by Liz Carlyle
After looking in on the boys in the schoolroom—and casting Mr. Jeffers, their tutor, a sympathetic glance—she sent up a prayer that he had not bet on Swordplayer, then went downstairs. There she rummaged through the parlor secretary for the notes she’d taken in Napier’s office and stuffed them into Janet’s satchel.
By half past ten, she was parked in Ebury Street. After folding down her veil of black bobbinet, she descended from the carriage and rang the bell. A drowsy-eyed footman with peach fuzz on his chin answered the door.
“I wish to see Lazonby,” she announced, scooting past him.
At first he blinked, turning slowly, as if the command did not register. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he began, “but his lordship—”
“Emmit, is it not?” Anisha interjected, tugging off her gloves. “Emmit, don’t bother to say he isn’t in, for I know perfectly well he’s still abed, and ill as a bear in the bargain. I shall just show myself up.”
And with that, she left him gape-mouthed, throwing up her veil as she went. There was no use insulting Rance’s servants by pretending they were fools.
“But my lady!” the lad cried after her, following her up the stairs. “Wait! Please!”
“I’m afraid I cannot,” she said matter-of-factly. “For if I do, he’ll just tell you to tell me to go away, don’t you imagine? And you’ll have to do it. And I shan’t go, of course. So you will have failed. Then we’ll both be back where we started, if not worse. So would it not be best if I just saved you the trouble?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” he said on her heels, sounding wretched, “but what will—”
“Oh, I’ll just tell him I pushed past you, and trust me, he’ll have no difficulty believing it.” Anisha made a shooing motion over her shoulder and turned the next flight. “Now kindly hurry downstairs and fetch his lordship’s bathwater. Pots of it, very hot. Trust me, he will thank you for it.”
The young man hesitated on the landing. “But, ma’am, if you please,” he cried up at her. “I don’t think he will! Thank me, that is. Truly, you must wait—”
The strident echo of his voice in the hollow stairwell stopped her. Anisha turned on the step to look down at him. A chilling thought struck her, and it was as if her blood suddenly stilled. “What?” she managed. “Is he . . . not alone?”
The servant’s face colored furiously. “No,” he said. “I mean, yes. I think so. His lordship doesn’t bring—that is to say, he would never—”
Anisha felt a foolish sort of relief rush through her. “Thank you, Emmit,” she said, not unkindly. “I appreciate your concern. But I am used to Lazonby’s temper—and his frightful language. Now kindly go and fetch that water. Oh, and send up his lordship’s valet. Lazonby has a pressing appointment he has forgotten.”
“Yes, ma’am.” To her surprise, the lad turned and rushed back down the stairs, crying out, “Horsham! Horsham!” as he went.
Having pushed her way in, Anisha set about finding Rance’s rooms. On the second floor, almost certainly. The house was not especially large, and the master’s rooms would likely be situated on the street, since the house had no garden to speak of.
Her guess was right. She threw open the door at the end of the passageway to see a small gentleman’s sitting room with a desk, a button-tufted leather settee, and a broad bookcase gone black with age. There was a second door giving off this—his bedchamber, certainly, for even here, in this tidy bastion of masculinity, Rance’s woody cologne and lime soap carried faintly in the air.
Ignoring the memories the scents rekindled, Anisha tossed down her shawl and satchel, then unpinned the accursed hat and set it carefully on the desk. After rapping upon the inner door, she sang out to ask if he was decent. There was no answer, as she had expected.
Pushing open the door, she simply went it.
The room was steeped in gloom, but as her eyes adjusted Anisha was able to see a large bed in the center and three shadowy windows overlooking Ebury Street. Here, the scent went well beyond cologne and soap. Rance’s masculine essence was redolent in the air; an almost sensual aroma, like the intimate scent of his hat being tossed aside, or of his coat being furled warmly about her shoulders—a realization which served only to remind her of how often Rance had done just that during her first months in England.
How many times, she wondered as she studied his shadowy, sleeping form, had he come striding through the house to find her curled up in the sunlit conservatory, her teeth chattering, her paisley shawl wrapped up to her neck? And always he would laugh at her, his blue eyes dancing, even as he stripped off his own coat and tucked it gently round her.
