Читать книгу Dangerous Games - Charlotte Mede - Страница 11

The applause, a reverberating clap of thunder, rumbled and rolled through the Haymarket Theatre, the audience demonstrating its delight with The Road to Ruin, a farce that had most of London buzzing.

As the lights rose for the first interval, Lilly leaned back in the plush velvet seat of Isambard Kingdom Bellamy’s private box, going through the motions of clapping, her hands cold in black lace evening gloves. She observed Bellamy’s profile discreetly, the retreating hairline and the bold nose set above narrowed lips and full mustache. A handsome countenance all in all, she convinced herself as he met her gaze with a generous smile.

“Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” he asked, once the thunder had subsided and the audience was beginning to shift from their seats to the splendid atrium offering champagne and ices and juicy tidbits of gossip. He took in her dark green satin dress with its flounced skirt and demure lace-trimmed neckline as befitted one in the late stages of mourning. Bellamy patted her hand approvingly, his touch dry and impartial.

“Wonderful play,” she murmured. “And Sarah Woolgar’s talents are quite remarkable.” She had not been able to keep her attention on the farce, her own personal drama intruding—the searing memory of a man and a woman and a diamond playing before her eyes on center stage. She’d imagined it all, or so she wanted to believe. And yet when she’d returned to her townhome on Mayfair early that morning, her small pistol was gone as promised. St. Martin had been in her private rooms, finding the weapon secreted away up the fireplace flue. The knowledge of a stranger rifling through her personal things was beyond belief, and she shivered, despite the layers of crinolines and chemises insulating her.

She wanted to forget that sharply planed face, haggard and austere, and that tall, tightly coiled body whose imprint still burned against her skin. There had been the touch of demon in his stealthy menace, a trace of night and saltpeter. St. Martin had looked as though he’d been to hell and back—and eager to take her with him.

She unclenched her jaw. It was ludicrous. He had no proof—even with the pistol supposedly in his possession. And there would be no more opportune encounters, as she had already instructed her servants not to answer the door this evening or the next. It was simply a matter of avoiding the man and his strange intensity that, if she was entirely honest with herself, pointed to an unstable and eccentric character. He was hardly reliable, as Seabourne had described him, a man whose reason had become undone.

Lilly straightened a flounce on her voluminous skirts, wondering just who was the unstable one. She didn’t want to remember those moments trapped in his arms. And, in particular, she didn’t want to remember her response to his mouth on hers.

Although her hands were cold, the air around her seemed stifling. Suddenly eager to leave the privacy of the box, she made to rise, the wide hem of her skirt impeding her progress. “I am quite parched,” she murmured by way of excuse to Bellamy. “A lovely, cool ice would do nicely.”

Bellamy rose in tandem, disentangling her skirt from the curved legs of the settee. “I shall have it brought immediately.” He was all solicitousness, a gleaming host in his dove gray evening coat. Ruby cuff links shimmered against the pristine white of his shirtsleeves as he gently but definitively motioned her back into her seat. He gestured to the major domo who stood behind them in the shadows, the young man disappearing an instant later.

“Thank you. You are too kind, Mr. Bellamy,” she said, hiding her eagerness to quit the small space. “Truly, you do too much.” From the carriage that had collected her from Mayfair to the best loggia in the theater, her companion had set about charming her with a businesslike ferocity that was his calling card.

He beamed, his ruddy face almost the same crimson shade of the red velvet that draped the private box. “My dear, all of what I have is nothing unless I have someone to share it with. And I must apologize again for not keeping our rendezvous yesterday evening at the Tower. Inexcusable on my part, but certain business dealings had to be attended to. I so much wanted to show you the Koh-I-Noor myself, given that our offices had it transported from India.”

“You must be very proud,” she said, her mind reluctantly returning to the Tower room.

