by Lynn Kerstan
“From here on out, you stay away from Duran’s residence. In the morning, I’ll post the letter you are going to write her. David, we require a meeting place near the museum, one with a private parlor. The name and direction have to be included in the letter.”
“But I can’t . . .” David looked up at Keynes’s face and stopped protesting.
“Will you join us tomorrow?” Mira asked, to prove that she, at least, was not intimidated.
“Yes, but first I’m going to make sure the chit didn’t call at Tallant House.”
“Will the servants admit you?”
“That would be the easiest way in. If they turn me off, I’ll find another. She’s unlikely to have gone there, but we need to cross it off our list before Tallant returns to London.”
“The Lion and Lamb in Upper King Street,” David blurted out. “It’s not far from the museum.”
“One o’clock, then. Miss Holcombe, there are writing materials in that drawer.” He gestured to a small table near the fireplace. “Tell Miss Pryce as much or as little as you see fit, but impress upon her the urgency of this meeting.”
“She might not be at home,” said David. “What if she fails to receive the letter in time?”
“We find a night’s lodging for the duchess and make other arrangements. We do whatever we must.”
David glanced down at his fitted black coat and intricate cravat. “I’m going to look ridiculous touring the museum in evening dress.”
Shaking his head, Keynes got himself another drink and carried it to a wing chair. “The one thing I refuse to deal with, Fairfax, is your bloody wardrobe. Be quiet and let the lady write her letter.”
Rising, Mira gave David her best smile and got back a good-humored shrug. “It requires an act of faith to be his friend,” he had once told her. She was only glad her own fate did not depend on Michael Keynes.
Through the mellowing warmth of brandy and weariness, Michael watched through lowered lashes as Miranda Holcombe crossed to the writing table, settled herself on the straight-backed chair, and opened the drawer.
Her every motion was fluid and spare, like a cat stalking through high grass. Nothing wasted, nothing that was not beautiful. He felt like a supplicant unable to ask for what he most desired, holding himself at a distance, grateful for the merest glimpse of the impossible.
Or, he was drunk. A maudlin sot with nothing to look forward to but a killing and a hanging. Except that after the killing, he’d be the duke. Did they hang dukes? What of a duke who had killed a duke?
Never mind all that. He didn’t much care, once the main business was done with.
Even to write, she did not remove those infernal gloves. She was laying out her implements one by one—Beata’s fine linen paper, a pen and a pen knife, a bottle of ink neatly stoppered, a stick of wax, a seal with what he suspected was Beata Neri’s made-up family crest. Miranda’s thoughts were elsewhere, he could tell, on the words she would inscribe when she’d finished sharpening her pen, on how much she would reveal in her letter.
Her profile, an ivory cameo carved out against the firelight, enthralled him. He wondered about her voice, husky, breathy, as though she had some inflammation of the throat. Like a soft wind through grass. She could weave magic with that voice. Nimue spoke with a voice like that when she enchanted Merlin.
A beggar at the queen’s gate, that’s what he was. Senseless, pathetic, no hope in the world of drawing her attention or meriting her regard.
He rested his head against the back of the chair, closed his eyes for a moment, remembered who he was and what he had to do. Protect Mira Holcombe, for one thing, or give her the power to protect herself. That meant money, and he must see to it while he could. Tomorrow morning, a visit to his banker, a trust set up in her name. He had no one else to leave it to, and he couldn’t take it where he was going.
Fairfax would administer the trust. Fairfax, whose soft snore melded into the patter of rain against the window glass. A good boy, Fairfax. Only two years younger than he, but centuries younger in experience. Money for Fairfax as well.
He had a great deal of money. How nice that he had people to give it to. Something good would come of his life after all.
She had begun to write. He let the soft sounds in the room settle over him, the scratch of her pen on the paper, the rustle of her gown, the crackle of the fire. A domestic scene, surprisingly pleasant, all but alien to him.
There had been another time like this, in Scotland. The graystone house had been drafty, stocked with worn furnishings and threadbare carpets, but he’d thought nothing of that. There had never been money in the family for niceties, even at Longview, and he’d been wildly glad to escape that hellhole. Exile meant an end to terror.
He had loved the open spaces, the rough landscape. And when he came home after a day of testing himself on the cliffs or in the icy lochs, there would be thick soup and crusty bread and no one to give him a beating.
On winter nights like this one, he would read by the fire or work on the projects his mother had assigned him. She had by necessity become his tutor—there was no school in that remote area—and Devil Keynes hadn’t noticed or cared she’d packed up half his library and brought it north.
Some evenings she would play the harpsichord while he read. Other times she’d sit at a writing table, as Mira Holcombe was doing now, penning long letters to friends she would not live to see again.
Tomorrow, though, he would see Miranda Holcombe again. Thinking of it, simply having something to look forward to, gave him an astonishing jolt of pleasure.
She read over her letter, made a little nod of satisfaction, and signed at the bottom. All the rituals were rendered with feminine precision. She aligned the corners before folding the paper. The direction was printed. The wax stick held to a candle, the soft wax applied to the paper, allowed to set for just the right amount of time before the seal was pressed into it. He could have watched her repeat it all, again and again, for hours.
