Suzanne Robinson Read Free Page B

ankles, and listened to the plump little maid run from the room. He regretted drawing on her. But, hang it, she should have let him know she was there.
    He’d been out west too long. He’d made the trip to California and back through Colorado and Texas to forget the war, to erase Balaklava and Scutari from his memory—and for other, less benign reasons. The cure had been successful, as long as he’d been in America, but the cure had its price. Tension had permeated his body and mind over the countless weeks on the trail. His senses had magnified. He heard single drops of rain in a storm, he smelledcampfires across mountain ranges, sensed the mute presence of a Comanche. So he drew on little maids kneeling at a hearth in his town house.
    Shifting uncomfortably, he pulled a pair of nickel-plated iron handcuffs from his back pocket. He tossed them on the tea table. The clank drew a glance from Loveday. Jocelin favored him with a bitter smile, but refused to react to the I’ve-just-smelled-rotten-pork expression on his valet’s face. He fished in his vest pocket and withdrew the key to the handcuffs and a leather cigar holder.
    Loveday floated over to the table and picked up the handcuffs with his fingertips, holding them at a distance from his body. “I may store these away along with our other American accoutrements, my lord?”
    Jocelin took a big gulp of tea and grunted.
    “I noticed that Mr. Tapley has not returned with your lordship.”
    Leaning back in his chair again, Jocelin folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. “Ah, yes, Mr. Tapley. Poor Tapley ran afoul of Comanches when we took the stage from Texas to California. Darned shame. But then, I warned him about how dangerous it was when I told him about all that gold in California. Real shame. The coach broke a wheel, and we were stranded on the road for the night. He wandered away from camp. Told him not to go gallivanting off by himself.”
    “How foolish of him, my lord.”
    Jocelin opened his eyes and met Loveday’s drill-like gaze, unperturbed. “Yup, foolish. I had to do it, Loveday. It was the only way to get the bastard away from his victims.”
    Still dangling the handcuffs, Loveday nodded and withdrew a sealed envelope from his coat pocket.“Our mail has been sorted, my lord, and it can wait until we’ve rested from our journey, but I saw this.”
    Taking the envelope, Jocelin sat up and drew the lamp nearer. He glanced at the seal. It bore the impression of a stylized guillotine. Nick had a taste for the macabre. He broke the seal and read the enclosed letter, then glanced at the sheet behind the missive. His gaze ran over a list of five names and addresses. The clammy chill of the fog outside his window seemed to creep into his body. Like a slave’s burden, his own living nightmare settled on his shoulders again.
    Loveday had lit the fire. Jocelin handed him the letter, and the valet touched it to a red coal. Rising abruptly, Jocelin began rolling the list into a cylinder as he left the room.
    “My bath?” He heard himself pronounce the word with the accent he’d acquired at Sandhurst. The West was wearing off him a little.
    “The footmen should be bringing the water shortly, my lord.”
    He went to the sitting room, ignoring the symmetrical delicacy of its silver-and-gray plasterwork. He walked to the fireplace. On the mantel rested three vessels. A Wedgwood urn, a nautilus shell Jacobean drinking cup, and a pedestaled flask carved of lapis lazuli. It was an antique from the Italian Renaissance, once owned by Francesco de’ Medici. He grasped the flask. Trimmed in gold, it had a narrow neck and a hinged top. He opened it and slipped the cylinder of paper inside. Closing it, he replaced the vessel on the mantel and went to his desk.
    He’d never cared for the desk, for it crawled with elaborate decoration, from the pictorial marquetry to the gilt ormolu mounts. However, it was big enough tohold most of his correspondence—at