Everything I Ever Wanted (19 page)

She shrugged lightly. "It is only that it is never an easy thing to be a known bastard."

"That is true."

"And young boys can be quite cruel to one another. Heartless, really."

"Also true," said South. "But they can also come together and become fast friends. That is what the Compass Club did."

"It was just the four of you?"

"Yes. North. South. East. West. Friends for life, we have confessed. All other truths, we'll deny. For we are soldier, sailor, tinker, spy ."

India laughed softly. "That is your work?"

He nodded. "Our charter. I told you I wrote bad poetry, did I not?"

"You did indeed. I had no notion you showed such promise at so early an age."

"A prodigy," he allowed simply.

India was grateful she had nothing in her mouth, for surely she would have choked on it. "Modest also."

"To a fault, I'm afraid."

She laughed again. The sound of it still had the capacity to startle her, and she straggled with it. India was used to hearing it swell and crash in upon her from an audience. That was a very separate experience from having it well up inside her. South's manner was gently coaxing but not deliberately so. She would have resisted had it been an effort for him. She sensed it was not. India wondered if he would not turn out to be the most dangerous of men she had known.

"Your club," she said, sobered by this last thought."You did not include others?"

"What makes you think so?"

"There are but four directions, and they were all already named."

"A compass has three hundred sixty degrees and many possibilities. The truth is, we were friends before we had a name. Rather than excluding others, we were excluded by them."

"That cannot be."

"Why?"

"Because I heard you all laughing in the marquess's box," she said without guile, unaware of the poignancy in her own voice. "Who could listen to that joyful noise and not want to be one of the degrees in your circle?"

South gave her a wry look. "I recall being taken publicly to task for all that noise."

"Yes, well, it remains true that it was ill timed and had nothing at all to do with what was happening on the stage. And I fear you are missing my point."

"No, I assure you, I am not. You must understand, however, that when we gather as adults we become not so much as we were as boys but rather how we wished we might be. We did our share of mischief, to be sure. Some would saymy father certainlythat we did more than our share. The fact that we came together at all, though, is because we were not a proper fit anywhere else.

"EvanMr. Marchmanwas a bastard. Brendan Hampton, now Earl of Northam, was too serious by half. Eastlyn? Gabriel Whitney was a chubby one, always getting the best baked goods from home and hoarding them in his room. He was a thrasher. Broke North's nose once in defense of his hot-crossed buns and his reputation. Or mayhap that was Marchman. It doesn't matter. North's nose needed a proper tweaking."

"And you?" India asked, smiling. "What set you apart from others yet drew you to these three?"

"I am wounded. Have I not given you ample evidence of my wit?"

"They allow fools in any circle," she said. "You would not be excluded by others for such as that." Her dark eyes narrowed when he merely flashed his easy grin in her direction. "But if you played the fool because at the heart of things you were acknowledged to be quite brilliant, then I can imagine there would be those who would turn you away. That is more the truth, is it not? You were a student much coveted by your housemasters and despised by your classmates."

Though he continued to regard India steadily, South's smile had vanished. He nodded once. "Yes. No one knew what was to be made of me."

"Except Marchman, Hampton, and Whitney."

"Oh, they did not know what was to be made of me, either. They simply knew they were in for a devil of a good time when I was around."

Yes, India thought, that would have been the way of it. It was probably still true, judging by what she had observed of the four friends at the theatre. Her own experience was much the same, and that it ran counter to all common sense did not seem to matter. Things would be changed, she knew, when they reached Ambermede and he lay the purpose of his abduction before her. His accusations, when made clear, could not be taken back. However brilliant he was, he was not omniscient, and he was engaged in an activity even now that had consequences he could not have fully appreciated.

"A devil of a good time," she repeated quietly."I understand."

South considered asking her what she meant, then thought better of it. Instead, he offered her the basket and the pint of ale while he opened the door just enough to discard his apple core. Shards of rain pelted the back of his hand before he quickly withdrew it. "Will you have more?" he asked, indicating the basket.

India nodded and found an apple for herself. She let South give it a thorough polish and accepted it back. He finished the ale, replaced the jar, and wedged the basket between the valises so it wouldn't easily take flight when they hit the next deep puddle.

"There is still the matter of Mr. Marchman," said India. "I cannot say that I know yet why you call him West."

"I thought I said no, I suppose I didn't. Marchman's father is the Duke of Westphal."

India frowned deeply. A memory that had been previously elusive began to take shape. She tried to hold it.

"What is it?"

"I am not certain," she said slowly. "Something something Mrs. Garrety said to me when she was escorting me to the hack." India pressed three fingers to her temple trying to recall her dresser's exact words."The most extraordinary thing, I think she said Mr. Kent had just informed her." Of a sudden it came to her, and her expression changed from one of confusion to one of concern. She realized it was unlikely that Southerton knew anything of what she was about to say. He was going to learn of it for the first time from her. "Mrs. Garrety told me the Duke of Westphal was dead."

Southerton went perfectly still. "Dead? When?"

"Last evening. She had just been told such."

When he had been planning India's abduction, South thought. Even if West had sent word round, Southerton had informed his staff he was not to be disturbed. He had probably been gone from the house anyway, engaged in making the initial preparations.

"I am sorry," India said. "It meant nothing to me at the time. Indeed, I would not have remembered it at all if you had not explained the connection to Mr. Marchman."

"There was no love lost between West and his father. Marchman was illegitimate. Westphal was a bloody bastard."

