by Liz Carlyle
Napier narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean, Anisha, seen her hand?”
She flicked an impatient look up at him. “It is called hasta samudrika shastra,” she said, “and no, don’t gape at me. It’s a science, not a parlor trick. And no, I am not like my brother, so please do not start.”
He wasn’t about to discuss Lord Ruthveyn’s dark talents; they spooked the hell out of him. “So you really meant to tell fortunes in Lady Leeton’s tent?” he said, incredulous.
“No, I meant only to entertain.” She released his hand and sighed. “It was supposed to be a charity event. But Miss Ashton’s hand—it shocked me—and I fear I frightened her.”
Napier felt a smile twist at his mouth. “Oh, from what little I’ve seen, my dear, nothing frightens Miss Ashton.”
“Then at the very least, I made her angry.” Anisha sat back onto her seat. “But never mind that. Now, are you perfectly certain you do not need my statement? Be assured I shall do my duty as a citizen, whether Lazonby likes it or not.”
“Lazonby is using my affection for you against me,” Napier grumbled. “You know that, do you not?”
“He is hopelessly intractable.” She looked at him with a speculative gleam in her eye. “And your affection for Miss Ashton?” she added lightly. “What of that?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Anisha made a pretense of straightening the folds of her tunic. “Well, I cannot but notice that whilst my name has remained quite out of the newspapers, hers very nearly has, too. One would almost gather the lady was merely strolling by when the shooting occurred, and didn’t know Mr. Coldwater at all.”
He looked at her pointedly—and a little darkly. “I cannot imagine, Lady Anisha, what you mean to imply.”
She had the audacity to smile. “Only that you are kinder in heart, I think, than you wish people to believe,” she said. “You owe very little to Miss Ashton, and yet someone—you, I’m sure—has shielded her from the worst of the news reports.”
“Hmph,” said Napier. “Perhaps you should thank your almost-fiancé for that. He has threatened to leave my father’s name in tatters.”
“Oh, no, my fine fellow!” countered Lady Anisha. “Lazonby doesn’t give a fig for Miss Ashton. In fact, he has every reason to wish her . . . ah, but never mind!”
Suddenly uncomfortable, Napier rose. “I fear I have detained you too long.”
The jewels on her slippers caught the sun as she leapt up. “Oh, must you go?”
“I fear so,” he said, which was entirely true. “I will await news of your happy event, Lady Anisha, before I call again—”
“Napier!” she chided.
“—at which time I pledge to set aside my bitterness—oh, for a day or so!—and bring the two of you my best wishes and a case of excellent champagne.”
As if delighted, she clasped her hands. “How very kind.”
“And then I shall endeavor,” he belatedly added, “not to hope Lazonby chokes on it.”
Perched atop a step stool in her cottage’s tidy kitchen, Lisette let her gaze trail over the half-empty shelves. Pots and bowls now littered the kitchen worktable.
“Well, that’s the lot of it,” she said, wiping her dusty hands on her apron. “The rest came with the letting.”
“Not my fine-mesh chinoise.” Mrs. Fenwick spoke into the depths of a packing crate. “Here, miss, hand it down and I’ll stick it inside me stewpot.”
“This battered old thing?”
“Aye, just like meself,” said Mrs. Fenwick in a chiding tone. “Can’t make a proper puree or even a decent soup without I have it.”
“Shall we start wrapping all this in newspaper?” Lisette passed down the conical contraption. “You must have two months’ worth laid back.”
Just then, the sound of the knocker dropping rang through the house. The old woman sighed, and shoved her mobcap back into place.
“I’ll go.” Lisette hopped down and untied her apron. “Perhaps it’s Mr. Bodkins with word of a house.”
“Aye, well, anyplace but Scotland, miss,” warned Mrs. Fenwick.
Despite her words, however, Lisette approached the door with grave trepidation, her gait slowing as logic caught up. It was not Bodkins; it was too soon. Leaning into the parlor’s bow window, she glanced through the sheer underdrapes to the sunlit walkway beyond, her stomach sinking.
Assistant Commissioner Napier stood upon her front step, foreboding as Mephistopheles himself, his hand fisted around the handle of a black leather valise with glittering brass hardware.
