A Lady Never Lies (24 page)

“How am I to know that, Alexandra?” His hands dropped to idle at the base of her throat. “You’ve drawn me in until I’m your creature, your devoted fool. Have I, perhaps, been deceiving myself, all this time? Am I an idiot to think that the Marchioness of Morley would really fall in love with an Irish bastard, so obviously beneath her? That she would give up her title, her precedence, her place in London society?”

“You know that means nothing to me anymore. Finn, what is it? What have I done?” Tears began to well in her eyes, as she experienced a sense of something precious slipping away.

He said nothing, only went on examining her, thumbs stroking gently against her collarbone. As if he were waiting for her.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, to break the unbearable silence between them, but in that instant his hands froze on her skin.

“Finn?” Then she heard it, too: the swift snap of shoes against rock, the rattle of pebbles, a male voice raised in anger.

Finn took a step forward. Glass crunched beneath his foot.

“The limoncello! Are you all right?”

“Hush.” He dragged her flat against the side of the boathouse.

A masked woman flew by, dress fluttering in the moonlight, and disappeared into the trees nearby.

“Damn it, Abigail!” roared the male voice.

Stones scraped. From around the corner of the boathouse, a large figure loomed in pursuit against the silvery waters of the lake, scrambling barefoot over the rocks.

Stark and utterly naked.

“Wallingford!” Alexandra gasped.

He stopped and turned to them, male equipment swinging with the force of his movement. His trousers dangled from one hand. “Where did she go?” he roared.

Finn pointed. “Into the trees, old man. Right over there.”

Alexandra buried her face into his chest.

“And Wallingford?” Finn continued.

A clash of pebbles. “What the devil?” growled the duke, from somewhere behind her.

“Good luck, old chap.”

“Oh, bugger
off
, you goddamned Irish bastard.”

* * *

T
hey collapsed together against the side of the boathouse, helpless with laughter, tension dissolved for the moment. “Let me,” Alexandra said, and she fastened the buttons of his trousers, tucking him inside with a final pat. Then she reached up around his head, drew off his mask, and kissed him tenderly, his eyes and cheeks and nose and chin and lips.

“Alexandra,” he said at last, running his hand along the side of her arm, sending tingles running throughout her body, “you must tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“About all of this. About you, and me, and . . . and everything. You must trust me. Trust that I care for you, that I believe in you. That I’ll forgive you anything, because of that.” He was no longer stiff, no longer angry: only tender and anxious.

She swallowed. What could she say?
Oh, I started out spying on you, you see! Trying to see if I could glean some information to turn to my own profit! Rather rum of me, I admit, but I do have a sister to support, and a position to maintain, and all that.
Yes, he’d understand perfectly. “I’ve told you, Finn. I . . . I couldn’t admit to myself that I wanted you, that I wanted to know you better. I needed an excuse. But I’ve changed, Finn.
You’ve
changed me, and Italy, and being away from London. I’ve realized that all those silly trappings I’ve prized all my life are nothing, nothing at all, compared to this.” She reached up bravely to kiss him again, cradling his face against her palm. “This is what matters, Finn. This is all I care about. You, and my sister and cousin, and . . . if you’ll allow me, if you’ll let me prove myself to you . . .”

She felt his arm harden into steel around her. He scrambled upright, dragging her with him, and peered through the trees.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Oh, hell,” he said. He released her and sprang into a run. “Oh, goddamned
fucking HELL!
”

TWENTY-ONE

S
he pumped until her arms ached, filling bucket after bucket for Finn or Wallingford or Abigail to toss on the fire. No time to check its progress, no thought to anything but the cold stream of water into the next bucket, the wet slide of the pump handle under her fingers.

“That’s it,” someone said, a male voice, but she kept on pumping like an automaton, like Finn’s electric dynamo, because that
couldn’t
be it, she
wouldn’t
give up.

A hand gripped her arm. “Alexandra,” said Wallingford huskily, “it’s out. You can stop now.”

