If His Kiss Is Wicked

by Jo Goodman

  “Do not blame me, Emmalyn. You musn’t. He was so distraught that he might lose you. Have I not already told you that? Should I have been glad of it? He wanted you. Not me. He was giving me away. I was the one being abandoned, and he refused to see it.” Her voice began to rise steadily. “He should not have treated me so shabbily, not when I’ve done everything he asked. I am the image of my mother, am I not? Am I not the image of his beloved wife?”

  The sharp pitch of Marisol’s voice made Emma wince. She took a step backward just as Marisol lunged and made a grab for the stool. Emma feinted right and dove left, catching her hip on the corner of the table. Marisol swung the stool at her head and shoulders, and one of the legs caught Emma’s upper arm. She stumbled, trapped the hem of her day dress under her shoe, and nearly fell. Marisol spun with the momentum of the stool and came at her again.

  This time Emma had no chance to get away. She hunched like a hedgehog, hoping to take the worst of it on her back. The blow flattened her and robbed her of breath, but she still managed to kick out hard when she felt Marisol take her right leg by the ankle. Marisol was able to drag her only a few inches before Emma forced a release. Emma turned on her back and kicked again, catching Marisol in the midriff as she bent over. Marisol was thrown against one of the French doors. It slammed shut, forcing Marisol to pedal backward to keep her balance. The crown of her head thudded off the door frame. She cried out softly as Emma scrambled to her feet.

  Emma kicked aside the stool and retreated to the stairwell, never once taking her eyes from Marisol. She was out of reach, most likely out of danger, and Marisol was no longer regarding her as if she meant to attack. Her attention in fact was wandering to the view through the single open doorway.

  “Marisol?” Emma gripped the top of the handrail. “Step away from there. You can see there’s no balcony.”

  “Indeed,” Marisol said, turning. She inched closer to the opening and placed one hand on the slack length of rope that comprised the flimsy barrier to the outside. “Do you know what else I see, Emmalyn?”

  “I don’t, but come here and tell me.”

  Marisol glanced at Emma over her shoulder. Her smile was edged with regret. “Mr. Gardner has just arrived,” she said quietly. “And Neven is with him. I do not think that can bode well. Neven is out of patience with me, and your husband never had any.”

  Emma wondered what reassurances she might offer and could find none.

  Marisol’s slim smile was tinged with regret. “There is nothing left to say, is there? Even you realize there is nothing left to say.”

  Emma refused to give in as easily as that. She released the handrail and tentatively took a few steps toward Marisol. She extended one arm, palm up. “Please,” she said. “Come away. Come here.”

  “You would save me? That is what you’re thinking, isn’t it? You mean to save me. Even now it does not occur that I might take you by the hand and fling you away. It might be lovely, you know. To fly. Can you see yourself taking flight?”

  Emma could. Contrary to what Marisol said, Emma was ever conscious of her outstretched arm, of Marisol’s planted feet, of the breeze beating hard now against their skirts. She thought suddenly of the pair of young women in the park, the choices offered, the decisions made. The whip of the wind. The threatening rain. A bonnet lifted into the air and the impulsive leap to save it.

  Emma made that impulsive leap, launching herself into the air in the very moment that Marisol did the same. The perfect coordination of the flight might have been planned save for the direction each one of them took. Marisol dove for the street; Emma dove for Marisol.

  Emma heard the rent of fabric as her fingers curled tightly in Marisol’s skirts. Her shoulders were wrenched by the pull of Marisol’s weight, and she struggled to find better purchase without letting go. Marisol was struggling also, but her intentions ran counter to Emma’s. She flailed at the air and tried to wriggle from under Emma’s grasp, more than half of her body already dangling free over the threshold.

  Emma closed her ears to Marisol’s pleas and closed her eyes to the view of the street below. She held on, grimacing with the effort, tasting blood on her lip. She could feel Marisol successfully inching her way farther over the edge, dragging her along. The rope drooped a foot above her at its lowest point, but Emma knew if she reached for it with one hand, she would lose Marisol with the other. She pushed her hip against the door that was closed, seeking to slow Marisol’s steady creeping. The door shuddered, and for a moment Emma thought it might give way, but it held, even when she didn’t.

