He dealt in wrecks, smuggling and dead men. It was only possible because he always stayed one step ahead. It was unthinkable to fall behind now. At all costs he needed to cling to the belief that as long as Lyon hadn’t told her everything, he would survive to the next step. She jerked up her chin.
“And really you should learn to do the same about leaving games in the past because it frankly seems to me games are all you’ve played since you came here. So firstly, I don’t want any more talk about children coming here. This is Doom Bar Hall, not a halfway house for waifs and strays because let’s face it, Lydia never even existed, did she?”
“What?”
“What I say. And since she plainly didn’t and that wedding ring is false as you are, neither do her dearest wishes. So please don’t give me any more of your sodding fairy tales, any more of what my father would have called bull, about her, about that either, or indeed, that Molly is anything more than some local child you’ve dredged up from somewhere. Secondly, the same goes for Doom Bar Hall itself. Since you’re hardly a designer—”
“Says who?”
“Lyon does, Divers. Since you’re hardly a designer and that is a complete fabrication, if you think you can change so much as a cushion cover here, I will go to Tom Berryman and Steben Padstow and all the other smugglers whose names I know—”
“So you were damned well lying?”
“Through every tooth in me head. I will tell them everything. And you can hang me and these same teeth from the gibbet at Penvellyn crossroads because there is nothing else in my life that truly matters, not since the night you cursed me for something I never did, that Chancery never did. Because Divers, you cannot kill a corpse. Now? Yes, or no, do we have an understanding? That’s all I need to know.”
Oh, how well he knew the killing of the corpse bit. Wasn’t he the walking evidence? Christ, was it possible that curse had worked, that he was turning to dust? Why else would Lyon do this? Unless it was because Divers hadn't put her out? He dragged a breath, set his face in its blandest lines. Vital when he’d sooner dig his grave with a broken shoelace than show her he was in any way troubled.
“Well, if you and Chancery never did it, if you were so damned innocent and Rose and Chancery were in love—”
“Which you do not for a second of a second believe. No. As I've just said, secondly, you will leave Doom Bar Hall as it is—”
“As it is? I’d be doing it a favor, any poor, slavering, brainless idiot would if they, or I, set a match to this dump and its contents. These damned moth-eaten parrots for a start.”
“Corpses, Divers, corpses, that is largely what the contents have been since you cursed us, for nothing, a thought you will have to live with, but perhaps that was what you thought you were doing last night? Or did it just make it all right for you to come to my room as you’ve been wanting to do all the years? And it was your chance to let go of something you hadn't been able to because you were holding it in your heart against me. Anyway, thirdly, you will leave Grandfather Austell’s parrots out of this, when it comes to talking ill of things. When this is over, as I know it will be, in return for my silence and blind eyes, I want Doom Bar Hall, which you plainly won under false, possibly rigged, pretences, because let's face it, you couldn’t win a game of snap as a child--”
“Because you and your unholy damned brothers wouldn’t let me, talking rigged--”
“But we’re not talking them, are we?”
As he swallowed the ire that scalded like acid in his gullet he didn’t even have the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
“The past is the past, remember?” she added, her face stonier than anything the Medusa had laid waste to. “You don’t live in it according to you, although you have bitten my hand of friendship to the bone--”
“Is that what you call it? Well, maybe that’s because, when it comes to hands of friendship I’d sooner shake hands with a viper.”
Amusement lit her eyes. “Not the impression you gave me last night. Well, however you choose to spend your time, I know what you expect me to say here.” She pressed one slender hand to her breast. “‘Why would I do that? Go to Lyon? When you’d throw me out? Dear me, no, I went for a walk on the shore. I do that sometimes when I want to clear my poor, dear little head that’s being bamboozled by more lies than Herodotus told the rest of time.’ But it’s not what I’m going to say because it’s not what I did. I did go to Lyon and I told him everything. And that, plus the fact you gave my name to him yesterday, is what he told me.”
“What?”
“Oh, I’m not the one lying. Calling your bluff either.”
Maybe the past was the past in her book? The one he
was reading from plainly needed binding with metal chains and locking with bolts and bars, that he even uttered so stupid a goddamn word.
But Lyon had obviously laid his cards on the table and Divers was struggling to take refuge in the fact Lyon wasn’t playing with a full deck, unless he’d somehow pulled the joker from the pack, about Eirwin, about the stashed gold, about how involved Divers had got on the last few jobs. About how he could leave all this if need be. All he had to do was lift that stash.
His throat dried, his palms too, dried so it felt as if the skin fell off them in crumbs.
Christ, she’d undercut him in every way. At all costs he needed to pull the ace from the flames, speak as if this was no odds to him, as opposed to odds that were fully stacked against him. Odds that could see him dangling by daybreak if the real truth came out.
He offered his blandest stare, the one you could take a chisel and a blacksmith’s hammer to and not make an eighth of an inch dent in.
“I don’t doubt it. But the fact is, if that is what he said, then as ever, he’s a lying son of a whore.”
He was not the only one.
“So you say.”
”It’s what he does for a living.”
“I didn’t know there was such an occupation. Whoring perhaps. But being a son of one?”