Satan’s emissary was, however, impeccably attired in a tall black hat and a matching frock coat cut to the turn of a slender waist. Beneath it Lisette could make out a cabernet-colored waistcoat and a snowy, starched neck cloth, its knot tightly—and perfectly—centered at his throat. Sheer masculine elegance, freshly turned out by Bond Street, she guessed.
After running her hands over her hair, she crossed into the front hall, yet her fingers froze upon the doorknob. But there was nothing for it; this call was as inevitable as Faust’s visit from hell.
After sending up a prayer for strength to a God who likely no longer listened, she threw open the glossy blue door. “Mr. Napier,” she said. “How do you do?”
“Well enough, thank you.” His voice deep as a gravel pit, the man swept off his hat to reveal his dark, almost-black hair combed harshly back off a high forehead, and a lean, angular face unfashionably clean shaven, though she could still make out the faint shadow of his beard. “Might I have a word?”
She forced a light smile. “Have I any choice?”
Napier did not return the smile. “Regrettably not.”
She was not a fool; she knew what his coming here meant. Oh, she had got what she had wanted, albeit inadvertently, in Sir Wilfred Leeton’s death. But there was always a price to be paid. And Royden Napier, she very much feared, had just come to collect.
“Well,” she said briskly, “one hates to thwart the ever-diligent Scotland Yard.” Lisette stepped back, and waited for the next chapter of her life to begin. “Do come in.”
CHAPTER 4
Mephistopheles Lays Out His Terms
Napier let his gaze take in Elizabeth Ashton’s tidy front hall as he stepped inside. It was an instinctive act on his part, this swift assessment of an unfamiliar space: the doors, the windows, the potential for escape.
Which was ridiculous when the lady had no reason to flee. Lazonby had seen to that—at least for now. And still Napier looked. Wide arches gave off the small room in three directions, and in the large parlor to his right he could see a flight of stairs leading to the floors above. The hall was furnished with a fine drop-leaf table set with a pair of candlesticks that would have equaled a constable’s annual salary. A gilt-framed landscape hung above, completing the impression of gentrified comfort, if not outright wealth.
“Hardly the grandeur of Mayfair,” she said as if reading his thoughts. “But it’s home.”
Napier did not rise to the bait—if bait it was. With her, one could never be sure. “Is there a place we might speak in private?” he said instead, returning his gaze to her cool, crystalline eyes. “Sir George Grey wishes me to review your statement.”
“How very thorough,” she said. “But really, Mr. Napier, there is nothing more I can tell you.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “Come now, Miss Ashton. I don’t think either of us believes that.”
Her smile tightened. There was a brittle look about the corners of her eyes today, he noticed, and faint shadows beneath. The lady had not been sleeping. Perhaps she was not as calculating as she seemed.
“Would you care for coffee?” she asked, leading him into the parlor.
“Thank you,” he said, noting a row of baggage alongside the stairs. “Going somewhere, Miss Ashton?”
“I have a home in Scotland,” she said vaguely. “Pardon me whilst I go into the kitchen. I don’t keep much staff. Do have a seat at the table if it suits you.�
�
She reentered the shadowy entrance hall and turned into the door that gave onto the rear of the house, leaving Napier to wonder if she mightn’t simply vanish out the back. But he’d seen no desperation in her eyes. She had faith, it seemed, in Lazonby’s ability to protect her. At least for now.
And so the hunted had become . . . what? The huntress’s ally? It was an atypical roll for Lazonby, and Miss Ashton did not look like the sort of woman who would ally herself with anyone. There was not one whit of trust in the lady’s eyes. But perhaps life had taught her well. No, she would not run. Not yet. The infernal woman was too bold for that.
He set his valise down on the round table. It likely served as a breakfast table, he imagined, for the room was the sort of parlor used for many purposes. A pair of tall bookcases was built to either side of the hearth, an old pianoforte sat along the back wall, and ladies’ marquetry writing desk was nestled beneath a side window. Through it he could see a charming garden gate arched over with a climbing rose, now lush and sagging with white blossoms.
