Come Near Me (17 page)

“Especially one of the inevitable dozen
portly Henry Tudors we’ll be seeing there,” Adam said, disliking
the fact that he disliked the notion of Edmund Burnell becoming
such a large part of life at Grosvenor Square. Which was
ridiculous. The man was harmless enough. Quite likable. Amusing.
Rather like Richard Brimley....

“Adam? What’s wrong? Your face suddenly
resembles a thundercloud. I thought you and Sherry were beginning
to—well, you know what I thought, what I’m hoping. Surely it isn’t
Edmund? You’re not going to judge Edmund by the same ruler we all
so belatedly used to measure Richard Brimley?”

“No,” Adam said, standing up and smiling down
at his brother, shaking off his dark thoughts, his ridiculous, dark
thoughts. “No, of course not. I simply remembered that I don’t have
a costume. A simple domino is out of the question, not when my
brother is going to appear as the throne of England. I think I’ll
go hunt up Chollie, and the two of us can cudgel our brains for
ideas. I’ll see you at dinner, all right?”

“Help Chollie if you want, but Edmund sent
round rigouts for you and Sherry as well, you know. Good man,
Edmund,” Geoff told him, wheeling after Adam as he walked toward
the hallway. “I had Rimmon peek inside the boxes.”

“And?” Adam asked, feeling his jaw set into a
tight line. Burnell was going too far, even in the name of
friendship.

Geoff’s grin reached all the way to his
mischievous eyes. “According to the note Rimmon found, you’re to be
the fabled King Arthur. Which doesn’t mean
you
can sit in
me. Oh, give over, Adam. Smile! I like Edmund. What’s wrong with
that?”

“He wants you to like him, Geoff,” Adam said,
feeling that a curtain drawn closed over some great revelations was
slowly beginning to draw back, giving him a view of the stage where
his life was playing out. “He wants us all to like him.”

“And that’s bad?”

“I don’t know, Geoff,” Adam said, suddenly
anxious to meet with Chollie, speak with Chollie. “I honestly don’t
know anymore.”

~ ~ ~

“Leaving Sherry to be Guinevere,” Chollie
said, sitting back in his chair, peering at Adam over his
spectacles. “Interesting tragedy, I suppose. We Irish had it first,
don’t you know. We’re very good at tragedies. You English bollixed
it all up with round tables and swords stuck into stone and all
that rot. But we had it first.”

“My apologies, Chollie. In fact, I apologize
for every Irish twig crushed by an English boot, every Irish tree
now holding up an English roof. But this is getting us nowhere. I
was asking you about Edmund Burnell.”

“Yes, but that’s the devil of it, Adam. I
don’t know what you want me to say. Do I like Burnell? Very much.
We had us a fine time the other night, drinking, singing, wenching.
He knows all the songs, Adam. Even verses I forget once I’m
three-parts castaway and feeling particularly maudlin. And even
then, with the both of us more in our cups than out of them, he
went off with two—two, Adam—lovely ladies hanging on his arms. Left
me sprawled out, filled with wine and wishes, but with no way to
make more than the spirit willing. Ah, Adam, he’s the man I could
be if I were more of a man. Prettier, with more coins jingling in
his pockets, and with a winning way about him even this Irishman
envies. His mother must have been Irish. It’s the only
explanation.”

“It’s one explanation, Chollie,” Adam said,
rubbing at his forehead. “I only wish I could think of others. But
there’s something,
something—”
He stood up, looking toward
the door, suddenly wanting to be outside, in the cool, crisp air.
He might think better, outside. He might think, rather than simply
react to the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong.
Was he fated to forever measure each new friend with Richard
Brimley’s yardstick? That was no way to live a life.

“It’s not like you to be so suspicious,
boyo,” Chollie pointed out, draining his glass and joining Adam as
they both walked out of the club. “You’ve talked to me some, but
there’s still a mess of talking to be done, I’m thinking. What
happened this summer, to change you so? To make you go around
peeking under your bed, like an old woman looking for demons?”

Adam clapped his hat onto his head, pulled
his greatcoat more closely about him as they walked down the
flagway. “Demons under the bed, Chollie? I’ll leave that to people
like you, who routinely feel geese skipping over your grave. I’m
just wondering if Burnell will be taking me aside in a week or so,
telling me all about some fantastic bubble I should be investing in
with him now that we’re such fast friends. I’m only wondering if I
should have my valet sew my pockets shut.” It was a lie, but a
reasonable one.

