Luton tipped back his head and laughed. “That you’re a selfish bastard, you scaly dog. I’ll not go.”
S.T. stared at him darkly. For a moment Luton’s smile wavered, and then he swigged down his wine.
“No, no,” he said. ’Tis no use giving me that devil’s gaze of yours. Call me out if you wish; I won’t go. I’ve business here.” He paused, peering down at his glass, and then suddenly slanted S.T. a thoughtful look. “Perhaps we’re about the same project, eh?”
“Perhaps,” S.T. parried.
“Dashwood sent you?”
S.T. was suddenly on crumbling ground. Luton’s arrival had unsettled him; Sir Frances Dashwood’s name was a pure jolt. Coming from a rake like Luton, it conjured the noble hooligans of the Hell Fire Club and the unholy monks of Medmenham.
“I came on my own,” he said.
“Did you indeed?” Luton’s tone gave away nothing.
“I heard a rumor,” S.T. said, hazarding a chance. Luton was preposterously out of place here; S.T. wanted to know the reason. “I’m interested in your business.”
Luton had pale blue eyes; he gazed at S.T. without blinking. Then he lifted one white hand and placed his finger against his lips pensively. The ruby on his forefinger gleamed.
“You might need a friend at your back,” S.T. said, nodding toward the jewel. “There’s a highwayman at work in these parts.”
That got a start out of Luton. He sat up. “The devil you say.”
“Aye. And you with your gems all about you.”
Luton swore. “A highwayman. It only needed that.”
S.T. smiled crookedly. “My hand is yours,” he said. “I’m passing fair at swordplay:”
“I know it. I saw you fight poor Bayley on Blackheath.” The other man took a deep breath. He kept turning his glass in his hand. “So… Dashwood has been talking to you, has he?”
“A rumor,” S.T. said. “Only a rumor. I thought it—” He paused, and then said carefully, “worth my time.”
The look Luton gave him was enough. S.T. knew he’d struck close to a powerful secret. Dashwood and Luton and Lyttleton; Bute and Dorset and the rest of them—for three generations they’d pleased themselves to the limits of civilized vice. S.T. wasn’t entirely innocent of that particular brimstone himself. In the earliest reckless days of his career he’d watched Dashwood’s black mass in the chalk cave at West Wycombe: twenty years old and lawless, hot to prove his mettle, ready to use Dashwood’s blasphemous “nuns” and relish the theatrical obscenity of the rites.
Very brash. Very young.
He wondered if Luton remembered.
He wondered what Luton’s business was now. What would it take to amuse a man after that many years of debauchery?
“Come,” Luton said. “Walk outside with me.”
S.T. stood up. He pulled on his gloves and watched Luton help himself into his own greatcoat. The mere fact that a man of Luton’s elegance was traveling without his valet or groom was curious.
Outside, Luton picked his way over the stones of the yard in his high-heeled shoes. “Tell me,” he said calmly. “Where have you been these few years?”
“Traveling.” That answer was easy enough. S.T. turned deliberately away from the stable and Mistral. “Let us walk this way. The pavement’s cleaner.”
Luton followed willingly enough. “You’ve been on the continent?”
“Aye. France. Italy. A spell in Greece.”
“I’d have thought you long lost. No one mentions your name in Paris.”
“I prefer to rusticate. I’ll take the south of France to Paris.”
“Lyon? Avignon?”
S.T. kept an indifferent face. “Both, at some time.”
“I’ve toured Provence.” The tasseled cane tapped a quick rhythm on the pavement. “There is an interesting village near the Lubéron. Lacoste. Perhaps you’ve heard the name?”
The carefully casual tone brought S.T.’s senses to full alert. “I’ve heard the talk,” he lied.
The cane came up, hesitated, and then fell. Luton leaned on it. “What talk?”
S.T. searched wildly for an appropriate guess. He squinted out across the moors. “Of uncommon things.” He looked at Luton, assessing the man and his reputation and what was like to lure him. “The gossips call it… unnatural.”
The icy pale eyes held his. Luton smiled. “And you don’t?”
S.T. decided he could only bluff so far. “I simply have my rumors.” He suddenly remembered a name, a man who might have the acquaintance of an aristocratic English traveler with Luton’s tastes, and tossed it on the table as a wild card. “The Marquis de Sade spoke of intriguing things. You know him?”
