Heart of Brass (33 page)

“I know you,” the woman said—her words an echo of what Luke had said after Evelyn opened his skull.

Arden smiled. Today was a good day. “Hello, Mama.”

“Arden!” The days her mother realized she did indeed know her were often the most difficult. The pleasure in her voice, the bright recognition in her eyes were even more painful than the blank stares that had become more commonplace. The first day her mother asked her name was forever burned into her memory—one she would gladly lose.

A thin hand clutched at hers with surprising strength. “Sit down, my darling. It’s so good to see you, dear girl.”

Arden blinked away the tears, and braved a glance at Luke. He stood a few feet away, watching them with a startled and heartbroken expression. Oh yes, she was going to love this man whether she wanted to or not. “I’ve brought you a surprise. Do you remember him?”

Clarinda Chillingham turned her head expectantly. Her brow furrowed as her dark gaze fell on Luke. “Huntley?”

To her surprise, Luke bowed. “Lady Chillingham. You look as lovely as I remember.”

Clarinda giggled and switched her attention back to Arden. “Your husband’s very handsome, Miranda.”

Arden didn’t bother to correct her. Miranda was her aunt, her mother’s younger sister. “He is, yes. I brought you something else. Do you remember that silly hat you wore last time I visited?”

Her mother smiled. “I love hats. Is it the one you’re wearing? I would look good in that one.”

Arden chuckled. “You would. Perhaps you can try it on later. I meant this hat.” From the satchel she withdrew the helmet she’d been working on—the one designed to store memories much the way the A.R.O.T.S. stored visual moments, only on a lesser scale. The helmet recorded the process of the memory, though not the images of it—data rather than pictures.

Her mother made a moue of dislike. “Why would I want to wear that ugly thing?”

“Please? I brought you sugar biscuits.”

Eager hands reached out. “Put it on me.”

Arden grinned, and placed the helmet gently on her mother’s head before handing her one of the biscuits she’d brought wrapped up inside the satchel. As her mother ate, she asked about various things that had happened in her mother’s life. As usual, more recent events were lost to her, but she could recall seemingly mundane things that had happened in her childhood. Arden asked about things that had happened later. Her theory was that her mother’s memories were disappearing in reverse chronological order. If she could store the newer memories in the helmet, she might be able to then give them back to her mother at a later date—when the older woman had forgotten them. It wasn’t a cure—there would never be a cure—but it might allow her mother to hold on to her life a little longer, and allow Arden to hold on to her.

Soon, her mother would reach the point when Arden no longer existed in her mind, and Arden didn’t know what she’d do when that day came.

They visited for a little while. Luke had come forward and sat down with them to listen to Clarinda’s stories. He even had a biscuit at her urging.

“My soul, you’re handsome,” the older woman said, gaze bright as she looked at him. “Did you get into a row?”

Luke touched the healing stitches on his forehead. “Arden hit me,” he told her with a grin.

When her mother turned to her—looking like an aging Roman goddess in her bizarre helmet—her gaze was blank for a split second and then exploded into brilliant recognition. “Arden! When did you get here? I’m so happy to see you, dearest girl.”

Arden smiled. “I’ve been here a little while, Mama. I didn’t want to interrupt your visit. I know how much you like to flirt with handsome men.”

Clarinda laughed. “I do.” She jerked her head toward Luke. “Is he well hung?”

Luke’s eyes bulged, and for a moment she thought he might choke, but when he saw her smile, he grinned back. She’d long ago given up being embarrassed by the things her mother said. It was no reflection upon either one of them, merely a common side effect of the dementia. “Now, Mama, you know a lady doesn’t speak of such things.” Then, in an exaggerated whisper, “I’ll tell you later.”

Her mother laughed, and things continued on this way for almost another quarter hour, when Clarinda’s mood began to wane and she grew increasingly agitated and sharp. It was their cue to leave.

Arden gathered up the helmet that she had removed from her mother’s head earlier, and packed it away along with the now-empty square of linen that had held half a dozen biscuits when they arrived. Clarinda wouldn’t let Luke go without him giving her a kiss first. He barely managed to kiss her cheek—she turned her head fast and tried to catch him on the mouth.

