Bound by Your Touch (12 page)

"Unpredictable?"

"That's it."

"Thank the late Mr. Chudderley. You missed those years." And then, as the hordes began to retreat to the walls, he waved away Phin's next comment. "Talk over the julking and you'll be bloodier than I am."

A fancier stepped forward, wicker cage in his hand, to set the German bird on a table. He tapped on the cage and stepped back.

The crowd audibly inhaled, as if fueling the bird's lungs for him. And then, easy as that, the canary began to warble. No fifteen-minute wait tonight, thank God. As the bird sang on, several spectators cupped their hands to their mouths, looking, James thought, about as reverent as if they were hearing the word of God.

At length, the German fell silent. The room exploded into cheers.

"Nine full julks," he remarked to Phin. "A record, surely."

"Perhaps. Ended on a tug whizzy, too. Nice touch, that."

"No doubt. I caught a tollick in there as well."

"Yes, I heard it. Now," Phin continued mildly, "as I was about to say—Puritanism aside, Elizabeth is stumbling about the Stromonds' ballroom with all the grace of a baby elephant. Granted, she doesn't weigh much, but it may prove fatal to the Stromonds' porcelain."

"Christ. Nello?"

"Nowhere in sight. She came in alone, and says she drinks to forget him."

James rose off the stool and shoved his arms into his jacket. This was the third time this month he'd had to hare off to rescue her. "You couldn't deal with it?"

Phin shrugged. "I don't deal well with irrational women."

"That explains your bachelorhood."

"And what of yours?"

"Moreland wants a grandson." Really, he was half inclined to put a gun to Nello's head and force him to the altar. Perhaps he would have done, if he'd thought marriage would reform the swine. But one couldn't reform a man's sincere lack of affection for his bed partner. When sober, Lizzie understood this. "I tell her to stick to wine," he said, as they wended their way toward the exit. "But she will insist on experimenting. Not with your tonics, I hope?"

"God, no. To her? You know me better."

"Right. You have a vehicle?"

"I'm traveling in full state. A brougham would be quicker."

"I came by cab, myself."

"A cab! To this neighborhood? Christ, James, have you a death wish?"

James did not answer. He preferred not to speculate when the answer wasn't clear to him.

The Stromonds' ball was famous for its luxury, and this year looked to be no exception. Exotic, hothouse flowers spilled from every nook. The ballroom windows had been replaced with screens of ferns and roses, so the light breeze passing through them carried fragrance into the crowd. The great electric chandeliers had been turned off. French lamps glowed at regular intervals along the walls, shedding a soft light that glimmered over jewels and silks. They also afforded the Stromonds a pretext to display the vast manpower of their staff. Resplendently liveried footmen circulated through the guests, trimming the lamp wicks before they could so much as flicker.

As Lydia watched this operation from the sidelines, she found herself torn between cynicism and amusement. Every society had rules that governed the proper display of wealth. As for England, the new democratic mood had forced the beau monde to find subtler methods for flaunting their fortunes. No one's footmen rode postilion anymore. One thought twice before taking out a carriage with the family crest. But richly garbed servants and expensive flowers? So long as they remained cosdy, they would never go out of style.

From the periphery of her vision, she spotted Lady Stratton bearing down, Mrs. Upton in tow. A sigh moved through her. She had planned to lurk unobtrusively at the sidelines. But tonight, fresh on the announcement of Anas engagement to Mr. Pagett, anyone who knew her was obliged to extend their best wishes. The task of presenting a cheerful face was exhausting her.

Regretting her rudeness, she turned for the exit. Apart from Ana's happiness, everything seemed a mess. A wire had arrived from Papa this afternoon. He had interviewed each of his workers, but still had no idea how the forgery had gotten into Mr. Hartnett's shipment. The mistrust generated by his investigation had soured the excavation, and led to carelessness and resentment among the laborers; he therefore thought it best to close the site for the season, and book the next available ticket to England.

