Always a Temptress (13 page)

“I don’t know if you’re a saint or a fool, Harry,” Drake said, tossing back the rest of his drink. “But I’ll help you get married.”

Harry downed his own drink. “It seems the time has come to piss into the wind.”

Darkness had weight. It had substance. Kate’s nanny had told her that darkness was no more than the absence of light, but Kate knew better. It was a living thing that pulsed, that breathed, that spoke. That slowly, inexorably, engulfed, bearing you down with every memory and fear that gave it life. Darkness had form and mass, as thick as tar, as fluid as oil, as deep as death. It had its own temperature, a cold so deep it burned the bones.

And finally, it had voice.
Helpless
, it whispered over and over again.
Helpless, worthless, helpless
, its voice rising like a child’s. Panic sent it soaring, shrill and frantic until, finally, spent and miserable, it disintegrated into a whimpering plea that never changed and was never answered.
Papa.

Kate knew all this. She had challenged it before, eyes open, and she had succumbed, curled up in an empty corner. She might have survived it better this time if she hadn’t just been locked in a cellar the day before. She might have held the panic off longer if she could hear anything beyond her prison or been able to outpace the nightmares. But when she had protested the staff’s handling of her, they had put her in a room with thick walls and stout doors and no light. She was completely alone in an unlit box that seemed to shrink by the minute.

She tried to outpace the darkness, but she knew better. She tried to ignore the old memories and newer fears. But it took light to do that, movement, challenge. Spring spent dancing in Mayfair, summer walking the Eastcourt fields, Christmas tucked into her pew at quaint old All Saints listening to Bea spin gold from old carols. Sunlight bolstered her spirits, and music made her believe. And cloaked in the untidy babble of voices, she could imagine that she had won. That she had escaped and triumphed.

But in the dark, the truth was clear. No matter how hard she tried, how much she believed, nothing really changed. So she walked until she couldn’t anymore. Until she could no longer silence the keening in her head, a sound of madness, of grief, her hands clenched to her mouth to stem the tide of despair that threatened to pour out.

She shouldn’t have bothered. There were no others to hear her. None but the silence and the darkness, and they knew what lived in her head. So she paced. She would pace until the weight of the darkness bore her down and she succumbed.

It took all night to organize Kate’s rescue. By the time Harry finally approached her brother, he was hungry, tired, and holding on to his temper by a thread.

Livingston House was on Grosvenor Square, an elegant white four-bay row house with ornate wrought iron at the balconies and windows. When Harry was shown inside, though, all semblance of elegance disappeared. Harry found himself gaping, and wondered if Kate had seen her brother’s house. Because if there was ever an Egyptian decor that could frighten children, this would be it.

It wasn’t simply the fact that the furniture was adorned with alligator feet, snake heads, and strange, elongated dogs. It was that the duchess had evidently collected every Egyptian couch, chair, and table in Mayfair and crammed them in with a forest of palm trees, like a Cairo ghetto. Harry even suspected that that might be a mummy case standing in the corner.

When he finally picked his way through to the morning room to find the duke and duchess eating breakfast, he almost cost his mission by laughing in the woman’s face. He disliked the Duchess of Livingston on sight, a thin, icy blonde with the kind of nose that always seemed pointed upward and eyes the blue of a Russian lake. Braced up by Chuffy Wilde, Ian Ferguson, and the Reverend Lord Joshua Wilton, Harry made his bows to both her and the duke, who still looked like a dyspeptic rabbit.

“What do you mean by this, Lidge?” Livingston demanded, jumping to his feet, a knife and muffin still in his hands. “I said we were not at home.”

“I told you I’d come,” Harry said.

Beside him, Chuffy stepped to the front. “Knew you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if you kept your sister’s lawful husband away from her,” he said with a wide smile, as if he couldn’t imagine the duke not being thrilled to see them.

Rising from her place like Medea on a tear, the duchess assessed Chuffy as if he had just dripped mud on her carpets. “And what matter is it to you, sir?”

“Thought you might need a peachful witness,” he said.

“Unimpeachable,” Harry instinctively corrected.

Chuffy positively beamed. “Spot on.”

