From The Ashes (Ministry of Curiosities Book 6)

by C. J. Archer

  "He received money and instructions in a blank envelope delivered to his house," Seth added. "He didn't see who left it."

  Cook stretched out his legs and scratched his round belly. "He sounds like a toss pot. Who'd hire a fool like that?"

  "He was closest to Dr. Bell," I said, "and desperate. Men like that are eminently employable. Apparently his mother is ill, too. That reminds me, we ought to find out where his family lives and concoct a story to explain his absence."

  "Fitzroy asked me to do it later," Gus said.

  Seth sat up to make room for me on the sofa. "Your mother would have a fit if she saw you sprawled out like this," I said. "Where is she, by the way? And why isn't Bella in here with you?"

  "Bella's helping my mother dress for the dinner party."

  I glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantel. It was only five o'clock and the dinner didn't begin until eight.

  "Apparently it takes hours," Seth said. "Bella's hair dressing skills aren't up to snuff."

  Gus snorted. "She ain't much good at anythin' round here."

  Seth wiggled his eyebrows. "That's what you think."

  "You're doin' it right under your mother's nose? Bloody hell."

  "You be asking for trouble," Cook added. "Don't come crying to us if you get caught."

  "I can handle my mother," Seth said around a yawn.

  I chuckled into my teacup.

  Lincoln entered and nodded at me. "You're awake."

  Had Doyle been ordered to tell him when I woke? It would seem so. "Tea?" I asked.

  "Thank you. Gus, make your visit to the Fawkners now. Seth, see if Dr. Fawkner needs anything."

  "Why?" Seth whined. "I looked in on him not long ago."

  Lincoln gave him a withering glare and Seth sighed. He followed Gus out. Cook left too, without being asked. Lincoln had just made sure that we were alone. I suddenly felt trapped. Even more so when he shut the door.

  I poured him a cup of tea, but regretted it when I went to hand it to him. My trembling made the cup rattle in the saucer.

  "Thank you," he said and sipped.

  I sipped too and avoided his gaze. If he mentioned that kiss, I'd…I'd walk out. I wasn't ready to discuss such things with him. Intimacy needed to be avoided at all costs. By that measure, being alone with him should be avoided too.

  "You'll need a new coat and gloves," he said.

  "I have another."

  "Even so."

  We both sipped again.

  "I expected the committee to come this afternoon," I said.

  "As did I."

  "Did you have a chance to look through the paperwork Mannering stole from Bell?"

  He nodded. "It wasn't particularly helpful. There's nothing in it that we don't already know." He set his cup down and came to sit on the sofa beside me. "I want to talk to you. About us," he added, as if I were thinking of something else.

  "I'd rather not." I went to stand, but he caught my hand. I snatched it away.

  "I suspect you have some things you need to get off your chest."

  "You want me to do the talking?"

  "I want you to say everything you want to say to me now. Everything that's upsetting you. Don't hold back."

  I straightened my spine and strode to the fireplace to gather my wits. "Very well, but be warned, you're not going to like it."

  "I don't expect to."

  I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was so much to say to him. The only problem was, where to begin?

  Chapter 14

  I twisted my fingers together behind my back and looked Lincoln in the eye. As always, it was an unnerving experience, and I wished I could look away again, but it was too late. I felt myself being sucked in by those pitch black orbs, unable to escape.

  I cleared my throat. "The thing is, Lincoln, I think you know everything that I'm going to tell you already."

  "I want to hear it from you."

  "You are a glutton for punishment."

  His gaze lowered, severing the connection and releasing me.

  I gasped in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I could do this. I could tell him levelly what I thought without letting my emotions rule me. "You must know by now, from my reaction and that of the others, that what you did devastated me."

  His only response was to look up again and swallow heavily. He didn't speak and it would seem he was prepared to sit quietly without interrupting.

  "You broke my heart when you sent me away, and almost broke my spirit." My voice cracked, much to my horror. I'd wanted to present a strong front. I wanted to show him that he couldn't break me altogether. So far, I wasn't making a very good case.

