Written on Your Skin (14 page)

The reaction encouraged her. Did he feel a twinge of pity for her? She pressed on. “And I react very badly to being held against my will. But I will endure it, if the end result is my mother’s safe return.”

“Well.” Still refusing to look at her, he drummed his fingers on his knee. “You may tell Ridland I made an attempt to win the secret from you. As for the rest, you and he will have to reach some sort of compromise.”

“What?” The carriage was slowing. As she followed his gaze, her stomach pitched. She recognized that dark, glowering house. He had brought her back to Ridland’s. “Wait!” He was gathering himself to open the door and descend. She reached out to grab his wrist. “You can’t leave me here.”

He looked from her hand to her face. “Why not? You’ve given me to understand how loathsome you find the thought of remaining with me.”

“Because—” Did she really wish to give away the secret of the traitor now? What would stop him from tossing her back to Ridland once he had the information he’d been tasked to retrieve? What would ensure her safety after she divulged it?

There was another tack she might try. The last one, the one that would lead to discussions she very much dreaded to have. “Sunset,” she said. “That was the promise you broke. For they didn’t come then.” She released him and sat back. “They didn’t come for two days.” How calm she sounded. But then, words meant nothing, so long as one didn’t allow oneself to feel their connection to the meaning they expressed. Hearing her own calmness made her feel calm.

In Hong Kong, the intensity of his dark-eyed regard had seduced her into idiocy; she had mistaken it for genuine interest in her. Now she knew better, and braced herself. “No,” he said, studying her. “I told you that I thought they would come for Collins at sunset. I didn’t guarantee it.”

This lawyerly hairsplitting nauseated her. “Fine. I confess that the details are vague to me now. Lost in what followed, I expect.”

He looked away again. His profile seemed grim and ungenerous, and as the silence drew on, his unwillingness to ask the natural question began to unnerve her. She had felt sick at the prospect of answering it, but this silence made her sicker: it underscored his determination to remain uninvolved, to return her to Ridland and be done with her. Did he not even wonder what had happened? She had saved his life! Was he not the slightest bit curious about what had happened to hers as a result?

“What is between you and Ridland?”

The question confused her. “What do you mean? There’s nothing between us.”

“Then you should have no objection to staying with him, should you?”

The door swung open and a servant raised a lamp to light the footman’s arrangement of the coach step. She thought of the plush rooms waiting for her above, and the roof that would remain empty now whenever she parted the curtains. Her thumb moved nervously across the edges of her nails. “Please,” she whispered. Trapped like a lamb awaiting slaughter, not even a chance of escape—her throat was closing. “Don’t send me back to him. I…” God above, it sounded as if she were begging. She could loathe him for this alone—for reducing her to groveling like a spineless child.

But it had an effect. Of course it did. Arrogant men liked it when one flattered their authority. With a terse motion, Ashmore waved off the footman and pulled shut the door. For a long, silent moment, they stared at each other.

And then he smiled. “You are a great deal cleverer than you let on, aren’t you?” When she rolled her eyes, he laughed. “No, really. What a fantastic little act you’ve worked out for yourself. How many men walk away thinking you can’t add two and two?”

Her temper snapped. This episode had not been at all amusing to her. “It’s no fault of mine if men don’t bother to look past a pretty face.”

“And you are very pretty,” he said solemnly. “But I see you need no reminder of that.”

He was mocking her, even now. “Do you know, I find myself wondering why I bothered to save you.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “I’ve wondered the same. Certainly your decision has borne some damned inconvenient fruit for me now.”

Exhaling in a rush, she glanced pointedly toward the door. “Open it, then.” At least she would not give him the pleasure of forcing her out of the vehicle. “I grow tired of your company.” But he made no move. Perhaps it had sounded too much like an order to him. She shifted impatiently; if he did not let her out immediately, she would crumple and do something utterly beneath her dignity. “I said, open it!”

“Perhaps…” He rubbed his mouth. “Perhaps, if you are willing to abide by my rules, you may stay with me until your mother is recovered.”

