Judith Ivory (30 page)

A spark, a flicker, then long fingers holding a match, a dark, graceful hand shielding it. These cupped hands came toward her, lighting an angular face in gutters, the Prince of Darkness’s own. Stuart lit the small gas lamp beside her, above and to her right, hovering near. His fur-lined coat was open, the warmth of him seeming to come at her from within it. Then the wick caught. The crystal clinked down into place as light sparkled out into the little interior. Stuart’s face, well lit now, was close for a moment, then he sat back onto a seat bench that pooled with chinchilla, crossing one booted leg to his knee.

His hat sat upside down beside him on the seat, his gloves draped into it. He raised his neatly tailored arm in his Russian coat and relaxed back onto the bench seat.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Emma Hartley would not meet Mount Villiars in his coach. This is dangerous. I’ve already explained why.” Sitting here, outside her pose—this was what made her heart thud so hard in her chest. Indeed, memory was with her of the last time her partner hadn’t paid better heed to the rules of the game.

Then, to her surprise, with a jerk the coach rolled out into traffic.

She swiveled her head. Uselessly, since all the windows were blocked. “Where are we going? What the hell are you doing?” she asked, frowning, her voice rising.

“I’m taking you to my house.”

“Oh, fine, Stuart.” She crossed her legs under her skirts with a brisk churn of taffeta and soft wool. “Why not simply take me to Leonard’s? Announce our association, tell him what chums we are, see if he’d like to get a pint at the pub with us?”

“Before you get too much further up on your high horse, would you like to know why I want to talk to you privately?”

She said nothing, folding her arms.

“I was trying to bring you some things, to ask you a question, then I discovered Leonard had beat me to you.” He let out a grumbling sort of snort. “I don’t much like the part I play in this.”

“I explained what it would be like—”

“Yes, but hearing it and living it are different.”

“I told you that as well. We can stop anytime you’d like.”

Another snort from him, then he tossed some papers, clipped together, toward her. They landed in her lap, a light puffing
plop
of paper on silk.

“The provenance. You told me to short it one page. Which page? Does it make a difference?” He left a pause, then let out a long sigh and looked at his boot. “And, all right, I wanted to look at you. Without worrying if I was behaving properly or what some arsehole might think or do if I stared at you. Having to worry about what Leonard thinks—something I have never done in my life—is trying, to say the least. I’m not good at it.” He took in a breath, needing air after his long speech.

She felt a moment’s sympathy, even a warm little ping of flattered femininity. Emma frowned at his lordship, the Viscount Mount Villiars, in his beautiful coat, in his extravagant carriage, at his broad-shouldered, long-armed reach; massive, masculine. The man from the bank. Then the word
harem
came to her, and she scowled at the thought.

Harem. She wanted to believe it to be a vicious lie by the uncle, but it fit. That’s what the mysterious Aminah and What’s-her-name were about. The residual of half a dozen or so women he’d enjoyed in Turkey. A bloody harem. And why not? Here sat a man who was handsome enough, rich enough. What should stop him from “staring” at as many women as he wanted? She wondered if he still slept with his “wards.”

She picked up the papers in her lap, thinking to be rid of
him as quickly as possible. She eyed bills of sale, art exhibit booklets, a lot of mismatched papers of various sizes, held together with a metal clip. She thumbed through the documents, looking for, say, the most recent, his own claim to the statue. That would be a good one to leave out. She found it, then frowned, blinked, and focused for a second look. Emma peered at the documents again, their order, their substance, then examined the bill of sale closely. Goose bumps rose along her arms.

She looked up at Stuart, then let out a laugh. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “These aren’t authentic. I know these pages or pages like them. I knew the man who used to forge these.”

Stuart’s mouth opened. He said nothing, his brow drawing down, then murmured, “What do you meant they aren’t authentic?” He understood the next second. “Oh, wait—” He smiled faintly. He blinked. Then he burst out with a low chuckle. “One of your friends? You think one of them sold my father a bogus statue with a bogus line of history?” He slapped his boot, shook his head, then reached across the coach, his hand open. He was asking for the papers.

She handed them to him.

