Laura Kinsale (27 page)

“The same ship—” Tess couldn’t conceal her astonishment. “A message from whom?”

“A servant of mine. One Robert Stark”

For a moment the name meant nothing, and then the memory burst upon her: the glow of a cheroot in the gallery at Ashland, and that same glow beneath her window in Tahiti. The smell of smoke…she started to speak, lost her voice, and found it again, just barely. “My God, Stephen—”

Once again, he held his silence, but she could not explain away the implication this time. She remembered the dream of cold hands on her mouth; she remembered
the marlinespike. She remembered the flash of metal in the quivering light of a match. An embarrassment, Stephen had said. She had become an embarrassment to him.

Her eyes began to water. She blinked. “What are you going to do?”

“That depends. I’m not pleased with your escapades. I want them stopped.”

She said, a little too unevenly, “You can’t hurt me, Stephen. You can’t just let me disappear like before. My husband—”

“Your husband.” He leaned forward abruptly and gripped her elbow, dragging her half off the seat toward him. “Yes, Stark informed me of this ‘husband’ of yours. Just what is it you and this tramp sea captain had planned, my lady? Do you think to frighten me with a name?”

Tess clutched the ring, trying not to drop it under the painful pressure of his fingers. It had long puzzled her, that ring, for it was not a mistress’s bauble as she had first assumed. It bore the engraved seal of Ashland: no rightful property of an illegitimate son.

“I never thought to do anything to you,” she said between her teeth. “Except never see you again.”

He let her go. “Then why come back?” he hissed. “Why flaunt yourself under the name of a boy who died sixteen years ago? There’s no gain to be had in that kind of farce. My dear cousin Gryphon was hacked to pieces with the rest of ’em, and all the world knows it.”

She almost exclaimed: “Cousin!”

Almost.

The story of the attack that had slaughtered the Meridons of Ashland was common knowledge. It had been related to Tess with relish by Larice. That children had died, Tess had known. That a boy named Gryphon Meri
don had been among them, she had not. She held on to the ring and kept her mouth squeezed shut, thinking madly.

Stephen said, “What did you hope to accomplish?”

“I…nothing. Just to…embarrass you, as you said.” She added quickly, “His real name is Frost, I think.”

“And you actually went through a marriage ceremony with this vermin? I suppose you slept with him.” The words were twisted with disgust.

“I’m his wife in truth,” she said, in a voice low with rage. “And it becomes you ill to speak of vermin, Stephen.”

“Wife in truth…” He leaned back on the seat. “You’re his widow now. Stark had at least the wit to stay and take care of that for me.”

Tess stiffened. “You’re lying.” Stephen could have no more news than she if his information had indeed come on the same ship. Gryf had been alive when she sailed. He could take care of himself. She clenched her hands together over the ring and prayed that he could take care of himself.

“Only speculating on the odds. If Stark fails, I surely won’t, should your precious captain come after you.”

She said sharply, “You needn’t worry about that. He doesn’t want me. He sent me away.”

“Were you such a failure, then? After one night of being a ‘wife in truth’?” Stephen laughed dryly. “Well, never mind. You know my tastes lie in other quarters.”

“I hate you,” she whispered.

He moved suddenly in the dark, and in a moment he caught her, though she fought to get away. He twisted her arm behind her and forced her down onto the floor at his feet. “Do you hate me?” he asked softly. He stroked her throat between his thumb and forefinger, and then gently closed his hand over her windpipe. “Good. I want that. I
want you to fear me, Mrs. Eliot.” His grip grew stronger, cutting off her air. “I want you to beg.”

She knew better than to struggle. As his fingers tightened on her throat she rasped, “Please.”

His hold relaxed infinitesimally: the old game. “But I’m not pleased,” he murmured. The pressure on her neck increased again. “Not at all.”

“Please…” She had to force the words out against the choking strength. “Please…don’t…”

This time the compression did not abate. “I’m not pleased,” he repeated. Between the brutal pain at her throat and his grip on her arm she felt awareness slipping. Her lungs swelled, demanding air. Her hand had lost feeling; she was sure the ring had fallen free. She jerked convulsively, and the vise tightened. The darkness pressed in. “Don’t kill me!” she gasped. “Please—”

He let her go.

She slumped sideways, swallowing air that burned her bruised windpipe. As sense returned to her aching head she stayed silently on the floor, awaiting permission to do otherwise. Furtively, she felt one hand with the other, locating the ring amid the tingling of her blood-starved fingers.

