A Rational Arrangement, page 45
“Yesterday? What happened yesterday?”
“Nothing of consequence, my dear. Tell me, are you quite recovered?” Lord Comfrey leaned forward to brush his fingers against her cheek. “You seem well, but you always do.”
She put her hand over his. “Nothing happened to me, truly. I doubt I would be bruised today even if I’d not petitioned a healer.” Wisteria pressed his hand closer to her cheek. She spoke softly; they were close enough that he would hear even a whisper. “But I keep thinking about his hands.” She didn’t need to say whose hands. “I couldn’t tell what Brogan had done to his hands. I still don’t know. I’m not even sure what I saw, exactly. Blood. Raw flesh where the fingernails should have been.” The words poured out; this surely belonged on the list of Things Not To Discuss but she couldn’t stop herself. “Something that wasn’t blood, oozing. I should have done something more for him, after we were free, but I didn’t know what—”
Lord Comfrey reached out to enfold her in his arms. She leaned into him, feeling clumsy and awkward, craving contact and not knowing how to get it. But Lord Comfrey did: he tugged her unresisting into his lap, positioned her so one of her hands slid about his waist, and let her crumple his immaculate neckcloth beneath her cheek. He nestled his chin against her hair, whispering, “Shhh. Shhh. It’s not your fault.”
“But I could have checked, and I didn’t. I could have sent a messenger to Anverlee Manor. If we’d known Saturday night—”
His arms tightened around her, uncomfortably so. She curled closer, glad for the sense of steel and strength in him. “There’s no reason you should have. You did the right thing,” he said into her hair. “Many right things. You went into the den of those beasts, them thinking you a captive, and all the while you were in control. You were magnificent, my dear. Brogan is fortunate I arrived when I did; I doubt he would have lasted another few minutes against the two of you.”
Wisteria curled her fingers around his lapel as she burrowed closer for comfort. “After he’d surrendered, when you kicked him in the face, I thought: Good. I wanted to kill him. I think if I’d found a knife instead of rope, I would have. There were pliers in that pot. The one with the coals, that Lord Nikola threw. I remember seeing the pliers and thinking, ‘that’s odd. Why would you put pliers in a pot full of coals?’”
“Don’t.” Lord Comfrey murmured.
She barely heard him as she went on, “‘Why would you have a pot full of coals anyway?’ And I didn’t realize then but I’d noticed rust on the hammer I used, rust on the head and shaft. But it couldn’t have been rust because the shaft was wood. It was blood—”
“Don’t.” He stroked her hair along the curve of the twist, other arm encircling her waist. “You shouldn’t think about things like this. You shouldn’t have to think about things like this.”
“But I can’t, I can’t stop thinking about it, it doesn’t matter that I don’t want to know the answer, my mind just keeps going back to it, turning over the things that didn’t make sense and trying—” Wisteria stopped as Lord Comfrey tilted her head up and kissed her. He was tender this time, still assured but with a different kind of need. She closed her eyes and wriggled higher against his body to return the kiss.
After a long moment, he broke off to whisper against her mouth. “There, did that take your mind off of it?”
Wisteria blinked and nodded. “But I’m not sure what I’m thinking about now is any more appropriate.”
“I disagree,” he said, and kissed her again. She slipped her hand beneath his jacket, caressing smooth linen to feel the warmth of the flesh beneath. Her fingers clenched around the fabric to give herself purchase, willing her mind to stop thinking and just feel. Lord Comfrey cupped the base of her head with one hand and let the other wander down her back. He did not try to undress her this time; she wasn’t sure if she was sorry or relieved. Her own hand dropped to unfasten the buttons of his jacket without Wisteria thinking about it until she pushed it open.
Then she found herself thinking of the carriage, and of kissing Lord Nikola, and of what kind of woman she must be to behave so. Wisteria pulled away; Lord Comfrey released her at the first indication of resistance, and she fell back in a graceless heap to the center of the couch. “I’m sorry,” she said, automatically.
