Wicked Gentlemen (13 page)

When I didn't find him, I couldn't just turn around and leave. It would have brought my half-recognized motivation up into brazen acknowledgment. I bought a bottle of blue gin and sat down at one of the tables far in the back of the room. The gin tasted like paint thinner. I took a long drink straight from the bottle, just to catch myself up with the other men who swayed in their seats throughout the room.

Once the gin started to erode my senses, I began pouring my-self shots and tossing them back at a more refined rate. I remembered that my mother had drunk this way right after my father had been executed. At the time I hadn't understood it.

Now, I thought that she had been a fool to ever stop.

"Belimai?"

I was a third of the way through the bottle when I heard Harper's voice.

I turned too quickly and almost looked right past him.

He looked as tired as ever, but he wasn't wearing his uniform. Instead, he had on a collarless work shirt and dark gray pants. He looked thinner than I remembered, and more pale. The strangest thing about his appearance was that his hands were bare.

"I'd offer to buy you a drink, but you seem to be well ahead of me," Harper said when I just continued staring at his hands.

I drew back slightly and studied Harper without responding. I had no idea what he was doing dressed like this.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" he asked.

"You can do as you please," I said.

"Good enough." He took the chair across from me and poured himself a shot of my gin without asking.

"I didn't think you'd be up and about so soon," he said.

"Apparently I'm harder to kill than you'd think."

Harper frowned and took another shot of gin.

"I didn't think Scott-Beck would go after you." He rolled the empty shot glass between his fingers. "I'm sorry to have done that to you, Belimai."

"It was what you paid me for." I hated the way my skin pricked when he said my name in that quiet, rough tone. I hated the fact that just an offering of a few words could make me want to forgive him.

"So, how is Mr. Talbott taking all this?" I asked, just to get off the subject.

"He's pretty broken up."

"Did you tell him the truth?" I asked.

"It wasn't mine to tell," Harper said. "Do you know what I mean?"

"I think I do, yes." I poured myself a shot and filled Harper's glass also. "It was your stepfather's secret, then Joan's. It wasn't your right to tell it to anyone." I had felt the same way about Sariel. No matter how small of a secret I had been trusted with, I had not wanted to betray it.

But, of course, I had. Harper had not.

"So, where have you been these past few weeks?" I asked.

"In questioning." Harper shook his head. "My abbot wasn't terribly happy with my ignorance as to who shot Mr. Lewis Brown and Mr. Timothy Howard. Nor was he pleased with the fact that I didn't recall your name or description."

"They didn't put you under a prayer engine?"

"No," Harper said quickly. "God, no. If they had, I don't think I could have kept my mouth shut. It was bad enough standing around naked and answering questions for days on end."

"So, what did you say?" I asked.

"I had a surprisingly poor memory of the entire matter." He smiled, but in a bitter way. "The abbot dropped the whole thing once I brought up Scott-Beck's access to Peter Roffcale while he was in custody." Harper took another shot of gin. "We finally reached the understanding that as long as I don't investigate Scott-Beck's life, the abbot won't pursue further questioning of his death."

"So, we all keep our secrets."

"For the time being." Harper ran his bare hand through his hair.

"Are these the clothes they gave you on your release?" I had thought they looked familiar.

"Indeed." Harper touched the front of his rough work shirt. "The very finest in custody-release apparel."

"So, you came straight to the bar?" I smirked.

"No." Harper glanced down as if he were slightly embarrassed. "I went to your apartments. But you weren't home, so I came here."

"Did you think I'd be here, or were you just hoping to drown your sorrow after missing me?"

"That's an interesting question," Harper responded, and then didn't answer it.

I smiled.

"So, why did you want to find me?" I asked.

Harper eyed the bottle of gin and my shot glass.

"I was thinking that I might want to get drunk with you again," he said at last.

There was a moment, as I thought briefly of all that Sariel and I had done to each other, when I could have said no, and that would have been the end of it. But I had grown tired of having only the darkness to keep me company through the night. The gin bottle was still half-full.

I filled Harper's glass and then my own.

 
 
BOOK TWO

Chapter One

Rain

The sky was black and pissing rain. On every street, gutters backed up and overflowed. Water gushed over the flagstone walkways and transformed the packed dirt roads into thick rivers of mud.

The gas streetlamp across from Harper spit as rainwater poured in through its cracked housing, flooding the flame. With a loud snap, the safety valve shut the gas line off. The lamp went dark, and the rain continued to pour into the dim, autumn twilight.

