Poetic Justice (21 page)

She heard the irony dripping from those last words, but was too taken aback to laugh. She remembered Ada concocting the same scheme at the Devlyn ball, and responded with the same guilty ambivalence. "That's absurd. I wouldn't ever suggest such a plan."

"You're not suggesting it. I am."

His voice was easy, but he was striding ahead so that she couldn't see his face. "But he doesn't want me to marry anyone."

"He's wavering. And he'll capitulate entirely if you stop letting him make the rules for you. Just make it clear you'll marry with or without his consent, to a man of your own choosing. He'll give in. Especially if he thinks that man might be me."

"John—"

"We'll do it. I can come to take you for drives, and then Friday to Vauxhall."

She finally caught up with him and took his arm to stop him. But he ignored her importuning hand, tugging her along down the alley. "I wanted to go there anyway, for it sounds to be an entertaining night of it. They're putting on some mishmash of Shakespearian Italianate scenes, done in an operatic mode. Your aunt will doubtlessly wish to chaperone you."

Jessica gave up trying to slow him down, instead letting go of his arm so she could reach down and pull up the strap of her sandal. It came loose, and she had to balance her foot on her other knee to work at the buckle. "But what if it becomes inconvenient for you?"

He stopped and retraced his steps, taking her elbow so that she wouldn't tumble over as she fastened her sandal. "Inconvenient? Taking you to Vauxhall? My time's not so precious as that."

"No, I mean, if your friend learns of this. Won't she object?"

As they resumed their quick pace, he gave her a sharp glance, started to speak, then stopped. Then, impatiently, he replied, "We are friends. We are not chained together. Neither of us would ever think to—" He broke off, looked away, added, "You needn't worry about that. She will not object."

This cryptic response to an essential question annoyed her. "Why wouldn't she object? Would you cut off her allowance if she did?"

"Her allowance? What allowance?"

"Don't men pay their mistresses an allowance?" She decided she liked it when he flushed like that under the ghostly light of a streetlamp. It made him seem less austere, more properly chastened. So she didn't relent, remembering what the poison-pen authors had said about her other suitors. "Don't they set them up in houses in Richmond and cottages by the shore? Buy them jewelry?"

"She has her own house. And a shore cottage too. Look, it's not that sort of connection."

"Oh?" She might have preferred this to be true, but his inability to look at her told her otherwise.

"I mean that—" he paused for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice once more had its cool assurance, "that some relationships shouldn't be commercial. I would help her if she needed it, but as long as she has paints and canvasses, she's content."

"She's an artist?" Jessica knew a blinding jealousy of this woman who needed only art and John Dryden to be content, and was fortunate enough to have both. "How lucky that you have a common interest."

"I told you, we are friends."

"And something more."

"It is none of your concern. I assure you, did she think I was of a mind to dispense with my freedom, she would be happy for me. Friends," he said with stern emphasis, "want the best for each other."

"And you think dispensing with your freedom would be best for you?"

"She does. I don't.

"How can you be certain she doesn't hope you will marry her?"

"Because she's a nun."

Jessica stopped short in the middle of the alley. "A nun?" It came out a strangled squeak.

His grin now had just a slight malicious tilt. "Caught you there, didn't I, my curious one? You deserved that, for interrogating me this way."

"She's not a nun."

"No."

"But she doesn't want to marry you."

"She is widowed. She has no wish to marry again."

Why should she, Jessica thought cynically, when she gets to have a lover who cherishes his freedom too much to interfere with hers? It sounded...decadent. More decadent—more seductive—than those commercial transactions John scorned. And, an inner voice whispered, more fragile.

"You must send her a note warning her of this."

"I must? Why?"

Jessica fancied that her expression looked properly prim, but to make sure she pursed her lips. "Because I can't go through with this courting scheme of yours if I think a lady might be hurt by it. We have to look out for each other, you know, we women."

