The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  It troubled him now as he stood tucked beside one of the brick turrets that flanked Colchester Station, watching the rain hammer down as the last of their baggage was portered from Charlotte Moreau’s carriage—or rather, her father’s carriage—to the curb. And then the coachman whipped up his horses, and the entourage set off, a cart and a traveling coach rumbling away in the rain.

  Charlotte waved good-bye to the three of them until the carriage turned onto the main road. And even then, Sutherland could see Giselle’s small, sharp-chinned face at the back glass, watching them as she grew smaller and smaller. Then, at the last moment, she lifted her hand and pressed it to the glass—along with her little nose—and Sutherland could see no more, though whether it was from the rain or the faint mist in his eyes, he could not have said.

  On the pavement below, Geoffrey and Miss de Rohan turned, and dashed from the street and under the lee of the station, popping their umbrellas down and giving them a vigorous shake. In their dark, almost formal attire—he in black superfine with blinding white linen, and she in dark aubergine satin—they might have been a wealthy young couple in half mourning.

  The earl was still watching the carriage, far in the distance now. “Well,” he said, almost to himself, “do you think they will be all right without us?”

  Sutherland smiled beatifically. “You are not the only Guardian, my boy, capable of tending to that child—no matter how attached the three of you may have become these past few days.”

  Geoff laughed.

  “Mr. Henfield will do right by the child, Geoffrey.” Sutherland set a consoling hand between his friend’s shoulder blades. “He is a fine Guardian—and I believe Charlotte likes him very well indeed. You and Miss de Rohan have done the Lord’s work here, for He has a purpose for that child, though we cannot yet know what it is.”

  “She has already predicted the fall of one monarchy,” said Geoff a little worriedly. “I shudder to think what she might say next.”

  “Precisely,” murmured the Preost. “And now she will be safe until she learns to understand the Gift. Perhaps she will choose not to use it at all—but at least she will have a choice. That is the gift the two of you have given her.”

  But the rain chose that moment to begin to hammer down again, splattering off the pavement and bouncing up like pebbles. “Come,” said Geoff, urging Anaïs toward the door. “Let’s go in.”

  Inside the station, the gentlemen waded into the press of passengers and porters to purchase tickets and direct the luggage. They rejoined Anaïs near the entrance just as a train pulled in, belching and whistling.

  “Well,” said Sutherland over the racket, “this is where we part company, I suppose. Miss de Rohan, are you quite, quite sure you will not join me? My sister keeps a fine cook, a comfortable house, and she would love to have the company.”

  For the third time since breakfast, Anaïs shook her head. “You’re very kind, sir,” she said, “but I find myself a little homesick.”

  “Then I would be happy to hire you a carriage for your return today,” the Preost pressed.

  “What is your point, Sutherland?” asked Geoffrey pointedly. “Trains run back and forth to London all day long.”

  The Preost thinned his lips. “Well, it isn’t quite the thing, Geoffrey, even in this modern age,” he finally said. “An unwed lady, I mean—on a train, shut up in a first-class compartment? With a gentleman to whom she is not wed?”

  At that, Geoff cut Anaïs an odd glance. “Set your mind at ease, sir,” he said a little tightly. “I mean to rectify that shortcoming as soon as I can speak to the lady’s father.”

  Both Mr. Sutherland’s bushy eyebrows flew aloft. “Do you indeed?”

  “Yes, by God, I do. Not that it’s anybody’s bus—”

  “Stop this, the both of you!” Anaïs’s expression was dark. “Geoff, that announcement is just a trifle premature, don’t you think? Go home and get your iron out of the fire, if you can. As to you, Mr. Sutherland, I have been a great many days in Geoff’s company—in the service to the Fraternitas, I might add. A trip down to London will scarcely be the worst of it. I think we’ve left it rather late, this concern for my reputation.”

  Which was precisely the conflict Sutherland found himself obliged to wrestle. It was all very well to sacrifice in the name of the Fraternitas when one was a part of it—and a gentleman, protected from the worst of society’s scorn. But it was quite another if one was a lady. A lady who had been denied membership, and yet had gone above and beyond duty’s call.