She looked at his hand and then at his face, grim and wet with sweat and water. His chest gleamed bare and white in the moonlight above the dark line of his hastily donned trousers. “It’s out,” he repeated.

She turned to the building, to the carriage house, Finn’s workshop, where she’d spent countless precious hours of toil and laughter and companionship. It still stood, of course, but its dun-colored stones had blackened with soot, and the window next to the long, narrow table had blown out. A great hole gaped through the roof tiles above.

“Where is he?” Her voice was raspy with effort and smoke.

“Inside.” His hand gave her arm a little squeeze. “I’m awfully sorry, Alexandra. We did the best we could.”

Gentle words. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard them from him. “Thank you,” she said, and covered his hand with hers.

Inside the building, the light was nearly gone, and the air was hot and damp and reeking of smoke. She could just make out Finn’s lanky figure near the cabinet, which still stood, though burned nearly to charcoal.

“Are you all right?”

He didn’t turn. “A bit singed here and there. The machine’s all right, thank God. I got it out before the fire reached it.”

She looked across the room to the carriage doors, which stood open to reveal the faint gleam of moonlight on metal, some twenty yards away.

With great care she stepped across the puddled floor to where he stood, sifting through the remains of the cabinet. “Oh, darling. Let me see you. Are you burned?”

“Quite all right, as I said. It’s the devil of a nuisance, though. The spare battery’s a complete write-off, I’m afraid, and all my equipment . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Do you know what started it?”

“The gas ring, I think. I must have left it on, though I can’t imagine how. The explosion’s what I saw through the trees, though again it’s not clear what set it off. The dynamo’s too far away for any stray spark to reach, and . . .”

She placed her arms around his waist. “Hush. You’re all right. That’s all that matters.”

“And the machine.”

Laughter choked her throat. “Yes, that, too, of course. It could have been much worse. We might have lost everything.”

He didn’t reply. His body was stiff and hot against hers, his jacket gone, his collar unbuttoned. Her eyes, accustomed to the darkness, began to pick out details: the black pit where the table used to be; piles of shattered glass and sooty shards of wood and metal; the gas canister poking through the rubbish, catching the faint gleam of moonlight through the blown-out window.

“The canister!” she exclaimed. “Thank God! It might have blown up everything!”

He shrugged. “There wasn’t much gas left, actually. No, it’s cursed bad luck, but you’re right. It might have been worse.”

“Darling. At least you weren’t inside when it happened.”

“If I’d been inside, it wouldn’t have happened.” His voice was flat, emotionless.

She drew back. “Don’t you dare blame yourself! It was an accident! It’s nearly midnight; you wouldn’t have been here anyway. You’d have been where you belong, in bed with me.”

He laughed. “Yes, you’re rather bad for my discipline, aren’t you?”

“Tell me what I can do to help. We’ve two weeks before the race. Surely we can build another battery.”

His body softened at last. His palm touched her cheek, warm and callused. “I’ll have to start by cleaning up. I won’t be able to properly assess the damage before daybreak, and then I’ll need to make a list of what’s needed and head into Florence.”

“I’ll help you clean up. We’ll get it all done tonight.”

His thumb stroked her cheekbone. “Go to bed, Alexandra. I’ll manage.”

“Not bloody likely.”

Footsteps sounded through the door. “I’ve stashed the buckets and swept up the glass outside,” said Abigail. “How are things in here?”

“Absolutely buggered,” Alexandra said cheerfully, stepping away from Finn, “but we’ll manage. The automobile’s all right.”

Wallingford spoke up. “Burke, old chap. What a damned nuisance. Are you all right? Anything I can do?”

“You’ve done more than enough, my friend.” Finn stepped through the puddles and grasped the duke’s hand. “I can’t begin to thank you.”

“You know damned well there’s no such thing as thanks between us.”

Something seemed to pass between the two of them, some bone-deep understanding. Alexandra watched in bemusement as Finn nodded, once, and dropped Wallingford’s hand. “I’ll just tidy up a bit. You head on back to the house and let the stable lads know. I shall require carts to haul off the rubble, that sort of thing.”

