The Duke of Shadows (23 page)

She took a step away. "That is very cold!"

He shrugged again. "It is my nature. I prefer things to be simple."

She could not help but laugh. "Simple? Yes, of course. You are the simplest man alive. Julian, I do not know what you think to achieve with this charade, but good luck with it. I am leaving."

"As you came," he said, flicking his fingers in the direction of the door.

She took two steps, then turned back. He was still leaning against the desk. She could read nothing in his face.

"You are the talk of the town," she said.

"I often am."

"The talk is not flattering."

"Again, I do not perceive the novelty."

"Don't you care, Julian?"

"Why should I?" He glanced back to the ledger. Flicked to a new page with one finger. "Did you know me to mind it before, in the time that shall not be named?"

"But it wasn't
true
then."

He made no reply.

"Very well," she said sharply. "If you will make me ask—is it true now?"

"Is what true?"

"What people are saying!"

He sounded bored now. "Oh, I don't know, Emma. What
are
they saying? I will need details; I do not keep track of every
on-dit
about me."

"So many of them, are there?"

"So it seems, to bring you flying to my door."

"She implied you were
unfaithful.
That you were a rake!"

His long lips curved in a smile. "But I am a bit of a rake, Emma."

Her breath suddenly felt shorter. "She said you were incapable of fidelity."

"And that concerns you?"

"No," she said instantly. "That is—I am no moralist."

"Ah. So perhaps that's why your art is failing you. Put a little of that self-righteous, melodramatic fervor into it and the scenes will simply come alive."

"I am neither of those things!"

"You weren't, once."

"And you weren't a cheating rakehell, once!"

He stepped forward and put a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face to the light. "You are very young," he drawled. "I do forget sometimes."

She jerked her face away. "Condescension, from your great age? All of thirty, are you? Do you know, perhaps I should paint
you!
I expect I could apply a good
deal
of fervor to it."

"You are very welcome to do so," he said. "We rakehells do love to lounge about for the pleasure of ladies' inspections." Whatever her expression revealed, it amused him. "Good to see I'm not the only one who is angry, Miss Martin."

She turned and stalked out.

He was very convincing, she thought in the carriage homeward. What to make of his act, she had no idea; at any rate, it would be much more comfortable this way.

She was sick of the Season. It made a large city feel remarkably small. She was sick of running into Julian. He was in attendance tonight, and had been seated in the box opposite with a blond woman, Mrs. Someone-or-other, who had touched his arm freely and at length. Was it her imagination, or had someone in the crowd hissed when he had entered? She would like to tell London what sort of man they chose to idolize in Marcus Lindley, but then, she lacked the vocabulary to accurately describe such an extreme combination of viciousness, cowardice, and arrogance.

"The maids could scrub the floors with that scowl of yours," Delphinia said.

"I do not enjoy these events."

"Oh, hadn't you made that clear yet?"

"Well then, you can stop haranguing me to join you. That's what you can do for me. I've had enough of this."

"Look here, it is not my fault if your mood has been sour all week! Now stop complaining. Gideon will be along in a moment, and we will leave. I say—is that Lockwood's
wife?"

"My lord," Delphinia called on a laugh. "Is it not rather late for an entrance? The third act has begun."

"You know me," he said carelessly, and came to a halt before them. "Fashionably late or nothing."

"Nothing would be preferable," the woman next to him muttered.

The Earl's usually congenial features tightened in a scowl. "Miss Martin, Countess, allow me to introduce my sist—"

"His wife," the redhead said, sticking out a hand so forcefully that Emma saw her cousin flinch. "Anna Wint—Devaliant, I suppose."

"Just barely," the Earl said moodily. "More like a sister."

Lady Lockwood grunted. "I think not. God is too kind to saddle me so permanently to you."

Emma gave Lady Lockwood's hand a shake. A very strong one. That was what it turned into, by the lady's own choosing. "I am very glad to meet you, Countess."

The woman offered her a wide smile, and the pale, heart-shaped face which moments before had been overshadowed by that blazing red hair seemed to light her up from within, dazzling all of them into a momentary silence.

Then Lockwood snorted. "Good God, Anna, are you still using that trick?"

She didn't so much as spare him a glance. "It's no trick, Devaliant, it's my bloody
smile."
Her fiery brows drew together as she considered Emma. "You'll be the artist, then, the one he's promoting?"

"Shh!" The Earl of Lockwood looked around frantically. "Damn it, Anna, that's supposed to be a secret!"

"Oh, was she unaware she painted?" The Countess patted her arm, all sympathy. "Are you also a victim of selective amnesia, then? My husband knows all about that; perhaps he can suggest a remedy, as he seems to be able to dispel it at will."

"That's quite enough!" Lockwood took her arm and pulled her off. Emma exchanged a marveling look with her cousin.

Delphinia whirled after them to call, "Do come visit, Lady Lockwood!"

"Can't, I'm off to Paris tomorrow!" the woman yelled back.

"The hell you are!" the Earl snarled, and that was the last they heard as he dragged the Countess around the corner.

"Highly irregular," Delphinia said excitedly. "Do you know, the last time I saw them, they were cooing at each other like turtledoves."

"Time does change all," Emma muttered. The crowd of boys with canes was growing by the minute. Blast it.
"Where
is Lord Chad?"

