“Stop it.” She turned her face away, showing the elegance of her profile, the high cheekbones and swanlike neck that by all accounts had struck men dumb in her youth. “I won’t listen to this again.”
Christian’s brother had not believed in involving her in unpleasant business. But there was no choice for it. Ignorance would only endanger her. “Be angry with me, if you must. Had I not crossed paths with a madman, Geoff would still be alive.” The words tasted foul, unbearably bitter. Had he been a shade less brave at Bekhole, the entire world would not have read the details of his life—and his family. Bolkhov would not have found them so easily. “His blood is on my—”
“Don’t be a fool.” She swung a blazing look on him. “Life is unjust. Accidents happen all the time. Why . . .” Her lips pressed together, whitening. “Just look at your father. Always reckless on a horse. I warned him against such jumps, didn’t I? But he always said he knew what he was doing. The finest horseman in five counties, they called him.”
“I’m speaking of Geoff now,” Christian said gently.
“I know,” she snapped. “That’s my very point, Kit. Even when one sees the danger . . . I always told your father, I said he would break his neck and leave me a widow. But did he listen?” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “And when it finally happened, it had nothing to do with his skill, only bad . . .” She swallowed. “Bad luck. It happens, you know, all the time.”
Christian nodded. He had no grounds on which to argue it. On his return to England—dazed, ragged from fever—the tidings of his father’s death had seemed like a piece of black luck to him as well.
But he had proof of foul play in Geoff’s case. “I’ve been working with a friend in government,” he said slowly. This was not a piece of information he’d meant to share. “The fire that killed Geoff. It was arson.”
She closed her eyes as though to shut out the news. “The war has left you troubled. These delusions . . . the vicar says they arise from an unquiet mind.”
Christ God. Had Geoff given her such news, she never would have consulted the vicar about his sanity. “Do you require proof? I can arrange for it.”
For a moment, her face seemed to sink in on itself. He saw then how she would look at ninety, sunken-faced and frail, and the vision triggered a rush of terrible emotion.
The feeling hardened his resolve. She would live to be ninety. She would be ancient and gray before she passed away in her sleep. That was what he meant to ensure.
As she opened her eyes, a single tear slipped down her cheek. “If the government is involved, then let them solve this,” she said unsteadily. “Let them—let them protect us while they hunt this Russian! But to pull me away from my friends, Kit—and to ask Melanie to go among strangers, when she’s only now begun to recover her spirits—”
“You would rather be under lock and key here?” He rose. “That can be arranged.”
She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you will remain at Susseby, under guard at all hours.”
“No!” She scowled. “That, I won’t tolerate. Melanie will have her season.”
“Neither you nor Melanie has a choice in it,” he bit out. “I am the head of this family now.”
She stared at him, struck mute. A rare sight, indeed. Enough to trigger a fleeting lick of black humor. Obey. That was the line he should have taken from the start.
Obey your brother, she’d always told him as a boy. No matter the nature of his quarrels with Geoff, or Geoff’s share of the blame, it had been Christian’s role to make peace. One day he will be the head of the family, she had lectured him time and again. All this—Susseby, the estates in the north, the fortune and title—all of it will be his. So respect him, Kit. Obey him, for one day he will be your authority, as much as your father.
He had chafed at that instruction. Sorely resented Geoff for never having to apologize. Resented his mother, too, for turning a blind eye to Geoff’s flaws.
But he had never coveted his brother’s place. In his bones, he knew they’d been born in the proper order. He’d never wanted the burdensome duties of the title. Never wanted . . . this.
Yet here it was. “New York or Susseby,” he said with the same brutal bluntness that he might have used on a wayward troop. “Make your choice, madam.”
“Here,” she said faintly. “Susseby.”
The door opened without warning. Two maids carried in silver trays reeking of chop.
His mother hastily wiped her eyes. “Lay them down at the table,” she said. “Lord Palmer will require—”
“I am not staying.”
Her mouth flattened. “At least pay your respects before you go.”