“Good-bye, Miranda. Give my love to John and the children. And if you see Frederick, tell him I need my blue slippers.”

It was the mention of her father that made Arden’s eyes burn, not just that her mother was confused again. “I will. Good-bye, Mama.” She kissed her mother on top of the head, drew her spine up straight and walked away as an attendant arrived to take her mother back to her room for a nap. Luke fell into step beside her.

“So you do have some idea of what it’s like not to remember.”

“No. I know what it’s like to be someone who isn’t remembered, although I suppose I can sympathize more than the average person with your plight. But now you also know why I remained in the station of countess. As much as I believed you would return, I needed to be able to afford the quarterly payments to make sure my mother stayed in Featherstone, where they take such good care of her. Lord knows I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the fact that her motives had been less than completely pure, that she hadn’t “just” been waiting for him. “You were very good with her.”

She laughed softly. “A half hour visit isn’t the same as day after day of it. I was losing patience before I had to put her in Featherstone, and she was much better then. Does it bother you to know I had other reasons for waiting?” She couldn’t help but ask.

Luke shook his head, a reluctant smile shaping his lips. “I feel better, truth be told. It’s good to know you’re not some kind of saint. It makes me feel less an arse for the things I’ve done.” Then, to her surprise, he reached down and took her hand in his. “That helmet of yours won’t help me, will it?”

“No. The best it could do is store the memories you already have. I’m sorry. I’m trying to find something that will help you.”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s best if I don’t remember it all, though I do wish I could remember more of you. Our first kiss. Our wedding night.”

Cheeks flushed, Arden squeezed his hand. “We’ll just have to make some new memories.”

His gaze locked with hers, bright and clear, as pale blue as spring sky. “We will.” His smile grew. “We’ll start with the bath.”

They laughed together. She felt happy—hopeful. It was the first time she’d experienced either of those emotions whilst leaving this place. Normally when she departed she had to sit in her vehicle for several minutes fighting back tears—or giving in to them. Today, she left smiling, and when they reached the touring carriage, Luke went to the left side and left her to drive.

“I want to look around,” he said, but she took it as more than that. She didn’t know what, but his “giving of the reins,” so to speak, meant something.

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived back in London, and both of them were hungry. They hobbled through the door and were met by the housekeeper.

“Ah, tea please, Mrs. Bird,” Arden instructed. “We’re famished.”

The woman wrung her hands in front of her. “Lord Wolfred is waiting for you in the library, my lady. For you and his lordship. He seems out of sorts, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Arden rolled her eyes as she stripped off her gloves. “That’s his way as of late. Include him in the tea, please.” As if to punctuate the need for food, her stomach growled.

Alastair was indeed in the library. He stood near the shelves, a leather-bound book in his hands and a scowl on his face.

“Where the devil have you two been?” he demanded as he looked up.

Arden started, drawing back from the anger in his voice. “None of your business,” she retorted hotly. He didn’t know the extent of her mother’s illness, and she meant to keep it that way. “What’s the matter with you?”

He sighed and shoved the book back into its place on the shelf. At the same time, he ran a hand through his thick reddish hair. “Rani Ogitani was fished from the Thames this morning. She’d been murdered.” He couldn’t quite look at either of them as he said it.

Indignation swept through Arden’s veins. “And you were sent here to see whether or not Luke is responsible.” She swore, drawing startled glances from both of the men. “There is no way Luke could have done it. For Heaven’s sake, Alastair, he can barely move.”

“I know. It’s not Luke I’m here to see, Arden.” His stormy eyes were apologetic but unflinching. “Where were you last night?”

Chapter 17

“Have you gone completely barking mad?” Luke demanded, caught between incredulity and anger. “Arden wouldn’t kill anybody.”

Alastair did not look convinced. In fact, he looked very much the opposite. “She killed Victor Erlich, and did a good job of it too. Toasted his brain with that discombobulator thing. That’s why you were sent to kill her, remember?”

A low scowl cramped Luke’s brow. “There’s something of a difference between defending oneself and murder.”

