Judith Ivory (38 page)

Adrien laughed. “You can’t possibly be talking about me. Look at the mess—”

“Stay back,” Thomas warned. He cocked the hammer. The riders were at the front of the house. People were calling. Adrien thought for a moment he even heard Christina—

Then it was Christina. Once more saving him, from an awful opium dream. “Adrien!” she called.

He answered. “Here, Christina!”

“Too bloody late,” Thomas said through his teeth. He fired the gun.

Christina screamed and tried to run headlong to Adrien. Wire fencing stopped her. She could see through it, but couldn’t get around it. Frantically, she ran into one wall, then the next, screaming at Thomas.

“Don’t!” He had fired, but Adrien hadn’t fallen. “Don’t shoot again! Thomas!”

The others were coming up behind her. They came out the back servants’ door into the same confusion as she: A dark grid of fencing. What was this?

She could hear Thomas yelling.

“Fall!” he screamed. “Cry out! Do something! I’ve shot you, you bloody bastard!”

Christina managed to get closer, by running down one narrow corridor. She could just make out Adrien, standing. He seemed to be looking down at his own chest.

While Thomas seemed to be crumpling. He fell to his knees. He was crying. “You’re not human,” he said in gasps. “You don’t even feel it. I can’t fight a bloody devil….”

Then he turned the gun, put it into his own mouth and blew away the back of his head.

Adrien’s wound had not been as bad as it could have been. The ball lodged in his chest, but was deflected by one of his ribs. They had brought him, by horseback, back to London where Dr. Townsend had removed the ball.

The doctor had left several hours ago. But this didn’t seem to stop the commotion. At four in the morning, the house was still filled with people coming and going. Friends trying to help. And, of course, all the official delegations.

Christina herself had spent the better part of the last hours telling her story to two chief constables; one from Hampshire, one from London. Sam, all the men—for they had gathered together most of the old group to rescue Adrien—had been questioned as well. There was going to be quite a stink, a huge investigation; since the criminal in question was a king’s minister.

Claybourne was in custody; he had lost his career and his freedom this past night. He and Gregory were receiving medical attention courtesy of the London Public Police. Sam had left with the coroner to bring
back Thomas’s body. There would be letters to write, his family to reach. But, all and all, things were getting straightened out. Everything except Adrien, Christina thought. She had yet to have more than a few minutes with him alone.

Christina was worried about him. They had brought him home, but he had been so quiet. So unlike himself. So strangely dulled by the drug. It was time to remove everyone but the most necessary officials out of her house.

The nursemaid came down to tell her someone else was disturbed by the all-night noise: Christina had just fed Xavier an hour ago, but he was up again, inconsolable. She sighed. She would have to delay putting an end to the chaos in her house.

Then on the stairs, she ran into Adrien’s grandfather. “Philippe,” she said, “Xavier is crying again. The nursemaid can’t do anything with him. Do you suppose—?”

His eyes lit. “
Pas de problème.
I go
immédiatement.
” He turned with almost a bounce to his old man’s gait.

Christina had forgotten how much he liked to feel useful. And he loved Xavier; he was good with him. She reminded herself she must let him help more often with his great-grandson.

This left her free to attend to her busy house. There was a conclave of men upstairs. Mostly friends. She would start with them. Christina headed for the upstairs reception salon, thinking to begin turning people out.

Then she noticed the door to the earl’s apartments was ajar. She hesitated a moment, though why, she didn’t know. These were her rooms, too. All her things were in there. Her whole life. She pushed open the door. No one in the sitting room. At the bedchamber, she paused again. Still a little daunted, she knocked.

“Come in.”

The voice sounded strong; the same gentle, deep
sound that had, from the beginning, so entranced her. She went in.

At first she didn’t see him. There were only two bedside candles for light. He wasn’t in the bed.

“Adrien?”

He moved. A slight stirring of an elaborate, loose robe in the corner of the room; she had never seen it before, except hanging in his wardrobe. He had folded it around him. He was sitting in a large wing-back chair in the darkest corner of the room. She couldn’t even see his face.

“Let me get a light,” she said. She started out to fetch a lantern—

“No, don’t.”

She paused.

“Would you mind just pulling a chair over here?” As further explanation, he sighed, “It’s the drug, Christina. As it wears on, the light hurts. My eyes dilate.”

