Page 60 of An Honorable Deception
Barclay stayed another hour, going over the plan’s smallest details, asking questions that uncovered every flaw. Adding what he knew of the city and its inhabitants—which was considerable enough to make Yates think he’d neverlookedat London before, much as he’d thought he had.
Finally, as the clock struck one, Barclay stood, gathered his copies of the papers, and they agreed on when next they’d meet and how to get in touch in the meantime. He strode into the hall, putting his hat on and then tipping it all in one gesture. “Evening, Colonel.”
Merritt’s mumbled return of the greeting sounded halfasleep and half confused. He stepped into view a moment later, rubbing at an undoubtedly sore neck, eyes on Barclay’s retreating form. “Yates? Who was that?”
Yates glanced down at the desk. The bracelet was still there. And the necklace had joined it. He leaned back with a smile. “Our new best friend.”
EIGHTEEN
The rain hadn’t stopped in the three days it had been since Lord Fairfax and Lavinia departed for London. The sun hadn’t shown its face. The ground had turned to a morass of mud that would have stolen the jutti slippers from her feet had she dared step foot outside, and Alethia couldn’t help but feel a little safer.
Foolish. An English rain offered no safety. No promises. She knew that. Knew it wouldn’t slow anyone’s travel if they’d found out where she was, knew that the trains were still running and carriages and cars still driving. She knew the rain wouldn’t keep the monsters away here.
India’s monsoon season, however, had been the only time of year when she’d known that she could laugh. Play. Listen to Samira’s stories. And know that when she curled up to sleep beneath her mosquito net, she wouldn’t wake up in a wardrobe, those whispered warnings in her ears.
In monsoon season, the viceroy’s household traveled—everyone but her and her ayah, because who wanted to be bothered with a child on a long journey? Not her parents. Off they would go, and home she would stay.
Those two-and-a-half months were the happiest of every year.
She lifted a hand and pressed it to the cool glass pane. She could manage the stairs without Zelda’s assistance now, so she’d been spending most of her time in the drawing room, looking out over the drive.
Looking for Fairfax and Lavinia to return.
Looking for the monsters to find her.
Praying. Reading. Pacing, and telling herself it was to regain her strength and not to keep the nervous energy from undoing her.
“They’ll be here soon.” Marigold’s voice came from the chaise on which she’d stretched out, one hand rubbing her stomach and the other holding open a book. “Any minute, I’d say.”
Fairfax and Lavinia and Sir Merritt. That was all. Marigold’s family. Alethia’s new friends. People she trusted because they’d proven in their short acquaintance that they were worthy of it—far more than nearly everyone she’d known.
Samira? Would they have Samira with them? The last telegram they’d sent had simply said that Mr. A expected to recover her tomorrow—yesterday—and that they’d arrive on the two o’clock train the day after that. Today.
But there’d been no other wire. No assurance she’d been found. No confirmation that they were, indeed, on that train. She folded her arms over her middle and clasped her hands to her elbows. The rain came steadily down. What if the men who shot her realized they were helping? They could be hurt. Dead.
And it would be her fault.
“You tell our secret, little darling, and Samira will be the first to be hurt, but not the last. And it will be all your fault. Is that what you want?”
She squeezed her eyes shut. So many years, the voice hadbeen silent, the bruises had faded from her memory as they had from her arms where he’d squeezed his warning. Because for so many years, she’d thought the danger had passed. It had all changed when they got to England—all of it. The day she said farewell to Samira, Mama had whisked her off to a boarding school. From there, finishing school. They were always traveling for holidays, so she’d never even gone home. Mama visited her regularly. She’d never even insisted Alethia write to anyone but her.
Then she had graduated. She’d had nowhere else to hide—and had to prepare for her debut. But the fear she’d felt when she first stepped back into Barremore House had quickly fizzled. Mama had exclaimed over how beautiful and grown-up she looked. Father had given her a stiff peck on the cheek and said she had much to live up to if she meant to honor the family name. Uncle Reuben had given her a once-over and asked her how she’d enjoyed her various schools, then returned to the newspaper before she’d uttered more than a sentence in response.
Maybe it was her fault it had started up again. She was the one who had put the beaded shoes on under her coming-out gown. She was the one who had chosen the pashmina shawl. She was the one who had fastened Samira’s jewelry to her ears and throat and wrists. Was that what had led them back here? Had her rebellion—an infuriated response to Father’s offhanded comment about how she’d shaped up well enough after they got her away from the Indian chit—started it? Reminded him of the past?
If she’d done what was expected, maybe Samira never would have disappeared.“First I’ll hurt Samira.”That was what he’d always said. “Stay quiet, do as I say, or she’ll pay the price.”Had she disobeyed? Was that why Samira had vanished? Why Alethia was recovering from gunshotwounds? Why she was wondering now if new friends or old monsters were in the carriage that had turned up the drive? Or the car behind it?
Wait—a car? The Fairfaxes, so far as she knew, had no automobile.
Perhaps Mr. A had. Perhaps he was coming himself to report—to return Samira.
Perhaps it washim, coming to ruin it all.
“Ah, there they are.” Marigold put a marker in her book and pushed to her feet. The baby must have kicked when she stood because she gave a little laugh and rubbed at the spot. “That’s right, little one. Your dada will be in here saying hello to you in a moment.” She frowned, though, when she spotted the auto. “Merritt must have borrowed it,” she mused, seemingly to herself. “Though I do wonder why.”
Alethia told herself to follow her hostess out of the room, toward the doors. To greet whoever arrived, friend or foe, with her chin up. She managed to put one foot in front of the other, but she’d only made it to the drawing room doors by the time the front ones opened.
She must have been holding her breath because her head went light and she had to clutch the doorframe for support. But it was Sir Merritt who jogged in first, tossing an umbrella heedlessly to the marble floor and scooping his wife into his arms with a laugh.
