The Sins of Lord Lockwood

by Meredith Duran

  He bit his tongue lest he remind her that she had mentioned darker possibilities not minutes ago. “If they’re coming down, surely the wisest thing is to wait.”

  “She needs help,” the countess snapped. “Otherwise, why would she have called for me?”

  “To check on your welfare?”

  The notion appeared to surprise her. “No,” she said. “Moira wouldn’t—she knows I’m fine.”

  A peculiar insight: Lady Forth’s assurance came with a price. Nobody ever checked on her.

  “You wait here,” she said. “I’ll go on up, quickly, and I—”

  “To hell with that.” He regretted the curse a second too late, but she did not seem to notice it. “Splitting up is a very poor idea. If we but wait—”

  She ripped free of his grip—only then did he realize he’d grabbed hold of her. “Stay here,” she said, and in the next second, she had moved into the mist and disappeared.

  Now he did curse deliberately. He didn’t know the trail. But to wait here meant leaving her alone on the path, with a deadly fall looming on one side. Following was unwise, but not following was unchivalrous.

  He listened hard, and caught the sound of her footsteps crunching on small rocks ahead. He slowly walked toward the sound—realizing, with each deep and steady breath, that there was a reason he’d forgone that excursion into the Alps last year. Heights were not his strength.

  “Moira!” She was calling out, her voice still nearby. “Moira, can you—”

  Her gasp did not sound intentional.

  “Countess.” He called out sharply—even smacked at the mist like an idiot, as though it would somehow dissolve beneath the wave of his lordly hand. “Countess!”

  Silence.

  Damn it to hell. He shuffled forward faster, and called out again. “My lady—Anna! Can you—”

  “Here,” came a strained whisper.

  He stopped. That whisper came from very close. He squinted into the field of consuming white. “Where? Speak again.”

  “I am here,” she muttered. A little to the left, a pace or two ahead— “Don’t follow,” she groaned. “I went over the . . . edge.”

  His body froze. Muscles congealed, bones stiffened. He stood very still. “You’re—you’ve got hold of something?”

  “A root.” Her voice was growing tighter. She was struggling, he realized, to remain calm. “It’s . . . not very . . . strong. What an idiot I am!”

  He dropped to all fours, the rocky soil digging into his palms and knees. “Keep speaking,” he said. “Hum, if that’s easier.”

  The first weak, ragged bars of “Rule, Britannia!” hit his ears. He swallowed a laugh, half hysteria, half amazement. Not the choice he’d expected of her.

  The sound led him forward. With one hand, he made wide, sweeping arcs—found the edge of the path, the drop beyond it. But he could not feel her.

  Her humming abruptly ceased. “Oh,” she said, almost inaudible. “It’s giving way. It’s break—”

  He lunged forward on a prayer, thrusting his hand blindly into the ether, thanking God when his grip closed on her forearm.

  Sporting might prove useless in walking competitions against a Scotswoman, but it did aid in pulling. With a mighty heave, he hauled the countess up, and she tumbled atop him into the dirt.

  For a long moment they lay pressed together, dazed, panting, as the mist iced around them. From somewhere nearby came the stray peep of a snow bunting, and the angry flutter of wings.

  She felt shockingly warm against him, her breath burning his ear like a brand. She was very tall for a woman. But he was taller. She fit against him perfectly.

  “ ‘Rule, Britannia’?” he asked in a whisper.

  “Horrid song,” she whispered back. “But I thought your last memory of me should be pleasant for you.”

  The force of his sudden laughter proved contagious. She joined in as she rolled off him, and they lay side by side in the white mist, giggling like loons.

  When at last he sobered, he heard himself say, “I did not set that fire in the library.”

  “Oh?” She still sounded amused, breathless and giddy. “Then who was it?”

  “Makes no difference. What matters is that you know it wasn’t me.”

  She pushed herself up on one elbow, smiling down at him. Her eyes were a green not found elsewhere on the earth, luminous and pale, more vibrant than spring leaves. “And why should that matter to me?”

