The Lion's Daughter (53 page)

His
spirits soothed by the infusion of money, he felt reasonably certain
he would get away alive. Ismal wouldn't murder a blackmail victim.
That was shortsighted, and Ismal was the type who thought ahead. He
was also the type, the baronet thought resentfully, who enjoyed
tormenting his victims. One must take care he found no future
opportunity to do so.

But
he would worry about that later, when he was safely across the
Channel. At present, all Sir Gerald wanted was to have the matter
done and his tormentors gone.

When
he heard the approaching footsteps in the hall, he almost felt
relieved. Though his heart rate doubled, he was outwardly composed,
his hands quite, quite steady.

Until
the door crashed open.

After
more than an hour in utter darkness, the candlelight burst upon him
like a lightning bolt, and for a moment he could only stare
uncomprehendingly at the dark figure at the door. He blinked once,
twice, but the vision didn't change. The candlelight glinted upon the
sleek barrel of a pistol, and holding it aimed straight and steady at
Sir Gerald's heart was Lord Edenmont.

Chapter
30

“I
KNOW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED,” SIR Gerald blustered. “They
planned it together, the three of them, to make me the scapegoat.”
He rubbed his throat, where the marks of Varian's fingers remained.
“If anyone wants throt-tling, it's that wretched boy.”

Varian
had dashed up the stairs just as Percival was about to pitch headlong
down them. Though sick and frightened, the boy had communicated
enough to send Varian charging into Sir Gerald's room
—
only
to hear the man stubbornly insist he knew nothing.

It
had laken a frantic quarter hour to verify that Esme, the chess set,
and the black queen were gone, and everyone else in the household was
in various stages of drugged stupefaction.

That
was when Percival finally blurted out his suspicions that Ismal was
involved. Not at all disconcerted, Sir Gerald had declared Esme had
eloped with her Albanian lover. He'd scarcely got the words out
before Varian hurled him against the study wall and nearly choked the
life from him. Varian was calmer now. He could not afford panic or
rage.

He'd
no idea how long Esme had been gone or where she might be headed. He
needed help, mainly Sir Gerald's, and he needed it quickly.

He
took out the crumpled letter Percival had given him and placed it on
the chess table in front of Sir Gerald.
“1
know Mrs. Stockwell-Hume. If
necessary, we'll go to her house presently and ascertain the truth.
If she declares the letter a forgery, I shall escort you
—
with
the aid of her servants
—
to
the nearest magistrate and let him interrogate you.” He folded
his arms. “Or you may tell me the truth, in as few words as
possible.”

Sir
Gerald stared at the letter for a long moment, then looked up at
Varian. “Blackmail,” he said. “You're no better
than that filthy foreigner.” Varian said nothing.

“Ismal
knew things about me,” the baronet said angrily, “and he
had damaging proof. He wanted money, and I hadn't nearly enough, so
he settled on the chess set. He knew Percival or Esme had the black
queen. All I did this night was make sure Ismal could obtain the
complete chess set safely and easily. I had nothing to do with the
girl's disappearance. I would have, if he'd asked.” He glared
defiantly at Varian. “He didn't ask. Maybe he didn't need to.
Maybe he'd arranged it with her. It would appear they found the queen
easily enough without my help.”

“Never
mind how they found it,” Varian said. “I only want
—”

“And
that boy helped them. He's plotted against me all along,” Sir
Gerald snarled. “Spying and interfering. Manipulated you as
well, didn't he? And neither he nor your
loyal
wife told you they had the chess
piece.”

Percival,
who had been sitting at the desk watching his father in silent
misery, found his voice. “Of course I couldn't tell him Papa,
He might have found out what you'd done.”

“Indeed.
Protecting my honor, were you? As if you ever showed a glimmer of
loyalty in your life.”

“Sir
Gerald,” Varian began.

“Not
that I expect any loyalty,” the baronet went on. “My
brother didn't show much, did he, when he got you on your lying whore
of a mother.”

“That's
enough!” Varian glanced anxiously at Percival, but the boy did
not appear in the least distressed. On the contrary,

his
countenance brightened several degrees, and his green eyes
widened with interest.

“Good
heavens, Papa, what a curious thing to say. Even I know conception
requires very close contact, and the gestation period for humans is
nine months.” “Percival” Varian put in hastily,
“this is no time for scientific theories.”

The
boy's brow furrowed. “I cannot think how Uncle Jason could have
done it. He was escorting Colonel Leake through
Albania
from late eighteen hundred four
until well past the eleventh of January, eighteen hundred six, when I
was born.”

He
shook his head. “What you propose, Papa, is a physical
impossibility.”

“Impossibility!”
Sir Gerald cried. “Is that what your fool mother
told you?”

“Not
exactly, Papa. She only let me read the letter Colonel Leake had
written Uncle Jason. When we were in Venice last spring Uncle Jason
showed Mama his marriage lines and the other papers he kept safe
there. Colonel William Leake, as you know, is an antiquarian
topographer. He plans to publish accounts of his travels and wrote
for permission to mention Uncle Jason. He knew Uncle Jason was
involved in certain secret activities, and did not want to endanger
him inadvertently.”

Sir
Gerald turned very red, then very white, and slumped
back
in
his
chair.

“I
do wish you'd mentioned this sooner, Papa,” the boy said. “I
could have suggested you write Colonel Leake.” Sir Gerald's
mouth worked, but no identifiable words came out.

“My
father has always fascinated me,” Percival confided softly to
Varian. “An intriguing
study in human nature, is he not?”

