The Dark Lady (20 page)

At present, Thomas was not the immediate worry. The woman at his employ, as well as her puppets, commanded that dubious honor. “It is worse,” he confessed.

“How?” Her hands splayed over her gown, the diamond ring winking in the firelight. “How could it possibly be worse than your taking her without Thomas’s approval?”

He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing that he could as easily rub away the long sense of fatigue that had been weighing his muscles since his return to England.

“Perhaps a glass of brandy is in order?” his aunt suggested, her gaze watchful and assessing.

Though the world was crashing around him, his aunt’s pragmatism was welcome. “Yes.”

Wordlessly, Ian crossed to the table laden with Waterford
bottles of amber liquid. He’d brought danger to his aunt and the castle. But he didn’t regret it. Not when Eva’s survival was in the balance.

This was his home and, as such, it was now Eva’s.

He poured out two liberal glasses. Palming the snifters, he remarked, “This will not begin to mitigate the displeasure I feel.”

“But it cannot hurt,” she parried, a faint smile urging him as she took the offered glass. “I remember when Eva was a little girl . . .” Her voice trailed off, as did the smile. “So beautiful. So full of life. In fact, I would have sworn she could have outdone either of you boys.”

The fury dimmed inside him ever so slightly and he placed his hand gently on her shoulder. “I abducted her.”

His aunt’s eyes widened. She tensed beneath his touch, then lifted her glass and downed half the contents. She echoed him: “Abducted?”

“I pretended to be Thomas. I paid the woman who runs that prison. And I took her.” He let his hand trail down her shoulder; then, too tired to keep upright, Ian collapsed into one of the delicate French sofas embroidered in gold and blue that his mother had so cherished. Dropping his head back, he looked up at the pale ceiling painted with the goddesses Aphrodite and Artemis. “Given the events of the last few days, I’m certain she has deduced that I was not Thomas.”

Aunt Elizabeth crossed to the sofa and lowered herself down beside him. The hem of her full skirts brushed his boots. “Then we must assume Thomas will know soon?”

“Without doubt word has been dispatched.” He lifted the crystal glass to his lips and took a drink of the full-bodied liquor. Swallowing carefully, he savored the feel of it sliding down his throat. “And Eva’s friend, a girl named Mary, killed one of the keepers the night we left. Eva could be implicated if Thomas or Mrs. Palmer
wished it, but I doubt they will. Not when the chance of their own nefarious behavior could be forced to public scrutiny under a murder trial.”

“Good God.” She gasped. She stared blankly until her voice shuddered out, “And Eva lived at the asylum for over a year?”

Ian merely raised a brow in acknowledgment.

Elizabeth’s fingers whitened as her hand tightened around her glass. “How could Thomas do such a thing?”

“He claimed she had gone mad, that she tried to drown herself in the lake.”

“At the time, I didn’t wish to accept Thomas’s assertion. But given what had happened to her, I believed that it would be possible.” Aunt Elizabeth reached up and clasped Ian’s hand, seizing it like an avenging angel. And then, with the fire of said seraphim, she said, “She’s lost such a great deal.”

Ian didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. At last he asked softly, “What exactly did Thomas say?”

“About the sanitarium?”

Ian nodded.

“Everyone who is anyone believes her to be taking the waters in some private spa.” She leaned forward, her lips pursing with disgust. “Though secretly, Ian, I think all society believes her to be mad. Thomas has whispered it about that she is not entirely well, that she is now in his guardianship.”

Ian ground his teeth together. Eva had been the toast of London, the greatest beauty and the most sought after. Now, if they all thought her mad, she would be a pariah or, worse, a spectacle meant for entertaining gossip. “We must do something about that.”

“Why?” she asked forcefully. “Hasn’t Eva suffered enough? Can’t we just care for her here? Battling with a hunger for laudanum is not easy, Ian. Even when she has
no physical need for it, the emotional and mental need for it may consume her for years. We can hire assistants who are specialized—”

“No.” He took hold of her delicate hand as if he could will her by touch. “Thomas will come for her. There is no question. He sent her away for some reason that he hasn’t given light to and he is legally her guardian. It is within his right to send her back to that place. So we must show the world that she isn’t mad and thereby revoke his power over her.”

