He shook his head, praying the movement would jostle his common sense back into place. “What are you doing here?”
“I… well…” Her throat bobbed. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Colour spread over her cheeks in a most becoming shade. And though he really shouldn’t, the urge to tease her welled all the more. He advanced a step—then immediately regretted the move. Her sweet rosewater scent nearly dropped him to his knees.
“And,” he drawled. “Do you find this method of entombing yourself near a draughty window to be an effective sleep inducer?”
The dusky pink on her cheeks flared exotic. “Don’t be silly.”
Ignoring all reason, he leaned closer. A breath away. The slightest effort on his part and he’d be kissing those lips. “Silly? I’m not the one hiding behind a curtain in the dark of night.” The words came out huskier than he intended, his teasing taking a turn into an intimacy he couldn’t afford right now, one he wasn’t sure she even wanted.
Panic flashed in her eyes. “But I… I—”
Instantly he retreated a step, thoroughly sobered. He was no better than the blackguards who pawed her after a performance.
“You’ll catch your death here. Come.” He swept his hand towards the sofa near the unlit hearth, allowing her to pass. Following close behind, he held the lamp aloft, lighting the way, and snagged a plaid woolen throw to drape over her shoulders as she sat.
“Shall I ring for warm milk?” he asked. “I find it to be a much more successful way to induce drowsiness.”
“No, thank you. Let the servants rest. The truth is I came down to get a book, hoping to read myself into oblivion. On the way, I passed by the study and…” She bit her lip.
The implication dropped him into the seat across from her. Clearly her little nighttime prowl had turned into something darker for both of them. He set the lamp on the tea table between them. “You overheard?”
She peered directly at him, a small nod dipping her head. Her face was overly white in the light. “Forgive me?”
Muscles suddenly cramping, he massaged a knot at the base of his neck. What had she heard? How many of his father’s lame excuses? How much of his own snipping and sniping in response? Now she’d not only seen him at his worst but heard him as well. Blast it! Why could he never control his tongue around the man?
“Forgiven and forgotten.” Oliver fluttered his fingers in the air. “Think nothing of it.”
If only it were that easy.
“Oh but I do think a great deal of it. I would not be a very good friend if I did not.” She leaned forward, her robe rustling softly against the leather sofa cushion. “It pains me, this rift between you and your father.”
“Please,” he said, “do not trouble yourself. My father and I are two very different people, that’s all.”
“Actually, I suspect you are more alike than either of you believes, but it’s more than that. If I may be so bold, might I share a few thoughts?”
He scrubbed his face before lowering his hand. He’d love to hear her thoughts, explore her mind, her imaginings, her theories on life and love and God and everything—everything other than his relationship with his father.
Chimes bonged from the grandfather clock in the corner, one after the other, breaking the silence and offering the perfect excuse. “It is late.” He rose and offered his hand. “Shall I see you to your room?”
She sank back defiantly. “You cannot keep running.”
“Clearly I am not.” He lifted his arm towards the ceiling. “You find me beneath my father’s roof, after all.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” She jutted her jaw.
Determined little nymph! Ahh, but the way her nostrils flared, she was a beautiful nymph at that. Still, he would not—could not—let that sway him. He shook his head. “I will not have this conversation. Not with you. I like you too well for that.”
In one swift movement, he swiped up the lamp and took a step towards the door. “Come along. I would not leave you here in the dark.”
“Oliver, listen.” Fabric swished and fingertips pressed into his sleeve. “You’ve made a difference in the lives of so many. The downtrodden. The forgotten. It is a noble thing you do in Parliament, fighting on behalf of those who have no voice.”
A bitter chuckle rumbled in his throat, and he turned to face her. “You’re talking to the wrong man. Perhaps you could enlighten my father on that account.”
“Perhaps it is you who needs the enlightening.”
