The Duke of Shadows (6 page)

"The bazaar!" He took one step towards her. "Sketching in the bazaar with Holdensmoor!"

"Not
with
him, Marcus, he simply appeared and—"

"That scoundrel! That piece of filth! The man's a blackguard, Emmaline—a blasphemous, treasonous
scourge
on the face of society—and to think that
you—
sketching is bad enough, it's a trollop's art the way you do it, you're determined to draw the most disgusting and lowest forms of human life—but with
him!
God almighty, are you determined to finish off the shreds of your reputation?"

"I don't think any of those activities constitutes a breach of my honor." She said it with difficulty, because his enraged look was beginning to alarm her.

He ran a hand over his mouth. "Of course you don't," he said cuttingly. "Because you have no idea what honor means, do you? You, who managed to save yourself by playing the ship doxy for a freighter of Irish peasants."

The wave of shock that swept over her blotted out all sound, leaving only an odd, whining buzz in her ears. "The crew of that ship knew more about being gentlemen than you ever will."

"You'll forgive me," he said conversationally, "if I don't take advice on etiquette from a whore."

"Funny," she said, a touch of hysterical humor taking hold of her. "That's rather how I think of you—well, that and a low-down preening coxcomb."

The blow caught her off guard. She fell to floor, the entire side of her face numbed by his fist. When she drew her hand away from her lips, her blurred vision focused on blood.

"Jesus Christ," she heard him mutter. "I didn't mean to do that." His hand closed on her shoulder, and she wrenched away.

"Don't touch me." Her lips felt thick and hot; the words came out fuzzily.

"Don't be foolish, Emmaline. Let me help you up."

"No, Marcus." She shut her eyes briefly against the spiking pain in her jaw. "You've lost the right. This engagement is over!"

He sounded impatient now. "Don't be silly. You're overreacting. All couples have their fights."

She raised her head so she could meet his eyes. "You
hit
me. I'm bleeding. This is the
end
of our connection!"

He lunged to his knees, grabbing her chin in his hand and yanking it high. "It is
you
who do not understand, Emmaline. I have waited fifteen years for your money, and I will not let your pathetic dramatics ruin my plan."

Emma pulled her knees to her chest to separate them. "Very frank of you," she said. "But I'm afraid you can't have it unless I give it to you!"

His laughter was brutal. "Let me be even more frank. I am now your guardian. Your bank accounts are in my control. You can't leave without money, so you'd best reconcile yourself to marriage."

The door clicked open. A female voice trilled, "Oh, I'm so sorry to interrupt!"

"Mrs. Eversham," Marcus said. He rose from his crouch. "I was just about to seek you out, my dear."

Willfully blind or malicious, the woman led him out with a laugh. Emmaline set her forehead on her knees, absently counting the drops of the water clock on the mantel. Three weeks until her twenty-first birthday. He couldn't mean to force her to the altar before then, could he? Surely Sir Metcalfe would not allow it.

Finally she found the strength to sit up. Blood was smeared over her peach silk skirts. She had to find a way to clean herself.

But then, Miss Martin did not seem content, either. And in the hallway upstairs, beneath his hands and mouth, she had not felt like a woman who shared an understanding with someone else. She had felt like a woman who shared an understanding with him.

And so, while he mocked himself with every step, he paced down the corridor, testing doorknobs. He nearly ran into Lindley as the man came around the corner, Mrs. Eversham on his arm. Like a sullen schoolgirl, Lindley made a great show of putting distance between them as he guided Mrs. Eversham past; but something in the lady's backward glance spurred Julian to a renewed purpose.

He finally found Miss Martin in the little parlor. She was crouched on the floor, staring into her skirts. Blood stained her mouth, and her jaw was purpling.

He must have made some noise. She looked up. "Lord Holdensmoor. What a dreadful expression you're wearing. Do I look so awful?" She put one hand to the arm of a chair to push herself up. He crossed to help her rise. Her wrists felt impossibly small in his hands. In contrast, Lindley's fist was as thick as a forehock. Not unbreakable, though. With a certain grip, not so difficult to form while casually shaking a man's hand, one could snap several bones at once. An additional twist and the wrist would shatter entirely.

"That bad?" she asked softly.

He shook his head.

"No, I quite agree," she said. "It is very bad. I need to clean my face."

He led her into the hallway, using his body to block her from view as they passed the portal into the long salon where the guests were dancing. When they reached the next door, he gestured her inside, then slid shut the bolt.

"No need," she protested. "I can do it myself."

"I'm sure you can." He crossed to the closet and rummaged inside for a length of gauze; then, after wetting it in the washbasin, dropped into a crouch and began to swab at her lip.

She stayed very still beneath his attentions, her large eyes curiously calm. "Perhaps I was stupid to provoke him."

He had to pause to collect himself before replying. "Perhaps he's a brutish bastard who should be kept five miles from the nearest woman."

She smiled slightly. "I like that interpretation better. Nevertheless—next time I choose to tangle with him, I should like to be armed."

