James had every reason to hate this man, but for once logic deserted him. His best friend’s life blood spilled out, and a deep sadness filled his heart. There was nothing he could do. He squeezed Marcus’s hand in return. “Friends.”
Marcus smiled then, the first warm smile Locke had seen on his face since he had returned to London. Then his head sagged to one side, and he was dead.
Locke closed his eyes and sat for a moment, waiting for the pain of abandonment. But it never came. Marcus had chosen this time to die, just as Locke had chosen to live. He gently lowered Marcus’s head to the floor, then struggled to stand. The guards could come back at any time. It was best to go.
He mentally accessed his situation. He could walk, but not without a stagger. If someone were to see him, perhaps they would think he had enjoyed the party a bit too much. However, the ripped shirt and bloody stripes on his back would disavow that misapprehension. His frock coat was tossed across the table where the torture devices were proudly displayed. His torturers hadn’t wanted that layer of fabric to dull the bite of the whip.
He pushed himself from the wall in the direction of the table and retrieved his coat. That’s when he spied the decanter of brandy, apparently the preferred beverage given the entertainment. He took off a swatch from the back of his ripped shirt, moistened it with the liquid, and swabbed his face. The alcohol burned his tender skin, but the effort removed the streaks of blood that would have marked him in the crowd. As an afterthought he sprinkled more of the liquid on his back, cringing under the resulting burn. He braced his hands on the table until the pain began to subside. The unmistakable scent of brandy would help his illusion, while the alcohol might help with the wounds. He spied Marcus’s silk cravat tossed over a top hat on a chair and made his way toward it. He tied the creamy silk loosely around his neck and stuffed the ends down the front of his coat. Pickering would be displeased with the poor effort, but Pickering be damned. It masked the rips and blood splatters on his shirt. The poorly tied cravat should add to his sodden masquerade, and Pickering would shortly be shown the door.
He searched Marcus’s pockets. Finding a handkerchief, he sprinkled that with brandy as well. Finally, he placed the top hat on his head, angling it to throw his swollen eye into shadow. If needed, he could pretend to mop his forehead, or dab at his eye, to hide the more serious injuries. Of course, the added alcohol fumes might dissuade one from examining him too closely as well.
In spite of his pain and vast fatigue, Locke pasted a silly grin on his face and left the room hidden deep beneath the estate. He wandered into the hallway, acting in the fashion of a drunken, lost party guest.
The ruse held as he passed two guards, especially when he asked them for the whereabouts of the brandy. He nearly fainted when one of the men patted him on the back in an attempt to guide him to the stairway that would lead him upstairs. He paused for a breath at the top of a steep flight of steps. The orchestra music was much louder, and he hoped he had found the main floor. He was about to push forward toward the sound of the music when the door before him began to open. He ducked into the corner, letting the opened door shield him from sight, then watched through the crack as the ambassador, red faced and clearly angry, rushed past, followed by two of his henchman. As they disappeared down the hall and toward the steps, Locke slipped through the door to discover he had found the ballroom.
The gay music played and the couples swirled. Hopeful young ladies eagerly looked his way, while disapproving matrons quickly corralled them away. It didn’t matter, there was only one woman he wanted to see, and the path to her was clear. He staggered across the room, laughing to himself at odd intervals and carefully avoiding contact with any in his path. Each step was exhausting, as was maintaining the silly grin on his face. The temptation to collapse was overwhelming, but Lusinda waited in the moonlight, and that beckoned just beyond the terrace doors. Each step away from the crush of the party dulled a bit of the pain and brought his sole purpose sharply into focus: to find comfort, to find home, to find Lusinda.
Nineteen
WHERE WAS HE? DID HE MAKE IT OUT WITHOUT difficulty? Lusinda paced back and forth in the grass at the base of a hill beyond the formal gardens.
“I feel foolish standing out here alone. Can’t we leave yet?” Portia wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. “It’s cold out here.”
“Don’t I know it,” Lusinda mumbled under her breath. “I wish I hadn’t left my gown in the garden shed.”
“Sorry,” Portia said. “I forgot.” Her face twisted into a frown. She spoke in the direction that Lusinda had stood a few moments ago. “It’s easy to forget when one can’t see you.”
