The River of No Return (24 page)

“Would you? Would you indeed?” Kirklaw frowned, got the cigar out of his mouth, and worried at its wet, frayed end with his fingers. “All right then, here it is without roundaboutation. The point is this. Jem Jemison. He’s come to London, now that you have put paid to his plans for Blackdown. He’s here, and he’s making a damned nuisance of himself. Rabble-rousing in Soho and the East End. Drumming up opposition to the Corn Bill.”

“So? What does that have to do with me? Or with Clare?”

All three men laughed. “Everything!” Blessing said. “Your name is linked with his! This scheme of your sister’s; people want to know if you are turning against the politics of your fathers. They want to know if you support her, if you stand against the aristocracy, against everything we represent!”

“They doubt me? The men below seemed to have no anxiety on that front.”

“They don’t doubt you yet,” Kirklaw said. “But they could well come to doubt you. You are in a precarious position, Blackdown.”

“Ah.” Nick smiled. “Yes. I forgot. You brought me here to threaten me.”

“We are not threatening you; the future itself is threatening you! Have you not been reading the papers? The Corn Bill is going to save your sorry hide. Now that the war is over, it’s the only thing that can keep prices high.”

“I’ve been in Spain, you may recall. Saving your own sorry hide.”

“Oh, spare me, please.” Kirklaw thrust his ruined cigar back between his teeth and spoke around it. “You went to Spain to escape your responsibilities. Don’t play the great hero with us. While you were marching about like a toy soldier, we grew up. We shouldered our responsibilities. We sat on our cold seats in the House of Lords and we served this country. And now you come back without the foggiest notion of the dangers you face as a lord of the realm, as a brother to your wayward—yes, your wayward—sisters. The dangers you face as an Englishman.”

“Do you dare to rebuke me because you outrank me, Kirklaw? I only ask because it has been so long since I have studied the
Peerage
. I’ve heard it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever done.”

The three lords stared at Nick from matching pairs of blue eyes, their faces as flat as a row of Wedgwood plates. Then Kirklaw blinked and flushed. “Fiction?
Fiction?
Without the Corn Bill fixing the price of our corn, our days are numbered. The manufactories are already squeezing us, stealing our workers. And the merchants are buying our titles with their whey-faced daughters and their filthy money. Once foreign corn starts pouring in, we will have neither the money nor the influence to keep men on the land. Do you want America, or France, to happen on English soil? Are you ready, at best, to become a commoner, who must make his leg to the richest tailor in town, or at worst to see your sisters’ heads roll as you wait your own turn for Madame Guillotine?”

“And your Corn Bill? It will save us from those unimaginable fates?”

“It certainly will,” Blessing said. “Indefinitely.”

“If it passes,” Delbun said.

Kirklaw waved a dismissive hand. “The bill will pass, handily. But it is unpopular with the lower classes. To say the least. And your Jemison—”

“He is not my Jemison.”

“Your Jemison,” the duke said insistently, “is at the heart of the trouble. I need you to denounce him. You are known to be my friend, and you cannot be both my friend and his.”

“Surely one returned soldier cannot tarnish the reputation of a duke.”

“No, but one marquess can.” Kirklaw pointed a wet finger at Nick. “Your peers are ready to accept you as a hero, as a leader. They are ready to hand you their trust and their admiration on a plate. But that could change. I am merely warning you of the thin ice upon which you stand. If the people rise up after the vote—and they will—and if you have not stood up and made clear your loyalty to your party and your class, your peers will turn on you. They will blame you for the unrest. Then they will turn to me, and they will think, How could Kirklaw be friends with that man? The mob or me. That is your choice.”

The Mob! Nick pictured Tony Soprano bursting into the House of Lords and shooting everyone dead with his ArmaLite AR-10. He chuckled. “You want to ride the coattails of my eminence, don’t you, Kirklaw? And if you cannot, you will bring me down in a fit of pique.”

