Lady Midnight (43 page)

There was no one. The chamber was silent and deserted except for the doctor and Elizabeth Hollingsworth. And the easel she had glimpsed in the drawing room, the one draped and concealed. It was set up by the fireplace.

"Sh, now," Elizabeth said soothingly. "He's not here, my dear. Rest easy."

"You must lie back down, young lady, until the dizziness is gone," said Dr. Fielding. "You wouldn't want to faint again, would you?"

Kate slowly slid back down against the pillows, closing her eyes. Yes—it was best to stay here for as long as she could. Who knew what Julian was telling the gathered assembly about her, what turmoil awaited her outside this room? She needed to think, to plan, to be prepared. Yet she felt so tired. Exhaustion and shock seemed to weigh her limbs down with lead bars. She opened her eyes and stared again at the cupids. Now they seemed to be laughing at her.

"I will go and send for some tea," the doctor said, gathering his leather bag and standing up. "Some sustenance will do her good. Then we will see about the bleeding."

"Thank you, Dr. Fielding," Elizabeth answered.

When the man was gone, she slid off the foot of the bed and came around to spread a soft cashmere blanket over Kate's legs. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Brown?"

"A bit better, thank you, Lady Hollingsworth," Kate murmured.

"Good. For I fear you are going to need all your strength." Elizabeth took the doctor's abandoned chair, leaning her elbows on the side of the mattress. "You
are
Katerina Bruni, aren't you?"

It was no use denying it now. It was even something of a relief to say it. "Yes. I am."

Elizabeth nodded. "What an extraordinary journey you must have been on! To be so daring as to run away, to make a new life for yourself. It is just like a novel."

A wild, fluttering hope was born in Kate's heart. She turned quickly toward Elizabeth, reaching for her hand. "If Julian is alive, could my mother—"

Elizabeth shook her head sadly. "I fear your mother's body was found, as was the Duke of Salton's. She was buried on Isola di San Michele. It was a grand funeral, Katerina. All the gondolas in Venice came out to see her off."

Kate nodded, and subsided back down into the pillows. "Of course. Where is everyone now? Michael, Christina, and—Julian."

"You needn't fear that he will come bursting in here with his passionate declarations. Nick is keeping an eye on him until he leaves the house. Lady Darcy took Lady Christina away, in rather high dudgeon, I fear. Something about rescuing her from 'the men in this family.' And Michael is waiting outside. He can come in and see you when you're feeling stronger—if you want him to."

Kate nodded in silence. She would have to see Michael soon. She longed to feel his arms around her, hear his brandy-dark voice telling her she had nothing to fear. Yet this was one mess, one scandal, even he could not erase.

Elizabeth leaned closer and said quietly, "Does he know of your old life?"

"Yes, thankfully. I told him on our journey to London." Kate thought of that little voice that had told her to
tell him
in the dark innyard, and she blessed it now. "I couldn't keep the secret any longer from him, not when—well, when he had been so kind to me."

"And when you love him."

Ah.
Obviously nothing could be hidden from Elizabeth's observant artist's eye. "Yes. I fear we did not anticipate such a scandal, though. I suppose I naively thought the past was gone, and everything would somehow work out just as I wanted."

Kate closed her eyes. "Yes. A fine new life."

"I am sorry, Katerina. I had no idea about Julian Kirkwood and yourself! Everyone knew that he was on that yacht with you, but not of his feelings for you. Or even that you were alive, of course. He himself only arrived back in Town a few weeks ago, and his sister had some fantastical tale to tell about his recovery in a convent."

"Hm. I'm sure a scandal can't be avoided now. Even at this moment speculation on who you really are and what you are to Julian Kirkwood and Michael Lindley will be running rife through the London streets. Gossip cannot be avoided. But it is not so bad as all that. Michael was a very naughty man indeed in his youth. He and his friends, which included my husband, were absolutely wild. Having a very daring bride cannot do him much harm, I'm sure, despite the fact that he's such a pattern card of respectability now."