  He rose but I put my hand out to stop him coming closer. He sat again, and passed a hand over his chin and jaw.

  "Tell me honestly, Lincoln. Why did you send me away? I know it wasn't just to keep me safe."

  He cleared his throat. "That was one reason. But mostly it was because you distracted me from my work. When I'm distracted, I don't work efficiently, and if I'm not efficient, dangerous things happen. People die. Killers slip through cracks. I forget to do important things."

  Well. There it was. Now I knew, although I'd suspected. It was a relief, in a way, to hear him say it. It explained why he still cared about my wellbeing, although it didn't make the pain hurt any less.

  "I should have told you," he said heavily. "But I thought it best that you believed I'd had a change of heart. I truly wanted you to make a fresh start away from here, with other people. Normal people. I wanted you to forget me and you couldn't do that if you had hope that I…that I still cared."

  I looked down at my slippered feet and twisted my fingers tightly behind me. My heart hammered against its cage, yet my mind felt clear. I looked up again and met his steady gaze. "You need to stop treating me like a child."

  "I wasn't aware that I did."

  "Perhaps not a child, but someone unworldly, innocent. I may have a friendlier, more open nature than you, but that doesn't make me an ignorant fool."

  His lips clamped together and a muscle bunched in his jaw. I suspected he was trying very hard not to respond.

  "I know the dangers of living here and being involved with the ministry," I went on. "And with you."

  His gaze sharpened. His chest expanded with his breath.

  "Did my absence help you focus?" Although I suspected I already knew the answer, I wanted to hear it from his lips.

  "No. Sending you away was a mistake, in more ways than I can express." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. Some of his hair fell over his face, obscuring his eyes. He looked up at me through the curtain of lashes and hair. "I regret my actions, Charlie. I hope you know that."

  My throat tightened. He looked so out of place, sitting on the sofa while I stood by the fire. It wasn't lost on me that the positions were usually swapped. "I do."

  He suddenly stood and closed the short distance between us with two long strides. He went to grab my arms, but when his gaze met mine, he stopped at the last moment and put his hands behind his back. "You don't forgive me."

  "No."

  His nostrils flared. "I can only apologize again."

  "I don't want to hear it anymore."

  A frown sliced his brow. "Then…how can I make it right again?"

  Tears burned the backs of my eyes. I hated that he could still make my heart ache like this, could still draw a reaction from me that I'd sworn never to have again. "You can't. I don't expect you to."

  His gaze searched mine until I could no longer bear looking at him. I lifted my face to the ceiling, but he caught my chin. I braced myself and once again looked into his eyes. They swirled with raw, dark emotion that stripped all my remaining strength. I wished I'd seen coldness again, like the day he'd sent me away. It would be easier than seeing this vulnerability.

  "Charlie…" he whispered. "There must be something I can do to earn your forgiveness."

  I pulled away from his touch because my
chin wobbled and it was one thing that he could see it, and quite another for him to feel it. I sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. It helped. "You sent me away because it suited your needs. You didn't think for a moment how it would affect me. You are a selfish man, Lincoln. You say and do whatever you want and everyone else must fall into line or get trod on as you charge toward your goal. I cannot forgive you for what you did." The damned tears, so near the surface, finally spilled down my cheeks. It was difficult to talk with my throat constricted, but I needed to finish my piece. "I can't forgive you, because if I do, I'll allow you back into my heart again. I can't risk it being broken a second time, and I certainly can't let you crush my spirit. It's the one thing that's truly mine, that's truly me, and I will guard it fiercely from now on."

  The silence that followed my words was absolute. Lincoln didn't move. He'd gone so still that he seemed not to be breathing. The strange thing was, I wanted to reach out and stroke his face, to soften the blow of my words. Part of me worried that I shouldn't have spoken with such brutal honesty. How did someone so inexperienced with emotions cope with the feelings that must be assaulting him now? Or was I mistaken, and he felt nothing?