  The hands that suddenly gripped her waist caused Emma to sob with relief.

  “Hold on!” Restell was on his knees slipping one arm under Emma’s torso. “Charters is going to open the other door.”

  Beneath her, Emma could feel Marisol squirming harder. There was little left of her that was not twisting in the wind. The door scraped her hip and thigh as Neven yanked it open. Emma hardly felt it. Instead, she was aware of Neven dropping to the floor beside her and pushing himself over the lip. He extended his arms but could not reach Marisol’s flailing ones.

  “Pull me back, Restell,” Emma shouted. “I can hold her a little longer. Pull me so Neven can reach her.”

  Restell was loath to alter his grip on Emma’s waist. He tugged, but their position did not lend itself to creeping backward. He had to let go and reach over her taut shoulders to take her forearms in his hands, then he pulled as hard as he could, raising Emma, then raising Marisol.

  Neven leaned even farther out the opening, this time catching Marisol by the back of her dress just below her neck. “Take my hand, Marisol! For the love of God, take my hand!”

  “No!” It was Emma who cried out, not Marisol. “Don’t let her do that!”

  But Neven was already thrusting his other hand out, and Marisol reached back to grasp it. “I’ve got her!”

  “She has you!” Emma shouted. “She has your wrist!” There was another rending of fabric. Emma felt Marisol literally being torn from her hands. Restell was still pulling on her arms; his last effort was hard enough to yank her back into the studio. She twisted out from under him and rolled away. Scrambling to her knees, she saw that Restell was already moving to help Neven. Emma leaned her head out the opening. Marisol was no longer dangling headlong above the street. Her entire position had changed when she grabbed her fiancé and Emma had let go. Now she was swinging upright from Neven’s arm. “You have to grab her!” Emma told them. “Take her wrist!”

  Marisol looked up. She caught Emma’s eye and their glances held. The moment was infinitesimal. The moment was an eternity.

  And then she let go.

  Epilogue

  Lady Gardner rose to her knees on the quilt spread out beneath her and attempted to secure her husband’s attention by calling his name. As she was not confident he would respond to this overture, she also used expansive arm gestures, alternately waving him over, then pointing to the space on the blanket beside her.

  Sir Geoffrey glanced back at this wife, observed her comically urgent gesticulations, then looked somewhat longingly in the direction of the stream. A trout cleared the surface of the water in the exact spot he had hoped to make his first cast. Sighing, he hefted his rod and slew it over his shoulder, then with the joy of a man condemned, began dutifully trudging toward his wife.

  Emma observed Sir Geoffrey’s slow climb away from the stream and found herself smiling. She ducked behind her easel so no one save her husband saw her amusement.

  “Your mother is insistent that we should be left alone,” she said.

  Restell was lying back in the grass, resting on his elbows. His legs were crossed casually at the ankles and his frock coat was unbuttoned. Sunlight glanced off his pale hair. “That’s because she knows perfectly well that I have designs upon your person.” Lest Emma be in doubt regarding those designs, he raised an eyebrow and added a look that suggested all manner of licentious behavior.

  Emma merely
rolled her eyes. “It is because she fears that your father’s fly fishing will interfere with my composition. I think she will be disappointed to see how little I have accomplished this afternoon.” She set her brush down and eyed her work critically. “I do not think I have the skill to capture the industry of your family, Restell. They are not at all peaceful, you know.”

  Restell glanced over his shoulder. The patchwork of colorful blankets on the knoll behind him was all but invisible for the bodies sprawled across them. In various states of sated repose were Wynetta and Porter, the twins and their spouses, and Ferrin and Cybelline. Sir Geoffrey was already dropping to his knees beside his wife and in moments would be dreaming of all the trout he hadn’t caught. Hannah and Portia had managed to herd their younger nieces and nephews onto the largest quilt, but even they were napping or amusing themselves quietly.