"Waylaid by Viscount Palmerston." Delphinia sighed. "I saw the man lurking about when the curtain fell. They'll be out in his carriage, plotting strategy. I do wish the Prime Minister had a more gentlemanly concept of social occasions."

"I'm going to wait outside, then."

"I'll come with you," Delphinia said, gathering up her skirts. But Emma waved her off just as Lady Mablethorpe appeared, running up to ask about some charity event Delphinia was helping to plan.

They would never get out of this place. With a sigh, Emma ducked out the door.

Her headache lessened instantly. The weather was finally holding clear, and the night breeze was cool and soft, hinting at the summer to come. Save the crunch of horses chomping at their bits, and the distant weary coughs of coachmen who had been waiting hours now for their masters' returns, all was quiet. She did not see Lord Chad or the Prime Minister.

Footsteps caught her attention. Someone was advancing down the street, his top hat jerking with the force of his stride.

He lifted his head, and she realized it was not Lord Chad. Their eyes met, and he quickened his pace. He was bounding up the pavement now. Toward her. Odd. Not—reassuring. She put her hand to the door, but it was stuck. She put her whole weight into the tug. He was lifting his cane—with her free hand, she rapped the knocker—where were the footmen? Where was—

Something
flashed at the bottom of his cane.

"Go away!" she yelled. Stupid, stupid. Her hand, clammy with anxiety, slipped off the doorknob, and she stumbled back a pace—he was not five yards away now—it was all curiously familiar. She lunged for the door again—

The huge oak panel flew outward, knocking her to one side. She turned in time to see the man pivot, tripping over and then dropping his cane in his haste to flee into the maze of coaches.

"Are you all right?" Julian ran a quick look down her, then took off into the street after the man.

Emma blinked. The light pouring from the open door was blinding her. She leaned forward to push it shut.

"Oh! Stop that!"

"I'm so sorry," Emma said, as the blonde emerged. Mrs.—Mrs.—"Mrs. Mayhew? I did not see you there."

Mrs. Mayhew eyed her narrowly, then turned without comment to the street. Looking for Julian, no doubt. Emma leaned back against the wall, looking as well. Her heart was pounding. She should never have left Durringham.

After a minute, Julian came jogging back. He paused at the base of the stairs to retrieve the abandoned cane just as his carriage rolled up, ducal seal on the door. The doorman leapt off the back perch and came up the steps. "Mesdames," he said, "may I be of service?"

"No," Emma said, her eyes on the object in Julian's hand. As he carried it up, she saw that it was one of those trick weapons, the type that Lord Chad carried when he went to Bethnal Green on one of Delphinia's charity missions. Whoever had approached her had meant to hurt her.

At the look on Julian's face, she shook her head. "I can't imagine what he wanted. It's not as if a lady carries money."

The blonde stepped forward. "Auburn, shall I—"

"A moment, if you please," he said. Mrs. Mayhew flushed magnificently. Prettier even than Lady Edon. Emma felt her own cheeks warming. It was rather absurd, wasn't it, that she'd fancied Julian set on resuming their ancient romance? He had no shortage of choices, each more exquisite than the last.

Mrs. Mayhew returned inside. Julian gave a pointed look to the doorman, who frowned, and then said, "Ah!" and slipped after her. When the door shut, Julian gave a little heft of the cane and said, "This is odd."

"Yes, it is very odd," Emma agreed. "I prefer country life, to be honest."

"No, I mean it is damned
odd.
Men with false-bottomed canes don't just lurk about Hanover Square Rooms, rushing at whomever they spot. Did you get a look at him?"

"Yes, somewhat."

"Recognize him?"

She laughed a little. "From my vast acquaintance with the criminal element? No, of course not. But—you know, I did think it strange. He might have been Indian. His complexion—" She stopped as his brow dipped sharply. "What of it? It would not be so unusual. A sailor, perhaps, someone who works on the docks…"

Silly to find that startling. It would make sense; they were from the letters she'd taken from the soldier. "And if they are?"

"I'm not sure," he said. "But they give me a very bad feeling."

An alarming thought came to her. She
had
killed the soldier, hadn't she? He'd been dead when she left the tent. But—what if he hadn't been? What if he had somehow seen the paintings? And, recognizing his own words, had realized where to find her? Sent a friend to exact vengeance?

But even if he had lived, how would he have seen her paintings? His accents had suggested his station to be very low; she did not think he could have advanced into the lofty circles invited to Lockwood's ball.

"I think it is nothing," she said.

"I would like to be sure of it. Do you have other paintings? Or the source from which the writing came?"

"I … do have some such, but I don't think—"

"Hey there!"

They both whirled, so quickly she stumbled over her own feet. Julian caught her by the arm to steady her, which served to deepen the scowl on Lord Chad's face as he bounded up the steps. Lord Palmerston trailed behind him, sending a distracted smile Julian's way.

"I say, Auburn, hands off my cousin!"

"It's all right," Emma said quickly.

Julian stepped away from her. "I was just informing Miss Martin of my intention to pay her a
call
tomorrow, Chad. Perhaps you could inform your
footmen
of my plans."

The significance of his emphasis eluded her, but Lord Chad actually colored. "Well, to tell the truth, Auburn, I don't know. Your form of late—"

"I will be at home to his grace," Emma interrupted. Julian was right, it was best to be sure of it.

She did not look for him to follow her as she turned to go fetch Delphinia. He would be off to find his blond companion, no doubt.