by Jo Goodman
Woodridge shook his head, not to negate Sherry’s last statement but to underscore his contempt for the accusations leveled at him. “I am admitting none of it, you understand, but I should like to hear what sort of girls you imagine Mr. Craven procured for me.”
“You are fishing, Woodridge. I am familiar with the bait you are using, but it is of no matter. I would have told you whether you cast your line or not.” He watched the baron set himself to take another blow. It was subtle, this preparation, but it could be seen in the fixed way he held his head and the stillness in his fingertips as they rested on the arms of the chair.
“She would have to be a comely girl,” Sherry said. “Naturally, you would want some assurance that she was without disease. If Ned plucked her from the streets of Holborn then she would have to be young. You will understand if I do not speculate further in that regard, else I should be quite ill.” He held up one hand, forestalling the baron’s comment. “She would be slender, in the first bloom of womanhood perhaps, not buxom or bawdy. Virginal, I think, though not necessarily a virgin. Green eyes would make her worth more to you, but what would set her price above rubies is her hair. Red hair, I am told, but not just any shade. It must be dark, as befits a deep claret rather than fingers of fire.”
“Extraordinary,” Woodridge said after a time. “Not any girl you say, but one with red hair and green eyes. That’s remarkably peculiar of me. Does your informant say why I am so particular?”
The lightness of Woodridge’s tone did not persuade Sherry to lower his guard, nor did it make him think his former mentor was truly so comfortable. It was a second cast of the fishing line. The baron wanted to learn the depth of the informant’s knowledge. Sherry did not answer the question posed to him, raising one of his own instead. “What brings you here? Why leave London now?”
There was no hesitation. “To bring you back, of course. Not to London precisely, but back to our purpose.”
“I don’t believe that is it at all.”
Woodridge shrugged. “Having been forced to listen to you impugn my honor, I am quite aware I shall have to accept failure. As I mentioned, I didn’t understand that Gibb and Con had already been sent out on the same mission. I came under no one’s direction. My reasons for wanting you back are entirely personal. I have always thought you were worth the effort, Sherry. I regret it has come to this between us. So much distrust. So many things said that cannot be recanted. It does present a rather hopeless situation, does it not?”
Sherry regarded the baron consideringly. “Then you did not come to wish me happy?”
Woodridge offered a countenance creased by perplexity. “Wish you happy? My dear Sherry, until you began to regale me with an account of these alleged misdeeds, I could honestly say that I held you in high esteem, but even so, to set out on the uncomfortable journey to Granville with nothing in my mind save to wish you happy, well, it would appear you have puffed up your own consequence and the significance you have in my life.”
“Lady Rivendale says the sun rises and sets by me,” he said wryly. “It is lowering to discover I am not at the center of all things.”
“Just so.”
“Then you were unaware of my engagement.” It was more in the way of a statement than a question.
“Engagement? You, Sherry?” Woodridge picked up his tumbler of Scotch and lifted it toward his host. The gesture was as mocking as his smile. “Of all the things you’ve said, that is easily the most preposterous, but since I am here, I will wish you happy.” He knocked back a mouthful of his drink. “Tell me her name. Is she known to me?”
Sherry set aside his drink so he could reach into his frock coat and remove a piece of paper. He held it up as he opened it so that Woodridge could see it had been carefully folded in thirds and that the writing on it was not someone’s copperplate hand but newsprint.
The baron’s crystal tumbler thudded to the floor. What remained of the Scotch made a dark stain on the rug between his feet.
“So you do recognize it,” Sherry said. He looked down at the spilled drink then back to Woodridge. His slight smile was chilly. “It is difficult to moderate one’s reaction when the surprise is genuine. At least I have always found it so. Apparently it is also true for you.”
The baron kicked aside the tumbler and stood. At his sides his hands clenched into fists. He resisted the urge to reach just beneath his waistcoat for the announcement he had taken from the Gazette, though he recognized the futility of denying he knew what Sherry held or where it had come from. “You are acting as though you think it proves something.”
