"Indeed you do," Isabelle echoed, fixing him with eyes gone glacial. "Tell me, what is India doing these days?"
Freddie decided against any sugar-coating. "She graduated from med-ical school a week ago, and is working for Dr. Edwin Gifford at his Whitechapel practice."
Isabelle swallowed hard. When she spoke again, her voice shook with anger. "I blame you for this. How could you have allowed it? You should have married her by now. As her husband, you could have forbidden it."
Freddie's temper sparked, but he kept it under control. "It isn't my fault," he said. "She refused to even think about setting a date until she'd finished her studies. You know how stubborn she is."
"But Freddie, you must do something. You must make her see reason. She cannot keep this up, this... this paddling about in filth and gore. Traipsing through the slums. Working side by side with men. You must stop her practicing medicine. It will ruin her."
"I told her at her graduation that I wouldn't wait any longer. She agreed to set a date. Soon."
"Soon is not soon enough," Isabelle snapped. "You are her flanc�If you of all people cannot bring her to heel, perhaps it is time I found someone who can."
Freddie affected a stricken look. He stood and said, "Perhaps you're right, Isabelle. You know how I feel about India, I love her more than my life, but perhaps she would be happier with someone else. Someone more of her world. She has her school friends and she has Maud. Perhaps this matter would be better left to the knowing heart of a girlfriend or sister."
Isabelle paled. The last thing she would want was for one of India's doc-tor friends to matchmake for her, never mind Maud. The mere suggestion that one wayward daughter might shepherd the other had its intended effect.
"Freddie, sit down. That is not what I want at all. I want India back. Back in our world. She is our only hope, mine and my husband's. You realize that, don't you? Maud is completely past redemption. India isn't. Not quite." Freddie started to say something soothing, but Isabelle cut him off. "Our two families have known each other for years. There is a trust between us and an understanding. I hope that I may be direct with you."
"Of course," Freddie said. This was going even better than he had hoped. He felt certain that Isabelle was about to make his fondest wish come true. The two of them had been dancing around this topic for ages, but she had never made him any firm guarantees. All she had ever said was that if he were to marry India there would be a dowry.
"As you know, India's father and I have no male heirs, only a nephew, Aloysius, whom we will name as our heir if there are no grandchildren. We need a son-in-law, a right-thinking man who can steward the family fortune. I am, as I have always told you, more than pleased that you will be that man, but the engagement has gone on far too long. Marry India, bring her back within the fold, and do it quickly. We are prepared to be very generous about the marriage settlement... if there is a wedding--and an end to this doctoring nonsense--before the year is out."
Freddie nodded, struggling to maintain a calm expression. He was close--so tantalizingly close--to getting what he wanted.
"India will receive a sizable dowry--including a lump sum of �100,000 and an additional �20,000 per annum. She will also receive the Berkeley Square house and, upon my death, Blackwood."
Freddie had to fight the urge to whoop with joy. This was beyond his wildest dreams. A fortune in cash, the London house, and the Welsh estate--all his.
"Isabelle, that is more than generous, and it is lovely to think that India and I would be starting our lives, our family, in this wonderful house that holds so many happy memories. But all that really matters to me is India's happiness."
"There is no greater happiness for a woman than marriage and society. If you do love my daughter, if you bear any affection toward myself and Lord Burnleigh, please use all haste in making her your wife."
Freddie finished his tea, then took his leave, promising Isabelle that he would invite India to Longmarsh presently to press his suit. She allowed him to kiss her cheek and said she would await the good news.
Outside, the clouds were breaking up and the sun was shining. Freddie was so pleased at his good fortune that he vaulted over the iron railing sur-rounding Berkeley Square, startling a little boy in a sailor suit. As he strode out of the park toward Piccadilly, he thought about how he'd soon be able to outstrip Bingham, Wish, and Dickie Lambert. With the Selwyn Jones fortune behind him, he'd be unstoppable.
Of course, his well-laid plans all hinged on convincing that awkward bore of an India to actually set a date. Easier said than done. They barely saw each other these days, what with his work at the Commons and her hours at Dr. Gifford's, plus her involvement in the Society for the Suppres-sion of the Opium Trade, the Fabian Society, and the Women's Franchise League. He sighed, thinking how much easier it would all be if that gor-geous Gemma Dean were titled and rich, but she wasn't. Far from it.
He thought about the time he'd invested in India--years, actually--and marveled at his own fortitude. He'd been playing a long and masterful game of chess, carefully engineering each piece into place, feigning an interest in her medical studies and her tedious do-gooding--and yet the endgame still eluded him. He had to find a way to get her to set a date for their wedding, but how? There was the time-honored way, of course, and he had tried to make love to her on several occasions, but she was cold-- frigid, in fact--and it had always ended badly.
There had to be another way. Bingham had invited them all to Long-marsh for the last weekend of June. That gave him a fortnight to come up with a plan. He had planned to use the weekend to draft an important speech in support of the Irish Home Rule Bill, but there would be mornings and evenings. Time for long walks or horse-riding. He would get her alone, appeal to her emotion, accuse her of being unfaithful, threaten to break off the engagement--something, anything--to force her hand.
