Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

  Lawrence had been an Heir. He’d scoured the globe in pursuit of Sources. That was why he was never at home. London was more used to having their town house to herself than sharing it with her husband. During the few weeks that he’d be at home between assignments, things always started out well between them, and, at first, London truly believed they could be happy together, true husband and wife. But after the first few days…it was best not to think of it. After a while, London no longer believed she would find pleasure and joy in her married life. Yet divorce was impossible, and she could not bring herself to take a lover. So she continued on, thinking that this was how things were to be.

  Until Lawrence died. An accident abroad, she was told. The carriage tipped over a cliff on the rocky southern coast of France. There was no body, and the headstone marked an empty grave. She had to mourn.

  “What happened to Lawrence, Father?” she asked as they neared her cabin. “I assume it wasn’t a carriage accident.”

  “It wasn’t,” her father said, grim. “A Blade killed him on assignment near Marrakesh, but we got the Source, after all. Day’s victory was hollow.”

  London froze. She pressed her hand to her throat. “Day? What is that?”

  “Not what, but who,” her father said, his voice icing with hatred. “Bennett Day. The Blade who killed Lawrence.”

  Chapter 5

  In the Ruins

  No good. It was no good. She failed.

  She was glad. And bitterly disappointed. It freed her conscience, but not her pride. For years, she nursed her secret love, believing with quiet arrogance that few men and no women possessed her linguistic knowledge. All those volumes on her bookshelves at home, the sheaves of paper upon which she’d transcribed translations of little-known texts—they meant nothing. She was in the world, at last, in the ruins at Delos, and all she had produced was nonsense.

  London, squinting in the unrelenting light, studied the inscriptions on the columns for the hundredth time. She glanced down at the papers she held, shuffled them. Yet it did not matter in what order she placed the inscriptions. She’d tried every combination. None worked.

  The ruins stood on the southern tip of the island, centered in an excavated pit roughly thirty feet wide. A tumble of gneiss and granite surrounded the pit where members of the Heirs’ archaeological team had uncovered a series of flat-sided columns. The columns lined up in three rows of three, forming a square. Each side of the Parian marble columns bore inscriptions in an ancient dialect, and, at first, London felt she would have no trouble deciphering them. That belief did not last beyond her first few hours on Delos.

  “Any progress?”

  She turned as her father and Fraser climbed down into the pit. Both men’s faces shone with perspiration. Even the armed Greek sailor who guarded her had stained his shirt with sweat. A rocky, barren dot of land, Delos offered no shade, no relief from the blazing sun of its patron god, as if Apollo leveled any and all things that distracted from his presence. It did not matter that it was late afternoon. Everything roasted. The scouring northern wind offered no solace.

  “I am still working on it,” she answered, which was true enough.

  “Make sure you get out of the sun,” her father cautioned. “We don’t want you getting overheated or fainting.”

  Fraser quickly took off his hat and began fanning her with it.

  She waved him off. “I’m fine, thank you. And I have never fainted in my life. I doubt I will begin now.” In her white cotton shirtwaist and navy blue serge skirt, she felt the heat radiating from the sky above and the granite below, yet her wide-brimmed straw hat kept most of the glare from burning too harshly.

  “You are a long way from the comforts of home,” her father pointed out. “And we do not want you overtaxing yourself and falling ill. Fraser, take her back to her tent so she can get some relief.”

  “That really is not necessary,” London objected, but her father refused to hear her. Her father and the guard remained behind, while she found herself being lifted out of the pit and escorted across the stark island. Fraser corralled her to the Heirs’ encampment.

  For that’s what it was: an encampment of the Heirs of Albion. Now that London knew their name, their purpose, her father, Fraser, and Chernock all spoke more candidly about their organization. Not full disclosure, of course. They still withheld the identity of the Source they sought—what it was, the power it contained. She was fed carefully worded explanations, certain details elided or eliminated, to protect either her delicate feminine sensibilities or the Heirs’ agenda. It mattered little. London sensed the men’s prevarication in the slight pauses, and the shared, knowing looks. She might not have noticed, before.

