Reckless in Red

by Rachael Miles

  She could hardly argue, particularly if she didn’t wish to offend the duke or, more importantly, his fiancée. Accepting Clive’s argument, for now at least, she placed her hands in his. He helped her rise from the stairs.

  “News of Mrs. Paxton’s death will spread quickly once the magistrate leaves with the body.” He stood quietly, examining her face as if he’d never seen her before. Then he raised her shawl from her shoulders, pulling it forward over her head until the sides partially obscured her face. The tenderness of the gesture caught her breath, and she wondered what he’d seen in that long gaze. She said nothing, afraid her voice might reveal too much of her fears, apprehension, and longing.

  Taking one of her hands, he directed her away from her rooms. “Follow me closely—and quietly. Without the magistrate to intervene, we should avoid another engagement with your landlady.” Lena followed Clive down each flight of stairs, not letting go of his hand. His touch was a comfort to her, a salve against the noises of the house that seemed amplified. The clatter of a pan, the sound of two women talking, the creaks in the stairs Clive didn’t know to avoid. Each one seemed to yell out her escape; each one made her cringe. She couldn’t bear the thought of another round with Mrs. Abbott; the vitriol in the landlady’s words had burned and stung.

  At the main floor, the door to Mrs. Abbott’s lodgings stood open wide. Clive motioned her to stop. He leaned forward, looking into the landlady’s rooms, then he positioned his body in front of Mrs. Abbott’s open doorway and waved Lena to the other side.

  At the front door, Clive tried to slide the bolt quietly, but the lock scraped against the plate, then stuck. Lena watched Abbott’s door, fearing that the landlady would reach them before they escaped. Clive tried again, and each attempt sounded like a gunshot, or seemed to. The heavy beat of the landlady’s cane announced her approach.

  Lena stepped closer to Clive. “Hurry,” she whispered.

  Clive responded by pulling her into the side of his body. His strong arm around her shoulders comforted her, and she wanted to lean into the warmth of him, if only for a moment. But it wasn’t wise. She held herself apart, perhaps only by a fraction, but enough to convey—if not to him, but to herself—that she could still manage her life as she always had: alone. He turned his attention back to the lock.

  He twisted the bolt once more, pushing the door into its frame at the same time. The bolt released. The sound of Mrs. Abbott’s cane grew louder, accompanied by renewed cursing. Lena hurried out onto the porch, Clive close behind, pulling the door shut behind them.

  Outside the boardinghouse, the world was turning dark. The winter sun sought its bed early, leaving London’s residents to find their way through a city dimly lit by gas lamps or torches. The streetlamp in front of them created a puddle of light. Pedestrians passing under the lamp’s light became visible for a moment, then disappeared back into the dark.

  Lena studied the crowd, looking for those who might recognize her. She pulled her shawl farther forward; even in the dark, she had no wish to be recognized. As if reading her thoughts, Clive pulled her toward him again, placing his arm around her shoulders and turning her body sideways into his chest to protect her from view. She allowed the intimacy. But she refused to think of how it might feel to be encircled in his arms if he were interested in her alone, rather than in how she might lead him to Horatio.

  Together they hurried out to the edge of the street. There, a hackney pulled to meet them almost at the very moment of his hail. Somehow she wasn’t surprised: hadn’t the crowds parted for Clive as he’d walked to the surgery school?

  He handed her into the coach, his strong arms almost lifting her off the pavement. She tucked herself into the far corner of the forward-facing seat, taking comfort from the wall at her back and side, leaving him plenty of room. But he didn’t follow. Instead, he shut the door behind her, and the latch clicked into place.

  Past the window she could see the lamplight indistinct, but inside the carriage, the dark settled heavy around her. Suddenly the old fears returned. In an instant, she was a child again, trapped alone in the cold and dark. Her breath felt tight, as if she couldn’t open her lungs fully. Her heart thudded hard in her chest.

  She tried to think her way through the panic. She wasn’t alone: Clive would return in just a few minutes. And she wasn’t trapped—she placed her hand on the door handle. The carriage hadn’t begun to move, so she could still get out. She didn’t even need the stairs.

