Lady in Red: A Novel of Mad Passions

by Máire Claremont

  “Mary!” Edward demanded.

  Hands grabbed at her upper arms, but she shoved them away as she continued screaming, a relentless chorus of her own hate. “I will never forgive you!”

  But her father didn’t move or recoil. He remained locked in his pained position, his eyes blinking and his mouth working furiously. No sound came from that mouth and she suddenly wished that he could say something, anything to make her years of pain all vanish. As a sob tore from her throat, she collapsed upon his chest. Her fingers wound into his black evening jacket and an inhuman cry wrenched from what seemed to be the very center of all that she had ever been or could ever be.

  The wailing would not stop as she pressed her face into the stiff folds of his cravat. She sobbed for her mother, for the man she had always wished her father had been, for her own broken life devoid of love. Nothing penetrated the great wave of sorrow. Nothing ever would. Of that she was sure.

  Even as hands finally grabbed her upper body and hauled her off her father’s still-breathing form, she shook and heaved with tears and anguish she could no longer keep caged.

  Edward swung her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest. She should have felt safe in that embrace, but she knew it was a temporary comfort. Something that would vanish. Just like everything else she had ever loved, he, too, would go. Had he not said it?

  There was one more thing to sob for. And she did. She let the pain come over her, swallow her, and spit her out. Perhaps if she gave herself over to it, if she did not fight the pain any longer, she would no longer be under its spell.

  Chapter 28

  “I shan’t be able to carry you, you know,” Yvonne pointed out to Powers as they slid along the back streets of St. Giles.

  Powers let out a snort. “I’ve fallen in worse places.”

  Yvonne peered at the slimy pools on the gritty cobblestone. Her lip pulled back in disgust at the image of Powers lying facedown in one of them. “Hard to believe.”

  Powers gave a tight gallows smile. “Come, my dear madam. One needn’t be so condescending, given your own familiarity with these alleys.”

  She made no reply. Once, she’d known every place suitable for a quick piece. A professional necessity. Things had not changed overmuch in the last twenty years except the rookery seemed to be even more crowded than it had been in her day.

  The din of fiddle and drunken men, women, and children from only one street over could be heard in the silence of this cutthroat path. It struck her as shocking that such a place should be allowed to continue festering, germinating the worst of London’s crime. Thank the heavens she was free of it. If she had not gotten out, she’d be dead now . . . or so pox-ridden that only the poorest, sickest of men would have paid for her cunny.

  But she was not here for those memories. Oh, no. She’d returned to St. Giles for an altogether more agreeable circumstance.

  They continued down the narrow alley, the lack of moonlight making the narrow space as black as molasses. Death lurked at every doorway and cross alley they came to. It might come from anyone, including the smallest child, in this part of London.

  Still, she would not pass this opportunity. And as they made the next left turn toward the Merman’s Tail, Yvonne fingered the pistol in her pocket. Her own skin crawled with worry for her companion and, as a consequence, for herself. Powers was truly in no condition to be following, but she could not have gone alone, and he deserved this moment just as much as she.

  As they stepped out into the busier, gaslit street, Yvonne hesitated, then jerked her attention back to Powers. His skin blended ominously with his blond hair and each step sent him lurching. Anyone who studied him with any particularity would see him as an easy mark.

  Without giving it another thought, Yvonne grabbed his arm and slung it over her cloaked shoulder. “A room, you say, me luv?”

  She grinned up at him and started tugging him across the shit-and-trash-covered street. They wove through the stench of unwashed whores and their slightly cleaner pimps with cash in one hand and bottle in the other. And of course there were the drunken customers of gin and slit.

  As they made their way around the cart of a hot-chestnut seller, Powers’s uneven step appeared to be that of a man deep in gin going after a bangtail who would likely fleece his pockets as well as tickle his cock. In other words, a common enough sight. And though she loathed it, ’twas easier to recall the swagger of a whore and the businesslike attitude of one escorting a client toward a hasty screw than to risk going into the red-light inn as her more educated self with a sick lord on her arm.

