Someday, she vowed, he would pay for this night. And dearly.
But grudges would have to wait. There were other dangerous predators still on the prowl.
From somewhere deep beneath his feet came a shuddering crack, then a gurgle that sounded like demonic laughter.
Kirtland’s head snapped up. Was it only his imagination, or was the clammy air growing even damper? He had not long to wonder, for in a matter of minutes the guttering candle stub revealed a chilling sight.
The underground cistern was suddenly rising, and fast. The recent rains had been heavy, and one of the ancient sluice gates must have given way. Water was now licking at his boots. Uttering a low oath, he glanced at the spiral stairs, shadowed in gloom. Shouting, however, would only be a waste of breath.
Buried deep within the bedrock of stone and mortar, the chamber would not allow a sound to escape. Silent as a grave. He would have to pray that the Russian, for all his faults, was a man of his word.
His own pitiful efforts were proving mockingly useless. He twisted again at the chains, but the metal, though pitted with age, held fast in the stone. His wrists were raw, bleeding.
The water, cold and dirty, was now to his thighs. With a faint sputter, the wick gave up the last of its light, leaving him shrouded in darkness. It was, he thought, an irony that his life was to be snuffed out now, just when a spark had been lit within. His regrets were not for the past, only the future.
But at present, one mistake overshadowed all the others. He wished he had told Siena that he loved her. He wished he had said the sentiment aloud, no matter how strange it felt on his tongue. Lud, he was fluent in so many languages, ancient and modern, and yet the one word—a single syllable—had proved so diabolically difficult to master.
Love.
He found it was not so very hard after all.
“Love,” he whispered, and somehow its echo rose above the roiling waters. “Amore.” It sounded even lovelier in Italian.
Damn. He wished he had shouted it from the battlements, signaling an end to the siege of loneliness and bitterness that had kept him in hiding within himself.
Too little. Too late. But there was still a ray of hope for Siena. Perhaps Orlov could help her escape to Italy, and she would have a chance to see her namesake city. To experience its magical Tuscan light, its monumental beauty, its glorious art. He smiled, but the idea of her experiencing it with another was cold comfort indeed.
Siena hesitated on the landing. Orders were orders. Lynsley had made it clear that the document was all that mattered, whatever the cost. Her head called for a retreat. Yet her heart rebelled against leaving a comrade on the field of battle.
And heart was everything.
She had been true to her code, her country. She drew a steadying breath. For that to have any real meaning, she must also be true to herself. Lynsley, she hoped, would understand.
Wrenching open the door to a side stairwell, she raced down two flights and cut across the central entrance hall, taking care not to rouse the sleeping porter. She had just reached the corridor connecting the Tower with the East Wing when a piercing cry shattered the stillness of night.
“They are gone!”
Flattening herself against the wall, she saw the butler, his shirttails hanging loose from half-buttoned trousers, come rushing down the main stairs, brandishing a cudgel.
In his wake stumbled a half dozen footmen, some still in their nightshirts. “Spread out,” he bellowed. “Search the woods. Find them!”
Siena did not pause to puzzle out how or why the hue and cry had been raised so quickly for the two men. Leveritt and Jadwin were no longer of primary concern. In the commotion, she slipped through the side portico and up the East Wing stairs, taking the treads two at a time. It was the enigmatic Russian whose motives stirred a sense of dread. No doubt there was a rationale behind all his actions. She should be able to figure it out. But the pumping of her heart drowned out all logical thought.
Let Kirtland be alive, she prayed, her cheeks suddenly wet with tears.
Knocking aside a potted palm, she vaulted over the banister and charged down the side corridor. A marble faun teetered as she pushed through the Greek antiquities.
Ignoring the thud, she ducked under the snaking tendrils of a stone Medusa and darted into the alcove. Pausing only long enough to secrete Lynsley’s dispatch beneath the marble Athena, Siena kicked at the door, but the lock, thick with rust, was stuck in place.
