by Gina Lamm
“We need to talk about these things. We need to come to decisions about what to do together. You can’t make up rules for me without discussing them with me first. Tell me the truth about what you’re feeling, what’s going on, and we can decide what to do together. If Collette tries something else, then we’ll…”
“The truth, Miss Marten. What an interesting idea. Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me about a truth of your own. Perhaps the proof of your certainty that Collette Dubois is responsible for your most recent brush with death?”
She couldn’t say a word, and the anger and pain that crossed Mike’s face nearly crushed her. Damn it, Mrs. K. You have no clue what you’re doing to us.
“I see.” He slid his chair back and laid his napkin beside his still mostly full plate. “Enjoy your meal, Miss Marten.”
He left the dining room without another word.
When he’d gone, she looked down at the plate in front of her. A neat, square segment was cut from the meat. The potato had the marks of fork-tines in it. Everything on her plate bore tiny reminders of Mike’s love, even if it had manifested in an overbearing kind of way.
With a heavy heart, and a head chock full o’ confusion, she proceeded to eat the meal that Mike had placed in front of her.
***
Two more days went by in the same way. Mike barely spoke to Jamie, and when he did, he grilled her more on her certainty of Collette’s guilt. Jamie begged Mrs. Knightsbridge to tell the truth, but she refused over and over again. Mike didn’t kiss her, and he definitely didn’t invite her to his bedchamber after dark. She prowled the house like a caged tiger in the zoo, with a growl and a temper to match. Everyone avoided her with the exception of old Thornton. Jamie thought he kind of liked having someone to argue with.
Jamie sat in the music room, but the notes wouldn’t come. She stared at the pages of a book she’d already read, but her eyes couldn’t focus on the words in front of her. She tried to remember how to make chocolate chip cookies, but Jean Philippe kicked her out of his kitchen when she caught an apron on fire.
She was stir crazy in the worst way, and by the third day, she had decided that she’d almost rather be killed than spend another hour cooped up in that house.
“Baron, this is crazy,” Jamie told the greyhound. He was curled up on the foot of her bed, cheek puffing out with his breaths as he slept. Even the dog ignores me.
She talked to him anyway.
“I’ve got to get out. Just for a walk. I learned my lesson last time, and I’ll stick close to the house, but I’ve got to get some air. It’s for my sanity. I’ll sneak out and nobody will ever know. You can keep a secret, right, boy?”
Baron yawned and stretched, long bony legs hanging off the edge of the bed.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Jamie patted his head before walking away from him.
She pulled a cloak on over the plain blue gown that Muriel had dressed her in only an hour ago, plunked on a bonnet, and left the snoozing greyhound in her bedroom. Listening carefully, she waited at the top of the servants’ stairs. Low voices mumbled far away.
She tiptoed on the edges of the stairs, breathing as lightly as she could. Her heart thumped like crazy, and adrenaline thrummed through her body. Her slippers were silent and she moved fast, conquering the stairs before more than a few seconds passed.
She paused, flattening her back against the wall before the door to the kitchen. It stood open, and the voices that she’d heard before were much clearer now. Jean Philippe was going over the night’s menu with the kitchen staff.
“The mutton will be hashed, and the vegetables must be roasted. I will require some wine for the jus, and the onions and potatoes must be peeled promptly.”
She chanced a peek around the corner.
The big chef stood in the center of the crowded room, his large hands gesturing fluently as he spoke. The kitchen maids were all clustered around him like so many mobcap-wearing grapes. Their attention was completely trained on the chef. No one even glanced in her direction.
Hey, good luck for once! Jamie ducked past the doorway quick as a bunny and was out the door and down the alley in a flash.
The sun shone fiercely, and the day was almost too warm for the cloak she’d put on, but she couldn’t have cared less. She was out, and she was free, and she was going to enjoy it, come hell or high water.
It was sort of early in the day for most of society to be out and about, and she was glad for that. There was less chance of running into anyone who would possibly try to kill her. She’d walk for fifteen minutes or so and sneak back in through the back door of the house before anyone noticed she was gone. Piece of cake.
