My Beautiful Enemy (27 page)

Now Leighton felt as if he had fallen through ice to the frigid water below.

“My God,” Madison cried. “Captain Atwood, you don’t suppose he means the Miss Blade we know?”

Leighton took a deep breath. “I do suppose that. I believe the Centipede is trying to frame Miss Blade.”

“What do you mean?” asked Windham. “And who is this Miss Blade?”

“Miss Blade is an English expatriate my fiancée’s mother and aunt met in Bombay.” Leighton went on to give a brief account of her action on the
Maria Augusta
against the Centipede.

“But how would you know that was the Centipede?” asked Madison.

“And was there any eyewitness to her actually shoving this man overboard?” Windham frowned. “If not, we have only her word that it had been any kind of a combat at all.”

“I began to suspect that the man might be the Centipede when I heard that before Mrs. Chase described him as Chinese, she had thought him a Frenchman,” Leighton answered,
holding on to his calm. “It has been the rumor that the Centipede is of mixed race and that he lives in France. As for how we know he truly went into the Atlantic, I checked the passenger list and picked up the luggage belonging to a man who boarded the
Maria Augusta
in Gibraltar but never claimed his things in Southampton. And inside the luggage I found brush-and-ink drawings of the Centipede exactly like those he leaves behind. I don’t think the Centipede, unless he truly had been pitched overboard, would leave his luggage for someone else to discover.”

Windham frowned even more. “Why did you not bring this to my attention? The Centipede’s movements are always a matter of concern.”

Windham was right. Leighton should have reported his findings as soon as he had them. Yet he had deliberately kept the news to himself. He had wanted to protect her from any association with the Centipede and from the notice of anyone, such as Windham, who might turn an unfriendly eye toward her.

“It seemed less important when I was convinced that the Centipede was dead,” he said.

“Well, he is not. And, Captain, as much as I appreciate your gallantry, we cannot blithely assume that this Miss Blade and the Centipede feel any enmity toward each other. It could be all for show. Now, where can this Miss Blade be found?”

Madison laughed a little. “Funny you should ask, sir.”

M
aster Gordon had once shown Catherine an image of a ballroom of magnificent size and grandeur. She had pored over every detail of the picture: the floor, as smooth and shiny as a mirror; the pillars, surely wrapped in an abundance of gold leaf; and the overhanging gallery—a balcony on the inside!—a concept that had turned her understanding of architecture upside down.

Miss Chase’s ball was a far cry from what she had imagined a real ball to look like.

Mrs. Reynolds’s house overflowed with guests, unable to move two steps sideways; the drawing room, emptied of furniture, was crammed to a rather alarming density with spinning dancers.

Almost invariably, those dancers included Leighton Atwood, light on his feet and quite something to behold with his beautiful carriage and expertly tailored evening coat.

Tonight he was perhaps the furthest he had ever been from her Persian. But yesterday, in her parlor, the way he’d watched her, as if the dagger at his throat was a caress . . .

She had come so close to kissing him, the very thought of it still made her lips tingle.

“What a wanton tragedy, Miss Blade,” said a very dashing Marland Atwood, stopping by her side. “An entire roomful of gentlemen delirious to waltz with you, thwarted by the fact that you have never learned to dance!”

She smiled at him. “The gentlemen seem to have no trouble finding substitute partners, but alas, it is a bit ridiculous to be at a ball when I cannot dance.”

“Well, that will not do, will it? Come to Starling Manor and I’ll teach you.”

“Starling Manor?”

“Leighton’s house in the country.”

Many gentlemen had houses in the country—it was practically a requirement. But for some reason, she had always thought the pouch of gems and his horse the entirety of her Persian’s fortune—and had liked his lack of worldly goods.

“We are going down the day after tomorrow and you should join us,” continued Marland Atwood. “The English experience is not complete unless you have trudged through ten miles of mud and then have had your picnic eaten by ants.”

The English experience
. He said it almost as if he were also a foreigner.

“If you don’t mind my curiosity, sir, why is it that you are Captain Atwood’s brother but you speak more like an American?”

“I don’t mind at all. After my father passed away, Leighton remained in England under the guardianship of our uncle, but my mother and I emigrated to the States.”

When my father died, my uncle, whom we all despised, told her that if she did not give me to him, he would take both me and my younger brother from her. I convinced her to go away with my brother where my uncle could not reach them—and she did
.

“Were you separated for long?”

“Quite a few years. We finally reunited when I was ten—in the Sandwich Islands, of all places.”

“Hawaii?”

“Yes, on the island of Oahu. I remember waiting for his steamer to come into port, so many leis around my neck I almost couldn’t see anything. The moment the smokestacks became visible on the horizon, I started to cry—definitely one of the happiest days of my life.” Marland Atwood grinned. “You should visit there someday, Miss Blade. I, for one, never understood the term ‘perfumed air’ until I stepped onto those shores.”

The important thing was that we protected my brother
, her Persian had said. The brother certainly seem to be happy and well adjusted.

It was a moment before she remembered to ask, “But why were you meeting in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, of all places?”

“Oh, because Leighton sailed from Shanghai,” said Marland Atwood, as if it was the most natural thing. “Oh, goodness, the music is starting again. I had better go find Miss Chase. I believe I am her partner for the next set.”

Catherine blinked. Leighton Atwood had been to China’s eastern seaboard?

Before she could decide whether that boyhood journey to the Far East meant anything, Mr. Madison took Marland Atwood’s place. “Are you enjoying yourself, Miss Blade?”