She brought a chair and sat opposite him, frowning, searching for hints of the old Adrien. They were there in disjointed bits. The slouch. One long leg stretched out. The voice.

“I want to see our son.”

A day later, Christina brought Adrien’s afternoon tea tray up to a much brighter, more cheerful room. The curtains were open, the canopy drapes of the bed turned back. Adrien was sitting up in bed with a writing table in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Christina asked. “You need to move that so I can set this down.”

He smiled up at her. “Someone,” he said, “has been over my books—very ably, I might add. You?”

“Of course.”

He took the table—it held one of his ledgers—and the tray and pushed them aside. He took Christina’s hand and pulled her down on the bed.

“This is nice,” he said. He was looking, smiling at her hand. At the ring she wore there.

“Oh, Adrien. It came at the worst time. The day of the funeral—” She paused. “It’s the diamond from the stickpin, isn’t it?” He nodded. “Thank you. It made me feel you were alive, every time I looked at it”—she laughed—“though everyone else thought I was crazy—”

“You are crazy.” He drew her to him, against his chest. “Thank God.” He didn’t speak for some moments, then he dove in. “The king would like to know,” he said, “if I would fill Claybourne’s post. The men who came this morning—they were envoys: To see, if he asked, would I accept.” He laughed softly. “One is given the opportunity to avoid rebuffing the king.”

“Would you?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s all too soon.” He paused. “I have a seat in the House of Lords, as well. Some members of Parliament were up at noon encouraging me to fill it. They want me to argue human rights on the floor of Parliament; they claim I will have more influence, by the end of the week, than the prime minister himself.”

“They shouldn’t have bothered you—”

“It’s all right. It’s better than being up here alone. Thinking of Thomas.”

She looked at the buttons of his nightshirt, began playing with them. “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she said. He stopped her hand with his. She touched his fingers. “How did this happen?” Two fingers had been bandaged. They were an awful blue-black by the time they had gotten home.

“Someone danced on them a little.”

“I hate when you do that.”

“What?”

“Be flip. I was serious. Was it Claybourne?”

“Of course.” Then, out of the blue, he asked, “Did he hurt you?”

“Who?”

“Thomas.” She was going to deny it, but he added, “Sam told me. He thought I should know.”

“He didn’t really do anything—” she offered.

“What he did was enough.” He touched her face, brought it up to look at him.

The sweet warmth, the starchy smell of his clean nightshirt coupled with his touch, the look in his eyes; all so familiar. They sent a shot through her. A longing. For more touching, more tenderness…

“But he didn’t hurt you?” Adrien asked. “You’re all right?”

“I am now,” she murmured.

After a time, he asked, “So what do you think? The king needs an answer. He can’t go the week with a war in France and no foreign minister.”

“I don’t think it would be good for you.” Christina paused at hearing the frankness of her own remark. Then she continued, speaking against his chest. “I don’t think your heart wants to make war on France.”

He laughed. “And the floor of the Parliament?”

“It sounds opportunistic and crass and politic. And, yes, I think you would love it. You would be a great success at it.”

He made a satisfied sound. “Exactly what I was thinking. Except for one problem.” She waited. “Could you live in London? Much of the year, at least?” His voice went lower, more tentative. “You weren’t thinking of rescuing me only to turn around and leave, like you so meanly promised?”

“No,” she whispered. “I wasn’t.”

His arms gave her an overall, general hug. He made a deep, slightly wicked laugh. “Good. Then I won’t be having to waste all my time trying to find you and bring you back—”

“I thought the promise was, you wouldn’t do that in any event.”

“I’m a liar. So I’ve been told.”

She gave him a little shove. “Well, don’t lie to me, Adrien Hunt. I have no sympathy—”

He groaned, reached for his sore chest. “Hitting an injured man,” he moaned.

Christina frowned down at him. “Adrien—” She bit her lip. Then she caught a glimpse of his cast-down expression. The angular, perfect, slightly wicked-looking grin.

She hit him more earnestly. “Oh, you’re not hurt.”

“I am, I am,” he insisted as he pulled her onto him. “I’m so injured. And there’s only one cure,” he said. He kissed her, rolling onto his good side. “Only one cure,” he repeated.