Written on Your Skin Page 6

  His hand slammed onto the table. A fork clattered from the platter to the table; the eggs quivered in anticipation of calamity. “Enough. You have managed to rile me. Victory is yours. But now you will tell me whether that letter”—he pointed toward the butter dish—“was a stunt, or whether you do in fact have information that interests me.”

  She was still caught on his preposterous statement. “Victory is mine?” She ran a meditative finger around the rim of her cup. “No, Mr. Ridland, that does not ring true. So long as you keep me imprisoned here—”

  “I like this no better than you,” he said harshly. “Oh, I promise you, Miss Masters, I very much dislike the role I’m charged to play. If there were another way—”

  “But there is.” She tapped the rim of the cup twice, a decisive little conclusion to her featherheaded routine. “I will cooperate with the government gladly. I will take daily strolls through the park with a bull’s-eye painted on my parasol. But it would be so much a comfort if I were allowed to choose my captor. Why, I think my attitude would quite transform.”

  Ridland rolled his eyes. “Mademoiselle, surely you do not expect us to simply leave you with one of your friends and trust that you will stay put.”

  “Of course not,” she said in surprise. He really did think her an idiot, didn’t he? “In fact, there’s a man who I believe is in your employ who would suit the role very well.” Her teeth itched. She wanted to bite her knuckle. Ridland did not seem the sort of man who would look kindly on small weaknesses, so she stuck her hand beneath her skirts. “I had occasion to meet him in the Orient, shortly before my stepfather’s arrest. He went by the name of Phineas Monroe.”

  Ridland’s face became so rigid that he looked like an effigy of himself. “No. That will not be possible.”

  His strong reaction puzzled her. A horrible explanation presented itself. “Is he dead?”

  His expression did not change. No, she decided, Monroe was still kicking. Something else accounted for this iciness. “I am not able to divulge such information. I am sorry, Miss Masters.”

  She sighed. He wasn’t sorry at all. “So am I.” After all, Monroe was the only man in the service of the British government who she knew for certain had not worked for her stepfather four years ago.

  Ridland was still staring at her. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think it is.”

  His expression darkened. His hand on the back of the chair curled into a fist. Not promising, that. She rose to put distance between them, deciding on the fly to go to the bookshelf. She lifted her chin as she walked, the better to display the line of her neck, which a number of gentlemen had assured her put them in mind of a swan’s. Surely it would prove harder on the conscience to hurt a swan than a hedgehog, although she could use a few sharp quills right now, and the helpful capacity to curl into a bristling ball.

  “I hope you will not force me to harsher measures, Miss Masters.”

  She selected a volume at random. Harsher measures. Such terrible poetry in two words, such evocative power: a lightless, windowless room, thirst clawing at her throat, the air thickened with heat, her mother’s distant screams. If he thought to scare her, he was going to have to work harder; she rather thought she’d already seen the worst. “Yes,” she said, and took a seat at the window. “That would be unfortunate.”

  The book was an atlas. How lovely. She could look at all the places Ridland wouldn’t allow her to go.

  “I will return in an hour,” he said. “Consider your nails, Miss Masters. Do you like them? If you cooperate, you’ll be allowed to keep them.”

  When the door slammed, she tossed down the book. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them together against her mouth. It struck her as a prayerful gesture. Maybe what she needed to do was pray. But God helped those who helped themselves; the past four years had proved that, at least. Now was not the time to begin to doubt her own ingenuity.

  The floral pattern on the wallpaper seemed to ripple before her eyes. How stupid it had been to gamble on writing that letter. Now he would want secrets, and she had none she felt able to give him. I know of a traitor in your ranks, she might say, but if he happened to be the turncoat, such tidings would hardly gratify him. She had taken his measure now, and it seemed likely that her nails would not be the last thing she lost to him.

  Open the curtain, she thought. Look again.

  The prospect of finding an empty rooftop made her tremble.

  Just do it. Wondering is harder than knowing.

  Her eyes fell on the discarded book. And then she blinked, and focused on the print. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Providence. Providence, Cornwall, located very near to a place called Land’s End. Could that be a coincidence?