“Several things, actually, the least of which is that you knew about my engagement before you arrived. It points to the reason you came to Granville and offers further evidence that you felt compelled to lie about it. This last begs the question why.”
“I did not think anything was served by admitting I knew. Naturally it prompted my visit. When I saw the announcement it occurred to me that my last and best opportunity to convince you to return would be now. I could not imagine the argument that would induce you to come back to us once you were leg-shackled.” Woodridge shrugged. “There. Now you know the whole of it.”
Sherry said nothing for a long moment, then he said quietly, “I do not think I have ever fully appreciated your genius for turning things on their head.” He stood himself, unwilling to yield the high ground to the baron. “But it will not help you here. I will not be moved. We might strike a truce, however, if you are willing to make certain concessions.”
“Confessions? You are quite mad if you think—”
“Concessions,” Sherry said, interrupting. “Though it is interesting that you heard the other. I am proposing that you remove yourself permanently from the service and also from London. You may retire to your country home or some other place of your choosing here in England. I would strongly advise you against attempting to take up residency on the Continent or the Americas. If you are set on traveling to foreign places, then transportation to Van Diemen’s Land can be arranged. I don’t think you can count on being given a government post, though. Your exile there would be considerably less agreeable than the one Napoleon enjoys on St. Helena.”
Woodridge’s fists uncurled. He attended to the left sleeve of his frock coat, brushing off a spot of dust on the forearm. After several swipes, his hand fell away slowly. The raised arm also dropped back to his side. When he lifted his eyes to Sherry, he was unable to keep his expression remote. Something of his consternation was visible.
Sherry shook his head, responding to what the baron would not ask. “Your blade is no longer there. I did not like the idea that you were carrying a weapon when I had none. I could have armed myself, I suppose, but this is my home, and it would have pained me to do so.”
This time Woodridge did not try to be surreptitious as he searched the right pocket of his frock coat. His hand came away empty.
“Gone also, I’m afraid,” Sherry said. “How a garrote would have assisted you at this juncture, I cannot say, but I have never known you to be without one. Now, if you wish to call me out, I believe arrangements can be made that will suit you. You may have your choice of weapons and opportunity to practice. I would not have there be any accusation of unfairness.”
“You were always accounted to be an excellent shot, Sherry.”
“Yes, but then so are you. We are evenly matched, I think.”
“If you trust your informant, if you are certain of your facts, then why are you not calling me out?”
“It is a matter of honor. I gave my word.”
The import of this was not lost on Woodridge. “Who have you spoken to, Sherry? Gibb? Con? Did they make you agree to offer me exile in the country?”
Sherry chuckled. “A word to them of what I’ve told you and they would have planted you themselves. That is what you risk if I go to the others and tell them what I know. Even now they are trying to learn who the traitor is among them. After all I have said, do you doubt the
y can be convinced that it is you?”
“Even if it is not true?”
“Even then, as you have good cause to know. You have but to remember the unfortunate Mr. Crick. However, we know that is not the case here.”
Woodridge fell quiet as he considered his choices. “This is not about you and me at all any longer,” he said finally. “Perhaps it never was. As little as one hundred years ago we would have burned her as a witch, and who is to say we would have been wrong?” He shrugged. “She has befuddled your senses as she did mine. Can you not imagine that I would want to save you from her?”
Sherry’s reply remained hovering at the tip of his tongue. Behind him, he heard the sound of the latch being turned on the hidden panel. If he had harbored any doubts that it was the panel being pushed open or who might be appearing on the threshold, they were put to rest as he watched the baron’s complexion turn ashen.
“Your concern, my lord,” Lily said, stepping into the gallery, “should be to save yourself from me.”
Sherry did not turn but listened for Lily’s approach. When he judged that she was within a few feet of him, he reached back with one hand and beckoned her to take it. He did not bring her forward to stand in front of him but kept her to one side and slightly to the rear of his right shoulder. “It was too much to hope that Lady Rivendale would keep you away, I suppose.”
