Читать книгу Sins and Scandals Collection - Nicola Cornick - Страница 16

THE FLEET PRISON was not as Merryn had anticipated. Blessed with a lively imagination, she had thought that it would be infested with rats, the walls running with water, the inmates screaming in mad frenzy to be let out. It was none of those things. The floors were swept clean, the walls were dry and it was very quiet.

The unexpected trip to Mr. Churchward’s office the previous day had delayed Merryn’s plans but she was still determined to push ahead with them and seek out the doctor who had attended the duel between her brother and Garrick. He was the only witness she could find. She was sure he had been bought off and she was intent on uncovering what had really happened. Her encounter with Garrick the previous night had not dissuaded her. In some odd way it had made her even more determined to learn the truth. For now she was fighting against herself as well as Garrick, against her helpless attraction to a man whom she detested. She felt naive and stupid to have such a conflict of emotions, angry with Garrick, incensed with herself.

It was also pleasant, Merryn thought, to escape from the house in Tavistock Street as well, even if a visit to the Fleet might not be everyone’s idea of a trip out. Garrick Farne’s offer had caused deep divisions between her and her sisters. Merryn was barely speaking to Tess, who seemed incapable of understanding her rejection of Garrick’s gift as blood money and was already merrily planning all kinds of expenditure. Merryn thought of Tess’s greed, and tasted bitterness in her mouth.

That morning Joanna had agreed to take the money, too. Merryn found it easier to excuse Joanna because she knew she had her reasons; Joanna was deeply devoted to Fenners, not because she loved the house and the countryside, as Merryn did, but because it was their last link to their father and to Stephen. And Joanna and Alex were poor, unlike Tess, the rich widow. Alex had an estate in the Highlands of Scotland that ate money rather than generated it and he had his cousin Chessie, who was currently staying with relatives in Edinburgh, to provide with a dowry. So Merryn could understand why Joanna would accept Garrick Farne’s offer, even as her sore heart rebelled against her sister’s pragmatism.

Dr. Southern’s cell was off the third-floor gallery. He was sitting alone, reading, when Merryn arrived. The light was poor and he was squinting. He looked like a plant that had grown in the dark: spindly, gray-faced and weak. There was a bottle at his elbow with a clear liquid in it and a stench of alcohol in the cell that hit Merryn like a wall. When the jailer ushered her in—she had paid him six shillings for the privilege—Southern looked up and his pale eyes rested on her gently but without focus. There was nowhere to sit other than the pallet bed, so Merryn knelt beside his chair on the hard stone floor.

“Dr. Southern?” she said. “My name is Merryn Fenner.” She hesitated. She had been hoping that the doctor would know her name but there was no recognition in his face. So she had no choice—she had to plow on with what she had come for.

“You may remember my brother, Stephen,” she said. “Stephen Fenner?”

Even before he answered she knew it was hopeless and her heart swooped down to her feet. Southern’s gaze slid away from hers blankly. He reached for the bottle.

“Stephen?” he muttered.

“Stephen Fenner,” Merryn repeated. “You were the doctor present at the duel when he died.”

“Duel?” The doctor was fumbling with the bottle, tilting it to his lips. Some of the liquid ran down over his chin and splashed on his shirt. It smelled sweet but sharp at the same time, catching in Merryn’s throat.

“I remember no duel.”

“Twelve years ago,” Merryn said. “Stephen Fenner.” She felt desperate. There had been two seconds at the duel, if duel it had been. One was dead, the other thousands of miles away, beyond reach. This man had been the only other witness present. Other than Garrick Farne himself …

“Please try to remember,” she whispered.

“No duel,” the doctor said and for a moment Merryn’s hopes soared, until she realized that he was simply unable to remember anything. He was shaking his head, a little fretful, a little lost. His hand shook; the bottle nudged the book on the table and it fell into Merryn’s lap.

There was a bookplate inside with a coat of arms, a mailed fist and the motto: Ne M’oubliez. Remember me. Merryn did not need to see the strong writing, the initials GF, to tell her whose book it was. She knew the motto well. It seemed appropriate.