  But it was too late to begin struggling with the ethical ambiguity of the thing now. Or the guilt. Still, the latter bit at him like a gnat; unrelentingly, taking one tiny nibble after another of his moral certainty that men were the stronger sex. That women had no place inside the Brotherhood. If even half of what he had heard was true, the young lady had been most remarkably brave.

  The train let off another ear-shattering burst, and the swarm of passengers began to surge in the general direction of the doors. Anaïs de Rohan’s expression had not lightened.

  Suddenly, impulse seized him—or perhaps it was just good judgment. He took off his top hat, and set it on his portmanteau. “My dear,” he said, “give me your hand.”

  Vague surprise sketched over her face, but she did so, placing her long, cool fingers in his.

  “Now,” he said, “say the words. And quickly, please.”

  “The words?” Her brow furrowed.

  Sutherland waved his empty hand as the train tooted again. “I humbly ask for admission, et cetera, et cetera,” said Sutherland.

  “For the Fraternitas?” She looked at him a little dumbstruck.

  “Yes, yes, it’s just a formality,” said the Preost. “Lazonby already said his part.”

  Geoff shot him a dark look. “For God’s sake, Sutherland,” he hissed. “In a train station?”

  But Miss de Rohan was already speaking, her voice quiet but clear, her Latin precise. “I humbly ask for admission to the Brotherhood,” she said, rushing through the words. “I have earned this right with my Devotion, with my Strength, and with my Blood. And on my honor, I pledge that by my Word and by my Sword, I will defend the Gift, my Faith, my Brotherhood, and all its Dependents, until the last breath of life leaves my body.”

  Sutherland set his opposite hand on her shoulder. “Then may your arm, sister, be as the right hand of God,” he said. “And all your days given to the Fraternitas, and to His service.”

  “And so may yours,” she answered.

  Sutherland dropped both hands and gave a little bow. “There,” he said. “ ’Tis done.”

  Miss de Rohan still looked a little confused. “And . . . is that it?” she asked. “It’s just . . . done?”

  “Well, we can finish the formal initiation ceremony when we return to London, if you wish it,” Sutherland offered.

  “Thank you, no,” said Anaïs firmly. “I’ve already thrown my shift away.”

  “Then yes, actually,” said the Preost. “That’s it.”

  “Well, I think there must still be a vote,” said Geoff uncertainly. “The St. James Society. The members . . . ?”

  She pinned him with her gaze. “And how will you vote?”

  His gaze softened. “You know how I will vote,” he replied.

  “And I know how the others will vote,” said Sutherland, snatching up his hat and slapping it back on his head. “Otherwise, they can find themselves a new Preost.”

  Geoff seized Sutherland’s hand and shook it hard. “Then I anticipate a unanimous verdict,” he said, turning to Anaïs with a tender smile. “Congratulations, my dear. And much deserved.”

  “Ah, well.” Sutherland cleared his throat sharply. “In any case, I look forward to the resolution of this little mystery of your future together,” he said, doffing his hat in Anaïs’s direction just as another whistle blew. “And this is my train back to Ipswich, I believe. Let me thank you both again for your exemplary service to the F.A.C.”r />
  And with that, he hung his umbrella over one arm, picked up his portmanteau, and strode off toward the platform.

  Feeling suddenly awkward, Anaïs watched Sutherland go. Her head seemed to be still spinning from what Sutherland had just done. That, on top of all else, was more than just disorienting. She felt rather as if she’d been shot out of a cannon.

  She and Geoff had been nearly three days in Essex, briefing Sutherland and Mr. Henfield, reuniting Charlotte with her parents, and settling matters for Giselle. And now the press of the mission was over. The rush of danger was past. It was as if everything had changed between them.

  Then Geoff slid his hand around hers, and gave it a firm, sure squeeze, sending everything right side up again. “Come, love,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”

  Up ahead another engine was slowly belching and shuddering its way into the station. It ground to a halt, and the flurry of activity resumed, this time going in the opposite direction. Anaïs took Geoff’s proffered arm, and he snared both their bags in one hand, carrying them as if they were weightless.