The prospect of Jessica and this other woman in alliance obviously did not enthrall John. In fact, he looked appalled. "I think neither of you need any looking out for at all. She's not even in town."

"That makes no difference. Gossip travels on bird wings. You will write the note tonight then?"

John halted suddenly, and she thought she might have pushed him too far. Then she smelled the stench of decay over the usual garbage smells. She squinted to see what lay beyond on the floor of the dark alley, but after a moment decided she'd rather not know. "Wait here," he whispered, and went back the way they came.

So she stood there, shivering slightly, wrinkling her nose against the smell of death, watching his lean form move in and out of the shadows of the houses they had passed. Stopping under a tree that hung over the wall, he used the flashing silver dagger to cut off a sturdy forked branch. Then he came back and gently shoved her back. "It's just a dead dog. But it might be diseased. And there's not enough room here to get around it."

She steeled herself to watch, but could only see him pushing something into a rubbish pile with the fork of the branch. "You can come now."

Eyes forward, Jessica stepped gingerly through the path he had made. Once out of that alley into a well-kept lane, she took a deep breath of the cleaner air. "Thank you. But you didn't answer my question. You will write that letter tonight, to your—to your friend?"

John made an exasperated gesture with his hand, a hacking motion, as if he still had his dagger out. "You are the most tenacious woman when you have your mind set. This letter—should I bring it to you as proof first? Have you post it yourself?"

She considered this, for if she posted it herself she could discover this artist's identity. But a glance at his shadowed face persuaded her otherwise. "No need for that. I know I can trust your word."

"Thank you," he replied with heavy irony. "Then you will agree to my plan to persuade your uncle."

She murmured something affirmative, telling herself that she was surrendering because he was so determined, because his scheme was so clever. But unbidden came anticipation. For this to work, he must play the devoted suitor—and stay far away from his artist friend.

Fool, she scolded herself. He has just proved how resistant he is to attachment. Just as well, attachment wasn't her aim. She just wanted him near for a little while longer, to give herself a life's worth of danger in these few weeks. And then, well, she would have to be content with the memories.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

My father compounded with my mother

under the dragon's tail,

and my nativity was under Ursa Major,

So it follows that I am rough and lecherous.

'Sfoot! I should have been what I am

had the maidenliest starin the firmament

twinkled on my bastardizing.

King Lear, I, ii

John was striding ahead, and she had to run to keep up. But before she could get out of breath, he stopped in a particularly well-kept mews lane and pulled out his keys. He unlocked a wooden gate and held up his hand for her to wait while he checked the dark garden. "You can come in now."

They walked down a path, flagstone, to judge by the chill under her thin sandals. It was lined by a profligate array of rose bushes. The night garden was sweet, heady, intoxicating, banishing the scent of death that had lingered on the edges of her memory. The path opened up to a terrace, and beyond were the blank windows of a set of French doors.

John led her past those, though, to an undistinguished wooden door by the kitchen garden. "Where are we?" she asked as he used another key to open it.

"Devlyn House."

Oh. She didn't comment, however, except to whisper as they entered, "Are you certain no one's here?"

It was too dark in this back hall to see his smile, but she heard it in his voice. "I told you, the whole staff is in the country. I spent last night here, and heard only the resident ghost."

She didn't believe in ghosts, but she liked ghost stories. "And who is he?"

"She. A maidservant whining about having to get up before anyone else."

"Rather a disappointing ghost."

"Disappointed too. Imagine having nothing better to complain about in the hereafter, no murder, no abandonment, just tedium and travail." John struck a flint and lit the wall sconce, illuminating a backstairs hall opening into the kitchen. There he was much at home, getting a couple of mugs from the cupboard and filling them with water from the pump. "And she didn't even light the fire for me this morning, so I had to go out for my coffee. Here." He handed her the mug. "There's brandy in the study, but this'll do to quench your thirst."

