by Lynn Kerstan
The servant bowed, not easy to do while holding a tray that size. “I shall see to it, sir.”
“Come directly to the Casina, then. And bring plenty of hot water.”
A few minutes later, with Norah concealed upstairs in his bedchamber and all signs of her presence swept from view, Michael admitted the servants. Two of them now. When the food was laid out, he tossed each one a sovereign.
“This is unnecessary, sir,” said the freckled youngster, his face scarlet. “The principessa pays us well.”
Principessa? Beata had given herself a promotion. “I’m sure she does. But since I’ve managed to antagonize almost everyone I know in the last hour, I’d hoped to bribe you into charity with me.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” They bowed and left.
Good Lord, what else? It seemed a week ago that Norah deposited herself on his doorstep. Watching through a slivered break in the curtains, he saw them shake off their umbrellas and enter the villa proper. The wind was whipping up. Next, Fairfax. Then, perhaps, Miss Holcombe.
For now, though, his sister-in-law, who had snapped at him on his return and complained at being forced to hide upstairs. He didn’t blame her. She was frightened, exhausted, and likely not in her right mind after nearly two decades married to the Beast.
“Come have supper,” he said from the doorway. “David Fairfax will be here soon, and later, a young woman with some dry clothes for you to wear. Then you can tell us all how we can be of service.”
“So I slapped him,” Mira said as she spooned the last of the broth, thickened with bits of nearly dissolved bread, into her father’s mouth. “Rather harder than I’d meant to, but I was caught up in the theatrics. And I don’t expect he really felt it, you know. He was more than a little foxed.”
David had left a few minutes earlier, after helping her lift her father to his bed, prop the pillows behind him, and heat the broth in a pot over the fire. The routine was a familiar one, although Hari Singh or one of Beata’s servants usually helped with the lifting. Then, alone with her father, she always told him about her day and asked about his, sitting beside him and moving the chart with the letters of the alphabet under his hand, watching his finger move over each letter he chose.
Few words needed spelling out. She could read so much from the slight movements he was able to make, and from his eyes, that sometimes it seemed she could read his very thoughts.
He had ceased to care for himself, she knew with the same dread with which she watched his frail body grow weaker. All his concern was for her, for her security and her happiness, and her heart was breaking to think how greatly she must disappoint him. Like everyone else, he thought her to be something she was not. He imagined a man would love her, and wed her, and not find himself disillusioned with his bride.
He did not know. Or if he did, he could not understand. And she would never tell him.
She chattered too brightly while she cleared the remains of his sparse meal and settled him for the night. He seemed pleased that she was going to Michael Keynes’s Casina tonight, was glad that she meant to help the wife of the man who had destroyed her family.
Edgar Holcombe embraced forgiveness. His daughter thought only of vengeance.
When his eyes fluttered shut, she adjusted his blankets, extinguished the lamp at his bedside, and went to her own room to change. A few minutes later, a parcel with clothing for the Beast’s wife in her arms, she climbed out the back window of her cottage and flitted across the wet expanse of winter grass to her destination.
Rain was streaming from the brim of her bonnet and her black mourning cloak as she rapped on the dark, curtained window. No one heard her. She knocked again, harder this time, and soon after a small light appeared to waft in her direction. A candle, she guessed. The air had long since begun to vibrate. Then a black shadow, a break in the curtains, and a pair of hands lifting the window.
She looked up, into eyes that were familiar and terrifying, and then to the hands reaching out to help her. When one of them touched her arm, it felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Dropping her parcel, she jumped back from the window.
A moment of silence. “I forgot myself,” he said. “Wait a moment. Fairfax will come to help you inside.”
It wasn’t him, she kept telling herself as she gathered up her parcel and huddled close to the wall. It wasn’t him. But it had been his eyes and his hands. So many years gone by, another man altogether, and nothing had changed for her. It would never be over, never be different. She was as frozen in her past as her father was contained in his immobile body, both of them helpless to escape.
But if the Beast were dead, she kept thinking, if she killed him, surely her own demons would vanish with him. She didn’t ask for much. A little peace of mind. A few hours cut loose from her memories. Safe harbor for her father. So little, and all beyond her grasp. The rain streamed down her face like tears.
“Mira?” David’s face appeared at the window.
Recovering, she gave him the parcel and let him help her through the high window. Next there would be an enclosed room in company with the Duchess of Tallant and Michael Keynes. No peace of mind for her tonight.
The duchess, sharp featured and pale, sat at a small table laid out with food and a pot of tea. She glanced up as David led Mira through the door.
“Your Grace,” said Mira, stopping near the table and curtsying. “I am Miranda Holcombe. I’ve brought you a nightrail, a dressing gown, some slippers, and a few other things you may find useful.”
“Thank you.” Her reply was stiff. “Tallant has laid claim to land near our own that once belonged to a Holcombe family.”
“My family,” Mira confirmed. “For the moment, the land remains ours.”
“I am sorry for your difficulties. But there is no stopping him, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps. But I mean to try.”