Varian
leaned over the desk. “Let's study someone else's nature,
Percival. If you were Ismal, for instance, where would you go?”

ESME
RUBBED HER sore wrists and stared out the carriage window into the
night. Though only Ismal was inside with her,

and
apparently unarmed, she knew escape was out of the question. The
carriage lanterns showed her Mehmet's large form riding beside the
vehicle. Risto, she knew, rode on the other side. If she so much as
raised her voice, they'd kill her. Though the prospect of death would
scarcely deter her, she did not plan to die before she took revenge
on Ismal.

That
was not going to be easy. In addition to the murderous bodyguards,
Ismal possessed several forged or stolen documents attesting to his
diplomatic status. In his present garb, he looked like an English
gentleman. Only the most discerning ear would catch his faint accent,
which he might easily explain as the result of years spent abroad. He
could as easily
conçoct
a
lie explaining Esme's presence.
He could claim she was a spy, a runway servant
—
anything
he liked.

He'd
little to fear from her. They had stopped a short while before to
change horses, and he'd untied her so she might use the inn's privy
without causing comment. Esme had meditated escape then, but not for
long. This was not simply because Ismal had escorted her and stuck
close, but because she'd finally got a good look at Risto. His entire
being vibrated with hatred. Then she'd understood that all that stood
between her and his dagger was Ismal.

Turning
her head from the window, Esme found Ismal staring at her hands. She
folded them in her lap.

“The
rope hurt you,” he said in English. She'd not heard a word of
Albanian from him yet. “Risto perhaps tied it too tightly.”

“I'm
sure he'd rather have tied it around my neck,” she said, “and
tighter still.”

Ismal
shook his head in agreement. “Very likely that would have been
the wiser course, but I abhor violence. It distressed me greatly to
strike you with my pistol, but it could not be helped.” His
gaze lifted to her face. “Does your head still pain you very
much?”

“Only
when I try to think.”

“Since
you are bound to think nothing pleasant, I advise you not to try. You
will only produce various plans for injuring me, and the consequences
would distress you. Very much.”

He
spoke sweetly, as usual. He was incapable of registering an honest
emotion. He'd probably ordered her father's murder in the same
musical tones. Esme realized she was digging her nails into her
palms.

She
shifted into her customary cross-legged position and let her hands
rest casually upon her knees. Is
mal
narrowly watched her movements
—
on
the alert, no doubt
,
for a sudden assault. When he
understood she was only making herself comfortable, he went on. “I
have told you
why
I
came,
and so it must be clear I did not plan for you. On the contrary, I
promised myself I'd have nothing to do with you”.

“Then
you should have left me unconscious in the garden,” she said.
“You got the chess set from me. You had already made sure no
one would pursue you. And I would not have known who attacked me.”

“It
was a difficult decision. Perhaps I chose wrongly. Yet you fell
into my hands
—
it
was none of my doing
—
and
so I thought it was Allah's will.”

“Or Satan's.”

Ismal
considered. “Perhaps. I
cannot be sure which of them rules me.”

“I
can.”

He
treated her to an odd sort of smile. In another man, Esme would have
called it shy, but “shy” and “Ismal” simply
didn't go together.

“Do
you think I am entirely evil?” he asked. “A tool of the
Devil?
”

“You
tried to destroy our country, you did destroy my father, you have
stolen not only my dowry but me as well, shaming all my family.”
She heard her voice rising. Lowering it, she added, “At the
moment, you do not appear to possess any redeeming qualities.”
He thought this over, too. “What you say is true in its way,”
he said, “except for the part about your father, for I had
nothing to do with his death. Despite my many faults, I am not a
cold-blooded assassin. Also, killing him was stupid and exceedingly
dangerous.” He shrugged. “But you don't wish to believe
that, because you are a hothead and must blame somebody. As to my
other 'crimes,' I cannot contradict you. I can only explain my
perspective. Sometime soon, I will do so, but not now. You are too
agitated to pay proper attention.”

“I
am not agitated! No man could be so calm in the circumstances. Also,
I very much dislike being humored as though I were a child
—
and
I am not a hothead!”

He
made a graceful, dismissive gesture. “Indeed you are
—
strong-willed, stubborn, and
bloodthirsty. It is very strange that I should want such a female,”
he said thoughtfully, “but so it has happened. It did not begin
so. All I sought at first was a hostage, to keep Jason quiet. Once he
was dead, you were of no use to me. Unfortunately, my cousin had a
whim to meet your companions. And so, in Tepelena, I was obliged to
feign passion. I do not recall me precise instant it ceased to be
feigning. I know only that when you raged at the pig English lord,
some poison must have entered my heart, for I grew very jealous. I
wished it were me you lashed with your cruel tongue. I wished I might
have the quieting of you, though I knew you meant to kill me.”

Esme
moved uneasily. He was lying, of course. He'd made off with her for
revenge and would, if he could, rape her for the same reason. All the
while his voice would remain sweet, gentle.

“You
don't believe me.” He gave her another faintly abashed smile.
“I do not believe it myself. I have been well-educated and do
not believe in demons, yet I find myself behaving as though I were
possessed. When you fled Tepelena, I knew if I pursued you, Ali would
have me followed—yet I could not stop myself. And so they
caught me and took me to Janina, where Ali's doctors began poisoning
me. By then, you see, he had learned somehow of my disloyalty. I lay
upon my lonely bed, dying by inches, and saw all my hopes destroyed,
because a woman had made me stupid and reckless.”