She rose then and crossed to where she’d left her cloak and bonnet. After a few moments, he got up as well.
“Don’t wake him,” she said as he started over to rouse Fairfax.
“The window is high. You’ll need his help to climb out.”
“You can help me.” She tied the ribbons of her bonnet, picked up the cloak, and went into Hari’s room.
He started to pick up a candle, remembered what a bad idea it would be. In the dark bedchamber, she waited for him beside the window, her cloak draped over her arm.
“I am sorry,” she said, “for striking you so hard this evening, and for what happened later, when I arrived here. I have an abhorrence of being . . . touched.”
“Not always.” He shouldn’t have said it. He kept going anyway. “Not by Fairfax.”
“That’s different. We knew each other as children. I am fearful, that is all. It has nothing to do with you.”
He reached past her, watched her steel herself to avoid flinching when his hand went by to raise the window casement. Cold wind and raindrops blew into the room. She put the cloak on a chair, hitched herself onto the sill, and after a moment, held out her arms.
His heart was pounding when he took hold of her waist. She ducked her head until she was half in, half out the window, and he lifted her until her legs were free. His upper body followed her outside as he lowered her gently to the ground. He reached back for the cloak and draped it over her shoulders.
She looked up at him, rain streaming from the brim of her bonnet. “Thank you, Mr. Keynes.”
“You are right to keep your distance from me,” he said. “Tonight I took advantage of circumstances for my own pleasure, and given the opportunity, I shall do so again. I understand you carry a knife, Miss Holcombe. If ever I come too close to you, use it.”
Because she was dresse
d in her widow’s weeds, and because it was raining, and because no one would miss her, Mira sped behind her cottage so that Michael Keynes would think she’d gone in through the back window.
For a time she stood there, vibrating with the call from a place she didn’t want to go. Never mind that she stole from the cottage most nights and went there, certain she’d find whatever was summoning her, only to find nothing at all.
Tonight would likely be the same, but she dared not refuse the call. The instinct was more compelling than it had been the last several days and nights. She made her way to the street and walked a considerable distance before locating a hackney, which took her to Berkeley Square. While the hackney waited for her on a side street, she slipped into the gated garden across from Tallant House and watched for an hour, the rain streaming from her bonnet and cloak.
She wondered if there was a special time she was meant to kill him. Would she be standing in front of his house on a dark lonely night when he returned home, when there would be only the two of them, and her rage, and her knife?
Chapter 12
Well before dawn, Michael claimed his horse from the stable and rode out in the direction of Hampstead Heath by way of Grosvenor Street. David had given him the name of a shop authorized to receive mail, but after winding through streets and alleys to make sure he was not being followed, he decided to take the letter to Sothingdon House himself. There was less risk of being seen than of the message failing to reach its destination in time.
It was still dark when he approached the house and slipped the letter through the narrow slot in the door. Then he continued on to Hampstead, gave Loki a good run, stopped at a chop house for breakfast, and made his way back into the city. The exercise and fresh air had cleared his head, although it left him looking even more barbaric than usual. He hadn’t troubled to shave that morning. Beneath his hat, his wet hair was plastered to his scalp, and water poured from the shoulder capes of his greatcoat. He hoped the servants weren’t fussy about whom they admitted to Tallant House.
The family had owned the tall edifice in Berkeley Square for several generations, although it was practically a ruin the last time he’d seen it. He had been there twice, once when he was seven years old and again when he was twelve, just before leaving with his mother for Scotland. On that occasion, they had been permitted to stay overnight.
The rain had settled to a gloomy drizzle. The few pedestrians in the square, huddled beneath black umbrellas, paid no attention when he rode by. He dismounted in front of Tallant House, looped the reins around an ornamental pineapple on the wrought-iron fence, jumped the low gate, and strode up the steps to the door.
The knocker was missing, and it was a considerable time before his rapping drew anyone’s attention. Finally the door opened a crack and a freckled, red-haired young man wearing silver-and-black livery peered outside. His eyes went round as gold guineas. “Y-your Grace.” The door swung wide. “We d-didn’t expect you home today.”
Grinning, Michael swept off his hat. “Just as well. It’s only the lesser male twig on the family tree, directly off the ship at Portsmouth. Devil take it. Rode all this way in the rain, and m’brother’s not in residence.” He was inside by this time, dripping water over the black-and-white marble floor, stripping off his greatcoat and gloves and handing the lot to the excessively pale footman. “How about the duchess? The children? Time I made their acquaintance. Went out to India before the marriage, don’t y’know, and ain’t been home since.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, there’s no one in residence now. A few servants is all, until His Grace returns.”
“Well, well, where’s he gone, then? Longview? I should have tried there first.”
“I cannot say, sir, where he is to be found.” The footman looked distressed. “The thing is, he does not permit guests unless he is here to approve them.”