“Done.” Wallingford hesitated and turned to her. “Lady Morley?”

“I’ll stay and help,” she said, her voice clear and final. “But I’d be much obliged if you’d see my sister safely back to the house.”

“I should think I’d be much safer without his help,” muttered Abigail.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” muttered Wallingford.

When they left, she put her hands on her hips and looked at Finn with her most efficient expression. “Now, then. Is it safe to light the lamp?”

* * *

T
hey worked through the night. Together they sifted through the remains for anything salvageable and swept the rubble into piles outside the door, to be picked up in the morning.

Finn was exhausted. It showed plainly in his shadowed eyes, his bent shoulders. Near dawn, when the last whole object had been placed in the pile on the worktable, and the last shard of glass had been swept from the floor, she guided him to a chair. “Sit. I’ll bring you some water.”

“I’m all right,” he said. He placed his arms on the table and laid his head upon them, his hair tufted about his pale face.

She went outside to clean and fill a soot-streaked cup from the pump, and when she returned he had drifted to sleep. She sank into the chair next to him and watched him for a moment, in the light of the lamp. Watched his purple eyelids twitch with the force of his dreams, watched his incongruously long eyelashes shadow the skin of his cheekbones. Last night, in his room, he’d stretched his long body on the bed and talked with her about Hannibal—the women were working through Livy just now—and the route he’d taken through the Alps with his army and his elephants. “It must have been a good deal warmer back then,” he’d been saying, “for I’ve been through that pass in the summertime and I’ll be damned if I can see an African elephant making the journey.” She’d been lying on her stomach, watching him exactly as she did now, and she’d noticed at that precise moment, for the first time, the luxurious reddish curl of his eyelashes.
Do you know, you’ve got splendid eyelashes
, she’d said, and he’d turned to her with a rakish gleam in his eyes.
And have you only just noticed, darling?

Alexandra rose from the chair and went to the chest on the opposite wall, the undamaged wall. He kept blankets in there, mostly for protecting his automobile against the dust at night. She took out the blankets and arranged them on the floor.

“Come.” She laid her arm about his shoulder and urged him out of the chair. “Come and rest.”

He stumbled out of the chair and crashed atop the little nest onto his belly, his arms spread out on either side. A long, satisfied snore emerged from his nose. She smiled and slipped another blanket on top of him, and then she sat by his side and watched him sleep, her happiness like a giddy lemon-scented narcotic running through her blood.

* * *

F
inn woke as the first ghostly hint of dawn filtered through the open carriage doors and across his face. His brain spun heavily, groggily. Where the hell was he? What was going on?

Smoke. The smell of smoke.

Alexandra.

His eyes dropped down to the blanket next to him, where she curled in slumber, still dressed. In sleep her features took on a curious innocence, softened perhaps by the diffuse early light. He resisted the urge to trace his finger along the soot-smudged arch of her cheekbone, along the graceful line of her jaw. She needed to sleep. She’d labored at his side like a heroine last night.

Slowly, without really wanting to do it, he raised his head and cast his gaze about the workshop. It wasn’t as bad as he feared. Last night, the shadows had magnified the blackness and damage; now, with all the rubbish cleared away, the burns seemed superficial, the scorched furniture replaceable. His automobile, at least, was undamaged. The second battery might even be worth salvaging, on closer inspection. No, the damage wasn’t catastrophic. It could have been far worse.

He glanced back down at Alexandra and felt again that crashing wave of love, as strong as it had been last night, when she’d looked up at him beneath her feathered mask, her eyes returning the gleam of the moonlight.
You left before the dancing started
, she’d said, her voice lonely and hurt, and his every resolution had crumbled. In that instant, everything else had disappeared, and there was only Alexandra: brave, stubborn, resourceful, beloved Alexandra. And he would do anything for her. Would forgive her anything.

