“All right.” He squeezed her hand once. “All right. Who was it?”
“A man named Mr. Fensley. Not his real name, I’m sure.”
“How old were you?”
“Nine. It was two weeks after my ninth birthday.” It was the autumn her father was shot and always would be.
“And this Mr. Fensley,” Owen prompted. “Was he a friend of your father’s? Or a victim?”
“Neither. He was what my father would have considered a poor mark.”
“And yet your father tried to steal from him?”
“No.” She pulled her hand away gently, and for one brief moment considered ending the conversation. She wanted to tell him everything, the whole terrible story of that night, but the closer she came to the memory, the more her courage waned.
Foolish, she thought. It was only a memory, only a story.
“It was his sister my father was after,” she explained. “Father lured Mr. Fensley’s young sister into an investment scheme. Something involving ships and sugar. I don’t recall the specifics, but he’d taken the money, claimed the ship was lost, and that was that.”
“That sort of scheme requires a considerable amount of planning and work. What went wrong?”
“Nothing my father could have predicted. Mr. Fensley returned from abroad months before he was expected home. He looked into his sister’s financial affairs and immediately knew my father to be a cheat.”
“Immediately?”
“Like recognizes like,” she told him with a half smile. “Miss Fensley’s money came courtesy of her brother, and it was as ill-gotten as our own.”
“Another swindler. What happened?”
“He came to the house late one evening and kicked in the kitchen door.” She tried not to think of the terrible noise, the awful confusion. Owen didn’t need every little detail, and remembering them only served to make her feel anxious and a little ill. “Esther was in bed. She slept through the whole thing. Or maybe she hid. She was very young. Fensley demanded the return of the money. He was…insistent.”
“Insistent,” he repeated grimly. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, he barely looked at me. All he wanted was the money. But Father didn’t have it. Most of it had been spent on the lease of the house. The rest he’d invested in another scheme. There was no way Father could return the funds. Not right then.”
“Fensley didn’t believe him,” Owen guessed.
“Not at first, I think. Or maybe he did, and he was after a bit of revenge. The result was the same, either way. But he gave up, after a time. He gave me three pounds, shot my father in the leg, then left.”
There, she thought, that wasn’t so bad. She’d told Owen the story, and she was no worse for wear. There was a mild ache in her belly and an uncomfortable prickly sensation behind her eyes, but the discomfort was manageable and likely had less to do with the conversation than it did with having been shot at less than a half hour ago.
Owen cocked his head at her. “He gave you three pounds?”
“He did. Strange, isn’t it? He wanted us out of Bath.” She shrugged, her confidence returned now that the hardest telling was over. “I suppose that’s why he did it. Father couldn’t have walked out of town. He needed a physician first and transport after.”
“You might have pawned items from the house.”
“There was little to pawn,” she explained. “It was hardly a grand manor. A few clean rooms and a roof that didn’t leak, that was all. But, yes, there were things we could have sold. Perhaps he felt bad for beating and shooting a man in front of a child. Even violent people can be capable of the odd act of sympathy or charity. Or maybe it was just expedient to pay for our removal. I suppose I’ll never know.”
* * *
Owen took in Lottie’s detached expression and cool tone. There was so much more here, he thought. So much she wasn’t sharing. “You speak of it as if it happened to someone else.”
“It did. It happened to my father.”
He didn’t bother acknowledging that bit of flippancy. “You’ll tell me the story, but you won’t share the memory.”
“They are one and the same.”
“They’re not. You know they’re not.” He took her by the hand again and pulled her farther away from the sitting room door. “I don’t want to manipulate the rest of the story out of you… Well, yes, I do. But I’m trying not to.”
“The rest?” Shaking her head, she pulled her hand from his. “There’s nothing left to tell. I used the three pounds for a physician and transport out of Bath.”
“No, not what happened after. The rest of what happened during.”
Her mouth thinned into a frustrated line. “I don’t understand what you want. What else would you have me say?”
The hint of temper was good, so much better than the muted and distant tone of before. He only wished he knew how best to answer it. He couldn’t push, but neither could he risk letting her walk away now, alone with the memory of that night fresh in her mind. “I can’t tell you what to say. I won’t.”
She laughed a little, but the sound was small and tired. “You’re trying very hard not to be manipulative, and I’m trying very hard not to be manipulated. We’re so careful. We’ll never get anywhere this way.”
“Nothing wrong with being cautious.”
Her expression turned thoughtful and a little sad. “Except that it so easily slips into fear.”
“You don’t have to be afraid. Not with me.”
She said nothing, but he could see the struggle between her desire to finish what she’d started and her need for caution. She glanced back at the sitting room door and worried her bottom lip with her teeth.
Tell me, he thought. Tell me the story. Don’t walk away now.
Finally, she shrugged, just a slight hitch of the shoulders. “You have seen what a bullet can do.”
“I have. Too many times.”
She shrugged again, as if she couldn’t quite let go of the need to pretend indifference. “He was my father.”
“And you were nine years old.”