“Indeed. The Koh-I-Noor left the shores of India on board the HMS Medea,” Bellamy supplied, his barrel chest puffed with pride. “So shrouded in mystery was its departure that even the captain of the Medea did not know the precious cargo his ship carried. I ensured every possible security.”

“Quite the responsibility, the British East India Company taking on the duty for such an important undertaking.”

“All the more reason that I wanted to show the diamond to you personally. Before the hordes have their chance at the opening of the Crystal Palace.” He paused. “And I believed, if you’ll forgive me, that the venue last evening would provide us with a somewhat more personal, even, dare I say, romantic backdrop.” He took a deep breath, the buttons on his waistcoat straining, waiting for her response.

For some reason that she didn’t care to analyze, Lilly wished to change the subject, and so kept her expression deliberately vague, allowing his opening to slide by. A shrewd man, Bellamy let out a sigh, detecting her unease. “But enough of that for now. And by the by, you must call me King, what with all the time we’ve already spent together. Not to mention the good relations that I shared with your late husband, Charles.”

Appraising him over the playbill in her hand, she decided that Isambard Kingdom Bellamy reminded her of the overstuffed, taxidermied bears that she’d seen in the collection of the Royal Geographic Society. Formidable and dangerous if awakened. Which was precisely what she needed. He had helped Charles in the past and now he would keep her own troubles at bay. “No apologies necessary, King,” she said in a light voice. “We shall have another opportunity to view the gem together I’m certain.” She sat back in her seat. Although he had made no move to come closer or to touch her again, she felt that they were sharing the same, all too intimate, breath.

Her response was irrational, irritating. She needed to defuse her tension by trying to focus on something else. “I adore this theater,” she said, her gaze sweeping admiringly from the lofty ceiling with its sparkling chandeliers to the picture frame proscenium. “John Nash is one of my favorite architects, and I never fail to appreciate how he designed this area so that the front Corinthian portico can be seen from St. James Square.”

Bellamy patted her hand and this time she almost flinched. “In any other woman less beautiful, such learning and preoccupation would render her a bluestocking. Of course, I understand your love of architecture comes from your association with your late husband, no doubt. He often shared with me the details of the various projects that required his prodigious and, might I say, passionate attention.”

No doubt. Lilly pretended to concentrate on the coved ceiling with its classically strict lines rather than dwell on Charles and his passions a moment longer. Then laughing lightly and deliberately, she said, “I’m hardly beautiful, Mr. Bellamy—I meant to say, King,” she hastily corrected herself. “And given your association with my late husband, I hope you don’t feel compelled or obligated to spend time with me.”

His brows raised in surprise. “Compelled? Obligated? My dear, I am most eager to extend any protection I can, given your situation,” he continued diplomatically.

Protection. She looked away from Bellamy and over the balcony to see the last of the theatergoers filing from their seats, reassured that she had not glimpsed an errant inspector in their midst. She was jittery these days, a strange pattern of anxiety creeping into her mind and possessing it like a noisome disease. She would do anything to make it stop, to halt the guilt, to expiate her sins and do penance for her monstrous transgression. The monies from the Crystal Palace commission would be given to charity, and she would invest every ounce of her talent into ensuring the final design would honor the queen and her country.

Her eyes darted into the corners of the now-empty hall, looking for something that she could not see. Momentarily relieved, she forced herself to consider once again the man at her side. She arranged her face into a smile. “If I haven’t said it before,” she began, “I should express again my gratitude to your coming to my assistance at Covent Gardens. Had you not come to my aid—” The sentence remained unfinished.

Bellamy snorted, punctuating the air between them with a blunt forefinger. “The insufferable cur! Imagine the audacity, the temerity to accost a woman on my arm. And such slander! You may not realize it, my dear, but you do require a man’s protection, as the last few unsavory incidents attest.”

She actually envied Bellamy’s confidence in her, so convinced was he of her innocence and so at the ready to use everything at his disposal to come to her defense. He was everything a woman could wish for and more, and yet her instincts contradicted her at every turn. Noticing that the major domo had yet to reappear with the ices, she felt they were more alone than ever in the shadows of the box, the intimacy strangely discomfiting.

