Firelight (12 page)

She smiled thinly. “You understand nothing of women then.” Her fingers bit into his arm. “Have your toy if you must,” she said with flat reserve. “But I will not be pushed away again. Only I know what you truly are. We belong together, and it is time you remembered.”

He drew her in, vaguely aware that a low growl rumbled in his breast. He would end this now. For too long, he had ignored her mad attachment to him. Victoria’s eyes widened, watching him, waiting to see what he would do. A faint sneer curled her red lips. She underestimated him; she always had.

“This way, darling,” said a voice from behind them. “Oh, I say…”

Archer turned to see young Mr. Hendren framed in the doorway with his latest mistress clinging to his arm. The pair eyed him with varying levels of distaste and wariness.

“Have we interrupted?” The jeer in Hendren’s voice was poorly hidden.

Archer almost told him yes, sod off, but Victoria slid from his grasp and out of the room. He grit his teeth in fury. He’d never catch her now; experience had taught him that well. With a glare at Hendren, he pushed past the couple and went out to control the damage wrought.

He tracked Miranda by instinct, feeling the pull of her lead him through the house. No longer distracted by Victoria, his senses filled with his wife, her scent, the desperate sound of her breathing coming to him over the chatter of revelers and the discordant strains of a waltz.

Outside, the air was cool and fresh, the scent of loam and earth rising from well-tended flowerbeds lining the rear garden. Crushed shells crunched beneath his feet as he strode down the center path, alerting her to his presence. She spun from her position under the willow tree, her glorious hair shining penny bright in the moonlight.

“Miranda.” He reached out for her, desperate to hold her, reassure her, and perhaps glean some comfort for himself.

She stopped short at his touch, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to…” She bit her lip and looked away ashamed. His heart turned over in his chest. He was at fault here. He’d pulled her into a world of death and depravity. The need to protect her made his arms quake, yet he hesitated. What right had he to hold Miranda when everything Victoria said about him was true?

The wind shifted, pulling strands of red silken hair across her cheek. He could not help but brush them back, his touch lingering on her skin, but something about the breeze gave him pause. He stopped and inhaled. His throat closed tight as the sticky sweet stench of offal flowed over him like sludge. Miranda winced as his hand convulsively clenched on her upper arm.

Clouds scuttled over the moon and then away. Just beyond his bride he saw it, the distorted line of a man sprawled upon the ground, unmoving as dry leaves rustled over him. Miranda read Archer too well and turned to the sight as if called. A scream welled up in her and died as she saw what he did—polished opera slippers tilting drunkenly on the path, thin legs encased in fine trousers, a black stain spread like an oil slick over a white waistcoat, and the throat of Lord Marcus Cheltenham laid open to the night. Archer pulled Miranda hard against his chest, tucking her head into his shoulder as he closed his eyes. But nothing would erase the sight of his friend’s bone-white face, blood pouring from his mouth, and the golden shine of a West Moon Club coin resting gently over one eye.

Chapter Eleven

T
he bookstore was, as the sign said, closed for lunch. Miranda knocked anyway, rapping her knuckles rather hard upon the scarred green door. Eventually, Archer had needed to go out and visit his man of business. Miranda had acted, absconding with the coach and fleeing as soon as Archer was out of sight. Not a very courageous course, but necessary. Her fingers tightened around the coin in her pocket. She had to understand this. And she feared asking Archer.

Poppy answered on the third knock, her quizzical eyes going from Miranda to the waiting town coach on the road behind. “Well, you’ve managed to arrive at lunch,” Poppy said. A fiery red brow slanted. “I don’t suppose you’d like to partake of the common man’s food?”

“Oh, do shut up, Poppy.” Miranda bit back a smile. “Or I’ll have to bring up your secret yearning for blue satin knickers.”

A brilliant pink flush clashed with Poppy’s copper hair. “You and Daisy with your stolen bottle of port. I was sick for a week.” Her stern expression broke, and she gave Miranda a rare smile. “Come in then, Jezebel.”

“Hello to you, too.” Miranda kissed her proffered cheek.