She rested her head against the jolting comfort of the padded seat and prayed for strength. Her greatest fear was for the child. She did not think Stephen would actually murder her, except perhaps by accident. But if he locked her up and starved her as he had before…

Stephen said nothing more, having made his point. Tess closed her eyes. She was determined to get free. She was burning with it. But she had to rest now. When her chance came she had to be ready and able to move.

The
Arcanum
made Papeete to Calais in eighty-seven days. The French steamer had taken eighty-nine, but
she’d had four days’ head start. Gryf missed Tess by forty-eight hours.

It might as well have been forty-eight years.

Tracing her to Dover was easy. Finding the hotel where she’d stayed was easy. There was absolutely no question there that they remembered the woman who had registered as Mrs. Meridon. They remembered her well, and were only too pleased to tell Gryf the story of how she had left.

So he had come inexorably to this: standing in the rain in the dark outside of the gates of Ashland Court. He had developed a kind of fatalism, a resignation like the stolid misery of the wet and patient hack that stood beside him. He was afraid, but it was a fear that had gone so deep that it seemed almost academic. It wasn’t courage that had brought him here. It was simply the mind making the body move, and doing what had to be done.

He did not look beyond the goal of finding Tess. To see her safe and out of Stephen’s hands was all Gryf allowed himself to hope. The other things: the guilt, the longing, the desolation his life had become since their parting—those he consigned to the same place as his fear for her. He could not afford to think of them, not if he wanted to keep his wits and his sanity. Nothing had changed; he still knew his weakness, knew how achingly easy it would be to fall back into the deadly snare of passion and need. He could not let himself imagine a future. With or without her. Either way promised bitter pain.

But a quick move was necessary. Stark had made it clear in Tahiti that Eliot meant to be rid of Tess. Dinner with a talkative pubkeeper in the tiny village near Ashland had confirmed the reason: everyone “knew” that the young mistress was quite mad. She had tried to set
fire to the house; she had pretended to cut off her fingers; she had threatened Mr. Eliot’s man with a long-handled carving knife. She’d been locked up for safety, and finally taken away a year ago to an asylum in France.

As far as Gryf could tell, the only thing everyone didn’t know was that there was no Mrs. Eliot anymore. An annulment was never mentioned.

A few more questions revealed that yes, the house was open. Mr. Eliot was at his home; he’d come back from the city just the day before. Old Jack Harper had driven him down from the station at Alton. Alone? The pubkeeper was sure of it. There wasn’t room in Jack’s dogcart for three. Yes, Eliot was well-enough as a landlord—not friendly, but fair. He’d turned off most of the servants when his wife took ill in the head, but his agent had found them all proper places elsewhere. Still, Eliot was a strange fish. Just look in his eyes, and a fellow could tell that. The man was too cool by half. Wouldn’t gamble that he hadn’t driven his poor bride mad. Those eyes, y’know. And she had been a pretty thing, too, though the tenants only saw her that once, when he first brought her home.

Gryf listened to the gossip about Eliot and his wife amid the wood and the casks and the cordial bottles, and then made his way out into the thunderstorm despite the exhortations of the pubkeeper that it would surely be over soon, if Gryf would just stay for another round. The man was right; by the time Gryf stood outside Ashland’s closed gates the rain had begun to abate. The gatehouse was empty. In the moonlight that came and went he saw only the road that curved up through the trees beyond the iron fancywork. He turned the horse back the way they had come and unfastened its bridle, looped the reins into a tight bundle and secured
them beneath the cantle of the saddle, so that the poor beast wouldn’t entangle itself in some bush as it made its way home. He gave the animal a sharp slap on the rump, and the horse responded with a look which seemed to say that Gryf had only added further insult to the injury of going for a ride on such a night. Then it heaved a sigh, broke into a trot, and disappeared into the shadows of the lane.

The wall was probably ten feet high, streaked gray and black by moisture. Even with its smooth surface, it looked more negotiable than the spiked iron gate. Gryf ranged along it a short distance until he found a suitable tree.