At David’s gesture, Mira went to a chair not far from the duchess. Michael Keynes, she knew without looking, was near the hearth. The charge in the air told her, as did the sensation of his gaze hot against her back.
He doesn’t matter, she told herself. But of course, he did. When he was present, little else seemed of consequence.
As if her thoughts had stirred him to action, she felt him move and heard the sound of a log being tossed on the fire.
“Her Grace has already told us a good deal,” David said, taking a chair beside her. “We’ll fill you in later. Her daughter Corinna has gone missing, and she wishes us to find her.”
“I can speak for myself, young man,” the duchess said, her voice strained with obvious weariness. “But I shall be brief. Tallant decided that we should take residence, Corinna and I, in Scotland. He escorted us there himself, and left two large brutes to protect us, or that was the reason he gave. I am certain they had been ordered to see we met with an accident.” Her gaze went to Mira’s face. “Do I shock you?”
“No, Your Grace. I can quite believe it.”
For some reason, that appeared to give relief to the duchess. “Then you will understand my fear,” she said more gently than she had yet spoken. “Corinna is seventeen, and like her sister, has been schooled in Ireland. Catherine is three years younger and returned home last month. Save for St. Bridget’s Academy, neither girl has much experience of the world. And Corinna’s health has been fragile. She said almost nothing on the trip north, huddling in the carriage and staring out the window. I thought, sometimes, she meant to open the door and fling herself outside.”
“Could she have suspected the duke’s intentions?” Mira asked.
“She never confided in me. I have not been a fond mother, Miss Holcombe. To deal with my husband required more resources than I possessed, leaving nothing for my children. I am much to blame for their unhappiness and hold myself responsible for what has occurred.”
> “But she left from Scotland,” said David. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes. The duke saw us to the estate—a farmhouse, really, in ill repair—and departed the next day, leaving the two men to help us settle in, or so he said. There was a handful of local servants as well, but only the housekeeper lived in the house. The second night, the duke’s men went off to a local tavern that is reputed to be a sporting house as well. It was morning before they returned, and by then, I had discovered Corinna’s absence.
“If only I heard her leave. But it was the first night I’d slept well since we set out for the north, and although she must have come into my bedchamber, I did not awaken. She took my small box of jewelry, the little money I had stored away, and left me this note.” The duchess unfolded a scrap of paper and held it out to Mira.
Do not try to find me, it said. There is something I must do.
Mira read it aloud for the others and returned the paper to the duchess. “Did you go after her straightaway?”
“A little after dawn, a nightmare awakened me. Something felt terribly wrong. I went immediately to her room, where she had arranged pillows under the blankets to look as if she were there. I first searched the house, then the outbuildings, and finally returned to my own chamber, where I saw the note. Shortly after, the duke’s men returned. If not for Corinna’s message, I’d have thought they had spirited her away and disposed of her. As it was, I pretended she was ill with the mumps, which frightens men, and I stayed in her bedchamber all day. That night, when they went off again to the tavern, I set out walking.”
After her own experiences of hasty escapes, Mira was immediately caught up in the story. No money, no idea which direction to go, only the urgency. The desperation. Someone helpless who depended on her, someone she had failed and was continuing to fail.
“I had a little luck then,” said the duchess. “I’d kept off the roads, but by the next evening, I felt safe enough to slip into a posthouse. As it happened, the mail coach regularly stopped there, and a servant told me of a black-haired boy who bought passage to London the night before. It might have been Corinna, but I cannot be sure. I’d brought along a few things of value that were easily carried—my father’s pocket watch, fur scarves, some banknotes I kept sewed in the hem of my cloak. Along with my wedding ring, they got me to London.”
“You took a mail coach as well?” Mira said.
“It was the fastest way, and at each stop, I made inquiries. The boy had continued south for a considerable time, but I lost track of him two days ago. Perhaps it really was a boy. But if it was Corinna, she might have changed her route for fear of being traced. Or decided to go somewhere other than London. I don’t know.” The duchess paused, drew in a long breath. “There were newspapers at the posthouses, and in one of them I read that the Duke of Tallant’s brother had returned to England and was in residence at the Palazzo Neri. So I came to him, because I had nowhere else to turn.”
Mira glanced over at Michael Keynes, slouched against the wall near the fireplace. He exhibited all the interest a piece of furniture might have done. “Did the duke’s servants follow you?” she said, returning her attention to the duchess.
“I’ve no idea. Tallant said something about visiting property in Somerset, so they might have gone there. Or they might have fled. If they were set to kill us, or merely to keep us under guard, they failed.” Her voice faltered. “To fail Tallant is to be punished beyond measure.”
“What did they look like?” It was Keynes, speaking for the first time since their encounter at the window.
“Large,” said the duchess. “Rough faced. One had brown hair, the other was bald save for a fringe at the base of his head, and they were tall. They reminded me of the pugilists that used to fight at country fairs when I was growing up in Ireland. The brown-haired one had a slight accent, probably Welsh, and the other favored his left leg when he walked. I’m sorry I did not observe them more closely.”
