Lord help him, had it all been a dream?
Or was he being given a second chance? If he didn't take ship this time—if he remained in London instead and, poor though they'd be, married Annabella—could he undo all the pains he had left behind him when he'd taken the Empress and sailed away?
Clive frowned. But if his brother was still missing, his return to London did not negate his responsibilities. He would simply have to leave again....
But how could he? Knowing what he knew now, how could he leave Annabella a second time? Surely it would be a worse crime to desert her when he knew what his leaving would mean to her?
And then there were his companions. Had they been left behind to carry on by themselves, or had each of them been given this opportunity as well?
He regarded Annabella. He could see no trace of her pregnancy from this perspective. Perhaps she didn't show yet. Perhaps she was still unaware that she carried their child....
She turned then, that familiar smile on her features. But she wore no look of surprise at his sudden appearance, Clive noted. It was as though he'd never left.
She shook her head, a teasing Took in her eyes.
"Are you ready to rise now, sleepyhead?" she asked.
The sound of her voice lore at his heart. Her features, her smile, the cornflower blue of her eyes....
He reached toward her, but she shook her head.
"Not again, my love. If you don't dress soon, we'll be late for the celebration—and that would never do. George would never forgive you."
Celebration? Clive thought. What in God's name was going on? How could she be so calm? She truly acted as though he'd never left—as though all he'd been through had been no more than some nightmarish dream.
He looked more closely at her, finally registering how she was clad. She wore an evening dress, the bodice cut low, the skirt wide. Her shoulders were powdered, her hair done up in coils that glistened in the light cast by the oil lamp on the dresser.
A celebration.
"But afterward," Annabella went on, "when we return, we will salute your new commission privately until neither of us has the strength left to move."
The promise in her eyes made Clive ache to hold her. But he concentrated on the odd things that she said. His new commission. A celebration.
Again, that echo came to him.
Your heart's desire.
Wasn't this what he had always wanted? To be able to lake her for his wife, the two of them making their own life together, and to the devil with his father and twin, to the devil with her teaching?
He looked down at himself. He stood naked by her bed. Beside him, the bedclothes were rumpled.
You have just experienced a long and troubling dream, he told himself. There can be no other explanation.
He had never shipped on the Empress in search of Neville, never been trapped in that hellish Dungeon.... Of course. It made sense. The whole experience had held a nightmarish quality.
But it had seemed so real. And there was still...
He looked at Annabella. "My brother..." he began.
She laughed. "No need to worry about him—he hasn't been invited."
Clive sat down upon the bed and rubbed at his face. Immediately concerned. Annabella hurried to his side. She knelt by the bed where he sat. The hoops of her skirt made it difficult for her to embrace him, so she took his hands in hers.
"Clive—what is it?"
"I ... I have had the strangest experience." he said slowly. "I..." He looked up to meet her steady gaze. "I can't remember anything about this celebration or a new commission. I dreamed I went to Africa in search of Neville and was trapped in an enormous mazelike Dungeon."
"Should we call the doctor?" Annabella asked.
Her worry was plain.
Clive shook his head. "No. Physically, I am well. I'm just... confused."
"We can cancel the party at the club. I'll send word to George that we won't be able to attend."
Clive gave her a rueful look. "You say he's organized the party for me?"
Annabella nodded.
"Then it's as you said a moment ago: He'd never forgive me if we didn't go."
The longer he spoke to her, the more easily he found himself slipping back into his old life. The Dungeon grew more and more like a bad dream.
"You said my brother wasn't invited," Clive said. "But, he's safe?"
Annabella blinked. "Of course he's safe! It's been over a month since his return and. by all your accounts, he's recovered enough to have returned to his old methods of dealing with you."
Anger flashed in her eyes as she spoke of his twin.
"And I never sailed to Africa?"
Her anger faded, replaced with laughter. "Oh, Clive! You're just teasing me—aren't you?"
Clive looked around the room, then settled his gaze on her. He squeezed her hands.
If the Dungeon had been a dream, then it was over and done with. He could put it from his mind. But if this was the dream, he'd be damned if he'd let it go.
"You've caught me out," he told her.
Shaking her head, Annabella rose gracefully to her feet. With quick, deft movements, she adjusted the fall of her skirt.
"Up!" she told him. "Your uniform's pressed and hanging on the door of the closet for you. I'll give you until the count of ten to be ready to leave. If you're not done by then. I'll find another escort." She gave him a broad wink. "One... two... three...
Clive rose quickly from the bed. The uniform, the scarlet tunic and dark trousers of the Imperial Horse Guard—hung where Annabella had said it was, but it wasn't a major's. Rather, it was that of a leftenant-colonel.
He rose from the bed and crossed to where the uniform hung to finger the cloth of the tunic.
Lord help him. He no longer knew what was real and what wasn't.
"Seven... eight..." Annabella counted.
Shaking his head, Clive hurriedly began to dress.
Two
They took a cab from Plantagenet Court to du Maurier's club—a somewhat bohemian establishment, as George readily admitted, frequented by artists and writers, but at least it permitted ladies in its bar.