Half a lifetime spent in the rigging of a clipper had given him some practice at climbing things. A tight frock coat and an even more annoying waistcoat didn’t help: he heard a seam rip at his shoulder as he swung himself up. The rough bark bit into his hands, and his hat—which he never remembered he was wearing until too late—fell off at the first opportunity. He didn’t trust the branch that hung out over the wall to hold him, so he wedged his foot against the trunk and leaned, reaching for the top of the wall. His hand scraped over the slashing edge of broken glass. He snatched it back with an oath, sucking furiously at the side of his palm.

The cut was deep. After hanging a moment with his mouth full of blood and the fingers of his other hand slipping on the wet, ragged bark, he gave up on staunching the flow and levered himself higher, so that he could catch the wall with his feet as he dropped. His boots hit the glass-embedded top; he balanced for a moment, feeling shards press into the soles of his feet even through the leather, and then kicked free. He landed, slipped, and caught himself before he went face-first on the slick grass.

The rain had stopped, though thunder still moaned a sepulchral warning somewhere ahead of him. He pressed his fingers over the stinging wound until he had some notion that the bleeding had stopped. In the dark it was hard to tell. He wiped both hands on the grass, and started up the long drive to the house.

Outlined against the lightning-lit clouds, Ashland Court looked like something conjured in the mind of Edgar Allan Poe. The house was old, in its beginnings a Norman keep with a round tower that was now the only symmetrical thing about the place. Gryf knew its history: an addition in the time of Henry III and another in the reign of Elizabeth, a major renovation a century ago that had not come near to changing the facade to a tame Palladian elegance, and then another folly, perpetrated by Gryf’s great-grandmother—a wing which made an earnest attempt at being a Greek temple. It should have been ridiculous, that house, but now as once before it seemed to Gryf a magnificent sprawl, and it galled him to come for a second time as nothing but a beggar to the door.

With that thought in mind he made some attempt to straighten his neckcloth before he rang the bell. With entirely another thought in mind he checked his revolver. He had no real plan; instinct would have to carry him. His hand was bleeding again; he could see the dark stain in the glow from the fan light above the door. The bell sounded a single peal in the far depths of the house, and a very long time later, the door cracked open.

An old man peeped around the huge slab of carved wood. His rheumy eyes darted about nervously, searching the shadows on the stoop. Gryf felt a twinge of pity for the servant’s apprehension. He dredged a name from childhood stories that his father had told him. “Badger?” he asked softly. “Mr. Badger?”

The old man seemed to start, and looked half-behind him in apparent confusion. Then he turned back, and pulled the big door ajar. Dim light poured over Gryf.

Mr. Badger’s watery old eyes widened. “My lor—” he croaked. The half-word seemed to be too much for him; he stared at Gryf and said no more, though his mouth worked spasmodically. His seamy hand covered his left breast: for a moment, Gryf thought the man would collapse in a pale heap upon the marble floor.

“I’m sorry,” Gryf said quickly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s late, I know—”

“My lord,” Badger repeated, and now there was a note of wonder in his voice. He still stared very hard at Gryf.

“May I come in?” Gryf asked, after a moment.

The ancient blinked, and seemed to come to his senses. He ducked his bald head and shuffled backward, pulling the door open. “To be sure, my lord. Come in, come in; what am I thinking? I’ve grown to an old fool.” As Gryf stepped through the door, he felt a distinct and exploratory pluck at his damp sleeve. He turned questioningly, and the butler ducked his head again. “An old fool,” he repeated. “You’ll forgive me. You’ve lost your hat again, I see. No matter. I know you’ll say you’ve more where that one come from. So proud to see you, sir.”

Gryf frowned. He had been prepared for a rebuff, demanding entrance to the house at such an hour. He had not expected to be treated like a familiar guest. He hesitated, looking intently at the butler for some sign of deception, and saw none. Only a stooped old man who stared at the floor as if too frightened to meet Gryf’s eyes. Gryf chewed his lip, regretting the dismay he had caused. He said quietly, “Mr. Badger—”

“Oh, sir,” the butler said, raising his head. To Gryf’s
shock, the wrinkled cheeks were wet with tears. Badger reached out and clasped Gryf’s hands with an unexpected strength. “My lord, forgive me. I don’t question it. I’m an old man, and when I see what they done to you…but it’s nothing, ’tis only that I’m glad, for I never thought to look on your face again this side of the grave, and if you’ve come for me, I’m ready. I’ve made me peace. I’ll go with you and gladly, for I’ve been lonely these years, and I’ve a mind to see my good lady again, God rest her.”