Lady in Red (6 page)

Yvonne let go of Mary’s hands, then hurried toward the door. “Do not sit. I will find a corset and frock small enough to fit you. Once you are under the care of the duke, you shall be able to visit the stay-and dressmakers to purchase whatever you shall need.”

Mary kept herself still, pressing her toes into the thick woven rug. It was a difficult task, willing herself to stay in the present moment and not let herself drift into memory . . . or even flashes of the evening to come. The air felt palpable to her skin as she stood with pokerlike immobility. If she did not hold tight to what little strength she had, she’d fall straight through the floor.

“Mary?” Yvonne tested, as though Mary had fallen asleep standing up. “Walk about the room. Whatever you do, don’t sit and don’t lie down. I shall return in a moment.”

“I promise.” Mary stared at the opposite wall and refused to blink.

“Good.” Yvonne’s delicate footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving Mary to herself.

She stood by the bed. Every bit of her being commanded she fall back onto the snowy surface and let herself glide away again. But she’d promised. With some concern about her ability to stay upright, she took a step forward. Thankfully, her bare foot slid easily along the smooth fibers of the rug.

As she took another step, the room swam. Mary stretched out her arms to improve her balance, which led her to another step, this one easier, more confident.

The sun had set. Most likely hours earlier, while she had been in a state of laudanum-induced slumber. Curious as to the place Yvonne had put her, she glanced about. Several candles bathed the room in an amber glow matched by a jauntily crackling fire. But beyond the ebullient hearth, there was no warmth. Not a single sign of occupation marked the room. No pictures or garments. No forgotten bit of embroidery.

Yet the chamber had been readied for use. Near the three tall windows was a carved black lacquered table, edged in gold. It bore a silver tray, graced with a crystal decanter of bloodred wine and two empty goblets.

Without any thought, she wandered toward it. She couldn’t let herself think. For if she did, she’d think of lying under Edward Barrons, Duke of Fairleigh. Perhaps, once, she might have relished such a thought. A young girl, chosen by a beautiful man. But those days had long since died. No matter how beautiful or strong he was, she felt only fear at the idea of his body over hers.

It was something she would have to do, but she didn’t have to contemplate it. Survival. That’s all she would focus on. She had survived so much already. And she would survive this.

Her fingers grasped the ball-shaped stopper and pulled it free. Carefully, she hefted the decanter in her right hand and tilted it until the liquid poured freely into one of the goblets. She poured and poured until it sloshed near the rim.

Greedily, with both hands, she lifted the glass and drank. The heady wine, spicy and rich, slid over her tongue. It dashed straight to her belly, filling it with a pleasantly heavy sensation. She drank and drank, not pausing until she’d consumed half the glass.

Trembling, she lowered it and gazed down at the red liquid coating the crystal in minuscule rivulets. If she could just drink enough, perhaps she would feel nothing. She would not have to experience the degradation of selling herself for freedom from her father and the place he had condemned her to.

The door clicked open. Madame Yvonne entered swiftly with a lady’s maid scurrying behind her.

Mary quickly lowered the glass to the tray. It clunked harshly against the silver.

Her mother’s friend stopped, her sapphire blue skirts swishing back and forth just like a ringing bell. She eyed the half-empty glass and Mary’s rigid stance. She let out a sigh, then nodded to the serving girl standing beside. “Pour me a glass as well.”

The tumbling of the wine into the glass only seemed to intensify the tension in the air. Diverting her gaze, Mary took a more modest swallow of her wine.

She stared at Yvonne for a long moment, then wrapped her arms around the woman. Forgetting her glass of wine, forgetting her dislike of touch. At this moment, she longed for the comfort of her childhood. A childhood lost.

How she wished she could sink into Yvonne’s loving embrace. “Thank you,” Mary said. “Thank you for your help. I don’t know what I would have done.”

Yvonne held her carefully. “You will always have my help. I hope it will be enough.”

Mary nodded, then pulled away. She longed to drink her wine to the dregs and pour herself another glass, but she wouldn’t. Not now. Not before Yvonne. She’d wait. Until she was alone. When no one could see what she had truly become.

