The Orphan Pearl
Page 16
“Mr. Pym, sir,” said his butler.
John slapped fruitlessly at the dust coating his trousers and sighed. “Bring him here.”
Pym strolled through a minute later, looking dapper in a russet coat with a wide yellow-and-brown paisley silk cravat holding up the collar. “Thought we’d go out,” he said, picking his way among the tables.
“Out where?”
“Big prize fight in the city,” he suggested, picking up a block of wax and peering closely at it. “What’s this for?”
“All sorts of things,” John answered. “Waterproofing, for example.”
“I suppose it’s very damp in Buenos Aires,” said Pym. “Listen. You’ll be gone in a month. Enjoy London while you can—you’ll miss the tumult and the energy when you’re gone. The hurly-burly glory of it all. Let’s make some memories of home to keep you company once you’ve gone.”
John set down the ice cleats he’d been untangling and slapped flakes of rust from his hands. A glance out the window showed a dimming, pale mauve sky. “It’s not too late?”
“We’ve got time. You think I don’t know how to plan ahead?”
Their destination was a pub, all scarred wood and polished brass, with a champion’s belt nailed over the bar. A friendly rumpus spilled onto the street, while inside, lords rubbed shoulders with laborers, all slowly making their way out the back into a courtyard where a platform had been raised. The floor was already sticky with spilled beer.
John and Pym had time to drain a pair of pints before the fight started. One of the contestants was an established champion, the other a younger man. Standing in the back, John strained to see them.
“The young one will take it, if you ask me,” said Pym. “Peak form and undefeated these last two months. I saw him fight a few weeks back. Bloody impressive.”
“This is the first time he’ll fight for a purse,” interjected another spectator, crowded close by the press of people. “The young don’t know how to pace themselves. He’s not ready for this match, mark my words.”
The neighbor’s prediction proved accurate. The fight was disastrously short. A really cracking match might go on past twenty rounds, thirty. Sixty had been known.
The champion laid the newcomer out after five.
The young fighter had to be carried off the platform. In the aftermath, the crowd began to stomp and hoot. They directed their clamor at a spectator—handsome, blond, neatly dressed. A space opened up around him, bodies parting like the Red Sea to make a path to the platform.
The blond crossed his forearms and displayed this X to the crowd, shaking his head.
“Who’s that?” Ware asked.
“Earl of Bexley,” answered their helpful neighbor, a red-cheeked, balding man with an unusually rich, gravelly voice. “Best boxer you’ve never seen fight.”
“That nobody’s seen fight,” added a man just to the front of John. “Starting to think he made up those stories and paid to have them put about.”
“Are you sure about the name?” John interrupted. “Bexley, you said?”
“Bexley,” confirmed the man. “Duke of Hastings’s heir.”
He launched into a story about Bexley’s fighting prowess, but John didn’t pay attention. He watched the young earl until the crowd closed around him and blocked him from view, turning its pleas to another candidate.
So. Bexley had married poorly, made himself into a theater impresario, and may or may not have earned a reputation as a boxer. All of that on top of the fact he’d decided to spend an evening engaged in low entertainments while his sister suffered the attentions of London’s most notorious rake.
A shabby picture of the man formed in John’s mind: handsome, irresponsible, selfish. How on earth had Hastings developed a reputation for harshness when he couldn’t keep either of his children in hand?
Just at that moment, Bexley weaved through the crowd on his way into the pub, passing only a foot away. John signaled for Pym to stay and followed the earl. He slipped through in the other man’s wake and caught up to him inside the pub.
“Lord Bexley,” he said. “You’ll excuse the imposition. My name is John Tacitus Ware, and—”
“I know who you are,” Bexley interrupted. Up close, it was easy to see his resemblance to Lily. They had the same old gold hair, the same guarded whiskey-colored eyes.
“A word, if you don’t mind,” said John. “About your sister.”
“I mind.”
John swallowed his next comment.
He’d cobbled together a few details and jumped to many conclusions: that Bexley would be foolish and emotional. That he was too consumed by his own amusements to keep track of his sister’s whereabouts, and might need them spelled out. Along with a few instructions about how to proceed, since he wouldn’t have any idea himself.
The man in front of John was cool, self-possessed, effortlessly authoritative. He had a boxer’s thickly muscled figure, yes, but also the glossy impenetrability of the high aristocracy.
“If that’s all?” Bexley raised his eyebrows.
John, who’d spent much of his youth teaching himself not to bow and scrape before such arrogance, suppressed the urge to scurry away like a cockroach caught in the kitchen. “Do you know where she is?”
Bexley stared.
“She’s with the Earl of Kingston.”
“You are presumptuous,” said Bexley. “And this conversation is over.”
John took an involuntary step back, then cursed himself. Enough, then. He’d made a gesture in honor of the feelings he’d had. He’d overstepped the bounds of polite behavior to do it, he’d been rebuffed, and that left him one step closer to leaving the country with a clean conscience.
But Bexley must have seen something in his expression, because he matched John’s step away with a step forward, slowly backing him against the wall of the pub.
