In the Brief Eternal Silence (60 page)

The clock distracted him by striking the half
hour, and he glanced at it and saw that it was half past four. He
wondered how Miss Murdock was getting along. They should be nearly
half way to her home. And despite his extreme tiredness, he had a
sudden wish to do nothing else but saddle a horse and ride hard
after her and run her down, and to go somewhere with her where
there was none of this or any other but just the two of them.

Nothing to put shadows of worry beneath her
eyes, and nothing to distract him from the pure pleasantness of her
serenity. And he thought of her hands stitching his wound back
together, and the low, teasing, soothing note of her voice as she
spoke, a mere voicing of thoughts and observances that were both
artless and probing.

But he only got up from his desk, refilled
his glass, shaking loose the subtle but maddening call of Miss
Murdock before his mind could dwell on the further activity in his
bedchamber that had nothing to do with stitches or even talking. He
returned to his desk and focused his mind instead on the tasks that
would need to be done that day.

He would need to go to his barrister and
instruct him to dig back and ascertain how much stock his father
had held in the East India Company at the time of his death. If
possible, he needed him to also discover who had significant
holdings in that company in the same period of time. If what he
suspected were true, he should find a large share holder who was
also an intimate of the Queen, probably holding a high position in
the running of her affairs.

He would need to send someone to meet with
Steven's mother, Lucy Crockner, at the undertaker's address he had
given her (and praise God, Miss Murdock in her mistaken notions had
seen fit to direct Tyler and Andrew to take that fallen man to an
undertaker! For wouldn't he have felt even more like scum if he had
told Lucy Crockner her husband were rotting in a mew?) and to find
out what, if anything, was in Dante's power to be of assistance to
her.

He debated for a moment on who he should
send, decided that Tyler would make her the most comfortable, for
all of his brusqueness, he was gentle enough, and he had no fine
airs to put her ill-atease. Although he imagined Tyler would be
most unhappy about being assigned to what he would call a fit of
folly sentimentalism on St. James' part (He were gonna kill you,
weren't he? Damn near did. If he got's a bawlin' widow now and a
heartsick son, really 'tis none of your concern). But he would go
all the same, he always did, and if he spat his chewing tobacco
with more force than necessary, and aimed with insolence toward his
lordship's boots upon hearing his orders, St. James was certainly
not going to take him to task over it.

After these items were taken care of, he
would have to closet himself with Tyler and decide how one or the
other or both of them were to find 'Red's Pub' and enter it without
being marked for what they were: a duke of the realm and his
groom.

He made several notes to himself, wrote a
short, rather cryptic note to Queen Victoria to be delivered to her
promised man in the event he should show up while St. James was
out. It read simply: With the utmost respect, I question the
security and confidentiality of your correspondence. Please advise
if this notion should be disregarded, and accept my apologies if it
should be so. Your humble servant, St. J. If he had made some
inaccurate assumptions, he imagined this note would bring down upon
his head a rather severe reprimand from the Queen herself (and who
could blame her, as he was rather impertinently questioning her
ability to keep her affairs private?), but if he were correct and
she suspected the same, it would let her know that he had sniffed
upon a trail that may interest her. And if her security had been
breached, was possibly still being breached, he was quite certain
she would be very interested indeed.

He sat back in his chair again, his eyes very
heavy with tiredness, and gave himself over to letting his thoughts
roam from the pointed avenues they had been on for the past few
hours to where ever they would, and it should not be surprising
that they settled onto the memory of a rather disheveled Miss
Murdock lying beneath him in his bed as their thought of
choice.

But then he must have dozed, for the clock
was suddenly striking

five strokes and there came tapping on his
study door.

“Enter,” St. James called with weariness.

And Applegate, his butler, entered to
announce that the morning paper had arrived. He came across the
room to hand his employer the paper, and stood for a moment nearby
as St. James opened it with purpose to the social page. There, as
Bertie had seen to it, was his announcement of engagement to Miss
Sara Elizabeth Murdock, daughter of Squire Edward Murdock, of
Chestershire. He studied it before laying it aside, and with the
reading felt at last that his night's work was finished.

