House of Mirrors (13 page)

Without being asked, Remnick had taken a seat at Rafe’s table and gotten down to business at once. “
I was sent to find you and tell you it’s time to go home and take up your duties
.”

“
That’s all? You weren’t given an explanation for the sudden desire for my return
?”

Remnick had drawn on his smelly cigar and studied Rafe. In his clipped, educated tone he said, “
I wasn’t told the reason, but I suppose it’s because your brother died
.” He peered at Rafe. “
Here now, you’ve gone pale. Didn’t you know
?”

“
No
.” Although he’d suspected such news—for why else would the family want him unless it was time for him to assume the family title?—Rafe had been rocked by the offhand manner with which Remnick delivered the news. “God no. Where the hell would I learn that? That sort of news wouldn’t show up in the papers here.” Time had shifted even as he’d babbled at Remnick. He hadn’t been able to hold back the words, “
How? When
?”

“
I heard he drowned after a long night of drinking
.” The British cowboy had stood then, bowed, and said, “
My condolences, Lord Darkwell
.”

Even now, lying in the dark next to Jonah, feeling the warmth of his sleeping body pressed against his arm, Rafe could recall the peculiar way everything had slowed during the moments after he’d learned of his brother’s death and how it had taken a moment to realize Remnick was referring to him by his new title.

After telling him about Edward, Remnick hadn’t met his eyes but stared over Rafe’s shoulder to the door of the wagon. “
No answer for me to carry back to my employer, my lord
?”

Rafe had struggled to think and breathe for a few heartbeats. Once he’d calmed, he’d understood there was no hurry. His brother wasn’t going to come back to life no matter how quickly he traveled, and his mother wouldn’t be anxious to see him even though the title was now his. The estate would survive lackluster management a few months longer until he was ready to return.

“
We break down for the season in early October. I’ll be back then
,” he’d replied.

“
Nothing else
?” Remnick’s shaggy white eyebrows rose. “
Mr. North would want a specific date. And I’ll wager that he’d tell me the sooner you return home, the better
.”

Of course it had been Mr. North who’d initiated the search for Rafe. The family solicitor took his duties seriously. “
Tell him I’ll telegraph his office in London when I know my travel plans
.”

Come autumn, he’d return to the scene of the crime. It was some consolation to recollect it wasn’t
his
crime. He’d fled like a coward—or a loyal brother who wouldn’t speak against his sibling; his memory of it depended on his mood.

At the moment, as Rafe lay on the floor of the wagon remembering the meeting with Remnick, he felt less human than trapped animal. The coziness of the wagon now felt stifling, and as much as he wanted to keep lying and listening to the soft breathing of his lover, he knew he must push him away. Already he’d allowed Jonah to get too close to him—and himself to care too much for Jonah. No point in it. This had to end eventually.

Rafe sighed and rose to his feet. The sexual interlude had drained his energy but not his overactive brain. He put on his clothes except for the bits that lay under Jonah.

There would be some compensation to returning home, luxuries he’d almost forgotten. He tried to recall the pleasure of a comfortable armchair by a fire, but such things weren’t important to him, although he supposed it would be easier to indulge his appetite for other men. The sophisticated elite knew how to ignore the things they did not care to acknowledge. He wondered what Jonah would think of the genteel hypocrisy.

The rest of this season of freedom in the United States, and then he would take up the responsibilities he’d never expected would be his. Which brought his mind right back to the source of his pain—Edward, trouble in life and more trouble in death. But whatever his brother had been, Rafe was incapable of despising the self-centered wastrel. He couldn’t forget times in their boyhood, running through the woods playing at Robin Hood. Edward had always been Robin, but Rafe got to be Will Scarlet and sing ballads. And it was those childhood memories that had made it impossible for him to turn against Edward even after what he’d done to that girl.

Jonah sighed, awoke, and rolled off the disheveled pile of clothing. He sat and held up Rafe’s waistcoat. “I hope we didn’t wreck your clothes.”

It would be worth it
. “No matter,” Rafe said carelessly as he pulled on the waistcoat. “I have several of these vests, as you’d call ’em.”

“Yes, I like the gold-and-ivory one best.” Jonah yawned. “It makes your complexion even darker.”