Suddenly the duke took a step back. If the sudden pallor on his skin was any indication, he’d just caught sight of Ferguson. “Who the hell are
you
?” he squeaked.

Not an unreasonable reaction, considering the fact that Ian topped Harry by half a dozen inches and was kitted out in full Black Watch regalia with red jacket, black-and-blue tartan kilt, and black bearskin tucked under his arm. With his wild, too-long auburn hair, he was a sight to put fear in the hearts of much braver men. Especially when he smiled, as he was doing now.

Well, at least they’d talked him out of the claymore.

“Ah, don’t fesh y’rself about me, laddie,” Ferguson drawled. “I’m just here to make sure we come away with the wee duchess.” When he saw the blond ice queen blanch, he let go a great laugh. “T’ other wee duchess, don’t ya ken. The grand one who invited me to her weddin’.”

“You will address me as Your Grace,” Livingston demanded.

Ian was already shaking his head. “Only man alive I’ll give that honor is Old Nosey himself. And that’s because he’s a braw man in a fight. Are you?”

Patting Ian’s arm as if he were a schoolboy, Chuffy intervened before blood was shed. “Ian Ferguson, Viscount Brent,” he introduced him. “Other unimpeachable witness, don’t ya know. Thought you’d need more than one, so you could be sure Lidge here wasn’t lying.” Chuffy blinked. “Although I’ve never seen him do it before…”

“Chuffy,” Harry muttered.

Chuffy beamed and shoved his round glasses up his nose. “Right. Ian, like to present you to Edwin and Glynis Livingston, Duke and Duchess of Livingston. Lady Kate’s brother.” Not giving Ferguson the chance to loose another insult, he kept speaking. “Now, Your Graces. Lidge here married Lady Kate right after Gracechurch remarried his missus. Friends all there anyway, don’t ya know.” Reaching into the pocket of his puce-and-gold waistcoat, he drew out an official-looking paper as if it were a magic trick. “Here you go. Knew you’d want proof. Seems important to you.”

Harry almost laughed at the outrage on the haughty faces. Chuffy didn’t let them get started, though. “Even brought along our friend Joshua, who said the words. Lord Joshua Wilton.” He motioned to the third member of their party. “Duke of Greason’s son. But you know that, don’t you?”

“The
Reverend
Lord Joshua Wilton,” the tall cleric gently corrected as he gave a perfect bow. “Your Graces. A pleasure to see you, as always.”

Both the duke and duchess flushed an unpretty red. The was no question of Wilton’s profession or veracity. Not simply because of the clerical collar, or the cross on his chest. Tall and rangy, Wilton had the ascetic features of a monk. If Harry hadn’t heard him belly-laugh at the idea of putting one over on the loathsome Duke and Duchess of Livingston, he would have thought Wilton had never cracked a smile in his life.

The duchess sniffed at the sight of the document. “How do we know this is—?”

Wilton bristled. Chuffy guffawed. “Zounds, ma’am, even the queen herself don’t have the nerve to call Wilton a liar. And she’ll say it about her own sons. Here.” He handed over the paper. “See for yourself. There’s my name, along with Kate’s friend Lady Bea. Sweet old thing, ain’t she? Pats a person on the head like a hound bitch.”

In fact, Lady Bea had first refused the pen when asked to sign. It had taken the combined efforts of Harry, Grace Hilliard, and Finney the butler to change her mind.

“Where is Lady Kate?” Harry asked, twitching with impatience.

Livingston looked up. “I think I should have my man of business verify this.”

Wilton drew himself up to his not-inconsiderable height and frowned. “I sincerely hope, Your Grace, that you don’t find it necessary to question my word.”

Livingston’s face grew even darker. His wife went rigid. Harry had the oddest feeling that she was far more livid than her husband.

“Our sister was in need of help, Reverend,” the duchess said, hands tightly clasped atop drab rose skirts. “Surely you understand our…concern when the man asking for her release is the same…
person
who attacked the duke as he did his duty.”

“But that person is her husband,” Wilton evenly reminded her. “You must see that you interfered with his rights.”

Rights, Harry thought dourly, uncomfortably aware of what Kate would say about that. “Now,” he said, holding on to his patience with both hands. “Where is she?”

