Jones spoke in a rush. “This is Mrs. Johnson, Your Grace. She is—ah, a temporary replacement for Mrs. Wright, who you may recall gave notice two weeks ago. We were left in the lurch, I fear—I know it is somewhat extraordinary, to hire someone without consulting you. But—if you recall, you gave me full authority—”
“I recall.” His piercing blue eyes had not yet released her. She began to feel the weight of them as a deliberate challenge. The lion in his natural element expected submission, but she would not bow her head. She did not even blink. Had she been a cat, she might have bristled at the provocation of his look.
Instead, she was a secretary—by training, at least; and a housekeeper, by strange luck. Neither position required her to abase herself to him.
Thank God for it. For she realized in this moment how badly she would have played the maid. Humbleness came hard to her. She could not value it; too many unkind people had tried to force it on her in her youth. They had expected her to be ashamed, and so she had vowed never to be so.
Nevertheless, a curtsy did no harm. “I am honored, Your Grace,” she said as she rose.
He stared at her a moment longer. Then, with a soft noise of contempt, he swung his attention to Jones. “I have told you,” he said, “that you may manage the staff as you like. However.” His voice hardened. “If I am forced to wait, the next time I ring that bell—”
“That was my doing,” Olivia said quickly—for Jones had whimpered, and she could not let him face the consequences that rightly belonged to her.
Marwick said to Jones, “You will tell the girl not to interrupt me.”
The girl! She stiffened. She was his housekeeper, a position well worthy of his respect. Not that she imagined a man who threw bottles would recognize that.
“Yes, indeed.” Jones shot her a panicked look. “Mrs. Johnson, if you will wait in the hall?”
She would, gladly. She was already turning away. But—no, in fact, she had something to say. She pivoted back. “I am no girl,” she told Marwick. Bully. Brute! He had tried to wreck his brother’s marriage to a good woman, for no reason. He terrified his servants. His estates were probably falling to pieces thanks to his inattention. And he called her a girl? What was he, but a sulking, spoiled boy? “Admittedly, I am young—and a good thing, for an elderly woman might not have survived the shock of having a bottle thrown at her.”
Marwick looked at her a moment. And then, suddenly, he was crossing the room in long strides—and Jones, the coward, was dashing into the safety of the sitting room.
She shrank back. But her feet would not let her retreat, clinging stubbornly to pride even as Marwick towered over her. Her heart, on the other hand, was a coward; it slammed against her breastbone in search of an escape.
“I beg,” he said softly, “your pardon, girl. And now, I advise you to go downstairs and pack your things. You are sacked.”
As simply as that? No. She did not dare glance over her shoulder to find out if Jones had heard the news. “That would be foolish, Your Grace.” The sound of her voice, so fierce, gave her fresh courage. “Your staff is running wild. They need a strong hand to put them to rights.”
“Get. Out.”
A wild idea came to her, borne of desperation. Lowering her voice, she said, “I should hate to be forced to tell the newspapers that I was attacked by my employer, and then thrown out on my ear for complaining of it.”
He stepped back as though to see her better. But as he studied her, his perfect face held an absolute lack of expression. “Was that a threat?” he asked. He did not sound particularly interested.
His monotone was somehow more terrifying than a bellow. She felt a bolt of primal alarm, the same that saved her from runaway carriages, uncovered drains, and lunatics on the street. Run, it said. For your life.
She took a breath. She knew enough of him from Elizabeth Chudderley—particularly about his reaction to his wife’s letters—to know that he feared public notoriety. Elizabeth had said that he dreaded above all things that the letters would be made public. It stood to reason, then, that he would not like the incident with the bottle to be made public, either, for it certainly would make him notorious.
“It is not precisely a threat, Your Grace”—for she would never carry through on it; such attention would not suit her, either—“only a suggestion that you might prefer to deal fairly with me. Your household requires direction.”
