War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5

by Lynne Connolly

  She nodded. His heart filled to overflowing.

  * * * * *

  In the course of a day Ruth found herself the possessor of so many new gowns, petticoats, stays, shifts, stockings, shoes and everything else a duchess could possibly require, together with a maid to look after it all. It helped, d’Argento had said, that few people were in town at this time of year, although every time Ruth looked out of the window the thronged street outside made her wonder. If this was an empty London, when it was full it must be bursting. The suppliers were very keen to bring her their wares to look over, and on the second day she went out to Oxford Street, but she bought very little, shocked by the prices quoted to her.

  Joy hummed through her life. When Marcus had offered her everything she thought she wanted––security and her boys––she discovered that it wasn’t enough. She wanted him too. Her absence from his side had only sharpened her awareness that she desired him beyond thought. The notion of him marrying Lady Nerine had haunted her through that coach journey, making nothing of her discomfort and everything of her misery.

  She stayed at the Pantheon Club, so it was inevitable she would meet Lady Damaris and her sister. They dined together, without the men, that first night. D’Argento told her she could make her own peace. She tried. “I’m so sorry, but love knows no rules,” she said over lamb ragout.

  Lady Damaris nodded. “That is no doubt true. I consulted with a lawyer, and your betrothed is right. There is no validity in the contract. We will accept the land, but it matters little. There isn’t much there. I’m not sure why the duke wanted it.”

  Now that he let her into his heart, Ruth understood so much more and believed in their future. They were damaged, each in their own way, but they could heal each other. Certainty filled her, together with a sense of being useful. More than she would ever have been in Cumbria. There she was a convenience. Here, she had someone who needed her. As she needed him.

  Much to her disappointment, he did not spend the night with her, but left her to d’Argento’s care. He had gone to the Inns of Court, to obtain a special licence. Today was Thursday. He swore he would marry her tomorrow. Strangely, that prospect held only excitement for Ruth. All her doubts had gone. Becoming a duchess meant very little next to the prospect of spending her life with Marcus, however long it lasted.

  Her shock had forced her to leave. She had not thought matters through, allowing panic to overwhelm her and drive her to run—run anywhere as long as she escaped the madman she fell in love with. Now new realities were settling into her mind. She could cope.

  Lady Nerine said very little over dinner, but she watched Ruth, her eyes large, only speaking when someone addressed her directly.

  Towards the end of the meal, Lady Nerine blurted, “So is it worth it?”

  “Yes.” She had no idea what her ladyship meant, but she would not show any doubt. She was moving amongst gods. She still needed to understand much more, but she would. Her readings of the classics helped.

  The notion that more than mortals existed fascinated her, now that her instinctive terror had subsided. Rationality was returning to take its place.

  She could afford to be magnanimous. She put her hand over Lady Nerine’s. “You will find someone, and then you will understand. I’m sorry your plans were thwarted, but Marcus would not suit you.” He was too complex, too damaged for Lady Nerine. She was in her early twenties, and she’d lived a sheltered, privileged life. Marcus needed someone older, someone who had a chance at understanding him. Her.

  “It’s the children, isn’t it? Are they yours?” Lady Nerine speared a carrot and waved it in front of her face, sniffing it before she discarded it with a distasteful frown. Just as if she spoke that last remark carelessly.

  They were seated in one of the quieter parts of the ladies’ dining room, but the people here could probably hear everything they said, being immortals and all. “No, they are my sister’s, but I will bring them up as if they were mine.”

  “Well, you are a governess.” She shot Ruth a sideways glance. “You could have taken charge of our poor brother, Barnabas. He has the mind of a child.”

  Lady Damaris clicked her tongue. “That doesn’t mean Miss Simpson would be equal to his strength. But at least he is happy where he is, in his suite of rooms at our home.”

  Lady Nerine said nothing, but stared at her plate and smiled enigmatically.

  “I was a governess,” Ruth said, partly to fill the awkward silence. “At least that was what I aspired to. However, I’m also a gentleman’s daughter. I will not disgrace Marcus.” If it killed her.

  “Yet you use his first name?” Lady Nerine found another carrot and, after examining it, ate it.

  She did not fall into the trap of defending herself. “Yes, I do.” Or explain her motives in doing so.

  “Vulgar,” Lady Nerine declared.

  Her sister moved the lady’s wineglass out of the way.

  Lady Nerine moved it back. “I’m sure we can be civilised, can we not? We do share something in common. At least we both enjoyed the favours of the same man.”

  Lady Damaris gasped, but Ruth had already set her face into a rigid mask of polite affability. “I fail to see how that happened.” Since Marcus was the only man she had been to bed with, and he had not seduced Lady Nerine. She was sure of that much, so if Lady Nerine was trying to hoodwink her into believing it, she would be doomed to disappointment. Ruth got to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ll retire now. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

  As she moved away, she heard, “I can’t understand why he chose her over me. A plain governess is always a plain governess, however finely she is dressed.”

  She showed nothing, but when she reached her room she indulged in a few tears. So used to having people either ignore her or laugh at her, she foolishly imagined she’d left that particular humiliation behind. It appeared she had not.

