Nothing careful, nothing measured or calculated. Raw, fierce force. She met him stroke for stroke, her fingers digging into his back, using his strength to lift herself against him, no space between their bodies.
Neither of them cried out. The silence felt charged by pleasure, pulsing with it. Afterward, they held each other, skin against skin, breathing together.
“Tonight,” he said at long last, as his palm ghosted delicately over her hair, her shoulder, her waist, “after all of this is done, you’ll come home with me.”
“Home with you,” she whispered. It felt hopeful, like a prayer.
* * *
“Castle.” Jane sat straight. Something about a castle.
“What’s that?” Charlotte looked up from pouring the tea. She’d been in a marvelous cheeky mood all afternoon, as though she knew precisely what had happened in her library. Crispin had told her that he would be back for Jane in the evening, and Charlotte had made a game for the last few hours of guessing how he’d won her back. “I saw no flowers. Hmm . . . no new jewelry, either . . . However did he persuade you?”
But while it was a delightful feeling to be teased like a sister, Jane’s own blissful mood had slowly eroded as the hours drew onward. Something was niggling at her . . . something that Crispin had said before . . .
“Is there a castle,” she asked now, accepting the teacup and then laying it distractedly aside, “on Park Lane?”
“Goodness, no.” Charlotte’s head tipped. “Whyever would you ask?”
What had Crispin said, exactly? It won’t require storming a castle . . .
A common expression. Why did it stick in her brain like a burr?
“Is the tea too bitter?” Charlotte asked. “I fear I let it steep too long.”
“Oh no. I’m sure it’s fine.” Jane retrieved her cup. It was only natural that she would feel uneasy. Crispin was going to confront a man capable of organizing a long-lived and very dangerous plot. A man, moreover, who had arranged to have Crispin killed.
But he had assured her again, before leaving, that he was well prepared. The Duke of Auburn had battle experience. They were both going armed. And Marlowe would not expect trouble. Nor was his evil the kind to go to work in broad daylight, in plain view, against enemies who recognized him for what he was.
Jane glanced at the clock. The men had no special plan to surprise Marlowe. They intended to visit at the normal calling hour. A duke and an MP would not be turned away.
It was half four. They might be in Marlowe’s house already. Which was not a castle—no matter what he calls it, Crispin had said.
“Is there a house,” Jane said, “that is called a castle? On Park Lane, I mean.”
“Goodness.” Charlotte laughed. “Among the newer residents? Perhaps so. Who knows what names they give their houses? Do you know, a friend told me of a stockbroker who calls his cottage in Hampton a manor. It isn’t far from that to a castle, I expect.”
The tea was bitter, in fact. Jane could not swallow it. She abandoned her cup. “I’m thinking of a”—particular gentleman called Marlowe, she almost said, but stopped herself. Crispin had not wanted her involved; he would not thank her for bringing his sister into it, either.
“Go on,” Charlotte said, but Jane shook her head.
“I think—I’ll go for a walk.” She had to channel this dreadful energy somehow. “Will you join me?”
Charlotte cast a squinting glance toward the window. “I’m afraid it looks likely to rain.”
“That’s all right, I could use the fresh air.”
Charlotte studied her for a thoughtful moment. “All right,” she said. “Let me just go fetch my pattens. I have a talent for stepping into every puddle.”
The door closed behind Charlotte. Stepping . . . castles . . .
Her uncle. Some remark, a long time ago, tossed off to Aunt Mary as Jane stood nearby, invisible, ignored, wholly discounted as always. A castle, he calls it, no doubt for Udolpho. A proper dungeon, I tell you. Step in the wrong spot, and— Here he’d drawn a hand across his throat.
How Gothic, Aunt Mary had murmured. I hope you’ll take care.
Oh, I make sure to watch my step, I promise you.
Her heart hammered. Gothic, indeed. Ridiculous, in fact. A booby-trapped house?
Charlotte came back into the room, breathless, her pattens in hand. “Oh, do you need a pair? I’m sure I can find another—”
“No, no.” She felt sure she was making a mistake, that she would end up looking a fool. But on the chance that she was right— “Actually, I have a favor to ask of you. A very peculiar one. Will you come with me to visit my uncle?”
