How To School Your Scoundrel, page 8
Something about his words, about the dangerous edge of his voice, the cold recklessness of his expression, made Luisa turn instead to the bed and place Quincy back on the pristine white linen. She walked by Somerton’s laconic figure without a glance and bent to pick up the shards from the floor by the wall.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“You’ll cut yourself. Again.” She placed each one, piece by piece, on her open palm, and when she had found all the large ones, she dropped them into the washbasin, for lack of a nearby dustbin.
“Unnecessary. My valet will see to it in the morning.”
He was quite drunk. She could hear it now, the determined precision of his words, the negligent spilling of personal details. The hint of self-defense.
She picked up the washcloth and returned to the floor, where she began to wipe up as many of the tiny slivers as she could find.
A hand appeared on her wrist. “Stop that,” he growled. “You are not paid to perform menial labor.”
“Better this than be forced to stitch up your foot in the middle of the night.”
“I can stitch it up myself.”
His shoulder pressed against hers, his warm breath suffused the air between them. He was so hot and large, so electric with unpredictable power. Luisa was afraid he could hear the thumping beat of her quickened heart, could feel the thrust of her pulse beneath her skin.
She tried to think of Peter, to raise his poor image in her head. She was a widow; she had lost her husband not two months ago. And now here she was, standing next to a half-naked married man while her heart pounded beneath the bands of linen that flattened her bosom, while her skin tingled and her thoughts blurred.
This tingle of blood under her skin: arousal, or shame?
How could she tell? She’d never felt this way before. Peter, sweet Peter, had been her friend, a mere dear acquaintance, cheerful and distracted. Of his dutifully intimate fumblings under the covers at night, she remembered little. In the morning, the two of them had always pretended those necessary intimacies did not exist. It was all too embarrassing otherwise.
But still. She owed something to his memory, didn’t she? She owed him at least the respect due to a deceased husband, that she would not fall prey to base sexual attraction within weeks of his death.
Luisa jerked her arm away and stood. “Very well, then,” she said, handing him the cloth. “Clean it up yourself. It’s your mess, after . . .”
She stopped in mid-sentence, for she had just spotted an object on the rim of the washstand. A small, round, glittering object.
The state ring of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof.
“After . . . ?”
She shifted her gaze back to the earl. “All. After all. It’s your own mess, after all.” A novel sentiment, coming from her. Until that fateful October day, she had relied on servants to wipe clean every spill and stain in her life.
“You shame me.”
Luisa edged closer to the washstand. “I doubt anyone has the capacity to shame you, Lord Somerton. Least of all me.”
“You’re mistaken. I find I value your good opinion, for some unknown reason.”
“Likely the effect of the whiskey you’ve been drinking.” She nodded at the tray.
To her disappointment, he didn’t follow her glance. “Perhaps. But there’s something about you, Markham. I ought to have sacked you a dozen times already, and I haven’t. In fact, the offenses for which I ought to have sacked you, I find myself admiring instead.”
Keep him talking.
“Offenses? How have I offended you?” She stole another step.
Somerton lifted his hand and counted on his fingers. “Your insolence, your signal lack of respect, your disobedience of my direct orders . . .”
“I am not insolent.”
“Your dog.”
Quincy lifted his head at the word dog.
“My dog offends you?”
She caught sight of the ring again, from the corner of her eye, alluring as a magnetic center. How could he fail to wonder at it? Tomorrow morning, when he was sober, and the sunlight streamed through the window and banished this strange melancholy of his, he would pick up that ring and his eyes would narrow. He would turn it about in his fingers. He would see the inscription and read it. His sharp mind would link the pieces of the puzzle.
Luisa angled her foot idly. Two more steps, perhaps three.
Somerton twisted the glass in his palm. “He does. He reminds me of you, utterly lacking in respect for his betters.”
“That’s because he has no betters. He is a dog of impeccable moral standards.”