She hummed to herself as she went along, feeling more relaxed than she had in almost a week. Out there in the sunshine, she could almost pretend that things were normal, that she and Mike were good, and nobody was trying to kill her, and they were happy. She wished Baron was with her, but sneaking out with a big greyhound might have been a wee bit obvious.
Most of the people around at that time of the morning were servants, tradesmen, and people who looked like they worked for a living. They hustled along the cobbled streets, not really even glancing in her direction. She loosed the frogs of the cloak and removed it with a relieved sigh. Bundling the thick blue wool over her arm, she rounded the corner of the street.
She was careful this time, making sure to keep track of every turn and step she made. She never strayed too far from the house. After all, she wasn’t interested in actually getting killed—only getting some air.
The sun rose higher in the sky, and a nagging worry wormed its way through her calm relaxed mood.
You shouldn’t have left the house, Jamie, her subconscious admonished. Mike will be so hurt. He’s trying to keep you safe, and you ignore him this way? He’ll never forgive you for betraying his trust like this.
She shook her head, trying to keep the doubts at bay, but they whispered insistently, stealing the peace that her walk had restored to her.
She turned and headed back the way she’d come.
She’d been really vigilant about her route this time, and it was much easier to find her way back home. She hurried, worried now that her absence would be discovered. She didn’t want to hurt Mike, not at all. It was so hard to convince him that she wanted to be his partner. This little stunt would probably ruin any chance she had of convincing him of that if he found out about it.
Jamie was within about six homes of Mike’s when a dark-haired woman caught her eye.
She was standing in front of an open window on the second floor of a beautiful house. The panes were open, curtains fluttering in the slight breeze. Her red lips formed a word, but Jamie was too far away to hear what it was. It looked like “you.”
Terror soaked Jamie’s limbs. She slung her cloak over her shoulders, yanked her bonnet down farther on her head, and hustled as quickly as she could for home.
What a complete disaster. Not only had she snuck out of the house like a troubled teen, she’d been seen by the one person on earth that would like for her to die a horrible, painful death. How much of an idiot could she be? Maybe Mike was right, and she wasn’t smart enough to be treated like an equal. Lord knows she’d acted like a complete idiot, running out in broad daylight when she was supposed to be hiding.
She stepped on a loose stone and rolled her ankle over, twisting it with a gasp. Her momentum pitched her forward. The sharp report of gunfire echoed in her ears as she fell.
Twenty-Eight
Jamie had always had a pretty vivid imagination. Since she was an only child, her playmates were the cartoon and movie heroes of her time, swashbuckling characters from the funny pages. When the villain caught up to them and the hero was cut down by gunfire, the Amazonian princess and Jamie were the only ones who could save the galaxy. They were both grievously wounded but fought bravely, and they always eventually saved the day.
As Jamie hit the ground hard, it was a lot easier to focus on
the distant past than the painful present. Back there, she was safe and comfortable. Here, she was lying facedown on the rough, hard cobblestone street. There, a serious injury would be completely healed when her mom kissed it all better. Here, agony screamed through her arm, a supernova of pain with its vibrant center in her upper biceps. There, the evil would always be defeated by bedtime. Here, if she couldn’t shake off the pain and shock of the idea that she’d really, truly been shot, Collette was sure to come down there and finish the job.
Lying prone on a stone sidewalk is actually not a bad place to take stock of injuries if you can get past the incredible discomfort of it. Her arm, of course, was screaming with red-hot streaks of agony, making it hard to focus on her other problems. Her shortness of breath was almost certainly due to fear and shock. Other than a tingling ache in the ankle that she’d rolled, she was surprisingly okay.
“Up, Jamie,” she said aloud, the sound of her own voice oddly comforting. “Time to haul ass.”
She struggled to her feet as fast as she could, gripping her injured arm tightly with her opposite hand. Hot blood filled her palm, a slow, seeping drip that was almost comforting.
