Bound by Your Touch (31 page)

"No, we are not acquainted."

She paused on the bottom step. "How lucky for you. Here, maybe some of it will rub off on me." Out came her hand for a brisk, thoroughly American shake. "I'm Mina Masters. You may have heard of my hair tonics. No? Ah, well. Only five shillings for spectacular shine. Phin's in there." She nodded toward a door off the hall. "Do tell him you met me: it will give him fits." With a wink, she lifted her skirts and turned back for the upper floor.

Lydia had not expected this desertion. Glad for it, she paused to smooth her skirts. Given the circumstances, she thought her composure impressive—until the moment she entered the library and spotted Sanburne.

The relief that washed through her then brought with it a slew of detritus—fear, panic, a still-echoing sense of shock. She pitched herself at him. She had no care what the other man might think of her; all that mattered was how deeply she could push her face into his chest. His arms closed around her and his hand cupped her skull, stroking her hair. "James," she whispered, choking back tears that came from nowhere.

"Shh." His voice was so blessedly familiar and calm. "Its all right, Lyd. You're perfecdy safe."

With her nose crushed against him, she drew a great breath. She was hardly a five-year-old who required shushing, but as he rubbed her head, her heart began to slow. He was not a steady man; that much she had decided. But he seemed steady as he embraced her. His arms banded about her so tightly that she felt nothing could break his hold. It calmed something in her that had been trembling since—since she knew not when.

When she felt composed enough to pull away, she saw a nasty new bruise purpling his cheek. She touched it in concern. He caught her hand, gave a small shake of his head, and smiled. She smiled back. She felt almost giddy, of a sudden. "I ran into the most peculiar woman upstairs," she told him. "I think I may have imagined her."

"Oh, I met her, too," he said lightly. "It seems Phin has acquired a cousin." He slid a glance to the other man that she could not interpret.

The earl took this as a signal to approach. She recognized him at once: he was the man who had fetched Mrs. Chudderley home from the Stromonds' ball. He was lean and tall, and everything about him was brown: his
eyes,
his hair, his sun-bronzed skin.

He bowed over her hand as James introduced them. "Lyd, the Earl of Ashmore. Phin, Miss Boyce. Be nice to each other, and don't quarrel. You're both too stubborn to lose gracefully."

Lord Ashmore gave her a dry smile as he straightened. "Never fear, Miss Boyce. We may be old friends, but I learned my manners elsewhere."

She smiled back, but could not prevent a questioning glance for James. Reading it correctly, he shrugged. "Since Phin is unconnected with the forgeries, it seemed safer to bring you here. And there's something else besides. But will you sit first, Lyd? You must have a terrible headache."

She let him guide her to one of the chairs at the fireplace. As they settled, she found herself the object of two sober stares. The mood seemed to have shifted on her. Or perhaps she had missed some remark; she still felt disoriented. She scrubbed a hand over her face. "I have no idea how I got here," she confessed.

James shifted in his chair so his knee came into her skirts. "Simple enough. No easier way to skip the queue for a cab than to show up flanked by two inspectors, with a woman passed out in your arms."

"The police came?" Something inside her relaxed. "They caught the men, then. Who were they? Thieves? Slave traders?"

He gave her a peculiar smile. "Oh, they caught them, all right. But not for long. By the time I installed you here and made it to Scotland Yard, they'd been released."

"Released!" She stared at him. "But—what on earth? They tried to
kidnap
me!"

"Indeed." He glanced again toward the earl. "Here is where Phin comes in. Before the title fell upon him like a black plague, he actually made himself useful."

"That is one way to put it," said the earl.

Her head ached too sharply for this obscurity. "Please," she said. "Speak plainly." And then, all at once, she noticed the sympathy gathering in James's expression. Her throat closed. "Oh," she whispered. "Do
not
say this is about my father."

James held her eyes. His expression was calm, but the scar bisecting his brow betrayed him: it was flushing red. "Phin made some inquiries. To make a long story short, the men who attacked you are in the pay of the government."

She could not have heard him right. She looked to the earl, who showed no sign of surprise at James's claim. Finally, she considered her lap. Her fingers were more flexible than she had guessed: they knotted together so tightly that her knuckles looked bloodless.

Sanburne's hand touched her knee. Long, strong hands. Ridiculous rings. He was showing her kindness, but she did not want it. So often, in her experience, it was motivated by pity. "Tell me," she said flatly.

The earl cleared his throat. "I have great faith in James. When he says you can be trusted, I believe him. So I will tell you, in confidence, that I have worked with one of the men who assaulted you today. I did not enjoy the experience. He is generally employed to handle messes too nasty to be dealt with through official channels." His tone gended. "His involvement is not good news for you, Miss Boyce. You are lucky he thought you were traveling alone. James took him by surprise, I think."

What a rare voice he had—so low and warm that it forced her to attend to it, even though the words themselves were horrible. She folded her arms around her torso. She knew what came next. "You are about to pass accusations against my father." Her voice sounded very dull. "Go ahead. Let's be done with it."

The earl traded a glance with James. No doubt they feared her on the verge of hysteria. "I know nothing of your father," he said. "I know only what I've been told. A woman named Polly Marshall—"

"Is a liar," she finished softly. In this curious, colorless mood, she could not work up her usual outrage; all she felt was fatigue, and a strange sense of inevitability. Again and again she recited this defense, but it did not seem to convince anyone. "It now seems that her lover was conspiring with a business rival to ruin my father."

"Anything is possible," the earl said mildly. "But I understand there are sources in Egypt, as well."

This was new. It suggested a vast investigation. A brief panic pierced her daze. Papa had no idea of any of this. "What do you mean?"

