The disturbance ceased. She caught the faint rhythm of Palmer’s voice. Relieved, she flew down the stairs.
Palmer was standing in the entry hall. A body lay across the threshold, booted feet just visible. As she stepped off the staircase, Palmer crouched down by the body.
A figure emerged from the cloakroom. A man with a knife.
“Palmer!” she cried. The figure turned and sprinted toward her. She wheeled for the stairs and a hand closed around her throat. She stabbed her knife into it. Her blade rebounded off bone.
She pulled free but he caught her and dragged her against him; snatched her wrist and twisted it behind her back. Writhing, intending to bite, she saw a stranger’s
face, snarling, murderous. He squeezed her wrist, forcing the knife from her nerveless grip.
A great weight knocked into them. She dragged herself free, then scrambled to hands and knees. Palmer was on top of the man. Grappling with him. They rolled, a brawling vicious tangle; the man rose over Palmer, his knife glinting—
Palmer seized his wrist. They struggled now in silence for control of the blade, their breathing harsh, the silence otherwise profound, terrible—
Palmer broke the man’s grip, the knife clattering to the floor. The man howled and grabbed at Palmer’s throat—but Palmer moved faster, hooking his arm around the other man’s neck, dragging him to his feet as he thrashed, seizing his head and jerking sharply—
The crack was sickening. Palmer opened his arms, and the man’s body dropped lifeless to the floor.
She had never seen a man killed like that.
Palmer turned on her, his face a mask of rage. “You were meant to go to London!”
She crawled backward, finding her feet and lurching up. “Who—what—”
He shoved his hand through his hair. “Jesus God.” He looked down at the body, then knelt, hunting roughly for a pulse.
“He’s dead,” she said. No doubt.
He looked up, his eyes blazing. “What were you
thinking
?”
“I—I wasn’t.” She’d seen the knife. Instinct had taken over.
Men appeared in the doorway. She jumped back—then recognized them. The assayers. Two men half carried, half dragged a third inside. The one who
had collapsed in the doorway. He looked dazed, but she saw no blood.
Something flashed by her, causing her to flinch. It clattered onto the ground in a distant corner: the stranger’s knife. Palmer had tossed it away. He had also taken note of her jumpiness. He was staring at her, a black, flat stare. “Take this one,” he said.
For a moment, she thought he was speaking to her. Then the assayers leaned their wounded friend against the wall and came over to pick up the corpse, slinging it between them.
“All men to the house.” Palmer spoke in sharp syllables, chips of ice. “Forget the property lines. Every side, defended.”
“Yes, sir.”
Defended against what? “Is there more than one of them?” Lilah looked wildly around. This house made an awful defense. Too many doorways. Too many windows. She spotted her knife, and bent to pick it up.
Quick as a striking snake, Palmer caught her arm. “You’re hit.”
“What?” A bolt of fear coursed through her. She looked down. One of her sleeves was ripped. Flimsy fabric. Blood on her forearm.
She scrubbed it off with the intact sleeve. “A nick.” A strange laugh escaped her. “I’m all right.”
“Lilah.” His expression was unrecognizable. Chillingly cold. “Did you alert Miss Everleigh?”
“No, she didn’t answer me—”
“Good.” Without warning, he swept her into his arms and started up the stairs.
Sometimes the better part of wisdom lay in silence. Lilah held her tongue as Palmer shouldered through the door into his apartments. He walked straight into his bedchamber and dumped her on the bed. “Stay there.” He turned on his heel, leaving her in silence.
The night’s chill gradually registered. Why, that was right; she was wearing her robe. Barely dressed. She yanked the hem over her ankles and drew a shaking breath. The room was handsome, full of dark, heavy furniture. None of it for sale. She’d never been into his suite before.
She ran a hand over the coverlet. Soft, expensive fabric. Silk, dyed the shade of dried blood.
She recoiled. Pulled her hand back into her lap. Looked at her wrist, which had stopped bleeding.