She shivered. So Garrick Farne had been here before her. Had he paid for Southern’s silence, with the gin in the bottle perhaps? For surely the doctor was going to give her no help. He was too drunk, too forgetful, too conveniently beyond reach even though he was sitting before her. For a second she felt an equal mix of fury and despair. Garrick had been a step ahead of her again. Was she forever to be outwitted, running after his shadow?

“The Duke of Farne visits you,” she said lightly, placing the book back on the table.

“Often,” the doctor said. His hands shook as he drew the book close in what was almost a protective gesture. “He bought me out of here,” he added.

Merryn frowned. “Garrick Farne paid your debts?”

“I only fell into more.” Southern was nodding gently, a whimsical smile on his face. “I try. I fail. I remember Stephen Fenner,” he added, surprisingly. “He was a scoundrel. No good. No good at all.”

Merryn smothered the instinctive protest that leaped to her lips. It was true that some people had considered Stephen a rogue. He had been feckless, careless with the money they did not possess, a gambler, a drinker. She knew that he had argued with their father over his debts. She had heard them on the nights when she had crept downstairs after bedtime. Sometimes they had left the study door open and a crack of light had crept across the hall carpet and the words had spilled out, too, angry words between father and son. She, perched on the stairs in the darkness, had heard it all. But each and every time Stephen had smoothed matters out with his generosity and his winning charm. The servants had shaken their heads over his conduct but they had been smiling even as they deplored his bad behavior. And even if Stephen had been the greatest wastrel in the world it did not mean that he deserved to die.

“I am sorry you remember him so,” she said stiffly. She got to her feet. Even after only a few moments kneeling on the stone she felt cold and sore, her heart colder still. There was nothing for her here.

The jailer met her at the door. This was a different man from the one who had admitted her. He had a thin face and a greedy gleam in his eyes.

“That’ll be six shillings,” he said, dangling the keys in front of Merryn’s nose.

“But I paid six shillings to get in,” Merryn objected.

“And now you pay to get out,” the jailer said. “Unless you prefer to stay here with him.” He jerked his head toward Dr. Southern, who was gulping gin from the bottle like a man possessed by the urge to find oblivion.

“I don’t have the money,” Merryn said.

It was evidently the wrong thing to say. The jailer took her arm in a grip that felt rather firmer than she would have liked. Suddenly the Fleet did not look quite as pleasant as Merryn had thought, a dark, cold, unfriendly, and alien place far removed from the world she normally frequented. She tried to wrench her arm from the jailer’s grasp but he held her fast and leaned closer. He smelled stale and his breath was foul.

“Listen, miss, it’s like this. Everything costs.” His gaze appraised her, lingering on the lace at her collar, the swell of her breasts beneath the line of her coat. “Unless you want to pay another way—”

“How much?”

The voice was lazy, authoritative. If Merryn had not heard the undertone of steel in it she would have sworn he was indifferent. She closed her eyes. Garrick Farne, here. Well, of course. He would be. This was a cat-and-mouse game they were embarked upon. Garrick would have made sure that Southern was too drunk to remember anything useful and then to make absolutely sure, he would have waited outside the cell while she interviewed the doctor. She was sure he had been listening to every word and that he had paid a great deal more than six shillings for the privilege of spying on her.

He did not look like her idea of a spy, hiding in corners, listening at doors. For a start he looked too elegant, in a casual single-breasted morning coat, breeches and boots with a very high polish. Merryn thought he should be out riding, giving vent to all the banked-down energy and power she sensed in him. Their eyes met. He smiled. It was not an encouraging smile and Merryn did not for one second feel reassured. She thought that it would probably suit Garrick’s purposes very well for her to be clapped up in the Fleet for a while. She looked at his hard expression and just for a moment she was afraid.

“You can buy her out for ten shillings, my lord,” the guard said.

“It was six shillings a moment ago,” Merryn said hotly. “And I do not even owe it!”

Garrick’s dark, sardonic gaze considered her. “What are you in for? House-breaking?”

“I’m not a prisoner!” Merryn said.

“You surprise me,” Garrick said, “given your penchant for crime.”

Merryn blushed. “I am trying to get out.”

