CHAPTER TEN
London, 1861
The firm of Kent, Hartsock, and Witt had a blemishless reputation. It had represented Anna’s family from her grandfather’s time, and Sir Charles Kent had once made the long trip to Edinburgh to draft her marriage contract. But she had never visited his offices.
Thus did she find herself befuddled, on the curb in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, by her first sight of the Gothic house. Set somewhat back from the street behind wrought iron gates, the house boasted crumbling iron balconies, a castlelike turret, and an ancient weathervane, which in the sudden strong wind did not swing toward the west so much as lurch toward it, shrieking loudly as decades of accumulated rust forced it to a premature halt.
“You sure this is the right address?” called down Henneage, Lockwood’s coachman.
Henneage had driven the horses with such abominable speed that Anna had felt the carriage wheels leave the ground during turns. “Learn to drive,” she snapped, and clutched her queasy gut as she stalked into the office.
Inside the small, square lobby, a deep hush prevailed, punctured only by the squeak of Anna’s footsteps on the waxed wooden floor. Gentle, lemony light diffused through the tall windows swaddled in yellow silk, casting a cheerful tint over oil paintings of bewigged men in dark court robes.
At the center of the lobby sat a clerk, who stuffed the remnants of a jam pastry into his mouth before linking his hands together atop the polished surface of his mahogany desk, posing like a man who was not trying, frantically, to finish chewing.
Anna turned away, pretending to admire the furnishings, in order to give him a moment to swallow. A faded painting covered the low, domed ceiling: Lady Justice, in Roman stola, holding aloft her scales—and wearing a blindfold.
This sight did not improve Anna’s temper. She had not spoken to her husband in two days. Unwilling to surrender his ropes and ties, he had declined to visit her bedroom. At breakfast, she ate alone. Anna spent the evenings with her cousin, lest Lockwood have the opportunity to spurn her for dinner as well.
“May I help you?” came the clerk’s inquiry.
She turned back. The pastry had left a jam mustache on the clerk’s upper lip. “Yes. I’m here to speak with Sir Charles.”
“Appointment?”
“No, but—”
His overloud sigh cut her off. “No admission without appointment. How many times must I say it today?”
The door creaked open behind her. In waltzed a rotund blond man, who doffed his tall hat to etch a sarcastic bow to the clerk. “Hartsock about?”
“Oh, to be sure. In his office.”
That did not sound like a man with an appointment. Anna watched him toddle off into the depths of the house before drawing herself straight and facing the clerk again. “You will tell Sir Charles that Lady Forth is here.”
The clerk tapped the ledger that sat open in front of him. “It isn’t I who makes the decisions. This appointment book is what does it. And I see no mention of . . . Lady Forth, was it?” His intonation, paired with the slight lift of his brow, bespoke grave doubts concerning the legitimacy of her title.
“Yes,” she said coolly. “The Countess of Forth, to be precise. Sir Charles will be most glad to see me.”
“Alas, he can’t be disturbed today. I suggest you go home and write a request—”
Here he broke off, for the door had swung open again, admitting a ruddy lad in a rumpled suit, who chewed on an unlit cigar. This man’s wink at the clerk caused him to laugh. “What ho, Rollo,” the clerk exclaimed. “Back from Margate already?”
“Come to say hullo to the lads,” Rollo replied, and shoved his hands into his pockets as he strolled past them.
“So many appointments,” Anna said flatly.
The clerk nodded. “Indeed. We’re a very great firm, ma’am.”
“Your ladyship.”
He frowned. “Ah . . . right. Well, as I said, you would do well to go home and write for an—”
She slapped down one of the calling cards she’d had printed last week. Her hand was shaking, a sight that only soured her temper further. She retrieved her hand and clutched it behind her back. “I will see Sir Charles at once.”
The clerk loosed a long-suffering sigh, glanced at the card, then gave her an alarmed second look. Swallowing, he rose and hastened into the hall.
