Dark Season (25 page)

The recollection of that horror overcame him. He blinked his eyes rapidly, as though to banish the vision.

Isidore’s hands found Clement’s collar. He bunched the fabric and shook him with all his strength, shook him until he heard his jaws clack together hard enough to chip the teeth. He let go, panting. The color had drained from Clement’s lips.

“She was dead.” Clement’s voice held the wonderment he must have felt when he first saw her. Disbelief. Awe. “The blow had cracked her skull. I lifted her up … and I rolled her over the railing. There wasn’t much blood. Wiping it away was the work of a moment.”

Isidore didn’t realize he was on the floor until he heard Clement drop to his knees beside him. Those green eyes were more familiar to him than his own. But the face was a mask. The pale lips moved.

“I know you couldn’t have meant it.”

He understood the words, but the sentence made no sense. He shook his head.

“You were out of your mind.” Clement was shaking his head too, but his eyes seemed to stay in the same place. Fixed. Isidore could see nothing else.

“I thought I could bear it. For your sake, Sid, I thought I could. I cannot. I cannot.”

They sat in silence. The rain still pattered, as though the world had not turned upside down.

Isidore made his fingers into claws on the polished wood of the floor. “You never spoke of this to me.”

“We both knew,” Clement whispered. “An unholy covenant. Made in silence. Kept in silence. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t wish I hadn’t done it. Then I picture you dragged into the street, hung for murder before a crowd of thousands.”

The ice floe inside of him began to break apart. He didn’t know what would happen when it shattered completely and feeling returned. Would he scream? Would he hurl himself through those panes of glass? For years, he had carried the burden of his guilt. But Clement had carried a burden just as terrible. To protect him. Each had suffered alone a hell of his own making.

“I didn’t kill her.” It gusted out of him. “I would have lost my arms at both shoulders before I lifted a hand to her.”
I didn’t kill her.
For an instant, he felt a wild surge, the desire to run, to skip, to clap his hands, like a slave whose manacles have fallen open, whose chains are broken. She hadn’t leapt from that balcony in wrath and desperation, to punish him, to punish herself.

She had been murdered. Now the chains wound about him tighter than ever, squeezing the breath from his body. She had been murdered.

Clement was staring at him. “She was dead. I saw her.”

“Someone else dealt the blow.”
There.
That piercing crack—the ice had broken. His breath stuttered. He crossed his arms around his chest and heaved forward and back with such violence he would have dashed his forehead on the floor if Clement hadn’t braced him, brought him up short.

“Sid, don’t lie to me. It’s the one thing that could make this damnation worse. Don’t lie to me.”

He couldn’t catch his breath. He wrenched free of Clement’s grasp and scuttled backwards on the floor. Not even a beast. A beetle. His back hit a table leg. Blake’s proverbs were poised above, ready to spill down, to bury him.
A dead body, revenges not injuries. The most sublime act is to set another before you. The crow wish’d every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white.
The tygers of wrath … The cut worm … The bones of the dead …

“She betrayed you.” Clement’s look blended compassion and repulsion both. “You were furious. I’d never heard you sound like that. Like a baited bear. You said you’d die before you let her go to him.”

“She didn’t betray me.” Now the truth would out. He should have told Clement years ago. He’d kept his faith with Phillipa and in doing so nearly destroyed his best friend. “Our engagement was not what you thought. It was … ” What was Clem’s phrase?
An unholy covenant.

He needed fortification for this confession. He stood in stages. He felt his muscles lock then tear apart. A knife was scraping them from his bones. He stumbled to the whisky bottle.

“I am going to finish this whisky,” he said hoarsely. “And then I am going to tell you the truth. I’m going to tell you everything.”

“If you didn’t kill her … ” Clement remained on the floor, one leg tucked beneath him, one knee bent, forehead propped upon it. His golden hair curtained his face. “Who did?”

“I don’t know. Yet. I’m going to find out. ” He took a burning pull of whisky. “And I swear by God’s wounds, I am going to kill him.” He barked a laugh. “Now if they hang me, they’ll have to use a silken rope. I am a Peer of the Realm.” He kissed his left fingertips and bowed. A lord at the gallows. He laughed again, swallowing more whisky.

Excess of sorrow laughs.
Blake had worked feverishly on the day of his death, sketching scenes from Dante’s
Inferno.
In his engraving,
The Circle of the Lustful,
he depicted those gray bodies twisting in a whirlwind, those men and women whom love bereav’d of life. He wondered if Clement possessed a copy. He wondered if throwing it in the fire would break the circle, end the agonies of those weary souls. His lips twisted.

