A Bride by Moonlight (9 page)

“I wondered,” he muttered almost to himself, “just how on earth you tamed that wild mess of hair.”

She smiled with feigned sweetness. “I’m told many gentlemen use Macassar oil,” she said, dangling his valise from one fingertip, “though I really wouldn’t know. Now, on your way out, Mr. Napier, don’t forget your bag.”

Her confidence caused something in him to snap—his good judgment, apparently—as he sneered down at her. “Oh, I am not leaving, Miss Ashton,” he said. “Nor are you.”

Her false smile faded, her eyes darting toward the row of baggage by the stairs.

“Very well,” she said, letting the valise fall to the floor. “Arrest me—if you think you can make it stick. And if you think you can survive Lazonby’s onslaught. He desperately needs my statement regarding Sir Wilfred’s confession, you will recall.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of Lazonby, and never have been,” said Napier. “You, on the other hand—
you
are dangerous—and about two-thirds deranged, I begin to think.”

She gave a sharp laugh. “Well, you know what they say
.
‘Great wits are sure to madness near allied.’ ”

“ ‘—and thin partitions do their bounds divide,’ ” he finished grimly.

Her eyes widened. “Why, you do know your Dryden, Mr. Napier,” she said. “Under better circumstances, I’d quite enjoy matching wits with you.”

“Aye, well, deal with the circumstances at hand, my dear,” Napier warned. “Perhaps you don’t deserve to hang—Lord knows Sir Wilfred wanted killing—but there is always a price to be paid for duplicity. And let’s face it, my dear: you elevate duplicity to an art form.”

Miss Ashton had stepped away, calmly pulling what was left of the loose pins from her short, fiery curls. “And so?” she said, tossing a few onto the table.

“And so I want you, by God, where I can keep an eye on you,” he said, “until this business of Sir Wilfred’s death dies down.”

“Mr. Napier,” she said wearily, “if you try to put me in jail, Lazonby will—”

“Not jail,” he snapped. “Until he has no further need of you, he’ll just lie and get you out again.”

Her hand stilled. “Then . . . where?”

“Somewhere else,” said Napier, too bloody stupid to bite his tongue. “Somewhere, perhaps, that might make good use of your incorrigible talents.”

“Oh, I think not.” Her eyes shied warily as she edged away.

But he scarcely heard her, his mind in a whirl. “Aye, it might do, at that,” he muttered. “Something in the way of a bargain—a Faustian bargain, or near it.”

And Napier knew in that moment that he had truly taken leave of his senses. That he was making the one mistake he was infamous for
never
making—allowing emotion to rule over cold logic.

Miss Ashton apparently concurred. “That’s a scheming look in your eyes, Napier,” she said warningly. “And I’ll tell you straight out, sir, that I’m not doing anything underhanded.”

“Oh,
now
you find your moral high ground!” Napier laughed. “Good God, madam, does your audacity know no bounds?”

And yet his sudden notion seemed to make a shocking sort of sense. He was loath to leave the woman; loath to unleash such a fey and clever creature on an unsuspecting society until he was sure she wasn’t after someone else—Lazonby again, perhaps, for Miss Ashton was clearly possessed of a mind too sharp for her own good.

Was she dangerous? He thought not.

Well, not now. But a part of him burned to keep an eye on the woman, to discover exactly what she’d done and why. He only hoped it was the part above his waist, and not below.

Miss Ashton, however, had backed even farther away. “You may call it audacity, Napier,” she said. “But whatever I may have done, I have always sought justice.”

He sharpened his gaze. “Yes, and now you need to leave London rather desperately, don’t you?” he said, thinking aloud. “You’re wise enough to know Lazonby’s restraint will last about as long as it takes him to clear his name in the press and get back in the good graces of polite society—which won’t be long. He doesn’t want Anisha’s name tarnished. So aye, he’ll use you. And then he might just throw you to the wolves.”

Miss Ashton lifted one shoulder, but she was listening. “And so I’m to make a deal with the devil, am I?” she said lightly. “And then . . .
what
? You’ll protect me from Lazonby if he somehow turns on me in order to get back at my brother Jack?”

“Something like that,” he said.

She lifted her chin, all of her arrogance restored. “Be
specific
.”

He jerked his head at the row of baggage. “Unpack that lot,” he said. “You’ll need just one trunk; your most elegant things, but suitable for the country—and for a house in mourning. My driver will pick you up on Tuesday at eight o’clock in the morning.”