“Me?” He choked on the word. She wasn’t seriously taking his father’s side in all this, was she? “In your own words, I am the one making a difference—or at least I was before I landed in prison. It is my father who hides behind his robes and wigs and lofty diatribes of rights and laws.”
Pulling back her hand, she folded her arms. “Did you never stop to think that maybe—just maybe—you yourself left justice behind to focus on the violation of it instead?”
He gaped. “How so?”
“Without a fully complete vision of justice, there is no possible way you can fight against iniquity.”
The lamp in his grasp shook, shooting macabre shadows across the room. Who was she to judge his understanding of all that was right and fair and good? How could she possibly assess the white-hot ember burning in his soul that drove him to champion the underprivileged? Why did she not accuse the barrister of lack of vision?
“A very pretty speech, Miss Lee,” he rumbled. “But since you’ve decided to play this game with me, I expect you to defend your words.”
“Very well.” Unfolding her arms, she snugged the throw tighter at her neck. “I am no philosopher or great theologian, but I believe justice began in Eden. Not only were all the components good, they were very good. Righteousness reigned in that garden because all was in right relationship with each other—human and animal, male and female. That is the world God intended—a world of just relations. Do you agree with me thus far?”
His brows sank. “Agreed.”
“So, then tell me, Oliver, how is your relationship with your father?”
The little vixen! Of all the circuitous logic. Disgusted, he shook his head. “That has nothing to do with my work, my purpose in fighting abuses of the law.”
“Oh Oliver, it has everything to do with it. Please, hear me out.” Slowly her hand dropped, and she took a timid step closer, blinking like a doe. “When the just world God created was spoiled by sin, He set out to restore it. The whole of scripture is dedicated to telling that story—how God works to set the world right. Through Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; through David; and ultimately through Jesus, the One who will bring perfect justice again someday. Until that day comes, He uses us, His followers. Don’t you see? Through us—through you—God is setting the world right. Yet how can God bring the justice you so earnestly seek to the whole world if you refuse to seek the same restoration in your relationship with your earthly father?”
The anger simmering inside him flamed molten in his gut. “You have no idea of what you speak! The years. The pain. So many scars upon scars.”
“Perhaps not, but I do know this… When you ask God for justice in this wicked world of ours, are you not really asking that His glory be vindicated against every sinner who defiles that glory—yourself included?”
Gripping the back of the chair, he planted his feet to keep from staggering. He wanted to stop up his ears. Run. Hide. Anything to get away from the terrible truth.
But still her words kept coming, her soft voice cutting sharp and deep. “Oh Oliver, don’t you see? True justice starts with repentance. How can we ask God to show justice in the world while willfully nursing our own hidden prejudices, selfishness, lusts, greed… our own broken relationships?”
He gripped the sofa so tight, his knuckles cracked.
“And only the repentant can be justified in their hearts, for justice is not free. We have all done wrong, and someone must pay the cost. So God nailed those in
iquities upon the only One who didn’t deserve it, so that He might be both just and compassionate.” Closing the distance between them, she peered up at his face, brown eyes alight with a strange glow—the fiery gaze of a true saint. “Think on that, as will I, for therein is the true path to peace that will offer us both rest tonight and forevermore.”
They stood in silence then, save for the old clock ticking and the rain drip-drip-dripping. And his heart sank, bleeding out right there on the library carpet. Was she right? In failing to make amends with his father, had he shackled his own pursuit of justice? Like an old man with a withered arm, he slowly passed off the lamp to her. “Take this and see yourself to your chamber. I will—” Sudden emotion clogged his throat, and he cleared it. “I will remain here for a while.”
Little creases drew shadowy lines on her forehead. “Are you certain?”
He nodded.
“Well, good night then, Oliver.”
“Good night.”
Liar! There’d be nothing good about the long black hours ahead of him. In truth, this just might prove to be the bleakest night of his whole existence, because Maggie—God love her—was utterly and totally correct. His view of justice had been small. Incomplete. Perhaps his father wasn’t the blackest of sinners after all.
