Silver Splendor (24 page)

“Yes, he has to kowtow to his uncle, the duke. But Drew intends to return at the first possible moment. Can you keep a secret?” Starry eyed, she said, “He kissed my cheek!”

“He does seem to know how to charm a lady,” Elizabeth said dryly. “But isn’t he keen on gambling?”

“Only because he hasn’t yet found the right woman,” Cicely declared. “He’ll change, you’ll see. Then Nick will approve of him, too.” In a whisper of peach silk, she swept to the water faucet and stooped to wash the clay from her hands.

Frowning, Elizabeth walked slowly to the worktable. She could tell Cicely that Drew wouldn’t change his stripes so easily, but wouldn’t it be best for the girl to learn that hard lesson on her own? No matter what happened, she wouldn’t alter her brother’s feelings; the earl was too set in his ways.

Elizabeth sighed. She could well understand Cicely’s desire to transform Drew. She herself longed to change Nicholas’s strict opinions, to make him accept her as she was, to let go of his scruples. Such a tangled web they’d woven. Nicholas, too, was bent on metamorphosis, to make her fit his mold of a lady.

Or had he given up?

Her mouth went dry. For most of the week he’d been out, tending to business or political matters. As the days crept by she felt more and more certain that her slap had killed his interest in her. Nicholas respected logical thought, not rash outbursts; by acting on her emotions she had relinquished his respect. Yet how could she be anything but herself?

Restless, Elizabeth picked up her sketch pad. “I’m going for a walk,” she told Cicely, who was browsing through the small library of art books on the shelf. “Would you like to come?”

“Actually I’d rather read for a while. Do you mind?”

Pleased at the girl’s diligence, Elizabeth picked up her shawl. “Of course not.”

“You should take along a footman,” Cicely said. “You know how Nick feels about us venturing out alone.”

The memory of his imperious order pricked Elizabeth’s anger. “Nonsense. I’m only going across to the square. He’ll never even know I was gone.”

Heading down the overgrown pathway, she found a door half hidden by the bushes, which she unlocked with a key from a nearby hook. The hinges creaked as she slipped outside. The cool, gray afternoon suited her mood. Tendrils of vapor wreathed the formal garden, coiling around the trimmed topiary and meandering over the fragrant rosebushes.

She passed a craggy faced gardener clipping a boxwood; he tipped his cap and nodded. Ignoring his inquisitive gaze at her Turkish trousers, she found a wooden gate in the stone wall. The iron handle, slick with mist, wouldn’t budge. Locked. Retracing her steps, she asked the gardener’s assistance.

Obligingly he fished inside his pocket, produced a large key, and fumbled with the lock. “‘Is lordship, ‘e keeps the place battened up tight these days, ‘e does. Too many thieves and murderers about. Asked me to keep a sharp eye out, ‘e did.”

Thieves and murderers… a convenient tale, Elizabeth thought resentfully. Nicholas wished only to keep her under his thumb. Her heart lifted a little as she set off across the street. In spite of his orders she had escaped his domain.

A wrought iron fence surrounded the square, and the park was nearly deserted on this dismal day. A starched nanny wheeled a pram along the winding pathways; the hunched figure of an old man strolled beneath the spreading branches of plane trees; two boys played tag near the Chinese roofed pumphouse in the center of the square.

Elizabeth sat on a hard bench and idly sketched the nanny. The air smelled thick and damp, and the distant rattle of hansom cabs and carriages drifted from the street. The children darted away, heading toward one of the elegant town houses lining the square. Her eyes idly followed them. Her father would be returning soon from his tutoring post at the Garforths; he usually arrived home in time to take tea with her in the conservatory. That was their special time together, a time she treasured, when they shared the happenings of the day.

The old man shuffled to a bench a short distance away, easing himself down. Or was it a man? The dark hood of the cloak shielded the face from her view. She could see trouser cuffs peeping beneath the hem, but perhaps there were other women who affected her own unconventional style. Or who were too poor to be choosy about clothing.

