A Lady Never Lies (31 page)

“No, he can’t.”

“Of course he can, the coward.” He buttoned his trousers with swift fingers. “Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because driving makes him sick.”

“Makes him sick?” Finn stopped tucking his shirt and stared at her, incredulous. “Makes him
sick
? Bloody Christ, Alexandra! You stood in for him because
driving
makes him
sick
?”

“Well, yes,” she said. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

He fell against the back of the seat, laughing and gasping. “Oh, Lord! The poor damned fool!” His chest shook.

He was so infectious that she began to laugh, too, thinking of Hartley’s face, stricken and pasty, hanging out the side of the automobile as the steam hissed impatiently from the boiler. “Stop it,” she said, between spasms. “It’s not at all funny, the poor chap. He was . . . He was jolly miserable . . .”

“It’s
damned
funny! It . . . Oh, Lord.” He went on laughing, holding his hand to his chest, shirt half tucked, until she gave in helplessly next to him.

“There’s one bright spot, though,” he said, when their laughter had died down at last, and they sat companionably together on the leather seat, fingers entwined, her head resting blissfully on his shoulder.

“Oh, aside from our engagement?” She tucked her feet up beneath her and closed her eyes in contentment. A great warm blanket of certainty covered her, from head to toe. She sat, at last, exactly where she was always meant to be: curled up on the seat of a horseless carriage with Phineas Burke.

“Aside from that.” He gave her breast a congratulatory squeeze. “Reflect a moment, darling. I do suspect we’ve earned our place in the annals of automobile history, just now.”

EPILOGUE

A
cross the room, a rectangle of Roman sunshine burst past the curtains to illuminate, in intricate detail, the lace edging of a corset slung atop the back of a nearby chair.

Alexandra smiled sleepily. It must be noon at least.

An arm lay across her belly, long and heavy, the hand loosely cupping her breast. The owner’s breath stirred the hair at the top of her head. She listened for a moment, to the slow, regular rush of air, the far edge of it just brushing her ear. If she closed her eyes, she could measure the beat of his heart at her back.

My husband
, she thought in wonder.

She’d never woken up next to a husband before.

Slowly, so as not to disturb him, she rotated under his arm. Her aching muscles protested at the movement. She settled her face into the nook of his neck and breathed him in, his salty essence, all trace of oil and leather scrubbed away. She lay there a moment, unable to move any farther, and let his warmth simply enfold her. Let the languorous memories of the night stir through her mind, spread bliss through her body.

My husband.
The word seemed so different now.

“Good morning, love.” His low voice vibrated the air.

She craned her face upward. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He kissed her. “I’m glad you did. It must be frightfully late.”

“We were up late, as I recall.” She curled her hand suggestively around his bottom.

He turned her onto her back and rose above her, the thin rays of sunshine gilding his hair, making it seem more gold than red. Another kiss, this time long and lingering. “Apparently I lost track of time. Did you sleep well?”

“Divinely. The deep sleep of an honest woman. At last.”

He laughed. “I did my best to arrange things quickly. Three nights alone in my bed, with my dear love sleeping a single wall away, were almost more than I could bear.”

His skin hovered over hers, making her nerves jangle with anticipation. She drew her fingers along the taut, smooth skin of his waist. “And am I your dear love?” she asked softly.

Not because she doubted it, but because she wanted to hear the answer again.

“Daft woman. Did I not stand yesterday before the only ordained Anglican in Rome, obtained at considerable negotiation and expense, and pledge my life to you? Have I not spent an entire night doing my manful best to prove my devotion?” He kissed his way to her ear and whispered the words, “You are my own dear love, and always will be.”

“Finn,” she said, kissing his hair, relishing the feel of his weight against her. “Phineas Burke. I do love you.”

“I should bloody well hope so, Mrs. Burke.” He gave her earlobe a little nip. “It’s all been an immense amount of trouble. I daresay I’ve had enough of hasty wedding arrangements to last me a lifetime.”

