“Does Mr. Garrett, too, become agitated?”
“Not of late.” The keeper unlatched a small observational panel and peered within before unlocking the door.
“If you’d rather,” Randolph said, “this interview could take place below stairs.”
“Those in 23 are not to interact with the others.” The keeper’s keys jingled as he dropped the length of chain. “That’s Mr. Garrett, by the window. The biter is in the corner. Any trouble, give a shout. Mind you, I cannot promise quick help. There are too few of us and too many of them.”
Randolph nodded. The biter huddled in the corner by the door, eyes closed and lips moving as if in silent prayer. Garrett sat in a wooden chair, staring out the window, gaze still. Neither marked his entrance. The keeper’s key clicked ominously as he turned the lock.
Randolph observed the man who was his best hope of shedding light on the hidden links between Baneham, Eustace, and Kasai. Harrison and Sullivan had failed to force a response from him—and they had shared with Garrett the horrible bond of imprisonment after ambush by Kasai—the imprisonment that had led to Garrett’s pledge of loyalty to the mercenary.
Someone in the Company must have known the men from that ambush had voluntarily joined Kasai’s army, but had led everyone to believe that they had been killed. How many other ambushes and subsequent “recruits” had there been? And why did Garrett insist he would speak only to Baneham?
How had Garrett known Baneham and why did he not know of Baneham’s death?
Randolph would do whatever necessary to get answers. He eyed Garrett carefully. Shaking knowledge out of the man was out of the question. He could not yell, and intimidate, and make demands—Sullivan had tried all three to no avail. Randolph walked to the window and leaned against the frame. Outside all was grey. Constant lines of rain blurred the inner courtyard bricks.
He turned back to Garrett.
“Mr. Garrett,” Randolph began, “you requested Earl Baneham. I have come in his stead.”
Garrett did not move—his eyes, the color of lichen, haunted his gaunt face. “Harrison and Sullivan shared a cell with you when you were imprisoned by Kasai.”
Nothing. Randolph eyed the scar on the lobe of Garrett’s ear marking the place it had been pierced.
“I suppose he told you, how surprised he was to find you alive and in England after you had—what do the pamphlet writers call it?—gone native?”
The flesh beneath Garrett’s eye quivered, but he made no voluntary response. Randolph sucked in a frustrated breath. At least he was certain Garrett heard.
“Kasai offered freedom to those of you who pledged their loyalty—didn’t he? Harrison and Sullivan witnessed Kasai’s brute shave your head and pierce your ear. Submitting to a killer must have galled, even if you had thought you had seen them kill a duke’s heir.”
Still nothing.
Randolph dragged a chair from the praying fellow’s side of the room. He intended to face Garrett, but something in him made him change course. He placed the chair by Garrett’s side and faced the window. He copied Garrett’s posture and gaze.
The empty courtyard beyond remained unchanged but for the streaks of rain. The drops rat-a-tat-tapped the glass. He inhaled as Garrett inhaled, exhaled as Garrett exhaled, trying to understand, trying to see what others had missed.
Garrett had loved life so much he had chosen to save himself by doing the unthinkable—committing treason by renouncing his country. And yet, what did he do with his life now but waste it in the impenetrable silence of these walls. Why?
Randolph’s eyes hurt, but he continued to stare, fixedly. As he stared, he let the feelings of hopelessness rise like mud from a swollen river. Powerful. Rushing. Heavy with the scent of death. Hopelessness worse than what he had felt when walking down the hall to this cell. Hopelessness possibly rooted in the choice Garrett had made. A choice that, since he was here, had not turned out as Garrett had expected or intended.
How did he come to be here?
How had he slipped past the customs agents? He must have had falsified records, and come back into the country under an assumed name. Why return with the proof of his change of allegiance obvious in his ear? Had service to “the butcher” been too much for him? What had he seen?
Randolph turned to look at Garrett’s profile. Only, now that he was able to look closer he noticed—there wasn’t just the dot of a scar. The ring had been pulled from his ear.
