A Restless Truth (The Last Binding #2)

Chapter 11

11

Violet agreed with her late cousin Lady Enid on many points, including this: magicians put far too much stock in blood. Both the perceived strength of it as purveyor of magic within a family’s line, and the use of it in spells.

It was important for the latter. That was the horrid thing.

And Lord Hawthorn, one remembered belatedly, had been in the military for several years. He was clearly just as handy with a blade as he was with the ivory-handled contraption he aimed at Mr. Ross’s face. Nothing about his manner suggested that it was unloaded, or that he’d hesitate to use it.

Ross coughed once more and raised himself on his elbows, brown eyes fixed on the gun. He said, far more witheringly than Violet suspected she’d have been able to manage in similar circumstances: “And what would sir like me to talk about?”

His accent was rougher than it had been when he was conducting interviews, as if coming up against Hawthorn’s cut-glass aristocracy had bounced him reactively a few rungs down the ladder.

“I think answering questions should suffice. Candle, Miss Blyth,” Hawthorn ordered.

Thankfully, no further cuts were needed. Maud took advantage of the existing wound on Ross’s hand. Ross gave a short noise of alarm when he saw it, but Maud smiled at him from close quarters as she smeared some blood onto the candle’s business end, and he subsided.

“Hold this for me, please, Mr. Ross,” said Maud.

Ross’s hand obeyed, seemingly without recourse to his brain. Perhaps it was the dimples. They were practically a coercive charm all on their own.

Violet cradled a light for the candle and revelled in the way Ross’s eyes bulged. She was used to performing magic for the unbusheled, but usually they were expecting it and thought it was no more than a particularly clever trick.

Aside from the blood, this was better than a matinée.

“What the fuckin’ell, ” said Ross. It came out rather high. He sat cross-legged, and his gaze flicked between the gun and the green flame of the candle as though he wasn’t sure which of them would explode first. The flame was sluggish and smaller than previously, and gave the occasional hiccup of yellow within the green.

“Nothing will happen to you if you tell the truth,” Maud assured him.

Hawthorn snorted. Ross’s scoff came out in unison.

“Like hell I’ll believe that, ” said Ross.

“I’m not lying,” said Maud, frowning.

Hawthorn said only, “Your name. Now.”

“Julius sodding Caesar.”

The candle flared high and red. Ross swore and dropped it; Violet jerked back, but the flame showed no sign of catching on the rug. The candle lay on its side, burning green, and Ross scooped it warily up.

“Try again,” said Hawthorn.

“Alan Ross.”

Again the candle seemed both weak and indecisive. A flare of red showed, then settled. Then another.

“That’s interesting.” Maud leaned in. “Is it partly true?”

“Is it?” said Hawthorn. “We’ll have the name your mother gave you, I think.”

By now the wariness had hardened like toffee into a glare of absolute dislike. “Alanzo Cesare Rossi. But I write under the other, so it’s true enough. Again— what the fucking hell is going on?”

“Caesar. Quite. You broke into my room and drank my whisky, Alanzo Cesare Rossi.” Hawthorn lowered the gun. “Why?”

Ross looked at the candle. “What is this? Witchcraft? Magic?”

“Yes,” said Maud.

Ross looked at the candle some more.

Then a strangled laugh emerged from him. “If devils and angels and all the saints are real as well, my ma will faint from joy when I start attending Mass again.”

“Do we strike you as particularly angelic?” said Violet, amused.

“No, nor saintly neither.” Ross’s eyes drew back to Hawthorn. “You, I’d believe a devil.”

The corner of Hawthorn’s mouth twitched. “Stop stalling.”

“I broke into your room because I figured there’d be something in here worth stealing, all right?”

Green flame.

“And you drank some of my whisky because…”

“I fancied a swig of the good stuff. And it was there.”

“I’d rather not use up the candle,” said Maud. “Mr. Ross. One more question. Are you involved in the conspiracy to find the Last Contract, or the death of Elizabeth Navenby?”

“What?”

“Yes or no, please,” said Maud.

Ross sputtered a negative. Maud blew out the green-glowing candle and took it from him.

“So you’re the thief,” said Violet. “Not an advertising man. Or writing an article for a magazine.”

“Yes, I am,” said Ross indignantly. “Both. I wouldn’t be allowed up in the first-class areas asking all the rich folk to gush about their Jugendstil furnishings and that darling French café, otherwise. But writing doesn’t pay much. Can’t blame a man for keeping an eye out for other opportunities.”

“And the pornography?” said Hawthorn. “You’re a purveyor, aren’t you? Quite the multifaceted businessman.”

Ross’s hand went to his chest, searching for the strap of his bag. Some fear crept in around the edges of his expression. There was still so much hostility there that it couldn’t get far.

“Fuck you.”

“The correct address would be: fuck you, my lord.” Very dry. “Violet, I assume you’ve lethe-mint. Go and fetch it.”