  In her work dress with its combination of skirt and trousers, she could merely open the door, sit on the carriage floor, then slide down until her feet touched to the ground. No, she was simply overtaxed, her nerves frayed by the events of the day. But her body wasn’t listening. Her heart beat fast, and her breath felt tight. Her hand clasped the door handle tight, and it took everything in her not to open the door and run. They were old fears, rooted in a long ago past, one she had worked very hard to forget. She had conquered them before, and she would not yield now.

  She took her hand off the door handle, then very deliberately lowered the window. With the dark outside and in, she was unlikely to be seen. Even so, she sat far back in her seat. She closed her eyes and focused on the calls of the vendors, still hawking their wares. “Ready money for old clothes.” “Brick dust. Sell your brick dust.” “Songs, penny a sheet.”

  To calm her mind, she played an old game, imagining how each of the vendors looked, then painting the scene mentally in the style of a famous painter. When she wasn’t in the grip of a panic, she used the game to remember a scene in meticulous detail, but when the panic took her, as now, it was a way to come back to herself. The carriage grew colder, but she ignored it, focusing on her imaginary drawings. Surprisingly, in every one, Clive somehow became the central figure, performing some act of generosity or kindness. When the potato vendor’s cart was toppled, he bought her damaged wares, and when the chimney sweep’s boy collapsed of fatigue, he paid the boy’s wages for the week.

  She wasn’t certain how long Clive had been gone, but by the time he returned with her carpetbag, she was breathing more easily. It would take hours before she felt free of the last bits of her fear. But at least Clive wouldn’t know how anxious she’d been.

  He put her carpetbag on the rear-facing seat. “Is there a reason you have decided to take a perfectly cold carriage and turn it into an icehouse?” He reached past her to close the carriage window, then sat beside her, not touching but still close enough. She could feel the warmth of his body and smell the crisp notes of his cologne. She breathed it in, letting the scent fill her senses. He tapped the roof to signal the coachman, and the carriage lurched its way forward.

  “That’s a fine rope. A resourceful tenant could even use it to effect an escape from a hideous landlady. But I must ask: how did you get such a length of rope into your rooms without being seen?” He waited for her answer, forcing her to speak.

  “It’s part of the rigging we used to raise the canvas sections.” She felt as if she were speaking from a long distance. “Mrs. Abbott attends services on Sunday afternoons—I believe there’s a man she is hoping to ensnare—and Mrs. Paxton would take that occasion to escape to the park. I always felt sorry for Paxton, or rather I felt the sort of compassion one feels for a caged snake: if the snake were free, it would enjoy biting you, but it’s still sad somehow that the snake is denied that pleasure.”

  Clive laughed, a big hearty, generous laugh. Somehow, as nothing ever had before, his laughter made her remaining tension melt away. She breathed in a long, deep, full breath.

  “You haven’t answered what you intended to do with such a rope.” His voice was filled with concern.

  “Exactly what I did.” Her relief made her willing to talk. “I didn’t intend to kill myself, if that’s what you are wondering. I could do that with less effort and more effect at the Rotunda. As you saw today, all I’d have to do is to step off the highest scaffold, and I’d be dead or soon to be. No, early on, I learned that A
bbott makes the excuse of some debt or other to claim something from your belongings, and the rope gave me a way to protect my possessions.”

  “By hanging them out of the window?” His tone mixed surprise and admiration, and she could imagine his face as he said it. She was beginning to know something of his face and its moods.

  “I screwed a bolt into the wood beneath my window, and anytime I heard her at the door, I hung my bag from it. Then after she’d claimed her penalty, I’d retrieve the bag. I tucked an assortment of trinkets in my wardrobe as if they had value to me. It was always best to make Abbott think she was taking something you valued, or she would find a way to claim a bigger penalty the next time.”

  “That’s appalling—Mrs. Abbott’s behavior, that is. Your solution was quite resourceful. But why didn’t you merely find another place to lodge?”

