Swordpoint (3 page)

Alec sneered at the little woman. 'I'd trip over you. We'd keep stepping on you in the dark.'

'Go away,' said Richard. 'I'm not a pimp.'

She stamped her small foot. 'You bastard! Riverside or no, I'll have the Watch on you!'

'You'd never go near the Watch,' said Richard, bored. ‘They'd have you in the Chop before you could open your mouth.' He turned back to his friend. 'God, I'm thirsty. Let's go.'

They got as far as the doorway this time before Richard was stopped by another woman. She was a brilliant redhead of alarming prettiness, her paint expertly applied. Her cloak was of burgundy velvet, artfully draped to hide the worn spot.

She placed her fingertips on Richard's arm, standing closer to him than he generally allowed. 'That was superb,' she said with throaty intimacy. 'I was so glad I caught the ending.'

'Thank you', he replied courteously. 'I appreciate it.'

'Very good,' she pronounced. 'You gave him a fair chance, didn't keep him on the hook too long.'

'I've learned some good tricks by letting them show me what they can do first.'

She smiled warmly at him. 'You're no fool. You've got better every year. There's no stopping you from getting what you want. I could -'

'Excuse me,' Alec interrupted from the depths of boundless ennui, 'but who is this?'

The woman turned and swept him with her long lashes. 'I'm Ginnie Vandall,' she said huskily. 'And you?'

'My name is Alec' He stared down at the tassels on her hem. 'Who pimps for you?'

The carmined lips pressed into a thin line, and the moment for a biting retort came and went. Knowing it was gone, she turned again to Richard, saying solicitously, 'My dear, you must be famished.'

He shrugged polite disavowal. 'Ginnie,' he asked her, 'is Hugo working now?'

She made a practised moue and looked into his eyes. 'Hugo is always working. He's gone so much I begin to wonder why I stay with him. They adore him on the Hill - too much, I sometimes think.'

'Nobody adores Richard,' Alec drawled. 'They're always trying to get him killed.'

'Hugo's a swordsman,' Richard told him. 'He's very good.

Ginnie, when you see him tell him he was perfectly right about Lynch's right cut. It was very helpful last night.'

'I wish I could have seen it.'

'So do I. Most of them didn't know what was happening till it was over. Alec, don't you want to eat? Let's go.' Briskly he steered a way back onto the street, through the blood-flecked snow.

Sam Bonner rolled boozily up and past them, forgetting his objective at the sight of the velvet-clad woman standing abandoned in the doorway.

'Ginnie, lass! How's the prettiest ass in Riverside?' 'Cold,' Ginnie Vandall snapped, 'you stupid sot.'

Chapter IV

Lord Michael Godwin had never imagined that he would actually be escaping down a drainpipe, but here it was, the stuff of cheap comedy, clutched in his freezing hands. In fact, all of him was freezing: clever, quick-thinking Olivia, with not a moment to spare had flung all evidence of his presence - which was to say, his clothes - out of the window, and instructed him to follow. He was wearing only his long white shirt, and, ridiculously, his velvet hat, jewelled and feathered, which he had somehow contrived to snatch off the bedpost at the first knock on the chamber door.

He made a point of not looking down. Above him, the stars shone frosty and remote in the clear sky. They wouldn't dare to twinkle at him, not in the position he was in. His hands were freezing on the lead pipe of the Rossillion townhouse. He'd remembered it as being covered with ivy; but the latest fashion called for severity and purity of line, so the ivy had been stripped last autumn.

Just above his hands Olivia's window glowed temptingly golden. Michael sent out a desolate haze of frosty breath, and began letting himself down.

He ought to be grateful for the escape, he knew that, grumbling as he collected his clothes from the frozen ground, resisting the desire to hop from foot to foot.

He shoved his feet into his boots, crumpling the doe-soft leather, even as he still hunted for his stockings. His shaking hands made it unusually hard to fasten the various catches and laces of a nobleman's evening dress - I should always remember to bring a body-servant along on these expeditions, he thought whimsically; have him waiting right below the appropriate window with a flask of hot wine and gloves!

Olivia's window was still alight, so Bertram was still here, and doubtless would remain for hours yet.

Blessed Olivia! Lord Michael finally managed to squeeze out the benison between chattering teeth. Bertram might have tried to kill him if he'd found him there.

Bertram was the jealous type, and Michael had been leading him a dance all evening. He had a moment of panic when he discovered that one of his monogrammed embroidered gloves was missing; he imagined the scene the next day, when Bertram found it perched jauntily among the ailanthus branches under the window: Hello, my angel, what's this doing here? Oh, heavens, I must have dropped it when I was checking the wind

Direction.

Then he discovered it, stuffed up one of his voluminous sleeves, lord knew how it had got there.

As dressed as he was going to be, Michael prepared to disappear. Despite all the wool and brocade he was still shivering; he'd managed to work up quite a sweat upstairs, and the sudden plunge into a winter night had turned it to ice on his skin. He damned Bertram roundly, hoping his turn in hell would be one long slide down a perpetual glacier.

