The Duke of Shadows (29 page)

It was too absurd. She laughed.

"You doubt me? Did he never tell you of his cousin, then? The boy was one of the civilian ringleaders of the Delhi uprising. My aide chronicled Auburn's visits to the lad's house. Giving him money, counseling him. You have quoted from that dispatch, too."

"No.
He was only trying to help his—"

"I do not care what he was
trying
to do. It looks very bad. I had not wished the thing to come to light, for the sake of the family name. To have Auburn hauled up on charges of treason? It would blacken us for generations. But there you go; I am willing to make that sacrifice."

His hand filled her vision. He was waiting for her to take it. The left hand, she saw. Julian had snapped the other. So rumors claimed.

Pity it had not been his neck.

His grip closed on her fingers. Her bones ground together as he drew her to her feet. "Come," he said. "You need more convincing? I will show you how thoroughly you have damned yourself."

Yes, he could do with smashing something. He'd spent the morning fencing with Sommerdon at the Athletic Club, letting himself be beaten into the ground by a man in his sixties with a bad case of gout. All for nothing, it turned out: he'd finally broached the subject of the painting, and Sommerdon had confessed ignorance. He had heard of Miss Ashdown, yes; but he was not in the business of supporting untried artists. If the critics commented favorably on her show at the Academy, he might give her a look.

Afterward, at the Park Club, Julian had found Colthurst engaged in deep play. Up and down, the man swore to his story: Sommerdon's man had purchased the painting, for a rather spectacular sum. Cash, no less.

On then to Lockwood's, where it became apparent that all of Miss Ashdown's paintings had been purchased by third-party representatives. "It's normal enough," Lockwood had said. "But that they all paid with coin—well, under the circumstances, yes. I should like to make some inquiries."

Lockwood had other uses as well. The man was very well connected with the seedier parts of the city. Invitations had been sent to St. Giles and TigerBay, interviews conducted, and men dispatched to loiter, discreetly armed, near Lord Chad's townhouse. His own third-party representatives, Julian thought.

Eastlake turned back to them. "Where was I? Oh, yes. Naturally, when I was asked to be the director, in fifty-five, I was hesitant to accept. One must focus one's energies, you know, and art is the most demanding of mistresses."

"Indeed, Eastlake? Then you're choosing them wrong." Lockwood clapped a hand to the man's shoulder. "Come out on the town with me some time; we'll fix you up all right."

Eastlake choked on a cough. "Ah—yes, yes. My lord, you are humorous. But, as I was saying, the honor was very great as well, as great as the duty. And so I examined my constitution, and was pleased to discover—"

"Just show us the bloody paintings," said Julian.

Eastlake's mouth thinned. "Indeed. I must emphasize how irregular this is. But after consultation with the board members, and because Lord Lockwood has been so generous in his support of the National Gallery's construction—"

Julian strode past. He could hear Lockwood behind him, nattering on about how appreciative they were.

And there were her paintings. Some were already mounted; two men were in the process of hanging another. The rest stood propped against the wall.

He moved down the row, reading silently.
The aim is not
to
avoid casualties. You will meet at the northernmost point of the ridge. The signal will be three lamps filled with ghee. You should send the money with my man.
And—" Bloody hell," he said softly.
He sends money to the house at Ajmeri Gate.

"Oh? How can you tell? Did she include their signatures?"

Julian cut him a look. "You are too damned amused by this."

"Not in the slightest. If I look cheerful, it's because Eastlake headed the other way."

"I can tell because one of the writers uses the third person plural address.
Aap.
His grammar is sophisticated, and the vocabulary is heavily Persian. The other uses a very informal mode.
Tuu.
And it's bazaar language, there's no finesse to his diction or his constructions. ClassicAddiscombeCollege hodgepodge, so I would guess he is British. But for the first … oh, Christ."

"What is it?"

"She used this line before. 'Ten
crore
for troop movements in the following areas.' But she omitted the rather important bit preceding it:
'Nana Sahib is pleased to offer.'"

"So it would seem."

"Ah, a little treason in the afternoon. Not on the syllabus at Addiscombe, I expect."

Julian shook his head. "He's an officer, whoever he is. Here he's addressed as
afsar saahib.
And here…" He heard the laugh escape him. Of course. What a sweet, sweet surprise. "Here they call him
colonel."

