With This Kiss (42 page)

A series of disjointed thoughts flashed through her mind. First and foremost was that she had found Lazarus as last. He had been so close all along. Jonathan Derrick, the Earl of Bedford. Now she knew. Now she finally had a face to attach to the mysterious arsonist who had terrified all of London. But what she could do with that information at the moment was frighteningly little. For what she was viewing, she realized in horror, was a funeral pyre. Her own.

She turned to find him intently watching her. He tilted his head toward the painting. “Do you like it?” he asked. “I did it for you, my love. All for you.”

She managed a tight nod and took a step away from him. “It’s very well done.”

“Do you think so? Truly?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t tell you how it pleases me to hear that.”

“It’s… very well done,” she repeated, at a loss for any other words.

“Splendid.” His gaze moved past her to the painting. “Splendid. I wasn’t at all certain that you would like it. Not at all.”

Julia took a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm.
Later,
she silently swore. She would allow herself to fall apart later. Panic and hysteria were rarely productive emotions, and at the moment she needed all her faculties. Pushing back the terror that threatened to engulf her, she forced herself to rationally examine her situation. But her options, she realized with a feeling of sinking dread, were limited.

Escape was the first thought that came to mind. She was all too willing to obey that primal instinct. Unfortunately the windows were shuttered and latched closed; the swarms of candles that blazed in the sills served as an additional barrier. Furthermore, Jonathan Derrick stood between her and the room’s only door. Nor would she be heard if she cried out for help. She was simply too far from the ballroom.

If she couldn’t flee and she couldn’t expect help, she had no option but to fight. She cast a discreet glance around the room for some sort of weapon. Nothing. Not a mounted sword or a set of dueling pistols. Not a glass vase or a letter opener. Not a broom, or a pot or a pan. The room was nearly bare save for the painting, the crimson-sheeted bed, and dozens upon dozens of flickering candles. Just as she was about to give in to despair, she caught sight of a long, dark shape near the side of the mantel.

A firebox poker.

A tiny spark of hope was lit within her. If she could just get to it. If she could just stall him long enough to reach it… She took a small, backward step in the direction of the mantel.

Jonathan Derrick’s gaze immediately snapped toward her. He studied her with an intense frown, as though puzzled and displeased with her motion, but not entirely certain why.

Julia glanced again at the painting. Her initial impression was that it had been of her. Then she remembered the earl’s earlier words.
Her hair was almost your color, did
you know that?
With that in mind, she forced a tight, wavering smile and guessed, “Your mother?”

For a long moment she thought he wouldn’t reply at all. Then he slowly nodded. “I painted it from memory.”

“You must have loved her very much.”

“Yes. Very much.”

“She died in a fire?”

Another long pause, as an expression of intense pain contorted his features. “Fire was the only way to cure her of her sin. The only way. My father had no choice.”

She shook her head, watching him closely. “I don’t understand.”

“It was her sin that drove him to it,” he said. “I saw it all. My mother and the man she lay with, the way their naked flesh slapped together in the dark. So evil. So foul, so dirty. My father had to purify, to cleanse. He had no choice but to do it.” He fixed his gaze on the painting as he intoned, “‘The heat of his wrath shall cleanse the body of sin. Through fire one shall purify one’s soul.’”

A glimmer of ghastly understanding spread through Julia. She retreated another step, conscious of the candles that lined the floor. The slightest misstep might cause her skirts to brush against a burning flame and ignite.

“I want it to be beautiful,” the earl continued, his gaze returning to her. “If we have to do it, it must be done right. It has to be beautiful.”

“What has to be beautiful?”

“Your death, of course,” he replied. A note of almost desperate pleading entered his voice as he nervously wrung his hands. “There will be pain. I don’t know how to do it without pain. I wish I did. I don’t enjoy it; I don’t enjoy it at all. I hope you can believe that.”

