The Duke of Shadows (21 page)

"What are you doing here?"

She came up on her knees. "My God—it
is
true, isn't it?"

"Caroline." He took a slow breath. "I would like to be alone."

"Incredible! I defend you to a crowd of people who think you should be prosecuted for assaulting a national hero, I don't even
ask
for an explanation of the
humiliation
you put me through at Lockwood's, and this is how you—" She shook her head. "Look here. You obviously need to talk to someone. What's going on?"

He eyed her for an exasperated moment, trying to resolve her two heads into one. Finally he gave up. He turned to the small liquor cabinet for a reinforcement, and saw that his outstretched hand shook. No. He made a fist and stepped back. This was not the way to do it.

"Listen," he said, turning back around. The bed was rumpled; she had obviously been waiting for some time. The sky-blue peignoir was new, and there was a bottle of wine decanting on the low table beside the bed. She had taken great pains. "Caroline, I am sorry. I am…" He lowered himself into a wing chair and pressed his face into his hand. Her scent was still on him. He could smell her on his skin. Had he pressed his own smell into her? Christ God almighty, he hoped she tossed in her bed tonight thinking of him.

Caroline made some noise, and he looked up. Her hair was loose; a lock slipped suddenly off her shoulder. Otherwise she was quite still, her expression impassive. Waiting.

"Caro, this is not going to work."

He had seen her eyes take on that light at the gaining tables: hard and calculating. "It's that woman," she said.

"Not precisely."

"You want to be with her."

He looked back to the liquor cabinet, then down to his palm. His fingers closed, obscuring the lines.
Some people are engraved into your palm, child; from birth, they are with you, know it or not.
So long ago, his grandmother had told him that. "I was wrong, Caro. I thought certain … things … did not matter to me." He looked up. "Perhaps you should think of aiming higher as well."

She scoffed. "Higher than Auburn?"

"Yes. You could do better than what we have here."

She gave him a little, disbelieving smile. "Do you mean, I could look for romance and true love and undying affection?"

"Something like that."

"Well. I never thought I would see the day." She shook her head a little. "Geoffrey offered that, Auburn. And do you know what? It smothered me."

"Perhaps he was not the one for you, then."

"Do you hear yourself? What an absurd schoolboy you sound!" She leaned forward, her eyes intense on his.
"Think,
Julian. Our marriage would be perfectly civilized. Devoid of ugly scenes—like this one. I would not trouble you with nonsense. I would not nag if you failed to return home at night. I have tried that already, and it does not please you. And do you know? It does not please me either! I am sick of playing the mother for my lovers. If you wish to pass the time in other company, very well—that is your decision. Stay out all night at cards; I'll say nothing. Flirt with other women if you like. This girl? Have her! What difference to me? I like you too much to push any rules on you. And I know you like me a great deal too. Don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well then, think of it! We could be
free
within this marriage. Don't you see?"

"I see you would be most understanding," he said gently. "But Caroline—it occurred to me tonight. I am no longer twenty. And perhaps that sort of freedom has palled for me."

"Oh ho!" She fell back against the headboard, laughing a long, forced laugh. "Julian Sinclair,
wanting
the spurs laid into him! This must be quite a girl." She reached for the decanter and poured herself some wine. He waited, watching. A little sad.

With an elegant flip of the wrist, she tipped the sass to her mouth and drained it in one swallow. Her knuckles came up to wipe her mouth. "Is she the one, then? From India?"

"She is not the subject of this discussion."

"I see. Have you had her yet?"

All of a sudden, his head pounded. "Caroline, I am rapidly becoming unfit for company. I think it best you leave now."

Her tone grew ugly. "What, she would not have you, then?"

He stood. "No, she will not have me. And I am coming to believe she never will have me. Perhaps that will give you some comfort. Certainly it proves that my decision here has nothing to do with the question of freedom."

"You are a
fool,"
she said. But her eyes were tellingly bright. He sat down on the very edge of the bed, so he could touch her cheek.

"Caro," he said. "I pray to God that one day you will also be lucky enough to feel this foolish. But I wish you a happier ending. That is all."

Her face turned away. "I must dress," she said, barely audible.

"Yes. I'll wait outside."

"You're quite taken with that painting," Lockwood said, coming up to his side.

"Yes." Julian looked back to the looming soldier. He hoped it was only a recollection of that day in Chandni Chowk—but the background did not look right for it. Had Emma run into the man again? Good God, he would drive himself mad with these questions. And he could not bring himself to force them on her again. The look on her face in the library … it would not leave his mind. "I'm glad to see you reconsidered the bedchamber."

"Well, and I may still put it there. Just like old times."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Shared a room with ten or twelve like him in Botany Bay. Even killed a few, when the going got rough."

"Yes, I see the appeal, then. What a lovely thing to be reminded of in the morning."

Lockwood's manner was suddenly sober. "Forgetting is the danger, Jules."

Julian cast him a glance. They'd been friends since their salad days, drinking and pranking at Eton and later, at King's College in Cambridge. But since his return from the penal colony, Lockwood was a bit of an enigma. Mellowed, and frighteningly cheerful. Yet occasionally Julian got the unnerving sense that when Lockwood took his leave, grinning and joking and smiling, he left to go find something to smash.

