The Sins of Lord Lockwood Page 7

  Increasingly, it seemed that Marlowe had employed some intermediary in soliciting his clients. That man, too, deserved a bloody justice.

  “We need to expand our search,” Julian muttered. “The middleman might be anyone in high circles.”

  A needle in a haystack might be easier to locate.

  Restlessness drove Liam to his feet. He paced the length of the carpet, finishing his own drink and then appropriating Burke’s as he passed.

  “Christ.” Grimacing, he returned the drink to Burke. “You should be flogged for that.”

  “Acquired taste,” Burke said. “Sophisticated palates appreciate it.”

  “Perhaps the key lies in those who died,” Julian said. He drummed his fingers in thought. “Lord Sadler and Sir George Davin—both of them were political at one time, were they not?”

  Burke set his glass down heavily. “Sadler?”

  “I thought you knew,” Julian said.

  “No. I thought—he was lost at sea, when the Pacific sank.”

  “No,” Liam said. “He was baked to death, in a very deep hole.”

  A shocked silence filled the room. That detail Julian had not known, either.

  Murder was not amusing. But the stricken faces of men who rightly considered themselves jaded—that could be considered a mild diversion.

  Christ. No, there was nothing humorous about it—not to anyone with a normal brain. Liam took a long breath. He felt very few emotions nowadays, and none of them worth trusting: irritation, anger, twisted amusement . . .

  And lust. As of this morning, he would add lust to the list. His flesh was not dead, after all: his wife had proved so. He had sat across from her and felt the rise of a desire so powerful and dark that it felt devouring, dangerous to her.

  Fortunate, then, that he could not have her. He would not impose his body on her. She had not agreed to marry that. And he had no interest anyway in seeing her reaction to it—the horror, or worse, the pity.

  Burke spoke of justice. But justice was not reparation. Reparation was impossible.

  “Perhaps there’s a clue in who survived,” Burke suggested. “All commoners—barring you, Lockwood. If it was intended to be a death camp only for a few, it might tell us—”

  “No.” A bright blot of sunlight illuminated the pastel carpet, worn threadbare by generations of boots. Men accustomed to such carpeting, men who thought this finery their birthright, rarely had experiences of true hardship. If they encountered it, it was always only by mistake. “It tells you that the upper classes are soft,” Liam said. “Nothing more. We were all intended to die eventually.”

  Another beat of silence. No doubt his friends were wondering to what depths Liam had sunk in order to survive where his peers had not managed.

  But when he lifted his gaze, he saw no evidence to substantiate his imaginings. Burke was scribbling something, and Julian looked merely weary.

  “I’ll ask around about Davin,” said Julian. “See if I can figure out who might have wanted him gone.”

  Burke glanced up. “And I’ll speak with Sadler’s family—I know them well.” He gathered his notes and rose. “I would not blame you,” he told Liam, “nor turn a hair, should Devaliant end up dead in a gutter. But from what I see, you have a care for these men who came back with you. So I hope you’ll continue to have patience until we can nail the bastard who assisted him.”

  They shook hands, and Burke let himself out. Julian, however, loitered behind, eyeing Liam closely. “Is all well? You seem . . .”

  “What?”

  Julian shrugged. “A bit ragged, forgive me for saying it.”

  Liam felt the possibility open between them of an honest discussion. Had he felt inclined to bare his soul, no one else would have served but Jules. They had been close from boyhood—had sported and fought together from their first day at Eton, when they had thrashed some callow gang who’d imagined Julian’s Indian ancestry made him an easy mark.

  But what would he say, if he decided to confide? Half the time, Jules, my brain is like a child’s, inventing causes for panic in the cheers of a crowd, a sudden noise, a breaking glass, a sound in the dark.

  And asleep—in his own bed—memories slipped into dreams, dreams twisting into nightmares, so that he woke up midbattle, trying to claw his way out of the hole, and discovering the room ablaze, once or twice, from a lamp he’d knocked over.

  If he confessed all this, how would Julian be able to help him?

