The Queen's Necklace (16 page)

But now Luke had another problem. He could not see the ship, had no idea if the officers had launched a boat to rescue him. And while he had only a dim conception of the time already elapsed, he did not think he and the sailor could last very long in the deadly cold of the sea.

A great wave washed over his head. With immense and exhausting difficulty, Luke struggled with his burden back up to the surface. As his head broke through the water, he wondered how many more times he would be able to do it. Already, he felt as though iron weights had been attached to his arms and legs.

At last he heard a familiar voice. A moment later, a sleek dark head appeared in the sea beside him; a strong arm reached out to help him support the semiconscious sailor. With a vast sense of relief, Luke accepted this assistance.

“Raith, is this wise?” he could not resist saying.

“You must tell me. I am only following your heroic example. The ship has dropped anchor and they are lowering a longboat. It should be along soon to take us up.”

There was a muffled shouting carried on the wind, and Luke realized that he had somehow gotten turned around, and the ship was behind him.

With Raith to assist him, Luke was able to tow the sailor in the direction of the approaching longboat. After what seemed an eternity, he heard the rise and fall of oars. At length, the boat pulled alongside and all three men were dragged on board.

The Leveller immediately collapsed in the bottom of the boat, the victim of a violent bout of vomiting. Limp and exhausted, Luke allowed himself to be wrapped in a piece of canvas while raw spirits were poured down his throat. That accomplished, he could only watch helplessly as Raith continued to heave and contort his long body.

At last the painful retching subsided; Raith recovered enough to pull himself up into a sitting position.

“Seawater sits ill on the stomach,” said Luke with a sympathetic shudder. “But how did you manage to swallow enough to make yourself so amazingly sick?” Though very little had actually come up, by the violence of Raith's reaction he might have swallowed most of the Troit.

The boat hit a heavy swell and descended into the trough with a loud smack, washing oarsmen and passengers in foaming water. As the sea receded, Raith leaned back against one of the benches. “I am more accustomed to water that is still—not to the kind that swells up and slaps one in the face. I have never been in the sea before.” He made a deprecating gesture. “And though I am strong, I am hardly what you would call an excellent swimmer.”

Luke gazed at him with undisguised admiration. “Then what you did was remarkably brave.
I
had an arrogant confidence in my own ability to battle the waves, misplaced though it might be, but you—you're a hero! Allow me to shake your hand.”

Raith smiled faintly as their fingers touched. “You flatter me. I have to inform you that I was solely motivated by self-interest.” He closed his eyes, lay back against the bench. “It came to me, as I stood by the rail and watched you swim off, that death by water—particularly in an attempt to save a life—would serve to wash away a multitude of sins.”

Brakeburn Hall—Eighteen Hours' Journey from Hawkesbridge

9 Niviôse, 6538

I
t was a sharp day, with severe frosts and the wind blowing shrewdly. Snow had fallen during the night; in all the low places where the wind had gathered it, the road was buried two feet deep. It made slow going for the horses. Inside the black berlin, Lili wondered if she would ever reach home.

She glanced across at the opposite seat. Allora's eyes were closed and she snored softly, yet she remained very straight as to her posture, very precise as to the placement of her tiny feet—even dozing, she looked an entirely formidable old lady.

As if in answer to Lili's question, Allora's eyes fluttered open. “Patience, Lilliana.”

Lili sighed and shifted her position for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Did I disturb you? I beg your pardon. I don't even know why I feel so restless.”

The horses plodded on. The sun set in a blaze of crimson behind a wooded hill. Lili tried not to fidget; she closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her; her feet were all pins and needles.

At last the coach passed through the gates of Brakeburn, creaked down the long avenue of oaks to the house, and jolted to a stop at the foot of the granite block staircase. When the coachman opened the
door, Lili was out and halfway up the steps before she realized that her father was waiting for her at the top.

She dropped a dutiful curtsy. “Did you miss me, Papa?”

He did not answer her question, though he presented a grey-stubbled cheek for her to kiss. “You have company, Lili.”