She drank gratefully, then took his empty mug and rinsed them both out at the pump and replaced them. Lord Devlyn must not mind John's being here—unless John had stolen the keys, and she thought probably he had not—but there was no reason to leave evidence of their visit. "The index," she reminded him, as he seemed content for the moment to stay here in the vast kitchen and watch her, no matter how that unnerved her.

"The index. It's back in the study."

It was almost like one of the Gothics she and Ada used to invent at school. John took her through the dark halls, the light of his candle falling on the oddities of an empty house—a single boot left behind on the backstairs, Holland covers over a suit of armor, a child's little doll sitting forlornly on a chair in the foyer. John stopped to pick the toy up, and at her quizzical look flushed and shoved it into his coat pocket. "Anastasia will be missing it," he explained. "I'll send it to her."

He opened the door to the study and then blew out his candle before letting her in. The only light came from the streetlamp just outside the windows, but that too was extinguished when John pulled the drapes shut.

They had been in darkness most of the evening, but somehow the quality was different now—more velvet, more seductive. She heard him coming closer and closed her eyes, waiting for him to touch her. But no. He had been the perfect gentleman all evening, taking her hand only to guide her, never once speaking to her in that low, thrilling tone that seemed to invite her desire. She opened her eyes as he lit the candle again. What use was the pretense of an illicit, impossible romance, if he decided so soon it could only be a pretense?

But in consolation, he beckoned her close, around the leather couch, behind the desk. There was a portrait of a tiara'd young lady—Princess Tatiana, she recognized—but John gave this no undue attention. He was more concerned, it seemed, with the frame, for he put his hands on either side as if testing the type and texture of the wood. Then he lifted it up and away from the wall, setting it gently on the floor. On the wall where the picture had been was a black metal door.

He looked back over his shoulder at Jessica. "Devlyn's not one to buck tradition, you'll note. If there's a safe, there must needs be a portrait over it."

"He gave you a key to it?"

John unlocked the little door, turned the latch, and pulled it open. "Don't tell Monsignor Alavieri and my other rivals. This is where I keep acquisitions until I can move them to the vault at the Bank of England."

He rummaged around inside the dark safe, finally pulling out the sealed packet they found in the More cover. Then he closed the door but didn't replace the picture. "Here." He handed it to her, and she held it for a moment, staring at her mother's handwritten challenge, her father's reply, before sitting distractedly on the couch.

Setting the candle on the low table, John joined her there. When she only held the paper, he said dryly, "Jessica, I am trying to emulate your father's self-control, but it's not unlimited. If you don't open that in the next ten seconds, I will."

She nodded and handed it to him. He shook his head at her and broke the seal, giving it back to her to open. The writing was so hurried and blotted that she could hardly recognize it as her mother's. "La bibliotheque du Pierre St. Germaine, antiquaire."

Her voice gave out then, and John took her hand, pressing it gently. "I'll read it."

She was glad she didn't need to explain. It was just so complicated, anyway, that her mother had made this list of the St. Germaine treasures, perhaps even while the
sans culottes
were storming the chateau walls. And then, after taking such great pains to save the trunk, she had withheld this from her husband, and he had acquiesced. Out of love. Jessica supposed this was romantic—but then, she had never been much of a romantic.

Her thoughts were interrupted by John catching his breath. "You've found it?"

Wordlessly he held out the page, pointing at a single line. "Anthony Munday," she read. "
Sieur T More
. How do you know?"

John took a deep breath before he spoke. "Munday was a playwright who collaborated with Shakespeare. He was in the Lord Admiral's Players."

Foolishly, perhaps, she had hoped to see "Wm. Shakespeare" there. But she told herself it made no difference whose name was on the play, as long as Shakespeare's hand was inside. "You said it was about a riot."

"That fits." He was beginning to believe it, she realized. His voice was more certain, his breathing less ragged. "Thomas More was a sheriff at some point. He put down a Mayday riot, I think."

"It's true, then."

"Yes."

"And it's in the library. With Mr. Wiley."