  Julian did not speak of what he had survived during the Indian Uprising. Liam knew that during that bloody conflagration, Julian had saved the life of Emma Martin—a woman better known to society as the artist ‘Aurora Ashdown.’ At a recent ball where Liam had showcased her paintings, Julian had looked stricken, like a man encountering a ghost—but he’d shared no explanation for his dark mood or odd behavior afterward.

  There were some kinds of grief that did not profit from being spoken, and that never were cured. Julian knew that as well as he.

  And so Liam said only, “I slept poorly.”

  “Ah.”

  “Also”—no use in concealing what was soon to be public—“the countess is in London.”

  Julian stepped back a pace. “The—your wife?”

  “Quite.” Liam crossed to the door, pulling it open to forestall the inevitable questioning.

  “But—by God, Liam. When did she—”

  “A few days ago. I expect you’ll see her shortly.”

  “I should hope so,” Julian murmured. “Have you plans this evening?”

  “None,” Liam said. “Perhaps dinner? You can tell me how Miss Martin fares.”

  At the mention of her name, Julian’s curiosity vanished beneath a bland smile. “Alas, I have another engagement. But soon, yes, certainly.” And without further remark, he stepped out the door, ignoring Liam’s mocking laughter as he led the way down the hall.

  • • •

  “I still can’t believe you’re here. In London!”

  “Yes, well, if you pinch me again to prove it, you’ll get a bop in reply, directly on your nose.” Anna spoke impatiently as she leaned around her cousin to consider the gathering.

  A dozen women had crammed into the airless little salon, most of them very familiar to Anna. Lady Dunleavy’s house was the center of Scottish society in London. For years, Anna’s friends had returned from their southern seasons with tales of parties here: the luxury, the conversation, the latest French styles!

  Nobody had mentioned the backaches, though. Lady Dunleavy’s furniture was overstuffed horsehair, designed to force the sitter to her feet after a scarce five minutes of discomfort. The baroness also kept the drapes closed against sunny afternoons, and Anna found herself squinting through the gloom. The walls loomed, full of dark, gloomy paintings of biblical trials.

  All in all, the effect was Calvinist, and therefore supremely Scottish. Anna felt at home.

  “You’re staring,” Moira whispered into her ear. “Who at?”

  “Barbara Devaliant.” Her husband’s cousin’s wife was a handsome matron in a pinstriped afternoon dress trimmed with silver lace. The footman had announced her minutes ago. “I called on her recently, but had no reply.”

  “The cheek!” Moira sat forward, blue eyes wide. “You rank well above her—she should have been honored. Who else have you called on?”

  “Everybody.” Two days ago, after her husband had fled breakfast, she’d found herself alone and miserable and furious about it. But she was far from friendless, even in England. Having commandeered Lockwood’s finest coach—a predictably ornate and hedonistic vehicle, upholstered in mauve velvet with silver trimmings—she’d spent four hours circling Mayfair and Belgravia, sending Lockwood’s least raffish footman scrambling up and down steps from Belgrave Square to Park Lane.

  Her efforts had been rewarded yesterday afternoon. Starting at four o’clock, every well-born Scot in the capital had returned her call. Nobody could resist a chance to tour the house of the
famous Lord Lockwood, patron extraordinaire of the arts.

  Anna was not a natural hostess. But her tirades in the kitchen had paid off nicely: the cook, Beauregard, a hairy behemoth who reeked of cigar smoke, had produced passable cakes and cucumber sandwiches. The tea had arrived, if not hot, then at least lukewarm. And Anna had dodged all the questions about her husband with sufficient grace to quell curiosity.

  Of course she’d always intended to join him for the season; alas that business had prevented her from coming earlier! Yes, everybody was invited to his next soiree; their invitations to the last one must have been lost in the post. Yes, he’d been traveling extensively for years now. Why, he was the most prized member of the Travellers Club, where his obligations kept him busy for days on end.

  In truth, Anna had no idea where her husband had gone after bolting out of the dining room. She tried very much not to care or wonder. She had extensive practice, after all, in being deserted by him. He should be the least of her concerns at present.

