The Duke of Shadows (16 page)

Arriving home, he changed into the evening clothes his valet had laid out for him. It was the height of the Season, every night bringing another ball or fête, and Caroline thrived on such things. Certainly it was one way to pass the time. Nightly they agreed that the music, the crowd, and the decorations were rather remarkable. Occasionally she pulled him into an alcove to fuck. The novelty did not seem to pall for her. Perhaps when someone caught them, she would be forced to become more creative.

Sundays presented a small deviation from routine. Sundays he went riding through the countryside. Alone, always. Last week he'd taken an ill-advised jump and ruined his best mount, Aries. A trifle deep-chested, but what lines. What heart. Three years of earnest service, and what had he gotten for it? A bullet through the brain. Julian had instructed his valet to burn his riding clothes. He did not know what he would do this Sunday. Obviously he was a goddamn menace to the innocent.

And then there were Wednesdays. How had he forgotten this most auspicious of days? On Wednesdays, Caroline hosted a small dinner party at Auburn House. She claimed she could not comfortably accommodate her guests at the house on Dover Street. Also, although her husband had been dead for two years, she still felt qualms of conscience at bringing Julian to the house where she had passed her married life—so she confessed, with downcast eyes. Julian recognized that he was meant to be charmed by this admission. He declared himself charmed, and opened Auburn House to her friends. The status of official hostess did not appease her; she wanted something else from him. Of course she did. But she was clumsy in her angling, and he liked to watch her writhe on her own hook.

And so these dinner parties on Wednesdays had become commonplace. She enjoyed them as little as he did, unless she was drunk, which she would not be yet, because he'd mistimed his arrival and they would not even have laid the first course.

He paused at the area railing to stare up at the windows. A curtain twitched aside, revealing a dark silhouette against the brightly lit interior. Caroline, hoping for his arrival. He had not attended last week.

What had he done instead? He had no memory. So went large chunks of his time, gone into the ether.

He sighed and started up the stairs. The door opened before he could ring.

"I thought it was you standing out there! What are you doing, on foot?"

"I wanted a walk."

Caroline brushed past the porter to clasp his cheeks. "So cold you are! What intemperate weather for May. You're hardly dressed for it, Julian; I can't think why you didn't take the brougham. And where is your muffler?"

Julian handed his hat and greatcoat to a footman and took Caroline's arm, guiding her into the front parlor. Within, the bulk of her guests were chatting over cakes and liqueur.

"Look at him," Caroline directed the room. "Dressed for a summer's day, and it nearer to snow!"

A pause. Everyone looked up. Perhaps they were marveling at Caroline's stupidity. He was her lover, not her bloody son.

The windowpanes rattled in a sudden gust of wind. Rain slapped against the glass, a dozen small sharp sounds; and then thunder rolled over Mayfair.

"Alas, I will not be able to join you this evening," he said to the room, and turned on his heel.

He was standing at the window in his bedchamber when she found him. This mist. The driving rain could not break apart the miasma. It obscured the road, and all he could glimpse were the tips of horses' ears, bobbing in and out of the muck as they pulled a carriage down the lane. Was it faith that allowed them to move forward blindly, with no idea of what lay ahead? Or sheer animal stupidity?

"You're in one of your moods," she said from the door.

"Am I?" He drew the curtains shut, turning back to the plush, fire-gilded contours of the room. His servants needed no instruction; the whole damned place ran like clockwork. He wondered, idly, how long it would take them to stop lighting the fires, if one day he simply never returned.

"I know you better than you think," Caroline said, and reached up to unpin her hair. The chignon toppled, unwinding over one shoulder in a chestnut coil. Her eyes tracked his attention to her hair, and she smiled. "Undress me."

He stayed where he was. "Have your guests requested a show?"

"I dismissed them. You rather killed the mood. Anyway, they were boring me. Will you not come here? Very well." She crossed to him, lowering herself to her knees with her back to him. "Unhook me."

He flipped the eyelets open with one hand. The dress split like a flower opening.

"Now the laces," she said. "That's it, thank you. You've been brooding for days. I know what's running through your head."

"And what would that be?"

She turned on her knees, her hands busy with the studs of her husk. "The war. It shows in your face, you know."

