Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 (19 page)

“Then you’ll marry her?” That came from Spencer, but he must have moved his sword hand, because Lightfoot needed no more reasons. His sword flashed as Amidei turned back to Joanna’s father, and the air shimmered and changed as the man became—just a man.

“Lightfoot, no!” Amidei darted forward, ducking around the blade to grab the satyr’s forearm. His action only deflected the killing blow and the sword caught Spencer, effortlessly slicing through cloth to the flesh beneath.

Blood spurted and Joanna screamed.

Amidei dropped to the floor, supporting Spencer’s inert body. “See to her. Take her away!” He had no time to yell anymore.

When Lightfoot obeyed him, Amidei knew he had seen it too, the removal of the aura that had turned a mere man into a god. This blood was red, and mortal, soaking into his floor and marking the end of his hopes.

Lightfoot hustled a protesting Joanna away. Amidei would go to her when he’d done here.

Using his immortal strength, he tore away the coat and sleeve to reveal a slice cut deeply into the man’s arm. “Here!” he called as a footman darted across the room, dragging off his heavy, cumbersome livery.

The man dropped. “I was in the army, sir,” he said. “I’ve seen worse.”

“You won’t have seen this,” Amidei said grimly. The footman was mortal, but it was either use him or let Spencer die. “Cooper, hold the edges together.” He knew his name, because he knew the names of all his employees, and finding someone’s name was usually as simple as touching their minds.

Ripping off a piece of shirt, he bound it around the wounded man’s upper arm, pulling it tightly. If he did not stem the blood flow the man would die whatever he did. Then he sent his soul out into the man’s body, seeking the damage at the deepest level.

The damage was extreme, blood vessels, veins and arteries sliced through, bones severed. All that held the arm together was the flesh at the back, and the smaller of the two bones in the lower arm. Spencer had lifted his left arm in a way that would have saved him, if he’d had a shield strapped to it. But he had not.

If Spencer had been a god, Amidei could have saved it, but a mortal would not heal fast enough to repair the damage. As it was, the man only had one chance. “Give me Lightfoot’s sword,” he rapped out. Someone obediently shoved the hilt into his hand. Amidei stood, mentally marked the spot, and lifted the sword. He cut precisely, slicing the arm off the rest of the way. He kicked the limb aside, heedless of where it went. Spencer still had a deep gash in his shoulder, but at least that had not damaged the flesh beyond repair.

Amidei worked quickly, putting all the powers of his command and the skills he’d painstakingly learned to add to his talents. When he gave a command, someone handed him what he needed. He sealed the shallow wounds, and when the blood flow lessened, stitched the flap of skin he’d left over what remained of the arm.

Fear of infection meant most wounds were cauterised, or left open to heal from the inside out, but Amidei would ensure it was kept clean, if it meant cleaning the area every hour.

The man
would
survive. Although, Amidei thought with a grim, inner smile, he would have to find someone else to operate the printing press. At least he’d lost his left arm and not his right.

As he was setting the last three stitches, his mind stirred when Spencer regained consciousness. He stared up at Amidei, glassy eyed. He was in shock. “You’ll live,” Amidei told him shortly. “You will stay here in the club where I can attend to you.”

Spencer opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, licked his lips, and tried again. “My daughter.”

“Joanna is perfectly safe. You have my word that I will not ruin her. What you saw remains between us. We will talk when you’ve rested.” He glanced at the footman who was helping him. “Clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said, reverting to numb and dumb, the way the best footmen did. But Amidei had seen the inner core of the man. Integrity and loyalty shimmered there, two qualities that were worth more than gold.

He got to his feet. The man’s gaze lingered on his groin, and then he flushed, the sight strangely charming on such a square, beefy face. Until then Amidei had forgotten that he was as naked as a babe. More for the footman’s sake than for his own, Amidei grabbed a robe and shrugged into it. “Surely you’ve seen a naked man before. I thought you said you were in the army?”

“Yes, sir, but not—not like you, and not with one of the maids.”

Amidei saw his path. Coldly, he said, “The lady’s name is not for discussion until I have decided on my path. You may say you found me abed with someone if you are forced to it, but not who it was. If anyone recognised her when she arrived, tell them they must have been mistaken.”

Cooper touched his forehead in a sharp salute. “Yes, sir.”

Amidei was impressed. The footman had not even asked for a reward or a vail. He would get one, nevertheless. Amidei appreciated loyalty.

“You can come in now.”

