“W
HEN
I
WAS
about your age, I found myself in a situation that is not unlike the one in which you are tonight.” Stoner poured more of the fragrant tea into the tiny cups. “I was alone and on my own. I eked out a living in the gaming hells. Occasionally I resorted to cheating when I could not pay my rent. I was rather good at it.”
“Cheating at cards?”
Stoner shrugged. “What can I say? It’s a talent. But cheating at cards is extremely risky work. Back in those days it was not anything out of the ordinary for men to conduct duels at dawn over a disputed hand of whist.”
“My grandfather used to tell me that. I believe there was a saying, ‘Pistols for two, breakfast for one.’”
Stoner smiled reminiscently. “The world was a different place in those days. The queen, God bless her, had not yet come to the throne. Waterloo was still an all-too-recent memory, and ladies’ gowns were a good deal more revealing and more charming than the current fashions.”
“More revealing?” Ambrose asked, greatly interested now.
“Never mind.” Stoner cleared his throat. “In any event, my future looked extremely unpromising until I chanced to encounter a gentleman who was a master of a secret society founded on the principles of an ancient philosophy that included arcane fighting arts and certain meditation exercises.”
Curiosity flickered in Ambrose. “Who taught him such strange things?”
“He learned them from a group of monks who lived on a remote island in the Far East. I will not bore you with all of the details. Suffice it to say that the gentleman offered me the opportunity to travel to the island to study the philosophy and the fighting arts taught by the monks.”
“Did you go?”
“Yes,” Stoner said. “I spent nearly five years studying in the Garden Temples of Vanzagara. Afterward I set out to see something of the world. Egypt, America, the South Seas. I was gone from England a very long time. When I returned I discovered that much had changed.”
“In addition to the fashions in ladies’ gowns, do you mean?”
“Yes.” A melancholy mood seemed to have descended upon Stoner.
There was a faraway expression in his eyes. “I learned that no one cared much about the arts of Vanza anymore.”
“What of the gentleman who arranged for you to travel to the island?”
“I have no doubt that he and perhaps some of the others who had studied Vanza in their younger days kept the Society’s secrets and very likely taught the way of the Circle to their sons. But their heirs considered themselves men of the modern age. They had no patience for secret societies and the like.”
“Is it still possible to travel to Vanzagara to study in the Garden Temples?”
Stoner shook his head. “Twenty years ago the island was destroyed by an earthquake. The monastery where I learned the arts vanished forever.”
For some inexplicable reason, Ambrose felt a crushing and utterly incomprehensible sense of disappointment.
“Unfortunate,” he said, not knowing why he said it. What did he care about the monks or their lost philosophy? He, too, was a man of the modern era.
“When I returned to England five years ago, I realized that I had no place here,” Stoner continued.
“Why was that?”
“Perhaps I was gone too long. Or maybe I was simply left behind when the rest of the world moved forward. Whatever the case, I have only my books, my research and my writing to occupy me these days.”
Silence fell. Ambrose was uncomfortable with the wave of sympathy that washed through him.
Get ahold of yourself, man. Stoner just knocked
you flat and now he has you tied to a chair. He will likely turn you over to the constables when he has finished spinning his old man’s tales. There is no call to feel the least bit sorry for him.
“Is it difficult to learn the ways of Vanza?” he heard himself ask.
Stoner considered that briefly. “It certainly requires some degree of natural talent to master the fighting arts. But anyone who can climb the side of a house the way you did tonight could manage the techniques quite nicely, I should think.”
“Huh.” Ambrose drank more of the fragrant tea and thought about how useful the arts of Vanza would be in his profession.
“The thing is,” Stoner said gently, “the fighting skills are only one aspect of Vanza. The least important, in truth.”
“No offense, sir, but I’m not inclined to believe that. Not after the way you dealt with me a short time ago.”
Stoner smiled. “At the heart of true Vanza lies self-control. A master of Vanza is first and foremost a master of his own passions. In addition, he learns to look beneath the surface and consider all factors of a situation before he acts.”