Once or twice he’d gone back to the hall for his hat and set it atop her head—and laughed all the harder at the sight. Then she would laugh with him. And suddenly, life in England hadn’t seemed quite so bleak.
But more often he would simply nudge her into the small parlor and lay up a fire for her, though the house was full of servants who could have done the same. But Rance had known instinctively that she would not ask; that she was loath to be the outsider who could not grow accustomed to England’s ways. Afterward they sometimes passed a little time with a hand of piquet and a glass of wine. Once they had pieced a jigsaw puzzle with the boys. Rance had always come and gone like a member of the family, for that was what Raju had wanted.
It was what she had wanted.
And it was in those bittersweet moments, she suspected, that she had begun to fall in love with him. Or perhaps it had begun that day on the drive home from the Docklands. Perhaps it had been love at first sight.
Still staring hard into the gloom, she felt her own eyes begin to sting.
Oh, what nonsense!
Why think of these things now, as she stared into the depths of his bedchamber, the urgency of their journey needling at her? Was she such a ninnyhammer that the mere scent of a man could addle her senses? Irritated, Anisha strode to the windows and began to hurl back the heavy draperies, the rings skating shrilly over the rods. However evocative Rance’s scent might be, it was a sure sign the room had been too long shut up and—as she recalled from living with her brothers—a likely indication of a long, hard night at the bottle. There was nothing starry-eyed in that.
Turning from the window, she looked about to see a room in utter disarray. Clothes were tossed hither and yon, a tin of tobacco had tumbled off the writing table, and his cravat had been slung over his cheval glass and left trailing down the center.
She shifted, and a shaft of morning sun cut across Rance’s bed. He grunted and rolled away from the light, taking the sheet with him.
Well, in a manner of speaking. The sheet was actually snarled about his waist. The rest of him—so far as she could see—was bare. One long, well-muscled leg was uncovered, revealing the dusting of dark hair over a calf that could have been carved of Carrara marble. As to the hair on his head, however, now that looked as if rats had nested in it.
She approached the bed gingerly, if impatiently. Two empty bottles sat upon the night table, along with a flute containing the dregs of something that looked vile and sticky. Anisha picked it up and inhaled deeply. Her nose, honed by her practice of ayurveda, easily detected anise and fennel. And something else. Something she knew but could not bring to mind.
She set the flute down with a clunk and picked up the bottle.
Absinthe.
The rare spirit was distilled from a form of artemisia similar to nagadamni, an ayurvedic herb with magical properties. To Europeans, the plant was known as wormwood and believed poisonous. And its victim looked as if that might indeed be the case.
“Rance?” she whispered, setting a hand on his bare shoulder.
He tossed almost feverishly, muttering something she couldn’t make out. Lightly, she tapped him, softly calling his name. He thrashed again, this time turning toward her. Anisha could see his eyes were slightly open, but glassy and distant, and his face contorted as if with pain. She set her hand to his cheek, stubbled with black, uns
haven beard. He felt not feverish but instead cold as death.
“No, no,” he replied, jerking against her touch, then muttering something in French.
“What’s that?” She gave his face a gentle pat. “Come, can you wake up?”
“Non.” Suddenly, his eyes flared wide but remained unfocused, his pupils like ha’pennies. He seized her arm violently. “C’est toi!” he rasped accusingly. “La sirène—”
“Rance, it’s Anish—”
“All fucking night—” With one jerk, he yanked her across the solid width of his chest with such force that her feet left the floor. “Damn you, stop! Stop! Do you hear me?”
She tried to lift herself away, but her arm was wrenched awkwardly. “Rance, wake up,” she commanded.
He merely tightened his grip, dragging her up his chest with inhuman strength. Anisha’s heart sped up, something akin to fear chasing through her. They were face-to-face, her breasts flattened hard to his chest, so close his breath stirred her hair.