  * * * * *

  Marcus was so clever, choosing a chapel for the wedding, although the terms of the special licence he’d acquired did not demand that. They could have married in Marcus’s drawing room or the club, but he discerned her essentially traditional nature and arranged it.

  Dressed in her best, her new best, Brussels lace foaming over her forearms, the softest of silk sheathing her body, Ruth took d’Argento’s arm and stepped down from the carriage. They were marrying in one of the fashionable new chapels not far from Marcus’s London residence, so they could repair there after the service.

  Although they had little time to arrange the ceremony, the church looked beautiful when they stepped inside. D’Argento must have denuded the gardens of the club to festoon so many roses around the cool, relatively dark interior.

  She touched one. “Ouch!” Pulling her hand away, she sighed to see the bead of red blood drawn by the hidden thorn, and sucked it. Better that than stain her beautiful new lace.

  She blinked to accustom her eyes to the light and only then saw Lightfoot, the club’s majordomo, standing inside the entrance. “He’s not here, my lord,” he said to d’Argento.

  “Then get him. He chose this place because it’s near his residence. Get to his house and rouse him!”

  D’Argento gave her an apologetic smile. “He is probably still dreaming of you.”

  She was not concerned, but quietly took a seat at the back of the church. She trusted Marcus to do everything he’d promised. Nothing could go wrong now.

  Ten minutes later, Lightfoot raced back into the church, interrupting the quiet conversation. “He’s gone. His door is wide open and there is the sign of struggle, but he isn’t there!”

  Ruth picked up her skirts and ran, but this time she ran towards him.

  She knew where Marcus lived, although she had not yet passed through the front door. “Let it be a surprise,” he’d told her, and smiling, she’d agreed.

  Despite being
the only mortal on this mad chase through two streets and a fashionable square, she reached the house first. The butler stood in the hall, not the one from the Abbey, his bald pate startling in its starkness. His wig lay on the floor, disregarded. “One man, ma’am,” he said.

  D’Argento raced into the hall and came to a skidding halt by the supine body of a footman. Bending, he tested the man’s breath by placing his fingers close to his mouth, then lifted the footman’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. “He’s dead.” He straightened. “One man, you said?”

  All his fashionable languor had gone, replaced by an incisive, silver-eyed individual Ruth did not know.

  “Yes, my lord,” the man said.

  Upstairs, a woman’s voice called, “Has he gone?”

  “Up here, Mrs. Brindlehurst!” the butler called.

  The housekeeper from the Abbey appeared from belowstairs, followed by several flustered servants. “We could do nothing, my lord, R—ma’am.”

  Ruth swallowed and tried not to look at the footman. Several more wedding guests entered the hall, led by Lady Damaris and Nerine. Ruth expected derision from the younger lady. She could not have cared less.

  “He burst through the front door,” the butler said. “When poor Freeman here challenged him, he knocked him aside. His strength—” He gulped. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “A giant?” Lady Damaris snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am. At least a foot taller than his grace, and the duke is a large man. The brute went upstairs, hardly touching the treads. His grace naturally came out of his room to see what the commotion was about and the man was on him. Huge, he was. His grace had no chance.”

  “I thought he was stronger—” Ruth began.

  D’Argento put a warning hand over hers. “What happened next?”

  “He wound threads around him. Like silver ropes, they were, or fine chains, but his grace couldn’t break free so they must be stronger than they looked.”

  “They are,” Lady Damaris said. She stepped forward into the sudden silence. “It’s Barnabas. Our brother.”

  * * * * *

  Closeted in a small parlour on the ground floor of Marcus’s London house, d’Argento turned to Lady Damaris. “Explain,” he said tersely. He closed the room to everyone except Ruth, the two ladies Damaris and Nerine, Lightfoot and Ruth. Others remained outside, waiting to see if they could help.

  Lady Nerine had her arm linked through her sister’s, her face white, her body trembling as if with an ague. “I told him Mars was marrying someone else. A mortal. He went mad, but I stayed until he calmed. I did everything you said, Damaris, made sure he drank his potion.”

  “Why did you not tell me he was here?” Lady Damaris pulled away, facing her sister. “Who brought him here?”

  “I did.” She faltered. “That is, I asked his guard to bring him. Barnabas always understood. I wanted my big brother to comfort me. I did not know he would do this.”

  “Barnabas?” d’Argento said, his voice pure ice.

  Lady Damaris shot him a harassed glance. “He was born first, so he is technically the heir, but he grew so large our parents feared for him. He has wild attacks of rage.”

  “Why did you not tell us before?” Ruth demanded.

  “We keep him quiet in the castle. He is calm, then. In recent years he showed definite progress. His reasoning is not—all there. Oh, he is not insane, but there seem to be parts of his intellect missing. He cannot use his rationality, for instance, or reason like the rest of us do. He takes wild passions into him and wrings everything he can out of them. Few people know of his existence. We have another brother, and he is the heir, according to the world. We merely reversed their birth dates. He is abroad, on a mission…” She shot d’Argento a glare.

  D’Argento merely shrugged. “He volunteered. I thought he wanted to get away from the stifling atmosphere of the castle.” Not the Grand Tour then, but something for the immortals.

