Bound by Your Touch (5 page)

James was mildly surprised to find him awake. For the last four hours, as James had leaped back and forth from Dalton's carriage (now moved out of range, along with Dalton and Tilney themselves, by the jostling crowd), Phin had been sitting here, stock-still, eyes shut, sunning himself like some rangy alley cat. Or perhaps Buddha was the better comparison, for his appetites seemed null: offers of ale, wine, pressed beef, and boiled eggs had been rejected in turn.

If Phin's aim was merely to be ornamental, he succeeded. Burnt dark by a foreign sun, whittled to lean muscle from his mountaineering, he cut a striking figure. When James had come back from the grand stand earlier, he'd found a gang of shop girls loitering about, ogling everything from Phin's
wide as the Channel
shoulders to the
exotic
length of his brown hair to his
coo, so manly
jaw. As for James, he had
divine
eyes and the face of a
god,
but his amusement had not suited them. Accordingly, they'd moved on, making a dead set at Dalton.

Now, Dalton was a trump, and would guard a friend's back even if his own broke in the process. But with his carrot-orange hair, invisible eyebrows, and weak chin, he was no one's notion of Romeo come to life. No one knew this better than Dalton himself, who'd invited the girls up top by asking them to "lie directly into my ear." When Tilney had mocked him for it, the ladies had retaliated, forcing Tilney, through subtle adjustments, to the edge of the roof. He now slugged drams and sulked. Prettier than a girl, he was not accustomed to being ignored.

"Poor Tilney," James said, as one of the girls threw her arms wide, knocking him sideways and causing him to make a desperate clutch for balance. "We should rescue him before his vanity collapses."

Phin grunted. "True. Wouldn't be much left of him without it." After a brief pause, he added, "Except his debts. I believe his pick came in last, just as it did yesterday and the week before."

Here was truth: Tilney had bad luck with horses. James had bailed him out more times, and to greater sums, than he could count. But another habit was also in play here— Phin's reflexive suspicion of blue bloods. The fact that he was one made no difference. And to be fair, back when they'd all been at Eton, it had made no difference to Tilney, either. There'd been no intimation, yet, that Phin would inherit an earldom. Most of his peers had dismissed him as a charity case—a suspiciously Irish one, at that.

Phin had fought back with contempt.
Eggheaded dolts spoiled into uselessness:
thus, at the tender age of ten, had he dismissed the majority of Britain's future leaders. Eyeing James, hed added,
Really, I have no idea how you turned out so interesting. I do hope you manage to keep it up.

James had tried. For years afterward, whenever he found himself in a situation where his position gave him advantages, he tested himself with Phin's rule:
Is this interesting?
—which soon came to mean,
Is this original?
It turned out, far too often, that the answer was
No.
Buying presents with one's allowance and using them to seduce village girls: unoriginal. Likewise for abusing the staff, badmouthing foreigners, bribing his tutors, and passing tedious judgments on people for behavior that did not concern him—much as Phin was doing now. "So he's a poor gambler," James said with a shrug. "Otherwise he's turned out half-decent. Come along tonight and you'll see."

"Can't," Phin said. "Duty calls, and the whatnot."

This was news. "You've been back for five months now. I thought you were well out of it."

"Almost." Phin seemed to be staring at the track, but James (who did have a talent for gambling, though regrettably no taste for it) would have wagered that he saw something eke entirely. "I'm to put a few lingering concerns to rest," Phin added. "Then I'm done."

The silence that ensued felt familiar. And rather boring. Before Phin had gone abroad, they had spoken honesdy with each other about anything they pleased. But over the years, these evasions and ambiguities had increasingly muddied their dialogues. Phin was not merely a "cartographer"; James had eventually gathered that much. But whatever he had done for the army remained opaque. This new remoteness to his manner was equally puzzling. What might cause a man who'd once been intent on mapping the world to now try only to look through it? "If I can help," James said, "you'll let me know."

