Louise Allen Historical Collection (97 page)

She pushed the door open and stumbled out of the stuffy little parlour into the crowded shop. She wanted to run away, away from here, away from the torture of seeing Quinn every day. She wanted to go back to the peace of Dreycott Park, but she would not even be able to go to church or the village shop without running the gauntlet of hostile villagers.

She wanted her aunt and Katy and the other girls, but she knew now that their world would never be one she could be happy in. She wanted to go home to Martinsdene and find her father had forgiven her and that Meg and Bella were there, too, but she was certain he never would and that there was no one there for her now.

Lina knew she wanted Quinn as a starving woman wanted bread—not because it tasted good but because her life depended on it. But she could not have him. He did not love her and her soul would wither between the brief interludes when he came home to be kind to her, to rub the salt in her wounds. He would find adventure and interest and other women on his travels and then he would come home to a world of scholarship women were not allowed to share.

If she told him how she felt about him, she was certain those intervals at home would be few and far between. He was free and wild and independent and he could not change for her. Nor, she realised as she stared blankly at a bad oil painting in the gloom, would she want him to. To love someone truly was to love them as they were, not want to change them.

‘Lina?’ It was Quinn. He moved like a cat through the dark cluttered space and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Thank you. You have probably saved my life,’ she said, turning so that she was against his chest. It was weak and self-indulgent, but she thought she could stand there, hold him, hope for his embrace and he would suspect nothing but that she was overcome with relief and gratitude. Which she was, but it was neither that made her shed silent tears into the linen of his shirt. ‘I am sorry I did not trust you with the truth at first. What will happen when that Runner, Inchbold, finds out about this? He will know you deceived him.’

‘I will talk to him, apologise. I hope he will understand that it was a matter of life and death. With the true culprit identified and Sir James involved, he will see there was little choice.’

It would not be easy for him, she knew. Lina rested her hot cheek against Quinn’s shirtfront and imagined this proud man having to confess that he had lied to an officer of the law. It touched his honour. As she thought it he said, ‘Just Langdown to deal with and we can get married.’

Protesting about marriage was pointless; he was implacable, she could sense it. ‘Why must you risk your life?’

‘To draw a line, to retrieve what I lost ten years ago,’ he said. ‘Will you accept that, Celina, and not seek to persuade me against what I have to do?’

She thought of moral blackmail, of asking him tremulously what she would do if he was killed and did not marry her. But her own sense of honour revolted against that. Live or die, she would not be his wife, and to suggest anything else was to lie to him.

‘Yes,’ Lina said. ‘I will not mention it again.’ But in her heart she knew what she had to do.

‘C
ould Gregor take me to The Blue Door?’ Lina asked Quinn as the Runners piled into the pawnshop bringing light and noise with them. ‘I would like to be with my aunt for a while.’

‘Of course.’ He was distracted by questions Sir James was asking and not concentrating on her, she saw with relief. ‘Ah, there is Inchbold. Best you are out of the way before I speak to him.’

Gregor was enjoying himself, she could tell, and not best pleased to be sent off to fetch a hackney and take her to the brothel, but he put a good face on it.

‘Thank you,’ Lina said when they were settled on the musty seats. ‘You’ll be able to get back quickly, I am sure.’

He grunted. ‘It is interesting to see how your law and order works here. It is different in Constantinople.’

‘I am sure it is,’ Lina said with some feeling.
We do not allow people to own slaves and flog them to death here, for a start.
‘Gregor, will you tell me when Quinn challenges Lord Langdown?’

‘Why? You want to stop him?’

‘I cannot stop him. I just wish to know.’

‘Very well.’ He shrugged. ‘Tomorrow, I think. There is a reception that is being given at the Society of Antiquaries for some ambassador or another who has written a book. They say Langdown will be there. If he is, then Quinn will challenge him.’

‘And when the challenge is issued, will you tell me where, and when?’ When he hesitated she added, ‘I will not make a scene or try to interfere.’

‘He will kill Langdown, there is no cause for worry.’ Gregor sounded amused, as if at feminine weakness.

‘Then he will have to flee the country,’ Lina said. ‘It is illegal to duel, let alone kill your man. Will you please try to stop him doing that, at least?’

‘I can try.’ Gregor still sounded amused. Lina wanted to box his ears.

‘Then please do so.’ The carriage drew up outside The Blue Door and Lina opened the door and jumped down before Gregor could help her. ‘Thank you, Gregor.’

She was still fuming over the idiocy of men—she could understand why they felt the need to avenge an insult to their honour, but not why they thought it enjoyable—when she reached Aunt Clara’s rooms.

Her preoccupation with Quinn vanished when she saw her aunt. ‘Oh, you look so well!’ She flew into her arms and hugged her, her turban toppling off. ‘Is it not wonderful that Makepeace has gone?’

‘Wonderful indeed.’ Clara hugged her back. ‘But what of the sapphire?’

Lina pulled her to the
chaise
and told her the night’s events in detail. ‘Sir James is going to speak to Sir George Tolhurst. Tomorrow it will be made known that I am innocent, but I do not know what explanation they will come up with to satisfy both the law and the Tolhursts.’

‘And then you will be free to marry Lord Dreycott,’ Clara said. Lina thought she detected a question in her aunt’s expression.

‘No. I will not wed him. Yes,’ she said as Clara opened her mouth to speak, ‘I told you I do love him, but he does not love me. Nothing has changed. And what kind of life would that be if I did wed him? Besides, it would be an unequal match, even though I am cleared of the theft. And then to add the fact that I have been living here—it is impossible.’