  Now her eyes were open, and she saw more than she wanted.

  “A pretty dreary place, don’t you think?” Fraser asked her. “Nothing but rocks, weeds, and half-buried ruins.”

  They picked their way over uneven ground. Wild thistles and barley grass brushed at the hem of London’s skirt, and the hard northern wind tugged at her hat. The only shelter was to be found in the lee of Mount Cynthus, the island’s lone geographical feature. Once, Delos had been a place of pilgrimage and wealth. Now, it was harsh and lifeless, blasted by sun and time into a ghost of former glory.

  “We share a kinship, this island and I,” she murmured.

  “What’s that?” Fraser blinked at her.

  “I rather like it here,” London said. “It has a kind of sterile elegance that strips away everything extraneous and false.”

  He dabbed at his forehead with a linen pocket square. “Uh. Yes. Quite.” He tucked the square back into his jacket pocket. “Nearly there. Then you can cool off, get some rest. And when you’re feeling better, you can try again with the inscriptions.”

  London kept silent. The Heirs grew restive, but would not speak to her of their impatience. Instead, both her father and Fraser danced in attendance, proffering folding camp chairs, canteens of water, even peeled apricots. They brought her offerings as if she were a temperamental, sulky goddess in need of appeasement. The Heirs waited with barely contained eagerness for her to divulge the ruins’ secrets.

  They had arrived at Delos yesterday morning, and, while the camp was being set up, her father and Fraser took her to the ruins located far from the French archaeological team’s explorations on the western side of the island.

  “No one else knows of this site, yet,” her father had informed her. “Only the Heirs, who discovered this place just a few months ago. We’ve taken pains to keep those Frenchmen away and ignorant.”

  She could only speculate what those “pains” might have entailed. Bribes, perhaps. Threats of violence. Everything seemed possible to her.

  She’d spent the whole of that day and this at the ruins, studying the inscriptions. And as the words revealed themselves to her, everything became less and less clear. Now, on this sun and wind-scoured speck of an island, she was trapped in a miasma of uncertainty and doubt. Loneliness assailed her, as cutting as the wind.

  “Here we are,” Fraser said. The Heirs’ encampment clustered on the southwest edge of Delos, a group of a dozen canvas tents and three wooden tables that all seemed pitifully temporary compared to the worn marble dotting the island. From their camp they could sometimes see the islands Paros and Naxos to the south, depending on the clarity of the air.

  At the approach of London and Fraser, armed men from the ship halted in their patrols of the encampment, brandishing their rifles. “It’s Fraser and Mrs. Harcourt,” Fraser announced in English.

  The guards were satisfied, and resumed their sentinel. London’s gaze danced toward the weapons. The men held them with confidence and familiarity. They were there to protect her, or so Father and Fraser claimed. But to her, they were prison guards.

  And Fraser was taking her back to her cell. London shared her tent with Sally, and, as she and Fraser neared, the maid darted out. A worried frown nestled between Sally’s eyebrows.

  “Is e
verything all right, madam?” she asked nervously. Sally had recovered from her seasickness long enough to receive a blistering lecture from London’s father about dereliction of duty, and now the maid was as much London’s guard as the rifle-toting men.

  “Everything is fine,” London began, but Fraser cut her off.

  “Mrs. Harcourt is overheated. She needs refreshment and rest.”

  Sally immediately produced a canteen of drinking water and gave it to London with a curtsey. London took a small sip, clearing the dust from her mouth. There was no water on Delos, and if they ran out, the steamship would have to be dispatched to Mykanos to the east to get more. Aside from the weeds, the only life on Delos were the lizards scuttling over rocks and staring with blank, knowing eyes.

  “I’ve got your cot all ready for you, madam,” Sally trilled, waving London inside. London stepped across the threshold, pulling the hat from her head.

  Fraser stopped at the front flap of her tent. “This is as far as propriety will allow me.” He grimaced apologetically.

  London nearly laughed. This large, pink-faced man spoke of propriety when he had no compunction robbing magical Sources from across the globe. He killed those who stood in his way.

  So did Bennett Day.

