The Lion's Daughter (46 page)

His
humor faded. “No, I can't tell her, can I?” He paused. “I
told her 'a few weeks,' Gideon.” “You said she was
levelheaded. She'll understand.” “Will she understand
when I tell her it must be months
—
years,
perhaps?
Damnation.” Varian gazed bleakly about him. “That cottage
was probably the best of them. I must do something for the Gillises,
and the others. They can't live in hovels. But how the devil am I to
repair the cottages when my own roof is ready to drop on my head?”

“Mount
Eden's roof will endure a while,” said Gideon.

“As
to the other essential repairs, including the cottages
—
the
cost of materials is negligible. It's the labor and skill we need.”

“We've
no money to hire anybody.” Varian resumed walking. “Still,
I helped repair a mill in Albania, and it didn't kill me.” H
e
glanced at Gideon. “I don't
suppose you know how to mend a roof or a chimney?” “I
understand the principles.”

“Will
you stay long enough to tell me how to go about it
—
and
watch the first time to be sure I do it correctly?”

Gideon
exhaled a sigh. “I daresay you've never listened to a word
Damon and I have uttered on this topic. We are not re
turning
to London. Only tell us what
we're to do and we'll do it
—so
long as it's sensible. If we think it isn't, we'll tell you. What you
propose appears the only sensible course, in the present
circumstances.”

“Dammit,
Gilly, I told you
—”

“You
don't understand, do you?” Gideon's stiff-set counte
nance
eased
into
a grin. “It isn't for you, my lord, but for the

fascinating
creature we're so eager to meet. The sooner we repair the ancestral
ruin, the sooner we get a glimpse of the young lady you want so
desperately to impress.”

Varian's
face grew hot.

“Good
grief. Edenmont blushing. Lord Alvanley would give a pony to see it.”

“Devil
take you, Gideon!”

Gideon
laughed. “You said you owed us a great deal, did you not?
Mayhap we'll take it out in plaguing you about your bride. For your
own good, of course. It'll keep your wits sharp, and then you shan't
be sinking into melancholy.” Gideon gave his lordship an
avuncular pat on the shoulder. “For your own good, m
y
noble
brother. Can't have you
blowing your brains out. Not until you've got an heir at least.”

Chapter
26

APRIL
ARRIVED IN A DRIZZLE, TO LAUNCH IN earnest the London Season's
annual round of gaiety. But Sir Gerald Brentmor took no interest in
society's profitless amusements. At midnight, while the Beau Monde
danced and gossiped, he was neatly tucked in his bed, dreaming of
annuities, cent-per-cents, and promissory notes. Though a sound
sleeper, he bolted up from the pillow the instant the hot wax
splattered on his forehead. He'd no time to scream, scarce time to
open his mouth before he felt the cold blade of a dagger against his
throat. “Cry out, and your soul flies to hell,” a low
voice warned, The voice was disagreeably familiar. Despite the panic
that frize his brain as well as his heart, Sir Gerald retained
sufficient reason to identify its owner: Risto. The dripping candle
retreated and was returned to the bedstand. By someone else. Good
God, there were two of them.

Risto's
companion, encased in a hooded cloak, drew a chair up beside the bed,
sat down, and threw the hood back, The candlelight revealed the face
of a young man. “Risto you recall, I see,” said the
stranger. “I am his mas
ter.”
His voice was gentle and his
sweet smile that of an innocent youth. These qualities did not quiet
Sir Gerald's fears in the least.

“Is-Ismal,”
he gasped.

The
young man bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You'll forgive
our unceremonious entry. I thought it best the servants not see me.
Servants of all races like to talk, and neither you nor I would wish
my arrival made known to certain individuals. I have come merely to
settle a small matter of business. Then I shall be gone, I promise.”

Ismal
calmly removed the cloak and leaned back, utterly at his ease. He was
dressed in English garb, complete to the elaborate knot of his
neckcloth. Except for the faint accent, he might have passed as an
English gentleman.

“Before
you vex your brain contriving some way to escape me, I will explain
your position.” He gracefully draped one arm upon the back of
the chair. “In Venice, I found a man named Bridgeburton.”

Sir
Gerald felt the blood draining from his face.

“This
man has been a partner in your enterprises for many years
—
since
the night, some twenty-odd years ago, he helped you cheat your
brother out of a valuable property.”

Ismal
withdrew from his inner coat pocket a thick letter. “He was
persuaded to write a confession of all your mutual crimes.” He
dropped the letter onto Sir Gerald's lap. “That is a copy. The
original is to be delivered to a member of your ministry in the event
I am inconvenienced in any way. If you think to trick or betray me,
you will only betray yourself.”

The
dagger withdrew just enough to let Sir Gerald take up the letter. He
needed only to skim it to understand how much danger he was in. No
one but Bridgeburton knew these particular details.

He
set his jaw. “I suppose he's dead.”

“I
fear your partner was so incautious as to fall into the canal.”
Ismal examined his smooth nails. “May Risto put away his dagger
now? If his hand grows too tired, it may slip.”

“You
know I daren't raise any alarm.” Sir Gerald handed back the
letter. “I've no more inclination for the gallows than for your
servant's blade.”

When
the dagger was withdrawn, he gingerly touched his throat It was
wet. Perspiration, perhaps, or blood. It hardly
mattered.
He wasn't dead yet. What mattered
was the young man sitting by the bed. Ismal had got this damning
confession out of the immovable Bridgeburton, killed him, and come
all the way to England. That was more than persistence. Madness?