This victory, perversely, only worsened her mood. Lady Forth was not worth his time, but Lady Lockwood made him jump. Was it Lockwood’s title that commanded respect? Surely it was not the man himself.
The next minute, Sir Charles was hastening into the hallway, trim and dapper in pinstriped trousers and a dark morning coat, his silver hair slicked flat against his head—no sign of his useless clerk. “Forgive me, forgive me,” he said rapidly. “That boy is new. I’ll have a word with him, I promise you.”
“It’s quite all right,” she said stiffly, and allowed him to escort her down the long, dark hall into his office, which offered a handsome view of the small garden that ran alongside the building.
As soon as she settled into a wing chair, she felt herself relaxing. Sir Charles was the very picture of legal authority: painfully erect, magisterially wrinkled. His thick-lensed spectacles magnified the grave and penetrating quality of his gaze, which had held on to hers four years ago without a flicker of surprise or judgment as she’d explained her unusual requirements of a husband.
“I am glad you called,” he said as he took his seat. “I had just started a letter to you. Tea?”
“No, thank you.” She was not in the mood for any courtesies. “What was the letter to say? Have the MacCauleys decided to sue for breach of contract?”
“It won’t be necessary,” he said, beaming.
“You’ve located Mr. Roy, then?”
“I have put an end to the search.”
She stared. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“Ah. It seems you haven’t yet read the Times today.” She caught the newspaper he slid across his desk. “Top right corner,” he said.
It took a moment to understand her eyes.
The Great Western Caledonia Railway—the company that had leased the beach at Clachaig—did not actually exist.
With growing astonishment, she read onward. The land had indeed been leased—its owners, the MacCauleys, described the lessor as a dark-haired gentleman, well spoken, with a city accent. But we did think it curious when no engineers came to survey the land, Mr. MacCauley was quoted as saying. Nor did they ever make good on their promised payment.
Meanwhile, over the course of the last six months, tens of thousands of shares in the company had been sold to investors—most of them ordinary citizens, driven to high hopes by the grand campaign that had advertised the coastal route.
Sometime over the last fortnight, those shares had been liquidated in secret, the company disbanded. The shareholders now clamored for the return of their money, with little hope of recompense.
She swallowed. “And Mr. Roy . . . ?”
“A false name, so far as I can tell.” Sir Charles shook his head, reached for his pipe, then remembered his company and laid it down again. “And to think I’d planned to expand our search into England! We would have been looking for decades.”
“How horrible,” she said softly. “This journalist writes that a group of widows invested their pensions into this make-believe company.”
“Alas, they won’t have been the first. I read of similar frauds every month now. ‘Railway mania,’ they call it. But, on a happier note”—Anna looked up, startled—“your beach is safe.”
“Yes.” It felt tremendously selfish to call that a blessing. But she would not waste the chance. “Make an offer on the land, please. I would not like the MacCauleys to lease it again.”
He smiled. “I’ve already prepared it.”
“And, whatever it costs, please set up an endowment for double that sum to go to these widows.”
“Very commendable of you, my lady.”
She did not feel commendable. In this plush, comfortable office, with the light fixtures made of brass and her seat of thick rich leather, she felt almost ashamedly fortunate.
“Triple,” she said. “Triple the endowment. And please invite applications from any woman defrauded, not just the widows.” She rose. “Meanwhile, if the MacCauleys balk, offer anything it takes. I won’t be dependent on the goodwill of strangers to reach my island.”
“A sound policy.” Sir Charles rose, extending his hand to her. But she wasn’t quite done yet.
Most women had so few choices. But she was one of the few in this world who had been given the fortune needed to protect herself, and the freedom to act.
“Also, one other small thing.” Her throat felt tight. “These new divorce laws—I gather they have made the matter much easier? No order of Parliament required, is that so?”
Sir Charles had professional expertise in masking his surprise. “I . . . yes, my lady. A special court now adjudicates such matters.”
