A Lady in the Smoke (36 page)

His fingers had begun to loosen their hold, but I tightened mine. “No, Paul,” I said softly. “I didn't do it because I felt I owed you anything. I did it because you're all that matters.”

On his face appeared a look that was equal parts incredulity and pain, tenderness and capitulation—and then one of his hands was pulling me close and the other was in my hair, and his mouth covered mine, and the warmth from the flaming coals was nothing compared to what his kiss was doing to my insides, the heat racing like fire down my veins. He drew back, murmured my name once, and then his mouth was on mine again, and I could hardly breathe, and I never wanted him to stop.

He pulled me still closer against him, and his voice was hoarse in my ear: “God knows I love you. I swear I do. If things were different—”

“I know. If I weren't an earl's daughter.”

“As if it's
your
standing that's inadequate.” He made a sound that was almost a laugh, but there was a note in his voice that hurt me.

His lips were on my hair, and my hand found its way inside his coat to his shirtfront, where I felt the rapid, unsteady beat of his heart. The moment might have lasted longer, the two of us silent and clinging to each other, but the clock in the hallway chimed half-past. I pushed myself away gently and touched his face, every line and plane of it familiar and infinitely dear. “You should go,” I whispered.

He pressed my fingers to his mouth, hard enough that it hurt. “God bless you. Always.”

This was goodbye, and I knew it.

The house was dark when I came home. I settled Athena in her stall and climbed the servants' stair in my stocking feet. Perhaps one of the maids heard me come in, but no one ever said a word.

The day before the Parliamentary hearing was unseasonably hot, like a day out of high summer, the air oppressive and still. The honeysuckle, barberry, and buckthorne had already grown into enormous messy tangles, beyond anyone's power to cut it back. The cellar was the only cool place in all of Kellham Park.

It was a quiet day. Mama remained in her room, and I stayed out of it. Anne and Philip had left for Scotland; James was on his way to Manchester; my uncle was in London; my aunt was preparing for our trip to Edinburgh. She had been delighted that I'd asked to go and had agreed to let me visit Anne. Beyond selecting some clothes for Sally to pack for me, I had little to do and nowhere to go but the barn or the paddocks. But even that was dreadful, for the horses were miserable. The barn was like an oven; the open sun intolerable; the shade under the trees full of flies that nipped at Athena and gathered at the corners of her eyes. I wrapped a towel soaked in lavender water and garlic about her face, to try to keep them away, and Martin wiped her down with the same mixture. But it seemed to do no good.

I wandered about Kellham Park, unable to find anywhere I could be comfortable. The knot in my chest twisted and tightened every time I thought of Paul and Mr. Flynn and what could be happening in London—what would happen the next day—

My thoughts were as bad as the flies, tormenting me with their insistent, unchanging buzz.

My uncle promised to return from London early on Saturday, so he could tell us what had happened at the hearing. But at two o'clock, when the shadows of the oaks had begun to shift across the lawn, he still hadn't arrived. I was sitting in the window seat, sipping at a glass of precious ice and water, and wishing a storm would come to break the heat.

I heard the wheels of a closed carriage on the drive. It wasn't my uncle; he'd have brought the gig from the station. Listlessly, I watched as the wheels came to a halt. I had no interest in seeing anyone—or at least, not anyone whom I could imagine coming to visit in a carriage.

But then Mr. Flynn climbed out, alone, and he was carrying a cane and limping.

Alarmed, I hurried downstairs and found him in the front hall. Agnes was staring at him apprehensively, and when he turned toward me, I saw why.

The entire right side of his face, including the area around his eye, was bruised; his lip was cut; and his left arm was in a sling.

“Mr. Flynn!” I managed. “What happened?”

He shifted his sling and spoke lightly. “Would've been worse without your warning.”

It struck me then that despite his injuries, he looked happier than I'd ever seen him. His eyes were bright, and there was an energy in his bearing that suggested the hearing had gone well. Bursting with curiosity, I led the way to the library, shutting the doors behind us.

“Who did this to you?” I asked.

“Two men who got away. But thanks to you, I had a club with me and a friend nearby.”

“Well, I'm glad of that,” I said as I looked him over. If this was the damage done when he had my warning, I shuddered to think what would have happened had he not.

“How are you?” he asked abruptly.

I gave a shrug and gestured for him to sit. “What happened yesterday? We haven't heard yet.”