Miss Ashton froze. “To take me where,” she said, “do you wildly imagine?”

“To Wiltshire,” he said, snatching up his valise. “And I do not imagine it, wildly or otherwise. You
are
going. That, you see, is your penance.”

“To Wiltshire? With . . .
you
?” She stared after him. “But why? To do what?”

“To
act
,” he said grimly. “God knows you’re good at it.”

“Good at acting as a drab grammar teacher, certainly,” she acknowledged. “But I rather doubt they need another of those in Wiltshire.”

“No, but I need an affianced bride,” he said, snaring his hat from the table. “Fool that I am, Miss Ashton, I am not without sympathy for what you’ve lost. But by God, until I know you are neither mad nor dangerous, then I mean to keep an eye on you.”

At last, he had rendered the lady speechless. Her eyes turned to saucers and her mouth literally fell open. Dredging up a faint sliver of pity for her, Napier relented.

“Miss Ashton,” he said darkly, “it is my theory that for better than a year you’ve fooled half of London into believing you some radical young newspaper reporter. Surely, for a mere fortnight, you can make my meddling relations believe that you are at least a little in love with me.”

Was it his imagination, or did her expression relent?

“And after that, I am free to go where I wish?” she said, her mouth turning up at one corner. “I have your word as a gentleman?”

He cocked his head to one side, studying her. “Well, that will depend,” he finally answered, “on whether one accounts me a gentleman. And whether you can behave as a sane, responsible member of society.
And
on how well you do at keeping those meddling relations from . . . well, meddling. I must conduct a sort of enquiry, you see. And it’s your job to ensure I do it unhindered.”

Miss Ashton crossed her arms. “Then send your man to fetch me, Mr. Napier,” she said. “And perhaps I’ll be ready to go. Or perhaps I’ll be halfway to Scotland.”

He smiled. “Oh, you’ll not be off to Scotland, my dear.”

She smiled back, dazzlingly. “You think not?”

“Oh, I know not,” he replied, setting off again toward the door. “For I’ll have a half dozen London constables watching every road out of Hackney.”

At that, she hastened after him. “But I am not a prisoner,” she complained. “You cannot restrain me here.”

“Can I not?” he said over his shoulder.

“Napier!” Her eyes burned into the back of his head. “Napier, you are unconscionable.”

“Yes, it’s often been remarked,” he said, turning to make her a pretty bow. “Now, I shall meet you at Paddington under the sign for the Number One platform on Tuesday morning, tickets in hand—or I
will
find a way to arrest you.”

“You heartless dog,” she whispered. “I can see they call you Roughshod Roy for a reason.”

“They do indeed,” he said. “So, Tuesday morning. Pray do not be late. Now, have you a maid? If not, hire one.”

“Yes. Yes, of course I’ve a maid.” Miss Ashton fisted her hands at her sides. “But perhaps I shan’t be there at all. Perhaps I shall be the one person who stands up to your bullying.”

“Ah, bridal nerves already, my dear?” Napier forced a munificent smile and set off again. “I shouldn’t have thought it of you.”

“Napier
—” she said grimly.

But Napier merely threw open the door. “Now I bid you good day, Miss Ashton,” he said with specious cheer, slapping his hat back on. “And I shall count the hours until I can again gaze upon my beloved bride-to-be.”

L
isette watched Royden Napier stride down her flagstone path, barely resisting the urge to hurl one of the massive brass candlesticks after him. But they were very fine candlesticks, and likely wouldn’t survive the blow against Napier’s rock-hard skull.

Besides, yes, there was always a price to be paid.

At least she now knew what Napier’s price was.

Her stomach twisted in knots, Lisette turned and retraced her steps into the parlor. Fanny stood in the shadows, halfway down the staircase, one hand seemingly frozen upon the banister, her expression stricken.

“I’m going with you,” said Fanny.

“Oh, Fanny.” Lisette cast her an anxious glance. “Were you near enough to hear it, then?”

“Of course.” The maid’s worry lines had deepened to wrinkles. “I knew t’was trouble when I saw that one come swaggering up the path.”

Lisette went to the desk, and fell into the chair, her gaze fixed on Ellie’s portrait. “He knows, doesn’t he?”

“Aye, he knows.” Fanny’s expression was grim as she descended. “But he knows, too, t’will be the devil to prove it.”

