Secret Admirer Page 8

  She saw red, red everywhere: red upholstery, red apple, red roses, red spot of blood on her canvas. In that instant, shame burned away and became rage. She uncurled from the ball she had been in and sat up in bed.

  She would not let this happen again. She would not be another man’s pawn. This time she would not give in. She would leave London and find the killer and make him stop. Somehow she would free herself.

  Find herself.

  Ha ha ha the challenging laughter echoed in her head, mocking her resolve. You are a prisoner. The queen’s own guardsmen are standing outside your door.

  Damn the killer and damn Lawrence Pickering. There had to be a way—

  You keep your whore mouth shut or I’ll do the same to you as I did to him.

  —a way to escape them both.

  Or use them both.

  The thought and the answer came simultaneously.

  She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t keep her mouth shut. She would disobey the killer, make him come after her. Then, using the guards Lawrence Pickering had so kindly provided, she would trap him.

  And neither of them, not the killer, not Lawrence Pickering, would know what she had done.

  She had one errand to do in the morning, and then she would set her plan in motion. Feeling more optimistic than she had all day, she lay her head back onto the pillow. In less than three minutes she was asleep.

  The Lion separated himself from the shadows at the foot of her bed and inched toward her. His hungry eyes roamed her body as he moved, past a naked ankle, a bare wrist. Slowly he bent down until his face hovered right over hers, until he could taste her breath on his lips. Her night shift had come unknotted at the throat and exposed the W-like swell of her décolletage. His fingers ached to touch one of her breasts, to weigh it, to feel its yielding softness.

  There was no one outside to stop him. There was no one to interfere.

  Her heart could be his forever, with just four cuts.

  At seven o’clock the next morning, Tom stumbled into Lawrence’s office. The side of his face was bruised and he had a bump at the back of his head. In short mumbled sentences, he recounted how he had been knocked unconscious the previous night shortly after he assumed his post.

  Five minutes later, another guardsman arrived to say that Lady Tuesday Arlington was gone.

  Chapter 11

  “What do you mean, she disappeared?” Lawrence asked, his eyes blazing. “How the devil can a woman just disappear?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Tom mumbled. The side of his face was bruised and his jaw was swollen. “Knocked me out from behind just after you left, and I’m afraid I was unconscious for quite a while. It was light when I opened my eyes. She would have had plenty of time to get away.”

  Lawrence stalked back and forth across the length of his office as if he were measuring it for new rugs and wanted to be sure to get it just right. His mind was reeling.

  Tom was the only man actually watching the room, but there had been guards at all the doors. How had she gotten out?

  The answer to that question arrived a few minutes later. “Skylight,” Grub reported. “Didn’t know it opened. Goes out onto the roof and there’s a ladder nearby. From there she could have climbed down into the neighbor’s courtyard and sneaked out without us seeing. One of the servants, a Mr. Jenks, says he thinks he heard someone there about two hours ago.”

  Lawrence didn’t say anything, just nodded. “I want to see her maid, CeCe, and that artist, George Lyle. Now.”

  Two men evaporated from the office in search of them.

  Where the hell had she gone? The obvious answer was that she was meeting with someone she did not want them to know about. Maybe Curtis had left her some instructions to act on when he died, the names of people to get in touch with to continue his smuggling activities. Or maybe, despite all of Lawrence’s best instincts to the contrary, she really had been responsible for his death. Either way, her sneaking off to a clandestine meeting only confirmed that she knew more than she was telling. But not for long.

  “Grub, I want you to go back to her house and search her studio. I am looking for—wait,” Lawrence interrupted himself. He was remembering watching her the previous night, watching as she sketched. Or appeared to sketch. Then went to bed, brushing her work—“The settee. In the studio. There should be a paper underneath it. Bring it to me.”

  Grub was out the door before Lawrence finished his thought.

  Why had he moved the men outside her door? Damn damn damn.

  His pacing brought him to where Tom was propped in a chair. The boy looked terrible and Lawrence cursed himself for putting him in danger. Tom was one of his youngest men, but also his best. He had served him loyally in Spain and shown himself to be smart and brave. He did not deserve to be beaten up.

  “Tom, have Christopher show you to my apartment to clean up and rest. You should take the next few days off.”

  “If you please, sir, I would rather help. Unless you don’t think I am up to it.”

  Damn damn damn. “Of course I think you’re up to it, Tom. I just don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

  “Its not as bad as it looks, sir,” Tom assured him. Then, in a different voice added, “I want to get him. I want to make him pay.”

  Him, Lawrence thought grimly. Or her.

  The Lion had observed the activity at Pickering Hall with enormous amusement. All those men running around in search of Lady Arlington. He knew exactly where she was. He had followed her there that morning.

  The Lion had often thought his life would make a good book. One of those books that his grandmother liked, with knights that went around on adventures slaying other knights and dragons. He was like them. He slayed knights and dragons, too. One day he would slay the knight of all knights. Slay Our Greatest Hero. Would sneak up on him while he slept and run him through. Sweet dreams!