“I will not be the one to bring you down, Falcott. I only warn you that fame is a fickle mistress. Your fair-weather friends downstairs might come to learn of Jemison’s association with Lady Clare. They might come to learn that he served with you in the Peninsula. That he fought side by side with you. It could be said that you sent Jemison on from Spain to be the steward at Blackdown. It could be said that you are a radical, like Byron, who wishes to see his own class degraded, destroyed. Like Byron, you think the mob speaks the sentiments of the people.”

“That clubfooted reprobate has fathered a child on his own sister,” Blessing said. “If you don’t stand against Jemison soon, people might say that you are little better than he, that you condone Jemison’s corruption of Lady Clare. That you would welcome the issue of a tallow chandler into your family. For that is what Jemison is. A tallow chandler’s son.”

Nick laughed out loud at that one and twitched his cuffs into place. “Between the tallow chandlers and the incestuous noblemen, it’s a wonder Albion hasn’t sunk beneath the waves. I’ll have you know, Kirklaw: Byron will be remembered when we are all rotting away in our family vaults. As for the tallow chandler, Jemison the Elder provides candles to the navy. His candles have illuminated the battle plans of Sidney Smith and Horatio Nelson. He is a wealthier man than any of us here.”

Kirklaw curled his lip. “Our great admirals use waxen candles, surely.”

Nick clapped his hands. “Oh, well done, Your Grace. You have bested me. How dare I suggest that the great Nelson ever had to smell burning fat!” He got to his feet. “My Lord Gossip.” He bowed to Blessing. “My Lord Calumny.” He bowed to Delbun. “And Your Grace of Slander.” He made an elaborate leg to Kirklaw. “I believe we have said enough to one another this evening. I thank you for your hospitality, and I bid you good night.” He drained his brandy balloon with a flourish.

“One moment before you go, Blackdown.” Kirklaw went to a leather writing case sitting on an escritoire, opened it, and drew out a heavy sheet of paper. He spent a moment perusing it, then handed it to Blessing, who handed it to Delbun, who handed it up to Nick. It read: “George Augustus Frederick, the Prince of Wales, Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, To Our Right Trusty and Well Beloved Nicholas Clancy Falcott, Chevalier, Greeting.”

Shit.

A Writ of Summons.

Nick looked up to find Kirklaw watching him with a smirk, pinching at that wretched cigar. “You are to appear in the House of Lords in your robes the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Whereupon you will take your oath of allegiance and make your maiden speech in favor of the Corn Bill.” He reached into the case and extracted a sheaf of papers. “This is your speech. It repudiates Jemison and those like him, and calls for immediate passage of the bill. It praises me, your old friend.” He shuffled through the pages and found a passage, which he read out loud. “‘I fought in Spain, at the head of a gallant company. I can tell you from experience that Jem Jemison is a coward. But I can also tell you, as a leader of men, that I know how to recognize courage and fortitude in any man.’” Kirklaw looked up. “And here you gesture at me. I shall look surprised, and you shall ask me to stand. Then you say, in ringing tones, ‘The Duke of Kirklaw is just such an exemplar of British manhood! I put my faith in him, the faith of a soldier and an Englishman!’”

Nick suppressed a smile. “You expect me to read that, out loud, in the House of Lords.”

“I do. And I believe, when you consider the alternatives, that you will.” The duke handed the papers to Blessing, who handed them to Delbun, who handed them up to Nick.

“I don’t have robes.”

“You will find that Ede and Ravenscroft have your father’s robes put away. Like your title and the duties you owe to your family, your estate, and your class, Ede and Ravenscroft have been waiting for you.”

“And if I do not appear?”

“The choice is entirely yours, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

“May I offer you another drink, or have you had enough?”

Nick looked down at his empty balloon, then up and into the eyes of his former friend. “Oh, fill her up,” he said. “Smuggled brandy makes blackmail go down much more smoothly.”

Kirklaw bowed, acknowledging the hit. Finally flicking his shredded cigar into the fire, he grabbed the bottle up from the table where it had been left and strolled over to Nick. “Welcome home, my old friend,” he said, tipping brandy into Nick’s glass.