“What
do you want from me?” Sir Gerald demanded, more boldly than he
felt. “I dealt squarely with you. It wasn't my fault
—”

“It
was not a deliberate betrayal, I admit,” Ismal amiably agreed,
“though I thought so at first. I have since learned that not
only have my dreams crumbled, but your empire as well. I cannot
believe you'd deliberately destroy yourself. Nonetheless, you were
careless, Sir Gerald, else no one could have known about every single
ship, every single destination.”

“
It
could have been one of your own
people.”

“Only
Risto knew all
—
or
nearly all
—
and
he would not be with me now had he betrayed me. It was you, of
course.” “I swear to you
—”
“You
were incautious in
some way, and this error nearly resulted in my death.” Tipping
his head to one side, Ismal softly enquired
,
“Have you ever been
poisoned, Sir Gerald? My cousin, Ali, prefers the slow poisons. I did
not find the experience at all to my taste. Yet as I recovered on a
filthy fishing vessel, I began to appreciate the method's charms. I
should enjoy, very much, watching one who's played me false die
...
very, very slowly
...
in great agony.”

Definitely
mad, Sir Gerald decided grimly. But the first shock had passed, and
his powers of self-preservation were returning. “I suppose it's
no use trying to convince you I'm not your enemy, or even that I
never spoke a word to anyone or within anyone's hearing. It hardly
matters anyhow. You know I must have the original of Bridgeburton's
letter. What's your price?”

“The
sum paid for weapons I never received, plus a thousand pounds to
repay what my cousin extorted from me
—
because
of your niece and her pig of a lover.” An edge had crept into
Ismal's mellifluous voice. He must have heard it, too, for he smiled
more sweetly. “And another thousand for any travel expences”,
he continued in gentler tones. “All to be paid in two days”.

Utterly
deranged. This, regrettably, did not make a man any the less
dangerous. Still, Sir Gerald had strong objections to being
blackmailed and a keen sense of the injustice of Ismal's demands.
Moreover, the baronet hadn't yet met the man he couldn't get the
better of, sooner or later. He thought quickly.

“I
can't raise such a sum in only two days,” he said. “If
you know so much about me, you must be aware I've already sold off my
remaining investments, not to mention half my possessions.”

“Then
you will give me the chess set.”

Sir
Gerald stared at him.

Ismal's
smile grew reproachful. “Or have you sold that, too
—
your
niece's dowry?”

Indignation
instantly submerged Sir Gerald's alarm. “Sold it?” he
repeated. “And get but a fraction of its worth? Most of the
value was in its being complete, with every piece intact, every
gemstone the original. Collectors may be eccentric, some of them, and
they might, just possibly, overlook a missing pawn
—
but
a
queen?”

Ismal's
arm came away from the back of the chair. The false smile had
broadened, and his eyes gleamed.

With
amusement? Sir Gerald wondered. What the devil was so funny?

Ismal
leaned toward him. “Sir Gerald,” he said, “you are
in deeper trouble than you know. I am not the only one in possession
of your dirty secrets.”

“What
in blazes are you talking about?”

“The
black queen.”

“Which
this backguard said he was going to give you
—”

“And
which was soon thereafter given to your son. With your message still
inside.”

ESME'S
LIPS WERE twitching as she gave the letter back to her grandmother.

“It
ain't funny,” the old lady growled.

“Not
only amusing but imaginative,” Esme said. “They say I
have tattoos on my hands, wear a ring in my nose, and in this
garb
—
and
nothing else
—
I
dance lewd dances in your rose garden. By the light of the full moon.
Mrs. Stockwell-Hume

does
not mention my howling at the moon as well, but perhaps her London
friends will think of that in time.” “It don't matter if
it's ridiculous. Most of London gossip is. That don't make it any the
less damaging. What do you

think
Edenmont's going to say—no, better—
feel
,
when he hears of it?”

Esme
quickly sobered. The rumors Lady Brentmor's friend

reported
were preposterous, blatant examples of English society's
provincialism and ignorance. All the same, to have one's

wife
an object of mockery, and oneself an object of pity...

“Quite,”
said the dowager. “We must go to London. Tomorrow.”

“London?
Tomorrow?”

“You
ain't an echo, so don't act like one. I'd leave this minute if I
could, but we'll want all the day to pack. And the young brute must
come, too, unless I want to come back and find he's blown up the
house.”

“But,
Grandmother, I am not ready. You said yourself my manners —”

“They're
better than what them fools expect. Besides, we ain't staying the
whole Season. Only a week or so. Enough to set 'em straight. Bloody
lot of nincompoops.”

London.
Tomorrow. Esme suppressed a shudder. All those women.
His
women. They'd pick her to pieces, and she lacked the art to defend
herself. She wouldn't have the heart, either, when she saw her
rivals. They'd be more beautiful than she'd imagined, more graceful,
and she'd feel uglier, utterly worthless. Two months without Varian
had already weakened her confidence. She needed time to regather her
strength if she hoped to make sensible decisions about the future...
without him. “No,” she said. 'This gossip is no more than
a joke. But if I am there, they will see what is truly wrong, and
that will be worse.”

“It'll
be a deal worse if he takes it into his head to start issuing
challenges. A man's obliged to defend his wife's good name
—even
if he loathes her. Gad, men are such jackasses,” the dowager
grumbled. “We spend half our lives trying to save the bloody
idiots from themselves.” “You cannot expect me to
believe—” “If you won't go,” her grandmother
went on heedlessly,