My Beautiful Enemy (30 page)

Catherine gripped the paper, nearly tearing it, as she read the words again and again.

For a while, but then I ran away to find a friend
, her Persian had told her once, as if he had simply ridden from one town to the next.

And what had Master Gordon said, on the last day of his life?
I cannot believe it. It is a journey of more than ten thousand miles. I cannot believe he came all this way to see me.

How excited Master Gordon had been, at the prospect of meeting his young friend from England, how stunned and happy. He had wanted to introduce her to this boy who had traveled halfway across the world. But he had died too soon and she would not meet the boy until years later, at the edge of the Takla Makan.

Some things are not meant to be
, Leighton Atwood had said the night before.

But if they were not meant to be, then why did the forces of destiny keep bringing them together?

I
stayed near her until she went to the cloakroom,” said Madison. “Captain Atwood volunteered to guard the garden, so she could not slip out.”

There was a faint note of accusation in Madison’s voice.

“She came out to the garden and spoke to me for some time,” Leighton said calmly. “But then I noticed Miss Chase observing us from inside the house. I could not very well remain in the garden with Miss Blade and lead my fiancée to suspect that there might be something untoward between us.”

He could not be sure, however, that Annabel hadn’t seen his hand on Miss Blade’s.

“That’s when she must have left. And that’s when I came to alert you,” said Madison to Windham.

Windham braced his hands on the edge of his desk. “Well, the fortunate thing is that my men searching her flat were not interrupted.”

“That is fortunate indeed,” said Leighton. “Did you find anything interesting among her belongings?”

“Nothing at all, I’m afraid, unless one considers two pairs of metal chopsticks to be of interest.”

Leighton exhaled. So she had heeded his advice and removed items from her flat accordingly. “You said the fortunate thing was that your men weren’t interrupted in their search. Is there something unfortunate that you are about to tell us?”

“I wouldn’t call it unfortunate—interesting, perhaps. Miss Blade never came home last night.”

“You are sure?” asked Madison.

“I had men watching the building from all sides and angles, plus two stationed in the empty flat next to hers. No one saw her.”

Leighton rose from his chair—a sudden pain had zigzagged down his left thigh. He did not want it to be the seven-day agony returning, but he had no hope that it wasn’t. “Your men, did they
hear
anything?”

Windham hesitated. “There is a bead curtain in her flat. According to one of the men in the next flat, around four o’clock in the morning, he heard a sound that could have been that bead curtain in her flat moving. But when he and his partner went to check, they saw no one at all.”

“Was the curtain still moving when they got in?”

“Slightly, according to him, but he could not be sure whether it had already been swaying, or whether the draft from the opening of the door was responsible for it.”

“You think Miss Blade came back to the flat in the middle of the night, then disappeared as soon as she got in?” demanded Madison.

The pain in Leighton’s leg had turned atrocious. He gripped the handle of his walking stick and willed himself to not collapse against the wall. “Did anyone check the roof?”

The question was for Windham, who frowned. “The pitch of the roof is steep. Without mountaineering gear a man would slip off in three steps and crash to his death.”

“Not every man,” said Leighton. He turned to Madison. “And no, I do not believe it was Miss Blade the men heard. I believe it was the Centipede.”

A
fter I left Windham last night, I returned to the ball,” said Madison. “It was already past time for carriages and Mrs. Reynolds had gone to bed. But Annabel and Mrs. Chase were still up, so I spoke to them.”

He and Leighton were in the underground tunnel that led from the house that served as Windham’s office to the house several streets away that his agents used for access.

Light from the lantern in Madison’s hand swung on the brick walls of the tunnel, lighting their way ten feet at a time. “I believed—and Windham concurred—that they should be warned about the Centipede,” Madison continued. “And Miss
Blade’s possible connection to him, since she is on such friendly terms with Mrs. Reynolds.”

Leighton barely managed not to stumble at the next spike of pain. “What did they say?”

“Mrs. Chase did not say much of anything, except along the lines of ‘oh my’ and ‘goodness gracious.’ Annabel, on the other hand, refused to believe that Miss Blade could be in league with the Centipede. She said that she had seen Miss Blade’s face that day at the park, when the Centipede’s kite was sighted—and Miss Blade had looked petrified.”

Annabel would have seen that, wouldn’t she, she who had taken to observing Miss Blade minutely, whenever they were all thrown together?

“So Mrs. Reynolds, too, will know by now?” Leighton would hate for Miss Blade to lose her only friend in England.

“Annabel promised to tell her aunt.”

Only a matter of time, then.

F
rom the house at the other end of the tunnel, Leighton headed for Victoria station. Windham badly wanted to see the contents of the Centipede’s luggage. He had asked Leighton to go down the night before; using his fiancée’s ball as an excuse, Leighton had flatly refused.

But now one of Windham’s runners was already at Claymore, waiting for Leighton to hand over the Centipede’s belongings. He met the man at the village station. They drove to Starling Manor together and the runner departed with the trunk and the satchel, as well as the miscellaneous objects the luggage had ejected in anticipation of unauthorized openings.

Without bothering to change, except into a pair of boots more suitable for hiking, Leighton set out for the downs—the hours in the train had been sheer agony. Walking was also sheer agony, but one he preferred. As he left the house, a
footman had chased after him to give him the latest mail from his mother.

Without looking, Leighton had stuffed the letter into his pocket. Two hours later, when he finally allowed himself to sit down and rest, he took out the mail and realized it wasn’t a letter, but a telegram, which she rarely sent.

