Douglas’s face had been impassive in the face of the Veres’ smug bantering. His tone, however, was anything but. Something seethed beneath his words: a monstrous anger.
“She’s at your favorite place in London, Uncle: Brown’s Hotel, waited on hand and foot.”
Vere could barely imagine the state of her nerves. She had no way of knowing that he would corroborate her lie. Yet nothing in her demeanor suggested the least nervousness or uncertainty.
“Indeed,” he said. “I was the one who suggested that Mrs. Douglas should remain at the hotel and not tax her health too much by traveling again so soon. Lady Vere but acknowledged the wisdom of my recommendation.”
Douglas narrowed his eyes, his silence ominous. Vere glanced at his wife. She gazed upon Douglas with enormous fondness, as if he’d just promised to take her to the House of Worth’s showroom in Paris.
Vere had thought for a few days now that she was the best actress he had ever met. But as good as she had been during their brief acquaintance, before her uncle she was spectacular. Everything Vere had seen up to this moment had been but dress rehearsals; now she was the great thespian upon her stage, flooded in limelight, her audience at the edges of their seats.
“Well, let’s not stand here,” Douglas murmured at last. “We will sit down for a cup of tea.”
No sooner had they taken their seats in the drawing room than Lord Vere started to squirm, obviously and embarrassingly. A minute later, he clamped his lips together, as if the integrity of his digestive system depended upon it. Finally, he wiped his brow and croaked, “If you will excuse me for a moment, I must—I fear—I must—”
He ran out.
Elissande’s uncle said not a word, as if her husband were but a fly that had had the good sense to leave. Elissande, however, felt his absence keenly—a sign of just how utterly petrified she was that even his mindless presence buttressed her courage.
When she’d succumbed to the mad idea of marriage as a route of escape, a useless husband had not been what she’d anticipated, nor an encounter with her uncle bereft of protection. But now she was all alone before an anger that had hitherto been largely channeled toward her aunt.
“How do you like London, Elissande?” said her uncle silkily.
She’d scarcely paid any attention to London in the whirlwind of the past thirty-some hours. “Oh, big, dirty, crowded, but quite exciting, I must admit.”
“You were at Brown’s Hotel, you said, my favorite in London. Did you make it known to management that you are my close relation?”
Her heart beat as fast as a hummingbird’s wings; her fear turned dizzying. Before her aunt became a complete invalid, when they, as a family, had taken afternoon tea together, he’d spoken to Aunt Rachel in precisely this same smooth, interested tone, asking her similarly mundane, harmless questions. And Aunt Rachel’s responses would become shorter and slower with every question, as if each answer required her to knife herself in the flesh, until she fell silent altogether and the tears came again.
At which point he would escort her back to her room and Elissande would run to the remotest corner of the property, leap the fences, and run farther, pretending that she was not going back, that she was never going back.
“Oh, now I feel such a bumpkin,” she moaned. And don’t wring your hands. Leave them still and relaxed on your lap. “It never occurred to me that I would be treated differently by mentioning your name. How imbecilic of me.”
“You are young; you will learn,” said her uncle. “And your new husband, is he a good man?”
“The best,” she avowed fervidly. “So very kind and considerate.”
Her uncle rose from his seat and walked to a window. “I hardly know what to make of all this. My little girl, all grown-up and married,” he said thoughtfully.
She clenched her toes in her kidskin boots. Her uncle sounding thoughtful always chilled her. This was the tone in which he said things such as I do believe there are too many useless books in my library or Your aunt would not say it, bless her gentle soul, but she was most terribly in need of your company this afternoon, when you were away from the house. You should think more of her, and not always so much of your own pleasure. The former pronouncement had preceded the purging of the library that had made her cry in her bed, under the covers, every night for a week, and the latter had turned Elissande almost as housebound as her aunt.
Tea was brought in. Elissande poured, breathing carefully so that her hand would not shake. The footman left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Her uncle approached the table. Elissande offered him his tea. The surface of the tea barely rippled: Her years under his tutelage were standing her in good stead.
She saw the teacup flying from her hand before she understood the burning pain on her cheek. Another slap came, even harder this time, and sent her careening from her chair. She lay where she’d fallen, stunned. She’d always suspected that he did unspeakable things to her aunt, but he’d never before raised his hand against her.
Her mouth tasted of blood. One of her molars moved. She could barely see for the liquid swimming in her eyes.
“Get up,” he said.
She blinked back the tears and raised herself to her knees. Before she could get to her feet, he grabbed her by her collar, dragged her across the room, and slammed her into the wall.
Suddenly she understood that her skeleton was quite fragile. It was made of bones. And bones cracked under sufficient duress.
“You think you are so very clever. You think you can walk out of here with my wife—my wife.”
His hand clutched her throat, shutting down her windpipe.
“Think again, Elissande!”
She would not. She was gladder than ever that she had finally taken Aunt Rachel away from him.
“You will return Mrs. Douglas to me and you will return her soon. If not—”
He smiled. She shuddered—she could not control it this time. He loosened his hold on her neck slightly. She gulped down air. He tightened his grip again.
“If not,” he continued, “I fear something terrible might befall the handsome idiot you claim to love so much.”
Her heart froze. She ground her teeth together so they would not chatter.
“Think of the poor overgrown dolt. You have already exploited him shamelessly, inveigling him into giving you his hand and his name. Does he truly need to lose an arm—and perhaps his eyesight—for you?”
She wanted to be haughty. She wanted to show him that she’d spit on his threats. But it was awfully difficult to appear strong and powerful when she could scarcely breathe. “You wouldn’t dare,” she managed to choke out.
“Wrong, my dear Elissande. For love, there is nothing I do not dare. Nothing.”
For him to speak of love—the Devil might as well speak of salvation. “You don’t love her. You have never loved her. You have only shown her cruelties great and small.”
He drew back his hand and slapped her so hard that for a moment she feared her neck had snapped. “You know nothing of love,” he bellowed. “You know nothing of the lengths I’ve gone to—”
He stopped. She swallowed the blood in her mouth and stared at him. She had never, in her entire life, heard him raise his voice.
His outburst seemed to have surprised himself too. He took several deep breaths. When he spoke again, it was hardly more than a murmur. “Listen carefully, my dear: I will give you three days to bring her back. This is where she belongs; no court in the land will disagree with my prerogative as her husband.
“Bring her back, and you may enjoy your idiot for the rest of your days. Or you can look upon his blinded, maimed person for as long as you both shall live and know that you have been responsible for his mutilation. And remember—no matter what you decide, I will still have my wife back.”