How calm and logical it all sounded, how strange that she could be explaining it so clearly while inside she was weeping with the misery of it. ‘Quinn is seeking to rejoin society, to base himself in London, even though I do not expect him to spend much time here. Marriage to me would only handicap him further.’

‘But if he loved you?’ Her aunt took her hand in hers and pressed it gently. ‘What then?’

‘If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,’ Lina said with a bitter laugh. ‘I would still be an impediment as a wife. But there is no point in speaking about it, for he does not, and there’s an end to it. He likes me, I think. That is all.’

‘But he is determined to marry you,’ Clara pointed out.

‘He has spoken to you? I might have known. He feels responsible for me, just as he does Gregor, or an injured animal he rescued. He is a man for whom honour is everything and his honour must override my happiness, although I doubt I could ever get him to see it like that.’

‘So what will you do?’ At least her aunt did not seek to persuade her that Quinn was right, although she looked as sad as Lina felt.

‘I must get right away from him, or he will spend all his time and efforts attempting to dragoon me up the aisle. In six months’ time I may claim my legacy from old Lord Dreycott and then I can devote myself to finding my sisters, for surely, by then, Quinn will have realised that I cannot, and will not, marry him. But until then—will you lend me a little money? Just enough to find a respectable lodging away from London and a maid to give me countenance?’

‘Oh, my dear.’ Her aunt regarded her with exasperated affection. ‘He is such a fine man, one your mother would have been glad to see you wed to. But if you will not have him, then we must contrive. Now I no longer have to pay Makepeace I could give you his share every month and enough for travelling and establishing yourself. Where will you go?’

‘Norwich, I think,’ Lina said. ‘I saw a little of it when I was going through on the stage—it looked a pleasant, respectable place and large enough not to be noticed in.’

‘Then let me give you some money now. You can write and tell me when you are settled and we can arrange the rest with a local bank. It will be soon? I shall miss you.’

‘And I you. Thank you, Aunt. I will call tomorrow and say goodbye to the girls; perhaps I will know then.’

Quinn felt the familiar tightening in his gut and the sensation that every nerve in his body was alert for danger. He glanced around the crowd of gentlemen, talking quietly, greeting friends, drinking in moderation from the glasses being circulated by attentive footmen. Few places seemed more remote from a desert oasis where an ambush lay, or the back streets of Constantinople with footpads in the shadows. Yet he was braced for danger, for a fight. His right hand clenched, and he made himself relax it—there was no rapier hilt to hold. Not yet.

The crowd of gentlemen, united by their antiquarian interest, parted as the ambassador who was guest of honour entered. The volume of conversation increased.

‘He is not here?’ At Quinn’s side Gregor, too, was dressed in immaculate evening wear, indistinguishable from any of the gentlemen around them. This was what he wanted, to appear one of them, not the exotic outsider. Langdown and his father had attempted to trap one of their own kind; now he had returned in the same guise, only older, more experienced. More dangerous.

Oh, yes, much more dangerous.
For some reason he thought of Celina and the anticipation turned, inexplicably, to something more like apprehension. Gregor shifted, impatient, and he dragged his mind back to the present. ‘Not yet.’

‘You’ll recognise him?’

‘Oh, yes. In fact, here he is.’ Viscount Langdown was in his mid-thirties now, his face a little thinner, his blond hair a little darker, than Quinn remembered him. They were of a height, he reckoned, getting a grip on the flare of temper that flashed through him at the sight of the man. Langdown looked fit and moved well. He could well be a competent swordsman.

Quinn hoped to be challenged, not to be the challenger. It would give him the choice of weapons and he would select rapiers. There was less chance of killing his man with a sword than a bullet and, besides, there would be the pleasure of the fight, of looking into his eyes at close range.

Celina’s face came into his mind, her voice as she had said she would not mention the duel again, the warmth of her tears soaking into his shirt. Why had she agreed to stop talking of it? Nothing, in his experience, stopped a woman nagging if it was something she felt strongly about. And Celina felt strongly about this, he knew. Impatient, he shook his head. He had to stop thinking about her.

He wove through the crowd until he was standing in front of Langdown. Quinn knew he had changed in ten years and it was obvious the man did not recognise him at first. He had filled out from the lanky twenty-year-old he had been; his face was harder, tanned, his shoulders broader. He knew, too, that the inner change from shy young scholar to experienced adventurer showed in his face.

‘Langdown.’

‘Sir, you have the advantage of me.’ The viscount spoke pleasantly enough, relaxed in the convivial company.

‘Quinn Ashley, Lord Dreycott.’

He saw the recognition hit the other man and with it, just for a second, a flicker of apprehension.
Wise,
he thought.
Or just guilty?

‘They said you had skulked back,’ Langdown said.

‘I do not skulk,’ Quinn replied, keeping his voice pleasant. No heads turned yet. ‘I have returned because of the death of my great-uncle and to establish my home in England.’

‘I will see you blackballed from every club in the land,’ Langdown snapped.

‘Why? Because I was the youthful victim of your family’s plotting and lies? An interesting approach, Langdown, to threaten the victim of your own wrongdoing. But then, you always were a lying bully.’

‘How dare you!’ They were drawing attention now, men were looking. A few drew back a pace or so, Gregor amongst them, leaving the two in a small circle of open space. ‘You made my—’