Written on Your Skin (7 page)

But then, she had never viewed them from this particular window.

She shut the curtains and turned back to the writing desk. Ridland’s admission left her no choice. Her hopes now came down to trickery, and a very slim chance that a stranger remembered his debt to her. Whether he would be better than Ridland, she could not know. But it seemed likelier than not, and so her pen began to move.

Dear Jane,

I did receive your letter. Forgive the tardiness of my reply, and the shock I must deliver to you. I pray you, sit before continuing to read.

I will not be returning to New York as planned. In short, Mama has gone missing, and it seems probable that the artist of her disappearance is Gerard Collins.

I can only give you a brief account, for much remains unclear to me. Suffice it to say that on the eve of our planned return to New York, I came back from a meeting with the gentlemen at Whyllson’s to find our rooms in disarray, Mama gone without a trace. You can imagine my panic. The concierge summoned the police. Along with them arrived Mr. Joseph Ridland, a representative of one of Her Majesty’s darker arms of government. Forthwith I was packed off to his house on Park Lane, where I currently reside as his most unwilling guest.

It was Mr. Ridland who revealed that my stepfather has escaped from English custody. He feels certain that Mama is with Collins, although he seems undecided on the question of whether or not she has gone willingly. He believes they are still in England, though, and hopes that my continued presence here may serve to lure them from hiding. What a charming role for me!

Of course, my main concern is for Mama. Today, a very peculiar note arrived at the hotel for me, which Mr. Ridland was generous enough to share. It is Mama’s writing, but how oddly it reads! She says nothing of where she is or with whom she travels. She only sends her love, and reassures me that she leaves her welfare to Providence—and urges me, for her sake, to do the same, at the end.

I have puzzled in vain over this request. When I read it this morning, it seemed to me the sort of statement a captive might make to her loved one, when she finds herself in the custody of a man whom she knows to be capable of any manner of depravity. I read it and thought, “She is afraid that I will try to find her, and that he will hurt me for it.” But when I read it again tonight, it seemed to me, against my will, to be the advice of a moralist, lecturing me for my great betrayal, and chiding me to look to my soul and reform myself.

Is it terribly wrong that I am desperate to believe the former interpretation? Yes, it is, isn’t it? For that would mean that she is fearful in his presence, and that she suffers at every moment from thoughts of what he may do to her, or to me. Perhaps, then, I wish that Mama has gone with him willingly. But if this is the case, then all the hope and life that we worked to return to her during the last four years—and the courage she unearthed during those dreadful days in Hong Kong, and the admiration I came to feel for her in their aftermath—all must be counted for naught.

I cannot accept that. In fact, I will be very honest with you: I cannot accept it, for I know it to be false.

I wish above anything that I could share with you the source of my conviction. But you have a husband to care for, and a child to mother, and it seems to me that some knowledge is too dangerous for a woman entrusted with so much love. I promise you, though, that if you knew what I know, you would share my conviction that Collins holds her by force. And you would understand why I must take the course of action that I have designed.

I am signingpower of attorney over to you. The company is yours. Run it as you see fit, and it will flourish. Before Her Majesty’s lapdogs began to yip at me, I managed to secure the contract for the lavender. It has been sent along to New York. Have Cavanaugh draw up some advertisements that extol the vaunted superiority of English perfumery. Do try not to laugh too much in the process.

I apologize if this letter leaves you shaken. I would prefer not to have to write it, and I eagerly anticipate our happy reunion. In the meantime, I remain

Your ever-loving sister in spirit,

Mina

The next morning, when the maid brought breakfast, she handed over the letter. It did not take long for Ridland to appear.

On his previous visits, he had made the most of his gray hair and wrinkled cheeks, hobbling and gesturing with the aid of a cane. Today he strode in boldly, her crumpled note clutched in his upraised fist. “What interesting letters you write.”

