If His Kiss Is Wicked

by Jo Goodman

  Emma’s hands were folded neatly in her lap, and they remained there while she spoke. It was only Restell who could observe that beneath the cup of her hands, her thumbs wrestled nervously. “I fear you do not recall, Uncle, that Mr. Gardner’s name was brought to your attention after I returned to town from Walthamstow.”

  Just as if she had been visiting friends in the country, Restell thought. After I returned to town from Walthamstow. She might have been speaking of a journey she made regularly, so lightly did she offer this explanation. It did not entirely surprise him that she presented it in this fashion, but it put a rather pretty bow on an ugly package. Even so, he saw Sir Arthur shift uncomfortably in his chair, while Marisol finished giving the butler her instructions about tea and hurried to take her seat beside her father.

  “Did you mention his name to me, Emmalyn?” Sir Arthur asked. “If you did, then you are correct, I have no memory of it.”

  “It was Dr. Bettany. He was speaking to you outside my room. I was not eavesdropping, Uncle. I could not help but hear.”

  Sir Arthur’s brow furrowed. He had a thick head of dark hair, and now he plowed it back with his fingertips as though he might be able to turn over the memory. “Can it be so important? You will have to speak plainly about the conversation because I cannot bring it to mind.”

  “Yes,” Marisol said. “There is too much roundaboutation for my liking.”

  Emmalyn ignored her. “Mr. Gardner is the gentleman that Dr. Bettany recommended you seek out to assist in the apprehension of—”

  “I’ve got it,” Sir Arthur announced, his expression clearing. “The doctor suggested that we might wish to investigate. Discreetly, of course. If you overheard, then you know I thanked Bettany for his concern, but told him I would not be acting on his information. What he proposed was certain to be fraught with difficulties, not the least of which was assuring that strict confidences were kept. Discretion is much to be desired, often promised, and rarely realized.”

  “Emmalyn understands, Father,” Marisol said. “She knows you were thinking of her reputation.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Restell saw Emma’s head droop slightly, as if it were suddenly too heavy for the slim stem of her neck. He knew, as she did, that Sir Arthur’s refusal to act had been largely to protect himself from any hint of scandal. That Marisol should not be touched by it was also a consideration.

  Sir Arthur shifted his attention to Restell. “Bettany is responsible for you being here? I hope that is not the case.”

  Emma did not allow Restell to answer. “I am responsible for Mr. Gardner’s visit, Uncle. I have retained his services. It has been ten”—she glanced sideways at Restell and managed a small smile—“actually eleven days since he and I arrived at our agreement. During that time he has been engaged in acts of discovery and protection. At my insistence, he is attempting to learn the details of what happened in the mews behind Madame Chabrier’s and whether I was mistaken for Marisol. As it will take some time before he can satisfactorily discharge this responsibility, he also has been acting as our protector.”

  For several long moments there was complete silence, then Marisol and her father began speaking at once.

  “You cannot mean that you—”

  “It is beyond everything sensible that—”

  “That you should defy my express wishes, it is not to be—”

  “You have ruined all. It is a complete betrayal, Emmalyn.”

  Restell decided it hardly mattered who said what. It was not as if either expected Emma to defend herself. Their objective was to make it clear that they now viewed themselves as the ones having been injured.

  It was the outside of enough.

  Restell stood. Although he made no threatening gesture, nor took a single step forward, the action of standing was sufficient to encourage silence. “That is quite all that should be said, I think.” There was rather more charity in his tone than he was feeling. “I intend to speak forthrightly and not spare your sensibilities as Miss Hathaway is wont to do. Moreover, I will not seek your permission to do so, nor will I beg your pardon later. Miss Vega, if you believe you will be offended by such things as I mean to say, then you should excuse yourself.”

  Marisol had no opportunity to say whether she preferred to stay or go. Her father simply pointed to the door. The firmness of his expression did not invite protest. Marisol rose slowly to her feet and departed, looking over her shoulder only once before she slipped through the door. Emmalyn did not see the pleading expression cast in her direction, but Restell did not miss it.