I
t didn’t seem like a bad place. An ivy-covered limestone Palladian mansion with three even rows of windows and sloping lawns, the Richmond Hills Asylum looked to have once been a private estate. The public rooms were clean and smelled of strong disinfectant and floor wax. Flowers graced the tables, lace curtains hung in the windows, and the staff wore clean white aprons. Even the administrator, a Dr. Whaley, spoke with an educated accent and wore a signet with a Tudor rose on it that matched the one painted on the sign outside, which made Harry think old family.

He was perusing the paper Harry had handed him. “I don’t think…”

“Don’t think,” Harry suggested. “Just take us to her. As you can see by this license, she is now Lady Catherine Lidge. Which makes me—” He took a step closer, with a grim smile that forced Whaley back a pace. “—most unhappy.”

He felt a cautioning hand on his arm and looked up to see Ian Ferguson smiling at the doctor. “Oh, he’ll let us in,” the great Scot promised in his deadliest voice.

Wilton and Chuffy were waiting out in the carriage. Harry thought that between the 95th and the Black Watch, full-dress uniforms would better convince the doctor of their purpose.

With a nervous look from Harry to Ian, Whaley spun around, his keys jangling like Harry’s nerves. Waving off assistance from the attendants, Whaley strode over to a locked door and, after a moment of fumbling, unlocked it. Harry braced himself, not at all sure what he’d see.

More flowers. More lace curtains and a clean, tidy hallway with Persian rugs over the hardwood floors. Comfortable chairs and whisper-footed servants. The place looked like a bloody hotel for diplomats.

The only thing that betrayed its true intent was the fact that women in plain blue gowns wandered aimlessly along the hall, not even looking up when they heard the door open. They didn’t seem to notice as the three men walked by, and Harry couldn’t imagine anyone ignoring Ian.

“Always thought I’d like my women to be more quiet,” the great Highlander muttered, shaking his shaggy head. “I think I’ll be changin’ my mind.”

Harry couldn’t agree more. The unnatural silence grated on his already stretched nerves. Even so, in one way he felt much relieved. How awful could it be here for Kate? The only thing he could think she might object to was the color of the carpets. It wasn’t as if they’d shoved her in a wine cellar.

“I know I don’t have to ask if you’re taking good care of her,” he told the doctor.

“Oh, excellent care, Sir… uh, Henry. She’s so much better today.”

Harry pulled the little man to a stop in the middle of the hall. “Better?”

Whaley nodded, both hands wrapped around the keys. “Oh, yes. She was…distressed about being here last night. It often happens.” Nodding toward the rest of the hall, he smiled. “But as you can see, our ladies are all very happy here. Once we convinced Lady Kate that cooperation would make her stay much more comfortable, she settled right down.”

Harry stared at the women who failed to notice him, pale wraiths in blue, and fought a sudden chill. Surely not.

He turned at the sound of the keys. Whaley had stopped about halfway down the hall and was unlocking a door. “The lock is merely standard procedure for the first two days. After that, unless she causes a problem, she’s quite free to mingle.”

“Not anymore,” Harry said. “She’s going home.”

Harry’s first sight of the room was of gray afternoon light seeping in through another lace-curtained window. His stomach unclenched by inches. There was another thick rug on the floor and nice, if plain furniture, with a bright yellow quilt on the bed. Kate was awake, seated in an armchair in front of the window, groomed and neat as a pin in that ubiquitous blue dress.

“Well, here you are,” he said, giving her a smile.

She didn’t so much as blink. Harry felt the first cold tendrils of dread wrap around him. Striding across the floor, he went down on his knees next her. “Kate?”

He kept forgetting how tiny she was, not even an inch over five feet. Seated in picture-perfect position, her back not touching the chair, her hands in her lap, her toes barely touching the floor, she was gazing fixedly at her lap. It was the most uncomfortable position Harry could imagine. And yet she didn’t budge, like a child who had been admonished to sit straight until her parent returned.

What frightened Harry was that he didn’t think he had ever seen her so still. She didn’t even acknowledge his presence. It was as if someone had stolen her away and left a wax effigy in her place. He took her hands in his and found them limp and chilly.

“What did you do to her?” he demanded, looking up at Whaley.