  They sauntered into the Merman’s Tail, her now blackened slippers kicking lightly at the straw strewn over the filthy wood floor. She squinted through the smoke until she spotted the greasy-haired, one-eyed porter. “A room, pet, if ye please,” she said in the accent of her childhood and former career.

  “’Ow long?” he demanded as he turned slowly and opened a small cupboard hanging upon the cracked wall.

  “Half hour, luv.” She dug in her pockets to find the coin, but before she could pull it out Powers smacked her hand away.

  “Not you, sweetheart,” he slurred. “I pay.”

  The porter smirked, revealing cracked yellow teeth covered in the scum that grows from years of inattention. The patch over his absent eye stretched ominously as he waggled his wiry gray brows. “You got yourself a gent.”

  “I ’ave that.” She winked at him, knowing full well he’d expect a cut of whatever she rifled out of Powers’s coat.

  “Now give us the damned key, my good fellow,” Powers drawled, his lips moving exaggeratedly.

  The porter’s soot-caked fingers scrabbled among the iron keys before picking one. “Number six, my dear. Nice room. Just the thing for your fellow.”

  She nodded, businesslike. “Ta very much.”

  “Hurry up,” Powers demanded in the perfect tones of a petulant lordling.

  “Ah, luv, don’t you worry now,” she soothed. “I’ll show you a lovely time.”

  “Better,” he said before he let out a wet belch.

  Yvonne’s brow shot up, surprised that Powers could assume the role of slumming client with such ease. It gave her the suspicion he’d played the role before and not in jest.

  She pulled him toward the stair, tightening her grip about his waist, wishing he wasn’t quite so big. “Will you be able to handle yourself?” she whispered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He sneered, though the sweat beading his brow belied his arrogance. “I will wait outside and ensure no one disturbs your ‘appointment.’”

  They started up the narrow stair. The walls leaned in, crooked. Paint peeled off them, the very image of skin sloughing off a diseased old woman. Each step creaked with their weight, but soon enough they were up to the hall and heading toward a very different room from the one the porter had intended.

  A fatty candle sputtered and spun its twisted illumination along the small way, bathing them in dim, dirty light.

  Yvonne slowed her steps until they were silent, as silent as the viscount’s. Considering he was a man of such large frame, she was shocked to find that she was making more noise with the rustle of her gown than Powers was with his entire being. How the blazes did he do that?

  Halfway down the hallway they stopped before a black-painted door. She swallowed back the sudden saliva that pooled in her mouth.

  “You’re sure,” Powers murmured. “I could—”

  She shook her head sharply. This was one thing she had to do herself.

  Powers hefted his arm from her shoulder, then slid a dagger from some hidden pocket and placed it firmly in her hand. “Don’t waste time.”

  Yvonne nodded, astonished at how the silver weapon weighed her palm down. Without another thought, she lifted the catch in slow, silent degrees and slipped into the room lit only by the street’s lights.

  The shallow breathing of deep sleep drifted toward her and Yvonne focused on the man lying on the narrow cot.
Anticipation laced through her body, sweeter than any drug. It also prickled her senses with such a clarity she thought her skin would not be able to contain her insides.

  In three short strides, she crossed to the head of the cot and stared down at the man who had shredded her soul and beaten her body to the point of death.

  The planes of his brutish face were hard even in slumber and his bronze hair was dull, the color of old blood in the night. With each rise and fall of his chest, she found herself recalling the blows he had rained upon her face and body. But even more so, she could not escape the cruelty he’d spread in the world. How many other women had been broken and, worse, left utterly friendless?

  Yvonne leaned over his body and placed the tip of the dagger at his jugular, savoring the soft give of the skin without breaking it.

  “Mr. Hardgrave,” she called softly.