"None at all," he said. "But I cannot stay long. Lockwood is in the coach."

"It will not take long. Tea is already coming."

Emma's absence was making him very uneasy. She would be followed by his men, of course, but it occurred to him that she had not responded to his note this morning, either. Why was that? What a damnable new etiquette they were forging. He wondered, as he took a seat across from Lady Chad, what she would think if he turned to her for advice.
I would like to marry your cousin. She would like to make me into a kept man. It is a novel conflict. I welcome your thoughts on the matter.

"I am wondering where Miss Martin might be. I have some rather urgent news for her."

"Indeed." Lady Chad eyed him for a moment. Her hands in her lap were fretful—toying now with a handkerchief, now with a fold of her muslin skirts. He was going to have to proceed very carefully here; the lady was clearly in no mood to be forthcoming.

He drew a breath and schooled himself to patience. "Allow me to offer my condolences regarding the passing of … Poppet."

Her hands stilled. For such a tiny thing, she had a gimlet stare. "I understand you were in the room at the time of his demise. I wonder if you have any details to contribute."

Hell. He'd stepped right into this one. "I understand that chocolate is highly toxic to canines."

"Indeed? It never was so, before."

He would accept the blame for many things, but not for the death of her damned lapdog. "They were not my chocolates, you understand."

She sniffed. "Yes, of course I know that. Oh, never mind. As you may guess, I wished to speak with you about my cousin. I understand that you helped to save her life in Delhi."

Oh, this was interesting. "She speaks to you of that time?"

"Well—no." Lady Chad frowned. "Not exactly. But she has acknowledged your help in escaping the city."

So it was all bottled up, then, save what emerged on the canvas. "You've never pressed her?"

The color came up in the Countess's cheeks. "Of course I have pressed her! How could you imagine otherwise? But you don't know what she was like after she returned. I…" Lady Chad lapsed into silence, staring into space.

"Feared for her," he finished softly.

"Yes. Very much."

"She was so bad, then?"

"You cannot imagine. Almost—mute. But the tears, they were ceaseless. Sometimes she could barely breathe for them. Gideon even spoke of the asyl—" The Countess shot him a glance—startled, he thought, by her own indiscretion. "But of course it was just talk," she continued hastily.

"I am glad to hear it."

"Yes."

"And I
did
think, if only she would talk… But she never would do. She is terribly stubborn, my cousin."

The tea arrived. They waited for the servant to leave, and Lady Chad poured. He realized he was drumming his fingers, and flattened his hand against his knee.

She considered him curiously as she handed over a cup. "I wonder what
you
might be able to tell of it. At least in connection to Emma's escape from Delhi. I will not offer you sugar, by the way."

"I would not ask for it. Yes, I could tell you the story. But I think that is for Emma to do. Don't you agree?"

"You should not speak of her so familiarly."

He shrugged and picked up his own tea. A sip confirmed that he still did not like the stuff. Ironic, since the one thing Britons and Indians inarguably shared was a love of the leaf. "That is how I think of her," he said.

She slammed down the teapot—an expert temper, he noted; all the spray came in his direction, a tiny scalding rain across his knee. "But we have gone off track," she said sweetly. "My
point
is that I offer you my gratitude, as her loving cousin, for whatever aid you afforded her in that time. But that does not mean you have any right to
exploit
that debt by abusing her so! You are very lucky I have not taken this matter to Lord Chad; he would be sure to call you out for it! Luring her out at all hours to God knows where, playing fast and loose with her good name!"

"I believe she would manage it even without my help," he said dryly.

She sat back and clicked her teaspoon against the saucer as she stared at him. There was a vaguely martial rhythm to it. "Then we disagree," she said flatly. "For I can trace all of her recent—behavior—directly to the events at Lockwood's. Since that night, she has not been herself." Perhaps she saw the encouragement that gave him, for her voice hardened. "She is sleepless. Ill-tempered. Distracted and generally sullen. And now, Lord above! Wholly irrational. Those are not the sort of changes one wishes to inspire in a woman—even, or perhaps especially, if one is a rogue, a debauchee, and a scapegrace nonpareil."