"What about his family?" Kate said. "Christina and Amelia, his mother?
They
don't deserve a scandal. Christina will be making her debut soon."

Even Elizabeth did not have an answer for that. Her gaze shifted away, and they sat in silence for a long moment. Finally, Elizabeth stood up and said, "I have a surprise for you. Perhaps it will cheer you up a bit!"

Kate stirred, sitting up against the pillows and giving Elizabeth a small smile. "A surprise for me?"

"Yes. I was going to unveil it at the salon, as the centerpiece of my work, but I think you should have it instead." She went to the veiled painting on the easel, and drew back the cloth with a flourish.

Kate's mother smiled down at her.

It was the portrait that had hung in the palazzo's drawing room in Venice, always smiling down at every gathering and intimate tete-a-tete. None of its beauty was dimmed by time or distance. Lucrezia's eyes still glowed with a violet fire; her smile still whispered of delightful secrets. The blue-and-purple satin draped around her ivory shoulders, the ropes of sapphires and amethysts, shimmered and sang. Kate's mother was alive again, and always would be as long as this painting existed.

"It is—beautiful," Kate whispered inadequately.

"I think it is my finest work," Elizabeth answered. "Perhaps one day I could paint a portrait of you, to be its mate?"

Kate nodded silently. But she knew that maybe that wouldn't be possible. Perhaps she wouldn't have time to sit for a portrait, when she was looking for work or on a ship back to Italy.

"I have this, too," Elizabeth said. She picked up an object from a nearby table and came to deposit it in Kate's lap. "There was a sale of the contents of your mother's house. I bought this along with the portrait."

Kate picked it up, turning it over in her hands. The wood was smooth and cool under her touch. "The Chinese puzzle box."

"Yes."

Kate pressed at the hidden latch, and the little drawer slid open. It was empty, of course—the little parchment scroll was gone. She remembered how she had likened the Lindley family to this box, full of mystery and shadow.

"You know how to open it!" Elizabeth exclaimed.

"My daughters have spent hours on the silly thing, and never figured it out. But it
has
kept them occupied and out of mischief."

"They must keep it, then," Kate said, handing the box back to Elizabeth.

"Are you certain? By rights it belongs to you."

"No, it is yours now. But I will gladly accept the portrait."

Elizabeth nodded and folded the box in her arms, its secrets once again closed and hidden. "Would you like to see Michael now? If you feel strong enough."

Kate glanced toward the window. It was nearly dawn; she could see the hints of grayish pink light peeking around the edges of the curtains. "Yes. I think what I would really like is for him to take me home."

Wherever,
whatever,
home was.

* * *

The carriage ride back through the streets of London was quiet. The city was almost deserted in the hazy light of predawn; only street sweepers, ragpickers, and coalmen were abroad, along with a few carriages of other latecomers to bed. Even serving maids were probably just emerging from their humble quarters to sweep the hearths.

Kate was tired, deeply tired, yet her nerves and veins hummed with tension. With awareness of the man who sat across from her in the carriage. Michael had seemed happy to see her when she emerged from Elizabeth's chamber, had folded her in his arms and pressed a soft kiss to her brow. He was all solicitude when he helped her into the carriage, tucking lap robes around her and making sure she was comfortable. But he did not say very much, beyond inquiries into her health. And for the moment, that suited Kate. She feared she could not form any coherent conversation at all. Indeed, if she tried to speak, she might burst into embarrassing tears. So she leaned against the window, watching the city stir to life outside.

The silence was broken as the carriage neared their own street.

Michael shifted on his seat and said quietly, "Sir Julian Kirkwood is the man you told me about? The one who tried to buy you?"

"Yes," Kate answered, equally quiet. "I thought he was dead. I never would have dreamed he would appear again like that, or I would not have come to London! Never gone out in public."

"It doesn't matter," Michael answered as softly and casually as if he discussed the weather. "You won't encounter him again, Kate, because I'm going to kill him. Nick will serve as my second, I'm sure." His tone was ironhard, implacable.

