Written on Your Skin (18 page)

“Sharp words,” he said. “Cleverly spoken. But if I’m the idiot, Miss Masters, then why am I the one holding the key?”

“Ah.” Her appearance of good humor faded. “For the same reason my mother stared out the window, I expect. She has a great love of nature, Mama does. It’s been decades since she left England, and she still talks constantly of the green fields, the streams, and the forests. But when she looked out the window in Hong Kong, or New York, or Singapore, what did she see? Everything you have done to it. The asphalt men have laid over the grass, the waterways they’ve redirected, the trees they’ve turned into hovels, every manipulation and modification and improvement that suits their shortsighted desires. Of course you have the key, Ashmore. Even when it comes to the arrangement of pens, you like to be in control.” She smiled. “Don’t forget to lock the door when you leave.”

And then she walked into her bedchamber, and shut the door.

He stood there, wrestling down an anger that seemed as damning as her little speech—which grated him, no doubt beyond her wildest hopes. He took no pleasure in imprisoning or managing anyone. This imprisonment was not by his desire, but by necessity.

But the thought echoed unpleasantly in his brain, magnifying his hypocrisy until he could not avoid facing it. Of all men, he knew how bitterly it burned a soul to be deprived of choices. And yet, even as he gloated over his own new freedom and loathed Ridland for attempting to infringe on it, he told himself he had no choice but to keep her like this. Sanburne was not the only one who had a right to mock him.

He locked the door behind him, all right. Objectively, his guilt was irrational; it seemed clear that his thoughts were not functioning properly. By her own actions, she had proved herself untrustworthy.

But when he had walked far enough down the hallway to get free of the witchcraft she’d worked in that scented little room, the uppermost feeling that replaced it was not anger, but amazement. She was the prisoner, but she had managed to dismiss him as effectively as a queen.

At best, he should be amused by her. This admiration was entirely unwelcome.

Chapter Eight

The next morning, Mina was wakened by a sound in her sitting room. She rushed to the doorway quickly enough to see the maid slip a key into her pocket as she stepped inside. Sally, her name was. She was Mina’s new friend, even if she didn’t realize it yet. “Good morning,” Mina said brightly.

The maid gasped and nearly dropped the tray she held. She was a skinny thing, bred on thin gruel and a weak English climate, and her mobcap wanted to escape. She set the food on a sideboard and clutched at her cap, white-faced, as she sank into a curtsey. Trust the English to demand groveling where a simple Good morning would serve.

“None of that,” Mina reminded her. “As I said yesterday, a nod will do.”

After a moment, the girl nodded, slowly and deliberately. “I’ve brought your breakfast.” The door behind her began to open, and she slapped a palm against it. “Hold!” she called, surprisingly authoritative. “Mum—I mean, miss—that’s the footmen. They’ll be fetching in the rest of your luggage.”

“Oh, excellent.” She was worried about her oils. She’d packed them very carefully, but she did not put it beyond Ridland to smash them for spite. She waited expectantly, but Sally remained frozen in her guardian posture. As the moment lengthened, the maid’s expression took on an anguished cast. “Won’t you let them in?” Mina asked, puzzled.

“Um—” The maid cleared her throat. “I expect you wouldn’t want them to see your…your nightclothes, miss.”

“Oh.” Mina glanced down at herself. The robe Sally had provided more than covered her. But for the sake of the maid’s nerves, she retreated into the bedchamber and closed the door.

The room seemed to shrink around her. Waiting was her particular strength, but she had felt it faltering last night in this pretty, perfumed prison. She had to get out of here. Today, somehow, she would.

She crossed to the window. She had not lied to Ashmore; the view fascinated and depressed her. The little garden below was walled in by oak trees. A gridded path segmented it into perfect squares. Severely trimmed shrubbery emphasized the linear dominion, marching in rows around boxed-in plots of flowers that hunkered obediently beneath the strengthening sun. It was no garden for dreaming or romance; rather, it offered a study in the taming of wayward whims.

