Lord of Ice (20 page)

“My brother was great friends with the victim,” Lucien said quietly, gesturing toward Damien.

The young man turned to him. “I am so sorry, sir, but I can assure you, my brother could not have done it. John Michael may not be the most spotless of God’s flock, but he was under my roof, at my table, on the night in question, and I will stake my good name on it.”

“God damn it!” Damien exploded, out of patience.

“Sir!” the minister exclaimed.

“Let me at him, guard! I’ll show you justice!”

“Stay away from me!”

“Damien!” Lucien wrenched him back from the bars as he lunged his arm through them at the prisoner. “Calm yourself! He didn’t do it!” Lucien pushed him back from the cell, his face flushed with anger. “Calm down. We have the wrong man. You know as well as I do they’re telling the truth.”

Damien yanked his arm free of his brother’s hold, pivoted, and marched out with a cold look.

“Where are you going?” Lucien called after him as he stormed off down the corridor.

“Home,” he said with a rude flick of his hand, not looking back.

Lucien paused. Damien could feel his brother’s impatience with him.

“Don’t you want to take the carriage with us?”

“I’ll walk,” he growled.

He pushed open the door and stalked out into the night, his pulse pounding with frustration and disgust. He raked his hand slowly through his hair.

Outside, the night was as cold and black as the devil’s laughter. The street was quiet, with only an occasional carriage rumbling past. Damien turned up the collar of his greatcoat and started walking in the hopes that it would take the edge off his churning anger and impatience. He felt helpless over Jason’s death and he hated it. He strode through the darkness of the street while, above him, lights glowed in the upper-story windows of the flat-fronted buildings.

He heard amiable voices and smelled the pungent aroma of coffee as he passed a busy coffeehouse across the street. When he came to the intersection, the night breeze stirred his hair and rippled through his coat. The misting cloud of his breath caught the light of the lone street lamp on the corner. He looked left and saw Drury Lane Theater a short distance away. A play must have been in progress, for the street was lined with waiting carriages.
I should take Miranda there,
he thought, then walked the other direction.

Just down Russell Street lay Covent Garden. The seedy markets in the center of the square were dark and quiet, but in the somber shadow of St. Paul’s Church, the gaming hells were doing a brisk business. Intoxicated young rakes yelled boisterously to each other, coming and going, but as Damien sauntered into the square, everywhere he looked he saw prostitutes. Most of them had their rooms in the tall, terraced houses that flanked the square.

The assortment of whores was dizzying, from appallingly young neophytes to seasoned veterans of the trade. There were blonds and brunettes; short women and tall; thin, round, and every type inbetween; painted and shameless, like so many garish flowers in a poison garden. He walked past them slowly, aggressively eyeing each one, for he was certain that he could take no more of this cursed abstinence. He was only a man. It was the best thing for him, the only thing that had ever worked for easing what ailed him.

He stopped in front of a voluptuous redhead, chosen almost by random. He just stared at her, keeping a taut check on his desperation. He waited for her to take control, to make his terrible, unceasing loneliness go away.

“You look like you could do with a friend,” she murmured, shoving away from the wall where she had been leaning. “Do you want to come with me?”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“This way.” She took his hand.

He let her lead him through the darkness toward the door under the vaulted, Italian-style arcades. He hesitated at the threshold, he knew not why, but she turned to him, passing a glance over his face.

“You’re a handsome one, aren’t you? But why so sad?” She reached up and touched his cheek, and his whole being revolted at the prospect of making love to her.

He looked away, lowering his lashes; then he reached into his pocket and gave her a few guineas. “I’m sorry. I—I’ve changed my mind.”

“Don’t I please you?” she asked, accepting the coins.

“No, you’re very pretty. Just take it.”

“Come upstairs, then, love. Why don’t you give me a chance? I can give you pleasure—”

But he was already walking away, his jaw clenched tightly at the dire realization that the only woman he wanted to touch him was Miranda. He strode through the city for an hour, trying to master his yearning for her. At last, he seemed to have walked off his confusion and achieved a cool equilibrium. When at last he climbed the front steps of Knight House, his heart leaped within him to wonder if she was still in the drawing room.

