The Prince of Midnight (41 page)

"I don't!" she cried, pressing her hands to the sides of her head. "I don't."

"Rot!" The stable reverberated to the sound of his boot heel as he smashed it
against the partition. Two stalls down, her chestnut's head came up in alarm.
"You'll turn me into a madman."

"Kill yourself, then!" she said violently. "Go on and kill yourself!"

He stared at her a moment, his mouth set. Then he slowly shook his head. "You
just don't believe I can manage it, do you?"

She didn't answer. The chestnut moved restlessly in his stall, rolling his
eyes and trying to see over the partitions.

"Infinitely obliged," the Seigneur said, softly and sarcastically. She heard
the grating drag of the stable door. The wide shaft of sun flashed and dimmed
and brightened again as he passed beyond it.

He left her alone.

She sat on the trunk and toyed with a grooming brush, turning it over and
over in her hand. Then she stopped, listening.

From far away, muffled by the stable walls, came the low-pitched moan of the
wilderness. Nemo's call began in a deep chord and slowly rose, swelling to a
rich, plaintive peak, a loneliness that shivered in the empty air. It was the
first time he'd howled since they'd been at the inn, and the melancholy sound
seemed to pull at her with a physical force.

Leigh stared at the Seigneur's discarded sword. It was the lightweight
weapon, the one he called a colichemarde, meant for fencing with the tip instead
of cutting sideways in a murderous slash like his flat-bladed broadsword. She
reached for the weapon and drew it across her lap.

The hilt was plain, unlike the beautiful and complex interweave of the
broadsword's basket hilt. The narrow hand guard of the colichemarde gleamed with
a dull rainbow of metallic green and red and blue on steel, the decoration on
the hand grip worn almost smooth by constant use.

She stood up, propped the tip on the ground, and buckled the belt around her
waist as she'd seen him do, dragging the leather thong up three holes to keep it
on her hips. The blade felt awkward, far too long, sticking out behind her and
bumping against the walls when she turned.

Leigh went to the anxious chestnut, pulled off his rug and set to work with
furious strokes, brushing him down in the half light. He sidled and quivered,
catching the heat of her emotions. By the time she heaved the sidesaddle on him,
he was tossing his head in agitation.

She mounted off the trunk, struggling to control the ungainly scabbard and
the horse at the same time. She ducked wildly as the chestnut shot out the
stable door. If the Seigneur was still with Mistral in the yard, she didn't know
it; she didn't look, but gave the chestnut a kick that sent it cantering
recklessly out the gate, across the road, and toward the barren moors.

Clouds moved in from the north, swallowing the sunlight ray by ray. They
spread low over the wild and empty landscape, sullenly familiar in their dismal
chill. In her childhood, she'd loved the Roman wall, loved it even in this
mournful, freezing weather when the stones stood black and eerie against the
sky. When she was small, her mother had taken Leigh on winter outings bundled to
the ears, allowed her to scramble over the fallen masonry, and told her stories
of the pagan days when Caesar's cavalry held the rampart against the barbarians
of the north. She'd dug for coins, and found a tiny clay lamp once, and a lumpy,
discolored piece of metal that her mother had carefully scraped clean to reveal
as a pair of bronze tweezers.

Leigh took the covert way to the place that had once been home, crossing by
the drove road that cut the ancient wall and skirting along in the northern
shadow of the cliffs. The chestnut moved in its long, pushing strides, head up
and blowing nervously as they neared the open gap where the wall curved down
between two hills. In the cold air, faint steam rose from the horse's sweaty
coat. The sword hilt lay at a difficult angle across her thigh, never meant to
conform to a female on a sidesaddle.

On the north side of the gap she reined the chestnut to a halt, faced into
the wind, and lifted her chin. She gathered all her breath into her lungs.

She howled. It was a sad imitation of the full-throated cry she'd heard from
the moors, but she raised her voice to its limits in spite of the horse's uneasy
sidling beneath her.

Before her breath had given way, Nemo answered. His deep harmony rose with
hers, far closer than she'd expected. The chestnut shied in agitation. Leigh
grabbed its mane and broke off her cry. She dismounted, the sword banging her
calves, and held the frightened horse as a gray shadow came bounding down from
the trees atop the cliffs. Nemo leaped across a frozen puddle, his mouth agape,
uttering little wows of excitement.

