The Golden Leopard (21 page)

What to do next?

To follow his own inclinations, which tended toward bloody revenge, was lamentably out of the question. Duran’s threat, uttered with gentle intensity, could not be ignored by a man with a wife and four children. Sometimes the cost of pride was too high. And after all, he had proven his valor a half-dozen years ago, risking death for the sake of his family’s honor—never mind that his sister had already surrendered hers. If not for his new responsibilities, he would stoically take that risk again.

What to tell his father was another matter. Someone had to rein Jessica in, but since the earl was unlikely to take action, there was little point disturbing his peace.

Well, he would think on it later, when the pain in his head and jaw allowed him to think clearly. He looked down at the folded sheet of paper in his hand, at Duran’s seal stamped in blue wax, and resisted the temptation to read the message. Honor forbade it.

And practicality forbade putting it into Jessica’s lascivious hands. Striking tinder, he burned the letter in a copper bowl.

It was late afternoon
before Jessica arrived back at High Tor. Tired, exhilarated, unable to shed the apprehension that had hovered about her all day, she let herself in through a side door and went directly to her room. Duran could wait. It would do him good. And she wanted to look her best when she gave him her reply.

Spending the afternoon in the company of a woman in love had not changed her mind. Perhaps it made her envious, Mrs. Bellwood’s serenity, but Mrs. Bellwood loved a man who had proven his fidelity by cleaving for a quarter century to a woman he feared and loathed. A man as far from Duran in loyalty as the North Pole was from the South. Of course, Lord Sothingdon was also somewhat lacking in beauty and magnetism, but Mrs. Bellwood didn’t seem to mind. She valued him for all the things his first wife had carped at—his sweet nature, his regular habits, his attachment to a settled life.

In the early days of her marriage to a soldier, Mrs. Bellwood had followed her husband from one temporary, primitive lodging to the next, washing his clothes and cooking whatever she could scavenge for his meals. When he was killed in a skirmish of no consequence, she returned to her father’s property and cared for him during his last illness. After that she lived alone, making friends among the few residents of the area and supplying posthouses and manor houses from her gardens, until she caught the Earl of Sothingdon’s eye. They had been lovers for three years, but she refused to accept a penny from him and was careful not to draw attention to their relationship.

“Some people require proof of love,” she had said, pouring Jessica a cup of strong tea. “Some demand formalities, legalities, and permanence. I have no quarrel with those things. But I find my true happiness in the life I make for myself, and add to it the love given me freely, sometimes sparingly, by your father. My late husband, chained by his duties, could offer no more than that, and I ask no more from Sothingdon.”

“But don’t you have a
right
to more?” Jessica had demanded, thinking of herself.

“Perhaps. But one cannot force another to give what he does not have, or is not willing to part with.”

Chastened, Jessica turned the conversation to Mariah and her troubles with Gerald. Mrs. Bellwood had noticed, and been alarmed, but felt it was not her place to interfere. Even so, she agreed to provide Mariah a refuge if she required one. “And Sothingdon, while stubborn, can be got around,” she added with a fond smile. “While I cannot meddle, I’ve no objection to a bit of manipulation.”

Jessica had started out for home lighter of heart, until she passed by the spot where she and the enigmatic valet had launched their prayer boats. Ever since, subdued and puzzled by the story he had told her, she had been unable to forget the desperate princess and the dying prince and the Lord of Death.

They haunted her still as she lay across her bed, listening to the small sounds coming from the passageway and the adjacent room. The gentlemen had returned from the day’s shooting, and the particular gentleman who obsessed her was right next door. It might be Pageter making those sounds, of course. Probably the both of them.

Rousing herself, she rang for a maid and began to strip off her dusty walking gown. Perhaps she would go to dinner dressed in her finest and let Duran watch her ignore him while he wondered when she would give him her answer and what it would be. He knew her well enough to understand that either way, she’d make a grand production of it.

And he would enjoy the drama. Play along and give her credit for her performance. Would never insist she behave by any standards but her own.

Oh, dear God. How could she tell him
no
?

Such nonsense. Of course she could. Easily. With aplomb. Without regret.

After all, he’d offered only a paltry three weeks of marriage. Why bother? Three weeks was scarcely enough time to require a fresh paring of her toenails. Although, come to think of it, it was precisely the amount of time they’d spent together as lovers.

Well, at least he was consistent.

