by Nia Farrell
I pushed it across the table to Daniel.
When he had downed his piece and mine, we adjourned to the library. As requested, Daniel took up a lively tune on his fiddle that I would normally enjoy and which would have drawn the servants to listen and dance in the hall. That there were not heel taps was telling. That I cringed from the sound, even more so.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, rubbing my temples and closing my eyes. “I think it’s from the chloroform, but I’ve had a devil of a headache ever since. It eased in the bath. I had hoped it would leave, but it’s gotten worse.”
Edward had me lie on the day bed (the perfect piece of furniture for a library) whilst he and Daniel set about selecting books for our trip. Edward pulled. Daniel stacked. I knew what he was bringing; I could have told him where every title was located, thanks to Edward’s compulsive need for order where his books were concerned. He spared me, though, choosing instead to challenge his own memory. Occasionally he would reacquaint himself with some near-forgotten tome, and issue a soft exclamation of delighted surprise.
By the time he finished, there was a small trunk’s worth of reading material. I added four more to the stack, and Daniel a like number. “With your permission, I’d like to pack my carpet bag now,” I asked Edward. The books were pulled, Daniel’s fiddle was silent, and I needed my bed.
Both men followed me to the third floor, conversing softly whilst I gathered enough materials to keep my hands occupied for two weeks’ time. Surely we would be home for the New Year. If not, then I’d likely be shopping in Bath.
As an afterthought, I added the two little books that I’d gotten in New York, still blank, my grand plans for them having not yet materialized. My vision for them was kaleidoscopic, firmly centered in the concept of a flip book, but what I imagined on the pages was ever changing. It was frustrating, not knowing…not seeing what they needed to be.
Lord, I could not think on it tonight. Hopefully tomorrow, my head would clear and I would feel human again.
Edward had Daniel take my bag and he attended me, offering his arm to steady my steps, preceding me down the stairs in case I should fall. The descent was unremarkable. I stopped by my door and turned to thank them, and found myself facing two men with concern for me etched on their faces. If I but said the word, they would leave me alone in my suffering. One look, though, and I couldn’t do it. Now, more than ever, we needed each other.
“Tonight, we are going to try something different,” Edward rumbled, freeing my corset, leaving me dressed only in my chemise and stockings. Those were gone quickly enough, and I found myself lying atop a layer of toweling while Edward and Daniel shed their coats, rolled up their sleeves, and put oil on their hands. “Massage,” he said. “On you. By the two of us. With luck, it will ease your headache a bit, hmm?”
Edward had me scoot down enough for him to sit behind me, legs akimbo, with a pillow between them for my head. Edward’s magical hands soothed the furrows from my brow, stroked my face, kneaded my neck, then massaged my scalp in a way that nearly made me purr. Daniel started at my feet, which Edward had adored earlier while I bathed, then moved to my ankles. My shins. My calves. My knees. Each part lovingly tended, the sensitive places properly addressed. Sore spots were gently rubbed out. Erotic triggers were avoided. Despite that, my body responded. When Daniel reached my thighs, I bit my lip and shifted restively, feeling his breath on my flesh and wishing for his mouth on me instead.
“What do you need, pet?” Edward spoke softly, his dulcet voice touching me as surely as his talented fingers, buried in my hair.
“Release.” I thrust my pelvis at Daniel. “I need release. It may help my headache. It has before.”
Edward hummed. “My boy, you heard her. I want you to use your tongue, then mouth, then fingers. I want to see those toes curl.”
And curl they did. Daniel made short work of getting me off, teasing my clitoris, fastening his mouth over it, and crooking two fingers inside me. Hot. Fast. He ignited a paroxysm that felt like fireworks on Independence Day. Soaring to new heights and exploding in brilliance, I came, and came again, before fading, satiated, into the state of blissful repletion. Daniel licked me and left me there, rolling to one side and scooting up to lie beside us.
“How’s the head?” he whispered, his golden earring winking in the lamplight.
