The Orphan Pearl Page 8

  If either of them moved an inch, they’d be kissing.

  Lily pitched her voice low and velvet soft. Like an invitation, though she knew that what she was about to say would disgust him. “If you think I might have done something that would lower your opinion of me…” She paused. This might be the last time she got so close to him. That scared her, and the fear spurred her on. Fear would drive her over a cliff one day.

  Her chest felt hollow, her skin a tissue of nerves. She licked her lips. “Then, yes, you will have to lower your opinion of me.”

  She held still for a beat, not breathing, then stood abruptly.

  “Don’t.” He caught hold of her hand.

  He had a firm grasp. Strong, steady. She could almost feel the ground through his toes.

  It hurt her, how much she wanted to complete the connection, fold her fingers around his palm. But she knew what he was here for. Not her, or even any part of her. He saw her as a link in a chain—no doubt he viewed himself the same way—and he only held on so that someone farther down the line could yank.

  She raised one eyebrow. Kept her tone cool. “So forward.”

  He rose to his feet. Cupped her jaw between firm, steady hands and pressed his lips to hers. Soft, simple. A declaration rather than a demand.

  “I just want to know the lay of the land,” he said.

  Oh. Sweet heaven. Just the possibility that he could know, and still want her. Even the illusion staggered her. Brought tears to her eyes that she would not let fall—not right in the middle of the museum, like a child. She swallowed the lump in her throat and bit the inside of her cheek.

  The coppery tang of blood flooded her mouth. Pain chased away her tears.

  She hammered the tremble out of her voice. Hoped she sounded arch rather than overcome. “Treacherous, Mr. Ware.”

  “That’s never stopped me before.” He slid his gloved fingers along her cheek, kid leather soft as butter and so thin she could feel the heat of his flesh beneath. He brushed them along her shoulder, whisper-light, before taking her hand again.

  “Do you see anyone passing by in the corridor?” Ware asked. “Standing at the entrance to the salon?”

  She shook her head.

  He bent his head to her again. Slowly, so that she had plenty of time to shy away. Instead, she tilted her head in invitation. He sealed his lips to hers, urged her mouth open. She obliged and he deepened the kiss, caressing her tongue with his.

  “Were you always like this? Fearless and bold and…” His thumb rubbed rhythmically across her lower lip. “As though the world can’t touch you.”

  Lily smiled faintly. “Mr. Ware, you are touching me right now.”

  “Am I? I’m not sure.” He kissed her again, on the forehead this time. “How do you do it?”

  Lily took hold of Ware’s lapels and used them to steady herself as she rose up on tiptoe, so she could look him in the eye. “Do you want me to tell you the secret? I can.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Someone has denied you something that you want,” said Lily. “Thrown obstacles between you and this object of your desire. I am one of them, am I not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here is your answer…” Lily paused for a beat. She allowed hope to flare in his expression, so she could have the pleasure of snuffing it out. “Want something else.”

  She let go of his lapels, returned her heels to the floor, and rubbed her palms together as though she were trying to clear away dust.

  Ware’s pupils dilated in his eyes, black against black, almost impossible to distinguish from one another. He licked his lips.

  “I do,” he said roughly.

  “Oh, Mr. Ware. I’m sorry. I really am.” Lily smiled faintly. “But I’m not so easy to fool.”

  He took a step back and took a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “I’m sorry. I’ve pressed myself upon you.”

  “Mmm,” Lily agreed.

  “I’ll leave you to your tour of the museum.”

  “Not the whole museum, today.” She warmed her tone enough to send a message—she wouldn’t take his feints personally, if he could do the same. “Just the marbles.”

  He glanced past her to the statues of the pediment. “I can hardly bear to look at them. They shouldn’t be here. Lord Elgin is nothing but a criminal.”

  “You’re in favor of returning the statues?”

  “I have it on good authority that King Otto has offered to buy them several times,” he answered. “We have no right to refuse. They belong in Greece.”

  “But they’re so beautiful,” she said. “Don’t you want to possess them—just a little?”

  His thick black brows flattened. “No.”

  “How wise you are.” She turned her back on the statues. “Why don’t you escort me out?”

  But when she would have turned toward the entrance, he guided her in the opposite direction.

  “Humor me,” he said. “We’ll loop back around to the front. It’s a longer route, but it passes by the reading rooms. I’d like to take a look inside before I go.”

  Lily saw a familiar figure striding down the corridor when they rounded the corner—very tall and very lean, top hat perched at a rakish angle. She snapped back with a gasp, plastering herself against the wall.

  What was Alfie doing here?

  “The Earl of Kingston?” growled Ware.

  And now he knew.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have brazened it out. Alfie would have behaved. Probably. And she’d still have her secret.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  It felt like another life.

  “Before Cairo?” His voice roughened and he crowded close enough for his breath to tickle the fine hairs at her temple. Too close to be protective. He was bigger than she’d realized. He took up too much space. “How old were you?”

  Lily laughed. “He’s six months younger than me.”

  “He—how do you know that?”

