His hand, gloved as it should be, caught a brown lock of hair. “I never thought to see you here again.”
I flinched. He dropped the curl, where it settled over my shoulder.
“Are you acting a harlot tonight?” he asked coolly. “Should I expect a showing?”
That hurt too, but only for the truth of it.
As those given to a certain peculiarity of hedonism, he had been there when Hawke and the Veil had revealed my identity to an audience. He had seen with his own eyes the madness of the unveiling Hawke had forced upon me. Though he too had a taste for the Turkish tar, I found it more likely that he recalled more than I, who had been too far gone on the stuff.
What he made of the chaos unleashed by sorcery and alchemy and bloody mutiny, I dared not ask.
I could not meet those eyes now. “Please, my lord.”
“Should I strip off that hair and reveal you for them, then?” he pressed, and when he stepped towards me, my body tensed. The closeness of his face to mine filled my nostrils with the stinging reek of brandy, vapors so strong that my eyes watered with it.
He was soused. And in it, aggressive.
Another time, and I might have let Lord Piers take out a bit of his justified anger upon me, if for no other reason than for guilt’s sake. He was a gentleman, but I could not fault him for considering me less than a lady.
I swiftly shuffled through all those things I had learned at Ashmore’s side, searching for the one that might defuse the whole of this situation. Unfortunately, I had not come prepared with any alchemical concoctions ready-made, and I had only mastered the first two of the Trumps used by them what practiced the art. None would help me, for neither Apis nor Bacatus-Typhon contained power that would matter in this particular arena. I had not progressed into the third Trump that followed both, and try as I might, there was no symbolism wrapped within either I could apply. More so, Ashmore would have my hide for his wall if I dared apply the exoteric arts in front of so many eyes.
I was stripped of all weapons but my wits.
And the blade bound to my calf—though I could not imagine using it upon a man who had once been so dear.
I had not drawn blood since my father’s.
I was all too weary of it.
Lord Piers—Earl Compton, in truth, but I could not bring myself to think of him as such—bent forward, reaching for a part of me within grasp. Shoulder, hair, arm—I wasn’t certain which. I snapped a hand around his wrist, thicker than my fingers could encircle. “Don’t do this.”
He bared his teeth in something of a smile. “What have we to lose?”
Damnation and a thousand bloody bells.
I had nothing by which to buy his silence, and a debt of owing so large that I wasn’t certain any amount would suffice.
I had killed his brother.
I had stolen a title and vanished, leaving his grieving household alone.
I understood, but I could not allow him the luxury of indulging in whatever vengeful fantasies he suffered.
Rather more relevant to my predicament, I knew of no alchemical compound or Trump to reverse the effects of a good bout of imbibition. Once soused—for good or ill—a man was lost, and he would remain so until he was not.
“Not now,” I warned softly, and met his eyes because I needed him to understand how sincerely I felt what I said. “I know what I owe you, but I cannot do this now.”
“Shall I let you set the place and time, then?” he asked me, mockery lacing every word.
“That is not the sort of challenge you make to a lady.”
We both whirled, and I let go of Piers’s arm as Ashmore’s frigid voice clashed with the earl’s drunken fury. However long Ashmore had stood there, it had been enough to get the gist—and to take advantage of the ideal opening.
Piers looked him up and down, a sneer on his mouth. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
“The woman you’re challenging to a duel belongs to me,” Ashmore replied, louder than necessary.
The laughter behind us fizzled. The sparks popped and erupted from the logs piled within the grate, but all eyes pinned on the men—and the much plainer face that I provided.
I was no great beauty. Fine enough in face, thanks to my mother, but lacking entirely in whatever it was that made one radiant. My mother was the type that men dueled over. I, especially in this plain brown hair, was hardly a prize. This did not bother me, but I imagined that in a scene filled to the brim with much more valuable beauty, it appeared all too ludicrous.