  He stared up at her, gripped by some premonition that felt sweet and powerful and altogether new.

  “Because you have no truck with book burners,” he said. “So you should know beforehand: you have no cause to turn away.”

  A line appeared between her russet brows. But her mouth was still smiling. “Turn away from what?”

  “From me,” he said, “when I kiss you.”

  “Kiss me!” She drew back, wide-eyed. “And when will you try that?”

  “I’m still deciding.”

  The smile kept toying with her lips, slipping and changing shape, as though she was torn between amusement and disapproval. “Is it customary,” she said, “for Englishmen to announce their kisses beforehand?”

  “Only when at the edge of a cliff, with a lady strong enough to give a good shove.”

  The laughter escaped her in a bright, happy cascade. There was the sign. He moved more quickly than he ever had on any playing field—sitting up, slipping his hand through the heavy silk of her hair, and pulling her mouth to his.

  Her lips were soft, full, a glorious shock.

  She sighed into his mouth, and did not pull away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  London, 1861

  The club cultivated the atmosphere of a tomb, hushed and stagnant. In this refined atmosphere, lent force by thick-pile Persian carpets and tasseled curtains that blocked out the sun, even whispers carried. His cousin’s shout, then, drew outright stares.

  “Here you are!” Stephen drew up by his table, broadcasting what was no doubt intended to be a thoroughly intimidating glare.

  Liam bent the newspaper to peruse the headline—which was the cause, no doubt, of Stephen’s foul temper—before sitting back and giving the man his full attention.

  “Where else should I be?” he asked.

  Stephen narrowed bloodshot blue eyes. “Indeed. Your seat in the Lords must be buried in dust by now. You leave it to your friends to carry out the real work in Parliament.”

  Liam allowed himself a brief smile—far too brief to fully convey his enjoyment of his cousin’s trembling, red-faced fury.

  Stephen had done a fine job in the first few months of pretending joy in Liam’s return. Then had come whey-faced stolidness. Now, having seen his empire begin to crumble, the man was verging on full-blown rage—which was exactly what Liam wanted.

  Come at me, he willed his cousin. Come out from hiding, you cowardly bastard, and show me the knife in your hand.

  “Parliament,” he said, then aped a shudder. “Hot and tedious business, to be sure! I did think to take my seat again, but those benches give such a backache, don’t you find? Oh, forgive me”—this added with a wince—“I expect you haven’t had cause to sit on them. One day, coz—one day, you’ll manage to win an election!”

  Had he been standing, he would have added a manly slap of camaraderie. Instead, he slumped deeper into his wing chair and waved a hand toward the seat opposite—an invitation that Stephen pointedly ignored.

  “Forgive me,” Stephen said icily. “I suppose you know nothing of the bill that just passed—is that what you mean to say?”

  That bill promised to make Stephen’s life as a railway baron considerably harder. Until now, Parliament had adjudicated all matters of compulsory purchase for lands needed for new railroad routes. The new law dispersed that authority among more local forms of government, while also granting landowners the right to challenge any sale or leasing agreement, should information emerge that proved a railway company had undervalued the l
and.

  Liam had already reached out to several landowners who had done business with Stephen’s railways. In all those cases, Liam’s own richer offer on the land would serve as proof that Stephen’s company had undervalued it.

  “Goodness,” he murmured. “Is it really politics that has you so unkempt?”

  “It will not fly,” Stephen growled. “The Commons would never have passed that bill without assurance that the Lords would put an end to it. Auburn thinks he has routed me—but he will learn otherwise. The Commons will not tolerate the suppression of—”

  “A radical!” Liam lifted his finger to a passing server. “Two brandies,” he told the boy. “My cousin and I will toast the coming revolution.”

  “You mock me,” Stephen bit out. “But I warn you, I know what you’re about.”

  “Pardon?” Despite himself, Liam could not resist uncoiling from his seat. Was the moment on them at last? Was the rat coming out of his hidey-hole? “What on earth do you mean?”