“And that, you see . . .” Somerton wavered, making another gesture with his empty glass. Luisa took another step, and another, as his gaze left her and traveled around the room.
“And that?” she pressed.
“And that is why I forgive you, I suppose,” he said quietly. “Because an honest, straightforward, loyal chap is the very devil to find in this world. A . . . a needle . . .”
She had reached the washstand. She placed her hands casually on the edge. The ring lay so close, eighteen inches at most. So easy to slip into her pocket. Just a little movement of her hand, when his face turned away . . .
“What are you doing?”
Luisa jumped. Somerton’s gaze had refocused on her, keen and black once more.
“Nothing. Merely waiting for you to continue. You’re vastly entertaining when drunk.”
His eyebrows came down in two forbidding lines. “Whelp. Off you go, then.”
“No, no. Pray go on.” She clutched at the edge of the washstand. Her fingers yearned around the bowl. She could almost picture them curling around the hard gold band, the bumps and ridges of the familiar gemstones . . .
Somerton stepped away from the table. His face was old and hard, all broad planes and unforgiving angles. “I said go, Markham,” he barked.
She held up her hands. “Very well. I . . .”
Without warning, Quincy leapt down from the bed and trotted to Somerton’s feet.
Somerton looked down. “What the devil are you doing, you half-witted mongrel?”
Quincy’s tongue lolled happily from his mouth, as if Somerton had just pledged his undying loyalty. He struck out one paw and stroked the earl’s bare left foot.
Like a seasoned thief, Luisa snaked her hand along the washstand and swept the ring away, into her pocket.
She could have sworn that Quincy winked.
“I’ll be off, then,” she said cheerfully. “Good night, pleasant dreams and all that. Come along, Quincy.”
She turned to leave. Behind her, Quincy’s claws scrabbled on the polished surface of the wood.
“Wait a moment.”
The silkiness of the earl’s voice made her foot arrest in midair. She took a deep breath, placed it back down, and forced a smile to her lips.
“Yes, sir?” she asked, turning back.
“Perhaps, Mr. Markham, you would like a moment to reconsider.”
The ring weighed heavily in her pajama pocket. She was afraid to look down and see what a lump it made, sticking out from her hip like a piece of coal.
“Reconsider what, sir?” She lifted her hand to smother a yawn. “I’m awfully tired. Quite done in.”
“Reconsider taking the ring from my washstand.”
At her feet, Quincy let out a whine and thumped his tail against the floor. A roaring sound rose up in Luisa’s ears, an ocean of fear.
“Sir, I don’t . . . I . . .”
“Mr. Markham. Do me the favor, if you will, of not playing the fool.” Somerton’s voice was sharp enough to cut steel. His face had gone blank, blank and hard-edged, a plaster mask of unknown intent. “I have faced down far more clever deceit than yours, believe me.”
She anchored her gaze on his nose, which was large and slightly Roman, an ancient gold coin of a nose. So must a butterfly feel, with the pin stuck firmly in her thorax.
“The ring is not yours,” she said.
“You think so? But neither is it yours.”
How it burned through the flannel of her pajamas. She stuck out her chin. “You are quite wrong. It is mine.”
“Yours?” He laughed brutally. “My dear fellow. Yours?”
“Mine.”
“A ring of such value, belonging to a common young clerk? Of such singular appearance? I can picture it now, a most unusual arrangement of stones.”
“It is a family heirloom. My only legacy from my father.” She kept her voice steady, her gaze trained on his, communicating truth.
“Ah. A family heirloom.”
“Yes. For generations.”
The brass clock ticked its slow military tick. Quincy huddled against her ankles, hangdog. Somerton stood rock-still before her, half clothed and magnificent, a cunning beast whose every sense seemed to reach out and penetrate her skin. A single muscle flexed at his chest, and then relaxed.
“This family heirloom. This legacy from your father. It simply dropped from your person during the attack?” he asked.
“The thief took it from my waistcoat pocket, right before you arrived.”
“Hmm.”