  “Few places—respectable places, I mean—allow a woman to live alone. I’d intended to live in the rooms above the offices, but Horatio refused.”

  “Well, you don’t need to worry about Mrs. Abbott’s penalties. The magistrate is delivering your belongings to my brother’s house. Our murderer might have been able to find his way into a boardinghouse, but it’s unlikely he will be so lucky with the home of a duke. You should plan on remaining Forster’s guest until the murderer is discovered.”

  His voice was so serious. The corners of her eyes grew wet, but she wouldn’t cry. How could this stranger who knew nothing of her invite her so easily into his brother’s home? How could he want to protect her, when those most obligated to care for her had cast her out? She already trusted him too much, and that wasn’t wise. “I understand that the magistrate needs my flat for tonight. But could I not slip back tomorrow or the next day? The murderer has already been to my rooms and not found me there. In my view, it could be one of the safest places in London.”

  “But now your landlady wishes you ill.” His tone was kind, as if she were a bit dim.

  “Abbott wished me ill long before today.”

  “The death of her cousin will likely harden that resolve.”

  “Don’t let Abbott fool you; she hated her cousin.” Lena reached forward and removed a long, knitted wrap from inside her carpetbag. “Abbott will only miss her cousin when she has to hire a cleaning lady to do Paxton’s work.” She placed half the width of the wrap over her knees and offered the other half to Clive.

  He stretched out the remaining fabric over his lap. “If you opened the window to have the excuse of sharing a blanket, I’m afraid the blanket has failed you. I have only enough for one leg and a bit of a second. I suppose I’m lucky you didn’t open both windows.” His voice teased her gently.

  “Please take more.” She reached across his body to pull the wrap farther over his legs, just as he leaned forward. In the dark, their bodies collided. Her elbow met his gut hard. Then, trying to right herself, she pulled her body back at the same moment that he leaned forward instinctively over his belly. Her head hit his nose.

  She heard the crunch as well as felt it. Without thinking, she put her hands up to touch his face. His cheeks, shadowed by the growth of evening whiskers, felt rough against her palms. “Please forgive me. I meant only to give you more of the blanket. Are you hurt?” In the intimacy of the dark, her fingers traced the line of his nose. Captivated, she followed his cheekbone down to his jaw, memorizing the lines of his face as if she were blind.

  He placed his hand on hers, but instead of stopping her exploration, he let his hand follow the line of her arm up to her neck, then to her chin. She sat still, wanting to lean her face into his palm, but holding herself back.

  “I could ask the same of you.” His voice was lower, almost husky, the rough edges of it resonating in her belly. His fingers found her lips, and she let them trace their fullness. “Are you hurt?”

  The tension that had shimmered between them all day flared gold with sudden intensity. She let it pull her toward him: she had no will left to resist. With one hand on her cheek, he let his other slide over the fabric of the blanket, brushing the side of her leg down to her knee.

  He leaned in, closing the space between his mouth and hers. His breath felt warm on her lips. She refused to wonder if kissing him would be a good or a bad decision. She leaned forward slightly, invitingly, and waited. She could imagine how it would feel—the touch of his skin against hers, tasting each other for the first time. Her anticipation grew each second that he delayed. But she would not close the distance.

  The moment drew out long between them. Then, abruptly, he pulled away. “Thank you for sharing your blanket. I find myself quite warm.”

  Longing still arced between them. She could hear it in his breath and in the cadence of his words. She wished she could see his face and read his expression. But she would not pursue a kiss, if he were not willing. Besides, a kiss would endanger everything. A kiss would mean she trusted him. Even so, she felt unaccountably disappointed, knowing it was for the best, but regretting it all the same.

  “The blanket is quite lovely, if you could see it.” She filled the uneasy silence with words, but nothing eased the tension between them. She wondered what had made him change his mind. “When I first returned from the Continent, I worked for some months in Ireland. After the commission was finished, I studied with a master weaver, learning how to make dyes from her garden, then how to spin the wool into thread and how to work the loom.”

  “My brother’s house is only a block away.” His voice had returned almost to its natural timbre. “Does your weaving tell a story? Or is it only a pattern?”