"And what would you know of it?" He was being a rude, childish bastard, but he could not find it within himself to care. He wondered sometimes that she stayed with him.

"Nothing, of course. But I know this, Julian. You are Auburn. Your place is here."

"Riveting insight."

"Maybe it is, at that. If you would make an effort to fix your mind on it—to let go of the other—it might be easier."

"Oh yes," he said. "Easier, indeed."

She was silent for a moment. Then her shoulders gave an impatient little roll, so the corset fell away, onto the floor behind her. Clever trick. She was garbed for battle, in carmine lace. One did not find scarlet chemises just anywhere.

When he lifted his gaze, she offered a rueful smile. "What, you see nothing of interest?"

"Did I not demonstrate my appreciation thoroughly enough this morning?"

"Oh, you're always thorough. That isn't the problem."

"If you'd care to elucidate—"

"Perhaps I shall. Does the prospect frighten you? I know you like to steer away from anything of a personal nature."

"That's hardly just," he said mildly. "We speak of many things."

"Oh, yes." She tossed her head and rose, stepping out of the gown. A few impatient flicks of her fingers and the crinoline was collapsing to the floor. "Politics, and plays, and maybe even my first marriage. But we never speak of
you.
And when I try—well, you end up like this. Brooding."

"What do you wish to know?"

"I heard a rumor—" When he looked at her, she shrugged. "I know you don't like them very much, but I'm sorry, I couldn't help hearing it. It was about you. In India, and a woman."

"I don't understand."

She kicked the discarded clothing aside with one foot.

"Don't be difficult. You know to what I'm referring."

"No. I'm not sure I do."

"They say you fell in love with a woman who died in the Mutiny. And I want to know—what I want to know is—is that why you haven't asked me to marry you?"

He dragged a hand over his mouth. "Where did you hear that?"

She rolled her eyes. "I don't remember! From Lauren Pritchett, perhaps—or no, from Viscount Lindley."

"Lindley?" He leaned forward, frowning. "Lindley told you that?"

"What does it matter?"

Yes, what could it matter? There were pathways he had closed to memory, and breaking into them was painful. But—what had Lindley known? Could he simply have guessed?

"Look, Julian, all I want to know is if that's the reason!"

He stared at her, casting about for the subject of the question. Ah yes—marriage. "I don't suppose it ever crossed my mind to ask."

"But—" She looked touchingly uncertain all of a sudden; unexpected to see that emotion on a woman of such notorious experience. "But why? You're a duke now, Julian, and you have a duty to beget an heir. I suppose I could understand if you wanted a debutante to wife, someone fresh and untouched—"

He actually laughed. "Dear God, no. I'd most likely break her."

"I agree," she said instantly. "And that's why I thought—I mean, we've been paired for nearly a year now—not exclusively, of course, I know you've had other women, but you always come back to me—don't you? And that has to mean something, because everyone knows your reputation for—for flightiness—"

"Flightiness," he repeated distastefully. "Is that what—"

"Well, you are flighty," she said. "I've been keeping count. And only since Gregory died, mind you, so I can't imagine how many there were beforehand."

"Bravo, Caroline. How charming to know you kept your eyes to yourself while your husband still lived."

"Oh, God damn you, Julian Sinclair!" She came to her feet, and so did he; with a lunge to the bed, she grabbed a pillow and hurled it. He ducked. His laughter was genuine now.

"Forgive me, Caro, but it's rather funny. Had I known you were monitoring me so closely, I might have—"

"You wouldn't have done anything differently, and you know it! You've never given a damn for what anyone thinks. But
really,
Julian, even if you don't care what they all say, you
must
care about leaving an heir—don't you? And I know that I didn't conceive during my marriage to Gregory, but his wife before me was also barren, so I wonder if it wasn't his fault—"

"Enough. You don't need to defend yourself to me."

"Yes, I know." She gave him a sheepish smile. "It was just so bloody
hard,
listening to them all whisper about it. But you know all that." Her smile changed, becoming somewhat bemused. "Goodness, I say we don't talk about personal things, but I do go on about my own problems! It's just that
you
never say anything…"

He sighed. "There was a woman, Caroline."

