The Devil She Knows

by Diane Whiteside

  Inside, the rooms were warm and dry, glowing with crimson velvet and oak. Here, the walls were chipped brick and plain iron fixtures, good enough for working folks. Fancy brocade curtains in the windows overhead screened the paying customers from any uncomfortable glimpses.

  A beat cop yawned and warmed himself with more coffee from the hotel’s stock. Two doormen leaned against the hotel wall, their uniforms brighter than any intelligence in their eyes.

  Gareth tossed his knife again. Ten inches of California-made steel whirled like a galaxy through the mist.

  Portia was a grown woman. How could he forget that, the way she looked in her wedding dress?

  Don’t think about that; don’t imagine what that beast was enjoying.

  He had to let her make her own choices, no matter how much he knew they’d cost her.

  His bowie went higher on the next toss.

  He’d promised her he’d wait for her all night, in case she changed her mind. He kept watch here, where he could see both her window and the rear door. Plus, he’d bribed the doormen to tell him if anything happened at the front.

  The sun blazed across the steel, as deadly to his hopes for the future as any desert sunrise. Bright as the flames rising above that Kentucky sky fourteen years ago and leaving the ground below just as barren of life.

  Hope twisted through his gut like a hangman’s knot and vanished.

  Gareth threw his blade into the hotel’s doorframe, where it hung like a shattered bird.

  The cop jumped up, startled into lucidity. “Now, now, young fellow,” he began.

  Gareth strode past him without a glance and retrieved Portia’s gift, which he’d need at his next job for Donovan & Sons.

  William hadn’t been able to find anybody who’d work in Southeast Asia. But halfway around the world should take Gareth far enough from his memories of Portia.

  God willing.

  Chapter Nine

  Hanoi, August 1882

  Gareth jolted awake, nightmare pillars of smoke pursuing him like jackals back to consciousness. His heart beat against his ribs hard enough to break them open, the same way he’d fought to get one more shot off in his dream.

  Dead men’s ghosts still sank into his flesh as if their souls sought to take root in his own. Their eyes were picket fences he couldn’t escape, while crimson rivers of blood streamed faster and faster from their death wounds.

  Sweat broke out across Gareth’s skin, bitterly cold despite the humidity hunting every crevice like magma. Rain pounded on the roof and dived through the gutters into the sewers, almost loud enough to drown his gasps for air.

  He was an adult now. He hadn’t wept since he’d dug his mother’s grave and The Nightmare hadn’t roared through his dreams for months, until tonight.

  So why the hell could he remember those satisfied pigs, snorting around his family’s corpses? His stomach jolted into another knot.

  Maybe it was the omnipresent scent of charcoal from all the local cooking fires that reminded him of racing toward the smoke rising through the Kentucky woods. Running until he puked, but never reaching his destination.

  Where the hell was the damn light?

  He flung his arm out and sent papers flying onto the floor. China shattered with a loud crash when his knife smashed into it. He barely managed to grab the hurricane lantern an instant before it toppled onto its side.

  Cursing like the mule packer he’d once been, he sat up on the edge of the delicately carved bed. His pulse still drummed stupidly fast. It was an insane beat since he’d finished delivering all those critical railroad supplies, despite the every hazard corrupt politicians, foul roads, and filthy weather could hurl at him. Donovan & Sons would be very well rewarded.

  His hands shook, as if he’d drunk himself to sleep. Not that he’d chosen that escape, of course. He’d realized within a month of Portia’s wedding that whiskey wouldn’t ease this pain.

  He ground his teeth and looked for matches.

  Chau peeked around the corner, her enormous brown eyes alight with concern above her thin silk robe. Despite the few months they’d been acquainted, she was confident around a disturbed male as only a previously well-pleasured woman could be.

  At least he could do some things well.

  Even so, words only trembled on her lips and never escaped into the air to disturb him further.

  He finally managed to light the lantern and saw the newspapers scattered across the floral silk carpet. Ice ran down his spine, chilling him faster than his nightmare.