She almost preferred the view from Ridland’s. Almost, but not quite. For a full day now, she had puzzled over Ashmore’s behavior in his study. It seemed to her more and more likely that he was no friend to Ridland. That letter she’d found had not been written in support of the man. And when she had asked him whether he still worked for Ridland, his phrasing had suggested hostility.

She was going to trust him, she decided. If the decision did not feel wholly right, then the sight of the rising sun reminded her that she had no choice. Another day begun, and soon to pass. When there was no choice, one could not properly think of risks, only necessities. Some stupid part of her had wanted to trust him from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. Necessity would compel her to indulge her stupidity.

A knock came at the bedroom door, and Sally’s voice announced the departure of the footmen. Mina emerged to discover that her trunks were bound in cord differently colored from that which Tarbury had used. Ridland had gone through her things, and he wanted her to know it.

He’d found nothing of interest. All the same, the sight made her queasy. One step forward, two steps back. She’d felt very clever, getting away from him. But with a simple switch of cord, he had sent her a message: she was still under his watchful eye.

“I’ll get to the luggage next, miss.” Sally was uncovering dishes; the smell of fried eggs and butter wafted over, rich and stomach-turning. Mina had no appetite. If Ashmore did not require money and would not listen to reason, then there was only one thing she could trade him. Was she willing? Her body’s answer was immaterial. Her brain recognized that only a most rigid and tyrannical person would trim his hedges into the shape of cubes.

On the ottoman beside her trunks sat a small enamel case, familiar and heartening. She sank to the carpet to open it. A muffled noise came from above; when she looked up, she had the impression that Sally had just turned away from gawking.

Ah. She was still in her nightclothes.

Or perhaps it was because she was sitting on the floor.

She returned her eyes to the latch. It was tricky, requiring a patient hand. “I had a very unusual childhood, you know. My father was a banker, but when I was six, he decided that he should start his own trading company.”

“Yes, miss.”

“We traveled a great many places when I was growing up, looking for things he might buy and then sell at a profit back in the United States.” She opened the lid carefully. The padded compartments held the vials of essential oils that she’d carted from New York to tempt investors. “India, Ceylon, even Africa—we went everywhere.” She liked to think that she’d inherited Papa’s daring. Better yet, she’d made good on ambitions that had disappointed him. She was no fragile piece of porcelain any longer; if someone tossed her out of the china cabinet, she had more than a meager inheritance to bank on. In New York, she thought blackly. Here, she might as well be flotsam, for how easily these men were tossing her around. She drew a breath and schooled her thoughts. “I suppose I picked up all manner of strange habits,” she finished casually. A glance showed Sally was watching her. She clambered back to her feet and carried the case to the center table. The sight of her oils made her feel much better. She could easily tolerate the smell of breakfast now.

The maid stepped back as she arranged the vials on the table. “This is jasmine,” Mina said, lifting a bottle of violet glass. “Do you like that scent?”

“Yes, miss.”

“You don’t sound certain. Here—smell it.” She popped out the stopper and held it toward the maid.

Sally’s gaze switched suspiciously between Mina and the vial. Finally, her shoulders slumping, she leaned forward. Perhaps she had decided that mad American whims must be tolerated as part of her duty. “It’s very nice, miss,” she said obediently.

Mina reached for another. “And this one.” She unstoppered the vial and held it out. “What do you think?”

Sally pushed up her mobcap with a rough and reddened hand. “That one’s just lovely,” she said with real enthusiasm. “What’ll that be? Something with roses?”

“No, it’s gardenia.” Mina held up the glass, admiring the clarity of the oil in the electric light. Something brushed past her ankles; Washington had come out from his lair beneath the bed. She bent to pet him but he sidestepped, darting forward to snake around Sally’s feet. The perverse creature! He deliberately ignored her. “I hate you,” she said.

Sally jumped. “Pardon, miss?”

“The cat.” Mina felt her own cheeks warm. “I do not like my cat.”