“Well, that’s the idea, after all.”
Mrs. Burke.
The sound of it, the simple, commonplace name, sent a delicious shiver down her spine. “I did think Abigail made a lovely bridesmaid, on such short notice. And your nephew . . .” She loved saying the word. She employed it at every opportunity.
I suppose I can allow my new nephew a congratulatory kiss
, she’d told Wallingford yesterday, after the wedding, as she offered her cheek with an innocent smile.

Finn rolled his eyes. “He kept his scowls to a minimum, at least.” His thumb brushed the tip of her nipple. “Poor chap. She’s leading him a merry dance.”

“Abigail?” Alexandra allowed a wise smile to curve her lips. “She’ll never marry Wallingford.”

“Yes, she will.”

Alexandra lifted her head against the pillow. “Of course she won’t. She has much better sense.”

“You’re biased. He’s a good fellow, really. He’ll have her in the end.” Finn nuzzled her neck. His voice was supremely confident.

“Rubbish. I’ll wager you any odds. I’ll wager my fifty shillings a share . . .”

“No more wagers,” he groaned. “Please.”

His breath tickled her ear. She drew her hands up his back, into his hair, and closed her eyes. His cock, she noticed, was now pressing firmly into her leg, full of husbandly ardor. “Fair enough. No more wagers.”

“Besides, the bet’s unfair. Wallingford will marry her.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will.” Finn began to kiss along her collarbone, caressing little nibbles. “For one thing, he hasn’t got Giacomo undermining him at every turn.”

“Giacomo. That horrible man. I don’t know what he holds against me.” She sighed. “I’ve never even met him.”

Finn’s face stilled against the hollow of her throat. He looked up. “Yes, you have. You’ve seen him in the workshop, any number of times.”

She examined him curiously. His face was drawn in serious lines. “No, I haven’t. Not once. I’ve heard you speak of him, that’s all.”

He started back. “Oh, rubbish. You must remember. Wiry, dark-haired chap. Scowls all the time. Rather like Wallingford, only shorter and more tyrannical.”

She shook her head. “No. No, you’re mistaken. I’ve never seen him.”

“Oh, really, Alexandra.” He sat up, bare chest dusky in the muted light. “He was right there, that last morning. The morning of the midsummer feast. When you came in, he was just on the point of leaving.”

“Finn, you’re mad. There was no one else there.”

“Alexandra, I was
talking
to him. You must have heard us!”

She looked at him closely. His eyes lit strangely, penetrating her with that serious gaze of his. “I heard you muttering. But you’re always muttering to yourself.”

He let out a great gust of air and ran a hand through his hair. “What the devil,” he muttered. “What the devil. I swear it, Alexandra. He was
there
. In the room.”

Her heart began to hammer in her chest. “I’ve heard of him, of course. All the time. He and Signorina Morini . . .”

“Morini.” He latched onto the word. “Morini. The housekeeper. Which one is she?”

“Why, the older one. There’s Francesca and Maria, the blond one who wears her hair with a ribbon. Signorina Morini’s the older one with the headscarf, the one who gave you the message, when I wanted to meet you in the peach orchard.”

“No, that was Francesca. Definitely younger. No headscarf. Deeply disapproving.”

Alexandra’s thoughts began to whirl. “Morini doesn’t disapprove of you. Not at all. She encouraged everything. She and Giacomo kept . . .” She paused and watched Finn’s intent expression. “You’ve never seen her, have you?”

“No.” His voice was a mere whisper.

They stared at each other for a long moment in the quiet room. Alexandra felt a lock of her hair fall down over her shoulders, felt Finn’s hand push it away in an absent gesture.

The castle’s cursed, of course. Isn’t it delicious? Morini told me all about it.

A knock sounded through the open door to the sitting room.

“I’ll get it,” Finn said hoarsely.

He rose from the bed, his beautiful rangy body like a shadow in the dim room. From the armchair he grabbed a dressing robe and threw it around himself in a giant swirl. He tied the sash in swift jerks and strode out of sight.

