My Beautiful Enemy Read online

  “Oh, how atmospheric,” said Mrs. Reynolds admiringly.

  Atmospheric indeed, and also quite effective at making sure that no one could sneak into the parlor unheard.

  The parlor was sparsely furnished, but rich in artwork. On one wall, a large black ink painting of a mountain landscape, the ridges sharp as swords, one lone tree in the foreground, bare and gnarly. On the opposite wall, the exact same landscape, but depicted in color, the summits a rich, deep green, the tree laden with riotous pink blossoms. Grouped scrolls of Chinese calligraphy hung beside and above the paintings. Pale smoke drifted from a brilliantly green jasper incense holder on the mantelpiece.

  “I hope you don’t mind the incense,” said Miss Blade as she offered them seats. “The smell of the fog was rather overwhelming earlier.”

  “The incense is most certainly a vast improvement over the eau de brume,” answered Mrs. Reynolds. “Ghastly weather of late, is it not?”

  Miss Blade lit the spirit lamp on the tea table and hoisted a small kettle above the flame. “I certainly hope so. I should hate to think that this is normal weather.”

  “It is normal weather,” Leighton heard himself say. “That is what is so ghastly about it.”

  She shot him a quick glance, as if astounded that he had spoken to her without being forced to by the weight of etiquette. He was no less shocked himself.

  “I’m afraid Captain Atwood has hit the nail on the head.” Mrs. Reynolds chuckled. “But do tell me, Miss Blade, that you have not been kept inside all this time.”

  “I saw a good bit of London during my search for a flat. I have taken a walk on the Embankment and seen Parliament from a distance. And since you recommended it so highly, ma’am, I have paid a visit to the British Museum.”

  Leighton experienced a frisson at the thought of a self-professed master thief visiting a depository of valuable objects.

  “How did you find the museum?” asked Mrs. Reynolds, gratified. “I have always enjoyed my visits there.”

  “The vastness of the collections is most impressive.”

  The kettle sang. She warmed the pot and made tea, her motion graceful and unhurried—that of a woman who had never ridden a horse astride or drawn blood with a sharp sword.

  Darjeeling tea, the scent was unmistakable.

  And then, from another tin, she scooped a spoonful of dried chrysanthemum flowers into a teacup and poured hot water on top.

  An Englishman was assured of coming across a cup of Darjeeling every once in a while. But the delicate fragrance of chrysanthemum tea he had not known since her.

  For a moment the void inside threatened to engulf him.

  “What is that?” asked Mrs. Reynolds.

  “It is a tisane of chrysanthemum blossoms.”

  “How interesting. Where do you get these blossoms?”

  He braced himself to hear the words Kunlun Mountains and a height of ten thousand feet.

  “These are from Huangshan, or the Yellow Mountain, as sometimes it is called—a place of otherworldly beauty, much celebrated in the art and literature of China,” said Miss Blade, removing the spirit lamp and the kettle from the table to bring out a plate of Madeira cake slices.

  She poured for Mrs. Reynolds and Leighton. He was transfixed by her ease with these small rituals of life. It was not the afternoon gown that gave her that air of refinement—this woman was refined, accustomed to sophisticated surroundings and the intricacies of polite society.

  What did you do to her, that untamed and untamable girl? And what exactly is your purpose here in England?

  “Was there anything in particular you wished to see at the British Museum, Miss Blade?” he asked.

  Her face was bent over her own teacup; she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She had heard his suspicion then, which he had not tried too hard to hide.

  “I did my best to avoid accidentally coming upon the mummies. But as for what I wished to see . . . I had rather thought there would be a larger selection of oriental art.” She turned toward Mrs. Reynolds. “You see, ma’am, in China there is no equivalent of the British Museum. There are no public museums at all, as far as I know. The only works of art one can experience must either be in one’s own possession or that of a friend’s. So I was quite looking forward to the treasures of the British Museum—and therefore a little disappointed that the display was rather paltry.”