Bellamy frowned dramatically. “You are a woman single and defenseless, and I know your departed husband would not wish you to continue without a partner at your side and what with these heinous accusations clinging to you like thorns to a rose. He would only have your best interests at heart. I had sincerely hoped that, given the appropriate amount of time, we would have more of an arrangement based on a burgeoning mutual respect and affection.”

He continued making his case, settling his bulk in his chair more comfortably, warming to the subject. “And as you well know, a man like myself having spent many years in India overseeing the welfare of the British East India Company, well, I simply didn’t have the time to turn my attentions to a wife and family. And you, of course, robbed of your husband at so tender an age…” He shook his head and turned to her earnestly, his delivery as smooth as an actor’s final rehearsal. “We discover ourselves at a juncture,” he pronounced grandly, “wherein we are fortunate to find salubrious companionship.”

She didn’t believe him, not for a moment. Although well into middle age, Bellamy could have had any one of the far more beautiful and malleable young girls on this year’s marriage mart. There was something distinctly unsettling about his interest in her and yet, given her present situation, the fact should account for very little. Mr. Isambard Kingdom Bellamy could well be the answer to her prayers. Except that she didn’t believe in prayer. Not anymore.

Out of the ether, she heard an echo of St. Martin’s words. What’s the difference, precisely, Mrs. Hampton, between Bellamy and me? Between what he wants of you and what I want of you? The question hovered intangibly in the air, but she knew she was right to be afraid of the answer.

“My dear, Mr…. I mean to say, King.” She began feeling as though she should say something, not quite knowing what she wanted and why she was fighting so hard to keep this man—potentially her salvation—at a distance. “Perhaps we are advancing too rapidly, given my period of mourning is hardly at end.”

Ironic that lately it was the specter of Charles she brandished whenever she felt too close to the precipice.

Bellamy raised his brows again. “We are both adults, are we not, Mrs. Hampton? Hardly in the first flush of youth and, therefore, it is entirely natural that we are eager to proceed with our lives.” He cleared his throat importantly the way he might address his shareholders, leaning toward her to drive home his point. “I had wanted to delay this moment until a more suitable venue presented itself, but since we’re hardly foolish young romantics, you and I, I shall come to the point.”

Lilly held her breath, working her reticule between nervous palms on her lap while he reached into the silk-lined jacket of his evening coat. A small, velvet box emerged in his large hands, workman’s hands, she thought irrationally, with their blunt fingers and broad palms. He opened the box.

It was a snake ring, set with diamonds and rubies the size of strawberries, the serpent symbol, she recognized, representing eternity. It was well known that Queen Victoria wore her own snake ring in recognition of her love for Albert. Each serpent, it was said, symbolized the bride and groom, intertwined and demonstrating the mutual communion of love.

Lilly swallowed and reluctantly looked up from the ring to meet Bellamy’s focused gaze, his eyes almost lost beneath his heavy brow. She had to say something, to respond. It was expected, at the very least. “It’s lovely. Wonderful,” she said, licking her dry lips, foolishly aware that she should add something more. Her mind had stopped working.

“Not the Koh-I-Noor precisely.” Bellamy barked a short laugh. He reached for her left hand and slowly peeled back the tight lace. His touch was strangely impersonal and her reaction just as cold. Perversely, the ring slid on her third finger perfectly.

“It’s beautiful,” she repeated, mesmerized by the winking stones now nestled against her skin.

“Are you accepting my offer of marriage, my dearest Lilly?”

She knew she should. Unbidden, another face lingered in her mind’s eye. St. Martin. And his threats. His unreliable past and unreliable character. She didn’t dare think about what this man wanted with the architectural plans for the Crystal Palace. To steal the Koh-I-Noor? Blinking, she looked directly at Bellamy, the man who would move heaven and Earth to protect her. As his wife.