Improvise, Volpina! It was one of Da Rimini’s favorite refrains. A look over her shoulder showed a row of classical deities. Uttering a silent prayer, she hoisted a bust of Mars and ran back at full tilt, ramming it headfirst into the paneled oak.
A last tug freed the bolt from the shattered molding, and she slipped through the crack. It was pitch-black, and the stairs were slippery with mold, slowing her pace to a maddening crawl. Shivering, she struggled to strike a flint to the candle she had grabbed from one of the wall sconces. The sound of roiling water rose up from the circular stone well, like the rumblings of some malevolent serpent. Dizzy with fear, she cried out his name.
“Kirtland!”
No answer, save for the deathly pounding in her ears.
“JULIAN!”
“HISSSSSSSSS.” Was the faint echo naught but a mocking taunt?
Light flared as the wick caught a spark, and with it a ray of hope that she was not too late. “Hold on! I’m coming.”
Water, black as ink, lapped over the last step. The weak pool of light showed swirling currents … a hand half-submerged … then another. And between them an up turned brow, pale as death.
Wedging the candle between the stones, Siena plunged in. The cold hit her like a fist, driving the air from her lungs. Gasping in shock, she drew on her yoga training to regain control of her breath. Mind over matter.
Ignoring the pain, she fought her way through the eddying vortex. The swirling waters were disorienting, but she kept her focus on the far wall. Finally, her numbed hands framed the earl’s face and lifted it above the brackish current.
“N—now who is riding to the rescue,” said Kirtland through chattering teeth. His lips barely moved; his flesh felt like ice beneath her touch. “T—too dangerous. Leave me, before the cold saps your strength. Your duty is to—”
“Damn duty!” One hand holding him up, Siena struck frantically at the chain bolts with her knife, but the stone was unyielding to her steel.
“The key,” he managed to whisper. “Hanging there.”
The light was dying fast, and in the dance of deathly shadows, she nearly missed its jagged outlines. “Hold your breath,” she shouted in his ear. “Don’t you dare give up the ghost now, my love, or I swear, I shall follow you to hell and duel with the devil to get you back.”
She didn’t dare wait a fraction longer. Clawing her way along the stones, Siena snatched the ring just as the water swallowed the spike.
Fingers fumbling, freezing, she jabbed blindly at the manacle lock. Your thrusts must be strong and steady, Volpina. She had fought fear and fatigue before, she reminded herself. Keep a steel wrist, an iron will.
The first cuff surrendered with a dull click. Siena nearly sobbed at the sweet sound. “One more moment,” she cried, attacking the next one with renewed fury. The earl had not responded. His head, now slumped against her shoulder, was like a deadweight…
No, she would not think of defeat. Not now. Pain shot through her hands as her skin scraped stone and metal.
“Twice or thrice had I loved thee, Before I knew thy face or name,” she gasped, repeating a bit of the poetry he had recited to her. Her strength was ebbing.
“I bid Love ask, and now. That it assume thy body…” His breath, a mere zephyr, stirred a faint warmth.
Resolve. Redemption. She found the opening and drove the key home.
The shackles fell away.
“Kick!” she urged, striking out in what she hoped was the right direction. It was now pitch-black, and the w
hirling, slurping crosscurrents had grown even more disorienting.
“Kick!” She could not hope to keep them both above water for much longer. By some miracle, her feet found the submerged stairs, and she summoned a last burst of energy to drag Kirtland up the first bend and out of immediate danger.
“Julian!” Brushing back the tangle of wet strands, Siena pressed her lips to his brow. “Damn it, don’t leave me.” She kissed the drops from his lashes, the hollow of his cheek, the dark stubbling of his jaw. “I fear I could not bear it, my love.”
The endearments gained added force as her fist pushed down hard between his ribs. A weak sputter, but it was enough. “Julian.”
“Lud, I’ve come close enough to drowning without having yet more water splashed on my face.” His mouth curved beneath hers, his smile tasting of her salt.