Of course it wouldn’t. The flames would devour the paper, mimicking the action of the blacker, infernal flames.

He was done with symbols, with futile gestures. Finding and killing Phillipa’s lover, Phillipa’s
murderer
—that was the only act that remained to him. An act of vengeance. Pure. Absolute.

He felt composed, suddenly. Lucid. The way was lit before him. Light shining on the dark path. All he needed to do was take one step. And then another.

“What of Ella?” he asked. “Miss Reed? How does she fit in to this? What knowledge does she have?”

“Most likely none.” Clement rose gracelessly. They were both moving like old men. “I overreacted.”

“She didn’t speak to you of … the murder?” The word “murder” still tripped up his tongue. Phillipa had been
murdered.

“All she said was that I kept a secret that ate away at me.” Clement walked wearily to the leather chair he’d vacated and fell upon it. “Tell a man he keeps a painful secret. Tell a woman she dreams of love. Simple enough. Put me in a Gypsy caravan, I too could astound customers with the clarity of my visions in the crystal ball. It’s not what she said so much as her very presence, the suggestion that she might
conjure
Phillipa … ” He gave an involuntary shudder. “Stirs it all up, doesn’t it?” He paused, staring into space. “She’s an unnerving woman besides. The way she looks at you … ” He shut his eyes. “Christ almighty,” he whispered. “I let Phillipa’s murderer go free. Covered up his crime.”

“For me.” Isidore smiled a bleak smile. “All these years, I’ve wondered. I couldn’t figure out why you pulled away. We sat for hours together by Phillipa’s casket, and you never looked at me. Never said a word. I felt … ”
Betrayed.
Abandoned.
Forsaken.
“But you thought … ” His throat threatened to close. He tilted his head back, tipping the whisky bottle until it emptied. “I don’t know how you endured sitting by my side.”

The last drop of liquor rolled back down the neck of the bottle. He put the bottle on the breakfast tray. Jenkins wouldn’t thank him when the tray was collected, the food virtually untouched, the empty bottle testifying to the morning’s less wholesome repast.

Clement’s head was nodding. The sleepless night catching up to him.

“Clement,” Isidore said, and the head jerked up. The green eyes opened.

“I’m listening,” Clement rasped. Isidore leaned again against the wall. He took a breath. Ella had told him he was a good storyteller. She meant he told stories well. Not that he had good tales to tell. Most of the stories he knew were tragic. He was going to tell Clement one of them. Phillipa’s story. He couldn’t tell it through to the end, because it wasn’t over. Phillipa’s murderer walked among them. Phillipa’s soul
was
unquiet—Miss Seymour had been right.

He spoke dully, mechanically. By the time he’d finished, he knew what course of action he would take. Ella’s presence stirred things up. That was exactly what he needed. He needed to unnerve, and then unmask, a murderer. He needed to hire a private medium.

• • •

“Coffee” was all he could mutter when he arrived back at his house. He took the stairs to his study two at a time. He expected his footman to appear, but it was his housekeeper who came with the tray. She put the tray down with an abrupt motion and fisted her hands on her hips.

“The young lady’s dress is ruined, my lord,” she said.

“I imagine it is,” he said, pouring himself a cup of syrupy coffee. His cook might not have a gift for pastry, but he’d given her detailed instructions as to how he liked his coffee and he had no complaints. Mrs. Potts was still standing by his desk. In a twit about a bloody dress.

“Burn it,” he said. The curt tone was meant to act as a dismissal.

“I’m not concerned about how to dispose of the dress, my lord.” Mrs. Potts’s chins multiplied as she drew back her head like an angry bird. “But Miss Reed needs something to wear. She hasn’t set foot outside the bedchamber.”

Good. He hadn’t intended her to set a damn foot anywhere. He meant for her to stay exactly where he’d left her. He sipped his coffee. He needed to collect himself. His sanity was hanging by a thread. Mrs. Potts, though, showed no sign that she was ready to leave him in peace. She had warmed to her topic.

“I couldn’t believe my ears when Mr. Brinkley told me you’d gone out this morning without making any arrangements for her comfort,” she said. “After what she went through! Lor’, don’t mind my saying so, but it’s hard of you. Why, she’s such a sweet thing too. I haven’t heard a cross word from her, and she thanked Violet for the nightdress with such language as made the silly girl blush. She’s not high at all in her behavior, for all she’s a lady through and through. I brought her a shawl, and some cough drops, and she had a bit of omelette for breakfast, and she’s taken tea and a scone. It’s a miracle she’s not dying of the shock she had.” Mrs. Potts shook her head.