“I will forgive you under the sole condition that you never again apologize when the fault is mine,” Lord Comfrey said. He took her hand gently, as if afraid any stronger grip might startle her to flight. “I am sorry, my dear. I am usually better than this at pretending to be a gentleman.”
“Pretending, my lord?” She wanted to tell him she wasn’t apologizing for starting but for stopping, but that begged the question of why she had stopped and she did not know how to articulate that answer.
“Indeed. There are no true gentlemen in this world, Miss Vasilver. Only men who are more or less good at feigning it.” One corner of his mouth turned up as she glanced sidelong at him. “But Lord Nikola once told me that you can tell a true villain by his opinion of his fellows. A good man sees good everywhere, while a ruffian thinks everyone as corrupt as himself.”
Wisteria thought of Brogan, convinced that Lord Nikola was withholding his Blessing out of spite or greed. “I cannot allow you to offer such a slur against yourself, my lord. I must insist you retract it at once.”
That made him laugh. “And if I do not? I have it on good authority that you cannot pout.”
“I shall fetch my mother’s lavender perfume and cry at you, then.”
“Ah, not that. I retract my ill-considered words.” Lord Comfrey lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “Shall we speak of some less provocative subject? You could tell me what you’ve found on Colbury. I promise not to defend his honor against you.”
Wisteria accepted the diversion with some relief, fleeing the couch for the safety of her desk. “I’ve found a few more oddities, my lord. Nothing criminal or fraudulent, but well short of best practices…”
After speaking of Colbury Textiles for a little while, the conversation wandered from that to business in general. Lord Comfrey wanted to know more about her methods of analyzing records and what sorts of flags she looked for in deciding what warranted a closer look and what was innocuous. Wisteria found Lord Comfrey very easy to talk to. Not in the way that Lord Nikola was, always encouraging her to speak of whatever she chose no matter how inappropriate; instead, Lord Comfrey had an inexhaustible supply of appropriate conversational topics at his disposal. They spoke for above an hour in an ordinary way that did not involve Lord Comfrey touching her even once. The interruption came not from Lord Comfrey excusing himself, but from a servant announcing it was dinner time, and extending Mrs. Vasilver’s invitation to Lord Comfrey to stay for the meal.
Rather to Wisteria’s surprise, Lord Comfrey accepted instead of offering a polite demurral. During the meal, he was every inch the gentleman. Wisteria was hopeless at reading moods in general, but she had learned to gauge those of her immediate family to a degree. Her mother was overawed by Lord Comfrey, her father flattered, and Mitchell and David eager to speak with him of hunting. Byron was out, dining with friends. They had a few other dinner guests, acquaintances of her parents, but the gathering was small and informal: no concern about speaking only with one’s neighbors or keeping an exact ratio of men and women. Lord Comfrey was as easy a conversationalist at dinner as he had been in private. The only topic he did not speak of readily was the abduction and rescue. Today’s guests were just as eager to hear the details as everyone else, but Lord Comfrey steered conversation away from the topic.
The sheer normalcy of it all added to Wisteria’s sense of unreality. It ought to make a difference, that this man had saved her life, seen her half-naked, been kissing her passionately not two hours ago. How could the weight of all these strange experiences go unacknowledged, unobserved, in favor of the banalities of everyday life? All right, the abduction did not go unremarked, but she felt it might as well have done. She wished now she had not retreated to safe topics during that private interview in her office, that she’d dared to speak of all those inappropriate things.
But she had been, hadn’t she? Talking about the part of the abduction she could not forget. And that’s what Lord Comfrey had distracted her from. Maybe he’s like everyone else and doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to hear. It’s a miracle that you found one man interested in such things; just because Lord Comfrey is his friend does not mean he would share that peculiarity.
After dinner, her mother suggested a walk about the manor’s garden to improve digestion. When Lord Comfrey agreed, Wisteria did as well. Once outside, he offered Wisteria his arm and set a brisk pace: not too quick for Wisteria, but fast enough to put some distance between them and the others. “I am not going monopolize you all day, my dear,” he told her quietly, when they were out of earshot. “But I do wish to thank you for seeing me today. This is the first time I have felt myself since Sunday. I cannot tell you how profound a relief it is. I may even be able to face my evening engagement with a semblance of equilibrium.”