She waited for him to speak. To tell her she was a liar, to ask for the ring back. To ask her to show it to him.
“Why didn’t you claim the ring back immediately, in that case?” he asked, in that same inscrutable low tone.
“I didn’t think you’d believe me. As you say, a lowly clerk, with a ring so valuable. I thought you might think it suspicious.”
“It is suspicious, Markham. Damned suspicious.” He walked up to her with deliberate strides and stopped just shy of her body, a foot too close. She had to tilt her head upward to meet his black gaze, exposing her vulnerable gauze-wrapped neck.
“Then I suppose you don’t believe me.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and clutched the ring into her palm.
Somerton’s breath was thick with brandy and tobacco, tingling her skin. He raised his hand and touched her face. One finger dragged lazily along her bruised cheekbone, around the tense corner of her mouth, down to her chin. He captured the tip lightly between index finger and thumb.
“On the contrary, Mr. Markham,” he said softly. “I believe anything you choose to tell me.”
For an instant, she didn’t quite understand him. The words revolved in her head like some sort of drunken parlor game, attempting to find their correct order.
I believe anything you choose to tell me. Had he really said that?
Her chest seemed to glow and expand, as if a crushing weight had been lifted away.
Luisa drew in a massive breath and stepped back. “Thank you for your trust, your lordship. Good night.”
She was about to close the door behind her, when Somerton’s stern voice cut the air a final time.
“Until proven otherwise, Mr. Markham.”
SEVEN
London
February 1890
The front room of Mrs. Duke’s house in Battersea smelled like a barnyard.
“My deepest apologies,” said the duke, scratching delicately under his wig. “My neighbor to the left appears to have introduced a large and incontinent sow into the premises during the late cold spell. We are considering legal remedy.”
“Not at all.” Luisa removed her hat and set it on the hall stand. Quincy leapt from the crook of her left arm and pattered across the worn Oriental rug to the tips of Mrs. Duke’s leather half boots. One ear cocked hopefully.
“Oh, very well,” said Olympia. He reached for the tea tray and broke off a piece of ham sandwich. “With compliments.”
Quincy caught the sandwich in midair and swallowed it whole.
“You really shouldn’t. The servants in Chester Square spoil him shamelessly, to say nothing of Somerton’s boy.” Luisa eased herself carefully onto the faded velvet sofa next to the fireplace. Experience had made her cautious.
“Consider it my revenge against the sow,” said Olympia. “Warm yourself, warm yourself. The cold is intolerable today.”
“I don’t mind. Winters in Holstein were far worse. We used to be snowed in for days.” She reached for the teapot. “May I?”
“Go on, go on. I’ve swallowed three cups of coffee this morning in an effort to thaw myself. Where is that damned slatternly maid? Dingleby!” He lifted his voice to a friendly roar.
“Bugger yourself,” came the friendly reply, floating through the parlor door.
“Good servants are so difficult to find these days,” said Olympia.
Luisa bent her head over the cup and warmed her face in the fragrant steam. “Indeed. Have you made any progress this week? Is there any news from my sisters?”
“I find,” Olympia said, selecting a ham sandwich with less-than-feminine grace, “that one usually asks questions about others when one wishes to distract from oneself.”
“Bugger yourself.”
“Tut-tut. Such language from a princess of Germany.”
“I have absorbed myself into my role, as you suggested. And now I should like to know how my sisters are doing. You haven’t mentioned them in weeks.”
Olympia chewed, swallowed, dabbed a napkin to his mouth. “As it happens, there is news. I daresay you’ll see it in the papers shortly. Our dear Emilie’s employer has discovered her true identity.”
Luisa’s cup clattered into the saucer. She jumped to her feet. “What? Is she safe? Is she . . . is she . . . ?”
“Whole and unmolested? I very much doubt it. But the man in question is an honorable chap. He’ll make her happy enough, I daresay, if she allows him to.”
Luisa worked her mouth, which had gone rather dry. “She’s . . . she’s getting married?”
