With This Kiss

by Victoria Lynne

  In return for my toil, I ask but a simple sign of your trust and fidelity. It pains me to see you in gowns of insipid blue — the mark of St. James, no doubt. Wear the colors of fire for me, my love.

  Crimson. Gold. Orange.

  So pure. So brilliant. So beautiful.

  Lazarus

  Home Secretary Chivers crossed the room and stood before Julia. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand for the letter. She obediently passed it to him. Chivers scanned the note. “The blue gown he’s referring to,” he said. “Do you know which he means?”

  “Blue?” Julia knit her brows in thought. “It’s not a color I generally wear.”

  “You wore blue to Lord Attmark’s boating party,” Morgan said.

  “Yes, you’re right,” she replied, sending him an appreciative smile. “I remember now. The gown is not one of my best, but it is quite comfortable and perfectly adequate for an afternoon party. As I think on it, the day was dreadfully warm, and—”

  “Do you recall wearing blue at any other time in recent weeks?” interrupted Chivers.

  She shook her head. “No. Just to Lord Attmark’s.”

  Chivers shot a glance at Morgan for confirmation. At his nod the Home Secretary smiled. “Very good. It may not be much, but at least it gives us a place to begin. Now then, who attended Lord Attmark’s party?”

  “Half of London,” Morgan replied flatly.

  Undaunted, Chivers turned to Mr. Goodington and said, “Pay Lord Attmark a visit and see if he would be kind enough to provide you with a list of everyone who was in attendance — not only the guests, but the servants as well. Then pay a call on Lord Winterbourne and see if you can secure the same information from him. We shall compare the lists and narrow our suspects down to those who attended both events.”

  “Your suspect list may well be in the hundreds,” Morgan pointed out.

  “Perhaps,” Chivers replied with a shrug. “Hundreds in a city of a hundred thousand. At least we are narrowing it down, are we not?”

  That said, he gave his man a nod, silently dismissing him. Mr. Goodington bade them good day and stepped from the room. Mr. Randolph, after promising his assistance anytime they should need him, left as well. As the sound of the front door closing echoed back to them, Morgan asked tersely, “Is that all you intend to do? Compare party lists?”

  “Not precisely. There is another peculiarity contained within that letter; one that is even more striking than his reference to the viscountess’s blue gown.”

  “‘I have followed your words and done as you directed,’” quoted Julia, beating him to it. “What does he mean?”

  “In the past Lazarus has always selected his own victims. This time he let you do it for him, Lady Barlowe.”

  “Me?” she echoed, appalled.

  “As you are aware, two fires were deliberately set in the days following the publication of your column. The first occurred on Lord Alfred Deerce’s estate, the second on Sir Richard Wibberly’s property.”

  “What has that to do with my wife?”

  “In addition to planting the message for Lazarus and the society news that surrounded it,” responded Chivers, “the central theme of Lady Barlowe’s column was the abysmal conditions found in the workhouses. Specifically, Robert’s Home — the workhouse located just off Garner Row. It did not take a great deal of investigating on my part to discover that both Lord Deerce and Sir Wibberly serve on the board of guardians for Robert’s Home.”

  Julia sank back into her chair, struck by a weight of guilt so heavy, she nearly felt ill. Five dead. The direct result of a column she had written. “I never expected that he might—”

  “There was no way for any of us to predict it,” Chivers reassured her immediately. “Nevertheless, it is a most interesting development, however, is it not?” He stood and began to pace the room. Despite the dismal circumstances, he looked challenged and almost delighted.

  “In the past,” he continued, “his letters to you have always contained a note of passion and adoration, but it was clear that he regarded you as a compatriot of sorts. A woman whose zealotry for reform neatly dovetailed with his own ideals and religious fervor. Judging by this last letter, that has changed. Now he is relinquishing the lead to you. He is doing your work and looking for a sign of acknowledgment and praise from you in return.”

