The Bride Wore Pearls (47 page)

“Yes, of course,” said Anisha. “How kind.”

Leeton glanced over his shoulder at the house. “Best go round back to the kitchen garden,” he said. “The house is locked up, and all the staff out here.”

After gathering up her reticule, Anisha ambled her way along a shady path that meandered by the garden wall, hoping no one would see her. The long afternoon spent in the warmth of the tent, crowded in by too many people and surrounded by too much clamor, had left her drained.

In time, it was an easy matter to make her way through the formal parterres that flanked the house, and under the stone archway that gave onto the rear. Here the walled gardens continued, lower now, with one section given over to root crops, just beginning to flourish, the next to vegetables, and the final and smallest, to herbs.

Against the herb wall someone had left a pile of mud-caked garden tools, but Anisha was distracted from this minor nuisance by the long double row of fruit trees leading away from the house, at the end of which lay a sunken stone structure that appeared almost embraced by the earth and topped with a cupola—the dairy, perhaps, or a large icehouse. This bucolic prospect was made complete by a chaffinch perched in the nearest tree chortling
peep-peep-chirrup!
as if happy to have a visitor.

Shutting away the vision of Mrs. Ashton and her outrage, Anisha went perfectly still, drawing her breath slow and deep for a time, and willing away the day’s frustrations. For a few moments, she lost track of time, aware only of the soft grass beneath her feet, of the birdsong pouring over her, and of the scents of rich, fresh-turned soil. Aware only of God’s perfect and eternal strength that spurred such green, growing sweetness from the earth.

But thoughts of eternal strength brought her mind round to Rance again; to the utter happiness that seemed almost within her grasp. In moments such as this, it was a quiet joy to stop and remember the night of passion they had spent together, and the promise not yet fulfilled.

He loved her.
He had always loved her.
And she had known it; known it in that way which only two bound and fated souls could know. Moreover, they were at long last on the verge of accepting that fate. She almost resented having to come here. How much sweeter it would have been to have lingered, alone with her memories, in the serenity of her own garden.

After a time, however, feeling a little more at peace, she exhaled slowly, opened her eyes, and turned into the herb garden. Methodically, she began to examine Lady Leeton’s choices, going row by row. Like those of most English gardens, they were not especially exciting, or even useful. Nor were they as kempt as the Leetons’ showy public gardens, Anisha decided, bending to flick a beetle from a leaf of sweet marjoram.

Just then, the chaffinch went eerily still.

Anisha froze, her hand hovering. There came an odd breeze—the merest of sounds, as if the bird had flown too near her temple. A white, splintering light shot through her head, then vanished, ephemeral as the sound. She threw out a hand against the blackness and felt the soft earth rise up to meet her.

A
nisha came awake to find herself floating. Floating flat atop a slab of ice that lay cold beneath her body, with the trickling sound of water echoing all around her.

A cave
? A cold cave. Ice-cold pain had bored into her very marrow.

Fragments of memory rose up, whirling about her like a flock of startled finches. Mentally, she reached for one. It fluttered off again and was lost. She groaned, her consciousness melting into the ice.

When next she woke, it was to the sound of wood scraping over stone. There was a deathly chill beneath her cheek and her palms, and the tang of blood in her mouth.

She cracked one eye and saw a blur of sticks.

No, not sticks. Wooden legs. A dozen, it seemed. But the vision sharpened, then became three.
A stool.
And with it, two large, well-shod feet. Anisha opened the other eye and ran her tongue round her teeth, tasting blood.

“
Tsk, tsk,
” said a soft voice from above. “Coming round, are we?”

She tried to speak but couldn’t. The awful clank of metal striking stone rang out. A garden spade clattered in front of her face, the back smeared with blood.

“It would have been easier for us both, perhaps,” the voice went on, “had you never woken.”

She struggled to lift herself up and failed. Reality was returning, and with it a sick, terrible fear. She had been struck. The gentle voice was not gentle. Vaguely she knew she must run, and yet her limbs would not move.

Better to feign a stupor and gather her wits.

She let her lashes flutter shut and squinted through them. She lay not upon ice, she realized, but upon a white tiled floor. Recognition stirred.
The little dairy beyond the trees.
It had to be. There was the dank, soured scent of old milk in the air. And the gurgle of water. A spring, perhaps.

“Lazonby just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, could he?” The melancholy words echoed through the stone enclosure. “Good God, he had his freedom. What the devil does he want?”

Me,
she thought vaguely.
He wants me.

He’d wanted to be good enough; wanted his family’s honor back. Surely such devotion had not come to this? Anisha drew in a slow, ragged breath and vowed she would not let it.

Somehow, she rolled slightly onto her side and looked up into the bleak, blue eyes of Sir Wilfred Leeton. “
You . . . you killed
”
—
she whispered
—
“
Lord Percy.
”

He sat upon a three-legged milking stool, elbows on his knees and hands dangling as he leaned plaintively over her body. Only the bloody spade at his feet betrayed his vicious nature.

“I didn’t want to,” he said, whining a little through his nose. “But I needed rid of Arthur. I couldn’t quite kill him—we were mates of a fashion—but Arthur had to go. What choice did I have?”

“
Arthur
?” Anisha struggled to make sense of it. “
Wh—Wh . . .
?”

Sir Wilfred sighed, dragging both hands through what was left of his hair. “Oh, she’d never have spared me a glance otherwise,” he said. “All that coin, ripe for the picking—and Arthur’s chits stubbed up over blood! You, of all people, will appreciate how foolish
that
is. Jewish gold, nabob gold—it all jingles the same in a chap’s pocket, eh? Though it does wear on a fellow, playing the doting husband to a fishwife.”

Somehow, she levered up onto one elbow. “You . . . you hated him,” she whispered.