  “Sally is tending to me,” London said, suddenly weary. “Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Fraser.”

  “Will you…” He cleared his throat. “I would like it if you called me by my Christian name, Mrs. Harcourt. London.” His skin flushed deeper.

  Oh, God. Here was a complication she did not want. She smiled weakly. “That’s very…sweet of you. It is a little soon, however.”

  He nodded. “Of course. Of course. Forgive me if I over-stepped my bounds.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. However, if you do not mind, I need a bit of solitude. The heat, you know, makes my head pound.” As she said the words, an actual headache began to throb behind her eyes.

  “I’ll be with your father at the ruins, if you need anything.” Then he lumbered off, as quickly as a man his size could manage. He had none of the grace and economy of motion that Bennett Day possessed. Thomas Fraser would be a clumsy lover, too. Unlike Day.

  No. She shoved him and hot, vivid memories of his kiss from her mind as she set down the stack of papers she carried. They, and her white cotton gloves, went onto a portable desk that held several books, a lantern, and a letter to her mother that London couldn’t finish. What could she say? Having a wonderful time in Greece. Father is responsible for the deaths of thousands. I’m besotted by a man who killed my husband. Wish you were here.

  London sank down into the folding chair set up in front of the desk. She spread out the papers and stared at them, her head cradled in her hands. Behind her, Sally fretted and fussed. A dreadful rock, this Delos, she clucked. Rough men with guns all around. Not a drop of water or life anywhere, and it wasn’t fit for ladies to be in such a place. How’s she to arrange for a bath for her mistress?

  “Sally, where is my edition of Covington’s Dialogues on Hellenic Morphology? I can’t find it in any of these books.”

  The maid stopped her monologue and looked alarmed. “Perhaps in your luggage, madam.” She hurried to the trunk and rifled through it.

  London knew Sally wouldn’t find the book there.

  “It’s not here, madam,” the maid said, wringing her hands.

  A stab of guilt pierced London for what she was about to do. “I really need that book. And I think I left it on the ship. Will you fetch it for me?”

  “But,” Sally stammered, “that means I’ll have to get someone to row me out to where the ship’s anchored. Then I have to find the book. And then I have to be rowed back. It could take hours.”

  “I am sorry,” London said sincerely. Then she said with less sincerity, “But you know what a terrible time I’ve been having with these inscriptions, and I’m certain the Covington will help. It’s very important to my father.”

  “Mr. Edgeworth said I wasn’t to leave you alone, not for a moment!”

  “There are armed guards everywhere. Not even Zeus himself could harm me.”

  Sally twisted her apron in her hands, wavering. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll go. But, please, don’t leave the tent, madam,” she pleaded.

  “I will stay right here.” Which was the truth.

  With another nod, Sally hurried from the tent. London heard her yelling in English at one of the guards, and the man’s answering grumble, then their receding footsteps as they walked toward the beach.

  Alone, at last. Somewhat. There were still guards outside. London marked their boots on the rocky soil as they patrolled. At least she had some moments of privacy in her tent. Ever since her abduction, London hadn’t a second to herself. Someone always stood nearby. Sally. Father. Fraser. And the guards. Her only relief was that Chernock made himself absent, spending hours in his tent, muttering about things that London did not care to know, though she was fairly certain he was chanting spells in Ammonite.

  In her solitude, London took the pins from her hair and let it tumble down over her shoulders. She rubbed her tight scalp with her fingertips. Looking around, she made sure that the tent flap was down and she was truly alone before unfastening her shirtwaist and revealing her lightweight traveling corset. She slackened the front fastenings, then took a deep breath, as deep as she could allow. Even with her corset loosened, she was still being squeezed.

  London picked up one of the sheets of paper and considered the writing upon it. Technically, she had already translated it. But the words themselves made no sense.

  Her headache grew like a titan struggling to be born from her skull. She was trapped. If she did manage to decipher the ruins and passed her knowledge on to her father and the Heirs, she colluded with men whose goals she despised. She could try to feed them false information, but eventually they would learn she deliberately led them on a fruitless quest. Then her life was in their hands, and she could only pray that her blood ties to her father would prevent harsh retribution. Up to now, he shepherded her around as if she were a soap bubble, liable at any moment to pop. But the Heirs’ agenda might take precedence, and her actions perceived as treason.

