“Maybe, but—”
“Now,” he said quietly against her mouth, “you said you don’t deserve me. That is a repellent thought. I also cannot accept what made you say it. It is nonsense and it makes me angry. Take it back—now. We’ll keep mum for the time being about the bloody lamp and the scroll.”
“All right.” She sniffed. “Would you just kiss me one time? If you do, then I swear I’ll run.”
He kissed her and she ran. He stood there in the middle of his bedchamber, panting like the messenger who had run from Marathon to Athens, only to drop dead at the end. He wondered what it was this particular woman did to him. And he was very grateful for it.
Sir John Yorke was a desiccated old relic who was perfectly bald, had very frightening eyes because they had practically no color at all, and had a tic by the side of his left eye.
He was still very powerful. He was known to be ruthless and vicious when he perceived the need.
He was tapping together his steepled fingertips. The skin was loose on the back of his age-spotted hands.
He merely nodded to the three gentlemen. He knew all of them, not as friends but as powerful men, and that gave him no choice at all but to see them, to listen to them. He had no idea what they wanted. He looked at them, all young, healthy, well made. Their ranks were higher than his. They were all richer than he was. But the only one he truly feared was the earl of Northcliffe, who was still involved in the ministry for an occasional mission that a lesser man would not be able to perform. He was well connected to everyone of power in the government. As for his brother, Ryder Sherbrooke was newly elected to the House of Commons. He detested all of them. He had no choice but to deal with them, but then, thank God, they would leave. Good riddance to all the worthless bastards. He smiled a stingy, false smile.
He did not rise. “What may I do for you gentlemen?”
Lord Beecham said pleasantly, “We are here to verify that your son, Gerard Yorke, indeed drowned off the coast of France in 1803.”
Ryder Sherbrooke watched those pale lashes flicker just once over the nearly colorless eyes. Got you, he thought, sat back, and folded his hands over his belly.
“Of course he drowned,” Sir John said, his voice rising. “He was a hero. He would have followed me into the Admiralty had he survived. Your question is nonsense.”
“Then how do you explain this?” Lord Beecham asked, handing Sir John the letter.
“Ah, I understand this now. My former daughter-in-law, has dragged you into this. I wondered what three society gentlemen wanted with me. You are acting on her behalf. Well, well, let us get it over with. This is not my son’s handwriting. She knows that. My son is dead.”
“Miss Mayberry believes that it is Gerard Yorke’s handwriting,” Douglas said, sitting forward, his eyes steady on Sir John’s face. “She told us that you didn’t know your son’s handwriting all that well.”
They heard the movement of Sir John’s secretary behind them, by they didn’t turn.
“She is wrong. Naturally I know his handwriting. More to the point, she is probably a liar. She needs money and thus she creates this wretched fiction. She did not produce a child for me—for my son—and thus she doesn’t deserve any consideration whatsoever. Please inform her that I will not be pleased if she continues with this harassment.”
Lord Beecham said very pleasantly, “I believe there is a misunderstanding here, Sir John. I wish to wed Miss Mayberry. With this letter from your son, it appears that she is not free, as she had believed for eight long years. We will require proof that he is indeed dead, else we will have to advertise in all the newspapers, speak to everyone we know, search out any friends of his, to find out the truth.”
Sir John rose slowly, very slowly, because his hip pained him badly, nearly all the time now, and there was no reason for it, was there? None that his physician could find. It was just age, just bloody age. At least his blood was pumping strongly through his body, he could feel it pounding in his neck. “My son is dead, long dead. Wed Miss Mayberry with my blessing, Lord Beecham.”
“I shall, sir. I shall also do whatever I can to ensure that he is indeed dead.”
When the three of them were on the street in Whitehall, in front of the Admiralty, Lord Beecham was shaking his head. “That old man is wily. I don’t trust him an inch.”
Ryder said without hesitation, “He is also lying.”
“Trust Ryder,” Douglas said when he realized that Spenser was unsure about this. “He has always been excellent at seeing through people.”
