Stormfire (66 page)

She played with a curl at her cheek. "Still, no virtue, no dowry, no marriage. Even a rich bourgeois couldn't begin to restore our fortune." She appeared to mull the problem over. "I may have to become a discreet courtesan, an expensive one only the richest can afford." She cut Enderly a look. "Would you mind very much?"

"What makes you assume you're suited to be a courtesan?"

Dear Papa. You'd feed me to the wolves if they had gold teeth. "Perez was a man of jaded tastes," she stated matter-of-factly. "I never bored him. I'm new, mysteriously scandalous, well-bred and available . . . for a price. But I want more than money." She leaned forward deliberately, breasts swelling against the low-cut decolletage. "You could see that I'm introduced to the proper men. Artois and Angoulême are still in Edinburgh, aren't they?"

"Angoulême is to be married next year to the princess of Savoie. Not a wise choice, my dear."

"I wasn't thinking of Louis.
Monsieur
is the one who controls the purse strings."

"He's no fool, Catherine. He has a mistress of some years with whom he's well, satisfied. He indulges no one but himself. He would have you for an hors d'oeuvre."

"Such a nibble may intrigue a gourmet." She smiled wickedly. "I believe
Monsieur le due
might be tempted to sample the whole feast."

"Perhaps."

She leaned over the desk. "Papa, there's no time. How much longer before we lose Windemere? Months? Weeks? I don't question your judgment; I only urge you to make use of me while I can be a valuable tool. Public poverty is no whetstone."

"I'm aware of your point, Catherine. I'll consider it." He rose from his chair. "Now, regretfully, I have pressing business in Liverpool. I beg you to excuse me until this evening, my dear. I'm sorry about the distraction, but your arrival was precipitate." He took her hands. "We'll spend a great deal of time together, I promise. I'm sure you're tired after the journey and would like to rest quietly in your room. John will be near if you should want anything."

John the Jailer. "Thank you, Papa. I am tired. I should like something to read. Is the account of Artois's Vendue Expedition still in the library?"

"Yes, of course. Perhaps I can correct its Jacobin slant for you after dinner."

Ushering her out of the study, he locked the door and strolled with her to the foyer where John handed him his hat, gloves, and crop. He kissed her cheek. "Until this evening, my dear."

Catherine watched him mount a bay stallion and trot down the drive. Dear Papa doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me, she mused, and that's exactly why I'll get to Edinburgh to see Flynn!

John Enderly reviewed his daughter's brief story. Although she had made no slips, the tale had yawning gaps; its comparison to the prisoner's version might be interesting. Her return was awkward, but her unusual beauty presented possibilities. She was not yet twenty-one; that left nearly two months to decide whether she would prove more useful dead than alive.

To receive his first real information virtually on the eve of her return was a peculiar coincidence. The anonymous note had simply stated his daughter would be reentering England via Liverpool within the week. If he were to have men about the docks and the Cockcrow Inn, he might intercept the man who had ruined him. It had cost them, but the marines had taken him alive. When the prisoner awoke infes cell and catlike green eyes glared through the bars, the watch officer knew he had his man.

Without delay, Sean was taken to Sergeant Worthy to have his tongue unlocked. Despite his rigid control, his nerves crawled as Worthy slit off his clothing. His boots were neatly placed, as if by a valet, near the door of the two-storied stone room. Worthy was fastidious despite his huge-muscled bulk. His amiable pug face did nothing to dispel the icy knot in Sean's gut. A cat-o'-nine-tails hung on the frame that held him suspended by the wrists, ankles tied apart to the support columns, his toes just touching the floor. He blinked, a sweat of anticipation pricking his skin.

Worthy tested the ropes at his wrists, which were wrapped in coarse cotton to absorb perspiration and keep the prisoner from slipping free in an effusion of his own fear. "Well, lad. That about does it." The man held out a handful of wicked iron points hooked to the rawhide strips of the cat. "Any time ye've had enough, sing out. I an't the sort who likes to hurt a man more than necessary, but I do my job, see, and I'm good at it." He backed off, then seemed to remember something and tapped Sean's shoulder. The young Irishman flinched. "Don't tense up. The cat can tear tight muscles permanent."

Sean tried to concentrate on the rope cutting into his wrists, the pounding ache in his head from the pistol butt-, anything but what he knew was coming. But he could not know, could not imagine, the searing claw of pain that made him gasp and snap against the bonds. The second raked across the first and he bit blood. Relaxing made him feel exposed, and with all his will, he fought the urge to knot his muscles against the pain. Tried to go inside himself. Hide. With the methodical timing of a clock, Worthy cut his back to shreds. Darkness was a long time in coming; when it did, Worthy had to pour three buckets of stinging salt water over him to bring him around. He pulled his dripping head up by the hair. "Anything to say, lad?"

Sean blinked, trying to focus, then shook his head like a tired dog.