Phin glanced over. "Thank you." It was a mark of how distant he'd become that James felt surprise at the sight of his gratitude, so transparently displayed. "And don't mistake me. It is good to be home. Although—" He drew a breath. "It does seem a bit . . . surreal, occasionally." He gave a dismissive shrug. "Wonder when that will wear off."

"Never, if you keep producing those bizarre concoctions. The last one nearly did me in."

Phin laughed. "Yes. Strong coffee might be a better idea. Ah—here comes Elizabeth." In one smooth move, he rose and leaped off the roof. Too quickly: he wanted to get away. Any conversation that bordered on personal matters sent him haring off like a rabbit from foxes. James's first response was to count it very convenient, which bothered him mildly.

He did not want to be bothered, not on such a sunny, reckless sort of day, and so he focused instead on the slight bobble marring Phin's landing. It was a considerable distance to the ground; most people would have discounted the misstep. But Phin had always been peculiarly graceful, equipped with a physical self-possession so complete that he could make a ballerina look clumsy. "Old war wound," Phin had said this morning, as he'd similarly stumbled on the step into the carriage. But the scent on his clothes had suggested otherwise. Among other things, it seemed he'd acquired a taste for opium. James had actually found himself holding his tongue. He had no objection to experimentation, of course, but as an overture to breakfast, it seemed dodgy.

On the ground, Phin's chivalry went unappreciated; Lizzie brushed past him, hopped a drowsing dog, neatly skirted three gamboling children, and scowled down two drunkards, all the while aiming the tip of her lavender parasol upward at James's head. A footman trailed closely behind, his powdered wig—only Lizzie would require her staff to go powdered at the Derby— wilting in the heat. "Ho, villain!" she called up. "You will abandon me in the grand stand so you can hoard the champagne?"

"Anything to avoid Nello," he said honestly.

"That swot?" She laughed. "To hell with him. You really must read your mail, Sanburne: I broke it off two days ago, and have been singing ever since." With a snap, she directed the footman to kneel on the grass. Then, one hand braced on the carriage, she stepped onto the man's knee, so her head popped over the edge of the roof. "Much better. Now tell me the real reason you're skulking over here.''

"Am I not allowed a bit of whimsy?"

"Absolutely not. Your job is to be amusing."

"And if I don't feel amused?"

"Then you're in a great deal of trouble," she said smartly, "for I certainly don't see you as a banker."

He tilted his head, curious now. "Are there no other options, then?"

She laughed. "Well, there's always politics, but I'm quite sure neither party would have you." She glanced off to one side, then swiveled suddenly—James had to reach out and grab her arm to prevent her from falling. "Stop right there," she called after Phin, who was beating a stealthy retreat toward Daltons coach. "You snuck away from James's fete last week before we had a chance to talk. You
will
come back here now and atone for it—preferably by showing more charm than a piece of wallpaper." As Phin shrugged and began to amble back toward them, she returned her stern frown to James. "Surely you aren't hiding from the gossip? Rumor has it you were nearly pecked to death by a bluestocking."

Phin drew up at her side. "I heard about this," he said. From inscrutable Sphinx to grinning Cheshire in under three minutes: he always liked to be amusing for Lizzie. She had grown up on the estate next to James's, and in their youth, when Phin had come home with him for the holidays, she and Stella had taught him to flirt. In the years since, he'd made sure they realized the excellence of their instruction. "Be gentle with him, dear. Rumor has it that she was skinny, sallow, and went directly for his eyes."

"Not at all skinny," James said equably. The footman was growing red beneath Lizzies weight. Choosing discretion over valor, he slid to the edge of the roof and dropped to the ground. "Not even sallow," he continued as he brushed off his trousers, then offered Lizzie a hand down from her servant's straining knee. "You see the use of gossiping with dowagers. In fact, Miss Boyce turned a very pretty pink as she dressed me down."

"Pretty?" Elizabeth set her parasol against her shoulder for a thoughtful twirl, her raised brow lending this movement a skeptical flavor. "This is Lady Southerton's sister, yes? She seems a very ..
.formidable
creature."