Piers drew himself up. “Duel a woman? Are you quite mad?”
“Shall I ask her to set the place and time, then?” Ashmore asked, smooth as a viper in his own nest.
My mouth fell open. “Wait—” Damnation. I had no name by which to call him, and failed to summon one entirely. Too rattled by my brush with the Compton legacy, I could only seal my lips when Ashmore pinned upon me a hard stare.
Piers laughed outright, which provided Ashmore all the insult he required.
I had never seen a duel challenge offered before. A glove was removed, quicker than expected, and thrown in the young lord’s face with a flick of a wrist. It fell, limp and listless, to the ground.
We all stared at the splash of white at the earl’s feet.
Chapter Three
The Compton name was not one suited to unintelligence, but the obviousness of the earl’s soused state of mind made manipulating him all too easy.
Piers, eager to clear his name of the markedly ridiculous affront Ashmore had smeared upon it, matched my tutor’s longer pace with ease, white-lipped and shaking with rage.
I followed, and made note of the footmen in green and black livery who followed us at a respectable pace. I couldn’t make out faces in the dark, but they did not detain us—it was in the Menagerie’s best interest to let youngbloods duel away from the pleasure garden’s grounds.
The earl followed Ashmore for quite a bit longer than I’d expected. The fog closed over us, immediately setting a sting to eyes and throat, and I was less than pleased to feel the bite.
A season in the country air had done much to strip me of my accustomed tolerance to the miasma. Those who lived within it did not choke and hack as those who only visited must—a low pad searching for an easy earning could always mark a toff by the clearing of the throat.
The earl’s high dudgeon likely contributed to his already addled awareness. Once he realized we were quite a bit farther from the gates than collecting a passing hackney might require, it was too late.
He stopped, an inquiry already on his lips.
Ashmore spun, cocked an arm and delivered a blow that might have had a pugilist weeping with the joy of it, then caught the young lord before he fell too hard.
I’d never known the Compton men to have a glass jaw, but then, I hadn’t yet come to know Ashmore and his many skills, either. Mixing drink with any sort of pugilistic attempt surely would always end thusly.
“Now,” Ashmore said over the earl’s dead weight, “what in blazes happened?”
“Let us fetch a hackney first,” I said, and set out to do just that. Mercifully, Ashmore did not pry during the ride back to the rowhouse he had acquired through private and anonymous means. There was no staff, only us, and though that would have been the very height of impropriety, it wasn’t a concern I bothered with.
Ashmore had seen me at my worst, during a vulnerability that trumped all matters of polite reckoning. He had nursed me through withdrawals that would have ended me, were it not for his determination to ensure they did not.
I owed him everything, and he returned that owing with steadfast care.
We were bound, him and I. I would never be able to explain it to Society’s gossip mill, should they ever get word, but it was enough for me that I understood it.
What unusual lives we had come to lead.
Fortunately, the hackney driver did not care enough to question Ashmore’s assertion of his companion’s overindulgence.
The surly driver took his coin and plodded away, leaving us outside the simple brick and brown stone facing that was our less-than-luxurious abode.
“Perhaps we should get him inside,” I suggested, tongue firmly in cheek. “Lest the neighbors think us truly degenerate.”
“You try me, minx,” came Ashmore’s grumble. I hurried to open the door.
The thoroughly addled earl groaned against Ashmore’s shoulder. To think that Piers Everard Compton, Earl Compton, heir to the Marquis Northampton’s long legacy, would be carried like a bride over a shabby threshold.
I wondered if his brother’s spirit might not be mortally offended.
I filled Ashmore in as he laid the rousing earl upon the small sofa within the sitting room. There was not much to the rowhouse, for it wasn’t the sort of place accustomed to parlors and fancy seating. A single sitting room, an attic, two bedrooms and a small kitchen provided cramped living, but for now, it would suffice.
Were I unfamiliar with the luxuries of the upper crust, I might consider it more than enough for my needs.