  It took but a few moments to settle into their carriage and tuck the hand baggage away. Up and down the platform, doors began thumping shut again. Far ahead, the engine let off two staccato bursts sending Anaïs almost off the seat. She had spent the last five days on edge, and now it felt as if her body was in some state of perpetually heightened awareness.

  Geoff reached across the space, and set a hand over hers. “It’s like that sometimes,” he said quietly, as if he’d read her mind. “Soon we’ll be back in London and life will return to normal.”

  That’s just what Anaïs was afraid of, that they would return home as they had left it, wary strangers with lives of their own. She was afraid the days she’d spent with Geoff had been a time out of place, an extraordinary interlude with no bearing on reality—and no place in it, either. That his lust for her was just that, and no more, and that her newfound clarity—about life and love and dreams left to languish—would fade the farther she got from Brussels.

  Her doubts were made all the worse by the fact that since fleeing Lezennes’ house, she and Geoff had had not a moment alone, save for one heated kiss in the dark aboard the Jolie Marie. For days on end, they had lived cheek by jowl together, and learned to trust each other. They had worked, however querulously, toward a common goal. And they had become lovers; lovers with a feverish, extraordinary passion.

  And then—as suddenly as it had begun—it was over. The time out of place, the solidarity, it was all ending. And fevers so often burned themselves out, she knew. Yet Anaïs felt an entirely different person. Much of what she’d believed about herself had somehow altered, upending her well-ordered world. And now the thing she’d worked toward for so long—initiation into the F.A.C.—was suddenly hers. So why did she feel just a little apathetic about it?

  The train began to shudder and grind, then to move forward. Anaïs watched the empty platform begin to inch away in a hiss of steam and smoke. She turned from the window to see Geoff holding out his hand.

  “Come here,” he said. And like all his commands, it was gently but firmly made.

  Anaïs was in no mood to quarrel. She shifted across and tucked herself onto the seat beside him as the train gained speed and the countryside began to glide past.

  Geoff set an arm about her and urged her head onto his shoulder. “Anaïs de Rohan,” he said quietly, “I love you.”

  She must have stiffened in his embrace.

  He dipped his head to look at her. “What?” he said. “You didn’t expect that to change, did you? You look a little like a prisoner headed to Tyburn.”

  She looked up at him honestly, unblinkingly. “We’ve been through some extraordinary days together,” she said, “but now we have our old lives to return to.”

  He said nothing, but merely stared through the window for a time. Then, “I’m not sure I can return to a life without you,” he said quietly. “But if you do not feel the same, I’ll accept that.”

  “Will you?” Her heart sank a little.

  “Yes,” he said, “but only long enough to court you properly. I’m biding my time, Anaïs. I’m going home to do what you have asked of me. And then I mean to try and win you the hard way. By laying siege to your heart. By refusing to take no for an answer.”

  “Geoff,” she said, her throat suddenly too tight. “I haven’t said no. Not that kind of no. Just please just try to understand—the sort of guilt I’ve had to live wi—”

  He cut her off, setting a finger to her lips. “Shush, Anaïs,” he said. “I know. And I mean to run the lady in question to ground the moment I step off this train. I want to explain all this to her myself. It will be done before the sun sets, I do assure you. And she will likely be relieved.”

  Anaïs did not know what to say. She wanted him, but did she want him at the expense of another?

  To her shame, yes. She did. She looked away and swallowed hard. She had to trust that her judgment was good, and that Geoff was right. And that her nonna had been . . . well, wrong. But she was sure of her love. Of her choice. And this was her life to live now; her opportunity to seize hard with both hands, for Geoff was a man well worth hanging on to.

  They rode on in silence for the longest time, until the next station was reached and the surge of passengers and porters began anew. Geoff crooked his head to look at her from time to time, but saying nothing, merely smiling. Then the doors slammed shut again, one after the other, and the steaming and whistling resumed.