It took the trick.
Luton shot him an piercing, eager look. “You’ve talked to Sade?” Relief and excitement shivered through his voice. “When?”
“I believe it was November.” S.T. had his companion’s full attention now. “He was sharp set upon when last I saw him.”
“Set upon! By whom?”
S.T. smiled. “The French militia seemed to have taken him in dislike.”
“The deuce go with it all! Did they catch him?”
A memory of the marquis backed up against the wall, with Nemo snarling in his terrified face, made S.T. look away. He gazed out over the landscape. “Milord was safely on Savoy’s side of the border when I left him.”
“My God, I’m glad to hear it. We’ve had no word for months. It was like to tear my nerves to pieces. I thought he’d lost his stomach for the thing—after it was his notion to begin with. But he’s still in it with us, is he?”
“I can swear it.” S.T. perjured himself without compunction.
“And you.” Luton gave him a curious look. “You fancy your scruples can bear it, going the full distance? I don’t know much of you, Maitland. Your brother was as hot at hand as ever I saw a man, and game for any outrage, but you seem to come and go in a pretty queer fashion.”
S.T. shrugged. “My brother was a lunatic.”
Luton cleared his throat and frowned. “Apologies,” he muttered. “I should not have mentioned what would distress you.”
“It’s nothing to me,” S.T. said, leaning against a low stone wall. “The whole world knew him for a murderous blackguard, and he ruined my father to boot. If a whore hadn’t broken his neck, the hangman would have.” He grinned. “What of it? I never set eyes on father nor son.”
A faint smile played about Luton’s mouth. “You’re damned cold about it.”
“Perhaps I’m a little mad myself.”
Luton nodded slowly, still smiling. “Good,” he said. “I like a madman. I liked your brother. A fine untamable animal, he was. ’Twas a pity that he couldn’t keep his reason about him.”
“A pity. Mayhap the whole family’s blood cursed. A Gypsy warned me I’d be lucky to end on the gallows myself.” S.T. crossed his arms and tilted his head back to the sky. “But I intend to enjoy myself in the meanwhile.”
Luton touched his arm. “Join us. We have the ultimate pleasure in mind, my friend. The final act.”
S.T. lowered his head and gazed at the other man.
“Have you imagined it?” Luton murmured, staring into his eyes with a weird intensity. “The last violation. The final sin against God and man. We’ve done all the rest, and now we’re ripe for the pinnacle of excitement. Think of it, Maitland.” His mouth curled in a glimmer of a smile. “Have you ever dreamed of what the climax would be like, with the girl beneath you in her death throes?”
Leigh paused at the crest of the fell. Below her, a pair of well-kept wagon tracks followed the bank of the river. The burn tumbled down the valley, frozen now, opaque white where it spilled over rocks in summer, and a darker color in the deep pools, translucent frost over ale brown.
At the end of the glen, she could just see the ford where the wagon road crossed the river. The hills still hid the town from view, the place that Chilton called Heavenly Sanctuary.
A si
ngle rider moved along the road on a horse Leigh recognized even at a distance. Anna’s black Friesian mare with its long wavy mane and feathered hooves had been an Epiphany surprise two years before, presented proudly with a bridle Mama had trimmed in silver and red ribbons that Leigh and Emily had braided through its silky mane and tail.
Now the gift they’d given in love and simple innocence trotted ahead with Jamie Chilton on its back.
Leigh remembered how to hate.
She remembered her family like a blow, like waking up from a dream. Her breath grew quick and uneven; she could hear herself on the edge of a crazy sob as she clenched the sword.
He’d taken everything she loved; she would not let him have more.
Beside her, Nemo seemed to catch her frenzy. He settled on his belly, his ears alert and his golden eyes fixed on the figure that moved toward them. She let the chestnut start forward, and the wolf shifted instantly into a swift glide alongside her. Halfway down the hill the chestnut began to trot. Nemo broke into a long lope, his jaws gaping, sweeping wide across the slope as he gathered speed.
Leigh dragged the sword free of its dangling sheath. The chestnut fell into a canter, plunging down the hill in a charge straight for Chilton. She saw him look up toward her. The wind beat her horse’s mane into her face as she leaned forward; the air seemed to grab at the sword, pulling the point upward while the chestnut’s motion pitched her arm. She could see Nemo from the corer of her eye, racing in a deadly blur of cream and shadow to cut the quarry off.