Leigh lifted her head and howled again, and the wolf stopped a yard away,
raising his chin to join in ecstatically. The caroling drowned out her own, loud
enough to hurt her ears. His rich, wild note surrounded her, shivering into her
skull as she fought to hold the chestnut under control.

Nemo left off his cry and leaped up to greet her, his teeth colliding with
her chin in a painful blow. She tottered, scrambling to hang onto the reins and
stay on her feet as Nemo planted his huge paws against her shoulders and washed
her face with his tongue, a coarse and ruthless laundering that stung where he'd
cut her.

She pushed him off, a rebuff that sent the wolf into a wallowing bask at her
feet. As Nemo fawned, the horse settled down to restive strutting, staring
dubiously at the wolf.

Leigh reached up and stroked the chestnut neck. "What a brave fellow," she
murmured, knowing she was fortunate the horse hadn't bolted for a mile. "Brave,
clever fellow."

One ear flicked toward her, and then pricked back anxiously, riveted on the
wolf. Nemo rolled over expectantly. Leigh bent, keeping the reins in a firm
grip, and rubbed the wolf's belly until Nemo wriggled and squirmed, trying to
lick her arm and wag his tail at the same time.

Her chin throbbed and stung where his teeth had grazed it. She pressed the
back of her hand to her jaw and came away with bright red blood on her skin. But
Nemo was licking her hand as if he'd never loved anyone more. When she stood up,
he rolled to his feet and pressed against her legs with enough affectionate
force to send her toppling again. She only saved herself when the tip of the
sword caught against the ground, providing an instant of stability.

Nemo bounded away on stiff legs, his ears flattened to the sides, his eyes
wide, inviting her to play. His comical expression took all the menace from his
clear yellow eyes; his tongue lolled, tempting a frolic. Leigh had seen the
Seigneur respond to that, run and roll and play tag, and sometimes come back
with a bleeding scratch like her own from Nemo's strenuous wolf games. The
Seigneur played, but he never quit until he was on top, refusing to surrender
his sovereign position even in fun.

But Leigh could not take time for amusement. She had a goal. Dove had been
quite specific in her description of the rigid routine at Heavenly Sanctuary. In
the late morning, Chilton would be found at his preparations for noonday
service, working alone in the church.

Leigh remounted, turning the chestnut east. Nemo fell in behind. He trotted
in single file after the chestnut, just far enough back to avoid a stray hoof.

Leigh kept her bare hand on the sword hilt, warming the frigid steel. She'd
gone to France to find the Seigneur with no family and no future and no fear,
with a well-spring of hate in her heart. But now she was afraid. Now she was
cornered and desperate. Now she had something to lose.

S.T. didn't discover that she'd taken his sword until he broke for the midday
meal and brought Mistral into the stable. It must have been her—the potboy that
the Twice Brewed's landlord was pleased to call an ostler hadn't been near the
place. S.T. cleaned up the stalls, dressed Mistral, pitched hay, and spent a
quarter hour searching through the stable for a sword he knew he'd left in plain
sight.

He'd seen her ride off like the devil to go; who could miss it? Nothing in
creation would have made him trail after her, playing the groveling pup. Dove
had been waiting, anyway, with a pint of small beer for him and a lump of sugar
for Mistral, and Leigh could go to hell.

The silliness of the theft roused his temper. Steal his sword, would she?
Perhaps she thought the lack of it would be enough to send him back to France
and his garlic. Mayhap she really thought him that much a humbug.

He swept up a bent horseshoe and hurled it into the wall. The metal rang
against stone, and Mistral lifted his head from his oats as the shoe bounced to
the floor. The horse looked around, blew out a long breath, and began munching
again. S.T. shoved back a loose lock of hair and retied his queue with a jerk,
planting his hat on his head as he stalked out the door.

The potboy was just leading a newly arrived pair of job horses inside as he
left. S.T. glanced at the animals, judged them well above the standard of
horseflesh normally to be expected at a carters' inn, and gave one an
acknowledging slap on the rump as he passed. A weathered black traveling chariot
stood outside the stable, mud splashed, its empty shaft propped on the watering
trough. He tucked his gloves under his arm, breathing clouds of frost in the
glacial air. The door to the Twice Brewed stood open; inside he could see the
dark outlines of the newcomer and the landlady.