The duchess’s hands quivered. Her breathing was uneven. She had come, Mira realized, to the end of her strength.
“We can do nothing until morning,” Mira said, rising. “And after a night’s sleep, you may recall other details of use. Mr. Keynes, where is Her Grace to sleep?”
“Top of the stairs,” he said, “large room to the right. Help her settle in, Miss Holcombe. When you return, we’ll make plans.”
Chapter 11
The duchess had begun to weep softly into the pillows. Mira, understanding she wished to be private, snuffed the candle in Michael Keynes’s bedchamber and left Her Grace alone there. Then she returned to the parlor, settled herself primly on a chair, and looked over at Mr. Keynes.
Slouched in the shadows, arms folded, he was looking back at her, his face without expression. Waiting. He always seemed to be waiting.
“Where shall we begin?” she said.
His mouth curved, only a little, at the corners. “With what must be done immediately. That means winkling the duchess away before anyone knows she was ever here and finding a place to stow her.”
“She could stay in my rooms,” David said. “I have a spare bedchamber.”
“You’re connected to me. She wouldn’t be safe there.”
“Oh.” David looked unhappy. “But I don’t see why not. Surely Tallant won’t figure she came to you for help?”
“No one seems to think she would. Not you, not Miss Holcombe, not I. And probably not my brother.” Keynes pulled himself from the wall and went to an array of cut-glass decanters on the sideboard. “But he’ll know that if she did come to me, I’d help her if only to spite him.”
Mira shivered. “Is that why you’re doing this?”
Keynes, a decanter in one hand and a glass in the other, glanced at her over his shoulder. “Does it matter? Whatever my reasons, she gets what she wants.”
The sound of brandy being poured, the clink as the glass stopper was returned to the decanter. Mira watched Michael Keynes take a long drink from the glass. Only the duchess had understood. This man would protect her, and his motives were, as he said, irrelevant. When it came right down to it, the motives of Miranda Holcombe could not stand up to any degree of scrutiny either. It was exciting to be in company with Michael Keynes, embroiled with his plots and—No. She mustn’t look too closely at all that.
“I don’t know London well,” she said, “but I am acquainted with someone who does. Perhaps she can suggest a place to hide the duchess.”
“Is she to be trusted?”
“I should think so. She is secretary to Lady Jessica Duran.”
“Who is married to a friend of mine. Tallant knows about him. We keep clear of that family, servants included.”
“Good heavens. For a man with few connections in England, you somehow manage to be connected to everyone who might help us.”
“We are acquainted with the same people, is all. The secretary is tracking down some information I require.”
“You know her, then?”
“We’ve never met. She sends her reports to a third party. Nonetheless—”
“Very well.” Obstinate man. Did he imagine himself capable of protecting everyone? “You have ruled out Miss Pryce, so we must find a place ourselves. David, is there a hotel where we might conceal the duchess, or an agency that could provide us with a rental flat?”
“I’m sure there is,” David said. “But I’ve lived on Mount Street for more than a dozen years, and the only hotels I’m familiar with are the fashionable ones where I sometimes take a meal or visit a friend.”
Muttering something under his breath, Keynes refilled his nearly empty glass to the top and slumped on a chair near the hearth. “Point taken. The three of us are ineffective, so Miss Pryce it is. Duran told me she could find a white feather in a snowstorm, so perhaps she can find a way to conceal one. Meantime, let’s talk
about getting the duchess out of here.”
“You have a plan,” Mira said.
“The start of one. I’ve no doubt you will refine on it, but here’s what I have in mind. We’ll dress the duchess in your father’s coat and hat, cover her with blankets, and smuggle her out on the wheeled chair. You and David will accompany her, ostensibly taking Mr. Holcombe to some public place.”
She understood immediately. “The British Museum. He wants very much to go there. But if the duchess goes in his stead, what will we do with him in the interim? And how do we unite the duchess and the wheeled chair?”
“Sleight of hand. We’re not being closely watched at the moment, although I suspect little goes on here that Beata Neri fails to learn about.” Keynes stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “Rig up a dummy that will pass at a distance for your father and wheel it here to collect David tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock should do it. After the duchess changes places with the dummy, the three of you will set out for the museum.”
“But—”
Keynes lifted a hand. “Long before then, Hari Singh will have returned from the home of his friends. He’s been meaning to construct a bed that will raise your father’s back to help him breathe more easily—something of the kind—and tomorrow would be a good day to get started. He’ll be at your door by eight o’clock and will help you set up the dummy in the chair. Then he’ll spend the day sawing and hammering and keeping away anyone who drops by. No one will guess your father is still inside the cottage.”
It would work. How clever of him, and how foolish of her to underestimate him. All this time, when she’d been sure he was paying little attention to the duchess’s story, when she’d thought he didn’t care what became of his sister-in-law and his missing niece, he’d been sketching out a plan of action. “What of Miss Pryce? She has been seeing to a business matter on my behalf, so it will be quite ordinary for me to pay her a call. Shall I do that on our way to the museum?”