The ground went past in a smudge of grayish green. Her eyes stung with cold and speed; the reins seemed a tangle of confusion in her left hand, useless, and her ears were full of the sound of wind and her horse’s hooves. Chilton stood up in his stirrups. His mouth was an open darkness, but she couldn’t hear him. She came off the slope at a pounding gallop. He kicked the mare. The horse jumped forward and shied off from Nemo’s attack, and she had a moment’s terror of cutting the mare.
Then she was there, the sword whistling through the air at Chilton’s head.
He ducked away, wrenching at his reins. The mare reared and came down an inch from Nemo’s snarling teeth. The wolf dodged her hooves. Leigh flashed past, missing her target by a foot, powerless to coordinate the jumble of her reins with one hand. She dragged the chestnut to a halt and scrambled for one loose rein, pivoting the horse around with the Seigneur’s sword pointed toward the sky. Nemo had circled to the mare’s flank, pinching the target between them, leaping toward Chilton’s leg with a savage growl.
He caught Chilton’s boot, but the man never made a sound. He fought in silence, slashing at the wolf with his riding crop. Leigh kicked the chestnut at him again. She aimed the sword with her trembling arm. Everything seemed to go too fast and too slow: she could not control the chestnut, she couldn’t keep her hand steady, she could see Chilton’s mouth set hard and his eyes rolling as he fought, spurring his horse for the opening between her and the wolf and the river.
The sword whistled through the air, a violent hum of sound above Nemo’s snarling. It caught in Chilton’s coat; she felt the sudden drag at her grip, and pulled back desperately to save her hold. She jerked the sword free, but he was moving; there was nothing she could do but make a wild swing. The rounded blade slid harmlessly across his neck, and only a wrenching lunge brought the point upward, dragging the tip over his cheek.
Blood spilled from the cut, rolling down his face, but still he never made a sound. He looked like a wild man, with his hat gone and his hair springing out from his head in an orange cloud.
The mare bounded forward, out of reach. Nemo had his teeth sunk into Chilton’s ankle, half running, his hind feet bouncing off the ground. The crop cut downward again, and the wolf let go. Nemo sprang into the mare’s path, but Chilton reined her hard sideways and gave her his spurs. Leigh lunged forward over the chestnut’s shoulder, stabbing the sword at his back. She felt resistance, but she was too far away to thrust the point home.
The chestnut shied away from Nemo’s snarling. The sudden swerve jolted Leigh off her seat. She grabbed the horse around the neck and clenched her legs on the sidesaddle’s leaping tree, hanging on with all her strength. By the time she’d regained her balance and found the reins again, Chilton had driven the mare into a gallop.
Leigh propelled the chestnut forward, joining Nemo in the chase. The terrified mare’s tail floated behind her like a flashing black banner. The Friesian was fast, but Nemo and the tall chestnut gained on her, pounding along the frozen track. Leigh threw a wild look to the side and realized they were heading back toward Heavenly Sanctuary. She kicked the chestnut again, leaning over his neck, the fingers of her sword hand tangled in his flying mane and the blade pointed upward.
Ahead, she could see people standing in the road. Their figures were a smear. She gulped air, panting for strength, hearing nothing but hooves and her heart thundering. Above it, she caught a faint pop, and saw Nemo falter. The wolf went head over heels in a flash of pale fur, and leapt to his feet as she thundered past.
The mare veered ahead of her, swerving toward the river ford. Chilton’s arm came up and the riding whip slashed downward. The mare took a huge leap, as if she could clear the river. It landed her in the middle; Leigh saw her crash through the ice, saw Chilton topple in over his shoulder, saw the mare regain her footing, and then the chestnut was at the bank. Leigh shouted in vicious elation, leaning back for the jump, grappling at her sword with her enemy trapped in her grasp.
The chestnut gathered himself. He lifted his front hooves in the air.
Water.
With a powerful coiling leap, he refused—twisting sideways, sending her forward in a somersault that yanked her free of the sidesaddle.
She pitched. The world spun. Water. It flashed in her vision. Ice and agony hammered into her like an explosion. Water, water, water, water…
Dove sat down on the bed in S.T.’s chamber. “I’m not going,” she said placidly. “I’m staying here with you.”