It’s a miracle she’s not dying of your neglect and vulgar treatment.
He could all but hear Mrs. Potts’s unspoken reprimand. It seemed Ella had made the most of her morning’s confinement, winning over his staff. Last night, Mrs. Potts had looked at her as though she was the Whore of Babylon. Now she was willing to challenge the master of the house on her behalf.

Good work, Miss Reed
, he thought.

“Will Miss Reed be continuing in the house, my lord?”
Without clothing?
Mrs. Potts pressed her lips together as though preparing herself for a bitter blow. His answer was bound to scandalize her even more.

“For the night, at least, Mrs. Potts. Beyond that, I can’t say. Send a porter to Trombly Place for a gown, shoes, and necessary items.” He stood. Mrs. Potts opened her mouth, no doubt to continue her harangue.

“Thank you, Mrs. Potts,” he said. “Your interest in the lady’s welfare does you credit. I assure you I have the situation well in hand.”

“Don’t take the situation
too
much in hand, my lord, if you catch my meaning,” said Mrs. Potts. The knowing look she leveled at him was so much at odds with her prim demeanor that his coffee went down the wrong pipe. He spluttered for a moment, at a loss.

“Will you be needing anything else, my lord?” she asked, and while he was still coughing, she turned on her heel and left the room.

Maybe he deserved it. He’d treated Ella badly, leaving her to wait for his return and wonder what fate he’d decided for her. He hadn’t intended to keep her waiting as long as he had. Hell, he hadn’t predicted any of this when he’d quitted the house. The morning had taken an unexpected turn. He’d stepped out of his own nightmare into Clement’s and then into yet another.

He stood. It was time to invite her to join him in darkness. He rather wished he had something else to offer.

• • •

He tapped softly on the door before he pushed it open. She was standing by the window, looking out at the rain. He felt a stab of disappointment to see her wrapped in Mrs. Potts’s woolen shawl. That nightdress pulled taut across her hips and breasts, firelight sliding up and down the curves and planes—he hadn’t forgotten the sight. Her hips were wider, her breasts fuller, than he’d imagined. The delicate bones of her face, her posture, and that severe black mourning gown made her appear thinner than she was. Her body was lush.

He cleared his throat. She turned. The lavender shadows that hollowed her eyes were darker today. Her hair had been hastily done; only a few pins anchored the twisted mass. It would be so easy to pull them out and watch her hair fall about her shoulders. He hadn’t gotten to appreciate her unbound hair last night, when it was tangled and coursing with foul water. Quite a few activities last night he hadn’t gotten to appreciate. His eyes fell to her feet. They were bare. The nightdress was too short. He could see her ankle bones, see up to where her heel curved toward the lower calf. His groin tightened.

“Leave the door open.” She reached out her hand as though to stop the door from closing as he stepped into the room. He looked at her a moment. And shut the door deliberately behind him.

“The servants will talk.” She stepped behind a chair, hiding her exposed ankles. This show of modesty amused him. Why not admit it? It excited him. Cat and mouse …

“I carried you past them all in the middle of the night,” he reminded her. “They won’t talk of anything else for months. Unless a volcano erupts and blocks out the sun. Even then.” He crossed the room slowly, stopped in front of the chair. “Unless Queen Victoria marries the ghost of Abraham Lincoln … ”

Her smile flashed then vanished. He felt absurdly gratified. He knew how to conjure those rare smiles. Serious, philosophical Miss Reed had an undeniable taste for nonsense. She appreciated the ridiculous. Her life had made her dour and dark and awkward with her body, as though she were an operator working a badly oiled industrial machine. But nature had made her warm, imaginative,
sensual.
She had moved against him in the coach, unconsciously seductive, while he whispered the tale of Rhodopis in her ear. She had sighed with satisfaction. She
desired
such stories: romantic, impossible. She dreamed of happy endings. He wanted to whisper all kinds of foolishness into the curve of her neck, tickling her with his breath until she laughed helplessly, gasping for air, begging for mercy. He wanted to have that power over her. He wanted to make her writhe in his arms, respond to his words, his touch, spontaneously, unable to divide her mind from her body. He wanted her fused, mind-body-soul, and opening, to him.