  “It’s the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.” She tried to focus on something other than the rise and fall of his breath, or the feel of his leg touching hers. “I’m sure you know it.”

  “Remind me.” He shifted his leg away from hers.

  “Orpheus was the son of the muse Calliope. At his songs, even the gods would weep or sing. But after the loss of his wife Eurydice, he refused to play, and Zeus allowed him to travel to the underworld to ask Hades for his wife’s return.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember. Hades agrees to let her go, but stipulates that she will follow Orpheus silently through the underworld until they both reached the land of the living. Orpheus was required to trust the god and never look back. If he did, then he would lose her to the underworld forever.”

  “And he succeeds. He reaches the upper world but he forgets that Eurydice is several steps behind him. She hasn’t entered the land of the living yet, and, when he looks back, he sees her disappear.”

  “Lost to him forever. What made you choose to weave such a sad story?”

  “It’s not sad, exactly. It’s a story about the nature of love. We all die. We all grieve the loss of those we love. But sometimes—in a great love—a lover can seek to be reunited with his beloved, even if it means finding her in the underworld.”

  The carriage turned into the drive of a large, well-lit house. She lifted the wrap from their legs and folded it deftly away. “And they are reunited. In one version of the story, Hades allows Orpheus to visit Eurydice for some months each year.”

  “Perhaps you will show the blanket’s design to me tomorrow.” Clive tapped on the ceiling. “We have arrived.”

  * * *

  The porch and exterior of the duke’s Grosvenor Square residence were well lit, and through the windows, she could see evidence of a robust staff, all in the ducal livery. The house itself was large, built—she guessed by the architecture—early in the previous century, mixing elements of the heavily ornamented baroque style with the ruled lines of the new Palladian fashion. To have approved such a design—and kept it, as fashions changed—showed that the Dukes of Forster were men of thoughtful taste.

  “My great-great-grandfather built it.” Clive took her elbow. “It’s a moldy old pile, but I’ve always loved the way it looks, all flats and curves together.”

  “The combination is quite striking, evidence of what a discerning hand can do with discordant ele
ments.” His touch—even through gloves—renewed the sense of connection she’d felt before. She should be wary; she already trusted him too much.

  “Or to please a duke who wants one style and a duchess who wants another. Apparently there were great rows over the design, but they were reputed to have adored one another, and this was their happy compromise.” Clive squeezed Lena’s elbow as he led her forward. “Speaking of couples who are besotted with one another, my brother, the duke—if you meet him—is only terrifying before sunset. After that, he’s typically with Lady Wilmot, his fiancée, and he appears suddenly quite human.”

  “I should have told you. I don’t know why I didn’t.” Stopping before the door, she faced him. “But I have already met the duke and his fiancée. I would never have agreed to your plan of me staying here overnight if I hadn’t.”

  “I see.” His face remained unreadable. “As for your staying here . . .”

  At that moment, a smartly dressed man held the door open wide to greet them. “Lord Clive, welcome. And this is your guest, Miss Frost, I assume.”

  “Miss Frost, this is Barlow, my brother’s valet.”

  “It’s the butler’s half day off.” Barlow ushered them into the house, with a pert nod of the head.

  “I thought the duke was staying in Cavendish Square.” Clive sounded confused.

  “The duke has decided that Lady Wilmot’s destruction of his Cavendish Square house will be best effected without him present.” Barlow added, “His lordship has yet to learn not to wager with Lady Wilmot. In this last one, the prize was that Lady Wilmot could renovate the master suite.”

  “Destruction?” Lena questioned, thinking of Lady Wilmot’s restrained designs for the salon. “Lady Wilmot didn’t strike me as the renovating sort.”

  “Ah, but you have not seen the master suite, Miss Frost. If Lady Wilmot had not intervened, I would have been obligated to take a blacksmith’s sledgehammer to it myself. The previous owner had a remarkable affinity for ornate wallpapers in contrasting colors and patterns. The master suite looked a bit like a bordello designed by Lady Macbeth and Kubla Khan.”