We were close enough to Limehouse to make the trek easily, and far enough from Shadwell and Blackwall that we would not be caught unawares by the row between the Brick Street Bakers and the Black Fish Ferrymen.
That was another quandary I would have to address—but not yet.
Ashmore listened to my explanations, then sighed and rubbed his colored hair. I plucked my wig off, leaving my natural garnet-hued tresses pinned tightly to my scalp, save for the unavoidable fringe torn loose by exertion and stubborn curl. “I’d thought that disguise enough to save you the trouble.”
“To be perfectly candid,” I said bitterly, discarding the wig upon a small table, “’tis unlikely he recognized me at all. I might have been nothing more than a haunt from his cups. Had I laughed and assured him of his mistake, I suspect he would have moved along.”
“Perhaps.” Yet Ashmore did not look convinced as he sat upon the only other chair in the room and waited for our unwitting guest to waken.
I prepared tea. It was a skill I’d learned at Ashmore’s side, for I no longer had staff to make it for me. I made it too strong, but he drank it without complaint and I was coming to prefer the bitterness of a strong black leaf.
It took near enough to an hour, but eventually, our unwilling guest stirred.
When Piers finally woke, he did so as a man accustomed to waking in strange places. He did not startle, but blinked bleary eyes and pressed the back of his hand to a jaw that surely ached.
“Good evening, my lord,” I said, hoping to defer any outrage directed at the man who had dared challenge him.
As I’d hoped, Piers’s pale green eyes pinned upon me. “So I didn’t dream it.”
“No, you did not.” The tea I had only just made fresh steamed. I poured him a cup without his asking. “I apologize for the method of your invite, but I’m afraid you left me no choice.”
The lord pushed up from his uncomfortable repose, placed his boots upon the floor quick enough that the wood thumped and groaned. I was watching the tea I poured instead of the byplay, so I did not see what caused Ashmore to deliberately clasp his hands together—elbows braced upon his knees as he leaned forward—and say softly, “I would recommend you rest, my lord.”
Ashmore was not a particularly large man. I knew of the well-developed muscle beneath skin nearly as white as milk, but it was not obvious beneath his attire. Yet he had a way of speaking, an assurance that filled his manner with all the confidence of his overly long years, and it was as if he became too large to ignore.
Piers weighed him as I had done many a time over, and the same understanding seemed to click into place behind his pale eyes. He sat back in the sofa, as a gentleman comfortable with his lot in life. “Well, your invitation has succeeded, my lady.” The courtesy dripped venom. “What would you have of me?”
The tea sloshed as I handed him the saucer. “You do not need to call me that, my lord. I am overly aware of my position.”
“Oh, that’s very good,” replied the earl, who did not refuse my offering as his lady mother would have. I had not given him the allowance of cream or sugar, for we had none. “You’re aware. I shall leave it all be, then, shall I?”
For all his careless cruelty, he could not hide the hurt beneath his droll façade. Much of what he thought had always remained locked behind a mask of amused ennui, yet he struggled now.
I pitied him, even as I felt responsible for his fractured composure.
He wore his hair as his brother had been wont to, short enough to satisfy fashion’s strictest demands, and he’d clipped back the chops he’d kept so tended. The resemblance between the eldest and second sons had never been remarked upon all that much, but it was impossible to miss now.
I sighed, forging on before he could. “I am not asking you to forgive, nor to forget. All I want is the opportunity to make things right.”
“You should have thought of that before you abandoned your duty.”
I winced.
Ashmore watched in silence. This was not his conversation to have. I appreciated that forbearance. I chose my words with care, clasping my hands tightly in my lap. “If I had remained with your family to mourn, I would have been locked away.”
“Don’t be—”
“Please,” I said over his aborted scorn. I knew what his lady mother had planned—to keep me out of sight in a dowager’s manor in the country until the world forgot about the widowed countess—but I did not want to have this particular argument now.
