The Lion's Daughter by Loretta Chase
Risto’s companion, encased in a hooded cloak, drew a chair up beside the bed, sat down, and threw the hood back. The candlelight revealed the face of a young man.
“Risto you recall, I see,” said the stranger. “I am his master.” His voice was gentle and his sweet smile that of an innocent youth. These qualities did not quiet Sir Gerald’s fears in the least.
“Is-Ismal,” he gasped.
The young man bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You’ll forgive our unceremonious entry. I thought it best the servants not see me. Servants of all races like to talk, and neither you nor I would wish my arrival made known to certain individuals. I have come merely to settle a small matter of business. Then I shall be gone, I promise.”
Ismal calmly removed the cloak and leaned back, utterly at his ease. He was dressed in English garb, complete to the elaborate knot of his neckcloth. Except for the faint accent, he might have passed as an English gentleman.
“Before you vex your brain contriving some way to escape me, I will explain your position.” He gracefully draped one arm upon the back of the chair. “In Venice, I found a man named Bridgeburton.”
Sir Gerald felt the blood draining from his face.
“This man has been a partner in your enterprises for many years—since the night, some twenty-odd years ago, he helped you cheat your brother out of a valuable property.”
Ismal withdrew from his inner coat pocket a thick letter. “He was persuaded to write a confession of all your mutual crimes.” He dropped the letter onto Sir Gerald’s lap. “That is a copy. The original is to be delivered to a member of your ministry in the event I am inconvenienced in any way. If you think to trick or betray me, you will only betray yourself.”
The dagger withdrew just enough to let Sir Gerald take up the letter. He needed only to skim it to understand how much danger he was in. No one but Bridgeburton knew these particular details.
He set his jaw. “I suppose he’s dead.”
“I fear your partner was so incautious as to fall into the canal.” Ismal examined his smooth nails. “May Risto put away his dagger now? If his hand grows too tired, it may slip.”
“You know I daren’t raise any alarm.” Sir Gerald handed back the letter. “I’ve no more inclination for the gallows than for your servant’s blade.”
When the dagger was withdrawn, he gingerly touched his throat. It was wet. Perspiration, perhaps, or blood. It hardly mattered. He wasn’t dead yet.
What mattered was the young man sitting by the bed. Ismal had got this damning confession out of the immovable Bridgeburton, killed him, and come all the way to England. That was more than persistence. Madness?
“What do you want from me?” Sir Gerald demanded, more boldly than he felt. “I dealt squarely with you. It wasn’t my fault…”
“It was not a deliberate betrayal, I admit,” Ismal amiably agreed, “though I thought so at first. I have since learned that not only have my dreams crumbled, but your empire as well. I cannot believe you’d deliberately destroy yourself. Nonetheless you were careless, Sir Gerald, else no one could have known about every single ship, every single destination.”
“It could have been one of your own people.”
“Only Risto knew all—or nearly all—and he would not be with me now had he betrayed me. It was you, of course.”
“I swear to you—”
“You were incautious in some way, and this error nearly resulted in my death.” Tipping his head to one side, Ismal softly enquired, “Have you ever been poisoned, Sir Gerald? My cousin, Ali, prefers the slow poisons. I did not find the experience at all to my taste. Yet as I recovered on a filthy fishing vessel, I began to appreciate the method’s charms. I should enjoy, very much, watching one who’s played me false die…very, very slowly...in great agony.”
Definitely mad, Sir Gerald decided grimly. But the first shock had passed, and his powers of self-preservation were returning. “I suppose it’s no use trying to convince you I’m not your enemy, or even that I never spoke a word to anyone or within anyone’s hearing. It hardly matters anyhow. You know I must have the original of Bridgeburton’s letter. What’s your price?”
“The sum I paid for weapons I never received, plus a thousand pounds to repay what my cousin extorted from me—because of your niece and her pig of a lover.” An edge had crept into Ismal’s mellifluous voice. He must have heard it, too, for he smiled more sweetly. “And another thousand for my travel expenses,” he continued in gentler tones. “All to be paid in two days.”