  A single photo stared up at him. Portia and her husband—rather, the Earl and Countess of St. Arles—stood aboard their yacht at Cowes Week. Every inch was emblematic of Britain’s finest society, from their haughty pose to the layers of furbelows which hid any reminders of the soft womanhood which had enticed him from underneath her wedding dress. Even her high collar seemed to bristle with superiority, like a woman’s version of an imperial uniform.

  Gareth closed his eyes and tried not to look at how carefully he’d folded the newsprint so it would highlight that single photo. He didn’t need a reminder of his old playmate, somehow transformed into a magnet for his wayward eyes. If he had a nickel for every time his heart twisted at a thought of her, he’d be a millionaire.

  “Would you like some tea?” Chau’s cousin Quyen crept inside the room, her robe concealing few of her well-sampled charms. A professional courtesan, she could make tumbling out of bed seem an erotic invitation. She was an enticing morsel like her cousin but, like all his play partners since leaving the States, she was dark haired and dark eyed. Her hair would never gleam in the firelight like Portia’s.

  He shook his head violently. Then he remembered how well they could read him after a few months of sharing his bed. He opened his eyes and tried a more charming tack. “Not at this hour, thank you.”

  “Perhaps you heard the cable arrive at the office next door.” Chau offered him the folded bit of yellow paper.

  Discern anything in this storm? Gareth added a smooth smile to his noncommittal murmur and read the message quickly.

  He dropped it onto the newspaper, covering Portia’s face. “My boss wants me to take over the company’s freight routes in the Mediterranean.”

  “Paris?” Convent-inspired dreams flashed through Quyen’s eyes.

  “Algeria,” Gareth regretfully corrected her. Another barren, blood soaked hellhole where Donovan & Sons could turn a profit as one of the few companies willing to do business.

  “There’s fighting there! War and rebellion. You could be killed,” Quyen objected and bit her lip, tears swimming into her eyes.

  Gareth gritted his teeth against easy agreement and the need to comfort her—or distract himself. Algeria was unfortunately far too close by ship and train to Paris, where Portia could surely be found primping herself for St. Arles’ hellish appetites.

  He would not, could not dally on that Mediterranean shore, no matter how often rebels stormed across its plains.

  “And Turkey,” he added. “Constantinople, and maybe some of the smaller ports.” He did his best to look certain. Surely Donovan would agree to opening up a new business route into the Ottoman capital.

  “The Turkish sultan is a bloodthirsty monster, who’ll kill anyone.” Chau caught his arm, surprising him yet again with her mastery of gossip. “He destroys missionaries and his own people, plus honest men who simply carry odd packages. You could die any minute.”

  But he’d be too damn busy looking over his shoulder and dodging government spies to worry about Portia or dream about his lost family.

  “The Sultan attacks only fools who give him the chance,” he demurred. “No, I must obey my master’s bidding and leave this fair”—and wet—“land.”

  He lifted first Chau’s, then Quyen’s hand and kissed their delicate fingers. “While you, dear ladies, will stay here to prosper and be adored.”

  They hesitated for a moment like herons poised over a fishing pond. Then they relaxed and g
iggled happily at his emphasis on the word prosper. After all, somebody needed to truly enjoy all of their life and his bon voyage gift would ensure they’d have the opportunity to do so. As ever, the money he made from gambling when he wasn’t at work went back to William to be invested.

  He, on the other hand, would have a very difficult job to keep his hands busy and his mind from worrying about Portia.

  Chapter Ten

  St. Arles House, London, October 1885

  Portia stirred the jewelry strewn across her table one last time. Her sitting room’s soft gaslight picked out the exquisite details uncannily well and identified them as extremely high quality, even if most were old-fashioned. She’d picked her American jewels up from the vault that morning: she would not leave her mother’s possessions near any banker who might feel more loyalty to St. Arles than to her.

  It was the last step before leaving this house.

