Bound by Your Touch (15 page)

With a yawn, James reached for the port. "Denbury! You have the look of the lock-step about you."

The man sat up a little. "Yes, sir. A fine eye you have." Moreland's snort made him hesitate only briefly. "I served with the Forty-third in Burma."

"Infantry, were you?" James uncapped the decanter and lifted it for a sniff. "Well. Explains the second-rate port we've been served."

Moreland thumped his cane. "The deuces! That is a Forty-six, you bufflehead!"

"Ha! Is that what Metcalfe told you? Dished once again by your butler. I always suspected he didn't care for you." To Denbury, James continued, "It must have been dreadfully tasking." The port gurgled out of the bottle. One—two—three fingers. He already had a headache; there was no reason for moderation. "Transitioning from the tropics to Hampshire, I mean."

Denbury cleared his throat. "Well, sir, I cant say I was sorry for it. It's certainly a sight more peaceful than the Orient."

"Oh, indeed, I expect the madhouse is
very
restful."

Denbury made a little hiccupping sound. "Ah—that isn't what I meant, sir. Not that I find it—unpleasant, like. I'd hoped to become a doctor, as a child."

Moreland made an irritated noise. "Enough small talk. Shall we begin?"

Denbury handed them each a sheaf of papers. Stellas name was printed neatly atop the uppermost sheet. "Lady Boland's quarterly report."

Quarterly report. As if Stella were some stock, whose progress might be charted and codified for the shareholders. James paged through it with increasing disgust. What she had eaten for breakfast each day. How long she had slept each night. Her attitude at evening services. The level of interest she exhibited in improving texts.
17 March: Lady B
—
refused copy of
Practical Piety.
Threw
The Invalid's Chapbook
at attendant's head.
"What is this? The boredom cure? Christ, I should go mad if you forced me to read Hannah More."

Denbury goggled at him. "Begging pardon, sir, but Kenhurst is not meant to provide entertainment. Our business is no less than a full rehabilitation of the morals."

Morals.
Good God, if he could strike one word from the English language, that would be the one. "Of course. That was always my sister's problem. Had nothing to do with Boland beating her within an inch of her life. The problem was her
morals."

Moreland pounded his cane against the floor. "Your presence is not required for this meeting, James. Mind yourself, or I will have you thrown out!"

"But it's so interesting," James said. "Don't you think? This is, after all, your daughter we're discussing. Tell me, Denbury, how does one evaluate morality? Does it have to do with"—he flipped to a random page—"how many bites it takes to chew a piece of bread?"

"Well, we might say it does, sir." Denbury slid an uncertain glance at Moreland, whose grunt made him hesitate briefly before continuing. "Mr. Dwyer holds that there's a proper way of doing every thing. And I expect he's right, sir. Why, one could choke on a piece of bread, if one did not chew it well enough. Or give offense to one's companions—"

"God forbid," James muttered.

"—which would demonstrate a lack of compassion that is
unchristian"
Denbury said stubbornly. "At Kenhurst, rules and regular order are thought key to the health of body, spirit, and mind."

"My. That line sounds familiar. Does Dwyer make all his employees memorize it?"

"Thank you for delivering these," Moreland said curtly. "You may tell Dwyer that I appreciate it."

As Denbury rose, James gave vent to an incredulous laugh. "That's it? You're not going to ask about her parole?"

The startlement on Moreland's face hit him more sharply than a fist. "Come to reality, James. The court would never grant it."

"How many judges do you own, old man?"

"It is not so simple as that—"

"And parole is not uncommon."

Moreland made a scornful noise. "She's in no state to be released. Why, its by her own insistence that we don't visit."

"I have yet to see proof that she made that request," James said flatly. "A letter, in her own hand—it would not be so difficult. But you're content to believe Dwyer's nonsense, aren't you? You're happy to leave her there rotting."

Moreland flushed an impressive shade of red. "By God, we will not have this argument again. Speak to Boland's family about whether she is rotting in the manner
they
might wish for."

Denbury cleared his throat. "In fact, Lady Boland has made significant progress. Mr. Dwyer expresses some reservations, but believes a full recovery might be possible by next year."

Moreland pushed himself upright. "You tell Dwyer that such announcements are not his to make."

A prickle of shock moved down James's spine. "Sweet God. You have no intention of getting her out, do you? You intend to keep her in there for the rest of her natural life."

Moreland cast him a furious glance. "Don't be a fool. We are speaking of the here and now."

Why
was he surprised? If Moreland—hell, if
any
of them, her old friends, old lovers, cousins, aunts, and uncles—had their way, she
would
remain at Kenhurst. She was no longer a person, after all. She was merely a—blight. A blot, that threatened to spread in the manner that blots did, thereby staining the names of those who'd been associated with her. Even Elizabeth barely mentioned her, now. Better to keep her locked away, then, where she might do no harm to their precious reputations.

God
damn
them. He came off the chair. Denburys abortive flinch provided him only a fleeting satisfaction. "I would wish you to the blackest hell," he said to More-land, his voice low and rough; it was the best he could do to keep from screaming it. "But why bother? You're already halfway there."

The old bastard did not so much as blink, although his breathing grew audibly labored as he struggled to come to his feet. The sight should have stirred pity in a son's breast. The coldness with which James watched this effort no doubt appalled Denbury. It would appall anyone: objectively, he knew this. But it was
Stella
who had been closest to Moreland,
Stella
who had cosseted and petted him. If Moreland wanted compassion, he would have to find it from her. He would have to release her, God damn it.

His father finally attained his footing. "Denbury, you will excuse us."

"Yes, God forbid we should have witnesses," James said coldly.