It would be a tricky business. Even if he did get her to commit to a wed-ding date, the job would still be only half done. Isabelle wanted more than a wedding--she wanted India to stop practicing medicine. Well, one thing at a time. First he would make India his wife, then he would worry about how to end her career.
Freddie reached Piccadilly and, spotting the Ritz Hotel, decided to treat himself to a bottle of Bolly. He was about to come into a fortune, after all, and that deserved a toast. It was such a relief to know that there would be money soon. His financial situation was almost always dire, and he would need a good deal of cash for his campaign. The latest rumors had the PM calling the election in September. Dickie Lambert was continuing to make inroads in East London, visiting businessmen there, buying rounds in pubs and clubs. Freddie knew he would have to work hard to counteract him. He'd already started. He'd invited Joe Bristow and other leading merchants and manufacturers with concerns in East London to join him for dinner at the Reform Club. He planned to wine them, dine them, and convince them that he was their man. It would be hellishly expensive, but votes never came cheap.
Freddie was walking under the Ritz's tall stone colonnade when he heard it--the "Raindrop Prelude." A man was standing under one of the arches playing it on a violin. The case was open at his feet. A sprinkling of coins glinted from it. Freddie stared at them, but didn't see them. Instead, he saw the drawing room at Longmarsh. He was twelve, his sister, Daphne, was six. She was lying on the floor crying. His father was standing over her, his face contorted with anger. He'd been drinking again. Freddie could smell the gin.
There was never any telling what would set him off. An over-salted soup. A book misshelved in the library. Some childish infraction. That night it had been Daphne's skipping rope. She'd left it on the dining room floor and he'd tripped over it. He'd slapped her small face so hard that he'd knocked her down. He was about to hit her again when Freddie, desperate to stop him, picked up the skipping rope and whipped it against his back-side as hard as he could.
Robert Lytton turned around. "Come here, boy," he said, stumbling toward him.
B
ut Freddie was too quick. He darted away. "Run, Daff!" he shouted. "Lock yourself in your room. Go!"
Daphne ran in one direction and Freddie in another, the skipping rope still in his hand. He knew where he was going. He'd had to escape his fa-ther many times before. He ran up to the first-floor landing, down the long portrait gallery, and crawled behind a skirted chair. A few minutes later his father staggered by, knocking into the paintings on the wall, kicking at the furniture. Then he lumbered up to the second floor, where the children's bedrooms were. Freddie heard him battering on Daphne's door, yelling at her to come out, that he'd teach her to respect him, by God.
Freddie put his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise. Their mother and grandmother were visiting a neighbor. Bingham was probably hiding in the stables. That's what he usually did. The servants had scat-tered. There was no one but him to stop his father. But he didn't know how. What if he got into Daff's room? He had to act. He had to do something, but what?
A new noise started up. His father was kicking Daphne's door. He heard Daff sobbing. He'll kill her, he thought frantically. This time he'll kill her. There was no one to help him, no one. Not his mother. Nor his grand-mother. Not even the God he'd prayed to in church, for He never an-swered. Freddie was alone, all alone. And terrifled.
There was another kick, and then the sound of wood splintering. He heard Daphne shriek with fear.
"No!" he cried. "Stop it! Please stop it!"
He banged his head against the chair in fear and frustration. The chair shifted, scraping across the floor on its wooden feet--and it was then that Freddie discovered that he was wrong. He was not alone.
Richard Lytton, the Red Earl, was staring down at him.
The earl's eyes--fierce, shrewd and pitiless--seemed to ask him what the devil he was doing sniveling while his sister was being terrorized.
"I ...I don't know. I have to stop him. But I don't know how," Freddie whispered. He ran across the hall and touched the portrait. "Help me. Please," he said.
The earl had been painted in full armor astride a fearsome black destrier. He held the horse's reins in his left hand, a sword in his right. Beneath the animal's hooves were the maimed and bloodied bodies of soldiers. In the background, castles and villages smoldered, and women knelt, weeping over the dead.
Freddie knew his ancestor's history. Richard Lytton had been a childhood friend to Edward, son of Henry III. Henry was a weak ruler, a man who favored compromise over conflict. His rebellious nobles rose against him. Led by Simon de Montfort, Henry's own brother-in-law, they defeated him at the Battle of Lewes, then kept him and his family under house ar-rest. While de Monfort ruled in Henry's place, Henry's eldest son, Edward, also under arrest, simmered. Richard, who had always attended Edward, remained with him during his imprisonment.
"I will take the crown back, Richard. I will be king one day," Edward told him. "And when I am, I will rip out de Montfort's heart."
Richard thought of the old king, pious and indecisive, soft when he should have been ruthless. "Would'st be king?" he finally said. "First rip out thine own heart."
Edward followed his friend's advice. He escaped imprisonment with Richard's help, assembled an army, and captured de Montfort at Evesham. It was the age of chivalry, when nobles were not killed in battle. Edward ended that age. He beheaded his uncle, gutted him, and scattered his remains to the crows. It was but a foretaste of his reign. When he finally became king he rewarded Richard Lytton, giving him money and lands, putting him in charge of his armies, making him one of the most powerful men in England.