  It had been so hard to keep himself from killing her the night before. She had looked so perfect, so ripe. But he knew from his reading that something easily won was not worth having. There was so much more to do before he could have her, have her properly, the way he deserved to. Have her pure heart all for himself.

  She had been put there like that, at his fingertips, to tempt him, and it had almost worked, but he would not let anything turn him from his quest. He wasn’t a fool.

  Not like them. God they were idiots. They had found the clues he left for them at the other murder scene pretty fast, but they still had so much to learn. It was almost sad to see them trying so hard.

  He gave Pickering Hall one last lingering glance as he sauntered off. He would have liked to stay and watch them go in circles awhile more, but now he had work to do. It was time to start preparing the next adventure, the next chapter.

  He thought it could be called Rest in Peace. Or maybe Rest in Pieces.

  “If I were you, I wouldn’t move. Not unless you want to feel the point of my sword any deeper in your back.”

  Tuesday stood stock still.

  “Good,” the man’s voice said behind her. “Now turn around, slow like. And don’t think to try nothing funny because funny isn’t what I’m in the mood for at this time o’ the morning.”

  Tuesday turned and found herself staring into empty air. The top of the head of the man holding the sword did not begin until somewhere around her waist and it was speckled.

  “Yer a lass,” he announced, squinting at her.

  “Yes,” Tuesday agreed. She assumed it always paid to agree with men holding swords, even if they were only one half your height.

  “What’r you doing here then? Thieving, I suppose.”

  Why had she thought this visit to Curtis’s apartment was a good idea? That it was so important for her to see where he had spent his last months? She knew the answer. She was looking for a cue, a smell or an object, that would make her feel, would touch her.

  But there was something concrete she wanted as well. “I was loo
king for something. Something that is mine.”

  “And how would something that was yours come to be in a room I know you ain’t got no right being in?” he inquired cagily. “You ain’t Master Curtis nor his mistress neither.”

  “His mistress?” Tuesday heard the word and repeated it before it sank in.

  “Aye. Poor dear. They were going to be married soon. Pity ain’t it, him being dead and all. Still, she’s a fine woman and won’t have much trouble scaring up another husband.”

  That should have done it, should have stirred her, but it didn’t. She just felt numb. As if she were taking part in the conversation from a distance. She heard herself asking “When were they marrying?”

  “Soon as Curtis could get rid of his hag of a wife, he said. But I don’t know why I should be telling you anything, seeing as how you’re the one should be telling me things. Like starting with who you are.”

  “I’m, ah, Sir Curtis’s—” hag of a wife, hag of a wife, “—sister.”

  “Don’t look much like ’im.”

  “Half sister,” she corrected, her mouth working on its own. “I was looking for some jewelry that was our mother’s.”

  “Were you now?” The man was clearly not convinced. “What sort of jewelry?”

  “A necklace. It wasn’t very valuable, but my—our—mother loved it. It had a dragonfly pendant.”

  The man nodded slowly. “I seen that. He gave it to his fiancée that I told you about. Looks nice on her. Suppose she has as much right to it as you do.”

  That was when Tuesday realized it was not numbness she was feeling. Her brother had laid claim to every piece of their mother’s jewelry except an old dragonfly choker, because the choker had no real gems in it and not much gold. It was the only thing of their mother’s that Tuesday had and she treasured it as if it were one of the queen’s jewels. She would not even wear it for fear of losing it, the only link she had to her mother, a woman she barely remembered. But one day, after Curtis came home and found her painting when he had expressly forbidden her to, he had taken the necklace to punish her. “You’ll get it back when you learn to be good,” he’d promised.

  Tuesday’s fingers wrapped around the wrist of her right hand as she remembered that day. The necklace had not returned. She had not learned to be good enough for Curtis.

  Her mind clicked off facts. He had left her. He was going to marry someone else. As soon as he got rid of his hag of a wife.

  The bastard.

  The thought roared in her ears. No, it was not numbness she felt. It was pure, hot, unfamiliar rage.

  She had only once in the two years they had been married permitted herself to feel anything like that toward Curtis. She had always believed him when he told her it was her fault she got hit (If you’d do as you were told, I wouldn’t have to punish you), her fault they were broke (If you pleased me more I wouldn’t go out gambling), her fault they didn’t have children (If you behaved how you were supposed to, you’d be pregnant right now). She had always believed him when he told her she was lucky.

  Now she recognized that the anger she had persuaded herself she did not feel had not disappeared simply because she willed it to. Now she saw that she had been harboring it locked inside all along, a dangerous monster. Now that Curtis had taken away what was suddenly the only possession in the world she cared about, she felt it claw at her. Somewhere deep in her mind she might have realized that the necklace was just a catalyst, that what she was feeling went beyond that, expanded around that, but the wave of rage that surged through her washed all other thoughts away.

  The force of her anger terrified Tuesday. She struggled against it, pushing it back into its cage. This was not right, it was not acceptable to feel this way, good girls do what they are told, good girls never speak back, never shout, never wish their husbands dead.

  The lessons of a lifetime, learned across her father’s lap, came back to her, flooding her with voices, pinpricks of recollection. She was a bad girl.