Lily heard no criticism from him, merely an observation. She managed a faint smile as she set the candelabra beside Sherry’s drink. “Indeed. Forgive me, but I must needs see him for myself.” Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Woodridge critically. “Odd, but he is smaller than I remembered.”
The baron started to take a step toward her, but Sherry immediately put out a hand, staying his advance. “Mind that your distance remains respectful, Woodridge, else the distance will be twenty paces.”
One of Woodridge’s brows arched. “Your word means nothing, then?”
“I did not mean to suggest I would call you out. It is the distance I can throw you.”
Lily could not help herself; a bubble of nervous laughter parted her lips. She pressed one hand to her mouth as though she might be able to push it back. She flushed, embarrassed by her unseemly response. If she had been able to find her voice, she could have explained that the tension in the room had forced it out of her. Woodridge was staring at her, his eyes like ice chips. Sherry, she noted, when she glanced around his shoulder, looked as if the corners of his mouth might be twitching.
“She is changed.” The baron spoke to Sherry, but his gaze remained riveted on Lily. “Disappointing, but not unexpected. Her name is Lilith, you know. The Gazette reported Lily, but Lilith is how she should be called. Are you familiar with the name, Sherry? Rabbinic legend says Lilith was Adam’s first wife, later supplanted by Eve. Hell hath no fury . . .” Woodridge’s eyes remained humorless and cold. “Then again, perhaps hell does hold such fury when it embraces one of its own. That is what Lilith became. The devil’s handmaiden, I believe, an evil spirit. There are parallels, don’t you think?”
Sherry waited until Woodridge’s attention shifted from Lily to him. “What do you say to the terms I put before you?” he asked. “Exile or exposure?”
“I think you are offering something different from that. Isn’t it exile or execution? That must be more on the order of what Marshal Ney presented to Boney.”
“Do not flatter yourself with that comparison.”
“Flatter myself? No comparison to the Frogs is ever flattering.”
“The terms, Woodridge. Do you mean to take them?”
“You are convinced she is worthy of your protection?” the baron asked, jerking his chin toward Lily. “Knowing that, like her mother, she invites men to crawl between her thighs for the—”
He did not finish. Lily launched herself at him, moving so quickly and unexpectedly that Sherry could not pull her back. Woodridge raised his arms to block her, but Lily flew at him high. She dug her nails into his cheeks, drawing fine rivulets of blood. He cursed and shoved her aside hard. She stumbled, almost fell, then came at him again. Sherry stepped forward, not to stand in Lily’s way, but to make certain Woodridge didn’t strike her. Lily raised her hand, prepared to mark the baron’s face with her palm print, then stayed her delivery when she saw him flinch.
She did not make the mistake of thinking it was her hand that he feared. It was what he saw in her eyes, and it was enough for her.
Lily stood facing him a moment longer, then she retreated a step. Having faced down the cobra, she still was not so foolish as to turn her back on him. When she was out of his reach, she pivoted on her heel, picked up the candelabra, and kept on walking to the far end of the gallery, exiting the room exactly as she had entered it.
“She is not changed in the least,” Sherry said when he heard the panel close. “It is only that you have never known her.” He handed Woodridge his own handkerchief. “Here. For the blood on your cheeks. Do not trouble yourself to look for your own.”
Frowning slightly, the baron nevertheless accepted it.
“Now,” Sherry told him. “I will have your answer. Choose.”
“If it must be one or the other, then I will take refuge in the country.”
“Very well.” Sherry crossed the room to the pocket doors. “But understand, you will not return to London. Such arrangements as must be made can be accomplished through correspondence. I’m certain your man of affairs will be able to manage the details of closing your townhouse. In regard to the Crown’s business, you will write your statement here, and I will see that the best use is made of it.”