T
he house was silent, except for the patter of raindrops on the windows. Julia lay on her bed, trying to distract herself with a novel. She had declined an invitation to join Clare, Bella, and the dowager marchioness on a visit to their second cousin Lydia. It hadn’t been hard to say no: Lydia was a famously bad-tempered old woman who lived in unfashionable Kensington. She had many cats, three parrots, and a silent husband. Bella said the husband was probably stuffed, for he always sat in the same place and never said a word. Julia had waved them off without a shred of regret.

Thinking herself alone in the house, she had gone into the drawing room to read, only to find Count Lebedev stretched out asleep between two gold bergère chairs that he had pulled into position, his knees ridiculously supported by the harpsichord bench that he had placed between them. There he lay, snoring, his boots casually ruining the exquisite blue-and-gold silk jacquard upholstery. Julia indulged herself in a good long contemptuous stare. This was the man of whom she was so afraid, the man who was hunting her down. This boorish man, who clearly gave not one pin for the dowager marchioness’s delicate sensibilities; she doted on those chairs almost as if they were her children. Surely Blackdown couldn’t actually like this Russian miscreant?

Well. Julia flared her nostrils. What Blackdown liked and didn’t like was no concern of hers. She knew full well what she thought of the Russian. If ever the day came that he was looming over her with a knife, she would spend her last moments smirking in his face and treasuring the memory of him like this. His mouth was gaping open, his long limbs were splayed and slack, and best of all, his snore was high and piercing, something like the choking gobble of a tom turkey. She closed the door silently and headed up to her room. She had a Minerva novel and was well launched into its third, splenetic volume. If she didn’t finish it now, perhaps it would at least send her to sleep.

But an hour had passed and the trials of the perpetually fainting Matilda Weimar had neither come to an end nor dispatched Julia into the arms of Lethe. She found herself staring out of the window at the rain, her mind going in circles. The rain made her remember the kiss. The kiss made her think about Blackdown, and thinking about Blackdown made her wonder what bound him to the horrible snoring Russian downstairs. Debt? Honor? Friendship? Or was Blackdown some sort of slave to Lebedev’s time manipulations?

Julia repressed the thought. Thank heaven she had witnessed that scene at Castle Dar, for now she knew that if she so much as imagined playing with time, the Russian might sense it. And if he sensed it, he would think she was one of those he was hunting. Would he skewer her on a sword, or shoot her? Or he might choose more subtle methods. Her saddle girth might be cut or a finial might be knocked from the roof of the house just when she was walking below—did this house even have finials?

Finials! For God’s sake. Julia clenched her fists and tried to stop thinking at all, which made her hear the rain against the window. And the rain made her remember the kiss.

“Botheration!” She threw her book across the room and felt a fierce sort of pleasure when a badly stitched parcel of pages broke free and fell out. She hoped it was the part where the Countess of Wolfenbach is locked in a closet giving birth as the corpse of her lover bleeds all over her gown.

Julia jumped from the bed. She should have chosen boredom at Cousin Lydia’s over fretting isolation in this ominously pensive house. It was almost as if the house were haunted, and she could feel the vibrations of a restless spirit. But that restless spirit was her own.

She needed a more active distraction than the damp sentiments of Matilda and friends. She could not go downstairs where the count was sleeping, and she could not go out. Nowhere to go but up. She would explore the top three stories of the house.

She slipped out into the hallway. There was Bella’s door, and Clare’s, and in the center, the dowager marchioness’s grand suite. The marquess was, of course, entitled to claim the master suite as his own, but he had refused to displace his mother. There was the count’s bedroom—Julia stepped past quickly, her heart in her throat. Beside that, Blackdown’s. Every impulse urged her to go in and explore. She did put her hand on the cool porcelain knob, and turned it just a little, enough to know that it wasn’t locked. But she didn’t turn it all the way, and with firm steps she went past that last, most fascinating bedchamber.