  She could, as Bennett Day offered, join the Blades, join him. That was outright betrayal. Everything in her life would be lost. She had no idea where he was, anyway, not having seen a trace of him since the night of her abduction. Perhaps it was enough for him to plant the idea of her defection and leave her to play the saboteur, his own hands remaining unsullied.

  If she could, she would run away. There was no way off Delos without a boat. Even though London knew how to swim, she hadn’t the strength to get far enough to the nearest islands. She would drown, or the Heirs would get to her before she made land. She could go to the French archaeologists. But they either could not or would not help her.

  London abruptly rose from the desk and went to her cot. She sat down upon it, her shoulders slumping. How tired she was. She hadn’t slept much since her abduction, and when she did manage to sleep, dreams of Bennett Day tormented her. In dreams, he seduced her with honeyed words and caressed her with hands stained in Lawrence’s blood. And in those dreams, she laughed at the red prints his hands left on her nude body, laughed because she was free, he had freed her from her marriage. Then guilt and horror and desire woke her and she would lay in bed, shivering.

  The headache and heat pressed down on her. She could barely keep her eyes open. London stretched out on the cot, slipping off her shirtwaist. Only Sally would come in, and Sally had seen London in all states of undress. The minimal air in the closed tent cooled the skin of her arms, her upper chest. If only she had true privacy, she’d strip off her clothes entirely and feel the afternoon heat on her bare skin. She saw herself clambering naked over the rocks of Delos, an Oread, free from everything but her connection to the earth.

  London watched the roof of the tent bellow and collapse in the wind. How wonderful to be blown away, blown out to se
a, lost like a windflower upon the waves, leaving behind Heirs and Blades and shame and responsibility and desire. A small, rueful smile curved her mouth. Back home in England, she had wanted to experience the world, to come out from the protective cocoon that had been spun around her. Now she was exposed and buffeted on all sides, even from within.

  When the gods want to punish you, they answer your prayers.

  He’d snuck into better-guarded places. Even though the Heirs had a dozen men patrolling their camp, they were only mercenaries, taking whatever coin offered them to perform a multitude of crimes. No one had any expertise. No pride in their work. Pitiful, really.

  All Bennett had to do was wait until dark. From his vantage behind a granite boulder, he watched, learning the guards’ patterns. The maid left the tent for the first time since he’d begun his surveillance. He wondered how London had managed that. It was clear London was precious cargo to the Heirs. At all times she was watched. And his eyes were yet another that followed her wherever she went.

  As difficult as it had been to put London on that boat and send her back to her father, having her so close by but unreachable systematically drove him mad. It wasn’t like him. He generally enjoyed prolonging his gratification. Not indefinitely, but enough to make the consummation that much sweeter.

  Ever since he’d kissed her—and, holy God, did she kiss him back—he’d become a man on the verge of obsession. He wanted her mouth again, to touch her beneath the fabric of her clothing. He needed to hear her voice, low and melodious. Even stranger, he wanted to talk with her. He enjoyed pillow talk and flirtation as much as the next libertine, but nothing communicated so well as two bodies. Yet, the times he’d conversed with London Harcourt brought him a kind of pleasure he had never experienced, not from talk alone.

  By now, she would have learned the truth from Edgeworth.

  He’d concern himself with that later. Night fell. No lantern went on inside London’s tent, but she did not leave. She must be asleep. The maid hadn’t yet returned when Edgeworth and Fraser came into the camp. After Edgeworth poked his head into London’s tent and was assured she was still in there, the Heirs, including their loathsome sorcerer, gathered around a table for their evening meal. Their voices drifted up to him over the sounds of cutlery on enameled tin plates. He heard his own name, the names of several other Blades, but little he could distinguish, not without help. Catullus Graves was tinkering on a listening device back in Southampton, and Athena’s magical skills were in use camouflaging their boat as it lay in anchor nearby. So there was nothing for him to do but wait for the perfect moment.