The Love List (32 page)

Finger combing her hair, she tucked it back up as best she could.  She dressed quickly, managing, with some creative contortioned poses, to get about half of her buttons done up.  Her body felt . . . different.  Just a little sore, perhaps.  Flushing, she touched her lips, knowing that she was going to look a disheveled mess despite her efforts.  Ah, well.  Looking a woman well loved could only fit in with her plans tonight.

  She looked toward the door.  Was Aldmere working?  Reviewing his strategy for meeting Marstoke?  And wasn’t she just a woman of the world, contemplating the confrontation between her lover and her former betrothed? 

Lover.  It felt daring just thinking the word.  But it also felt right.  They were lovers.  Partners.  It felt a miracle.  Amazing, that they’d fought their way past strife and scandal, over opposite situations and seemingly insurmountable emotional barriers to come together.  She blushed, but she had no doubt.  Aldmere hadn’t taken everything they had just done lightly.  He’d stretched past his boundaries, reaching for her.  What lay ahead of them would not be easy, but they’d come too far to fail now.  They would work together to free Lord Truitt, defeat Marstoke and forge a path, together, into the uncertain future. 

Hurrying, she stepped into her shoes.  Now that her body was sated and her heart full, her mind had begun to race.  She reached for the door, eager to tell Aldmere—

She stopped.  The knob had stuck.  She rattled it, impatient to discuss tonight’s various strategies—

The knob wasn’t stuck.  She rattled it again, harder.

Locked.  The door was locked.

Her mind blanked.  No.  No.  It was a mistake.  Her fists clenched.  Aldmere would never do such a thing.

Striving for calm, she knocked on the door.  “Aldmere,” she called.  “Help me out, if you would.  The door has stuck.”

No answer.

She knocked again, loud and long.  “Aldmere?”  She swallowed.  “Nathan?”  Laying her head against the door, she increased her volume.  “Is anyone out there?  Someone?  I need assistance!”

She listened.  Called again.  No answer.  No footsteps.  No hurrying of servants.  There must be dozens of them in the house.  Surely someone had heard her, even back here. 

Inspiration struck and she hurried back to pick up her cloak.  But she knew as soon as she lifted it clear of the sofa—the pistol Hestia had tucked in her pocket with a whispered warning was gone.

She knew, then.  The old panic rushed her.  Knocked her backward with the strength of its return, reached down her throat and stole her breath.  Her chest wouldn’t move, wouldn’t draw in the air she needed.  She was helpless once more, consumed by that cold knot of terror that she’d thought she’d banished forever. 

She fought to breathe.  To move.  Light.  She needed light.  The shadows were thickening, which only fueled her sense of fear and urgency.  She forced her limbs to move, her feet to take one step and then another.  Crossing to the desk, she reached for a lamp—and froze at the sight of a paper propped there.

Snatching it up, she held it up to catch the dim light.

I know.  I’m sorry.  But I think of you hurt—or worse . . . and I know that is a price I cannot pay.

Numb, she stared at the thing.  Then she balled it up and cursed as she threw it into a corner.

It didn’t help.  How could he have done it?  Aldmere was the one—the one who would have known how this would hurt.  He’d led her along, giving her a glimpse here and a peek there, then tonight he’d opened the door wide and shown her what it truly meant to dream.  He’d let her have a good long look at everything she’d ever wanted—trust, respect, partnership and passion—only to slam the door closed again.  This was betrayal as thorough as her father’s, bullying as heinous as Marstoke’s.

She sank down onto the floor next to the desk and began to sob.  Wracked with pain and sorrow and a burning foolishness, her sobs welled from the sort of loneliness she hadn’t felt since those first, ugly days at Hestia’s.

The comparison was enough to shock her back to her senses.  Gradually, she came back to herself.  Gathering the shattered pieces of her heart, she stuck them back together with fury.  Replaced vulnerability with anger, helplessness with determination. 

She wasn’t the same girl she’d been back then.  She was stronger now, and far more independent.  Most importantly, she’d acquired some unusual knowledge along with her new fortitude.