Be waited for his friend’s reaction.

“All right, boyo,” Chollie said after a bit.
“I’ll admit it. Edmund Burnell is too perfect. There. I’ve said it.
Too friendly, too open with his money, too willing to be anything
and everything I want him to be. And nobody’s perfect, Adam.
Nobody. Perhaps he is after your money, seeing as you’re obscenely
rich. He certainly can’t be after my fortune, as I barely have any.
And is it thinking he’s being fast friends with me, with Geoff,
with Sherry, in order to get you to liking him more, trusting him
more? There have been worse scoundrels, more devious plots.”

“Sometimes, Chollie, there’s no plot at all.
Just a love of trouble.”

“Well, now, there you’ve got me, boyo. I’m
not so deep as to see the point of trouble for trouble’s sake.
There’s always a reason. It’s just up to us to find it. You’ll want
my smiling face and open ears at Lady Winston’s tomorrow night, I’m
supposing? Guarding your back, as it were?”

“I can’t think of anyone else I’d trust more,
Chollie,” Adam said, as his carriage drew to the curb and Biggs
jumped down to open the door, pull out the steps. “Now, come on
back to Grosvenor Square with me, and we’ll have my valet cut a
good five inches of material from my black domino for you, so that
you don’t trip over it while you’re guarding my back.”

Chollie shook his head. “A domino, Adam? Do
you think I’m so lacking in imagination, then? No, if we’re going
to make bloody fools of ourselves, you can count on me to hold up
my end of the farce. Now, go home, boyo. Think pleasant thoughts.
I’ll see you Thursday night.”

“How will I know you?”

Winking, Chollie said, “Oh, boyo, not to
worry. Arthur recognized his wizard at once. You will, too.”

“Merlin? You’ll be Merlin?”

“In the Irish tale—the
first,
you’ll
remember—I do believe he was a magical leprechaun. But I’ll make
do, I’ll make do.”

~ ~ ~

Sherry hadn’t wanted to enter the Bond Street
shop, but Emma was insistent, vowing that she’d find what she
wanted there.

Was Dickie waiting for her inside the
shop?

She’d left Grosvenor Square with Emma as her
companion, at Emma’s suggestion, and believing that the woman was
going to show her something she really did not want to see. Yet
needed to see. Needed to know.

It was dark inside the shop, even in the
midst of what passed for a sunny English day, and it took some
moments for Sherry’s eyes to adjust to the dimness.

And then she saw her. Standing in front of
the counter, being assisted by a young male clerk, at least two
dozen bolts of cloth spread out for her inspection. Tall,
beautiful, demanding. The duchess of Westbrook. Edmund Burnell’s
spurned lover. The woman who had once held Adam’s heart. A woman
Sherry didn’t want, need, to see. Coincidence could be stretched
just so far, and this time coincidence snapped.

“You knew this,” she accused Emma. “You knew
she’d be here. How?”

Emma didn’t answer, but just brushed past
Sherry, nodding to the clerk, then passing through a hanging
curtain and into a room at the back of the small shop. Leaving
Sherry very much alone, which was ridiculous, for she’d been
longing to be shed of the woman. It was just that she suddenly felt
safer when she could
see
her.

Sherry looked at the clerk again, having
realized that he and Emma must know each other. He excused himself
from the duchess and stepped out from behind the counter, smiling
at Sherry.

“My lady Daventry,” he said, his tone and
smile proper for a clerk, his eyes those of a hunter who has just
spied out the prey he’d been seeking. “How good of you to grace
this humble establishment. I’m sure I could have had the package
delivered, but now that you’re here...”

“The package?” Sherry could barely make her
mouth form the words. His eyes. They were Dickie’s eyes. She was
looking at a stranger, and seeing Dickie’s eyes. How could that be?
“You—have a package for me?”

“A gift, actually,” the clerk said, as the
duchess turned, looked, approached.

“Lady Daventry, how good to see you,” Melinda
said, her gaze traveling Sherry’s length, as if measuring her. “How
is our dear bride? Such a fuss this past spring, with Daventry
springing his bride on us all without warning. There were more than
a few unhappy faces when first we heard, as I believe the betting
books were fairly weighted on the notion that dearest Adam would
never marry. Are you here alone? That’s not done, you know. Even
for milk-and-water pusses from the country. Only naughty ladies of
immense consequence, like myself, dare to come to Bond Street
unescorted.”