All through the incident he’d been aware of Apollo, Lord Wickhampton. He’d taken a station in the corridor, turning people’s minds away from it so easily that they imagined they’d thought about it themselves. He’d done some work in the lobby too, where people had seen Amidei carrying Joanna through, and later, the bellowing arrival of her father. While he could not eliminate the memories, because some onlookers had not stayed long enough, he had limited the damage by persuading them to forget what the visitors had looked like.

Wickhampton strolled into the room, not a whit disconcerted by the gory mess. Lifting his quizzing glass, he surveyed the scene with bored disinterest. “You’re one maid down, so the others will curse you for this. Is there anything I can do?”

“White’s,” Amidei said shortly. “If you go to the other clubs and coffeehouses, see what they’re gossiping about and scotch the worst of the stories. I’m thinking of making Joanna someone else, a countess or suchlike.”

“A thought occurred to me,” Wickhampton said. “Since the old man is clearly not a god, or a demigod, he is not Argus. So who is?”

Amidei’s mind halted in a moment of complete stillness before it started working again. “Patrick Gough. The man who bought the paper and changed its name.”

“Agreed. Why would he do this to you?”

Amidei shook his head. “I have no idea. I don’t know the man. I need to discover who he is and why he would do this. Perhaps someone else is behind all this. I will not tell Joanna, not yet. She needs to concentrate on her father.”

Wickhampton regarded him carefully. “That, dear boy, is your concern. I fear, however, that you have another problem. Very few people saw the incident because the public rooms are empty. People are leaving the club.”

Chapter Thirteen

When Amidei entered the lovely room Lightfoot had taken Joanna to, he appeared almost normal. He wore a dark coat and breeches, and his shirt was free of blood. He even had a neckcloth on, pinned with a black pearl, and his hair was tied back neatly.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been naked, powerful, and smeared with blood. Not to mention terrifying. The man she had made love with had transformed before her eyes into something else. Even his eyes lost their humanity, becoming liquid silver, blazing at anyone who dared come closer.

She sat in the chair by the fire, staring into the flames, only turning her head when he came in. Like a wild creature, the notion passed her mind that if she sat very still, he might not notice her. She had never felt like prey before. Now the emotion was attacking her in all directions.

He took two rapid steps towards her, his feet almost silent on the rich carpet. Carpet like the one in his bedroom, which was now drenched with her father’s blood.

She turned her attention back to the fire. “I’ve never felt so alone.”

Immediately, he knelt at her feet and reached for her hands. “You’re not alone. Ever.”

When she met his gaze, none of the terrifying bright god remained there. His grey gaze was soft, his expression compassionate. “With my father dead?”

“He’s not dead. He is resting in one of the guest rooms with a guard set. I did the best I could, since it was my fault he was hurt.”

The first part of the sentence penetrated her fuzzy brain. “He’s alive? But I saw the sword—I couldn’t look any more. I buried my face in the sheets.”

“Good.” He held her hands loosely, but she did not pull them away. “There was a lot of blood. He needs time and rest, but he will recover. That is—” He bit his lip, the first sign of agitation visible. “He lost part of his left arm. I’m sorry, Joanna, but I couldn’t save it.”

Tears filled her eyes, but she only blinked them away and forced herself to remain calm. “I thought he was dead, or you were, or you both were. The sword came down and you moved—and it killed me that I did not know which of you I would rather lived. He’s my father, Amidei, and yet I prayed for you!”

Pressing her hands, he lifted a little, as if to take her in his arms, but he subsided. “As far as you knew, he’d betrayed you. You ran from him.”

“To you.”

“Yes, to me. But it was my fault he nearly died. Lightfoot saw a man with a sword attacking me, and he struck first. Forgive me, but I don’t blame him. That is one of his duties, to guard me.”

Her mouth formed a round O. “Why? Because of the club?”

He shook his head. “Because of who I am. Lightfoot is only interested in the club insofar as it interests me. He runs it because I tell him to. Before me, he was valet to the Duke of Kentmere, whose other name is Eros. I have another name too.”

“What’s that?”

Anxiety entered his eyes and marked his brow. “Mercury.”

The silver, the grace, even what he had just done to save her father. From one point of view it made sense that he should make that claim. “How so?”

“The attributes we inherit have a name, sometimes, and a tradition. I can heal, and I can communicate. Hence the club, a centre for people like me— like us— to meet and combine our skills. A place where we can reconnect after years in exile.”

“Mercury? The one with the winged sandals and the odd staff?”

His mouth quirked, but only for a brief instant. “The caduceus. Yes.” He moved the folds of his neck cloth aside to reveal the pin. What she’d thought was a black pearl was in fact some kind of gleaming metal, engraved with the winged staff of Mercury. “It is always with me.”

