London Calling (8 page)

Chapter 8

All in all, it was a relief when the evening at last concluded, and Susanna and Aunt Ruth were once again in their carriage and driving home.

“Goodness!” Ruth leaned back against the carriage cushions with an exhalation of breath. “What an uncomfortable evening. I do not know when I’ve met a more ill-assorted group of people. I kept expecting there to be an explosion.”

“I am sorry, Aunt Ruth.” Susanna smiled faintly. “I promise, I did not mean to let you in for such an ordeal.”

Ruth waved that away. “Well, the company was not dull, at any rate.”

“I do not think any household with Mrs. Careme in it could be dull,” Susanna said.

Ruth nodded. “Yes, she is quite something, isn’t she? I do not think Miss Marianne and Miss Fanny will take kindly to having her as mistress of the house, though.”

“No.” Susanna remembered the naked hatred in Marianne’s eyes. “No, I am very sure they will not.”

“It is the girl, Marianne, I am most sorry for,” Ruth went on. “Poor child. She is at an awkward age‌—‌and to have a woman like Charlotte Careme thrust on one as a stepmother . . .”

She trailed off, and Susanna nodded. “Yes, I know. But I cannot help being sorry for Miss Fanny, as well. After all, she has been mistress of this house since her sister died, and now, all at once, she’s to be thrust aside. I do not imagine she has anywhere else to go, either. I got the impression she’s entirely dependent on the Admiral.”

“It is not an easy lot, being an unmarried woman,” Ruth agreed soberly. “Though I suppose often married women haven’t any too good a time of it, either. What did you think of the Halidays?”

Susanna thought of the bitter, proud face of Helen Haliday. “I think I am sorry for her. It must be terrible to be married to a man like that. To watch him drink and gamble away your fortune, and be powerless to stop him.” She paused, then asked, “What do you think he meant when he said he intended to make his own fortune?”

Ruth shrugged. “Probably that he’d heard of a horse he intended to bet on, or that he hoped he’d be lucky at cards.” Ruth sat up straighter, then, leaning a little forward across the space between their seats. “But all this is by the by, my dear. The important question is whether you are now any closer to finding James?”

Susanna looked down at her gloved hands and was silent. “I may be,” she said at last. She looked back at her aunt. “Aunt Ruth, would you . . . ‌would you consent to marry a man who lied to you?”

Ruth’s face was grave as she answered, slowly, “I have been blessed with more than twenty happy years with your uncle, Susanna. And I do not believe any marriage may be happy when there is not perfect trust between the parties.”

“I know. And yet—” Susanna stopped, biting her lip. James had effectively dismissed her, had not even argued or tried to persuade her to stay. But she could not quite shake the memory of the way his hands had trembled when he touched her face. As though there were so much he wished to let himself say, yet did not dare.

“What if a man has lied to try to protect you?” she said at last. “But you still believe that he . . . ‌that he needs you. Even if he will not admit to it himself.”

They had reached the rented house; the carriage rolled to a stop and the coachman opened the door. Ruth waited until they were both outside on the front steps before replying, a faint smile on her lips. “Men,” she said, “are often very thick-headed creatures, my dear. Unable to see what is plain before their eyes.” She took Susanna’s hand. “If your young man has tried to protect you, I would not think the less of him for it‌—‌what man would not shield the woman he loves? But if you decide to go after him, to persuade him to let you aid in his affairs”‌—‌Ruth’s face turned sober once more‌—‌“I would be certain, were I you, that he is indeed worth the risks you run.”

“He is.” The words were out before Susanna was even conscious of having spoken, and Ruth smiled.

“Well then, my dear.” She squeezed Susanna’s hand. “I wish you good luck.”

“Thank you, Aunt Ruth,” Susanna said. She kissed her aunt’s cheek. And then she said, “Do you know, I‌—‌if you can spare the carriage‌—‌I believe I should like to take a drive to Russell Square tonight.”

“Of course.” Ruth smiled again. “I will not wait up for you. But I shall ask Snell to leave the kitchen door unlatched.”