“Excellent. I know the husband must only prove his wife’s adultery. And the lady? His adultery and abandonment, would that serve?”
“If there is proof, my lady—yes.”
She could not imagine that Lockwood had remained celibate these last four years. “Would there be a way to protect a Scottish fortune, should an English husband be found at fault?”
Sir Charles tipped his head. “I am not certain such a case has been tried yet. The laws are very new. But I could look into the matter.”
“Excellent.” She took a shaking breath. “Please have a dossier prepared on these questions. You may send it to me in care of my cousin Lady Moira Douglas, on Green Street.”
“Yes, my lady.”
A minute later, Anna passed back through the entry hall, where the clerk shrank into himself and tried to look busy with his appointment book.
Her mood should have been brighter: she had her beach. And provision for ownership of the island required only that a woman be married when she came into possession of it, not that she remain married afterward. Her fortune was Scottish, her lawyer excellent; she was in control of her future.
So she smiled at the clerk, a bright, wide smile designed to forgive him and set him at ease.
His relief was almost comical. He nodded gratefully, and bowed from his seat.
Perhaps she had a secret talent for acting, then. She did not feel happy in the least.
• • •
That afternoon, an hour after asking the manservants yet again where their master had gone, Anna received a note from her husband, on his club’s stationery, informing her of his intention to visit Hanover Square Rooms that evening.
I hope this satisfies your continued curiosity concerning my whereabouts. I enclose a map of Hanover Square, with my future location marked by an X.
You are, of course, welcome to join me, if you wish, though I do not intend to stay for long.
The hand-drawn map confirmed that his artistic talents had not profited by his journeys abroad. Anna shredded the drawing into small pieces, which she carried into his rooms to scatter across his bed.
After another hour spent fuming, and then a long nap, she decided to write a note to Moira proposing yet another dinner—then remembered, almost too late, that Moira herself was hosting a dinner tonight, for which Anna had claimed to be otherwise engaged. In truth, Moira’s husband took these dinner parties as excuses to drone on for hours about his racehorses, while his guests, picked carefully for their keen opinions on racing bills, the Derby, and the Ascot, would no doubt insist on hearing the pedigree of each horse in Anna’s stable back to Charlemagne’s time.
Hanover Square Rooms sounded preferable.
Anna dressed severely that evening, to show her estimation of her former hopes for marriage: a high-necked dress in a muted olive satin, black lace gloves, and jet earrings and bracelet. If Lockwood noticed the allusions of half mourning, he made no remark when she came down the stairs. “We will be very late,” he said as he escorted her to the carriage, his face that of a distracted stranger. Once under way, he did his best to ignore her entirely, his face in profile as he brooded at the sights out the window.
It seemed impossible to believe she had touched that face so boldly at Lawdon. The silence now felt more dreadful for how easily they had laughed together then—and could have done again, she supposed, if only she had not declared against blindfolds and restraints.
But why did he require those props? Was the prospect of looking into her eyes so awful for him? The question swelled in her throat, and she choked it down with the aid of anger. A wife should not have to ask such questions of her husband. Her dignity forbade her to do it. He would be lucky if he remained her husband for long.
But the anger was hollow. Only this afternoon, napping fitfully in the cool of her bedroom, she had dreamed of what he’d done to her. How little she’d cared about the blindfold and restraints, once his lips and hands and body had touched hers.
Dignity? She had none. As the dream had dissipated and her eyes had opened, she’d found herself groping for rationalizations. He had always been unconventional: that was why she’d been drawn to him. That hot current that sang between their bodies deserved something wilder and rarer than convention, did it not? What harm in blindfolds and ties?
Gammon. The harm lay in his refusal to abandon them for her sake. In their youth, he had always decided the pace and shape of their intimate relations. She had permitted it, thought it natural, because his experience was greater than hers. But four years of independence had left her with a taste for decision making. And she had not married him to be led, or to have her whims subjugated to his. It would be equality or nothing.