“Goodness.” Joanna had no more disbelief left, no more astonishment. If she did not believe, what other explanation remained? “Patrick said you were demons. To my father he said the people here were spies, and the club a centre of sedition.”

He nodded. “That is what he wrote in the journals too. Rumours to that effect have circulated ever since the club opened, but we took little notice, since nobody else did.”

“That could have been Patrick. To me he said you were demons and witches.”

He got to his feet in a rustle of silk and linen, holding out his hand to her, a hand that held a ring, engraved with the same symbol she’d seen on his pin. This engraving was done on a ruby, and set in solid gold. She stared at the ring, but he wanted her to take his hand. To come to him, yet again. “Do you believe that? From what you’ve learned, do you think we’re demons and witches?”

Unhesitatingly, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “No. I believe you have gifts, talents, attributes, whatever you want to call them. But I cannot believe that you use them for evil. Nothing I have seen shows that.”

“Thank you. Your opinion means more to me than anyone else’s.” He watched her through careful eyes, though he said nothing more.

“May I see my father?”

He shook his head. “No. That is, you may, but he is sound asleep. He needs the rest, so I would rather you did not disturb him for a while. Let him rest.”

“If he wakes and asks for me?”

He raised her hand to his lips. “Then you must go, of course. Nobody is holding you captive here, Joanna. You may stay as long as you wish, and you may leave too. I will not hold you captive. But if you leave you will also take someone to ensure you come to no more harm, because that might kill me.”

It was her turn to frown. The light from the candles set about the room revealed his face clearly. Outside, night was coming. Another day but one in which her future had changed beyond recognition. “Why would it kill you?”

“Because I love you.” He glanced down, breaking the contact. “I had not meant to tell you that. You should bear no more burdens.” He raised his gaze again. The soft expression of a moment before had gone, replaced by his society shell, the brightness reflecting rather than absorbing and revealing anything going on within. “I’m sorry. I say the most foolish things sometimes.”

“That was foolish?” Her heart sank, but she had to make her feelings clear. Otherwise she could see him walking away. “Then we are foolish together, because I love you too. It was why I came to you rather than anyone else. I ran in a blind panic, afraid the mob would descend any minute and take you apart. Then I had almost persuaded myself that my conversion was an illusion, one that perhaps you believed in, but I should not. Now I know it’s true.”

The strangest sensation of floating swam into her mind when he smiled. The society shell shattered like an eggshell, and that warm expression returned. She wanted to see more of that. “I love you,” she went on, “though I never meant to. I thought I would warm your bed and then move on, especially when you told me that was what immortals do. Perhaps you were incapable of loving that way, or did not wish it, after Adora hurt you so badly.”

He kissed her knuckles one by one, sending little shivers into her heart, destroying any resolve to leave him that she had left. “I decided after that debacle that I would live each day as it came, and not look back. The portrait wasn’t there to remind me of her. It was to remind me of my folly, and that I should never do such a thing again. Fall in love with a woman I hardly knew, give her everything and watch her betray me. But you taught me something. If I continue on that road, what humanity I have will disappear. And if I don’t open my heart to you, I will regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Oh!” She could think of nothing to say, except, “I love you.”

Releasing her hands, he drew her closer to rest in his embrace, and he kissed her. Not a passionate kiss, not this time, but one that spoke of oaths and forever. How true that was remained to be seen, but for now Joanna would take it.

She glanced down, and gave a little shriek. “We’re floating!”

He followed her gaze and grunted, before bringing her softly down. “I can’t say I noticed. You made me very happy by telling me you love me. That must be the reason for the inadvertent flying.” He touched his finger to her lips. “Yes, I can fly, if you want to call it that. No, it’s not usual, but it is one of my attributes. I can travel very quickly too, when the need arises.”

Swallowing, she assimilated the knowledge. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

He sobered, and belatedly she realised she’d said the wrong thing. He could not save her father’s arm. “But you saved his life,” she continued, as if they’d been speaking aloud. They were so attuned that they understood each other without words. Warmth flowed through her, but not from him. From the knowledge that she had found someone. After a lifetime of nobody but her father, she had finally found someone who cared for her.

“We’ll decide what to do when this crisis has gone,” he said. He was hiding something, but she would not press him, not yet. Shadows ringed his eyes. Today had brought joy, stress, and exhaustion, and he should rest and find some tranquillity.