“You’re angry about some of this and rightly so.”
“Me? Do you see me angry?” She gave a faint, low throated chuckle. “Think I’m in any way put out?”
“Says the woman who went to him in the first place, because you damn well did. Well, here’s the thing Destiny, whatever you think, I never gave him your name yesterday. You just want to think so.”
“Oh, here we go. At least I do think. Unlike some.”
“Because you just can’t help yourself, can you? Why do you think I told you what I did? Because I knew you’d go scuttling along that road like a spider. And you did. So now you’re caught in the web.”
“I think when it comes to webs, I’m hardly the one trapped. But, it’s all right. I won’t breathe a word. Why would I when you’re the law, the one commendable thing about you, even if the rest is lies and obfuscation, including how well you’re doing in London?”
“And that bothers you does it? How well I was said to be doing while you—"
“But I no longer come with this house and you will no longer try and put me out of it. You can say what you like so long as you give me your word.”
“My word?” With pleasure, given what that was worth. “Or should I say 'me' word as you sometimes do? Well here’s the thing. You could have had everything else but that word isn’t worth the syllables that form it. Lyon’s the law, Destiny. And you cross him at your peril. Me too. You think you’re a corpse? You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“And you do?”
The pity wasn’t the hit she scored. The pity wasn't the way he stepped closer, clasped the chair arms to lean closer still. The pity wasn't the way he breathed the subtle lavender wash of her scent, stared at the lush dark fringe of her eyelashes, her lips so close, like the rest of the mysterious lines of her dress, her hem resting against his boots. The pity was she’d no damned idea what she was dealing with and despite everything he felt obliged to warn her. As if, somewhere in his heart, she ha
d a place.
“I know you’ll find out if you blab a single word of any of this to anyone, just what it is to be a corpse. No terns, no conditions, no firsts, or seconds, or even fives or sixes, because you’ll be dead, dead in ways you cannot begin to imagine. It might be you are anyway when I let him know you come with more price tags than a diamond ring. Do you understand? So let’s see how willing you are to pay that price. Seven o’clock. My room. For supper. I want your answer. And dress appropriately. The last thing I want is to see you in crow feathers, is that understood?”
“Over me dead body. The clock’s tongue can chime seven, eight, nine, ten. It can strike twenty four, twenty five, a hundred. And it will be over yours if you try making me. Make me leave here either.”
****
“Destiny? You came?”
“Well, it’s not me garnet necklace walking in on its two feet.”
No. She hadn’t died. No. It wasn’t the sole reason she was here. Although it would have been the sole reason if she wasn’t. As the clock struck five she'd understood, one thing. That was the team of excisemen, disguised as painters--London painters no less--who’d arrived, and, by the time the clock struck six, deposited their scaffolding all over the dining room floor and table. After, some might say, she'd given specific orders about that too. Did he think she didn't know what he was about here?
Having come back down off that particular ceiling though, wasn’t she about to win first prize in the having the ace up her sleeve competition?
And while she understood he was meant to be playing the part of new master and house designer, she’d be playing that ace too, if he didn’t get that scaffolding out of here again by the time the clock struck ten.
‘I would need proof, Miss Rhodes,’ Lyon had said.
And so, her gown, her necklace, indeed the imaginary cloak she’d stitched herself into, with all the exquisite brilliance of needlework she could muster, while not empty seas, were seas of absolute tranquillity, even if the problem shared hadn’t just grown. It had sprouted such gargantuan feet and legs it was now a problem, quadrupled.
She raised her chin high above the garnet pendant she’d fastened around her neck, the one she might have worn at Christmases here with Ennis except they’d never spent Christmases here as a couple. He had been such a great one for Pangbury House that way. And his family who had never been especially great ones for her.
“As for making any remarks about that curse—probably on the tip of your tongue--please allow me to forestall you, although the choice is yours as to whether or not, I come in. That is, if you’ve forgiven me for going to Lyon. But please, don’t pretend that you told me you were a smuggler for any other reason.”
His gaze flickered in that way that said he’d had enough of her. He wasn’t the only one. But it was too late now to take any of this back and really, given he’d handed over her name, then had her in his bed, why should she? Torture herself about it either? Was he torturing himself?
“Look Destiny, as I said earlier, all I want is your—”
“In a minute. I mean, you are very, very clever, Divers. If I had only known from the start, for example, that you were the Cleanser …”
“Me?”
She squared her shoulders tight in the crimson gown she’d chosen, despite the fact it well nigh blinded her. Of course Divers O’Roarke wasn’t going to win any prizes for looking anything other than surprised. As if a goose hadn't just walked over his grave. It had dug it first.
“Yes. It's very clever of you to express your surprise. But yes. You."
He let go of the jamb, stepped back, walked to the side table before the fire place--the chipped old wooden one, she’d almost forgotten was in this room. Clearly it was all the invitation she needed to sweep forward in a rustle of crimson silk. An invitation she accepted.
“So?” Amber liquid splashed into two small brandy glasses. “Who told you I was the Cleanser? Lyon?”
"Lyon?”
He handed her a glass. “Because as I said earlier, Lyon talks a lot of rubbish.”
