ë Archer - Demon’s Bride

She had no answer. She could not explain what had transpired in the study with her father, the strange humor that had gripped Leo. He had spoken of inanities, written nonsense—alarming in and of themselves. But most frightening was the look on his face, the confusion and angry powerlessness. So utterly unlike him.

Something was happening, something strange and terrible, and yet nowhere could she find meaning.

Leo brushed a kiss across her mouth, and she saw it again, fleeting, in the gunmetal of his eyes: doubt. A doubt that unnerved him deeply.

“I’ll return soon. And when I get back, we’ll begin your fighting education.” Then he was gone, his footsteps sounding in the hallway, down the stairs, and finally out the door.

The fire in the bedchamber sputtered, and died.

God, why could she not keep a fire lit? She grabbed a china figurine of a drowsing shepherd, and threw it into the fireplace with a frustrated cry.

A moment later, a footman appeared at the door, drawn by the sound of shattering porcelain. “Madam?”

“An accident. But don’t send a maid to clean it. Not yet.”

The footman bowed and retreated. Anne sank down to the carpet, exhausted, despairing. She felt herself in a cavern. All around her was darkness, and she had neither candle nor lantern to light her way. Her only option was to stumble forward, hoping she did not fall and suffer a fatal injury.

They had just finished dinner. The servants had cleared away the dishes, and the candles burned low as a distant clock struck the hour. It had been a meal marked by silence, the sounds limited to the clink of knives against china, wine poured in goblets. She had tried to speak, to draw Leo out, yet every thrown lure was met with distracted responses. A word or two was all he had managed, his gaze withdrawn and preoccupied.

Anne rose from the table. Leo did the same. They went up together. In the hallway, he guided her toward the parlor.

“I’m for bed.” Weariness oppressed her.

“You should have rested when I went out.”

“Rest was impossible.”

“The bedchamber door was closed, else I would’ve come in.”

She could only manage a shrug, unwilling to tell him that she needed distance to make sense of the uncertainty twisting within her. Gazing up at his hard, handsome face now, gentled slightly with concern for her, she wondered how the plays she used to watch from the theater gallery could have been so very misguided. They ended when the two lovers pledged their devotion to each other, and with that, all obstacles fell away. As though love were the answer, demolishing every impediment.

What lies those sentimental dramas were. For her heart cracked and bled.

Leo frowned—he was an astute man. He had to feel it, too.

“Sir,” said an approaching footman. “Lord Wansford has returned. He would speak with you.”

“Bring him up to the parlor.” He turned to Anne. “I’ll see you in our chamber.”

“I’ll join you in the parlor.” She had not forgotten the strange scene from that morning.

His gaze turned opaque. Yet he offered her his arm, and together they went to await her father.

He came into the chamber, bearing the cold air of evening and an angry expression. “The deuce, Bailey?” Her father’s gaze shot to her, as if too late remembering he was not to use such language in the presence of a lady.

“Wansford.” Leo did not get up from where he was draped against a settee. Nor did he offer her father a glass of brandy.

“You said you would invest in that iron mine. And yet you did not.”

“No.”

Anne stared at her husband. He kept his gaze on the brandy in his glass, contemplating it. His face was a mask.

“Why the Devil not?” demanded her father.

She could not stop her small flinch at those words, and saw Leo’s mouth tighten, as well. Still staring at his drink, he seemed about to speak, but whatever he meant to say appeared to lodge in his throat. He took a drink, swallowing hard, then set the glass down on a low table.

“I made a better investment.”

“We agreed—”

“I said I would investigate the Gloucestershire mine. I did not consent to invest in it.”

Her father reddened. “The opportunity is lost.”

“If Leo did not make the investment,” Anne said, “he must have a good reason for doing so.” That was one reliable truth about her husband: in matters of business, he always acted in the best self-interest.

“You will still earn a profit, Wansford,” said Leo. “I made a counterinvestment in another iron mine.”

“Why not the Gloucestershire mine?”

“I don’t need to explain my decision.” Leo’s voice was sharp, his gaze likewise cutting. Her father recoiled at the tone. “But mark me, you will make a profit. That is a certainty.”