Piers subsided, but I saw the tension in his jaw, and in the line of his set shoulders. He watched me as one might a venomous spider—legacy, no doubt, of his mother’s hatred and my own reputation.
“All this time, I have been working to right the wrongs I have committed,” I continued, “and I chose to begin by hunting down the man that murdered your brother.”
“Your husband,” he replied tersely.
I inclined my head, eyes stinging. “Yes. My husband.”
The earl looked away. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I have need of your help,” I said, as simple as I could frame the matter.
A dismissive sniff. “You must be mad.”
“I am not,” I said, a ghost of a smile touching my mouth. I wasn’t so mad these days, anyhow. “But I am committed to this course. There are those who need my help, and I would like to help them.”
Piers frowned at Ashmore. “Who are you, then?”
“Oliver Ashmore, at your service.” The man who was little more than a ghost, a guardian who was never at home, inclined his head in polite greeting, but his eyes did not lower as they should in deference to a marquis’ son.
The name did not appear to matter, for Lord Piers sniffed once and rose to his feet. “I am done here.”
I leapt to mine, arms spread as though I might keep his attention for longer than he chose. “Please, Piers, you have access—”
“’Tis Earl bloody Compton, do you not understand that?”
The viciousness of that correction was as a knife to the heart. I could not bear to close my eyes. To do so would allow him too much of a victory when I needed his help.
“Please, Earl Compton.” I softened my voice with deliberate care. “You have access to the private Menagerie, places I cannot go.”
His lip curled. “You seem to have had no troubles last season.”
“I was not there of my free will,” I replied, a bit of a lash in kind.
He snorted, rude regardless of location, and thrust the saucer he held, untouched, to me. I took it before he let go, but the jarring motion sloshed more of the bitter brew over the rim. It splattered over my bodice, dark drops soaked quickly by the pale green fabric.
Piers swore once, a harsh uncivility the likes of which he’d no doubt learned in the stews. With a sharp gesture, he plucked a handkerchief and passed it over to me—with more patience than he had the tea. “It seems that there are
circumstances which will never change. We are done, dear sister.” Again, the bite that scored deeper than I wondered if he knew. “Pray that we do not meet again.”
Ashmore rose, his features set into unreadable lines, and escorted the earl out of the shoddy residence that was nothing like the Chelsea home I had once claimed. That domicile belonged to the earl now. Or his father. Regardless, all that I had stood to inherit had passed to my husband upon our wedding day, and then to his family upon his death.
Masculine voices murmured excruciatingly polite farewells and the door closed heavily in the lord’s wake.
Ashmore returned to find me seated once more, clutching the saucer and given handkerchief in white-knuckled fingers.
He did not return to his seat, but came to crouch before me. The stern planes of his aristocratic face softened. “Are you all right?”
For him, I worked to smile. “I knew it would be difficult to convince him to help. I just thought...” My aching fingers tightened over the bit of monogrammed cloth.
Ashmore’s larger hand covered mine. “What will you do?”
My smile twisted. “Perhaps concoct an alchemical serum that would force him to comply with my every wish?”
“I think not,” he replied, lightly enough that he knew it a jest, but only just barely.
I looked down into the rippling surface of the untouched tea. It had stopped steaming. “Is there no alchemical tool to use? Perhaps Kronos to alter the course of—”
“Don’t, Cherry.” The hand he’d left over mine lifted to my cheek briefly. It did not linger. He rose, leaving a cold draft where his heat had once been.
As though aware of how much I shook on the inside, trapped beneath my skin, he stoked the fire into a high blaze. “This is the risk of learning of such things,” he said into the hearth. The room brightened, and glints of his true copper color gleamed through his darkened hair.
“What risk?” I asked wearily, setting the saucer down with an ungentle clatter. “That those who know it might dare to use it?”
Engraved: Book Five of The St. Croix Chronicles Page 4