“You drove her there,” Bexley said softly. “And now you come to me with lectures?”
“I didn’t drive her anywhere,” said John. “But if I had the right—if I were in your position—I’d get her out.”
“And then what?” Bexley rolled his shoulders. “Do you know why I’m so familiar with your name, Mr. Ware?”
“No. Not many are.”
“Because my sister read your books, and reread your books, throughout her childhood. I never looked farther than the cover, but even now I could probably describe the contents with some accuracy.”
“I understand she followed my early travels…”
“She followed them all the way to Egypt. She followed them to madness. Perhaps I shouldn’t blame you for that, but I do. So you’ll understand why I’m predisposed to find the very sight of you abhorrent.”
Well. He hadn’t expected that.
“And now you’ve made the whole country unsafe for her,” said Bexley. “If I were inclined to seek justice for my sister, I’d be taking it out of your hide, not Kingston’s.”
“The whole world is unsafe for her, so long as she has that pearl,” John protested.
“I spoke only of England.” Bexley paused. “My sister is not your charge. And if you can’t keep your distance, you’ll hear from me.”
Bexley continued on out of the pub, and John made his way back to Pym. On the platform, the champion had already moved on to a third contender—this new match every bit as unequal as the first and, presumably, the second had been.
It’s a rigged game, Kingston had said. And now everywhere he turned, he saw the same pattern. It wasn’t a fair fight on that platform. Not even close. But the newcomer kept getting up, battered and bloody, squaring off at the chalk line only to be knocked down again. A boxer took his lumps and fought until he dropped. Those were the rules.
And he remembered Lily at Holland House. Standing straight, chin up, a proud woman demanding her due. A woman like her did not explain. Did not beg. And just because she did not show fear, did not mean she never felt it.
Dear God. What had he done?
He knew lives were at stake. And he’d thought he had the knowledge to think more carefully, the experience to care more deeply than his more provincial brethren. But if he could be so blind and careless and foolish about Lady Lily—a woman he had seen, and spoken to, and thought he understood—how could he presume to dispose of others, nameless and faceless, across the seas?
On the platform, the “poor bastard” went down again. The champion showed no sign of flagging, but John didn’t want to see any more.
“I’ve had enough,” he told Pym. “This is a slaughter.”
Pym laughed. “That’s what makes it so bloody fantastic.”
John shuddered and made his way out to the street. He understood her anger, now. Bexley’s, too. I spoke only of England. Where her father’s influence was absolute. She’d sought protection where she could: with the same base, venal man who’d ruined her as a girl. Kingston had forced her into an obscene bargain, the last one left to her.
And now it was up to him to make it right.
Chapter Nineteen
Housekeeper (must leave England)
Governess (must leave England)
Schoolteacher (must leave England)
Translator (must leave England)
Lily chewed on the end of her pen as she scowled down at the list she’d made. It was hard to be practical from inside Alfie’s townhouse, designed from top to bottom to delight the senses. She sat at a desk in a room painted a pale celery green, holding an ivory pen with a cup of tea to hand, bergamot scenting the air. A painting of Venice filled the far wall, showing a flat sea busy with water traffic, a broad sunny sky, a row of vague palazzos like a horizontal stripe through the middle.
“How long do you think it would take my father to track me down if I wore a wig?” she wondered.
“A week,” Alfie answered. “Maybe two, if you left Town.”
He sprawled full-length on a sofa upholstered in spotless cream-colored silk brocade, arms crossed behind his head and feet propped on a bolster. Uncouth and improper, especially in the presence of a lady, but she was in no mood to complain. He’d offered her a room, privacy when she required it, company when she wanted. He’d rescued her, and she was grateful.
The essential problem remained, however. She hadn’t come to stay. But she needed money to leave.
She could solve all her problems in one fell swoop, if she chose. Sell al-Yatima, and done. She’d trade her troubles away and get rich in the process. She could take it to her father and reclaim her inheritance at last. Then she wouldn’t need to flee at all.
“Come, now,” Alfie chided. “You don’t really want to be a housekeeper.”
“I think I’d manage quite nicely. I’ve had charge of a household—several households—since I was a child.”
“But how long do you think you’d last below stairs? Working from dawn to dusk, falling into bed with aching feet every night, looking forward your one day of leisure every fortnight?”
“Alfie,” said Lily gently. “I traveled from Cairo to Damascus on foot. When I was seventeen. I won’t say it was terribly difficult, walking all day, but every morning I woke up knowing that if I’d just turn around, go back in the opposite direction, I’d have my old life back.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Lily looked to the low table at the center of the room. Alfie had posed al-Yatima there, cupped by a large upturned seashell. The base of the pearl reflected the shell’s polished, fleshy pink interior while its upper half shone clear, perfectly framed by the cool green walls. “I came close. My pride couldn’t have carried me all that way, I can promise you. I was lucky enough to meet Rustem before I gave up.”
“You married a Turk?” Alfie’s frowned. “I suppose you had no choice.”
“I had choices,” Lily countered. “I could have kept walking. I could have waited for someone else to come along, or—as I mentioned—turned around.”