Dragging a hand through her unruly curls, Lisette pondered it as Fanny collected the hairpins scattered around the breakfast table. She had to admit a grudging respect for Royden Napier. He did not like her. But he had not liked Sir Wilfred Leeton very much, either.

Fanny was shaking out the wig. “So you actually mean to go, then?”

Her aplomb returning, Lisette rose. “Why not?” she said, turning from the desk. “I wanted out of London and out of Lazonby’s reach. Perhaps . . . perhaps Napier can be managed?”

“Ooh, I don’t know about that one, miss.” Fanny looked skeptical.

“Well, we must try.” Lisette forced a smile. “So let’s set to it, then. Kindly go tell Mrs. Fenwick to stop packing, and instead send me all the newspapers we’d collected for the wrapping.”

“Aye?” The maid looked at her quizzically. “What for?”

“One must always know one’s enemy, Fanny,” Lisette replied. “And I intend to know
mine
very well indeed.”

CHAPTER 5

In Which Our Intrepid Heroine Commences an Adventure

T
he clamor around the Great Western’s temporary terminus was near deafening by half past nine in the morning. Having been deposited in front of the entrance by Mr. Napier’s driver, Lisette hitched her carpetbag onto her wrist, sucked up her courage, and hooked her arm through Fanny’s.

Together they picked their way around a pair of waiting hansom cabs, waded inside, and were at once swept up in the rivers of passengers either rushing to catch a train, or flooding forth from one newly arrived. Added to this a maelstrom of porters, servants, and clerks, and the whole of it felt unnerving.

Lisette had taken the train just once in her life, from Liverpool down to London, but in such a state of agitation she scarce remembered it. Indeed, she’d yanked herself up by the roots from Boston so hastily she’d not even shut up the house properly, practically flying across the Atlantic with that old, crumpled copy of the
London Times
still clutched in her fist, having already memorized every word of the front-page article predicting Lazonby’s release from prison.

And thinking all the way of Papa, so handsome and so gay. Of Ellie, so beautiful and full of promise. And wondering why she, the awkward one, had been spared.

No, the voyage and the train were but blurs to her. But that article, and her fateful meeting with Royden Napier thereafter—ah, those she still recalled with crystalline clarity.

“Look, there it is, miss.” Fanny pointed around the tall top hat of the gentleman blocking their way. “The sign, hanging from a bracket.”

“Ah, so it is. Off we go then, Fanny.”

Lisette, by far the taller, pushed her way along the platform past makeshift spaces marked
Cloak Room, Ticketing,
and
Telegraph Office
until finally she neared the sign.

The assistant police commissioner stood tall and rigid beneath it, dressed far more elegantly than ever Lisette had seen him. Today Napier wore a black cutaway coat over a gray silk waistcoat and a wide, snowy cravat. As if in deference to mourning, his tall hat was banded in black crepe, while a charcoal cloak lined with pewter silk swung casually from the crook of his elbow.

His mahogany-colored hair fell, heavy and lustrous, at an angle that shadowed his face, and long, faintly hollowed cheeks accentuated the powerful lines of his cheekbones above a jaw that was—like the rest of Napier, she suspected—harsh and squared away.

A large leather portmanteau sat at his feet and his weight was borne ever so slightly onto an elegant, brass-knobbed walking stick. But that grim, relentless gaze was fixed upon the pocket watch in his hand, the gold case flipped open as if he timed her every step.

Drawing up before him, Lisette dropped her carpetbag at his feet and looked up. And fairly far up, too, for though she was tall, Napier seemed to tower over her almost intimidatingly.

Lisette ignored it. “Good morning, my love,” she said brightly, presenting her gloved hand for his kiss. “Oh,
how
the hours have dragged since last I gazed upon your handsome face.”

Dark, storm-colored eyes leveled to hers, his gaze direct and far too incisive. “Save it for Wiltshire, Sarah Siddons,” he said, snapping the case shut and ramming the watch back into his waistcoat. “Did my driver see to your baggage? Ah, here is Jolley! Have you the tickets? Good man.”

Lisette let the hand fall.

Jolley, it appeared, was Napier’s valet, who informed them that, yes, tickets were in hand, the baggage seen to, and the driver sent on his way. A thin, slightly stooped man of some years, Jolley had a world-weary gaze and an attitude utterly uncowed by his master.

“And I had to take the last two seats,” he finished in a put-upon voice, “in
second
class.”

“Doubtless you’ve survived worse.” In one smooth, effortless motion, Napier picked up his portmanteau, snaring Lisette’s bag in the same hand. “Send your maid with Jolley, Miss Ashton, and follow me.”