It was amazing, what one would take from a woman. Any man who'd characterized him thus would know to reach for his pistol as he said it. But Lady Chad, seeing her hit take effect, merely sat back and sipped her tea. She had Emma's spine, no mistake there. He smiled at her; he rather liked the woman. "Point taken."

"Yes," she said. She put down the tea and resumed her drumroll with the spoon. "So I wish to make it very clear to you now," she said, punctuating each word with a sharp rap. "You may think that your title and your wealth will protect you, but I warn you, Duke: I have my own ways of extracting revenge. The hand of a woman may be soft, but her reach is long. And its subtlety does not make it any less effective!"

The saucer shattered.

She glanced down at it, then gave a little shrug and tossed her spoon onto the table.

"I am duly chastened," he said. "But you have noted yourself how stubborn she is. She would open the house regardless of my actions."

"The house! The house is the least—"

"And perhaps, since we are speaking so frankly, I might also observe that her recent melancholy is but a small deterioration—if that—from the state in which she previously found herself: namely, isolated, lonely, and damnably resigned to it."

The Countess blinked. "Why…" She shook her head a little. "Do you
—care
for her? But you hardly know her! You…" Lady Chad's eyes shifted past him, narrowing in thought. "You knew her," she said slowly. "You did not merely help her escape Delhi. Were you—could you be the reason she broke off from Marcus? She would never tell me the whole of it."

"No," he said. "That was her own doing. Although I may have privately cheered her decision."

"As did I," the Countess said softly, her brow knitting. And then, with a little shake, she seemed to recall herself. Her regard returned to him. "Four years ago now. And you thought she was dead."

"Yes."

"And then you ran into her at the ball. And you—and she—" She leaned forward, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Why—are you in
love
with her?
Have
you been, all this time?"

He studied her in return. "She is not the woman I knew in Delhi, Lady Chad."

She sat back, disappointment clear on her face. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged. "Simply that had you asked me to characterize her then, I would have called her bruised, but ultimately … unscarred. She had a joy for life that was rare. It illuminated her; the shipwreck had not destroyed it."

"Yes," Lady Chad murmured. "I remember. Such a laughing, vibrant girl."

"But not now," he continued softly. "That is what you are thinking; do not bother to deny it. And a stranger, looking upon her at present, would not be nearly so charitable. What would he see in her? Fatigue, yes. Fear. And a failure of hope. Those are not attractive qualities, Countess."

Lady Chad's scowl would have broken a weaker brow. "How
dare
you—"

"And to come to the point we have both been dancing around, the stranger might detect a touch of mania as well. Those paintings are not the work of a restful mind."

The Countess was on her feet now. "You are a loathsome, devilish—"

"But to answer your question, yes."

Her mouth snapped shut. She considered him for a moment. "Yes?"

"Yes."

"Despite all of—what you just said?"

"Perhaps even because of it," he said quietly. "I am perverse that way, I fear."

After a long moment, the Countess sat back down. "So," she said. "You … do love her. I must say, you look
peculiarly
resigned to it."

He shrugged. "It is not fresh news for me."

"And for Emma?"

"Neither welcomed nor openly acknowledged."

"But acknowledged all the same, you believe."

"Perhaps," he said. "I cannot know. Not anymore."

"Not anymore," she repeated slowly. "Well. My, my! But there is an easy way to tell her: you must ask her to marry you."

Now he laughed. "Madam—no, no, forgive me, I do not mean to make fun. But do we speak of the same woman? The one who planned to run off to Italy to avoid me?"

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "There is that. For all her bold claims, she is very set on remaining unattached. Why, she even told me she would rather—" She shook her head. "The silliest things. Oh, Emma." She sighed and reached out to touch the teaspoon. "I do apologize. I seem to have become a bit … overwrought."

"I had not noticed," he said, and she gave him a look, and laughed.

There was a knock at the door. The footman brought over a note to him. He took it with some surprise. Lady Chad arched a brow as he broke the seal.

It was from one of the men he'd dispatched to watch over Emma. As he read it, his blood went cold.

"Where is Emma?" he asked, and his tone was such that her frown returned.

"At her parents' house. Why—what is it? What's wrong?"

But he was already on his feet, headed for the door.