With This Kiss (24 page)

“Yes,” she said, “there is that, isn’t there?” Her gaze moved over his face, and then her lips curved in a small, unfathomable smile. Reaching out, she lightly brushed her fingers across his cheek. “The Beast.”

Her soft touch sent a shiver racing down his spine, throwing his emotions into a tumult of confusion. Initially nothing had mattered to him but finding Lazarus. But last night had changed everything. The panic he had felt at witnessing Julia nearly trampled to death beneath the thundering hordes was with him still. What if he hadn’t reached her in time? The thought was unbearable.

“We don’t have to continue,” he said.

“No, we don’t.” Reading his thoughts with amazing accuracy, she continued. “It seems to me that in any venture one reaches a point of reckoning. It is so simple in the beginning to say that we will use everything at our disposal, whatever the cost, to go after Lazarus. It is something altogether different once we experience the fruits of that intent. Then we must weigh the risks and decide if it is worthwhile to continue.”

“There is no shame in choosing a different path.”

She hesitated for a moment. “There are times when I’m writing my column when I wonder if my words have any effect at all. When I wonder if I shouldn’t just abandon my work completely. But there is one fundamental truth that makes me continue, that gives me a sense of solace and certainty.”

“And that is?”

“Good will triumph over evil. Right will overcome wrong.”

Not in the world Morgan knew. In fact, the utter naiveté of her words brought a smile of disbelief to his lips. He didn’t consider himself a cynic, just a realist. Life held no place for purity or justice. One fought through a series of petty vengeances, harsh sufferings, and bitter animosities, and then one died. That was all. There was far more darkness than light, and pretending otherwise didn’t change that fact.

Fortunately the sound of a minor commotion downstairs spared him the necessity of a reply.

Julia frowned at him. “Were you expecting company?”

Morgan stood. “No, I wasn’t,” he began, when a soft knock on the door interrupted him. “Enter,” he called.

A young housemaid inched open the door and stepped inside. “A Mr. Chivers of Scotland Yard requests an audience, my lord. With both you and Lady Barlowe, if she is well enough to see him.”

“You may inform him that she is indisposed at present—”

“No,” Julia said, cutting him off. “I’d rather you wouldn’t.”

Morgan hesitated, studying her with grave misgivings. “Are you well enough to be up and about?”

“Quite,” she returned decisively. “I suspect I’m suffering more from the effects of the laudanum than from any injuries. In fact, I’m certain I shall feel much better if I bathe and dress, rather than lie about in bed all day.”

“Very well.” Deciding not to challenge that, he turned instead to the housemaid and said, “Show Mr. Chivers into the west parlor. Lady Barlowe and I will be down shortly. And inform Mary…” He paused, turning to Julia, “Mary is your lady’s maid, is she not?” At her nod he continued. “Inform Mary that her mistress is in need of her services.”

“Yes, my lord.” The maid gave a quick curtsy and left.

He turned back to find Julia watching him with an air of distinct amusement.

“You’re very good at that,” she said.

He arched one dark brow, picking up on her lightened mood. “At what?”

“Giving orders.”

“Years of habit.” He crossed to the door, pausing at the threshold. “Remarkably enough, they’re generally obeyed. By everyone but my wife, that is.”

On that note he softly closed the door behind him and went to his own chamber to bathe and dress. A few minutes later he made his way downstairs. Morgan had met the Home Secretary before; but that was two years earlier, shortly after the fire that had occurred on his property. But evidently that laudanum-sated, pain-wracked state had blurred both his perception and his memory. He had a vague recollection of an elderly man with a large build and long-suffering temperament. Instead he found a man not much older than himself. Mr. Chivers was short and dark, small in stature, and dressed in a fastidious manner that reminded Morgan of his secretary, Lionel Oakes. He sat with a cup of steaming tea balanced on his thigh, his dark eyes moving about the parlor as though absorbing every detail.

Upon hearing Morgan’s arrival, Chivers set aside his tea and came to his feet. “Lord Barlowe. Good of you to see me,” he said briskly. “I received Lady Barlowe’s note and thought it best if I reply in person. If my timing is poor, however—”

“Not at all,” Morgan replied. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of tea, then assumed a seat across from Chivers.