The night butler greeted him; Mr. Walsh had gone to bed. The house was mostly dark and very still. Damien shed his greatcoat, took a candle from the servant, and climbed the stairs, trying to pretend to himself that he was not disappointed to have missed out on bidding her good night. At the top of the stairs on the third floor, he headed to his boyhood rooms, then suddenly stopped. He turned by degrees, looking over his shoulder.

Drawn irresistibly, he silenced his footfalls as he prowled down the darkened hallway. He had noted earlier which room they had given her. Now he saw a faint light glimmering under her door.

His heart pounded wildly in the hush of the sleeping household as he reached for the doorknob, but his hand stopped before he reached it. He mustn’t scare her. He knocked softly, thrice, upon her door.

No answer.

This took him aback. At once, his mind flew back to the last time he had knocked on her bedroom door—at the coaching inn, where she had tried to escape him. Surely she wouldn’t have tried that trick again? Without thinking twice, he turned the doorknob and opened her door. “Miranda?”

His voice dropped to a whisper on the second syllable of her name.

She was fast asleep, with the candle burned down to a stub on the nightstand and an etiquette book lying, dog-eared, across her chest. The sight of her made his heart clench. He stepped into the room and closed the door silently behind him.

Wake up.
His heartbeat pounded in the arteries in his throat as he stalked over to her. He stood beside her bed staring down at her, dazzled. She was clad in a white muslin night rail with a bit of lace around the neckline and the wrists. From the waist down, she was swathed in the scarlet, gold-embroidered blanket, but where her shift pulled tight across her breast, he could see the dusty-rose outline of her nipple. He wanted to kiss it and to nuzzle the soft blue vein of her wrist where her hand lay sweetly posed by her cheek.

Her rich, sable hair spilled luxuriously across her pillow, glistening by the candlelight. Her long, black lashes lay like the most delicate fans against her creamy, rose-tinged cheeks. Her ruby lips were parted slightly, her bosom rising, falling so peacefully. He wanted to lay his head there. He slowly lowered himself to his knees beside her, willing her to wake up.
I’m weak tonight, Miranda. Please.
His resistance was razor-thin, the hunger and loneliness pressing hard upon him. He knew that if she awoke and found him here, she would take him into her arms. They would lie together and kiss until they were on fire, and they would make love.

She slept on.

He did not touch her, yet merely being near her seemed to ease the pain. The demons inside of him quieted with the lulling rhythm of her breathing, and after a while, he was himself again. He gazed at her for one moment more, then blew out the candle and left.

“They have arrived, my lord, just as you said,” Egann reported as Algernon walked into his dimly lit, oak-paneled office. “What would you have me do now?”

Algernon had just come home from dutifully taking his wife and insipid daughters to see the quite enjoyable play at Drury Lane. Egann had been waiting anxiously to tell him the news. The viscount sat down at his desk and stroked his chin in thought.

What an excellent evening he was having. Everything was taking shape precisely as he had hoped. To his relief, none of his cronies at the club—indeed, not even his wife—yet suspected that he was on the brink of financial ruin. He had been able to fool them all, but the pressure he was under was tremendous, and now, at last, his niece’s fortune was in arm’s reach. He knew that Knight House—with its fences, gates, and watch dogs—was formidably well secured, but she could not stay in there forever; likewise, her guardian was a man of iron, but the war hero could not spend every waking moment with the girl. That would hardly be proper.

“Go back to Knight House and wait,” he ordered coolly. “We must keep watch to discover our opportunity.” He paused. “Can you do this, Egann? Those four men I sent to Birmingham failed me, but if you doubt yourself, I’ll hire someone else.”

“Count on me, master.”

“It will require ruthlessness.”

Egann smiled slyly. “I can be ruthless, as Your Lordship well knows.”

Algernon smiled. Such loyalty—and it cost him so little. “Now, then, to the task at hand.” He sat forward and interlocked his fingers, resting his elbows on the desk. “I want to know every move the girl makes, whither she goes, and when. Everything hangs upon the chance of finding her without her guardian by her side. Then we must strike without hesitation—and it must look like an accident, Egann. Do you understand?”