  “Oh, but you mustn’t think that the collection on display is everything the museum holds. Far from it!” Mrs. Reynolds cried. “I have a cousin who sits on the Board of Trustees for the museum. And he tells me that plans are under way to bring more oriental artworks out of storage to fill the space that has been opened up by the building of the White Wing. I recommend you wait some time and visit the museum again, Miss Blade. I am sure you will meet with a far wealthier exhibit than the one you saw.”

  Miss Blade leaned forward slightly—Leighton felt her excitement as surely as if she had stood up and somersaulted. “I had no idea,” she said.

  “Oh yes.” Mrs. Reynolds nodded. “Even now there are collections you can see at other locations around London. And you can always ask to see the accession catalogues, which would give you a better idea of the true extent of the museum’s holdings.”

  “Fascinating,” Miss Blade murmured.

  “I have a guide to the museum’s exhibits at home, and it mentions where some of the additional holdings are archived. I will find it when I get home and have it sent to you as soon as the fog clears.”

  “Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”

  So she was looking for something, an object of Asiatic origin that she expected to see in the British Museum.

  As if she heard his thoughts, her eyes came to rest on him, eyes the color of the North Sea, of cold water and approaching storm. “And you, Captain, how do you do?”

  He took a sip of his tea, his hand surprisingly steady, considering the rest of him was all agitation and frayed nerves. “Very well, thank you.”

  “My soon-to-be nephew-in-law is a man of few words,” said Mrs. Reynolds, in a tone that was meant to be indulgent, but came off more resigned than anything else.

  “Is he?” Miss Blade murmured, no doubt remembering all his attempts to induce her, the strong, silent one, to speak. “I’m sure Miss Chase would disagree—even the quietest gentlemen become chatty when they are with their sweethearts.”

  Mrs. Reynolds turned her teacup around on its saucer: It was one of Annabel’s running jokes that it was easier to milk a stone than to pry words out of him.

  “I enjoy listening to Miss Chase,” he said. “I am convinced that every time she speaks, a rainbow appears somewhere in the world.”

  “What an extraordinarily lovely sentiment,” said the woman who specialized in turning his life upside down. “Miss Chase is a very fortunate young lady.”

  “No,” he said, “I consider myself the far more fortunate one.”

  She traced the tip of her index finger along the handle of her teacup. Her hand, slender and elegant, gave every impression of delicateness. But he remembered the calluses on her palms, the calluses of one who always had a set of reins in her hands. And he remembered the sensation of those calluses under his lips—and upon his skin.

  “I am sure you and Miss Chase will be very happy together for years to come,” she said.

  Would they?

  He tried to detect an undertone of mockery, but could not. She believed it, that he would settle into an easy wedded bliss, untroubled by such things as her reappearance in his life.

  When he hadn’t breathed since the moment he’d recognized her.

  “Speaking of my niece,” said Mrs. Reynolds, rising, “Captain Atwood and I had better leave soon to retrieve her—and my sister—from Mr. Madison’s house, before this fog gets any worse.”

  Miss Blade walked them to the door. “Thank you for calling on this dismal day, Mrs. Reynolds. And it is excellent to see you, too, Captain—as always.”

&n
bsp; Catherine thought it a little odd, the way Leighton Atwood placed himself in the vestibule, as he and Mrs. Reynolds retrieved their overcoats. When they had departed, she immediately noticed that he had left his walking stick behind—he had been blocking the older woman’s view of the umbrella stand so that she wouldn’t realize this omission.

  Catherine opened the door and listened. They descended one, two, three stories before they halted and exchanged a few murmured words. And now one set of footsteps reascended at an easy, healthy pace.

  It was because of this gait that until she saw his face, she had believed Mrs. Reynolds to have brought Marland Atwood.

  She left the door ajar and carried the walking stick with her into the parlor. The stick was straight, slender, and surprisingly dense, forged entirely of blue steel. As a weapon, it was sturdy and well balanced, with just enough flexibility to make things interesting—for a short burst of use, that was. As a cane . . . she would need a severe disability to turn to something so heavy.

  He was now on the sixth floor, approaching her door. Following a moment of silence, he entered—and closed the door behind himself. The curtain of beads parted and swayed, a sprinkling of mineral raindrops.