"Alas, I don't know the details. Suffice it to say that the government believes your father to be in possession of the Tears of Idihet."

So. Someone had said it aloud, now. The words ricocheted through her mind like cannonshot. She had a sense of things collapsing inside her: possibilities, hopes, everything good, all the fantasies she'd entertained to coax herself to sleep at night. "The government believes this," she said, and was amazed by her calm.

"Yes. And retrieving the jewels has become a matter of utmost importance. If the jewels were to surface in England, the political ramifications would be disastrous. Renewed unrest in Egypt, certainly. It would also provide damaging ammunition for our critics. France already protests our control over the Suez Canal. The embarrassment would not leave us a leg to stand on." He paused. "You see now why the government has decided to handle the matter through unusual channels. But the need for secrecy does not to work to your advantage. Far nastier things can happen when there is no need to explain them to the public."

She shook her head dumbly. But she understood what Ashmore meant. "They are going to kill him."

"No," James said sharply. "Lydia, that's not it at all. Phin has an offer for you." .

She looked up.

"It seems your father is scheduled to land at Southampton tomorrow," said the earl. Was he? She hadn't known that. And had she thought Ashmore handsome? She hated his face. How distant and unimpressed he looked by the tidings he delivered. "Contingent on this discussion, he will be permitted to proceed to London. And he will remain unimpeded, on one condition: that within the next seven days, the jewels are handed over to the government."

A fine deal. There was only one problem in it. "And if he doesn't have them?"

"Ironically, you must hope he does." The kindness in his voice seemed grotesque. "No matter your own convictions, Miss Boyce, they believe he had a hand in the theft. If the jewels remain missing, he will be arrested and interrogated. However, any party responsible for their return will find that no blame attaches to him, publicly or privately." He hesitated. "Of course, the same offer goes for a woman."

She was too dazed to remark the implication of that. James's curse alerted her. "Yes, she looks like a thief, doesn't she? Sod off, Phin. I'm taking her home now."

The earl gave an apologetic shrug. "It had to be said. I'm sorry for it."

With great effort, she came to her feet. The air seemed thick and viscous, as though she were moving through water. "So his innocence will condemn him," she said softly. "For he has no diamonds."

In the carriage, James's arm came around her to draw her to his chest. She had no urge to protest. Why should she? She was nearly resigned now to the fact that he could provide a measure of comfort when her own efforts failed her. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. "How can one prove that one
doesn't
have something?"

"I don't know," he said quietly. "Just rest for a bit, Lydia. You can't solve it all right now."

His answer depressed her. She wanted optimism, a course of action. She turned her face into his sleeve and inhaled his familiar scent, bergamot and mandarin and that particular element she could never put a name to, except to call it his own. "You must be honest with me." She closed her eyes. "Do you think me a fool, for believing in him?"

As they turned off the macadam onto cobblestones, the windows began to rattle. The noise swallowed the sound of his sigh, but she felt his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek. "No," he said. "You've been shown no proof. And I understand that you would believe your father over a stranger."

The generosity of his remark made her throat close. It had taken him a great leap to acknowledge her logic. Such a leap, she thought gratefully, might as well be an act of faith in itself.

"May I ask you something?" He spoke with a strange formality. "What would you do if you found out that he
was
involved?"

She could not respond immediately. That question sank to the core of her. It found purchase in a dark, cold space that had opened when she'd smashed the stela, and had widened in the days since. Every time she had refused to ask herself this question, it had widened. And now she must look into it. "I can hardly bear to think ill of him," she said haltingly. "You must understand how wrong, what a betrayal it seems to even contemplate the possibility of his guilt. But I suppose—if he were guilty—there would no other choice than to proceed as I am. Until— unless someone were able to prove beyond doubt that he had done this, I would still be bound, by my honor and my love, to do my duty as his daughter."

She waited in pained silence for his response. But when he spoke again, it was on a different matter entirely, and in a voice that strained to be neutral. "Phin and I have arranged for men to watch your house. You will be followed when you go out, but only for your protection. Is that acceptable to you?"

She had not thought of such necessities, but after this morning, she would be mad to refuse them. She pulled back in sudden anxiety. "My sisters—are they in danger, do you think?"

He smiled a little, and reached out to brush a strand of hair from her neck. "I'd have a care for myself, Lyd. If there's one thing everyone knows about you, it's that
you
are your father's man in England."

Hesitandy she smiled back. He meant no insult by the remark^ she understood that now, as once she would not have. And there was
her
leap of faith, she thought. It was not difficult at all.

She lowered her face to his chest. In less than ten minutes, she would be back at Wilton Crescent. After such a day, she should be grateful for the prospect of home. Her sisters had been scheduled to arrive on the afternoon train; the expectation of their company should gladden her. But she wanted only to stay like this, warm in the curve of his arm.

In the darkness created by their bodies touching, she could admit it to herself. She had fallen in love with him.

The truth brought her no comfort. This touch of his had become her most precious possession, but it did not belong to her. When they arrived at her house, they would part. And in public, at a ball or a dinner, if their glances met, she would have to look away, because they had promised nothing to each other that might give her the right to gaze at him boldly.

The carriage slowed. She glanced out the window. They were in Piccadilly yet. James sat up. "Stay here," he said. His tone jarred her. He sounded very distant, of a sudden.

He went out to investigate. She waited, alone, for what seemed like a very long time. But perhaps it was only minutes, for the church bells in the distance chimed only once, announcing the half-hour. And then the door opened again, and he was climbing inside.

This time, he sat on the bench opposite. "Overturned dray," he said.

As the vehicle rumbled forward once more, she opened her mouth, then closed it again. She did not know how to call him back to her side.