  He set his lips to her temple. “I’m afraid it is a long while to the next station,” he said.

  “Oh,” said Anaïs quietly. “That’s . . . promising.”

  “Aye?” He lifted his head, his expression bemused. “Why?”

  “Because I have just been wondering,” said Anaïs quietly, “what it would be like to make love on a moving train . . .”

  That afternoon, the gray clouds over London miraculously cleared to reveal a remarkably azure sky, and a sun so bright the ladies who came out to peruse the shops of St. James were required to pop up their parasols lest their noses freckle.

  Rance Welham, Lord Lazonby, was just going down the front steps of the St. James Society—having spared his nose not a thought—when a black phaeton with ruby-red wheels came tooling briskly round the corner into St. James Place, splashed through what was left of the morning’s last puddle, then drew up but a few feet away.

  The fine-boned, perfectly matched blacks stamped and shook their heads with impatience, but the driver held them easily. “Good afternoon, Rance,” Lady Anisha called down. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  He watched in mild stupefaction as the lady descended, tossing her reins to Belkadi’s footman, who had come dashing down the stairs to bow and scrape before her.

  “Well, well, Nish!” said Lazonby, leaning on his brass-knobbed stick. “Fending for yourself now, eh?”

  “It’s a hard life.” Lady Anisha smiled, stripping off her driving gloves as she came down the pavement. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s . . . dashing,” said Lazonby, struggling to keep his jaw from hanging. “I’m just not sure it’s you.”

  “Well, perhaps it should be?” the lady murmured cryptically.

  Lazonby’s critical eye swept over the conveyance, finding much to admire. It was high, but not perilously so. It was perfectly slung, with front wheels reaching to Lady Anisha’s shoulder and paint that glistened like onyx set with rubies. It was a carriage no young man of fashion would willingly have given up—and one very few ladies would have driven.

  “In any case,” Lady Anisha continued, “I’m merely holding on to it, shall we say, for my brother Lucan.”

  “Ah,” said the earl knowingly. “Pup’s under the hatches again, eh?”

  Lady Anisha’s smile tightened. “Quite so,” she said. “Baccarat this time. But he’s learnt the hard way if he wishes my help, there’s a price paid. And this time the price is his phaeton. I
confess, I’ve come to quite like it. I’m not at all sure he’ll be getting it back.”

  Lazonby turned his attention from the phaeton to the beautiful woman. “Have you come to visit Mr. Sutherland again?” he asked, curious. “Because he’s still off in the wilds of Essex.”

  “Well, he could hardly go all the way to Colchester and not visit his sister, could he?” said Anisha. “But I’ve actually come to fetch Safiyah. I’m going to make her drive in the park with me.”

  Lazonby drew back a pace. “Well, good luck with that.”

  “I know.” Anisha screwed up her face. “She’ll likely refuse. What about you? Dare you trust your life to my hands?”

  “I can think of few I would trust so readily,” said Lazonby truthfully. “But no, I was just headed across the way to the Quartermaine Club.”

  “Rance!” she said chidingly. “You are not gaming again.”

  He grinned down at her. “Not at Ned’s, that much is certain,” he said. “He won’t let anyone from the St. James Society sit at his tables.”

  “Heavens, I wonder why!” she murmured. “Look, at least ask me up to the bookroom for a moment. I have something I ought to tell you, and I don’t want to stand in the street.”

  With a sudden and grave reluctance, Lazonby inclined his head, and offered his arm.

  Two minutes later, they were seated on the long leather sofas in the club’s private library, looking at each other a little uncomfortably across the tea table. Lazonby very much hoped Lady Anisha had forgotten the last time she had come upon him in this room.

  He had been in a terrible state then, roiling with thwarted rage and something else he would as soon not think about. He had been caught by Nish’s brother in what had apparently appeared to be a most compromising position—caught with that little shite Jack Coldwater. Worse, Nish had been with Ruthveyn. He only hoped she had not quite seen . . . well, whatever it was that had been going on.