“ No .” Maud had been kneeling next to Ross on the rug. Now she stood, putting herself between Ross and Hawthorn, at whom she glared. “No lethe-mint. We’re not stealing anyone’s memory. He was just dosed with a magically poisoned drink, and now you want to do it again?”

“Maud,” said Violet. “I know it seems unfair, but it’s—”

“But nothing. It’s what Edwin’s hateful sister and her friends tried to do to me.”

“And should have been allowed to succeed,” said Hawthorn. “I don’t know what Courcey was thinking.”

Maud’s glare redoubled. “They could have, so they should have? That’s the kind of thinking, my lord Hawthorn, that leads to trying to steal other people’s power for yourself. Which is what we are trying to prevent . To fight against.”

There was that unshiftable core again. Violet could feel it tugging seductively at her own conviction. She envied Hawthorn, who appeared unmoved.

“You’re very free with that pronoun, Miss Blyth. I am not part of your army, or your we .”

“Oh, you—” Maud looked as though she was contemplating her threat to tackle Hawthorn around the knees. “Even without Violet’s magic, you have all the advantages of rank and wealth. Using it to trample all over human dignity, against a person’s will, is not what power is for.”

“It’s the only thing power is for.”

It was Ross who’d spoken. The young man climbed to his feet. “If you think otherwise, you’re a fool. Even without—sodding magic ”—with a whirl of his index finger—“that’s the way the world works. Powerful people are out for more power. And they don’t care who they tread on, on the way.”

“I’m trying to help you, Mr. Ross,” said Maud indignantly.

“I didn’t ask for your bloody help.” Ross brushed his hair back from his brow. Several curls made a mockery of the motion at once. “In fact, you’re inflicting it on me against my will. An insult to my human dignity, that.”

Hawthorn snorted again. Ross directed an obscene gesture at him. Maud practically stamped her foot.

“Would you rather have your memory of today wiped clean like a chalkboard?” she demanded.

“It’s not up to him, Miss Blyth,” said Hawthorn. “Charming as they are, these morals of yours are becoming tiresome. Violet?”

Violet opened her mouth. Ross deserted Barricade Maud and put himself where he could glare directly at Hawthorn from a more convenient distance. Violet closed her mouth. She wasn’t selfish as a performer, even if she was cheerfully so in all other parts of life. She knew when someone else was about to be far more entertaining.

“Bloody naive or not, at least she’s got the excuse of being able to afford morals,” Ross spat at Hawthorn. “Most of us fucking can’t. I know how much this suite costs for the voyage, right down to the penny. Your lordship should spend some time in third class. You might find out how much of a difference it would make, to anyone sleeping six to a cabin in wooden bunks, if they had even a tenth of the amount you laid down for—what? So you wouldn’t endanger your delicate toff’s constitution with anything less than an embroidered bedspread and a full range of liquors?”

Hawthorn’s expression warred between leftover amusement and icy temper. “And you’ll take their hard-earned pennies off them in exchange for dirty stories? Those of them who can even read.”

Ross’s neck and lower cheeks darkened. His hands formed fists. “The man who cleans windows deserves a bit of pleasure in his life just as much as the man who owns them.”

“Indeed,” said Hawthorn, “and I suppose you’d say he can thereby experience being fucked by the aristocracy in more ways than one.” He closed his mouth sharply. He didn’t look uncertain, but wary, as if he’d let out something he shouldn’t.

Ross’s glance sharpened in return. He glanced at the bag full of erotica and then back at Hawthorn. Something hostile and alive, like a firecracker loosed from a careless boy’s hand, writhed alight in the air between them.

Maud cleared her throat. “Mr. Ross—”

Hawthorn said, not moving his eyes from Ross, “I’m not saying I disagree with your description of the world. But this particular power isn’t yours to see or write about. And if Miss Blyth here knows anything about her brother’s position at the Home Office, she knows I’m telling the truth.”

Ross said, “I don’t know what you—”

“ Mr. Ross! ” shouted Maud. She put a hand on his arm and yanked him around to face her again. “I am trying to recruit you.”

Violet lost her battle with an incredulous burst of laughter at that point. She was in dire need of an unpoisoned drink. It was late afternoon; surely someone on this bloody ship was pouring gin somewhere.

“We’ve a lot of ground to search in the next few days and there’s only… two and a half of us,” said Maud, sparing an unimpressed look for Hawthorn. “You clearly possess the skills for breaking and entering. And have the perfect excuse to be almost anywhere.”

“Breaking and entering?” Ross raised his eyebrows. “What am I being recruited for? I didn’t think you’d be the sort to head up a criminal gang, given that little speech about dignity and abuse of power. But perhaps”—very sarcastic—“you only steal from those who deserve it.”

“We’re not stealing,” said Maud.

“Well,” said Violet. “We are.”