Relief swept through her. “Yes.” This gave her an opportunity. Anything but Ridland’s death trap. “What rules?”

Again his eyes flicked over her. “Any rules.” The smile he gave her blotted out her relief; it started out dark, and only grew blacker. “Any, Miss Masters, that I choose.”

Chapter Seven

Mina’s eyes opened on darkness. It took her a moment to realize where she was. Ashmore’s.

Slowly she sat up. The thick rose-patterned carpet swallowed noise; the double-paned windows shut out the sounds of the world. In such silence, she might well be the last person alive, some catastrophe having taken place outside without her knowledge. Locked up here, she would languish until her flesh rotted.

She drew a hitching breath. It was only the dark making her think these things. Some nights she could not sleep for it. She would lie awake remembering the time when Jane had slept on a cot at her bedside, and the memories would stir something in her that felt strangely like grief. Those nights had been so peaceful, so deeply restful, despite all her worries and frustrations. In comparison, the days and years since seemed like one long stretch of exhaustion. She had managed to do so much, but she’d never reacquired the art of sleeping alone. It was always a battle now.

She fumbled for the candle and matchbox at her bedside. There was a button around here to call the electricity; the shy blond maid had showed her this evening. But it would be difficult to find in the blackness.

As the wick caught, the shadows contracted. She sat studying them for a frozen minute. That one was from the little table. That one came from the pitcher atop the washstand.

An oblong patch of darkness spilled from behind the curtains. She squinted. There seemed to be no source for it. And it looked to be the shape of a man, standing very quietly, watching her.

Her heart thudded painfully in her throat. Waiting and wondering is always harder than knowing.

She lunged off the bed. Her fist swung into the curtain, and her knuckles cracked against the wall.

She shook her hand, trying to laugh at herself. But the sound emerged in a whisper, not reassuring at all. As she turned full circle, the candle summoned strange shapes to dance across the peach silk walls; the rosy blossoms on the brocade upholstery seemed to shiver. The room felt like the interior of a jewelry box, thick and smothering, designed to coddle her into immobility.

She went out into the sitting room, but pacing it afforded no pleasure; the thick nap of the carpet felt like quicksand, trying to suck her down. Ashmore said she was safe here. But how could he know to defend her against his own government? She would warn him, but she had no idea if he was trustworthy himself. Damn her instincts; he himself had cautioned her against trusting him. Although, in her experience, true villains did not advertise themselves.

In the corridor, the clock began to chime. The sound drew her to a stop. Somewhere, her mother also might be listening to a clock strike the hour. She closed her eyes and felt for the locket at her throat. It seemed as though her concentrated thoughts should be able to fly, out through the glass panes, across the darkened streets of Mayfair, over the emptied parkland, past all the dying lamps and the sluggish rivers, to her mother’s location. It seemed as if she should be able to sense Mama, and that Mama should be able to feel her concern as well. Hold on. I am coming for you. But what she sensed instead was the vastness of the world, and how distant was the sun, shining down on the other side of the globe.

Her eyes opened. In New York, it was also time to sleep, for children at any rate. Jane would be putting her daughter to bed, the lamplight filling that small bedroom with a cozy glow. Henry would be at the Tuxedo Club or Delmonico’s, dining on lobster and crab cakes. Mina was done with him; he had grown too demanding, constantly disappointed by her. But tonight, had she been in New York, she might have invited him to her bed anyway. Sleeping next to him, she did not feel afraid of the dark, only of herself.

The thought opened a weird sadness that made her feet itch. But there was nowhere to walk in these rooms. She held up her candle near the outer door. The keyhole looked to be a familiar type. In New York, she had hired a man to teach her to pick locks. It had been necessary to her peace of mind, after Hong Kong.

She carried the candle back to the dresser in her bedchamber, fumbling through the drawers until she found the hairpins she’d removed before bed. Taking up two, she returned to the anteroom, kneeling on the soft carpet. The lock’s interior mechanism was stiff and hardened with age, but Mr. Goodger had taught her well. She fancied the last chime was still echoing through the hallway when the latch clicked.