“Oh. Well … A bit like you then?” She sank into an upholstered seat.
His eyes narrowed as he toyed with his drink. “If he told you that, he’s lying. So? Answer the question. How do you know I’m the Cleanser?”
Was she right to think he sweated a little? “Simple.”
“Go on.”
“Oh, I put two and two together. He did say the thinking is the Cleanser is an exciseman and you are an exciseman.”
Another toy with the crystal glass, shining against his waistcoat. “And that’s your reasoning, is it? Nothing Lyon said?”
“What’s wrong with my reasoning?”
“We can all add two and two together. The trouble is whether we’re any good at simple arithmetic.”
“God, this is tedious. Brain hurting in fact.”
“Well, it’s good to know you have one. Although if you did, you wouldn’t have made five on this occasion.”
If that was so, why was the smile less assured than usual? He strolled to the window and glanced through the darkened glass. “Maybe even six for that matter.”
“Really?”
Of course he was going to deny who he was. But he’d hardly be looking out the window, now would he, unless he expected immediate arrest? Or her to have gone to Tom Berryman and told him who the Cleanser really was? And for there to be a mob on the doorstep?
Not that she hadn’t considered it. For old times’ sake she wanted to give him a fighting chance. And besides, she didn’t want some mob rampaging through the garden, generally wrecking her plants.
“Expecting visitors, are you?”
He shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
“Well, it’s just you told me to come here for supper which--”
She attempted not to glance sideways but was it any wonder when it was nowhere to be seen?
He cleared his throat. “Right. So I did.”
"So?" My goodness. What a chance to discomfit him further when he wouldn't want that discomfort reaching Lyon's ears. Won this, hadn't she? Without giving a thing away either when he'd only gone and thought he was in the running in the biggest bossy boots in Cornwall, she came with more price tags than a diamond ring competition. She smiled--widely-- rose to her feet. She wasn't going to have to get back in his bed either. And nothing he said would change that fact. "Where is it then? In hiding?"
“Not exactly, just down in the kitchen where you’re
going to make it for me.”
“Me? Divers?”
Even though he’d just pulled the whole idea from the air, he nodded. "Why not? As you’d say yourself, the sodding parrots are hardly going to fly down there on their little stuffed parrot wings and things and make it now, are they? That's because they'll probably be too busy laughing their little parrot beaks off imagining Destiny Rhodes in the kitchen, when she probably can't fry a bit of butter. But here she is making supper for the Cleanser. At least she thinks she is. Cooking. And doing it for the Cleanser at that. And she's going to go running to Lyon to tell him she is too. So? Let's get this over with. Supper made by you.”
“Really?" she said after a long pause. A moment when the sweat droplets, the ones that had come out when she mentioned the word, Cleanser, as in, maybe he should just dig his grave with the spade helpfully provided by Lyon, stopped dancing slippery jigs across his brow. "I thought we could just dispense with supper.”
“Dispense?" He didn’t just step closer--enough for the toes of his boots to brush the hem of her gown--he traced his knuckle over her cheekbone. "When just maybe you could get that proof you want? Why would you want to do that? Because you’re probably not going to eat it? Being as that might insult Ennis's memory further than you have already?"
“No.” To her credit she didn’t pull away. Not fully anyway. But the glazed smile, that wasn't a smile at all, told him how much she wanted to. How much she wanted to take her hand off his jaw too. “Being as you nev
er meant to make supper, because you thought this afternoon was the very last you’d see of me. And then, when I saw these painters arriving—"
“They were arriving anyway. I have to look the part.”
“So you say, but--"
"I do say." Did she like when he was commanding? He certainly did. Because he sensed it was something she loathed even as she was drawn to it. So he liked it as much as he liked the thought of living to his next birthday, which in some ways was not at all. "Because you've never had to live in my world. Seeing the things I have had to see. Last night was very nice. I can understand you not wanting to repeat it, empty, grieving widow that you are. I understand how difficult it must have been for you,” before she could move he slipped his thumb beneath her chin, “which was probably why you ran to Lyon this morning. You think I don’t know that? That I’m the only one with ghosts around here?”
“Oh, I think you don't know anything. You may think you do--"
“Oh, I do. I know enough to know you think the dead watch us and you wonder what they make of the things we do. And in that panic this morning--"
“No. I think the dead have better things to do.”
“Really? When you can touch me and turn me to dust? And still you did that? Went running to Lyon. Funny that."
"Glad you're laughing." There it was again, that smile that was anything but. That smile that yet was so damned delicious, it made his heart pound. Just as her lost, wasted eyes, the evidence of that curse, filled him with longing to bring them back to life. A longing he needed to squash. What kind of way was he in that being undercover now meant he could accept anything? Babies with their brains bashed out? Women with their throats cut? Eirwin blasted to bits all over him? This kind of betrayal? The fact he couldn’t have made this about revenge? That he now needed to take hold of this? Well? He smoothed a stray tendril of hair back from her forehead.
"But maybe you were right to go running to him if you’re somehow gettting involved with me."
O'Roarke's Destiny (Cornish Rogues Book 1) Page 15