He lowered himself stiffly and set his cane and his hat on the table beside him. “They're letting the Great Southeastern reopen, with the necessary modifications.” Wincing, he reached into his pocket and drew out a newspaper. “You haven't seen this?”

I took it from him. It was the
Falcon,
of course.

And right on top in bold letters was the headline:
GREAT SOUTHEASTERN RAILWAY TO REOPEN AFTER REPAIRS; RAILWAY SABOTAGE DISCOVERED; HAYES AND LORDS QUESTIONED BEFORE PARLIAMENT
. Underneath was a smaller headline:
RAILWAY SURGEON ACQUITTED; TRIAL DEEMED A FARCE.

A thrill of delight shot through me, and I looked up to see him smiling. “Why, this isn't just the hearing! This is
everything
! You must be so pleased!”

“I am.” He sat back in the chair and pointed at the paper. “Most of it's there, so you can read it later. But it's much as we suspected.”

I dropped the paper into my lap, too impatient for the story to read it. “The last I knew, you'd found the clerk who'd suppressed Griffin's report, and Hayes had been brought in for questioning.”

“Yes. I'd talked to the clerk weeks ago, and he denied knowing anything about Griffin's report. But after Griffin was killed, I went back and told him what we suspected. Naturally, he was horrified. He told me that Hayes had sent one of his men to get the report and paid him twenty pounds for it. We knew some of the men Hayes had working for him, so the inspector brought them in, and the clerk identified a bloke named Fishel.” His eyebrows lifted. “You think
I
like to tell a story? We could hardly shut him up, once he got going. Hayes had been denying everything of course, but Fishel had been in the room once when Hayes met with Poole, and he'd also been present when Poole met with the engineer who designed the sabotage at Malverton. Once we found the engineer, he eventually admitted to being paid by Shaw.”

“And they've accused Lord Shaw?”

He nodded. “But seeing as Hayes was brought in first, he had the advantage. So Hayes is claiming that Shaw was the mastermind, while he was merely the abused investor.”

“And Lord Shaw is claiming something like the opposite,” I guessed.

“The duped aristocrat, taken in by the wily financier.” He grinned. “I told you, plenty of what I discover is better than a novel.”

I took a deep breath. “And Lord Bucknell? Is he managing to escape intact?”

He waved a hand. “He insists he knew nothing about the scheme—and the meetings he had with Farnsworth and Poole were about something else entirely. But Lord Shaw has some correspondence that strongly suggests otherwise, and I think it's likely Bucknell won't be considered for Home Secretary much longer.”

I shook my head. “I can hardly believe all this. But as you say, it's not far off what we suspected.”

“No.”

“And what about Dr. Morris?”

Mr. Flynn grimaced. “Once he saw which way the wind was blowing, he couldn't distance himself fast enough. Insists he was only trying to”—his tone became lofty—“preserve the integrity of his profession.” He shrugged. “For all I know, that might have been part of his motive. He did admit, however, that it was Lord Shaw who contacted him and Mrs. Benedict and urged them to bring the suit.” There was a long pause, and his eyes were watching me intently. “Your Lord Shaw had his fingers in every bit of this.”

Despite the heat of the day, I shivered. “Well, I'm just glad that enough of the truth is coming out. And Paul must be so relieved, now that his name is entirely cleared.”

“He's all right.” He shifted in his chair, looking at me with curiosity and something like approbation. “I will tell you something. You surprised me the other day.”

“I did? When was that?”

“The second day of Paul's trial, when you were speaking, after the judge shut up old Solmes. Do you know I found myself thinking,
Damn, she tells a story better than I do.
And I wasn't the only one who thought so. Every eye in the room was on you. It was dead silent, until you finished.”

I laughed. “Don't worry. I won't try to take your job at the
Falcon.
”

But he didn't smile. “I wish I'd listened to you more. Before the trial, I mean.”

I looked at him in surprise. “I certainly don't feel that way. On the contrary, I think you've taken quite seriously the information I've given you.”

He fidgeted. “But you were right about what you said to me in Travers. You said newspapermen have an ending in their heads even before they begin a story. The truth is, I hated the idea. I was absolutely
certain
that your opinion was wrong”—his tone became wry—“which, as Paul would tell you, usually means that there's a kernel of truth in it.”

I held back a smile.

“What I mean is, I might've figured out what Hayes and Shaw and the rest were up to faster, if I hadn't been so bloody desperate to find the story that fit the few facts I had.”