With no further explanation, Napier set off down the platform, his long strides undeterred by either the baggage or the walking stick, the elegant cloak billowing gently off his elbow as he moved.

After one last squeeze of Fanny’s hand, Lisette dashed after him with something less than ladylike grace. Just as she passed the hissing green locomotive, however, the thing let off a horrific blast of steam, very nearly frightening her out of her wits.

She stopped, and clapped a hand to her heart.

Was this what the world was coming to? Everyone dashing madly about like rats flushed from a nest? Just so they might clamber into frightful, hot, clattering contraptions that would whisk them off to another place of haste and confusion?

Napier strode on, oblivious.

With a muttered imprecation, Lisette adjusted her hat and set off again.

Another twenty yards farther along, Napier broke stride to slap a coin into the palm of a waiting porter. The fellow dashed down the platform to throw open the door to a first-class compartment, Napier hurled in the bags, and the porter climbed in to rack them.

When the fellow leapt down, Napier handed Lisette up the slight step. But as he did so, his gaze caught hers and some dark, unsettled emotion seemed to sketch across his face, and for the merest instant, Lisette wished that her hand were ungloved.

Was the man’s touch, she wondered, as confident as his eyes? Was that steady arm as powerful as it felt?

But Napier followed her in and set away his stick with a loud
clack!
that severed the odd, fanciful moment. The door slammed shut after him just as a second horrific hiss sounded, and the train lurched. Lisette, still perched crookedly on the edge of her seat, was thrown sideways. She landed awkwardly, but Napier’s hand whipped out to steady her, catching her firmly beneath the elbow.

Embarrassed, Lisette clapped a hand onto her hat to secure it. “Well, that was a near-run thing,” she grumbled as his hand slid away. “Cutting it close, weren’t you?”

He looked at her blandly. “Until Jolley saw you drive up, we weren’t ticketed,” he said, settling back onto his banquette. “I did not expect you to turn up of your own accord.”

Lisette glared at him. “I sent round a note yesterday,” she said, “accepting your . . . well, let us call it your
kind invitation
.”

He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “I assumed it a ruse—something to throw me off guard.”

Lisette rolled her eyes. “Alas, poor Napier!’ she said. “Such an innate distrust of human nature. I wonder how you live with yourself.”

Was it her imagination, or did Napier’s mouth twitch?

“I manage,” he replied.

He turned that dark glare to the window, staring out at the tall iron columns of Paddington as they slowly slipped past, and the rhythmic ring of metal upon metal came faster and faster. The man sat as if he owned the compartment, she noted irritably, his arm stretched the length of the banquette, his legs set wide, and his fine cloak tossed over the seat beside him.

Lisette regarded him in silence, as if she might will him to speak further. After some five minutes, it worked.

He turned from the window, and fixed her with a stern eye. “You understand, then, that I mean to hold you to your bargain?” he finally said in his low, rumbling voice. “And I warn you, Miss Ashton, I’ll brook no opposition to my instructions, nor put up with any of your deceit.”

“Why, I would not think of it,” she said sweetly. “No deceit at all—or none, that is to say, save that which you’ve already blackmailed me into.”

He cut her a long, assessing look, the first time he’d allowed his eyes to actually linger. They drifted down her face with a studied interest, as if he knew not what to make of her.

She sensed an odd sort of reluctance in him today, and began to wonder if he were regretting his impulsive plan. And impulsive it had been; Lisette had realized that much even as he’d bellowed his orders in her parlor that day.

And yet Napier did not seem a man much given to impulse. He seemed cold, and utterly calculating. What would he have done, she suddenly wondered, had she indeed not shown up this morning? Was it possible he might have been secretly relieved, caught the later train, and gone on about his business?

“I think, Mr. Napier, that you are regretting our little bargain,” she ventured.

He said nothing for a long moment. “I’m fairly confident I will live to regret it, yes,” he finally admitted. “This trip is a delicate business. But like a fool, I let my temper lay my plan.”

“And you do not trust me,” she added.

“And I do not trust you,” he echoed, one corner of his mouth lifting in a grim smile. “Indeed, I feel rather as if I’ve seized a wolf by the ears.”

“Oh, and I have not?”

Then, letting her head fall gracelessly back against the banquette, she gave a deep sigh. “I should have run, shouldn’t I?” she went on. “You’d not have caught me—I
think
you would not have. But you’d have hounded me, I daresay, to the hinges of hell out of sheer spite.”