Perhaps it was time he took a good look at himself—a hypocrite of the worst sort.
Everyone knew that drunkards wouldn’t inherit the kingdom, which meant the lost souls slugging back spirits inside the Pig & Pallor were doomed. Every last one of them. Sebastian sucked in a final drag of his cigarillo then flicked the stub towards the pub’s open door. Who knew? Maybe the burning end of it would catch the whole structure on fire and the place would go up in hellish flames here and now.
But then he blew out a breath and reached for another smoke. The burning would have to come after he spoke with Groat, found out exactly what had transpired between him and Miss Lee, discover if the man knew anything about the cryptic “matter of days” of which the barrister had spoken. Fishing around, he poked his finger from one side of his pocket to another. Empty. And he hadn’t thought to bring his pipe along. Scarping Groat! How much longer must he wait for the man?
He leaned back against the wall, sucking his teeth. Should he simply go inside and haul the devil out by his collar? Drinking was a sin. But so was immersing himself in a den of iniquity. Still, it wouldn’t be by choice, but by need. He needed to speak with Groat, and God always helped those in need. In fact, he’d be doing Groat a favor by hauling him out of there and giving him a sharp reprimand. Some discipline. Yes. Perhaps it was time Groat received a corrective prod. A crack to the skull, maybe. Strike the fear of God back into him. Especially after the way he treated Miss Lee today.
He stepped away from the wall just as a dark shape scuttled out the door. The night was too black to see the man’s face beneath the brim of his hat, but Sebastian didn’t need to. Round body. Skinny arms and legs. Darting this way and that with jerky motions, like a crazed beetle trying to escape the crush of a heel about to slam down from above.
Groat.
Sebastian strode to the man’s side and grabbed hold of his shoulders before the fellow listed sideways into the gutter.
“Wha’s this?” Groat’s black little eyes lifted to his, widening then narrowing, widening then narrowing, as if his vision must be adjusted in increments like the lens of a spyglass. “Barrow?”
Groat yanked away, then whirled to face him with a poke in the chest. “Don’t touch.” His last word stretched, the chhh sound spewing out a noxious waft of liquor fumes.
Sebastian fanned away the stench. “Your meeting with Miss Lee today… What did she say? What did she give you?”
“You were there?”
“Of course I was there. You’re the one who said where the woman is, that’s where I’ll find my man. And you were right. I located Ward.”
“Good for you.” Groat teetered on his spindly legs, the pendulum arc of the movement growing ever wider. One more sway and—
Sebastian shot out his hand, shoring up the man before he passed out.
Once again, Groat wrenched away, staggering to keep upright. “I said don’t touch!”
Another blast of cloying sourness hit him in the face. A man could only take so much of this. Sebastian reached for his truncheon, gripping the handle but leaving it attached to his belt. For now.
“So, what did Miss Lee say? What were you handed?”
“An invi—” Groat shot up his hand, hiccupped, then continued. “An invitation. A party.”
“When? Where?”
“You”—Groat leaned in—“are not invited.”
Sebastian reared his head back. “I don’t need to attend. I just need the information.”
“Days. Three.” Groat stared at his fingers, lifting one, then another, until three digits finally stood tall. “Sunday?” he mumbled, then shook his head. “No. Friday.”
Good. That was definitely a matter of days. “Where?”
“Armagnac.”
“Armagnac?” He rolled the word around on his tongue, trying to make some sort of sense of it. Nothing came to mind. “Is that a street? A surname? An estate?”
Groat lifted only one finger this time, wagged it, then pulled out a flask and tipped back his head, pouring so much in his mouth that it leaked out the sides. The sound of the liquid guzzling down his throat was nauseating. Finally, he capped the thing and shoved it back into his pocket, then stared at Sebastian with a wobbly head. “It’s a drink, you thick-headed… thick-headed… thick head!” A fine spray of saliva showered out with the exclamation.
Enough was enough.