“Your uncle! But I thought—you aren’t friends, Jane. Crispin made that clear. I don’t think he’d want—”
“That’s why I need your help.” She took Charlotte’s arm, steered her into the hall. “If you’re there, he’ll behave himself. But I really must speak to him.”
* * *
“But what a marvelous story,” said Daniel Marlowe. Auburn had tendered his card to the butler, who had gone away only for a minute before dispatching a footman to usher them down a hallway done up in gilt and mirroring, into a drawing room that looked modeled after the receiving rooms at Versailles. Amid the ormolu and enamel and silver-and-gold brocade, Marlowe reclined on a chair whose clawed legs boosted him a foot higher than his own height would warrant. A small footstool prevented the indignity of dangling feet. It was all but a throne, and was flanked on either side by tall vases filled with white bluebells.
The servants wore those same flowers pinned to their lapels. It seemed that Marlowe, or one of his men, had been Crispin’s nocturnal intruder, the night of the ball.
“Which fantasist may I thank for this amusing invention?” Marlowe asked. “Have you hired Dickens, your grace, to keep you entertained?”
“I thought it a strange tale myself.” Auburn had not succumbed to the luxurious invitation of the high-backed settee, but despite his straight posture, he gave every sign of being at ease—save that his tea remained untouched.
So did Crispin’s. Unlike Auburn, he did not bother to hold the cup. He wanted his hands free, even though they were two against one in this room. That a man like Marlowe had not found an excuse to bring one of his burly footmen inside with him seemed significant: either a sign of his arrogance, or—the possibility Crispin did not prefer—proof of some hidden surety of his own safety.
“Well, then?” Marlowe tapped his lip with one manicured finger. He was younger than Crispin had expected, a florid blond man in his forties, not beefy so much as solidly, thickly built. His suit looked peculiarly old-fashioned, the sheen of the fabric, the ornate gold embroidery on his waistcoat, suggestive of the lost glamours of eighteenth-century court. “Am I to understand that somehow you were persuaded by this tale? Surely, if you had any proof, we would not be having this discussion. But I can’t think why you might have called, if all you mean to do is launch accusations.” He offered a slight smile. “Not that I am displeased to receive you. I had longed for such august company, of course. But I fear I know my station. A man of humble birth cannot expect to have a duke come calling”—his glance flicked speakingly to Crispin, as though to confirm that, yes, the other visitor did not merit acknowledgment—“without a cause.”
“The cause is simple,” Auburn said. “We propose a bargain. In exchange for your liberty—”
“Oh no.” Marlowe lifted one beringed hand, multiple diamonds flashing in the light from the broad stained-glass window behind him. “If we are to bargain, then I should much rather hear it from a man who understands the cost of things. Mr. Burke, you’ve held your tongue longer than I thought possible. But your expression, sir, is far easier to read than once it was. Are we enemies now, sir? With you, I had hoped to dream of friendship. But it seems our common connection no longer appeals to you. Come now, sir, find your courage; you represent democracy as your profession, you should not let a peer of the realm speak
for you.”
In fact, Crispin had been making use of the distraction afforded by Auburn to assess the room around them, for something about it struck him as odd. Every surface not crowded with priceless objets d’art winked with mirrors, gilt and brass, and heavy furniture arranged almost haphazardly, like obstacles. These were not decorations, but camouflage. But to what purpose?
“The bargain is simple,” he said. “You give us the names of the men whom you have spirited away. You ensure their safe return. And in exchange, you will not be tried.” It was a bitter offer. But Marlowe had covered his tracks too neatly. And the lives that hung in the balance might not last the time it would take to uncover the evidence that the law required. For the sakes of Marlowe’s victims, justice could wait—or it could find Marlowe in the dark.
“How humane,” Marlowe murmured. “But you’ve miscalculated. If this story of yours held any truth in it, then I would not be the villain, only the villains’ tool. The peasant whom great men hire to dispose of each other. And if there are so many victims, as you say—why, then there must be just as many villains to match them, men who paid for these disappearances you speak of. Even in a fictional tale, that would not be me. I would only be the one who made it possible.”