He stepped toward her again, and this time her feet responded sensibly, carrying her backward until she hit the wall.
“How curious,” he said. He propped an elbow against the wall above her, leaning into it, looming over her, while with his other hand he grabbed her jaw, lifting it the way one might an animal’s. Every muscle in her stiffened as he looked into her face.
His hand was hot. Impossibly large. She spoke through her teeth. “Release me.”
“Your Grace,” he said very softly. “You will address me properly.”
Properly? He wanted respect from her while he behaved like a common thug? She glared at him.
He pulled her chin higher. A muscle in her neck protested. Where was Jones? Why was he not interfering? “Your Grace,” he said again, still just as soft. “Do say it, Mrs. Johnson. I am waiting.”
She would spit in his eye first. “Do dukes behave so?” Her voice came out very hoarsely. “Gentlemen do not.”
His eyes roved her face, his own still coldly impassive. “Oh, yes,” he said, “you are very young. Very young and very stupid. I think girl is the only word for you, Mrs. Johnson. Tell me, was there ever a mister?”
She slammed her lips together to halt their trembling. Until he released her, she would say no more. She did not know which remark might incite him further.
He lifted a brow, which gave her a weird shock; it was the first animation she had seen on his frigid countenance. “Silence? But a moment ago, you had so very much to say.” He placed his thumb on her lower lip, then made a firm, hard stroke. She tasted the salt on his skin.
This was not happening. She seemed to move outside her body, viewing from above this unbelievable moment: the Duke of Marwick, molesting her.
He withdrew his thumb. Lifted it to his own mouth. Tasting her. Their eyes met, his impossibly blue, not a speck of hazel or gold to break their electric intensity. A curious prickle spread through her.
He made a contemptuous noise and dropped his hand. “Disobedience,” he said. “The taste of it does not suit me.” He took another step back, looking at her with sudden cruel amusement. “However. The correction of impertinent domestics has always been one of my skills.”
Here was why nobody commented on the beauty of his bone structure, the shape of his mouth, or the brilliance of his eyes. Perfection was not always beautiful: sometimes, it was terrifying.
“Your Grace—” she began in a whisper, but he cut her off.
“There is no Mr. Johnson, I think. You blush like a virgin. Ma’am.”
She turned her face away. Staring at the wall, she said rapidly, “The staff assures me that you have never been the kind of cowardly man who abuses his servants—”
His fist slammed into the wall.
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. His fist had missed her ear by an inch, no more.
“I am precisely that kind of man,” he said bitterly. “Or did you imagine you were dreaming this episode?”
She darted a horrified glance at him. Something dark and contemptuous had come into his face. He reached for the gas dial, and the lowering light masked him from view.
She wanted to bolt, but she was not certain her knees would support her. Her breathing would not settle into an easy rhythm; it jerked in her throat. What kind of man was this? What kind of monster? And she could see nothing, which would make her escape treacherous, for the floor was littered with all manner of—
Papers.
She willed her voice not to shake. “It would be easier to keep me on. Otherwise you might have to trouble yourself with
terrorizing a new woman.”
“You must be very desperate, Mrs. Johnson, to want this position.”
Again, she caught the note of contempt. But it was not for her, she realized. He meant that it would take a desperate woman to wish to work for him. His contempt was all for himself.
This attitude was so at odds with what she had expected from him (arrogance, vanity, condescension) that she felt at sea. She groped for a reply. “I do not blame you.” What a lie! “Liquor can make us strangers to ourselves—”
His laugh seemed edged with glass. “But I am sober, ma’am. I have been sober all day.”
She swallowed a gasp. If he had been sober when he threw the bottle—if he was sober even now—then liquor had no role in his wickedness: the evil was native to him.
She would not let him hear her shock; she sensed it would gratify him too much. “Then what were you ringing for, if not alcohol?”
His slight pause suggested surprise. And then, with a note of mockery, came his reply: “Bullets.”
