Chapter Eleven
“You sheltered Lieutenant Hollis for how long?”
The queen hadn’t changed. Same graying hair pulled back into a severe knot behind her head. Same black gown, though this one was festooned with ribbon and lace. Same nasal, clipped voice that set Killian’s nerves on end.
He’d seen more of his monarch in the last three days than he had in the previous ten years. Rather than a cramped room in the Tower, he’d been provided accommodations at the palace. It felt more like he was stopping over on an unpleasant forced visit than being imprisoned at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
“Weeks.” Killian cleared his throat, raw from answering questions. His thoughts continually strayed to Octavia. He’d been cruel to her in those last moments, days ago when he’d last seen her, and he hated himself for his petty anger. “Until he blew his brains out in the woods that abut Finsbury Hall.”
“Coarse language is not required, Strathmoor.” Her Majesty bristled, and her little white dog followed suit, sitting up and casting Killian a gaze of pure disdain. “We only wish to determine the extent of your complicity in harboring this man you claim is a murderer.”
“He told me he was a murderer. I urged him to face the consequences,” he said, for at least the third time. His mind had gone fuzzy, with only enough space for thoughts of Tavia. “I told him to speak to Miss Bannister and confess to the police. I regret that he chose another path.”
“You might have delivered him to a constable yourself.” Lord Cecil snipped from a spot in the corner. Always wafting about, the man was, like a bad smell. The habit had earned him his nickname.
“Never been torn between loyalty and the letter of the law, have you, Wraith?” Killian narrowed his gaze on Lord Cecil. “You float above the law. The invisible devil on people’s shoulders, whispering in their ears.”
The queen looked on with interest, as if intrigued to see how her advisor would acquit himself.
“Snide words from a man who will soon have cause to thank me.” Lord Cecil stepped forward and laid a document on the table in front of Killian, where he’d been standing for what felt like hours. “Sign it. You’ll be grateful you did.”
“I’m not signing anything.” Cecil was a crafty bastard. Killian was sure he’d ruined men before with something as benign as the scratch of their name on a sheet of vellum.
Queen Victoria rose from her settee and approached, her white dog trailing along at her side. “An accurate transcription of the report you’ve provided, Strathmoor.” She nodded to Lord Cecil, who placed another sheet on the table. “And this is a statement which may be of interest to you. A retraction by Miss Caroline Bannister.”
Killian snapped his gaze up to stare at his queen.
“Since you were detained, she has come forward to say she was mistaken in her initial assertion. She has petitioned for your release and wishes to express her regret for any inconvenience she’s caused.”
Killian didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust any of them. “What brought about her change of heart?”
“The death of Clive Forsythe,” Lord Cecil put in as if he was speaking of nothing more interesting than the price of fish at Billingsgate. “Last evening.”
“There was an incident at the Bannister town house. Forsythe attempted to do the girl violence, and her footman stepped in to defend his mistress. It seems Mr. Forsythe was an odious man, and now he’s met his end.” The queen gazed at her folded hands, where a jeweled snake engagement ring glinted on her finger. She twisted the twining gold band. “I gather Miss Bannister does not wish to marry now. If she does not, I will urge her father to settle an annuity on her. After so much tragedy in her young years, the girl deserves to dispense with worry for her future.”
“If her father does not wish to settle an amount on her, I will.” That, he could agree to. Hell, he’d settle an amount on her footman too. The man had ridded the world of a scourge, as far as Killian was concerned.
He took up the pen Lord Cecil offered and scribbled his name on the first document. The printed words matched, for the most part, his account of Hollis’s arrival in Yorkshire, confession, and subsequent suicide.
“Add your name to Miss Bannister’s statement too, Strathmoor.” Cecil never managed to make a request that didn’t sound a bit like a command. “She states that you were not seen with Neville Forsythe. Your signature will serve as agreement with her statement.”
Killian signed his name to second document too, ending with a pointless flourish that sputtered ink across the page.