Garrick took out his pocketbook. He looked at the jailer, raised a brow.

“Twelve shillings, your grace,” the man said, estimating Garrick’s rank upward and the sum of money accordingly. “And that’s a bargain.”

“I am not sure that it is,” Garrick murmured, his gaze bringing the hotter color up into Merryn’s face. “Believe me, you should be paying me to take her off your hands not vice versa.”

“Don’t pay him,” Merryn snapped. She felt angry, torn. “I don’t want to be in your debt,” she said.

“You have made that quite clear before,” Garrick said. He shrugged and slid the pocketbook back into his jacket. “As you wish.” He turned to walk away.

The jailer smiled unpleasantly and tightened his grip. “Well, then, missy, I’m sure we can find a nice cell for you until someone chooses to pay up. Assuming that they do …”

“Wait!” Merryn called. Her heart was thumping. She saw Garrick pause but he did not turn. His back looked very broad and very uncompromising. “Please,” she added, and there was rather more pleading than she liked in her tone.

Garrick turned back to her. A smile tugged at the corners of his lean mouth. “Are you going to beg?” he inquired gently.

“No!” Merryn said. She moderated her tone. “But I should be very grateful …” She stumbled a little over the words. Damn him for enjoying her discomfiture. She could have slapped him, she was so angry.

“Of course,” he said courteously. With a sigh he took out his pocketbook again and paid the jailer, who let Merryn go with every sign of disappointment. Garrick offered her his arm.

“Permit me to escort you back to Tavistock Street, Lady Merryn.”

“No,” Merryn said. “I—”

“It wasn’t a question,” Garrick said, taking her arm and propelling her down the stairs. “It was an order.”

They reached the first landing. Merryn stopped. “I will pay you back,” she said.

Garrick slanted a look down at her. “How? I thought you said you had no money.”

It was a fair question, Merryn thought. Tom paid her a generous amount but she had spent the last of her wages on a copy of Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa. She had not enjoyed the book; now she wished she had the money instead. And she could scarcely ask Garrick to knock the sum off the thirty thousand pounds he had promised her—and she had rejected.

Garrick waited a moment, then smiled and urged her down the next flight. “I won’t press you for payment,” he murmured.

Merryn stopped again. “I’ll borrow the money from Joanna,” she said fiercely. “Or Alex. Or anyone. I’ll go to the moneylenders. Anything not to be in your debt.”

“Anything?” Garrick said. He grabbed her, turning her against the wall. The cold stone pressed against her back. He put one gloved hand against her cheek, tilting her face up to his. The leather of his glove felt cool and smooth against her hot skin. He kissed her.

This time Merryn was a little more prepared, not quite so stunned by something so utterly beyond her experience. Now, instead of discovery, there was an edge of wicked excitement and a heat that lit her from the inside out, burning her up, making her long for more. She knew she wanted this. Garrick had shown her that there was a part of herself she had not realized existed, a wild, wanton side so different from the cool, rational Merryn Fenner whose life had been lived vicariously in the pages of books.

She opened her lips to Garrick and touched her tongue eagerly to his. He tasted delicious. She could not name the sensation that held her but it felt like temptation distilled. She was drowning in it, so potent, so hot. There was a tight, tense ache in the pit of her stomach. Her mind spun. The solid stone of the Fleet seemed to rock beneath her feet.

She felt Garrick groan deep in his throat. He laced his hand in her hair and gave her back all she asked for, more, deepening the kiss, his tongue moving against hers, demanding a response she barely understood. Merryn forgot where she was, forgot every last one of the rules that guided a lady’s behavior and slid her arms about his neck so that she could draw him closer, pressing her body against his as though the layers of clothing between them simply did not exist. His tongue slid along the inside of her lower lip, his teeth closed about it, biting softly, and Merryn’s body clenched tight as a fist, deep inside.

Someone laughed close by, a lewd sound, full of suggestiveness. There was a crash from near at hand and someone swore loudly and the sounds and smells of the prison slid back into Merryn’s mind.

“Sure I can’t hire out a cell to you so you can finish your business, sir?” a voice said and Merryn pulled herself from Garrick’s arms and turned to see the jailer leering at them.