A London fog made the heavy traffic move even slower than was usual for this time of the evening, but Clive didn't mind it at all. He soaked in his surroundings, relishing everything he laid his gaze upon—the confusion of cabs and foot traffic, the vendors and hawkers still peddling their wares to the theater and restaurant crowds. From the squalor of the slums to the homes of the wealthy, Clive saw all the familiar sights as though through new eyes.
He had never thought to see London again, yet here he rode through her gaslit streets, Annabella at his side, a celebration in the offing.
Lord, could a man ask for more?
When they finally reached the club, Clive disembarked and handed his companion down to the cobblestoned street. He paid the cab and. offering Annabella his arm. moved toward the entranceway, which was guarded by a uniformed footman. Before they could reach the steps, however, a tattered beggar shuffled quickly from the shadows, cap in hand.
"Here!" the footman cried. "Off with you!"
"Please, gov'nor," the beggar said, keeping his attention on Clive. "Won't you help me, good sir?"
Annabella shrank against Clive's side. Ordinarily, Clive would have sent the man off as quickly as the footman was attempting to. but something in the beggar's features caught his attention. There was a certain familiarity hidden behind the grime that streaked the man's face.
"A minute." Clive said.
He left Annabella standing with the footman and stepped closer to the beggar, peering more closely at him.
"Do I know you?" he asked.
The beggar shook his head. "I'm nobody, gov'nor. Nobody a fine gent such as your own self'd be knowing."
Normally, this was true. Clive had never been one given to holding conversation with beggars and the like.
But his time in the Dungeon had taught him that looks co
uld very easily be deceiving. And there was that nagging sense of familiarity....
"Just a shilling—if you can spare it. gov'nor," the beggar went on.
He held out a hand even dirtier than his face. A rank smell rose from the man—a combination of unwashed body and stale beer.
"What's your name, man?" Clive asked.
The fog was turning to a light drizzle as he spoke to the wretch.
"Clive!" Annabella called.
Clive nodded in her direction, but didn't turn.
"Your name?" he repeated.
The beggar took a step back, a frightened look crossing his features.
"I didn't mean you no harm, gov'nor," he said. "Don't be calling the law on poor Tom."
With that he turned and bolted. Clive took a step after him, then paused and let him go.
Tom. Those features....
"Clive," Annabella said again.
She left the stairs and joined him on the street. When Clive turned his attention to her, he knew from the look in her eyes that she was worried about him again. He shrugged and gave her a quick smile.
"I had the oddest feeling that I knew that man," he said. "Absolute nonsense, of course."
Taking Annabella's arm, he led her up the stairs and past the footman, who kept his features carefully neutral. The footman opened the door for them and they stepped into the club.
"You're beginning to worry me." Annabella told him, once they were inside. "First, you play at losing your memory, and now, you seem set upon gallivanting about the streets with beggars."
"I thought it might be someone from the old regiment," Clive told her, "fallen upon hard times. All men aren't so fortunate as I am."
Obviously referring to her, that earned him a smile.
In the foyer a servant took her wrap and Clive's military cap, then, they went in to where George waited for them. A huge fire burned in the hearth, taking away the damp chill of the night air and fog outside. George rose from his chair with a welcoming smile and outstretched hand.
"I was about to give up on you," he said. "Our dinner reservations are for eight, but we still have time for a drink, if you like."
Clive glanced at Annabella. When she nodded, he ordered two glasses of sherry from the waiter, who stood nearby.
"George?" Clive asked.
His friend lifted his own glass, still half full, and shook his head.
"Just the two glasses, then," Clive told the waiter.
"So," George said once Clive and Annabella were seated, "have you set the date yet?"
Date?
Luckily, Clive thought the question rather than blurting it aloud as he'd been about to, for when he saw Annabella blush and lower her eyes, he realized immediately what George was referring to—their wedding. The real question now was, had they set a date? Annabella would think him a complete boor for not remembering, if they had.
He glanced at her, but found no answer in her features. He cleared his throat.
"Ah..." he began, and was rescued by the arrival of the waiter with their sherries.
"To your prosperity!" George cried, lifting his glass. "May you always be rich in health and know joy in each other's company." Before Clive and Annabella could clink their glasses against his, George added with a wink. "And a promotion certainly doesn't hurt, either, now does it?"
"To us." Clive said, touching his glass against the others, his gaze resting on Annabella.
"To us," Annabella said. She smiled warmly at him, then turned her gaze to George. "And to the best friend a young couple could have—bohemian or not!"
Laughing, they toasted each other and drank.
And then a cold thought knifed through Clive's mind.
The beggar.
Tom.
He had it now. The man bore an uncanny resemblance to the Portuguese sailor Tomàs, whom he had left behind in the Dungeon with his other companions. As a beggar here in London, he'd had a cockney accent, true enough, but the resemblance was so profound that Clive couldn't believe it mere coincidence.
Except the Dungeon was just a dream.