“Guests? I’m his brother. And unless he’s begot a son since last he wrote to me, I’m still heir to his title, lands, and fortune. Rightly so. I’m the one made all the money he’s been spending.” Michael opened the nearest door and stepped into a large, splendidly furnished parlor. “To good effect, I see. The duchess must have refined taste. God knows Jermyn never did.”
When he returned to the entrance hall, he saw two or three other frightened faces peering at him from down the passageway. “What’s your name?” he asked the unhappy footman.
“T-Tom, sir.”
“Well, Tom, I can see I’ve created a disturbance. I’d meant to stay here, but in the circumstances, I’ll find m’self a hotel until the duke comes back and approves me. How’s that? Except, before I go back out in the rain, I think I’ll have a look around. Ain’t been here since I was a lad, and it was all to rack and ruin then.”
“Sir, I—”
“He won’t like that either? Always was a strange bird, m’brother. Never mind, Tom. I won’t pilfer the silver. You come along to make sure of it, and then I’ll be on my way. He don’t need to know I was ever here. Oh, and direct someone to keep an eye on m’horse.”
The tour took half an hour, during which time every servant found opportunity to pop up and get a good look at the heir who looked so much like his brother. For once, the resemblance had proven useful. No one questioned his identity, nor his right to be there, although he doubted anyone would report the incident to the duke.
He was allowed to wander about freely, Tom and the housekeeper with her ring of keys trailing behind. Most of the rooms were kept locked, and he asked admittance to only a few of them. For old times’ sake, he said when the door to the duke’s study was unsealed. His escorts waited in the passageway while he went inside to look around.
Save for the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves against one wall, all the furniture he remembered from two decades earlier had been replaced with what appeared to be good-quality antiques. The flagstone hearth and carved marble fireplace were the same, though. According to the newspaper reports, his father’s body, the discharged pistol in his hand, had been found there. All traces of blood had long since been scrubbed away, but there was a chip on the mantelpiece where the bullet had struck after passing through his father’s head.
Two wingback chairs were angled nearby, a small table between them, and not far away stood a large desk of polished walnut, its surface all but bare. A few hunting prints adorned the walls, and over a pier table hung a large, gilt-framed portrait of Jermyn Arthur Anthony MacTavish Keynes, eighth Duke of Tallant. After a brief glance at the imperious face with its sardonic expression, the eyes so like his own, Michael turned away. His fingers itched to draw out a knife and send it into his brother’s painted chest, but of course, there was no more heart in the painting than in the man himself.
Upstairs, to the servants’ palpable relief, he declined to examine the duke’s private chambers and asked instead to explore unoccupied rooms that might be suitable for his own accommodations.
Reconnaissance. The real reason he had come here. He marked out servants’ stairs, closets, connecting rooms, rooms with balconies at the rear, the layout of the walled back garden, and trees he could climb before swinging over to a balcony. All the while he chattered about India, boyhood days at Longview, his wish to find a bride and settle down to reproduce. His plans to buy a London house of his own.
He unlatched windows in several of the unoccupied rooms, marking their location. On a whim, he palmed one of his knives into the hem of a curtain.
Thirty minutes after he’d entered the house, he was on his way out again. Tom the footman, the housekeeper, and the boy who’d watched his horse received handsome vails, and he’d added a handful of coins, all he had with him, to provide a treat for the entire staff. He could afford to be generous.
Next stop, the Bank of England.
Hari Singh enjoyed working with his hands. In Mr. Holcombe’s quiet, attentive company, he had shared his favorite Buddha
tales between periods of sawing, hammering, and testing the results. Soon, by turning a crank, Miss Holcombe would be able to raise and lower either or both ends of the bed. That would improve the circulation of Mr. Holcombe’s blood and perhaps make him more comfortable. Next he intended to redesign the wheeled chair with its platform, making it easier to transport Mr. Holcombe by coach.
After a luncheon of bread-thickened vegetable broth, applesauce, and tea, Mr. Holcombe gestured for his alphabet card to be brought over and asked if Hari would allow him to dictate a secret letter to his daughter. His endurance lasted an hour and produced only one long paragraph, but Hari promised they could add a little every day.
It was early afternoon, when he was pounding nails into the backrest, that he became aware of someone knocking at the door. Michael would have the language for this, he thought, sliding Mr. Holcombe on his pallet under a pre-arranged shelter of boards and tools. Then, a hammer in one hand and a peaceable expression on his face, he went to the front door and opened it.
Two of the Memsahib Beata’s servants, their arms wrapped around bundles of undetermined natures, bowed as best they could. “We have brought the costumes for Mr. and Miss Holcombe,” one of them said.
“For tonight’s masquerade ball,” the other added. “They had the invitations last week. The principessa wishes to assure herself they will be present.”
“I cannot speak for them,” Hari said, navigating a path of truth through his own deception. “Miss Holcombe has gone to a museum, with Mr. Fairfax joining her to arrange transportation and push the wheeled chair. I shall take the parcels, if you wish, and remind them of the masquerade when they return.”
“There is one for Mr. Keynes as well. Shall I leave it here with you?”
“If you wish.”
“The principessa especially requests his presence this evening. There is to be a surprise for Mr. Keynes.”