For a second she caught Garrick’s expression. His eyes were blazing and his face was taut with desire. They were both breathing as though they had been running. Then his face changed. The naked desire was gone, replaced by his habitual cool indifference.

“Consider your debt paid,” he said.

“Twelve shillings,” Merryn said. She was proud to be able to find any voice at all. “For one kiss. You are extravagant, your grace.”

“It was worth every penny,” Garrick said, “but I apologize that I chose to take payment in public.”

Merryn shivered deep inside. No doubt a kiss meant little or nothing to Garrick, rakehell that he had been. She, in contrast, felt cast adrift, lost. The heat in her blood was cooling now and it left her feeling as bereft and alone as she had done the previous night. This was wrong, this desire she had for Garrick. So how could she feel it so intensely that it hurt?

Garrick drew her close to him, belatedly shielding her from the curious glances and the knowing stares of the inmates and guards. His face was hard and set, as though he was angry with her, or perhaps with himself. He said nothing else until they were outside the gates and even then he gave her no choice, practically throwing her into the carriage that was standing waiting, before jumping in after her and slamming the door. Tumbled on the seat, out of breath and dismayed, Merryn reached for the door only for him to catch her wrist and pull her back so that she was practically sitting on his lap.

“Forgive my presumption,” he said, “but you will not leave my protection until I see you are safely home, Lady Merryn.”

Thoroughly incensed, Merryn struggled to free herself. “I would in all probability be safer anywhere else than with you,” she snapped.

Garrick laughed. “Let’s not put that to the test.”

He rapped on the roof of the carriage and the horses moved off. He sat back, watching her, crossing one elegantly booted ankle over the other knee.

“What were you doing in the Fleet?” he asked.

“I am surprised that you need to ask,” Merryn said resentfully. “You were there before me, weren’t you? You gave Dr. Southern the gin to render him so drunk he remembered nothing!”

She waited but Garrick did not deny it. A smile that was not quite nice curled his lips. “You would have to call before seven in the morning if you wished to see Dr. Southern sober, I fear.”

“He said that you visited him often,” Merryn said, “no doubt to make sure he is well supplied with drink and therefore insensible.”

Garrick’s smile deepened. “I do visit him often,” he agreed. “For whatever reason.”

“He also said that you bought him out of prison.”

“Also true,” Garrick said. “I paid off his debts on both of the most recent occasions he was in the Fleet.” He sighed. “Dr. Southern was physician to our family for many years. When I returned to England and found that he had ceased to practice because of his weakness for the bottle, I tried to help him. I paid his debts. I visited him in the Fleet.” He shrugged. “I quickly realized that there was nothing I could do for him. He prefers to be in the prison because it is familiar to him. He feels safe. He is fed and housed. If I buy him out he only seeks its shelter again.” His mouth thinned. “He is an unhappy man but his unhappiness at least is not on my conscience.”

“He is in your pocket,” Merryn said, “bought off by you, your creature.” She felt bitter and frustrated and she could see something in Garrick’s eyes, something of regret and pity that only made her all the angrier. “I’ll go back,” she said. “I’ll find a way to get him to talk.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Garrick said. “You saw what happened today. Next time you might get yourself into far greater difficulties.”

“I would have persuaded them to let me go,” Merryn said.

Garrick grabbed her without warning, his hands biting into her upper arms. His touch was fierce. It was so sudden and so shocking that Merryn could not hold back a gasp.

She had never seen this anger in him before. For a moment she thought he was going to shake her. His eyes were black with fury, his mouth a hard line. She could feel tension radiating from him.

“Persuade them?” he said. “With what?” He bit the words out. “You had no money. And you have only one other commodity to sell.” His gaze raked her with insulting thoroughness. “Would it have been worth it—a few fumbled liberties—for your freedom?”

“Is that what you took from me?” Merryn said. She was shaking now. Her voice was shaking, too. “A few fumbled liberties?”

She heard Garrick swear under his breath. He dropped her onto the seat and pinned her there with one hand on each side of her. She pressed back into the plush cushions, trying to put some distance between them. His physical presence was overwhelming.