Denbury walked quickly out. As the door closed, Moreland's lip twitched into a sneer. "Tell me," he said. "I am most interested to hear it, James. What use should I have for your opinion? A rash, good-for-nothing libertine, who is content to sit on his hands and whine—why should such a man merit my respect? My mistake was to invite you here in the first place. Stella's welfare is none of your concern."

"She is my
sister,
you black-hearted bastard."

"Quite right," Moreland snarled. "Your sister. My
daughter. My
responsibility, not yours. And thank God for it! You would have her back on the streets, exposed to the scorn and derision of her peers—"

James's laughter felt wild, hot in his throat. "So dirty looks are a worse fate than imprisonment? Is that why you put her away?"

"Good God! She
killed
a man, James!"

"She defended herself against a brute twice her size! And you would lock her away for that? You should have applauded her!"

Moreland smacked the cane onto the tabletop. "Enough! By God, you are like a three-year-old—so damned stubborn about the way things
should
be that you cannot recognize the reality! She is sick! She cannot be set loose!"

He spoke of his daughter as though she were some rabid dog. "You are the biggest bloody hypocrite in London.
You
talk of helping her? That's rich. Where were you four years ago, when she actually needed you?" When she had run from Boland, and society had whispered and mocked and forced her back to that deathtrap on Park Lane. "You're lucky it was Boland they buried. Had Stella not picked up that knife,
she
would be the one in the grave."

Moreland s face grew stony. "I will not rehash this."

"You never
hashed
it in die first place. Is this to be her punishment for surviving that monster?" To be locked away for good, where her swallows might be counted, her every mutter frowned over and analyzed? Where she might be
improved
until the day she died? "What
oiyour
punishment? When she really needed your help, what the hell did you do? You sent her back to him.
You
sent her to her doom."

"Enough! I
will speak no more of it!"

"Yes, set it from your mind! Clearly it does not trouble your goddamned sleep!"

"Sanburne." The voice, the soft touch on his arm, took a moment to register. His rage was like a cloud, holding him in a numb crimson thrall. But his stepmother's hand squeezed, very lightly, and he was forced to exhale and address her.

"Countess," he said. He cleared his throat. "How do you do."

"Better, if you will take a calm breath," she said gently. "You will not settle this argument now. And I think you have both given each other enough pain for today."

If she thought Moreland was capable of feeling anything, then she knew a different man than James did. He managed a slight smile for her, then turned on his heel for the door.

In the hallway, he surprised a footman lounging against a sideboard. The man jumped straight. "Sir. Are you leaving?"

"I don't require an escort." He'd grown up in this house, God help him.

The man swallowed audibly. "My apologies, sir. Orders from Lord Moreland."

"Ha! Very well." James cut a swift pace down the hall and into the anteroom. He wanted out. The very air here strangled him.

But by a stand of flowers, he found himself slowing. His stepmother had redecorated this room. A simple scheme of blue and white now prevailed. White orchids bent graceful throats over the lips of blue Bohemian vases; the carpets, drapes, and upholstery were cobalt.

She'd always nursed strange beliefs about colors, crediting them with any variety of abilities—white to calm the spirit; blue to inspire good will. Two very ambitious aims, when living with Moreland.

He reached out to touch the waxy petal of a fresh orchid. Stella had loved the countess like a mother. What did Lady Moreland think of this? Did she miss her stepdaughter? Did she care nothing for Stella's freedom?

James glanced toward the window. An unusually strong wind had set up; branches were whipping against the glass. He stepped forward to grip the casement. He could see the wind bowling toward him. It bent the tops of trees, so they curved at him like claws.

Boom:
the gale hit the window. Glass rattled as bits of dead leaves and rain splattered against it. He laid his palm to the pane, and found it icy. "'Oh, to be in England,'" he said mockingly, "now that April's here.'"

It would be sunny in Nice, right now. Alas that he could not go: his father would be too grateful to see him gone. The tedium of the season stretched out before him, longer and bleaker than the vista through the glass.
You think Stella mad,
he thought.
You think
she
would cause you problems, that
she
would disturb your comfortable little life.
Oh, yes. He would stay in London until hell froze over, so long as his father was here to witness him.

His fingers fell to the crank at the base of the casement. Let it all in, he thought. Wind, twigs, rain, sleet—the scent of a bleak, bloody, depressing London spring.

"Sir," the footman said nervously. "Please don't, sir. I think I saw lightning a moment ago."

"But don't you know?" James said. "I am rash and reckless."

The footman hesitated, then took a step back. "No, sir."

"A rash, reckless, good-for-nothing—that was the exact wording, I believe." He paused, struck by the way the comment echoed. Someone else had voiced a similar sentiment recently. The lovely Miss Boyce.
Over-privileged and under-occupied.
Dishonesty was not one of her failings. Perhaps that was why he'd felt moved to speak honesdy in return. It was rather entertaining, hearing such clear verdicts issue from such a lush mouth. An
under-occupied
mouth, he decided. She really should thank him for the business he provided it.

He straightened and cast a grin at the bewildered footman. The season still had too many weeks remaining to it, but he knew how to occupy himself.

It was coming on one o'clock. Outside, in the galleries, the tourists were pushing for the best view of the Elgin Marbles. In the Reading Room, however, all was calm. The hundreds of desks, arranged in circular fashion around the great bank of blue-bound catalogues, were nearly full. Scores of hushed conversations blended into a low drone that made Lydia slightly sleepy. In the row before her, two ancient gentlemen, decked in the long frock coats and bow ties of an earlier generation, har-rumphed at editorials. To their right, a young couple sighed over prints of Venice.

She watched the pair, feeling oddly bereft. When the gentleman, reaching out to turn the page, brushed the lady's arm, she blushed quite prettily. He smiled, and whispered something in her ear that made her turn her face into his sleeve.