No spurts. That’s good. Should mean she didn’t nick an artery.
Once Jamie stood, she didn’t wait for the world to stop swaying; she sprinted for Mike’s house, not looking back. Another pop sounded, kicking up shards of rock only feet from her. She didn’t slow down even though the ache in her ankle got stronger with every step. Her slippered feet pounded against the stones of the street as she kept that tall, stately town home in her sights. Please let me be out of Collette’s range, please.
When she rounded the corner and hobbled into the alley toward the servants’ entrance, the sound of rapid footsteps reached her ears. She came face to face with Mrs. Knightsbridge only seconds later.
“Watched any interesting water-bowl TV lately?” Jamie asked, looking pointedly at the blood seeping out from between her fingers.
Mrs. K shook her head and led Jamie into the house.
***
Jamie sat on a stool in her bedroom, wearing only her corset, petticoats, shift, and bloomers. She winced as Mrs. K tended to the wound on her arm.
“Ouch. Careful, that arm is still attached. Well, it was before you got to it.”
“You were very fortunate, Miss Jamie. The bullet only grazed your arm. Had you not fallen when you did, it would be a very different outcome.”
“That’s me,” Jamie said glumly, hissing in a breath when Mrs. K applied some more of her mystical healing goop to her wound. “Luckiest bitch alive.”
Mrs. K wound strips of clean cotton around her arm, knotting the ends to keep it in place. “There. I shall change the dressing after your bath.”
Jamie nodded, examining the white bandage on her arm. It was harder now to speak to Mrs. K than it had ever been before. She’d liked the housekeeper, and more than that, she’d trusted her. But now, when her refusal to tell the truth had nearly cost Jamie her life again, she was less inclined to be so forgiving. Mrs. K started packing her healing supplies back into the large wooden box, and as Jamie watched her, she couldn’t help asking.
“Do you think maybe now you can tell Mike the truth about Collette?”
Her hands slowed as they placed a small jar of fluid back into its place in the box. She cleared her throat, and her fingers trembled as they reached for the lid of the case.
“I have told his lordship that I believe she is responsible.”
“Did you mention that you had actually witnessed it?”
The box’s latch squeaked as she fastened it. She smoothed her already immaculate brown and gray hair, eyes darting back and forth.
The dull throb in Jamie’s arm shortened her already tried patience. “That’s a no.”
Mrs. K lifted the case, not looking back at Jamie. “I must help Jean Philippe prepare the dining room for the evening meal.”
Jamie stared at the woman’s back, uncertain of what to say for several moments. It was only when Mrs. K stepped out of the room and the door was swinging shut that Jamie spoke.
“It’s his happiness or yours, Wilhelmina.”
The oak paused, then continued on its way until the latch clicked softly.
***
Mrs. K apparently didn’t tell any of the other servants about Jamie sneaking out or about her injuries. Muriel asked about the white bandage on Jamie’s arm as she helped her dress for dinner, but Jamie told the maid that she’d tripped and hit her arm on the piano. Muriel dressed Jamie in a rose-colored silk gown with sort of puffed, long sleeves that concealed the bandage completely.
Muriel piled Jamie’s hair on top of her head, taking extra care with it tonight for some reason. Maybe it was because Jamie looked so pale and worried. Jamie knew she could use the extra help that Muriel’s clever hairdressing hands could achieve. She placed a delicate chain around Jamie’s throat, the combination of the silver and the deep neckline of the gown making her neck look lean and long. Her cheeks were pale, the circles beneath her eyes plain. She turned from the mirror in disgust. Even Muriel’s considerable talent couldn’t erase the strain the last week had placed on her face.
Every night before, Jamie had wanted Mike to come to dinner. Tonight, as she slowly descended the staircase, favoring her bum ankle and listening hard for the sound of her earl’s voice, she hoped he’d be somewhere else. She’d have to lie to him about going out today and what had happened. The truth would hurt him too much. She hated to deceive him but confessing her near-fatal stupidity was even more impossible to face.