“Better, I think.” I covered the yawn that underscored my assessment. “Tired. Sorry.”
Edward lifted me up and moved us both, repositioning my pillow and myself before taking his place beside me. He smoothed back my hair and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Sleep,” he ordered. “And dream of Bath.”
I swore that his directive kept my nightmares at bay. Instead of the bloody lane near Sharpsburg or a field hospital overlooking the Rappahannock, I saw women in Regency dress, men in period attire, all of us—including me—taking tea at the Grand Pump Room, where I listened to the music and made a mental list of songs to learn to play.
It was eerily the same when we got there. Save for the change in clothing, I could have sworn that I had presciently dreamed of it. The hotel was as grand as the space for which it was named, and the Roman baths made me feel as if we had stepped far back in time, to the distant past where togas and sandals were the norm, not tall hats and hoop skirts.
Officially, Edward had rented two rooms, one for the two of us as siblings by marriage, the other for Daniel. He was rarely there, of course, except to shave and dress for breakfast or to change from daywear to evening attire. Instead, he was with us, whether it was taking in the sights or the waters, enjoying meals or music, or making love to me and to Edward.
Few things were as beautiful as watching them kiss, eyes heavy-lidded with sensuality, lips locked in carnal lust, nostrils flared, breaths bursting in air that was thick with their mutual desire. Daniel, thank God, had finally surrendered to it, allowing himself to love and be loved, letting the three of us explore nearly every combination imaginable and some beyond my reckoning, thanks to Edward’s practiced guidance.
Not that every revelation in Bath was a welcome one. Eventually we had to speak of what had happened. How it had happened. Edward’s experience, as well as Daniel’s and mine. I went first, mostly to clear any lingering doubts that clung to us like miasma in the sweltering heat of a Virginia summer, except this was December, in Bath, and I had every reason to be grateful this holiday season. I could have been arrested, revealed, and a truly destitute starving artist in America. Instead I was a valued companion, cherished lover, and noteworthy new talent whose work had garnered favorable reviews from most of the National Gallery delegation. Adam Roth was aware of my situation through his connection with Masey, and managed to send word in that regard.
Two telegrams were brought to our room, one for Edward, the other for me. My joy at reading Adam’s message was short-lived, when Edward reminded me that we could not go home. Not yet. Grudgingly, he showed me Mr. Clarke’s telegram, which was succinct.
Stay. Paine in jail but bounty remains. Investigating source. Use due caution.
Chapter Fifty-Five
“I don’t understand, Edward.”
My throat tightened, and I felt the sting of tears that I refused to shed. Looking at poor Daniel, I knew that crying would only degrade the situation. Like me, he seemed to be hanging by a thread that was quickly unraveling. “I mean, he gave all that money to Tamás. Are his pockets so deep, that he can throw good money after bad?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so.” Edward’s brow was furrowed, his voice clipped with frustration. “The day that you were kidnapped, Clarke sent word for me to come to his office. He gave his reports on Roth and on Paine, ending with news of the bounty and the steps being taken—as we spoke—to neutralize the threat. And yet the threat remains. Bloody hell.”
I pressed a hand against the pinch in my stomach. Seeing me, Daniel fetched my medicine and a glass of water, handing me the bottle so that I could dose myself, then the water to rinse the
taste from my mouth.
“Thank you, Paddy.” He set the glass on the small table that we were gathered around in the suite’s sitting area. Only last night, Edward had called for a Lesson Three and ordered me bent over it. I was deliciously sore today and had been in a festive mood, until the outside world had intruded. The news threatened to plunge me into despair.
“Tell me,” I said. “I need to know everything that Clarke told you about Rutherford. But start with Adam, please.” I wanted to get him out of the way so that I could focus my undivided attention on Rutherford.