  It was impossible to tell. Despite the small muscle pulsing high up in his jaw, his face gave away nothing.

  Lady Vickers breezed into the sitting room, her hair around her shoulders. "Charlie, I need your help with choosing—" She stopped dead. "My apologies. I'll come back later." She turned and hurried out.

  Lincoln took a breath. "Thank you for your time," he said, as if we'd just conducted a business meeting. "I won't keep you." He marched out. His hands, still clasped behind his back, twisted together in white-knuckled knots, much like mine.

  I followed a few moments later and headed to my own room. I ran the last part along the corridor, hoping not to see anyone. Once inside, I threw myself into the armchair by the fire and burst into tears.

  Much later, I realized my tears weren't born entirely from misery. While I did feel a little sick for dashing any hopes Lincoln may have had, I also felt lighter for unburdening myself. I was proud, too. I hadn't given in. I'd made my stance very clear and, best of all, I'd come through it unscathed. I didn't regret that I'd laid myself bare to him. He wanted to know what I thought and I why I couldn't forgive him. He needed to know.

  Now, it only remained to be seen if the uneasy relationship we'd forged since my return got better or worse.

  The committee finally arrived while I ate supper in my rooms. My immediate reaction was to remain out of sight, but I quickly dismissed the idea as cowardly. The committee knew that I was back, so there was no point hiding. Besides, no one would dare attack me in front of Lincoln.

  Heated voices signaled their presence in the drawing room. They all spoke over one another, but the theme was the same—they accused Lincoln of working without their authority. If Lincoln responded, he couldn't be heard above the noise. It was more likely he stood there, allowing them their say while somehow managing to seem above the squabbling.

  I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and marched in. It proved an effective method of silencing them.

  "Good evening," I said, going to stand by Lincoln at the fireplace. Whatever our personal differences, I wanted to present a united force, both to the committee and to him. They all needed to know that I was on his side and trusted his decisions in all matters regarding the ministry. "Is Doyle bringing tea?"

  "Brandy," Lincoln told me. "Something stronger is called for." He did not look at me, but at his guests, seated around the drawing room.

  "So it's true," Lord Gillingham said. "You brought her back."

  Lincoln didn't answer.

  "Then what did you send her away for?" General Eastbrooke bellowed. His mutton chop whiskers weren't as neatly trimmed as usual, and the lines on his face seemed more numerous. For once, he was showing his age.

  The other committee members appeared more harried than usual too. Lady Harcourt's lovely face was paler and her eyes darted all over me, as if she were inspecting me for any signs of change. I wondered what she saw. Lord Gillingham rubbed the head of his walking stick, over and over. His face was a rather unhealthy shade of red as he spluttered his protest over my presence in the drawing room.

  "Shut up, Gilly," Marchbank growled with more vehemence than I'd ever heard from him. Usually the composed one, he looked tired and worried.

  It was this that gave me pause, and had me glancing anxiously at Lincoln.

  "We wanted her brought back, and now she is," Marchbank went on. "Stop harping."

  "I didn't want her back," Gillingham protested. "I simply wanted to know where he'd sent her."

  "As did I," Eastbrooke snapped. "As did most of us."

  Four voices once again spoke over one another.

  "She's back." Lincoln's voice cut through the noise. "She's back for good. That is the end of the matter."

  Gillingham shot to his feet. "You do not tell us when the matter is ended!"

  "Sit down," Lincoln growled.

  He did not. He stepped toward us, but Lady Harcourt caught his arm.

  "Please, Gilly," she said in a quiet, simpering voice that didn't sit well on her. "Let's keep this as civil as possible." She didn't look at me, but her brown eyes implored Lincoln.

  Doyle wheeled in a drinks table. He poured brandies and handed them out. No one spoke until he left, shutting the door behind him.

  "You may be wondering why we didn't come earlier," Lady Harcourt said.

  "It crossed my mind," Lincoln said blandly.

  "We needed to have a meeting to discuss the situation among ourselves first. It was…heated, and rather exhausting."