“I know,” Lusinda said. Portia whipped her head toward Lusinda’s current direction. Lusinda sighed.
How was it that Locke always seemed to know her exact placement, even when invisible? Her own family couldn’t do that. Even with one eye swollen shut, he had managed to unerringly kiss her cheek when other matters certainly demanded his attention.
She rubbed her arms and remembered his offer of the munisak to make her more comfortable while invisible. He never seemed to forget that invisibility required a lack of clothing. Nor did he forget to take advantage of it, a small inner voice added. She remembered that fateful ride in his brougham when he unbuttoned her coat to feel her invisible body. The memory brought a rush of heat that warmed her in a way her gown never would. Stop that! she scolded herself. When she left him, he was in no condition to initiate any of those kind of physical explorations. Besides, now that Ramsden knew of her invisible nature, she and her family would have to move once again. It would only cause pain to remember Locke’s touch.
But even if she and her family had to move, surely she would see Locke again. She had to see him again. If only to say good-bye.
Where was he?
“Didn’t you say the carriage was waiting nearby? Couldn’t I just take Locke’s brougham home and send the driver back?” Portia whined.
Lusinda was tempted to snap a rebuke but then remembered how brave her sister had been earlier in the evening when trussed up by those miscreants, and how her tender heart had been sorely used by that villainous Ramsden. Lusinda softened her tone.
“I know that you are cold and tired and anxious for a soft bed, Portia dear, but please be patient. Locke will be here shortly. You’ll see. He’ll need the comfort of the carriage more than the two of us combined.” That last made the constriction in her throat uncomfortably tight. Could he make it this far on his own? She had thought the hill would shield her from roving eyes or accidental contact, but perhaps Locke’s injuries warranted more risk on her part. “I’m just going to go to the top of the hill to see—”
He appeared. As if summoned by her very words, a pale face and a white shirt swayed at the hill’s crest. Lusinda raced barefoot up the slope, grateful she didn’t have skirts or corsets to hinder her progress. A cloud slipped over the moon, but she had absorbed so much moonlight waiting for him that she knew she wouldn’t phase. A disappointment, really, as she wished he could see her and know she was there.
“Sinda?” he said barely above a whisper as she drew near. He dragged his elegant dinner jacket behind him, exposing his back to the cool breeze.
“I’m here, my love.” She moved forward and slipped her arm under his. “Put your arm around me and I’ll assist you down the slope.”
He grinned, looking something like a drunken sot. “You called me love.”
“I suppose I did,” she said, scolding herself for the slip of the tongue. It would be hard enough on her poor heart when he left because their mission had ended, and now she had embarrassed herself by giving voice to her feelings. “You can lean on me for support. Let me show you where my shoulders are.”
“I know where you are,” he protested. “It’s my arms. They ache so from the ropes . . .”
She took the jacket from his hand, then tenderly lifted one arm and wrapped it around her shoulder. Careful to avoid the fresh wounds, she wrapped her arm about his waist. She heard his swift intake of breath. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. How could they do this to him?
He swayed and she realized how difficult it must be for him to even stand upright. “Portia, come quickly,” she called. “We need your help.”
“I only need you,” he said, soft and low. “Don’t leave me.”
“I won’t,” she promised, knowing it was a lie. She wasn’t safe now that Ramsden knew her secret. Locke was not the sort of man to follow. Of course, now that his mission had been completed, he’d have no more need of her. So they would part. Her chest cringed.
Portia trudged up the hill, holding her gown aloft and grumbling about the ruined state of her slippers and skirt. Her nose wrinkled as she approached. “Is he drunk? He smells awful.”
“Take his other arm and help support him,” Lusinda said, dismissing her sister’s criticisms. “Be careful, he was ill-used by the enemy.”
Using a glove-covered hand, Portia gingerly lifted his arm and ducked beneath it to rest across her bare shoulder. However, just as the skin of his arm touched hers, she gasped and began shaking.
“Portia, what is it?” Lusinda asked. “What’s wrong?”
“The pain . . .” she gasped, then screamed. “My arm, my back . . .”