“But, Ian . . .” His aunt’s voice lowered. “What if she can never recover?”

He ground his teeth together. “She will. She must.”

“We will protect her,” Aunt Elizabeth added calmly, her bright eyes racing with plans.

“We must instruct the staff that Thomas or men on his behalf will come.”

“But surely Thomas would let us care for her?”

Ian scowled. “I have very strong doubts.”

“Why?” she exclaimed. “We—as family—wish to protect her from scandal.”

“I’m not certain, but when last I saw him, he seemed unsettled about Eva. And why would he lock her away in such a place if he wished her to be cared for?”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about. That Thomas could do such a thing to his brother’s wife.”

“It does not.” But Ian wondered. Thomas had always chosen to live on the outskirts of life, feeling little for anyone or anything. It had been unnatural, his isolation and independence from any sort of affection.

But there had to be some reason aside from indifference that Thomas would do such a thing to Eva. Perhaps he did not know the horrors of Mrs. Palmer’s establishment.

And yet . . .

“What will you do, Ian?”

He tapped a finger against his glass, the crystal ringing dully. “Bring Eva back. Whatever it takes.”

“I see.”

There was a provocative note to her words. “Yes?” he questioned.

“Nothing.” She took a sip of brandy. “Nothing. Only, she needs kindness just now, Ian.”

“What she needs is to be proven sane.”

His aunt nodded quietly. Yet her concern filled the air around them, as if she didn’t quite agree.

“I will do what is best,” he promised. He would. Nothing mattered more.

She hesitated, then tilted her head slowly to the side, her features assessing him. “For you or for her?”

Ian drew back, his eyes narrowing at her insinuation. “Explain yourself.”

Grief softened her face. “You couldn’t change Hamilton, could you? Nor could you save him. Oh, his father wished you to, but I never expected such a thing, both of you being soldiers and reckless. And Hamilton. Well, Hamilton had a streak—”

“Aunt Elizabeth . . .” His voice trailed off, a warning tone insisting she not pursue the subject. She had no idea about the circumstances of Hamilton’s death.

“Eva is not Hamilton,” she said. “You cannot save a dead man by saving her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said curtly. The words hung between them, ringing as loud as a slap. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

“Of course, Ian.” She stood slowly, for once her movements slow and tired, evidence of the fact she was no longer a young woman and that she had worked hard over the years of his absence. She paused. “I always hoped my boy would come home, but now I see he is as
dead as Hamilton.” She glanced back over her shoulder, regret filling those kind, intelligent eyes. “And that is as it should be, I suppose.”

Somehow, somewhere he had walked down some unseen road that had diverged from Hamilton’s. “I am still your nephew.”

“You are a man now,” she said simply. “No boy left within you.” She whisked from the room, her skirts trailing just behind her as she stepped briskly into the hall. Leaving him. In silence. In the growing dark.

He couldn’t contradict her. It was true. The boy in him had died, in the stench of death and the heat of injustice. But that boy had been deluded with illusions of a kind and beautiful world.

Now he understood the world to be the ruthless place it was. And only those who confronted the ugliness of it would survive.

India
Two years earlier

“You must cease this behavior.”

Hamilton held the wine bottle by the neck and resisted the urge to launch it across the room. Instead, he lifted the mouth to his lips and drank deeply. The thick red wine coursed over his tongue and he choked it back, desperate to feel nothing. He wiped his hand over his mouth, then arched a brow at Ian. “Cease what exactly?”

Ian’s gaze crackled with fury and impatience. “That soldier. He killed himself.”

Hamilton shrugged and took another swig of wine, wishing he and Ian weren’t alone. He had no desire to be made to feel inferior yet again. He’d dogged the young Sepoy for months, determined to teach him the importance of discipline. The importance of deference to the
English. He’d used every tactic he could think of to make the boy’s life hell—singling him out for punishing drills, latrine duties, night sentries, reductions in pay, lack of leave while his companions were given free time. In fact, by the time the soldier had killed himself, he’d had no friends, as Hamilton had ensured that whenever he’d made a mistake his comrades had been punished in conjunction. A good man would have risen above it, but not the native. “He was weak,” Hamilton retorted.