A knock came at the door and Lightfoot entered, bearing a tea tray with much more dexterity than Joanna had ever done. He laid his burden on a side-table with scarcely a clink from the expensive porcelain laid out there. This pattern had birds darting around flowers, delicate and pretty, the kind Joanna had always wanted. Not that the sight gave her much comfort now.

Amidei did not release her, but he did lift his head and glance at the factotum. “Let us know when Mr. Spencer wakes, or if he asks for his daughter.”

“I doubt he will wake for some time, sir.” Lightfoot was wearing his inscrutable unctuous face, the perfect manager of the perfect club. “He appeared comfortable when I left him.” He turned to Joanna. Although she was embarrassed being caught in Amidei’s arms, the factotum showed no expression, not even a gleam in his eyes. “I will have dinner served here.” He glanced out the window. “Supper, I should say.”

“I’m not hungry.” She wanted to bury her face in Amidei’s waistcoat, but he wouldn’t let her. He held her far enough away from his body for her to find no refuge there.

“Send supper for both of us,” he said firmly. “I’ll stay here tonight.” He tilted her chin up. “Although where I sleep is up to my lady.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“What is the word in the club?”

“It’s thin of company tonight, my lord. I suspect the stories are circulating. This close to the end of Lent, it will give the great and the good a magnificent collection of stories to begin the season.”

Lightfoot left, the only sound the quiet click of the door closing.

Amidei kept his attention on Joanna. “Never be ashamed. Never let anyone shame you. Nobody will know it’s you here, or that I’m here with you. They may speculate, and if you show shame, they will know. So where am I staying the night?”

“There’s only one bed.” She couldn’t bring herself to be gracious, but she wanted him to hold her so badly she’d have considered it if the bed was in the middle of the hall. “But won’t this lead to scandal? People will talk. They saw you carry me in.”

His mouth flattened. “Let them talk. For tonight, I care not.”

“You should. The club is in trouble.”

“Do you care about your reputation? Because if you do, I’ll leave now and arrange for a chaperone to spend the night with you. That will stop the talk.” He tried to mask his expression once more, but it was too late. She’d seen the man beneath.

She shook her head. “Why should I care? I only care that you will be damaged by this. You have worked so hard to build this club and make it a refuge for men and women. I would hate to see that go.”

He drew her close, and at last she could lay her head on his waistcoat and feel his heart beating steadily against his chest. “I will have the word passed that the lady in distress has left the club. Will that please you?”

She nodded. “It’s for you and the club. Nobody cares about me.”

“You’re wrong about that.”

Moving her away, he took her hands and led her to a sofa, but she insisted on getting up and pouring the tea. “We used to dry our tea leaves out and reuse them,” she told him, handing him a dish and saucer of the steaming liquid. He took it with a smile and she sat next to him with hers, like an old couple comfortable with each other’s company.

“Dry them out?” he echoed, total astonishment widening his eyes.

“You can get more than one brew out of them. There’s a flourishing business on the streets, people selling used tea leaves. I’d wager Mrs. Crantock does the same thing. She’ll have insisted on it as part of her benefits. She gets the old tea leaves to dry and sell on. It’s like a lady’s maid getting her mistress’s cast-offs.”

“Ah yes, I knew there was something.” He put his dish in the saucer and set it aside. “I’ll have Betty serve you. She’s worked as a lady’s maid in the past.”

She gaped at him. “I don’t need a maid.”

“You do. Believe me, you do. You didn’t think I would not expect you to keep up to this magnificence?” With a flourish, he indicated his body—clad, as usual, in perfectly fitting, exquisitely fashioned clothes.

She studied him doubtfully. “I could never do that.”

“Don’t be too sure.” He paused, and studied her as if she was a conundrum. “How can you not know how lovely you are?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks and she had to cover her confusion by taking a drink of tea. “I’m nothing of the kind.”

“You’re a beauty, my love.”

“Don’t make fun of me.”

“Sweetheart, believe this if you believe nothing else.” He laid a hand on her knee. “Betty will show you, and if she does not, then I will. The first time I saw your hair, I was astonished. How could you conceal that glory?”

Irritation rose to join her embarrassment. “Now I know you’re not serious. It’s so hard to control that I keep it tucked away as much as I can.”

“A good maid will turn that into something that women will envy. Be ready to take London by storm.”

Her irritation persisted. “What as? Your mistress? Do you want me to be the queen of the demi-monde?”

“If it amuses you, then yes. You can be whatever you want.”

Except his wife. The thought touched her mind and then was gone. She would not force him into anything, and if she did, she’d be no worse than Patrick.