Only a day ago, she would have wired him back, begging him to reconsider. Of course it would be lovely to have him here as they planned Ana's wedding, but an early return would cost him precious weeks of work at a very crucial time. Now, however? This morning, Carnelly had delivered Hartnett's items. She had broken open the crate in her sitting room and gone through the pieces one by one.

Five faked artifacts.
Five,
out of six total.

Her heart began to drum again, as it had on and off all day. She stepped into the hall, where a crowd milled, brilliant in silks and jewels, to exchange compliments and gossip. Below, latecomers crushed into the foyer, fighting for access to the cloakroom. Her temple stabbed complaint. She was tired and anxious, and there was nothing she would have liked better than to leave early. But she could not abandon Ana to the sole custody of Sophie. Sophie was in a terrible mood. She had dismissed the stela as a fluke, but news of these other forgeries had panicked her into all manner of wild fears. Papa would be labeled a criminal for certain. Mr. Pagett would jilt Ana. George's political career might suffer, Sophies friends would disown her, etcetera, etcetera.

Her fears were baseless, of course. How could the news get out? Lydia had the forgeries, and she had settled with Sanburne. The only real concern was how five frauds had gotten into the shipment. But when Sophie was in one of her moods, logic found no purchase with her. "Then why did you even tell me?" she had cried, when Lydia tried to soothe her. "Why ruin my nerves like this?"

To Lydia's disappointment, the refreshment room was already overflowing. As she continued on by, the high, sweet note of a cornet floated out from the ballroom. The floor trembled as scores of feet stamped in unison. A reel was underway. She felt in no mood for such gaiety. With a quick glance over her shoulder—no one was looking—she ducked into a darkened corridor.

In the relative silence, she found a little bench and sat down. She could imagine only one credible explanation for the forgeries. Papa reserved his nicest pieces for Hartnett. If an unknown villain had intercepted the shipment, and knew enough about antiquities to identify the finest specimens, it was not so surprising that only Hartnett s lot was plundered. A knowledgeable thief would only take the pieces worth stealing.

But to replace them with fakes? It suggested a concern that someone would remark the missing items. The criminal must work closely with Papa, then. He must have access to the shipments at a very early point in their travels, when someone might yet notice that part of the cargo had gone missing.

Maybe it was good that Papa was closing the site early. Otherwise, the idea that he was being preyed upon by someone who lived and worked with him would leave her mad with worry.

A sound impinged on her reverie. She tilted her head to listen. A woman was . . . weeping? The noise came from somewhere nearby.

Lydia came to her feet and moved tentatively down the hall.

"I can't!"

The objection stopped her in her tracks. She peered ahead. The next door stood slightly ajar. Creeping forward, she laid her ear to the crack.

"Let me alone," said the woman.

A scoff sounded.

Lydia jerked back. That had been someone else— a man.

A fresh sob now—louder. It ended on a wail, as if the woman were in pain.

Oh, very nice. Drag a woman into the darkness and abuse her. This was exactly why she took such a hard line with Ana. She looked right and left. Her gaze stopped on a small candelabrum that stood unlit on a low table across the hall. She stepped forward and plucked out the candles, then gave the fixture an exploratory heft. It was not heavy enough to do much damage, but a branch in the eye would stop anyone.

On a deep breath, she turned back to the door. Beneath the nudge of her shoulder, it swung silently open, revealing a dark Turkish carpet that unfurled across a long, book-lined room. The Stromonds' library. As she stepped inside, she held the candelabrum low. If this was a simple lovers quarrel, she did not want to look a fool.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. And then her breath fell backward in her throat. A lady lay crumpled on the floor in a pool of turquoise silk. A man knelt over her, and his face—

His face was bloodied.

"Unhand her," she said. Neither of them appeared to hear. She hefted the candelabrum and strode forward. "I said,
unhand her
¹
.
Or I shall"—she couldn't hit him from this distance—
"throw
this at you!"