  Emmalyn wished she might call back her confession. By speaking out of turn she had forced Restell’s hand. He never told her when he expected to receive the full accounting of events, but it looked as if the moment was upon them.

  She noticed that Restell Gardner had secured Sir Arthur’s full attention and a deeper measure of wariness as soon as he’d risen to his feet. He had a command of authority in his bearing that was bred in the bone, so intrinsic to his nature that he did not have to puff himself up to bring it about. He stood at his ease, just as he had when she’d met him, but it was as if the very air about him was charged with the force of his expectations. She had not observed this man before, the one who would brook no argument nor ask for favor. She no longer had any sense that he was but a few years older than she, so profound was his consequence. In the same vein, it was difficult to recall that she’d ever thought he was too easily amused. This man, the one who stood before her now, did not impress as one who smiled effortlessly or found humor in almost every aspect of the human condition.

  Here was a man who gave no quarter.

  “I will present you with the facts as I have come to learn them,” Restell said, addressing Sir Arthur. “Whether you accept them as such is for you to decide. One month ago, your niece went to Madame Chabrier’s as a kindness to your daughter. Miss Vega desired to end a flirtation with Mr. Jonathan Kincaid and asked Miss Hathaway to do the thing on her behalf.”

  Sir Arthur glanced at Emma, one eyebrow raised in question. She nodded faintly.

  “Miss Hathaway wore a pelisse and bonnet belonging to Miss Vega. When Miss Hathaway arrived at Madame Chabrier’s she was mistaken for Miss Vega at first glance by one of the shop girls. The reasons for this are twofold: the passing similarity of their features when Miss Hathaway is wearing garments associated with Miss Vega, and the relative infrequency of Miss Vega’s visits to this particular milliner. I have this information from both the shop girl and Madame Chabrier. It was Madame who corrected her employee’s mistake on the occasion of Miss Hathaway’s visit.”

  Emma stared at her hands in her lap as she struggled to recall the events of that afternoon. She could not bring to mind any exchange of words with the shop girl and had not even a fleeting recollection of speaking to the milliner. The effort to bring these things to the forefront of her thoughts merely made her head throb. She was uncomfortably aware of a weight settling on her chest that was making it difficult to breathe. She forced herself to concentrate on what Restell was saying, though it was as if he were speaking to her from a great distance. She leaned forward slightly and strained to hear.

  “Madame Chabrier remembered a gentleman coming into the shop while Miss Hathaway was there. Several young ladies visited moments later. She recalls this because Miss Hathaway was so gracious, even encouraging, in permitting her to inquire after the needs of her other patrons. She left Miss Hathaway to speak first to the gentleman, then the trio of young ladies. Assisting her latest arrivals took considerable time, and it was not until she finished the sale that she realized Miss Hathaway had absented herself from the shop. The gentleman was gone also, but this did not distress her as much as Miss Hathaway’s departure. Madame Chabrier felt certain she had missed the opportunity for an important sale, such was the interest in her goods that Miss Hathaway expressed. The gentleman, she remembers thinking, was unlikely to have purchased anything. She acknowledged that occasionally
a gentleman will wander into her shop for the express purpose of meeting young ladies. She identified this gentleman of that particular ilk.”

  “Was it Kincaid?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “It seems possible, even likely, but to confirm it I need to have a detailed description of the man. Madame Chabrier offered information in the most general terms. Further inquiry on my part of so specific a nature would not have been prudent. You will understand that I did not want to entertain questions from the milliner.”

  “While there is much I have yet to comprehend,” Sir Arthur said, “that particular point I can grasp. You must explain to me why you trifled with the milliner when you could have the whole of it from Kincaid.”

  “Madame Chabrier is easily found in her establishment, while Mr. Jonathan Kincaid does not seem to have established an address in all of London.” Restell heard Emma’s sharp intake of air, the exclamation point of her surprise. She was also in the line of sight of her uncle’s disapproving glance. It occurred to Restell that permitting Marisol to leave had the consequence of bringing the full force of Sir Arthur’s displeasure down on Emmalyn’s head. She did not sink more deeply into her chair as he might have expected. This time she met her uncle’s eyes full on and refused to accept responsibility for what she could not have known.