Nor would she let his silence upset her. He was beautiful, with his burnished hair and sun-touched skin and uncanny whisky eyes. What of it? In fact, the purity of his profile, those chiseled lips and hawkish nose, should fill her only with contempt. He looked as though he belonged on some bronze coin cast to commemorate the invader. Men like him had sacked Scotland; why had she not anticipated a similar fate so long ago?
His forebears had needed to crush hers, grind them into the dust for centuries, before her family had at last submitted to English oversight.
She would not be silenced by him.
“I do not need to meet your cousin any longer,” she said. “If you haven’t yet extended an invitation to him, you need not trouble yourself.”
He nodded once, but if it occurred to him to wonder at how her problem with the beach had been resolved, he did not ask about it.
Of course he didn’t ask. Curiosity would have required that he care.
“How peculiar,” she said, her voice cool, as though she had not been stewing for days now, growing angrier and angrier, not only with him but with herself, for still caring a whit. “You seem to have lost the power of speech. Was that my doing? What a talent; I had not suspected it of myself.”
He took a long breath, as though it required bracing to turn and look at her. “Forgive me,” he said. “My mind has been elsewhere.”
How neatly he reminded her of her insignificance. “And where might your mind have gone?” she asked politely. “To all your very important duties, I suppose? The collecting of paintings, and the coddling of artists, and . . .” She had no idea what else he spent his time on. “Brandy at the club?”
The ghost of a smile flitted over his lips before slipping away. “In fact, the club has had a new shipment from France,” he said. “Very young, but the red will age well. Fifty-seven was a fine year for the grapes.”
He had no shame or even decency. When she remembered the noises she had made in his bed, she felt her skin crawl.
But she was more of an animal than her vanity could bear. She found herself staring at his lips, regardless.
She turned to the window. The streets were gray and wet, and along the curb, the lamplight reflected in the puddles was stippled by light rain. “Yes, well,” she said. “You predicted that. About the grapes.”
“Did I?” he asked after a moment.
“Yes, that was one reason why you said our first stop should be France.” She cast him a taunting glance. “On our honeymoon.”
She had thought him relaxed, but for a moment, his mask slipped, his jaw tightening. He was no happier than she.
The next moment, his expression became opaque again. Aloof and indifferent.
But she’d scented blood now, and her spirits rose at the prospect of petty revenge. “You waged such a great campaign for the wonders of Paris,” she said. “I found it very persuasive. Perhaps I’ll take advantage of the route from Calais. I hear a lady might have a wonderful time in France, even—or especially—alone.”
“You may do as you like,” he said casually. “But traveling alone would be foolhardy. Perhaps your cousin would join you.”
“Oh, Moira enjoys the season too much to pull herself away. And I would not like a companion—not for the kind of fun I mean to have.”
He locked eyes with her. Yes, he had taken her meaning. If he would not visit her bed, a thousand other men would gladly serve in his place. “Be that as it may,” he said quietly, “you will have a care for your safety. Or your fun will be over too soon.”
“How good of you to show concern. But I assure you, I’ve had a great deal of practice in managing on my own. Almost four years, in fact.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then turned back to the window. “I am not in the mood to spar.”
“That wasn’t sparring, Lockwood. It was an expression of surprise at your concern. I suppose you spent your years abroad worrying over me terribly.”
His laughter did not sound amused. “Christ, Anna. What do you want me to say? That I don’t give a damn? That you should run off and get yourself killed, with my applause?”
She fisted her hands in her skirts, where he could not see them. “The truth does less harm than a lie, I believe.”
He faced her, his jaw like flint. “I do give a damn: I would prefer you alive. Though perhaps somewhat quieter. Shall we try a gag next time I bed you?”
Horror stole the retort from her tongue. He smiled at her, a slow, dark smile.
“Excellent,” he said. “Just like that.”
She cleared her throat. “Do you gag all your other women, too?”