The man looked up. The swelling disguised the cast of his features. Had it not been for that tawny hair and those striking gray eyes, she would not have recognized him.

Sanburne!

The viscount's eyes remained on her as he spoke. "Oh, look, Lizzie." His tone was unexpectedly casual. "A heroine comes to save you from your brandy."

Chapter Six

The candelabrum still in her hand, Lydia hesitated. Fresh cuts scored Sanburnes face. He looked piratical. Her first thought was to congratulate his assailant; her second was to wonder if she should be threatening the lady instead. It took a great deal of strength to deliver such a beating.

Sanburne noted her indecision, but misread it. "Be sure to put some weight behind it, Miss Boyce. I would hate to see you stub your toe."

Rustling silk drew her attention. The lady, formerly face-down on the rug, now shoved herself upright. Her arms and face looked unwounded, but a manhandling had knocked her coiffure askew, and chestnut locks were slipping down her shoulders.

As she shouldered a strand out of her face, Lydia gasped. It was Mrs. Chudderley, the professional beauty, and, rumor had it, Sanburnes fiance'e. An unpleasant sensation twisted through her stomach. The woman was even more beautiful in person than in photographs. Had she any idea what her betrothed did when closeted with other women in his study?

"Damn it!" the woman burst out. "Bloody tournure. Its gotten twisted. James—give a hand!"

"Straighten it yourself." The viscount dropped onto a sofa, stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. "God knows you need some project to keep you busy."

"No one asked
you
to come," the woman shot back. Her speech was slurred, as though she'd just woken from deep sleep. "I was doing very. . .
well on
my
own."

Lydia's fingers twitched around the candlestick. Something was odd, here. She felt terribly awkward, as though she'd stumbled onto a stage where a play was in progress, and the actors, being otherwise occupied, did her a kindness by ignoring her.

"Before or after you toppled into the water closet?" asked Sanburne.

"I didn't
topple"
Mrs. Chudderley slumped again to the carpet; her words became muffled. "Slipped."

What had he said as she'd entered? A sinking feeling overcame Lydia.
Come to save you from your brandy.

Oh, heavens. Swallowing, she lowered her weapon to the ground. The viscount remarked the movement with a malicious smile. "Will you look at that," he told Mrs. Chudderley. "Even your savior despairs of you."

What a fool she was! Her cheeks felt afire from mortification. What was it about Sanburne that led her into these predicaments? "Forgive me for interrupting. I will—I'll just go now."

The viscount swiftly sat up. "Pardon me, Miss Boyce, were we ignoring you? I do apologize; one mustn't neglect one's nemeses." From his seated position, he sketched a low bow that took his chest to his knees.

"Miss Boyce?" Mrs. Chudderley rolled to one side for a look. A bejeweled pin slipped from her lolling head, dropping with a glitter to the rug. "The bluestocking?"

Lydia grimaced. She was no self-taught ninny, but people would insist on applying the label. "Good evening to you both." She pivoted on her heel for the door.

"Wait," the woman called irritably. Lydia looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Chudderley was making a desperate face, all large
eyes
and fluttering lashes. Alas for her, Lydia had been inured to such mugging shortly before Antonias sixth birthday. "Help me with this," the lady pleaded.

Her waterfall skirts
were
tenting oddly to one side. One of those new busdes, no doubt. Served her right for helping to set such an absurd fashion. "Fix it yourself."

The woman let out a sob. "For God's sake," said Sanburne, and dropped out of view.

Where had he gone? She took a step back in his direction, and discovered that he had draped himself across the sofa, one arm pillowing his head, like some sort of male Odalisque. Meanwhile, on the carpet below, the professional beauty clambered onto hands and knees to give the act of standing another try.

Out of nowhere, Lydia felt the urge to laugh. What a perfect mess they were! "I'm not a bluestocking, you know. I'm a graduate of Girton College."