The Dark Lady (27 page)

T
he most ridiculous feeling of peace had come over him. For the first time in years. Ian stared into the darkness, trying to understand how the hell it had happened. He flung one arm over his head, the other keeping Eva close to his body. Her cheek rested against his chest. One of her legs was flung over his, possessively.

The way she had touched his scars. It had been shocking and soothing at once. She had no idea how he’d gotten those scars. But what echoed most in his mind was how he had not fought against the men who’d come to kill Hamilton. He’d watched in silence, in understanding as they’d violated Hamilton with a blade the same way Hamilton had violated his soldiers’ trust with brutal punishments and dangerous commands, sending them with too few men against untenable odds into the borderlands. But it had been the way Hamilton had harassed young soldiers, driving them half mad with drills that went all hours and verbal abuse that would have broken the hardest dockside tough, that had been his friend’s death sentence.

A murdering officer, that’s what they’d called Hamilton. Ian had tried to have Hamilton removed from his post, tried to convince him to return to England, but such things were next to impossible in the British Army. It wouldn’t have mattered if Hamilton had whipped a
man to death, he would have maintained his post. And Hamilton had refused to go home, finding his only power in being an officer of Her Majesty’s Army.

Justice over friendship. That was what Ian had chosen, and he would never shake from his mind the look of horror upon his friend’s face. Even if Hamilton had deserved what had been done to him.

All he wanted was to keep this feeling of stillness he’d found with Eva. Of wonder. She had given him peace. Eva, who had seen destruction as great as any slaughter. But the thought that Hamilton’s wife lay beside him couldn’t quite escape him.

What they had done was undeniable. Like the rain that comes in the fall or the sun that insists on rising.

Wasn’t it?

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the ugly thoughts. Trying to block out that it had been duty that had driven them apart. He should have told Hamilton’s father of his love for Eva. He should have had the courage. Instead, he’d wasted years desperate to make sense of how someone like Hamilton, who had been Ian’s closest friend—who had dueled him with sticks and shared his first glass of brandy—could descend to such darkness. He’d wasted those years trying to change his friend.

What a fool he’d been.

Ian swallowed back his disappointment. He’d followed Hamilton halfway around the world to bring him back to goodness. But it hadn’t been goodness that he’d discovered in the back of beyond. Rather, he’d found that most men held the canker of destruction within their hearts. Quite simply, he never should have left Eva. Never. Not for any reason. Certainly not to save a man who didn’t wish to be saved.

Ian shook the past away and concentrated on the
slender form tucked against him. At long last, she was his. For him alone, her eyes had lit up in surprise and wonder as she reached her pleasure. He could make up for the past. He could make up for all his mistakes.

“Ian?”

“Yes?” he asked, apprehension tightening his chest.

“I think . . . I think it will all be well. Perhaps we can find a way to accept the past. Accept what happened to . . . to them.”

“Eva.” Pain and a touch of regret instantly lashed him. Christ, she still couldn’t really speak either of their names. Adam. Hamilton.

The past that would never let them go.

How he wished he could agree with her, that they might find acceptance. It would be so easy to lie. To open his mouth and ease her with platitudes.

He couldn’t do it.

She didn’t understand him. She couldn’t. He could never explain that her husband had died an ignominious death. And that he had played his own part in it. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“We can’t.” He shifted ever so slightly, the feel of her soft skin rubbing against him. “We can’t talk about him.”

“But don’t you think he would want—?”

“I know exactly what he would want.” His throat closed, unable to form the words. Hamilton would be furious, riddled with hate and jealousy, at Ian and Eva’s lovemaking.

“Ian, I think we need—”

“Eva, I cannot.” Ian swallowed against the sudden burn clawing at his chest. An image of blood and torn flesh flashing before his eyes. “Do you understand?” If he allowed himself, he’d feel the ripped flesh under his
hands, those accusing eyes staring up at him, and feel the traitorous knowledge that Hamilton had met the end he’d asked for. “I cannot talk about him.”

She nodded against his chest. “I suppose I understand.”

A slow sigh of relief escaped his lips. Of course she did. She knew better than anyone what it was to keep silent.

Her chest rose on a long indrawn breath. She started to pull away. Instantly he held harder. “Please don’t.”

“What?”