Her courage shattered. She groped desperately along the wall for the door. She fled through the sitting room into the hallway, where Jones—a true coward—stood waiting. “Well?” he asked anxiously.
She shook her head and walked past him, hugging herself. Whether, with his last remark, Marwick had been trying to frighten her or only telling the truth, she could not say. But if it was the latter . . .
Jones fell into step at her heels. “Shall we send up a bottle?”
“Several.” And put hemlock in them.
The thought was too black, too horrifying; she felt appalled at having entertained it. But had she spoken it, Jones probably would not have been shocked. By his lack of surprise, it was clear he’d given up on his master sometime ago. He had only humored her tonight as a matter of form.
Yet as she reached the ground floor, she found herself remembering the look on the duke’s face. His disgust after he had punched the wall. It had been an ugly look, at odds with the treacherous beauty of his features.
She realized she was touching her lip. She scrubbed it with her knuckles. He was a bully, a lunatic. She should not spare a thought to what haunted him. There was no possible earthly excuse for his behavior.
But she did know the reason for it. She had read the duchess’s letters. And as much as they had shocked and revolted her, she could only imagine what effect they’d had on Marwick.
How she wished she hadn’t read them! For this sudden, fleeting sympathy was undeserved by him, and ridiculous of her, and . . . the very opposite of armor.
CHAPTER THREE
When Olivia woke the next morning, it was to a creeping feeling of doom. She could not even trace it back to Bertram, for it descended from above, from the room where the Duke of Marwick stewed in his villainous lair.
She breakfasted in the privacy of the sitting room attached to her sleeping quarters. Through the walls came the muffled conversation of the staff taking their meal at the long table in the gallery. To her ears, the gabble seemed muted, bereft of its typical boisterousness. Perhaps somebody—probably Vickers—had spread word about last night.
When she stepped out to give the maids their duties, her suspicion was confirmed. Polly, Muriel, and Doris greeted her very meekly, and as they filed out, Muriel whispered, “You’re very brave,” before dashing off.
Brave? Vickers must have gotten a garbled tale from Jones. Olivia did not feel brave at all. She felt, all at once, oppressed. The duke was not her concern. He could live or die as he wished.
Indeed, as long as he lived until she had a chance to search his house, she would be content.
That is awful, she thought, scowling. She did not really mean it. She was not wicked. She did wish the best for him—even if he did not deserve it.
Snapping out of her reverie, she found herself paused on the stairs. The tumult within her had drawn her to a stop—exactly the kind of inaction she could not afford.
Today, she resolved, she would begin her search. For tomorrow, no doubt, the maids would rediscover their contempt for her, and begin to flirt with the footmen again, luring them into dark rooms where Olivia had rather not be discovered, nose-deep in the duke’s belongings.
* * *
All summer, the garden had hummed. From the darkness of his bedroom overlooking the flowers, Alastair had listened to the cacophony. Bees knocking into the window. The rattle of squirrels playing along the ledge. In the early morning, the birdsong leaking through the panes had woken him in a fury, his head pounding.
He’d wanted nothing of summer. This house would be his grave. Drunk, enraged, he’d cursed the life in the garden.
Now, on a late October morning, he woke to silence. The garden was dead. He could feel its sterility. Its silence pressed against the curtained windows like a fist ready to explode through the glass.
The silence, so loud, bore a message for him: he had missed something crucial, let it pass by. Now it would never return for him.
He rose. (Why? What point?) The long mirror atop his dressing table showed a lean face and sunken eyes, the face of a starving wolf. “Damn you,” he said to the mirror. His eyes burned; his lip curled, exposing teeth.
Once, he wielded this sneer in Parliament, a handy tool to silence his opponents. Now it functioned only to silence himself.
He resisted it. “Will you not go outside?” he snapped.
