by Emma Newman
“Damn it!” Will yelled and smashed his fist against the table. The Whites had played him and he’d lapped it all up. He slept with her on his wedding night! That night of all nights – why didn’t he question his own decision? And the day Cathy was attacked, Amelia lured him up to her room when he’d been set on leaving. If he had left then…
“If you let me take a sample of your hair I can confirm it,” Faulkner said. “From the way you’re acting I assume I don’t need to.”
Will looked up from his fist to see the rest of the people in the café staring at him. “You don’t need to,” he said, twisting away from them and blocking his peripheral vision by resting his head in his hands. There was no one he could trust. Not even Amelia, who he thought loved him. He’d saved her and her brother, given her everything she needed… but even though she’d stolen his senses, it didn’t mean she’d been complicit in the attack. He had to be certain.
“I need to know whether she knew Cathy was in danger,” he said, rummaging in his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll send a message to Cornelius to meet me at Black’s in one hour. You’ll take him into custody there and do whatever it takes to get everything out of him. Free rein.”
“And when I’m finished with him?”
“Report back to me and don’t let him go.” He pulled a fiver out of his wallet and tossed it next to the coffee cup.
“There’s something else,” Faulkner said. “A message for your wife. We’d appreciate it if she were more subtle in her use of Charms in such public places.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She cast a Charm on the statue of Nelson in Trafalgar Square earlier. It seems she went straight out to test your new authority.”
But he hadn’t even told her yet. Will stood up, masking his ignorance with the movement. “I’ll be sure to tell her.” Why hadn’t Carter stopped her? He’d given explicit instructions. How was he supposed to run Londinium when no one did as they should?
“Anyone else and we would have personally escorted them to the Patroon and pushed for their expulsion from Society.”
“I understand,” Will said. “You can go now.”
He waited until Faulkner had left then went to the nearest underground station, one with multiple entrances and exits. If Faulkner knew where he was it meant the other Arbiters of his Chapter did too, and they might be following him. Whilst he wasn’t afraid of them now, he didn’t want them to know his business.
After a swift detour through the station and out by one of the more crowded exits, Will walked to the Bathurst stables and opened the Way to the Nether reflection. He penned a message and sent the head of the stables to take it to Cornelius. After a brief stop at the Emporium of Things in Between and Besides he instructed the driver to take him to Cornelius and Amelia’s house. The journey gave him time to think it all through and calm down. He’d deal with the Whites first. He needed to root out the lies and make sure that his family was safe. Then he would work out what to do next. He only had the throne because of betrayal and manipulation, the former by Cornelius, the latter by his own patron. His wife was lying to him and was, it seemed, determined to have herself thrown out of the Nether. He’d been ordered to appoint the wrong man as Marquis and the Court would be against his reign from the start. His temples throbbed. If only he could be back in Sicily again. If only he could be that man running on the shore line, the beautiful girl dancing in and out of the surf ahead of him, with nothing to worry him in the Worlds. Will felt heavy with the knowledge that he could never be that young man again.
When the carriage drew up he slid the feather from its envelope and brushed it across his eyelids, under his nose, across his lips and his earlobes as the Shopkeeper had instructed. He felt no different but had been told it would be so. The protection would last a day and a night. He checked his pocket watch as the footman lowered the step. Cornelius would be in Faulkner’s custody by now.
When the door was opened he climbed out. “You’re to come inside and wait in the hall,” he said to his footmen. They were the same men he’d brought to the house before and, just as they had been then, they were armed.
The front door was opened by the butler who bowed low. Will entered, his men behind him, and asked for Amelia. She was already at the top of the stairs.
“Will!” she called and hurried down. She was dressed in a peach-coloured damask silk and looked bright and healthy. Will appreciated her beauty as one would that of a painting, not as a man in love. As she took each step he became more and more aware of how deeply he’d been in her thrall. There was no need to harden his heart against her because there was nothing real there at all. Memories of being in love with her felt just like that: memories, something faded and already tarnished. The briefest urge to embrace her felt more of a habit than anything genuine.
“Amelia,” he said and forced himself to smile.
“I’m so delighted to see you. It’s been so long since you last visited!”
He hadn’t been there since the day of the attack. He’d been in Exilium for two weeks then had been at Cathy’s side every spare moment.
She stopped halfway down the staircase, studying his face. Then she curtsied deeply. “Your Grace,” she said and then winked. “Would you be so kind as to wait for me in the drawing room? I’ll be with you in a moment. I’ll have tea sent and…” She fluttered her eyelashes in such an obvious way. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
He was tempted to just have it out with her, then and there, but he wanted to see if she was doing what he suspected.
Tea was brought but he didn’t touch it. Amelia arrived a minute later in a cloud of rosewater scent that sparkled about her, confirming his suspicion. The protective Charm was doing its job well; not only was it preventing its effects, it was showing him when the love Charm was at its strongest. It was likely infused in her scent and when she saw he was different, she’d dashed back to her room and doused herself in it, desperate to have him malleable once more.
“Darling, how naughty of you to send for Cornelius so we could be alone.”