"Oh." She looked afraid suddenly, and he felt a touch of pity for her. A touch. "What happened?"

"She died in the Mutiny."

"Were you—did you see it happen?"

Christ.
"No."

"Stop." He said it flatly, so he would not yell it. No matter how much she might wish to know the story, he could not relive that time. "Suffice it to say she died through my carelessness."

"My God," she whispered. "I didn't know, Julian, I—I shouldn't have brought this up. I should have known it was too soon."

Four years since he'd last seen her. Was four years too soon? It seemed as though a lifetime separated the person he was now from the one he'd been then, with her. He shut his eyes for a moment, forbidding himself to recall it with any clarity. Closed, gone, ended.

Dead.

The guilt was not dead, of course. Once it had gnawed at his gut like acid. He had thought it might never subside. But gradually, it changed. Now it only ached. Sharper, of course, on days like this, when the thunder in the distance sounded like cannon fire. He would not surrender to it. It had subsided; it would continue to subside.

Only, something did not subside: the sense that he was living behind a pane of glass. Reflections everywhere he looked. In none of them did he recognize himself.

"It's been four years." He spoke slowly, listening to himself to discover what would emerge from his mouth. "It is past time, I suppose."

She made a convulsive, aborted gesture that drew his eyes back to her. A small smile moved his lips as he witnessed her attempt to rein in hope.

He heard himself ask, "Do you feel like becoming a duchess?"

"Of course you are." This from Lord Chad, who had Delphinia's other arm. "You look quite smart, Emmaline."

"Absolutely dashing," said Delphinia.

Yes. She would not underestimate her cousin again. Delphinia had spent an hour closeted in conference with the seamstress. The result was a very low-cut gown with a transparent lace fichu that accented her décolletage. Fashionable and provocative. But the silk itself was a dull navy that drank the light, with sleeves that fitted tightly down to the cuffs of her wrist-length gloves. It left bared no skin that an admirer might feel safe to stroke. The dress was bold, but it also made her untouchable.

Sometimes her cousin understood her very well.

The skirts were another matter. Such excessive width was still viewed in Durringham with suspicion, and so she had no practice with it. She felt like a small moving planet. Perhaps the feeling should encourage her. She could go smashing through the crowd, her own force of gravity.

Instead she was being pulled up the stairs, her feet clumsy with fear. The sight of a dark head made her stumble.

The man turned. Unfamiliar face. Their gazes slid past each other.

Would it be like that, if she saw him here? Would he pretend not to know her?

She'd imagined it a million times, until she thought herself quite unmovable. Hardened into indifference. She would be sophisticated, cool, perhaps slightly amused.
The peccadilloes of our youth.
He would not see how he'd nearly destroyed her. How she'd argued with herself, during that slow, shuffling journey east to Calcutta, that he would come. After what she had done in Kurnaul, she'd traveled under Anne Marie's name. He would be asking after Emmaline Martin. But he would come looking, and when he did, his notoriety would cause the civilians among whom she hid to remark, "The infamous Marquess has come to camp in search of someone," and she would go to him.

So she listened, and waited, and every morning when she rose she asked whether anyone had visited the camp overnight. But no one had ever remarked on the Marquess. He had never come.

The army had moved them to Calcutta so slowly. Death everywhere, villages burning, unburied corpses, safety uncertain. And as the weeks passed, her anger had grown.
You said it was safe, you left me to die. You said you would come for me, and here I am, alone.
Her fear had grown too.
Are you dead? Are you hurt? I will wait for you.
Six months she'd lingered in Calcutta, with the blood of an English solider on her hands, in a time of war. Sick with anxiety that some old acquaintance of Anne Marie's would appear to unmask her. Willing to take the risk anyway. And then, a chance meeting with Marcus. The unthinkable news. "Holdensmoor? Why, he's already gone to England."

She had not believed him. Not until weeks and weeks later, after that hellish sea journey. Emerging from her chamber at Delphinia's country home. Her cousin's sharp-edged worry. Lord Chad's uneasy regard. An outdated newspaper column leapt up at her from the pile in the library.
The Marquess of H—, called before the Commission today in
Whitehall
, refused to accept commendation for his involvement in the efforts to recover
Delhi
.