Leighton closed his eyes.

At long last he knew where he had first seen her: from his room at the British Legation in Peking, so drained by quinine that he hadn’t quite known whether he was asleep or awake. She had stood on the opposite side of the street below, tears falling down her face. What he had not seen at the time, but could now guess, was that she had escorted Herb’s body to the legation.

Leighton would not be informed of Herb’s passing until the next day. As a result, he had never made the connection between the weeping girl and the death of his friend. And yet years later, when she walked back into his life, some part of him had instinctively recognized her importance.

I have made a friend here, a lovely young lady of mixed blood who studies English with me and teaches me Chinese
, Herb had told him during their brief visit.
Perhaps I can
obtain permission for you to visit my patron’s residence, and you will be able to meet her.

He had envied Herb’s new friend, for having had Herb’s companionship all these years. Little had he realized how difficult her life had been, always trying to evade the unwelcome attention of her stepbrother, trapped behind walls she could not escape.

Some things are not meant to be
, he had told her less than twenty-four hours ago.

Did he still believe it, faced with this fateful connection?

Had he believed it even at the moment he’d spoken those very words?

T
he Sussex countryside was beautiful. Gentle rolling hills, green woods, fields blooming with bright yellow flowers, pastures dotted with content flocks of sheep.

A neatly trimmed hedge now ran alongside the road. After a while the carriage slowed and passed through a wrought iron gate. “Here we are,” said the driver of the hansom cab Catherine had hired at the village railway station. “Starling Manor.”

The gravel drive, lined with mature chestnut trees, meandered. The land rose and fell. They crossed two streams—or was it the same stream twice?—a small meadow, and what Catherine almost thought of as a stretch of woodland before she realized there was nothing wild about it—the trees had been carefully planted, almost equidistant, while between them ran clear paths with herbaceous borders.

They rounded a turn and came before a lake. Two black swans glided on its smooth surface. A white gazebo grazed the edge of the water. On the far shore rose the manor, a large house dominated by a three-story central section flanked on either side by an octagonal tower. Beyond the east tower, the house ended, and the land gave way to orchards and small buildings. Beyond
the west tower, the house continued, two stories, one story, at last ending in what looked to be a walled garden.

Despite its asymmetrical shape, the entire structure had been built with the same almond-colored bricks, its numerous windows evenly spaced, their trims white and the slats of their shutters a deep, calm green. The whole house sat on a raised terrace. Peacocks—peacocks!—roamed the wide front lawn.

He had come back for her. He had wanted to share all this with her. Catherine was completely unconvinced that she was suited to a life in an English manor, but it was the gesture that counted.

A butler who heroically concealed his surprise at the sight of an unaccompanied female caller told her that the master of the house was out on the downs. The downs—she had once asked Master Gordon why English made so little sense; shouldn’t an area of undulating land be called the ups, if anything?

She declined the butler’s offer to wait inside, but instead walked the grounds. Behind the house, a wide stone terrace gave way to a formal rose garden. The garden path exited under an arched gate. Beyond the gate extended an avenue of laburnums in bloom. The branches had been trained to form a leafy pergola. Long racemes of canary yellow flowers hung from the branches, like palmfuls of confetti waiting to flutter down.

It was quiet here, the quiet of breezes and an occasional birdsong. The air smelled heart-stoppingly pure, of sun-warmed stone, clean soil, and spring subtly expanding into summer.

She sensed him before she saw him. He appeared at the far end of the path and stopped. They gazed at each other. For a moment she felt precariously balanced: The forces that would hold them apart and the affinities that would draw them together in a perfect yet dangerous equilibrium.

But as he began to advance, she forgot about the larger forces: He was in pain again, pain that she had caused.

She pointed at a wooden bench. “Sit down. I will see to your limb.”

A flare of hope lit in his eyes, before he shook his head. “It must be too late for anything to be done.”

“It’s never too late. Sit down.”

He did not put up more argument, but did as she ordered, grimacing only slightly.

She felt along his leg. Her fingers recoiled. He had not been gentle on himself. This seemingly fluid walk of his was a product of brutal will. His natural chi paths had become a jumble of knots and dead ends.

She lowered herself cross-legged to the ground, took a deep breath, and raised her hand, index finger and middle finger tight together, the other digits held down at the center of the palm. Gently, she tapped at his leg along a circuit of chi nodes.

His sinews stiffened in resistance to the inpouring of her energy.

“Relax,” she commanded. “Breathe deeply and don’t speak. I won’t injure you.”

She didn’t actually know that. Chi healing was intricate and potentially dangerous. A powerful infusion at the right places could aid his own chi in reconnecting its natural paths. But one wrong move . . .

This was not the best time or place for it. Impulse had overcome her. She had started too hastily, without adequate explanation to him. But now she also could no longer speak, for fear of breaking her concentration. Any interruption would be detrimental to them both and could even lead to permanent paralysis for him.

Three times she quick-tapped the circuit of chi nodes, using short bursts of chi to reopen sealed pathways. Then her rhythm slowed. Her chi streamed in a steady flow, smoothing the pathways, pushing, oftentimes forcing his own chi along, guiding it into the proper pattern of circulation.

Beads of perspiration rolled off the tip of her nose. Her chemise adhered damply to her skin. This must hurt him, like a swarm of angry bees inside his flesh. But he remained quiet and breathed as she had instructed.