“No.”
“Is it Nash?” he asked as he sat beside her and pushed the embroidery hoop to the side.
Against her will, she winced, her eyes glistening before she could turn back to her work.
“It is, isn’t it?” He reached out and gripped her arms, trying to catch her gaze. “Why won’t you tell me? I thought you and I were becoming close, like before. We had been so dear to each other when we were children, like sister and brother, and now you’ve shut me out again.” He shook his head, feeling the echoing ache from the bullet wound. “You didn’t even tell me about Argus until you invited me to the wedding. Did I wrong you somehow?”
“My God, Nadir, that was five years ago!”
“It still stung! You were practically my sister—you still are my only sister—and you acted as if I didn’t exist. You’re the only family I have besides my parents.”
“I’ve told you already, it was a very short engagement and not anything personal,” she replied, her voice tight. “Anyway, you went to London to have your own life and I got married. What more do you think there is?”
“There has to be something. Why else would you marry so…so beneath you?”
A gasp escaped her lips before he could stop the thought, but he didn’t regret saying it. She ripped her hands from his, and for a moment, he feared she would strike him. Instead, she glared at him and stabbed her needle into her project. Her eyes roamed over her cousin’s face hoping to find the brightness of humor in his eyes but found cold confusion and hurt.
“How dare you say that about Argus! He is a lovely man and a devoted husband. He let you stay here with us, didn’t he?”
“Argus would do whatever you told him. You will be lucky if he doesn’t come back from the market with a handful of magic beans.” Nadir braced himself for the slap he rightfully deserved as five years of holding his tongue tumbled out. “Honestly, I don’t know what you saw in him. His family may have had money, but he certainly doesn’t. Just look at this place. It’s falling down around you!”
“Money may be a bit tight, but I certainly didn’t marry beneath me. His family owns property and he has an inheritance.” Her mind staggered, had an inheritance. Dropping her voice, she added, “If we’re careful, it may last, but that isn’t the worst problem for a marriage, is it?”
Nadir let out a bitter laugh. “It may last. Do you hear yourself, Leona? Our parents didn’t come to England for us to live on mays and what-ifs. They wanted us to make something of ourselves, to do better than them. With your father’s name and reputation, you could have married someone with a decent income and a brain in his head. It doesn’t matter if Argus has a decent personality if he’s a penniless dimwit. I know you do the books. I know he has no idea that you are running out of money and that one day he won’t be able to live off his dead relatives. Does he even know how much he began with? Does he have no concept of money, too? I can’t imagine either of you blew his inheritance on something foolish.”
Leona’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “He’s a very sweet man. Maybe he is a little naive, but it’s better than someone like you. You’re always plotting, always suspicious of everyone else because you worry their motives are like your own.”
“Plotting is how you get ahead, Leona.” Nadir jumped up, looming over her with his hand on his hip. “You make plans. You don’t sit on your duff and let the world take care of you, letting your wife write papers for you. What were you hoping to gain by that?”
“I only wrote it be—” Leona froze, her byzantine eyes wide. “Who told you I did that?”
“I’m not stupid. Anyone who knows you or Argus knows you wrote that paper for the Royal Egyptology Society. The man can barely read more than a few sentences of the newspaper at a time before he has to have a lie down.” He put his hands up in defense at her accusatory finger. “It’s through no fault of his own. I know he has problems, and I know for certain he could not and did not write that paper. What will you do if this scheme doesn’t work and the money runs out?”
The words caught in Leona’s throat, tension coiling around her tight-laced ribs until she could scarcely breathe. Nash had said that to her so many times, yet she still didn’t know the answer. She threw her embroidery aside as she stood to face Nadir eye-to-eye. Her lips twisted and strained but no tears reached the surface.
Finally she yelled, “I don’t bloody know. What do you expect me to say, Nadir? You’re right, marrying Argus probably wasn’t the wisest choice and I probably could have ‘done better,’ but I have to live with my choices now and deal with my problems. I’m doing the best I can to keep us afloat. Do you not see that?”