“Eva, we need each other.” He needed her. He needed her so much. It was a terrifying realization. On this wild journey she had become a part of him. Integral to his existence.

She remained silent. Nothing broke that awful sound of quietude. No clocks, no voices. Not even the fire that had burned down to a low red glow. After a few moments, she relaxed. The silence stretched on. Finally, she nestled against him, her hand gentle and light against his chest.

It was done, then. They’d both agreed. They could continue on like this. Not a word of the past would pass their lips. The unspeakable would remain unspoken.

An ironic laugh escaped Mrs. Palmer’s lips. She clapped a quick hand over her mouth. It would not do to lose her composure. Not the proprietress of a madhouse. She set the missive down. Hesitated, then crumpled it until the sheet was nothing but a twisted ball of parchment.

Her carefully orchestrated world was bursting into chaos.

She laughed again, brittle this time; her hand could not silence the sound. As soon as it died in her throat, her stomach churned so hard with fury, vomit threatened
to choke her. She swallowed quickly, pressing her trembling fingers even tighter to her lips.

One of her men was dead. Killed by that bastard. If he’d been anyone else, she would have exacted revenge in a moment’s notice, buying off magistrates. Men of his standing in society, however, were not so easily handled. Nor so easily disposed of.

No, there was only one way to receive vengeance against him, and it wasn’t his quick death. Destroying that which he most cared about was the sure path to revenge. By destroying Eva, she would have all the vengeance she could ever desire.

Now that she knew the extent that man was willing to go to, she would have to take a new tack to achieve her aims. But at this moment, there was no denying it. Eva Carin had slipped through her fingers. The girl was on the fast road to London. If Eva proved she was sane, it would only be a matter of time before questions started being asked about the asylum. She couldn’t have that.

Mrs. Palmer leaned over and grabbed the sides of her perfectly polished walnut desk, clenching it so hard that the pain in her flesh brought a sense of calm over her.

Pain. Her own or others’, always helped to give her perspective. Soon it wouldn’t be hers that set her world to rights. Oh, no. It was that damned woman who would pay for every moment of suffering she and that bastard cousin had inflicted.

Mrs. Palmer stared at the blank cream-colored sheets of writing paper stacked neatly on her desk. There was only one thing left to do.

It was time for Lord Carin to play his part in this game to get back his ward. And once they had her, she’d take Eva Carin apart. Piece by bloody piece.

“Chancery can bugger itself.” Ian’s unbridled disgust for the British legal system rang ripe even to his own ears. Several silvered heads, peers all, turned to throw warning glances, shocked that he should so puncture the revered morning silence of the club. Giving a solid tug at his waistcoat, Ian tempered his growing frustration and demanded in a far more appropriate—though still incredulous—tone, “It takes how long before a case is brought to a judge?”

Lord Byron Cartwright, Earl of Wyndham, laughed. A rich baritone that shook the room, once again catching several glances and harrumphs from the more staid members of the club. The man was a barrel-chested devil. He barely came up to Ian’s shoulder, but one cross word and the man was as dangerous as a giant.

Wyndham rolled his cheroot between his calloused fingers and leaned back in the leather and brass-studded chair. “Weeks, months. Who knows, old boy? But no time soon.”

“Sodding solicitors.”

“And barristers.” The cheroot crackled slightly as Wyndham lifted a match and lit the tightly rolled tobacco, its tip burning demon red. “Don’t forget them.”

Ian snorted.

Wyndham arched a russet brow, his impenetrable gaze sparking with amusement. “Someone steal your sheep? Surely the overseer could manage—”

Ian forced himself to lean back in his own wingback, matching Wyndham’s easy posture. “The entire world is populated by sheep as far as I can discern.”

“Hmm.” Wyndham looked up, catching the eye of a passing steward. The man nodded, knowing exactly what the earl wanted. Wyndham waited patiently, blowing small puffs on his cheroot. Within moments, the steward had a bottle of whiskey and two crystal glasses on a tray.
As soon as two glasses had been poured out, Wyndham braced an elbow on the leather armrest and twirled his cigar. “Would you care to divulge the truth of your dilemma?”

Ian gazed about the room. It was early in the day and only a few men were about the room. All reading papers and smoking. “No.”

Wyndham blew out a deeper plume of dark blue-gray smoke. “Then there’s nothing I can do but drink with you.”