“I wanted to see you by yourself,” he said, standing out of habitual politeness. “There’s something we need to talk about.”
“I beg you to let me speak first. Please.”
So she was going to confess. It would make it easier. She was shrewd and could sense the game was up. “You first then.”
“I’m pregnant.”
It felt as if the floor was falling away in front of him. Could the day get any worse?
Her face fell. “You’re not pleased. Oh… oh, dear.”
“Are you telling the truth, Amelia?”
Her shock appeared genuine. “I would never lie about such a thing! I’m going to give you a son. He’ll be born in July next year. A summer baby.”
A son. From the wrong woman. His guts twisted. “How could this have happened?” he whispered.
“What did you expect?” Amelia said sharply, then drew in a long breath. “Love has its consequences, darling.”
She was looking different. There was a fullness in her cheeks and a pink glow that hadn’t been there before. Her hair was shining. His son was growing inside her. Will looked away.
“Have I lost my appeal?”
He said nothing.
“I thought you’d be pleased. I’m going to give you a handsome and strong son, darling.”
“I know what Cornelius did.” There was a long pause. “And I know what you’ve been doing to me since Aquae Sulis. I’m going to give you one chance to tell me the truth, Amelia. One.” He looked at her. She was sitting rigidly upright, hands clasped in her lap, still enveloped in a sparkling cloud. “Did you know Cornelius was planning to kill my wife?”
She held his gaze, as still as death. “Yes,” she said. “He forced me not to tell you, even though I wanted to, Will. I wanted to warn you.”
Will’s breath felt like it had turned to ice in his throat. He’d expected her to deny it, but she wa
s no fool. She’d realised why Cornelius wasn’t there and why he hadn’t touched her since he arrived. “Why didn’t you?”
“He’s my brother! And I wanted to take her place. I don’t want to be locked away like a private whore. I want to be the wife at your side! She doesn’t deserve you.”
“Catherine has never manipulated me and never conspired to kill another. Don’t you dare imply you are better than her!” Will’s voice rose to a shout. “She’s my wife! You used me, you twisted me up and made me think I loved you when I should have been devoting myself to her!”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic.” She smoothed a wrinkle in her silk dress. “You men are all the same. I didn’t need to use a Charm to get your attention. I didn’t force you to come here on your wedding night. You did that all by yourself. You wanted it all; me in the background to satisfy your needs whilst you kept your family happy. Catherine’s so ugly you would have taken a mistress without my involvement.”
He was on his feet. “You will not say another word about my wife. You’re not fit to speak her name. This is how it’s going to be: you won’t see Cornelius again. He will be kept a long way from where the two of you can cook up any more conspiracies and you’ll be sent into Mundanus for the pregnancy. You will be watched twenty-four hours a day and if you do anything that could jeopardise my son’s health, I will have Cornelius killed. If you try to escape or do anything to hurt me or my family, I will have Cornelius killed. He will understand that, if he does anything other than regret his actions, you will be killed. Your mutual good behaviour will ensure each other’s survival. Do you understand?”
She was shaking and her hands twisted the pearls at her throat. “And when your son is born?”
“He’ll be taken from you and will never know your name. You won’t be able to poison him with your ill spirit. You’ll live out the rest of your days in Mundanus.”
“No!” She threw herself forwards and clutched his jacket hem. “Don’t make me old, Will, don’t–”
“Don’t be so melodramatic,” he said as she sobbed. “I could have you sent to the Agency, sold off to a foreign brothel or simply killed. Be grateful that I’m merciful.” He freed himself from her. “I wouldn’t bother,” he said, going to the door. “It doesn’t matter how much you cry, I won’t be moved.”
The tears stopped and she twisted to look at him. “You’re making a mistake, William. She isn’t capable of being a decent Duchess and you know it. Forgive me, forget her and make me your wife. I’ll give you everything you could ever need or want from a woman.”
Will smiled sadly and shook his head. “No, you can’t, Amelia. There wouldn’t be any trust.”
He left the room and closed the door behind him. The matter was almost finished. Once he had a full report from Faulkner there would be only one decision left with regard to the former Alba-Rosas: the manner of Cornelius’ death.
8
Sam sat in the doorway of the forge, cradling the cup of tea in his hands. The birds were singing and the breeze was fresh and cool. He wiped his forehead and looked at the grimy sweat on the back of his hand. The only time he’d ever got this dirty through hard work had been the day he’d helped his grandmother clear out an old shed when he was a boy. She was long dead and he hadn’t thought about her for years. She was just a collection of fragmented impressions now: blue-rinsed hair, the smell of lavender soap and camphor mothballs, and a jar of pear drops that never seemed to run out. She died when he was seven, the same summer he’d cleared out the shed. He could still remember seeing all the things that he’d pulled out for her on the grass in the back garden when they went back to her house after the funeral. He had no idea what had happened to it all. The house was probably sold and other people lived there now, people who had no idea who she had been.