“We are retrieving stolen items from the person who took them from Mrs. Navenby,” said Maud. “And also killed her.”

The word killed shook Ross for a moment. He looked to Hawthorn, then Violet—she gave him a speaking shrug—and then back to Maud.

“You’d better tell me the whole story, then,” he said.

“Off the record,” said Maud seriously.

Ross slapped a hand over his heart.

Maud told him the whole story.

It took some time, during which Hawthorn and Violet exchanged several glances. Violet tried to convey that she had no intention of honouring Maud’s rash declaration about lethe-mint if Ross showed even the slightest sign of following the normal human urge to blab the existence of magic to half of his acquaintance, let alone publish anything about it.

Hawthorn’s answering look was hard to read. Knowing him, he was trying to convey his own willingness to permanently solve the problem of a talkative writer. Possibly via the gun.

“So you want me to keep an eye out for these silver things,” said Ross finally, “during the course of my own activities. The—what did you say? Flower locket, hand mirror, other knickknacks.”

“Yes,” said Maud. “Beginning with first class. Violet will do some cabins as well; it’d be best to compare notes and divide up the decks, so that you can cover more ground.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you teach me to pick locks, Mr. Ross, then I can do some myself. Lord Hawthorn…”

“Did not agree to any of that,” said Lord Hawthorn. “You won my help in emergencies, Miss Blyth, not my active engagement in criminal activity.”

Ross snorted. “Don’t see why not. You’re the one most able to buy your way out of it if you’re caught in the act. And speaking of money—not to be crass, but what do I get, for my assistance?”

“What do you get ?” said Maud.

“Can’t afford to work for free.”

Hawthorn stirred. “Miss Blyth tells me you’re being paid twice over to write about this voyage, you’re selling pornography for what I can only assume is a commission, and you’re supplementing it with jewel theft. Do you expect to be paid more ? How’s this, Mr. Ross. As payment for your assistance, I won’t turn you in to the master-at-arms with the suggestion that he search your own cabin for the jewels already reported missing. And to keep Miss Blyth happy, I will not erase your memory. However. The slightest hint that you’ve talked about magic, to anyone, and I will have Miss Debenham put a secret-bind on your tongue. A painful one.”

Maud said, “ Lord Hawthorn .”

Ross let his tongue run thoughtfully over his lower lip. He and Hawthorn continued to eye each other like prizefighters sizing up their opponent before trying to knock them into the ground.

“No deal.” But it didn’t sound final. It sounded like the first movement in a dance.

Hawthorn caught it. “Are you trying to negotiate ?”

“What if I am? Murderers, Miss Blyth said. Magic ones. I should be paid for the danger, if I’m throwing my hat in with you lot.”

“I’ll buy your pornography,” said Maud.

“I—” Ross stopped. Turned back to her. “You’ll what?”

“Help us for the rest of the voyage, and I’ll compensate you for taking your time away from—salesmanship.” Maud waved a hand at the bag. “I’ll take all of it.”

“I’ve more,” said Ross at once.

“Then I’ll take that too. Bring it to my…” Maud visibly reconsidered. “Bring it here, after dinner, and I’ll buy it all. And ”—her eyes sparkling with inspiration—“Violet will give you a scandal for your society papers.”

“I will?” Violet felt rather tide-swept, but wouldn’t have tried to put her feet down and anchor in the sandy ground if she’d been paid. This was far too much fun.

“You want to make as loud a splash as possible, to annoy your relatives,” said Maud. “You can give Mr. Ross an exclusive interview, with all the shocking details. It’s a very good story. Debauchment of a well-bred maiden by a rakish peer. Life on the stage. Triumphant and unapologetic return of the ruined girl, enriched by an unexpected inheritance.” Pause. “Further debauchment, on the high seas.”

“I can’t put sordid details in that sort of article.” Ross grinned at Violet. It was a crooked, wicked smile—far more sincere than the polished one he’d pulled out earlier in the day. “But you should tell me all of them anyway. I’ll dress it up in stuffy and scandalised language and tell the magazine it’s an exclusive.”

“Violet,” growled Hawthorn, “you don’t know any sordid details.”

“Don’t I?” said Violet. “I think I know enough to… extrapolate.”

“Perfect,” said Maud brightly. “Mr. Ross? That’s my final offer.” She extended her hand, and Ross shook.

The pinched lines on Hawthorn’s forehead vanished as he laughed. “Christ. What a waste of a woman you are, Miss Blyth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Maud.

“It means there are some specimens of supposed officer material in the Royal Army who could learn a lesson from you about motivating the troops.”

“Bribing the troops,” said Violet, “to be fair.”

Maud shot Hawthorn a look full of Suffragette fire, but ended up laughing herself. “You are part of my army, my lord. And I am requisitioning your suite as our base of operations. After dinner?”

“After dinner,” Ross agreed. “With all the pornography I can carry.”