“To hell with this,” said Auburn. His fury was cold, murderous; after all, one of these victims was not merely a name to him but a friend.
But when he moved to withdraw his weapon, Crispin saw the look of startled pleasure that warmed Marlowe’s sallow face, and said, “Hold,” very softly.
He sensed Auburn’s challenging look, but kept his eyes locked on Marlowe. That chair—the arms so broad, the stacked feet—
“The snobbery and condescension of the ruling class,” Marlowe said, “bores me very much. I would rest easy knowing you have no true proof, but then, that would require me to believe that justice goes unperverted by influence.” His smile twisted. “And as you claim, I myself am proof to the contrary.” His rings glimmered as he laid down his hand.
The air hissed. A great swinging ax fell out of the wall, slowing to a stop mere inches from Auburn’s nose.
Crispin swore. “Now you have a quandary,” Marlowe drawled. “If I say that this meeting is concluded, that I am doing you the favor of forgiving you for your baseless accusations, then of course you’ll wish to leave. And the door, of course, stands behind you, some ten paces away. But will you make it there? That is the question. Ah—” His cold eyes fixed on Crispin’s hand, which was creeping for his own firearm. “I would not do that, Mr. Burke. We are civilized men. Let us settle it with our wits, this question of your survival.”
To hell with it. He met Auburn’s eyes, then pulled his weapon.
His chair shuddered under him, tilting. The gun barked, and plaster rained down from the molding over Marlowe’s head.
Crispin recovered his balance just in time to catch the creak from above. He threw himself flat, and two knives whizzed over him, landing with a solid thunk in the opposite wall.
Auburn was crouched close to the ground, studying the walls. “Marvelous work,” he said flatly. “Not the original design, I’ll warrant.”
“No, indeed not. The engineer who made this room was one of the first to find his way to Elland.” Marlowe smiled gently. “Will you keep crouching like a dog, your grace?”
Auburn lunged, and a wall of blades sprang up between him and Marlowe, singing as they ground to a halt.
Crispin dived for his gun, chambered the next round.
“You may try it,” Marlowe said sharply, “but imagine what you’ll lose. You’ll never know the names of those men, Mr. Burke. For there is no list to find. I made sure of that. And there is no Elland, either. Not where you imagine it to be.” He laughed. “What, did you imagine me so stupid to keep the same location chosen by the government? You’ll never find it without me.”
“So be it,” Crispin said, but Auburn made a noise.
“Wait.” The duke hissed out a breath. “Burke, he’s right. Without him, we may never find—”
“And the men who paid me for my services?” Marlowe shrugged. “Their names—do they not matter, either?”
The door flew open. Crispin pivoted. Mason filled the doorway, sighting down the barrel of a rifle. Auburn cried out—
Too late. A shot blasted through the room. Blood blossomed between Marlowe’s eyes. He sagged, then slumped off his throne, toppling onto the barricade of upthrust blades, his eyes glazed.
Blood spattered the floor.
“What in God’s name have you done?” Auburn’s voice, like death.
Mason lowered the gun. Jane crowded up behind him, her eyes huge and fixed.
“Saved your lives,” Mason said, his color high. “You’re very welcome, your grace.”
“Saved your own neck,” Auburn said savagely. “How much did you pay this bastard to fix your problems for you?”
Mason’s jaw squared. “All right, then try to find your own damned way out of this room, now that it’s armed.” He turned, but Jane caught him by the arm.
“You promised,” she said hoarsely. “We have a deal. Help them out, step by step, now.”
Sighing, he turned back. “It’s very simple,” he said curtly. “Look to the mirrors on either side of the wall. Step only in the patches they reflect, or else you’ll be gutted.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Crispin did not take her home that night after all. A man had been killed; the authorities could not be kept out of it now. But a woman could be spared the notoriety that might follow. Jane was bundled back to Charlotte’s, left to wait as Crispin and Auburn and her uncle wielded their various degrees of authority to persuade, bully, and intimidate the police into accepting the story they offered.
