by Lynn Kerstan
He regarded her for a time, considering. “As a matter of fact, I think you more than capable of plotting a murder and carrying it out. But not, my dear, for the sake of stolen property.”
“A stolen home. A stolen life. No, many stolen lives. My cousin, entrapped and exploited by the Beast. My uncle, robbed of the money to pursue his dream. My father, so desperate he—” Her hands twisted together. “The strain was too great for him to bear.”
“I know all that.” He braced himself. “I’ve made enquiries about your family. Cousin Robert was betting on long shots before he was out of short pants, and if Jermyn hadn’t done it, someone else would have plucked his feathers. Your uncle was an eccentric with a score of failed enterprises behind him before he elected to restore a fallen-down castle without the time, funds, or expertise to manage it. And your father is a remarkable gentleman whose ill health we all deplore, but do you imagine he would approve of what you are doing? Does he even know what that is?”
She flinched. “I wrote him a letter.”
“I know. I read it, and the one you sent to his physician, and all the others as well. Hari had the presence of mind not to put them in the post.”
“It seems,” she murmured, “that I have been betrayed by everyone.”
“Thwarted, more like. Hari wouldn’t betray a housefly. Lay all the blame on me, Miss Holcombe. He followed my instructions, and I want to point out that he never feels obliged to do so unless he sees good reason. I put him to keep an eye on you, and because he could not always be in attendance, I employed other watchdogs as well. Not enough of them, I regret to say, because you trotted off to Berkeley Square unobserved, perhaps more than once. I underestimated you.”
“Everyone does. Shall I assume you were informed I’d been taken off to Bow Street? Was that the reason you turned yourself in and confessed?”
“It was the reason I did so at that particular time. Otherwise, I’d likely have enjoyed a run-through of the seven deadly sins beforehand. But there could be no delay, because once you were in custody, even if it later proved to be a mistake, your reputation would be destroyed.”
She looked, for the first time, amused. “Your Grace, I have no reputation. I am of modest birth to a family spared absolute obscurity because of my eccentric uncle, God rest him. What money and property we had has been squandered or stolen. For the time being, I enjoy a degree of privilege as one of Beata Neri’s rescued strays, and all her friends are polite to me. But very soon I won’t be able to afford a cottage at the Palazzo, and when my father is gone, I shall be quite alone.”
Another woman might be appealing for sympathy. This one spoke dispassionately of what she perceived to be true. “No one knows who I am,” she continued in a level tone, “and no one cares. There is no reputation at stake here, I assure you, save your own.”
He found an unbloodied segment of the napkin, dipped it in brandy, and pressed it to his cheek. “No Keynes male has a reputation,” he said, “without the word ‘demonic’ attached to it. And you are forgetting the Archangel, who is eager to wrap his wings around you.”
“A temporary infatuation,” she said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. “I am accustomed to them. They never last. I never want them to.”
That did surprise him. Varden, it had seemed to him, was probably the stuff of every young woman’s dreams—handsome, wealthy, titled, intelligent, and apt to remain faithful to his wife and devoted to his family. Miranda Holcombe could have all that. He’d seen the desire, and the longing, in Varden’s eyes.
Hell, he’d seen the same in his own eyes, simply from thinking about her. Which was why he took care not to look closely into the mirror when he shaved.
“Are we done quarreling about which of us killed my brother?” he said. “It’s old ground, most of it covered in the Tower. And it strikes me you are asking all the questions.”
“We can take turns,” she conceded with a bland expression he knew better than to trust. “I’ll go first. Where were you, that the authorities say you could not have made it back to London in time to do the murder?”
Like a dog with a bone, she was. But this was his chance to turn the subject. “You were not the only one I set watchers on, Miss Holcombe. I hired a Runner to lurk in the neighborhood of Longview on the chance Corinna turned up there. Or Jermyn, for that matter. Yesterday . . . no—” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It was two days ago. A message came from the Runner, who’d sniffed out some local gossip and required to speak with me directly. He also wanted to remain close enough to watch over the younger daughter still in residence there, and for that reason asked me to meet him at a nearby inn. I rode south, heard what he had to say, gave instructions, and rode back.”
“If you were near Longview, then you were, indeed, several hours from London, with few decent roads in between.” She gave him a calculating look. “What did he disclose to you?”
“What happened to taking turns? Tell you what, kitten. Come sit over here, beside me or on the fur rug, and we’ll have this out.”
“Meaning you’ll tell me the truth? All of it?”
He had to think about that. “I’ll try,” he said eventually, expecting the displeasure on her face. “Best I can do. I don’t know where this is going to lead, and it might take us to a truth I’m not prepared to give you.”
“Which is, no doubt, the truth I most need to hear. Very well, sir. We are agreed. I shall lie to you if I think it necessary, and you will do the same. Which fairly leaves us where we started, does it not?”
“I said I’d try.” He pointed to the rug. “Please.”
