The Cipher

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Lucy made a face at Sarah, who rested her fingers gingerly on his arm. The couple disappeared into the glittering horde, leaving Lucy alone. She sighed, suddenly feeling dizzy from the heat of so many bodies crammed together and the heavy mix of perfumes. She drained her wine, then wished she hadn’t as her head spun faster. She wanted a glass of water and a breath of fresh air. She scanned the hall, locating a set of doors opening into the garden. She edged her way through the crowd toward them.

  There was a cool edge to the night that felt delicious after the smothering heat inside. The storm had blown over, leaving the stars sparkling. Lucy breathed deeply, or as deeply as she could, squeezed by her corset. She wandered up the crushed-stone path away from the party, following the merry sound of tinkling water until she came to a small cloister surrounded by skeletal orange trees grown over with jasmine and climbing roses. Within was a circular patio that contained a fountain. It depicted a voluptuously nude woman passionately en-twined with an equally nude, muscular young man. Water spangled from the bower into which they retreated, and tinkled into the basin below, where three other nymphs watched longingly. Colored-glass lamps set in nooks within lit the sculpture with soft rainbow light.

  Her feet and head aching, Lucy sat down on a bench, feeling a certain sympathy for the watching nymphs and wishing again for water to drink.

  “Good evening.”

  Lucy started and twisted around. The man stood in the shadows of the path.

  “Who is it?” Lucy asked, knowing already.

  Marten Thorpe paced into the light, casting a swift glance at the fountain before fixing his gaze on Lucy. He moved stiffly, his expression rigid with discomfort.

  “I hope I am not disturbing you. It was a bit close inside.”

  Lucy’s brow crimped. He’d arrived only a half glass ago. But he didn’t look well. Perhaps he was ill.

  “Not at all,” Lucy said, folding her hands primly and watching him as he prowled aimlessly around the fountain. She was suddenly certain he’d come out here looking for her. As he had come to see her at the customs docks this morning. But why?

  “What do you want?”

  He stopped dead. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You followed me, this morning and now. You don’t have a high opinion of me, so it cannot be because of my scintillating company.” She paused. “It’s the strike, isn’t it? You’ve got cargo you want to off-load and you want me to expedite the customs inspection.”

  He began shaking his head before she was halfway through. “The Ravenstrike is already headed to dry dock.”

  Lucy crossed her arms. “So what do you want? You did follow me out here.”

  Marten’s expression was rueful. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “You certainly don’t waste words, do you? All right. I wanted to be alone with you.”

  Lucy only stared. He shook his head and started to chuckle, then caught his breath, pressing a hand underneath his heart.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He gave her a wry look. “Call it a difference of opinion.”

  “You were in a fight?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You did not come away the winner.”

  His expression was pained. “Is it so obvious?”

  Lucy was reluctantly impressed that he didn’t prevaricate. It said something about his character. “It’s interesting that you don’t have bruises on your face,” she observed.

  “Is it?”

  He flushed and glanced away, fingering the hilt of his belt knife. Lucy merely watched, torn between amusement and curiosity. Thus far in their acquaintance, he’d appeared completely in control of himself. Now he seemed nervous.

  “Why did you want to be alone with me?”

  He paced around the fountain, examining the lovers and the watchers. Lucy felt her cheeks heat as she realized just how intimate a sculpture it was.

  “It was a bet,” he declared abruptly, still not looking at her.

  “A bet?” Lucy couldn’t help the antipathy in her voice.

  “That I could charm you. That I could convince you to come to dinner with me, be seen on my arm. You, who are notoriously careful in your associations.”

  The way he said careful was clearly no compliment. Lucy bristled.

  “Convince me? What, by insulting me at every opportunity?”

  He shrugged as he turned to face her, his expression unrepentant. “It was a losing bet. As soon as I met you, I knew you wouldn’t be taken in by flattery. You are known not to suffer fools willingly, and even your arm injury didn’t fog the opinion you’d formed of me.” His lips tightened in a humorless smile. “I believe you called me corrupt and cancerous.”