Somebody had sneaked into the house. Palmer had broken his neck. Strong enough to lift a ram; strong enough to snap a spine. Why be surprised?
Her thoughts felt disjointed. Unnerving. She locked her hands tightly together, and counted the roses in the border of the carpet.
The door opened, giving her a bad start. “Make a noise!”
Palmer exhaled, a rough sharp sound. “Forgive me,” he said curtly.
He laid a small bottle onto the nightstand, a water pitcher beside it. From his pocket he took a roll of gauze, unwinding it in short, violent jerks. “I booked you passage. I gave you the letters.” The words drilled like bullets. “What else do you require to be gone?”
She’d fluttered and sighed, anticipating their reunion. But he looked at her now with fury. Nothing made sense. She groped for words, and found instead
the first prickle of anger, sharpening on her tongue like needles. “I answer to Miss Everleigh now. Not you.”
A humorless smile curved his mouth. “Of course.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sat down on the edge of the bed. Wetted the cloth in the pitcher. “Give me your arm.”
In his cold voice, that sounded like a threat. “No.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I am trying,” he said, “not to
throttle
you.”
“Why? What did I do?”
His hand closed into a fist. Veins springing up, knuckles whitening. “What in God’s name were you
thinking
? Running downstairs?”
She scowled. “You should be grateful. He was coming for you.”
“What of it?” he snapped. “Do I strike you as weak?”
She bit her lip. That was the very last word she would have chosen. The crack of her assailant’s neck would haunt her. “You were distracted,” she said very softly.
“Yes.” His mouth twisted. “It’s a problem, isn’t it?” He did not wait for her to puzzle that out before seizing her wrist. His fingers felt very warm. He laid the cloth to her arm.
His hand was trembling.
“Palmer?” His blond head bowed, concealing her view of his face. “Are you—”
“I should have driven you to the station myself.” He spoke very low. “Tied you onto that train. You were not meant to be here.”
She understood nothing. Or . . . perhaps she did. “You expected him? You knew he was coming?”
He looked up, his mouth twisting. “Of course not.”
Bewilderment swam through her. A thousand baffled
questions, none of which seemed to fit neatly into words. Something horrible in his face, as he stared at her—something she had never wanted to see.
Fear
. For her?
She tried to pull back. He did not let her. Scowling, she focused on his grip. She preferred him colder. Furious. What made him so afraid? She wanted to take a knife to it—a large one. A machete.
“You are leaving on the first train.” He reached over and took up the vial. Splashed its contents onto the handkerchief, which he laid back against her arm.
She sucked in a breath. “That stings.”
“Yes.” He watched his own work, the gentle pressure he exerted against the cut. “The bleeding has stopped.”
“I can’t go. Miss Everleigh won’t let me.”
“She goes with you. Her brother has called her back to town.”
“But . . .” She shook her head. “The estate?”
“Peter will manage it.”
“How convenient,” she whispered.
“No.” He looked sharply into her eyes. “It was my doing. I met him in town, on my way back from Sussex.” His mouth flattened. “I did wonder why he hadn’t mentioned your return.”
A chill wracked her. Understanding, at last. This wasn’t over. “You expect more trouble.”
“I expect nothing else.”
She hesitated. “Not a burglar, then?”
He shook his head.
“But he . . .” For an assassin, the man had been clumsy. “He didn’t even attack you. Here, when he found you.”
“He went to the wrong room. He was looking for someone else.”
“Who?” Not her. Why would anyone come after her? “
Catherine?
”
“Anyone,” he said. “Anyone close to me.”
She felt cold again, a violent shivering wave. With her free hand, she tried to draw the robe tighter, but it was a flimsy affair, not meant to provide warmth.
His gaze sharpened. “What is it? Something else? Did your head—”
“No, I’m fine.” She took a steadying breath. She was no sheltered lady, to be overcome by vapors. But . . . “I’m out of practice with . . . that.”