She clasped his hand in her cold one. “I will,” she said quietly as the air around them began to stir once again. Bellamy rose from his chair to bend down to kiss her lightly on the cheek, his cologne of bergamot and sandalwood enveloping her. So different from…She did not permit herself to finish the thought.

Efficient and purposeful, he launched onward, the argument won and the matter neatly settled in his mind. “A wedding breakfast, I thought, if that meets with your approval.” The words drifted away into a fog. Bellamy was speaking, already organizing their lives, and she clearly wasn’t following. Feeling momentarily lightheaded, she removed her hand from his.

“Whatever you prefer, King,” she said, her mind closing off the future. How could she be doing this? Her work was important as was her freedom, but to marry a man one didn’t love? The skin of her neck prickled. Of course, she thought she’d loved Charles and the results had been a catastrophe of historic proportion. Her stomach clenched at the memory. She would not risk again.

“I will leave the details to you. Something discreet,” Bellamy continued, settling back in his chair. “We will have my cook oversee perhaps a menu of stewed oysters, galantines, mayonnaise of fowl, cold game, pyramids…”

She nodded mutely, the deed done, unaware until a moment later that the major domo had reappeared, without the ices, from behind the heavy velvet drapes cordoning the private box. He looked stricken and leaned over to murmur something to Bellamy.

The older man, palms on his knees, galvanized to his feet. Buttoning his waistcoat, he asked, “Why, that’s impossible. Are you quite certain?” He frowned, watching the younger man back out of the box as quickly as he could but deferential to the last.

Something was wrong.

“Lilly—we must depart now.” Without waiting for her reply, he stepped aside and ushered her from her seat and forward through the theater box exit. A quick glance told her that the audience had not returned to their places, and suddenly she knew why. She looked down from their second-floor balcony, where a crush of silk, satin, and organza transformed the atrium into a riot of color. The hallway was crowded with panicked men and women endeavoring to leave the theater.

“They’ve barricaded the doors from the outside,” Bellamy said tersely, drawing her by the arm toward the central staircase. He buttoned his double-breasted suit coat. His mind was already elsewhere.

Cries and murmurs began wafting up toward them. “They? Who are they?” Trying to listen over the pounding of her pulse, she attempted to interpret what Bellamy was saying. Gone was the diffident gentleman of the previous moments, and in his place stood the major shareholder of the British East India Company. His eyes narrow slits and his lips razor thin under his fulsome mustache, he was considering his options. Aware that he was without his usual retinue of servants this evening, he appeared a man unaccustomed to being caught defenseless.

“The worst that can happen is that they set fire to the theater. It’s happened before, once in Lahore, but the bastards didn’t accomplish what they’d hoped.” His fingers dug into the skin of her shoulder blades as he looked haplessly left and right to the front and rear exits, both of which were obscured by the throngs of theatergoers. Every moment or so, a shriek rent the air and several women had succumbed to the vapors, wilted flowers in their pale pastel dresses littering the lofty expanse of the grand center stairwell.

“Set fire…who?” Lilly demanded once again. She fought the impulse to flee, knowing full well that there was no place to go. The press of the crowd and the din of raised voices pushed in on her, making her head swim.

“I know whose work this is,” Bellamy muttered to himself more than to her. “He is a favorite of Victoria.” The words came out as an insult. “I’m sure you’re familiar with his splendid country house Elvedon Hall in Suffolk.”

She shook her head, confused. “You mean the exiled Maharaja of the Punjab, Duleep Singh? Whatever does he have to do with this? I should think the Chartists are more likely involved. There has been much civil unrest and rioting in London these past few months.”

Bellamy snorted derisively. “And what you probably don’t know is that Singh is in dispute with our government after his attempts to have his annual salary raised and to regain possession of the Koh-I-Noor, both of which were refused by the India Office.”

