There! She'd done it. Her palms grew clammy as she fisted them in her lap. The deed was done. She felt both exhilarated and fearful. Never before had she spoken back.
Lord Stranton set his coffee cup down very carefully and placed both hands upon the table. He smiled at his wife from across the endlessly long table. But Jillian knew that smile; the Earl of Stranton never raised his voice. He only gave a chilling smile that struck terror into her bones.
Jillian's frantic gaze whipped to her mother, who blanched. Oh, dear God, no, please...
"Sylvia, you've been neglecting that rose garden you claim to love so much, as you've neglected controlling our child in my absence. The bushes are quite overgrown and thorny. Disciplined pruning is necessary for growing anything, be it a garden or a willful child. Isn't it, my dear?"
"Please, Reginald." Her mother's voice quavered.
Lord Stranton beckoned to the attending footman. "James, fetch the pruning shears. Take all the downstairs staff with you to the garden. I want every single rosebush cut down. Immediately. To the roots."
She could not allow her mother to take her punishment. Ignoring her racing pulse, Jillian forced herself to speak. "Father, please—it's my fault. I should have told you. Don't blame Mother. She had nothing to do with it."
The earl focused his attention on the footman. "Immediately, James. Cut them all down. And burn them."
"Yes, my lord," the footman responded.
A lump rose in Jillian's throat as she watched the servant march out of the breakfast room. Her mother lowered her gaze to the table, but not before Jillian saw a faint glimmer of tears. Yet Lady Stranton would not allow her husband to see them.
Familiar bleakness filled Jillian. She concentrated on eating, but could not push back her anger and fear. Darkness pressed behind her eyelids. The old nightmare bobbed to the surface. A door quietly closing, a key turning in a lock, a low cry of pain...
Jillian bit her lip, willing away the darkness. She must keep that door closed forever. She didn't want to know what secrets lay behind it.
"Now, Jillian, your schedule. I'm freeing you from your usual visits this afternoon. I want you primped and polished for the Huntley's ball tonight. And for Mr. Augustine." Her father regarded her mildly over the rim of his coffee cup, but there was no mistaking the iron will in that tone. This was an order, stated as precisely as by a military commander.
"Yes, Father, I will be at the Huntley's ball tonight."
"Good. Mr. Augustine has formally asked for your hand, and I have accepted. I told him I will announce your betrothal tonight."
Jillian's mouth went dry. Something inside her cried out. Tell him you cannot marry Bernard! Say no, just for once! The linen napkin crumpled in her sweaty palms. She moved her lips, then heard herself saying in a small voice:
"Yes, Father."
Revulsion clutched her stomach. She stared at her egg, the cracked shell. She was not a silent fire roaring inside. She was an egg, whose fragile outer shell hid even greater softness. So weak. Oh, so very weak.
This is why I have to leave.
It was too late for her mother. Jillian glanced at the silent countess, aching at the purple shadows beneath the woman's large blue eyes, the hollows in her cheeks. Jillian could not bear to leave her, yet Aunt Mary promised she would be watched over. Her father's sister, who'd encouraged Jillian to seek out Madame LaFontant to earn the money she needed to flee. They had worked out the arrangements together, waiting for the time when the earl would be gone from his house on one of the excursions he took to settle matters at his estate in Derbyshire.
"She owns one of the most elegant brothels in London. You'll be well-treated, Jillian," Mary had assured her.
Now, one more ball, and then she'd leave.
But until then she must be scrupulously careful not to arouse her father's suspicions. Act as normal as possible, be the obedient, mindless daughter he knew.
Soon, she promised herself, clutching her napkin in her lap, twisting and turning the linen. Soon she would be free.
When breakfast was over, Jillian politely excused herself and fled into the quiet sanctuary of the library. Closing the door, she leaned against it with a trembling sigh, inhaling deeply the scent of leather-bound learning.
Here was peace. Here was knowledge. Her haven.
She settled into an overstuffed wing chair with a volume of Alfred Marshall's Principles of Economics. Her fingers lovingly stroked the heavy tome. Yet for once, the words failed to hold her attention. Instead, she kept seeing the man from last night. Graham.
