Sherry Thomas - His At Night

“Have a domestic disaster on your part,” said Vere to Lady Kingsley. “Then you will have an excuse to approach her.”

“I know. But I’m hesitant to damage the roof—or the plumbing—of a leased house.”

“Can’t your servants come down with something disgusting but not infectious?” Holbrook inquired. “A case of communal runs?”

“Behave yourself, Holbrook. I am no chemist and I will not poison my own staff.”

“How about an infestation of rats?” Vere suggested, more to amuse himself than anything else.

Lady Kingsley shuddered. “What do you mean, an infestation of rats?”

Vere shrugged. “Put a dozen or two rats to run about the house. Your guests will scream to evacuate. And the rats won’t do permanent damage to the house, provided you have a rat catcher set to work soon enough.”

Holbrook sat up straight. “Splendid idea, my dear fellow. I happen to know a man who breeds mice and rats to supply scientific laboratories.”

That did not surprise Vere. Holbrook had at his fingertips a large assortment of bizarre and bizarrely useful contacts.

“No. It’s a terrible idea,” Lady Kingsley protested.

“Au contraire, I think it is pure genius,” declared Holbrook. “Douglas travels to London to meet with his solicitor in two weeks, am I correct?”

“Correct,” said Vere.

“That should be enough time.” Holbrook reclined back onto his red velvet chaise. “Consider it done.”

Lady Kingsley grimaced. “I hate rats.”

“For Queen and country, madam,” said Vere, rising. “For Queen and country.”

Holbrook tapped a finger against his lips. “Funny you should mention Queen and country, my lord: I have just received word of the blackmailing of a certain royal and—”

Vere, however, had already shown himself out.

Two weeks later

Miss Elissande Edgerton stood before the manor at Highgate Court. Rain pummeled her black umbrella; a cold gray mist obscured all but the driveway.

August, and already it felt like November.

She smiled at the man before her. “Have a safe journey, Uncle.”

Edmund Douglas returned her smile. It was a game to him, this façade of affection. There is no crying in this house, do you understand, my dear Elissande? Look at your aunt. She is not strong or clever enough to smile. Do you wish to be like her?

Even at six, Elissande had known that she had no wish to be like her aunt, that pale, weeping specter. She hadn’t understood why her aunt wept. But whenever Aunt Rachel’s tears spilled, whenever her uncle placed his arm about his wife’s shoulders to lead her to her room, Elissande had always crept out of the house and run as far away as she dared, her heart pounding with fear, revulsion, and an anger that burned like smothered coal.

So she had learned to smile.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Edmund Douglas.

But he made no move to enter the waiting brougham. He liked to prolong his good-byes—she suspected he knew very well how much she ached for him to be gone. She stretched out her smile.

“Take care of your aunt for me while I’m gone,” he said, his face lifting toward the window of his wife’s bedchamber. “You know how much I treasure her.”

“Of course, Uncle.”

Still smiling, she leaned in to kiss him on his cheek, controlling her aversion with an expertise that made her throat tighten.

He required this demonstration of warmth before the servants. It was not every man who disguised his evil so well that he fooled his own staff. In the village one heard rumors of Squire Lewis’s bum pinching, or Mrs. Stevenson’s watering of the beer she provided her servants. But the only sentiment circulated about Mr. Douglas was a uniform admiration for his saintly patience, what with Mrs. Douglas being so frail—and not altogether right upstairs.

At last he climbed into his carriage. The coachman, hunkered down in his mackintosh, flicked the reins. The wheels scraped wetly against the gravel drive. Elissande waved until the brougham rounded the curve; then she lowered her arm and dropped her smile.

Vere slept best in a moving train. There had been times in his life when he’d taken the Special Scotch Express from London to Edinburgh for no reason other than the eight hours of dreamless slumber it offered.

The trip to Shropshire was less than half as long and involved several changes of trains. But still he enjoyed it, probably the most he’d enjoyed himself since his naps on the way from London to Gloucestershire, where he’d spent the previous two weeks retrieving a contingency invasion plan that the Foreign Office had somehow “lost.” A delicate task, considering that the target of the plan was German South West Africa—and relations with Germany were strained at best.

He’d accomplished his assignment without a whiff of international scandal. His pleasure at his success, however, was muted. He led his double existence for the pursuit of Justice, not to bail out fools who couldn’t keep sensitive documents away from harm.

But even when the cases did feed his hunger for Justice, even then his satisfaction was hollow and short-lived—the feeble glow of embers about to turn into ash—followed by an exhaustion that lingered for weeks.

An emptiness that the deepest, most nourishing slumber could not erase.

The carriage Lady Kingsley had sent for him sped through miles of rolling green country. He could no longer sleep and he did not want to think of his next case. Granted, Edmund Douglas’s general reclusiveness had necessitated an unusual amount of planning, but the investigation was simply another in a career filled with unorthodox cases that local police could not solve, and often did not even know about.

He stared out of the carriage. Instead of well-grazed grassland, still wet with rain but glistening under a newly emerged afternoon sun, he saw a different landscape altogether: crashing waves, high cliffs, moors purple with heather in bloom. A path at the top of the slopes stretched before him; a hand, warm and steady, held his own.

He knew the path. He knew the cliffs, the moors, and the sea—the coasts of Somerset, North Devon, and Cornwall were exceptionally beautiful places he visited as often as he could. The woman who held his hand, however, existed only in his imagination.

But he knew her light, lithe footfalls. He knew her sturdy wool skirt: It shushed softly when she walked, a sound he could hear only when the air was still and the path high, away from the pounding of the waves. And he knew the contour of her nape, beneath the wide-brimmed hat that protected her skin from the sun: He had draped his coat over her shoulders many times, when her own jacket proved inadequate against the coast’s cool and variable weather.

She was an indefatigable hiker, a serene friend, and, at night, a sweetly accepting lover.

Fantasies were like prisoners, less likely to stage a revolt if allowed judicious amounts of supervised exercise. So he thought of her often: when he could not sleep, when he was too tired to think of anything else, when he dreaded going home after weeks upon weeks wishing for quiet and solitude. All she had to do was lay a hand on his arm, her touch warm with understanding and care, and he would be all right, his cynicism soothed, his loneliness subdued, his nightmares forgotten.

He was sane enough to not give her a name, or envision her physical likeness down to the last detail—this way he could still pretend that he might yet meet her one day, in some inconspicuous corner of an otherwise harshly lit and overcrowded ballroom. But he was weak enough to have imagined her smile, a smile of such perfection and loveliness that he could not help but be happy in its radiance. She did not smile very often, because he was not capable of frequent happiness, even the imagined sort. But when she did smile, the sensations in his heart—like being six again and running into the ocean for the very first time.