He resumed his ministrations, trailing the swab up her cheek to trace the slope of her swelling jaw. What was it about her that took him off guard? On the surface, she seemed typical. Tightly laced, primly erect; even her scent was quintessentially English—Rowlands' Kalydor soap and rosemary shampoo. But there was something else beneath it … something sweet and dark … and it pulled strange things from him: the urge to strip her down to that essence. To pull away these outer trappings. To lay her bare, and force her to show herself as she truly was.

It was not a gentle impulse. Nor entirely sexual, although it was certainly that as well. He drew a long breath, wondering at himself.

"You look very fierce right now," she murmured.

"I beg your pardon."

"Oh, no, I find it reassuring."

Only because she did not know what was in his head. "Tell me," he said. "Was it his charm that won you to him?"

"My parents, rather. They thought it would be an ideal match. His family is highly respected in Devon, but lack funds. So…" She shook her head, then winced. No doubt she had a bloody bad headache.

He smoothed her hair back from her face. She leaned into his hand like a cat. He would have called it an excellent sign, had he been wondering what she would be like when she was naked in his bed. But the moment did not call for such speculation. He pulled back, schooling himself. "They were on the ship with you?"

"They were."

It came to him that she might still intend to marry the bastard, out of some misplaced duty to her parents. "So what do you wish to do now?"

"I told him the marriage was off," she said, and he felt an amount of relief that unsettled him. "But he seems to want my money very badly."

"An heiress, are you?"

She sighed. "Immensely, shockingly wealthy." He was startled into a laugh; she smiled back at him. "But he is my guardian. So even if I wished to go…"

"Don't worry about that. I can arrange for your departure."

She drew back, looking affronted. "Really, my lord. I can't take your charity!"

And there it was again: the visage of the proper memsahib, flickering over her true face like the projection from a camera obscura. She could not quite decide who she wanted to be. Or perhaps, he thought, she simply did not know she had a choice in the matter. "I could charge you an immense, shocking interest rate," he said. He slid his hand around the back of her neck, beneath the heavy weight of her chignon. He could not help himself; he wanted to startle her out of propriety. "Or some other arrangement. Something even more interesting."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. "Do you find me amusing?"

"Yes," he said, and laughed. "Among other things."

A rattle sounded at the door. Reluctantly he released her. "If you're to leave, you should go straightaway." At least he would succeed in delivering one person from this city.

"Yes, I suppose. Although I can't imagine he would really try to force me to marry him. I'm perfectly safe at the Residency." She hesitated, watching his face. "That's not what worries you, is it?"

He inclined his head in silent response. She had been at the table tonight; she knew very well what his worries were.

"I suppose I could accept a temporary loan," she went on slowly. "My birthday's in three weeks; you won't have to wait long."

He tossed the rag into the sink as he rose. "There's a palankeen caravan to Calcutta leaving tomorrow afternoon, if you can be packed so quickly." She nodded. "Good. I'll make the arrangements tonight. You must be packed and ready by noon; I'll come to fetch you then." Calcutta would be safe, he thought. Well situated, the seat of the government; plenty of European troops for defense. On alert after the disturbance at nearby Barrackpore. If she could not manage to book immediate passage on a ship, it would be an excellent shelter for a few weeks.

"Will I not see you again, then? After that, I mean."

The question pulled him out of his reverie. He turned back to her, studying her for a moment. How young she looked, suddenly. He tried to picture her in the London he knew—throwing dice and sipping champagne; trading
on
dits
at the theater; clapping at the races. But it all felt very distant, almost surreal; he could not even picture himself there anymore. And what came to him instead was a vision of her as she'd been in the Evershams' garden: haunted eyes, alone in the dark. A hot wind sweeping over her.

A chill lifted the fine hairs at his nape. He rubbed a hand across his neck, impatient with it. He did not believe in premonitions. "I hope so."

His tone must have given something away, for she frowned. "Why don't
you
leave Delhi? If you think it's so unsafe here…"

He shook his head. This was not a conversation he could have. "I'll go fetch the Metcalfes for you." And then he was going to find Lindley.

"Nahin,
memsahib," the most recent arrival said solemnly, wiping imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth while she flicked surreptitious glances at the gentleman across the table. "Early, memsahib, very early for chits."

"Yes, I know," Emma murmured. Silly, to feel so uneasy.

Against her will, she put her fingers to her lips. Would he kiss her again before he saw her off? The possibility that he might refrain made her distinctly anxious.

A door crashed open in the distance. Mr. Hosegood, in the process of refilling his glass, knocked the bottle over with a jerk. They exchanged a glance of surprise, then turned as one to the door. From the hallway came the rapid ring of boots. Just before the footsteps reached the morning room, she recognized Marcus's voice, pitched low in a curse.

She came to her feet. What was he doing here? Monday morning was parade rehearsal at the camp!

He opened this door with equal brutality, then paused on the threshold, his harsh breathing the only sound save the rhythmic dripping of claret from tablecloth to floor. His red military uniform, usually so immaculate, was covered with dust; his hands were clenched into fists at his sides. Someone had hit him hard across the face; one of his eyes was black, and his nose was swollen and bruised, perhaps broken. His bloodshot eyes darted about the room in frantic fashion, fixing on nothing.