A burning soreness existed between her legs, and thoughts filled her head. Passion unleashed in a stranger's arms, her keening cry filling the air as he brought her to mindless pleasure. One night with a handsome man who'd paid dearly for what her husband would have had for free. Graham's face, taut with desire, swam before her. His tender care. His hard body nesting into hers.
His angry face when he'd discovered her trick. Jillian's insides clenched. Who was he? A nobleman with a taste for innocence? Whatever he was, his handling of her had been gentle, tender, with none of the harshness or dismissal she'd expected.
She thought of his seed inside her, of a secret, tiny bud begun in a moist garden. But her monthly courses had just ended and she had taken the herb mixture Madame assured her prevented conception. She had not taken any chances.
Soon, she promised herself. Very soon she would be free and in America.
* * *
"You can't kill him, Graham."
Kenneth would not give up. All day he had hounded Graham, chasing him down, trying to coax him into talking about the subject Graham was determined not to discuss. Oh, how he regretted having let those words slip!
His brother leaned against the closed door, worry crinkling his brow as they stood in Graham's expansive dressing room. Graham studied his reflection in the gilded mirror. The evening wear hung in crisp lines on his frame. He looked English, but inside he was still Egyptian—a warrior trained to exact swift, certain revenge.
Thick silence hung in the air between them. Graham ran a finger along his tight cravat. All these years remaining hidden, a panther lurking in disguise, fearing to show his true identity. That panther was ready now to strike.
The valet returned, silently gathering up discarded clothing. Kenneth switched to speaking Arabic, a language both brothers knew and none of the servants did.
"You can't do it, Graham. You're not a warrior anymore. You can't just brandish your scimitar, demanding justice."
A humorless smile touched Graham's lips. "Yes, a pistol would be more efficient." He considered. "Though not as painful."
"You can't kill him. As much as that damn bastard deserves it." Kenneth's voice remained mild, but two lines channeled his brow. He looked very troubled.
"Perhaps not. Castration is much more appropriate. Are there any redheaded eunuchs?" But the little joke did not cause his brother to smile.
"Hire someone," he blurted out. "Have the bastard beaten senseless or even killed on a street corner, but don't do it your—"
"No. This is personal. I must do it myself."
"Then what, Graham? Damn it, I don't like the idea of this jackal walking the streets free and untroubled any more than you. But this is England, not Egypt. There are laws." His brother was nearly shouting.
"There are laws in the desert as well," Graham quietly reminded him. "The punishments a bit more primitive, one might say, but quite effective."
"If you're caught, you'll be imprisoned and hanged." Kenneth's lean, handsome face twisted with grief. "All those years thinking you were dead, Graham. All those damn wasted years. I won't lose you again, not like this. You're family, and I love you as much as I love my own wife and child."
His brother freely admitted now how much he cared. He didn't deserve such affection. His soul was as dark as the interior of a cold Egyptian tomb. He had ruthlessly killed before, and he would kill again. Any woman who dared to grow close
would cringe in disgust if she knew who he was inside. Yet Kenneth and Badra, and Jasmine, they all kept trying to coax him into their little happy place of life and love. Graham resisted, allowing them only to crack open the door so he could see inside.
It was for the best. Because when English society knew Graham's secret, only Kenneth's wealth and position would enable him and his family to hold their heads high. In this society, money mattered more than honor, Graham thought cynically.
Worry gnawed at him. The family finances had been so shaky as of late. Losses in the Baltimore & Ohio truly had been staggering. Agricultural prices were down and the harvest had been poor. Yet, Kenneth seemed optimistic they would recover. They must, if Graham's plan were to succeed. They must for his brother's sake.
Though not born to his deep sense of Bedouin honor, it flowed in his veins. He wanted to protect his family from scandal. Yet his only chance for redemption was eliminating the beast. Al-Hamra would die, shamed before his peers, his vile behavior revealed. Even though exposing him before the beau monde would mean exposing Graham's own shame.