Alexandra found his pillow, still warm and scented with his skin, and sank her arms around the fine linen weave. She listened to his voice echo from the sitting room, low and resonant, and then heard the outer door close.

“What is it?” she called.

Silence.

She sat upright, still clutching the pillow. “Finn?” she called out, more loudly.

He appeared in the doorway, a bemused smile on his face. A paper dangled from his fingertips.

“What is it?”

“It’s the devil of a good thing you didn’t make that wager with me.” He tossed the note in her direction.

She reached out and picked it up from the tangled sheets. It was folded in half, a few hasty lines scrawled in a hand she didn’t recognize. “Why’s that?”

“Because, my darling.” He sank into the bed behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder. His voice hitched, whether with laughter or shock she couldn’t quite tell.

“Because?” she prodded, opening the note with an odd frisson of foreboding.

“Because I’m afraid Wallingford and your sister have eloped.”

A roaring sensation started up in her ears. She dropped her eyes to the paper before her.

My dear fellow, Miss Harewood and I have found ourselves obliged to depart Rome on a matter of great urgency. Shall advise further when I can. In the meantime, assure your wife that Miss Harewood will remain under my full and devoted protection.

She looked up. “Eloped, did you say?”

“Isn’t that what it says?” His tone was innocent.

“No.” She folded the note and turned to fix him with her patented death glare. “No, it does not. What it says, Finn, is that
your nephew
has run off with
my sister
.”

His jaw worked. “I’m sure his intentions are entirely honorable.”

She planted her hands on her hips and said nothing, only went on staring without remission.

Many men had been broken by less.

“Hell,” he said. “I’m going to have to go after them, aren’t I?”

She lifted her eyebrows, to make sure her point was driven home.

“All right, then.” He heaved a resigned sigh and reached for his shirt. “It’s your honeymoon.”

HISTORICAL NOTE

T
oday, we take the supremacy of the internal combustion automobile for granted, but at the turn of the last century only 22 percent of American cars were powered by gasoline engines, and the world land speed record of sixty-six miles per hour was held by the rocket-shaped
Jamais Contente
, an electric vehicle.

While Delmonico’s automobile exposition is entirely a product of my imagination, the competition among steam, electric, and internal combustion engines formed a genuine and dramatic narrative for the development of the automobile in the 1890s and beyond. Each technology had its advantages and drawbacks, as Finn and Alexandra demonstrate, and it wasn’t until the development of the electric starter in 1912 (eliminating the need for a hand crank) coincided with improved highway infrastructure (encouraging longer journeys) that the internal combustion engine finally roared ahead of its peers in popularity. By the start of the Roaring Twenties, electric and steam automobiles were all but unknown.

For dramatic purposes, I’ve anticipated some technological advancements. Forty miles per hour would have been within reach for a steam vehicle of 1890, but existing lead-acid batteries weren’t capable of powering similar speeds for an electric one. I solved this problem as only a novelist can, by making my hero a genius who invents his own battery, as well as a more aerodynamic frame.

Finally, I couldn’t resist stretching the facts to engineer a cameo appearance by Emil Jellinek, a wealthy entrepreneur and early automobile enthusiast, and his daughter Adrienne Manuela Ramona Jellinek, born in 1889 and known to her family as Mercédès. Herr Jellinek did indeed enter the motor-car business, eventually joining the board of Daimler-Motoren-Gesellschaft in 1900 with an investment of half a million marks and a mandate to build the car of the future.

That car rolled out of the factory in December 1900, and it was named for Jellinek’s own daughter: Mercedes.

Turn the page to read an excerpt from the next book in the trilogy

A G
ENTLEMAN
N
EVER
T
ELLS

Coming from Berkley Sensation

in November 2012!

PROLOGUE

London

February 1890

I
n six years of clandestine service to his Queen and country, Lord Roland Penhallow had never before been summoned to the private library of the Bureau chief himself.

It could mean only one thing: He had inadvertently killed somebody.