Cold slid down her spine. Something was terribly wrong.

She lowered herself back into the chair. "Well, good heavens." Her voice sounded queer to her, comically prim. "Can't you see we're having breakfast?"

He glanced at her, as though just now taking note of her presence. "Where's the Resident?"

"At the government office, I suppose. Where else would he be?"

Marcus nodded, still out of breath, and looked to Mr. Hosegood. "You," he said, and tossed him a pistol. It splashed into the puddle of claret, and Emma flinched—braced for a discharge that did not come. "Ride like hell to the Joint Magistrate's. Tell him I can't find the Resident and he needs to close the bloody gates."

"But … but…" Mr. Hosegood sprang up, backing away from the table and gun. "Really, sir, who are you, and why—"

"I'm an officer of the Indian Army and if you do not go right now, I'll hold you responsible for the deaths of hundreds of British citizens."

Mr. Hosegood gaped dumbly. Marcus snarled and lunged a pace toward him. The man snatched up the pistol and scrambled to the door.

Marcus stood there for a moment longer, stuffing his hands into his pockets and tilting his head. When the sound came of the front door slamming, he nodded and fell into a seat. There followed a short silence, in which Emma held herself still, not daring even to breathe. Then his eyes lifted to hers; they gleamed so strangely, she wondered if he had been drinking, too.

"Well then," he said, and then continued, in the casual tones of someone describing the plot of a mediocre novel, "A large contingent of mutinous soldiers is attempting to cross the Jumna river into Delhi."

"Oh?" The response of a dedicated nonreader, designed to discourage further conversation.

"Yes. It may be too late to shut the gates."

"Indeed," she said politely. "So Mr. Hosegood is on a fool's mission, then."

He shrugged. "I couldn't say."

Emma laced her hands together in her lap, squeezing hard to channel a tumult of foreign emotions. "Shouldn't you be mustering the troops?"

"Good God!" He shoved to his feet and began to pace. "Come to reality, you stupid little girl. The troops are native. They will not fight their own countrymen!" His own words seemed to stun him; he lapsed into a brooding silence. Last week, in this very room, he'd boasted to the Resident of his regiment's loyalty. Apparently something had happened at the Ridge to change his mind.

She swallowed hard. "Then we should flee." She rose, her thoughts painfully lucid. She could not wait for Lord Holdensmoor to come. She could not assume he would be able to come.

"No." He yanked down his jacket and rounded on her with grim focus. "I'll not flee. That yellow milksop won't have fetched the Resident. I'll go myself."

"All right, just let me change into my riding habit and—"

His laughter cut her off. "Idiot. You would only slow me down." He strode to the door, paused there. "Oh, yes." He extracted a knife from his boot, pivoting to set it on the table. "If the natives come, don't dishonor me. Slit your throat quick. The wrists are too slow. Though knowing you, you'd probably enjoy being plowed by them." He hesitated, considering her. "Well, it's immaterial. If you do live, I'll come for you. Remember that. I promised your father I would watch over you, and I do keep my promises. There will be no use hiding from me."

The door slammed behind him, making the breakfast dishes rattle.

She stood in a daze. Bright streamers of sunlight were unfurling though the windows, shedding sparkling detail over the silver breakfast plates, and Mr. Hosegood's flask, and the hilt of the knife.

Emma stretched out a tentative hand. The hilt was warm to the touch. She snatched the weapon to her chest and hurried into the main hall.

The house was deserted. Servants nowhere to be seen now. Lady Metcalfe had gone to Mrs. Durham's after their morning walk; Usha had left for the market not an hour before. She was alone.

The heavy teak doors stood open to the front porch. She ran through them, tripping once on her skirts, and caught a last glimpse of Marcus as his horse galloped through the gates.

For all his cruelty, she had known him forever. And there he went. Not even a backward glance.

But wasn't it a lovely day, so pleasantly warm and bright. A brainfever bird hooted in the eaves, and the verdant lawns of the Residency stretched out before her, rolling down to the high hedges that blocked the view of greater Delhi. She looked up. There was not a cloud to be seen in the brilliant blue expanse. She realized that she was having a particularly vivid dream.

Thunder rolled through the sky.

The distant crack of gunfire followed it.

She retreated to the doorway, gripping the knocker as she searched the horizon.

Silence fell again, deceptively profound. Then, all of a sudden, a wild ringing of bells. The alarm sounding at St. James's Church.

This was no dream after all.

And there was no one coming for her.

That decided it. A riding habit was all very well when one planned to go sidesaddle, but war called for better balance. She clawed for the hem of her skirts, pulling them up until she found the tapes. A slash of the knife, and the cane crinolines clattered to the porch. Next the petticoats, falling to the ground. On a small, hysterical laugh, she turned to her remaining skirt. Hacking off the gown's extra material was easier said than done. By the time she finished, her face was wet with sweat, and the occasional burst of thunder had turned into a steady, pounding din. Was it her imagination, or was it becoming louder, nearer?

Wrapping the knife in the excess fabric, she stuck it in her pocket and raced for the stables.