Lifting the sketch pad, she began to draw the ancient
form, the stooped shoulders, the head bent as if in
woe. Sympathy welled within her. What did an elderly
person reflect upon? Lost dreams? Memories of a
happy past? Would she someday sit on a park bench
and meditate on bygone glories? Would she think back
on the English earl she had once loved and wonder
what had become of him? Swallowing her sudden sorrow, she let her pencil glide over the paper, capturing
the pale hand slipping inside the cloak, perhaps to rub
an aching belly or to reach for a bottle of gin_ .

Inside the cloak, slim fingers caressed the, carved wooden hilt of a Scottish dirk. The single edged blade had been honed to the sharpness of a scalpel. Two hundred years ago the dagger had been used to kill rival highlanders.

Today it would serve a higher purpose… to heal the malady afflicting Lucy, to cleanse her of sin and set her free. Keen eyes watched the nanny wheel the pram out of the park. Impatient fingers tightened around the barrel shaped grip of the knife. So much time had been wasted; so little time remained. There had been too many days of waiting… waiting for Lucy’s daughter to venture forth alone.

The square was empty now. The wind whispered through the trees… whispered that the chance had come at last. In a few moments the bitter scent of blood would rise into the misty air.

Blood that would bring Lucy back.

With creaky movements, the figure rose from the bench and started slowly down the path.

His black mood lifted as Nicholas strode down the corridor, the heels of his riding boots ringing on the marble floor. Cicely wasn’t in her rooms, nor was she out making calls with Aunt Beatrice. That meant his sister must be in the conservatory with Elizabeth.

Anticipation rose sharp and sweet within him. He tried to shove the feeling away, but it crept back, defying all logic. God help him, he wanted Elizabeth. He wanted to gaze into her vivid eyes. He wanted to watch her lithe movements and hear her merry laughter. Most of all he wanted to touch her, to sift the silk of her hair through his fingers, to taste the softness of her lips, to wrap ner in his embrace and absorb her passion, her vitality.

Iwish I could sculpt you in marble.

The memory of her words stung more hotly than her slap. Despite her passionate response to his kisses, he meant nothing to her beyond the physical. He was a model for her to sculpt; Elizabeth had space in her busy life only for her work.

The knowledge frustrated and embittered him. For the first time he craved more than a physical joining, more than a brief, loveless liaison. Damn her for stealing his heart without bestowing her own in return!

Yet, as he neared the conservatory, a thrilling surge of impatience filled Nicholas. Already he could detect the damp scent of vegetation, the arousing hint of herbs and clay he associated with Elizabeth. Reigning in his quixotic emotions, he stepped through the opened door.

Warm, humid air enveloped him as he walked down the pathway, through the jungle of glossy leafed camellia bushes. He glanced eagerly around the glass enclosed room. Amid the clutter on the worktable stood an armature for what looked like a human figure. The splashing of the fountain mingled with the tap of his footsteps on the stone flags and the occasional patter of raindrops. Disappointment left a sour taste in his mouth.

Elizabeth wasn’t here. Her absence felt like a physical pain.

Turning to go, he caught sight of Cicely near the ivy covered wall. She was engrossed in reading, and her chair was partially hidden by the tangle of foliage. His initial purpose in coming here rushed back.

Heading toward her, he wondered what could so snare her attention that she would fail to hear his footsteps. “Good afternoon, Cicely.”

She jumped. A pencil slipped from her fingers and pinged to the floor. Whipping toward him, she slammed the book shut. Her blue eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. “What are you doing here?” she squeaked.

He knew that expression of guilt. Spurred by suspicion, he lifted the book from her lap. She made a move as if to snatch back the thick volume, then sank into her chair and watched him with an air of rebellious resignation.

He looked at the book.
Gray’s Anatomy.
A sheet of paper stuck out of the middle; Nicholas opened to the marked page. His eyes narrowed on the illustration of male genitals. The loose paper contained a shockingly accurate rendering of a man’s nude body, right down to his —

Lips taut, Nicholas clapped the book shut. The thought of his sister making such an immodest sketch appalled and angered him.