Slowly, her fingers crept up to the knob. The door swung open.

She laughed softly, pleased with herself. Of course, until she knew where Ashmore had stashed Tarbury, it would not profit her to escape. But what if Tarbury was somewhere down the hall? Unlike her, he would not have been wearing hairpins when caught.

If she found him, they could be gone from here within the hour. No need to deliberate about Ashmore’s character at all. They could amass their own force of men and rescue Mama themselves.

The thought electrified her. She blew out the candle.

Outside, the corridor was dark and cold, the hall rug chill beneath her bare feet. She found herself holding her breath as she sidled along the wall, testing knobs, discounting any rooms that were not secured.

The hall opened onto a broad balcony that followed the curve of the staircase down to the lobby. The space was flooded with moonlight from a glass dome two floors above, casting the statuary and walls in a cool, pale glow. She put her back to the wall and slid into the next wing, where the first doorknob rewarded her with a promising refusal to budge.

The tumbrels on this latch were better oiled. It took less than a minute to coax the lock open.

As she slipped inside, a strange scent overwhelmed her, sweet and cloying. The room looked to be an ordinary study, lined with books and framed maps, furnished with a few easy chairs, a couch, and a desk. That it had been locked made her curious enough to investigate the desk. A wedge of light fell through a slit in the curtains, illuminating the pens neatly arranged atop a blotter.

Slowly, she sank into the leather chair. The pens were ordered by size and thickness, longest to shortest, thickest to thinnest. A man who valued such trivial disciplines would certainly embrace the larger ones. Any rules that I choose. Such a man, she thought, would also take great care with his correspondence.

The uppermost drawer held nothing of interest: some strange metal instruments she did not recognize; a few scraps of paper, covered with mathematical equations; a heavy seal resembling the marking on Ashmore’s ring; and a newspaper clipping of an obituary for Mr. David Sheldrake, geographer.

In the deeper drawers, she found letters. She flipped through the first bundle quickly. Most were fawning solicitations of Ashmore’s time, with notations inked in the corners regarding the dates and substance of his replies. The second bunch held drafts of his own letters, and she paused when Ridland’s name popped out from one.

After twelve years of service under his direct supervision, I feel well qualified to caution you regarding his fitness for any position that necessitates adjudications of an ethical nature.

“Find anything interesting?” He spoke quietly from the opposite side of the room.

She dropped the letter. The moonlight coming in behind her blinded her to the subtleties of the darkness ahead; all she could see, when she squinted, were the outlines of the furniture.

“I asked you a question.”

She rubbed her chest, trying to soothe her pulse. Brazen it out. “Yes, I suppose so. I found out that you work directly for Joseph Ridland.”

A beat. “And that’s a concern for you, is it?”

She wished she could see him. Some peculiarity of his pronunciation—the laziness of his vowels, perhaps—suggested he was less than sober. “No.”

“Are you certain? Think carefully before you reply.”

She frowned into the darkness. He would not hurt her; he couldn’t afford to. There were people who knew she was with him, and they had charged him to care for her. But his voice unnerved her. Floating disembodied from the darkness, it had a presence of its own, dark and soft, like black velvet wrapped around a rough stone that could easily bash her skull in.

It comforted her to realize that the lighting would also render him blind to her expression. She only need worry about the composure of her voice. It sounded strong as she asked, “Should it concern me?”

A faint rustle came to her ears. His eyes appeared first, catching the moonlight, and then his square jaw, rendered in dramatic shades of charcoal and ivory. He had discarded his jacket and rolled his white shirtsleeves to the elbows; his waistcoat hung open, revealing his suspenders and the muscular breadth of his chest. He had changed his clothes since capturing her in Whitechapel. He had gone out after he locked her up, perhaps to a party, for his waistcoat and tie were white, in the formal style. He had caged her and abandoned her as though she were of no larger consequence than a bird.