“Why didn’t you go to your parents for help? They would do anything for you.”
“How would that have looked?” She couldn’t mention that her mother wanted nothing to do with her anymore. Her cousin couldn’t know that.
Nadir’s face softened as his lips parted to retort but fell into a sigh. “Why didn’t you come to me, then? I would have given you money or loaned it to you without a word if you needed it. I can do it now. Just tell me— tell me how much it will take to spruce up the place or get you closer to buying another steamer.”
“Nadir,” Leona said, her resolve faltering at the sight of her cousin transforming from a pompous dandy back to the soft-curled boy she knew, “we are nowhere near being able to afford another steamer, even an old one, and we will probably only be able to afford Barnes for four more months. I can’t ask you to help us get out of this hole; it will only drag you in with us. I have brought this on myself, and I must be the one to fix it.”
“But why? Why are you punishing yourself?”
Her gaze swept over the floor as she walked to the front window, checking the road for any sign of the steamer. If she let him speak any longer, she would confess, and she couldn’t lose anyone else.
Against her will, her voice rose in a tight cry, “I have done plenty you don’t know about. I’m not the angel you take me for.”
Picking up her skirts, she hurried out of the room, throwing the curtain back in her cousin’s face.
He swatted the dusty drape away. “Then what is it?”
From the base of the steps, he watched her dart up the creaky treads and disappear. His feet stayed rooted in place while his hand wrapped around the newel post. Frustration and anger climbed up his limbs, squeezing until his teeth ground. All he wanted was to help her. It was all he had ever wanted. He released a trembling breath.
He yelled up, “You have been acting strange since Nash died. You can’t tell me that there isn’t some connection between the two of you. I know that he sent his maid to deliver notes to you. What was it? Did he help you with the paper?”
“Yes, are you satisfied now?”
“No, I’m not. People don’t have clandestine meetings to work on a history paper!” He stopped with his foot on the step. “You think I did it, don’t you?”
Leona appeared at the edge of her bedroom door, her head hung.
“You do! Leona, how could you think I killed him?”
“I don’t think anything, but you were fighting with him, you went to confront him for me,” she said, her voice trailing to barely more than a whisper. “I just hope it isn’t true.”
“Did you happen to forget that I was hit in the head and shot? When did I do it? When I was running for my life?” He took a step to follow her when a booming knock rang through the foyer. With a stiff huff, he turned and opened the door. “Argus, you oaf, how did you not bring a—”
His words dissolved as the officers surged through the door, ripping the knob from his hand and slamming him into the wall. The watercolor hanging over the hall table teetered and fell from its hook, shattering as they rammed him into the plaster. Pain rang through his skull as the world tipped and spun around him. Before he could catch his breath, they yanked his hands behind him and knocked him to the floor. Glass crunched and scratched through his waistcoat as the men pressed
their knees into his back and forced his face into the carpet.
He squirmed, arching his back and throwing his weight only to have the constables twist his arms until tears seared his eyes and he feared his shoulder would dislocate. With a tink, his lucky bead dropped from his pocket, rolling toward the open door. Before it could reach the threshold, the sergeant’s polished boot came down on it, crushing the ancient glass to dust.
“What are you doing?” he cried through clenched teeth. “Unhand me at once! I have done nothing wrong.”
At the sounds of men and her cousin’s frantic voice, Leona flew down the stairs. When she reached the bottom, Nadir turned his face away to keep her from seeing the fear and shame etched into his features. Cold metal encircled his hands as the men shackled him from behind and hauled him to his knees.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Sergeant Purcell continued, “Nadir Talbot, you are hereby under arrest for the murder of Randall Nash.”
“What?” he and his cousin cried in unison.
“But he was shot, too! You saw it. He couldn’t have done that to himself.”