“What the devil do you think you’re about?”

Cicely tilted her chin stubbornly. “I’m studying. All artists have to learn human anatomy — just ask Elizabeth.”

“I’ll speak to her, believe me, I will.” He jabbed the book into the air for emphasis. “To inform her that this is totally inappropriate subject matter for a young lady.”

“Oh, pooh, they’re only pictures. You’re carrying on like the queen’s minister of protocol.” Despite her brazen words, Cicely blushed crimson.

“I’m carrying on out of concern for your welfare. You’re not to consult this book again, do you hear?”

Her lower lip jutted out. “You never let me do anything the least bit daring or amusing.”

“On the contrary, Cicely, you may do whatever you like… within the bounds of proper behavior. Speaking of which, Charles and Phoebe are coming to dinner tonight. I shall expect you to conduct yourself as a lady.”

“I will as long as you don’t thrust me at Charles. I prefer to choose my own men.”

Her undaunted spirit ignited a spark of darkly affectionate humor in Nicholas. “I know you do, Cicely. You’ve made that eminently clear. Now where is Elizabeth?”

Cicely regarded him sulkily. “She went out for a walk.”

Alarm dried his throat. “Out?” he said hoarsely. “Where?”

“Just across the street, to the square.”

“Alone?”

“Well, yes,” Cicely said, shrugging. “I told her to take a footman, but she said —”

Nicholas didn’t hear the rest because he was already sprinting out the door. The speed of his footsteps on the marble floor matched the pounding rhythm of his heart. If Thisdewood’s latest report was correct, Elizabeth could be in grave danger.

Rounding a corner, he startled a parlor maid; squealing, she dropped a stack of linen. Nicholas rushed past her, down the echoing corridor. He felt sick with fear … fear for Elizabeth and for himself. Fear that he would be too late… fear that he would lose all that had become most precious to him.

In the entrance hall Aunt Beatrice descended the grand staircase. “You’re home early, Nicholas,” she said, smiling. “Shall I ring for tea —”

“Later,” he snapped.

“But Nicholas–”

He ignored her startled face. Long strides carried him toward the door, where Peebles stood at rigid attention. Only then did Nicholas realize he still held the anatomy book.

He thrust it at the butler. “Burn it.”

“Yes, my lord.” Hutching the book against his cadaverous, black clad chest, Peebles sprang to open the door.

Nicholas strode out into the vaporous air and leapt down the steps, two at a time. His keen eyes surveyed the fog shrouded square; it looked deserted. So intent was his inspection that a hansom cab nearly ran him down. He dodged the horse’s hooves and ignored the driver’s curse. God, where was Elizabeth?

His gaze swept the plane trees, the small pump house, the nymph fountain near the far railing. A gust of wind spattered raindrops against his face. Half running, he shot through the opened, wrought iron gate, his shoes crunching on the path.

Then he spied her bent over a sketch pad, sitting on a bench beneath the trees. His heart did a wild leap of relief. Praise God, she was unharmed. No murderer stalked this quiet park; only an old man, cloaked against the mist, strolled the path toward her.

Nicholas’s fears melted beneath the heat of a colossal anger. She might be safe this time, but she’d damned well never again take such an idiotic risk!

He marched swiftly past the stooped figure. Elizabeth remained absorbed in her sketch. An ebony veil of hair hid her features, but he recognized the total concentration on her task. As she swung her head toward him, a succession of emotions flitted over her face: artistic curiosity, startled pleasure, guarded interest.

“Hello, Nicholas.”

Her melodic voice stirred a softness within him which he squelched. Taking hold of her arm, he dragged her from the bench. The sketch pad tumbled to the wet ground.

“You deserve to be thrashed,” he said fiercely. “What the devil are you doing out here alone?”

“Drawing. In my own free time, I might add.”

“Freedom be damned! If you set so much as one toe outside my doors, you’re to have a footman escort you.”