#

Susanna’s heart was pounding hard enough to resound through her fingertips when she alighted from the carriage in Russell Square. She swallowed and turned to the coachman.

“Thank you. You need not wait for me.”

The coachman, a ruddy-faced, grandfatherly sort of man of sixty-odd, looked doubtful. As well he might, leaving her alone on a darkened street at nearly twelve o’clock at night. But he clucked to the horses and rolled away, and Susanna let out her breath.

She would prefer not to have an audience for what she was about to do. Especially, she reflected wryly, if she were to be proven wrong about the identity of M. de Castres, and broke into the home of a complete stranger now.

Russell Square appeared silent and deserted. The warmth of the day had faded, and the night was now cold with the chill, biting wind of autumn. Despite her heavy cloak, Susanna shivered as she made her way towards the northern edge of the Square and Woburn Place.

She had not, of course, obtained exact directions from Mrs. Careme. But there were only three houses near the corner of Woburn place. In the windows of two, she could see lights and figures moving to and fro‌—‌evidently the occupants were hosting late-night supper parties or other entertainments. The third house stood entirely dark, its windows not only without lights but shuttered against the outside world.

A house, Susanna thought, that looked as though it might be guarding secrets.

And besides, Miss Fanny had described the house as a white marble monstrosity. The other two houses were built of gray stone. Only the third house gleamed, white as pearl, in the moonlight.

Teeth chattering, Susanna approached the house and began to edge her way around its perimeter, testing each of the shutters. All proved bolted, and by the time she reached the back of the house, Susanna’s nerves were prickling and she expected at every moment to hear the cry of some night watchman demanding to know what she was about.

At the rear of the house stood a garden‌—‌scarcely more than a square patch of grass and a minute flower bed, dry and withered-looking at this time of year. But there was a tree, a spreading poplar with its branches growing quite close to the house. And as Susanna tilted her head back, following the tree’s outlines upwards with her gaze, she saw with a thump of her heart that a window on the second floor of the house was partly open.

If she had stopped to consider, she might have hesitated‌—‌but she did not let herself stop. Grasping the lowest of the tree’s branches, Susanna scrambled up, encumbered by the folds of her cloak until she wrapped them about her arm.

Once as she made her way upwards a branch cracked with a noise that sounded like a thunderclap. But though it swayed alarmingly, the poplar tree held her weight, and soon she was actually gripping the sill of the opened window.

Susanna paused, sparing a moment for the devout hope that she was right about the house‌—‌and for that matter, that she was correct about the real identity of M. de Castres.

Then she pushed the window upwards. It was awkward trying to balance on the uneven tree branch while lifting the sash, and she nearly lost her balance. But the window had been recently waxed; it lifted easily and almost without a sound. Heart pounding, Susanna hoisted herself up and over the windowsill, then dropped to the floor of the room inside.

And then she let out her breath. She was in a bedroom. A large room, stretching away from her towards the front of the house in a long rectangular shape. A single candle had been left burning on the room’s mantlepiece, showing her the shadowed outlines of a big mahogany wardrobe and an old-fashioned chest of drawers. At the end of the room farthest from her, Susanna could also see a bed.

And sprawled atop the coverlet was James, his eyes closed and one arm flung out in sleep.

The floor was thickly carpeted; her footsteps made no sound at all as Susanna crossed the room towards him. When she reached the side of the bed, she stood a moment, looking down at James’s face.

When she had met him in the alley the night before, it had been too dark to see him clearly. But she could see now that he was thinner than when he had left her, the hard angles of his jaw and cheekbones more sharply prominent. His hair was longer, falling untidily over his brow. And he looked exhausted, even in sleep, with dark shadows like bruises under his eyes and lines that had not been visible before bracketing the corners of his mouth.

He wore breeches and a loose cotton shirt, open at the collar‌—‌as though he had been too tired to trouble with undressing and had merely fallen into bed and been asleep the moment his eyes closed.

Susanna had spent part of the journey here in planning what she would say to James tonight, if she did indeed succeed in finding him. But now that she was here, she felt the anger and resentment she had cherished melting away. Instead, a wave of tenderness made her chest feel suddenly tight, as though her heart were so full it threatened to spill over.