  It was Lucy’s turn to look away. She’d had no business accusing him, not when she was just as guilty of breaking the law. Worse, she pretended to be scrupulously honest. He did not.

  “You’re right, of course. I have bad habits. Dangerous ones,” he continued, rubbing his palm over his ribs meaningfully and wincing.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Her voice was sharper than she intended, though whether her anger was directed at him or herself, she wasn’t sure.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have come to the conclusion that I must concede the bet. I do not think I shall win you over.”

  Lucy’s brow furrowed. “You followed me out here to say you couldn’t win this bet that I didn’t even know about?”

  His reaction surprised her. He flushed, eyes dropping. He muttered something.

  “What did you say?”

  He looked up, his gaze skewering her with startling intensity. “It was—” He stopped. Abruptly he bowed. “Your pardon, Miss Trenton. I should not have imposed on you,” he said crisply, and retreated.

  Unthinking, Lucy leaped to her feet and blocked him. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “I have inflicted myself upon you long enough,” he said, staring over her head.

  “I think that should be my decision,” she said frostily, annoyed with the way he towered over her. Behemoth. “Why did you follow me out here if you’ve given up your bet?”

  He licked his lips, looking up at the new moon, like a shard of ice in the sky. “It seems that I have a penchant for pain. As bizarre as it sounds, I have an unremitting desire to suffer the knife edge of your tongue, more so than I already have.”

  He glanced down at her, his gaze volcanic. Lucy could only stare incredulously. His words seemed at odds with the suppressed fury that radiated from him.

  “You—” She stepped back, scowling. “Have you been at the bottle?”

  “Not nearly enough, apparently.”

  Silence fell between them. Lucy scrambled to make sense of what he was saying. Unbelievable as it seemed, she was beginning to understand that he was, in fact, interested in her, though she’d denied the possibility to Sarah. Unexpected eagerness rushed through her. He had wit enough, and he was handsome. He wasn’t the husband that her mother thought she ought to be looking for, but then, Lucy wasn’t interested in a husband. She wanted distraction. She wanted to forget about herself, about the cipher on her arm and the melted door handle, about the accusations of theft, and most especially, she wanted to forget about her blackmailer. Marten had an ability to charm, when he wanted. And she was feeling in the mood to be charmed.

  She tilted her head, looking defiantly up at him. “So what exactly do you want?”

  His nostrils flared. “I want…I thought…privately, out of sight, you might…” He broke off with a sound of frustration. “It’s pure foolishness. I’m bilged on my own anchor.”

  Lucy ignored the last. “Might what?”

  The muscles in his jaw flexed with the force of his leashed emotions. “I had hoped you might wish to keel-haul me again in that splendid way you do. I’ve enjoyed it so.”

  “Is that all? Very well. Come join me.”

  Lucy returned to her seat on the bench. She hardly knew what she was doi
ng. Flirtation was not like her. But for the moment, she didn’t care. The cipher weighed cold and hard on her arm. Her blackmailer could be watching from the bushes even now. She had little to lose, and wanted to touch a bit of fire before her end came. She was filled with recklessness, uncaring of any consequences. The feeling was heady and thrilling.

  Behind her there was a long silence, and then the scuff of Marten’s feet on the walk. He came to stand in front of her. His face was hidden in shadow.

  “What now?”

  “You have the rakish reputation. You tell me.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to stroll around the gardens and remark on the weather,” he said mockingly.

  “How dull. Is that what you would normally do when beginning a female…friendship?”

  He shook his head with rueful disbelief. “You are direct, aren’t you?”

  “I can manage tact, on special occasions and with my mother,” she replied as she stood. “But the moment doesn’t really call for it, does it? Given who you are and the circumstances. And I believe you did say you wanted to suffer the knife edge of my tongue, did you not?”

  “Indeed.”