Ambrose thought about that. He decided that he liked the notion of being a master of something, even if it was just his own passions. And learning to look beneath the surface sounded like a useful skill.
There was another round of silence.
Ambrose shifted a little in his chair, testing the cords that bound his ankles and wrist. Nothing gave.
“What will you do now?” he asked after a while. “Hand me over to the police?”
“No, I don’t think I’ll do that,” Stoner said.
Hope flared. “If you set me free, sir, I give you my oath that you will never see me again.”
Stoner ignored that. He contemplated Ambrose for a while longer.
“As far as I am aware, I am the last Master of Vanza left in England, perhaps in the world,” he said finally.
“That must be a very strange sensation.”
“It is. Tonight when I watched you climb the side of my house it occurred to me that perhaps I might take on a student.”
Ambrose sat very still.
“Me?”
“I think you would make an excellent pupil.”
Ambrose could feel the electricity flashing across his nerves. It was the same sensation he had gotten the night he left his father’s house, carrying only what fit into his pack, the unmistakable knowledge that his whole life was about to change.
“There’s something you should know, sir.” He picked his words very carefully. “I’ve got what you might call a business associate.”
“The young man keeping watch across the street?”
Ambrose was dumbfounded. “You saw him, too?”
“Of course. The two of you are remarkably clever, but you both lack the wisdom that only time and proper instruction can provide.”
“The thing is, I couldn’t abandon my associate to go into training with you.” Ambrose shrugged. “We’re friends.”
Stoner nodded in an agreeable manner. “I don’t see why I cannot take on two students. It is not as though I have anything else of great importance to occupy my time.”
H
e stopped in front of Concordia’s door the next morning and listened closely. There was no sound of movement inside. She was still asleep.
That was good, he assured himself, walking quickly to the stairs. She needed her rest after the late-night activities in the library.
But what if she wasn’t asleep? What if she was huddled in her room, sobbing silently, regretting what had happened between them?
No, Concordia wouldn’t hide from him, regardless of how she felt about matters this morning. She was the sort of woman who faced things squarely and moved forward.
He, on the other hand, was not feeling nearly so brave. The sharp fangs of troubled second thoughts had been gnawing at him ever since he had awakened.
He’d been a fool.
Dante and Beatrice bounded up the staircase to meet him halfway. He paused to scratch their ears.
What the devil had he been thinking to tell Concordia so much about his past? he wondered. He had kept his secrets for more than two decades. The only other people who knew or had guessed most of the truth about his past were John Stoner and Felix Denver.
What had made him throw caution to the winds last night?
He continued down the stairs, the dogs at his heels.
He could not blame it on the fires of passion. He’d experienced that condition often enough to know that it did not make him inclined to confide. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had always been especially careful not to let down his guard when he was with a woman.
It was the shock of seeing that old newspaper, he decided. That was what had made him careless.
No, couldn’t blame it on that, either. He reached the foot of the staircase and went toward the library. He was generally quite adept when it came to dealing with startling incidents.
He paused just inside the library, struck by the fierceness of the emotion that swept over him. All of the heat and intensity of last night’s encounter came back in a great rush. He had never wanted any woman as much as he had wanted Concordia last night.
Footsteps pattered on the staircase. Phoebe, Hannah, Edwina and Theodora were on their way downstairs to breakfast. He was not looking forward to facing Concordia’s valiant guardians this morning. He could only hope that they had remained fast asleep in their beds while he was making love to their teacher.
Making love.
The words jarred and jangled and then settled quietly into place. He had
made love
to Concordia.
He crossed the room to the table where he had left Cuthbert’s journal and picked up the small leather-bound book.
“Good morning, Mr. Wells,” Edwina said very formally from the doorway. “May we come in? We wish to have a word with you.”
He looked up from the journal. Edwina was not alone. Theodora, Phoebe and Hannah were clustered behind her. There was a solemn, determined look on each young face.
So much for hoping that they had remained blissfully unaware of what had occurred in the library last night.
“Good day to you, ladies.” He closed the journal. “What can I do for you?”
