Judith dug her fingernails into her palm. “Why is Bill-the-Swan referring to Fred as his dearest darling? That seems inappropriately affectionate.”
“Nothing inappropriate about it,” Christian said with a shrug. “I already told you. Swans don’t share our limited local prejudices.”
She let out a long, careful breath. “I don’t know why I bother to ask questions. Keep on; I couldn’t stop you.”
“So I was walking across the road,” Bill-the-Swan said, “nice as you please, taking my time as a gentleswan does. And then, well. You’ll never guess what happened.”
Judith waited.
Christian waggled an eyebrow at her. “Come now, my savory algae patch. Give us a guess.”
No. If she was going to play his game, she refused to play the way he intended.
“Bill,” she said in what sounded to her mind like an extremely unsuccessful imitation of a Liverpudlian accent, “how many times do I have to tell you? You can’t trust them roads, not with their horses and their carriages and their whatnots. One of these days, you’re going to get run right over.”
“Aw, my lovely great swath of duck weed.” Christian winked at her. “I knew you cared. You just pretend like you don’t. But I looked both ways, I did, and I didn’t see nothing. Not until the great beast was fair upon me, lickety-split, charging at me with its hooves like dinner plates. Steam rose from its nostrils—”
“What a crock!” Judith interrupted in her best Fred voice. “I have seen many a horse on the path by Hyde Park, and not one has ever had steam coming from its nostrils.”
“Am I telling this story or are you?”
Judith rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re certainly telling a story, all right.”
“Right, then. As I was saying: Steam rose from its nostrils in little wisps, like some kind of demon stallion. When it tossed its head, I saw fire in its eyes—that hint of flame, suggesting that the devil had put this beast on the road. That’s when I knew. There were children in the park. I couldn’t let that vile creature rend their flesh.”
“Bill,” Judith interrupted, “since when do you care about children? Nasty things, human children—noisy white wingless little grubs that they are.”
“Human children?” Christian pulled back in surprise. “No, nobody said nothing about those awful things. No. I mean little fluffy cygnets, not yet feathered out. Whatever else would I be thinking of?”
“At this time of year? Who’s nesting so late?”
“Am I telling this story,” Bill-the-Swan said, “or are you?”
“Well,” Judith huffed. “You’re still telling a story, that’s for sure.”
“Right, then. I knew what I had to do. I puffed out my chest. I spread my wings. I brought my neck up like a giant snake, and I hissed at the beast from hell. It reared, flashing its daggered hooves at me.” Christian demonstrated with exaggerated hand motions. “I saw those forelegs falling, and I was sure I was a dead swan. I had just enough time to launch myself at the beast.”
Judith looked upward. “They call us mute swans. Clearly someone made an error when it came to you.”
“God must have guided my beak,” Christian continued piously. “I propelled myself at the thing’s neck. I screamed in defiance—and next thing I knew, I’d pierced its jugular. It gurgled. It staggered. And then it dropped in a dead heap to the ground.”
Judith turned to look at Christian. He sat back against the seat with a self-satisfied expression on his face.
“Really,” she said in a disbelieving tone. “You killed it with your beak.”
“I know.” He settled against the seat, almost preening in misplaced swan pride. “I could scarce believe it myself.”
“You know you have white feathers,” she said. “There doesn’t seem to be much blood on you.”
Christian waved this off. “Demon blood. Demon horse. It smelled of sulfur. It burned like flame. But when the foul beast landed in a great thump on the ground in front of me, it disappeared in a cloud of smoke—hooves, carcass and all.”
Judith let the silence stretch. She raised an eyebrow and looked at Christian. “So,” she said. “If the horse disappeared, how on earth did you manage to eat it?”
There was a moment of silence. Christian caught her eye. His mouth quivered, as if he knew he’d been caught in a lie he couldn’t talk his way out of, not with any number of accents. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, well,” he said. “That little detail. Once I knew I could slay horses, why would I stop with just the one?”
She couldn’t help herself. She put a hand over her face and burst into laughter. She had no idea how he’d baited her into…oh, God, what had she just been doing? Talking to him in a Liverpudlian accent, pretending to be a swan of all things?
That was the way he was. You had to be careful of Christian. If you weren’t, he’d have you playing his dubious Liverpudlian swan lover before you knew what he’d done.
He gave her a long, self-satisfied smile. One that said that he knew that she’d fallen into his trap. One that promised that she had only to do it again and again. That if she let herself, she could forget what he had done.
He’d made her forget for five entire minutes.
“And look,” Christian said, in a tone so innocent that she knew that whatever he was about to say was going to be even worse than his Cockney accent. “I have the most dreadful sore throat to show for it.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “From…the screaming?”
“No.” He leaned in and dropped his voice to a low whisper. “I did murder most hoarse.”
The pun was so appalling that Judith made a fist and hit her forehead. It was her pun, too; she couldn’t even rightfully complain. She hit her forehead again. “Death is too good for you. Dismemberment is too good for you.”
“You see,” Christian said with a nod, “there we are. That’s precisely what I wished to show you.”
“Boiling in hot oil is too good for you,” she said passionately. “Wait, what are you saying now?”