By this disdainfully intoned word, Lizzie, whose head barely topped his shoulder, meant
tall.
"Yes, I suppose she was formidable." Also somewhat magnificent, but this word seemed a curious choice, so he did not voice it. Miss Boyce's face would never stop a wandering eye. It was her manner, he supposed. To hell with courtesy; she'd swept down the hall like a Valkyrie, determined to smite the foolish mortal who interrupted her. He'd known a governess or two with that sort of presence, but he'd been seven at the time, and they'd had the advantage of a wooden paddle and sixty pounds. As an adult, he was better able to appreciate women who didn't shrink to the wall.

"And I hear Moreland was there," Lizzie prompted, as she batted away a fly.

He had not realized he was smiling until he felt the smile grow lopsided. "Alas."

"Interesting," said Phin. "Wonder if he put her up to it."

The idea startled him. "Any reason?"

Phin blinked, as if he'd surprised himself. "None, in fact." He glanced toward Lizzie, and his tone became teasing. "Bad habit of mine—seeing conspiracies in every coincidence. Have you a remedy for it, Mrs. Chudderley?"

Her lashes batted. "Don't turn to me, Ashmore. Why, I think my milliner is out to break my back."

As they nattered on, James found himself looking across the field, to the private boxes lining the grand stand lawn. Their windows glinted like blind
eyes
in the sun. Behind one of them sat his father, no doubt still smirking over the event at the Institute. It wasn't Moreland's style to arrange public spectacles, but he'd certainly been pleased to witness his son's comeuppance. What chance he'd had a hand in it?

Lizzie, laughing, poked him in the arm. "I know that look. You've started a witch hunt, Ashmore!"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Phin said. He did not sound as if he were joking.

Carnelly had a warehouse near St. Katharine Docks, a ratty, run-down sort of place that from the outside looked like a workhouse. James was never sure of the attraction that lured such a variety of characters to its entrance, but there was always some antic underway. Today, a vendor was selling chestnuts off a glowing-red brazier while a small boy jumped through hoops for pennies from passersby. A woman lurked by the entrance, swilling gin and flirting with a suitor—the paying kind, James suspected.

It was not the cheeriest of neighborhoods. But then, Carnelly was not the cheeriest of men. Inside, the cavernous gloom conspired with the smell of ancient artifacts (mildew, papyrus, brass polish: the smell, James thought, of upper-class theft) to create an atmosphere stifling to one's enthusiasm. James tugged discreedy at his necktie as he setded onto a bench by the door to wait. No telling where Carnelly might be. Experience had proved that it was useless to go looking; the aisles in this place were narrow, impossibly dark, and given to disappearing beneath sudden avalanches of crates. Besides, the forged stela made an excellent footrest.

He yawned as he waited. He was tired. There had been a break-in at his house last night—some silver candlesticks and a couple of vases had gone missing—and the staff was shaken. He'd spent a tedious morning interviewing them and calming their fears. What a dutiful lord and master he was. How nobly, how tall he stood beneath his great, great burdens. He made a face at the wall. Had Phin's potions been about, the wall probably would have made a face back at him. He found himself somewhat disappointed by its stolidity.

After a few minutes, a scuffling came from the darkness. A loud sniffing followed. Thanks to all the dust, the man had a perpetual cold. "Carnelly," James called. "For Gods sake, man. Wipe your nose."

"Eh?" Now came a thump, followed by the splintering of wood. Carnelly's head popped out from a stack of crates. "Guv! Right lovely to see you."

"Stuff it," James said. "I know you've seen the papers."

Carnelly stepped out. He was wearing a butchers apron and had a dirty rag in one hand. Built like an ogre, with shoulders and thighs twice the breadth of an average man's, he was nevertheless the last thing from formidable. It came down to his hair, James thought. One simply could not take seriously any man who had brick-red ringlets growing from his head. "Can't say as I was ever a reading man, sir."

James directed a speaking look to the archaeological journals stacked in the corner.

"Oh, those are just for show."

He came to his feet. "Your illiteracy, suspect as it is, fails to concern me. In fact, there's only one matter that does keep my interest. Can you guess it?" A moment of silence ensued. "That was not a rhetorical question, sir."