Whaley looked affronted. “Why, nothing. We had to isolate her, of course. She tried to bite an attendant when they had to bathe her. But we assured her that she would be let out when she acted in a civilized fashion. Ladies are such social creatures, you see. They can’t bear to miss out on the gossip. Eventually, they come to understand.”

He was smiling. The bastard was smiling.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Isolation. Were there windows in this isolation?”

“And take the chance of having a patient cut herself? Of course not. There is nothing in the room that could be a danger.”

She had to have been in the asylum at least twelve hours. How long had she been in the dark? Harry didn’t bother beating the doctor to within an inch of his worthless life. He just scooped Kate up in his arms, his only thought that she felt cold and small. Too small.

She didn’t react. Her pupils didn’t even constrict. She simply lay in Harry’s arms, never blinking or speaking.

“Poor wee thing,” Ian whispered, grabbing the quilt and wrapping it around her.

“Come along, little one,” Harry crooned, turning for the door. “Time to go.”

Wasting no time, he carried her from the building and settled with her next to Chuffy in the carriage. He needed her safe. He needed to get her away from not just this place but these witnesses. The Kate he knew seemed to relish inspiring outrage. Pity, though, would be an entirely different matter.

“Where to?” Ian asked, leaning in the door.

“Her house. She needs to see Bea.”

Across from him, Chuffy nodded. “Nothing like your own bed to comfort you.”

“Not her bed,” Harry disagreed, the silent weight of her in his arms unnerving. Right now he’d give anything to have her rail at him. “That’s not what she needs.”

Kate wasn’t sure when she began to return. At first, she was confused. Time seemed to have melted, and she was fifteen again. She was down in the glen with Harry, sating herself on sunlight and the beauty in her beau’s smile. It was her favorite thing, lying in his arms down by the stream where she could see the tight green leaf-buds begin to unfurl on oak trees and feel the soothing rhythm of Harry’s heart against her cheek. Where she could inhale the bluebells’ spicy scent and know the fragrance would always bring her back here.

Harry would call her hopelessly romantic. He would tell her that she was only risking freckles lying in the grass without a bonnet, and then happily explain how sunlight turned into spots. She didn’t care. The air was open, the sunlight free, and she planned to gorge on it like a glutton at a Christmas feast.

Besides, Harry was murmuring against her ear. She couldn’t quite hear what he said, but she knew he was telling her he loved her. In a moment, after she savored the comfort of his arms just a bit more, she would reach out and trace the hard angles of his square, strong face, and she would whisper to him,
Sic itur ad astra.
Such is the path to the stars. And she would believe it.

“Harry,” she murmured, snuggling closer to his chest. “Kiss me.”

She couldn’t understand why Harry needed to be encouraged. Yet he’d gone still, as if he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Harry, please.”

Bending over her, his big, rough hand cupping her face, Harry put his lips to hers. His lips were so soft, his breath as quick as the breeze. He nibbled at her lower lip as if it were a sweet, sucked on it, just enough to taste. His fingers rasped against her skin, spilling chills before them. Her body, oddly cold and still, began to thaw, warm, glow. It seemed an oddly unfamiliar feeling, as if lost for a long time.

She wanted more. She wanted to lift her hand to him, but it seemed so heavy.
She
seemed heavy; tight, as if she’d fallen from a horse or tried to run too far. Yet she refused to investigate. If she did, she might have to leave this perfect moment.

It was inevitable, though. She had to see him. But even as she opened her eyes, she knew it was a mistake. The trees were in the wrong place, and where was the oak? There were only brick walls and the flash of sunlight on a window. And there were no bluebells; no wildflowers at all. Spring was long gone. The roses were blown and the leaves on the plane trees yellow and drifting through a muddy city sky. She blinked, prepared to hide, except that she had to see Harry.

But he was wrong, too. The face that bent over hers belonged to an older man, harder, leaner, with creases at his temples and eyes that gleamed like ice in the sunlight.

Kate’s heart began to gallop; panic seemed to block off her breath. No, she decided, this was surely not Harry. It was just another illusion. Another wish withered to grief. She would go back into herself where all was safe and quiet. She closed her eyes.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she heard the older Harry say, and he shook her. He shook her hard. “Come back here, Katie my cat. Talk to me.”