Roland couldn’t imagine how. The last caper had tied up as neat as a bow, with hardly any noise and only a very little blood.
Even the most perfidious villain can be made to serve some purpose
, Sir Edward would intone, pressing one blunt forefinger into the polished mahogany of his Whitehall desk,
but a dead body is a nullity
. Roland had taken that advice to heart as a new recruit, and had lived by it ever since.

Standing now in Sir Edward’s shabby Mayfair entrance hall, with the tips of his shoes squared against the chipped marble tiles and his eyes roaming across a series of dyspeptic family portraits, Roland felt the same mild dread he’d known at Eton, when called in by his housemaster to atone for some recent prank. He knit his cold fingers together behind his back and looked upward at the dusky ceiling.
Nothing to worry about
, he told himself.
You can talk your way past anything, Penhallow.
Was that a water stain spreading along the far corner? The old fellow really ought to have that looked at; rubbishy things, leaks . . .

“Your lordship.”

Roland started. Sir Edward’s butler stood before him like an avenging penguin. His slick dark hair glinted in the yellow glare of the incandescent lamp on the hall table, and his impenetrable shirtfront held back the advance of his lapels with heroic whiteness. “Your lordship,” he repeated, as he might say
your flatulent wolfhound.
“Sir Edward will receive you in the library.”

The butler didn’t wait for a response. He turned his immaculate ebony back in Roland’s face and walked on in the direction—presumably—of the library.

“Thanks awfully,” Roland muttered, feeling less like the brother of the Duke of Wallingford and more like a dustman with every passing step.

“Ah! Penhallow!” Sir Edward said, as Roland stalked through the door of the library with as much sangfroid as he could muster. A considerable amount, he judged modestly: He wasn’t the Duke of Wallingford’s brother for nothing.

“Sir Edward.”

The baronet’s sturdy hand waved at the ancient wing chair before the desk. “Sit, sit. That will be all, Pankhurst. Oh, wait. Dash it, Penhallow. Have you dined?”

“Yes, at my club.”

“Excellent. Good. Off you go, then, Pankhurst. We’re not to be disturbed. Sit, I said, Penhallow. Don’t stand on ceremony
here
, for God’s sake.”

Roland sprawled into the armchair with his usual negligent grace, though the nerves along the back of his neck gave off a warning jangle. Sir Edward Pennington, chairman of Her Majesty’s Bureau of Trade and Maritime Information, did not typically begin meetings in a stream of jocular pleasantries.

The door closed behind him with a defiant thump.

Sir Edward’s eyes rolled upward. “Pankhurst. I daresay I ought to sack him, but on the other hand he’s frightfully discreet. A drop of something, perhaps?” He rose and went to the demilune table against the far wall, on which a tray of crystal decanters flashed invitingly. “Sherry? Whiskey? I’ve a noble port at the moment, last of the ought-nines my father put down for me on the occasion of my birth, ha-ha.”

“I shouldn’t wish to deprive you,” said Roland, who felt the loss of noble ports keenly, even in his present disturbed spirits.

“Nonsense. If one waits for the right occasion, one never drinks it at all.” Sir Edward picked up a decanter and lifted the stopper. “Ah! There we are, you damned beauty.”

“I say, you’re a good deal more generous than my brother,” Roland said. He watched with narrowed eyes as Sir Edward poured out one glass and then another, filling each one nearly to the rim with thick ruby port. In the silent, book-filled room, the liquid swished against crystal like an Amazonian waterfall. “He never lets me near his vintage.”

“Ah, well. Dukes, you know.” Sir Edward handed him the glass. “To the Queen.”

“The Queen.”

The clink of glasses rang amiably in the air, and Sir Edward, instead of returning to his desk, moved to the window overlooking the rear garden. With one hand he lifted aside the heavy burgundy curtains and peered out into the foggy darkness. He took a drink of port. “I suppose,” he said, “you’re wondering why I’ve called you here tonight.”

“It came as something of a surprise.”