She thought she was home free when Mike wasn’t in the sitting room, but when Thornton announced dinner, Mike closed the office door behind him and joined her in the hallway.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” she said to him softly. She tried her damnedest to keep her stride even, equal, completely normal. It was nearly impossible, pain ricocheting up her leg with every step.
He took her hand and drew it through the crook of his arm. “My apologies, Miss Marten. I did not mean to give that impression.” His deep voice was so polite that it eased her tense nerves, but only a little.
Mike pulled out her chair for her, and as she rounded it to sit down, her ankle gave out. She gave a small gasp of pain, stumbling to right herself.
“Are you well?”
She nodded and gratefully collapsed onto the chair he still held for her. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. Sorry about that. Twisted my ankle earlier today. Guess I’m just a klutz.” Her laugh came out high-pitched and nervous. She could have kicked herself if she was that limber—and if she had two working feet.
Jamie didn’t look up at Mike as he went to his own place at the table.
Each plate of food that was set in front of her had small bites removed. Jamie shook her head but didn’t complain. She knew it wouldn’t do any good.
The mutton and roast vegetables were really good, and Mike kept the conversation light, happy even. Her tension began to melt away, and she laughed at Mike’s tales of dowagers and debutantes. He smiled often, the dimple in his chin deepening and his eyes twinkling when he looked at her. It wasn’t until the plates were cleared away that his speech turned more serious.
“I want to apologize, Jamie.”
She gave him a confused half smile. “For what?”
He looked down at his hands, which were clasped together on the table. The snow-white linen of the tablecloth made the small hairs on his hands look darker, contouring the strong lines. “For making you feel less than you are. For treating you as if you have no sense, no thought for your own safety. I only sought to protect you, but in doing so I have made you unhappy. Can you forgive me?”
Oh no. She’d been shot all over again, but this time the word-bullet had found its mark straight through her stupid lies and into the middle of her heart.
Play it cool, Jamie. No blood, no foul. Well, only your blood, and it’s secret blood, and he doesn’t have to know about it.
/> “Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it,” she said brightly. Her arm throbbed in time with her thumping heart, that organ seeming to scream liar with every beat. “It’s fine. You were doing what you thought was right. I don’t blame you for that at all.”
Mike rose to his feet, his face a perfect picture of tranquility and love. He came over to her and touched her shoulder lightly before pulling her chair out to let her stand.
When she did, he leaned forward, and his warm breath blew on the bare column of her neck. “I have missed you, dearling. Will you come to me tonight?”
The air in the room turned to methane. Swirling green clouds of putrescence that robbed her of the ability to think. She nodded, screwed a smile on her face, and let Mike escort her to the foot of the stairs.
“I have some matters to attend to, but I will meet you shortly, my love.”
He brushed a kiss across her numb lips and disappeared back into his office.
The stairs were steeper than she remembered. Of course, it could have been the huge load of guilt that she was carrying that made them seem that way.
***
The funny thing about brains is that they never freaking shut up. Not when you take off your rose-colored silk gown, not when you remove your petticoats, your stays, your shift, your bloomers. Not when you adjust the bandage over your bullet wound to pull on your night rail. Not when you brush out your curls in front of the flickering fire, and not even when you sneak down the hall to your fiancé’s bedroom. The whole time, the brain is yelling things like How could you lie straight to his face? and Do you honestly think he’s not going to notice that big white bandage? And her personal favorite, Silly gamer, earls aren’t for geek girls. This whole shebang is about to come crashing down, and it’s all your fault, Jamie Kennedy Marten. Put that in your kazoo and blow it.
He wasn’t in his bedroom yet when she opened the door. Whew. Maybe she had a chance. She limped as fast as she dared over to the bed and scooted down underneath the covers. She lay on her back, turned her head to the side, and pretended to be asleep. Just in time, too. Only seconds later, the door squeaked open.