Utterly deranged. This, regrettably, did not make a man any the less dangerous. Still, Sir Gerald had strong objections to being blackmailed and a keen sense of the injustice of Ismal’s demands. Moreover, the baronet hadn’t yet met the man he couldn’t get the better of, sooner or later. He thought quickly.
“I can’t raise such a sum in only two days,” he said. “If you know so much about me, you must be aware I’ve already sold off my remaining investments, not to mention half my possessions.”
“Then you will give me the chess set.”
Sir Gerald stared at him.
Ismal’s smile grew reproachful. “Or have you sold that, too—your niece’s dowry?”
Indignation instantly submerged Sir Gerald’s alarm. “Sold it?” he repeated. “And get but a fraction of its worth? Most of the value was in its being complete, with every piece intact, every gemstone the original. Collectors may be eccentric, some of them, and they might, just possibly, overlook a missing pawn—but a queen?”
Ismal’s arm came away from the back of the chair. The false smile had broadened, and his eyes gleamed.
With amusement? Sir Gerald wondered. What the devil was so funny?
Ismal leaned toward him. “Sir Gerald,” he said, “you are in deeper trouble than you know. I am not the only one in possession of your dirty secrets.”
“What in blazes are you talking about?”
“The black queen.”
“Which this backguard said he was going to give you—”
“And which was soon thereafter given to your son. With your message still inside.”
***
Esme’s lips were twitching as she gave the letter back to her grandmother.
“It ain’t funny,” the old lady growled.
“Not only amusing but imaginative,” Esme said. “They say I have tattoos on my hands, wear a ring in my nose, and in this garb—and nothing else—I dance lewd dances in your rose garden. By the light of the full moon. Mrs. Stockwell-Hume does not mention my howling at the moon as well, but perhaps her London friends will think of that in time.”
“It don’t matter if it’s ridiculous. Most of London gossip is. That don’t make it any the less damaging. What do you think Edenmont’s going to say—no, better—when he hears of it?”
Esme quickly sobered. The rumor Lady Brentmor’s friend reported were preposterous, blatant examples of English society’s provincialism and ignorance. All the same, to have one’s wife an object of mockery, and oneself an object of pity…
“Quite,” said the dowager. “We must go to London. Tomorrow.”
“London? Tomorrow?”
“You ain’t an echo, so don’t act like one. I’d leave this minute if I could, but we’ll want all the day to pack. And the young brute must come, too, unless I want to come back and find he’s blown up the house.”
“But, Grandmother, I am not ready. You said yourself my manners—”
“They’re better than what them fools expect. Besides, we ain’t staying the whole Season. Just a week or so. Enough to set ‘em straight. Bloody lot of nincompoops.”
London. Tomorrow. Esme suppressed a shudder. All those women. His women. They’d pick her to pieces, and she lacked the art to defend herself. She wouldn’t have the heart, either, when she saw her rivals. They’d be more beautiful than she’d imagined, more graceful, and she’d feel uglier, utterly worthless. Two months without Varian had already weakened her confidence. She ne
“No,” she said. “This gossip is no more than a joke. But if I am there, they will see what is truly wrong, and that will be worse.”
“It’ll be a deal worse if he takes it into his head to start issuing challenges. A man’s obliged to defend his wife’s good name—even if he loathes her. Gad, men are such jackasses,” the dowager grumbled. “We spend half our lives trying to save the bloody idiots from themselves.”
“You cannot expect me to believe—”
“If you won’t go,” her grandmother went on heedlessly, “you’d best hope he’s cleverer with a pistol than he is with finances.”
“God have mercy.” Esme rubbed her head. “And the English claim Albania is dangerous. Varian would have been safer there. Here, his uncle will kill him for a chess set, his friends will kill him for gossip…Y’Allah, even Ali Pasha could not survive among these people. They are insane, all of them.”
