Page 24

“Tell Barksted,” Lynley said, “that his methods won’t stop me.”

“Yer a cheeky one ta give orders,” the second man said, but he did not deny the Barksted connection. He nodded to his companion, and the two began to close in on Lynley.

Lynley removed one of his useless shoes and tossed it at the single lamp illuminating the scene. Glass shattered, and the flame flickered and went out. He pressed back in the shadow of the building.

The shuffling of his attackers’ feet sounded loud in his ears. He had only delayed the inevitable. He guessed they meant to give him a beating as a warning not to interfere at the club with whatever it was that Barksted had going.

“Where is ʼe?” one of the men said.

“Between us, ye nodcock. Keep movin’ in.”

The attack when it came was a flurry of kicks and blows, grunts and thuds. Lynley kept his back to the wall, his arms up in a fighting stance. His ribs and forearms took most of the punishment. He kept thinking about how long they would keep it up and how much punishment he could deal out in return.

He realized they wanted him to go down, but refused to give them the satisfaction. He wanted blood. With an upward backhanded swing of his left fist he caught one man’s nose. The man’s head snapped back. The crack of his nose mingled with his yelp of pain, and a spray of blood hit Lynley as the man reeled away. The other man cursed and drove in on Lynley, furiously swinging his club.

Lynley started to go down under the blows when a flash of light caught the attacker’s face as a hackney came round the corner. The driver drove right at them, and the attacker scurried back, lifting his companion by his collar and hauling the man up. They stumbled off in the dark as the hackney stopped in front of Lynley.

A man jumped down from the passenger seat.

“Phil, is that you?” Lynley asked.

“Came back. Didn’t like you walking.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s get you home.”

“Gladly.” Suddenly, Lynley was aware of all the places that hurt. He would not be riding with Emily Radstock at seven.

Chapter Nine

The plainest girl from the grandest manor or the most insignificant cottage longs from an early age to be a bride. The sun of her imagined wedding day casts bright beams over the lesser, unmarked days of her girlhood. In the manor she tries on the veil and coronet preserved by mother and grandmother. Beyond the cottage gate she gathers wildflowers to carry down weedy aisles. Wandering on her own, she writes new names for herself with a stick in church registries on the banks of streams. She is a mere girl. No one sees the vivid life within her. No one notes her capacity for love. Yet she never doubts that she is meant to be seen, known, loved, and chosen. She is meant to be a bride.

—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London

Emily poked at the eggs on her plate, round and perfect, crisp on the edges, white with dark yellow centers, a well-matched pair.

Generally, she liked breakfast. A lady could almost always eat breakfast in the privacy of her family’s morning room without anyone commenting on what or how much she consumed, while at a dinner or a ball, the lady of delicacy and sensibility must appear to exist on air. Nothing substantial could touch her lips. She could not be caught in the act of chewing. Emily had not chewed a morsel in public in her first three Seasons.

This morning, disappointment lodged in her throat. In the carriage after the opera she had guessed that Lynley was preparing for some adventure. He had the kind of energy that required action. And the whole point of trying to kiss her had clearly been to distract her so that she would not, could not, think about his real object in becoming engaged to her.

She broke the yellow center of one of her eggs and dipped a corner of toast in it. This morning she had to face facts. She had let herself be seduced by the idea of being engaged. It mortified her to realize that dangling her ring over the side of Lynley’s carriage, catching the envious looks of girls still waiting for their moment, she had been as caught up in bride fever as the greenest girl in her first Season.

In Emily’s case the ring on her finger was a hollow show. It had changed nothing. She had her life. Lynley had his. She had letters to write and people to meet. Arthur Broome was still in Marshalsea Prison. Lynley probably had a pressing need to stroll down to his club. A two-day engagement did not mean either of them had to change plans made previously. She should simply ignore him and go about her day as if his failing to ride with her made no difference to her life.

She jabbed the remaining yolk. She could just imagine him lying in bed, his dark hair tousled, his long limbs tangled in sheets and coverlet, his eyes closed with the dark lashes down across his cheeks, and his beautiful crooked mouth slightly open. Best not to think about Lynley’s mouth. The thought made her conscious of her own mouth.

She blinked. April sunshine streamed through the morning room windows. Her father sat at his end of the table behind the Chronicle, drinking his tea. It was like dining alone. She could break crockery or set the room on fire before Papa would look up. Pressing matters of national finance and threats of war occupied his mind, not a superfluous unmarried daughter.

There had been a time when Papa, Mama, and their three offspring—Emily, Frederick, and Roz—had all taken breakfast together, and Mama had banished the paper and insisted on conversation. They had been children then. Now Roz and Frederick had homes of their own. It was only Emily who remained in her childhood place. No wonder her father took no notice of her. She was supposed to be elsewhere. And now that she was engaged, her father truly had no need to concern himself with her.

“The opera party went well, Papa,” Emily said.

Behind the Chronicle her father gave no sign of hearing her. She pushed away from the table.

“I think I’ll find Lynley this morning and break a vase over his head.” She had no idea where Lynley lodged. She could neither send a message nor go round to pound on his door until his servants admitted her.

The paper rustled in her father’s hands. He mumbled something.