Rafe snorted. “God Almighty, you sound like a woman.”

Jonah gave a small laugh. “I never much cared about clothing before. But that first night, the sight of you changed that.”

Rafe instinctively took a step away from him. He wanted to tell Jonah to stop with that kind of talk.

Jonah didn’t seem to notice his discomfort. “I think it’s from when I was a kid. You know, that whole magical world. You looked as powerful as any wizard in a fairy tale.” His smile lit the dim interior of the caravan, with his white teeth reflected over and over.

Rafe smiled back, and his panic eased. That was all right, then. Jonah had been seduced by the show. He already knew that about the man. “Aha, and Jamie in her spangled tights and feathered headdress finished your transformation into a man who loved fashion.”

Jonah stood to pull on his trousers. “Funny thing is, even though I know all the secrets—most of them, anyway—I still love the illusion of the stage.” He buttoned his fly and pulled on his braces. He studied Rafe for a long moment. “And I even love what I found under the illusion.”

Rafe’s heart lurched again. What did Jonah want from him? Declarations of undying affection as they grappled over by the horses? Whispers of romantic poetry as they met in some copse of trees for a fast suck? Not bloody likely.

But even as he tried to think of what to say, Jonah saved him by moving to another subject. “I read a couple of stories in Claudia’s book. Too bad there isn’t a phonograph cylinder of a heartbeat. That would be wonderful background to a dramatic reading of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’ Though I suppose two minutes wouldn’t be long enough.”

Rafe should have been relieved by the shift in mood. He reached for a boot. “Tableaux are all the rage at seaside resorts,” he said.

“We didn’t move or talk in the biblical scenes we depicted at the church festivals because my father didn’t want to emulate the theater. But I saw some plays when I went to college. There was an acting troupe in the town. It was wonderful.”

Jonah sounded so enthusiastic about some amateur production, Rafe wanted to take him to New York and show him a real play. Or in London, they could go to the Strand. He’d watch Jonah see some real actors on a legitimate stage.

I’m a crazy man. One minute trying to throw this lad away, another planning an impossible future with him
. He laughed.

“What’s funny?”

Rafe lied. “I was picturing the staging of ‘The Pit and the Pendulum.’ Now that would be quite a feat.”

Jonah laughed too. “Oh, I’d pay good money to see that production. Maybe Pete could carve a giant pendulum while he works on making new stakes.”

“Staubs,” Rafe reminded him, and Jonah’s smile was reflected a thousand times in the real and tin mirrors, as delighted as Rafe had known he’d be. Sometimes Rafe was tempted to make up words just to see that smile. Jonah obviously treasured the odd vocabulary of the carnival. He collected language like some men gloated over fine wines.

“The way you are. It amazes me,” Rafe burst out.

Jonah tilted his head, frowning. “Pardon?” He seemed to stiffen slightly, as if readying himself for criticism.

Rafe had been about to call him a rube, but changed his mind. “You’re as happy as a child. No, that’s not at all accurate. I’ve seen the kiddies at the end of the night, and they’re as crotchety as Mindy on a bad day. A man has to wonder when your gloss of excitement is going to wear off,” Rafe said. “We work from sunup to long past sundown. It’ll wear you down eventually, lad.”

“It hasn’t worn you down.”

He laughed sourly. “The show takes nearly every drop of energy and time from March through October.”

“You have a few drops left over.” That rough, suggestive voice coming from that angelic countenance made Rafe want to rip off their clothes and start again.

Before Rafe could make a move toward him, Jonah opened the door and looked out. “No one’s there. Do you want to go first?”

Rafe suddenly had had enough of sneaking about like thieves. “We’ll walk together.”

He pushed open the door, and Jonah followed. The soft night air was filled with the scent of flowers he didn’t know the name of. He didn’t have time to learn about the land he traveled over with the show.

As he walked through the familiar dark maze of the wagons, a silent Jonah by his side, he thought about how he’d tell him and the others there would be no more seasons for Rafe Grimstone. A heavy sensation settled in his gut. There was no reason on God’s green earth why he should feel the need to stay with the carnival. It would muddle along without him. Parinsky would probably be glad to buy him out and take over his managerial duties, or he could sell to the Orcully Brothers, let them engulf his little traveling show, as they clearly wanted to. Even more mysterious was his powerful draw to the sad, small thing compared to the grand shows he’d seen in Europe or New York.