“I seem to have turned into a watering pot. Just like some silly, simpering schoolgirl.”
“Are you really crying?”
“Yes.” Embarrassed, she tried to pull away. “No.”
Kirtland caught her hand and kept it hard on his heart. His sodden shirt was like ice entwined in her fingers, but the thud of his flesh pulsed with heat. “Was I delirious, or did you say ‘love’ just now?”
Why deny it? “Yes. God help me, I have tried to fight it, but I do love you, Julian. More than I can say.” Siena was trembling, and not from the chill air. The truth was, after tonight, they would go their own separate ways. He was a lord, and she was most definitely not a lady. She had no
illusions about what that meant. “Not that it matters.”
He whispered something, too softly for her to hear.
“Come, we must get you into dry clothes and in front of a. fire,” she urged. “Exposure can kill as surely as a sword thrust.”
“You, too, are shivering, so I will wait a bit longer before stripping my soul bare, my valiant Valkyrie. I wish to see your lovely face and luminous smile when I speak of… of feelings I have kept hidden away for too long.”
The door was slightly ajar. Shannon eased through the crack and quickly crossed to the shadow of the large pianoforte. The Music Room.
Slowly, silently, she crept forward. A gilded harp, spectral in the scudding starlight, cast a delicate weaving of dark lines across the carpet.
But not dark enough to obscure the figure crouched by the open terrace doors. Her hand shot to her boot and withdrew the hidden stiletto. Stealing another step closer, she angled its edge a touch higher—
The clouds shifted, and for a fleeting moment the figure’s face was shown in clearer relief.
Their eyes met.
“Sir!” A strangled whisper slipped from her lips. “W—what are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you.” Wiping the blood from his fingers, Lynsley stood up. “Your handiwork?”
“No, sir.” Shannon looked away from the two bodies lying by the threshold. Leveritt, whose throat had been cut, was sprawled beneath his fellow club member. Jadwin, too, was dead, a knife sunk to its hilt in his heart. “Nor that of Siena,” she hastened to add. “Indeed, I am quite certain it was the work of another guest, a fair-haired gentleman with a trace of a foreign accent.”
“Hmmm.” The marquess carefully folded his ruined handkerchief and tucked it in his pocket. “Where is he now?”
“Gone, sir. I’m afraid I let him get away.”
A silence, save for the faraway shouts from the gardens. “Which leaves just you here for me to deal with.”
Her chin rose. “Yes. And I’m fully prepared to take the consequences for my actions.”
“You disobeyed an order.”
“Actually, I did not. No one specifically said I was not to help my comrade.”
“That’s rather splitting hairs.”
“Yes, sir. But given that Siena’s head was in danger, I thought it the lesser of two evils.” She rubbed at her wrist.
It ached abominably, as did the idea of being drummed out of the Academy. Even so, she could not regret her actions. “If you wish to court-martial me, I understand.”
“Discipline is the cornerstone of our organization, Shannon. Without it, we cannot hope to succeed in our missions.”
“So is loyalty, sir,” she said softly. “And the ability to make difficult decisions in the blink of an eye.”
A knock sounded on the door.
He sighed. “We shall have to continue this discussion later. My carriage is down by the gatekeeper’s cottage. Wait for me there. And do have a care not to be seen. I have enough to smooth over with the local authorities without having to explain a fully armed female Fury prowling the grounds.”
“Yes, sir.” She hesitated just a fraction. “Just so you know, Siena succeeded in her mission—she has whatever it was you sent her to find.”
Lynsley gave a tiny nod. He waited until she had vaulted the terrace railing before admitting the magistrates, two neighboring squires who had been roused from their beds by his messenger.
“Dirty business,” muttered one of the gentlemen, quickly averting his eyes from the pooling blood.
His associate, one hand holding back a retch, could only nod.
“Any idea what happened, milord?”