“Ah! Circumspect.” Sir Edward swirled the port in his glass. “You’ve come along damned well these past few years, Penhallow. Damned well. I thought, when they first foisted you on me, you’d be nothing but an aristocratic millstone around my neck, with your flashy looks and your matchless damned pedigree. But I was quite wrong about that, to my considerable pleasure. Quite wrong.” He turned to face Roland, and all the painfully contrived jollity had faded from his expression, leaving its lean angles even more austere than usual.

“I’m grateful to have been of service, sir,” said Roland. “Queen and country and all that. Dashed good fun.” He gripped the narrow bowl of his glass until the facets cut hard and cold against his fingertips.

“Of course you are. I don’t doubt that for an instant.” Sir Edward stared down into the ruby depths of his port.

“Sir?” Roland said, because his dry mouth would not permit anything more fluent. Then he remembered the port, and raised it to his lips for a hearty, seamanlike swallow.

Sir Edward cleared his throat. “Here’s the trouble. As I suspect you’re aware, we’re not the only organization in Her Majesty’s government charged with gathering intelligence.”

“Of course not. Tripping on each other’s toes all the time.” Roland offered a winning smile, his most charismatic younger-brother effort. “Why, just last month I nearly came to a bad end myself. Stumbled directly into a setup by some damned chaps from the Navy office. The bloodiest balls-up you’ve ever seen.”

“Yes, I read your report.” Sir Edward returned to the desk and sat down in his chair. A trace of what might be called a smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Rather well written, your reports, except perhaps for an excess of descriptive phrase.”

Roland shrugged modestly. “Reports would be so dull otherwise.”

“In any case, it appears those—er—damned chaps from the Navy office, as you put it, aren’t taking things in quite the same spirit of brotherhood.”

“No? Hardly sporting of them. They were all quite on their feet again within a week or two.” Roland flicked a speck of dust from his jacket sleeve.

“Ah. Still. Despite your tender care, which no doubt met the very highest standards of the service . . .”

“Naturally.”

“. . . there’s talk”—Sir Edward set down his glass and fiddled with the neat rectangle of papers in the center of the leather-trimmed blotter—“that our involvement represented a deliberate attempt to undermine the efforts of a long and prestigious investigation.”

Roland lifted his eyebrows. Despite hours of concerted effort, he’d never yet managed to raise one by itself. “You can’t be serious. Does the Navy office really think I’ve nothing better to do with my time than to plot its downfall? For God’s sake, my source gave me every reason to think . . .”

“Your source.” Sir Edward lifted the topmost paper from the stack and scanned it. “Johnson, to be precise.”

“Yes, sir. You know the man. Thoroughly reliable, well-placed at the Russian mission.”

“And as of this morning, aboard a steamer to Argentina with a number of small, heavy trunks, inhabiting a first-class starboard cabin.” Sir Edward looked up. “Surprised, are you?”

Roland slumped back in his chair. “Well, I’m dashed!”

“Dashed. Yes.”

“Argentina!”

“Apparently so. Traveling under his real name, of all things.”

“The cheek!”

“My counterpart at the Navy is, of course, beside himself. He’s convinced you paid off Johnson, that it’s all part of some plot on our part to make fools of them, at best. At worst . . .”

Roland shot forward out of the chair and pinned the paper to the blotter with his finger. “Don’t say it, by God.”

“Pax, you young fool. I wasn’t accusing you of anything.”

“But someone is.” Roland’s voice was low, deadly, quite unlike its usual self.

Sir Edward tilted his lean face to one side and considered Roland for a long moment. “Someone is.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” Sir Edward frowned. “Look, Penhallow. I shall speak as freely as I can, because I consider myself a fair judge of men, and I know no man more disinterestedly devoted to the welfare of the British nation as you.”

Roland’s arrow-straight body relaxed an infinitesimal degree.

“Something’s up, Penhallow. I don’t know what it is. Rumblings, currents. There’s always been rivalry, of course; bitter, at times. One expects that, in this line of work, with no great financial benefit, no hero’s reception at St. Paul’s and whatnot. Power’s the only currency. But the things I hear now, the things I sense, odd instances of this and that . . . I can’t put it into words, exactly. But something’s off.”