He snapped shut the curtain, casting them into darkness. “Only when they annoy me.”
Her fists clenched. “Which of them is your favorite? Miss Ashdown? Pardon me—what was her real name? Miss Martin.”
His laugh sounded startled. “God save me. I assure you, that lady would not be gagged. Nor would I touch her if my life depended on it.”
So Miss Martin would not be gagged, but his wife might? “Ah, artists are not subject to your depravities,” she said bitterly. “How good to know. I suppose you prefer to hire your companions, then?”
“Christ,” he said softly.
“I’m quite sure that God has nothing to do with it.”
No reply.
“Prostitutes, then. I should have guessed.” The words hurt, as though they cut her from the inside. But she would require proof of his infidelity to divorce him, so this conversation was necessary. “I imagine you would have to pay most women to accept such indignities.” He paid them with her money, of course, for he’d had none of his own. “How much do they charge? Is it piecemeal, or do blindfolds and restraints count as a singular vice?”
“What fevered little fantasies you’ve been concocting,” he murmured. “Alone in your bed—yes, I remember how poorly you dealt with failing to be satisfied. Are you frustrated, Anna? Have you forgotten what I taught you?”
Her blush burned. “I remember everything, Lockwood—including your reluctance to perform. Do you know, I’d imagined it was honor that kept you from bedding me at Muirswood Links! Instead, it was lack of a blindfold. Why . . .” She mimed a gasp of surprise. “Is that why you ran off on our wedding night? Too ashamed of your perversity? Poor dear! You should have told me. I’d probably have taken pity on you.”
“You are baiting me,” he said coolly. “It’s amusing. Rather clumsy, but subtlety was never your strength.”
Her laughter felt curdled. “Yes, what was my strength? For when I look back, all I can see is idiocy. Do you know, I thought you were a good, decent man—I thought you would respect me. Can you imagine? But even in this—in wanting a child, in wanting my marital rights—all you do is try to shame me for it.”
The silence now felt fraught. She wished she could see his face. She would have known where to aim when she spat.
“You make me feel cheap for wanting to touch you—to see you, to behave as a wife to you. I have no notion when you decided to find me repugnant, but I will not be ashamed for—”
He moved all at once—springing from his bench, his hand wrapping around her nape, his lips crushing into hers.
Shock lanced through her. His kiss was hot and furious, the middle of something rather than its beginning. His tongue lashed hers, his hard body crowding her backward, only the support of his palm holding her up as his weight bore down on her.
This assault should have frightened her: it showed how easily he could overpower her, how indifferent his coachman would be to any sounds of struggle within, how brutally his lips could part hers and take possession.
And yet, after a moment’s startled shock, she was not frightened. She was furious. Rage swept over her like a hot electric wave.
She clawed her hands into his hair and gripped his head. She crushed her mouth harder into his, and bit his lip until she tasted blood, salted copper, his long overdue debt to her. He made some rough, hot sound in his throat—encouragement. His knee came up under her skirts, collapsing her crinolines, pinning her more firmly in place even as his mouth bore down.
They devoured each other, graceless as beasts—she pulled his hair until he growled; he nipped her lower lip and she turned her nails into his cheek as punishment, and still, still, she kept kissing him.
She was mad. This was madness. She did not care. He hauled her up, positioning her squarely on the bench as he went down on his knees in front of her. His rough palms trapped her face as he kissed her deeply, angrily.
No. Desperately. He kissed her as though she were about to slip away.
That desperation at last penetrated her fury. Her fingers loosened, confused. She licked his lip, a silent apology for her bite. His own mouth gentled, and his grip on her face loosened.
Wait—no. He was going to release her, withdraw. That wasn’t what she wanted, either. She was in a misery, her desires tangled and unclear, but he’d been right: she needed satisfaction.
She turned her fingernails into his scalp and kissed him hard again. But it made no difference. He was easing from her grip.