Lord Cecil’s disgusted gasp was music to Killian’s ears.
“And?” he asked his queen. “What now, ma’am?”
The queen did not answer, simply arched a gunmetal gray brow at her advisor.
“Now,” Lord Cecil began in a stentorian tone, “you will go to Gravesend and put your house in order. See to your tenants. Settle your accounts. Take your seat in Parliament in the spring. You will attempt to live up to the legacy left by your father and brother.”
“And you will marry,” the queen added in a higher pitch.
“Yes.” Killian would have no difficulty fulfilling that command, providing he could convince Tavia to forgive him for being an ass. Offering his monarch a deep bow, he began striding from her overheated sitting room.
“Strathmoor,” the queen’s high voice called. “Wherever are you going? This audience is not at an end. You have not yet learned the young lady’s name.”
Realization tore through him like one of the bullets he’d taken in battle , a flash of searing heat, and then breath-stealing pain in his chest.
This was the snare Lord Cecil had spoken of. Not the irons he’d been clapped into, but the snare of society and nobility and all the suffocating expectations that came along with a title.
“Lady Prudence Denby, the Earl of Stormare’s eldest daughter. We believe you will find much to admire in a lady of such fine breeding and taste,” she went on.
Lord Cecil approached from behind, pressing an envelope into Killian’s hand. “An invitation to the Denbys’ last ball of the season.”
“You will attend and propose, Strathmoor. Goodness knows you’ve waited long enough. The lady is aware of your…” Queen Victoria sniffed. “History. But Lady Prudence has waited too. After five seasons without an offer of marriage—”
“You wish me to marry a spinster I’ve never met?”
“She is a noblewoman eager to do her duty and marry. I trust that you will do your duty too. Go now, but do bring your duchess to court once affairs are settled.” There was a smile in her tone, as if the whole matter pleased her exceedingly.
Killian wanted to burn the world to the ground.
Except for Octavia and that bloody charred estate in Yorkshire. He’d take her and a life in the northern wilds and be the happiest man in England. But would she choose such isolation? Such complete ostracism from others? Because absconding with her, especially now that he’d returned, would make them both pariahs.
“You’ve many duties left too long unattended, Strathmoor.” Lord Cecil trailed him into the vestibule outside the queen’s chamber. “I suspect I know the turn of your thoughts, but you must acknowledge that Miss Fowler will be better off without you. Her father bid me watch over the girl, and I have. Though her self-made success renders me quite obsolete.”
Killian dearly wished the man was obsolete. They’d taken an instant dislike to each other when they’d first met at court years before. He hadn’t imagined anything could soften his view of Lord Cecil, but the notion that the old man felt a duty to watch over Tavia was a step in the right direction.
“She has flourished with her business,” Cecil continued. “I believe she quite values her independence.”
“Yes.” Killian didn’t attempt to hide his grin. He loved that Tavia was not constrained by the etiquette that turned other women timid and biddable.
“I see you admire that quality in her. How, then, can you think of squelchi
ng her independence, Strathmoor?” Cecil squared his shoulders and arched one haughty brow. “Leave Miss Fowler to her own devices, Your Grace.” There was no more cajoling in his tone. The man was commanding Killian now, as if he was still an agent in his employ. “Let the lady go on with her enterprise as you see to the dukedom you’ve left floundering for far too long.”
Chapter Twelve
Three days later.
The queen was damned wrong.
He did not admire Lady Prudence any more than he was enjoying being choked behind the tight knot of his cravat in an overheated ballroom.
Tavia. Tavia. He repeated her name in his head as a kind of talisman. To remind him of what mattered. To remind him of where he longed to be. He’d agreed to attend the Stormare ball before returning to Sussex, and he’d taken Lord Cecil’s advice to leave Tavia alone. To let her reclaim her independence and not hamper her with a man who, in seventy-two hours, had begun to learn just how much damage had been done with the rumors about Neville Forsythe’s death and his selfish abandonment of everyone he’d ever known.