His old friend turned his back on him to address Arden. “I have to ask, where were you last night?”

“Here,” she told him crisply, but she didn’t seem the least bit put out that he thought her capable of murdering a woman in cold blood. “We came home from Dr. Stone’s and went to bed.” Luke watched a soft flush filled her cheeks, and he knew she was thinking about the fact that they hadn’t gone immediately to sleep. There was nothing like realizing you were mortal to arouse the libido.

Alastair directed a carefully neutral gaze toward Luke. The bastard was excellent at hiding his emotions when he wanted, Luke would give him that. “Did you take any pain medicine before bed?”

“No. There’s no way she could have snuck out without waking me.”

“You’re certain?” There seemed to be a large amount of challenge in that question. Did he suspect Arden of drugging him? Using some device to keep him asleep while she snuck out of the house to kill a woman she would have to go to a brothel—or worse—to find? Arden was brave, perhaps recklessly so at times—he remembered her facing him alone in the garden when she “discombobulated” him—but she was not stupid.

“When was the last time someone moved without waking you?” Luke asked haughtily. When Alastair didn’t immediately concede, he continued. “How was Ogitani killed?”

“Shot to the head.”

He chuckled—it was more relief than humor. Perhaps he hadn’t been as sure of his wife as he thought. “Well, that proves Arden didn’t do it.”

“How do you reason that?” Alastair folded his arms across his chest. For a man who was in love with Arden, he certainly seemed hell-bent on finding her guilty. Did he want her to be a killer? Would that make it easier for him to walk away from her? It wouldn’t for Luke.

Luke smiled. “Good lord man, have you ever known this woman to use something as straightforward as a gun? She’d use some sort of fantastic gadget.” He looked at his wife. “Do you even know how to shoot?”

“Not well,” she replied with a slight smile. “You know, for a man without much of a memory, you possess an uncanny ability to predict my behavior and know my mind.”

Luke almost grinned back, but then he remembered that Alastair had practically accused her of murder—and was standing there rolling his eyes at them.

“Do you have any evidence implicating Arden?” Luke asked. That was the important question, and one he should have asked before this.

The other man shook his head. “Nothing concrete, of course, but enough that I came here directly. Ogitani had a device implanted in her mind that was similar to the one in yours, only Dr. Stone believes it was used to control the woman rather than affect her memory. She was shot in the exact spot—by someone who knew where to shoot. Also, we confirmed that she was hiding out in an opium brothel in Covent Garden.”

“I would never go to an opium brothel,” Arden insisted, lips curling with just a hint of disgust. “Do you think me to be a total imbecile, Alastair? I may have rushed headlong into danger on occasion, but really. An opium brothel? You must think I have bollocks the size of Buckingham Palace—or a brain the size of your big toe.”

Luke tried not to smile. There was nothing the least bit amusing about this conversation or the circumstances surrounding it. Someone had killed Rani Ogitani—most likely because she had failed in her mission to kill either Arden or him. Or both of them. But his wife had a way of plain speaking that was delightfully blunt, concise and drier than a whore in the middle of a sandstorm.

“The Company would know all of that as well,” Luke said, pushing his amusement aside. “In fact, they would know exactly where she was hiding. It seems to me that they shot her where they did to destroy the device as well, and dumped her body so you’d find her immediately. Perhaps they killed her because she failed her mission, or perhaps they did it just to prove a point.”

“But you must have already theorized that,” Arden commented, frowning. “I would think you would immediately come up with that conclusion, so why are you here? What did you find that made you come to me?”

Alastair reluctantly reached into his coat and pulled out a small wrapped bundle. Luke frowned. So, Wolfred had evidence after all. Why had he not brought it up before this? Whatever it was, Luke knew it meant nothing, because he knew that Arden had slept either in his arms or curled against him all bloody night.

Wolfred peeled back the wrappings to reveal a small brass compact with a poppy engraved in the top. Luke didn’t know what the hell it was, but he’d seen Arden with something similar. She loved poppies. He had left one for her in her carriage when he’d been stalking her, though at that time he had no idea why the flower seemed the obvious choice with which to taunt her.