Scrambling up to search the desktop, she found what she needed—a long thin letter opener.  Reaching for the pins in her hair, she scrambled over to kneel before the door.  Yes.  She bowed her head a moment and sent up silent thanks.  This lock was similar enough to the ones at Craven Street.  She could open it.  She set to work.

It was a tedious process.  She pressed her forehead to the door, manipulated the pins with small, delicate movements and let her mind wander.  It kept coming back to one particular thorn.

Something felt wrong about this officious move of Aldmere’s.  Not only because he would have understood that he was stealing the freedom she’d fought for and given up so much for, but also because locking her away felt like something contrary to his nature. 

She paused in her work, holding her pins quite still.  That was it.  This was exactly what he’d hung back from, what he’d cautioned her against, what he’d been reluctant to do.  He’d interfered.  He’d meddled.

She blinked.  She wasn’t the only one who had changed.  It had taken a monumental shift for him to come to her tonight.  She’d known it, but hadn’t understood how tremendous a step it would be until he’d told her Bard’s story.  She’d been so proud of Aldmere and thrilled for them both, that he could embrace such a change. 

Yet perhaps this was something elemental in him that had stayed the same. 
That is a price I cannot pay.

He’d been gifted with so much, given power and wealth that other men dreamed of, but every blessing had come with a hard price.  He spoke of the path he’d been set upon and of being punished for straying off of it. 

She started maneuvering pins again in earnest.  She had to get out.  She’d made the decision not to live in fear when she’d left Marstoke and her home behind.  She’d reaffirmed it last night when she’d gathered the courage to ask Aldmere for all that she wanted.  She had to show him that he could not lock her away for fear of losing her.  He’d trusted her good sense and judgment so far.  If they had any chance of being together, he must continue to do so.

He had to know that he was not going to lose her.  Not as a punishment.  Not as a trick of Fate.  Not even as a result of his own idiocy.

Ah.  She lifted the top pin slightly.  The lock clicked.  The study beyond lay empty, but the door into the passage was locked as well.  Determination burning in her breast, she knelt and began again.

Twenty

There was more bad news.  My marriage was a sham.  Lord M—, disguised, had posed as the vicar.  He was entirely pleased at having pulled the wool over my eyes.  I was utterly ruined, he informed me.  Entirely at his mercy.

—from the journal of the infamous Miss Hestia Wright

Aldmere leaned against the warm brick of the tobacconist’s shop.  Located on Theobald’s Road, it gave him a decent view down Harpur Street.  The West End glowed rosy in the setting sun’s light, even as the shadows lengthened their reach.  He waited, mentally caressing all the figures in this complicated chess match, each possible move and probable outcome shimmering in his mind like shifting roads on a map.  Around him the streets grew busy, but in all the time he watched there was no activity in the brown-bricked house where Tru kept rooms.

He pushed away from the wall.  No one lingered about.  He’d noted no telltale twitch of curtains in the surrounding buildings.  It didn’t keep the back of his neck from tingling with awareness.  Someone nearby watched him, likely through the iron sights of a weapon.

Keeping his stride casual, he made his way to the home and entered.  Tru’s landlord lived in the set of rooms to the right, with his door near the main entrance and his wall fronting the stairs so that he missed no one’s comings and goings.  Aldmere had never entered the place without the man accosting him from the stairwell above or poking his head out of his rooms in greeting, but tonight the entry lay silent, the passages empty. 

Tru’s rooms lay on this floor as well.  As Aldmere moved toward the door beyond the stairs to the left and in the back, he saw that it had been left opened wide.  Easing up to the threshold, he paused to take in the scene.

Everything inside was as neat as a pin.  He could discern no sign of Gorman, or of the footman he’d sent over earlier.  Only a straight-back chair had been moved from Tru’s desk to the center of the room.  In it, comfortably ensconced, sat the Marquess of Marstoke.

“Good evening, your Grace.”  The marquess’s leg rocked casually as he raised a brow.

Aldmere didn’t answer.  Instead, he stalked forward and tossed the List onto the arm of a settee, well within Marstoke’s reach.

