His Lordship Possessed (22 page)

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warmth welled up inside me, as if I were being hugged

all over. “Th is is not your time to leave this world, my

dear. Or his.”

“But he’s dead, too.” I should know, I’d murdered

him. “Mum, I don’t think I can go on without him.”

“You won’t have to now, Charmian.” Something

tugged at me, pushing me through the darkness. “You

must return now, and put things to rights. When you

wake, you will know what is to be done.”

I felt the warmth receding. “Don’t leave me, Mum.”

In my mind she whispered,
We’ll be reunited someday,

my darling. When it’s your time, your father and I will be
waiting for you.

As my eyes cleared so did the darkness, and I found

myself looking across my desk at Lady Diana Walsh.

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“Are you unwell, Miss Kittredge?” Lady Diana asked,

taking a lacy handkerchief from her reticule and touching

it to the dark circles under her pretty eyes. “Is that why

you refuse to help me?”

“I’m not sick, milady.” Th e burning sensation in my

stomach had vanished. So had all my aches and pains and

the soot blackening my skin. My mind began to reel as I

glanced down at the little calendar I kept on my desk and

saw the date. Th e date that was a fortnight past. Th e day

I’d met Lady Diana Walsh for the fi rst time.

Time. Harry had said something about it. It took a

moment before I remembered what it was.

You’ve turned time on its head.

“Th e attacks on your person are not the result of

a spell, nor are the words cut into your fl esh actual

wounds,” I told Lady Diana. “You are the victim of

cruelty and contempt, not magic.”

“How could you—?” She stopped and rose to her feet.

“I should have known better than to come here. Good

day, Miss Kittredge.”

“Proof. Of course, you’ll want that before you believe

me.” I took a fl ask from my drawer, went round the desk,

seized one of her wrists, and pulled off the glove. “Here,

hold still.” As I poured the brandy over her hand she

uttered a shrill sound that I ignored as I picked at the

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edge of the letter
S
in SLUT, lifting the dried wound paste just enough to peel it off . “You see? Just as I said.

Th e brandy acts as a solvent, but don’t yank at it too hard, or it will still tear your skin.”

Lady Walsh stopped protesting and stared. “How in

the world . . . ?” She went to work and in a few seconds

had carefully peeled all the paste off her unmarked fl esh.

Her wide eyes shifted to my face. “You knew how this

was done to me? Without ever meeting me? Who—?”

“I’m afraid this time I do have an urgent appointment

across town,” I told her as I reached for my walking cloak.

“Perhaps we could meet later, at your home?”

“You are not invited to my home. Nor can you tell me

such things and then walk out.” Her voice grew shrill. “I

must know who did this to me.”

“In a few hours, you will. Or we’ll all be dead. I’m

not quite sure how it will go.” Once I fastened my cloak

I grabbed my keylace from the wall hook. “Oh, and you

should know that the only reason your husband married

you was to get another heir. Your stepson is diseased and

barren. Good day, milady.”

I ran past her footman for the stairs, praying that my

assumptions about my own circumstances were just as

correct. Puzzling that out made me forget about Fourth,

who intercepted me on the stairs halfway to the fi rst fl oor landing.

“Good morning, Mr. Gremley.” Hoping to squeeze

past him I moved to one side, but he did the same. “I do

beg your pardon, but I’m in something of a hurry.”

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Th e clerk bent from the waist in one of his overdone

bows. “Miss Kittredge, I’d hoped to—”

“—run into me today,” I fi nished for him. “I regret

to say that I cannot be your escort to the opening of the

opera on Th ursday next, excuse me, Friday next, as I will

be away on business. Mr. Skolnik’s unmarried daughter,

Maritza, will make a fi ne substitute. She speaks no

English so your dear mother will be unable to grill her.”

By this point Fourth’s nonexistent chin had dropped

to his reedy chest. “Miss Kittredge, you have anticipated

my every thought. How in heaven’s name—?”

“It’s magic. I was wrong. It does exist.” I patted his

shoulder. “Must fl y. Do enjoy the opera.”

He didn’t try to stop me as I darted round him and

made it to the basement access door on the fi rst fl oor

landing.

“Docket.” My voice couldn’t be heard above the

clanking and hammering, but as soon as I spotted the

bottom half of him sticking out from a familiar cabinet I

didn’t bother to shout again. I did rap my knuckles on the

side of the HangItAll to get his attention.

“What the devil is it now?” Docket emerged, his face

shiny with sweat and patches of black grease. “Oh, Kit,

fabulous. I’m just putting the fi nishing touches on—”

“—the HangItAll. Problem is that the boiler steam

will soak all the garments you put in it, so best you call it the WashItAll.” I paused to catch my breath. “Docket, I

need to borrow your carri for a few hours.”

“WashItAll. Th at might work.” As he looked at me,

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his grin turned upside down. “Sorry, my dear, but the

carri’s done for. Took it apart last week to repair the

boiler.” He squinted at me. “What’s the matter? You look

white as a wedding frock.”

Without a carri I’d never get there. “I have to go.”

Wouldn’t be the fi rst time I’d stolen one. I hurried

outside and looked down both sides of the street. No

carris in sight, and the trolley wouldn’t reach the corner

stop for half an hour. I felt so desperate I even thought of the tubes, but even if I could survive the pressure of being shot through one, I’d never fi t inside.

