When We Touch (7 page)

“Jacques!” Maggie said quietly.

“Oh, yes, quite remarkable,” Jamie agreed.

She looked out the window again. Mireau remained uncomfortably silent. “Ah!” he said at last. “The house is coming up!”

They stopped. Mireau jumped out of the cab before Darby could come around. “Thank you, old chap. The carriage was a far better ride than trying to flag down a cabbie in the East End. Why, the one earlier was quite a bad bargain, the grisly old fellow asking way more than he should have for such a ride, and the poor horse appearing as if it hadn't had a drink in quite some time.”

Maggie started to move toward the door.

“I think we should take a ride alone, don't you?” Jamie said.

She froze in a rather uncomfortable position, sliding over to exit the carriage. She stared at him. “Should we?” she managed at last, straightening and looking at him. “Why on earth should we do so?”

“To clear the air?” he suggested politely.

“I don't think the air can be cleared,” she told him flatly.

He reached over, swinging the carriage door closed, and the smile he gave her was grim. “Let's try.”

He tapped on the carriage roof with his knuckles, but then leaned out. “Back in a bit, Mireau,” he said pleasantly. Apparently, Darby had already retaken his seat; the carriage rolled into action with the smallest of jolts.

Maggie sat back irritably. “And just where are we going?”

“Not far. Let's speak honestly and quickly.”

“Please, go right ahead.”

“You're marrying Charles for his money.”

“What an insult to a man to whom you claim such fidelity!”

He sat back. “Apparently, it's going to be a long ride.”

“What in God's name do you want from me?” she demanded.

“Let's see; you were hesitant, but Charles came to your house, you took one look at him and fell madly in love, as reportedly you did with your first husband.”

“Only husband thus far,” she reminded him icily.

“Ah, so are you saying that you did meet Charles and suddenly fell into a passionate fit of love and desire?”

“I saw Charles, and remembered him. And remembered that he was always kind, intelligent, and dear on those occasions when I had seen him before.”

He leaned forward, uncomfortably close now in the tight confines of the carriage. “You didn't think, aha! but he has aged . . . surely he cannot have many years left in him?”

“You are crass and disgusting—and all regarding a man you pretend to serve with love.”

“I serve no one. I stand behind Charles because he is my kin, my elder, and an exceptional man. I'm being honest and practical. I've seen you give speeches and I can hardly imagine that I'm shocking you.”

“Perhaps I don't care to accept such impropriety from
you
,” she said.

That drew another of his humorless smiles. “As you wish. Still, I'm afraid you're going to have to listen to me.”

She lifted her hands with dismay. “It seems I am a captive audience.”

“All right, then. It's obvious that you are marrying the man for his position, and most importantly, money. A marriage of convenience. Your convenience.”

She smiled as well. “Sir, many a marriage is a matter of convenience. This marriage was arranged. At the very beginning, I was not consulted. Such remains the lot of many a woman who would be a wife.”

“Ah, but I do know your brother, lady. And for all his faults, he is not a fellow who would force his sister to anything against her will. And we are not living in medieval times. This is the nineteenth century.”

“And you suggest that marriages are not arranged?”

“I am suggesting that had you protested the obvious incongruity of this, it would not have come about.”

“You know, I believe that I will tell your uncle about this conversation,” she informed him.

“Be my guest. But we've not come to the end of it.”

“As far as I'm concerned, we have.”

“You remain a captive audience,” he reminded her. And indeed, she did. The carriage, spacious enough, seemed smaller than ever. He dominated whatever space he occupied, and that was it. He was simply dressed that day, his trousers and waistcoat pressed black, his cravat a silver gray, and his caped greatcoat equally as dark. Perhaps it was the cut and style of the coat itself; his shoulders seemed to stretch the breadth of the carriage. But were he slender, he might have seemed to consume the space as well, for his eyes seemed to be a burning silver that spoke volumes and echoed and resounded with warning. She denied the shiver that rent through her, and wished that her gaze did not fall to his hands resting on the silver-handled walking stick he carried. They were powerful hands, neatly groomed, but his fingers were long and tense, and the size of his hands, like that of his shoulders, seemed ridiculously emphasized by the space between them. She loathed the man, and yet he seemed to awake something within her. As he ridiculed and she hated, she still found herself wondering with a wicked fascination just how those hands would feel on her flesh, what it would be like to have those fingers, gentle with tenderness rather than rigid with strength, trailing down her cheek, stroking her shoulder....