  A sign. She wrenched the curtains open.

  Nothing. A sob broke from her throat. And then, through the rising tears, she caught a brief stir of movement, and everything in her seized and lifted.

  She pressed her nose flat to the glass, her fingers splayed against the cold pane. Mr. Tarbury crouched on the roof opposite, in the shadow of a chimney. The gray tomcat was preening beneath the stroke of his hand. Mr. Tarbury was a great admirer of cats; it took him a long, agonizing minute to look up and notice her. Then he tapped his chest and gestured in her direction.

  Yes, she mouthed, nodding so energetically that she felt dizzy. It was very good to know that at least one gentleman existed who felt the need to consult with her before making decisions on her behalf. She stepped back as he came to his feet, hugging herself to keep the elation from bursting through her skin. Freedom.

  Phin came awake, his eyes still closed. A stranger was in his room. His body wanted him to know it.

  Air stirred by his cheek. “Good morning, dear.”

  He lunged up, his hand clamping around a throat. The man stumbled back. His head slammed into the wall. Gray eyes. Hands lifted in surrender, rings glittering. “Pax,” the viscount croaked.

  Christ. He’d done it again. His ears began to burn, but the irritation turned outward, staying his hand. Unexpected and disorderly entrances were Sanburne’s stock-in-trade; at university, he had once arranged to enter a lecture, late, in the escort of a rented llama. But they were not at Oxford anymore, and these boyish games grew tiring. “Pax?” His fingers tightened. “Let me consider it.”

  Sanburne lifted a brow and glanced past him. Abruptly he became aware of other, more familiar sounds, only now resuming: the faint scrape of the fire iron, the rustle of paper. His valet and a chambermaid were bearing witness to this idiocy. More proof, if they needed it, that the new earl was a madman.

  He dropped his hand and stepped back. The embarrassment felt reflexive, not even sharp enough to shorten his breath. Five months since his return, and he was growing near to resigned. Drugs did not dull this reflex. His logic could not rule it. He had no enemies in this city, save Ridland. But old habits did not die, and the slightest unfamiliar noise continued to wake him.

  Sanburne was studying him with a frown. “Coffee? And some light.” With a flourish of his gloved hand, he yanked open the drapes.

  The weak light of a murky London morning pricked Phin’s eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Chimneys smoked in the early chill, and a stray bird wheeled against the gray clouds. He’d slept through the night. That was something, at least. “What time is it?”

  Sanburne cocked his head. “Too late? Or too early, maybe.” His tawny hair was bare, disheveled in a manner evoking scuffles in which hats got knocked away. From the smell of him, he’d breakfasted on alcohol, although the rumpled look of his jacket suggested he’d never gone to bed. “Eight o’clock,” he decided. “Somewhere thereabouts. How long does that make for you?”

  “Five hours.” Almost.

  Sanburne made a mocking tsk. He could not appreciate the magnitude of this achievement; he found the project itself misguided. Sleep as little or long as you like, he’d advised last week. The world w
ill bend to suit you now. And to be fair, he was right; letter after letter proved as much. The solicitor would visit at whichever hour suited Phin best, dawn till midnight or shortly thereafter. The estate managers, the complaining tenants, the ambitious young men in search of a mentor, God help them—to a man, they assured him it would be a privilege to be answered at his leisure.

  At first, after so many years of taking orders, Phin had found these reassurances startling. He had saved the letters simply to reread them, to wonder if this could be true. He’d never tested it, though. He replied immediately, and held his meetings during the daylight; that was when normal men did business, and if there was some obscure point to delaying, or to demanding special accommodations, he’d missed it.

  It seemed possible he was missing a great deal. Sanburne seemed to think so; his regard, more and more of late, suggested that Phin was an object of deep concern. It grew irritating. “Why are you here?” he asked curtly.

  “You need a holiday.”

  The rest of his life was a bloody holiday now. “You have an idea, I take it.”

  Sanburne laughed. “The whole city has an idea. What, don’t you remember? Much ado at Epsom Downs, old fellow! Couldn’t let you sleep through it. Carriage is waiting at the curb. Look lively,” he added, with a jerk of his chin in the direction over Phin’s shoulder.