Ian’s face contorted into disbelief. “He was deprived of sleep, abused beyond all human capacity, and utterly isolated. And you’re doing it again! To another soldier!”

Hamilton looked toward the screened window and the dark night beyond. Somewhere out there was England. He never should have left it. Never should have tried to be what he wasn’t. He’d wanted to show his father, even after his death, that he was worthy. But it was never going to happen now. And it seemed he was never going to have Ian’s friendship again. Well, Ian bloody well should have stayed at home. Be damned his father’s last wishes.

After all, Ian was right. He was doing it again.

Another soldier’s indolent nature had been brought to Hamilton’s notice recently, and, well, he’d been giving the native special attention. It was the only thing Hamilton excelled at, the instruction of discipline. It served as a warning to others to keep in line. And Hamilton was more than willing to use whatever means available him, no matter how degrading or torturous, to project that message. “It’s for the boy’s own good.”

Ian stepped forward, the line of his mouth hard. “He’s not a boy. He’s a full-grown man who deserves respect.”

A half laugh bubbled from Hamilton’s lips. The idea was absurd. These natives were children who needed one hell of a strict father. He stumbled forward and pointed. “They need an example.”

“An example?”

Hamilton gave a sharp nod, his mind swimming slightly. “To show these brown buggers what will happen to them if they step out of line.”

Ian’s shoulders tensed, and he took a long, slow, disgusted gaze up and down Hamilton. “Who the hell are you?”

That judging look seemed to peel Hamilton’s skin from his already burning body. “I’m your goddamn friend, though you never show it now.”

“My friend?” Ian whispered, his voice so quiet it was lost in the soft wind blowing off the mountains. “He doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Yes, he does.” Hamilton pounded a hand against his chest. “I’m standing right here.”

“No.” The emotion drained from Ian’s face, replaced by a crushed sort of acceptance. “He disappeared a long time ago.”

Hamilton swallowed convulsively, suddenly feeling sick. “What? Is this still about that bloody horse? I made a mistake.”

Ian’s hands balled into fists. “You shot him. Over petty jealousy.”

Hamilton took another step forward until they were but a pace apart. He wanted to throw a punch. To make Ian understand that this was all about needing to win. To be the best. But Ian was oblivious—as always—to the way Hamilton’s heart was ruined, so he kept his fist at his side and drawled, “If I upset you so damn much, you should have stayed at home.” He sighed. “It was a horse, Ian. A horse.”

“Your father asked me to come. I was glad to, but”—Ian looked down, his green eyes pulsing with regret—“is that what you will say about this soldier who killed himself?
That he wasn’t a man? Is that how you justify your behavior? By not giving a damn for living things?”

“For God’s sake, Ian, he was just a worthless piece of native shite.”

Ian nodded slowly, then took a slow step back. “He was a man who needed guidance. You are just a bigoted, sick-minded bastard who has to be stopped before you kill anyone else.”

“I didn’t kill him!”

“Didn’t you?” Ian turned away and started for the door. He stopped. “I can’t make you resign, and you do well enough that your sort of violence is overlooked by command. But I can’t overlook it. I can’t. I’ve failed you and the promise I made your father.”

“Come back.” Hamilton grabbed Ian’s shoulder and tried to whip him around, but Ian was too strong and Hamilton lost his footing, tumbling to the floor. Wine sloshed out over his hands and spilled down his trousers.

For one terrifying moment, Hamilton was sure it was blood from the way it spread and darkened the tan fabric of his trooper uniform.

Ian paused but didn’t turn back. “I warn you. You must cease. If you keep driving men to their deaths, you may meet a similar fate.”

Hamilton scrambled over the floor, his guts clenching. “Is that a threat?”

Ian remained standing still for one long moment, letting the silence fill up the space between them. And in that space was Ian’s answer. Yes, it was a threat. “I have tried to have you sent home. Failing that . . .”

Hamilton closed his eyes for a moment. He wouldn’t abandon his commission, as much as he hated India. Soldiering was the one thing he was actually good at. “Do you see nothing good left? Between us?”