I Spy a Duke (11 page)

Stepping back, she worried her bottom lip between her front teeth. Sauveterre could be watching her right now, plotting her demise, as she waited at the threshold. In the house, she had some level of protection. Guards patrolled at all hours, for the Spencers liked their privacy. At first, she’d found this fact odd, but she’d attributed it to the habits of the highly wealthy. When one estate harbored so many priceless objects, it was bound to attract thieves.

And deceitful spies like her.

She laid her head against the cool wood of the door. Pretended that it steadied her, when in truth her heart beat so fast she feared it might burst free of her chest. Wouldn’t it be better, to live without a heart? That fanciful thought took hold of her, and she sucked in another breath, wishing for a life where she did not hurt so. Her heart had brought her nothing but pain and suffering. A life without passion, without the bitter thrust of a knife to her gut every time she remembered Evan: now that would be heaven.

But she could not close her eyes without seeing him on the coroner’s table. His skin bloated. His abdomen discolored and green, while his legs appeared marbled as if violet-black spider webs interwove across his body. Sauveterre had done this to her brother, and now he was coming for her.

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it. Her frayed nerves were splitting at the seams and she had nothing left to patch them back together. For a year and a half she had waited to find Evan’s killer, and now that she had a name, she was even more powerless.
 

“Miss Loren?”

Abermont’s voice surrounded her. Intruded upon her thoughts, her very being, his words loud and bold. She wondered if she’d imagined him, for he’d arrived at the moment when she needed him most. When she was so frail the act of turning around to face him nearly made her drop. She’d fought for so long, lied for so many months, all for nothing.

She did not know how it happened, exactly. One moment, she was standing up right, albeit unsteadily. Her shoulders did sag, yes, but her knees were most certainly not caving—until they did, and she was falling to the ground. But then a pair of strong arms wrapped around her, keeping her standing, anchoring her. She did not feel so alone anymore. Not when he was here, not when he held her.
 

For a second—a blissful, fleeting second—she allowed herself to breathe in his woodsy scent, pine and leather. It wove through her senses, mingling in her mind, until everything was him and he was everything. His hands burned through the gossamer sleeves of her sienna day dress, catching her body aflame.

And she wanted to lean her head against his broad chest and pretend that it was all going to be fine. There was no mysterious man hunting her. No secrets blackening her name.
 

She had been wrong before. A life without feeling was not heaven.
 

This
was heaven.

Too soon, he pulled back from her. It had not been more than a minute passed, yet she felt the inexplicable change echo through her. She stood again, on her own two feet, her stance firm. She remembered exactly who she was. At nine, she’d learned to ride astride, despite the objections of her uncle. At fourteen, she’d bested her brother in a fencing match, and when he’d claimed it was a lucky riposte, she’d done it again. And again.
 

She was a survivor, blast it, and she’d make it through this battle as she had all the rest.

Her chin notched higher, she met the duke’s inquiring gaze. Perhaps a flush slipped across her cheeks, for his eyes were so intense, twin whirlwinds reaching for her. But she ignored their pull. Ignored his appeal. In recalling her sense of self, she was again aware of the chasm between them.

Abermont gave another of his nods, as if he was assured she wouldn’t faint again.
 

“I need to speak with you,” she said.

Just as he said, “I need to speak with you.”

She blinked. What would he need to talk to her about? Her weekly report on Thomas’s progress wasn’t due for another few days. He’d already thanked her for bandaging his hand. There was little else between them.

Unless he already knew she’d been spying upon him. Wouldn’t that make life easier, if he already knew? But she’d have no chance to turn the story to her benefit if he’d already made up his mind. Her gaze flitted to his face, yet his gray eyes were unreadable, a calm sea when she longed for a storm to indicate his intent. His lips flattened into a thin line as he peered down the bridge of his hawkish nose at her.
 

He did not speak. When her own words died in her throat unspoken, he gestured for her to follow him deeper into the conservatory. Wall to wall glass window panes ensconced in white window frames faced the garden, allowing the onlooker to enjoy the beauty of the outdoors without exposure to the elements. Allowing Sauveterre to see inside. Was he looking now, as she trailed after Abermont? As she handed over her life’s fate to
another
powerful man whose moves she could not anticipate?

The sound of her steps seemed akin to the coronach played at Evan’s funeral. Onward they walked, until they reached the center of the room. Several whitewashed iron benches grouped around a marble fountain featuring three women, each with a hand extended to the giant basin atop their heads. She’d loved this spot. The tree ferns placed strategically all around the little alcove had made this spot secluded, cut off from outside problems. Here, she’d felt free.

She did not feel free now.

But the alcove in the conservatory was private. The ferns surrounding them were tall enough that no one outside in the garden would be able to see them. A few short years ago, she would have been expected to have a chaperone any time she was alone with a man such as the duke. Now, she would gladly embrace that scandal, if it meant her true misdeeds would never see the light of day.

How quickly the tides of her life had changed. From a viscount’s ward to a governess to a criminal in a few small jumps.

Abermont sat down on a bench, looking expectantly at the spot next to him. She gulped. Too close to him. Instead, she sat on the opposite edge of the bench, as far as she could get from him without disobeying his order.

 
Abermont turned on the bench so that he faced her. “You said you needed to speak to me. Was there a particular matter that concerns you? Is my brother not doing well in his schooling?”

He did not know, then. For if he knew, his voice wouldn’t sound so bloody emotionless, whilst every breath she took in was a fight against panic. He must suspect
something
, but not the real truth.

“Thomas is fine.” An automatic response, born out of rote. When he relaxed against the bench, she remained stiff, her shoulders back, her chin forward. An imitation of strength, when she felt none. “I have not been honest with you.”