  “His birthday is March fifth.” She let her head loll back against the wall. Someone had painted a sugar-coated sky across the ceiling of the gallery. Fairy-floss clouds on a field of powder blue. “Mine is in September.”

  “Then why are you afraid of him?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not afraid.” But she kept her gaze on the candied heavens. They were wonderfully peaceful. “Is he gone yet?”

  Ware didn’t look, so she straightened and peeked around herself. Not a handsome rake in sight. She smoothed her dress and would have continued on, but Ware held her back.

  “I don’t blame you,” he said earnestly. “The man’s a notorious rake. A predator.”

  For the first time, Lily felt a stab of pity for Alfie. At hearing him dismissed so easily, in so few words. Judged and found wanting. The boy she’d grown up with, the young man she’d fallen in love with, should have turned out so differently.

  “Innocence is no protection against a man of his type,” Ware insisted. “Anyone could fall victim—”

  “Stop.” He hadn’t said anything she hadn’t told herself for years, but it sounded wrong coming from someone else’s lips. “We grew up together. I have a brother a few years older, he has a sister a few years younger.” She paused. “Had a sister.”

  She hadn’t been listening when Adam told her. The words only penetrated when she repeated them. Georgina had been clever and shy, awkward around strangers but devilish fun with her intimates. She ought to be married, surrounded by babies who all had her twinkling blue eyes. Instead she’d died young—and how?

  Did it matter? Lily had abandoned her to her fate, whatever it had been. She had lost the right to pry.

  Life. How did anyone bear it? How did Alfie bear it?

  “I wasn’t his victim,” Lily said. “I was his friend.”

  “That’s not what it looks like to me.”

  “Then look harder,” Lily snapped.

  And he did.

  His expression shifted. The kindness vanished, but not
the heat. Something smoldered in his eyes, dark and speculative. His pirate’s look, made low and carnal.

  Lily shivered.

  “This conversation is over.” Lily sidled out of his reach and smoothed her skirts. Want something else. She would take her own advice, and leave Ware to his filthy thoughts.

  “You’re proud of what you’ve done,” said Ware, his voice flat. “You threw yourself away on a worthless scoundrel and you won’t even admit the mistake—”

  “I did not invite a lecture,” Lily cut in, sharp enough to slice the words right out of his mouth. “If you’re determined to deliver one, you can speak to the statues. Good afternoon.”

  She turned her back to him. It should not surprise her that he should forgive her sins in the abstract, but not in the particular. That he would think her brave so long as she played the role of a victim, and shameless if she did not. He probably thought himself quite tolerant.

  And, well. Perhaps he was. But she would not thank him for it. Nor anyone else. Once she had money again, she would handpick her acquaintances. She would demand more and better. Everyone else could go hang.

  So. To the solicitor’s office, then.

  Chapter Nine

  John tried to put Lady Lily out of his mind as he continued on down the corridor. She had told him what kind of woman she was, and he ought to listen. Treacherous, she said. Unrepentant. More than halfway down the primrose path, he’d wager, and running headlong for the finish.

  But he’d seen the way she recoiled from Kingston. Heard the crack in her voice when she said Then, yes, you will have to lower your opinion of me. She was not as hard as she would have him think.

  But neither was she as innocent as he would like to believe. She was charming. Bright and lovely, full of froth—as though every experience, every emotion, could be shot through with air. But at her core, she was cold and distant as a star.

  Or maybe she just made him feel that way. Earthbound, plodding, slow. Always a step behind.

  He paused at the threshold to the Reading Room, standing well back and out of view. Dust motes swirled lazily in the sunlight streaming through high-set, east-facing windows. Readers spread out among the rows of long polished wood tables, each body anchoring a haphazard tumble of open books. He smelled cologne, citrus wax, and most of all, the dry dust of aging paper.

  Kingston lounged in a stiff chair with one elbow propped on the table, a large folio spread open before him. He turned the pages languidly, without seeming to pay much attention to the contents.

  John had known that Kingston was a seducer. That some unnumbered multitude of women had stumbled away from his bed to find their lives changed for the worse, their prospects dimmed, their reputations sullied. What a shame, he might have said, very sincere. And then forgotten the matter.

  But now he’d seen the devastation Kingston left in his wake. Amelia, crying alone in her room. Lady Lily running away from everything she’d known and loved. Their lives forever changed, turned off course. And to think that Lady Lily defended him.

  John retreated from the Reading Room and explored the immediate area. The spacious corridors and galleries saw regular traffic, very badly suited to crime. But a door near the corner of the building, not far from the Reading Room, gave way to a narrow, dimly lit stairwell.

  John stepped inside the stairwell and closed the door almost all the way. He left it open a sliver, so that he could look through and see who was passing by. And then he paced in a circle, trying to clear his mind, visualizing what he planned to do, concentrating on the mechanics and not the morality.

  This was justice. No more, no less. Fair recompense for the wrongs Kingston had done. John had seen enough evidence to judge. And, in any case, the time to question had come and gone—he had given his word.