Dispensing quickly with the requisite pleasantries, they moved immediately into a discussion of the events that had occurred prior to last night’s fire. Although the Home Secretary took no notes, he interrupted from time to time with piercing questions that served to demonstrate his keen intellect and nimble grasp of the situation.

“So there have been no other —” Chivers began, then halted abruptly at the sound of softly rustling skirts coming from the doorway. Both men rose as Julia stepped forward.

“Lady Barlowe.” Chivers gave a formal bow. “I heard you were indisposed, but the grave nature of events prompted me to come at once. I hope you can forgive my intrusion.”

“As you can see, I’m perfectly well,” Julia assured him. Much to Morgan’s relief, she did look markedly better than she had earlier, notwithstanding the bruise to her temple. She was dressed in a gown of pale cream muslin, her hair pulled back in a thick braid. Despite the simplicity of her attire, there was an artless freshness about her that immediately brightened the room.

“In your absence,” Morgan said once she was seated, “I’ve taken the liberty of showing Mr. Chivers the letter you received and apprising him of the events to date.”

Julia grimaced. “After Lord Webster’s fire,” she said to Chivers, “I had hoped that we had heard the last of Lazarus.”

“As had I. But from what your husband tells me, that does not appear to be the case.” He thought for a minute, then asked, “At last night’s gala, did you receive any sign, any indication at all that you might have been dealing with Lazarus? Did anyone seem angry or overly attentive? Did anything occur that struck you as odd?”

“No,” she replied after a moment’s reflection. “Nothing seemed amiss until the fire itself.”

“Very well.” Chivers gave a brisk nod. “In that case let us examine what we do know of the man. Perhaps there is something we’ve overlooked.”

“Lazarus,” she said. “Surely the name itself has some special significance.”

“Obviously he sees himself as someone who has risen from the dead,” Morgan said. “I doubt he means it physically, for the man I chased was in solid form. But that could be significant of his standing in society. Perhaps he has been ostracized by his peers, and this is his way of extracting revenge.”

“I would say there’s even more to it than that,” remarked Chivers. “Lazarus seems determined to purify society of what he perceives to be its sins — and to punish the sinners as well. Hence his fascination with Lady Barlowe and her column. He perceives himself as an instrument of justice.”

“That was my thinking as well,” Julia concurred. “He feels wronged, angry- —” She paused abruptly, looking at Morgan. “By the way, do you see any connection between yourself and Lazarus’s other victims?”

“No. I have a nodding acquaintance with the Earl of Chilton and Lord Webster, but that’s all. We’ve never been involved in the same business venture, nor have we enjoyed a particular friendship. We differ in age, marital status, wealth, and political views. Other than the fact that we are all members of the peerage, I can find nothing — sinful or otherwise — that connects us directly.”

Mr. Chivers delicately cleared his throat. “I believe I may be of some assistance there.”

Morgan regarded the man curiously. “Oh?”

“The Earl of Chilton was a notorious gambler. I’m told he was particularly fond of betting on his own horses. Hence the fact that it was his stables that Lazarus chose to set aflame.”

“What of Lord Webster?” Julia asked. “Why would Lazarus want to destroy his library? Surely there is no sin in collecting books.”

At the expression of obvious discomfort on Chivers’s face, a flash of understanding struck Morgan. “Of course,” he said, astounded he had not considered it himself until that moment. Sparing the Home Secretary the embarrassment of answering, he said to Julia, “Lord Webster was not entirely satisfied with his collection of classic literature, plays, and philosophy. He was also known to possess one of the finest libraries of rare erotica in all of London.”

“I see,” Julia replied, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.

Returning his attention to Chivers, Morgan said, “And what was my great sin? Too many servants?”

“Not precisely, Lord Barlowe.” Chivers hesitated, studying his tea with a diplomatic and practiced pause. Finally, he lifted his head and coolly met his gaze. “Women. You were known as quite the rake, as I recall. It is my opinion that Lazarus timed the fire so that you would personally discover it, counting on you to react exactly as you did — rushing headlong into the blaze to warn others of the danger. In disfiguring you, Lazarus tried to take away your ability to find another woman.”