Lord Beecham stepped closer to the iron fence surrounding the Admiralty as a carriage came careening around a corner. “You mean he knows his son is still alive?”
“Oh, yes,” Ryder said. “He knows. But the strange thing is, he doesn’t want anyone else to know. Now why is that, do you think?”
“Yes, and do not forget that Gerard was a hero,” Spenser said. “He would have followed his father into the Admiralty if only he had lived. Well, hell and damnation. If he truly is alive, then I can’t very well marry Helen. What will we do?”
“We will have to wait,” Ryder said. “Just wait for the moment. Let us put announcements in all the newspapers.”
“This is curious indeed,” said Douglas. “Yes, we will have to wait.”
Spenser didn’t like it, but there was simply nothing he could do about it. He had prayed that Gerard Yorke was indeed dead. But now?
The three gentlemen adjourned to White’s to ponder this more thoroughly and to ask every man who strolled by if he had heard from, remembered, or had seen Gerard Yorke after 1803. They knew that by morning Gerard Yorke’s name would be on everyone’s lips. While at White’s, Lord Beecham wrote betrothal announcements to every London newspaper. The one he wrote for the Gazette was indeed splendid, filled with detail. Then he wrote inquiries for each newspaper requesting any information about the whereabouts of one Gerard Yorke, son of Sir John Yorke of the Admiralty. That should really please the old man, he thought. He offered a fifty-pound reward. He was rubbing his hands together, grinning like the devil himself after collecting a tidy number of souls.
Douglas and Ryder added their ideas. Everyone was pleased when all the announcements and inquiries were sent all over London by messenger.
When they returned to the Beecham town house, it was to meet Lord Hobbs in the drawing room—sitting much too close to Helen, Lord Beecham thought, his jaw clenching. I am jealous, he thought, and that amazed him. He saw Helen again in that incredible red-silk confection, saw Lord Hobbs trying to see her too, and it made him so furious he nearly attacked the man on the spot. Jealousy—what a very strange thing it was.
Lord Hobbs was once again dressed all in gray, and Helen, to Lord Beecham’s eye, looked much too interested in what he was saying, the poaching bastard. He got hold of himself. He was being ridiculous. Jealousy was fine as an experiment, but he didn’t want any more of it.
Lord Hobbs rose and was dutifully introduced to Ryder Sherbrooke.
“I understand you just took the seat for Upper and Lower Slaughter. My congratulations.”
Ryder nodded. “I like all the gray,” he said.
Lord Hobbs looked quickly over at Helen, and Ryder would have sworn that he flushed just a bit.
Helen said immediately once everyone was settled, “Lord Hobbs tells us that Ezra Cave believes Lord Crowley to be guilty.”
“Yes,” Lord Hobbs said. “I was fascinated to hear that Lord Crowley rode to Court Hammering to see you, Lord Beecham, to plead his innocence.”
“Yes, he did.” Lord Beecham looked directly into Helen’s incredibly beautiful blue eyes, “Trust me on this. And I hate to say it, but I believe him.”
Douglas Sherbrooke cursed.
Lord Hobbs didn’t look happy. “He is a wicked man. Everyone I have spoken with confirms that.”
“Yes, I know. But do you know, my lord, he told me he didn’t think Reverend Older did it because he hasn’t the guts. However, a
bout Reverend Mathers’s brother—Old Clothhead—it turns out that not only did he argue with Reverend Mathers, he also has a young wife who wants jewelry and such. Is it possible that Old Clothhead stole the scroll after he killed his brother because he thought he might be able to make money off it?”
“I don’t know. I will look once more at the brother and his young wife. Who else is there, then?”
“Lord Hobbs,” Helen said, handing him a cup of tea, “perhaps there is someone we don’t know about who is overseeing all of this? Someone who is directing all this from the shadows, who is watching all of us, waiting to see where we will go to find the lamp?”
Lord Hobbs gave Helen a melting smile that made Lord Beecham grind his teeth, something that Ryder heard. He smiled at his wife, who immediately ducked her head so no one could see the grin on her face.