  Ever since they’d parted ways eight years ago, she had wished for this moment, her lover walking back into her life again. Through hundreds of doors and in thousands of guises he would return, crossing the line that separated life and death. And now here he was, somber and beautiful, the only person other than Master Gordon to have believed that something wonderful would become of her.

  Perhaps Mr. Cromwell was right. Perhaps the summer of her life had not yet passed her by. Perhaps—

  “Did you know Mrs. Chase’s assailant, the man you sent overboard?” he asked, his manners entirely official.

  She wanted to laugh—to keep from crying. So much for dreams coming true. The walking stick left her hand, passed an inch before his face, and landed with a hard rattle inside the wrought iron umbrella holder, fifteen feet and a strange angle away. “Why do you want to know?”

  To his credit, he didn’t bat an eyelash—not that he ever had: Her deadliness he simply took for granted. “Not many men can injure you in single combat.”

  “So?”

  Only after the word left her lips did she realize that she had never told anyone, least of all him, that she had been injured.

  “There was only one man you feared.”

  That man had killed her daughter. Their daughter. But Leighton Atwood knew nothing of what had happened afterward. He had gone back to India, attended garden parties, and saved boys from escaped tigers to universal acclaim, while she had buried their child alone.

  “I did not know Mrs. Chase’s assailant. And I fear no man, now or ever,” she said coldly. “You should go, Captain. You don’t wish to keep Mrs. Reynolds waiting, do you?”

  CHAPTER 6

  The Ambush

  Chinese Turkestan

  1883

  The girl moaned hot, obscene words like a cat meowing before a dish of fried fish. The Tajik warlord growled in approval and pumped into her with renewed frenzy. She opened her legs wider and began to emit short screams of delight.

  Her smooth skin glistened in the dancing orange light of a crackling fire. His large body straddled hers like a bear vanquishing its prey. Their frantic shadows jiggled on the arabesque tapestry that covered the wall. Silk pillows were falling off the low bed, one soft plop after another.

  Ying-ying, on the roof, barely heard or saw anything. She was in distant Darjeeling again, walking between rows of tea bushes, the Persian next to her.

  Was there enough room for a couple to walk abreast between two rows of tea bushes? Probably not. She might have to put him beyond the next row, just slightly out of reach. And what would she be wearing? Definitely something other than this grimy old coat. Perhaps something Indian, dazzlingly bright and shot through with gold threads—or maybe even something English, very prim and proper, with a lace parasol to match.

  He, who had seen her only in her ratty coat—and liked it—would be full of admiration for her lovely new clothes. And would ply her with Swiss chocolate. They would—

  She was brought out of her reverie by a rafter-shaking roar. But it was only the Tajik warlord, at last done. He collapsed onto his Chinese concubine, who stroked his neck and shoulders and praised his prowess in a mixture of Chinese and Turkic.

  Da-ren, despite his anger at his exile, devoted himself to his post. He saw his role as far more than keeping peace and collecting taxes. No, it was up to him to make sure that Chinese Turkestan never slipped from the control of the Imperial Court again.

  The land itself was harsh. Agriculture was practiced only on a minor scale. Nor did the earth yield enough precious metals to recuperate the cost of holding it. Yet from the Tang Dynasty onward, those who ruled the Central Plain had tried to impose control over this vast tract of territory.

  Bound on the north, west, and south by impassable mountains ranges, with the great Takla Makan Desert blocking any direct passage across, Chinese Turkestan, under the dominion of the Imperial Court, assured security on China’s western border. But the natives were restive. The Russians openly coveted it. And who was to say the English, who already held the Subcontinent, would not be similarly greedy?

  Da-ren had decided in the earliest days of his tenure that pacification of the natives was key to his goals. Among the tactics he employed to achieve that end was the gifting of beautiful Chinese girls to influential local chiefs.

  An old tactic, probably one of the oldest there ever was. China produced an endless supply of lovely, clever girls whose parents had no use for them. They were grateful to be purchased by Da-ren, instead of by a brothel, and eager for a chance to become a warlord’s favorite concubine.

  But Da-ren did not trust them. Some might be content simply to be fed. And some might be content simply to be a favorite, forgetting that they were there to pillow-talk closer links to China.