Too tired to quiz him, she entered the house through the stone-flagged entry and moved on toward the parlor. She had lowered her hood and was in the process of stripping off her gloves when she came to a sudden stop on the threshold of the sitting-room, with one glove on and the other off.

There was a fire roaring in the great stone fireplace; spermaceti candles burned in the iron chandelier. All this Lili might have expected with visitors in the house. What she was
not
prepared to see was a stern little man, meticulously dressed in mouse-grey velvet and old lace, pacing the hardwood floor with a restless tread. His face was grim, his manner impatient; it was a moment before she recognized, in the immaculate stranger, her usually careless husband.

As he caught sight of Lili, Will bridled up. He crossed the room, made a stiff bow, imprinted the back of her ungloved hand with an icy kiss. “You might have written to tell me you were planning a journey.”

Lilliana was stunned, and then she was speechless. Will in the unfamiliar rôle of the injured husband was rather more than she was prepared to handle. And what was Wilrowan
doing
here, anyway, looking like a thundercloud?

“I suppose I might have, if I had any idea you cared to hear about it,” she finally admitted. “But—but how agreeable it is to see you, Will. Have you been here long?”

He bowed again, even more stiffly. His hair was tied back with a black velvet bow and he smelled of bay rum; he wore a tiny black satin patch high on one cheek. He was dressed like a man who had
come courting, but he never
had
dressed that way when he was reluctantly courting her.

“It is a pleasure for me also, madam. Though a pleasure long deferred. I have been here three days. Your father and I have not passed the time—amicably.”

Feeling weak in the knees, Lili sat down on an old oak settle next to the fireplace. She felt a bubble of laughter rise in her throat at the thought of Will and Lord Brakeburn forced to endure each other's company for three long days. “Will, I am most d-dreadfully sorry. It must have been simply un-unbearable for both of you.”

Slightly mollified, he unbent just a little. With punctilious courtesy, he moved a painted screen between Lili and the fire, sat down beside her on the hard oak seat. “Did you enjoy your visit?” he inquired politely. “Where did you go and who did you see? Your father neglected to tell me—or perhaps it was I who neglected to ask.”

Lili unfastened her cloak strings, wondering what had gotten into him. She had often heard of his volatile temperament, but had never seen him in a mood like this. “It's not worth telling about, really. Most of the time I spent nursing a sick man back to health.”

Inexplicably, Will went stiff again. “But how pleasant for the gentleman in question. I daresay he was in no particular hurry to recover, with so charming an attendant to see to his needs.”

So that's it
, thought Lili.
How can he possibly be so ridiculous?
“It is always worrisome when a man of seventy takes ill,” she answered primly, “but this was particularly serious.”

“Aaaah,” said Will, on a long breath. “It was an elderly gentleman?” Then he relaxed and was the Wilrowan she knew. “My poor Lili,” he said with a wry look, “do you never do anything more amusing than visit invalid old men?”

Lili thought about that before she answered. “Well—no. Not more
amusing
and not always particularly agreeable, but I do well enough.” And she wished she might tell him how very exciting her
journey had actually been—though mindful of Allora's warnings, she kept it all to herself. Really, he was so unpredictable, it was wise to be cautious.

“But you—I suppose you have been tolerably well amused in Hawkesbridge?”

“Tolerably well,” he admitted, with a sheepish grin. “I wonder you need to ask. No doubt your aunt has already acquainted you with all of my follies, all my transgressions.”

Lili sighed. Though living retired in the country, Allora maintained a wide correspondence; whatever gossip she heard about Will, she passed on to her great-niece. Lili studied Wilrowan's face, wondering if he had come all this way to tell her something—and how she would bear it if that something turned out to involve another woman.

“But we've both been away, you know. She'll be days sorting through all of her letters, she gets so many of them,” said Lili, trying to make light of it. “Perhaps you had better confess—whatever it is you've been doing—and save Allora the trouble.”

For a moment, it seemed he
would
tell her. He started to speak, then his eyes darkened, he shook his head, looked down at his feet. “What a vastly improper suggestion,” he said under his breath. “Tell you the whole of it—even the half of it? I'd cut a pretty figure, laying my sins in your lap.”