That shame would die with him on the hangman's gallows. While he did not covet death, he welcomed an end to the pain.
Graham studied the worried blue eyes meeting his in the gilded mirror. He swallowed past a thick lump clogging his throat. Kenneth had Badra and Jasmine. They could not understand the blackness inside him.
He forced a smile and spoke in English. "Don't fret. There promises to be quite a crush at Huntley's. If he is there, I'll probably not see him."
But as the valet moved to adjust his cuffs, he caught his brother's expression in the mirror. They both knew it was only a matter of time.
Graham waited until both the valet and his brother departed; then he glided to the far wall of his bedchamber. Depressing a notch in the pine paneling, he sprang the mechanism that revealed the hidden compartment. The old house was filled with such secrets.
A large cedar wood casket sat in the wall niche. Graham fished a key from the tallboy drawer and opened the box. Riches lay inside: half of a papyrus map that led to buried treasure but was useless without its missing mate, a yellowed photograph of his parents, stacks of pound notes. Graham had resolved never again to be caught without money. Glancing at the photo with familiar grief, he caressed it. His mother's serene brown eyes stared back at him.
Such a lovely child, your Graham, her friends had said. He looks like you, dear Miranda. So pretty.
Such a pretty boy, the low, evil whisper taunted.
Graham's stomach clenched. The papyrus map led to a gold statue and a priceless emerald buried deep in the Egyptian desert. Al-Hamra had the missing half.
Graham pushed aside his anger and regrets and dug to the box's bottom. He unwrapped a palm-sized oblong object from its shroud of indigo, set it on the tallboy then replaced the casket and closed the wall panel. Then he picked up the leather-sheathed object and studied it.
Unlike the jambiya he'd carried in Egypt, this knife had been custom-made. It was small and thin enough to hide inside a man's cuff. And to slip down into his palm.
He pocketed the dagger and walked out of the dressing room, then stalked down the hallway to attend the Huntley's ball.
Chapter Three
A gray ghost stared back at her in the looking glass as Jillian regarded herself draped in dull gray silk. Tiny beads of perspiration dotted her forehead. She tried to take a deep breath but was restricted by her whalebone corset.
Her maid finished tugging the fabric into place. Jillian suppressed a grimace. The unfashionable ball gown had a high-necked bodice and rigid lines. Just once she longed to wear emerald green, to show off her bare shoulders and the faint sprinkling of freckles across them. Freckles that had been concealed by the brothel's dim light.
Did Graham like freckles? In a different life would his lips caress each one, blessing the tiny spots with the heated brush of his mouth?
Graham, that handsome nobleman who'd taken her virginity. His voice had held a slight accent she didn't recognize, but his bearing and stature convinced her he held a position of great wealth and importance. How terribly embarrassing if he were there tonight.
How terribly delicious as well.
Jillian smoothed her gown. Ivory lace dripped from the capped sleeves. Her hair, drawn up, was arranged so tightly her head pounded. Lord Stranton insisted on severe hairstyles to overcome the handicap of red hair. She rebelliously tugged free a few strands.
At Radcliffe, she wouldn't wear a corset, she decided.
In the carriage, she sat across from her father and next to her chaperone, Aunt Mary. Her mother had remained in her room all day, begging off with a headache. Jillian eagerly turned to her aunt, the only person who ever listened to her.
"I read that Mr. Dow has published his industrial average. He also created a railroad average," she remarked.
Her aunt gave her a questioning look. "Do you think railway stocks are still a worthy investment?"
"I don't think they all will lean toward receivership like the Baltimore & Ohio. I'm more interested in the United States presidential campaign. That will be quite telling."
Her aunt glanced at Jillian's father, who was staring in brooding silence out the carriage window. She lowered her voice. "How so?"
"Mr. Bryan is advocating the silver standard. Mr. McKinley supports the gold standard."
"And whom do you think will win?"
Jillian frowned. "Mr. McKinley. He supports American mercantile and industrial interests, and those remain the real power in America. Besides, ever since the Sherman Silver Purchase Act was repealed, how can anyone seriously consider backing currency with silver?"