Egann gave a malevolent nod.

Algernon read the resolve in his servant’s zealous stare and nodded. “Go.”

Egann bowed and limped out of the study. Algernon watched him leave, his eyes narrowed with confident satisfaction.

Soon he would have fifty thousand pounds to dispose of as he saw fit and life would go back to normal, he assured himself. For the moment, it tickled his sense of irony to think that a weak and humble creature like Egann would thwart the mighty Lord Winterley. A cold smile curved his mouth.

Soon.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

First thing the next morning, the duchess’s hairdresser, a haughty little Frenchman, arrived at Knight House with all the splendor of a visiting dignitary. With the passion of an artist, he cut two inches off of Miranda’s long locks, trimmed her hair around her face, then swept the mass of it up into a topknot and curled the wispy hairs framing her face into fantastical ringlets. All the while, the duchess’s lady’s maid filed and buffed her nails into neat ovals, then used a collection of fine-scented creams to smooth away her calluses from scrubbing Yardley’s floors and cooking pots.

This done, the duchess and Lady Lucien took Miranda to Bond Street, with young Lady Jacinda and the agreeable Miss Carlisle in tow. In the well-appointed shops, the women set about equipping her from head to foot at the milliner's, the corsetier's, the hosier's, the glover's, the linen draper's, and the cobbler’s shops, in turn. Miranda did not at all mind being measured, poked, and prodded, basking in the attention, for when the duchess of Hawkscliffe sailed into a shop with her entourage, the place practically closed to all other customers. The staff waited on them hand and foot.

With cool expertise, they ordered up a dozen informal gowns on her behalf: morning gowns, walking gowns, afternoon and visiting gowns; a smart Skeffington-brown riding habit; a few half-dress promenade gowns, dinner gowns, and opera gowns in richer, jewel-toned fabrics. Then came the accessories. Guiding her in her choices, her two benefactresses ordered several varieties and colors of kid gloves, shoes, dainty silk pumps and delicate dancing slippers, boots, a pair of pattens for inclement weather; a beautiful pelisse trimmed with ermine to replace her rough, woolen cloak; hats and bonnets of all shapes and sizes; a generous supply of fine linen underthings and white silk stockings. But the most fun part of her shopping excursion was ordering the ball gowns. The duchess decreed that Miranda would need at least two or three formal evening dresses. With their rich satins and velvets, the two ball gowns cost as much as everything else put together.

For her pride’s sake, Miranda desperately hoped that her Uncle Jason had left her a sum of money that was paying for her new wardrobe, but she could not bring herself to ask. She was slowly learning the rules of her new world, and it seemed that money was yet another one of those
verboten
topics that a lady of quality did not discuss. Heaven knew the duchess and Lady Lucien acted as though her fortune in new clothes all came for free.

Lady Jacinda managed to cajole the duchess into letting her order a new gown, too, so while she was being measured, Miranda asked permission to go down the street to the umbrella shop they had passed earlier. She had seen a pretty pink parasol in the display window that she wanted to buy and to send back to Yardley as a Christmas gift for Amy. After all, Damien had allotted her three guineas a week in pin money to spend however she chose. Sheer decadence, she thought happily. The duchess gave her leave to go, and Miss Carlisle, who insisted that Miranda call her Lizzie, offered to accompany her. The footman in the dark blue Hawkscliffe livery attended them for their convenience and protection. The girls slipped out, leaving the shop abuzz with the seamstresses and both elegant young wives fussing over the golden-haired, apple-cheeked Lady Jacinda.

Miranda liked the bookish, modest, ever-cheerful Lizzie Carlisle very much. Though they were opposites in temperament, they had several things in common: their lower rank amid the highborn Knight clan; their age; and the fact that they both were wards of the Knight family.

Lizzie’s father had been the duke’s estate manager, as had his father before him for several generations. When her father had died fifteen years ago, Lizzie had been taken into her guardian’s family. She became the designated playmate and lady’s companion to Lady Jacinda when they were both mere children in the nursery.