“We want to talk to you about Miss Glade,” Phoebe announced, typically direct.
From somewhere deep in the recesses of his ancestral memory he dredged up the motto that had been drilled into him by his father and grandfather.
When cornered, the first rule is to never admit guilt.
“I see,” he said neutrally.
Theodora took the lead, moving farther into the room. “We saw her coming up the stairs very late last night. She was in a condition that can only be described as dishabille, sir.”
Rule Number Two: Redirect the blame back onto the accuser.
“Did you?” He raised his brows. “I’m surprised that you all look so fresh and rested this morning, given that you were awake and spying on your teacher at such a late hour.”
“We weren’t spying,” Hannah said quickly. “We just happened to see her on the stairs.”
“Because Dante came to my room and scratched on the door,” Phoebe explained. “When I got up to let him in, I heard Miss Glade coming up the staircase.”
“Phoebe woke the rest of us,” Edwina concluded.
He nodded. “That explains how you all just happened to be hovering on the landing when Miss Glade retired to her bed.”
They exchanged uneasy glances.
“The thing is,” Edwina said very solemnly, “her hair was down.”
“Just like Lucinda Rosewood’s in
The Rose and the Thorns,
” Hannah added. “After she came in from the garden with Mr. Thorne. That was where Mr. Thorne ravished her, you see.”
Ambrose nodded. “In the garden.”
“And then he abandoned her,” Hannah said sadly. “Remember? I told you that part the other morning at the breakfast table.”
“I believe you also mentioned that you had only been able to complete half the novel,” he said. “Have you had an opportunity to finish it yet?”
“Well, no,” Hannah admitted. “But it is quite obvious that it will end badly for Lucinda Rosewood. The thing is, we do not want Miss Glade to be ruined in the same way.”
Edwina drew herself up very straight. “Under the circumstances, Mr. Wells, we feel quite strongly that you must ask Miss Glade to marry you.”
“I see,” he said again.
They watched him with expressions of anxious anticipation.
It was Concordia who broke the tautly stretched silence.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said briskly from the doorway. “What is everyone doing here in the library? It’s time for breakfast.”
Startled, all four girls swung around very quickly to face her.
“Good morning, Miss Glade,” Edwina got out in a little rush. “We were on our way to the breakfast room.”
“We happened to notice that Mr. Wells was in here and we stopped to say good day to him,” Phoebe said.
Theodora gave Concordia an overly bright smile. “Mr. Wells was just telling us some of the history of the artifacts in the cabinet on the balcony.”
“That’s right,” Hannah said. “Very educational.”
“Indeed?” Concordia smiled. “How nice of him.”
“In point of fact,” Ambrose said coolly, “we were not discussing ancient artifacts.”
“You weren’t?” Concordia was starting to look bewildered.
“Your charming pupils cornered me here this morning to inform me that, under the circumstances, they feel that I am honor bound to propose marriage to you, Miss Glade.”
Concordia’s mouth dropped open. She turned very pink. Her hand closed forcibly around the door frame as though to steady herself.
“Marriage?” she got out in a hoarse little whisper. Clearly horrified, she glowered at the four girls. “You have been discussing
marriage
with Mr. Wells?”
“We had no choice,” Hannah said, straightening her shoulders. “We saw you on the stairs last night, Miss Glade.”
“Your hair was down,” Phoebe added.
“It appeared that you had been ravished,” Theodora said. “So, naturally, we told Mr. Wells that he must marry you.”
“That is what a gentleman is supposed to do if he ravishes a lady,” Edwina explained. “But sometimes the gentleman doesn’t do the right thing and then the lady is ruined forever.
“We don’t want that to happen to you,” Edwina concluded.
Concordia turned her stricken gaze on Ambrose.
He got a sinking sensation.
“I was just about to explain to the young ladies that ours is not a conventional situation,” he said quietly. “I was going to remind them that you are a modern, unconventional woman who does not feel obligated to follow the old-fashioned, straitlaced rules that Society dictates for women.”