“She may not realize it yet. But yes. If all goes well, she’ll be the Duchess of Ashland by Lady Day.” He coughed slightly into his napkin. “If not sooner.”
She placed her hands on her hips. “If all goes well. What the devil do you mean by that?”
“Dear me. All this talk of buggery and devils. Perhaps I ought not to have packed you off to Somerton’s lair after all.”
“Uncle.” She deepened her voice to a warning growl. “Is my sister safe?”
“She is under the strictest protection, at my own house in Park Lane, guarded assiduously by the duke himself.”
“That’s not the same thing as safe.”
“My dear Luisa,” he said kindly, “none of you are safe. Not one person on this good earth is safe. You might be struck by an omnibus leaving this house. A scrape on your elbow might go septic. Typhoid, consumption, war, lawsuit . . .”
“Now you’re trying to distract me.”
“What I mean to say is this: Nothing in life is accomplished without risk. Fortune favors the bold. There is a tide in the affairs of men, which if taken at the flood . . .”
Luisa dropped to her knees before the chair on which Olympia sat, in a pool of striped cornflower blue silk. “What have you done, Uncle?” she whispered.
He took her hands on his lap. “Listen to me, my dear. We have not been idle, these past few months, Miss Dingleby and I. We have discovered that there is indeed a group of agents in England this minute, tracking down the three of you. We have discovered, moreover, that they are getting their information from a person with some knowledge of your situation. We believe we can turn this . . . this disruption of Emilie’s disguise to our advantage.” He patted her hands, as if to console her.
Quincy, who was sniffing the tea tray for further traces of ham, turned his head in Olympia’s direction and let out an inquisitive growl.
“Use her as bait, you mean.” Luisa could hardly move her lips.
Miss Dingleby’s voice interrupted the barnyard air of the parlor. “We have made our plans with the utmost care. We will hold an engagement ball, with great fanfare and public ballyhoo, in Olympia’s house. Dozens of our agents will be placed there, in every room. The Duke of Ashland will guard her personally . . .”
Luisa turned to Miss Dingleby, who stood at the parlor door, lean and angular in her gray maid’s uniform and incongruous white cap. “Oh, indeed! What on earth could possibly go wrong?”
“My dear, we’ve done these sorts of things endless times. Our agents are highly trained.”
“And Emilie will be right there in the middle of it all, with a target painted on her forehead . . .”
“She will not be touched, Luisa. I promise it.”
Luisa leaned forward and grabbed her uncle by his blue silk shoulders. “I will not lose her, do you understand me? I’ve lost my mother, my stepmothers, my father, my own husband! I will not lose my sisters as well!”
“There, now.” Olympia took her arms gently in his broad hands. “I quite understand.”
“They are all I have left.”
“Nonsense,” said Dingleby. “You have . . .”
“I quite understand,” said Olympia. “And I would sooner send a bullet through my own head than cause the slightest harm to you or your sisters.”
Luisa laid her head on his cheap silk knees and closed her eyes, so she wouldn’t see Miss Dingleby’s incredulous and somewhat disapproving face staring down at them. A long, warm tongue licked at her ankles, wetting right through her black wool stockings to her tender skin.
“Dear me,” said Olympia.
She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry; crying had long since been banished from her repertory of emotional display, such as it was. But she felt a certain brimming heaviness around her eyes and her heart. It had, after all, been a trying week. A trying winter, to be perfectly honest. She had never known anything like the atmosphere of the Earl of Somerton’s household, with its lines of battle etched out invisibly on the floorboards and its inhabitants tiptoeing about the heavy silence as if the life had been frozen out of them. As if they had all fallen into a trance of some kind, a nether-existence that was not living at all. Though Holstein Castle had been run along strictly formal protocols, and her father had treated her with brusque professionalism, and her stepmothers had died in childbed, her home nonetheless managed—perhaps even because of these struggles—to seethe with life and laughter and sisterly love.