Roland eased back into his chair, every sense alert. “What sort of thing?”

Sir Edward tented his fingers together atop the fine white paper, fingertip against fingertip. “If I knew that, Penhallow, I’d have taken action by now.”

“Then how can I help?”

“That, you see, is the trouble.” He drummed his fingertips together; hard, sturdy, peasantlike fingers that matched his hard, sturdy body and made the gentleman-like cut of his superfine jacket seem like racing silks on a destrier. “Tell me, Penhallow,” he said, in an even voice, “have you any enemies? Besides, of course, those damned chaps you put out of action a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, any number. One doesn’t construct a reputation like mine without putting a few noses out of joint.”

“Anyone who might wish to ruin you?”

“There are all sorts of ruin to wish upon a man who’s beaten you at cards, or stolen your mistress.”

“I mean total ruin. Moral, physical. A man, perhaps, who might wish to have you condemned for treason.”

Treason.

The word rang about the room, ricocheted off the books and objects, settling at last between them with an ugly clank.

“None that I can call to mind,” Roland said quietly.

“And yet,” Sir Edward said, just as quietly, “I can say, with near certainty, that such a man exists.”

“Name the man, and he is dead within the hour.”

“I don’t know his name. That, you see, is the mystery.” Sir Edward rose and went to the middle of a row of bookshelves near the window, where a small globe interrupted the even flow of leather-bound volumes. He placed one hand, spiderlike, over the Atlantic Ocean. “Have you anywhere you can retire for a month or two? Perhaps more? Somewhere discreet?”

“What,
hide
? Oh, I say . . .”

“Not hide. Not at all. Only retire, as I said, from the limelight for a bit.”

“Damn it all, sir, I won’t turn tail and slink away.”

“Discretion, in this case, is much the better part of valor.” Sir Edward turned and skewered him with a rapier gaze from his dark eyes. “The idea is to tease the fellow out in the open. Find out what he’s really after. Let him think he’s won. An easy triumph breeds overconfidence.”

“And I should meanwhile sit twiddling my thumbs in some country seat . . .”

“Preferably outside of England.”

“Oh, rot. Outside of England? I’ve no tolerance for Paris, and no friends anywhere else that . . .” He stopped. A thought began to writhe its way through the currents of his brain, like a poisonous eel.

“What is it?”

“It’s . . . it’s nothing, really. Only some damned idea of a friend of ours.”

“What sort of idea? What sort of friend?”

“A scientific fellow. Burke’s his name, a very close and trusted friend of mine and my brother’s. He’s got some lunatic scheme in the works, proposes to spend a year in a castle in the Tuscan mountains, fiddling with automobiles and whatnot . . . really most ineligible . . .”

“Good God! It’s perfect!”

“What’s that? Oh, Lord, no. Not at all. Damp, wretched things, castles. And swearing off women and drink and . . . well, everything at all that makes life bearable.”

“Just the thing for you, Penhallow. Marvelous. I shall write the necessary letters at once, open up a line for communication . . .”

“What’s that?”

But Sir Edward was already scribbling himself a memorandum. “Beadle, I think, in the Florence office. He shall set you up with everything you need. Tuscany, eh? The land of unending sunshine, I believe they say. Ha. You’ll have a splendid time. Most indebted to this Mr. Burke of yours.”

Roland watched the motion of Sir Edward’s pen along the paper and began to feel queasy. “I refuse to . . .”

“What’s that? Oh, rubbish, Penhallow. I shall take care of everything on this end and notify you when it’s safe to return. Think of it as a kind of sabbatical. You’ll return to us refreshed, renewed. Full of zest for life and all that.”

Roland, who was never at a loss for words or composure, found himself devoid of both. His jaw swung helplessly below his brain.

Sir Edward folded the paper and looked up. “What’s that? Oh, come, Penhallow. You look as though you’ve been passed a sentence of death. Think of all the advantages: sunshine, wine, decent food. Ripe young women who can’t speak English.”

He rose from his chair, held out the paper, and grinned like a demon.

“What could possibly go wrong?”