Oddly on edge, Napier followed Miss Ashton’s trail back into the hall. The door opposite the parlor gave onto a formal withdrawing room hung with blue watered silk and a fine gilt pier glass. The furniture, however, he could not make out for it had been swaddled in holland cloth.
He had guessed rightly, then. Miss Ashton was shutting up the house.
Pondering this, Napier retraced his steps. Atop the marquetry writing desk he noticed an oval silver-framed miniature sitting alongside a pair of heavy crystal inkwells. He picked it up, and looked into the round, cerulean eyes of a young lady attired in a pink ball gown, the cut of which told him the portrait was far from recent.
The lady was an undeniable beauty, with a fine, thin nose and full lips accented by a beauty mark set at one corner. Miss Elinor Colburne, he guessed, for the resemblance to her younger sister was unmistakable.
And yet they looked little alike.
It was very odd, thought Napier, turning it to the light. Elinor’s eyes were pretty but of a quite ordinary shade, while her hair was blonde. Elizabeth Ashton’s eyes were a rare blue-green and faintly almond-shaped, her skin pale as porcelain and her hair a dull chestnut.
The only similarly, really, was in the shape of their faces; pure, perfect ovals, both of them, with firm, slanting cheekbones that spoke of blue-blooded elegance. And those mouths. Lush cupid’s bows with full, almost bee-stung bottom lips that made a man think of—
“I see you’ve found Elinor’s picture.” The rattle of china sounded behind him.
Jerked back to sanity, Napier put the miniature down a little awkwardly and turned to see that Miss Ashton had carried in a galleried tray, a massive silver affair set with a full coffee service that could not have been light.
“I would gladly have helped you with that,” he said, looking at the tray.
She lifted her cool gaze to his, faint distain on her face. “Really, Mr. Napier, have you somehow come away with the impression I’m frail?” she murmured, setting the tray on the table. “If so, you much mistake the matter.” Here, she tilted her head toward the desk. “Ellie was the delicate one.”
Napier still held his hat, which she had neglected to take from him. “Frailty takes many forms, Miss Ashton,” he said quietly. “I see the gamut in my sort of work. But no, I do not doubt your abilities.”
She settled into a chair. “Well. Do have a seat, Mr. Napier, and get on with your questions.”
But he did not sit, and instead merely put down his hat. “Firstly,” he said, staring down at her, “I want you to admit precisely what happened in that dairy on—”
Miss Ashton threw up her hand, palm out. “I have said, sir, all I mean to say on that score. You have my statement. Do you wish to review it or not?”
“Damn it,” he said under his breath. “I want you to admit, Miss Ashton, that no one named Jack Coldwater came within an inch of Sir Wilfred’s estate that day. That is the truth, and all the rest of this is a rat’s nest of lies.”
Miss Ashton merely widened her unusual eyes. “If he did not do it,” she said calmly, “then whom do you imagine shot Sir Wilfred? Was it Lazonby? Good luck with that prosecution. Lady Anisha? I confess, she doesn’t seem the violent type. But wait—perhaps you think it was I? If it was, then I have the right under law not to incriminate myself, and I’m not fool enough, Mr. Napier, to waive it.”
“This is a waste of my time, is it not?” he said, frustrated by her demeanor. “You’ll tell me nothing; indeed, you’ve been well schooled by your friend Lazonby.”
Stiff as a duchess, she rose again. “Oh, Lazonby is far from my friend, Mr. Napier,” she said. “I wouldn’t trust the man as far as I could throw him.”
Napier gave a bark of laugher. “In that opinion, madam, we are agreed,” he said. “And yet—”
“And yet what?” She swished around the table toward him. “And yet I have unfairly blamed him? And yet I have tormented an innocent man all these months? Oh, come now, Mr. Napier! Even if you could prove it, that cannot be what brings you here. Besides, some would say that rich, titled men like Lazonby are rarely innocent of much.”
“Really, Miss Ashton—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, just get on with it.” She jerked to a halt before him. “Why are you here? Kindly say it—or ask it—and spare me your moralizing.”