The dowager was not attending. Her abstracted gaze wandered about the sitting room. “Of course, there is the bright side. Once he makes you a widow, you might find something vaguely resembling a proper husband.” Her attention settled upon a small watercolor hanging near the mantel. “Dunham’s a widower, and he’s got an heir already. Saxonby’s wife’s ailing, but there’s two brothers between him and the title. Herriot—or is it the other one? Damnation, I must find my Debrett’s—no, I can ask Lady Seales. She’ll know to the minute what’s on the market.”
Esme stared at her grandmother. “What market? What are you talking about?”
“The husband market. Your next. You ain’t meaning to mourn the halfwit all the rest of your days, are you?”
“Heaven grant me patience,” Esme cried. “He is not even dead and you are planning my next husband? You are worse than Qeriba. She at least did not wish him ill. But you are much the same as she. ‘Do this. Do that.’ And I am not to think. I am to have no say.”
“Then why’n’t you try saying something intelligent?”
“Why do you not give me a moment to think? Only you say Varian will fight duels on my account. Why should I believe he would risk his neck for such small cause? He’s more likely to laugh.”
“I told you how men are.”
“Yes, and you told me as well that many men leave their wives in the country while they amuse themselves in town. If he wishes to return to London, and I am there—”
“Yes, most inconvenient for him, I’m sure.”
“Also,” Esme went on doggedly, “you do not think what the talk will be like if I remain with my grandmother in London while my husband lives under another roof.”
“That would be his doing. I didn’t separate you when he was here, and I wouldn’t do so there. But you’re just making excuses. The reason you don’t want to go to London is simple enough. You’re a coward.”
In this particular case, the words struck very near the mark. Esme had admitted as much to herself the instant she thought of the women. All the same, her temper flared at the taunt. “You are completely impossible!” she cried. “You will do and say anything to have your way. But you make a mistake in me. Like it or not, your blood runs in my veins, and I shall have my way. Yes, Grandmother, we shall set out tomorrow, as you wish. No, Grandmother, we do not go to London—not until I know my husband’s opinion. Then I can judge sensibly.”
Lady Brentmor’s scowl was truly ferocious. Esme quaked not a whit. She scowled back.
“You want to go to Mount Eden?” the dowager demanded. “And get the sapskull’s permission first?”
“I shall not race to London to rescue him from duels, only to find I’ve made a fool of myself. I’ve heard your opinion of what must be done. Now I will hear his. Then I will decide. For myself.”
“Very well,” said her grandmother. “As you wish, my lady.”
“And no tricks,” Esme warned. “Percival has shown me the maps. If the carriage goes anywhere but to Mount Eden I shall jump out of it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of tricking you,” came the sardonic reply. “I’m only too happy to drop in on his lordship without warning. About time you saw for yourself. Let him introduce you to his drink—and opium-sotted friends, and his whores. I should like that above all things.” Lady Brentmor moved to the door. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Percival had already scuttled down the hall to the backstairs when his grandmother emerged from Esme’s sitting room. He knew he shouldn’t have been listening at the door. He’d spied on his papa just the once, and look what that had led to. He could hardly bear to think about chess any more because that led his mind to the black queen, which led to Papa’s shameful secret, and thinking about that made Percival feel very sick. He felt rather sick now, as he had from the moment he’d seen the letter on the table at breakfast.
After opening it, Grandmama had got all stiff and purplish in the face. Which she’d every reason to do, as Percival had just learned. And it had nothing to do with Papa, he told himself. It was just a lot of horrid, ignorant gossip.
Frowning, he sat down on the topmost step. The part about the nose ring, for example. Lots of people were aware it was a common form of adornment in several exotic cultures, just as in some cultures it was common to go about unclothed. The gossips couldn’t know these weren’t Albanian practices—nor were any of the other things they’d made up about Cousin Esme.