“I can’t lift my arm . . .” Locke ground out between clenched teeth.
Not thoroughly understanding why, Lusinda pulled her sister out from beneath the weight of Locke’s shoulder. Portia collapsed to the ground, faint stripes resembling whip marks visible above the back of her gown. Lusinda watched, amazed, as the marks quickly faded before her eyes and then disappeared.
“What just happened?” She knelt down beside her sister. “Portia, are you all right?”
“My back was on fire,” she whimpered. “My shoulders ached as if my arms were pulled from their sockets, and my back burned . . . Is it all right?” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “Can you see? Am I scarred?”
You’re not the only one with special abilities
, her aunt had said. Lusinda looked with amazement at the smooth, unbroken skin of her sister’s back. Witnessing what had just occurred raised more questions in Lusinda’s mind than answers.
“Is she all right?” Locke asked, looking down at the two of them. “I don’t understand what happened, but the pain in my back and shoulders . . . it’s as if a magical salve has healed them.” He rolled the shoulder touched by Portia in demonstration. “Can it be?” He peered down at Portia. “Did you do this? If so, I’m most grateful.”
He extended an arm to help her rise, but Lusinda pushed it away. “I think it best if you don’t touch her right now.”
Portia’s eyes widened and her lip trembled.
“Your back is as beautiful as ever, Portia,” Lusinda reassured her. “Are you up to standing now? I’ll help you.” Knowing her sister couldn’t see her, Lusinda grasped Portia’s arms and gently tugged before offering full support. Portia rose and swayed a bit before finding her balance. She quickly grasped Lusinda’s arms before she could pull them away. Her eyes appeared half closed as if she might collapse again at any moment.
“I’m so tired,” she said. “What happened to me? Why did I feel that way?” Her eyes widened a bit, as if forced by a conscious will. “Does this happen to you, Lusinda? Am I like you?”
“I think your questions are best directed to Aunt Eugenia,” Lusinda said, helping her sister navigate the slope. Locke hovered on Portia’s other side, careful not to touch her but obviously flummoxed that he couldn’t assist. “She told me you had special talents, but she didn’t tell me what they were.”
“Me? She told you that? I . . . I thought I was the normal one.” Portia’s lip quivered, obviously shocked, but perhaps a bit pleased by that knowledge.
Poor child, Lusinda thought. She has no concept of what a curse “special talents” can truly be. She had sudden insight into Aunt Eugenia’s determination to keep the information hidden. “Let’s get you home,” she said. “Perhaps then we can get some answers.”
Portia nodded. Lusinda turned her attention to Locke. “How are you doing? Can you manage the hill alone?”
“I think so.” He glanced over to Portia. Lusinda noticed that even the swelling of his eye had reduced, leaving a ring of dark purple high on his cheek. He smiled at her sister. “Now that I’ve been touched by an angel.”
His grateful expression toward her sister released a twinge of discomfort in Lusinda. She had always been the object of Locke’s wonder and appreciation. Had Portia gained some of his affection as well? She glanced at her sister, but she seemed preoccupied with simply standing upright. It didn’t matter, she decided. They would be packed and gone before dawn. Locke would be free to call any woman “angel,” and she would have plenty of time to nurse her wounded heart.
He started down the hill before them, and she could see that, though the marks on his back were still visible and still pained her in what they signified, they were remarkably reduced. She wrapped an arm around her sister’s waist, and together they started down the hill.
Locke slipped away to collect the carriage, which pulled to a halt before the still invisible Lusinda and her barely awake sister. Fenwick immediately abandoned his high seat to assist Portia into the carriage. Poor Fenwick had done more than his share of hoisting bodies to and fro of late, she thought, though Portia was a mere featherweight to Locke’s sturdier frame. Lusinda carefully kept her distance and then discreetly climbed into the brougham once Fenwick stalked to the other side.
Portia lost consciousness as soon as she hit the squabs. Locke sat forward on the bench, keeping his back free of the cushions, yet careful not to touch either Lusinda or Portia.
Lusinda, not knowing how long before she would phase back to normal, retrieved the widow’s weeds from beneath the bench and pulled the dress around her.