He pulled off his hat and bent his head to enter.

"Harkee," a cordial voice said. "What have we got here? By my soul—that can't
be S.T. Maitland!"

S.T. froze with one foot over the threshold.

There was no hope of evasion. Slowly, he put his gloves inside his hat and
lifted his head.

The gentleman in the pink lace coat and steep macaroni wig stood beaming at
him. "By God if it ain't. How d'ye do? Haven't set eyes upon that remarkable
phiz for years. Bob Derry's Cyder Cellar, was it?"

S.T. reluctantly inclined his head. "Lord Luton," he murmured.

"Did you ever see the like?" Luton rolled his pale eyes toward Dove and
Charity, who stood together near the fire. "Couldn't find better in London,
could we?" He tapped his tassled walking stick against S.T.'s shoulder. "What're
ye doing here? I've just got in, and cold as hell it was to drive in that wind.
Sit down by the fire and share a bottle of Toulon, and tell me what dissipation
brings you into the outlands."

S.T. saw no help for it. Luton was as wild as he was depraved; he disposed
himself elegantly on the settle, one leg propped up, displaying the high red
heels and ribbons of his Italian shoes. He arranged his cuffs, staring openly at
the girls while he talked, a faint curl at the corner of his aristocratic mouth.

"Where are you bound?" S.T. asked, taking the bottle from the landlady and
pouring for them both.

"I'm in no hurry to go anywhere." Luton sniffed at his wine and wrinkled his
nose, never taking his eyes from Dove and Charity, who kept their faces shyly
averted. "Perhaps I'll put up here for the nonce."

S.T. snorted. "You'll rue it," he said. "It's naught but a carters' lodging.
Not a'tall in your style."

Luton smiled and held up his glass. "To auld lang syne," he said dryly, and
watched as S.T. met the toast and drank. "Do you wish me out of your way, old
friend?"

S.T. cast a meaningful glance toward the girls. "And what do you think,
old friend?"

Luton tipped back his head and laughed. "That you're a selfish bastard, you
scaly dog. I'll not go."

S.T. stared at him darkly. For a moment Luton's smile wavered, and then he
swigged down his wine.

"No, no," he said. " 'Tis no use giving me that devil's gaze of yours. Call
me out if you wish; I won't go. I've business here." He paused, peering down at
his glass, and then suddenly slanted S.T. a thoughtful look. "Perhaps we're
about the same project, eh?"

"Perhaps," S.T. parried.

"Dashwood sent you?"

S.T. was suddenly on crumbling ground. Luton's arrival had unsettled him; Sir
Frances Dashwood's name was a pure jolt. Coming from a rake like Luton, it
conjured the noble hooligans of the Hell Fire Club and the unholy monks of
Medmenham.

"I came on my own," he said.

"Did you indeed?" Luton's tone gave away nothing.

"I heard a rumor," S.T. said, hazarding a chance. Luton was preposterously
out of place here; S.T. wanted to know the reason. "I'm interested in your
business."

Luton had pale blue eyes; he gazed at S.T. without blinking. Then he lifted
one white hand and placed his finger against his lips pensively. The ruby on his
forefinger gleamed.

"You might need a friend at your back," S.T, said, nodding toward the jewel.
"There's a highwayman at work in these parts."

That got a start out of Luton. He sat up. "The devil you say."

"Aye. And you with your gems all about you."

Luton swore. "A highwayman. It only needed that."

S.T. smiled crookedly. "My hand is yours," he said "I'm passing fair at
swordplay."

"I know it. I saw you fight poor Bayley on Blackheath." The other man took a
deep breath. He kept turning his glass in his hand. "So . . . Dashwood has been
talking to you, has he?"

"A rumor," S.T. said. "Only a rumor. I thought it—" He paused, and then said
carefully, "worth my time."

The look Luton gave him was enough. S.T. knew he'd struck close to a powerful
secret. Dashwood and Luton and Lyttleton; Bute and Dorset and the rest of
them—for three generations they'd pleased themselves to the limits of civilized
vice. S.T. wasn't entirely innocent of that particular brimstone himself. In the
earliest reckless days of his career he'd watched Dashwood's black mass in the
chalk cave at West Wycombe: twenty years old and lawless, hot to prove his
mettle, ready to use Dashwood's blasphemous "nuns" and relish the theatrical
obscenity of the rites.