  And then he heard footsteps, slow and languid, the leather soles sliding rather than tapping against the ground. His attention snapped to the little sliver of corridor he could monitor from his place in the stairwell. Hardly anyone around. Good. He stepped closer to the door, to broaden his angle of view, and saw the familiar figure: tall, lean, impeccably dressed.

  John lunged out from the stairwell, grabbed Kingston and clapped a hand over his mouth in a single smooth motion, and pulled him back in. It took no time at all. He used his own body to stop his victim from thrashing, and looped his cravat around Kingston’s neck. When he had both ends in his grip, he began to twist. Tighter and tighter, until Kingston’s cheeks flushed crimson and his eyes rolled wildly in his head.

  Almost done. Get this over with, leave, and never think about it again.

  Pain exploded in his groin. He recoiled, vision blurring, the purest agony racing like wildfire up his spine and burning every coherent thought right out of his head. He couldn’t breathe or think or hold himself upright—hell and damnation, he might never walk again.

  When the haze cleared, he was alone in the stairwell. No guards, no police. No imperious earl, eager to turn the tables after such a violent assault.

  Just… alone.

  He ought to leave while he still could. Just because the police hadn’t come didn’t mean they wouldn’t. Instead, he sat down on the bottom stair and buried his head in his hands. Swallowing did not dislodge the knot in his throat; it felt like a fist. Big enough to make every breath a chore, too small to silence the choking noises welling up from the pit of his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on the heel of his palm. A few deep breaths and he’d be fine.

  That turned out to be an optimistic assessment. But he quickly exhausted his willingness to coddle himself. He’d put himself at risk by lingering, and that was inexcusable.

  Time to behave like a man who’d made a career out of getting his hands dirty. He tidied his clothing, scanned the area, and left by a different route than he’d arrived. Walking at a leisurely pace, he arrived home in less than an hour.

  And left the house not long after that, desperate to get out of the city. He took a long ride, circling through forests and heath that remained plentiful beyond the borders of the ever-expanding city. Action, even the facsimile of it—going nowhere, pressing his horse to no purpose—settled him.

  His failure put him at risk. Once Kingston discovered the identity of his attacker, he would retaliate. Either through official channels, by pressing charges, or unofficial ones, by hiring a cutthroat to eliminate the threat to his person. If John wanted to avoid an early grave, he’d have to try again, and soon.

  He had done work he wasn’t proud of for the Foreign Office. He had used people as pawns, and he had lied for a living. For the greater good. But he had never set out to kill a man in cold blood, and he’d learned something surprising in his initial attempt. Even if Kingston deserved to die, murdering him would put a stain on John’s soul.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, Lily received the most extravagant bouquet she’d ever seen. Roses and calla lilies, all white, in such abundance it took two footmen to carry the vase across the threshold.

  The note nestled among the flowers read, in a thick, bold script: A thousand apologies, John T. Ware.

  She was admiring it in the front hall—Rundle had stationed the bouquet there, and threatened to split it up for distribution around the house—when her father descended from his office.

  He eyed the flowers with a grimace. “I’m not sure whether to recommend virtue or discretion. You don’t seem to have a strong grasp of either.”

  “If I set up my own household, it might save you some embarrassment,” replied Lily mildly. “Nobody asking questions about what goes on under your nose.”

  “And you think that’s the answer? Clearing the way for further misbehavior?” He twisted his cane. Round and round, scraping the marble floor. “I received a letter from a solicitor. On the subject of making your return official, recognizing you legally.”

  “It has to be done. Why not now?”

  “It would be wiser to ease into your independence.” The twisting stop
ped, then started again. He was being careful. Choosing his words. “I’m reluctant to hurry the process along.”

  “Oh, Papa. Cautious as ever. I suppose that’s to be expected—age can turn the bravest man a little timid.” Lily plucked a rose from the bouquet and twirled it under her nose. “I don’t mind waiting a while, if that will make you feel better. But the longer you delay, the harder it will be to explain why you’ve kept an unacknowledged lookalike in your house… should the matter ever reach the scandal sheets. And neither of us want that.”

  A small smile curved her father’s thin, hard mouth. “By that logic, I ought to expel you right now.”

  “Oh, you should,” Lily agreed, full of enthusiasm. “Indeed. This very moment. Shall I pack my things?”

  He poked the bouquet with the butt of his jade cane, jostling the flowers and shaking a few petals onto the floor. Lily tried not to smile; no need to rub it in. She’d been brought back into the fold. Her father would not cast her out. He’d stood by family members that caused more trouble, and had less potential value, than she.

  She knew this absolutely—and he knew she knew. But he couldn’t guess what sort of trouble she’d cause; she’d never shied away from scandal in the past. And that gave her a powerful advantage.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “I’ll need to consult with my solicitor, make arrangements with the bank. It won’t be easy to untangle your inheritance from the rest of my assets, now that they’ve been combined.”

  “So long as we begin the process,” Lily said sweetly, plucking the head of the rose from the stem and tucking it into his lapel. “I’ll try not to be too anxious.”

  When Ware arrived later in the afternoon, beautifully turned out in cream-colored trousers and a black tailcoat, she met him in the rose-scented front hall and greeted him with a smile one shade cooler than courtesy demanded.