Edward blew out softly. “Roth is…acceptable. He is Jewish, as you suspected. He is not well off, but he has a reasonable—if not steady—income from private instruction in addition to the artwork that he sells. No bad habits. No mistress. No current lover. Just your sister. He has a small apartment but is currently looking for larger quarters, better suited to their needs, close to Joseph’s school. Until then, my father assures me that they are welcome to live with him once they are wed.”
“All right.” No surprises was good. Adam had passed a closer inspection. “Now, what of Rutherford? Why is he here, in England, when his family is in Richmond?”
“Fate,” Edward said. “Pure luck. He was serving aboard the Alabama when she was sunk.”
I’d heard of the ship, legendary for its string of successful raids, so much so that it was hunted relentlessly and finally tracked down by the captain and crew of the Kearsarge. The two ships engaged off the coast of France in the Battle of Cherbourg, likely the eastern-most fighting of the Late Rebellion. There were a number of songs written about it. Daniel knew one or two.
“Rutherford was among the fortunate ones to escape being taken by the Kearsarge as a prisoner of war. He was plucked from the water by a private British yacht and whisked away to England. He has been here ever since.”
“Doing what? I can’t imagine him working at anything.” But then I couldn’t imagine him sailing aboard a Confederate raider, either.
“The warehouse you were in? The crated merchandise? He is in shipping. Transportation. Freight. On land and sea. He works for his father-in-law.”
Edward paused, letting that last bit sink in. “Yes. He is married. They are expecting their first child. Now his wife sits at home enceinte while her husband sits in jail for his crimes against you.”
“She’s pregnant?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what she’s going through, knowing what Rutherford has done, forced to face an uncertain future without a husband, even one such as he.”
“It gets worse. His mistress is also with child, the second one that he’s spawned on her. There may be more.”
I clenched my jaw so tight, it hurt. “The knave! Thank God, Joseph is not one of them.”
“Yes, we can be thankful for that. And that Adam Roth seems committed to making a go of things with your sister and their son.”
“Yes. Well. He will need to get used to celebrating Christmas in a Catholic family,” I said. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. I’d been so rattled before we left (and nursing a headache was not conducive to lucid thinking), I’d nearly forgotten to pack their presents—those small enough to bring, anyway. The three of us planned to attend Midnight Mass at the Abbey Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, the site of King Edward’s coronation in 973. The ceiling was undergoing restoration, but the space was still magnificent.
Edward crooked a smile. “In time, pet. Meanwhile, Clarke has every man working our case, or so he assured me at Paddington Station.”
He was there when we arrived, and had conversed privately with Edward while we waited. At first, Clarke’s sons and associates had been spreading word of Rutherford’s arrest. Now they were certain to be sleuthing, to see why the bounty remained and who was behind it.
“I should take comfort in that, I know, but until they have answers, I find myself very unsettled. If it keeps up, we may have to send for more medicine.”
Edward looked at me, his turquoise eyes sparking with inspiration, like flint striking steel. “An excellent idea. One less thing to worry about, if you have a spare bottle. In fact, I shall go down and see to it at once. Daniel, my boy, I rely on you to keep Elena here, in this room, and safe. Nothing short of a fire, hmm?”
“Aye.” His ginger head bobbed.
Edward left. Daniel and I sat there, in an awkward silence that made me nearly as nervous as thoughts of London’s criminal element bent on finding and collecting me. Rather than imagining myself pinned like an insect to someone’s board, I rummaged through my carpet bag. Pulling out one of the little blank books and fishing out a pencil, I brought everything to the table—including my bag, setting it on the floor beside me.
“What’s that?” Daniel nodded at my project.
“Something special—or it will be. I plan to make a flip book, but I keep changing my mind on what to depict.”
“The statue,” he said.
“What?”
“Yer study, from beginning to end. Ye can show the block, then it takes shape, then it’s done.”
I smiled so widely, I felt my lips start to crack. “That’s brilliant, Paddy! What I thought to do couldn’t be shown to anyone.” Well, except Sydney, who shouldn’t see it. Certain views should be ours alone. “But a sculpture? Wait. I can do two. Belle one way, and Oi Treis Erastés the other. I’d grab your face and kiss you if your ear was not still tender!”