“What are your plans for the evening, my lord?”
He waved a hand. “Nothing of consequence. A dance hosted by the earl of Elsbury, if I recall aright.” He brought his hand down again to cover hers where it lay in the crook of his other elbow. “I am afraid I have given you the wrong impression of myself, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say ‘the right impression, but not as flattering a one as I would prefer you to have.’”
Wisteria looked at his handsome golden-brown face, remembering his tangled attempt at plain speaking when they were returning from the ball. Maybe he just needs a little encouragement. “What do you mean, my lord?”
Lord Comfrey looked away from her, leading her along the path as it curved beneath a trellis arch decorated by yellow-brown vines gone dormant for the winter. “I mean…you are a courageous, intelligent, resourceful young woman, perhaps the finest of my acquaintance.” He fell silent.
“That is very kind of you to say, my lord,” Wisteria said, flattered but confused. If anyone here is brave, it’s him and not me. “I do not know that I’ve thanked you properly for saving me; I do not know if it’s even possible to offer sufficient thanks, my obligation to you is so great. But if there is anything I might—”
“Please don’t.” Lord Comfrey cut her off as he turned to face her beneath the arch and took both her hands in his. “I did not think it was possible for me to receive too much undeserved praise but it turns out it is. I am surfeited and more than surfeited. You owe me nothing, Miss Vasilver. If anything, I am in your debt for your assistance – your invaluable assistance – in locating Lord Nikola.”
“But were it not for you—”
“No. I do not want your obligation, Miss Vasilver. The only reward I sought in what part I played was your safety and that of Lord Nikola. I am more than repaid in receiving that much. Do not think you owe me anything at all.” He was quite intent upon her, thin mouth unsmiling, narrow dark eyes focused on her face.
“As you like, Lord Comfrey. But why does it trouble you?”
He released one of her hands and touched his knuckles to her cheek: such a simple gesture to make her long for more. “Oh, you’ve seen the state of my professional accounting, my dear. I have enough trouble managing it, without needing to track the balances positive and negative in my private life. Much easier to keep everything even.”
She tilted her head at him; he was smiling now. She could not make her face answer him so she did her best to make her words respond in kind. “I have never thought of keeping a ledger-book for favors before.”
Lord Comfrey shuddered. “And may you never again. Bad enough keeping them for numbers.”
“I like numbers, my lord.”
“They’re well enough for ledgers, I’m sure.” He dropped his hand; by now they had stood still long enough for the voices of her parents to be audible again as they caught up. Lord Comfrey turned about to face the way they’d come, offering his arm. “I should be going now. Thank you again for your company, Miss Vasilver.”
“You know you are very welcome. Am I allowed to thank you for yours?”
He laughed. “Only if it truly pleases you.”
“The thanking or the company? Nevermind: it is yes to both. Thank you for calling, my lord: I had been longing to know how you were.”
“Quite well,” he answered, walking back with her to rejoin the party.
Justin did not know what he was doing, which bothered him as much as anything else.
Other than Nikola, Justin had no close friends. He had a wide range of acquaintances, and a fondness for many of them. Even silly giggling girls and overstuffed peers were amusing in their own ways. But all of them were interchangeable, each with some uses and one no better than the other as far as company went, only differing in the details. There was no reason to cultivate any particular one for the sake of mere companionship. He preferred to keep them at arm’s length: it discouraged hangers-on and presumption. Even with people he screwed – especially with people he screwed – he recoiled from the appearance of attachment. In part that was due to the need for discretion, but it was a personal preference as well. He did not want be dependent on any one individual for anything. If his admiration for Nikola had not always been so intense, he would never have let their friendship progress as far as it had.