“Send a tray up to my room, would you
Applegate, for I think I shall turn in for an hour or two.”

“Certainly, milord,” Applegate replied and as
he left, St. James opened the top drawer of his desk, replaced his
father's letters, the letter from Steven's mother that had been
misplaced and not found until it was quite useless, and his notes
to himself, and locked them away. The note he had written for the
Queen he placed in an envelope and took the time to put his seal
upon it, so she should know if it had been disturbed, and he
pocketed it to give to Effington. Then with a final glance at the
newspaper in front of him, he withdrew his letter opener, used the
sharp point of it to cut out around the brief banns of his
engagement, folded it. He took out his pocket watch, opened the
back of the casing that was there for no other reason, that he had
ever been able to discern, but for just such romantic little items
and placed the clipping inside.

He left his study and climbed the stairs to
where Effington would once again have the dubious honor of
undressing him and putting him to bed as though he were some
overgrown baby. And if St. James were less than happy about this
circumstance, he also admitted he was too tired and in enough pain
from his abused stitches that he was in no condition this morning
to tweak his valet by denying him his rightful duties.

At about the same time as St. James was being
met by Effington at his door as he returned home, Bertie, Lord
Tempton, was crouched in some shrubbery and exclaiming in a whisper
to Miss Murdock beside him. “Now where in the blazes, I wonder,
could he be going at this hour of the night?”

It was Andrew's coach passing by them that
caused his wonderment. They were hidden in the landscaping beside
the mew, the second time that they had been forced into undignified
retreat during their now hours long vigil, and ironically, it had
been Andrew's movements both times. The first when he had returned
from his cousin's townhouse to his grandmother's home. Miss Murdock
had thought to hail him then, but she could not see having him
waiting out in the cold and the dark with them when there was no
guarantee that their endeavor would bear fruit. And as he had
ridden in on his mount, and she had seen his face, he had also
looked exhausted. It caused her to wonder all the more that he
should be leaving again now, instead of getting some much deserved
rest. It explained the carriage, at any rate, for he must plan to
sleep on the road. But all the same, what was so urgent that he
should be leaving now at all?

“Are you certain that it is Andrew's
carriage?” she asked. Her teeth were clenched with cold, despite
her wearing St. James' heavy coat, and her legs had gone quite
numb.

“Yes. It must be Earl Larrimer for the
Dowager has her own coach and I can't imagine Lady Lydia being
about this late.” Bertie's voice was thoughtful as well as
perplexed and Lizzie turned to look at him.

In sudden fear, she asked, “Oh, Bertie! You
don't think that St. James has been—?”

He placed a hand on her arm. “No. And be
quiet. Someone is approaching.”

She quieted, fretting. Bertie continued in a
low voice even as his eyes remained focused on the mouth of the
mew. “It is not St. James Andrew is going to. He would have had to
get word and no one has ridden in, for we would have seen
them.”

“Yes. Of course.” Miss Murdock said,
relieved. Then, as she too studied the entrance to the mew, said,
“Someone is there. But I can not tell if it is Steven.”

“Nor can I as of yet. Stay still until we
know for certain.”

The figure at the mouth of the mew hesitated.
He was as slight as Steven, but this figure's stance was different.
The shoulders sagged, suggesting someone older, and his head was
down, in sharp contrast to the audacious adolescent that Miss
Murdock had come to know. The figure started forward, his arms
clutched about his thin body in an attempt to warm himself, and
Miss Murdock wished that he would raise his head so that the street
lamp at the corner might catch his features.

Bertie's hand was still on her arm, steadying
her, but when the slight figure stopped just below her bedchamber
window, looking up, and made as if to make his climb once again,
her doubts vanished. It was Steven.