  Fretgoose, the absurdly named valet—his valet now (“If you wish it, sir”), a rotund, graying inheritance from his cousin, and his uncle before him—crept forward to proffer a robe. Phin stood and stuck out his arms, feeling, as always, faintly ridiculous to be dressed like a child’s doll. “Who’s aboard?”

  Sanburne reached into his jacket, producing a flask. “The usuals. Dalton, Tilney, Muir. Elizabeth threatens to join, no doubt with Nello in tow, so we’re working on a plan of concealment. I said your counsel would come in handy.”

  This was Sanburne’s new tactic: to allude, regularly, to whatever he imagined Phin’s expertise to be, no doubt by way of inviting a conversation on the matter. It would be a simple thing to put his curiosity to rest. I stole things. I killed people. And I drew a few maps. But it had occurred to Phin that the viscount was too bored to receive these tidings with the proper revulsion. He might see them as novel options for keeping himself occupied. “I thank you for your faith,” Phin said.

  Sanburne smiled back, all cheerful transparency. “You’ll come, then.”

  He shrugged. “I had a meeting scheduled with someone at Stanfords. Great batch of maps coming up for sale in Rome.”

  “Good God, don’t you own enough of them already? It’s the Derby, Phin! If the whole city does not exit to Epsom Downs by noon, a calamity befalls the town. I believe Nostradamus wrote of it once.”

  Phin sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d finally gotten a handle on the business of holding a title—of managing estates and finances, and of occupying a chair in a thoroughly useless section of Parliament, where fat-cheeked men debated the occupation of countries they would never visit and proposed wars so readily it seemed the blood of strangers flowed more cheaply than water.

  The social program still eluded him, though. He was expected to make appearances, he understood that much. To find a wife, to lend his name to a few charitable committees. It seemed easy enough. All the rules had been laid out plainly; he need only follow them. But he hesitated. Why, he could not say. He wasn’t going to make a mess of it; he was nothing like his father. And if he were, why then, he would only be like Sanburne, whom London society seemed to adore.

  The thought struck a nerve. He dropped his hand to consider the man. They had been very close as schoolboys, bound by that peculiar camaraderie only possible between opposites. Sanburne had enjoyed getting into scrapes; Phin found a strange satisfaction in fixing them. Sanburne spent money like water, and watching him waste it on empty pleasures made Phin feel better about not having any to spend. It had been Sanburne’s family with whom he holidayed during university. We are brothers in every way that matters, Sanburne used to say. The rings beneath his eyes spoke of dissipation, but to liken him to Stephen Granville felt…disloyal. Dishonorable.

  Sanburne, slouching loose-limbed against the wall, mistook his examination for hesitance. “It’s all in good fun,” he said.

  “All right.” He wanted an opportunity, perhaps, to disprove the aptness of the comparison before it could take root in his brain.

  “Brilliant.” The viscount pocketed his flask. “I predict a reprise of the Cremorne glory. You made a tidy sum that year.”

  On money Sanburne had lent him. He’d been three sheets to the wind, to decide to gamble. But back then he’d fancied himself in training for the army, where real men drank just as hard as his father, yet still managed to wake up at dawn to pursue noble ends. It seemed very distant now. If Sanburne expected a reprise, he was bound for disappointment. “Give me a quarter hour.”

  Sanburne sketched a mocking bow. “I’ll wait without. The plebs are no doubt ripping apart my coach.” He exited, the smell of liquor trailing after him.

  As the door closed, Fretgoose spoke. “Sir.” He was standing at the foot of the bed, his hands abnormally empty of sartorial suggestions. “Another letter has come from Mr. Ridland.”

  Phin was halfway to rising. He sat down again, exhaling through his nose.

  “I would n-not have informed you of it, but his man emphasized the absolute urgency of the correspondence.”

  Ridland lived close by. Down the street, catty-corner across Hyde Park, ten minutes by foot at most. Those times when Phin entered a room and found him in it, Ridland left directly. Last month, the man had walked out of a tea held for the prime minister. He was a right bastard, but he knew how fragile his neck looked at close quarters.