  Julia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “It was never my intention to inspire this sort of… zealotry, as you put it, Mr. Chivers.”

  “But the fact remains that you have, Lady Barlowe. To my way of thinking, it is quite wonderful that you have. It is incumbent upon us to seize this opportunity and capitalize upon it.”

  “What do you mean?” Morgan asked.

  “Until this moment we have been in the frustrating position of waiting for him to strike, then searching among the embers for clues to his identity. In sum, he has controlled our actions. Now for the first time we may be able to control his. If this is any indication of Lazarus’s current state of mind, Lady Barlowe is in a unique position to not only inspire the man’s next move but to actually direct it.”

  “I see,” Julia said, shooting a glance at Morgan. Judging by the grim expression on his face, Chivers’s meaning was undoubtedly as clear to him as it was to her. She turned to the Home Secretary and asked briskly, “What did you have in mind, Mr. Olivers?”

  “To put it in plain terms, a trap. If Lazarus is in fact taking direction from your column, we should waste no time in taking advantage of that. After discovering the connection between Sir Wibberly and Lord Deerce, I have been so bold as to presume that you would consent with my plan, Lady Barlowe. To that end I have selected a target for Lazarus.”

  “And that is?”

  “I would ask that you write about a certain house of ill repute. If I may be so crass — a brothel. The site I have in mind strikes me as ideally suited to our purposes. The Cat’s Paw. It’s a rather isolated structure at the end of Canal Street. It houses less than half a dozen souls, all of whom could easily be cleared from the building in case of fire. Furthermore there are several abandoned buildings nearby in which my men could station themselves to watch for Lazarus.”

  She gave a tight nod.

  “I have taken the liberty of assuming you would agree with this plan and written down the particulars for you,” he continued, removing a sheet of paper from his coat pocket and setting it on the table before her. “If that information does not suffice, you may of course contact me.”

  Julia lifted the sheet and scanned the contents. As she did, a shiver of dark foreboding raced down her spine. “And if this fails?”

  “To my way of thinking, we will have lost nothing,” Chivers returned with a shrug. “But I believe it behooves us to take that chance, don’t you? When does your column run next?”

  “Not for another three days.”

  A flash of disappointment showed on Chivers’s face. “A shame. I had hoped it might be sooner.”

  “I could contact my editor and see if he might place the column in tomorrow’s paper—”

  “No,” interrupted Morgan. “To do so may very well arouse suspicion.”

  “I quite agree with Lord Barlowe,” concurred Chivers. “Better that we take no irregular action, or do anything that might arouse Lazarus’s suspicion. In the meantime, may I suggest that the two of you continue in the same vein that you have been? Attend as many social events as you are able, see and be seen. Perhaps luck will favor us, and Lazarus will say or do something to reveal himself sooner than we expect.”

  His business apparently finished, he flashed a quick, preoccupied smile, reached for his hat, and stepped toward the door. “Let us dangle the bait and see if he bites, shall we?”

  Morgan moved to follow him. “I’ll see you out.”

  “Not at all,” Chivers returned, waving him off. “I shall put my powers of memory and deductive reasoning to work and find my own way. Good day to you both.”

  At the sound of the front door
closing, an air of somber heaviness seemed to settle over the room.

  Too restless to sit any longer, Julia rose and moved to the bay of tall windows that overlooked the gardens, standing a mere arm’s length away from Morgan. “Events are escalating so rapidly, are they not?”

  “You sound as though you regret that.”

  Until that moment her gaze had been focused on the gardens. Now she turned to face her husband. “We’re forcing Lazarus’s hand. I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding in doing so.”

  “Perhaps we’re bringing things to an end.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He regarded her in silence, then said flatly, “We can call it off.”

  She let out a sigh. “And live like Sarah Montgomery? Spend every day waiting and wondering what might have happened had we done something? No. We should proceed as Mr. Chivers suggests.”