Since Miranda’s arrival in London, Lizzie had quickly become her friend, ally, and sometime guide in the strange world of London aristocrats. When it was only the two of them, she felt like she could relax a bit, for she had been trying so hard to be on her best behavior.

They chatted idly as they browsed along Bond Street, the footman following at a respectful distance a couple of paces behind them. Miranda was enjoying herself immensely, but every now and then, she got the strange, prickling feeling along the back of her neck that someone was watching her.

She glanced casually over her shoulder. The street was busy with rich people buying Christmas presents, but nothing out of ordinary struck her. Wintry, late-morning sunshine glinted off the neat shop windows while phaetons, curricles, and other fashionable equipages dashed up and down the narrow street. Clusters of rakehelly young gentlemen, whom Lizzie termed “Bond Street Loungers,” loitered here and there, laughing, smoking, and rudely quizzing the girls through their monocles as they passed. They laughed at the footman’s rebukes and smiled at Lizzie’s cold, scowling glances.

Miranda merely looked at them in curiosity as she walked on. Were these the sort of silly, obnoxious creatures that Damien expected her to accept as suitors? she wondered. The thought of her fierce guardian made her sigh.

She had not seen him much since they had arrived in London. He was doing a superb job of keeping a distance between them. She was lucky to get a glimpse of him at meals, but then, there were always other people present—and that was no doubt his intention. He would not give her a chance to try to talk to him about what had happened between them. Almost forty-eight hours had passed since he had accidentally pounced on her out of a dead sleep, and still, he was ignoring her.

Well, not literally, she admitted, but he barely made eye contact. He would not come within four feet of her; spoke to her only when it could not be avoided, and then, with cool, aloof courtesy that was enough to drive her mad. She felt so helpless, and she missed him terribly. She was worried sick about him. It was obvious that something was very wrong with this man who had done so much for her. He had saved her life, her friends. He had turned her life around. Somehow she had to help him, as he had helped her; but first, she would have to find a way to break down the invisible wall he had raised around him for the express purpose, it seemed, of shutting her out. She found herself walking on eggshells around him, though, for fear of doing anything wrong and driving him away all over again.

Coming to the quaint umbrella shop, she and Lizzie stepped inside and Miranda purchased the dainty parasol for Amy. “She’s going to love it. I wish I could be there to see her face when she opens it,” she exclaimed, smiling at Lizzie as they went back outside.

“Do you mind if I pop into the bookshop?” the latter asked, glancing longingly into the bookseller’s domain. The dim, narrow shop was lined with shelves crammed with countless tomes.

“Not at all.” On the pavement before them, a rack of books and a folding stand of various color prints for sale were positioned just outside the shop to entice customers inside. Miranda nodded to it. I think I’ll look through these prints and see if I can find one to give to Lord Winterley for Christmas. He’s been so kind to me.”

“Very well. I won’t be long.” Lizzie gave her a nod and went into the shop.

Their footman positioned himself near the doorway, keeping a watchful eye on both of his charges. Miranda’s reticule dangled from her wrist while she looked through the prints for a picture that Damien might like, perhaps one of a horse. Standing near the edge of the pavement, leafing idly through the paintings and aquatints, she was so engrossed in her musings about Damien and so lulled by the clattering noise of the traffic on the street that she took no note of the heavy rumbling of a large black coach barreling down the street straight toward her.

“Miss FitzHubert, beg your pardon, perhaps you’d best step back from the street—” the footman started.

She glanced up absently. He took a step toward her, his face going white as the tall coach swerved at her, taking her completely off guard.

“Watch out!” a passerby yelled.

She caught only a second's, horrified glimpse at the ugly, little, wizened driver whipping his horses as though he were deliberately trying to run her down. A chorus of male voices yelled from across the street. Miranda leaped out of the way, crashing into the footman as the carriage bumped up on two wheels onto the pavement and sent the aquatints and the books on the rack scattering.

The side of the carriage grazed her by a hair’s breadth; aghast, she felt the breeze from the heavy, spoked wheels that churned like grindstones. The coach shuddered on its springs as it crashed back down onto all four wheels and raced on, vanishing beyond the crook in the road.