“Oh!” Sally looked down, as if only now taking note of her new admirer. She reached down to scratch the cat, and he stretched and preened beneath her hand. Traitor, Mina thought. She would change his name to Benedict immediately.

She cleared her throat. “I’ve agreed to supply some of my oils to Whyllson’s in exchange for their English lavender. Lavender is all the rage in America at present, but we don’t have any reliable production yet. I did try some from California, but the quality was shoddy. That’s what distinguishes Masters hair tonic, you know—the quality of our ingredients.” She caught herself; this was perilously close to a lecture. Sally, bless her heart, was nodding along as though it interested her.

“What terrible trouble for you, miss. Traveling all the way to England for lavender! Why, I can get that for a few pence at the apothecary down the lane!” She looked over the bottles on the table, then glanced anxiously toward the door. “Shall I leave you in peace, miss?”

“No,” Mina said quickly. The last thing she wanted was to be alone and locked in. The passage of time would scrape on her nerves. She cast about for some reason to detain the girl. “Would you like to keep this one?” She pressed the vial into the maid’s hand. When Sally looked hesitant, she added, “Lord Ashmore need not know, of course.”

The girl was torn; her teeth worried her lip, but her fingers closed over the bottle. “His lordship is very kind,” she said softly.

“Oh, yes,” Mina agreed. “And so imaginative.” Sally looked uncertain whether she should agree to this; how fortunate for her that she’d had no cause to experience that aspect of Ashmore’s personality. “Perhaps you should smell all the bottles,” Mina suggested. “Pick the one you like best. It would be very useful to know what appeals to English ladies.”

The maid blushed, then ducked her head and nodded.

“Excellent. And I shall continue unpacking my things.” She dismissed the maid’s protests with a shrug. “Foreign ways, as I said. I’d like to do it myself. Some of the contents are breakable.”

Foreign ways made Sally shake her head in astonishment. But as Mina knelt by a trunk, she heard the telltale sound of a stopper clicking in the neck of a bottle. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Sally was brushing wistful fingertips across the bottles arranged on the table, her lips moving soundlessly as she read each label. Every few seconds, though, she interrupted her inspection to dart a nervous glance at the closed door. Perhaps she’d heard tell of Ashmore’s irritation the night before last, when he’d escorted her back from his study.

From now on, Miss Masters, locked doors stay locked.

But Sally had the key.

On a deep breath, she lifted the lid of one trunk. What on earth? She lifted out a globe, frowning at it for a moment before she replaced it and searched for the luggage tag.

MISS L. SHELDRAKE, it read. “This is not my trunk.”

“What?” Sally hastily replaced a vial. “What’s that?”

She tilted the tag for the maid’s inspection. “It belongs to a Miss Sheldrake.”

“Oh, Lord! That’ll be his lordship’s guest. What a mix-up!”

“Guest?” Here was news. “An unmarried guest?”

“Oh, no, miss, nothing like that,” Sally assured her. “It’s very respectable. She’s paying a call with her mother. They…” Turning a dull red, she shut her mouth—perhaps recalling too late that she spoke to Miss Masters, who had not arrived accompanied by a chaperone.

Mina almost reassured her. But perhaps the maid would be more shocked if she learned her temporary mistress had no interest in respectability. A pristine reputation was an asset only for women who desired husbands. For those who cherished their freedom, it could prove a liability beyond measure. “Foreign ways,” she said gently.

“Foreign ways, miss.” Sally sounded mournful.

Respectability did have its vicarious uses, though. In this case, upstanding houseguests would serve her well. Such women tended to frown on living down the hall from a prisoner. She would have to meet these new arrivals and make them very aware of her presence. If the encounter occurred in Lord Ashmore’s company, he could not even accuse her of breaking his edict.

To sum it up, Miss Masters, the guiding philosophy is this: I will know your location at all times.

“What a masterful example of chiaroscuro,” Miss Sheldrake said, gesturing toward the painting over the mantel. “His face emerges from the shadows like truth itself. And note how his hand rests on the scales of justice.”