  “I want to speak with Mrs. Devaliant,” Anna told her cousin. “Come, make an approach with me. Look casual, or else she might flee.”

  “Flee!” Moira looked positively delighted by the hint of scandal. She made a quick survey by fingertips of the state of her dark curls, then nodded and clutched on to Anna’s arm. As they progressed across the room, smiling right and left, she conducted a whispered interrogation. “Why flee? What have you done? Did you insult her somehow? Anna, you must guard your tongue here; we aren’t in Scotland any longer.”

  “I haven’t done a thing.” Not to Mrs. Devaliant, at least. She had written to Mrs. Devaliant’s husband, but her request had been very simple—and quite mundane, between cousins-in-law. Stephen Devaliant was a railway baron. Anna had a question about a railway company—a company that seemed not to exist, save in its control of a piece of land very dear to her.

  Of course, this was not the first letter she had ever written to Stephen. Three years ago, after Stephen had gotten wind of Lockwood’s traipse abroad, he had graciously offered to assume the management of Lockwood’s properties. Equally graciously, Anna had declined his offer. In turn, Stephen had insisted on it. He had also dispatched lawyers to Scotland to investigate her property deeds—thinking, mistakenly, that they had become Lockwood’s on marriage.

  On hearing the gossip from the general register’s office—that English lawyers had come poking about, wanting to see the sasines—Anna had cabled her solicitors. Sir Charles Kent had proceeded to correct Stephen’s misunderstanding, and to ungently instruct that he find a new hobby for himself.

  Scots knew how to overlook small family tiffs. Alas, Englishmen’s familial loyalties seemed more brittle. Stephen had ignored her most recent letter. His wife, perhaps, could help smooth over matters.

  “Lady Dunleavy!” she exclaimed as she stepped boldly into the ongoing conversation between the baroness and her guest. “Had I known what delights awaited me in London, I would never have hesitated so long to enjoy them.”

  The baroness, a stout old bat with a gimlet eye and an iron hand welded to the social pulse, nodded smugly. But Mrs. Devaliant began to melt away, which Anna arrested by turning to her and saying, “Cousin! What a lovely surprise to see you here. I hope you received my invitation to dinner.”

  Barbara Devaliant was a pale blonde with thin colorless brows, which she arched now as she looked down her long, sharp nose. “Yes, it was very kind. Did you not receive my reply? I felt certain I’d given it over to post. Alas, we have a prior engagement.”

  “Then the night afterward, perhaps?”

  Lady Dunleavy harrumphed. It was very rude, of course, to put a prospective guest on the spot in this manner.

  But Mrs. Devaliant was Anna’s family by marriage, so such courtesies could be overlooked—although the lady herself looked utterly indifferent to the prospect of a dinner en famille. “Alas. The season keeps us very busy.”

  As Anna opened her mouth again, she felt Moira squeeze her arm—a warning she ignored. “If there were some date when you would be available, I would be glad to rearrange my schedule.”

  Mrs. Devaliant made a moment’s study of her. Then, with a deliberate smile, she said, “No, Countess. Pray don’t trouble yourself.”

  Lady Dunleavy’s jaw dropped.

  “Oh dear,” Moira said quickly. “I forgot the milliner. My appointment, Anna—we must rush. Lady Dunleavy, if you’ll forgive us . . .”

  Once outside on the curb, Anna felt her blush begin to cool. “What charming family my husband has.”

  “She was dreadfully rude,” Moira burst out. “But why does she dislike you so?”

  “I’ve no idea.” But Anna now felt certain she was not the cause. Lockwood had given offense somehow, and she would know the whole story. A woman of science did not do well with mysteries.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At home, Anna discovered that her husband had emerged from hiding, and was working—so Wilkins informed her—in his study.

  Wilkins was not wearing livery, but his dark suit looked respectable, if a touch too loose on his scarecrow frame. His auburn hair had been neatly pomaded. “Very good,” Anna informed him as she handed over her cloak. “Mind you, next time I return, you should not volunteer information until I request it. But otherwise, I am pleased: you opened the door promptly, and you appear to be sober.”

