A Study In Seduction (30 page)

“Foolish girl,” he hissed.

Jane tried to scream. No sound emerged before his hand clamped over her mouth.

A
lexander startled, taking a step away from her. Fresh, raw pain coursed through Lydia’s chest. She averted her gaze but felt the shock that held him immobile.

“Your… your daughter?”

Lydia nodded, experiencing a sense of relief at having finally told him the truth. No matter how he reacted, at least she no longer bore the burden of such a secret.

“But Jane is—”

“Eleven. She was born when I was almost seventeen.”

She lifted her lashes to risk a glance at him. He remained still, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his expression rigid.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“It is not a pleasant story.” She paused. “Far from it.”

“I don’t care. What happened? Is
he
Jane’s father?”

“Yes.” Her fingers clenched on the letter.

“He didn’t… did he…” Alexander swallowed, his fists tightening.

“No. No.” Beneath her fear, shame began to simmer inside Lydia. She attempted to contain it, knowing she owed him the full story in all its sordid details. “It… it was a… a mistake, Alexander, a hideous one, but I was a willing participant. And I promise I will tell you whatever you want to know, but I must speak with Jane first. Please. I… I didn’t think he’d ever find us again. I don’t know if he’s tried to contact her, if he would—”

Her voice shattered on the cusp of a speculation too horrific to name. She covered her face with her hands, dimly aware of the anger beginning to tear through Alexander’s silence.

“Where did Mrs. Driscoll say she’d gone?” he asked.

“To her piano lesson with my grandmother.” Lydia swiped at the perspiration on her brow. “I… It’s imperative I speak with her—it’s the reason I needed the locket back. All of this—”

“I’ll collect her from Rushton’s. You wait here. I do not wish there to be a scene at my father’s house.”

He turned and left. Lydia stared at the closed door. A bead of perspiration trickled down her neck, sliding beneath her narrow collar.

She went upstairs to her room, splashed water on her face, and fixed her hair. Nervousness twisted in her stomach. She went down the corridor to the schoolroom where she and Jane had spent countless hours together.

Jane’s possessions and creations were scattered everywhere—paintings, dolls, toys, drawings, a world globe, books, bits of crochet, and embroidery samples.

Lydia picked up an old rag doll that Sir Henry had once given Jane for Christmas. The doll stared sightlessly back
at her, one button eye missing, the stitches of its mouth beginning to tear.

“Lydia?” Wariness infused her grandmother’s voice.

She turned. “Is Jane with you?”

“No.”

Lydia frowned. “Where is Alexander?”

“I don’t know. What is going on, Lydia?”

“He was on his way to collect Jane from her piano lesson,” Lydia said. “Didn’t you take her?”

“Yes, but she went on an outing with Mr. Hall after the lesson.”

Lydia set the doll down and began looking through a stack of papers on the table—Jane’s penmanship practice, several drawings, the start of a report about fireflies. She straightened several books and returned them to the bookshelf, bending to retrieve a wrinkled piece of paper that fluttered to the floor.

She started to fold the paper and place it back between the covers of the book, then stopped. Black ink spread across part of the page like a cobweb. Her heart thudded as she smoothed out the paper.

The neat handwriting blurred before her eyes. A wave of dizziness, of disbelief, swamped her.

No. No no no no no no…

“Lydia, what is it?” Her grandmother’s voice rose with increasing alarm. Steeling her shoulders, Mrs. Boyd stalked into the room and grabbed the letter from Lydia’s hand.

Lydia sank to a chair as her grandmother read the letter. The message was already branded into her brain, splashed with terror.

The paper fell from Mrs. Boyd’s hand. The older woman lifted her head, all color drained from her face.

“What,” she said, the word tight as a knot, “is the meaning of this?”

Nausea swirled through Lydia’s belly again. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Did not know what to do next. “He… he’s back. He’s here. In London.”

For an instant, Lydia thought her grandmother might strike her, but Mrs. Boyd merely pinned her with a glare as dark as the ocean floor.