To her surprise, Lili experienced a pang of disappointment. But that was ridiculous. Could Will's confidences lessen the humiliation of his infidelities even a little? She sincerely doubted it.

Dinner that evening in the candle-lit dining hall was more than usually dreary, conducted as it was in a self-conscious hush, only occasionally broken by a little stilted conversation. For long minutes, the only sounds were the faint
tink-tink-tink
of silverware and the soft-footed steps of the servants as they circled the table. Lili was abstracted;
Lord Brakeburn and Allora were formal and distant. As for Wilrowan, he scarcely touched anything but the soup, the mutton, and the red wine.

He was wondering what he was even doing there. He had come to Brakeburn with some vague idea of unburdening himself, of explaining about the duel, Macquay, Eulalie—

He scowled at Lili, seated on the other side of the table, divided from him by a wide expanse of damask table-cloth, flint glass, and rose-pattern china. She had stopped eating, was listening to something Allora was saying in a low voice, excluding the men. Lili smiled, shook her head. She had changed into a gown of russet silk and a shawl of black spider lace; despite her long day of travel, she looked cool, unruffled, serene. What a villain he would have to be, what a dog, to shatter that serenity with his sordid confessions.

When the ladies withdrew, Will did not linger over the port. He made his excuses to Lord Brakeburn, escaped from the dining room, and went for a walk in the frosty gardens. There he walked for about an hour, in the company of the leafless trees and the winter stars, until the thought of Lili waiting for him in the bedroom above warmed his blood and drew him back into the house.

Let it not be another night of sweet condescension, of ladylike submission
, he thought as he climbed the stairs.

But she was sitting up reading in bed when he arrived in her bedchamber, and Will felt a familiar chill as he entered the room.

Lili's four-poster bed was a veritable icon of respectability, with its immaculate linens, snowy counterpane, and the numerous horsehair bolsters and feather pillows that surrounded and supported her. Lili herself looked as chaste as ice, in a voluminous white nightgown discreetly trimmed with ribbons and lace.

The big four-poster could never be mistaken for anything but what it was: the Marriage Bed, hallowed by custom, sanctified with the cleanly scents of lavender and orange-flower water, where Lili
enacted her wifely duties and Will was obliged to bridle his unbridled passions. It could never be the scene of wild, unrestrained lovemaking—or could it?

Shrugging out of his coat and tossing it on a chair by the door, Will cleared his throat. Lili glanced up from her book. “I hope,” he said, “you are not too tired for company this evening?”

“Of course not.” Her smile was warm and friendly as he sat down beside her, but by no means inviting.

He felt a vein begin to pulse in his throat. “What are you reading?”

“It is only Mandeville. I daresay you had enough of him at the university.” Lili closed the book and put it aside, and Will—more to fill the suddenly awkward silence than because he was really curious—picked it up.

He examined the cover. It was bound in shark-skin and fastened with a clasp of polished fishbone. Finding no title, he unfastened the clasp and opened the book to a place at random. With a start of recognition, he found himself staring at a familiar paragraph. “But this isn't
Mandeville's Encyclopaedia of the Whole World
, it's his
Philosophy of Magic
—much more rare and exceedingly difficult.” He glanced up at Lili, genuinely surprised. “I would never have guessed you would be interested.”

Lili twitched an eyebrow. “Have you read it, then? Now I am the one who must admit to being surprised.”

He closed the cover, put the book firmly aside. “I have read it, yes. Studied it most carefully, I should say. Dash it, Lili, I didn't spend the
whole
of my time at Malachim College on misbehavior.”

Her chestnut curls were slightly damp after her bath, and she smelled faintly of soap. A delicate color came and went in her cheeks. She had never seemed more desirable.

“You look amazing. I can't think what has kept me in Hawkesbridge all of these months.”

Lili smiled at him quizzically. “That was very prettily said. Really, Wilrowan, you've become so gallant, I can't help wondering if there is something you want from me.”