She pulled from Lord Tempton's grasp,
stumbled forward, heart beating fast, and called to him. Even then
she was afraid he would flee. “Steven! It's Miss Murdock. We have
been awaiting you.”

He whirled at her hushed voice, located her
in the darkness. In unexpected fervor he ran forward and threw
himself into her arms. A great hiccupping sob escaped him.

Miss Murdock held him anchored to her,
feeling his shoulders shake, and soothed him as best she could.
Lord Tempton arrived out of the bushes beside her and she gave him
a grateful look over Steven's head that he had allowed her to test
her theory that Steven may return to her window a third night in
search of her and of comfort.

“We have been so worried for you,” she told
the crying boy. “I should have never left you alone.”

He sniffled into the shoulder of St. James'
coat that she wore. “You left me t'go t'him,” he said, and she
could not tell whether he was accusing her or merely stating a
fact.

She pulled back from him so that she could
see his face, but she held his shoulders so that he could not bolt.
“Yes, I did, Steven, for he was in a very bad way.”

He put a child's dirty hand to his face, gave
a harsh wipe down across it in a gesture of a full-grown man very
much ashamed of his tears. “Coo, I know's it, Miss. And if he had
died, t'woulda been me fault, for I left him when they needed me. I
been too shamed t'go to me ma, an' tell her I seen me da die, and
was t'reason St. James killed him. An' too shamed t'go to St.
James, for 'bandonin' him when he were 'bout to die.”

“Oh,” Miss Murdock exclaimed. “You can not
feel that way, Steven! For you were doing your very best to help
his lordship and had no way of knowing that your father was
involved in this! And St. James has been very grieved to learn that
it was your father, and beside himself with worry for you. And what
of your mother? She does not know what happened to your father, and
now does not know what has happened to you either, and she must be
sick with the worry and her fears. Oh, Steven, now that you are
here, we must let everyone know that you are safe, and indeed, I am
so glad that you are.”

Steven blinked and she hugged him to her
again, but he did not cry any longer, only told her on her
shoulder, “Me mother knows now, Miss, that me da is dead and that
St. James killed 'im.”

“How do you know that, Steven?” Miss Murdock
asked with surprise.

“I seen 'im meet with her tonight. He told
her 'n all.”

And Miss Murdock let out an exclamation as
she held the boy back away from her again, but before she could
question him further, Lord Tempton laid his hand upon her shoulder
and told her, “We can't just stand here and talk, Miss Murdock. You
two are already making enough noise to bring the whole household
down upon our ears!”

She said, “Yes, of course you are right,
Bertie. But whatever shall we do with him now that we have him?”
And when her eyes met Lord Tempton's over Steven's head, she
realized that they were in a fix indeed. She could not possibly go
to St. James' home and force his already strained valet into hiding
her in milord's bedchambers once again. It had been a small miracle
that she had not been discovered before, and she could not think
that particular ruse would work for any further length of time.
Neither, she admitted, was she looking forward to the certain wrath
of her new fiancé when he found that she and Lord Tempton had gone
contrary to his orders.

The expression in Bertie's eyes seemed to
confirm her fear on that point.

“You can't stay here at the Duchess's, Miss
Murdock,” he told her, as though having already discarded the idea
of her going to St. James out of hand as complete and thorough
lunacy.

“And well I know it, since I am supposed to
be at my father's and would have a good deal of explaining to do as
to where I have been for the past twenty-four hours if neither
there nor here.”

“I'd take you to my home, but—”

She made a little motion with one hand,
releasing Steven's patient shoulder as she did so. “No. No, of
course not. The last thing we need to do is involve another
household and risk another score of servants discovering me. That
is hardly any better than going to St. James.”

“I could take you to your home in
Chestershire,” Bertie said with a brightening look. “St. James need
never know that you weren't there quite as promptly as he
expected.”

“But whatever shall we do with Steven?” Miss
Murdock countered. “I can not haul him up there with me and leave
his poor mother to continue worrying about him. Let alone St.
James.”