A sudden shadow fell over Michael as Olivia's curtains were drawn. Now only one slim arrow of light fell across the powdery lawn, where one curtain stood away from the window. Perhaps Bertram had gone - or, perhaps he was still there. Michael smiled ruefully at his own folly, but there it was: one way or the other, he had to go back up the pipe and find out what was happening in Olivia's room.

It was much easier climbing with gloves on, and the soles of his soft boots adhered nicely to the pipe. He was even quite warm by the time he reached the tiny balcony outside the window.

He rested there, grinning with exertion, trying to breathe quietly. He heard a hum of voices inside, so Bertram hadn't left yet. Michael edged closer to the window, tilted his velvet cap to one side, and one of the voices became distinct:

' - so I asked myself, why do we dream at all? Or isn't there some way of controlling it? Maybe if we got someone else to repeat the same thing over and over, as we were falling asleep___'

The voice, low and passionate with just the hint of a whine, was Bertram's. A lighter voice made answer, but Michael couldn't catch Olivia's words; she must be facing away from the window.

Bertram said, 'Don't be ridiculous! Food has nothing to do with it, that's only a scare put about by physicians.

Anyway, I

know you had a light supper. Did you pass a pleasant evening?' Olivia's reply ended on a rising intonation. 'No,' said Bertram rather savagely.

'No, he wasn't there. Frankly, I'm disgusted; I wasted hours in a cavernous room that felt like an ice cave and smelt like a barn, because I thought he would be. He told me he would be.'

Olivia made soothing noises.

Michael's chapped lips quirked helplessly into a smile. Poor Bertram! He pressed his dripping nose with the back of his hand. He was probably going to catch a cold from all this, which would not only serve him right, but also provide a convenient excuse for his absence from his usual haunts that night.

Prophetically, Bertram was saying, 'Of course hell have some excuse, he always does. Sometimes I wonder whether he isn't off with someone else.' More soothing noises. 'Well, you know his reputation. I don't know why I bother, sometimes....'

Suddenly, Olivia's voice came strikingly clear. 'You bother because he's beautiful, and because he appreciates you as none of the others have.'

'He's clever,' Bertram said gruffly. 'I'm not sure it's the same thing. And you, my dear,' he said gallantly; both of them near the window now, two long dark silhouettes staining the curtains, 'are both beautiful and clever.'

'Appreciative,' Olivia amended. And then, more softly, so that Michael had to guess at all the words, 'and not quite beautiful enough.'

Bertram's voice grew at once less distinct and louder; he must have turned away, but was practically shouting, 'I won't have you blaming yourself for that! We've been over this before, Olivia; it's not your fault and I don't want to hear you talking like that!'

It had all the marks of an old argument. 'Don't tell me that, tell your father!' Her well-bred voice retained its rounded tones, but the pitch was shriller, the tempo faster, carrying through the glass with no difficulty.

'He's been waiting six years for an heir! He'd have made you divorce me by now if it wasn't for the dowry!'

'Olivia-'

'Lucy has five children! Five!! Davenant can keep his bedroom full of boys, nobody cares, because he does his duty by her... but you - '

'Olivia, stop it!'

'You - where is your heir going to come from? Michael Godwin? Well it's going to have to come from Michael Godwin because we know it isn't going to come from anywhere else!'

Oh, god, thought Michael, hands pressed to his mouth; And there he is out on the balcony___He looked longingly at the ground, not at all sure now that he could manipulate the drainpipe again. He was stiff and chilled from crouching there in one position.

But he had to get out of there. He didn't want to hear any more of this.

For the third time that night he hooked his legs around the drainpipe of the Rossillion townhouse, and began to work his way down it. The pipe seemed slipperier this time, perhaps smoothed from his earlier passings. He felt himself losing his grip, imagined falling the ten feet into the shrubbery._

His upper lip prickled with sweat as he eased his grip to hunt for surer anchor - and one booted foot swung wildly out, and collided with a window shutter in a desperate rattle and a conclusive thump, shattering the stillness of the winter night.

He thought of shouting,

It's only a rabbit!' His feet hit the ground achingly flat, and he staggered to his knees in the low bushes. A dog was barking frantically inside the house. He wondered if he could make it to the front gate in time to pretend that he had just been passing by and heard the noise... but the front gate would already be locked at this hour, bis feet remembered, making with all speed for the orchard wall, which Bertram had mentioned needed repairing.

The dog's bark rang crystalline in the cold air.

Past the skeletons of pear trees Michael saw a dip in the wall, surmounted by crumbling mortar. It wasn't that high, just about at eye level. He flung himself at it, arms first to pull his body over - and the mortar gave way, crumbling beneath him as he slipped neatly over it like a salmon over a dam.

The wall was considerably higher on the other side; he had just , enough time to wonder when he was going to stop failing before he hit the ground, and rolled the rest of the way down the embankment to the street, where he was nearly run over by a carriage.