So much work compared to the easy existence he’d had in England—the life he’d return to soon. But his five years on the road, three as manager, were precious, and its endless work signified freedom to him.

And then there was the inevitable parting from Jonah, who’d vaulted unexpectedly into his life and threatened to break through the barrier around his heart, but that didn’t bear thinking about, so he shoved away the thought.

“What is that sound?” Jonah whispered. It was a long, low, stuttering moan.

Rafe listened. “It’s from somewhere near Lance’s wagon. Bloody hell, it might
be
Lance.” The lion made a surprising variety of coughs, roars, snarls, moans, and purrs, but this was something new.

Rafe ran, but by the time he got to the cage, it was too late.

Chapter Twelve

The next morning, the men took turns digging.

“Good thing this isn’t farther up in the hills. Lots of rocks up there, I tell you,” Pete said as he tossed away a shovel of dirt.

Parinsky, who was watching and not digging, declared, “We’re missing hours of daylight, and this is worse than unnecessary work. It’s purely a waste.”

He wasn’t the only one who thought that. Even Rafe had briefly considered turning Lance’s death to the show’s advantage. They might skin the animal and use the pelt for an exhibit or maybe a costume for Dimitri—turn him into Samson. Or find a taxidermist and let Lance carry on as an exhibit. Or perhaps sell his claws to curiosity seekers and parts of his organs as cures. That would be perfectly normal, of course, and the lion had no use for those parts. But the cat had spent its life a captive and worse. Before it came to their hands, it had been badly abused. The poor thing deserved a little dignity, even if it came after death.

“You’re a fool, Grimstone. There’s some good product on that animal.”

Rafe paused, one boot resting on top of the shovel, to watch the huddled shape sitting next to the dead lion. Surely sharp-tongued Mindy would have some response to Parinsky’s stream of comments about lost profit. But she only sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. This was so far out of character, he worried. She had to give some sign of anger soon, or he’d drag her to the nearest local doctor.

Sam stood just behind her, towering over the scene. Because of his precarious health—the asthma that made him wheeze and the joint issues that plagued him—he couldn’t help with the digging. The giant would have to stoop low to touch Mindy’s shoulder. Presumably he didn’t lean down to comfort her because he feared her temper, not because of the awkwardness.

Parinsky clicked his tongue in disgust, pulled a knife from a sheath, and stalked over to Lance’s corpse, which lay beside the hole they were digging. Dropping to a squat, he looked over the massive form.

Rafe put down his shovel and started to climb out to stop the idiot.

Parinsky began, “At least allow me to remove an ear or something to—”

A moment later he was on his rear, and his knife dangled from Sam’s huge hand. Rafe was impressed at how fast the big man moved and sorry that Sam’s moment was ruined when he had to drop the knife and put his hands on his knees for a coughing fit. But Mindy was next to Sam now. She’d scooped up the knife and pointed it at Parinsky.

“You touch so much as a hair on his mane, and I’ll cut off your favorite bit—and I don’t mean no ear, neither.” Her voice was low and deadly serious.

“Christ! What a load of hogwash. Next you’ll be holding a prayer meeting over the damn cat’s grave.” Parinsky rose, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and left them to their burial.

Rafe was used to such scenes. His people were nothing if not volatile. They grated against one another, clawed and fought and threatened each other’s lives sometimes, but they stuck together against outsiders. It was all part of the unwritten code.

By the time Dimitri and some of the other men lowered the big animal into the ground, shoveled the dirt back into the hole, and sang a hymn or two to ease Mindy’s sorrow, it was late afternoon—an entire day on the road lost. And they’d worn out their welcome in this area. They could open the gates again tonight but would likely get few customers, especially since it had begun to rain. Rafe directed the men to begin takedown before the meadow where they were camped became a morass of mud and they couldn’t move the wagons. They would travel at night, light the lanterns on the wagons, and push forward to their next engagement.