Hearing the echo of my sharp words made me feel ashamed. “I wasn't being fair to you, Mr. Flynn. We all have stories in our heads, endings that we think, or hope, are coming. It's the way we make sense of things. As for this story…” I shrugged. “You were only desperate for an ending because Paul's life was at stake. What's important is that you put the facts together in time to make a difference.”

“I wouldn't have, though, without you pointing me toward Lord Shaw and Hayes, and telling me about George Truax's engagement.” He raised a hand to stop my demurring. “I'm not very good at saying thank you, and I don't do it often, so don't stop me.”

This time I let him see my smile.

“And I'm apologizing, too—because I
did
have assumptions about you when I first met you in Travers. And I was wrong.” He shook his head. “You're one of the most ethical, decent people I've ever met.”

I felt tears pricking at the sides of my eyes. “My goodness.” I swallowed, not knowing what else to say. “Thank you.”

There was an awkward pause as he fumbled inside his coat. He drew out a small package wrapped in brown paper, and his eyes remained on it as he weighed it in his right hand and then reached it toward me. “This is for you.”

A gift?

Uncomfortable, I didn't put my hand out for it. “Mr. Flynn, truly, there was no need—”

“It's not from me,” he interrupted. “It's from Paul. I was supposed to deliver it in a few days.”

He held the package to me again, and this time I took it. “Do you know what it is?”

He merely sat back in his chair, his right hand gently cradling his injured left elbow.

Something inside gave a muted rattling. I slid my fingernail under the edge of the brown paper. Inside was a white box, which I opened.

A piece of pale tissue, which I unfolded.

And there was Paul's ring.

I picked it up, felt the smoothness of the gold shank, the roughness of the carving on top.

I slid the ring onto my finger, crest side against my palm, and closed my fingers around it tightly.

Mr. Flynn was looking at me. I couldn't say a word, so I opened my fist so he could see.

He pointed to the box. “There's a note.”

I unfolded the bit of paper and read it silently:

With my most affectionate remembrance. PW.

Remembrance.
It was so final.

Suddenly I remembered what Mr. Flynn had said as he gave me the package. “Wait a moment.” My voice was sharp. “Why were you supposed to deliver this in a few days?”

His eyes veered away from mine.

“Mr. Flynn! Is he all right?”

“He's fine. I promise.”

I felt tears of relief burning my eyes, and I buried my face in my hands.

“Oh, my god. Don't cry. Damn it. I hate it when ladies cry.”

But I was sobbing, huge racking sobs, my fingers still clenched around the ring.

“I can't help it,” I gasped. “People talk about their hearts breaking, but mine is just this horrible knot pulled tight in my chest. I feel like it's barely working. I can't eat, I can't sleep—”

He gave a low groan. “The reason Paul wanted me to wait is because he's leaving.”

“Leaving,” I echoed stupidly, looking up at him through the blur of my tears. “Leaving for where?”

“Philadelphia.” He paused. “In America.”

“When?”

“The ship sails the day after tomorrow.”

I leaned forward. “Please,” I begged in a whisper. “Take me to him.”

“Why?” he demanded. “That would just torture you—torture both of you—and he knows it. That's why he wanted me to wait to deliver the ring.”

“Then why didn't you?”

His mouth cut an unhappy line. “Because I'm a fool, I suppose.”

“You think there's a chance for us, don't you?”

There was a flicker of pain over his countenance. “I don't know. Maybe.” A pause. “He already lost one chance when my sister died.”

“I know.”

“Do you love him?” he asked.

“More than anything.”

He grimaced. “I thought so. I heard what you said—and what you didn't say—in that courtroom.” He leaned back in his chair, and now his gaze was like that of an inquisitor. “But would you marry him? Would you give up all this and go to Philadelphia?”

“Of course I would.” The words slipped out before I even knew I'd thought them. But, with a sort of stunned realization, I knew beyond any doubt that they were true.

“You answered fast,” he said, a note of skepticism in his voice.

My hands were knotted together in my lap. “It's
not
because I'm impulsive. It's because I know my feelings. At least when it comes to this. I swear, I do.”

We gazed at each other a moment, each of us taking the measure of the other. Haltingly, I said, “Mr. Flynn, you wouldn't have come today if you didn't already know what I was going to say.”

He shook his head. “That's not true. I had a hunch. But I needed to see your face when I told you about him leaving. I had to be sure.” He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. “I'll meet you at Liverpool Street Station tomorrow afternoon. There's a train that leaves Bonwell at noon, arrives in London at half-past four.”

I let out the breath I'd been holding. “I'll be on it.”