Miranda was shaken and ashen faced as several young gentlemen came rushing over to her from all directions.

“Mademoiselle, are you hurt?”

“Do you require assistance?”

To her relief, Lizzie came rushing out of the shop. “Miranda! What happened?” she cried, embracing her.

“A deuced coach almost ran this poor, lovely creature down,” one of the raffish young gentlemen declared indignantly.

“Are you all right?” Lizzie asked, anxiously searching her face.

“I think so,” Miranda said, but she swallowed hard to realize how easily she could have been crushed beneath the horses’ hooves or dragged under the heavy wheels.

“Did anybody see that blasted jehu’s face?” a hefty young man demanded, while still another took it upon himself to upbraid the poor footman, as though it were his fault.

“Nary a glimpse of him,” a lanky blond fellow answered. “Obviously, the lout lost control of his team. Unless, of course, Miss, someone’s deliberately trying to kill you?” he suggested in a joking tone, trying to coax a smile from her, but Miranda blanched, her ordeal on Bordesley Green flooding back into her memory.

“I—I do not think so,” she said weakly.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Don’t scare her worse, if you please,” Lizzie scolded with the managing air of a born governess. “You all may run along, thank you. My friend will be all right.”

The Bond Street Loungers withdrew with reluctant well-wishes. Miranda nodded her thanks, feeling like a foolish country bumpkin to find herself at the center of such a silly mishap. Still . . .

She turned anxiously to Lizzie, lowering her voice. “Do you think that little man really might have been trying to run me down?”

“Oh, don’t listen to those idiotic boys, my dear. That is pure foolishness,” Lizzie chided, patting her shoulder. “Everybody drives like a lunatic in London. You’re just not used to it yet. Shall we go back to the mantua-maker’s and see if Their Ladyships are ready to go home? I daresay we could both do with a spot of tea.”

She nodded. “Don’t tell Lord Winterley about this, please?” She glanced anxiously from Lizzie to the ashen-faced footman. More than the mere embarrassment of her blunder, she did not want to upset Damienor make him angry about anything in his precarious condition.

“I think we should, but if you don’t want us to, I won’t,” Lizzie said reluctantly.

“Nor I, Miss,” their manservant added, looking relieved.

When she realized that Damien would probably blame the poor footman for the incident, as the young gentleman had, she was glad to save the fellow from her guardian’s terrifying wrath.

Then Lizzie retrieved Amy’s parasol, which had flown out of Miranda’s grasp. The crepe paper was torn, but the parasol itself was undamaged, to her relief. Lizzie helped the bookseller pick up his bruised tomes before they set out. The man whined bitterly over torn pages and ink blurred by contact with wet snow, though he scarcely seemed concerned that a woman had nearly been squashed to death by a runaway carriage outside his establishment.

Still shaken, Miranda walked with Lizzie back to the dressmaker’s shop, where the duchess and Lady Lucien were giving the head seamstress a few final instructions. Miranda sat well out of harm’s way and waited in silence as the footman went for the carriage, but she was haunted by the boy’s absurd jest in spite of herself. She rubbed her arms against the day’s chill.
I do wish Damien were here.

The next night, they eased Miranda gently into her first experience of life amid the ton with an evening at Drury Lane Theater. In light of her secret career at the Pavilion, Damien watched his ward in knowing amusement. Miranda sat, enthralled, between Alice and Bel, her dutiful chaperons. Robert and Lucien had come out to see the Christmas pageant, as well. Robert was standing in the back of their box, chatting in a low tone with the constant stream of his fashionable Whig friends who stopped by, making the social rounds; Lucien, meanwhile, held an opera glass to his eye, boredly inspecting the audience rather than the dancers dressed as snowflakes on the stage.

Damien could not blame him. The pageant—with its spectacles, songs, and pantomimes—really was a very silly affair, which was why he found it much more entertaining to watch Miranda instead. He set aside his frustration with the fact that the police had still not caught Jason’s killer. “Rooster” had been released into his brother the minister’s custody. So they had caught the wrong man, he mused, but they would catch the right one eventually. He had to believe that. Then he put these dark thoughts out of his mind and turned his attention back to Miranda.