“I’m not sure I should waste my breath,” he retorted, uncertain why he was so angry. Or even what he wanted from her. The truth? Tears? He’d likely get neither. “You and Lazonby look two of a kind to me, both of you willing to twist and bend the truth as it suits you.”
“Look here, Napier, your trouble with Lazonby is your own,” she snapped. “My business in London is done. If his holding your father’s reputation hostage is what frustrates you, then go trouble him with your questions.”
Without an instant’s thought, Napier seized both her shoulders. “Do you think me an utter fool, Miss Ashton?” he exploded, burning to shake sense into her. “Do you think for one moment I don’t see what you and Lazonby have conspired to do here? And consider this, since you’re so conniving: Lazonby will have a knife in your back the instant he no longer needs you. He’ll swear on a pile of Bibles that you killed Sir Wilfred—whether you did or you didn’t—just to get even for the hell you’ve put him through.”
She paled at that, but stood her ground. “And I’ll swear it was the Morning Chronicle—and Jack—who harassed him.”
He did shake her then. “Do you imagine I haven’t been down to Fleet Street, Miss Ashton?” he all but shouted. “I’ve put the fear of God into every man working at the Chronicle. I’ve upended Coldwater’s office and his rooms in Shoe Lane, too. So let’s just say it out loud—there is no Jack Coldwater. And there never was, was there?”
Elizabeth Ashton leaned into him very slowly. “Well, if there isn’t, sir, you shall have to prove it,” she said softly. “But the Chronicle’s staff, I’m guessing, has already told you they worked cheek by jowl with him for better than a year. His landlady has doubtless reported she saw him going in and out regularly. Moreover—”
“Yes, but she also saw—”
“Moreover,” she pressed on, “ask that bullyboy who loiters round Lazonby’s club just who’s been bribing him to watch Lazonby all these months. Jack Coldwater was known to half the thugs in town. And half of them were his paid tipsters, which made him a dashed fine reporter in the bargain. Oh, perhaps Jack wasn’t around the office much, but the Chronicle got what they paid for. And not a one of those men will willingly admit to being taken in by a mere woman. Assuming, of course, that they were.”
“Balderdash,” Napier snarled, “all of it. You’re no better than Lazonby, and I grow weary of being run around the facts with prevarications and half-truths. You set out to ruin Lazonby—to hound and harass and to convict him of murder—and you chose the court of public opinion in which to do it. And that’s all Jack Coldwater ever was. A weapon. A chimera.
”
Disdain sketched across her face. “Is there a question buried amidst all this high-handed accusation, Mr. Napier?” she replied. “And if so, do you really want me to answer it the way you seem to hope? Because if I should—well, you fancy yourself a gentleman, do you not? There’d be all that gentlemanly honor to wrestle with. All that duty to the Crown. All that right and might and moral obligation needling you like a pin the laundress left in your collar. Well, I long ago ceased to be troubled by truth and honor, Mr. Napier. It never did a damned thing for me or my family. So leave me to bear the guilt, if guilt there be. And let your father’s fine reputation rest easy in the grave.”
He felt every muscle in his body tighten. “By God,” he whispered, “I ought to arrest you for murder—and for unladylike language.”
She had the audacity to push her face into his. “Have at it,” she answered, “and see how far it gets you.”
Blinded by frustration and something like lust, Napier tightened his grip. She backed up against the bookcase, rattling a vase of white gladioli perched upon the mantelpiece.
Her eyes widened as he thrust one leg between hers, effectively pinning her. “You once offered me something, Miss Ashton, for my cooperation,” he whispered, his hot gaze drifting over her face. “Tell me, does that offer still stand? Are you still so bold?”
She pushed back, setting the heels of her hands to his shoulders. “I’m bold enough to do what I must,” she answered. “I’m a survivor, Mr. Napier. And no, I’m not a fool. I know what you are. I see behind your gentlemanly façade—and yes, Lazonby’s, too. Now I ask you again: What do you want of me?”
“I want you in jail,” he gritted. “I want you, by God, where I can keep an eye on you.”
And with that, he speared his fingers into her hair. On a small cry, her eyes widened, and she turned her face as if to thwart his kiss, the heels of her hands ramming hard into his shoulders.