  Nobody had touched her mother’s sapphires and pearls in more than a decade, since all of Juliet Townsend’s jewelry and possessions went to her daughter. Even so, Portia’s fingers lingered longest on the tiny cloisonné watch where the phoenix crouched, ready to spring into flight. She’d hoped so much more would follow when Gareth gave it to her.

  So many memories were bound up on this table, as they were in the servants facing her from across it.

  “Are you very sure you won’t do this?” she asked again. “I’d understand perfectly if you agreed to testify.”

  “It would be a lie, your ladyship.” Mrs. Russell, the housekeeper and designated spokeswoman, sniffed ferociously.

  “People tell untruths frequently, especially for the family they’ve worked for throughout their careers,” Portia pointed out and ran her thumb across the watch’s delicate gold threads. Gareth never seemed more alive than when she held his gift, even though she didn’t know where he was.

  “Besides”—Portia hesitated, unwilling to speak more frankly and make the situation worse.

  “Servants generally provide complete details of lives in the households where they serve.” Years of dictating other people’s behavior rang through the housekeeper’s severe tones. “It is our duty, your ladyship, to answer all questions put to us. It is not our duty to make up statements from whole cloth.”

  “Your absence from the proceedings will be noted,” Portia pointed out gently and started to wind the watch. “It will probably cause considerable gossip in his lordship’s circles and may darken his lordship’s mood, something I don’t want you to suffer.”

  “We all know you’ve taken the brunt of that upon yourself whenever possible, your ladyship!” little Maisie burst out, startling the entire group by a housemaid’s temerity in interrupting such an august gathering.

  “If you’ll pardon me for speaking so frankly,” she added, dipping her head. Jenkins, the under-groom, gently nudged her and she grabbed his elbow like a lifebelt. “But you’ve always been kind to all of us, learned our names, made our schedules easy as pie whenever possible.” Maisie’s eyes shone with tears and sincerity under her pleated cap. “It wouldn’t be right to make you bear the full burden now.”

  “His lordship has already made it clear he expects his staff to testify according to whatever script he writes, including the details of the adultery committed by any staff member with your ladyship.” Winfield’s voice dripped poison for all its quiet, astonishing in a butler with thirty years service under the same family.

  “There will be a divorce and St. Arles must have witnesses to my so-called adultery.” Portia forced her voice around the knot in her throat. Duty, honor—all virtue demanded a price. Hadn’t Gareth taught her that? “If you do not speak, his lordship will be forced to hire a correspondent, paid to swear he’d committed adultery with me—”

  “No true man—” Jenkins muttered under his breath but Maisie kicked him hard in the shins.

  “Plus witnesses to this adultery,” Portia finished. “Spending money for what he must certainly consider disloyalty will anger him greatly. Are you and the other servants certain you wish to do this?”

  “My lady, you have always been a most true and faithful mistress. We will keep faith with you by becoming very slow-witted when asked about you. And forgetful,” Mrs. Russell proclaimed firmly. “Certainly we would never speak a lie.”

  “Even if that means being turned off and being sent to live with the lowest of the low in Spitalfields,” Winfield added.

  “All of us who know you, both here in town and at St. Arles Castle, have sworn to it,” completed Maisie and Jenkins.

  The four of them stood shoulder to shoulder facing her, like knights of old ready to ride into battle. Their plan might just work.

  “Oh my dear friends, how much you’ve lifted my heart.” How few friends she had left, except for her family. Gareth was lost to her since her wedding, since nobody spoke to her of him.

  She fastened the exquisite bit of jewelry around her neck.

  “While I’m sure it would never come to Spitalfields for you, I’ll always be willing to do anything I can for all of you.” It was the very least she could do for them.

  Chapter Eleven

  London, November 1885

  Light sliced across Portia’s eyes, sharp and fast as an executioner’s axe after the holding room’s darkness. She flinched and her gloved hand lost its deathly tight grip on the banister. Her foot slipped on the narrow tread. An agonizingly long moment later, her heel finally thudded onto another stair’s ragged wooden edge.