India pressed her lips together and did not make the mistake of speaking again. Southerton's response had been tersely framed, as if he resented her intrusion into his thoughts. That he was displeased by this news was clear. A muscle worked in his cheek. There was a tightness about his eyes and mouth, a change that made her no longer think of features polished smoothly in marble but of the kind of hard, angular shapes that might be quarried from granite.

South leaned forward, opened the carriage door with a single jerk, and then stood, his weight precariously balanced on the edge of the jolting, rocking threshold. "Darrow! Hold there!"

India braced herself for the carriage's abrupt halt. Darrow made a kinder stop than that, manipulating the traces with considerable skill to slow the horses first, then bring them to a stand.

South leaped down, landing softly on the muddy ground. He started to shut the door, but India stayed the movement and passed him his beaver hat. He thanked her tersely, and this time when he pushed the door she did not resist his effort.

She sat back. It was difficult to hear the exchange over the steady beat of the rain. Had this changed his plans for her, she wondered, or only for himself? She had been cooperative from the outset, in part because she had hardly been aware of what was being done to her, then later because resistance served no purpose. India did not believe she was in any danger; he had made her admit as much to him. Her resignation must have surprised him. He could not have anticipated she would make it so easy for him to ferry her away from London. After all, she had a performance this very evening, a rehearsal she would be missing in a few hours. She had said nothing of these things to him.

It would have meant explaining her antipathy toward these events, revealing how little she cared. It would have meant exposing the numbness she had come to embrace, making herself vulnerable in a way that would expose her to life.

The door opened again and Southerton put only his head inside. "My man will be taking you on to Ambermede," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "I am returning to London. I will be gone two days. Three at the most. You will not make any attempt to return on your own, India. It would be foolish. Darrow will do whatever is necessary to assure you remain at Ambermede, and he will always be acting on my instructions. Do you understand?"

She certainly understood the words. His motive still escaped her. "Yes," she said. Before she could offer more in the way of a reply, the door was abruptly closed.

How was he going to get to London? she wondered. Walk? She pushed open the door and peered out. Southerton was standing toward the rear of the carriage, untethering a great black stallion. India had been unaware that such an animal had been accompanying them on their journey.

"Have a care, miss," came the call to her from above.

Although rain sheeted her face and inhibited her vision, India could see the movements of a man on the carriage top. He was loosening the oilcloth that covered the trunks and bags.

"For God's sake, India," South told her as he brought his mount around. "Get back inside."

She didn't. There were limits to the orders she was willing to accept. As a rebellion, this should have been beneath his notice. She stared at the magnificent beast South was holding in place. "You're going to ride him?" He did not have the look of an animal that any man should ride. He stood seventeen hands high, long and leggy but still with massive shoulders and chest. His large black head tossed upward, exposing the powerful neck. He threw his damp, dark mane to one side. South stood his ground, unconcerned by the posturing and preening of the great stallion. Rain made the animal's dark coat look slick and glistening, and he continued to show it off, bunching his muscles, dancing in place.

"Here you are, m'lord," Darrow called again from above.

This time India ducked back inside as Darrow dropped the saddle into South's waiting arms. She stayed there until Darrow climbed down and proceeded to assist in saddling the animal; then she poked her head out and watched, fascinated by the unleashed power of South's mount. Water pooled on the brim of her velvet hat and fell as if from the eaves when she tipped her head forward. "What is he called?"

"Griffin."

The name of the mythological beast suited him. Part eagle, part lion, this stallion looked as if, once given his head, he would be equally at ease flying over the ground or prowling for prey'across it. "He is aptly named."

"This?" South shook his head. "He is performing for you. His usual temperament is that of a lamb."

Darrow rolled his eyes. "Don't you believe him, Miss Parr. This beast is an Irish thoroughbred that should have been gelded before he left the isle."

As if understanding the valet's words, Griffin lowered his head and pushed at Darrow's backside. It was no gentle nuzzle the stallion offered, but a thrust hard enough to make Darrow lose his balance. The valet stumbled forward, splashed through the mud, and came close to crumpling to his knees in the middle of a puddle.

India began to descend to help the man, but South blocked her path. The warning in his eyes said that Darrow would not thank her for it. South lent his aid instead.

"When are you going to learn he understands you, Darrow?" South asked."Talk of making him a gelding is not"

"Aaach!" Eschewing South's outstretched arm, Darrow clambered out of the deep, water-filled rut on his own and gave the stallion a wide berth. "Leg up, m'lord?"

"And get heaved over the other side of my mount? I'll manage, thank you." He pulled Griffin away from the carriage, placed one hand on the pommel and a foot in the tread, and without visible effort put himself in the saddle. From India's vantage point it seemed the horse accommodated South's feat by leaning forward and lowering himself ever so slightly. Surely not, she thought. She must have imagined that.

South pointed to her. "Inside, India. You are still hours from Ambermede and the day is cold. I would not have you catch your death."

"That would be inconvenient," she mocked.

He ignored India, turning Griffin swiftly. The curtain of rain was enough to hide his grim smile from her.

The day was merely gray when Darrow finally announced they had reached Ambermede. India accepted his strong, sharply knuckled hand when she descended the carriage step. She came to rest on a cobbled path. Small tufts of damp grass appeared between narrow gaps in the smoothly worn stones. The path parted a neatly trimmed hedgerow, widening slightly on its gently curving path to the cottage.