Scarcely the reassurance she was looking for. “Why would they bring their troubles to London, of all places? This type of action will do their cause not a whit of good.” She vaguely remembered a recent discussion with Seabourne around the matter.

Bellamy released her aching shoulder, his eyes darting to the bottom of the stairs. “This is hardly the time for discussion. Remain here,” he said, and his tone rang with a possessiveness that was simultaneously unfamiliar and irritating to her. “I will make my way to the first-floor entrance and see precisely what’s transpiring. With some good fortune, the constabulary will be here and apprehend the rioters.”

Before she could reply, he’d disappeared down the stairs, his bulk melting into the throng. She cast a quick glance at the ring on her finger, the intertwined serpents coiled against her skin, and decided instantly that she would not wait for her betrothed to return and rescue her.

Betrothed. She didn’t know which was worse. A future with Bellamy as her husband or being trapped in a burning building. She gathered up her skirts, convinced her ridiculous misgivings would prove her undoing.

She turned back toward the theater box, her knowledge of buildings and their structure telling her that there must be another stairwell where actors and stage workers could come and go unseen—used for far less grand purposes than parading about on opening nights. Already she imagined palls of smoke, an acrid burning in the back of her throat. Refusing to panic, she looked first to her right before picking up her skirts and breaking into a run to the end of the hall. If she found an alternate stairwell, she would return, signal the rest…the rioters could not possibly have secured all the doors to the theater.

Unease crawled over her. She was moving away from the crowd, in a direction opposite to everyone else. At the end of the corridor, more of a cutout than a proper door, she saw the faint outline—a small affair—with a low lintel and scuffed panels that could use a coat of paint. Hesitating for the briefest moment, she pushed her weight against the opening and moved from the light into the darkness.

Silence. The rising hum of terror receded behind her replaced by the beating of her heart as her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. Sure enough, a narrow flight of stairs led to a flagstoned landing. There would be a portal—there had to be. Stairs had to connect to something and somewhere, hopefully to the outside.

Halfway down the flight, a low whine of hinges moving reached her ears, another door opening below her. Before she could swallow her elation, a figure stepped from behind the entrance and into the faint radiance cast by the moonlight. He was short and strapping, and he pulled the door shut behind him to stand motionless, letting his own eyes adjust to the darkness.

Lilly froze, hoping the shadows would envelope her. The man looked up and pinned her with a gaze that communicated the worst of intentions. His stocky body blocked the narrow passageway and she took a step backward, up one stair. Hampered by her long skirts and stiff hoops, she couldn’t risk turning her back, so she took one more.

A grim dance that seemed to take forever stretched time to the breaking point. He followed, swallowing two steps at a time until she could feel his breath, stale and menacing, on her face.

She had no choice. Jamming her reticule with its metal frame and gold and brass beads at his face, she hurled her body in his direction and down the stairs toward the door. She inhaled a mouthful of rancid sweat and, nauseated, edged her way past the bulky figure, the last of the stairs just a step away. Using her fists to rain blows on the man, she felt him grab a handful of her hair and twist.

She lashed at him with her feet, shoving her reticule at his throat, at his eyes. He managed to block her blows, but let go of her hair to do it. Breathing hard with defiance and fear, she threw herself down the last two stairs and out the door.

Cold air. A moonlit alley. And no rioters crowding her escape. If she could get past the stone wall to the front entrance of the theater, to the constabulary…away from her attacker. Looking up, all she saw was a night sky glittering with stars and not a wisp of smoke billowing from the building.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her heart was racing and her limbs tingled, almost entirely numb. If she could tear off her hoops beneath her wide skirts, she could run to the front entrance and summon help. But there was no opportunity to act on her next thought. Her head shattered, her vision disintegrating into shards of light. A hard shove between the shoulder blades and slowly she sank to her knees, skirts billowing around her. She closed her eyes, gorge rising against the blows she knew were coming.