She jerked her head and gaze away, staring out the window, praying she didn't look desperate, or that, indeed, she hadn't given the least of her thoughts away. There had been that one fleeting moment when she had seen him, when she had felt that sizzle down her spine and thought he might be the lord to whom she would be promised.

“Yes, you're quite right. I remain a captive audience. Of course, I could shriek and scream and throw myself from the carriage, and then, when the police came and the incident was explained to Lord Charles, you might suddenly find yourself a captive audience.”

“You're not going to do any such thing.”

“Don't count on my being so determined on dignity!”

His smile deepened. “My dear lady, you wouldn't so much as set a finger against the door before I would be upon you, make no mistake.”

“How dare you? Perhaps you misunderstand? Your uncle has asked me to be his wife, not his mistress!”

“Madam, that is precisely the point.”

“Yes, please, pray, get to the point.”

“You're marrying Lord Charles for his money. You seem to have a number of agendas of your own. Marry him for his money. But let me just warn you— there will be no young lovers, no nights out on the arm of a stand-in, and he had best live many a year after the ceremony.”

She gasped, stunned that he would speak so bluntly.

Her eyes narrowed, her temper flared so that it was all that she could do to keep from flying across the carriage to scratch at his face. As it was, her hand twitched, and through no real volition or thought, she leaned forward, ready to strike him.

The carriage made a sudden lurch, sending her across the short space between them, and hard against him. The fingers of his left hand were curled around her wrist; with his right, he caught and steadied her, and for a dreadful moment, she was caught against his chest, staring up into his eyes, and they were face-to-face. And in that brief span of time, she was horrified anew to realize that no matter how it seemed she truly detested him, she
liked
where she had landed, and that it was exquisite to feel his arms around her, the power of his chest, the heat that radiated from the man, the raw, carnal pull that was so simply and sensually a part of him.

Then she jerked free, straightening herself, awkward in her haste to get away from him, and all the emotions streaking through her. Her hand fell upon his thigh. Too close. She jerked her fingers away, her face flooding with crimson. She was completely rattled, and furious that he could make her so. In her scrambling to regain her seating, he tried to help her. His fingers tangled into her hair rather than catching her shoulders. Pins splayed over the carriage.

“I've got them; I've got them!” he muttered. But they both made the effort to retrieve them, and their heads cracked in the middle. The deerstalker hat flew from his head, and for a moment, they were both nearly unseated again.

He found his balance first, straightened her, and retrieved the pins. She looked away, wishing that just the brush of her fingers against his as he handed back her hairpins did not evoke any reaction.

A sudden exhaustion had come to her. And she spoke more with that weariness than with outrage. “You may rest assured. There is no potential lover in my life. Your uncle is quite rich. You're his only male heir, so I understand. If you're worried that I shall go through your inheritance, you needn't fear. I'm sure that you've made certain there is only so much I can get in the event of his death. I've asked for an income, yes, but I believe that even you must admit that the individual allotment I've requested is less than moderate. Certainly, you've been consulted on the writing of the marriage contract.”

He didn't reply for a long matter of minutes, and when he did, it was not as she expected. “My lady, I don't give a damn about the inheritance or the contract. I'm warning you only that you will not break his heart while he lives.”

“I don't know what else to say to you. If there is anything I don't want in my life, it is another man.”

He stared at her, and she forced her gaze back to him, and was annoyed to find herself smoothing her hair once again, resecuring pins she had already secured. As he looked back at her, he tapped the roof of the carriage again with his walking stick.

“I'm to be set free?”

“Immediately, my lady.”

And he was right. She wondered if they had done more than drive around and around her own block of houses, for they came before hers so quickly. He was out the door himself and reaching for her hand before she could move. Stiffly, she accepted his touch and came to the ground. His eyes were now as gray and fathomless as a stormy day; he was still and composed, and she realized that her teeth were chattering strangely.

“Aren't you going to ask me not to say anything to Lord Charles about our conversation?” she demanded, swearing to herself, for her voice had a tremor.

“No. I act as I deem fit. And in truth,” he added with a touch of humor, “I don't give a damn about money or inheritance. I pray you and Charles live long and happily together, and that you provide him with a dozen sons.”

There was a hardness to his voice that chilled her further still. Strange, for she shivered, and yet inside, she was still feeling that strange electricity that seemed to make her movement erratic rather than fluid, cause her heart to thunder, her temper to rise and fall.