“Rance, wake up,” she said sternly. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
In response, he forced her head down and kissed her, his empty hand spearing almost brutally into her hair. Anisha gasped and tried to roll away. It was out of the question. No mere caress, this was a kiss of passion unfettered; a raw, rough claiming that left no choice but surrender. Opening his mouth over hers, he invaded, pushing his tongue deep with long, sinuous strokes that left her shivering.
On a swallowed cry, she set her hands to his shoulders as if to push away. And yet she did not. Rance’s arm came fully around her, bunching up her skirts as his hand massaged her left hip, urging her to him. He withdrew from her mouth for an instant, then thrust again, each stroke more sensual than the last, the stubble of his beard raking her face.
Dimly Anisha remembered the servants. They would be coming. She tried to twist away, to lift herself up. It was no use. His arm was like iron, his strength that of a madman. He shifted, and in an instant she was thrown flat on her back, Rance coming half atop her.
Snaring both her wrists, he forced them into the softness of the bolster, pinning her with the weight of his body. The evidence of his arousal was hard and unmistakable now. Fleetingly, their gazes locked. His eyes were wild. “La sirène,” he growled, gasping. “You will torment me no more!”
Anisha struggled for breath. “There’s no siren!” she shouted, pounding at his shoulders. “There’s no torment! Wake up, for heaven’s sake!”
Suddenly footfalls sounded, pounding into the room. “Good God, man!” a deep voice barked. “Release that woman! Emmit, seize him!”
There was the heavy clank of a bucket, and in a trice the weight was yanked away. Rance was dragged back by a broad-shouldered gentleman in a dark suit, the ashen-faced footman aiding him.
“Criminy, Horsham!” the lad croaked. “ ’E’s gone mad.”
But the man called Horsham was undeterred. “Sir, you must wake up!” he shouted, dragging him to the bolster. “This won’t do.”
“No, damn you.” Rance fell back onto the bed, eyes closing, the heels of his hands going to his temples. With a practiced snap, Horsham threw up the sheets, covering him to the chest.
“He’s having some sort of nightmare.” Anisha had jerked upright to untwist her skirts. “Perhaps he’s been drugged?”
“Done it himself, more like.” Horsham jostled Rance hard. “Sir, come now! Open your eyes.”
Anisha clambered backward off the bed. Emmit leapt deferentially back, almost tripping over the brass cans he’d carried up. Horsham shot a grim look across the mattress.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said, “but this is no fit place for a lady. If you might wait just inside the study? Emmit, help me get him up.”
Anisha realized she was being chided. “Lazonby has an appointment to keep, and I knew he would refuse,” she said a little defensively. “Is he ill? Must we call a doctor? He seems quite out of his head.”
“No . . . damned . . . doctors,” said a thready whisper.
Anisha looked down to see Rance’s eyes fluttering.
“He is quite all right, ma’am, or will be,” said Horsham tightly. “He’s had a bad night. He often does. Now if you would be so good as to withdraw, we’ll heft him into his bath and pour a little water over his head. That, and some strong coffee, will usually revive him.”
Her face suffusing with heat, Anisha went into the study without closing the door. Horsham did not spare her another glance.
Between the two servants, Rance was more or less hauled up, grumbling as he went. “Devil fly . . . fly away wiff . . .” he muttered, but the rest of his imprecation trailed away.
At least he was rousing.
Exhaling on a sigh of relief, she collapsed onto the leather settee. The young footman returned to seize the brass cans, his entire face turning pink. An instant later, there came a loud clattering of brass upon porcelain and the unmistakable sound of a good dowsing.
“Bloody hell!” Rance began to cough amidst the splashing. “Damn you to blazes!”
“You may damn the absinthe, sir,” Horsham firmly replied, “and it’s entirely your own fault. Emmit, go help with the rest of the bathwater.”
“Horsham, you’re sacked,” Rance bellowed, sounding more himself. “Why the hell did I just hire you anyway? God almighty, someone’s hammered a railway spike through my skull.”
“Done by your own hand, sir, I’m afraid,” the servant calmly replied. “And you really oughtn’t dismiss me.”
There came an unintelligible response.