But could he trust her? She hadn’t admitted her involvement with Manchester Machine Works, though he’d given her every opportunity at the lakeshore. Why? Because she didn’t believe he’d understand? Or because her allegiance still lay with his rival?

No. She couldn’t be working for William Hartley. No one, man or woman, would have done what she had just now, putting out that fire, risking herself, if she were playing a part. No one could have loved him the way she had these past months, with her eager body and passionate kisses, if she were really false.

But he needed his every wit about him in Rome, and until he knew the truth, until she’d trusted him with her reasons, he couldn’t allow himself the distraction of her presence. It would be better that way. Cleaner, easier.

When he returned from Rome, they’d sort it all out. And in the meantime, he’d show her she could trust him with the truth. He’d show her just how much he’d do for her, just how much he loved her.

With great care he tucked the blanket around her and lifted her into his arms. So exhausted, so soundly asleep she was, she hardly stirred, only turned her face into his chest with a contented noise.

He carried her up the mist-shrouded terraces to the castle, where the trestle tables still sat on the flagstones outside. The door stood ajar; he pushed it open with his foot and made his way to the stairs. She opened her eyes, blinking sleepily. “The elephants are so lumpy,” she told him, and closed her eyes again.

The window in her room stood open, letting the cool dampness of dawn drift through the air. He tucked her in bed and closed the window. At the door he paused, letting his gaze travel around the room a final time.

She’d been profligate with the library. Books stacked about the room, Latin and English and Italian, with bits of notepaper sticking haphazardly between the bindings. On the dressing table sat a silver brush and comb, a hand mirror, a pitcher and basin, hairpins, an ivory box. She’d left the wardrobe door ajar, and he could just glimpse the clothes within, dark wools and brighter silks and something that might have been the blue frock she’d worn to his workshop that first morning.

He imprinted it all on his memory: the room, the objects within; Alexandra herself, lying on the bed, her face turned at an angle and her chestnut hair spread in dark waves across the whiteness of her pillow.

At last he turned to leave, and walked straight into the naked chest and wild-eyed face of Lord Roland Penhallow.

“Good God! Penhallow! What is it?”

Lord Roland clutched him by the shoulders. “Have you seen her?”

“Seen whom?”

“Lilibet! Lady Somerton!”

“No, I haven’t. Not since last night. What’s the matter?”

Lord Roland shook his head and ran the length of the hall to disappear down the main staircase, his bare feet slapping against the old stones like a rifle tattoo.

The whole damned castle had gone mad.

* * *

F
inn worked fast, packing up his trunks and preparing the automobile for the journey to Rome. Around seven o’clock that morning, Giacomo appeared at the carriage doors with carts and men, and Finn helped them load and secure the machine and its accessory parts while the sun rose hot above the trees and burned the mist from every corner of the terraces.

“I shall take the train from Florence,” he told Giacomo, “so your men should return by tomorrow if all goes well. Keep a sharp eye on things while I’m gone. Other than the roof repairs, no one’s allowed in the workshop.”

Giacomo’s eyebrows lifted. “But Lady Morley?”

Finn hesitated for only an instant. “Lady Morley’s allowed, of course.”

“You are not perhaps thinking she made the fire?”

“Rubbish. Of course not. You’re to give her this letter, when she emerges this morning. I daresay she’ll be a bit cross that I’ve left, but I’ve tried to explain . . .” He thrust the envelope at Giacomo’s unwilling chest. “Well, take it, in any case.”

Giacomo plucked it gingerly from Finn’s hand, as he might extract a snake from its basket.

“Don’t fail me, Giacomo. You must promise me scrupulously you’ll give it to her. None of your tricks.”

Giacomo sighed. “I make the promise. I give the letter.”

Finn swung aboard the cart, next to the driver. “Right-ho. I’ll return in three weeks. Do endeavor to make yourself more charming in the meantime.”

The cart rolled away, just as the clock in the village tolled nine o’clock, and the men tying back the vines in the fields paused for a drink of water.