“That’s for the court to decide, Mrs. Rhodes,” he replied coolly. “He has an audience with the Justice of the Peace in a few days when he gets back from Weymouth. Until then, he will remain in our custody; to keep him from fleeing to foreign lands. You understand the risk.”
The breath caught in Nadir’s throat at the thought. Even after hours of questioning, he had never expected this. He had seen the murderer and was nearly killed, too, when the man shot at him, missing his brain by the width of his little finger. How could the man deny the wound near his temple that was still held together with thread or the peelings of invisible bells that only rang in his mind? Panic hammered through his heart.
“How?” Leona said, her voice high with fear. “On what evidence?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
One of the constables shoved him hard from behind, causing him to stumble forward and wrench his wrists against their manacles. Drawing in a tight breath, he caught his balance and carefully rose to his feet and finally to his full height. Nadir Talbot wouldn’t leave the house cowering and stumbling like a common criminal. When Purcell reached for his arm, Nadir glared at him and tried to rip it from his iron grasp, but the man was too quick. The sergeant spitefully dragged him closer until his back collided with his gun holster. As he inhaled a mouthful of tangy, stale air, Nadir’s body locked.
The possibilities of his incarceration became horribly clear. The noose dangled before him, the papers printed with headlines about the once-popular Egyptian novelist-turned-murderer being executed at Millbank. All of London would have his name on their lips but for all the wrong reasons. He had expected a scandal involving a nobleman’s wife or daughter, but he had never expected this. With a forceful nudge from the constable’s nightstick, Nadir took a halting step toward the door, avoiding Leona’s tear-reddened eyes and ashen features for fear of reflecting his own.
“Nadir, what should I do?”
His eyes traveled between the stern-faced sergeant and his youngest underling, who looked from the sergeant and fellow constable to their captive as if unsure what to do. Sergeant Purcell glared at him, nodding toward the door, but Lyall kept his eyes on the cousins, refusing to move.
He swallowed hard against the knot in his throat. What could she do? No matter what he did Purcell would ensure he was found guilty. Nadir’s voice caught as he uttered, “I don’t know, but I didn’t do it. You have to believe me, Lee.”
“I know. I will figure something out, I promise.”
As the policemen ushered him out the front door, he shut his eyes against the row of faces standing at the stone fence. Their eyes bored into him, stripping away what little resistance he had left. Upon seeing the grey police steamer, they had come to gawk, to see who would be hauled from the house. He wondered how many had hoped to see Leona handcuffed and head bowed.
What did they see when they looked at him being led from the house with a weapon pressed to his back and blood dripping from a cut on his cheek? In the eyes of those who didn’t know him, he was nothing more than a criminal. A ruffian with shaggy hair and dark skin, a foreigner. Nothing he did mattered now. No facade, real or imagined, would convince them otherwise.
***
Nadir tumbled forward, his hands and knees colliding hard with the rough slate of the jailhouse floor. Before he could stand, the iron door slammed behind him, reverberating through the dim, low room. Scrambling to his feet, Nadir grabbed the bars and pulled with all his strength, but the door barely rattled in its frame.
“Let me out! You have the wrong man!” he yelled, watching the three policemen disappear down the hall. “Purcell, I know what you’re about, and it won’t work. When my lawyer gets a hold of you, you won’t have a cent to your name.”
His body jerked as another door slammed, leaving him in silence. Nadir sank back. His stomach churned as he retreated from the bars. There was nothing left out there for him to pursue. No one would care. Drawing in a steadying breath, he turned to take in his prison cell.
It was worse than anything he had written. Rat droppings dotted the floor while the walls and corners were draped with spider webs. What little light came in through the filmed, barred panes above his head cast the room in a dingy haze. He ran his hands over his arms as a damp chill soaked through his shirt sleeves. They had stripped him of his jacket, his money, and his watch before dumping him into the cell. He had nothing left of his own. His heart thundered in his throat as he ran his eyes over the rickety metal cot with its disgusting, stained mattress. Drawing closer, he dared to hazard a sniff but drew back, immediately regretting it when he couldn’t get the smell of thirty years of piss, sweat, and God knows what from his nostrils.