“I’ll not sit at your feet,” she said, drawing up a ladder-back chair and placing it at an angle to his left. “What did the Runner tell you?”
The chair, standing higher than his Moorish bench, put her at eye level with him, a place he was glad to have her. If he got lucky, those glorious eyes would at long last give something away. “If I answer that,” he said, “I’ll have to lie. It was mostly local gossip, always unreliable, and a family matter.”
The next-to-the-last word had burned on his tongue. And Miranda’s gaze had dropped to her hands, which were pressed tightly together. She had guessed what it was, then. He was on the right track.
“My turn for a question,” he said before she could recover her balance. “Who are you protecting?”
“What?” She glanced up, startled as she was meant to be, and quickly shifted her gaze to a point somewhere beyond his shoulder. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course you do. But if it will make this easier for you, I’ll begin with a little guesswork. Corinna has been found, I expect by you, perhaps at Berkeley Square on the night of the murder. I haven’t figured how you knew she was there. Or maybe you showed up to kill Jermyn and wound up jostling for the privilege with his daughter.”
“She di—” Mira shook her head. “Why do you think this?”
“That counts as a question,” he advised her. “I had a note from Miss Pryce concerning another matter, and she made a passing reference to the safe departure of my sister-in-law. Norah would be going nowhere unless Corinna had been found, and Miss Pryce seemed to think I knew all about their plans. That leaves you and David to tell me of them, and David has gone missing. He’s with the ladies, yes? And you have masterminded all of this.”
Miranda had regained her composure. It was the goddess of cold lakes and empty skies sitting across from him now, her eyes the color of blue glacier ice. “Should any of that be true,” she said, “you could not have been the killer.”
“Are you sure? When you and Corinna arrived, Jermyn was already toes up on the hearth.” He grinned. “Or, neither of you ever went into the house, and I came along later and did the deed. For every objection, I’ll find an answer. I won’t turn her in, Miss Holcombe. Really I won’t. If she put the knife in h
im, she has my congratulations and all my support.”
“I thought you were convinced I’d done it.”
“And I thought I was convinced I’d done it. So round and round we go. Did Corinna kill him?”
She took a deep breath. He watched her release it, sensed the debate raging in her excellent mind, knew when she’d come to a decision. He released the breath he’d taken with her and held longer still as he waited for her to surrender.
“Cory says that she did not. I believe her.”
“You almost believe her. Or you suspect there is evidence against her. Were she free and clear, you’d not think it necessary to provide her a shield.”
Another long breath. Then, “She was in the house for a considerable time, more than two days and nights. With the duke gone, there were few servants in residence, and she knew places to conceal herself. But she might have been seen, or left something behind that—”
“That what?”
“I just remembered. She told me of a bundle she’d stashed in a work shed at the end of the garden. I wonder if it’s been found.”
“I haven’t heard so. Varden mentioned that a female was seen departing the house through the front door.”
“It was Cory. She ran into the park. From there I took her to David’s rooms, and Miss Pryce saw to the rest.”
“And why were you there?”
She made an impatient gesture. “Does it signify? You should have someone look into the work shed and remove the bundle if it is still there.”
“I’ll see to it. Meantime, Corinna is unlikely to come under suspicion, to say nothing of the impeccable alibi I expect Miss Pryce has arranged for her. Have you further reason for concern?”
“I don’t know. She did intend to kill him. And I . . . I fear she may try to take the crime upon herself.”
“Splendid.” He mauled his hair with stiff fingers. “Precisely what we need. Another humbug confession. Why the devil is she jumping into this stew?”
“I cannot break her confidence, sir. But to a degree, I understand why she feels as she does. We both set out to commit a murder, and it doesn’t greatly matter whether or not we succeeded. We are guilty in our hearts and must accept responsibility for our intentions.”
“Fine. Have it out with the deity when you meet him. Meanwhile, has it occurred to you that while the three of us twist and turn in this danse macabre with the authorities, the killer scampers off scot-free?”
She gave a faint smile. “Do you know, I don’t care if he is ever found. Or she. Whoever killed the Duke of Tallant did a service to everyone who ever came in his reach or who might have done so in the future. The law would not touch him because he was too wealthy and powerful. No one could deter him. No one dared to try, except the one who plunged the knife into his heart. And because I should have been that one, I am more than willing to take his place on the gallows.”
“I expect better reasoning from you, Miss Holcombe.” He leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, and rested his chin on his folded hands. “I am aware, from Hari and from my own observation, that your father has only a short time to live. It was my impression that you are fond of him. So why are you hell-bent to abandon him when he most needs you?”
Her head jerked back as if he’d slapped her. “How can you say that? Of course I don’t want to leave him. I want above all things to be with him.”
“Except . . . ?” He raised a brow.
“Dear God but you are brutal. Why say this now, when you’ve made it impossible for me to make any choices at all?” Her eyes looked fevered. “You don’t understand. I owe a debt. People have been hurt because I was a coward. Because I said nothing when I should have, did nothing when I might have prevented all that happened afterward. I should pay for all the things I failed to do.”