"But you could be powerful," Freddie said to the Red Earl now. "You had horses and weapons." He didn't have any of those things. All he had was a blasted skipping rope and you couldn't hurt someone with that unless they were stupid enough to trip over it.
Or drunk enough, said a voice inside his head.
Freddie's breath quickened. He looked down at the rope in his hands. It was as if the Red Earl had heard his plea. And answered it. He lost no time. The stairs were flanked by two newel posts. It took only minutes to tie the rope around one, tuck it just under the edge of the Turkish runner, and hide the other end behind the second post. The portrait gallery, and the staircase leading down to the ground floor from it, were poorly lit. He knew that his father, half blind with gin and rage, would never see it. When he had finished, he took off his shoes. He hid one and placed the other on the stairs.
Then he walked upstairs to the second-floor landing. His father had nearly kicked Daphne's door in. Freddie heard her keening with fear.
"Stop that!" he shouted. "Leave her alone!"
His father turned around. His once-handsome face was bloated. His eyes were heavy and bloodshot, but they could still register surprise.
"You are very bold today, boy," he said, taking a few steps toward him.
Freddie backed away. "And you are very drunk," he said, careful to keep his distance. "I should like to beat you, you drunken pig."
And then he ran. For his life. He was down the long staircase, across the landing, and behind the newel post before his father had left the second floor.
Freddie could see his father coming. He looked over the banister as he descended, spotted Freddie's shoe on the stairs, and smiled. He quickened his pace, rounded the landing, and rushed for the main stairs.
Freddie pulled the rope as hard as he could. He felt his father's leg catch against it, saw him pitch forward. He heard an endless crashing tum-ble, and then the sickening crack of bone against marble, as his father's skull smashed open on the foyer's floor. Freddie stood up then and looked over the banister. His father's eyes were open but unseeing. His limbs were splayed. Blood pooled under his head.
Freddie unknotted the rope. He put one shoe back on, walked down the stairs, and put the second one on. When he reached the bottom, he side-stepped his father's twitching body and placed the skipping rope back in the drawing room. He found the butler in the cellar dusting off the claret and told him that there had been an accident.
"I don't know what happened," he told the frantic man. "I was hiding in the portrait gallery. He was angry. He had beaten Daphne and wanted to beat me. I heard a shout and a crash and then I found him at the bottom of the stairs."
He said the same thing to the doctor, and his mother, and his grand-mother, and the vicar, and the police inspector. By the time they'd all left, it was very late. His grandmother had given him a cup of warm milk with a tot of rum in it and put him to bed. Although he was exhausted, he didn't fall asleep, but lay staring at the ceiling, sick to his very soul. Some time af-ter midnight he rose and crept quietly back to the portrait gallery.
"I killed him," he said. "That makes me like him. Like you. It does, doesn't it?"
There was no reply.
Freddie started to weep. "I didn't want to hurt him. I wanted to save Daphne. I'm afraid now. So afraid. What do I do? Please, sir. Please. Tell me. Help me."
The earl's voice seemed to come to him from beyond the centuries. Would'st be king? First rip out thine own heart...
"How?" he asked, his voice an agonized whisper. "How?"
His heart still beat inside him. He could feel it. It remembered the man his father had once been. Long ago. Before the gin and the money troubles. Before the defeats in the Commons. Before the bitterness and rage. It still loved that man.
He was only twelve. He didn't know yet that it wasn't done all at once. It was done over time. In bits and pieces.
He'd returned to his room and climbed back into bed, still afraid. He thought there might be repercussions--a wailing ghost or demons with pitchforks. But there weren't. There was nothing at all. Only quiet, and a deep relief that came from knowing neither his mother nor his siblings would ever be brutalized again. As dawn broke over Longmarsh, he'd closed his eyes and slept.
Some weeks after the funeral, he was alone at breakfast with his mother. She was wearing mourning and gazing out the window. "How sad for you, Freddie, to be a fa
therless boy," she'd said.
"No, not very," he'd replied, buttering a piece of toast.
She turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes widened, and al-though she was as still as stone, he felt her recoil from him. He had touched his palm to his chest, checking. It was getting easier. Already. It didn't hurt as much now. He'd smiled, then dipped his toast in his egg.
Outside the Ritz, the violinist finished. The last notes of the prelude rose and faded and with them Freddie's memories. He threw a handful of coins into the violin case and walked into the hotel. He thought of India, of the sham marriage he would soon dupe her into making, and his hand reflexively went to his chest, palm against his heart. It barely hurt at all.
The pieces were in place. He was poised for checkmate. He would make his final move at Longmarsh in a fortnight's time, and he would win.
For �20,000 a year, he'd damn well better.
Chapter 9
Fiona stood in her nightgown in front of her mirrored armoire, flushed and flustered. Her stockings and petticoat were in a heap on the floor nearby. She looked at the silver clock on her vanity table anxiously. She was late. Again. It was only seven in the morning, but already she was late.