"Gold, then, is what Mr. Pepperton should consider?"
"Mr. Pepperton was wise to sell his shares in the silver mines when he did."
"Mr. Pepperton received good advice," Mary murmured.
Jillian hid a smile. The mythical Mr. H. M. Pepperton was a character Mary had created after the death of her American husband. Horace had left her a small inheritance, from which Mary's solicitor allocated her a very modest income. Jillian began fantasizing that Mr. Pepperton had already doubled Mary's money by sinking it into various investments or selling stocks accordingly.
"Mr. Pepperton receives good advice because he listens to his counselor—even if she is a woman," Jillian suggested.
As if he'd finally caught on to their conversation, her father turned to Jillian with a frown. His harsh gaze rested on her. Critical. Judging. Assessing her as if she were artwork at auction.
"How many times must I warn you to stop this prattling, Jillian? Nothing offends a man more than a woman who pretends to be as intelligent as a man. I expect you to be a paragon of respectability tonight. Your betrothal to Mr. Augustine is important to me. I need his help getting my reform bill passed in the House of Commons. I've a chance to advance my political career if it is approved. In return for your hand, he's promised a healthy marriage settlement."
Jillian felt more like a whore than she had last night, sold to replenish her father's dwindling coffers. She felt a palm rest atop her gloved hand and glanced down. Mary gave her hand a quick, comforting squeeze.
The carriage halted abruptly. Jillian disembarked and her kid slippers trod noiselessly upon the red carpet leading to the Huntley's front entrance. She forced a smile as she passed through the portico of the elaborate Mayfair mansion, flanked by her redheaded father in his white tie and tails, and her dark-haired aunt in black bombazine. In the withdrawing room, she removed her outerwear, feeling like a bird stripped of its feather, but her smile remained frozen on her face as they descended the sweeping mahogany staircase into the ballroom, and as the majordomo announced them in booming tones.
Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting soft light upon the dozens of couples swirling around the dance floor. Women's skirts billowed in graceful arcs of silk, satin, lace and taffeta. Like colorful flowers unfurling, Jillian thought dimly.
Her lace fan, its ivory sticks clenched tightly in Jillian's hand, remained folded. Her dance card dangled from her white-gloved wrist. Surrounded by a herd of matrons in severe black bombazine, she was a corralled horse, already bought and purchased. Bernard stood near, chatting with a few others.
One last ball. One last dance, then freedom. The steamer for America left in five days. Five days more and she'd be on its sloping decks.
But as Bernard approached, and Father shook his hand heartily, Jillian had the sinking feeling that wouldn't be soon enough. The businessmen were clearly making a profitable transaction.
Jillian stared in dread at Bernard's florid face and waxed mustache. She imagined him looming over her on their wedding night, his body straining, his breath harsh, his flabby belly rasping hers. She forced her smile back to her lips as he approached.
"Mrs. Huntington." He acknowledged Jillian's aunt with a formal bow.
"Bernard." Mary gave him a cool look, but he ignored it and turned to her.
"Jillian, my dear." He bent over her hand, kissing the glove. She squelched her revulsion. "I've formally asked your father for your hand, and he gave his blessing and told me you will accept. We'll marry in July. Then a honeymoon in Bath. Delightful, eh?" he boomed.
Ah, Father. My opinion counts for naught.
"How delightful indeed," Mary said tonelessly.
Jillian swallowed her distress. "So soon?"
"The sooner the better, eh, my dear? I've no desire to wait." He lowered his voice. "I know how shy and maidenly you are, but you have nothing to fear from me on our wedding night."
He simpered. Bernard, with his lewd gaze, thin lips and waxed mustache... Jillian thought of the passion she'd found in Graham's arms. How reckless she'd been, how daring. And remembering Graham's lips upon hers, the desire she'd felt...
"Of course she has nothing to fear," Mary commented. The barest smile touched her lips. She shot Jillian a sideways look, filling Jillian with courage. Jillian tossed back her shoulders, prepared to tell Bernard she could not marry him. But the words froze on her lips as she saw her father approach.
The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) Page 4