Kasai? Most likely not. If Garrett had been suspected of reneging on his pledge of fealty, he would have been killed in an instant.
“Did you do it?” he asked. “Did you pull the sign of your subservience from your ear?”
Again, Garrett’s cheek twitched, but he said nothing.
“I understand a weary conscience. Treason weighs heavy on a man.” He rubbed the bottom of his chin as he thought. “And for you, sedition twice over—once when you denied England, once when you denied Kasai.”
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Randolph clenched his teeth. Anger born of his failure tightened the tendons in his neck. He must have bloody answers, and soon. Sophia—who he loved, God curse his weakness—could be with his child. The fight had become intimate.
He narrowed his eyes at Garrett. Perhaps family was the answer. Garrett could remain aloof here. But what if Randolph dangled something that mattered to Garrett before his eyes? His former home, perhaps? His family. Then, they’d see how long he would remain impervious.
He would ask Harrison to make arrangements to transfer Garrett. He stood, walked to the door, and called for the keeper. The keeper replied, distant and unintelligible.
“A trip, I think, is in order, Mr. Garrett.”
Garrett’s eye twitched. He jerked his head to the side. His lichen gaze glowed with murderous rage.
Ah. A response.
“What do you know of Baneham?” Garrett’s voice was gravel and pitch—heavy and low and nearly indecipherable.
“He is dead.”
Garrett nostrils flared as he inhaled—sharp and deep. “When?”
“Murdered. Three years ago.”
Garrett looked back out into the courtyard. “Then Kasai will win.” The look in his eyes grew bleaker. “No one but Baneham had any hope of defeating him.”
“What do you know of Kasai?” Randolph asked. “Of Baneham?”
“The question is—what do you know? The answer: less than you think.”
Randolph felt a tingling in his neck—the awareness that a missing piece was vitally close. But what could Garrett know? He’d been here in this cell for four years and four years in such a place could do terrible things to a man’s mind.
“I trained,” Randolph said, “with Baneham.”
Garrett’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “If Baneham trained you, what is rule 23?”
Randolph answered instantly. “So long as you have breath, the fight is not over.”
Garrett exhaled. “You have your answer, don’t you? Baneham is dead. The fight is over.”
“The fight,” Randolph said, “is not over. Baneham said Kasai would come for his daughter. His daughter still lives.”
“Kasai and Baneham’s daughter.” Garrett laughed. “A brilliant end to a complex tale.”
“He wants her fortune—”
“Of course he does. With her hand and her fortune his entre back into society would be complete. A viper right in the heart of the ton.”
Randolph frowned. “He has set his sights on England, yes. But why would society welcome a Mughal mercenary?”
Garrett turned to Randolph with a chilling smile. “You think you know a great deal.”
“What am I missing?”
“Kasai was a fiction Baneham created—a fiction someone chose to make real. And that someone is just as English as you or I.”
The words were low and barely whispered, but they stilled everything within Randolph. Even the man in the corner stopped his murmur.
He l
urched forward and grabbed Garrett’s shoulders. “Who?! Who has been playing Kasai?”
“Do you think I’d be alive if I saw his face?” Garrett’s voice was layered with disgust. “That abduction was meant to be a fiction—a scare to use as leverage. Someone turned.”
Randolph let him go. “If you never saw Kasai’s face, how do you know he is English?”
“Baneham knew—when he temporarily sent me here for my protection. Eustace knew. Men in the government know.” He smiled another terrible smile. “The plot ran far above even someone with Baneham’s power. He was gathering proof—of which I was to be a part. His proof—I suppose—that is now as lost as he is. As is any hope of stopping Kasai.”
Sophia said she’d found nothing in Baneham’s papers—but it had to be there.
“If you looked through Baneham’s papers,” Randolph asked, “would you understand what you saw?”
Garrett cocked his head. “I could try. But you’ll find getting me out of here to be difficult.”