The next floor up contained some empty rooms, some locked rooms, and the old nursery. It was bare but for an elegant dapple-gray rocking horse with a mane and tail of real white horsehair. Julia spent a few minutes with him, imagining Clare and Nick and Bella as children, playing on and around him. She had always envied them their siblinghood, their togetherness. Had they shared this beautiful toy, or had there been tussles, tears? Julia stroked the horse’s wooden nose, knowing that had he been hers, she would have had trouble sharing him. She would have ridden him for hours, a bandit queen, her sword—no, her bow and arrow—repelling all attackers. She gazed into his dark eye, enlivened by one painted white dot. He kept his secrets and wouldn’t tell which fairylands he had conquered in his time. So she set him rocking with a tug of his thick tail. “Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steed,” she whispered, and climbed the stairs to the topmost floor.

Servants’ quarters, which she ignored with the same fastidiousness with which she had marched past the bedrooms two floors down, and attic rooms, which were locked. At the end of the corridor there was a narrow, curving staircase leading still further up. Where did it go? The house on Berkeley Square was only five stories tall, and this was the fifth. She put her foot on the first step and looked up. Watery sunlight was streaming down and she could hear the rain pattering on glass; there had to be a cupola, invisible from street level. She climbed higher, around the curve of the stairs, her hand on the thin wooden railing. Then, when she was halfway up, she sensed it—someone was up there. She stopped still. The count? She climbed one more step. A servant? She held her breath, listening. A small rustling sound—a page being turned. Whoever it was seemed to be reading. Not the count, she thought. He didn’t have the soul to steal away to the top of a house to read in the rain.

Then she knew. It was Blackdown.

She should have been terrified of him, now that she knew he was an Ofan-killer. But this wasn’t terror that sent her climbing silently still higher. It was something else. Her heart was beating so fast and so hard that she was sure it was booming out like a drum. Then she could see him. The staircase opened directly into the cupola, which was a simple glass room, more rectangular than square. A deep, upholstered bench, like a wide window seat, was built around all four walls and liberally tossed with cushions. Blackdown was lying along one side, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, his back propped up by big pillows. The book he held was tiny, its pigskin binding white. He held it in one hand, his other hand behind his head. She watched him read, hardly daring to breathe. If he looked up—when he looked up—he would see her head almost at floor level. She would look like a kobold popping up out of the earth. Should she try to descend, or simply keep climbing? She couldn’t decide, and in the end, her predicament was too ridiculous. She laughed.

He looked up and for just a moment his eyes, as gray as the rain outside, were blank with surprise. But then he sat up. “Hello.”

“Hello,” she said. “I did not wish to disturb you.” She started to go back down the stairs.

“No.” He put his book down quickly on the floor, took two light steps over to the stairwell, and reached out a hand. “Come back.”

She put her hand out and he took it, pulling her gently up and into the glass room. “Oh.” She looked around. The rainy city stretched out on all sides; it was like being a bird up on a chimney, except that the falling rain never reached her. “How magical.”

His fingers were warm around hers; no leather between them now.

“Please,” he said gently. “Do sit. I wish I had refreshment to offer you. But I neglected to procure Madeira and biscuits before coming up here.”

She sat and looked down on Berkeley Square, all gray and green and misty. “What a perfect place,” she said. “I had no idea it was here.”

He sat down next to her and took her hand again. “It is something of a secret,” he said. “Everyone knows of it, but no one thinks to come up. I was almost afraid I should discover it had been blown away in a storm, or dismantled. But when I climbed up here this morning, I found all just as I had left it. This book even, still here.”

“What is it?” She was grateful that they were talking of nothing, but there was her hand in his, and as they talked their fingers intertwined of their own accord.

“John Donne,” he said. “His early works. I had forgotten that I was reading them here before I left for Spain. Now I find they are useful to me.” He glanced at her for a moment. “Personal liberty and social responsibility,” he said. “Do you ever think about those things?”

She smiled. “Oh, all the time.”

He squeezed her hand and said nothing. He seemed troubled in spirit.

“I have not read Donne,” she said after a moment.

“No, I wouldn’t suppose that you had.” His fingers slipped more intimately in among hers. “His early poems are not . . .” He seemed to be searching for the right words. “I suppose they are not considered appropriate for . . . young ladies.”

Julia’s eyebrows flew up. “I see.”