“You are too courageous and too stubborn, Lady Merryn,” he said. “You never seem to learn that one day your persistence will get you into trouble.”

He was very close to her. Merryn stared into his eyes. They were the deepest brown, flecked with gold and green and they held her gaze with absolute demand. She felt odd, light-headed. She knew she was an inch away from shifting her gaze to Garrick’s mouth, and then he would kiss her again, or she would kiss him. It was inevitable; and there would be the same undertow of anger and longing and helpless desire in their embrace that there had been before. Her stomach felt odd, tingling with nerves, aching for something deeper.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly. “Tell me about Stephen’s death.”

The change in Garrick was extraordinary. She saw darkness fall across his eyes like a veil, thick, impenetrable, shutting her out. The line of his jaw was as hard as granite. He said nothing at all.

Merryn stared at him, baffled and frustrated, while outside the carriage the flow of people swirled around them, passed by in a blur of color, a moving pageant. She was locked into the still core of it, possessed by the ferocious tension she could sense in Garrick, trapped by the harsh misery in his face.

“Why don’t you speak?” she burst out, after what seemed hours, goaded by fury and misery. “Why do you say nothing?”

He caught her wrists and pulled her close to him.

“There is nothing I can say.” For all his harshness, his breath stirred her hair like a tender caress. She could hear pain in his voice as well as anger. “Nothing will put matters right. Nothing will give you your brother back.”

His hands gentled on her, slid from her slowly, reluctantly. He sat back and Merryn felt shocked and alone, missing his touch, hating herself for feeling so bereft.

“You are home,” Garrick said. “I’ll bid you goodbye.”

There did not seem to be anything else to say. Merryn looked at his face, at the unyielding line of his cheek and jaw and the cold distance in his eyes as they rested on her. He opened the door for her with studied courtesy and then Merryn was standing on the pavement watching the carriage disappear into the press of London traffic.

Garrick had said the previous night that he would stop her inquiries and so far he had been true to his word. He was always a step ahead. She felt so impotent. There was no one who could help her. The truth had been suppressed years ago. But her only alternative was to abandon her quest for justice and it had possessed her for so long that to forsake it now seemed unthinkable. It would leave a huge void in her life and she would not know how to fill it. Besides, that was what Garrick wanted. He wanted her to give in, to concede defeat, and if she did so she would never achieve the justice that Stephen deserved.

That justice would see Garrick Farne swing on the end of a silken rope, convicted for murder.

A long shiver racked her. She thought of Garrick, of his hands on her body and his mouth on hers, of the desire in him and the answering need in her. How could it be that an outcome she had so devoutly sought for twelve years now left her shuddering? For she had the strangest feeling that if she found the evidence she sought, if she held Garrick’s life in her hands, proved him a murderer, she would not be glad, but sorry.

She turned and ran up the steps to the house trying to escape her thoughts. A footman opened the door and bowed her inside. As Merryn stripped off her gloves and unpinned her hat, she noticed a large bundle of papers, tied with ribbon, sitting on the hall table. The table, one of Joanna’s decorative pieces of rosewood furniture that was intended for display not use, looked as though its spindly legs might collapse beneath the weight.

“Merryn, dearest!” Joanna was coming out of the drawing room, Max the terrier clasped in her arms, his velvet green topknot a perfect match for her gown. Alex was following, holding Shuna by the hand as the baby toddled across the marble floor.

“Where have you been?” Joanna said. “You missed luncheon!”

“Nowhere in particular,” Merryn said. She knew that Joanna had no real curiosity and she had no intention of telling either of her sisters anything of her business. She nodded toward the pile of papers.

“What are those?”

“Oh …” Joanna waved a vague hand. “Mr. Churchward sent them over. They are the deeds to Fenners or something else monstrously dull. Alex can sort them out.”

“I’d like to look at them,” Merryn said in a rush.

Joanna looked faintly surprised. “Well, of course, darling,” she said. “If you like. I’ll have someone put them in the library for you.”