  When Lin had proved a danger even at eight thousand li from Peking, Da-ren had wanted to send Ying-ying back to the interior of China and hide her under heavy guard. But such a fate would have been almost worse than death, so Ying-ying proposed instead that she be the one to go from one warlord household to the next, spying on the girls in their nocturnal duties, rewarding successes, and putting fear in those who slacked in their efforts.

  At first, Da-ren had adamantly refused. It was too dangerous. How would he answer her mother in the afterworld if something happened to her? But Ying-ying persisted. To be surrounded by a contingent of guards was tantamount to announcing her exact location to Lin; far better to pass herself off as yet another weary—and male—traveler, in a land that was still a crossroad between China and the world to the west. Besides, could Da-ren really entrust a man to deal with dozens and dozens of pretty and shrewd women?

  In the end, Ying-ying had prevailed. For three years, until she was satisfied that her Turkic was good enough, she’d dressed as a Mongolian boy. And now, taking advantage of her fluent Turkic and her malleable features, a Kazakh youth.

  “I’m so glad Da-ren gave me to you,” the girl with the Tajik warlord whispered. “I never knew such pleasure was possible.”

  The man flipped on his back and grinned broadly.

  The girl dabbed off his sweat and drew the covers over him, all the while speaking in that lovely, hypnotic murmur that she had been taught. She told him how she could not live without the bliss he brought her nightly, that he must not put himself in danger. When the natives rebelled, men died, and all they’d get was a new foreign master. Let the others assuage their doubts of their manliness that way. He didn’t need to. Didn’t he hear her moans of joy?

  The man nodded sleepily. Ying-ying wondered whether the Persian could be steered like that, with a pair of soft thighs and a great deal of flattery. She liked to think that he would see through such staged affections, but she could not be entirely certain. Men were as stupid about women
as women were stupid about men.

  Tomorrow Ying-ying would have some coins for the girl. After that, the road to Kulja, on which she hoped to travel fast and make up for some lost time. But first, at sunrise, she would mark off one more day on the little calendar she had made for herself.

  Three hundred fifty-four days, the Persian had said, the length of an Islamic year. She meant to be there at the brothel in Kashgar. And if he came, if he was true to his word, then she would go to India with him, see the holy river, the white marble tomb, and, of course, Darjeeling, in the foothills of the Himalayas.

  And perhaps then, her life would truly begin.

  She rose to her feet, bounded to the next roof, and then the next, sinking to a crouch between each leap to make sure she hadn’t been seen. But from the last roof to the fortified earthen wall that surrounded the warlord’s compound, the distance was too great for a single leap.

  With some reluctance, she dropped into a narrow alley between two buildings, grimacing at muscles made stiff by lying motionless several hours in the still-cold night. There came a whimper. She tensed, expecting to see men on patrol. But no one came. Her task was only to make sure the Chinese concubines did as Da-ren bid. Night thieves, illicit trysts, and other goings-on in a warlord’s household were no concern of hers.

  But if the warlord had dealings with Russians . . .

  She clambered up the roof again.

  Leighton heard the soft landing. If someone had leaped off the roof, that someone had remarkably quiet feet. He moved a step backward. Edwin Madison, feverish, whimpered before Leighton could clamp a hand over his mouth.

  Leighton had arrived in Yarkand eight days ago, to be met with ill news. Madison and Singh, their Punjabi stepper, had been caught on the periphery of an argument involving a Tajik chieftain’s nephew. And when a horde of the latter’s men descended on the scene, they had been taken to the chieftain’s custody stronghold.

  The other Punjabi on the mission, Roshan, had attempted a rescue and almost got himself killed for his trouble. Under different circumstances they would have taken their time and bargained for the release of the prisoners—a long, drawn-out process that the warlords and their underlings enjoyed, to see how much profit could be squeezed out. But now there was no time for such leisurely proceedings: In a week or so, Madison’s hair would start showing its not-so-black roots, and the Tajik chieftain, said to be on friendly terms with his Ch’ing overlord, might turn Madison over to the governor of Ili.