The pug sighed. "Well, it's up to you." He dropped his victim's head, then placed a heated brazier on a nearby tripod. "After I was pressed into the marines, I spent fifteen years in the Orient. Might say I learned the finer points of my trade there." He propped long needles into the brazier. Thick fingers slid along Sean's nape. "Them yellow devils can make a man howl just by a touch." He applied a subtle pressure to the medulla and the Irishman's head jerked back, lips drawn across his teeth in a rictus; the boring pain was a nail driving into his brain, making the pain of the lash a comparative caress. Then Worthy's hand shifted to his spine and he tore at the bonds; when it moved to his groin, he made animal sounds of fear, then began screaming and went on screaming as the fingers finally became white hot needles that explored the nerves in his body until no sound emerged from cracked, bloody lips though he still screamed. Until he didn't know Worthy. Didn't know his own name. Anything.

The viscount on the balcony above went home to dinner.

still screamed. Until he didn't know Worthy. Didn't know his own name. Anything.

The viscount on the balcony above went home to dinner. ,

"Papa, I'm going to the stables this morning to see Numidian. Why not join me?"

"Unfortunately, my dear," the viscount murmured, "the horse was stolen by a stableboy, the one who was your driver the night of the kidnapping. I suspect he was in league with . . .
Señor
Perez."

Catherine's brisk spirits plummeted convincingly. "Numidian, gone? Oh, Papa! Amin isn't gone too, is he?"

"Your mother left him a legacy. I daresay he'll be with us until doomsday." The last was sardonic. No love was lost between the Englishman and the Arab.

"I suppose I'll have to make do," Catherine sighed. "We haven't ridden together in years, Papa. Do come."

"You know I detest horses," he replied lazily. "Having to do without a coach is tedious enough without riding as sport." Then he relented gracefully. "I've another errand in Liverpool, but tomorrow we'll do something together, I promise."

"Dear Papa, you are good to me." Catherine ran upstairs and hastily donned a habit, then hurried to the stables.

After a gravely dignified but happy reunion with Amin, she led him to the riding ring out of earshot of John, who had followed to lurk behind a nearby boxwood hedge. Once Amin realized she had come to despise her father and knew of his vicious career, he was a mine of information. Finally, she dug to its core.

"I remember Mother's death now. I'm free of it except for one thing. She promised to tell me a secret the day she was killed; she never had the chance."

"Your mother had resolved to separate from my lord Enderly."

She felt a cold dread. "The accident was rather oddly timed." Amin said nothing. "Amin, Father didn't really love her and he had all her money. Why would he care so much what she did?"

"My lord Enderly is an exceedingly proud man." He stressed the last words with an inflection of hatred she had never heard him use.

"He murdered her? Out of pride?" she whispered, aghast.

"Pride and greed. Had she persuaded you to go with her, he would have lost all possibility of her fortune."

"What fortune?"

"On your twenty-first birthday, you will inherit the
Vigny
estates."

"But there are none. The Revolution took everything."

He shrugged. "If the Bourbons return to power, you will be rich. The
château
and its lands, the Parisian and European properties are impressive when united under a single heir. You even own an island near Jamaica."

"Then by encouraging my mental collapse, Papa would have been executor," she mused. "How inconvenient for me to return just now."

"Particularly so because you are not his daughter. I would have preferred to keep these secrets for a time, but you are in immediate danger, my lady."

Shortly, the tale was out. "Brendan Culhane is my father?" The color drained from her face so suddenly he thought she must fall. "Oh, dear God!" Stunned with horror and grief, she clung to the fence.

"My lady, please!" She slowly straightened, standing as if propped. "My lady? What is the matter?"

"The man you suspected at Ingram is Brendan Culhane's son, Sean." Her grip on the rail tightened. "I was his mistress. I married his brother Liam two years ago." She twisted at the rail in growing fury. "That was the weapon Liam used! He must have discovered the truth in the legal contest for the estate. No wonder he was so willing to allow an uncontested divorce! I had grounds to divorce him whether he agreed or not!" Tears welled from her eyes as her head bowed. "Oh, my Sean, we are surely the forsaken of God!"

"Is Sean Culhane the one who returned you?" She nodded. "My lady, they knew of his coming. There was an informant."

"Only Liam knew Sean was coming here!" She gritted her teeth. That malevolent . . . there was no word sufficient! "Did they intercept him?"

"I have inquired discreetly, yet I do not know."

Her dazed wits sharpened. "If they've caught him, a yacht called the
Megan
may still be in the harbor." She picked at fence splinters. "Enderly may let me go to Scotland if he hopes I'll lead him to the people he's after." She waved at the breeze ruffling the grass. "By sail, I can reach Edinburgh in three days, God willing a steady wind. It's the only chance," she added bleakly, "for if Sean's in prison, I can do little alone."

A bottle waved under Sean's nose; his head jerked weakly, trying to avoid the biting smell of ammonia.

"That's enough. He's coming around," came from a nebulous shape wavering on a gray horizon. Another shape was attached to the bottle and he peered at it with dull curiosity. His entire being felt like an open wound.

"Wait. A little more. He's blacking out again." The Irishman's head twisted away.