“Using the window as a mirror to watch me. Yes, I realize that.” Garrick smiled at her. “You are following me for a change. How stimulating.”
Merryn gritted her teeth. “I was not following you. I was walking home.” She held out her parcel of books. “I have been to the booksellers.”
Garrick fell into step beside her. “Poetry?”
“I did buy some Byron.”
“Ah. To inspire you?”
“I imagine you think it would take more than that.” Merryn was stung. She looked up at him. “You read my poetry journal that night in my bedroom. That was not the act of a gentleman.”
“I apologize,” Garrick said. He slanted a look down at her. Merryn wished he were not so tall. Not only did she almost have to run to keep up with his elegant stride, she could not see his face, nor judge his expression. “It was unhandsome of me,” he agreed. “In mitigation, all I can say is that I was looking for your diary.”
“Oh, well, then!” Merryn felt even more indignant. “I forgive you at once!”
Garrick laughed. “You would not have minded if your poetry had been good and I had praised you for it.”
“This is not about the quality of my writing,” Merryn said crossly. “It is about my privacy!”
Garrick’s firm lips twitched. “Well, be careful of the Byron,” he drawled. “It can be very inflammatory to the senses.”
“My senses are in no danger of inflammation,” Merryn said coldly.
“All evidence suggests the contrary,” Garrick said. He stopped, put out a hand and lightly touched her arm. “Shall I demonstrate to you?”
“Farne. Lady Merryn.” A group of people had come upon them unnoticed and now encircled them. Merryn, acutely conscious of Garrick’s touch burning through the sleeve of her pelisse, shook him off and took a step back. She wished they had not been surprised just then, with Garrick looking down at her with that quizzical smile she was coming to know so well, his hand on her arm implying an intimacy she did not wish anyone else to see … She felt hot with mortification.
Nor were these acquaintances that she particularly wished to acknowledge. Merryn recognized Lord Ayres, an arbiter of fashion who practically worshipped Joanna but had never condescended to speak to her before, accompanied by his wife and Lady Radstock, another fashionable gossip. There was a younger man whom Merryn did not recognize but Garrick clearly did.
“Croft,” he said coldly, giving the man an infinitesimal bow. “How do you do.”
“Not as well as you, old fellow!” Croft raised his quizzing glass and ogled Merryn from top to toe in a manner that she found insolent and presumptuous. He let the glass fall from one languid hand. “Cunning move, what, to hand back the money and make yourself look good,” he said. He smiled at Merryn, vulpine, eyes gleaming. “Let bygones be bygones, eh, Lady Merryn, for the sake of thirty thousand pounds?”
Merryn saw Garrick’s eyes narrow. “Croft—” his voice was silky “—I do suggest that you think carefully about your next words.”
“Or … what?” Croft laughed. “You’ll call me out? There’s been enough of that sort of thing, don’t you think, old chap?” He slapped Garrick on the shoulder. “No, you are to be congratulated.” His gaze swept Merryn again. “Especially if you keep a part of that sum in the family. Nice work, Farne!” He sauntered off down the street, offering his arm to one of the ladies, swept along in a wave of bright fashionable colors and loud fashionable laughter.
Merryn saw Garrick take a step after them and grabbed his arm. “Don’t,” she said. She realized that her voice was thick with tears. Lord Croft’s derisive words rang in her ears.
Let bygones be bygones, eh, Lady Merryn, for the sake of thirty thousand pounds …
Everyone, she realized, knew about Garrick’s gift to them. No doubt it was the on dit, spoken of in every club, coffee shop and ballroom in London. Tess had probably boasted of it, told all her smart acquaintance of their newly acquired riches. A pain started in her chest. It was excruciating. She gave a little gasp. Her heart was pounding.
Everyone would think that she had sold Stephen’s memory for thirty thousand pounds, that she had betrayed him and that she simply did not care that he had died. She felt hot and breathless, the misery clawing at her throat.
“Excuse me,” she said, and her voice sounded high and tight. “I have to go now.”
From a distance she could hear Garrick’s voice calling her name and there was anxiety in it and urgency and some other emotion she could not place but she ignored it, ignored him, because all she could feel, all she could think, was that people were right: she had sold her brother, she had betrayed his memory, because she should have stopped Joanna and Tess somehow, she should have seen what would happen, should have known what everyone would think, and she would never forgive herself.
The late afternoon sunshine struck her in the eyes and she blinked. The noise of the street roared in her ears. Everything seemed too loud and too bright. Faces passed in a blur. She had a stitch in her side, she had been walking so fast. She stumbled a little, straightened, and tried to think. Her mind felt foggy. Simple matters, such as the way back to Tavistock Street, seemed impossible to grasp, so she set off walking again, quickly, to get away. She walked for ten minutes, blindly, thoughtlessly, until the coldness of the air started to penetrate her pelisse and finally made her realize that she needed to get home.
Merryn looked about her seeing her surroundings clearly for the first time. She had gone the wrong way for she was in Great Russell Street now which was not perhaps the most salubrious area for a woman to find herself alone, but it was only a step back to the main road and a hackney carriage home.
She turned on her heel, suddenly feeling exhausted and wretched and cold. Back in Tavistock Street Joanna and Tess would be preparing for a dinner that evening and no one would understand how she felt, no one would share her feelings, no one would in all probability notice that she was any different from normal. They would be happy because Alex could afford to make repairs to his estate now and give Chessie a dowry and Tess could buy yet more new clothes and nobody cared that Stephen was dead.
Her footsteps dragged on the cobbles. It was not much farther. As she reached the corner there was an extraordinary sound like the sharp crack of thunder overhead, then a roar that grew louder and louder until her ears rang with it and the ground beneath her feet shook. She could hear screaming and spun around, and in that moment something hit her with tremendous force, knocking her off her feet. She went down onto the cobbles, tumbled over and over like a rag doll, boneless, like flotsam on the tide. She was blinded by water; or at least it felt like water, but it was dark and it smelled strange, sweaty and brackish. She gulped for air but instead the liquid filled her lungs, making her choke. It tasted thick and malty and she thought it was going to smother her. Then her flailing hand caught the edge of something firm and she held on for dear life as the flow swept past her and dropped her hard, coughing and spluttering, in the doorway of what had once been a house.
Merryn sat up. Around her the flood lapped in dirty waves, plastering her clothes to her body, washing all manner of objects past her: a broken chair, a child’s toy, even a dead cat. The smell, sweet and rich, was everywhere, filling her nostrils. Her chest hurt from coughing. Her mind felt blank with shock. She did not seem able to think. It was like pushing at a closed door. She struggled to her feet.
There was another roar of sound, even louder than the first, and she looked up to see a solid wave of blackness rolling toward her. If she had had even the slightest flicker of breath left it would have been the first time in her life that she screamed. Then someone caught her hard about the waist, drawing her beneath him, sheltering her with his body. The wave broke over them, followed by the crack and scrape of falling masonry. The house