“That is an excellent suggestion, Miss Mayberry. A shadowy evil that directs and plans, that watches and waits.”
“Yes,” Helen said, “that’s it exactly.”
“It is a ridiculous suggestion,” Lord Beecham said, his voice overloud. He jumped to his feet and began pacing the drawing room. “Helen, you haven’t ever once intimated that you believed this could be the case. A shadowy character who is hiding his identity from us? Who is pulling all the strings? And we are just a bunch of puppets on a stage? Absurd. You drew that out of one of your silly women’s novels, didn’t you?”
“Oh, dear,” Alexandra said. She rose, shook out her skirts, and walked to stand directly in front of Helen. “I have the beginnings of a headache, Helen. I need you to ask Teeny to dab some rose water on my temples.”
“I will tell Teeny that she is needed,” Flock said from the doorway. “I will at the same time make certain that Nettle is nowhere near her, causing mischief.”
Lord Hobbs’s eyebrows went up. “There appears to be disharmony here, my lord.”
“Which lord?”
“Why you, Lord Beecham. This is your house, is it not?”
“Yes, and Miss Mayberry is my betrothed.”
“Ah, yes. I see. A pity.” Lord Hobbs rose. “I will continue with my inquiries. I assume all of you are well involved as well?”
There were nods from all over the drawing room.
“Have you discovered any more about this mysterious and ancient lamp that has more power than the devil himself?”
Lord Beecham opened, then quickly shut, his mouth. No, he would keep quiet about that. That was what Helen wanted. They shook their heads.
Once Lord Hobbs was out the front door, Helen turned on Lord Beecham and yelled right in his face, “Your behavior was very childish. You sounded like a petulant little boy. You deserve a Level Eight for that.”
“What’s a Level Eight?” Ryder Sherbrooke asked.
“They’re speaking of discipline,” Douglas said. “Level Eight is serious business. Just what is involved, Helen?”
“I won’t tell you, Douglas. I will, however, tell Alexandra so she may use it on you whenever she decides you deserve it.”
“I want to know, too,” Sophie Sherbrooke said. “I want to know all the levels. I want to torture Ryder. I want to make him howl.”
Alexandra rubbed her hands together. “Yes, I want to know more about bindings and knots and ropes and such. Douglas is very forceful. He is also very big. I want him helpless. I want him entirely focused on what I am doing to him. Is this possible?”
“Oh, yes,” said Helen. “All right, ladies, I suggest that all of us adjourn to Spenser’s study. I will explain to you the disciplines I’ve developed that fit each Level. We can also devise new ones if you like.”
“Well, damn,” Ryder Sherbrooke said, staring at his departing wife. “What are we in for, Spenser?”
“A variety of punishments that will surely curl your toes.”
Douglas said, “I must ask Helen to tell me the level of the exquisite discipline my dearest wife performed on me last week. Curled toes was just the beginning.”
“By God, this is wonderful,” Ryder said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m very glad Sophie and I stopped by, Spenser. I doubt we can manage to keep our minds focused, but perhaps you should tell me more about this lamp business before the ladies return, fire in their eyes and discipline plans overflowing their brains.”
“She wants me helpless, does she?” said Douglas, and he sat back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and gazed off at nothing at all.
“Before we speak of the lamp,” Spenser said, “let me give you several examples of Helen’s discipline system.”
“Ah, yes,” Douglas said. “Then I will tell you what I came up with just last Saturday morning.”
“What an unexpected pleasure this visit has turned out to be,” Ryder said and drank his tea as he sat forward, all attention, not even realizing the tea was cold.
Spenser frowned at all of them. “I just remembered. We must plan our formal engagement ball. I want everyone in London to be here.”
“Yes, yes, we’ll do all that,” Ryder said. “But first things first, Spenser.”
28
IT WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE their formal engagement ball. The name of Gerard Yorke was on everyone’s lips. Old gossip was resurrected, new gossip added to the mix.