Marstoke leaned forward and snatched it up.  A thin smile spread across his face as he leafed through the battered pages.  “Ah, very good.  You’ve brought it all, even the bits about that viper Hestia and her nest of whores.”  He looked up and met Aldmere’s eye.  “A bit of my own work, that.  A fine bit of tongue-in-cheek prose and close enough to your brother’s style, but done in my own hand for all of that.”  He shook his head.  “Not the sort of thing to trust to one’s secretary, you know.”

“Treason generally is not.  Did you also author the slander against the Princess of Wales?”

Marstoke’s hand stopped ruffling the pages.  “I did.  So you understand why I could not allow this manuscript to rest in anyone else’s hands.”  Deliberately slow, he stacked the pages neatly and set the List on his thigh.  “I knew I liked you, Aldmere.”  His eyes narrowed a fraction.  “I have no liking, however, for the mess you have made.  You and your brother have become unexpected and unwelcome thorns in my side.”

“I am inordinately glad to hear it.”

“You should not be glad.  Thorns are usually plucked out and tossed aside, you see.”  His face darkened.  “Lord Truitt has been especially troublesome, since the day he first stumbled into my scheme and felt it necessary to play the knight in shining armor to that damned Russian chit’s damsel in distress.  But then, I thought I had found the perfect use for him.  It all would have been so easy, had he only listened.  I wouldn’t have had to sully my hands at all, would he just have cooperated and written what he was told.”  He waved an impatient hand.  “Even when he might have inadvertently helped my cause, he managed to make a mess of it.”

Aldmere nodded.  Certain mysteries were becoming clear now.  “He might have destroyed both of those manuscripts.  Instead he burned his own copy.”

“Yes, leaving this one missing.  He proved stubborn about it too, seriously compromised my schedule and forced me to come here and meet with you tonight, this very busy and important night.”

Tonight?  Then Joe Watts had been right after all.  Aldmere’s gut tightened.  He hoped like hell that Flemming and the boy had accomplished their mission.  “I hate to disappoint you, Marstoke, but I fear there will be nothing special about tonight.  Your plot is uncovered.”

The marquess smiled.  “You made that clear already.”

“Your wisest course would be to hand Tru over and leave while it is still possible.”

Marstoke inclined his head.  “I do thank you for your concern, but it is no matter.  Events have been set in motion.  There is no stopping it now.”  He patted the List.  “And no connecting me to it, now, either.”

“Don’t be foolish, man.  It’s all found out.  If you didn’t have Tru in your pocket, you’d have been taken already.”

“It’s a magnificent bluff, Aldmere, but it won’t work.”

“I’ve been in possession of the List—the full List—for nearly twenty-four hours.  Don’t you think I’ve had a dozen copies made and shown it to half of London?”

Marstoke laughed, his face shining with delight.  “I’ve never seen a better entrance into the game, Aldmere.  Oh, I am going to enjoy playing against you.”

He clenched his fists.  “I just want my brother.  I’m not here to play games.”

All the light abruptly vanished from Marstoke’s countenance.  “It’s too late to play the fool, Aldmere.  It’s what we’re all here for, you see—a vast and wonderful game we are all engaged in.  Everyone has their part to play.”

Shaking his head in denial, Aldmere crossed to his brother’s bookshelves.

Undeterred, Marstoke continued.  “It is true that most people are not aware.  The majority of them act only as pawns—pieces to be moved and used at will.  Only a select number can be true players, those few with the wit and discernment to see the beauty of the play in motion.”

The marquess uncrossed his legs.  Leaning back in the chair, he hooked an arm around the back of it.  Aldmere had to swallow an urge to wipe away the smug look of measurement the man raked over him.

“Your brother is a pawn,” Marstoke said abruptly.  “He stumbled into the game and failed to recognize what was happening around him.  Initially, I thought to teach him, but he clung with tiresome thoroughness to antiquated notions.  So, a pawn he will stay and I intend to use him thusly.”

Aldmere leaned against the bookcase.  “You begin to bore me, my lord.  It’s your own stubborn refusal to listen that grows tiresome.  Your game is over.  You’ve lost.  The Home Office waits on my word.”  He ran a casual finger over a fat, vaguely Grecian looking urn. “You’ve two choices left to you now.  The first I offer only out of deference to your rank.  You may turn Tru over and head for the nearest port.  Or you may delay here a while longer and see tomorrow’s dawning from gaol.”