She was quiet again, fidgeting with the waist of her ruined gown. He wanted to reach for her, tilt her chin up so she’d meet his eyes, but he couldn’t be certain she would perceive the gesture as the encouragement and comfort he intended rather than a push.
She wouldn’t hesitate to push back. The fear she spoke of, the instinct to see manipulation at every turn, it would make her jump at the excuse to walk away.
Uncertain of his next move, afraid of frightening her away, he kept quiet and still and watched helplessly as she struggled on her own.
She traded fidgeting with her gown for playing with her own fingers. Twice she opened her mouth as if to speak, only to close it again with a trembling breath. At last, on the third try, she managed a shaky but clear whisper.
“He wouldn’t stop screaming. He wouldn’t stop, and I didn’t know what to do for him.”
“I’m sorry.” Such a useless sentiment, he thought. And the only thing he could offer.
“He hadn’t taught me what to do for a bullet wound. So I stood there. I let him bleed. He had to care for the wound himself.”
“You were a child.”
“I was, yes.” She let her hands fall to her sides, where they opened and closed into fists. “I feel no guilt for what happened. Only…”
“A determination not to see it happen again?”
“A fear that it might.” Her voice was stronger now, tinted with anger. “I don’t like weapons. I don’t like the sight of blood. I don’t like being afraid, and I don’t like feeling useless and helpless. Is that what you were waiting to hear?”
“No.” And if he had the chance, he’d find this Fensley and make him pay for all of it.
“I’m sorry.” She rubbed her hands over her face. �
��I know it wasn’t. There was no call for that. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
* * *
It wasn’t all right.
Lottie battled to gain control over her emotions and the cowardly urge to bolt for the sitting room door and the safety of her sister’s company beyond. Maybe then the sick fear crawling through her would temper back into the mild and manageable anxiety of earlier.
What had she been thinking, telling him everything? How could she have convinced herself that it was just a memory, just a story, when it was so much more than that?
She’d not kept it to herself for the sake of secrecy nor because it was simply unpleasant to think on. She’d kept it out of self-preservation. She’d kept the memory because, like so many others, it was dangerous.
It was a sharp pebble in ten miles of gravel path positively littered with sharp pebbles. There were boarding rooms that sweltered and stank and iron shackles that cut and bruised. There was the constant fear for Peter and Esther, nightmares of gaol and the gallows, the memory of her father bleeding on the floor, and her past as the Tulip. Always her past as the Tulip.
So many places to trip, so many vulnerabilities to guard. Sometimes it was easier to stand still. Always it was safer.
Instead she had led Owen straight to that sharp pebble and then taken off her shoe and stepped down as hard as she could. Now she felt off balance and exposed. She would fall in a minute. She could feel the tears pressing against the backs of her eyes. Worse was the need to reach for him, and in reaching for him, offer everything. Every secret, every truth. Who she had been. The things she had done.
How she felt.
I love you. I think I have always loved you.
She could see herself saying the words, offering everything. She could see herself falling toward his outstretched arms and landing directly atop the sharp pebble when he took a step back.
It wouldn’t do.
“You should go. Be with Samuel.” She heard the catch in her voice and it frightened her all the more. “There’s so much to do.”
“In a minute. Come here.” He slipped his arms around her and pulled her close. “Here. We can take a minute.”
There was no demand in his voice, no seduction in the embrace, no judgment or manipulation in the offer, and no push for more. He was simply…here, she realized. Owen was here. And because he was, and because there was no place she wanted to be more in that moment than here, with Owen, she put her arms around him and held tight.
“A minute,” she whispered into the crisp fabric of his clean shirt.
“A minute,” Owen agreed.
Closing her eyes, she took that minute and held on to it, and him, until the tears dried without falling.
Eighteen
Samuel lowered himself carefully into an armchair in his bedroom. “God, I want to kill that man.”
“Gabriel?” Owen inquired.
“Naturally. And always.” Samuel rubbed his injured shoulder gingerly. “But I was referring to our friend in the woods.”
“Ah.” Owen settled on the edge of the bed. The clean, well-made bed, he noted. That would be Esther’s doing. “Where is your nurse?”
“The devil knows, poor bastard.”
Owen studied his friend carefully. Samuel was fairing remarkably well for a man who had taken a bullet two and half days ago. Owen suspected Esther’s particular style of nursing had something to do with the rapid recuperation, though whether Samuel was getting well due to Esther’s care or out of a desire to escape that care was unclear. “Gabriel tells me you mean to resume guard duties tonight.”
“Sentry duty,” Samuel corrected. “I’ll take a chair to the attic, watch the woods.”
“You’ll take Peter for company.”
“I’ll not nod off,” Samuel groused. “Not when we’re so close. You found his camp again this morning.”
“He’s growing careless,” Owen said by way of answer. “Making mistakes.”
“Maybe.” Samuel scratched the underside of his chin. “Maybe.”
“He camped the last two nights on our side of the woods.” And had left each morning, reversing his earlier pattern.
“The last two nights have been moonless,” Samuel pointed out. “The weather looks to be clearing. He’ll stay away.”