He ignored her, opening his wallet. “They’ve got the dogcart ready to take you to Hexham. Stage fare’s paid as far as Newcastle. How much money do you think you might need between you?”
“Charity may have it,” Dove said, pushing away the purse. “I won’t forsake you, not after all you’ve done for us.”
“Nay, you needn’t feel you’re forsaking me,” he said impatiently. “I want you and Charity away, where you’ll be safe.
“Mr. Bartlett,” Charity said in a small voice. “I ha’n’t nowhere t’go.”
He took a deep breath. “Where did you come from?”
“Hertfordshire, sir.” She bobbed her head. “But me pap ’ee be long gone away and me mum wi’ no work, I’d be on the parish there, sir.” Her bandaged hands worked and squeezed together. She wet her lips. “Oh, please, sir—I don’t be wantin’ to go back in the poor house!”
S.T. put his hand on her shoulder. “You stay together. Stay with Dove. I’ll give you money enough to find work.”
“We’ve no references,” Dove said amiably. “No one will hire us.”
“For God’s sake, I’ll write you a reference. You have to leave here. I want you out of Luton’s sight.”
“I’ve no fear of him.” Dove smiled mistily at S.T. “Not whilst you’re at my side.”
“Nor me, neither,” Charity said with resolution. “Well, you can’t stay here!” He strode to the window and looked out. “I’ve things to do; I can’t be playing nanny. And damn, where the devil has Leigh got to with my rapier? There’s no time left now for games, plague take her!” He turned around and took Charity’s arm, giving her a little push toward the door. “Come along, and be good girls.”
Charity turned into him and threw her arms around his waist. “I do be beginn, sir—don’t sendin’ me off! Dove’s kin, they woan’ take the likes of me; great people, they do be—”
“Charity!” Dove said shrilly. “Don’t speak nonsense.”
Charity let g
o and whirled on Dove. ’Tis the truth, and ’ee do know it! A great big house, ye got, a mum and a pap—’ee do be a fine lady—”
“That’s not true!” Dove came to her feet. “I’m an orphan. I am precisely the same as you.”
S.T. looked up quickly. Dove’s modulated speech struck him with sudden and momentous effect. “The devil you are,” he said incredulously. “You never learned to talk that way in Chilton’s school.”
“I did!” Her lower lip puckered. “My mother made me steal in the streets!”
“Nonsense.” S.T. crossed the room and took Dove by the shoulders. “What’s your real name?”
“I’ve forgotten.”
He gave her a shake. “Listen to me, you little dimwit—if you’ve a family to take you in, I’ll have you tell it!”
“I’m an orphan!”
“A lady, ’ee be!” Charity cried. “Ye and Harmony and Angel and lots of the others-’ee be fine, wi’ gentle airs; us all knew it, and that Master Jamie loved ’ee best. ’Twas always the fine girls would be chose for ascension.”
“That’s not true—there was Eternal Light.” Dove glared at Charity. “She was chosen, and she came of a mending stall in Covent Garden.”
“There ’ee be; she didn’ ascend proper, then, did un?
She be back a’crying the next very morning ’cause she ’ad the French disease and weren’t yet suited. Them that do ascend proper don’t never come back to this worldly vale o’ tears.”
S.T. forgot Dove; he dropped his hands and stared at Charity.
“She was chosen, though,” Dove insisted.
“She come back!” Charity countered stubbornly.
“When Master Jamie took Holy Faith to ascend, did ’er come back next morning? Did ’er? Nor Zion, nor Bread of Life, and they all been gentle-bred girls.”
“Oh my God,” S.T. whispered. “They didn’t come back?”
Charity shook her head. “Master Jamie chose them to ascend.”
“And they never came back? You’re certain?”
“They went up to heaven,” Dove said. “That’s what Master Jamie told us.”
S.T. turned to the window. It was late afternoon; Luton had left the inn, mounted, half an hour ago. The suspicion that had formed in S.T.’s mind seemed so preposterous that he hardly credited it Luton and his friends, they might have their black fantasies, they might speak of them to make them seem more real, they might even commit an isolated murder if they thought themselves secure to do it—but S.T. hadn’t even speculated on more. He’d wanted Dove and Charity gone, out of Luton’s sight: the man was an immoral animal on any count, and he might, if he excited himself enough, if he felt safe enough, if he saw opportunity, be capable of playing out his imagination in reality.
The Prince of Midnight Page 32