That she imagined he needed a reminder was the harshest punishment she could have dealt him. Perhaps she realized it, for her face softened as she held out her hands. He took them and kissed her cheek. “This will be over soon,” he said gruffly.
“Oh, Christian.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Promise me you will pray for guidance.”
“Of course.” He prayed nightly for guidance, on how best to kill a monster.
A winding path led from the house through the terraced gardens, past a stand of trees to the small graveyard where generations of Strattons lay buried.
In the rainy light, Christian paused by his father’s grave to bow his head. But it was by Geoff’s marker that he knelt. With damp earth soaking his trousers, he watched the wind ruffle the wet boughs overheard, scattering droplets that darkened the grass.
It was a tired cliché that a second son should find his true home in the military. But the military had not only offered him brotherhood, it had also instilled discipline. Through harsh experience, it had taught him that courage and denial were often the same. Over the course of countless battles, Christian had learned to ignore his inward emotions. He’d grown expert at denying his fear, his anxiety, and his doubt.
With the help of that practice, he rarely permitted himself to think on Geoff. Otherwise, the weight of his guilt would have crushed him into the earth.
Geoff had invited him on that ill-fated trip to York. But on the eve of departure, they had quarreled. Christian could no longer remember the name of the girl—some opera dancer whom Geoff had brought to a late dinner at Café Royal. So unlike him. He’d always been painfully sober—devoted, often to a pompous degree, to the great duties fated by his birth.
But that night at Café Royal, Geoff had seemed a different man. He’d arrived beaming and disheveled, eager to show off the woman on his arm. Christian, who had gone to confer with a waiter about an unsatisfactory cabernet, had turned in time to see this unlikely scene: his brother removing the opera dancer’s cloak as reverently as though he were unveiling a queen.
Then the opera dancer had caught sight of Christian.
It’s that bloody poem, he’d told Geoff later that night, by way of apology, as they’d driven home. It’s everywhere now.
The dancer had been dispatched by then. Geoff’s interest in her had died a sudden, cold death when she’d thrown herself into Christian’s lap and begged for a kiss.
The poem? Geoff had asked in a slur. Are you certain it’s not the medals? Or your pictures in all the newspapers? Or that ball the Queen held for you last month?
Christian had never seen him drunk. Unnerved, he’d helped Geoff out of the coach, into the house. But in the lobby, Geoff had pushed him away. Just once, he’d said, swaying. Just once, Kit, I’d like to know how it is to have it so deuced easy.
Christian had been astonished. You imagine it was easy?
Don’t start on that again, Geoff had said. The mad Slav in the cave. Nobody believes you! Boy who cried wolf. You’ve always been one for wild tales.
Yes, all his wild tales. He’d always been the entertainer. Not the sharpest at studies, but very good for a laugh. You think it was easy to grow up in your shadow? The firstborn, the genius, the one who could do no wrong?
The next morning, h
e’d woken with a savage hangover and a remorseful recollection of how angrily he’d stumbled to bed. He had gone downstairs prepared to apologize. Geoff was the head of the family, after all. Respect him.
But Geoff had already left for York.
A day later, when the note had arrived for Christian—a single line, in nearly illiterate scrawl, which the authorities had dismissed as a prank—he’d dispatched a telegram to Geoff’s hotel and boarded the next train in a frantic blur he still could not wholly piece together.
But it had been too late. Geoff had been dead, the hotel in flames.
Not a faulty gas line, after all. But it had taken months to persuade the government to mount an investigation, and even longer to determine that the evidence pointed to arson—although the scrawled note had been unequivocal: Now it begins.
He laid his hand atop the wet earth over Geoff’s grave. Once this soil had been freshly turned. Now the grass had healed over the scar, making a smooth bright cover. He sank his fingers into it, severing the grass at its roots.
“I will avenge you,” he whispered. But not replace you. The one who could do no wrong—that had never been Christian.