Merryn put out a hand and touched the top sheet. It was smooth from age and use and it smelled faintly musty. The ink was fading brown but it felt magical, alive, the first link she had had to her childhood home in over ten years. Her breath caught in her throat and she felt the tears sting her eyes.

Fenners is rightfully yours … I am giving it back …

She could hear Garrick’s voice like a whisper, like a promise. She looked at the writing, the word Fenners on the top of the document pile, a fragile link to another time.

She wished that Garrick did not always make it so difficult to hate him.

“OLD HABITS DIE HARD, FARNE.”

Garrick glanced up from the brandy glass before him and into the mocking green eyes of the man who addressed him. How anyone had found him here in Mrs. Tong’s Temple of Venus in Covent Garden, he could not imagine. Not that Owen Purchase was likely to have been looking for him. One did not come to Mrs. Tong’s brothel for a conversation that one could have at White’s or Brooks’s club. If it came to that, one did not visit Mrs. Tong’s brothel for any kind of conversation, other than the one where one handed over the money.

“Purchase,” he said. He gestured to the bottle. “Care to join me?”

“Why not?” the other man said. He slid into the gaudy covered booth opposite Garrick. He looked oddly out of place there, Garrick thought, too hard, too masculine, amid the rich silk drapes and garish cushions. Owen Purchase was an American sea captain of legendary skill and no fortune. He had fought for the British against the French and fought for the Americans against the British and had ended a prisoner of war for his pains. Now that the war was over he was back in London looking for a commission and a ship. Garrick had met him the previous year when his half brother Ethan and Purchase had been prisoners together. It had been an unconventional start to a good friendship.

“Your brother recommended this place,” Purchase said in his rich Southern drawl, looking around at the swinging Chinese lanterns and the shadowy alcoves where various ladies of doubtful virtue were plying their trade. “I hear he found his future wife here.”

Garrick spluttered into his drink. “So he did,” he said.

Purchase smiled. His thoughtful green gaze came back to rest on Garrick. “So why are you drinking this extortionately priced brandy,” he asked, “rather than taking one of these willing harlots to bed? You could get drunk more cheaply in any tavern.”

Garrick had spent the previous hour asking himself that very question. When he had arrived, Mrs. Tong had almost burst out of her low-cut evening gown with excitement. Her girls had flocked about her like so many brightly colored birds of paradise vying for the privilege of meeting his every carnal need. Although it was true that physical desire had driven him there, Garrick had looked at their artfully painted faces and had felt not the slightest flicker of lust. All he had was a deep urge to get very drunk very quickly, to forget, to drown the past.

Mrs. Tong had assumed that he was getting cold feet; that he was out of practice. She had given him a bottle of brandy and her best girl. The brandy had been of surprisingly high quality, the lightskirt less so and a great deal less tempting. After ten minutes Garrick had sent her away. Mrs. Tong had sent in another to replace her, a different girl, less obviously brazen, with more pretense of innocence. Garrick had felt repelled. When he sent that one out he had told her to tell the madam to leave him in peace with the brandy bottle. Mrs. Tong had sent a message back that it would cost him but as far as she was concerned, if he could pay he was welcome to drink himself to death in her whorehouse. Garrick had thought that was a fine offer.

But now Purchase was here and asking awkward questions. He watched as the man poured himself a glass of brandy and raised it in sardonic toast.

“You don’t have to answer me,” Purchase said conversationally, “but I want you to know I’ve noticed your evasion.”

Garrick traced circles with his glass on the silken tablecloth. The brothel was busy. Every few minutes the door opened to admit another visitor. The girls fluttered past like showy butterflies. Purchase gave one of them a wicked smile and she looked at him, looked at Garrick, and raised her brows. Purchase shook his head and her mouth turned down at the corners in a pretty display of disappointment.

“Don’t mind me,” Garrick said. “I appreciate that you didn’t come here for a chat.”

“I can wait,” Purchase drawled. He sat back in the booth, toying with his glass, his gaze keen as it rested on Garrick’s face. “You know, Farne, if it did not seem so ridiculous I would say that you are suffering from unrequited love.”

Garrick laughed. “Unrequited lust, more like.”