“Good day, Sir James,” she said. “I would ask you in for tea, but . . . ah, yes, between us, there must be honesty! I really don't want you to come into my house. So, let's see, shall I thank you for the ride? No, I was kidnapped.” She turned, and started up the walk with the late blooming fall flowers still bright on either side. She stopped and whirled around. “And do not follow me anymore, and cease spying on me!”

She did not look back.

She continued to the house, forcing the door open with a stunning burst of strength.

Mireau, who had been waiting on the other side, was apparently listening, his ear far too close to the door. As she entered, he went flying, crashing against the mud door within. He quicky regained his composure and looked at her with a weak smile. “Everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. Perfectly fine. Just—fine!” she exploded, and ignoring even Mireau, she hurried on up the stairs, seeking refuge, total and complete privacy.

“Maggie!” Mireau called to her.

She steeled herself to pause. Turning back, she forced a smile. “Everything is fine.”

“He doesn't want you going to the East End.”

“I'm not marrying him.”

“Perhaps we'd best be very careful about your activities. Until the wedding takes place, at the very least.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I will not change anything about my life because of the awful man, do you understand? Nothing!”

“But—!”

“Nothing!” she repeated. “Do you understand?”

He nodded unhappily.

She spun about again, hurrying on to the second landing.

And yet, once she had reached the sanctuary of her room, she found no peace. She threw herself down upon the softness of her bed, closed her eyes, and prayed for sleep, a slice of oblivion. But she didn't sleep. She found herself burning with memory. Not of the words that should have outraged her beyond any forgiveness or silence, but with thoughts of a single, brief moment.

And then the fact that she was marrying Lord Charles.

A dear human being.

A man old enough to be her grandfather.

To her amazement, she turned her face into her pillow and cried.

Chapter 4

“Sir!”

Jamie was at the club, playing tennis with Sir Roger Sterling, when he saw Darby at the edge of the net trying discreetly to get his attention. He lifted his racket to Roger and walked back to the right of the court, catching the toweling from the end of the net, and wiping his brow.

“Aye, Darby, what is it?”

Darby was a wonderful fellow with the face of a bloodhound and a loyalty to match.

Now, he looked very grave. “Well, sir, I've done my best, you know, keeping an eye on the Lady Maggie, with a discreet distance between us, of course. But now . . . well, I think that I've come to a situation I don't care to handle myself.”

Jamie frowned. He had done everything in his power to keep his distance from Maggie while still seeing to her welfare and safety. He had to admit that his own behavior had been abominable, and that her outrage and loathing for him were certainly justified.

He wished that the damnable wedding would come about! Once he had stood up for his uncle, he could leave, and he was very anxious to leave London. It didn't matter much to him if he was sent to the Continent, Asia, or the Americas—as long as he could leave London.

“Ah, Darby, is she planning nocturnal trips now into the dark world?”

“Actually, sir, that's the gist of it. There's to be a séance tonight, hosted by a new, self-proclaimed messiah, if you'd believe all you were to read about the man!”

“Alexander. Adrian Alexander. I saw his notice in the newspaper.”

“Yes, yes, he's the one. Seems a number of people have been seeing him in the short time he's been in the country. The dowager Duchess of Chesney swore to the
Observer
that he'd brought back her dear beloved Duke.”

“Marian is a sweetheart, but a bit daft, I'm afraid,” Jamie said.

“Ah, sir, I've seen the dowager Duchess,” Darby agreed. “Well, of course you know that I am quite accustomed to looking after Sir Charles—in your absence, of course, and—”

“Darby, we both know that your skill at observation goes unequaled,” Jamie said, hiding a smile.

“Yes, well, all for my lord Charles. And sir, I must tell you, servants do talk.”

“Thank God. We'd never get good gossip did they not!”

“Then you'll understand that through some careful observation—and listening at the right times, and in the right places—I've learned that the Lady Maggie intends to be among the true believers sitting at the table.”

“Surely, she cannot intend to go to debunk the man! There was an article with her name in it from the occasion when she attended her last séance, and found the strings beneath the table,” he said impatiently.