  He nodded in agreement and turned away, glancing about the room as though looking for an excuse to change the topic. “You had a letter that wasn’t related to your column,” he said, nodding toward the stack of parchment envelopes that rested on the sterling silver tray. “May I be so bold as to inquire who it was from?”

  Julia regarded the tray in confusion, then abruptly recalled the letter she had set aside. “Oh, yes. Henry. He asked if I would pay him a call this afternoon.”

  “Henry?”

  “Henry Maddox. My father’s former bosun. You remember. He runs the warehouse down by the docks.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  A soft smile curved her lips. “If you’re thinking that I need protection, you’re mistaken. Henry could not possibly be Lazarus.”

  “Nevertheless, I would like to accompany you.”

  For a moment she allowed herself to believe that he might actually want nothing more than to enjoy an hour or two in her company, away from the constant strain of contemplating Lazarus’s next move. But his next words quickly disabused her of that fanciful notion.

  “Henry Maddox may not be a suspect, but you’ve said before that you felt Lazarus watching you when you ventured out in public. I should like to be present should that happen again.”

  “You can’t follow me everywhere I go.”

  He gave a light shrug. “Let us just be cautious, shall we? At least for the next week or so.”

  The next week or so, indeed. Her smile faded slightly as she imagined a period of years stretching out ahead of them, years spent constantly looking over their shoulders for suspicious faces and ominous shadows. Years in which she and Morgan remained nothing but aloof, polite strangers. Refusing to consider that dismal scenario a moment longer, she sent him a brisk nod. “Very well. Give me a moment to freshen up, will you? I’ll join you shortly.”

  As she left the room, she came to a rather unexpected and altogether unwelcome realization. Of the formidable goals she had set for herself upon entering into her marriage — capturing Lazarus and capturing her husband’s heart — apprehending Lazarus might well be the simpler of the two.

  Morgan surveyed the room in which he sat. On his initial visit to Tom’s Rest, they had confined their stay to the tavern’s busy front room. Had he given any thought to what he might find in the private rooms in the back of the establishment, he would have pictured exactly what he now saw. The wooden tables and chairs were old but well maintained and free of dust. The upholstered pieces were covered in neatly stitched cotton slipcovers, over which had been tossed a variety of embroidered pillows. An eclectic collection of paintings and seamen’s treasures cluttered the shelves and mantel. Sheer lace curtains hung at the windows, and fresh flowers filled the vases. All in all, it was a welcoming, warm space; a room that seemed to perfectly suit Henry and Annie Maddox.

  Although Morgan had tried not to intrude, he had of course been privy to their conversation. In short, Henry had invited Julia to tea in order to make her an offer for her father’s warehouse. As his opinion had not been solicited, Morgan watched in silence as Julia studied the paper that outlined the terms of the sale.

  “’Course, if you don’t think that’s enough…” Henry began.

  “No, it’s quite generous,” Julia replied. “I’m merely surprised. It’s all so unexpected.”

  “It’s fairly unexpected for Henry and me too,” said Annie with a smile. “But two of my regular customers came into some money and offered to buy Torn’s Rest. At first we turned them down flat, but then Henry and I got to talking.” She paused and reached for her husband’s hand, giving it a brief squeeze. “After all the years we missed together, what with him sailing who knows where and me running this inn, we figured it might be nice to spend our final years anchored down together. Maybe buy one of those little cottages they’re building up on Drake’s Hill and fix ourselves a real home.”

  Julia forced a small smile. “That sounds lovely.”

  “If you were still living with that uncle of yours,” Henry said, “we wouldn’t think of offering. But now that you’re married to his lordship and all…” He made a vague gesture in Morgan’s direction as his words trailed away. “Well, it didn’t seem like the place mattered to you anymore, that’s all.”

  “You haven’t been by the docks in ages,” Annie went on, shifting uncomfortably. “So Henry and I just figured… Well, we thought it just might work out for everybody.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right,” said Julia with a decisive nod. “In fact, we should have discussed this sooner. Mr. Randolph is holding the deed for me. I’ll sign it over to you at first opportunity.”