A look of confusion crossed her father’s face. He seemed uncertain how to respond. Leo continued to stare at him, his gaze unblinking and cold.

Ultimately, her father said, “I will respect your judgment.”

Leo’s mouth twisted. “How gratifying.”

“These past hours have been very taxing.” Anne rose up from her seat and urged her father toward the door. “It’s time for you to go.”

His head jerked like a puppet. “Yes. Yes, I should ... I ought to ...” But he did not know what he should or ought to do. He peered around her, and produced a smile for Leo. “My thanks.”

The response was merely a flick of Leo’s wrist. Though he continued to lounge on the settee, tension coiled through him, as though he were a hairbreadth away from tearing the chamber apart.

“Good night, Father.” Anne gave him a dutiful kiss on the cheek, catching a thread of his scent of reboiled tea and adulterated tobacco.

He muttered a farewell, then followed a footman down the corridor. As his footsteps retreated, Anne shut the door to the parlor, then pressed her back against it, facing her husband. He stared into empty air.

“That was kind of you to make a better investment.”

Once more, that bitter twist of his mouth. “Nothing kind about it. It was my capital.”

“Against his estate. If the venture had not succeeded, you nonetheless would have emerged the richer.”

“As I said, a more advantageous opportunity presented itself.”

She studied the long lines of his body, her gaze moving up to trace the clean delineation of his profile, the curve of his lower lip. A sweet agony to look upon him.

“I wish you would let me into your confidence.”

His gaze snapped up to hers. “You know everything.”

“Who can we be honest with,” she said quietly, “if not each other?”

He stared at his hands, the rows of healing wounds on his knuckles. “I’ve told you everything I can.”

Which was not an answer, and they both knew it.

Leo waited until shadows swathed the house. He left Anne upstairs, deeply asleep. They had not spoken much after her father had quit the house. What words had been said aloud were terse, strained. Yet the whole of the evening, he wanted to clutch her close, to bury his face in her hair and draw her scent deep into his lungs. To whisper the things that weighed heavy within him.

Instead, they had sat far apart, mute, and even in the bedchamber, they had moved around the room like strangers encased in glass. They had lain beside each other with intimate formality. Smothering darkness pressed down, leaving words and touches stillborn.

Now Anne slept. He hated having to leave her, limbs soft, skin warm and fragrant. But his business could not wait.

Slipping on his banyan, Leo padded through the dark corridors of his house, and down the stairs. A lone footman drowsed by the front door. The servant did not stir as Leo passed through the foyer. The place was still as a tomb.

In cold and darkness, he entered his study. He did not bother lighting a fire, but he lit a candle and set it on the end of his desk.

“Veni, geminus,” he said.

The scent of burnt paper stained the air. And then there stood the geminus, dressed for an evening out, like any man of means. Leo tried to stare hard at the thing’s face, yet his gaze continually slid away.

“Such a pleasure,” the geminus said, bowing, a smile in its voice.

Leo folded his arms across his chest. “Time for answers.”

“I am in all things obliging. Whatever you desire shall be yours.”

“The truth,” said Leo tightly. “Neither you nor your Mr. Holliday ever told me about the flaw in my gift.”

“Flaw?” The geminus chuckled. “Not a flaw, but merely a limitation.”

“The name you give it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I couldn’t tell Wansford about the mining disaster. I couldn’t even warn the damned mine owners when I went down to the Exchange.” Leo had approached the men at the coffee house, determined to tell them that there would be loss of life if they did not take precautions. And he had stood there like a dullard, spouting nonsense about the best kind of fish to eat, whilst the mine owners stared at him, baffled.

He had tried to write, just as he’d done with Wansford. Again, only nonsense came from his pen. There had been nothing he could do. No way to prevent the disaster.

“Such events cannot be averted,” answered the geminus. “Even my master cannot stop it.”

Leo stalked toward the creature. “None of this was told to me.”

“Why should it?” The geminus spread its hands. “Until now, it has served you exactly as you desired. Have you not profited, and profited well, from this gift?”

Leo dragged in a breath. Only one answer: he had.