B
one weary, muscles protesting as if he’d run from here to Dover, and brain as twisted as a wet cloth wrung by an overly vigorous washerwoman, Edward climbed down from his black lacquered coach into the dense evening fog. He contemplated offering up thanks that he had survived attending to his mother and the subsequent trip back to London. But his belief in a benevolent god was negligent, so he abstained.

Visiting his mother always drained him of any real will to do anything but sleep.

He mounted the waterfall-like crescendo of granite steps to the towering family home overlooking Green Park. He often felt he should have burned the place down until it were naught but Pompeian rubble. Only bad memories dwelled in this place. Bad memories . . . and himself.

The tall, elaborately carved double mahogany doors opened smoothly before him and a beacon of golden gaslight illuminated the steps. His boots and pressed trousers were immediately bathed in its infuriatingly cheery glow.

Grieves stood at attention, his black suit, stiff white collar, and starched cravat more perfect than those of even Her Majesty’s own majordomo.

Edward entered and passed his heavy black cashmere coat and beaver hat to his waiting butler. He needed a hot bath. The scent of his mother’s opium was on him and it left a vaguely sick sensation at the back of his throat.

He strode to the wide, curved staircase at the end of the Italianate foyer, more than ready for a strong drink and his nightly bath.

“Your Grace?”

Edward halted and waited for Grieves to unburden himself of whatever could be so important as to disturb his usually undisturbed progress.

“There is a young woman upstairs.” Grieves hesitated. “I believe she is expected?”

Edward blinked, the words processing through his fatigued brain. She was here. Calypso. Mary, according to Yvonne. Whatever she was called . . . she was
here
. As if the fates had heard his plea the other night, Yvonne had come to him with a proposal, and Calypso was now his.

Edward stormed the stairs, not acknowledging Grieves. As he took the steps two at a time, he couldn’t decide upon a scowl or a grin. A scowl felt more appropriate, given the afternoon’s frustrations, but the feelings flooding through him bested such dismal emotions.

In the general displeasure that surrounded his visits to his mother, it had escaped him that Calypso was to arrive this evening. He’d thought about it all morning, deciding his home, while not the usual place for a mistress, was the best place to ply her with food, wine, and perhaps some conversation if she proved willing.

He’d looked forward to being in the presence of her broken soul, the broken soul he was going to repair. Now that she was here, he wasted no time getting to Calypso.

His boots ate up the long, dim hall. The room he’d arranged for her was next to his, connected by a door and a small sitting room. The room, in fact, had been meant for his duchess, a duchess that would never materialize. It was perfect for keeping Calypso close, especially if she was in danger as Yvonne had suggested.

For the first time he could recall since childhood, Edward paused before a woman’s door. Excitement and doubt, a torrid mixture of emotion in his usually stoic being, was marvelous and unfamiliar.

He opened the door and quietly stepped in.

Deep, frighteningly large traces of opium drifted toward him, blooming forth just like the lush smell of an exotic flower on the night wind. Only . . . only this scent meant death. Panic grabbed his guts as he desperately glanced around.

Where was she?

Gas lamps lit the large room, but she was nowhere in sight. The Chippendale chairs were empty and the cold pheasant on the brocade-draped table by the fire hadn’t been touched. The carafe of wine, on the other hand, had been dipped into, a good measure of it missing. The crystal stopper lay abandoned on the emerald carpet.

Christ. Wine and opium. Did the woman wish to destroy herself? He swallowed back the nasty thought . . . As
my mother tried to do.

Dread drove his every step toward the bedchamber. What had she done?

“Calypso?” he ventured.

There was no answer and he forced himself to take another step into the adjoining room. His eyes trailed to the four-poster bed draped in champagne silk and azure curtains. A large swath of purple silk draped over the rich coverlet.

There on the bed lay his warrior.

“Mary!” Childhood fear churned his innards as memory stormed upon him full force. He could see his mother stretched out facedown before the banked fire. The same alluring scent of opium. Only mixed with blood . . . So much blood his boots had squelched in it.

Edward swallowed back the unbidden specter before he darted to the bed. His Calypso was in serene repose on the velvet counterpane. Maddeningly beautiful, even with her eyes closed, her black lashes dusted blue-tinged cheeks.