“Without question,” he admitted.

“But I did turn up, and now we are stuck together,” she said, “at least until the next station.”

They said no more for a time, but merely sat in the silent shadows of the compartment as the rhythmic
clack-clickity-clack
of the train sped up and the edge of suburban London rolled away.

In gentlemanly fashion, Napier had taken the reverse seat, leaving Lisette to look out upon the approach of Notting Hill. She noted the creep of civilization with bland disinterest until there was nothing but countryside flying past, and nothing but silence within.

She cleared her throat sharply. “Where do we go, precisely,” she asked, “and how long have we?”

“Something around three hours,” he replied, “to Swindon Junction, where we will make our way into the godforsaken backwaters of Wiltshire.”

She tried to give a sarcastic smile but to her horror, it wobbled. “So you don’t mean to let me off at the next station?”

Napier was looking out the window again, his brow deeply furrowed.

Could he actually be considering such a thing? And why did the notion leave her with a faint stab of disappointment? She was more than a little afraid of Napier. There was nothing remotely approachable about the man. He distrusted her, understandably. But he also disliked her. Loathed her, perhaps.

Was
that
what troubled her?

Well, that, perhaps, and the fact that her whole life had just fallen apart again.

Inexplicably, Lisette felt tears spring warm and bitter behind her eyes. Better than half her twenty-seven years had been lived with one single, if slowly galvanizing, intent:
vengeance
. And now that she had tasted it, the thing was bitter as ash in her mouth. As if she had emerged from some near-madness like a mole popping its head out into the light of day, only to be blinded by sudden clarity.

Surely,
surely
there was something more to her life than that? And if she did not find it—or find, at the very least, some temporary distraction—she really might go mad. But good Lord, was
Royden Napier
all that was left to her? Did she actually
want
to go to Wiltshire in his company?

At the moment, it seemed so. Such was her desperation to escape herself.

“Look here, Napier,” she said, “I may have made a deal with the devil, but—”

“Did you now?” His head jerked around, one dark eyebrow crooking a little dangerously.

Lisette lifted one shoulder in feigned nonchalance. “This moment, yes, it feels like it. But I am here, am I not?”

“And why does that thought little comfort me?” he murmured.

Lisette glowered at him. “Well, with that attitude, we’re in for some miserable days.”

“Aye,” he muttered, “or weeks.”

“How utterly delightful,” she said mordantly.

“Why, had you a schedule to keep to, Miss Ashton? Someone else to persecute or scam or fleece, perhaps?” Napier’s gaze had hardened. “By the way, kindly remove that dreadful wig.”

“But—” Lisette stared at him. “But I haven’t any hair.”

“Yes, you do,” he countered. “Moreover, it suits you. The wig does not.”

“Short curls went out when Caro Lamb died,” Lisette warned, lifting her hands to unpin the wig. “But if you wish your fiancée to appear unconventional, I daresay it’s nothing to me.”

“Miss Ashton,” he said blandly, “there is nothing remotely conventional about you—and no wig will ever hide that fact.”

Lisette could not tell if she had been insulted or complimented. But she removed the wig, unfastened the short pin curls Fanny had so carefully wound, then raked her fingers through to loosen them. Across the carriage, Royden Napier watched her hands fixedly, but said not a word.

Lisette did not bother to put her hat back on for it now held the wig and all the pins. Instead she turned her gaze to the window, shutting herself off as he had done earlier. Trees were flying past now; an old orchard lining a low stone fence. Stone as hard as her heart. Trees as warped with age, perhaps, as her bitterness had warped her.

She did not want to let go of that bitterness, and her hard heart had been hard won. She was going to help Napier—for reasons mostly selfish but perhaps . . . just perhaps a tiny bit altruistic?

Still, that didn’t change what she’d done. It certainly would not change what Napier was—or what he thought of her. Nothing, she feared, would repair that damage. And nothing was apt to soften that ruthless look in his eyes or that perpetual sneer upon his lips. She told herself she really didn’t give a damn, and prayed that it was true.

Lisette turned from the window and fixed him with a hard stare. “Well, then,” she said. “If you don’t mean to let me go, we’d best get on with it, hadn’t we?”

One eye narrowed. “Get on with what?”

“Getting our stories straight,” she said. “Heavens, you’re a sort of policeman, are you not? How are we to manage this little hoax of yours if we haven’t a plan?”