Ian eyed Wyndham, determining whether the man could actually be trusted with the details of Eva’s situation. It would have been easier if the earl had pushed and prodded, but spies had a damnable way of simply sitting back and waiting for men to spill their guts. Even retired spies like Wyndham. “I’ve a problem.”

Wyndham contemplated his whiskey with great seriousness, then said suddenly, “Baden-Baden.”

Ian scowled. “Have you tossed your brains?”

“Hardly.” Wyndham shrugged. “Since I can only guess at the problem, I’ve deduced you can’t decide on a vacation spot. Baden-Baden is all the riot these days. Water bathing. Bavarian hausfraus. Can’t stand the smell of kraut myself, but they say the pastries are quite—”

“Wyndham, do you really wish me to rip out your throat?”

The earl raised two brows as if completely innocent. “My. And here I am trying to bestow my wisdom upon a fellow soldier in arms. A gentleman. A—”

“A man with a very short fuse.”

Wyndham smirked. “I had no idea.”

Ian looked down at the whiskey, tempted to toss the damn lot back—or at Wyndham—but a dousing in the old brew wouldn’t likely induce cooperation. “Do you recall the former Lord Carin?”

“Hamilton? Of course. Damn bad card player. A bit old guard for my tastes and heard he played butcher with more than one poor chap in India. Could drink a fellow under the table, though.”

Ian nodded, trying not to think about how easily Wyndham could recite Hamilton’s qualities. Like a laundry list of attributes. How easily he could state Hamilton’s ability to send his men to needless deaths in skirmishes or through torment. “Lord Carin had developed . . . a certain taste for discipline,” he said carefully. “It was unpleasant to see.”

A dry smile played at Wyndham’s lips. “Indeed. Some officers can’t get it through their heads that dead men don’t fight. Carin died most suddenly, as I recall.”

Ian locked gazes with Wyndham. “Mmm. Terribly unfortunate.”

Wyndham glanced away before nodding. “Yes, yes. Not for the Indians, of course. He was your dear friend, no?”

“All my life.” The words felt hollow. Each day in India, Ian’s hope had died a little more that they would be able to return to the closeness they had once known. That Hamilton would finally become the man Ian had always hoped he would be.

Wyndham drew in another puff of smoke, the haze leaving a veil between them. “Remarkable how certain traits do reveal themselves most unexpectedly.”

Ian stared at Wyndham, wondering how much the other man truly knew. “Yes.”

Wyndham poured more whiskey into both their glasses. “Now, what’s done is done, and for the best, most likely.”

Christ. Wyndham couldn’t possibly know how instrumental he, Ian, had been in Hamilton’s death. And Wyndham certainly wouldn’t approve of it. Would he? He
shook the unsettling thought away, forcing himself back to the immediate problem. “His widow. She’s in a fair bit of trouble.”

Wyndham stilled. “Lady Carin.”

“You know of her?”

“Everyone knows of her, old man. She went mad. Like a cuckoo.” Wyndham took a long swallow. “Not that she didn’t have cause, as I understand.” He shook his head, sympathy softening his usually stoic feature. “The heart and mind are such delicate things. One never knows when they’re going to snap.”

Everyone knew. Everyone. Thomas was a buggering ass. No doubt he’d hung his head at every damn town party and recited the woes of a long-suffering brother-in-law. “What are people saying?”

Wyndham shrugged, those clever eyes of his hard. “Tragedy. Everyone says what a tragedy it was since she was so beautiful, so accomplished . . . so happy. They say that, of course, someone so happy could never survive such losses.” Wyndham hooked one leg over his knee, his perfectly polished black boot gleaming in the morning light. “They say she’s in a sanitarium somewhere in Europe. Recovering under the watchful eyes of a veritable buffet of doctors and noxious waters.”

Just as Elizabeth had thought. “She’s not.”

Wyndham’s eyes widened with exaggerated curiosity. “No?”

The man was such an act. Moving his facial muscles just as one was supposed to at such a bit of information. “What else have you heard?” Ian demanded.

“I’ve heard that the new Lord Carin, while acting the grieving brother in public, was rather celebratory after his nephew’s and brother’s deaths.” Wyndham smiled tightly. “Not terribly unusual among the ton, but also still rather bad form to go about whoring when your infant
nephew is only just dead and his mother shunted off to a sanitarium.”