Page 15 of Ashes To Ashes
"Why?"
Buchanan swirled the liquid around the snifter. "Does this mean you're no longer engaged?"
Blood surged along Lincoln's veins. He forced himself to remain still, and to think. A suitable answer came to him after several thumping heartbeats. "Charlie is too young to get married."
"Hardly. Girls younger than her have been hitched, or promised." Buchanan's smirk reappeared, more twisted than before. "Besides, she's hardly innocent, given her background. Probably has more experience than me. I wouldn't mind finding out what the little vixen—"
Lincoln grabbed the turd's throat, cutting off the flow of verbal vomit spewing from his mouth. Buchanan choked out something inaudible, and his face turned a satisfying shade of red.
"If you disparage her again," Lincoln snarled in Buchanan's ear, "I will castrate you and serve your balls to you on a platter. Do you understand?"
The purple veins on Buchanan's temple stood out in bas-relief. He attempted a nod.
Lincoln let him go and watched as Buchanan fell to his knees, one hand at his throat, the other holding the snifter steady so that none of the liquid spilled.
A movement by the door caught Lincoln's attention. Millard stood there, his steady gaze on his master. How much had he seen? After a moment, he merely said, "Is there anything you require, sir?"
"No," Lincoln said, not caring if Millard had addressed him or Buchanan. "Get up," he ordered Buchanan when Millard backed out of the drawing room and shut the doors, despite not being asked to. "I have questions about Ela."
"If you want me to talk, you shouldn't've tried to bloody kill me," Buchanan rasped.
"If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead." Lincoln waited while Buchanan got to his feet, drank the rest of his drink, and poured himself another.
By the time he sat in the armchair, his color had returned to its usual washed-out pallor, although his throat remained red. "What about Ela?"
"You know her intimately."
Buchanan held his glass up in salute. "And?"
"And did you know that she was also intimate with another circus performer by the name of Patrick O'Neill?"
"A mick?" He snorted then winced and rubbed his throat. After a long sip, he said, "Thought she had better taste than that. He's not one of those freaks, is he?"
"He was the strong man."
Buchanan paused, the glass near his lips. "Was?"
"He died two nights ago."
Buchanan nodded thoughtfully then took another sip. "Then she'll be more available now. Twice a week isn't enough."
Lincoln waited while Buchanan finished the rest of his drink. What had Julia ever seen in this parasite? Perhaps he'd been less of a prick when she'd first met him at The Alhambra. Perhaps their prior connection, and her subsequent rejection of him in favor of his father, made her feel guilty enough to allow him to stay on at Harcourt House. Then again, Lincoln wasn't sure if guilt was an emotion she was capable of feeling.
"What does the fellow's death have to do with me?" Buchanan drawled.
"Did you kill him?"
"No! Do you think I'm jealous of a greasy mick freak? I didn't even know about him until now."
Lincoln believed him. The man was easy to read, and Lincoln's senses told him he had nothing to hide. Buchanan hadn't killed O'Neill. "He knew about you," Lincoln said. "I found this address among his things."
"Blimey. Do you thinkhewas jealous ofme?"
"It's possible. It's also possible that he was killed before he had a chance to come here and confront you, if that were his intention."
Buchanan swallowed and touched the red mark across his throat. "Thank God for that."
"Have you seen anyone lurking outside lately? Have you been followed?"