"No!" Kate cried. The most appalling image flashed through her mind, of Michael facing Julian across a dew-speckled field, pistols at the ready, blood set to flow. Amelia could be left without a father, and all because of
her,
Kate. Because of her selfishness.

She loved Michael with all her heart, with everything she was. She loved Amelia and Christina as if they were her own daughters. Somehow, some way, she would make sure nothing happened to them.

"No," she repeated. "You must not challenge Julian to a duel. He killed a man once in Venice."

"I'm not scared of him, Kate."

No—but I am,
Kate thought. "I know, but it would kill me if something happened to you because of my own troubles. What Julian did to me, or wanted to do, was a very long time ago. He can do nothing now."

"Kate, he insulted you!"

"I don't care about that any longer! I only care about
you,
about Christina and Amelia. They need you, just as I do." Kate shifted to sit beside him, taking his hands in her tight clasp. She had forgotten her gloves, and her hands were freezing cold, but his were warm. She wanted to curl into that warmth, to never leave it.

Her head dropped onto his shoulder, and his arms came around her, holding her close. "Please," she whispered. "Don't fight him, Michael. He can't hurt us now." Because she would not let him.

"If he leaves us alone," Michael murmured against her hair, his tone grudging and reluctant. "Then we shall see."

Kate knew she would have to be content with that—for now. The carriage drew up outside the Prices' town house, and Michael helped her down, carefully holding on to her arm as he led her into the foyer.

All of London was
not
still asleep, after all. Michael's mother stood waiting for them on the stairs, still clad in her nightcap and dressing gown. She had never looked on Kate with affection or liking. Of late, though, Kate had fancied there might be acceptance, at least, in Lady Darcy's demeanor. Now there was none of that. There was only icy disdain.

Lady Darcy held out a crumpled letter. "What is the meaning of this missive I received from Mary, Michael? She says she is keeping Christina at Lindley House because..." She peered down at the paper. "Because there are corrupting influences here, in the guise of a seemingly respectable governess who is, in truth, a light-skirts. There is also some garbled nonsense about Charles, and her father and Italy. I cannot make it out." She raised her frozen gaze back to her son. "What happened tonight, Michael? I demand to know the truth."

Michael's clasp tightened on Kate's arm, drawing her even closer to his side. "Mother, it is very late, and we are all tired. Can we speak of this later, at breakfast? It is all a misunderstanding, one I'm sure will be cleared up in a trice. I will fetch Christina home later, and try to talk some sense into Mary. Women who are in the family way are sometimes quite emotional, you know."

Lady Darcy crumpled the note in her fist. "No, Michael! I want to know
now."

Kate covered Michael's hand with her own. "It is quite all right, Michael," she whispered. "You speak with your mother. I'll just go up to my room."

"Yes, yes," Lady Darcy muttered. "Go to your room and pack."

Michael ignored her. His glance flickered searchingly over Kate's face, and she tried to give him a reassuring smile. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes. I just want to lie down for a while."

"Very well." He looked back to his mother, his shoulders stiffening. "Mother, if you will come with me into the drawing room, we can discuss the matter."

Lady Darcy gave a disdainful sniff. "Well, if
she
says it is all right..." She twitched the hem of her dressing gown aside as Kate passed her on the stairs.

Kate held her head high and kept her face coolly expressionless as she marched to her chamber. She would not give Lady Darcy, or anyone, the satisfaction of seeing her wounded, weary heart. Only now, when it was gone, did she see how much she had truly longed for respectability, for a normal life of family and friends. For people to look at her with respect for who she was, not speculation as to what her price might be.

But what she wanted more than respectability, more even than the sweet passion she found in Michael's arms—what she wanted more than anything in all the world was Michael's happiness. His, and Christina's, and Amelia's. He had worked so hard to overcome his own past, to build a new life for his family in Yorkshire. And now she had destroyed it in only one night.