Anne Stuart (18 page)

“
I hadn’t noticed,” she said, rising and moving over to examine the floral tribute through her nearsighted eyes. She recoiled in horror. The blooms were ugly—overblown almost to the point of rot, with deep reds and purples that looked like blood. The smell was thick and cloying as well. She took a step backward, unaccountably shaken.

“
They’re ghastly,” she said in a flat voice. “What makes you think they’re for me?”

“
They arrived while I was breakfasting with Killoran. He looked quite pleased when he read the note, which surprised me. There’s bad blood between the two of them, something that goes way back. I wouldn’t have thought he’d be happy to have his old enemy sending flowers to his sister.”

“
I’m not his sister,” she said through gritted teeth, resisting the impulse to knock the flowers onto the floor. Now that she’d noticed it, a noxious odor seemed to permeate the room, and she couldn’t rid herself of the absurd notion that those overblown flowers seemed somehow evil.

“
It’s a losing battle,” Nathaniel remarked. “So what did you think of him?”

“
What did I think of whom?”

“
Don’t be deliberately dense, Emma. I know only too well what you think of Killoran.”

“
I’m glad you do, because I am not in the slightest bit certain.”

“
You’re in love with him, just as all the ladies are.” Nathaniel couldn’t control the bitterness in his voice. “Women are fickle creatures, valuing danger and the lure of a rake above decency and honorable intentions.”

“
I don’t think Lady Barbara is in love with him, Nathaniel,” Emma said gently.

“
And who’s talking about Lady Barbara?” he shot back, affronted.

“
You are.”

Silence reigned for a few moments, while Emma contemplated the impossible hand fate had dealt her, and presumably Nathaniel did the same. “You said you can’t dance?” he said suddenly. “How can that be?”

“
Killoran seemed just as surprised. Not everyone has the elegant upbringing you two had.”

“
I doubt Killoran’s was terribly elegant, given the state of Ireland and his own inheritance,” Nathaniel observed wryly. “His father inherited the title late in life, and his mother was a Catholic. As it was, they didn’t have long to enjoy themselves. Bad trouble there, or so my father told me.”

“
But—”

“
Killoran wouldn’t like me gossiping, and I’m not in the mood to let him run me through,” Nathaniel said, abruptly changing the subject. “Put your tea down, Emma, and come with me. I’ll teach you to dance.”

“
I don’t want to—” She wasn’t even able to finish her sentence before Nathaniel had whisked the cup out of her hand, caught her wrist, and dragged her from the room. She followed, not out of docility but curiosity.

She’d never noticed the ballroom on the third floor. Nathaniel pushed open the doors, and she stepped inside, momentarily astonished.

Obviously the rest of the exotic, elegant house had once looked like this. The walls were water-stained and shabby, the parquet floor worn and scarred. The room was dark—the skylight overhead let in the murky light of a late winter afternoon, and the sconces on the walls held only the occasional candle stub.

In one far corner stood an old clavichord, its painted sides faded with age and stained with damp. Chairs lay haphazardly here and there, as if tossed about by a giant in a rage, and the huge fireplaces at either end of the vast room were cold and dead.

“
Why hasn’t this room been redecorated?” Emma asked, moving across the floor toward the clavichord, drawn by emotions she couldn’t begin to fathom.

“
Killoran won the place from a young sprig of the aristocracy,” Nathaniel said, following her, his feet scuffing the dust-bedecked floor. “The boy had just come into his very sizable inheritance and was in the midst of fixing this house up when he had the bad luck to meet Killoran. It was only a matter of time before young Whitten had no house, no fortune, and indeed, no future.”

“
No future?” She paused at the clavichord, glancing at him. She’d tied her hair back with a simple ribbon; despite the variety and luxury of the black-and-white wardrobe with which Killoran had provided her, it came unequipped with anything to fasten her hair. She’d had to snip a piece of trim off one of her new dresses.

“
He killed himself, poor boy. Couldn’t face the disgrace, I suppose. Needless to say, society blamed Killoran, and made it clear he’d have no need to refurbish a ballroom.”

“
Oh, the poor man,” she said in a hushed voice.