“Then why accept? I’ve known you a long time, Lily, and that sounds like the most reckless thing you’ve ever done.”
“I liked the way that people looked at Rustem. His family trusted him. His servants weren’t afraid of him.” Lily went back to staring at her list. She twirled her pen, splattering the page with ink. “It was a good choice. He was a wonderful man. Strong and kind. Attentive.”
“Congratulations on your excellent luck,” said Alfie, obviously insincere. “I could pay for your passage to America.”
Lily glared over at him.
“Consider it a loan.” He shrugged. “I won’t protest.”
“It makes me suspicious to find you so agreeable.”
“Why, Lily.” He widened his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
“Alfie, when I was twelve you stuffed worms into a cake, covered them with icing, and tricked me into taking a bite.” Lily shuddered theatrically. “I learned the hard way to look twice at gifts from you.”
“And you retaliated by having me elected president of the West Sussex Young Entomologists Society,” he retorted. “Of the two of us, you’ve always been the more devious.”
Lily smiled. “You liked it enough to run for a second term.”
“And lost without you to arrange things behind the scenes.”
“You never built the butterfly habitat I promised on your behalf,” said Lily.
“Keeping promises has never been a strength of mine,” he admitted.
“I’m sorry about your mother and Georgina,” said Lily. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard. I loved them both.”
“I know. I did too.” A smile played about the corners of his lips. “Do you really need to ask why I’m offering to help you? We were friends, and more than friends. Ask me for anything, Lily, and it’s yours.”
Lily narrowed her eyes.
“Where’s the ulterior motive? I’m offering to send you away.” He rolled his eyes. “These days spent cowering indoors are beginning to tell on you.”
A knock sounded at the front door. A moment later, Alfie’s butler glided into the room with a white card on a silver salver. Alfie held out his hand and waved for the butler to place it between his fingers.
“Worse and worse,” said Alfie, when he’d finished reading. “It’s Ware.”
“What are the chances that one of the women you’ve wronged wants to see you dead?”
Alfie shrugged. “You read the letters. You tell me.”
Lily made a face. “How do you live with yourself?”
“Oh, Lily.” Alfie grinned at her, recumbent and catlike. “You don’t want to know the answer to that question.”
“Let’s go,” she said, disgusted. “While I’m still in the mood to shoot you.”
§
Alfie’s formal drawing room had walls clad in brownish maroon silk. But the fabric was hardly visible beneath the paintings crowding almost every inch of flat space, frame jostling frame, and every one depicting a laughing woman.
The effect was rattling on its own, and Alfie, with his humorless smile, seemed more than a little sinister when surrounded by so much mirth.
Ware went gray when he saw her. Furrows appeared in his soft cheeks—as though sorrow had dug tracks into his flesh.
Lily refused to follow his gaze down her own body. She knew what she was wearing: a pair of cotton petticoats, chemise and stays, covered for the sake of modesty by one of Alfie’s lawn shirts that she’d left open at the neck. Stockings but no shoes, hair in a loose knot. She knew what Ware must think, but she no longer had any use for his good opinion.
“I had to flee my own home with nothing but the clothes on my back,” she blurted, justifying herself anyhow. “I can’t afford to ruin my only dress with overuse.”
Ware slipped his icy gaze over to Alfie. “Just the same, he might have let you keep it on.”
L
ily stiffened. She felt something like ants crawling up her arms, fire in the air she breathed. Her chin raised up a notch.
“I know the price of a man’s protection,” he added.
She was standing right in front of him, her arm raised high, before she’d really decided to move. She hesitated, awareness catching up with passion in a moment of complete conviction.
And then she slapped him with all her strength.
The crack was loud enough to make her flinch. Ware’s head snapped back and he reeled, palming the injured cheek. Her own palm stung; a dull ache traveled up the bones in her arm, all the way to the shoulder.
“Watch yourself, Mr. Ware.” Lily shook out the pain of impact. “It wasn’t so long ago that you tried to trade your body for my secrets.”
“That was never my intention.” He let his arm drop, revealing the livid imprint of her hand on his cheek. The gap between where her second and third fingers had hit made a pale vee right down the middle. “You misunderstood.”
“Then we have something in common,” said Lily, with a faint smile.
He frowned but didn’t comprehend. It was probably beyond him—of course Alfie was a scoundrel, and she a whore. What other possibilities could he imagine? At a guess: none.
“You must have spoken to your friend.” The last of her anger drained away and left her hollow. She laid a hand against her stomach, bracing herself. She joked, but she did not hold out much hope for Alfie. He had grown too comfortable with depravity. “What did she say?”
“She told a very different story than her father,” said Ware. “She expressed regret, but no anger.”
Lily’s head spun. “Truly?”
“Such faith you have,” murmured Alfie.
“She didn’t realize that she’d been manipulated,” Ware continued. “She thought that she’d instigated the liaison and pursued Kingston, despite his earnest attempts to dissuade her.”
“Ah,” said Alfie, in a tone of dawning comprehension. Lily suspected he’d figured out which young lady Ware was talking about. She would have to ask him, later.