They did not go up to Poppy’s flat but into the bookstore, which was really her true home. Eight years older than Miranda, Poppy had married young, when Father was flush with funds and inclined to generosity. Thus she had received a nice dowry upon marriage to her poor but quick-minded love, Winston Lane. The first thing the newlyweds had done was purchase the bookshop. When Winston turned to police work, Poppy took over the running of the shop, and it soon became her consuming passion.

They moved farther into the cool, dark place, past rows of crowded mahogany shelves. The smell of book mold mingled with the pleasant scent of beeswax and orange oil. A long, glass-topped mahogany counter sat at the far end of the store, near enough to the windows to get a modicum of light. On top of it sat a small lunch upon brown paper.

“Sit,” Poppy ordered, pointing to a stool. She went round the counter and pulled out two white cups adorned with blue flowers. Matching saucers and plates followed. While she set about slicing the brown bread, Miranda lifted her cup to inspect it. Royal Copenhagen. Mother’s china. Or what was left. Vaguely, she remembered Poppy stealing out of the house with a large box of undetermined items one summer day, not long after Father had begun selling off the housewares. It warmed Miranda’s heart to see the set.

“I’ve a few more of them,” Poppy said while putting slices of brawn and boiled eggs onto a plate. Her brown eyes glanced up. “You may have a set if you wish. I hadn’t thought to get you a wedding present.”

“No.” Miranda set her cup down so that Poppy could fill it with tea. “I’m glad you have them.”

A pang of nostalgia tightened her breast as she sat hunched over the counter sipping plain tea from Mother’s old china cup. Miranda had missed Poppy, more than she’d let herself acknowledge. Missed Daisy too, come to that.

As if summoned, the front bell jangled. Their heads snapped up in unison just as Daisy’s familiar voice rang out. “You forgot to lock your door, pet!”

“More’s the pity,” Poppy murmured as Daisy strolled in looking resplendent in pink satin and crimson bows.

“Miranda, Panda! That cannot be you!” Daisy’s sky-blue eyes lifted at the corners as she glided across the room to embrace Miranda.

Her soft cheeks brushed Miranda’s, the familiar scent of rosemary blended with jasmine enveloping Miranda like a hug. Daisy stepped back and lifted Miranda’s arms to inspect Miranda’s sleek new day dress of Prussian blue taffeta. “Surely this is not the plain Jane I knew, nor the be-ruffled peony Father packed off nearly two weeks ago.”

“Oh stop,” Miranda said with a laugh and broke free of her grip.

“Come for lunch?” Poppy asked. Her brows slanted ominously.

Daisy gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before glancing at the offering upon the counter. “Er, no.” Her little nose wrinkled. “Minding my figure, pet.” She swept back her undulating train and lowered herself onto a stool with a little plop. “You know what they say. While a man appreciates a feast, too much bounty and he might lose his appetite.” Her hand smoothed over the ample swell of her breast. “I’d prefer a man to be hungry when he eats.”

Poppy groaned, but Miranda laughed. “I’ve missed that foul tongue of yours,” she said.

Daisy stuck her tongue out, and Poppy cracked a small smile. “Why are you here, dearest? Not that I don’t enjoy your company”—her mouth twitched—“only I profess the timing rather coincidental.”

Daisy pulled off her silk gloves. “You found me out. I am spying on you.” She rolled her eyes. “I was driving by and saw Miranda’s coach. Lovely conveyance, by the way, pet. I am insanely jealous. So I ordered the driver to stop. Besides, it keeps me from returning to Craggy, now doesn’t it.”

Daisy’s husband, Mr. Cyril Craigmore, besides being three times Daisy’s age, was a bore and had the face of a cragged mountainside—hence “Craggy.” That Daisy had found the man revolting meant little to Father when Craigmore had come calling. As Father was newly ruined, Craigmore’s wealth held a particular place of import; his seat in the House of Commons had not hurt either. It was only when Craigmore flat-out refused to pass even a farthing in Father’s direction that his opinion of Craigmore turned.

“Now then,” Daisy said and brushed an errant curl from her brow, “what of your lord and husband? How do you find being married to ‘the Bloody Baron, the Dread Lord Archer’? Hasn’t murdered you in your sleep, I’ll give him that.”