He paged through them, smiling. Far from being disappointed, he said, “How delightful! Let’s take it from Leonard anyway.”

She gaped. “Why?”

For a second, he didn’t know. He looked up. “I can’t explain it, but it’s a feeling, a very personal…feeling. I remember vaguely that as a child—” He squinted, as if trying to force better recall. He seemed disappointed only to produce, “The statue frightened me, I think. And fascinated me, too. It sparkled, was riveting, but also grotesque somehow. I detested it. Yet anything that I attach that much feeling to, my uncle has no business stealing, fake or not.” He shrugged as if to dismiss what he’d just admitted. “I want to
see
the unset
tling thing again. It feels important somehow.” He added, “And the earrings, don’t forget. My uncle has no right to them either. They’re mine, connected to my childhood. I want to hold them in my hand again.”

“I don’t know if I can get the earrings. I took a little stab at it this morning, and he seemed utterly nonplussed, absolutely uncomprehending. Are you sure your uncle took them? Perhaps a maid or footman stole them, with your uncle simply happening to be about at the time?”

“No. When he knew I was on my way, he ransacked the place for anything portable, then fled. He took all my mother’s jewelry. I don’t care about the rest. But these I remember somehow. A pleasant connection; I’ll be damned if my despicable uncle is going to possess the only pleasant association I have.” He raised that eyebrow, then pulled his mouth up into a rare wide smile. “Plus,” he said, “now I can look forward to seeing a statue that got the better of Donovan Aysgarth. Do you suppose my mother knew? She’s the one who kept it. I remember it from Dunord. Oh, Emma,” he said and shook his head, laughing. “You are wonderful.” He picked up the provenance again. “So you know the man who did these?”

“Knew.”

“Who? That Bailey fellow?” His face asked for the information with childlike relish.

Information which, now that she thought of it, would not light up his heart. She hesitated.

Stuart waited, then narrowed his eyes again. There was a moment wherein he wanted it to be someone else, then the next wherein he couldn’t avoid who it was.

He threw the papers at her. They went everywhere, fluttering about the moving carriage like a mass of large butterflies suddenly taken to flight. One tickled her nose, then landed in her lap. Others settled onto the seats, the floor.

Her companion didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said,
unreasonably angry, “He was a mess, you know.” He said vehemently, “You were married to a clown.”

She lifted her chin, loyal to the last. “Clowns make you laugh, and he did sometimes.”

Stuart focused on her, wanting to shove her. My God, he thought, what he’d give to inspire such constancy. What did he have to do? Become a vicar? Grow a halo and wings? Then the whole past twenty-four hours struck him like a slap across the face. His resentment of his uncle mingled for a moment, adding to the resentment he felt for old, dead Hotchkiss. Zach. God, but he hated that man. A dead man, no less. There was productive animosity.

Stuart, old boy, you are losing your mind.

More annoying still, Emma suddenly said—a clear accusation: “Leo”—
Leo
, no less—“said you had a harem in Turkey.”

“And you believed him.” He twisted his mouth, consternation.

“You either did or you didn’t.”

He grew defensive. “When I was nineteen. It was a terrible idea. It lasted eleven months—”

“You actually had one? How many wives did you have?”

“None. A harem in the Near East is where the women of a household live. They were all of lower status than wives.”

“And what would that be?”

“Concubines. It is perfectly respectable there, Emma.”

“Not here, it isn’t.”

“I don’t have them here.” He said, “It was a lot of youthful idiocy. The whole idea was a mess. The women were angry with me most of the time. I had no idea what my role in it was—and it is structured, things are expected of a man who takes on that kind of responsibility there.” He sighed. “It took me three years to untangle it all, to see that all the women were situated where they wished to be. Hiyam and Aminah chose to come with me as part of my household, as my wards, as I said. They are rather like sisters to me.”

“You slept with them.”

He looked down. “Things change. I don’t now. I haven’t for years.”

She leaned forward, rocking to get her cloak out from under her where it had slipped.

Stuart slid to the edge of his seat and bent forward—she was meant to think he was helping her.