  (Please, no, I am sorry, it won’t—)

  Bad girls deserve what they get.

  (It will be all right, dragonfly, don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you; mother will protect you. We will go away from here and nothing will ever be wrong again. Dennis, what are you—Dennis, NO—)

  Tuesday jolted herself out of the half memory. She was surprised to find she was trembling and it took her a moment to realize where she was.

  The short man, Curtis’s landlord, was standing in front of her. The sword had dipped slightly in his hand, but he was still regarding her skeptically. She should say something, but she had no idea what. “Thank you for letting me look around,” she blurted finally.

  “Had no choice in the matter, had I, since you invited yourself in.”

  Right. She had forgotten that part. “No, but I am sure you would have anyway.” She worked to muster up a smile. “Do you know where my brother’s fiancée lives? I would very much like to pay her a visit. To commiserate with her.”

  “Not sure exactly but expect she’ll be coming here to collect his things. If you leave me your address, I’ll tell her you was asking about her. She’ll come and see you if she wants to.”

  Deciding that it would be unwise to leave her real name, Tuesday gave the man CeCe’s and directions to Worthington Hall. Then she followed him down the stairs and left by the front door, which was quite a bit easier than climbing up the gutter pipe as she had to enter.

  She had the sensation of being hollow as she left. Someone had scooped out her insides and jumbled them around, so that long-suppressed memories and feelings were suddenly rattling around inside the shell of what had once been her. It was as though all the bolts that usually held her together inside had been loosened, or lost. She felt unfamiliar and out of control. She felt like she had nothing to lose. She felt dangerous.

  Just right for a meeting with Lawrence Pickering. Which, if her plan had worked at all, should be taking place—

  Clouds of dust. Horses whinnying. Coach door banging open. “Where the hell have you been, Lady Arlington?”

  —now.

  Chapter 12

  “Well?” Lawrence demanded, hauling her into the coach. “I’m waiting.”

  Something about his presence made Tuesday feel much better. It was not that, having bathed and changed from the previous day, he now looked every inch the heart-breakingly handsome earl of Arden. Nor was it that she had never seen lips or a chin—or eyes or a nose or forehead—quite like his before. Nor that he smelled like the woods in November. She noticed none of these things, and besides, she liked him more when he looked scruffier. What made her feel better was knowing what she was about to do to him.

  For her plan to work, she had to be kept well enough guarded to catch the killer when he came for her, preferably by Lord Pickering himself. The only way she could guarantee that she would get that much of his attention, she had surmised, was by keeping his suspicions of her alive, keeping him in a state of constant antagonism. As he sat across from her barking questions, she decided it was going to be a pleasure. “Good morning, Lord—Mr. Pickering. I trust you slept well.”

  “What the hell have you been doing?”

  “I did have pleasant dreams. I have not, however, breakfasted as there was something I wished to do first thing this morning, and I am quite hungry, so I would be delighted to accept your offer of a ride back to my house.”

  “We are not going back to your house. Now answer my questions.”

  “I believe I told you yesterday, Mister Pickering, that while I am happy to talk to you at length on a vast variety of subjects, questions from you of any type are decidedly unwelcome. Plus, you owe me an apology.”

  “You are insane, aren’t you?”

  “I wonder why your coach isn’t moving.”

  “Do you know how close you are coming to getting your neck wrung?”

  “Perhaps your coachman has fainted. I’ll go take a loo
k.”

  “My coachman is fine. You do realize you are under arrest, don’t you?”

  “Isn’t the weather lovely?”

  “Lady Arlington, if you—” Lawrence’s threat was cut off midstream by the arrival of one of his men.

  “These are her husband’s rooms,” the man reported. “Landlord said she must have sneaked in. Caught her looking around. Left this behind.” He handed the paper on which Tuesday had written CeCe’s name through the window.

  “Why did you—” Lawrence began, then stopped. “You gave a false name. I would like to know why.” Stated, not asked.

  Tuesday almost smiled. “It seems that my husband was engaged to marry someone else, as soon as he could get rid of his ‘hag of a wife.’ That is me. Naturally, I wanted to meet his bride to be, but I thought that if I left my real name she would be reluctant to come forward. You can understand how awkward that might be.”

  “That is the most preposterous thing I have ever heard.”

  “I suspect from what I have heard of your history, Lord Pickering, that is a great compliment.”

  “It’s true, sir,” the man who had produced the paper piped. “Landlord says Sir Curtis was engaged and that she was asking about it. Also about some necklace.”

  Lawrence returned his gaze to her. “I should advise you, Lady Arlington, that your life would be much more pleasant in the next few hours if you took greater pains to satisfy my curiosity as to why you came here in the first place.”

  “Isn’t it obvious? I was hoping to run into you.”

  “She’s only been here the last half hour, sir,” Lawrence’s helpful man put in then. “We still don’t know where she was for the hour before that.”

  Lawrence looked at her. She looked back at him. Finally he barked, “Where were you?”

  “Have you heard the riddle about the lettuce and the eel, Mr. Pickering?”

  “It would give me great pleasure to learn from your lips where the hell you’ve been.”