But he would do this right, or die trying. “I will keep them safe. On your life and Father’s, I swear it.”
A drop of rain hit his nose. Then came another, ice cold, cleansing. He closed his eyes and lifted his face into the light of the oncoming storm. He had killed men in battle, of course. But he had never murdered. God save him, but he dreamed of nothing else now.
CHAPTER FOUR
The town house was huge. Lit top to bottom. A party was under way. Lilah stood on the curb, staring up in indecision. It had taken a full day to build her courage to come here. Now she wondered if the cabman had delivered her to the wrong address.
Movement caught her attention. Across the road, a slim figure huddled in the shadows of the trees, features concealed by a voluminous shawl.
Lilah called out. “Is this the Viscount Palmer’s residence, do you know?”
The figure made some abortive movement—a gesture at flight, arrested. After a moment’s hesitation, hands emerged, drawing away the shawl. A young girl, perhaps seventeen, nodded tentatively at Lilah.
“Yes, that’s right,” the girl said. “Do you . . . do you know him?”
That was a very fine strand of diamonds at her throat. Lilah looked beyond her and saw nobody else in the park.
The rules were different in Mayfair, of course. But Lilah had the suspicion that this girl was not supposed to be prowling outside after dark without a chaperone. She looked the age of a debutante, and wore the jewelry to match.
“I do know him,” she said.
The girl gasped. Then she scuttled across the road to Lilah’s side. “Can you give him this?”
So close, Lilah could catch the subtle scent of the girl’s perfume—something exotic and expensive. The girl’s skin was flawless, as though the sun had never touched her.
Lilah felt her resolve faltering. She’d reconciled herself to a trade: her body for the letters. What choice did she have? Remaining chaste was well and good, as long as one’s circumstances remained decent enough to give chastity its proper meaning.
But once Nick told the Everleighs about her, she’d be hard-pressed to find any respectable position. The Everleighs would feel obliged to warn everyone of their deceitful former hostess. Her virtue would do her no good then. Her body would be all she had to sell.
Better to sell it when the price was still high. But would Palmer even be inclined to make the purchase? Not if his taste ran toward this girl’s bland, delicate beauty.
“I’ll give it to him,” she said, taking the note before the girl could change her mind. “Or maybe I won’t.”
“Oh!” The girl’s eyes widened in outrage. “Then give it back!”
Lilah shoved the note down her bodice. “Don’t be stupid. Men who force you to scurry about in the dark, writing love letters you daren’t post, mean nothing good for you.”
The girl covered her mouth, smothering an unsteady laugh. “No, you have it all wrong.” She lifted her face to the house, and the light spilling through the open windows caught on her eyes. They were a golden shade, like whisky held to the light.
“He’s my brother,” the girl said. “And he won’t . . .” Tears shone, threatened to spill over her lashes. “He won’t even see me. He’s denied me a season and refused to explain himself, and I—I won’t have it!”
Lilah looked her over. The girl was wearing a traveling cloak, wrinkled from much use. “Did you run away?” she asked. “Does anybody know you’re here?”
“I came to visit a friend. Mother made me promise not to go to town. She said it would upset him. But look—he’s having a party,” the girl said bitterly. “While the two of us rot away, with nothing to do but sulk and sit about, as though our mourning will never end. As though for the rest of our lives, all we must do is think of . . . of Geoff . . . and Father!”
Suddenly she sobbed. Alarmed, Lilah glanced again to the shadowy park. Mayfair was the safest area of London, but criminals found opportunities here as well. A weeping girl in fine diamonds would make easy pickings. “Where is this friend? Is her house nearby? Shall I walk you there?”
The girl dashed away her tears. “No! I’m not alone. My maid is waiting in the park.”
A very worthless maid. “And she let you come over on her own, did she?” Something in her own voice gave her pause. That scolding note . . . Fiona had liked to berate her so when she was rash. “I’ll have a word with her,” she said more stiffly. She owed this girl nothing. “Or perhaps it’s your friend’s parents I should speak with.”