Our piercings had had a week to heal. One week—it seemed almost a lifetime ago. Seven days prior, we were like innocent pagan spirits, unaware of sin before the missionaries descended, bringing the knowledge of good and evil with them. Now we were locked in a room for my safety, prevented from returning to London until the threat was neutralized—and who knew how long that would be?
I could almost see Daniel and me sitting here together, left behind and waiting on word from Edward, who would be required to return to London even if the bounty precluded me from so doing. Tears of frustration stung my eyes, and I swiped at them. Clearing my vision, I pulled out a sketch pad, drew a grid, and made a storyboard for the statue flip book, putting the halfway mark about a third of the way into the sequence, to allow more attention to the details to come. Daniel watched me work, fascinated by the process, and witnessed the birth, the counting pages, numbering the grid to match, then sketching images on every page, just the vague outline, suggestions of what was to come. Once I had the basics done, I flipped through the pages, and we watched the statue take shape, from first to last.
“Yes,” I said. “Oh, Paddy. It’s going to be perfect. There’s no way that I shall have it finished in time for Christmas, but he won’t mind, do you think? I can show him what I’ve done, and work on it openly from that point on. Even if you distract him between now and then, I’ll have a hard time fleshing it out without Edward seeing it. I’m not good at keeping secrets from him, and he’s an expert on ferreting out things.”
I supposed if he left the university, he might turn his mind to sleuthing, fitting consultations and private investigations between the chapters of whatever book that he was writing. There were so many planned—a life’s body of work, or so it had seemed when he’d shared his ideas with me. But he loved to teach. Loved challenging young minds, teasing them open and pouring knowledge and wisdom into them, hoping that some of it would stick. If he lost his position because of me….
Christmas was the season of miracles. We certainly could use some now.
It felt like a small blessing when Edward was gone longer than we expected, allowing me to get a good two hours’ work done. At the familiar knock, I closed the little book and tucked it away with the grid that I’d made, keeping it to replicate in the second book so that Daniel would have one, too. That way, each of them could flip through it at their leisure and remember our sessions. From shaving each other to Sydney’s final photographs, the experience had served to cement our bonds, each to the other, and we’d only grown stronger since.
“Coming!�
�� Daniel called. He went to the door and opened it, stepping back to allow Edward to enter, a bundle of newspapers under one arm and the scent of pipe tobacco clinging to his hair and clothes.
“Reading room,” he explained. “My apologies for taking so long. I wired for Lucy to arrange for your medicine, with instructions to send word when it is ready. I thought I might see if she wants to bring it. She has no familial encumbrances for holidays, only her gypsies. If they have her for Christmas, surely you can have her for Boxing Day, hmm?”
“But Edward, it will not do, for her to travel alone.”
“Benson could accompany her,” he said. “Young Frank is not quite old enough to be seen as an acceptable escort.”
I tried to envision Lucy, stuck on the train with Edward’s valet. “Or her twins could come. Arrange lodging for the night—or two. Give her a Boxing Day vacation that she’ll appreciate. Somehow I do not think that she would mind hours of travel with them versus hours apart.
Edward’s lips curled in a knowing smile. “Travel, eh? Propriety dictates separate rooms.”
“Best make them adjoining, then. They’re less likely to get caught, sneaking back and forth.” I had no doubt that their relationship had a carnal component. Edward, as master, was open minded enough to turn a blind eye so long as appearances were maintained. And Lucy, bless her, had earned such consideration, the great keeper of secrets that she was. For that alone, her position in Edward’s household was secure for however long she wished it. If marriage entered the picture, she would have the luxury of choosing whether or not to continue in his employ. While not the norm, working wives were not unheard of, either, adding income to the household, maintaining dual identities, one inside the home, the other, away from it.
Of course, I did that now. Artist by day. Loving partner at night. Marriage would not change that. Children, on the other hand….