  Restell brought Sir Arthur’s attention back to him as he continued explaining. “There are nine adult men answering to the name Jonathan Kincaid that I was able to locate. Five of them could never be mistaken in any company as gentlemen, residing as they have for years in Holborn, St. Giles, and the Blackfriars. Of the remaining four, one is in his seventh decade, another so portly and ill with gout as to be confined to his bed. The third is a student at Cambridge and was not in town a month ago, and the last is the Negro manservant of Lord Honeywell.

  “None of this means that Mr. Kincaid does not exist, but it casts suspicion on how he represented himself to Miss Vega. Indeed, for him to move with some freedom in the same circle as your daughter and Miss Hathaway, he has played false with many more of their society.”

  “There are rooming houses all over London,” Sir Arthur said. He folded his hands, exposing his knobby, arthritic knuckles to some painful pressure as he squeezed his fingers together. “Gentlemen of modest means often reside in places of that sort when they are in from the country.”

  “They do indeed, yet none of my informants found a man answering to that name in any of the reputable houses. To the extent that he truly existed under the name of Jonathan Kincaid, he has disappeared. He might well be in London, but he is employing another alias, thus, the necessity of a respectable description of the man.”

  “You shall have better than a description,” Sir Arthur said. “On the morrow you shall have a sketch of Kincaid. Marisol and Emmalyn will provide sufficient detail to render a drawing that you may use, within sensible limits, naturally. Is that satisfactory?”

  “It is.” Restell did not reveal his annoyance at the interruption caused by the arrival of tea. A maid set the tray beside Emma and disappeared without fussing over the service or inquiring if she might be of further assistance. At the brief entrance and exit of the maid Restell was able to see that Marisol was still hovering in the hallway. He had an unflattering picture of her pressing her ear to the door, hoping for some clear words that would indicate the depth of the trouble she was in with her father.

  “There is another construction that might be placed upon Mr. Kincaid’s disappearance,” Restell said after he was seated again and served a cup of tea. “One must at least entertain the notion that he is dead, murdered perhaps during that assault on Miss Hathaway. It is not entirely satisfactory as an explanation, not if he was a gentleman. It does not account for the difficulty in locating his residence or the fact that no one save me appears to be looking for him. It does not account for the fact that precious little is known about him, even by those who engaged him in conversation or invited him to their homes.”

  Sir Arthur frowned deeply again. His tea sat beside him, untouched. “Emmalyn, did you or did you not meet this villain at the milliner’s?”

  The steadiness of her voice surprised her. She expected to open her mouth and reveal nothing but the echo of her thundering heart. “I cannot recall, Uncle. I think I remember looking at Madame Chabrier’s hats, then the illustrations she put before me, but it may be because I have had other occasions to do those things. Sometimes I believe I spoke to Mr. Kincaid, but it has the flavor of a dream and I cannot give it the weight of fact. The scent of the alley, though, is in my memory, so I have to believe I used the back of the shop to make my exit. Do you see? I have to allow that I reconsidered meeting Mr. Kincaid and fled through the back door upon his arrival, or mayhap I fled before he arrived.”

  “Why can you not remember?” Sir Arthur asked. “You have no difficulty recalling all manner of inconsequential details. You manage my schedule with remarkable efficiency, keeping most of the appointments in your head, I have noticed. You can recall where I mislaid my brushes, what the cook charged at the greengrocer, and which slippers Marisol wore when she attended the Tidwell ball. It escapes me how you fail to recollect so many of the particulars about this…this…this thing that happened to you.”