By this threat, she meant to compel compliance. The girl flew into a panic. “No! Please, I beg you—the walk isn’t far. And my maid—Mother would sack her if she found out we came out at night. Please, Loulou is the only true friend I have at Susseby—”
“Fine,” Lilah said quickly, for it occurred to her that if somebody came along and spotted this scene, neither of them would benefit. “Run along to Loulou now, and I’ll see that Palmer gets your note.”
“Oh, thank you!” Beaming, the girl made a flying retreat into the park. Sure enough, another figure emerged from the darkness to meet her. The two huddled together for a moment, then waved to Lilah before slipping from view.
Inside, someone hooted, and a great chorus of masculine laughter followed. Lilah stepped out of the lamplight, frowning.
A week ago, it would not have surprised her to learn that Viscount Palmer threw wild parties. The wealthy were a breed apart, easily bored, prone to strange amusements. She had long since learned not to try to understand them.
But now that she had spoken with Palmer . . . now that she had learned, to her detriment, of his agile wit, and his skill at picking a girl’s pocket—she could not square him with the usual aristocratic nonsense.
They say I’m rotten.
Perhaps so will you.
Best to know as much as possible about the lion before she entered his den. She opened the note, reading quickly.
How can you do this to me, Kit? Do you think you’re the only one who has suffered? Or worse, the only one who should get to enjoy life, after such a long horrible period of grieving?
Well, I shan’t go to New York—and I shan’t be locked up, either! WHY should I submit to such treatment? Am I to be punished forever? You know I loved our brother with all my heart. I weep for him nightly! But what my sore heart requires to heal is diversion! I am twenty—other girls are married and widowed by that age! I should be making my debut at Lady Southerton’s ball as I write this! Why, the love of my life might even now be dancing with some other girl. What if I never meet him? What if I go to New York and marry some dreadful American and end up alone in some uncivilized wilderness only to be eaten by bears? That will be YOUR fault! ALL of it!
But what do you care? You are cold and unfeeling and I’m through with it. You can lock me u
p as many times as you like—I shall only break free and come back! I will stand outside your house and HOWL AT THE MOON if I must! But I promise you, if you do not give me permission to stay in town, you will regret it!
Your loving sister,
Melanie
Amused, Lilah refolded the note, then tucked it into her bodice. Had she ever been so young?
Above, the door opened. A man lurched down the steps, drunk as blazes. Something clattered onto the pavement ahead of him. He cursed and came to a standstill on the last step, gripping the iron rail as he wobbled indecisively.
His left leg ended in a wooden stump. It was a cane that he’d dropped. Surprise drew Lilah from her hiding place. As she picked up the cane, he cursed again. “Where in ’ell did you come from?” he demanded.
“Around the corner.” She handed the cane to him, but got no word of thanks for it. He hobbled past her and took a lurching turn toward the high road, his patched coat billowing out behind him.
How peculiar! On a deep breath, she marched up to the knocker.
The butler did not even ask Lilah’s name before admitting her. With a bow, he took her cloak and directed her upstairs. “You will find his lordship at the end of the hall, through the last door on the left.”
As she crested the stairs, she saw that this was no party after all—not the kind favored in Mayfair, at least. The male assembly wore rough-spun cotton and ragged jackets, and carried plates of plain chicken and potatoes. The group nearest her drank from tankards that smelled of ale, and they made conversation in a variety of unschooled accents. “This was afore that mess at Kabul, y’ken—”
“Aye, I kent it fine. Right sorry affair, that. Bloody Fred Roberts—”
She could spy the far hall, but the crush afforded no easy way to reach it. She sidled into the crowd, sidestepping elbows and carelessly handled tankards.
Evidence of injury was everywhere. Eye patches. Slings. These were military veterans, she suspected. As they took note of her presence, news traveled in a silent wave of nudges and nods. A path cleared, conversations pausing as she passed; with startled glances, men compassed her figure, then quickly and respectfully looked away.
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