  Without warning, he grasped her arms and pulled her close. She looked up at him in surprise, anticipation coiling tightly inside her. He brushed a finger down her cheek, his expression considering.

  “To be frank, what I really wanted was a taste of your tongue.”

  He bent, sliding his hands around to cup the nape of her neck. He kissed her slowly, his tongue sliding gently between her lips. For a moment, Lucy stood rigidly, and then she returned the kiss. Heat unraveled along her nerves and knotted delightfully in her stomach. He pulled away, his fingers rubbing slow circles on her shoulders, his breath tickling her lips.

  “That was frank,” he said huskily. “Let me be more so. I want you.”

  Before she could answer, he kissed her again, his mouth more demanding. Lucy responded eagerly, her blood pounding. Her hands crept up to his shoulders to steady herself. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close against him.

  The sound of approaching voices made him pull away. He was breathing hard, Lucy noticed wonderingly. She was finding it difficult to catch her own breath. She licked her lips, tasting a hint of whiskey. Marten turned his head as the voices sounded louder. He stepped back.

  “I don’t want to leave you, but I should not like to be seen with you. Given the idiot wager I made. Will you let me see you again?”

  Lucy nodded before she considered. She didn’t want to think reasonably about it. And if she stopped to think at all, she’d probably refuse.

  “When?”

  “With the strike, I shall be very busy,” she said slowly.

  “You must eat. And tomorrow is not a workday. Have dinner with me.”

  “I will be visiting my family. I won’t return until late.”

  “I am entirely at your disposal. Shall I call for you at nine?”

  She nodded. “I will look forward to it.”

  The voices were just on the other side of the trees now. Marten reached for her hand and kissed it, rubbing her palm with his thumb.

  “Until tomorrow.” And then he was striding away.

  Marten’s ribs were screaming, but he didn’t care. It had been a stroke of genius to offer Lucy the half truth of the bet. It would give him a legitimate excuse to keep their activities private. He’d be in her house tomorrow. From there—he needed only to get ahold of her customs seal and imprint the blank inspection disks Edgar had given him. Then he would have the money he needed to pay off Neckbitt and his other creditors.

  “You’re not leaving already?”

  Marten grinned and reached out to shake the hand of Cyril Brackenridge. They’d known each other since they were children. He was as tall as Marten, with a slight frame and a wide smile. He was dressed quite finely in a dark green frock coat over a long charcoal vest.

  “You’re cutting quite a dashing figure tonight,” Marten said.

  “Making a peacock out of myself to attract the women. Should have gone to the sea like you. Women like a man in uniform. Come, don’t leave before we have a drink and a cigar.”

  Marten readily agreed and they went to a smoking salon, where men of every stripe had taken refuge. Cyril offered Marten a cigar and took two brandies from the footman.

  “Here, now,” he said, handing Marten a snifter and guiding him to a pair of chairs. “Tell me what you’re doing here at this horrendous crush. Which beauty is your prey this time and why are you conceding the field so early?”

  “Who said I’m conceding?”

  “Oho! Tell me.”

  “It isn’t seemly for a gentleman to discuss his conquests.” The brandy was very fine and dulled the pain of Marten’s chest a little.

  Cyril laughed and took a pull on his cigar, blowing the smoke out in a blue cloud. “You’re quite right, of course.” He sobered, bending forward and speaking in a hushed voice. “I can’t help but notice you are in pain. Are you well?”

  Marten shrugged, his face heating. “I’m still breathing.”

  “It’s none of my business, man, but I hate to see you in such straits. What can I do?”

  “Not a thing, my friend,” Marten said jovially. “I’ve got myself in a bit of a hole, but I’ll have it turned around in a couple of sennights.”

  “You’re certain? I could spot you….”

  But Marten only shook his head, clamping down tightly on the feral thing inside him that leaped at the money like a dog after a juicy bone. He’d gotten himself into this mess, and he would get himself out. But he couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d have such noble self-control if his assault on Lucy’s defenses had not gone quite so well. He shoved the thought away. Of course he would, he assured himself. Of course he would.