He didn’t fool either of them. She grew rigid, eyeing him. He didn’t let that stop him, but rather eased his arm further around her, taking her about the waist. He had to brace himself with his other hand on the coach side as they hit a pothole in the cobbles, but all the same he managed to pull her forward.

He kissed her, because he purely needed the touch of her mouth and could have it. And perhaps to say whom he wished to sleep with now. Only one woman, Emma. He looked for gestures, afraid of words.

He felt her warm lips respond. He smelled the powdery clean scent of her smooth cheek, heard the softest sigh in her throat. A part of her lit up like a sky full of fireworks every time he touched her. While a part of her resented his mastery so much, he could do little but let go. Which he did.

He slouched back, then had to shift to be comfortable, already partially erect in trousers not constructed for a lot of frustration. He winced as he found a position, then put his hand to his mouth, automatic, covering where her face had been the instant before, not wasting the faintest taste of her, holding it in.

She watched him with the widest, bluest eyes he’d ever known. Her full breasts rose and fell in mesmerizing unison. Then she closed her eyes rather than meet his.

Ah, Emma. What you want and what you need…there is too large a disparity. Until she understood herself better, he would always appear a worse villain than he was. A man in cahoots with a woman’s sexual instinct was the devil himself, for he had the united power over her—himself and her own longing—greater than a mere man.

He murmured, “Englishwomen are so strange.”

“Speaking as a man who has made the acquaintance of the strangest, I’m sure.”

The carriage jostled around a corner. He’d had plans of wooing her with the other papers sitting beside him—not the mess he’d strewn about his coach now. Wooing her, taking her in the back entrance to his London house, showing her around in the dark. No lights anywhere to indicate anyone was home. No servants, all on two days’ holiday, since he was supposed to be in Yorkshire. Taking her upstairs…relieving all his jealousy and insecurity….

Then she asked, “Have you ever hurt anyone?”

He was taken aback.

Before he could say anything, she murmured, “I never want you to hurt me,” she murmured.

“Then I never shall.” After what seemed an eternity, he offered nonetheless, “But don’t limit yourself, Emma. Anything. If you are shy or can’t speak or think of something interesting, may I also mention, I have a very rich imagination myself. You need only put yourself into my hands.”

She frowned, frightened. “You are—”

He interrupted. “You keep saying I’m unhealthy, and I may be, but not here. Not on this. In this regard, I am open and adventurous—absolutely healthy in my tolerance and appreciation of the diversity of life. Emma—”

She looked at him.

“You’re brave. You’re good. Why would you hesitate to explore yourself? Your dark nooks and crannies? With someone who is fascinated by the whole of you? You aren’t a bad woman, merely a human one, which entails a certain amount of”—he cocked his head—“‘awfulness,’ as you call it. Think about it. What could possibly happen that would be bad, so long as we communicate and honor the other’s needs and wants?”

She felt the coach pull to a halt, heard the driver get down. Their destination. It was a short ride.

“I’m not going inside with you,” she said. “We agreed I’d make the decisions in London. I explained how unpredictably this sort of thing can end. I’m getting out and walking back. Don’t stop me. Don’t come after me. Don’t do this again. I can’t help you get what you want if you won’t play it my way. You have to listen to me.”

“I’m not good at that,” he admitted and shifted his jaw. He said it humbly, but a jaw muscle twitched.

Despondent, Stuart happened to glance at the seat beside him. There lay his small gift. He’d hoped for better circumstances to give it.

But he took a deep breath and launched into his best intentions. “Here,” he said. He held up the five sheets of paper he’d obtained. “These go into considerable detail: They’re descriptions of university courses you do by mail.”

She laughed, disbelieving. “You’ve brought me a mail fraud, Stuart.”

“No, no. It’s real. I know the university. It’s a new one in London, absolutely on the up-and-up. Though the correspondence courses are not for degree. If you’d like to try one”—the papers he’d brought her were a list of “remote courses”—“then you find that you like the study, the reading, and want to pursue a degree, any of it, I can make the arrangements. We could stay in London. I could open my house year-round till you were finished.”

Oh, fine. He’d have an
educated
concubine. A geisha. How like the Viscount Mount Villiars to want his paramour to have a university degree.