“My—my maid accompanied me, Your Grace,”
Sherry said, feeling very much the child. The awkward child. The
duchess of Westbrook was a work of art, even if small lines of
unhappiness had begun to etch themselves on either side of her full
mouth. She could imagine Edmund being attracted to her, could not
imagine him rebuffing her.

“Whatever, my dear,” the duchess said airily,
gesturing to a bolt of silvery cloth spread over the counter.

“That’s the one, dear boy. And the blue
velvet as well. Have the materials sent to Madame Yolande and the
bill delivered to Mr. Burnell, as usual. If he rips it off, he pays
for the replacement. With Mr. Burnell’s appetites, dear boy, you’ll
soon be able to afford a larger establishment at the more
fashionable end of Bond Street.”

Sherry winced. She hadn’t been schooled in
hiding her reaction to heavy-handed hints like the duchess’s that
she was Edmund Burnell’s lover. Besides, she was still looking at
the clerk, still seeing Richard Brimley’s eyes, feeling much like
she was standing in Hell, looking at Heaven. Or the other way
round....

“I said, Lady Daventry,” the duchess said
with heavy emphasis, “have you made the acquaintance of Mr. Edmund
Burnell? He’s staying in London with his aunt, Lady Jasper.
Fascinating man. Horrid old woman.”

“Yes,” Sherry told her quietly as the clerk
went behind the counter once more, began rerolling the bolts of
material. “My husband introduced me to Mr. Burnell. I agree. He’s a
most, um, fascinating man.”

The duchess moved closer, so close that
Sherry could smell the wine that soured her breath. “One mention,
one word, of what you saw at Lady J’s, my dear, and it will go
badly for you. Do you understand?”

“I don’t—”

“Oh, please, don’t even attempt to dissemble,
my dear. I know you were in the drawing room. Edmund made sure of
that. He takes great pleasure in waving other women in front of my
face. He enjoys hurting people.”

Sherry couldn’t help herself. She asked the
question. “Why would you want a man who would do that to you?”

The duchess, threw back her head, laughed
heartily. “Either Daventry is very good in bed, or totally inept.
Either way, I can’t believe you just asked that question. Edmund
hasn’t had you yet, has he? No wonder he’s in such a foul temper.
I’ll have to go see him, tweak him. Good day, my dear. You should
probably be running along yourself, as it must almost be time for
your porridge.”

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t
want to know. I want to go home,
Sherry chanted inside her head
as Emma reappeared from the back room, a large, flat box under her
arm.
Please, please. I just want to go home.

Sherry looked toward the counter, but the
clerk was gone, an older woman taking his place, already showing
bolts of cloth to another customer, one Sherry hadn’t even noticed
entering the shop.

“Time to leave, little innocent,” Emma said,
dragging Sherry by the elbow. “You can open this once we’re back in
the carriage. It’s a present. A very special present.”

Sherry shook off Emma’s grip. “No,” she said
firmly, her heart pounding, her voice shaky, but her resolve
suddenly quite firm. She took the package, because not knowing what
was inside could only be worse than knowing. “No more games. I
don’t know what’s going on, Emma, but I’m not playing anymore. Your
belongings will be bundled up and waiting for you in the kitchens.
Find your own way back to Grosvenor Square.”

Emma’s eyes slitted evilly. “He won’t be
happy,” she warned tightly.

“Who, Emma?
Who
won’t be happy?
Dickie? That was a cousin, or a brother, or someone inside that
shop. Wasn’t it? Did you all really believe I wouldn’t recognize
those eyes? Or is that someone Edmund Burnell?” She leaned close to
the maid, all but spitting out her words. “Either way, tell them
the game is over, Emma, whatever mad, elaborate game it is. I’ve
lost everything once. I won’t lose it again. Do you
understand?”

“Oh, I understand, little idiot,” Emma said,
drawing herself up so that she was nose-to-nose with Sherry. “And
one day you will as well. I’m going to enjoy that.” And then she
turned and walked back into the shop, leaving Sherry alone on the
flagway.

“M’lady?” the footman prompted as Sherry
stared at the door to the shop, seeing the name for the first time.
Oxton’s.
Oxton was Emma’s name. A cold shiver raced along
Sherry’s spine.