That was the thing about death, he thought as he sipped the tea. It made everything seem so poignant. He couldn’t remember anything now without some reference to it. Leanne was still on his mind for what felt like every minute of the day he wasn’t hammering the iron. He knew, intellectually, that his life had once been normal but it was so hard to recall. The bereavement was like the camphor in his grandmother’s clothes; it perfused everything and the smell just lingered on and on long after the mothballs were gone.
The heat from the forge felt good on his back. It was like sitting between two worlds, one cold, one hot, and on the threshold between the two was his aching body. He’d become aware of muscles in his arms and back and shoulders that he never knew existed. Iron had hired a masseuse to stay as long as Sam needed her and three times a day she worked the knots out and made him groan in the place between pain and relief. Every day he got up, he walked to the forge and he hit metal all day long.
What surprised him was how much he’d taken to it. He’d never been particularly practical and always avoided the DIY jobs around the house until Leanne got impatient enough to hire a bloke to come and do it for them. He wrote code in front of a screen all day and then most evenings she was out and he played games on another screen. He hadn’t looked at a computer or a TV since the funeral. Nothing seemed as real now as standing over the anvil, beating the shit out of lumps of iron.
He finished the tea and set the mug down. He stood and stretched, worked a crick out of his right shoulder and decided that once the piece he was working on was finished, he’d open the letter Leanne had left him.
Cathy took her seat in the carriage as Will spoke to the footmen. It reminded her of when they’d been newly married; she was dressed far more extravagantly than she’d ever choose for herself and feeling sick with nerves. Will didn’t seem nervous on the outside, but he was more withdrawn than usual. She’d hardly seen him in the week since he gave her the library and it felt like the little moments of closeness they’d had were distant memories. But she was used to feeling awkward. In fact, it was comforting and the less at ease with each other they were, the less likely the chance of pregnancy.
“Would you like me to ride in the carriage with you, your Grace?” Carter asked him. Cathy sighed. Carter was a nice enough man, from what she could tell, but Will still hadn’t dismissed him even though he knew Thorn couldn’t attack her again.
“Take the place of the second footman,” Will replied and Carter obeyed. The carriage rocked when he climbed onto the back.
Sophia came running out of the front door calling Will’s name for a last-minute goodbye. As he embraced her, Cathy ran through her mental checklist: arrive, smile, say nothing stupid, swear oath to the city, survive the first Court, don’t trip over anything and avoid the food. “I can do this,” she whispered to herself. “I can do this.” She groaned. Lucy’s advice wasn’t working. Perhaps positive self-affirmations were for Californians only. Perhaps the sarcasm and perpetual doubt wired into her British brain had made her immune to such tricks.
Will opened the door and climbed in, laying his top hat on the seat next to him. He was dressed in a rather austere Victorian-style morning suit with a deep blue cravat and waistcoat embroidered with subtle fleur-de-lys. It was the same colour as the trim on her dress, also in the late Victorian style and high-necked to cover the scar.
There was no more pain, thanks to some salve sent by Dame Iris. It was an expensive gift, the nurse had told her, and, whilst Cathy didn’t want to accept it, she knew the Dame would be informed of her recovery. The note sent with it had said Dame Iris was delighted to receive the invitation to the first Court of William’s Dukedom and hoped the salve would make the evening easier for her. It hadn’t fooled Cathy; no doubt there was another agenda at play, as there always was with Dame Iris.
Will knocked on the roof of the carriage and they pulled off. Cathy waved to Sophia, who was sitting on her uncle’s shoulders and waving a lace handkerchief. Cathy hadn’t told anyone that every time she looked at Sophia she saw the thorns about her neck and felt the pain in her hands again. It wouldn’t make the memories fade any faster.
“We’re not going dir
ectly to the Tower,” Will said. “Don’t worry, we’re just taking a more circuitous route.”
“Are you worried about another attack?”
“I discussed it with Carter. It’s best to be unpredictable.” He looked at her properly for the first time. “I like your gown. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she replied, resisting the temptation to make a comment about what he’d said to her before: “If you’re well enough to gallivant around London causing chaos, you’re well enough to be Duchess.”
For a few minutes they sat in silence. She wanted to tell him about Bennet, but merely taking a breath to start made her cough. The curse was too strong. After a brief concerned look, Will stared out of the window into the mists, his mind evidently far away from the carriage. “Are you still angry?” she asked. “About the Animation Charm?”
It took him a moment to look at her with any focus. “What?”
“Because, like I said, I’m sorry. I should have done something more subtle.”
“It’s behind us now.”
He’d been furious but it wasn’t anything like her father’s rage. Where her father rattled like a pot filled with boiling water before blowing up and beating her, Will just got colder and asked piercing rhetorical questions to make her feel like a total idiot. He accepted that both she and Carter had had to do as the Arbiter had asked but he still made the point that she could have chosen something that wouldn’t have caused a viral YouTube hit. And he was right, she hadn’t been thinking like an Iris. She hadn’t considered the family and the impact it could have on their reputation. She’d had the feeling there was a lot more on his mind than he’d said but she hadn’t wanted to draw it out any longer. She’d learned from her father that it was best to admit fault and apologise to make the storm pass as quickly as possible.