Rage shifted, aimed now at herself. He had made her want him again. “Damn you—”
Her curse broke off on a gasp as his hot, dry hand found her calf beneath her skirts.
“Damned,” he said, a hoarse agreement, and laid his open mouth on her throat as his hand slid up, gathering her skirts as it went, yards of heavy cloth.
Hallelujah.
Her head fell back as he sucked at her throat—from beneath her skirts he found her hips and lifted her, pulling her forward to the edge of the seat so her petticoats and crinolines no longer shielded her. He fitted himself firmly against her, rolling his pelvis against hers as their mouths met again. He needed no blindfolds to prepare himself: that was clear. She could feel the full, thick length of him against her.
Insanity. She had just spoken to her lawyer of a divorce! This was reckless, stupid in the extreme. But the way he rocked against her, the hot drugging taste of his mouth, his roaming hands—now slipping between their bodies, finding through the split in her drawers that spot that caused her to clench and moan—these sensations built and built. Reason slipped away.
She wanted. It need not be him—this fevered mouth, these clever hands, the feel of this muscled male body. In the darkness, he could have been anyone—more than a man, even; a creature from some hot dream, everywhere at once, manipulating and dominating her so skillfully in the dark. Now sucking her ear—now lifting her breast out to suckle rhythmically, unbearably—as below, he plucked and stroked her like an instrument, luring her outside her own good sense, turning her into a twisting, moaning, mindless knot of need.
His fingers pushed into her, a slight, insistent invasion; he stretched her with his fingers as he took her mouth again. Don’t stop—words, thank God, she had no strength to speak. She was afraid he would stop—he had stopped at Lawdon, he could not stop again, she would not bear it—
The head of his cock brushed against her. Yes. As he filled her, she heard herself groan. Animal. She groped through a foam of silk and lace and linen, skirts bunching between them, blindly hunting for—
His body, his muscular buttocks, heavy and flexing, filled her palms. His hips, pumping against her. She dragged him deeper inside her. She was an animal, who needed more of him—
He thrust deeply, seating himself inside her, and a sigh slipped from her. Now his lips moved softly, tenderly, on that secret spot beneath her ear. “Easy,” he whispered, then took up a rhythm, shallow and then deeper, slower and then faster, tormenting her patiently, his discipline infuriating, tormenting, delicious. For long moments—minutes—he teased and bullied her this way, as she began to choke on the urge to beg, sobbing gasps that she would not turn into words, until at last she wrapped her legs around him and said, “Please.”
He thrust into her deeply and hard, again and again, and she tightened all over, reaching—reaching—
There. Coiled tension burst. Gripping him, her face turned into his soft hair, she shuddered around him, and swallowed her own cries.
The carriage drew to a halt.
From outside came the noises of industry, a crowd: jingling tack, a cabman’s shout, the clop of hooves, a burst of distant laughter, the muted chaos of a dozen conversations. The coach rocked slightly as a footman dismounted from his perch.
His cheek against hers felt damp and hot. His breath shuddered across her ear. Then, gradually, he detached from her.
Small movements, slow, as though he feared himself breakable. She watched through the darkness, made lighter by the blaze spilling from the building outside, as he closed his trousers. Righted his waistcoat and jacket. And then, with strong capable hands, ringless and tanned, he took hold of her ankles, one by one. He carried them back to the floor, and fitted her feet into her slippers. She was watching his face, but he did not lift it as he eased back to study her clothing. He would not meet her eyes.
His survey appeared to satisfy him. He took her by the waist and lifted her without warning, knocking down her skirts, smoothing them before resettling her on the bench.
The door shook. It was locked.
“My lord?” came the footman’s voice from the curb.
Lockwood sat back down on the bench opposite. His expression was half concealed by shadow, his jaw locked tight.
“I have never wanted to shame you,” he said very quietly. “Nor have I ever found you repugnant.”