Lord Beecham’s drawing room was filled from morning until night. Everyone wanted to talk about Gerard Yorke and this fabulous lamp, and the murder of Reverend Mathers, but mainly everyone wanted to know everything about the magic lamp. Both Spenser and Helen told the same story, over and over. The lamp was a myth, a charming, titillating legend unfortunately with no basis in fact. No, the scroll had been no help at all.
There were scores of people arriving at the house who wanted the fifty-pound reward for information about Gerard Yorke. There were more scores of people arriving at the house who wanted the fifty-pound reward for information about the murder of Reverend Mathers. Helen held her breath whenever one of these individuals arrived—they were a scruffy lot, hats pulled low over their eyes, knives stuck in the bands of their none-too-clean trousers. Pliny Blunder, Lord Beecham’s secretary, was kept busy from early morning until late at night reviewing each claim to the groats.
As of midnight tonight, three days after all the announcements and the inquiries had been in the newspapers, there were still no pertinent leads; apparently, none of the shifty characters who swore they’d just seen Gerard Yorke at the White Horse Inn just outside of Greenwich were telling the truth. And there was nothing pertinent either about the murder of poor Reverend Mathers. If there was one thing Pliny Blunder excelled at, it was ferreting out pretenders, liars, and just plain dregs.
There was also endless talk all over London of the magic lamp that no one really believed in at all, but it made for fascinating conversation, particularly since Lord Beecham, that naughty and very clever man, was involved in the business. London was having a fine time with the entertainment Lord Beecham was providing them.
As for his fiancée, Miss Helen Mayberry was glorious—all agreed to it, even those ladies, obviously jealous, who would say behind their hands that she was just a tad too tall.
Tomorrow night, Helen thought, as she sank deeper into the soft bed in her bedchamber that wasn’t more than thirty feet from Spenser’s bedchamber, curse him. Tomorrow night, and they would announce their betrothal. Where the devil was Gerard Yorke? If he was alive, surely he wouldn’t wait until the last minute. Surely he had to strike soon. It was odd, but she didn’t remember if he had ever shown much courage. Perhaps there hadn’t been the opportunity.
It happened so quickly that Helen had no time to strike out or to yell. One moment she was sleeping soundly, dreamlessly, and the next a handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth just as a fist hit her jaw, knocking her senseless.
She thought she heard a man’s voice say, “Good, we’ve got her now.” Then she just drifted away.
She felt a pounding, a very deep pounding that seemed to fill her and make her want to scream at the
pain it brought. She didn’t want to recognize it, to accept it, but finally she had to. Her head was going to explode and there was nothing she could do about it. She gasped.
“Ah, you are going to wake up now, Helen?”
That voice—she knew that voice, but it had been so very long since she’d heard it, so long ago, a lifetime ago. And it was different now somehow, perhaps deeper and harsher, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Open your eyes, Helen.”
She did then, gasping again with the pain. She looked up at Gerard Yorke, an older Gerard Yorke, one who had lived hard. She knew dissipation when she saw it, and Gerard had not spent the past eight years in search of sainthood.
“How are you, my dear?”
“I knew you were alive, I just knew it. What rock were you hiding under?”
“Do you want me to strike you again? I suggest you keep your insults behind your teeth. Now, you wanted me dead, didn’t you, Helen? Then you could marry that womanizing rakehell Beecham. Actually I hadn’t planned to come get you so very quickly, but I did not want to wait until after your damned ball.
“You wanted to flush me out. Well, you succeeded. I waited as long as I could, hoping that society would forget about me and the lamp, but it is just growing and growing. I have kept myself so well hidden that I even wondered if I could find myself. But it is over now. It simply hasn’t turned out the way you planned.”
“You came as a thief in the night, not as an honorable man, the hero, back from possible captivity in France.”
“You are even lovelier than you were ten years ago, Helen.”
“Why are you alive, Gerard?”
He sat back. He was more in focus now. She realized she couldn’t move. She was tied down, her wrists tied in front of her, her ankles bound together. She was still wearing her nightgown. A blanket was pulled to her waist. Her feet were bare. It was cold in the room, wherever the room was.
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