The carriage stopped, its horses registering protest. From within a furious voice, male, shouted out fierce expletives and demands to know what was going on.

Michael rose to his feet, fishing for a coin to fling at the driver so they could both be on their ways. But the occupant of the carriage, too impatient to wait for an answer, chose that moment to step out and investigate.

Michael bowed low, out of politeness and a hopeless desire to hide his face. It was his mother's old friend, Lord Horn, who had kept New Year's with them in the country almost ten years ago, when he was only IS. Heedless of his driver's sputters of explanation, Horn snapped, 'Who's that?'

Over the increasing noise of the barking dog and the men's voices on the other side of the wall, Michael said as clearly as he could,

'I'm Michael Godwin. I was walking home, and I fell in the street.' He swayed slightly. 'Might I - '

'Get in,' Horn ordered. On shaking legs he hastened to obey. 'I'll take you to my house,' said Horn, slamming shut the door, 'it's closer. John - drive on!'

The inside of Lord Horn's carriage was dark and close. For a while their breaths still steamed white. Michael watched his own with weird detachment as it emerged in rapid little puffs from his mouth, like a child's drawing of smoke coming out of a chimney.

As the chill left him, for some reason he started to shake.

'Not the night to pick for walking home,' Horn said. He handed Michael a little flask of brandy from a pocket in the wall. The exercise of opening and drinking from it steadied him a little.

The carriage jogged regularly over the cobbled streets; it had good springs, and the horses were good. Michael's eyes grew accustomed to the dark, but still all he could see of the man sitting next to him was a pale profile against the window. He remembered Horn when he'd visited Amberleigh, a handsome blonde with lazy blue eyes and pale hands. And there was his adolescent's envy of a green coat of crushed velvet with gold braid.....

'I hope your mother is well,' said Lord Horn. 'I was sorry to miss her on her visit to the city.'

'Very well,' said Michael. 'Thank you.' He had stopped shaking. The carriage turned into a drive, and pulled up before a shallow flight of steps. Horn helped him out of the carriage and

into the house. He had no chance to glimpse the notorious winter gardens in the back.

A fire was already lit in the library. Michael sat in a heavy upholstered chair, while his host rang for hot drink. The firelight brightened Michael's russet hair to polished copper. His eyes were large, his skin still pale with shock. Lord Horn sat down and pulled a low table up between them. He sat with his back to the fire.

Horn's features were in shadow, but Michael could discern a high-bridged nose, wide-set eyes under a broad brow. Hair fair and light as swansdown made an aureole about Horn's head.

An ornate clock over the mantel ticked the seconds loudly, as though proud of its place. If you did not immediately notice it for its gilded curves and figurines, you could not miss the noise it made. Michael wondered if it would be appropriate to comment on it.

'You've taken your family's seat in Council, haven't you?' Lord Horn asked.

'Yes.' To avert the next question Michael explained, 'I'm not often there. It's tiresome. I only go when there's some question directly bearing on Amberleigh.'

To his relief, the older man smiled. 'I always felt the same. Bore. All those gentlemen, and not one pack of cards amongst 'em.' Michael grinned. 'You have other things to do with your time, I think.'

The young man stiffened at the insinuation. 'Someone's been telling you tales.'

'Not at all.' Horn spread one jewelled hand on the table between them. 'I have eyes.'

Michael wondered if he should let Horn believe that he'd been reeling-drunk in the street. He'd be a laughingstock if it got round: that sort of behaviour was for green boys. 'I hope', he said with a convincing and heartfelt sniff, 'that I am not getting ill.'

'So do I,' Horn said smoothly; 'but pallor becomes you. I see you have your mother's fine complexion.'

With a jolt, Michael realised what Horn had been trying to do for some time now. Now that he knew it, he became aware of the eyes fixed hotly on him from the shadows. They burned a flush of colour into his own face.

'I understand', said Horn, 'how you might be very busy indeed. But one always finds time for the right things, don't you find?' Mutely, Michael nodded, aware that the betraying firelight was strong on his features. Fortunately Horn slid his hands to the arms of his chair and rose to stand before the fire, his back to Michael. Now, for the first time since his drop from the drainpipe, he let himself think of Olivia.

He'd always felt sorry for Bertram's wife. She was a beautiful woman. Bertram was fool to ignore her as he did. Michael liked Bertram, with his strange ideas and fierce possessiveness. But he didn't think he'd like to be married to him.

When Olivia had approached him with her awkward, naive flirtation, Michael had been flattered, for her reputation was chaste. He'd believed then that she had read his sympathy and attraction to her, and was responding in kind. He'd believed, as he was touching her with his expert hands, kissing her white throat and being so careful not to put her in danger, while she made caution almost impossible with her moans and digging fingers, he'd believed that she wanted him.

She hadn't wanted him. His sympathy and desire, all his tenderness, expertise and charm, were nothing to her, only made her job easier. She hadn't wanted him, she had used him for his sex to get back at her husband and to father an heir.

Horn wanted him: for his youth, his beauty, his ability to please and be pleased.