Parting the doors, Sherry gestured for Woodridge to precede him into the hallway. They returned to the library where Sherry urged the baron to make himself comfortable behind the desk, then presented him with paper, quill, and ink to begin his missive. Sherry dictated the language and monitored the writing so that Woodridge penned the words precisely.
When the baron was done, Sherry examined it one more time. He set it down, gave Woodridge a second piece of paper, and said, “Another, please. Just the same as this.”
Woodridge obliged, and Sherry scrutinized it as he had done the first. “This is more than I was able to offer poor Mr. Crick,” he said when he was finished. “You comprehend it will be your farewell letter if you do not follow the terms exactly as I have put them before you. There can be no exception. If you go more than five miles in any direction from your estate, I will learn about it. You will not like the consequences. If you return to London for any reason, you cannot expect that you will leave it alive.”
Woodridge set the quill in the ink and came to his feet as Sherry skirted the desk. The announcement of Lily’s engagement lay beside the inkstand where Sherry had placed it. He picked it up, let his eyes drift over it, then looked at Sherry. “This was an invitation, wasn’t it?” he asked, one corner of his mouth curling in a manner that mocked himself. “As effective as drawing a moth to the flame. I congratulate you. I did not suspect. I wonder, was it you who knew me so well, or Lilith?”
Sherry did not allow himself to be drawn into that conversation. “Your carriage, your trunks, and bags are all waiting for you at the front. Your cattle have been tended, but I would not recommend pushing them hard today. There is an inn at Westin-on-the-Narrows that might serve.”
“I am familiar with it.”
“Good. I’ll escort you out myself.” Stepping aside, he let Woodridge pass, plucking the announcement from his fingers as he did so. “I cannot let you have it, even as a sweet remembrance of this encounter.”
Wolfe had taken up position in the entrance hall so that he might be at the ready for just this end. He had the baron’s coat and beaver hat in hand, both of which had been neatly brushed. He also produced the baron’s soft leather gloves and crystal-knobbed walking stick.
Sherry fell into step beside his old mentor and didn’t hold until they reached the edge of the drive. The carriage door was already open; the driver and grooms pr
epared to make way. Woodridge walked ahead and climbed into the carriage without once looking back. It was as dignified an exit as Sherry thought he could make under the circumstances. Not unimpressed, but still cautious, Sherry stood on the lip of the last step and watched until the carriage took the last curve in the road at the end of the lake. When it was out of sight, he took the stairs two at a time and disappeared into the house.
Lily was waiting for him. Already halfway down the stairs, she astonished him by hoisting herself sidesaddle on the polished banister and sliding the rest of the way. Sherry acted as the newel post and caught her, sweeping her up and making a full circle that caused her gown and petticoats to billow. At the top of the stairs, Lady Rivendale clapped her hands and called for the scoundrels to come and be part of this celebration.
“Do not drop her, Sherry!” she exclaimed. “I fear she has a delicate constitution.”
Still holding Lily aloft, Sherry looked up at her. “Where does she come by these notions?” he asked. “Did you not tell her you nearly flattened Woodridge with the palm of your hand?”
“It would have been indelicate of me to make too much of the moment.”
He grinned, drawing her closer and letting her down gradually, keeping her pressed flush to him as he did so. Lily kept her arms around his neck. Over her shoulder Sherry saw Wolfe had been joined by the housekeeper and one of the maids. A footman was observing from farther down the hall. To a person they were smiling indulgently. His eyes lifted to the top of the stairs, and he saw it was no different for his godmother.
“We have many well-wishers, it seems,” he said.
Lily nodded, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. She squeezed him hard, unable to get close enough to him to suit her.
He whispered to her, stirring her hair, “I do not suppose you could be moved to kiss me.”
Drawing back, Lily took his face between her palms and pressed her mouth firmly to his. She tasted his smile against her lips. Scotch and peppermint. Fire and ice. “It is over?” she asked, her mouth but a moment from his. “We are finished with him?”
