I say.”
This time he was ready. He saw her quiver, as if she’d break apart and fly off in all directions. And then she directed her fury to a single action. In a flash, another saucer was skimmin
g toward his head.
It struck his cheekbone hard, ricocheted off, and bounced across the carpet. Its contents, a stack of flat chupatti bread, landed on his lap.
The blow hurt, undeniably, and must have cut open his cheek. He felt a warm trickle of blood making its way down his face.
Miranda, another saucer in her hand, gazed at him with astonishment. “You didn’t duck,” she said. It was an accusation.
He shrugged. “Nothing you can say or do will stop me, but you have every right to be angry. Go ahead. Throw them all. I promise to hold still.”
“That . . . rather removes the incentive.” She looked down at the saucer she was holding. After a moment, she laid it gently on the side table and picked up a napkin. “Your face is bleeding, sir. Shall I tend to it?”
The prospect of being so close to her, of being touched by her . . . But it was an indulgence he couldn’t afford. They had too far to go on this journey, and for much of the way, she must continue to despise him. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “But I’ll take the napkin.”
Flushing slightly, she brought it over to him and then backed away, but not so far as she had been standing before.
Progress of a sort, he supposed, pouring a little brandy over the napkin before pressing it to his cheekbone. The cut burned like the devil. Reckoning it would please her, he produced an exaggerated wince.
“Explain to me,” she said, “because truly, I do not understand. Why will you not permit me to make my own decisions? What is it to you if I accept responsibility for my crime? I am perfectly willing to do so. And why do you refuse to accept that I killed the duke?”
“In order, then,” he said amiably. “You are making bad decisions, and I suspect you rarely do. I’ve made it my business to obstruct your plans because mine are better. And as for you killing—”
“Don’t! Don’t tell me it’s because you did it.” The anger was back in her eyes. “I know how you look at me, how everyone has always looked at me. You see a . . . a plaster statue in a church. A fresco on a convent wall. A soft-voiced, light-haired female with deformed hands and an otherworldly father to care for. And because I appear gentle and virtuous, you think me incapable of hatred. Of devious schemes and murderous intentions. Of vengeance.”