His brows knit. “I’m not sure I understand. What, precisely, have you lied about?”

“Everything.” She could not meet his gaze. Instead, she looked at the potted fern farthest from him, beginning to count the number of branches. One. Two. Three. Twelve.
 

Abermont’s tone was still unbearably even. “Everything is a very broad term.”
 

“I suppose
everything
is not correct,” she granted. “My name is truly Vivian Loren, and the family history I gave your sister when applying is quite true. Even the references from my uncle’s friends were genuine, all born out of their sympathy from seeing me reduced to service.”
 

She chanced a look over at him and instantly regretted it, for he was nodding along with her words. Not pity, but the factual acknowledgment that she’d been reduced in circumstances. She didn’t want him to think of her like that, a fraction of what she’d once been.
 

“The story you told me of your brother’s death.” The smallest hint of emotion lined his voice, belying his imperturbable mien. “Was that true?”

“Yes, though I wish it wasn’t.” If only that had been a lie. If only she could bring Evan back with the power of her words.

Was it her imagination, or did Abermont seem relieved by the fact that their shared pain was not fabricated? She did not know how to perceive that. She ran her hand down her skirt, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle. Once, twice, thrice, until the gesture was more about keeping her hands busy than the semblance of normalcy.
 

“My brother’s death was not a random act of violence. He was murdered.” She forced the words out, for it was so much harder to say this to him than it had been to anyone else. Her fate lay in his hands—but there was something else she did not want to acknowledge, yet she felt it all the same. The fear that he might not believe her. The shock that his opinion mattered.
 

He waited for her to continue, his reactions not fitting at all with what she’d predicted. Where were the questions? The fury? She’d anticipated following his prompting. But in this as in all other things, she was alone.
 

“I came here because I wanted to find out who killed him.” Damn the tremble of her voice, that fragile weakness when she wanted so badly to be fierce.

Abermont’s intense eyes fastened on her face, his complete attention upon her. “And did you?”

“Yes.” She opened her hand, half-expecting to see yellowed teeth upon her glove. Their absence did not make her stomach seize less.
 

Abermont tracked her motion, a spark of concern lighting upon his face. “I believe you’d better start at the beginning, Miss Loren.”

So she did. She let her mind fly back to the very beginning, the night of Evan’s death. It did not take much coaxing to bring back all the details. The overwhelming odor of chemicals could not hide the nauseating stench of decomposition from the various corpses in the coroner’s office. She’d had to cover her nose with her lilac-perfumed handkerchief just to be able to breathe without choking. And when the coroner drew back the sheet from Evan’s body, the rank pungency made her gag. It reminded her of the pig they’d once found on uncle’s estate, mauled by wild animals and left to rot.

“A Runner came to our townhouse in Clerkenwell. It was a Thursday. I remember that because Evan always left early for work on Thursdays, so that he’d be able to leave the bank before three and take me to the circulating library.” She reached for her handkerchief, her fingers fisting in the scented fabric, just as they had that day after she’d identified his body. “I hadn’t seen him since the night before. If I’d known it would be the last time I’d ever see him, I would have held onto him and never let him go. I would have told him I loved him.”

“I am certain he knew that,” Abermont murmured. So many people before him had tried to tell her that—but when Abermont said it, she believed him, because he too had experienced the regret of a last day. She wondered what he wished he’d said to his sister.

“The Runner asked me to come with him to the coroner’s office. He said they’d found my brother dead in an alley in Seven Dials. The damage...” Her nails sank into the fabric of that handkerchief, but she could not stop her voice from breaking. “The damage done to his body was so extensive that had I not sewn a label with his name in it into his coat, they would have just thought he was another dead drunk in the stews.”

Abermont brushed his hand over hers. His soft touch anchored her in the present. “That was clever of you. I shall have to tell my valet to sew labels into all my coats.” He released her hand, catching her eye.
 

A short, biting laugh escaped. His attempt at gallows’ humor had broken some of the tension within her.
 

“It is always good to plan ahead,” she rejoined, with some steadiness to her voice. “Were you to check the collar of my dress now, you’d find my name stitched into the muslin.” She tried to play that fact off as a light—albeit morbid—joke.
 

Abermont sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Do you fear for your life, Miss Loren?”
 

His directness caught her off-guard. She’d grown used to his not asking questions, yet she couldn’t shake the notion that he’d been waiting for her to reach a certain point in her narrative. As if he’d ferreted out the
reason
behind her coming to him, and all the rest before it had been inconsequential.
 

He saw a problem, and he was going to fix it.

She nodded, releasing her hold on the handkerchief and spreading it across her lap. Digging into her pocket, she dropped Sauveterre’s notes into it, and lifted up the handkerchief by the ends so that it formed a small purse. A half hour ago, after her initial search for him had been fruitless, she’d gone back to her room to collect the notes. At least then she’d have evidence of her claims.
 

Abermont watched her, his hand out to receive the makeshift bag, but she did not give it to him. Not yet.

“My brother was beaten to death in an alley in Seven Dials. When I asked the Runners why he’d been in Seven Dials, they couldn’t give me a reason.” She clenched her teeth, her grip on the bag like iron. “You told me you’d avenged Louisa’s death. So you must understand; you must be able to imagine, how it feels not to have answers. To not be able to get revenge
for your loved one.”

Abermont nodded again. Such a simple gesture, yet it conveyed more anguish than any of the pithy sayings repeated to her in the last year and a half. That nod, combined with the sorrow in his eyes, was enough to get her through the next few sentences.