  Stephen stared, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “ ‘Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake,’ ” he muttered. “ ‘For theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’ ”

  Liam frowned. “Are you persecuted? Only name the villain, Stephen, and I will show him what comes of troubling an innocent man.”

  Stephen drew a hissing breath, then looked away, visibly struggling for composure. His assurance had always relied on his fortune—he’d inherited a great deal, and worked hard through conspiracy, corruption, and glad-handing to increase it. But what of it? Corruption was the way of the world. His wife’s charity bazaars, his endowment of an orphanage here and there, his public professions of virtue, had distracted the world from his private practice.

  Recently, though, he’d no doubt noticed a sea change. His friends were deserting him. His companies were facing a great challenge, dozens of local bureaucracies to placate. And starting tomorrow, his creditors—for he’d borrowed heavily for his newest railway—would come knocking at his door, their faith shaken by this development . . . and by Liam’s murmured concerns, in their earshot, about his cousin’s faltering fortunes.

  The turmoil was beginning to tell. Stephen’s handsome thick hair was somewhat disarrayed, and his Savile Row suit, while still the height of fashion, no longer fit him as exquisitely as it had when he’d been measured for it. Anxiety whittled a man away, and Stephen’s shoulders were shrinking.

  He still looked healthy enough, though. He still looked as though he could never imagine himself falling onto his knees to beg.

  “You know,” he told Liam stonily, “what you have done.”

  “Goodness—you mean to say I am working against you? But whyever should I do that? You know how little I care for politics these days. And how much I value family! Why—we were raised as brothers, you and I!”

  So close . . . He all but saw the haze that settled over Stephen’s vision. But at the last moment, his cousin remembered wisdom: to accuse Liam of menacing him, he must understand the cause for their enmity. And that he could not admit to knowing.

  “That bill will not stand.” Spittle beaded at the corners of Stephen’s lips. “There is a precedent, and it will not be undone.”

  “If I were in the railway business, I should be much relieved to know so,” Liam said. “Ah, here comes our brandy—won’t you join me?”

  Stephen turned on his heel and stalked out, his vigorous exit collecting marveling looks from others in the reading room.

  Liam watched him go. That spot between Stephen’s shoulder blades—that was where he would stick the knife. Stephen already felt the tip of it. But he did not yet know the pain of being gutted.

  When the server arrived with the tray, Liam said, “Carry that to the Waterloo Room. I believe my guests should be arriving shortly.”

  • • •

  “The passing of that bill makes him toxic.” Crispin Burke spoke with amusement as he reached across the table for the sugar bowl. “If he catches fire on the steps of the Exchange, not a man will waste water to throw at him.” He dropped a cube of sugar into his brandy glass.

  “Bravo,” Liam murmured from his position by the wall. He had booked this private room for its thick walls, locking doors, and the full bar in the corner, which spared them the need for servers who might eavesdrop.

  But the absence of assistance had clearly left Burke deranged. In addition to sugar, he was now adding milk. “That’s a profanation,” Liam said. “Jules? Do you see this?”

  Julian, seated opposite Burke, was shaking his head, horror apparent on his tanned, chiseled features. “Word of that gets out, you’ll never be PM.”

  “What, this?” Burke leaned back in his chair, lifting his drink to dramatically relish the fumes. The public knew him as a ruthless and mercenary politician, whose aggressive championship of the railway bill had proved instrumental in its passage. In private, however, Burke showed a different face—genial, relaxed, ever ready to laugh at himself. “It’s brandy milk punch,” he said. “Perfectly respectable drink.”

  “For grandmothers with toothaches,” Liam agreed. “And wretches who fermented their brandy in a bucket.”

  Burke reached for another lump of sugar, no doubt to provoke them. But Julian snatched away the bowl. “Have some respect, man. That batch was bottled for Napoleon.”

  Burke laughed. “Then I’ll make my toast to Wellington, shall I?”

  “And to politics,” Liam said as he raised his glass.