A gown of purple silk wrapped about her slender frame. It billowed out about her lower body, creating the illusion she was merely sleeping. But he knew that sleep.

He’d been here before. He’d been in this moment. The moment of knowing that hell was very real.

Her pale arm dangled over the side of the bed, the diamond bracelet he’d given to Yvonne to bestow on Calypso shimmering in the candlelight. Her delicate hand was stretched open as if holding something.

As he moved through what seemed to be mud thick enough to imprison his legs and arms, he took in every detail with rapid glances. A small clay vial lay on the floor. Shards of a crystal goblet, tainted with the faint red hue of his favorite Bordeaux, were scattered on the carpet near the bed. The jagged pieces sparkled like errant tears.

Dread gripped him to the point of strangulation. He shouldn’t feel so powerfully for a woman he didn’t know, but he did. His own life was in the balance. And somehow she’d put him there. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if she’d chosen to end her life.

Finally, he pulled himself free of the paralyzing emotions and darted forward, grabbing her with both hands.

Faint, rough breaths lifted her chest. He nearly cried with relief. Then he realized she was just clinging to life, each rise and fall of her breast a tortured wheeze.

She was not safe.

“Mary?” he demanded, his voice harsh with horror and white-hot anger. “Mary?!”

She remained limp, her body a rag doll under his jerking hands. Her head, with its short black hair, lolled about her shoulders. Her eyelids were violet with the bruised look of the dead.

Edward released her. Wheeling around, he dashed from the room. His legs pumped so fast it was a miracle he didn’t skid along the silk carpet runner. The tapestried walls blurred around him as he raced back down the hall to the stairwell. At the top of the landing, he ground to a halt.

There was no time. No damned time.

“Grieves!” he shouted. Leaning over the balustrade, he scanned the mosaic floor below, willing the butler to come. “Grieves!”

Footsteps clattered on the tile and then the butler’s white hair came into view. The old man craned his head back. “Your Grace?”

“Send for the doctor! And bring up water and soda.”

Grieves’s myopic blue eyes widened so abruptly with shock it was a miracle the orbs stayed in his head.

“Now, damn it!” Edward boomed, his own voice ripping at his throat.

Though Grieves’s face twisted with fear, he didn’t reply. With surprising agility, he bolted through the narrow paneled doorway leading to the servants’ hall.

Edward sprinted back to Mary’s room. He didn’t stop running until his feet scrambled to a halt before the wide foot of the bed. His chest thudded with each racing beat of his heart. Once again, his gaze darted over her body. She was still breathing. But each breath was a struggle.

Without thinking, Edward reached forward and grabbed her purple silk bodice with both hands. In one quick motion, he ripped. The shimmering fabric tore raggedly, threads of soft silk flying like miniature streamers into the air.

He yanked the fabric free of her body, then stared down at the tightly laced corset. Ivory silk edged in Venetian lace peered back at him with the clear intent to tempt a man with wicked innocence. Right now, it was only crushing his Calypso’s ability to breathe.

Mercilessly, he flipped her onto her stomach. The long swaths of her skirts tangled and her wooden hoops banged and cracked like old bones.

A groan slipped from her lips.

“That’s right,” he growled as he yanked at the ties. “Wake up.”

He pulled the ribbons through the metal grommets. Years of removing corsets from countless women had prepared him for this moment. His fingers flew, but it took him far too long before he could pull the slick fabric free from its last loop and peel the corset from her chemise-covered flesh.

Without hesitating, he jerked at the tapes of her skirt and hoops, working them free of her lower body. He moved carefully now, to prevent cutting her legs with a broken crinoline.

Just as he slid the massive swath of skirts free, Grieves’s solid footsteps thudded into the room. Edward didn’t look away from his task as he threw the ruined garments to the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edward spied Grieves rush up beside him. He presented a frothing glass upon a silver tray.

“Here,” Edward snapped, still half kneeling on the bed.

Grieves thrust the tray forward, his wrinkled forehead as creased as a sandy beach after the tide. “What’s happened, Your Grace?”