She swallowed hard. “Yes, of course.”
Just a little more time,
she thought. Just a little more time until she could either talk him out of his insane plan or reach the poker. “I thought you and I were working together,” she said. “Look at how much we’ve done to rid London of its sin. Do you remember the foundling home in Westchester? They now have a new board of trustees, and the children are receiving twice their previous allotment of food, as well as warm coats and shoes without holes. And that gin house on Turner Street? The one that sold opiates to—”

She broke off abruptly as the earl began muttering to himself. Rhythmically shaking his head back and forth, he retrieved a length of thick crimson ribbon from his coat pocket and wound it between his hands. Combating a sensation of mounting alarm, Julia watched him tighten his fists about the satiny strands. “What is that for?”

“To tie you to the bedposts.”

Her heart slammed against her chest. “I see you’ve given this a great deal of thought,” she managed.

A relieved smile curved his lips. His face was even more florid than usual; tiny beads of sweat glistened on his skin. His pale blue eyes burned with equal parts zealotry and confusion. Yet at the same time there remained a childlike earnestness about him, as though he were struggling to find the right answers. “Yes,” he gushed. “You do understand. I was so hoping you would. We don’t want this to be unpleasant.”

She took another small step toward the mantel. “No, we don’t.”

“Flame. My dearest Flame. It has to be you. There has to be a worthy sacrifice, or the dreams will keep coming back. My father won’t leave me alone. He won’t ever leave me alone.”

“Where is your father now?”

“Here. Right here,” he answered, his voice raising several octaves. “He’s with us now, watching. That’s why I have no choice.”

“I see.”

As he dragged his fingers through his shaggy mop of blond hair, his excited expression plummeted to one of utter despair. “Sin. So much sin. It won’t ever end, will it? He’ll never let me rest.”

Until that very moment Julia had been consumed, perhaps quite properly, with her own safety. In her fear she had questioned her ability to fight off a man as large as Jonathan Derrick. But with his words that suddenly changed. She was filled with a new sense of strength and purpose. There was no time for doubt or hesitancy. After what he had done to Morgan, to Henry and Annie Maddox, to Sarah Montgomery, and to countless others, he had to be stopped.

She took another step and felt the mantel bump up against her back. Slipping one hand behind her, she fumbled blindly until her trembling fingers wrapped around the thick iron poker.

“What was that?” he suddenly demanded, his head cocked and alert.

She froze, her heart in her throat. Had she given herself away? No sooner had that thought filled her mind than a low rumble of thunder shook the room. A strong gust of wind immediately followed, then the sound of driving rain.

The sudden fury of the breaking storm was apparently lost on Jonathan Derrick. As though listening to a voice only he could hear, he gave a vague nod and said with an eerie, boyish giggle, “Yes. Yes, I will. I understand.” Tightening the ribbon about his fists once again, he moved toward Julia. “Flame,” he said. “My beautiful, precious Flame.”

She took a deep breath and clenched the poker in her hand, bringing the weapon up and ready to strike. She would have one good swing, perhaps two if she was lucky.

Another sharp gust of wind rattled the windows. The door flew open behind them. Her first thought was that the force of the wind had caused it to open. Then she blinked in disbelief as the figure of her Uncle Cyrus filled the doorway. He stepped into the cottage, soaking wet and looking thoroughly annoyed. Behind him loomed both Morgan and Home Secretary Chivers.

Cyrus, as usual, was the first to speak. He gazed about the room and said, “Really, Julia, this is most improp—”

Then everything seemed to explode at once. Jonathan Derrick spun around with a sharp, startled cry, an expression of naked horror on his face.

Julia’s gaze flew to Morgan. “Laz —” she began, but she didn’t need to finish the word. Evidently the macabre setting was enough to impress upon Morgan exactly with whom he was dealing. Shoving Cyrus aside, he leaped across the room in a flying tackle, hurling his full weight against the Earl of Bedford. Dozens of candles scattered across the floor as the two men rolled toward the bed, locked in a fierce struggle.

But it quickly became apparent that Morgan was the only one who was fighting. Jonathan Derrick lay curled up in a tight ball beneath him. Covering his face, he emitted an eerie wail that was almost inhuman — very like the agonized, frantic bleating of a sheep that was being slaughtered. Over and over again he pleaded with his father to stop beating him. His cries filled the room, echoing off the cottage walls in a pitch of shrill, fevered hysteria.