Harper hunched under the eaves of the Chapel carriage house. He and three other men had relinquished their seats indoors for a chance to smoke and to escape a cluster of loud schoolgirls who had taken shelter inside. Water soaked into Harper's left sock through a crack in the heel of his boot. The animal odor of wet wool emanated from his black Inquisition coat. Harper pulled his cap a little lower.

He didn't like waiting, particularly not for a carriage that he had no real desire to take. It wasn't pleasure so much as habit and obligation that drew him back to his family estate once every year. The Foster Estate was his only connection to his natural father. It should have meant something to him. Instead, he found himself searching for reasons not to go.

The decision to stay in the capital would have been easy if Belimai had asked him not to go, but he hadn't.

Harper took another drag of his cigarette. It was the last one he had on him. The rest were packed away in his luggage. He closed his eyes and savored the warm smoke.

Beside him, Acolyte Stewarts dragged at his own cigarette and attempted to draw Harper into a conversation. Stewarts smiled a little too hard every time Harper paid him much attention. It made Harper uncomfortable and added to his desire to abandon the carriage house. Stewarts was only a year or so from becoming quite handsome, and his worshipful exuberance could easily mislead a susceptible man. Harper had no desire to be that man.

"Our first day of vacation, and it's raining like the Great Flood. I'll have to spend the entire time trapped indoors with my wretched Aunt Lucy." Stewarts wiped hopelessly at the water cascading off the brim of his cap and down his nose.

Harper suspected that Stewarts was only moments from asking if he could accompany Harper to his estate house. Stewarts had been flirting with the subject for the last few days. Harper had avoided extending any invitation thus far, but Stewarts possessed a relentless optimism.

The soothing rhythm of falling rain filled the silence between them. Distantly, Harper heard something like the shriek of a bird. He caught it again, but Stewarts' voice broke into his concentration.

"Do you know what I think?" Stewarts asked, and then went on despite Harper's silence. "I think that it would be thrilling to get outside the capital for a vacation. Perhaps go hunting or riding with another fellow. You know, just men."

Harper took advantage of the strange noise to ignore Stewarts. He cocked his head slightly and concentrated on picking it out from the rain again. The violent spattering of rain against the stone walkways and brick houses made a sound like miles of sizzling bacon. Harper leaned out from the cover of the carriage house. He was sure he heard a distant voice calling.

"Abbot Greeley said that you have an estate house north of St. Bennet's Park. That must be nice." Stewarts waited for Harper's response. Then after a moment, he seemed to notice that Harper's attention lay elsewhere. Stewarts surveyed the dim street. The pouring rain covered the normal noises of the street with a fast, crackling patter. Then, suddenly, a high-pitched cry rose out from the noise of the storm.

"A girl probably fell in the mud," Stewarts decided.

"I'd better go see," Harper said.

He stepped out from the cover of the carriage house and started up the street.

"Captain!" Stewarts called after him. "Should I come with you?"

"No. Enjoy your vacation. If I miss the carriage, send my luggage ahead!" Harper shouted back.

He didn't look back to see Stewarts' expression of disappointment. Stewarts, the annoyance of the weather, and even Belimai's indifference to his departure no longer troubled Harper. He poured his concentration into finding the woman.

Mud and filthy water splashed up around his calves and sucked at his boots as he rushed through the open street and crossed to the cobblestone walkway. He only paused to listen, and then he raced on. He could hear the woman's voice clearly now.

"Please, someone help! He's going to kill her! God, please!" Her voice broke with a sob. A loud burst of thunder swallowed her further cries.

Harper sprinted after the sound of the woman's voice. He searched the lines of stately houses, iron-worked gates, and flowering hedges for any sight of her. The walkways were empty. Rain and darkness had driven most people indoors.

Harper noticed a motion, a dim white form almost buried in the mud of the street. She pulled herself up to her feet and stumbled forward.

"Please, help." Her voice broke in ragged exhaustion.

Harper reached her in a moment.

"Thank God," she moaned as she saw his Inquisitor's coat and emblems.

She staggered to him. For a moment, Harper simply supported her frail body. Her white serving dress sagged with rain and mud. The filthy hem of her petticoat tangled around her legs. Harper felt tremors of exhaustion shudder through her legs as she leaned against him.

"Are you all right?" Harper asked.

"It's Miss Leticia. You have to help her." The old woman collapsed against Harper. He lifted her easily and carried her to shelter. He lowered her to a decorative bench beneath an iron gateway. The surrounding boxwood hedge offered them a little cover from the rain.

"Please," she whispered to him, "help Miss Leticia."

"Where is she?" Harper knew better than to question the old woman further.