  If he was writing so insistently, there was a reason for it.

  “I-I do hope I have not offended.” Fretgoose’s bulbous nose had begun to redden. “Shall I burn it also?”

  Perhaps Ridland had heard tell of his meetings with the secretaries of the Colonial and India Offices. He might be writing to plead his case. What sweet irony that would be. The possibility should tantalize him, Phin thought. He could frame such a letter and raise a toast to it nightly.

  He held out his hand. The note was carefully sealed. Expensive paper. He merited the best stuff now, soft as a baby’s cheek, not that scrap Ridland used to send him in the field. Directives scrawled on brown wrapping paper, the sort one might use to carry fish home from the market. So cheaply your life tallies: that had been the other, implied meaning of those messages.

  He’d had no choice but to read them. Initially, his own oath of service had bound him to obey. Gradually, with his unfortunate peers as examples, he’d learned the more urgent, unstated cause for compliance: Ridland had no scruples in disciplining defectors. Had Phin chosen to disappear, a price would have been extracted from others: casual acquaintances, old comrades, perhaps even an elderly man who fancied himself Ridland’s friend and Phin’s mentor.

  It had occurred to Phin that a single well-aimed bullet would solve these worries. But the vast web that Ridland spun ultimately supported a great many lives, some more innocent than others. If the bastard died, a great many people would suffer for it.

  For a decade, then, Phin had known no choice. Ridland’s notes must be opened. They must be heeded.

  No longer, though. The title nullified all of Ridland’s advantages. A common foot soldier was easily ignored, but each time an earl murmured words of concern into governmental ears, another strand broke in Ridland’s web. And Phin had been murmuring a great deal recently.

  Yes, he thought, and felt his lips turn in a smile. If Ridland was writing, there must be a grave reason for it.

  His wrist snapped. The letter spun away, smacking into the mantel and landing conveniently by the fire basket. “Burn it,” he said calmly. He came to his feet and started for the newspaper.

  The valet darted forward, reaching for the paper. “Allow me, my lord!�
�

  “No.”

  Fretgoose ducked his head and crept away.

  For God’s sake. “But thank you,” Phin added, then regretted that, too, for in the man’s hurry to turn back and bow, he managed to slam his shoulder into the half-open door of the wardrobe.

  Fretgoose pretended not to feel the pain. Phin pretended not to notice the collision, scanning the headlines as the valet picked out his clothes. Not much happening in the world. More arrests made in the bomb plot foiled at Birkenhead. There was certainly a more interesting story behind that, but as a member of the public, he would never know it, nor did he want to. Still, the official version made him snort; it was bland as toast.

  He turned to the next page, dominated by a very splashy advertisement for hair tonic. Special American Formula: New Technology. Five Shillings for Spectacular Shine. Leave it to the Americans to demand a crown for a bit of soap. He glanced to the next sheet.

  Everything in him went still.

  “…Sir?”

  It had only been a matter of time. There was nothing to be surprised about. And in fact, he wasn’t surprised. He simply felt—suspended. Like a figure in a flipbook, halted by a forceful thumb. He forced his attention upward. “Yes,” he said.

  Fretgoose held up a jacket. “Will this serve, sir?”

  He nodded once, absently, and then, gathering his thoughts, said, “Tell Gorman to cancel my appointments for tomorrow.” He would need to pay his respects to the bereaved.

  Phin set out for Eton at nine the next morning. It was a short journey by train, but he chose to travel by carriage. They had improved the roads since last he’d traveled them. It did not take as long as he’d calculated. When the coach pulled up outside the modest cottage, it wasn’t yet noon.

  He remained in the vehicle, studying the house. It looked no different from what he remembered. The wooden gate had a fresh coat of white paint, and the rosebushes flanking the path seemed tamer. Otherwise, he might have been seventeen. The red gingham curtains in the front parlor stood open. Deliberately, he called to mind the arguments these curtains had occasioned. Mr. Sheldrake liked a great deal of light—any mapmaker would. Mrs. Sheldrake had protested; the sunshine bleached the upholstery, she complained. The war over the curtains had become an ongoing joke, and he should smile at the memory.