He whispered something too low for her to make out. Then he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to her forehead, breathing deeply. It was not a kiss. It was more basic. Skin to skin. “May you always be out of practice,” he said. “Always.”
Her eyes closed. Now, she was warm. With his lips pressed against her, his strong hand bracing her shoulder, she would not shake.
She felt him sigh. He eased away and retrieved the gauze. Thrice he wrapped her wrist, then knotted it soundly. “Too tight?”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
He laid her hand back in her lap, the movement oddly formal. “It is not nothing.” He nudged her chin up, so their eyes met. “You will not mention my name in London. Do you understand?”
His knuckles felt rough. His cheek was bruising. These small observations seemed important: the lock of blond hair curling over his ear. The length of his lashes, the way they curled. She wanted to touch him; to stroke the grimness from his face. He was about to explain things. She could feel the truth gathering between them
like darkness. In another moment, she would make herself ask for it. But not yet.
“Why did you leave for so long?” she asked.
A brief, fraught pause. She realized that question wasn’t safe, either. “I was at Susseby.” He sat back, letting go of a long breath. “It . . . The house is gone.”
“Gone?” She shook her head once. “What do you mean?”
“Burned to the foundations. There’s nothing . . .” His gaze wandered the room before returning to her. He, too, seemed to be struggling with his focus. “There’s nothing left but ashes.”
God above! What a run of ill luck! She reached for his hand where it lay on the counterpane. His skin felt cold to the touch now. She gripped his fingers, rubbed them to bring back the warmth. “Is your family all right?”
“Yes. I’ve sent them . . . elsewhere.”
“But what happened?”
His gaze locked on hers, square and unblinking, and she knew the answer before he spoke. “It’s all of one piece,” he said. “Tonight, and Susseby.”
She went still. Arson, then? “The man you killed?”
“Some hireling.” He looked down at their joined hands. Turned his palm into hers, threading their fingers together. “He was sent by a man named Bolkhov. The man who gave me this.” With his free hand, he touched the scar that ran so closely to his eye. “A general in the Russian army. Deposed, absconded from his post. His troops ransacked the Afghan countryside after the war. I was tasked to hunt him down. He held me responsible for those we killed. Among them, he claimed, were his wives and children. And so he vowed to take revenge. Susseby,” he said. “And tonight. And . . . all the rest.”
The gunshot. The assayers with their weapons.
The wrong room
, he’d said. “He wants to hurt Miss Everleigh?”
“He knows her.” He pulled his hand free, laid it on the coverlet, stretched his fingers. His knuckles were swollen from the brawl. “Under a different name, he contributed several pieces to the auction she’s curating. He enjoys his taunts,” he said quietly. “One of the pieces, he knew I would recognize. Until I saw it, I had no notion of how to find him.”
Comprehension swept through her. “You’re using her to hunt him.”
“That was the idea.” His smile looked black. “Instead, I gave him new prey.”
“She has no idea of the danger,” Lilah whispered.
“She does now. We spoke earlier. But other dangers concern her more greatly.” He shrugged. “Her brother is looting the auction house—fixing the books, embezzling from the accounts. By the terms of her father’s will, she has no authority to interfere until she is married. She proposed a trade: my help in containing Peter, for hers with luring out Bolkhov. It’s hardly fair, to my mind. But she was insistent.”
Lilah’s thoughts had turned to more selfish concerns. “You’re not really courting her, then?” God forgive her for her relief.
But he saw it, his face darkening. “Lilah. This is no game. If it took a marriage to trap him, I would do it. Bolkhov means to kill everyone close to me. He has already managed it once.”
God above. “Your . . . surely not your brother?”
He looked away. “A telegram arrived last week. Geoff’s grave had been disturbed. That was what drew
me to Susseby. By the time I arrived . . .” He knocked a piece of lint from the bed, then stared at his hand, the fist it made. “It’s a wonder no one was killed. The fire spread quickly. Strong wind, that night. The ashes carried all the way to the village.”