And now Wisteria Vasilver threatened to do the same. She was unlike anyone else he knew, with her quick grasp of details, her deep understanding of finance and investment, her cool, calm, analytical mind. Not to mention her remarkable bravery, her fearless, dispassionate evaluation of risks. Men called him brave, but Justin was not the one who – with both hands tied! – had tackled an armed man half again his size. Even without her considerable physical appeal, he wished to see more of her. With her considerable physical appeal, he wasn’t sure what to make of her. He was certain that she was a virgin who wished to preserve that state for marriage. Perhaps he could persuade her otherwise, but…he liked her. He didn’t want to risk that for mere physical gratification. Apart from the way he kept acting as if he wanted to risk it. He hadn’t meant to embrace her this afternoon, never mind kiss her. Yet it had seemed the sensible thing to do at the time. Madness in retrospect. Perhaps I ought to propose to her. Isn’t that what normal bachelors do with maiden women they admire and desire? But it was far too soon in their acquaintance for such thoughts, even if he’d been a normal man. Which he wasn’t. If I wed, would Nikola break from me? Even if he did not, it would be still harder to arrange assignations with him.
Justin assumed he would see Nikola again eventually. The alternative did not bear contemplation.
He arrived home without reaching a resolution even in his own mind. In the foyer, Justin shrugged out of his overcoat, letting the footman take it as he asked his butler, “Messages while I was out?”
“Two callers left cards, my lord, and three letters delivered.” The uniformed man proffered a silver tray with the papers on it. “The top one is from Lord Nikola.”
Justin couldn’t contain his smile, his heart lightening at the name alone. He collected the correspondence with more haste than necessary. “Thank you, Frederick. That will be all.”
Justin went to the cosy second-floor parlor, taking the seat by the window that Nikola always chose when he called. He put the cards and other letters aside without looking at them, holding Nikola’s in his hand. An actual letter in an envelope, not a folded page sealed. For a few moments he gazed at his name, penned in Nikola’s own deft slanted hand, then broke it open.
Comfrey,
I must apologize – for quite a few things, in fact, but first and most of all for not contacting you before now. I know you’ve called, and I cannot readily describe how much it troubles me to have turned you away. Friendship alone demands a better reception than that, nevermind the very great debt that I owe you. To have treated you so shabbily after you have done so much for me…Common decency insists I return the call, but I do not know when I will be in a position to do so. But if you were so kind as to call at Anverlee Manor yet again, say on Monday morning, I should be very happy to receive you. I know it’s nonsensical to say in one breath “I cannot see you” and with the next “I’ve missed you”, but it is nonetheless true. Anthser and Jill and the other greatcats are good people, but they are not you. And there are the (admittedly rather tattered in my case) obstacles of class between them and I. It’s not the same as conversing with a peer. I do hope you will excuse my lapses and return, my friend.
I cannot thank you enough for rescuing me. I do not write that as hyperbole, but literal truth. I understand from Anthser’s account that he and Miss Vasilver played critical roles in finding me, but all that would have been for naught were it not for your skill and courage. I have never been so glad to hear anything in my entire life (and hope never to be again) as the sound of your voice ordering Brogan to surrender. I shudder to think what would have become of Miss Vasilver and myself without your intervention. I should sooner be exiled to the Abandoned World than have spent five more minutes as that man’s prisoner. I have done a poor job indeed of expressing my gratitude thus far, but never imagine I do not feel it. I will see what I may do about rectifying that lapse in the future. In the meantime: thank you, Comfrey.
I am not myself of late – I imagine you’ve noticed. I have a mountain of apologies to write for canceled engagements. Jill thinks I am mad for caring: “Nobody expects you to apologize for bein’ tortured.” Savior, I hope the whole world doesn’t know everything that transpired. But Jill thinks all humans mad, and I know better than most that is untrue. Apologizing for my indisposition is perhaps not needful, but it’s one of the saner things I’ve done of late. I am trying to make some use of my time, organizing my own notes on my work and cross-referencing them with my great-grandmother’s and her grandfather’s. It’s slow going, but I daresay a worthwhile project.