  “You’re not wrong,” Lady Damaris said. “We all wish to do that.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Nerine said. “It’s true. Why do you think I was so anxious to marry Marcus?”

  “He left you in charge,” d’Argento said to Lady Damaris.

  “Yes. He is my brother!” she cried, in an excess of passion. “Do you not understand? He is not dangerous, merely—different. People used to faint when they saw him and that put him in a state that took us days to coax him out of. So we kept him out of the way and cared for. In the castle he is good, but here—he would be out of his depth.”

  “He’s an immortal,” d’Argento said heavily.

  Of course he was, or he would not be able to capture Marcus. “Where would he take Marcus?” Ruth twined her fingers together, then closed her eyes. The thread, that silver thread binding them was pulled taut, but it held. It pulsed with life. How long would it continue to do so? “He’s alive.”

  “You can find him,” d’Argento said. He caught Ruth’s hands. “Think, Ruth. Try to follow that link. I will do the same. He might have blocked your senses, but I may still be able to reach him. Will you help me?”

  “How?”

  “Join your senses to mine.”

  So now she must trust another Olympian? She had no choice. His abilities far outweighed hers. She nodded, closing her eyes once more.

  D’Argento’s voice seemed to come from far away. No, it was not his voice. She’d know those deep, rich tones anywhere. Just one word repeated three times.

  Ruth! Ruth! Ruth!

  Each time it grew louder, and then it was gone, cut off as if someone clapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Water,” d’Argento said softly. “He’s near water.”

  Ruth snapped her eyes open. “Does Barnabas have any propensities for water?”

  “He likes it,” Lady Damaris said. “We live next to the sea, and he spends hours watching the tide go in and out.”

  Ruth gripped d’Argento’s hands. “The Thames! It has tides.”

  “Yes. But the Thames is a wide and long river.”

  “He cannot have gone far. He must still be in London. Concentrate, dear sir. What can you see?”

  D’Argento was the god of communication. Surely he must see something?

  The comte closed his eyes again. “A smell. That’s the stink of the river. No, the City in summer.” He wrinkled his nose. “They are passing through—we’re close.”

  Marcus’s voice echoed in her head, a potent reminder of the man she loved. Then, in a flash, a picture formed in her head, cut off almost as soon as she saw it. She didn’t know where it was, but it was a place, somewhere close to the river. She recognised one of the buildings. “They’re at the Tower,” she said. “The Tower of London.”

  Lady Damaris moaned. “Oh no. He can move exceedingly fast when he chooses. It will take us an hour or more to get there.”

  D’Argento snapped his eyes open. The silver depths gleamed with purpose. “He is not the only person who can move fast. Take hold of my hands, Ruth and Damaris. Hold tight and close your eyes if you are subject to nausea. Do not let go.”

  “I will come too!”

  Before anyone could protest, Lady Nerine grasped her sister’s hand and linked her other with Ruth’s.

  Without being bidden, Lightfoot went to the window and slid open the sash. A gust of wind swirled in, circled them and then left.

  They left with it. How the four of them got through the space Ruth did not know, but she saw the dark void of the steps leading down to the kitchen area below them, and then—nothing.

  It was as if leaves swirled around them, greens and silvers blinding her as they spun faster in their own private whirlwind. The breeze came out of nowhere and snatched them up as if they weighed nothing. Colours and light dazzled her, forcing her to close her eyes.

  Five minutes, maybe more passed bef
ore she felt hard earth beneath her feet. “You can open your eyes,” d’Argento said, perfectly steady. Still gripping his hand, Ruth did as he bade her. They were standing on a slope leading down to a small pier, where the Thames lapped, its soupy wash, opaque and sickly grey-green. Above them loomed the massive bulk of the Tower, flint and stone walls attesting to its purpose as defence, palace and prison. Yes, it did stink. Above them gulls swooped and cried.

  Ruth swallowed, controlling her wayward stomach. A godlike ability to move them through space did not seem so strange, given the events that had overtaken her recently.

  “Now to find them,” d’Argento said grimly.

  Lady Damaris shook her head and then gazed at the comte. “How do we do that?”

  “We listen, and we look. Human senses are as important as our immortal ones. Can you sense him, Ruth?”

  “Yes.” The silver thread was stronger, but irregular, as if someone had taken a pair of scissors to it and chopped chunks out of it, so although it held, some parts were thinner than others.

  “Barnabas is here,” Lady Nerine said.

  “Marcus is chained.” D’Argento moved, his gait steady, pacing to the shore. “He’s near here, I’m sure of it.” Bending, he looked under the pier, but only a small rowing boat bobbed there. “There are several piers in the vicinity of the Tower. Fisherfolk use it. There’s even a small beach a little way up.”

  The heat of the day made the air above the water swim and shimmer. Dragonflies zipped over the surface. Ruth stared at it, concentrating on that thread. Which way? She dared not pull it because it was so thin in places it might snap. Then what? Would he be lost to her forever?

  No! That would not happen. Ever. He lived in her heart now. That organ throbbed, as if responding to her fervent assertion. Despairing, she let her vision relax, sweeping the area around them and across the river.