His own opinion on the new “sciences” that had seemed to flourish so since the mid century in London—phrenology, mesmerism, and spiritualism—was that they were often silly, and usually harmless. There were those who sincerely believed in their causes; he tended to be a man who wanted more proof. But Maggie's determination to prove people as frauds might well turn dangerous. Some people were charlatans, and after the money. Generous amounts of money at that, for weeping widows were prone to pay heavily to speak with departed husbands. Grieving parents longed for a final word from a lost child. Why, it was rumored that even the Queen had been to a séance, which was not surprising, because she had remained so deeply in mourning for Albert, years and years after his death. Of course, Charles had told him that the entire country had come to mourn Albert. They had not been so impressed with the Prince Consort when the Queen had first chosen him for her husband, but his devotion to the arts, sciences, industry, and humanity had, in the end, endeared him to his adopted country. Sadly, he had died before the extent of his contributions had been fully realized.

It had only been last year, on the occasion of the jubilee celebration for the fiftieth year of her reign, that Queen Victoria herself had even begun to emerge from decades of deep mourning.

Charles had told him that it had been true, that indeed, Victoria had delved into spiritualism, anything to speak to her dear Albert.

Other men and women of intelligence and renown played with such pseudosciences. Physicians of stature were practicing phrenology, the judging of a man's—or woman's—tendency to crime, deviant behavior, and so forth through the structure of the skull.

Maggie did not appear to be ready to make an assault on those touting the new science of phrenology. Only mesmerists and spiritualists.

He was concerned.

“She's made her appointment for the evening under an assumed name,” Jamie said with a sigh. “And she'll attend in some manner of disguise, be it only a black veil.”

“Well, sir, that's what I rather fear myself,” Darby told him.

“Can she have no appointment with my uncle this evening?” he asked. “Shouldn't they be dining together. . . planning the wedding, their honeymoon, their life of bliss, happily-ever-after, to follow?”

Darby lifted his hands helplessly. “Sir, you are aware of all the plans your uncle has made, and that on the days when he visits her home, he leaves by eight. And when she drives out to Moorhaven . . . I drive her back to Mayfair long before eight.”

Naturally. Lord Charles needed his night's sleep.

“And this séance?” he asked Darby.

“Is planned for nine.”

“Where?”

“The outskirts of Whitechapel.”

The address was not encouraging. It was true that crime was rampant in the area, that death by foul play was far too frequent. But now . . .

Father Vickers had reminded them the other day of a poor woman—a drunken, violent prostitute known to get into a few street fights—who had met her death, viciously assaulted with a knife—last April. Then another prostitute had died not long ago, cut up by a knife as well. She'd last been seen with a sailor or serviceman. But nothing had compared to the last horror. And that such a frenzied crime had occurred at all was horrifying.

“Ah, well, then—” Jamie murmured. “We'll need to get started. Right now. I'm assuming you've the exact address?”

“Ah, sir, you know I wouldn't come to you unprepared!”

“Um, still, you're going to rent a carriage. I don't want the crest being seen anywhere near Alexander's center of operation. Let's see, make an appointment for a Mr. Richard Riley, an Irishman of considerable wealth who just last month lost his beloved wife. Sadly, she drowned, in the pond on the family property in Cork. Be as detailed as you can, you know, gossip away as a dear and lamenting servant of the poor departed Nellie.”

“Aye, Sir James, you know I love to tell a good story.”

“Indeed. Get to it, then. I'll head to the town house right now.”

He watched Darby as he walked away, a happy bounce to his gait. Indeed, he'd tell good tales about Ireland, the home he'd left long ago. Thank God. He had proven himself irreplaceable and extraordinary more often than Jamie cared to remember.

“Have we finished the game?” Roger called to him.

“I'm afraid I'll have to forfeit.”

“Good! I'll be able to talk about the way I beat you at the club tonight!” Roger called cheerfully back to him. “Will you be there, ready to defend yourself?” Roger joined him at the edge of the net, a slight limp in evidence. Roger had been knighted due to his service in India. The leg still bothered him when the weather was damp—a continual state in England—but Roger had no wish to ever leave his native land again.

“Ah, not this evening.”

“Well, you should come. Seems Lord Ainsworth has found some spectacular new venue of entertainment.”

“I'm afraid I shall have to miss it,” Jamie apologized.

“Pity. Oh, well, next time!”

“Next time, yes.” He wasn't sure if he was sorry to miss any of Percy Ainsworth's entertainment. The baron was known for a keen sense of showmanship—and debauchery as well. It was often said that he'd be the fall, if not the death, of many a foolish young man.

Still, he didn't particularly want to dress up and attend a séance, either.

* * *

For some reason, Lord Charles left late that evening. He had been in a terribly nostalgic mood, and though Maggie usually loved listening to his stories, she found that she was watching the clock over the mantel.