He thought of Merryn Fenner. He had not stopped thinking of Merryn since that morning. In point of fact he had not stopped thinking of Merryn since he had dragged her out from under his bed. Love? It was not love, he thought, that hot, tight bond that held them so close. It was anger and frustration, an attraction that could not be denied, a force that impelled them together only to drive them apart. It was intolerable, like the chafing of a bond that could not be slipped. But the one thing that he could not dispute was that it was Merryn he wanted, not one of these Cyprians, no matter how prettily they might perform for him. He could take one of these girls and lose himself in forgetting for a little while, but then he knew his hunger for Merryn would come back and it would be sharper than before because what he was trying to substitute for it was hollow and worthless.

“It is Lady Merryn Fenner,” he said.

He saw the amusement leap into Purchase’s eyes. “Those Fenner girls,” he said. “Born to drive a man to perdition.”

Garrick paused in the act of refilling his glass. “You, too?” he said. “I did not know.”

“Lady Joanna,” Purchase said, nodding. “Or Lady Grant as she is now.” He shook his head. “A hopeless case but I have always been attracted to lost causes.”

“There is another sister,” Garrick pointed out. “Lady Darent.”

Purchase laughed. “I know. I’ve heard about her. Who hasn’t? Four husbands already.” He tilted his glass to his lips. “Perhaps I should meet her. Or perhaps not if I want to keep my sanity.” His amusement fled. “I’ve met Lady Merryn a couple of times. She is …” He paused. “Unusual.”

“She’s stubborn as all hell,” Garrick said. “Never gives up.”

Purchase grimaced. “Family trait.” He raised his brows. “So what is the problem?”

“Even I am not such a bastard that I would seduce the virgin sister of the man I murdered,” Garrick said.

Purchase almost choked. “Stephen Fenner,” he said. “I remember hearing about that.” He pulled a face. “I’ll allow that’s a difficult situation.” He paused. “If you want her that much you could always marry her.”

Garrick looked at him and then looked back at the brandy bottle. “Are you drunk already?” he said. “Lady Merryn would rather become a nun than marry me, or so she tells me.”

Purchase laughed. “As I said, a difficult situation.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But not an impossible situation.”

Garrick looked up. “It is a completely impossible situation for many reasons.”

Purchase shook his head. His eyes were bright. “No, that’s a challenge in my book, not an impossibility.” He paused. “You must have had your reasons for killing her brother.”

“I did,” Garrick said. There had been many reasons to rid the earth of Stephen Fenner but he had not killed the man deliberately, in cold blood. Everything had unrolled like a horrible nightmare, too fast to think. The memories of that day swirled back around him, dark, choking. Fenner had betrayed him many times over. He had been such a scoundrel. Yet once they had been close friends. Garrick sighed, draining his brandy glass. He understood all too well the appeal of Stephen Fenner’s friendship. Fenner had helped him to forget his duty as heir to a Dukedom. The drink, the gaming, the women, all those things had been rich and glittering temptations to him, a youth steeped from birth in the obligations of his inheritance. He could hear Fenner’s voice even now.

“Duty? That’s a damned tedious business, Garrick, old fellow! Time enough for that when your papa is dead and gone …”

And then they had gone out on the town and he had woken hours later in some female boudoir tied to the bed, his head aching, his balls aching more, and absolutely no idea how he had got there. That sort of experience, for Stephen Fenner, would have been a quiet night.

“Lady Merryn wants to know the truth about her brother’s death,” he said and felt a clutch of grief and guilt at how disillusioned she would be if she ever knew.

“Then tell her, Farne,” Purchase said. “She might be shocked but I’ll wager she’ll be strong enough to take it.”

Garrick ran a hand over his hair. He knew he was drunk. It seemed to give his mind a curious clarity. He wanted to tell Merryn the truth even though he knew it would hurt her profoundly.

“She was only thirteen when her brother died,” he said slowly. “She hero-worshipped him.”

Purchase wrinkled up his face expressively. “Even so. She’s not thirteen now. She’s a grown woman. And sometimes …” He looked away. “Sometimes we all have to accept disillusionment.”