A delicate hope unfurled through her. “Then . . . if I say no more blindfolds, you—”
“I will respect your choice, as I have done since Lawdon. But, no, Anna—barring this exception, the terms have not changed.”
Her hands curled into fists. “How much it must mean to you, to have the upper hand.”
“I can’t deny it,” he said flatly.
She turned the lock, allowing the door to be opened.
He descended first, and when he pivoted back to help her down, she shrugged off his hand and reached instead for the footman’s.
On the steps up to the concert hall, however, he took her arm without asking, and she would not make a scene. So she tried to ignore how every pore of her skin felt magnetized to his, so close by. How her knees still trembled from what he had done to her. How tears threatened, though she could not say why.
He took care to match his stride to hers. It seemed a mockery of her somehow. Or maybe he was performing chivalry for the sake of onlookers. She did not miss how every woman turned to note his arrival when they stepped inside the hall.
She could smell his skin. Her own seemed imprinted by the scent.
She forced herself to focus on the fine points of the lobby. Most of it was very elegant, made of paneled pale walls outlined in gilt, lit by extravagant chandeliers. One corner had been blocked off by scaffolding, which was draped in a large canvas sheet. A group of idiots were poking the sheet with their canes, raising a great cloud of dust that caused Anna to sneeze.
“My lord,” called a petite blonde from across the room, her voice full of laughter. “Is it not rather late for an entrance? The third act has begun.”
“That is Lady Chad,” Lockwood told Anna, then called back, his golden voice flexing with charm, “Fashionably late or nothing.”
Nobody, listening to or looking at him, would guess he’d just ravished his wife. Clearly it had not moved him.
“Nothing would be preferable,” Anna muttered.
“Do try not to be too Scottish, Anna.”
She sneezed again. “I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Martin,” he said as the ladies approached. “Countess, allow me to introduce my sist—”
“His wife,” Anna said, sticking out her hand. Sister! Now it was clear that he wasn’t unmoved: on the contrary, he was trying to provoke her. “Anna Wint—Devaliant, I suppose.”
The other two women exchanged a marveling look. Then the brunette, Miss Martin, shook Anna’s hand. “I am very glad to meet you, Countess.”
So here was the artist whom Lockwood would never gag. What a fortunate woman! Anna beamed at her.
Lockwood made a noise of disgust. “Good God, are you still using that trick?”
She did not bother to look at him. “It’s no trick, it’s my bloody smile.”
Lady Chad looked flustered by this curse, but Miss Martin’s serene expression did not alter a whit. She had a gentle watercolor prettiness about her, only the vividness of her blue eyes hinting at the passion required to paint such nightmares. Those eyes studied Anna with a cool, unsparing thoroughness.
But the acuity of a woman’s gaze would pose no trouble to Lockwood. He would simply keep it covered with a blindfold. “You’ll be the artist, then?” she asked. “The one who he’s promoting?”
Lockwood’s grip tightened on her arm. “Keep your voice down,” he said. “That’s meant to be a secret.”
“Oh, was she unaware she painted?” Anna gave Miss Martin’s hand an exaggerated pat. “Do you also suffer from amnesia, then? Forgetting who you are, where you go. My husband knows all about that; perhaps he can suggest a remedy, as he seems to be able to dispel it at will.”
“That’s quite enough,” Lockwood bit out, and pulled her away from the women.
From behind them came Lady Chad’s voice. “Do come visit, Lady Lockwood!”
“Can’t, I’m off to Paris tomorrow!” Anna called.
“The hell you are,” Lockwood snarled.
“Whyever not? You set the terms, and I have refused them. What cause do I have to stay now?”
Over by the scaffolding, the group of rowdies crowed and hooted. Lockwood visibly startled at the noise, then tossed a furious look over his shoulder at them. The idiots were tugging on the canvas sheeting, buffeting the scaffold and causing it to rock. “You may go where you damned well please,” he told her tersely. “I have said from the start that you would do better elsewhere.”