  For such a dangerous man, he was a shockingly deep sleeper—perhaps entrenched in his importance, he had gained a sense of invincibility. ’Twas why Powers had found his location so easily, she guessed.

  Carefully, she pressed the dagger just far enough that a ruby tear slipped from his throat.

  His eyes snapped open, two glinting ovals.

  Yvonne stared into those eyes. “Hello, Mr. Hardgrave.”

  He said nothing for a moment as his eyes attempted to flick toward the weapon at his throat, but no doubt the stinging pain told him that one move would see him dead.

  Blinking furiously, he lay absolutely still. “Look ’ere. Surely, we can come to an agreement someways?” he rushed, his learned accent abandoning him.

  She cocked her head to the side, eyeing that ruby tear trickling down his thick neck. “Agreement?”

  “There must be something I have that you want.”

  “I recall I once offered you an arrangement.”

  Fear tensed his features and his pupils turned to pinpricks. “Madam, I was just doing my job. It was my duty—”

  Yvonne arched a brow and leaned low over him so that she could whisper just above his lips. “And this is my pleasure.”

  In one swift slice she raked the blade against his vein and across his throat. The flesh severed, exposing slippery, glistening sinew. Blood sprayed up, splattering her face.

  She didn’t wince.

  A strange gagging sound ruptured from his mouth and he shuddered. His hands stretched out to grab her, but Yvonne jerked back.

  She waited as the life leaked out of his body and onto the filthy pillow and bedding. She should have felt some semblance of regret, but she didn’t. Vindication was all she felt as his last breath puffed from his slack mouth and the gaping hole in his neck.

  No woman would ever suffer at his hands again. This was a good deed done.

  After the last guest had vacated the Duke of Duncliffe’s London home, Edward stood in the foyer, wondering how in the hell the night had turned into such a disaster. It had taken far more of his commanding voice to evacuate the guests than he should have liked. London’s curiosity had been piqued and by morning the entire city would know that Lady Mary, daughter of the Duke of Duncliffe, was most certainly living and that her father had been the instrument of her disappearance.

  He glanced up the wide stair to the woman who was the center of all this. Esme Darrel smiled down upon him, the seductive quirk of her lips promising and playful. What a woman she must have been. How he wished he had met Mary’s mother. At least now she would be able to rest easily . . . But as he studied the portrait he could have sworn sadness marred her amethyst eyes. Eyes exactly like his Mary’s.

  The unease in his chest was hard to bear. The sight of Mary sobbing over her father ripped him asunder.

  He had been afraid this would transpire. After coming so far in her quest for revenge, there was no further that she could go. He cursed himself for ever putting the idea into her head.

  One emotion superseded his exhaustion and shock: fear. It was not an emotion to which he was accustomed and the way it dried his mouth and kept his thoughts at a frantic pace was most unwelcome.

  Edward kept his gaze fixed upon Esme, wishing she could speak, wishing she could advise him in how to set all to rights. But her enigmatic visage revealed nothing. How he longed to rail at her that he had done all he could . . .

  But she would tell him no, would she not? She would say there was one more thing he could do.

  And he had to do it now. Without allowing himself to second-guess his instinct, Edward turned from the portrait. As though Esme was guiding him, he strode down the hall behind the stair leading to the duke’s private receiving room. The room he’d tucked Mary into when her father had been taken to his chamber. But with each stride to the woman he loved, fear chinked away at his hope. Had he lost his love to revenge?

  He loved her.

  It was an emotion he’d thought himself incapable of, but in that moment when she shattered under her father’s apoplexy, he knew that the wildness in his heart was not just possessiveness but fearsome love. He would have swept her away and cradled her in his arms forever if he thought it would have saved her this pain . . . from her father, from anything.

  And that was the subtle message floating from Esme’s portrait. It was the one and only thing he could do to finally make amends for his sins and to bring peace to all who had been tormented. Love.

  Without hesitating, he opened the oak-paneled door carved with acorns and oak leaves.