  Restell’s mouth twitched. To his way of thinking the inhabitants of an opium den were more inclined to industry than his family. Like successive doses of laudanum, the picnic repast, trickling stream, cloudless autumn sky, and warm sunshine had a soporific layering effect. His father had tried to break away, but had surrendered to forces of nature that included his lady wife.

  He looked up at Emma. She was no longer regarding her painting, but regarding him instead. Her eyes were amused, and her lips twitched in a way that mirrored his. He liked these moments when they shared a thought without a word passing between them. The fact that they occurred more frequently of late was encouraging.

  She looked quite lovely. More importantly, she looked rested. Marisol’s suicide—and there were no illusions it was anything but that—had left Emma as battered as anything the Peele brothers had done to her. Having learned beyond a doubt that it was Marisol that wanted her dead was a blow like no fist could ever deliver.

  Restell observed that Emma’s response to the figurative beating was different than her reaction to the literal one. Where her fears had confined her before, in the aftermath of Marisol’s death they drove her relentlessly from the house. She went to the park almost daily and made a point of calling upon his mother and sisters several times each week. She accepted what invitations she decently could, preferring to be out of their home rather that in it. She attended Sir Arthur every morning and again in the evening, but never stayed above an hour on any visit, and as it became evident that his grief at Marisol’s passing would not impede his recovery, she visited even less. That behavior confounded Restell until Emma, at a point of utter exhaustion, had revealed the particulars of her last conversation with Marisol.

  Restell understood it was unlikely they would ever know the exact nature of the relationship Marisol had with her father, but he was inclined to believe that Marisol had not twisted the truth in the end. For Emma, her cousin’s final, damning confession made it impossible for her to be at rest in Sir Arthur’s presence. Her admiration for her uncle’s talent and appreciation for his instruction were not diminished, but in every other way her feeling for him was altered. Lady Rivendale also carefully disengaged herself from Sir Arthur’s side, raising the question in Restell’s mind of what she had come to suspect at the end. Perhaps, Restell thought, there would come a time when he would ask Sir Arthur if he’d forced his daughter to perform the intimate duties of a wife, but as he only expected a denial, he wondered what would be served by posing the question.

  What he decided to do instead was draw Emma away from London and applied to his brother for help. Ferrin was happy to oblige with an invitation to call upon him and Cybelline in the country. As often was the case with the Gardners, an invitation to one was somehow transformed into an invitation to all. For himself, Restell did not mind—Ferrin’s country estate had almost as many rooms as Buckingham Palace—but he had a twinge of sympathy for Ferrin who would be compelled to act the gracious host while the peace and dignity of his home was regularly assaulted.

  Recalling that the earl was stretched comfortably on a blanket with his dear wife curled beside him, Restell decided that for the nonce peace and dignity had the upper hand.

  “May I see your work?” he asked, darting a glance at Emma’s painting. She’d purposely kept it angled away from him. A sketchbook lay in the grass at her feet, and she’d finally chosen one drawing she liked well enough to render in ink and watercolor. The heavy paper was clipped to a wood panel that rested on the easel.

  Emma wiped her hands on her apron. Her fingers were stained with splotches of watercolor from splashing the contents of the rinsing cup when she washed her brushes. “It’s not finished, you understand.” She gave it a second study, then shrugged, dismissing caution. She lifted the wood panel and turned it so Restell could view her painting.

  Restell’s grin surfaced immediately. Emma had a keen eye for the humor of a moment and the talent to put it to paper. This was no serene portrait of his family. Indeed, they could never be truly captured in that static state. What Emma put before him was his family at their most familiar: Imogene challenging Ian and their spouses to a foot race up the knoll, his father hooking his mother’s skirts with the fishing rod, Hannah juggling oranges from an overturned picnic basket, Portia regarding her reflection in the water as she danced about, Wynetta and Porter swinging a child between them while another hopped on one foot demanding a turn. Ferrin was laughing at something his wife said; she seemed within a heartbeat of doing the same. Children darted between the adults, catching a skirt here, a trouser leg there. And in the lower left corner, Emma had captured him saving her airborne bonnet from a certain soaking by snagging it with the point of his walking stick.