“Yes,” Garrick said. “If it was simply that …” He stopped. Could he trust Merryn when the lives of others were at stake? She was driven by a passionate desire for justice. She burned with the need to tell the truth. That very passion could see him hang and ruin lives a second time. The risk was enormous. Surely he would be a fool even to consider it. Yet the instinct to trust her was so strong.

“Twelve years ago I gave a promise never to tell,” he said. His father was dead now. Lord Fenner was dead, too. Of the original men who had made that bond only Lord Scott, Kitty’s old, embittered father, remained to hold him to his word and Churchward, of course. The lawyer knew everyone’s secrets.

“Break the promise,” Purchase said now. “If Lady Merryn is important enough to you, Farne, you will trust her with the truth.”

“Would you trust a woman who wanted to see you hang?” Garrick asked.

Purchase laughed and refilled his glass. Some liquid splashed, rich and deep, in the candlelight. “It gives a certain spice to the relationship,” Purchase drawled.

“I cannot wed again,” Garrick said. “I have—” He stopped.

I have nothing to offer, least of all to a woman as gallant and bright and brave as Merryn Fenner.

He had nothing but failure behind him in the marriage stakes, nothing but tarnished honor and the endless duties of being a Duke. Merryn, with her dauntless spirit, deserved better than a man whose soul felt as old and worn as his. She deserved a man who could love her, for a start, not one who had lost the ability to love when he had lost his honor.

“You’re a damned fool, Farne, if you let her go,” Purchase said, but without heat. “At least I tried to win Joanna—and failed,” he added ruefully. His eye fell on a redheaded girl who had drawn the curtain aside and stepped into the room. He put his glass down slowly.

“If you will excuse me,” he said.

Garrick followed his gaze. “Of course.”

As Purchase went out in response to the redhead’s come-hither smile, the curtain parted again to reveal another figure, tall, austere, long nose twitching with disapproval. Garrick stared. Pointer had come to find him. No doubt the butler, like Owen Purchase, thought he was about to relapse into his old, wicked, rakish ways and forget all about duty and service and obligation.

If only he could.

Garrick stood up. The room spun. The butler placed a hand on his arm.

“What the deuce are you doing here, Pointer?” Garrick demanded.

“Your grace …” The butler was keeping his voice discreetly low. Everyone was looking at them but then, Garrick thought that was hardly surprising. Pointer, in his coat, cane and beaver hat, looked about as out of place as a … well, as a butler in a brothel.

“Your grace, you have a meeting with the land agent from the Farnecourt estate in precisely—” Pointer checked his watch “—three hours. I did not think you would wish to be late. It concerns the pensions for the widows and orphans and the payments to be made to other staff on your father’s death—”

“Of course,” Garrick said. “Of course it does. Widows and orphans … Duty calls.”

A blonde harlot passed them, giving Pointer a luscious smile. The butler blushed.

“Tempted there for a moment, were you, Pointer?” Garrick said.

“No, your grace,” the butler said. “I prefer a lady to be more rounded and less angular.” He tucked his cane under his arm and politely held the curtain aside for Garrick to exit. “Mrs. Pond, the housekeeper, and I have an understanding,” he added primly. “We are to wed next year when she retires. I would not like her to hear I had visited a brothel, your grace.”

“All in the line of duty,” Garrick said, “but she won’t hear it from me, I give you my word.”

Garrick gave Mrs. Tong a staggering sum of money for the brandy and went out into the night, Pointer trotting along at his side like a bodyguard, or possibly a jailer. He felt tired, his body taut with unsatisfied desire. It had probably been folly to turn down the offer of a few hours’ forgetting in the skillful hands of one of Mrs. Tong’s girls. She would have been able to give him fleeting pleasure and physical release. But it was Merryn he wanted, not a courtesan. And he did not want an hour or so of anonymous oblivion. Yes, he wanted Merryn in his bed, her body naked and exposed to his gaze and to his touch, her mouth eager and sweet beneath his. But he also wanted her innocence and her passion to illuminate his life. He had lived in the darkness for a very long time.

He wanted what he could not have.

Merryn Fenner. He knew instinctively that one way or another she would surely be his undoing.