Morgan, at last hearing what Derrick was saying, drew back, his fist frozen in midair. Swallowing a surge of pity and horror, Julia allowed the poker to slip through her fingers. Home Secretary Chivers, who had held his pistol fixed on the two combatants, slowly lowered the weapon, an expression of grim sobriety on his features. Even Cyrus Prentisse was temporarily silenced.

Breathing hard, Morgan rose to his feet, his gaze locked on Julia. She wasn’t aware of moving, or even of deciding to move. But somehow she made it across the room. In the space of less than a second Morgan’s arms locked around her, holding her as though he would never again let her go.

Julia hesitated outside the door to Morgan’s library, unaccountably nervous. It was foolish on her part, but she couldn’t help it. In the aftermath of the abrupt ending to the Earl of Bedford’s gala and his subsequent arrest, she had not had a chance to speak privately with her husband. Nor had they spoken on the long, stormy carriage ride home. At the time she had been perfectly content to wallow in the comfort and security of Morgan’s arms. But she couldn’t help but feel that the events of the evening had occasioned a profound shift in their relationship, one that they had no choice but to discuss. There were too many unspoken words between them already.

Refusing to allow herself to put it off any longer, she tightened the belt to her dressing gown and stepped inside. Like her, Morgan had removed his formal attire in favor of something more comfortable. His gray silk dressing robe fell open to reveal the sleek, bronzed lines of his chest. Beneath it he wore only the tailored, black wool slacks she had seen him in earlier.

He sat with one slim hip propped against his desk, his attention absorbed by the thick leather volume he held in his hands. As she entered the room, however, he immediately looked up and sent her a soft smile. “Good,” he said. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Not too long, I hope.”

“No, not too long.” His gaze moved over her body in a manner that was neither overtly sexual nor blatantly possessive, but instead fell somewhere in between. He gestured toward a crystal decanter. “Brandy?”

“No, thank you.”

She seated herself across from his desk in a plushly cushioned chair that allowed her to draw her feet up beneath her. Deciding to deal with the issue of Jonathan Derrick before delving into the larger concern of the future of their relationship, she asked, “What will happen to him?”

Morgan shrugged. “Chivers ordered him taken to Bedlam. There will be hearings on the matter, of course, but I imagine he’ll remain there the rest of his life.”

“You sound almost disappointed.”

A small frown touched his lips, but he didn’t deny it. Glancing at the book he held, he rose and slid it back into its place on the shelves. “I suppose in some ways I am,” he admitted, turning back to her. “After all these years I created a monster in my mind, some sort of evil Goliath I would have to slay with my own hands. Instead, all I felt for Jonathan Derrick was pity. It’s somewhat humbling to have one’s life nearly destroyed by so small and weak a man.”

Although Julia could find no adequate response, she was nonetheless intensely pleased that he had shared his feelings with her. Shifting the topic slightly, she asked, “How did you find me?”

“Fortunately your Uncle Cyrus was keeping a closer eye on you than I was. He watched you leave with the earl and was most displeased when you failed to return to the salon. Apparently he was of the opinion that your prolonged absence with a man who was not yet a member of the family was most unseemly, particularly given that your destination was so isolated a spot. Thus when he saw me, he insisted that I do my husbandly duty and return you to the ballroom forthwith.”

She smiled and shook her head. “And to think I always resented him for his ridiculous preoccupation with proper society.”

“It appears we both owe him a world of gratitude for that ridiculous preoccupation.”

She nodded, but as she recalled the events of the evening, her smile faded. “I still don’t understand how our paths could have crossed. When I returned from the ladies’ retiring room, you were nowhere to be found.”

“Ah. So that’s where you disappeared to.”

“Where did you think I was?”

Morgan leaned against the bookshelves, a rueful smile curving his lips as he reluctantly explained, “Home Secretary Chivers and I jointly applied our vast powers of reason and intellect and deduced that Thomas Fike was the mastermind behind the arson. That unfortunate conclusion was further reinforced when Fike displayed the profoundly poor timing to disappear from the ballroom at the same instant you retired to mend your gown. Naturally we feared the worst and were determined to rescue you from the clutches of that dastardly fiend.”