  "That explains why your tempers are short and your eyes tired," I said, placing my glass on the mantel. I wanted a clear head.

  Lady Harcourt's hand touched the corner of her eye as if she were checking for new wrinkles.

  "You allowed yourself to get caught by the police," Eastbrooke said. "What were you thinking, man?"

  "And what the bloody hell were you doing at Barts, anyway?" Gilly added. "What has the hospital got to do with anything?"

  Lincoln shifted his stance. "I can't tell you yet."

  "I beg your pardon!"

  Eastbrooke stood. He was an imposing figure, but I wasn't afraid. Not with Lincoln beside me. "Careful, Lincoln. Be very careful of overstepping."

  "You'll be told when I deem it necessary for you to know," Lincoln said. "No sooner. I am the leader of the ministry and this is my investigation."

  Gillingham pointed the middle finger of the hand that held his glass at each of the committee members in turn. "We are the head of the organization."

  "No, you are not."

  "And we have the power to dismiss you."

  I sucked in a breath.

  Eastbrooke stood and held up his hands for calm. "Settle down, everyone. Let's not make any hasty decisions."

  Decisions? Unease settled in my stomach, bitter and cold. I glanced at Lincoln but his stony face gave nothing away.

  "Our decisions are never hasty," Marchbank said.

  The general pointed a finger at his colleague. "You are not in charge here, March."

  "Nor are you."

  Eastbrooke's chest expanded and his chin thrust out. He sported the confident air of a man with an army under his command, whose word was never questioned and whose orders were always obeyed. "I am the most senior member of the committee. I have years of experience in strategy and planning, and dealing with men. Not to mention I am the closest thing to a father he has."

  "No." The sharpness of Lincoln's voice had everyone turning to him. Lady Harcourt pressed her hand to her lips, and General Eastbrooke blinked. He hadn't expected Lincoln's disagreement. "You are not a father figure to me," Lincoln went on. "You are nothing like one, and never have been, so do not pretend otherwise."

  "I raised you."

  "You paid for a roof over my head, and tutors to teach me. That's not the same as
raising."

  "He's got you there," Gillingham said with a chuckle into his glass.

  Eastbrooke tugged on his jacket hem. "Nevertheless, I am in charge here."

  "You are not in charge," Marchbank shot back. "None of us are. That's why we have meetings and votes." Eastbrooke may have the bearing of a senior member of the armed forces, but Marchbank possessed what every nobleman did—a belief in his God-given right to be above everyone else. He also had the face of a battle-scarred warrior. It made him far more frightening and worthy of respect, in my opinion.

  "Please, enough of this arguing," Lady Harcourt whispered. "My nerves are shattered enough."

  "That's your own fault, Julia," Gillingham said, pointing his walking stick at her. "You can't blame any of us for your secret getting out. I, for one, didn't even know you were a dancer until I read about it in the papers. Tell me, do you know the cancan? Marvelously energetic dance. I wonder, would you give me a private show later?"

  With a snarl and bearing of teeth, she flung herself at him. "How dare you!"

  He put his hands up to shield his face, but not before her fingernails raked across his cheek and he spilled his brandy in his lap. It took both Eastbrooke and Marchbank to drag her off him and push her back down on the chair. Lincoln didn't step in to help.

  Gillingham touched his bloodied cheek. "You bitch!"

  "You disgusting, depraved little man." Her low growling voice held none of the velvety tones that usually came out of her mouth. Her body heaved with her deep breaths, and the swell of her breasts rose above her bodice.

  "I am not the disgusting, depraved one here." Gillingham's gaze fell to her breasts. He grunted a laugh.

  If Eastbrooke and Marchbank hadn't still been holding her, she might have flown at Gillingham again. As it was, she had to settle for a sneer.

  "Enough!" the general shouted. "You're acting like children."

  Gillingham dabbed at his cheek with his handkerchief then at his damp crotch. "This is why women shouldn't be allowed on the committee. One of the Buchanans should have taken over their father's place."