He was right. She stopped in her tracks. Her company was a privilege he did not deserve. “Then go ahead without me. I will return home; I am no longer in the mood for music.”
“I dismissed the coachman until ten o’clock.”
She shrugged. “I saw a cabstand at the corner.”
His eyes narrowed. “You will not travel by cab in this city.”
“Ah, is that husbandly concern, again? Charming.” She started past him, and he caught her elbow.
“This is not Edinburgh. Women are gutted here as easily as men.”
“Men, too? How fortunate, then, that you had my escort this evening.” She pulled her dagger from her pocket by way of explanation. When he recoiled, she pushed out a mocking laugh. “You’ve forgotten—I can look after myself. And I never go unarmed, particularly around men who want to tie me up.”
A great cheer rent the air—followed a second later by a splintering crash. The rowdies had pulled down the canvas, and the wooden frame along with it.
“Good lord.” Anna coughed, waving away the dust. “And to think England considers Scotland uncivilized.”
Lockwood did not reply. He was staring fixedly at the rowdies, his expression strange—rigid and pale.
“Don’t pay them mind,” she said.
He turned back to her, but his remark was lost as two guards came running into the lobby. The rowdies scattered, hooting as they swarmed through concertgoers in a race toward the exit. One of them, flying by, slipped on the fallen canvas and smashed directly into Lockwood—who seized the boy and threw him against the wall, pinning him there by the throat.
Anna’s wits took a moment to catch up to the sight. The boy made a piteous wheezing sound and groped at Lockwood’s hand.
Lockwood did not release him.
“All right, let him go.” Lockwood showed no sign of hearing her. She grabbed his wrist. “I said, let him go!”
His forearm was hard as iron, his grip unbreakable. The boy was flushing a mottled red now, his mouth opening and closing in a desperate bid for air.
“You are hurting him!” She dug her nails into his flesh. “Liam!”
He recoiled all at once. The boy dropped straight to the floor, then crawled away, casting a horrified glance over his shoulder before managing to scramble to his feet and make a dash for it.
“What on earth is wrong with you?” Anna stared. “You think me the odd one, for carrying a knife?”
Lockwood leaned back against the wall, silent as stone.
“What did you mean to do? Throttle him to death?”
He refused to answer, instead staring fixedly at some point in the distance, his breath rasping as though he’d been the one nearly choked. She turned to follow his look, but nothing appeared of interest. Fine-dressed ladies and gentlemen were recessing into the assembly rooms, while the mischief makers by and large had succeeded at shoving out the door, past guards who knew better than to manhandle wealthy swells.
Frowning, she turned back to Lockwood. He looked waxen. “What is it? Did you know that boy?”
“No.” The word was almost inaudible. He took a deep breath, then used the wall to push himself to his full height. “It’s nothing.”
His voice sounded unsteady. Perhaps he was shocked by himself. One moment the boy had knocked into him—the next, he’d had the lad pinioned, like a cobra on a mouse.
She started to touch him, then thought better of it. “Your reflexes are superb,” she said—trying for humor to defuse his strange mood.
“Yes,” he said briefly.
The doors thumped shut behind the last of the concertgoers. Now they stood alone in the entry hall, with only the jaundiced regard of the beleaguered guards to keep them company. A muscle flexed in Lockwood’s temple, as though he was grinding his teeth. She had the odd impression that he was fighting some inner battle.
Why this impulse to comfort him? She had spoken to her solicitor of divorce.
And then you let him ravish you in a carriage.
“Are you all right?” she asked finally.
“Yes.”
Were these monosyllabic replies designed to irritate her? If so, they began to work. She blew out a breath. “Then stay here all night if you like. I’m leaving.”
He caught up with her at the door. This time, as they descended the steps, he did not offer his arm.
She should have been glad. She did not want it, after all.
Instead, she felt a great loneliness sweep over her, with him not a foot away, and the greatest city in the world glimmering around them in the dark.