“Nonsense,” Randolph said. “The Under Secretary will secure the means—”
“The Under Secretary?” Garrett inhaled. “The Under Secretary owns the madhouse.” He shook his head. “If the Under Secretary is your only ally, it is already too late—for me, for you, for Baneham’s daughter, and for England.”
“I swear I will get you out.” Randolph set his jaw. “I will return.”
…
Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning
“Demand a complete and honest report.”
The residents of Elizabeth’s farm had gathered around the table with their heads bowed in silent prayer. Every resident but the one who had not yet returned. Sophia’s prayer was simple, direct and urgent.
Keep him safe.
She opened her left eye and squinted out into the courtyard. The door remained firmly closed, and the lane beyond devoid of the thump and clatter of hooves. Nothing.
Worry squat in her gut, wet-rag heavy. Randolph would be back. She must believe. She must trust. She closed her eyes, willing herself toward a deeper presence with what Elizabeth called the Light.
She let the silence of the others’ prayers seep into her presence. Wordless. Amorphous. More feeling than thought. But worry’s weight still clung like a bell-clap to the base of her exhale. Beneath her closed lids, her eyes stung with unshed tears. She had not cried since she was a child, but she’d become a fountain these past few weeks.
Worry wasn’t even the right word for the restless need pervading her being.
Last night, she had been sure Randolph was too mired in a dark world. But this morning, he’d been patient with her fears. When he had asked her to act as Lady Randolph, the feeling had been right, like a satisfying end to a life-long wait.
Two futures unfurled in her mind. In one, she remained solitary. In the other, there was Randolph. Neither felt quite right. She needed the Furies and she needed them fast.
But first, Randolph must return.
What could she use to counter-balance her worry? She attempted to conjure a sense of peace, as Elizabeth described—perhaps not divine, but peace nonetheless. Sophia’s peace was in part, a half remembered dream from the time before she had learned the truth about Baneham and in part, the feeling that enveloped her when she placed her head on Randolph’s shoulder.
Wrapped in peace, she uttered another prayer. Bring him home.
Which did not seem enough. She added, please.
Better, but still not enough. Bring him home, please, and I will…
She would what?
She thought of the hardest thing she could do—harder than giving up her silks, even. The answer came easily enough: tell Randolph the truth. Tell him she threw the final game because she had wanted to be his wife.
She bit her bottom lip hard—admitting her foolish deception would be difficult, but something else scared her more: mending the mockery she had made of marriage. She should tell Randolph she had not intended to care for him—she felt a cold shiver through her heart—but she had come to care and now wanted…
More.
Her heart galloped. To admit such a vulnerability aloud, and then to wait in silence for his answer…impossible.
But the tug in her heart said that was what she must do. Frustratingly, her heart failed to assure her of Randolph’s response. On the other hand, she had the sense that, if she risked telling Randolph those things, peace—real peace—could be hers, even if he did not wish to give her more.
She took a deep breath and silently spoke the vow into her heart: Bring him home please, and—
She stopped, suddenly imagining what Elizabeth would say…do not bargain with the Light, Jane.
She amended her prayer yet again: Bring him home so I may tell him the truth about our wager. I will show him I care. She had the same sensation she experienced when she finished the day’s washing—sweaty but accomplished, like something she had done mattered.
The silent time ended. She hoped her tenuous peace would be enough to allow her to swallow.
As she stood, she heard a sound. Faraway. Hooves. She strained, parsing the noise—no carriage rattle, just hooves.
“Go,” Elizabeth said.
Taking the lamp she had lit in preparation for Randolph’s return, she went out into the yard. She fisted her apron in her hands. In moonlight’s haunted glow, he and Charlemagne together formed a silhouette she would never forget.
Thank God. She backed toward the stables, hooked the lamp in the doorway, and leaned against the stall.