“As I recall, I was engaged at the time.”

“Apparently he felt your attachment was of a rather superficial and fleeting nature.”

“How very perceptive of him,” Morgan returned dryly. “Lazarus may not be lucid, but let us give the man due credit for his discernment.”

“So where does this leave us now?” Julia asked.

“I see no reason to alter the strategy you and Lord Barlowe have employed to date,” said Chivers. “When does your next column appear?”

“Friday. I’ve already sent it to Mr. Randolph for submission to the
Review.”

“Do you have time to make revisions?”

She frowned. “I suppose so, unless the presses have been set. What did you have in mind?”

“Lazarus has formed the habit of using your column as a means to communicate with you. Would you be adverse to using your column to reply to him?”

Julia considered the question. “Yes,” she replied thoughtfully, “I see what you mean.” She exchanged a questioning glance with Morgan, then rose and moved to a corner desk where she retrieved a pen, ink, and sheet of parchment. She penned a few lines, then passed the sheet to Morgan. He lifted it and read,

Disaster was narrowly averted at the densely crowded gala of Lord and Lady Winterbourne when an overturned candle sparked an inferno in the grand salon. The Tattler sends his sincerest wishes for a speedy recovery to those injured in the blaze.

A space, followed by brief editorial instructions, then:

Lazarus, Was that you? Flame

Nothing more. Just a simple question. One that would likely mean nothing to anyone but Lazarus himself. In addition it was cunningly open to interpretation. Lazarus could read fear into the question if he so desired, or admiration, or breathless appreciation, or any number of other emotions. But most importantly, it reinforced the intimacy between them, issuing an open invitation for the man to establish contact with Julia once again.

Morgan gave a curt nod and passed the note to Chivers. The strategy was contrary to every instinct he possessed — using his wife as bait in the attempt to lure a madman. But short of passively waiting for the next fire and hoping to catch Lazarus in the act, it was their only logical move. Silently acknowledging that grim but unalterable fact, he held his tongue, watching as the Home Secretary read the missive and beamed at Julia in delight.

“Very good,” Chivers said. “Very good, indeed. It just may work. If you’ll give me direction to your man, Mr. Randolph, I’ll see to it that this is personally delivered.”

Once Julia had done so, the interview came to a brisk conclusion. Morgan rose and walked Chivers to the door.

As they stepped outside, Morgan found himself surprised by the man once again. He had expected to see a hired hackney waiting. Instead the Home Secretary had chosen to ride. A high-spirited stallion paced to and fro in the shade of the towering oak to which he was tethered. The odd contrast of a small man on such a large horse was forgotten once Chivers assumed the saddle and gathered the reins in his hands, controlling his mount with considerable mastery.

“A beautiful animal,” Morgan remarked, absently stroking the stallion’s neck.

Chivers smiled. “You look as though you have more on your mind than the quality of my mount, Lord Barlowe.”

Morgan smiled as well. “Very perceptive of you.”

Yet still he hesitated before speaking. In reviewing the events of last night, his mind kept returning to one man in particular. Although there had been nothing specific in his behavior at the Winterbournes’ gala to arouse suspicion, he had appeared distinctly disapproving and out of place, almost pained by the gaiety surrounding him. While that could be attributed to nothing more than his naturally sullen character, Morgan found him deeply disturbing nonetheless. Furthermore, he fit every criterion they had employed to describe Lazarus — from his proximity to Julia to his resentment of society and its perceived sins.

“I didn’t want to speak of this in front of my wife,” he said. “But I believe Lazarus may be closer to us than we suspect.”

“I see.” Chivers regarded him intently, then gave a curt nod. “If you like, I’ll have my men undertake an investigation immediately.”

“I think that may be wise.”

“His name?”

“Sir Cyrus Prentisse.”

Julia lifted a copy of the
London Review
from the sterling silver tray on which it had been placed for Morgan’s perusal. She noted as she did that the paper was still warm. A faint smile touched her lips as she marveled at the efficiency of Morgan’s staff. The floors sparkled, the table-tops were immaculately free of dust, and the windows gleamed in streakless perfection. The feather pillows on the sofas were plumped into neat squares, the bed linens laundered daily.