  The boy beamed so vigorously that she found herself momentarily startled by how young he looked. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m trying, I swear it!”

  His accent was curious; she could not place it. “Where are your people from, Wilkins?”

  “Lincoln, ma’am.”

  “Your accent doesn’t sound northern to me.”

  “Oh—no, ma’am. My parents were from Lincoln, but I was born in New South Wales.”

  Jeannie had started up the stairs, and Anna caught her maid’s shocked glance from the landing above. This was, indeed, a notorious origin.

  Clearing her throat, she said gently, “You will not bandy that abroad, Wilkins. Some ignorant visitor might mistake you for the child of convicts.”

  Wilkins looked taken aback. “I—well, ma’am, I . . .” Frowning, he nodded and clasped his hands behind him. “I’m from Lincoln,” he said firmly. “Only Lincoln.”

  “Quite right.” Cheered by her salubrious effect on the staff—which only highlighted the pathetic nature of Lockwood’s failure to intervene with them earlier—she turned on her heel and made for the study.

  She opened the door without knocking. Lockwood was at his desk, scribbling something. “I thought you were off to Tiger Bay,” he said absently.

  “Tiger Bay? A curious name.”

  The sound of her voice worked a change on him. As he looked up, she saw how the ease went out of him, the line of his shoulders subtly stiffening.

  A strange pang ran through her. They had not been enemies. Their marriage had been, in the broadest outlines, one of convenience—but they had liked each other very much.

  Liked, ha! That had not been the word she’d used privately, in the days leading up to their wedding.

  But she’d been a fool. And then he’d proven so: he’d abandoned her.

  She reminded herself of that, reaching by habit for her anger, which made a durable shield against any stray whims that wished still to grieve. To grieve, one must lose something real—and she had not lost anything but her own illusions about him.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, laying down his pen but not rising from his seat. “Was there something you needed?”

  “Yes. An appointment with your cousin Stephen. Preferably a dinner, or something friendly and casual in appearance.”

  His smile faded. “My cousin.”

  “Yes.”

  “For what purpose?”

  Irritation prickled through her. “We have a business matter to discuss.”

  “Concerning?”

  “Why do you care?”

  He rose. “Why do you hesitate to answer?
”

  His soft voice sent a peculiar chill through her. Not understanding it, she frowned.

  “How remarkable,” she said. “You spent three years traipsing the world without a care for your properties. Not a single letter, not a line of inquiry. But now you wish to know all the details?”

  His lips turned, but it was a dead smile, not to be trusted. “I am reforming,” he said as he came near. The wolf’s look was back in his eyes, flat and cold.

  She found herself taking a step backward to seize hold of the door handle, though she could not follow why her instincts were suddenly screaming at her. “Well, that’s very good of you. But you may limit your reform to your own business, not mine. If you don’t wish to answer me, I will simply write to him myself—”

  He slapped the flat of his hand against the door behind her, boxing her in place. She stared at him in mute astonishment.

  “Tell me,” he said, “why you need to speak with him.”

  Her heart was tripping. She dragged a breath in through her nose. “A simple question, that’s all.”

  “Go on.”

  “Some railway company has leased a stretch of land that includes Clachaig—the beach my islanders use to come and go from Rawsey. They’re advertising a new railway, and I need assurances that the route won’t cut off my islanders’ access to the beach. Otherwise the nearest harbor will put them half a day farther from market, and I’ll lose half the farmers to the mainland.”

  “Ah.” He slouched, his posture becoming raffish. “Rawsey. Of course.”

  “Yes, Rawsey. Some of us stick by our commitments.”

  “And you think Stephen is involved in this railway?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s some man named Roy. But Stephen is in the railroad business. And this company—I can’t actually locate Mr. Roy, or anyone save the stockbrokers who are selling shares in it. I thought your cousin might know him. Does that satisfy you?”

  He stared at her for a long moment, as though—infuriating thought!—judging whether she was truthful. “I’ll ask him about the railway,” he said finally. “But you will not write to him, or seek him out in public. Do you understand?”