“I am.” With Mrs. Reynolds two steps away, Catherine could scarcely give any other kind of answer.

“The day we met, I asked you what you thought of London.”

There was something odd in Mr. Madison’s expression: an intensity of interest that had been wholly absent earlier. Catherine became wary. “And you never got an answer, because Mr. Atwood gave everyone’s opinion of London.”

“Precisely. But then I realized I had asked the wrong question. Instead of your opinion on London, I should have asked for what you thought of China. For there you are the expert, are you not?”

“That would make everyone in London an expert on England, wouldn’t it? And that is hardly the case.”

“Well put. Be that as it may, you have far more experience with China than any of us.”

Why did Mr. Madison suddenly want to know what she thought of China? Did it have something to do with the Centipede’s schemes? “Greater experience actually renders it more difficult to have a decisive opinion, at least for me. It is such a large country, of such varied geography and people, any sweeping judgment must come with a staggering number of caveats.”

“And yet it is one country, under a centralized government.”

“You do realize, sir, that many Han Chinese consider their country to be under foreign rule, since the Manchus originate from outside the Great Wall.”

“Then let me ask you, what do you think of the decline of China?” asked Mr. Madison. “While the European Age of Exploration was barely under way, great fleets from China
had already sailed to the Middle East and Africa. They could have colonized; they could have developed trade monopolies. But the Chinese instead decided every bit of the outside world was inferior, so they went home and closed their doors—until one day men they deem to be savages forced those doors open. Surely, sentiments must run quite strong against foreigners.”

It was a nuanced view, for an Englishman. But Catherine only grew more convinced that he was asking her leading questions. “Yet hordes of foreigners live unmolested in China.”

“But while many of them are but passing through, you lived a very different life. To you China was home. Did you ever find yourself considering matters from the Chinese point of view?”

“It would be strange if I never did, wouldn’t it? Everyone should be able to consider matters from someone else’s perspective.”

Mr. Madison opened his mouth to say something more but was interrupted by Mrs. Reynolds’s arrival. The latter took hold of Catherine to present to her yet another cluster of gentlemen. Catherine smiled and chatted until she could stand it no more. With the excuse of using the cloakroom, she escaped to the garden behind the house, the one from which she had spied on Leighton Atwood her first night in England.

Somehow it did not surprise her to find him by the fountain, a cigarette in hand. He glanced at her, his eyes grave.

“What is it?”

He exhaled a stream of smoke. “It is as I feared. The Centipede is coming for you.”

A
s he spoke of the Centipede’s machinations, cold sank into Catherine’s very marrow.

“They believe him?”

“They don’t dare not believe him.”

“What are they going to do? Arrest me?”

“No, they will use you. Earlier I was able to persuade them to act with caution, to not bring the Centipede’s gaze upon themselves. But now I believe they will do the exact opposite: They will draw the Centipede’s attention and lead him to you—and see if they can, with you as a lure, get him into the open.”

“They will do his work for him,” she murmured.

“I’m afraid so.”

She turned to him. “And you, why are you telling me this? Aren’t you worried that I also want to slit Her Majesty’s throat?”

“If that were what you wanted, we would have already had a state funeral.” He pulled on his cigarette and stubbed it out against the edge of the fountain, his motions unnecessarily rough. “You had better leave England. Go far away. He cannot find you so easily.”

“Leave? No. This is the murderer of my—” She took a deep breath. “No. Either he dies or I do.”

“Most likely it will be you.”

He had spoken her exact fear aloud. She clenched her fists. “That would be good for you, wouldn’t it?”

All at once his fingers dug into her wrist. “Do not say that.”

They both wore gloves, yet his grip was like a burning brand upon her skin. “Why shouldn’t I, when the first thing you suggest is that I make myself scarce?”

The brightly lit windows of Mrs. Reynolds’s house were pinpricks of light in his eyes, eyes with just a hint of wildness to them. “I went back for you,” he said.

A tremor went through her. “What do you mean?”

“I went back to Chinese Turkestan to look for you. I went as far as Kulja, knocking on the governor of Ili’s door. But it was a different governor by then and no one could tell me anything about you. I left a letter in the cave, in
our
cave, telling you how you could find me.”

“When was that?”

“In eighty-five—and eighty-eight.”

She felt her lips tremble, her throat constrict. He’d gone back
twice
? “You must not have realized that I caused your occasional disability.”

“I have known it for years. The poison in your salve was extraordinarily powerful.”

She could scarcely believe it. The backs of her eyes prickled. “And still you looked for me?”

He exhaled. “And still I looked for you.”

Something hot and wet rolled down her cheek. “I left Chinese Turkestan in the winter of eighty-three. I never went back.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and let go of her. “I guess some things are not meant to be.”

Neither of them said anything more. And then the silence became that of his absence, a silence that she had come to know all too well.

Chinese Turkestan

1883

W
hat did you say?
” asked Da-ren, his voice quiet. Too quiet.

“I am . . . I am . . .” Shame swamped Ying-ying. If she had any fortitude, she would have already killed herself. “I am with child.”

She was six months along, but on her knees, in the thick, loose Kazakh robe, it was not yet completely obvious.

Da-ren slammed down his teacup, rattling its lid. “Who did this to you? I’ll empty the garrisons, hunt him down, and tear him from limb to limb.”

She pressed her forehead into the hard floor. She wanted to disappear, never to be seen again. “I was not violated, sir.”