But they never came. She remained kneeling for what seemed an eternity. At least the beautiful theater, the John Nash masterpiece, would not burn to the ground. At least the hundreds of theatergoers would not perish. At least death would come quickly when it did. Those were her last hopes.

When she opened her eyes, her assailant was crouched opposite her, focused on the moonlit pathway and at the man coming toward them.

His strides were that of a hunter, and a knife glinted in his hand.

Lilly choked back a rising hysteria, on her knees with the world swimming before her. Unable to focus, she was aware of her assailant panting heavily beside her. And then like a creature in the wild, he crouched even lower before jumping up and running to the back of the alley, away from the theater. He scrambled up the stone wall and vanished.

St. Martin lengthened his strides toward her, closing the distance between them. Her body refused to move, but head throbbing, she allowed him to pull her to her feet where she stood swaying, mesmerized by the knife in his hand and the hard glitter of stars overhead.

He folded it with frighteningly elegant movements and put it in the side of his boot. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his eyes glancing over her efficiently.

She backed away from him. Sickened, the blow to her head still ringing in her ears, she pointed feebly to the theater behind her. “We must alert the constabulary,” she said as forcefully as she could. “The people in the theater still…”

“It’s been taken care of. The rioters apprehended and the fire was a small one and already extinguished.”

She stared at him in disbelief, still unsteady on her feet. Her neck hurt, but she managed to take in the high wall behind her, looking for her attacker. Her thoughts came in wild disorder. “Who was that man? Was he one of the rioters? Really didn’t get a good look at him, although what does it matter now?” Her lips felt dry as sand. “And why are you here?” She didn’t care whether the tumble of words made any sense.

St. Martin didn’t answer and instead took her wrist. “I think I’d better see you home. You’ve had a shock.”

Her lace gloves were torn, the diamond and ruby snake ring on her finger an incongruous shock to her system. Pulling back suddenly, trying to free herself from his curiously strong but gentle grasp, she shook her head. “Bellamy. My betrothed. I must find him.”

He let go of her wrist, glancing at the ring on her finger before taking her arm. It was an impersonal gesture, a means of guiding her, yet she was aware of his touch immediately, intensely. Everything about the man set her on edge, magnifying her responses.

“I may have had a blow to my head, but I do remember our last encounter and I don’t think I shall invite you to see me home.” She pulled her reticule close to her body, the gold and brass beads loosened from their moorings. The bottom two flounces on her wide skirts were torn and caught on the low heels of her evening shoes.

“I’m sure your betrothed is well.” He urged her forward toward the street. “And I suppose congratulations are in order.”

Her head swam. “Thank you,” she said as primly as she could under the circumstances.

“Although as you are newly affianced, I can’t help wonder why your soon-to-be husband decided to leave you alone and defenseless in the midst of a dangerous melee.”

She wanted to shut out his words but couldn’t, trying instead to bring St. Martin into focus despite the blurring of her vision. Defending Bellamy, she said, “He was merely looking out for the both of us and thought it best to do the proper reconnaissance. And as though you would have anything to say about the matter, my lord.” The cold air in her lungs did nothing to revive her. She took another cleansing breath, refusing to lean on him, although, inexplicably, she wanted to do nothing else.

She thought she saw a shadow pass over his face, the lines tautly drawn, his onyx eyes hooded. “You assume correctly, Mrs. Hampton. I know nothing of protecting a wife.”

Suddenly, she was brought up close to his chest. He was tall. She had forgotten just how tall and how hard and unforgiving his arms could be. Charles had been elegant and fine. And Bellamy was corpulent and robust. But this man…Residual shock and overwhelming fatigue blurred her thoughts.

So when she found herself bundled into a hansom cab, its sturdy wheels and sheltering interior were a welcome respite. In the dark, she sank into the squab cushions and into another layer of lies building up rapidly around her. Beside her was a man who had threatened her yesterday and saved her life tonight.

And she was going home with him.