Sir Wilfred’s blue eyes widened innocently. “Arthur? No! I just wanted him to run off to France. He said he planned to—
promised
it, really.”

“
No, R—R—
” Anisha surrendered, and let her head fall back onto the floor.

“Ah, Lazonby? No, no.” Suddenly, his voice turned inward. “Oh, it could gall a chap to see the ladies pant over him like bitches in heat,” he said. “And true, at that particular moment I could ill afford the nine hundred pounds I owed him. But it was the Black Horse boys that wanted rid of Lazonby.”

Vaguely, Anisha knew she had to keep him talking. “Why . . . ?” she managed, spittling blood.

Leeton lifted one shoulder. “They’d pegged him for some sort of sharper but couldn’t make out what,” he replied. “Had ’em worried. So they offered me what I direly needed—financing for the Athenian. And in return, I’d ensure Lazonby troubled them no more.”

Anisha tried to summon her strength, and set both hands flat to the icy floor. “
For that . . . you would kill
?” she rasped.

“Only Percy!” he countered, as if it had somehow been logical. “I mean, who knew Arthur would turn coward? And who’d have dreamt Lazonby would stand and fight? I even warned him—I told him to run, the damned fool.” Sir Wilfred looked down almost pitifully and shook his head. “And now I am going to have to let you go, Lady Anisha, much as it pains me.”

At first, she thought remorse had overcome him. But then he lifted his hand, gesturing with clear distaste at something beyond her view, toward the sound of the gurgling water.

Then he licked his lips uncertainly. “Everyone will question, of course, why you wandered out here alone, but no one will question the tragedy of it,” he said, his words falling faster and faster. “A wet floor. A foot misplaced—and all too near the springbox. Admittedly not my best plan, but you’ve given me so little time, my dear. Those papers—good God—if I allow you to keep them . . . should Lazonby ever find them . . . there’ll be an avalanche of suspicion. And that damned George Kemble—oh, that wicked, meddling fellow will unravel my little clew quick as I draw breath . . . or tell Lazonby how to do it.”

It is too late,
she wanted to say.
You are undone, you craven dog.

Perhaps that would save her. “They . . . have seen,” she murmured, fighting the wish to close her eyes and sleep. “They know.”

“No, they don’t know.” His voice had taken on a strange edge. “They can’t—not yet—or you wouldn’t be here.”

Anisha shut her eyes and fought to remember who knew what. But she saw only a vision of Durga, the many-armed warrior-goddess, bearing her swords, her thunder, and her powerful retribution.
Leeton had killed for money. Left Rance to hang for it like a common criminal.
She imagined Durga lifting her thunderbolt and aiming it straight at Leeton’s visage. The image brought her courage—and a terrible thirst for vengeance.

The spade.
The handle of the spade, she realized, was within her grasp, had she the strength to wield it. She slowly drew in her breath and tried to block the pain.

“A person can drown, Lady Anisha, in a quart of water,” Sir Wilfred murmured, “when incapacitated. Or held under. Did you know that?”

“
Yes . . .”
she whispered, rolling ever so slightly nearer.

And an infidel can die a thousand deaths.

“Do you see why I wish you had never woken? I’ve nothing against you—or even your race! Good Lord, I can see why Lazonby lusts after you. Even now, I must say, you’re a tempting little morsel.” He smacked his lips, then drew a hand down his face. “But I’m not, of course,
depraved
. Still, why did you have to dredge up those old notes of hand, my dear? And ask such vile questions?”

Anisha writhed as if in pain, curling her hand nearer the spade. “
How—How—could you
?” she choked. “Your . . .
friends.
”

“But just handsome scoundrels, the both of them!” His voice was pleading—almost wheedling—now. “I said to myself, ‘Will, old boy, play it out right and you’ll kill two birds with one stone! Arthur will run—and Lazonby right after him. The syndicate will be happy. And Arthur’s sniveling brats can just choke on their bloody pride.’ ”

And it was in that moment that everything changed. As if timed by God, Anisha seized the spade, and at once the door came crashing open.

Leeton leapt from his stool, half tripping over the spade handle. In a billow of gray muslin, Mrs. Ashton leapt down the short flight of steps, her face a mask of wild rage.

“You bastard!” she hissed.

On a hideous shriek, Leeton recoiled.

Anisha realized the woman held a pocket pistol clutched in both hands.

“You! All along, it was
you
!” Mrs. Ashton shook almost uncontrollably, but her elbows were locked solid, her finger on the trigger. “And you—!” she spat, cutting a glance down at Anisha. “Get out. This no longer concerns you.”

Still holding the shovel, Anisha tried to leap up, but balance failed her. She staggered awkwardly, wrenching her ankle. Somehow, she dragged herself backward, to the edge of the cement trough.

Mrs. Ashton jerked her head toward Leeton. “Get
down,
” she commanded. “Get down on your knees, Wilfred Leeton, and pray to God if you’ve got one, for I’m about to give you the coward’s death you deserve.”

Leeton’s eyes were like saucers. “Who—?” he hooted, drawing back against the wall. “Who
are
you?”

She marched two steps toward him. Anisha didn’t doubt the woman’s intent for an instant. Her eyes had gone bloody with rage. Panicked, Anisha looked about. The room was utterly made of stone. The floors. The walls. The steps. The Portland cement springbox. A marble counter spanning one wall. A shot could ricochet wild. Any one of them could die—Mrs. Ashton included.

Fleetingly, she tried to rise. The ankle gave. The spade fell with a frightful clatter. Mrs. Ashton snapped around. “Get
out
or get
down,
” she warned, gun shaking. “Or so help me God, I’ll shoot you, too. Now you, Leeton, on your knees!”

Anisha drew back against the wall. Just then, a shadow passed by the door. A movement so faint, she might have imagined it.