  It was a strange room. A parlor of sorts, but decorated in ivory and teak with almost no ornament, something completely in contrast with the current style.

  The skirts of Mary’s gown peeked out, bloody crimson over a luminescent silk fainting couch. Her hands were placed calmly over her tightly corseted middle and she was propped up by several pillows as she stared into the hearty fire.

  “I should never have let you do it,” Edward said suddenly.

  Her face remained in profile focused on the flames before her. “Edward, you and your let. You know you could not have stopped me just as you cannot give me to Powers.”

  “If I had known . . . what would happen—How he would speak to you and then—”

  “It was my choice to see him.” Mary stared fixedly ahead, her pale skin tinted gold in the firelight.

  “I should have found another way. I should have saved you without risking—”

  “I wished for revenge more than saving. I made that very clear. I wouldn’t listen to you or to Eva.” Mary dropped her head back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling as though they were the celestial heavens and not Adam’s plasterwork.

  Anger and his newly discovered love consumed Edward with such intensity he couldn’t stop himself from storming across the room and grabbing her. He forced her to look up at him, twisting her body upon the couch so that she hung in his grip and faced him. “None of that matters anymore, Mary. The revenge? Our struggle? It is done. I believe we can let it go.”

  Her eyes flared under his fiery emotion. Slowly, her fingers slid over his biceps, gripping hard. “How can you say so? I—”

  “Love,” he cut in. “Love is how we are free. Until I met you, I was dead. But then, day by day, being with you, living with you, I have been awakening to happiness.”

  Tears glazed her wide eyes. “Edward?”

  “I nearly destroyed you with my—” He choked on his own shame. “My need to play out a justice that was served years ago and my inability to forgive myself.”

  Her brows drew together in distress. “Oh, Edward. No—”

  “Yes,” he burst out. “I gave you my own self-loathing and bitterness. How could I have done that to you?”

  Tears tumbled from the corner of her lids, down her pale cheeks. “You don’t need to say this.”

  “I do.” His own voice was a rough, half-broken thing to his ears. “Look at how far I’ve driven you, all because I was afraid to give you love. But I realize now that I am not my father. His actions were his own. I don’t have to pay for them anymore. And I
can celebrate life now. With you.”

  Her own face twisted as more tears slid from her eyelids. “I wanted to be free from my father, from it all—” She gasped. “I was so sure confronting him would end it.”

  “I have been trying to find freedom all my life. Freedom from my own father, from my memories, my mother . . . but most of all myself. You have given me myself again, Mary, and because of that I have the greatest gift that could ever be given.”

  She shook her head slightly. “I could never give you all that, Edward. I am a broken person. I—”

  “We are all broken, Mary, but together . . . you and I are whole. Yes, we used each other in the beginning. But now it is so much more. Out of pain came love.” He clasped her up against his chest. Burying his face into the nape of her neck, he said with utter conviction, “You have given me the gift of learning to love. I love you. I love you with all my being. I love you so much, I would do whatever needed to be done to whisk you from this house, revenge, and what the past has done to us.”

  “I—I never dared believe—” Her face pressed lightly against his head and her lips kissed his hair. “Oh, Edward, how I love you. I have loved you now for some time. From the first moment you called me Calypso I knew you were unlike any other man. That you were special.”

  Edward pulled back ever so slightly so that he might see the truth of it on her face. “Can you forgive me?”

  She beamed up at him and her tears now were tears of joy. “Cease asking. The mistakes we have made, the hurt we have caused, it was all a part of our path to love.”

  “Promise me. Promise me that if ever I act the ass again, you will not hesitate to tell me and remind me that when I am an ass I am betraying our love.”

  A shining laugh bubbled from her lips and her eyes sparkled with joy. “Certainly, my love, if you promise to do the same for me.”

  “Together, then. We shall be whole.”

  “Yes,” she said with such assurance it could never be gainsaid. “You are my other half as I am yours.”