I sat down on the curb to prop my head against my

fi sts. I would not wail or weep or otherwise make a fool

of myself. I would think of a way.

Th e clop of hooves came toward me, growing slower

until they stopped. I raised my head to see a big black

horse looming over me. He had been bridled but not

saddled, and his sides were sweaty, as if he’d been on a

long run.

“George, what are you doing here?” Th e horse dropped

his head to nudge my shoulder, and I automatically

caught his reins. “You can’t be here. You weren’t here

that day. Th is day. We haven’t met.”

He snorted and tugged, pulling me to my feet. I had

to hike up my skirts to mount him, which bared my legs

almost to the knee as I rode down the street. Decent men

stared, decent women turned away, but a few clerks and

cartlasses laughed and waved me on.

I guided George across the city, out to the farmlands,

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and down the long road to my destination. Th e black iron

gates were closed, of course, but George leapt over them,

as quick and nimble as a hare.

I reined him into a respectable trot—dashing up to

the great ugly place would only alarm the hooligans

guarding it—but took him straight to the front of the

house. Connell appeared before I could dismount, but as

soon as he saw my face he turned and hurried back into

the main house.

“Well, we’re here, George,” I said as I dropped to my

feet. “One of us has to go in there.”

Th e big black eyed me before he turned and trotted off

toward the stables.

“Coward.” I shook out my skirts and took a deep

breath, letting it out slowly as I walked up to use the

knocker. But the door was already opening, the man

inside stepping out.

“Charmian.” Lucien Dredmore, resplendent in his

usual silver and onyx, surveyed me from toe to crown

and back again. “Am I to understand my man correctly?

You’ve stolen one of my horses?”

“No, sir.” He was alive. “I am returning it.” He was

himself again. “It ran away and came to my building in

the city and I have to sit down now.” I was going to cast

up my accounts, all over his boots.

Th e marble step felt so cold it was like perching on a

block of ice. Th at was why I was shaking so badly. I felt

a strong hand at the back of my head, an arm under my

knees, and then he was lifting and carrying me through

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his dark dungeon of a house to a softer spot, a chaise

lounge by a sunlit window. I heard him call for brandy,

and then he was putting the rim of a glass to my lips.

“Drink.” When I didn’t, he took hold of the end of my

nose and pinched it shut.

I drank, and coughed, and felt the fi re in my throat

spread through my insides as it settled to an agreeable

warmth.

He made me take another swallow and then he

watched me until the shaking stopped. “Should I call for

the smelling salts, Charmian, or is that the end of it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve never been in shock

before now. I’m so sorry.”

“You are apologizing. To me.” He put his hand to

my brow. “You’ve no fever. Were you thrown from my

horse?”

“George would never unseat me,” I said, and took a

deep breath. “Th is morning I was tossed back through

time. I’m here because of that. Because I’ve seen the

future, and I need your help to change it.”

“You
have
hit your head on something.” Lucien

glanced over at Connell. “Send for the physick at once.”

“Wait, please.” I considered what to tell him. I’d killed

the man, or rather his body; he deserved to know at least

that much. But he had no memory of the wonderful or

terrible things that had happened to us—or hadn’t yet

done them, now that I’d thrown us all back in time—so

he would think me terribly addled, or even perhaps gone

mad.

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Unless I off ered him evidence to the contrary. “No

one knows about your life before you came to Toriana,

do they? You’ve never confi ded it to anyone. Certainly

not me.”

“What are you about now, Charmian?” he asked, his

voice going soft and lethal.

“You were fi ve when your parents sent you away to

school. Th ey didn’t tell you that you would be kept there,

that you wouldn’t go home for holiday like the other

boys.” I looked round at his things. “You’ve always had

the best that could be provided. Th ey paid for you to

have a private room, the fi nest tutors, the most expensive

garments. But there were no letters, Dredmore. No

birthday cards. No visits. Nothing. Th ey wouldn’t even

permit your nanny or valet to write to you.”

His eyes took on a dangerous glitter. “Who told you

this?”

“You did, or more precisely, you will.” And I

proceeded to tell him the rest. I spared him no detail, and

when I named the exact sum his mother had off ered him

to leave England forever, he turned his head and stared

into the fi replace.

It wasn’t anger or wounded pride. He was ashamed of

what they had done to him. Perhaps because they had felt

no shame in doing it.

Once I had fi nished, I picked up the glass of brandy

I disliked so intensely and took a large swallow. After

another round of coughing, I handed the remainder

to him. “In fourteen days there will be an invasion of

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Rumsen. Talian Reapers will come here with an army, led

by the agents of an Aramanthan warlord called Zarath.

Th ey plan to use the dreamstone they’ve hidden all over

the city inside phony wardlings to turn our people into

puppets.”

He drained the rest of the brandy. “I don’t know how

you found out about my boyhood, but dreamstone and

time travel are myths. Th e Tillers would never permit

the Reapers to set foot on Toriana soil.” He regarded

me carefully. “You haven’t been trifl ing with poppy dust,

have you?”

“Th e Reapers have already infi ltrated the Tillers,” I

assured him. “Th ey’re controlling Lord Walsh.”

“Nolan Walsh, the banker?” When I nodded, he made

a dismissive gesture. “Th e man is nothing but a pompous

ass.”“Takes one to know one, does it?” I asked sweetly.

Before he could reply, I added, “In a little over a

week, that pompous ass will capture you and me at