  Henry cleared his throat. “I reckon your husband ought to sign it as well.”

  If Morgan didn’t know Julia so well, he might have missed the subtle tension that crossed her features at the reminder that the warehouse was no longer hers to sign away. By law everything she owned had become Morgan’s at their marriage. “Of course,” she said, turning toward him with an artificial smile. “Morgan?”

  “Certainly.”

  After another few minutes of rambling conversation, he and Julia made their exit. Rather than take the coach directly back to his estate, she hesitated, suggesting they walk a bit first. As it was clear that something was on her mind, Morgan acquiesced, letting her enjoy her silence as they moved along the wharf. It was not the sort of place he would have ordinarily chosen for a stroll. But at the moment a quiet, steady hum hung over the normally bustling docks. Apparently the blasted heat had rendered even the thieves, stevedores, and prostitutes too lethargic to be out of doors.

  Julia seemed oblivious to their surroundings in any case. It was not until they reached the warehouse that had belonged to her father that she stopped. As Morgan eyed the dilapidated structure, he privately considered that its sale ought to be cause for celebration. But the expression on Julia’s face was almost forlorn.

  “Why did you sell?” he asked after a moment. “Clearly you didn’t want to.”

  She lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “Had Henry served in the Royal Navy all those years, rather than for my father, he would be entitled to some kind of pension. Instead, he received nothing. He and Annie deserve better than that.”

  “Yet it bothers you nonetheless to let it go,” he observed.

  “Silly, isn’t it?” she said. “Of all the memories I have of my parents, my father being reduced to ending his days living here is certainly among the most painful. Yet it’s also one of my last memories of him, and thus one of the hardest to let go.” She shook her head, letting out a small, wistful sigh. “Why is it so hard to let go of the past?”

  A good question — and one that Morgan was certainly not qualified to answer. Not after having spent the past two years reliving one single, fateful dawn. Left with a silence he could not fill, his gaze moved over his wife. She wore a gown of pale peach muslin that rustled gently as she walked, giving her a soft, distinctly feminine air. Sunlight gleamed off the burnished copper of her hair, weaving strands of pure gold through the fiery masses. Her shoulders looked unbearably slim, far
too fragile to be burdened by the weight of recent events.

  He lifted his hand to comfort her, then abruptly froze, lost in his own awkwardness. Despite his former reputation as a rake, that simple gesture of compassion and understanding seemed somehow beyond his capabilities, or at the very least outside his realm of experience. His mother had been a beautiful, capricious figure who had appeared in his life with great irregularity. He had been raised by a series of nannies who had always ended up displeasing one or both of his parents, and thus he had learned never to get close to them. He had no sisters. All in all, the sum of his experiences with women were purely sexual in nature — a fact that left him with a ridiculous ineptitude for comforting his own wife.

  As Julia turned, he immediately lowered his hand, feeling like a common thief who had been caught delving into another man’s pocket. As a glint of sunlight bounced off the medallion she habitually wore about her throat, he reached for the thin piece of gold as though that had been his intent all along.

  Frowning, he rubbed the medallion between his fingers and said, “Forgive my oversight. I ought to have seen to your jewelry weeks ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A viscountess should have something of quality to wear, even for an occasion as mundane as a midday stroll along the docks.” He paused, considering the matter. “There is a jeweler on Bond Street who carries an adequate stock of goods on hand. Naturally the better pieces will have to be specifically designed for you, but I believe we may be able to find a few trinkets in the interim.”

  “Thank you, but I prefer this.”

  Somewhat surprised by her refusal, Morgan glanced at the figure depicted on the medallion. “Mary?” he guessed.

  “Saint Rita. Patron saint of the impossible.” She leaned against a battered warehouse wall, regarding him with a small smile. “Consistently appropriate, wouldn’t you say? Always asking for too much, and yet I’m rarely disappointed.”