  He didn’t leave the Summerland’s for another hour and a half. He was very glad to have Edgar’s coach at his disposal and rode away in a happy fog, marred only by the disgust he felt for having accepted the small pouch of coins that Cyril had thrust upon him as he left.

  “I’ll pay it back,” he promised in the darkness of the coach. That and the rest of the money he owed. All he needed was Lucy and her customs seal.

  Chapter 11

  It seemed that Lucy had hardly fallen asleep before Blythe was shaking her awake. A repulsively cheery Jack was waiting to escort her to their parents’. She clambered inside the hack, falling asleep on her brother’s shoulder. He elbowed her awake three-quarters of a glass later as they pulled up. Their parents’ manor house sat on a bluff overlooking the river in the formerly fashionable neighborhood of Cranford. Behind it, the foothills rose in verdant swells, fading to blue mountains behind. The view of the harbor was magnificent.

  Lucy let Jack help her down. She resisted the urge to rub her eyes, well aware that her mother would chide her for smearing her cosmetics. Jack was whistling a merry tune.

  “You know that’s bad luck, don’t you?” Lucy said.

  “On board ship. But luckily we are safe on firm ground.”

  “You don’t have to sound so happy about being here. Or have you good news for Mother? A bride to announce, perhaps?”

  Jack shuddered in mock horror. “Hurn forbid. But rest assured that Mother’s attention will be entirely on you, my aged sister. After all, I have many good years in which to produce offspring, but you—well, being a woman, and a ripe one at that, you’re running out of fertile years. In no time at all you’ll be a dried-up husk with no value whatsoever except for your wit, wisdom, and charm. And what use is all that without a drooling, squirming, howling child in tow? Mother will hardly realize I am here, with you in her sights.”

  He grinned, gesturing for Lucy to precede him as the door was swung open by a footman.

  “You’re no help at all,” she said, removing her cloak.

  “Self-preservation, dear sister. I am young, but not stupid. I have dutifully attended the Summerland’s ball and simply could not find a suitabl
e woman. They were all simpering idiots or worse, too light in their skirts. There was not one that I could introduce to Mother.”

  Lucy snorted. “And you think she will accept that?”

  “If I promise to diligently keep looking. And if I point out that you didn’t dance even once except with me, nor did I see you speaking with a single eligible gentleman.”

  “You didn’t see me at all. You vanished, no doubt with one of your light-skirted ladies.”

  He shrugged. “Mother will believe me, and besides, am I wrong?”

  Lucy thought of Marten and their encounter in the garden. “No, I didn’t manage to speak to a single eligible gentleman,” she confirmed.

  “Then Mother will have all the truth she is prepared to hear,” he said smugly, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and following the footman into the morning room.

  “Maybe Stephen and Caroline have arrived with the baby, and Mother will be so occupied she’ll forget about me.”

  But in fact, Lucy’s elder brother and his wife had sent a note saying that mother and baby were ill and could not attend. Lucy’s father and her brother Robert had been called to the warehouse in the night and would return when they could. Robert’s wife was at home, too pregnant to ride in a jolty hack up to Cranford and back. Which allowed Laura Trenton to focus entirely on the problem of her one and only daughter.

  Jack and Lucy found their mother sitting before the fire stitching a flourishing pattern on the sleeve of a dress. She smiled when she saw her two youngest children, resting her work in her lap, but did not waste words on a greeting.

  “There you are. Sit and tell me about the Summerland’s ball. What did you wear, Lucy?”

  Laura Trenton fixed her needle-sharp gaze on her daughter. Like Lucy, she was plump, with pale blue eyes. Her skin was pale and clear, with few wrinkles. Her cosmetics were expertly applied, and her hair was dyed a youthful strawberry blond. Her royal necklace was displayed prominently on the outside of her bodice. Her full skirts hid her wasted legs, paralyzed in a fall when Jack was only a few months old.