Ignoring the stink of him, Sebastian grabbed the man by the collar and shook him hard. “Where is the blasted party going to be?”
Groat’s eyes bulged and blazed, and with surprising strength, he shoved Sebastian in the chest, freeing himself. “I said don’t touch!” The words were low, guttural, inhuman in an eerie way—and completely sober. Groat didn’t so much as wobble a hair; he just stood there, black eyes burning holes through the night, through Sebastian.
Was that what he looked like when he said the same to others? An unbidden shiver skittered across his shoulders, and he backed away from the man, hands up. “All right. Fair enough. Just give me the name of the place where the party will be, and I’ll walk away.”
Groat didn’t move. That rankled. It was peculiarly unnatural. A man in his condition should be tottering on his feet. His lips hardly even moved when he spoke. “Corbin’s. Ambrose Corbin’s.”
“Good.” Sebastian let out a breath. “Very good. And a good night to you, Mr. Groat.”
Now was the time to strike, while Groat stood there like a statue, completely unsuspecting. Sebastian turned slightly, intimating he was about to leave, then whipped out his truncheon, ready to instill God’s discipline on the drunkard.
He spun, wood swinging, but his club whooshed through empty air. What in the world?
Narrowing his eyes, Sebastian peered into the dark while turning in a full circle. The pavement in front of the Pig & Pallor was vacant. The whole street was unoccupied. No fleeing shadows. No sound of scuttling footsteps. No Groat. The man was smoke and magic.
Slowly, Sebastian tucked away his weapon. He was good at what he did, catching convicts, criminals, devious men of all sort. But there was just no catching a demon.
And it was better not to try.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Pressing on through a cadenza gone bad is as excruciating as chewing on a piece of gristle with a rotted tooth. But it must be done. To stop midsong is not only the death of the piece but the end of a career. Not that my vocation is stellar at the moment… and neither are the last few notes I trill. With so little practice over the past several months, how will I ever make it through tomorrow night’s performance?
Applause claps a staccato beat behind my back, echoing from wall to wall in the small sunroom. I whirl.
The barrister leans with his shoulder against the doorframe. Heat rises up my neck. How long has he been here? How many off-key notes and ruined rhythms has he heard?
A smile breaks wide across his face. “Well done, my dear. I daresay you’ll be all the rage tomorrow evening.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but thank you.” I dip my head then spread my hands. “And thank you for allowing me this private place to practice.”
“In truth, I’d all but forgotten this sunroom was even here, I so rarely venture from my study.” He strolls inside, pacing the length of the room, his green gaze drifting about until it finally lands on me. “I hadn’t realized just how unused and empty this house is until the past several days. It’s been quite nice having you and Oliver here. More than I can say.”
Just as I suspected, despite Oliver’s words to the contrary, this great man of law really does have a heart. I angle my head. “Does your son know you are happy he came?”
“Oliver?” His brows rise, and a rueful chuckle follows. “No. Though we both make our livings giving speeches and swaying opinions, neither of us is very good at communicating.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”
“He won’t hear me. I’m afraid he’s as set in his ways as I am in mine.” Sadness tugs down the curve of his mouth, and he bypasses me, stopping in front of one of the mullioned windows. Weak sunlight paints him in a melancholy light, with his shoulders sloping like an unheard prayer fallen to the ground. The mighty Hawk of Crown Court is truly nothing more than a shell of an old man burdened by regrets.
My heart squeezes. This rift between him and Oliver is destroying them both. I pad softly to his side, desperate to impart some sort of encouragement. But then I press my lips closed. What a ludicrous thought. Who am I to speak words of supposed wisdom to this esteemed man of great intelligence?
I peek over at him, but he doesn’t see me, not with that faraway glaze in his eyes. His jaw grinds, muscles moving in tight synchronization along his neck. Whatever he is thinking tortures him to a degree I cannot begin to fathom and, oddly enough, gives me courage to try to ease his pain.
The House at the End of the Moor Page 23