“Are you always careful of your purity, Julia?” His voice was soft, his eyes half-lidded.

What was he asking her? She withdrew her hand a little, but he kept it firmly in his own. “Of course,” she said automatically, for it was the only possible answer. But as she said it she remembered that it had been she who pulled his head down to hers for a second kiss. “Or rather, I think I am. I mean . . .” She looked at her hand, caught in his. “Of what are we talking?”

He smiled, almost sadly. “My apologies.” He let go of her hand. “I am out of practice with gently reared young ladies, I’m afraid.” He opened his other hand. In his palm was, of all things, a small, brown acorn. He must have been holding it all along. He bent and placed it carefully on top of the book, next to the gold embossed word on the cover:
ELEGIES
. He traced that word with one finger. “Of what are we talking?” He repeated her question dreamily. Then he sat up straight, turned, and his eyes were intent upon hers. “Do you protect yourself against knowledge? Against feeling? Do you always do and feel what you are told? Are you always safe? Or do you yearn to know, to feel, more?”

“I yearn to know more,” she said, and it felt as if the words were bursting from her, so desperately were they true. But then she sat silent, not knowing how to proceed.

His hand came slowly up, almost as if he feared he might scare her away. “‘License my roving hands,’” he whispered. “‘Let them go . . .’” He stroked her cheek, so softly that it felt like the raindrops that weren’t falling on her skin.

“Nicholas,” she murmured, hearing the catch in her voice. She was in his arms, and he was kissing her tenderly, his fingers tangling in her hair. He ended the kiss and simply buried his face in her hair, his hands stroking her shoulders. His rough cheek was against hers and she breathed in the scent of him.

He pulled back and looked again into her eyes, one hand slipping around to rest at her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. “We seem to meet in the rain,” he said.

“Please . . .” She put her hands on his chest. At the moment, she didn’t care who he was, or whether he was in league with the Russian. “Kiss me again, Nicholas,” she said. “I want you to.”

Again his eyes were sad. “You sweet, lovely woman,” he said, and then those sad eyes seemed to flash and she was pressed against him roughly.

His hands slipped down her back, pulling her still closer. They twisted in her hair, turning her head now this way, now that, as he kissed her mouth, her face, her ears. She pressed against him, her own hands pushing inside his jacket and around, feeling the strength of his back through his linen shirt. But she felt he was controlling himself even as he seemed to devour her. What would it be to feel him give in? She wanted him to! She wanted to bring him to that edge and fall off it with him.

She gripped his shoulders, arching her back as he trailed kisses down her neck, and then his hands were moving firmly, up along her ribs to her breasts, pushing them up until they were tight against the muslin of her dress. His mouth descended, taking her nipple through the muslin and gently biting it. It stiffened deliciously between his teeth and she closed her eyes and cried out.

Then his mouth was hot, sucking through the muslin, one hand gripping her bottom, the other reaching up and pulling her dress down until her other breast was entirely free. Julia toppled back against the cushions, and his mouth descended on her naked breast; she had never felt anything so entirely real. Her head was thrown back on the cushions, and her hands were lost in his hair, grasping his head as his tongue flicked roughly over her nipple, and then his teeth again, biting gently, pulling away, and his breath strangely cold on her breast as she breathed his name.

But he was easing his body away from hers, pulling her dress back up, stroking her hair and kissing her face and then kissing her fingers and sitting beside her, calming her.

She wanted him to continue. Why wouldn’t he? She opened her eyes slowly, knowing that she would feel awkward—even ashamed—the second she saw his face, and indeed, those sad eyes were smiling ruefully down into hers and she felt the heat in her cheeks. “Damn,” she said. She sat up quickly, her hands moving to cover her cheeks. “Damn damn damn.”

He sat beside her, one arm around her waist, the other taking a hand and bringing it to his mouth. He kissed her fingers, and then her lips. “You are beautiful,” he whispered. “I love the corner of your mouth.” He kissed it. “And this sweet little place where you frown, right between your eyes.” He kissed it. “And your beautiful eyes themselves. Close them. Let me kiss them.”