“How long have you known?”

“I just found out.”

“And what of this?” Mrs. Boyd jabbed her cane viciously at the letter, rending a hole in the paper.

“I don’t know.”

Pulling herself from a stupor of despair, Lydia stood. She began opening the desk drawers and cabinet, pushing aside boxes containing Jane’s treasures. She fumbled through the low bookshelf, riffling pages of books in search of something she didn’t want to find.

Her fingers closed around a crumpled stack of letters, each marked with the same distinctive scrawl. Lydia’s vision lost focus; her head throbbed with a pain shot through with a dozen years of sorrow and regret.

She held up the letters. “Who delivered these to Jane?”

“Delivered?” Mrs. Boyd shook her head. “No one has delivered anything to Jane.”

Lydia’s grip tightened on the papers, crushing the edges into her palms as she read the topmost letter.

Lydia lifted her head to look at her grandmother. “Where did she and Mr. Hall go?” she whispered.

“To see the preparations for the educational exhibition.” Mrs. Boyd’s frown deepened like a gash carved into a cliff. “Jane told me earlier that she wished to go, and Mr. Hall kindly agreed to take her. I’ve tea arranged with Mrs. Keene or I would have accompanied them, but—”

Lydia broke from her helplessness like a stone released from a slingshot. She shoved the papers into her pocket, pushing past her grandmother in the doorway.

“Lydia!” Mrs. Boyd’s shout carried down the corridor as Lydia flew downstairs and out the front door.

She ran toward Baker Street and the cabstand, her grandmother’s shrill call drowned out by the fear screaming inside her head.

T
wilight blanketed Long Acre, the front entrance of St. Martin’s Hall concealed by a mass of traffic—pedestrians, carriages, carts, and wagons all swarming about like bees in a hive.

“Accident or something, miss,” the cabdriver called. “Can see it from up here, looks like a cart crashed into something. Can’t go much farther.”

With a curse, Lydia pushed open the door. She tossed two shillings up at the driver and darted past the people clustered around to gape at the accident, shoving her way through a group of constables. She pressed forward, inhaling sharply when she saw Sebastian hovering near the entrance to St. Martin’s Hall.

“Sebastian!”

He looked up, worry clearly etched into his features. “Lydia, what—”

“Jane.” Lydia came to a halt before him. “Where is Jane?”

“I don’t know. That’s just it. She was with me all afternoon, then went to look at a display while I helped Castleford at the Chinese exhibit. When I went to find her, she was gone.”

“
Gone?
What do you mean, gone?”

“I couldn’t find her. I thought she might have been with Castleford, but it appears he’s already left and none of the curators have seen her. I heard the commotion out here and thought she might have come to investigate, but there’s such a throng—”

“Keep looking,” Lydia ordered, heading for the front door. “Look in the classrooms and the library. Check the retiring room at the back as well.”

“But where—”

“I can’t explain now, Sebastian,
please
. We must find her!”

She ran into the entrance hall, her hard breaths echoing in the vast foyer. She hurried up the main staircase that led to the great hall, the length and breadth of which occupied the entire first floor.

Pushing through the doors, she went into the exhibition. Workers milled about the exhibition displays, the sounds of hammers ringing through the air even as people streamed toward the entrance to see the commotion on the street.

Lydia suppressed a fierce urge to scream Jane’s name. If she was still here, if Cole was with her… God only knew what he might do to the girl if he knew Lydia was looking for her.

A shadow passed above her, moving across the window. Lydia peered up at the empty gallery, unable to discern much of anything through the dusk. Her heart thundered in her ears as she crept up the stairs to where
the glowing embers of a fireplace illuminated a section of the gallery.

Her vision blurred, then cleared to sharp precision. Jane sat in a chair near the fireplace, one arm cradled close to her chest and her body trembling.

Lydia choked back a cry, an immense wave of relief sweeping through her. She fought the urge to scream for help.