“
Some might say it was his own fault, for gaming with Killoran in the first place,” Nathaniel said idly.

“
I don’t mean Whitten. I mean poor Killoran,” Emma corrected him. “It is scarcely his fault that he has the devil’s own luck with cards.”

“
In this case, I rather believe it was dicing,” Nathaniel said. “Give me your hand.”

Emma regarded him suspiciously. “Why?”

“
So I can show you how to dance. We’ll start with a simple quadrille, I think. You’re naturally quite graceful, so I imagine you’ll pick it up rather quickly.”

“
I’m not sure…”

“
Come on, Emma,” he said, sounding rather like a bossy older brother. “I’m not going to bite you.” And he took her hand, drew her out toward the center of the room, and began to hum under his breath.

Unfortunately, he was completely tone-deaf. The sounds emanating from him had nothing to do with music whatsoever, though at least the rhythm was fairly decent. Emma moved as he did, mirroring each graceful step to the best of her ability, and wondered what it would be like to dance with Killoran.

“
What in God’s name are you doing?” Lady Barbara’s voice carried from the doorway, arch with amusement. Nathaniel dropped Emma’s hand with unflattering haste, and even in the dim light Emma could see the faint stain of color on his cheekbones.

“
Emma doesn’t know how to dance,” he said with a trace of defensiveness in his voice. “I was endeavoring to teach her.”

Lady Barbara sailed into the ballroom. She was dressed in bright teal, her skirts so wide they filled the doorway, her powdered hair carefully dressed. She had a beauty mark placed enticingly at one corner of her full mouth, and another just above her décolletage. Emma thought she could hear Nathaniel’s heart grind to a halt, but Lady Barbara was intent on other things. She was shorter than Emma, more delicately made, and when she came right up to her, she had to tilt her head back, a smile tinged with malice on her lovely face.

“
You look none the worse for wear, my dear,” she said frankly, letting her blue eyes trail down Emma’s statuesque form. “We haven’t met formally, but I’m so fond of Killoran that I feel any sister of his is a sister of mine as well.”

“
I’m not his sister,” Emma replied helplessly.

“
Yes, he told me you’d say that,” Lady Barbara said. “And since I’m the one who brought you to his attention, I’m perfectly willing to believe that. But the rest of polite society won’t. The more you deny it, the more certain they’ll be that it’s true. If I were you, my dear, I’d cease protesting. Simply smile mysteriously, and that will start their doubts.” She turned to Nathaniel, and Emma could feel his temperature rise several degrees.

“
You’re a lamentable teacher, Nathaniel,” she said sternly. “But a very graceful dancer. Perhaps Emma will play for us and we can give her a demonstration. You do play, don’t you? Or has that part of your education been lacking as well?”

“
I play,” Emma replied, not certain what she thought of Lady Barbara. On the one hand, the elegant creature was going out of her way to be irritating. On the other, Emma could detect no real ill will from the woman who was at least nominally Killoran’s mistress.

The clavichord was dreadfully out of tune.

The ivory keyboard was yellowed and covered with dust, and the bench with the ripped damask seat cover felt dangerously rickety when Emma lowered herself down on it. None of that mattered. The moment the music started to flow, Emma was transported, beyond discomfort and questionable tone, beyond doubts and worries and even ridiculous infatuation.

It had been the one thing Miriam couldn’t take away from her. By the time of her father’s death she was already proficient, and as long as she confined her playing to religious works, her cousin had allowed her to continue, even though she shunned the sound. Emma was never quite certain why, unless it was to keep her docile. Without even her music, she might have run away by the time she was thirteen.

She played, reveling in the half-forgotten feel of the keys beneath her fingers; and, half in a trance, she watched Nathaniel and Lady Barbara move around the ballroom in perfect synchronicity.

The shadows darkened. Lady Barbara’s swirling skirts stirred up the dust of ages, but the three of them were caught in a dream, lost in the music. Emma played, her eyes half closed as she watched them dance, and she could feel the hopeless longing that flowed between them. Not just on Nathaniel’s part. She had only to glance at Lady Barbara’s upturned face, the cynicism temporarily washed away. She looked innocent, sweet, and ten years younger, a child discovering life.