  The other men followed suit. Mention of Wellington felt fitting, for they had gathered today to celebrate the first victory in their own campaign: the public destruction of Stephen Devaliant.

  “I had word that the creditors are already calling on Devaliant,” Julian said. The Duke of Auburn, one of society’s leading lights, he had taken up where Burke left off, seeing the bill through the Lords with a few well-placed murmurs. That was Jules’s way: he wielded his power with subtlety and charm.

  Burke, on the other hand, had rammed the bill through the Commons with a fiery speech that had received four inches of space in the newspapers. “A dirty game,” he said now, his smile spreading, “but never a boring one.”

  “And here I’ve been telling everyone that you’ve turned a new leaf,” Julian remarked.

  “Oh, I have done. But my wife allowed me a brief relapse: when it comes to drowning pigs, she said, one must naturally dabble in mud.”

  “And no pig has ever drowned more artfully. That line in your speech about caterwauling . . . !”

  The two men fell into an amused exchange about the debates they had steered. Liam, watching, felt himself suddenly at a remove—as though a transparent wall of glass had risen between him and the other men.

  He leaned hard against the wall, taking a deeper drink of the liquor. These fits came and went. They settled over him without warning, like a cold and numbing fog, and when he was alone, he would smash his fist into a wall in order to feel, but he could not do that in company. He forced himself to listen to the joking conversation, but it was difficult to grasp the humor, to turn his mouth into a smile at the appropriate moments. His heart was pounding. Why? It bore no relation to his emotions, which felt curiously inaccessible—as though, like a candle, he himself had snuffed out.

  Once, this place of remove had been his greatest refuge. Alone in the hole, as night had passed into day, as the heat grew deadly and his stomach rebelled on bile, Liam had found this place and clung to it, desperate never to leave.

  But then he had escaped. Why, then, had this place followed him? Why did it swallow him without warning, even in the company he liked best? These men were rare friends, who had gone out of their way to assist his efforts with Stephen. Burke had been the one to discover the plot behind Liam’s abduction; he was sharp, sly witted, an invaluable coconspirator. Jules had been Liam’s friend since boyhood. Surely, of all times and places, here he should most feel himself.

  Silence had fallen. With a start, Liam real
ized his reply was wanted. “Indeed,” he said, and bolted the contents of his glass before refilling it. He drank that down, too, then poured out two fingers more.

  As he carried the glass to the table, he caught frowns on the other men’s faces. He drank a great deal these days, but no surprise that they hadn’t realized so until now. Liquor no longer seemed to affect him. It took stronger toxins to wrestle down his unruly brain.

  “You look very alike when you scowl,” he told them.

  This remark was received with polite but unpersuaded smiles. Both men were tall, dark haired, and celebrated for their looks. Julian’s skin held a golden cast, against which his green eyes looked startling. Burke, in turn, was black eyed as the devil, which seemed fitting. His wife might have reformed him, but most of England had yet to believe it.

  “What’s soured your mood?” Julian asked. “I saw Devaliant leaving as I came in—did you have words with him?”

  “I did.” The memory acted like a tonic, pulling him back into the moment and allowing him to smile with genuine pleasure. “Very cross words. But he caught himself before he lost his temper, more’s the pity.”

  “Baiting makes a dangerous game,” Burke murmured. “Push him too far, and he’ll come after you.”

  Liam shrugged. “What else is the point, Burke? Do you imagine I want a trial for him?”

  Burke cast an uneasy look toward Julian. “I thought you wanted justice—for your men, as well as yourself. We still don’t know how he met Marlowe. If he came after you now—”

  “Then I would put a bullet in his brain,” Liam said. “But yes, it would not help us to discover the rest.”

  For Stephen had arranged for Liam’s abduction by using the services of Harold Marlowe, a mad inventor who had owned and operated the prison camp from his home here in England. Marlowe had accepted bribes from rich men to dispatch their enemies abroad. But how had he known Stephen? In eight months, neither Liam nor his friends had uncovered a connection between the two men.