“We’re not friends,” he said. “But we could be excellent allies. Of a kind. We’re working together, after all.”
“What has that to do with your terrible sense of humor?”
“Just this: I think we’re both happier when you’re thinking of killing me than we were earlier. When you…” He paused.
When she’d grabbed hold of him. She’d remembered that she had once cared. She could still feel the echo of his arm against her gloves, if she let herself think about it. The feel of his muscle beneath her hand; the look in his eye. The memory of what they’d once been.
She strove for neutral wording. “When I braced myself using your arm?”
“Yes.” He looked at her. “I know you’ll never trust me, Judith. But that’s precisely it. I trust you to never trust me, and in return, you can trust me to make sure you’ll never trust me, even when we both stand in danger of forgetting. Alliances have been built on less.”
She blinked, working that out. He looked sincere.
“You’re proposing an armistice on the condition that I hate you,” she said slowly, “and in return, you’ll continue to make me hate you?”
“Precisely.” He held out his hand. “We have things to do. This will be so much more effective than continually sniping at one another just so we can remember that we hate one another. Truce?”
She looked at his fingers. She looked at him. They had once been so much more. He was right; she was only sniping at him because she didn’t want to remember how deep their friendship had run.
“Very well.” She took his head and gave it a firm shake. “Truce. I hate you.”
“Excellent work,” he said. “I’ll keep your hatred stoked with swans and horses until we can part ways.”
Chapter Six
“Christian Trent.” Christian offered his hand as the solicitor entered the room. “Marquess of Ashford. I’m here with Lady Judith Worth as a friend of the family, to assist in her i
nquiries.”
The man’s handshake was almost perfunctory, his grip cool. Nothing like Judith’s had been when they’d clasped hands to seal their alliance.
“Mr. Ennis,” the little solicitor said, swiping at the thin row of white hairs that he’d carefully combed over his head. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Christian sat on one side of the desk.
“We’d best get to business,” Judith said.
“Business.” Mr. Ennis sat down. “With the both of you?”
Christian had little doubt that his reputation preceded him, but normally, people tried to hide their reaction with greater success. He decided that a bit of a glower was in order, and so he narrowed his eyes at the man as if daring him to spell out why his accompanying Judith was so unlikely.
One. She hates you.
Two. You killed her brother.
Not much of a dare, with such easy choices.
“Yes,” Judith said. “Business. With the both of us.”
Mr. Ennis sighed. “Lord Ashford, you called yourself a family friend, did you?”
Christian added a mental heap of coal to the furnace of his glower, and growled a response. “Yes.”
“That’s what we’re calling it these days, then.” The man looked upward. “I see that standards of friendship have altered considerably in the last years.” He didn’t look at Judith. Instead, he gave Christian a pained smile. “I shall do my best to…what was it you wanted? Ah, yes. You wanted me to assist in some of your inquiries.”
“I’m not making any inquiries,” Christian said. “I’m here as a support to Lady Judith. She’ll direct her questions to you.”
Mr. Ennis let out a slow breath of air—not quite loudly enough to be a sigh—and pasted a false smile on his face. “Lady Judith knows I will answer any of her questions that I am capable of answering. Lord Ashford’s presence is not required. In fact, one might call it downright counterproductive.”
Judith smiled back, a curl of her lips as fake as the solicitor’s. “How lovely to hear that. I’m here to inquire about my sister Camilla’s—”
The solicitor raised a hand. “There we come to a grinding halt, Lady Judith. You are not your sister’s legal guardian. I am not able to impart specific circumstances of her situation to anyone but the lady herself or someone charged with such power by her guardian.”
“You once used to answer such questions.”
“Matters change.” The man looked off into the distance, his nose twitching.
“What matters have changed?”
“Er…” To Christian’s eye, the man looked distinctly uncomfortable—like a fellow unused to telling lies suddenly having to invent a dying uncle on a moment’s notice. “The ones that haven’t stayed the same?”
“So,” Christian said. “If we had Lady Camilla with us, you’d answer Judith’s questions?”
“Assuming the lady was amenable and her guardian was amenable and that it didn’t touch on any of the…other matters that I am unable to discuss? I don’t see why not. I told Lady Judith as much last time.”
Christian turned to Judith. “Why didn’t we bring Camilla?”
He could tell it was absolutely the wrong question to ask the instant it came out of his mouth. The corners of Judith’s mouth turned down. She sniffed, licked her lips, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Talk less,” she whispered to him. “Glower more.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Ennis said to the room at large. “He is a dear family friend, indeed. One who knows all the relevant details.”
Christian felt his cheeks heat.
“Did I not mention?” Judith spoke a little too brightly. “Camilla is not living with us at present. I have not precisely heard from her in something over a year.”
Mr. Ennis’s eyebrows rose. “Something?”
“Six and a half years is something,” Judith replied with an overly false smile.
It was a good thing Judith wanted him to be quiet; he had nothing to say. He hadn’t seen Camilla yesterday. But the household had been in an uproar. He could have missed an entire battalion practicing manuevers on the top floor.