She reached out, gently smoothing the hair back from James’s forehead.

He slept lightly, for all he looked so exhausted; it was a wonder Susanna had not woken him when she climbed in through the window. The moment her fingers touched him, James snapped awake. His eyes were still bleared with sleep, and yet his one hand closed with an iron grip around her wrist, while the other reached as though by force of long habit for the pistol that lay beside him on the bed.

“James, it’s all right. It’s me.”

Susanna held very still, watching as James’s eyes cleared, the dazed look of half-sleep replaced by recognition. His breath went out in a ragged exhalation and he said, “
Susanna
?”

He pulled her towards him so that she half-leaned, half-sat on the edge of the bed, his hand sliding up from her wrist to her shoulder to the curve of her cheek. He still looked as though he were uncertain whether he were awake or still asleep. And as his thumb moved lightly, tracing the line of her jaw, he shook his head slightly and whispered, “Please, tell me I’m not dreaming this.”

“You’re—”

Susanna never got the chance to finish, because then he was kissing her, her mouth, her jaw, her throat. James had kissed her before, but never like this‌—‌wildly, almost desperately.

Susanna felt each brush of his lips run through her like fire. She had stopped thinking, stopped being conscious of anything but James’s touch. The warmth of his skin, the solid strength of his arms about her seemed to heal a cracked space in her chest that she had not even realized existed until now. She pressed against him, wrapped her arms around his neck, tugging him closer‌—‌and lost her precarious balance on the edge of the bed.

She was still holding tight to James, and they would have both crashed together onto the floor if James had not saved them with a hand braced against the bedpost.

Apparently the near-miss recalled James to himself and brought him fully awake; he raised his head and looked at her as though fully realizing her presence for the first time.

“Susanna. You’re actually
here
. I thought I had to be . . .” He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “What in God’s name are you doing here?
How
did you get here, for that matter?”

Susanna’s head still spun from the combined relief of seeing him and the lingering warmth of his kisses. “I climbed in through the window.”

James looked blankly from the still-open bedroom window to her. And then he started to laugh. “You climbed in through the window. Of course. Can I ask how it is you’ve managed to find me twice, in the space of two days?”

“The first time truly was an accident‌—‌just a bizarre twist of fate. If your friend Philippe had not decided to try his luck at robbing our carriage, I never would have seen you last night. But tonight—” Susanna stopped and took a breath, putting a hand on James’s shoulder, her eyes searching James’s face. “I will tell you how it was I managed to find you. But James, you must tell me first‌—‌are you angry that I have found you? Are you sorry that I did come here tonight?”

They were so close that she could see the small flecks of gold about the irises of James’s eyes, the faint white line of an old scar that ran up his temple and under his hair. His gaze was open, unguarded for once, and he smiled, just slightly, at the question. “If you have to ask that”‌—‌he leaned forward, his lips brushing once more against hers‌—‌“I must be doing this all wrong.”

He kissed her slowly, this time, his touch gentle, tender. Susanna could feel the edge of tension in him, still, the fine tremor that ran through his muscles. But he kissed her lightly, sweetly. It was she who nipped lightly against his lips, wringing a half-groan from him before he set his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away.

His voice was husky, his breathing unsteady. “I think,” he said. “That we ought to continue this discussion downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Susanna repeated. “Why?”

“Because,” James said a little grimly, “If I have to spend one more moment with you in my bedroom while remembering that I am supposed to be a gentleman, I may lose my grip on reason entirely.”

Susanna laughed, but James swung himself up from the bed and took up the candle, propelling her out of the room. They passed along the hall outside, and then down a flight of stairs, and in the candle’s flickering glow, Susanna caught glimpses of elegantly papered and plastered walls and gilt-framed paintings.

“The servants—” she began.

“I have none,” James said. “Only a man and woman who come during the day to cook for me and clean. But none who sleep in the house. Servants tend to notice things‌—‌and they talk. And I could not risk anyone wondering why M. de Castres spends so many of his nights wandering the London streets.”