  A splinter cracked and broke off underneath. A chill breeze teased her skirts and petticoats then tried to slither up her wobbling ankles to terrorize her legs and her heart. Twenty feet below, a pair of gaslights buzzed before the door to one of London’s most notorious prisons.

  But she wasn’t a criminal and her freedom lay ahead, no matter how high the price. Besides, she was damned—what an appropriate word—if she’d let Saint Arles win everything.

  Portia tightened her grasp on the far-too-large handrail and hauled herself into London’s finest courtroom before her guard noticed anything had gone awry. An instant later, she was firmly penned in a large wooden box, forced to view the world over a stockade of varnished oak planks.

  “Ice Princess! Countess St. Arles!” The crowd’s clamor swelled around her, more raucous than anything she’d endured to arrive at this hellish place. How many hours had her lawyer—no, barrister—said she’d have to survive the torment?

  Portia firmed her stance and wrapped herself in an attitude of arctic politeness, based on the one her mother-in-law had always shown her. If nothing else, it should fend off the rabble rousers and let her assess her true tribunal.

  Winter’s cold brilliance spilled into the great courtroom from the skylight and windows, remorselessly exposing every tiny detail to the judge’s pitiless scrutiny. It drowned out the wall sconces’ feeble yellow glow as easily as the crowd outside ignored the police’s attempts to keep the surrounding streets clear. It honed its blades upon the great mirror then dived upon its prey.

  Portia tilted her head slightly, using her hat’s lace trim to deflect the worst glare. She hadn’t been permitted to wear a veil, a decent woman’s standard protection from prying eyes. Even so, she didn’t have to display every thought that passed through her mind, even if she was the accused.

  The bailiff’s deep voice rang through the big room, like a horn summoning hunters to follow their master. Heavy oak paneling marched around the walls behind him, locking in potential malefactors as completely as a stockade. “Edward Henry Vanneck, Earl of St. Arles, Viscount Erddig, hereinafter known as the Petitioner…”

  Portia’s husband smoothly shook out his cuffs, as calculatedly dispassionate as if he were negotiating an arms treaty. The movement had the additional advantage of distracting onlookers from his narrow shoulders and viper-thin face. His black frockcoat and white linen were perfectly tailored and quite pristine, making them permissible to be worn by the fruit of centuries of Engla
nd’s finest breeding. Dark eyebrows curved over his heavy-lidded eyes, framing a high-born predator’s watchful gaze.

  He focused all his attention on the bailiff and the judge, of course—never the crowd, with their sharp, ill-bred whispers and stares.

  All around him, clerks and barristers took their places in a final blur of black robes, rustling papers, and heavy seats slamming down like a fort’s gate ramming shut.

  Portia instinctively, unwillingly flinched. The bitter taste of failure—of being forced back into St. Arles life again—surged into her throat.

  She swallowed hard and reached for logic, whose cool shelter had protected her so well for so long. For five years, she’d tolerated St. Arles in her bed. But not anymore, thank God. Besides, if she acted with all the speed her ancestors had shown against the Barbary pirates, she might yet salvage something for herself.

  She might be damaged but she was not yet utterly defeated. She was, after all, a golden Lindsay, at least on her mother’s side.

  “For divorce…”

  Pencils stormed across pads while newspaper artists feverishly recorded the day’s events. All those years of doing her best for the people on St. Arles’ estate—building schools, starting new businesses, repairing roofs and replacing others for tenants, and other deeds, all of which St. Arles had derided or fought as a waste of her money, which should have been spent on his brilliant ambitions…All that work was now eclipsed by blocks of black ink screaming her name across every newspaper in Britain.

  The words’ stain seemed to have sunk through her clothing and into her skin, no matter how conservatively she dressed or how often she washed. Her carriage had been blocked this morning by newsboys shoving copies of the latest lies into a thousand grasping hands outside the courthouse.

  “From Portia Anne Townsend Vanneck, hereinafter known as the Respondent…” The bailiff’s head reared back and he glared at her, determined as any buffalo hunter unleashing a loaded Winchester rifle.