“He’ll risk another night.”
Samuel’s brows lifted. “You’re very confident.”
He had every reason to be. “There was a chill in the air last night. He built a fire.”
“Did he?” Samuel sat up straight in his chair. “That was stupid.”
Owen nodded in happy agreement. The light from the fire hadn’t reached the house, but it might have. The Ferret couldn’t have been certain it was safe. “Ten pounds says I have him tonight.”
“I’ll not wager against my own interests.”
“Then I’ll content myself with your fawning admiration.” He smiled pleasantly. “Well, more of your fawning admiration.”
Samuel snorted out a laugh. “Allow me five minutes alone with him after, and you’ll have it.”
“You’ll have to wait your turn.” Owen stood and gave his friend a bolstering pat on his good shoulder. “You should rest if you mean to be of use tonight.”
Samuel’s face turned surly. “Bloody hate sleeping in the middle of the day.”
So did Owen. Nevertheless, he did his best and spent a full half hour lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, and trying very hard not to think about Lottie. Had she been avoiding him? They’d not shared more than a handful of words in the last two days and always in the company of others. Had he tried for too much, too quickly? Then again, maybe this was one of those situations where it would be best to push harder or risk her walking away. Or maybe she wasn’t avoiding him at all, and he was simply imagining things. They were all busy, and Peter had grown surly over the lack of progress again, requiring a good deal of her attention. Or maybe…
When he felt his eyes begin to cross, he gave up, got dressed, and settled in one of the armchairs with a drink and a book.
He’d only just opened the cover when a knock sounded on his door and Esther stepped inside at his answer.
“I’d like a word with you, Renderwell.”
“Of course.” He smiled absently, expecting a report of Samuel’s condition followed by a quick exit. It surprised him when she closed the door behind her, took the seat across from his own, and regarded him with frigid blue eyes. Concerned, he set his book aside. “Is something wrong?”
She stared at him a moment more, then reached down, lifted the hem of her skirt, and revealed a small, unadorned dagger strapped above her ankle. “I saw you with Lottie in the hall two nights ago.”
When they had embraced, he guessed. He couldn’t see any other call for the knife. “I see.”
“I am not certain you do.” She pulled the dagger free and straightened in her chair. “This family became respectable three weeks after my fifteenth birthday. Just like”—she lightly jabbed the tip of the knife into the armrest—“that, and we were all good children of the God-fearing Mr. Bales, successful tradesman. At fourteen we were criminals and at fifteen we were not. Do you know how much changed for me then?”
“How much?”
“Not a damn thing.” She lifted the blade and studied it. “My sister likes to think she is privy to all the secrets this family holds. She was my father’s pet, you know. He saw in her the same talents, the same natural gifts he had in himself. She was clever in ways I’ll never be—with numbers, with patterns, with strategies. She can read some people as if they were a page of simple verse she wrote herself. I get on well enough in those areas, mind you. I could lead the men of Wayton on a merry chase straight off the cliffs of Dover. But…” She shrugged lightly, fiddling with the end of the knife. “The sweet boys of the village are
not so great a challenge, are they? Merely the best I can reliably manage. Lottie, on the other hand, could convince a man to put his own head on a block.”
He reached for his drink and took a small sip. “Your father liked that about her.”
“Oh, he did. He very much did. And I envied that, truth be told. But I had my own talents, my own uses, and Father was never one to let a gift go to waste.”
“Am I looking at one of those talents now?”
“The dagger? Oh, no, it isn’t weaponry, per se, that made me so valuable to Father.” She gave him a bright smile that might have been charming, had it been a little less terrifying. “It was my willingness to use it.”
“Ah.”
“Not every scheme my father designed relied on a keen insight into human nature. Not every success was a result of nuanced manipulation. Sometimes, a little push was needed. A bit of fear to put one off balance. Nothing makes a man vulnerable like a healthy dose of unexpected terror, wouldn’t you say?”
He lifted his glass in a small salute. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Liar. Everyone stumbles when they’re afraid.”
As you are now, he thought. “Do you mean to tell me you were your father’s henchman, as it were?”
“Nothing so vulgar,” she replied with enough affected amusement for Owen to know it had been exactly that vulgar.
A child playing with knives for her father’s benefit? Christ, how could that be anything but vulgar?
“What were you, then?”
“Useful,” she replied simply. “It is an easy thing for a handsome man to gain entrance into a crowded ballroom with a pretty young girl on his arm. And it is a difficult thing to ascertain whether it is a breathless boy of twelve holding a blade to your throat or a well-trained fifteen-year-old girl who’d slipped into trousers and a hat.”
He could picture it easily, not because Esther struck him as a woman of violent nature, but because she’d been a young girl desperate for the love and approval of Great Britain’s most manipulative bastard of a father.
The image of Esther playing the thug at her father’s request made him ill, and the shame he saw in her eyes, shame too thick to be hidden behind a wall of pride and bravado, twisted something in his chest.
A Talent for Trickery Page 23