He’d assumed that she’d been around somewhere, between the smoke and the strawmen. By the stuffed smile on the solicitor’s face, this was a painful subject.
He winced. He couldn’t imagine the Worth siblings divided any more than they were. No wonder she still hates you, his mind whispered. He brushed this away.
“Let us talk of Theresa,” Judith said. “Theresa, in the past few months, ought to have received some notice—”
“My lady.” The solicitor pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know I cannot talk to you of Lady Theresa.”
“Whyever not? I am her legal guardian. And—”
“You are not her legal guardian,” Mr. Ennis said.
Judith rubbed a gloved fist against her temple. “How can I not be? I’m her next of kin. There’s no reason a female could not be her guardian; we had this out four years ago, you and I, and back then, you agreed. What has happened since? If it’s not me, who is it?”
“This was not my idea,” Mr. Ennis said, shaking his head. “I want you to know that.”
“What was not your idea?”
“The idea that was had by the gentleman who is your sister’s guardian,” Mr. Ennis said slowly. “For reasons of client confidentiality, I cannot disclose his identity. He doesn’t wish it, and under the circumstances, which are…” He searched for a word.
“Unusual?” Christian offered. “Unlikely?”
Judith leaned forward. “Unimaginable, maybe. Perhaps even unbelievable.”
Mr. Ennis just shook his head. “Let us just say they are unforgiving.”
“You’ll pardon me for saying so, but that sounds like balderdash.” Christian tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
The solicitor ignored this. “He has, however, left explicit instructions empowering two other individuals to act in his absence. I am one of those individuals, and I have been directed to take orders from the other person.”
“And that other person is?” Judith asked.
“Ah… That person has given me explicit, recent instructions not to tell you anything.”
No wonder Judith had come to Christian. She absolutely needed someone to glower. He leaned forward.
“This is a sham,” he announced. “It is utterly unreasonable.”
Mr. Ennis made a pained noise. “Yes to the latter; to the former, I honestly have no idea. I’ve scoured the law books and I’ve come up utterly empty.”
Clearly, more glowering was in order. Christian looked the man in the eyes. “How will it look when Lady Judith brings suit against you, claiming that you’ve defrauded her and her sisters? It would be exceedingly damaging to your reputation.”
His glower bounced off the man entirely. Mr. Ennis wrinkled his nose and shrugged. “My lord, you will simply have to trust me on this. Lady Judith does not want to air any of this in public. To be quite frank, I’m not certain what you want. But I urge her, in the strongest terms, to consider other options. There are other ways to resolve this matter. But under the circumstances, which are…”
“Unforgiving?”
“Unbelievable,” Mr. Ennis continued. “In any event, I cannot actually instruct you in any of those resolutions.”
The whole affair was damned odd in the most peculiar possible way. Christian was pretty sure that he was holding onto some kind of a snake. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps he was the proverbial blind man. Perhaps the thing in his hands might be attached to an entire elephant.
Christian tried once again. “We could fetch the person who sent the money in the first place. Surely you would have to answer to him.”
Mr. Ennis frowned, tilting his head as he considered this. “Agh,” he finally opined. “I…do not know if that would serve. You see… Agh.”
“You call yourself a solicitor, whe
n that’s the sum total of the professional, legal opinion that you can offer? Agh?”
“Agh,” the man repeated, more firmly. “I could repeat it, if you like, but for sterling advice such as that, I would have to charge by the quarter-hour. That would be in nobody’s interest.”
“Besides,” Judith said, giving Christian a quelling look, “the funds were to have been sent anonymously. Identifying the individual who sent them might prove difficult.”
“Agh,” Christian said.
Mr. Ennis nodded. “You see? You’re coming around to my point of view.”
They had accomplished nothing, Judith realized on the ride back. Not with Christian’s glowers. Not with her questions. She needed a new idea.
He sat next to her, looking forward, chewing his lip in contemplation. It was late enough in the afternoon that dark stubble dotted his cheeks, lending him even more of a roguish air. It didn’t matter how he looked. She’d survived the encounter.
“I suppose it was pointless to have you along. But tha—”
“Ah, ah.” He shook his head. “Allies, remember? It sounds like you were about to thank me. Don’t. You hate me; we should avoid every mark of civility at all costs.”
Ah. Yes.
He continued. “It also sounds as if you were about to send me off. That wasn’t our agreement. I get the journals when you’ve received the money. We’re not finished until we’re finished.”
“Yes, but—”
“As I see it, there are two possibilities. Number one, your solicitor is telling the truth about agh. Number two, he is lying.”
Judith frowned at him. “Our agreement was that you wouldn’t ask questions.”
“I’m not asking questions,” Christian said. “I’m doing precisely the thing you hate me for: I’m ferreting out the truth.”
“You didn’t—”
“The way I see it,” Christian said, interrupting her again, “either your trusted family solicitor is a liar, and you can hate me for uncovering his perfidy, or some close family friend is a cheat, and you can despise me for demonstrating that he has embezzled funds. It’s perfect. Our alliance is built upon precisely this sort of lose-lose scenario. Nothing could be better designed to foment distrust and dislike between us.”