He was free from it now. He had awakened from the chains of sleep with the blessed relief of knowing it had all been but a dream—a nightmare, to put it mildly, but a fantasy nonetheless.
The Dungeon wasn't real. It was that simple.
But he remembered that voice again.
Your heart's desire.
If the whole thing had been but a delusion, then why did it seem so real?
"Clive?"
He blinked to find George and Annabella regarding him worriedly. He stood up from his chair.
"A ... a momentary... dizziness," he said. "I need some air."
Before either could protest, he was walking away, back to the entrance. When he stepped outside, the footman turned to him. The man's smile look on a sudden wariness.
Clive had been about to ask after the beggar, but seeing that look on the footman's face, he realized just how foolish he was being.
"Did you... ah... happen to see a glove?" Clive asked.
The footman shook his head. "No. sir. Perhaps you left it in your cab?"
"My cab?" Clive repeated.
Get a grip on yourself, man, he told himself.
"Of course," he said with a quick smile that he was sure seemed as artificial as it felt. "The cab. Thank you."
He reentered the club before the footman had a chance to speak further. In the foyer, he smiled at the servant who came to collect his hat. The man appeared confused when he realized that he had already done so moments before.
"I just took a breath of air," Clive told him. "Lovely night."
To be sure, he thought. Fog and drizzle. Well, dammit, after months in the Dungeon—dream or not—it was a wonderful night.
He fled the servant's confusion to rejoin his companions. George arose immediately upon spotting him and met him halfway across the room. He took Clive by the arm and peered into his face, plainly concerned.
"Clive, are you ill?"
Clive shook his head.
"Only Annabella's been telling me you've seemed out of sorts ever since you woke from a nap earlier this evening."
"Nerves." Clive assured him. "It's not often a man gets promoted and engaged, all at once, as it were."
The reasonableness of the explanation was readily accepted. George studied him a moment longer, then gave his arm a squeeze and led him back to the hearth where Annabella waited.
"All's well, my love." Clive told her.
He was careful to control his hand as he took up his sherry. It felt as though it would shake free from his wrist.
"So," he said as he set his glass down again, "who all have you invited to the restaurant. George? Your theater crowd, no doubt?"
George laughed. "No, no. In honor of the occasion, we'll be a respectable company, barring myself, of course."
Clive gave an appropriate smile, but he couldn't shake the sensation that he was going mad. Which was real— this, or that bloody Dungeon?
With a great effort, he put the question from his mind and threw himself into the festive mood that the evening required. Yet, he couldn't help but feel as though he were not so much present and partaking of events as watching them unfold through a dark glass. Me saw again the beggar's features, remembered Tomàs and his other companions—Shriek, Finnbogg, Smythe. and his many-times great-granddaughter, Annabelle....
No, he told himself. Let it go.
He was successful for the rest of that evening as they left the club and went to dinner.
A few of his fellow officers were at the restaurant, along with their ladies, as well as some of George's friends that Clive and Annabella had grown to know over time. Congratulations—both for his promotion and their upcoming nuptials—raised many a toast. There was good food and better conversation, fine drink and dancing afterward. But throughout it all. a nagging concern remained in the back of Clive's mind, discoloring all that he experienced.
With all he had
already experienced—or thought he'd experienced—in the Dungeon, what was to say that this wasn't simply one more move in the inexplicable game played by the Dungeonmasters? How could he know? If this was a lie....
Your heart's desire.
If this was a lie and he was given a choice—return to the struggle, or live the lie—what would he choose? How could he choose?
Three
It was late when they finally returned to Annabella's rooms. The drizzle had continued throughout the evening, fog thickening in the alleyways, making their return in the cab a damp and miserable ride—or it would have, if they had not had each other's company. Annabella's cheeks glowed from both the evening's dancing and the wine, and Clive realized yet again how empty the world would be without her.
As it had been in the Dungeon.
His dream.
Her rooms were cozy once they had the oil lamps lit and a fire burning in the grate to take away the chill. While Annabella took a bath, Clive stood at the window and stared down at the wet streets. His mind was a turmoil of confusion. He should have enjoyed himself this evening, and on most levels, he had. Everything had been perfect—the company and setting both—yet he had been unable to shake a sense of foreboding throughout it all.
Glancing at the windowsill, he noticed the tiny length of a fennel seed lying on the wood, its pale green and white stripes appearing bright against the dark mahogany. He licked a finger and touched it to the seed, snaring it with his saliva, then brought it up to his eye.
Like the errant memory he'd tried to snag when approached by the beggar outside George's club, the seed reminded him of something...
Absently, he put it in his mouth and bit down. The sharp tang of anise filled his mouth. A scent of cloves touched the air. When he looked out the window, the fog thickened suddenly and approached the glass panes, making it impossible to see the street.
And he remembered once again.
The gateway. Falling through the blue. That same taste; that same scent. How he'd put into words one of the basic tenets of his life: that he wouldn't quit a struggle, no matter what odds stood against him. He hadn't spoken aloud, but then, that voice had replied all the same.