Daisy’s humor subsided as she caught Miranda’s eye. “Oh, pet, I was only having you on.” She leaned forward, touching Miranda’s knee. “Well, of course, he isn’t a killer. I knew that right off.”

Poppy did not look as certain but held her tongue.

Miranda pushed away her cup. “And how can you be so sure?” Her voice had gone thick. How close she was to crying.

Daisy cocked her head as she studied Miranda. “Because you didn’t go running off into the night, or reduce him to a smoldering pile of ash.” The small curl at her brow proved persistent. It fell back against Daisy’s cheek, and she batted it away again. “One thing you are not is meek, my angel.”

Miranda uttered an unladylike snort. “For all you knew, he might have slaughtered me in my bed that first night, and my poor body was currently drifting down the Thames.”

Daisy’s answering laugh was the tinkling of bells. “But either way, we’d know what he was about, now wouldn’t we?”

Miranda had to laugh. “You’re a beast.”

“If you need assurance, you could always show him just how capable you are of defending yourself,” Daisy offered without quite looking at her.

“No!” Miranda’s shout bounced over the quiet store. She took a deep breath. “He will
never
know about that. Nor will I use it upon him.” She might have considered it before, but not now.

“No, of course not,” murmured Daisy. “I should not have asked.”

Heat washed over Miranda, centering on her damp palms. Her sisters pointedly studied their teacups as Miranda fought the swell of panic rising within her. All of their lives had changed because of Miranda’s oddity, and not for the better. She tucked her hands against her skirts as if hiding away a lethal weapon. She had only just learned to keep the fire under control. It would not get out again. It could not.
I cannot hurt Archer that way
.

She realized she had spoken aloud when Poppy looked at her thoughtfully. “Then he is kind to you?”

Miranda forced her hands open, thought of cool things, calm things. “I have no complaints in that regard.”

Daisy leaned in. “Enough dreary thoughts of death and violence.” Her blue eyes went catlike. “Let us get to the heart of the matter. Have you any complaints in regards to the bedroom?”

Poppy snorted in disgust as Miranda licked her lips and wished for more tea.

Daisy grinned saucily. “To be sure, the mask is rather… unsettling, but I must say, the body is”—her light voice dipped to a low purr—“stirring. All broad shouldered and trim of waist.” Her voluptuous curves wriggled a bit on the seat. “And tall enough to overpower a lady with ease.”

“Daisy,” Poppy warned sharply.

Daisy went on with a Cheshire cat grin. “Admit it. Lord Archer cuts quite a delicious figure. I’d overlook the mask to ride such a body. How very wicked to bed a masked man.”

“Oh good God, Daisy Margaret!”

Daisy ignored Poppy. “Well, then? Am I wrong?”

Miranda smoothed a pleat on her flounce. M. Falle was really quite good with pleating. Perhaps she’d ask for a bit more on the next dress.

“Miranda…” Daisy’s stare would not relent.

“Leave her alone. Not everyone is interested in intercourse.”

“Even you don’t believe that, pet.”

Poppy flushed and she glanced at Miranda. The clatter of coach traffic on Oxford Street drifted in from outside as Miranda perspired under the harsh glare of their expectant looks.

“Our arrangement is not of that sort,” Miranda finally admitted.

Daisy’s mouth hung open prettily. “Not of that sort?” she parroted. “Forgive me, dear sister, but when a man who is as rich as sin
and
a baron marries a girl without position or fortune, the only sort of arrangement he could possibly desire is for a nightly tup with his beautiful young wife.”

Poppy, for once, looked as if she agreed with Daisy.

“I read to him,” Miranda lied in desperation, her cheeks hotter than oven-fresh bread.

Daisy snorted. “Read to him. The very idea. Has he not come to your bed?” she asked as though making a joke.

“No,” Miranda snapped rather loudly. She hadn’t expected the truth to be so humiliating. “He deposits me at my bedroom door every night and then goes off on his own. Perhaps he takes his needs elsewhere. I really couldn’t say.”