"You're slightly deranged," Julian said. "Do you know it?"

"Yes, of course. Is that a sign of greater or lesser madness?"

He shrugged. All things told, being hit over the head on one's wedding day and tossed without explanation onto a hulk could give a man cause for madness. Society, thanks to Lockwood's clever insinuations and Julian's own small comments, believed he had been traveling with his wife these last few years. Julian knew better. Perhaps Lockwood's wife did as well. That was a question yet to be resolved, since the lady had not emerged from the woodwork since Lockwood's return eight months ago.

"It almost burned last night," Lockwood continued. "Some damned fool left a lamp burning in the music room. You know it, it's at the other end of the gallery, lets out onto the garden. Well, it
did
let out on the garden. Gone now. We caught the flames right in the corridor."

"Dear God."

"Curious that a lamp was burning in the first place. The staff knows I don't use that room."

"None of them could account for it?"

"No."

Julian considered the painting again.
The city is not ready.
And the Sapnagar painting:
Our intention is to enter through
Kashmir
Gate.
He wished to hell he had examined the other paintings more closely, that night when they'd all been assembled here. But he'd been in no state for clear thinking. "Are the others already at the Academy?"

"Yes, apart from the few they couldn't accommodate."

"And those?"

"Sold. You would not believe how quickly they moved. Why?"

"Perhaps nothing. Only … this Urdu. It seems to be military instructions."

"Curious."

"Yes. If only she would explain it."

"I imagine you did not miss it at the ball."

He could feel Lockwood's scrutiny. "Do you know, apparently she is weighing a trip to Italy. Any idea as to why?"

Every muscle in his body tightened. Running away, was she? "I can't imagine. You'll have to ask Miss Martin herself."

"You know her from India, then. How, I wonder?"

"I wonder how your wife fares. You do still have one, yes?"

Lockwood's brows arched. "Drink?"

"By all means."

As they headed for the closest cellaret, Lockwood began to laugh. "Just like the old days. You as wily as a cat when I asked about one of your women!"

"She isn't one of my women."

"So I've noticed. Does that mean I can have her?" As Julian turned on him, he grinned, holding up his hands. "Well, that answers one question. Though it raises several more."

"I could say the same to you," Julian said evenly. They cut into the formal salon. Julian grabbed a decanter of whiskey from the sideboard.

"Come now, Jules, if I can't have her, why won't you? She's a lovely girl, and I think we'll both agree she's quite talented."

Bloody idiot. "She's not interested," he said, and splashed himself two fingers.

"She can't be that uninterested. I saw her face that night."

He contemplated the depths of the glass before downing it in one go. The look on her face, as she spoke of the war… "So did I," he said quietly. He would not put that look on her face again. He would leave her alone; he was resolved on it.

"So that's it? You're not pursuing her?"

Julian settled on the settee as Lockwood helped himself to brandy. "Were you always so quick, Lockwood?"

"You're done. Despite the fact that you came after her that night her like a cat after cream."

"Christ. What a poet you are."

"What? Should I be more crude? You were watching her like you were plotting out how best to tumble her down and spread her—"

"No," he said calmly. "I was not. I was watching her like I thought she had come up from the grave."

"I see." Lockwood set the decanter on the table between them, then sat down opposite. "Your pardon. Perhaps I was confusing my own healthy lust for yours. She does have a very nice set of—"

"Enough!" He slammed down the glass. "You are speaking of a lady!"

"And we both know that means nothing. Most ladies have their skirts around their ears before you so much as crook your finger. What you mean is that we are speaking of Miss Martin."

Julian shrugged. Lockwood thought he was approaching a point. Best to let him get done with it.

The man threw one booted foot over his knee. His fingers drummed against his thigh. "Look, Auburn, you've not been yourself these last few days. Thrashing your fellow clubmen. Jilting your fiancée. I hear you even smashed the Ardsmores' globe."

"I've commissioned a replacement."

"But it's poor form. Keep it up and no one in London will receive you."

"Horrifying thought."

"Oh, come off it, Jules. It's most unlike you. I can only credit it to your run-in with Miss Martin. It seems your fixation—"

"Fixation—"

He inhaled slowly, releasing his breath in a rush. "Listen. I have done nothing to her."

"Then may I suggest you try the opposite? Because this—"

"She will not have me."

Julian gave a short laugh. "You have this all wrong. There is a history between us."

"Mmm."

"And for whatever reason, she feels she cannot acknowledge it. She is determined to remain unattached."

Lockwood shrugged. "Then do not offer an attachment. Perhaps she will enjoy herself enough to change her mind."

Julian mulled it.

After a moment, Lockwood spoke again. "The key, as I said, is to avoid chasing her off. Another drink?" He reached out to pour one for himself.

"Yes. And a suggestion for you."

"My breath is bated."

"If your wisdom regarding women is so great, you might try applying it to your own bloody situation."

Lockwood took a sip. "Ah, it doesn't get better than the forty-six, does it?"

Julian laughed.