What had been difficult for him was near to impossible now. It felt as if knives were twisting in his gut, and he nearly backed away. She was hurting so greatly he could not bear to make it worse. But he had to go on, because at this time, he was thinking more clearly and seeing further ahead than she.
“You are free to do so, then.” He kept his gaze fixed on hers, forcing her to engage him, forbidding her to look away. “Yes, I mean it. You can go. I’ll have Hari take you back to Bow Street so you can hand yourself over to the magistrate. He’ll be glad to see you again. He alone continued to suspect you after receiving a confession from someone else, and his ambition will be served by the public spectacle of your execution. Which means, my dear Miss Holcombe, that only Sir Richard Burnie profits from your self-immolation.”
“Don’t.” She looked brittle, like glass about to shatter. “Don’t do this.”
“What? Am I not giving you what you want? But of course, I am only guessing what that is. I had figured—how to put it?—absolution by martyrdom. Which is, of course, an entirely selfish way to evade responsibility.”
“Selfish? How can it be? I am accepting responsibility.”
“If you think so, you are deluding yourself. I know more of failure and guilt than you can begin to imagine. And I know, to my regret, there is no absolution to be found in willful suicide. Were there the slightest possibility death would free me from my demons, I’d not be here, now, tormenting you.”
“Was not your confession willful suicide?”
“Folly of a quite different sort, I’m afraid. Take it from me, Miss Holcombe. There is no peace in oblivion. No salvation in escape. There is only duty, and honor, and endurance. If you have debts to pay, then pay them to your father.”
Silence for a time, save for the crackle of the fire and the blood rushing through his veins. In the overheated air, he felt as if he were drowning. He should have been appointed to kill his brother, or wrestle bears, or pound his head against a rock. To do anything but what he was doing now.
“I see the difficulty,” she said. “I have drawn attention to myself, and if found, I shall be taken into custody. You wish me to stay here, with my father, until the end.”
“In fact, no. Your disappearance appears to confirm your guilt, and it’s no help that I vanished soon after. Burnie will assume we conspired to kill my brother and have been playing games to confuse the authorities. Which means Varden will soon be on my trail, and he has the resources to discover I’ve spent time with the Punjabi community in London. A short shot from there to this branch of Birindar’s family, and he’s on you. Even if I returned to London, they’d not stop tracking you. And you’re devilish hard to hide, what with your appearance and a paralyzed father. Nor do you wish to move him more often than you must.”
“What, then?” Distress contended with impatience on her face. “Since I cannot hide, what must I do?”
“If you desire freedom, Miss Holcombe, you must surrender it. I can keep you safe for a considerable time, certainly long enough to care for your father. But only if you put yourself entirely under my protection.”
“You mean you will help me if I become your mistress?”
She looked so horrified at the prospect that he nearly gave up then and there. But the calm of the lake was again strong in him, the battle focus absolute, and no other purpose had ever driven him so hard. “Much as the idea appeals to me,” he said, “that wouldn’t help. What you require is immunity from prosecution. I can provide it by convincing the law of my own guilt, and if that is what you choose, I will gladly do it.”
“Wait! How did your death sentence become my choice to make?”
“All the choices are yours, except the one to die. That is the one thing I will not grant you. If you wish to go on the run, with or without your father, I’ll arrange it. That would be your second choice.”
“No. I won’t leave him. And as you say, he ought not to travel now. What else?”
“The third choice, and the last.” He rose, removed a folded sheet of
paper from his sash, and held it out.
After a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
He watched the play of expressions on her face as she opened the document, began to read it, realized what it was.
She looked up at him, her mouth a little open. “You cannot mean this.”
“I’m quite sure that I do.”
Rising in agitation, the paper clasped between her thumb and forefinger, she looked around the large room as if an answer would start writing itself on the walls. “No,” she said. “It is impossible. Unthinkable.”
The paper slipped, unnoticed, from her hand as she struck out for the door. There she paused, hand on the latch, and looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I cannot do this. I cannot.”
She left then, in a rush that stirred her green skirts and her bright cloud of hair.
“I know,” he murmured, watching her go. “I didn’t expect that you could.”
Chapter 23
Ever since her idyllic childhood crashed to an end in a muddy ditch, Mira had become accustomed to trouble and adept at coping with it. She even took a queer sort of pride in her unwished-for talent, and in her ability to remain composed and detached in all circumstances.
Until now. Until this night, when the Devil’s son had looked into her soul and offered her three choices, all of them insupportable. And forced her to acknowledge that the choice she had made only yesterday, the one he’d deprived her of, was even worse than the alternatives he’d provided.
How could she have thought to do it? At the time, it had seemed so right. So inevitable. She’d been given a chance to make amends, and perhaps to help one of those who suffered because of her. She would die, Cory would go free. How could this be wrong?