  For a long moment Restell could find no words, then he managed to work them past the constriction in his throat to pronounce the painting perfect.

  Emma felt her cheeks grow warm. “I think that is rather too—”

  He shook his head. “I cannot say how others might view it, Emma, but to me, it is perfect.”

  “Thank you.” She set the panel back on the easel. “You were also thinking of the other painting, weren’t you? The one that Marisol destroyed.”

  Restell admitted that he was. “It was extraordinary. I think I regret its loss more than you do.”

  Her smile was bittersweet. “I don’t know if that’s possible, but I have the advantage of knowing that I’ll paint the like of it again.”

  With the evidence of her watercolor before him and the confidence in her voice, Restell realized he could believe Emma’s assertion. Had she said the same when they were yet in London, he would have considered she said it to set his mind at ease, not because she believed it herself.

  “Ferrin’s spoken to me about the London house,” Restell said.

  “Our house?” she asked. “Or his?”

  “Both actually. He’s expressed an interest in selling his home and wondered if I might like to purchase it.”

  Emma’s response was a careful, “I see.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  “I think I detect your fine hand at work. Am I right?”

  He sighed. “I would tell you otherwise, but you’ll know it for a lie. Yes, I put the idea before him. You may ask him yourself, though, he required no convincing, and he is perfectly capable of saying no.”

  “No one says no to you, Restell. Least of all your family.”

  There was too much truth to it for Restell to do anything but offer up a sheepish grin. “This is a bit different. Something more in the way of a favor. After all, I did him the service of returning the real Eden seascape to Lady Rivendale, thus ensuring that his wife will inherit the original. That was accomplished at some risk, I might add, as Lady Rivendale’s home was infinitely more difficult to enter than others I have attempted.”

  “But Mr. Charters gave you the Eden to return to the countess, didn’t he?”

  “He did.” Restell had brought the thing about with very little in the way of coercion. The fact that Neven Charters had run Jonathan Kincaid to ground in Walthamstow and killed him for what he and his cousin
s had done to Emma was a point in his favor as far as Restell was concerned. That he had failed to offer this information, however, was perhaps understandable but ultimately unforgivable.

  Only slightly less damning was Charters scheme to ingratiate himself to Sir Arthur by discrediting Mr. Johnston. Every price that Charters’s friends swore they paid for paintings was inflated so that it appeared Johnston had recorded too little and kept the difference. The real cost, though, of Charters’s perfidy was that it put him squarely in Marisol’s path. Sir Arthur saw the advantages at once and encouraged the pair. When Charters became wary of Marisol’s uncertain moods and would have sought Emma out again, Sir Arthur revealed he knew the precise nature of the trick Charters had played on the hapless Johnston. Neatly caught out, it was not long before Charters and Sir Arthur engaged in a contract for their mutual benefit. Once they conspired on the forgeries, neither of them could call retreat, but it was clever Marisol who came to hold the upper hand. The unpredictability of her behavior caused her father and Neven Charters to tread carefully around her when she was of a certain temper.

  “And he also surrendered the Tintoretto belonging to Mrs. Stuart,” Restell said. “Though that pained him mightily.”

  Emma was not surprised to learn of it. “Then I am compelled to point out that Ferrin would not know about the Eden forgery if you had not apprised him of it.”

  “A mere detail. He is quite happy to extend the favor. It’s not as if he’s presenting me his home without recompense. We are working out the financial particulars.”

  “I am not fooled, Restell. You are doing this for me. I know you’ve been aware that I haven’t been able to use the studio. I am sorry for that. It was such a splendid gift you gave me, but to go there…” Her voice trailed off, and she simply shook her head.

  “I am contemplating the move for us, Emma. Ferrin’s town home has a conservatory that I believe you will find most excellent for painting. If that pleases you, then I am pleased as well. You would not see me miserable, would you?”