She knew then that it really was Harry. No one else had ever called her that and gotten away with it.

“Open your eyes, Kate. You’re safe. You’re home.”

She couldn’t answer him. She didn’t have the courage. What if it was a lie? What if she looked up and saw nothing but hard, white walls? She didn’t want him to try to bring her back from the safety of her own silence. She simply couldn’t risk it anymore.

“Kate,” Harry said, his voice brisk. “You’re frightening Lady Bea.”

The name was like a vinaigrette beneath her nose. She couldn’t frighten Bea. “Where is she?”

Was that her voice? It sounded so rusty and tentative.

“Sitting inside the library waiting for you. But I wanted you to feel the sunlight first. Now open your eyes. We’re running out of time, and there’s business to attend to.”

“You’re real?” she asked, the truth still barricaded beyond closed eyelids.

“Very real. Are you feeling better?”

Kate almost laughed. She could still hear plaintive, lost murmurs in her head. And something else, another voice. She listened, but it was gone now, left in the corners of a madhouse. For some reason, though, the whisper of that voice nagged at her, as if she needed to remember it.

No. She didn’t need to remember anything of that place. She needed to shut it away, just like always. “I’m fine,” she said as if she meant it. “Fine.”

“Where did you go just now?”

“Where I was safe.” She whispered it, afraid again.

“I thought you’d try to stay awake and alert,” Harry said, and sounded oddly hurt. “So you’d be ready to get out.”

She opened her eyes. “Why?”

He was frowning. “I told you I’d come.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

She had meant no malice with her words. They were the simple truth. But they seemed to freeze Harry solid. For the longest time he didn’t move, his expression stony.

“You didn’t expect to get out of there,” he said baldly.

Again, she told him the truth. “No. Why should I? Bea would fight for me, and my staff, I suppose. But who would listen to a confused old woman and a motley crew of servants, most of whom were hired from prison?”

“Is there no one else you can rely on?”

She laughed, as if she found him amusing. “Heavens, no. I gave that up long ago.”

“I see.”

His voice was tight and dry, and Kate imagined she could hear the relief there. God knew he wouldn’t want her to rely on him. No one would.

And then before he could say more, she swung her feet down and lurched upright. She was seated on the wrought-iron bench in her garden, still clad in the asylum’s drab blue uniform. She could smell the place on her, not bluebells or fresh air. Madness and fury and despair. Whispering again, just at the edge of her memory.
You have to listen…

“I need to change,” she said, tugging at her bodice with shaking fingers.

She itched again. Her hair felt as if it had been dipped in tallow, and she felt as if she might shake apart. She stared at her trembling hands as if she didn’t recognize them.

“You will,” Harry promised, helping her sit. “After we have a little talk.”

She tugged at the bright yellow quilt someone had wrapped around her. She needed to cover up. “Talk. No, I don’t need to talk; I need to bathe.”

She needed to collect her composure and button it around her like a woolen pelisse. She needed to remember that voice.

No, she didn’t.

Was this what Jack Gracechurch had felt like, she wondered, his memory ragged and incomplete? No, she decided. Jack
couldn’t
remember. She didn’t want to.

“You must attend, Kate,” Harry said, standing. “We’ve come up with a plan.”

She laughed. “That’s what I love about the Rakes. Give them an hour and a box of cigars, they’ll come out of the den ready for Waterloo. What did you plan?”

“How to keep you safe from your brother.”

Kate felt something tilt inside her, as if lead had been poured into an unstable cup. Even knowing how mad it sounded, she chuckled. “My brother. You. The Lions. I declare, Harry, I never knew a girl could have so many people intent on pursuing her. It might be time for me to retire to the country and knit mufflers for the poor. Maybe that would placate everyone and secure my place in heaven.”

“I doubt it. You need to be protected, Kate, and this time you need help.”

She nodded. “Actually, I was thinking about that. About why I’ve been targeted.” She focused on her blanket, smoothing it over her lap as if it would bring her order. As if her motions could restitch the unraveling threads of her life. “I’ve really thought hard about it, Harry. But I have no idea what it is the Lions want.”