The slow, mocking sound of applause brought them all to a stop. Killoran lounged against the open door, a shadow at the edge of shadows, watching them. A servant stood behind him, holding a candelabrum, and the glow was eerie, magical.

Emma’s hands landed on the keyboard with a crash. Nathaniel stumbled, and even Lady Barbara looked guilty. More proof, Emma thought, that she was indeed Killoran’s mistress.

“
I grieve to interrupt this touching scene,” Killoran murmured, “but I arrived home to find we have visitors. Not just the esteemed Lady Barbara, but a lady downstairs asking for my dear sister.”

Sheer panic sliced through Emma. Miriam must have found her, though the notion seemed incredible. “Who is it?” she demanded in a hoarse voice.

Killoran crossed the room, ignoring the motionless dancers, secure in the knowledge that his servant would follow with the candles. He stopped when he reached her, staring down at her hands as they rested on the keyboard. “At least you come equipped with some social graces,” he remarked. “You play quite well, you know.”

She wouldn’t be distracted. “Who is asking for me?”

“
You look pale,” he observed. “Could it be that you’re afraid of some mysterious woman? Perhaps your first victim’s wife? Or the so-dear Mrs. Varienne?”

Lady Barbara’s stillness vanished. “Her first victim?”

Killoran didn’t even bother to glance in Barbara’s direction. “My dear sister has a habit of trying to kill any gentleman who attempts to take liberties with her. She succeeded once, though she only managed to maim your young neighbor. It’s fortunate indeed that you don’t share her bloodthirsty proclivities, Babs. Half the men in London would be lying dead.”

“
Killoran!” Nathaniel’s voice shook with outrage.

“
Go away, you two,” Killoran said, still looking down at Emma. “Go entertain my guest, and tell her my sister is indisposed.” He took the candelabrum from the servant, placed it on the clavichord, and then shooed him away.

“
And who is this guest, Killoran?” Barbara demanded.

“
Lady Aurelia Darnley. Jasper’s stepmother. Not my favorite person in the world, quite frankly. We’ll deny her the pleasure of my sweet sister’s company.”

Emma couldn’t even begin to hide the relief that swamped her. Her shoulders slumped, and she noticed that her hands were trembling as they lay on the keyboard. She quickly tucked them in her lap, out of sight, though she had no illusions that Killoran might have missed her panic. “I’m not your sister,” she said once more.

He turned away from her, leaning against the narrow box of the clavichord and surveying the room. It had emptied quickly. Lady Barbara and Nathaniel hadn’t hesitated in making their escape, and the discreet servant had closed the door when he left. She was alone in the darkness and shadows with Killoran, alone in the dust and stillness.

“
Perhaps I should redecorate this room,” he said idly. “Throw a ball to introduce my sister to society.”

“
Nathaniel said they wouldn’t come.”

He looked back at her, his smile completely lacking in humor. “He told you about my scarlet past, did he? I’m the destroyer of youth and innocence, with no soul and no conscience. But then, what’s to be expected of an Irishman in London? Everything that’s been laid to my door is doubtless true, plus a dozen other, more discreet crimes as well. I’m generally believed to have made a pact with the devil, you know. I cannot lose—at cards, at dicing, at any form of gaming. It gets quite tedious.”

“
I’m sure it does,” she said, watching him. His black clothing was austere, unornamented today, a perfect match for her own dark clothing. And yet no one would ever make the mistake of confusing him with a soberly dressed churchman.

“
Will you play for me some more?” he asked. “Or shall I teach you to dance?”

“
That was Nathaniel’s intention.”

“
He is to keep his hands off you,” Killoran said pleasantly, “or I’ll break them.”

It was a sign of jealousy, unexpected and,
in
truth, unbelievable. “Why?” she asked.

“
Because I have plans for you, my dear. I didn’t import you into my household for your spectacular looks, as pleasing as I may find them, and I didn’t bring you to warm Nathaniel’s bed or my own. You have a purpose, definite and brief. You are here to be a lure, a trap for Jasper Darnley. Which seems to be working splendidly so far, considering he managed to send his stepmother in search of you. He must be desperate.”