Charlemagne slowed as they approached. Randolph’s greatcoat was spattered with mud; he had ridden hard and the afternoon had been wet and windy. Only his eyes shown out from the scarf he had wrapped over his face, and in the dark, she could not discern his expression.
“You came back,” she said, blinking to stem the sudden rush of wetness.
He pulled down the scarf.
“I should have gone to Harrison first but I half-expected a militia on my heels.”
“I did not call them,” she said. “Elizabeth’s farm is a place of peace.”
“You were not concerned, after all?”
“I was terrified. Will you go to Harrison now?”
“I will go at first light.” Randolph dismounted. “Half the road clings to my coat. Right now I would just like—oomph.”
Sophia launched into his arms. He smelled of sweat, horse, and dust, but she did not care. All that mattered was he was safe in her arms. His life-heat soothed as she inelegantly wrapped him with both arms and legs.
His hands, warm from exertion, cupped her bottom. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly. A kiss leaving her without a doubt there was no place he would rather be than right there.
She broke the kiss, touched her forehead to his, and sighed.
“I have to attend to Charlemagne, sweet.” He let her slide to her feet. “He was under strict orders to deliver me into your keeping before nightfall.”
“And so he has.” She knew Charlemagne was a good horse.
Sophia watched Randolph work by the glow of the stable lamp. He took great care with his animal—the bond between them was touching and real. But, she noticed he looked different than he had this morning. Weary.
When finished, he took her hand and headed toward the cottage.
She asked, “Did you see the man?”
“Yes.” His pace quickened and she had to skip to catch up.
“Well?” she asked.
Randolph stopped walking.
“Did he reveal anything of importance?”
His greatcoat shifted as his shoulders tightened. Heart in her throat, she waited. Would he trust her with his knowledge or leave her, literally, in the dark?
“Must we speak of this now?” His gruff answer spoke of fatigue and something more.
The dark and menacing presence of her father loomed at her shoulder. Demand a complete and honest report. The call of her heart was stronger. There would be time for them to tal
k, she reasoned. Randolph was weary. Doubtless hungry, too.
“They are eating within,” she offered. “We can go—”
“After that welcome, I am no longer hungry, at least not for food.” His smile, though plainly carnal, was neither as deep nor as wolfish as usual. Something was weighing on his mind.
“I—I…” She what? She wanted him to trust her with his news. And, she had things she needed to tell him, too. Important things. Things she’d used to bargain for his life.
“Ah, sweetness,” he wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her close. “I’ve thought of nothing but you the whole way back.”
…Things that could wait.
“Let us go clean you up.”
He grinned. “I need a very thorough cleaning.”
Her knees grew weak—but her stomach commanded she think of the future.
“I will get some bread and hard cheese from Elizabeth’s larder—for later.”
“Do not tarry,” he said.
She nodded.
She retrieved food, vowing she would tell him all she had promised to tell him once she’d brought him comfort. She placed the food on the table in the cottage kitchen, and returned to the door, where his greatcoat hung on a hook. She pressed her face into the coat’s still-warm folds and inhaled.
“Sophia,” he called. “Is that you?”
…she would definitely tell him by tomorrow, just after she asked him what had transpired at the madhouse.
She climbed the stairs and entered the bedchamber, joining him by the side of the bed. He had stripped to shirt, breeches, and hose. Gently she ran a finger beneath his braces following the line from shoulder to waist.
She caught his eye with a shy smile. “Shall I help?”
“Please,” he answered.
As she pulled each brace down from his muscled shoulders she continued, “I miss your court dress. But simple clothing has its pleasures.”
“Oh?” He asked.
“No need for a valet,” she whispered. “Nor a lady’s maid.”
“Turn around, sweetness. We’ll share the burden of service.”
He went to work on her clothing—a bundle of ties and buttons his hands removed with speed—although not without fumble. When left in just her shift, she pivoted. She gathered his shirt in her hands and lifted it over his head. She cast the shirt aside and left her hands resting against the smattering of hair on his chest.
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