But that didn’t mean he was interested in marrying Lady Prudence. The queen could play matchmaker with some other sodding duke.
The noblewoman was fashionably garbed and possessed all the refinement he’d eschewed for years, but Lady Prudence’s every action and word proved her to be small-minded and catty. While she greeted each guest politely, she whispered about them behind her fan, coining spiteful nicknames for every lady in attendance at her family’s ball.
“Now, see there, Strathmoor. That is Lady Flora Banbury. We call her Floppins, because whatever she wears hangs on her like wet rags. Isn’t her gown dreadful?” Retreating behind her fan, Lady Prudence tittered hideously. “Oh, and there, in that garish mauve gown, is my dearest friend Lady Hermione.” Leaning close enough for Killian to get a waft of her sickly sweet perfume, she added, “Never tell her, but she’s known as Heaving Hermie among the ladies. Rumor is her gowns cost twice as much because of her ever-increasing size.” Shaking her head in a terrible imitation of sympathy, she declared, “Honestly, a slimming regimen is her only recourse.”
Lady Hermione was lusciously curved and appeared to be enjoying the evening as much as he was. Which was to say, not at all. Killian had half a mind to sweep the plump blonde into his arms for the first waltz, both to cause Lady Prudence’s eyes to pop out of her head and to discreetly inform Lady Hermione of her “dearest friend’s” disloyalty.
Noting his lack of attentiveness, Lady Prudence elbowed him in the ribs. “Here is my dance card, Strathmoor. I know they are out of fashion, but I wished to have a remembrance of our first dance.”
“Could you not use your memory? To remember.” He tried for a teasing tone. The last thing he wished was to remember this ball. Tipping back his champagne flute, he downed the bubbly sweetness inside and searched for a footman to refill his glass.
“Silly goose.” She slapped him with the edge of her fan. “Perhaps I shall call you that from now on. Silly Goose Strathmoor. What say you?”
He didn’t say anything, but he searched the room for an open window he might jump out of.
Lady Prudence’s gasp drew his attention. A moment later, she began tsking behind her fan. “Strumpet. Just look at her.”
Killian followed the line of her glare, and his lungs emptied of air. A woman stood near the entrance of the ballroom. A late arrival. She’d turned her back to speak to a gentleman, revealing a fall of auburn curls down her pale freckled back.
She was too diminutive to be Tavia, whose long legs were seared into Killian’s memory. And her hair was a shadow of the unique red-gold fire of Tavia’s, but still, the lady was a reminder.
Or perhaps a sign.
“Only trollops have hair that color.”
“Do you know many trollops?”
“Snaking down her back like a serpent of sin,” Lady Prudence hissed, ignoring his quip.
If she wasn’t being the worst hostess he’d ever met in his life, Killian could almost admire her skill at alliteration.
“Those spots are symptoms of disease,” Lady Prudence declared.
“They are freckles. Natural and, actually,” Killian bent close to the harridan his queen expected him to marry, “rather enticing.”
She reared back like a skittish pony, and her eyes bulged as if she was seeing him for the first time, and what she saw horrified her. Jerking her fan up to cover half her face, she whispered, “What other perversions do you ascribe to, Your Grace? I have a right to know if I am to accept your proposal.”
There had been no proposal and never would be. But he liked her question enough to indulge her with an answer.
“Nudity,” he said solemnly. “I advocate for bareness whenever possible, and especially in the bedroom. Nightclothes are banned at Gravesend.” That one didn’t actually sound terribly absurd. He would be sure to suggest such a rule to Tavia.
Lady Prudence didn’t seem pleased. Her lips quivered like jiggled aspic.
“Intimacy.” He lowered his voice an octave further. “Carnal relations, you understand, should be frequent and vigorous.” He tipped his head right and then left to ensure no one was near. “Nightly, once in the morning, and twice at teatime.” Yes, that would do quite nicely.
She was shaking her head now. So vigorously, a feather popped free from her hair and drifted onto her nose. It perched right on the end. She blew the offending decoration away, but it floated down and stuck to her perspiring bosom. “I will…never…accede to such in-indecency.”