The impenetrable stone walls rose around him, snuffing out any delusions of returning to his old life. He glanced around for a place to sit but found nothing. Settling on the very edge of the filthy mattress, Nadir held his head in his hands and stared at the floor. This was real. He was trapped. Only a day before he had been strolling beside the earl and countess with a swing in his step, thinking of what he would do when he returned to London. He had even gotten a telegraph from his publisher saying that they loved his tenacious new heroine, that it was one of his best books to date. His hand curled into a fist. When word got to London that he was suspected of murdering a respected member of the gentry, how long would it take for them to terminate his contracts and throw his manuscript in the fire? Maybe someone would save it, add some salacious scenes to it, and publish it while he was in prison as some fictional addendum to his scandal.
He had been so careful. For half a decade, he had strategically chosen friends, seeking those who might take a shine to him and show him off to others. That’s what they always did when they met Nadir Talbot. Their eyes would catch his motley outfits, studying the fine fabric and artful arrangement of line, before moving to his visage. He had been blessed with universally handsome features, straight white teeth and large eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes, made all the more appealing to his British friends by his noble nose and a wide mouth framed with full lips. Through the years, he had studied the exceptionals, the ones who pulled others along in their wake. By following their example, he cultivated his aloof charm and wit. Exclusive and haughty enough to fit in but just different enough to be a novelty that wouldn’t be easily forgotten.
Nadir released a bitter laugh. What good had it done him? None of those men would flock to his side when he needed them. They were just like him: self-serving, driven, prideful. Having an acquaintance in jail wouldn’t open any doors, and he would be swept under the rug as if he never existed. He was nothing more than an Egyptian trinket, like a mummy or bauble, and he had ignored and distanced himself from his family for what? For a few worthless acquaintances and a bit of notoriety. Nadir closed his eyes. Leona wasn’t the only one who could have done better.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Earl and the Artificer
The morning sun trickled in through the gap in the heavy curtains, inching along the ancient planks before cutting across the bedspread. As his cheek grew hot, Eilian opened one eye and reached behind him with his prosthetic hand to grab his pocket watch. He brought it close, his eyes unfocused from sleep, but even as the numerals sharpened and fuzzed, he could make out that it was after ten. Dropping it back on the nightstand, he rolled over and buried his head into his pillow. At least Patrick had let them sleep. They had spent most of the night tearing apart the library searching for his great-grandfather’s missing journal only to find that it wasn’t there. By then, the clock was chiming four, and Patrick and the girls were already beginning to prep the fireplaces and their wardrobes for the day. The butler hadn’t said a word when he saw them trudge out of the library empty-handed with only tired wrinkles around their eyes to show for their trouble. Eilian sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress’s folds. The book had to be there somewhere. He would look later.
Keeping his eyes shut, Eilian inched his hand forward until his fingertips brushed against the warm, solid flesh of his wife’s arm. He smiled. Hadley was still asleep. Careful not to disturb her, he slid closer until his prosthetic arm slipped under her side. He wrapped his other arm around her back and settled his head beside hers on the edge of the pillow, inhaling her familiar scent of cinnamon and cog-oil. Her breath came in gentle puffs only broken by the occasional deep sigh.
Leaning back a few inches, Eilian studied his wife. No matter how many times he awoke beside her, it still seemed odd to see her at rest. Her dark red hair clung to her cheeks as it had the previous night when she appeared in the study door, highlighting her strong jaw and soft cheeks. A dusting of freckles trailed across the bridge of her nose and reappeared on the caps of her shoulders and the swell of her breast where they became more diffuse until they were nearly invisible. Her lips, which were usually straight, had molded into a lax pout. If she hadn’t been asleep, he would have lightly run his finger along them, tracing the soft curve of a cupid’s bow.
The Ingenious Mechanical Devices Box Set Page 76