“I did not arrive soon enough to witness what actually transpired, but it appears that the two gentlemen quarreled, and it took a violent turn,” answered Lynsley. “From the angle of the bodies, I would guess that during the straggle for the knife, a wild slash to the neck felled the unfortunate Lord Leveritt…” An earlier rearranging of the original positions now supported the surmise. “And though in his death throes, he managed to knock down the fleeing Lord Jadwin, who must have stumbled and fallen on his own weapon.”
If either of the two magistrates bothered to look closely, he would see a number of details that contradicted such a scenario. There had been
little time to create a more elaborate cover-up of the murders and eliminate the telltale signs of a third party. Lynsley could only hope that his own government position would distract the other men from too careful a scrutiny.
His strategy seemed to pay off, for the next cornment was a brusque cough. “So it seems to me as well, milord.”
“Aye. Tempers can flare when gentlemen are in their cups,” added the whey-faced squire. He eyed the bottles of brandy that the marquess had added to the room. “A dirty business, indeed.”
“And likely to become even messier, given the identities of the deceased.” Lynsley pursed his lips. “That is, unless we move to handle the matter quickly and discreetly.”
The two men exchanged baleful looks. “God preserve the duke and our district from scandal.”
“I cannot offer divine intervention, but if you like, I may be able to offer some assistance in keeping this matter quiet. My position at the ministry has given me some experience in dealing with unpleasant matters.”
“Harrumph.” After a few moments of huddled conference, the magistrates accepted the offer without further question.
“Then you may leave all the details to me.” In fact, Lynsley already had Oban making arrangements for the removal of the bodies to London. By first light, he planned to have all traces of the crime, along with any potentially embarrassing evidence from the rooms of Leveritt and Jadwin, removed from Marquand Castle. “As there are no eyewitnesses, I’m sure that a written statement from the duke’s secretary should suffice for your records. I’ll see that it is transcribed and sent to you by the morrow.”
“How fortunate for us, milord, that you happened to be in the neighborhood.”
“Yes, fortunate indeed,” replied Lynsley blandly. “After dining with friends at the Blue Boar Inn, I felt the need to ride out and clear my head. As luck would have it, I chanced to hear shouting from the woods and came to investigate.”
“Luck,” repeated the whey-faced squire. “What a night!” He pressed a handkerchief to his lips. “Er, is there any reason for us to remain here? It seems we also have a theft to deal wit
h. Someone has made off with a pair of the duke’s precious books.”
“None at all.”
Nodding gratefully, both magistrates were quick to retreat and leave the marquess to the gruesome task of tidying up.
The worst was over, mused Lynsley as he sidestepped a darkening pool of blood and took a seat upon the window ledge. Judging from Shannon’s report, the mission had, against all the odds, been accomplished. There were just a few loose ends to tie up.
“I, assume you are waiting for this, sir.” Looking more like a waif than a warrior with an old holland cover draped around her shoulders, Siena handed over the document.
On discovering the house in an uproar when they emerged from the cellars, she had refused all suggestions of blankets and brandy, demanding instead to report immediately to the marquess, whose presence had been mentioned by the agitated butler.
Lynsley took a cursory look beneath the wax wafer, then tucked it into his coat.
“Well done,” he murmured.
“Is that all you have to say?” growled the earl.
Siena, bruised and bleeding from the cheek, managed only a lopsided grimace. “Julian—”
Kirtland shook her restraining hand from his sleeve. “Nothing more? No bon mot, no pithy pearls of wisdom?”
The marquess’s show of placid patience was far more provoking than any retort.
“Then allow me to express my sentiments.” The punch, a right cross to the jaw, knocked Lynsley to the floor. “That is for sending Siena alone into a nest of vipers, knowing full well the dangers.” He rubbed at his bruised knuckles. “The next one will be for questioning her loyalty. And mine.”
“I can’t say I blame you for being upset.” Lynsley still wore a look of unruffled calm. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but I do what I must. Some things are worth fighting for.”
Slanting a look at Siena, the earl could not help but agree.
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