Outside: a crush of eyes to watch him. Countless mouths poised to spread news of him. Look at what he has become. England’s hope, they once called him. Thoughts of that world, the eyes, the mouths, swarmed over him, nested in his chest, and grew heavy like stone. It crushed the breath from his lungs to think of the world outside.
In the world’s memory, he was a statesman. Not a fool or a cuckold, not a man whose hubris had blinded him to his own idiocy.
Let the world remember that other man, then—even if, in retrospect, he had always been a lie, after all.
Kneeling, Alastair commenced his calisthenics. Twelve years ago, drunk at a pub in Oxford, his friends had paid an old soldier to show them his mettle. He had led them through his army routine, and none of them—save the soldier—had gotten through it without puking.
That might have been owed to the alcohol. But the routine was punishing. As Alastair pushed himself off the ground, there seemed to be nothing but bile in him. He welcomed the sensation. He had followed this routine for four weeks now, needing the exhaustion that followed. Exhaustion was the only cure for this acid in his veins, the restlessness that built like ground glass, the rage.
Once finished, his labored breath searing his throat, he laid his forehead atop his drawn-up knees and let the sweat cool on his skin. Here, now, only now, once a day, was the game he would allow himself to play, having earned it with physical exertion:
This silence might be any silence. This time, any time.
It is four years ago, or five. The beginning of it all. His wife is dressing in the adjoining apartment. If her mood is happy, then she sings to herself as she tries on jewels. She is dressing for a party. Every night brings parties: a politician requires friends, resources to use and abuse.
Perhaps the party is here. Margaret is an excellent hostess, as celebrated for it as her husband is for his good deeds, his noble causes, his leadership. You chose very wisely, someone has told him. She will make a fine wife for a prime minister one day. How the compliment gratifies him. How well Margaret looks on his arm, and how cleverly she converses.
But it cannot be four years ago. It must be five. Four years ago, Fellowes returned to town. And there it began. Fellowes, Nelson, Barclay, Bertram . . .
Alastair lifted his head. He was done with this mantra, these names of the men with whom she betrayed him. He had read her letters so many times now that he might have recited them like soliloquies, speeches from some lewd and puerile script.
My husband is a fool; he has no inkling of who I am, what I do.
He believes the bill will pass, I
tell you. But he worried last night that Dawkins would waver, if only somebody knew to push him. So go find Dawkins, and promise him a few coins, and the bill will die on the floor.
I lie next to my husband at night and burn for you . . . I imagine his hands are yours, and then I open my eyes and want to wretch . . .
He stared at the broken shards of glass along the baseboard. Why were they there? After a moment, it came to him: these were the remnants of the bottle he’d thrown . . . when?
He had thrown it at the girl who had said, I am no girl. When had that been? In his memory, her voice seemed strangely clear, cutting through the murky sewage of his rotted brain. He recalled the vividness of her red hair, and her unusual height; but her face, in his memory, was blank, a pale and featureless oval. What he recalled instead was his own reflection in her spectacles. The reflection of a beast.
Looking at himself, he had wondered how she did not recoil. How she dared to face him so boldly.
He ran his thumbs now over his scraped knuckles. He had hit a low point, no doubt. Bullying women; that was what he did now, it seemed.
But she had not yielded her ground even then. She had challenged him again. She must be deranged. Not as deranged as he, though.
He remembered touching her, meaning to teach her a lesson in obedience. But now all he remembered was the feel of her lip. Soft. For a moment only, sensation had sparked along his skin, and it had not felt like pain.
But how predictable. His father had molested the servants. Any number of maids. Four years ago, five, Alastair had known he would never be like his father—that leering, raging, lecherous bull. Even a year ago, he had known it.
Known it. Ha. A fool knew many things, very few of them true.
But when had the girl come in here? Yesterday? Two days ago? Twenty?
Time passes without him now. He is trapped in this moment, which never changes. And he dares not leave it, for if he does, everything will change. The world will cease to remember how it once saw him. Instead, it will see his new face: violent, broken, shattered, murderous.