Except for the tatoos. In some Albanian tribes, women did tatoo their hands. It was very odd that a lot of English gossips had accidently got the one very obscure practice right and everything else so ludicrously wrong. One couldn’t help wondering how anyone but an Albanian would even imagine a woman having tatoos. On her hands.
But it wasn’t impossible, he told himself. It could be a coincidence.
Like the letter’s stationery. Papa surely wasn’t the only one who used that particular kind. It didn’t seem the sort a woman would use, but Mrs. Stockwell-Hume might have borrowed her husband’s. Except he’d died ten years ago.
Percival closed his eyes. It couldn’t be Papa’s stationery. It certainly wasn’t Papa’s handwriting or anyone else’s but Mrs. Stockwell-Hume’s, or Grandmama would have noticed. It couldn’t be a forgery, either. If Papa knew how to disguise his handwriting, he’d have done that with the black queen’s message.
But someone else might know how to forge a letter, his worried brain pointed out. Someone very, very clever. Someone Albanian.
“No,” Percival whispered. “It can’t be. Please, Mama. I’m just imagining things, aren’t I?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Damon was on Mount Eden’s roof patching a chimney, and Gideon was down in the kitchen attempting to assemble a luncheon. Varian was finishing his morning task of sweeping the bedrooms clean, mainly of mouse droppings. Though the cat did her best, she was only one against a legion, and her offspring were too young to be of much assistance. Judging from the volume of the droppings, some of the mice must be twice the size of her children.
He swore when he heard the door knocker. Broom in hand, he raced down the stairs and very nearly crushed the tortoiseshell kitten crouching at the bottom, waiting to pounce.
“Dash it, you’ve only got nine lives.” Varian scooped up the kitten. “Don’t use them all up in one week.”
The kitten clawed free of his hand and tore its way up his shirt. Varion was trying to pry it loose when he reached the door. Hissing, the feline dug its claws in.
Varian gave up, flung the broom aside, and jerked the door open.
He blinked once, and all thought, all the world vanished in that instant. All he saw or knew was Esme, staring up, open-mouthed, at him.
“Esme.” In the next breath, he’d yanked her over the threshold and crushed her in his arms. “Darling, I—Ow!”
He grabbed for the murderous kitten, but Esme pushed his hand away. “You will hurt him,” she said sharply.
“He
By this time, reality had returned. Varian looked past his wife through the open doorway. He saw the carriage and the dowager alighting from it, then Percival jumping down after her.
Varian raked his fingers through his hair. He felt grit. As he took his hand away, he saw it was black. He saw as well he’d marred Esme’s elegant cloak with dirt and soot.
Heat rose from his neck to simmer in his face. He looked at Esme, then away at the dowager who was marching purposefully toward them. Percival had evidently caught sight of Damon on the roof, because the boy was running round to the side of the house for a better view.
Though acutely aware his face was crimson, Varian squared his shoulders. When the dowager reached the doorstep, he bowed. “My lady. This is a pleasant surprise.”
“Don’t talk to me,” she snapped, pushing past him. “It ain’t my doing, but hers. “ She looked about her and sniffed. “Tell my servants to bring the baskets. It’s plain you ain’t prepared for hospitality, and I’m thirsty.” She sailed on down the hall, muttering to herself.
Very soon thereafter, following a hasty washing-up, Damon and Gideon were moving cautiously through the main corridor. They’d already peeped into the morning room, where a small, fierce old woman was perched upon a valise shouting orders to a small army of harassed-looking servants.
In the drawing room, a red-haired adolescent boy lay on his belly before a mouse hole, patiently lecturing a kitten that was swatting at his nose.
Though intriguing in themselves, neither of these visions could be spared more than a glance. Damon and Gideon had one particular quarry in mind and, resisting these lesser temptations, continued their search.
They paused at the partly open library doors and peered in. Then Damon looked at his brother. “It can’t be that little girl,” he whispered.
“It most assuredly is not the mature lady in the morning room.”
“But she’s no more than a child. Varian couldn’t possibly—”