A movement caught the corner of her eye. In the instant before her brain registered what was happening, a male hand clamped around her wrist. Pain spiraled up her arm. Cole jerked Lydia forward, his granite features mapped in shadows from the dying fire.

“Lydia!” Jane straightened, her eyes wide and frantic.

Lydia yanked her arm from Cole’s grip and ran toward her daughter. She wrapped her arms around Jane and pulled her from the chair. Hugging the girl close, Lydia twisted to pin Joseph Cole with a glare.

“What do you want?”

His gaze on Jane, he replied, “How much is it worth to you, Lydia? How much will it be worth to keep the information from
him
?”

“Northwood already knows the truth. I told him.”

Cole’s smile appeared, as cold and sharp as a crescent moon. “You expect me to believe you would ruin your life like that?”

“Believe what you will. He knows Jane is my daughter.”

“Our daughter. Perhaps you can convince her to tell me where the document is.”

“What document?”

“The
acte de naissance
she hid,” Cole said. “If she tells me where it is, this can all be ended very quickly.”

No. It would never end. Lydia knew that to the core of her being. Never.

She felt the press of Jane’s body against her side, the girl’s hand clenching her arm. She met Jane’s eyes. An odd understanding passed between them, something that spoke of regrets and sorrows that perhaps had some justification, some well-intended motive.

Lydia forced her gaze back to Cole. “Dr. Cole, why are you doing this?”

He looked at her with that clear, owl-like gaze that seemed capable of penetrating the deepest recesses of her mind.

“I lost everything, Lydia. First my position at the university. Couldn’t find another job to save my life. Then Greta… you know how weak she was, how frail. She couldn’t withstand the strain. Crumbled underneath it, really. What savings I had went to medical expenses, then, of course, to the burial.”

Lydia wanted to clamp her hands over her ears to avoid hearing about Greta’s death. “Why did you lose your professorship?”

A vague smile wreathed his mouth. “Ethics violations, of a sort. Can you imagine?”

“Ethics—”

“She was dead when I arrived. Shame they never believed me.”

Lydia’s breathing grew shallow, bile burning in her throat. “Who… who was—”

“The daughter of one of the history professors. Pity too. Lovely girl. I’ve no idea how many men she’d entertained in her rooms.”

“And you… you—”

“They said she’d been strangled. They claimed I was a suspect, but they never proved I did the deed. Still, talk of the whole thing was enough for the education minister to see fit to dismiss me.”

A door banged open somewhere. Voices rose from the lower floor like a flock of birds. Something crashed.

Lydia pushed Jane behind her, trying to make the movement inconspicuous. She wanted to shove the girl toward the stairs and the safety of the lower floor, but she had no idea if Cole was armed.

“It has been a year,” Cole continued. “Then I read of Sir Henry’s death and thought of you, so I returned to London. I wanted to know if you’d had the child. And when I found out about Jane, I wondered if she had your intelligence, your prodigious mathematical abilities. I thought that with you as her mother and me as her father, her genius might already be legendary. So I wrote to her.”

A sick feeling swirled in Lydia’s stomach at the idea that he had lured Jane into a correspondence. “What did you want from her?”

“At first, I thought she might have some novel ideas, different approaches to mathematics,” Cole said.

“You wanted to mine her talents for your own purposes, didn’t you?” Lydia snapped. “You thought she might provide you with some brilliant new theorems or identities. And you would have stolen them, published them as your own in a desperate attempt to regain your lost prominence.”

He frowned. “That’s not quite accurate. She is my daughter, after all, so by rights her theories would have been mine to begin with. Imagine my disappointment when I realized she possesses a rather ordinary mind. Comparatively speaking, of course.”

Lydia clenched her teeth to prevent herself from contradicting his erroneous observation. “So what led to your current plan?”

“The news of your father’s death,” Cole replied. “I knew it would be a good time to contact Jane, and then I learned of your… relationship with a wealthy peer. If I can’t have my reputation back, then a sizable amount of money might well assuage my disappointment. Enough so that I can live somewhere else, perhaps France or Italy, in comfort for the remainder of my days.”