The story was true, of course. But unbelievable, all the same.
Charlotte understood most of it now. She had listened in horror to Jane and Mason’s rapid deliberations. Later, much later, when Crispin had finally walked Jane out of Marlowe’s house, returning her to Charlotte, who sat waiting white-faced in the carriage—only then, at last, did Charlotte finally ask what must have been only one of a thousand questions burning through her mind.
“Are you all right, Jane?” she had asked.
And for the first time in memory, Jane had started to cry. Truly cry—loud, noisy sobs into Charlotte’s shoulder as the carriage rolled forward.
What was she crying for? She could not explain it to Charlotte, much less herself. For family, perhaps, which would always put their concern for her over their curiosity, thinking of her first. Or for fear, perhaps—as she and Mason had forced their way inside Marlowe’s house, she had known what she was risking by bringing him there. He had never guessed that Crispin and Auburn would be able to puzzle out who Marlowe was. His fear of Marlowe had been promptly overshadowed by his fear of what Marlowe might tell them. She had known that she was not asking for his help in saving Crispin as much as she was asking him to put an end to Marlowe’s threat.
Perhaps she wept for horror, then—she’d had a hand in a man’s death, and that was a weighty and grave thing indeed, though she would have done no differently if given a chance to repeat this terrible day.
And maybe her tears were also owed to exhaustion. As Charlotte helped her inside, up the stairs and into bed, she felt suddenly so weary. It seemed these last weeks had been one endless sprint, dodging from one surprise only to encounter another, each more baffling, the first and original mystery birthing a dozen more, and meanwhile, herself more and more a stranger. Her wants, her desires, becoming clear evidence that she had never known herself at all.
She did not want to run. She did not want freedom. She wanted to be here, a true sister to Charlotte, waiting in this bed for her husband to come home.
She slept, long and deeply. And when her eyes opened again, to the clock chiming three, the blackness at the windows proved the day was over.
A dark shape moved at her side, sat slowly on the bed. “You’re awake,”
Crispin said, his voice rough.
She moved over for him without thinking. His exhaustion was all she heard. But he did not lie down next to her. His hand found hers atop the counterpane. He was reaching for her. Lifting her hand to his mouth.
She had not known she expected his anger until she felt the expectation dissolve under the great balm of her relief.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she said. “After you left—you mentioned a castle—I realized that Marlowe was no ordinary man. That my uncle had spoken once of that house—”
“I know.” He sounded peaceful. “Mason explained it. He explained, too, what you offered him in exchange for his help.”
“He might have come anyway.” She made herself say it. “I knew he would see an opportunity for himself. He was too frightened of Marlowe to approach him single-handedly. But I knew he would kill him, Crispin, if given the chance.”
He made no reply. But he was still holding her hand to his lips, and she felt the force of his long exhalation.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you,” she said. “Only . . . I could not afford to risk you.”
“Ah.” Now he kissed her fingers again, then lowered them to the counterpane, his thumb setting up a slow, gentle stroke over her knuckles. “For that alone,” he said quietly, “I would thank your uncle. I am glad to hear that, Jane. I cannot tell you how much.”
Another pause. She did not feel awkward, precisely, but there was some absence between them, of a natural rhythm, of rapport. It unsettled her, despite the reassurance in his words. She sat up, wishing she could see him in the darkness. “What happened, after I left?”
“What you might have predicted,” he said. “The sight of that room, all those blades unsheathed, gave the inspector a story to dine on for months. He sent for his supervisor then, who did not wish to let us search the rest of the house. I expect they feared another trick room, and a dead duke and a dead MP besides. Harder to finesse that for the press, after all. And Mason kept making dire predictions of trapdoors and the like—afraid of what we’d find, no doubt. But as it turns out, Marlowe told the truth. He’d covered his tracks very neatly. Not a scrap of paper in that house to prove the story was true. I suppose we should be grateful for all the blades—otherwise, it would have looked like we murdered him for no cause.”