“Because being a military man, I’m most adept with firearms.” This declaration was followed by another great cascading of water. “And since you have . . . manhandled Lady Anisha Stafford, I daresay her brother will be calling you out.”
A long moment of silence followed.
“What?” Lazonby finally rasped.
A great deal of low conversation ensued. Anisha leaned forward, attempting to hear.
“Dear God,” she heard Rance muttering. “Where?”
“In your study, my lord.” The words were clipped. “She wishes to see you. But not, I collect, in your altogether—which seemed to be the aspect you were intent on presenting her.”
Rance groaned, but whether from shame or pain, Anisha could not have said.
Just then another footman came in with coffee. The next twenty minutes passed in relative peace. Rance stopped swearing. Horsham kept murmuring. The door onto the passageway flew open again, and a rotation of servants bearing steaming cans of water commenced trundling past.
Through it all, Anisha sat, twiddling her thumbs and cursing her own impatience. A few minutes ago, Rance had clearly not been awake—or himself. And though she had not been too terribly frightened, she had certainly given his servants a turn, a circumstance she deeply regretted.
And she had made them question her good sense. Perhaps even her decency. Yes, she was an old friend, and a widow of some years. But English society was far more rigid than she might wish. She should not have come here; not like this. But it was too late now, and she was as certain as ever that they had no time to spare.
She sat thus in her impatience until eventually she heard Rance again snap at the much put-upon Horsham, this time declaring amidst a streak of blue that he could bloody well shave himself.
Shortly after that, Horsham was again damned, sacked, and ordered out. This time he went, casting her one last censorious glance as he crossed the study, then slamming the door behind him. Five minutes later, Rance appeared on the threshold, bare from the waist up, one long arm resting high upon the doorframe, the other clutching the folds of a white towel that hid almost nothing. He appeared haggard, his expression grim. Still, the stippling of harsh beard was gone, and he looked more or less awake.
She regarded him calmly, wondering what a well-bred lady said to a man who’d just mauled her. But Rance spoke first. “Well, Nish,” he croaked, “it would seem I owe you a monstro
us apology.”
“You had a difficult night, I collect?”
Eyes rueful, he dropped his arm and dragged his hand through his damp curls. “Aye.”
“Are you . . . feeling yourself now?” she asked. “May we move on to something more pressing?”
His gaze locked to hers. “More pressing than the fact that I apparently tried to . . . to what? Force myself on you?”
“You kissed me.” She remained perfectly still on the leather settee. “Rather determinedly, yes. But I’m fine.”
A bitter smile curved his mouth. “Aye, well, if ever a chap kisses you any other way, then he’s not a man worthy of the name.”
“Thank you, I suppose.” She dipped her gaze. “But you didn’t know who you were kissing. You were . . . hallucinating, I think.”
“Aye, perhaps. I remember some of it, too . . . I dreamt the whole night. Awful, tormenting stuff. Some of it was— ” His words falling away, Rance shook his head in disbelief. His thick, dark curls were starting to spring softly to life as they dried.
“Well, I’m perfectly fine,” she said. “And Horsham is right. You should give up the absinthe. I’m told it’s a vile habit. Now, may we drop this discussion?”
He let his arm drop. “For now, aye,” he said wearily. “But let us press on to a related topic. You’ve caused a stir, Nish, coming here. But you just don’t care, do you? You are too bloody stubborn to see the risk in—”
“Thank you,” she stiffly interjected, “but I have already been thoroughly lectured by your valet.”
He set his shoulder to the door and regarded her through heavy, bloodshot eyes. “You would drag us right out into the open, wouldn’t you?” he said.
“Is there an us?” she asked sharply.
He just shook his head. “Despite what I said to you in the garden the other day, you are going to . . . to push this to the point of doing yourself irreparable harm. And I—well, I’m just a man, Nish, with a man’s desires. I’m half afraid I’ll let you.”
“You said you would not declare any affection for me openly.” She willed her voice to calm, breathed deep, and folded her hands together. “And that is your choice. I cannot compel you to do anything. I cannot force you to declare your feelings for me. Perhaps”—to her shame, her voice quavered—“perhaps you have none.”