She was just about to ring for her maid when Mariah arrived at the door, distressed. “Where have you been all day? Aubrey kept asking for you.”

“Aubrey!” Jessica stifled an oath that would have shocked her sister. “If he brought along that widowed vicar, the one he keeps foisting on me, I shall throttle them both.”

“No vicar. He came alone. Papa wrote, saying we were in residence, and he took the opportunity to see us.”

“To read us the ceremonial lecture, you mean. Have you had yours?”

“Some of it. He left out the part about my failure to provide Gerald with heirs, and seemed a trifle distracted. Then, while I was taking a nap, he had an accident.”

“Dear me.” Jessica sank onto a chair. “What happened?”

“A heavy mirror in his room came loose and fell on his head. He landed on his face, and his jaw is swollen and purple. Rather like a Christmas pudding, actually.” Mariah produced an embarrassed grin. “I think the blow addled his brains, because he told Papa that Lord Duran had hit him. Which he could not have done, of course, because by the time Aubrey went upstairs to his room, where he was injured, Lord Duran was well on his way back to London.”

“Wh-what?” Jessica felt as if she too had taken a blow. A hard one.

Again. He’d done it
again
!
Gone off without a word. Because he’d realized she wasn’t going to help him sell that stolen icon, she supposed. And figured she wouldn’t marry him, either, meaning he couldn’t trade on the good name of his wife.

It shouldn’t hurt. She refused to let it hurt.

Mariah was speaking again. “. . . Pageter said a message was delivered this afternoon, summoning him immediately to London. Or to somewhere. The destination was unspecified. At first Papa was furious that Lord Duran had not left so much as a note of explanation, but Colonel Pageter calmed him down. He’s good at that.” Her lips curved into a rare smile. “We should set him to work on Aubrey.”

Jessica studied her fingernails.
Don’t think. Don’t feel. Above all things, do not feel.
“A good idea,” she said too cheerfully. “But I don’t wish to see him. Aubrey, I mean, even though he’s hurt. He grates on my nerves, and I would probably say something awful to him. Besides, I’ve had a summons of my own, from Helena, and must attend to a matter of business. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”

“Oh.” Mariah’s arms curled around her narrow chest. “For London?”

The gesture, silently plaintive, reminded Jessica how insignificant, in comparison, were her own troubles. She rose and crossed to where her sister was still standing by the door, as if uncertain of her welcome in Jessica’s room. “You are not to worry,” she said. “I’m sorry to leave you to cope with Aubrey, but you mustn’t let him browbeat you. Think of it as practice for handling Gerald. Although if he is still in London, I intend to deal with him myself.”

“But how? You mustn’t provoke him. It will make him angry.”

“I don’t mind. And besides, he requires no provocation to be out of temper. Never mind Gerald. I want you to stay at High Tor, and should he come to fetch you, sneak out of the house and go immediately to Mrs. Bellwood. I visited her today, and she’s as worried about you as I am. She will keep you safe until he can be made harmless.”

“There is nothing can stop him, Jessica. But I shall do as you say, I promise, if only because I cannot bear any longer to do as Gerald says.”

The small light in Mariah’s eyes was only that, the barest of glimmers, but it was a beginning. And a challenge.

Precisely what they both needed, Jessica decided when Mariah had gone. A challenge, and in her own case, someone else’s problems to solve so that she wouldn’t have to confront her own.

After making arrangements for an early-morning departure, she focused all her attention on the problem of extracting Mariah from her husband. Seated at her desk, increasingly discouraged as the night wore on, she jotted down every harebrained scheme that hopped into her head. She even wondered if Shivaji the Assassin could be persuaded to hire himself out, and what would be the price of his services.

At that point she put down her pen and stoppered the ink bottle. Never mind his arcane tales about the Lord of Death. The man was an inconsequential
valet.
At most, he could give Gerald a shave and iron his cravats.

On the positive side, she had passed several hours without once thinking of Duran.

Oh very well. Not one thought, but a dozen. Per hour. But that was better than she’d expected when first she learned he had done a moonlight flit. She was angry, that was all, and not at him. He wasn’t worth that much effort. No, she was furious with herself for letting him slip past her defenses and . . . what?

It didn’t matter. He was gone. More distant, more
irrelevant,
than when he’d been in India. The next time he crept into her thoughts, she’d fling him out again.