And he would never ask her to. “Didn’t anyone tell you, Pru? I don’t believe in decency. At least not the brand others dictate.” Reaching up, he yanked at the knotted linen tie cutting off his air. “But I do believe in doing what’s right. I didn’t always. I acknowledge that. Lost my way for a while. But now I’ve found my compass.” And he needed to go to Tavia and stop this farce.
Swiping all the mirth from his expression, Killian turned to face Lady Prudence. Perhaps he’d taken the teasing a bit too far. Her skin had turned the same purple-pink shade as Lady Hermione’s gown. “I’m sorry, Lady Prudence, but I cannot stay. There’s someplace else where I belong this evening.” With her. My flame-haired compass.
“You cannot leave,” she howled, loud enough to draw notice he suspected neither of them desired. “Her Majesty has arranged this marriage, though I daresay she will free me of any obligation once I tell her of your profane proclivities.”
“Precisely. Tell her every word. She will find you a better suitor, I’ve no doubt.” He bowed to the noblewoman. It was all he could offer her for his wretched behavior and the rudeness of leaving before the first dance had even begun. “And one more thing. Tell Her Majesty that I’m taking her detective, and she can’t have her back.”
Tavia reached up to knead her shoulder. A soreness there refused to ease. Too many long days bent over her desk. Since returning to her detecting work, she’d taken on twice the number of investigations and become busier than she’d ever been in her life.
Work filled up her days and left her too exhausted to stew over memories during the night. New clients were appearing consistently, and the rush of cases filled up her bank account too. She was even considering bringing a fellow investigator on board, someone to share the load. Someone to talk through cases with, since she was tired of talking to herself. Or to the walls.
I’m not thinking of him. Repeating the phrase when Killian came bursting into her thoughts helped to remind her that he was gone. Memories were all that she would ever have of him. And here, at work, was no place to engage in romantic nonsense.
He was well. She’d hounded Lord Cecil for details after his arrest. Three days after her meeting with Caroline Bannister, he’d finally sent word that Killian had been released. There would be no charges for Neville Forsythe’s murder and his brother, Clive, had come to a violent demise too.
Relief and hope had buoyed her up for days. But then she’d beg
un to watch the door too closely. Check her postbox too often. But Killian hadn’t come or written or made any attempt to contact her.
She positively refused to be heartbroken, to sink into sadness and grief. Unfortunately, her crumpled heart wasn’t cooperating. At least she’d been able to keep tears at bay. For the most part.
Each day, the pain got a tiny bit easier. Or perhaps a fraction of a tiny bit. I’m not thinking of him.
But of course she was. Every day. At times, he came to mind each hour. She missed him so much that she sometimes convinced herself she could smell his scent in the air.
What she’d told him on the train to London was still true. No regrets. Ever. With him, she’d tasted a passion, a rightness, that she knew was rare. Precious. She would never forget him or her sojourn in Yorkshire. They were precious memories. She even missed the Teagues. And Grady too.
In the drawer under her elbows, a half-dozen sheaves of foolscap were covered with words she’d never be able to say to him. Letters she’d never send. In them, she urged him to embrace his duty. Find joy. Live life to the fullest at the place he spoke of with such childlike reverence. She’d found a book on aristocratic estates and traced her finger over an etching of Gravesend. With scrollwork gables, turrets, and oddly arranged windows, the house did indeed pique her curious mind.
But she didn’t belong there. Killian did, and she hoped he’d gone home to his grandfather’s puzzle-box house by the sea and made peace with the responsibilities of being a duke.
She loved him enough to wish him happiness, even if she could not share his days. And his nights.
Nights were the loneliest hours, when she felt a tenacious pang in her chest, an emptiness that had begun aching from the moment of his departure. Recalling the coldness of their final exchange haunted her most when she lay alone in the darkness.
Her Majesty’s Scoundrels Page 12