  “I am given to understand that is often the way of it,” Restell said. “This thing, as you call it, was an assault of the most vicious kind. You, who saw the full extent of her injuries, must know she is fortunate to have survived with any of her senses intact. That she cannot remember the details of a beating that nearly took her life, nor recall the moments leading up to it, seems more a gift of Providence than a curse. How much more might have been accomplished by this time if you had sought me out immediately is now only a matter for conjecture. In your eagerness to avoid attaching scandal to the family, you have allowed the full weight of shame to be carried by Miss Hathaway.”

  “You forget yourself, Mr. Gardner.”

  Restell was having none of it. “No, Sir Arthur, I do not. You would have Miss Hathaway remember details of her ordeal as it serves you, yet through your actions have demonstrated your desire that she never speak of it. In spite of that, she came to me, knowing it would displease you, but recognizing a greater risk. She is unconvinced, you see, that the assault was random, and further, that she was the intended mark.” Restell set his cup and saucer aside, leaned forward in his chair, and made a steeple of his fingers. His regard was as frank as his speech. “When you feel compelled to upbraid Miss Hathaway for failing to recall all the particulars of her abduction, I hope you will not forget yourself, Sir Arthur, but keep in mind that it is your daughter who deserves the sharp edge of your tongue and perhaps the flat of your hand on her backside.”

  Sir Arthur actually flinched. Tea sloshed over the rim of Emma’s cup as she did the same. Neither of them found their voice before Restell spoke again.

  “I will want to interview Miss Vega, speak at length with Miss Hathaway, and discuss the course of further investigation with you. My arrangement, however, is with Miss Hathaway, and she is the only one whose opinion is of consequence. I will also want to speak with Mr. Charters and Mr. Johnston.”

  This last name caused Sir Arthur visible discomfort. “Johnston? Why? What can be the connection?”

  “Did you not release him from your employ after years of service? You provided no character and replaced him with Miss Hathaway. Revenge is not a terribly complicated motive, but the manner in which it is carried out is often as involved as it is inventive. It is also an emotion in want of resolution. Miss Hathaway’s escape suggests to me that someone is frustrated, not satisfied. Your daughter and your niece require protection such as you have no experience providing. You may require the same.”

  When Restell stood this time, he inclined his head a fraction. It was less a sign of civility than it was an indication that he was preparing to excuse himself. “Please tell me where I might speak to Miss Vega in private.”

  Emma tried to read again, but she
was no more successful than she had been earlier. No book could hold her attention while her mind kept wandering to the drawing room where Marisol was being interviewed. The fact that it was difficult to imagine what sort of questions were being put to her cousin did not stop Emma from trying.

  Sir Arthur said very little to her once Mr. Gardner left the room. She worried about his ashen complexion and hurried to get him a glass of port when he requested it. He asked her when she first had gone to visit Mr. Gardner and if there had been only one meeting. He did not chide her for not applying to him for advice or assistance before she went. Emma suspected her uncle knew now that he’d done nothing to make her think he would welcome her approach.

  She’d watched Sir Arthur absently massage the swollen knuckles of his right hand as he contemplated what he’d learned. It seemed to her that he aged a full decade as he sat there, the chair growing bigger while he grew smaller. Creases that usually appeared about his eyes when he smiled were deeply and permanently etched when a smile was no longer in evidence. His eyes were flat and unfocused; she could not even say that he was seeing something in his mind’s eye. He seemed to be seeing nothing at all.

  “What is to be done about Marisol?” he’d asked. And because the question had been directed more to himself than her, Emma hadn’t answered. She’d left quietly, suspecting long minutes would pass before Sir Arthur realized he was alone.

  Emma set the book aside and went to the window where she stood with her forehead pressed against the glass. The iridescent spectrum that had been visible in the panes this morning was gone. Clouds in the distance had gray undersides and were spreading across the horizon. She smiled faintly, recalling her uncle’s prediction of rain by nightfall. It made her wonder how painful he would find developing the sketch of Mr. Kincaid and how it would compare to her own pain in bringing the man to mind.

  “You are tired,” Restell said, observing Emma’s posture from the doorway. “I have to return for the drawing of Kincaid that was promised me. Do you wish me to wait until then to speak to you?”