He meant to scare her, of course. She jumped to her feet compliantly. “Sir, what a surprise! Did the maid mis-deliver my note? And I see you’ve forgotten your cane! Please do sit; you mustn’t overtax yourself.”

A vein along his temple throbbed into prominence. “We do not detain you for our own amusement, girl. Toy with me, and you will regret it.”

He had assured her, on the drive from Claridge’s, that she put him in mind of his granddaughters, and that he would not wish harm to a single hair on her head. But his solicitude had not been nearly as convincing as this tyrannical turn. “I cannot imagine why you’re so angry, sir.” She sank into her chair as if faint. “Won’t you take a seat? I promise I don’t mean to distress you.”

As he stared at her, she had the impression that he was rethinking his strategy. “I have explained to you,” he said more calmly, “how very critical it is that Gerard Collins be recovered. The Fenians have bombed Scotland Yard; do you doubt that your stepfather had a hand in it? He attempted to fund a war against this country, and every moment he remains free, we must anticipate a new disaster. If you still doubt it—”

“Oh, no, certainly not.” Men always claimed to have very good reasons for caging a woman in a cell. Routinely, all across the world, they convinced themselves of the necessity. “I have a clear view of Mr. Collins, I assure you.” He was a rabid mutt who wanted his bone back. Mama was nothing but a thing to him; her very independence challenged his manly authority, and therefore could not be tolerated. “But when I come to my own role in these events, my vision grows murkier.” She paused to bat her lashes. “Dr. Morris tells me I could benefit from spectacles, but I feel certain they would detract from the general effect of my eyes. What think you?”

He came forward to toss the balled-up letter into the butter dish. “I think you are funning me.”

He should not sound so smug. It had taken him four days to figure this out. “Do tell,” Mina said, feigning astonishment.

He spoke through his teeth. “Yes, Miss Masters, I will do. Despite your best efforts to act the flibbertigibbet, I think you could not run a company with so much success if your head were as empty as you pretend it to be.”

“How kind,” she said softly. Of course, he had it wrong; her feebleminded act had won over businessmen who never would have lent money to a woman who dared address them as equals. “I must admit, I have a great deal of help with my company.” Social climbers in particular had been glad to patronize a society beauty’s little project. “And it is a very small business, you know. Only hair tonics. And the occasional cream. Oh, also a few lotions—we are expanding our offerings this season—”

His hand slammed onto the table. A fork clattered from the platter to the table; the eggs quivered in anticipation of calamity. “Enough. You have managed to rile me. Victory is yours. But now you will tell me whether that letter”—he pointed toward the butter dish—“was a stunt, or whether you do in fact have information that interests me.”

She was still caught on his preposterous statement. “Victory is mine?” She ran a meditative finger around the rim of her cup. “No, Mr. Ridland, that does not ring true. So long as you keep me imprisoned here—”

“I like this no better than you,” he said harshly. “Oh, I promise you, Miss Masters, I very much dislike the role I’m charged to play. If there were another way—”

“But there is.” She tapped the rim of the cup twice, a decisive little conclusion to her featherheaded routine. “I will cooperate with the government gladly. I will take daily strolls through the park with a bull’s-eye painted on my parasol. But it would be so much a comfort if I were allowed to choose my captor. Why, I think my attitude would quite transform.”

Ridland rolled his eyes. “Mademoiselle, surely you do not expect us to simply leave you with one of your friends and trust that you will stay put.”

“Of course not,” she said in surprise. He really did think her an idiot, didn’t he? “In fact, there’s a man who I believe is in your employ who would suit the role very well.” Her teeth itched. She wanted to bite her knuckle. Ridland did not seem the sort of man who would look kindly on small weaknesses, so she stuck her hand beneath her skirts. “I had occasion to meet him in the Orient, shortly before my stepfather’s arrest. He went by the name of Phineas Monroe.”

Ridland’s face became so rigid that he looked like an effigy of himself. “No. That will not be possible.”

His strong reaction puzzled her. A horrible explanation presented itself. “Is he dead?”