It was nearly ten after eight when he glanced up himself, let out a yawn, apologized profusely, and said that he must call Darby.

Darby, of course, had been somewhere near with Clayton, and appeared immediately.

After Charles left, Justin lingered. “You look restless. I was going to the club, but I'm happy to stay here with you.” He was anxious and solicitous. As well he should be. However committed she was to their cause, however much she loved him, it remained true that he had brought about their current situation.

“Justin, please, I'm just going to read and retire myself. It would be quite silly of you to remain home.”

He frowned, looking at her somewhat warily. “You haven't anything planned, have you?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“James Langdon spoke to me at the club the other day. Naturally, he was courteous. There was still the hint of the suggestion that I was lax in allowing my sister to run around the slums of the city.”

She sighed, shaking her head. “It isn't his place to comment.”

“His interest is on his uncle's behalf.”

“Justin, we've spent our lives respecting one another's intelligence—and choices.”

“And I feel that I've failed you as your brother.”

“You haven't. Don't start now,” she told him. “Look, Justin, in another few days' time, I'll marry Charles. And, not to be rude, or to suggest that you don't mean the world to me, what you and Sir James think is right or wrong about my behavior will not matter in the least. For the love of God, I swear to you, I have no intention of heading to the East End tonight. Go to your club.”

He looked at her a moment longer, then nodded. “You're sure you're all right home alone?”

It was a little late for him to be asking. His nocturnal activities had been questionable for a very long time.

“I'm not alone. Clayton is with me. And Mireau is up in the garret, writing away.”

“Of course.”

“I'm going up. A good book awaits.”

“Good night, then.”

She hurried on up the stairs and closed her door to all but a hair's breadth. Moments later, she heard Clayton give Justin his hat, coat, and cane, and her brother departed the house.

Mireau heard as well. He was down the stairs from the attic before she had tiptoed to the second floor landing to assure herself that Justin was gone.

They both knew that Justin might have reservations about his sister attending another séance. The last time she'd been to one, she found the string beneath the table, operating the “spectral” manifestations, and Madama Zenobia had threatened her life, cursing and kicking all the way to her trial. A Belgian, she'd been deported.

Maggie had never considered herself to be in danger from the woman, her jowly husband, or even her ridiculous poodle.

“Have you the bags?”

“All set.”

“Let's slip on out.”

“Shall we wait a minute? Make sure that Justin has caught a cab?”

“No, he'll have gotten one. Clayton might be about if we wait too long. Let us go.”

They hurried down the stairs together, slipping quickly out the door. Maggie realized that she was sneaking about her own home like a thief when Mireau pushed her back as they exited the house—Justin was just getting into a cab.

They held still for several long seconds, until the cab had disappeared down the street. Then they hurried to the sidewalk and kept going, walking briskly until they saw a number of cabs, and hailed one.

In the cab, Mireau opened the bags. He had a dark wig for each of them, and a mourning hat with a heavy veil for Maggie, a mustache, muttonchops, and a goatee for himself. Satin lined capes finished out their apparel.

The cab moved toward a questionable section of the city just opposite the Tower. She remembered that she had told her brother she wasn't going to the East End. If she wasn't in it, she was certainly close.

“He's stopping,” Mireau said. He quickly opened the door, hopping out, reaching for her hand. He paid the cabby, and they both looked up at the house.

On the outskirts of a very bad area, it was a glorious old home. It was Tudor in design, and in need of repair, but it certainly offered an aura of darkness and mystery.

There was barely space between the front door and the street, and a crumbling walk offered them but a few steps. The front door opened as they approached it.

A man, immensely tall, his pate shiny, appeared. “Lady Walsing?”

“Yes, yes, I'm Amy Walsing. Please, no titles here tonight. I believe we have none beyond the grave, and I'd not hamper any spirit who might influence my poor departed Willie.”

“Ah, yes, I understand!” the man said.

“This gentleman is your . . . brother. Ben.”

“Yes, of course!” she said, delighted. “How did you know?”

“Well, I'd like to say that it was intuition, my dear La—Amy. But Ben came to make the appointment this afternoon.”

“Yes, of course, how silly of me!” Maggie said.

“Never silly, dear lady.”

“Amy, please. Mrs. Walsing, if you must.”

“Come in, come in, both of you.”

They were already in. The entry extended into a very large hall with a broad stairway leading up to a second floor.