His expression did not change. No, she decided, Monroe was still kicking. Something else accounted for this iciness. “I am not able to divulge such information. I am sorry, Miss Masters.”

She sighed. He wasn’t sorry at all. “So am I.” After all, Monroe was the only man in the service of the British government who she knew for certain had not worked for her stepfather four years ago.

Ridland was still staring at her. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Yes,” she said. “I think it is.”

His expression darkened. His hand on the back of the chair curled into a fist. Not promising, that. She rose to put distance between them, deciding on the fly to go to the bookshelf. She lifted her chin as she walked, the better to display the line of her neck, which a number of gentlemen had assured her put them in mind of a swan’s. Surely it would prove harder on the conscience to hurt a swan than a hedgehog, although she could use a few sharp quills right now, and the helpful capacity to curl into a bristling ball.

“I hope you will not force me to harsher measures, Miss Masters.”

She selected a volume at random. Harsher measures. Such terrible poetry in two words, such evocative power: a lightless, windowless room, thirst clawing at her throat, the air thickened with heat, her mother’s distant screams. If he thought to scare her, he was going to have to work harder; she rather thought she’d already seen the worst. “Yes,” she said, and took a seat at the window. “That would be unfortunate.”

The book was an atlas. How lovely. She could look at all the places Ridland wouldn’t allow her to go.

“I will return in an hour,” he said. “Consider your nails, Miss Masters. Do you like them? If you cooperate, you’ll be allowed to keep them.”

When the door slammed, she tossed down the book. Her hands were shaking. She pressed them together against her mouth. It struck her as a prayerful gesture. Maybe what she needed to do was pray. But God helped those who helped themselves; the past four years had proved that, at least. Now was not the time to begin to doubt her own ingenuity.

The floral pattern on the wallpaper seemed to ripple before her eyes. How stupid it had been to gamble on writing that letter. Now he would want secrets, and she had none she felt able to give him. I know of a traitor in your ranks, she might say, but if he happened to be the turncoat, such tidings would hardly gratify him. She had taken his measure now, and it seemed likely that her nails would not be the last thing she lost to him.

Open the curtain, she thought. Look again.

The prospect of finding an empty rooftop made her tremble.

Just do it. Wondering is harder than knowing.

Her eyes fell on the discarded book. And then she blinked, and focused on the print. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Providence. Providence, Cornwall, located very near to a place called Land’s End. Could that be a coincidence?

A sign. She wrenched the curtains open.

Nothing. A sob broke from her throat. And then, through the rising tears, she caught a brief stir of movement, and everything in her seized and lifted.

She pressed her nose flat to the glass, her fingers splayed against the cold pane. Mr. Tarbury crouched on the roof opposite, in the shadow of a chimney. The gray tomcat was preening beneath the stroke of his hand. Mr. Tarbury was a great admirer of cats; it took him a long, agonizing minute to look up and notice her. Then he tapped his chest and gestured in her direction.

Yes, she mouthed, nodding so energetically that she felt dizzy. It was very good to know that at least one gentleman existed who felt the need to consult with her before making decisions on her behalf. She stepped back as he came to his feet, hugging herself to keep the elation from bursting through her skin. Freedom.

Phin came awake, his eyes still closed. A stranger was in his room. His body wanted him to know it.

Air stirred by his cheek. “Good morning, dear.”

He lunged up, his hand clamping around a throat. The man stumbled back. His head slammed into the wall. Gray eyes. Hands lifted in surrender, rings glittering. “Pax,” the viscount croaked.

Christ. He’d done it again. His ears began to burn, but the irritation turned outward, staying his hand. Unexpected and disorderly entrances were Sanburne’s stock-in-trade; at university, he had once arranged to enter a lecture, late, in the escort of a rented llama. But they were not at Oxford anymore, and these boyish games grew tiring. “Pax?” His fingers tightened. “Let me consider it.”