“Your idealism is commendable.” His condescension grated on her, but she didn’t dare let her smile falter as, she noted, their conversation had drawn quite a bit of interest. “But whatever you’re trying to achieve here, it won’t work, I tell you. You simply can’t take a rat off the street and expect it to behave like a well-bred hound.”
Her smile suffered an instantaneous inversion. “People are hardly animals.”
He snorted. “They’re hardly better than.”
“I beg your pardon!” she gasped.
“People must be what they are, what they were born to be,” he said from between clenched teeth. “I’ve seen firsthand what happens when a bastard aspires to be a marquess.” He cast a pointed glare at Ravencroft before turning back to rake her with a dark look. “Or when a commoner attempts to be a countess.”
Stunned at his cruelty, the entire dining hall echoed with expectant silence. Unable to look at Trenwyth, Imogen glanced over to Lady Broadmore, whose face shone with a smug and vicious enjoyment.
Driven past caution, Imogen allowed a victorious smile to crawl across her features, turning her smile chilly rather than warm as she decided now was the perfect time for a declaration of her own.
“If I were you, Your Grace, I’d take great care before consuming another bite, as your entire meal was prepared by rats.”
A small din of confounded whispers surged through the hall as everyone surveyed their plates with uncertainty.
“That’s right,” Imogen continued, a surge of indignation carrying her voice to everyone. “Every single soul of my staff for this evening, from the servers, to the footmen, cooks, entertainers, decorators, builders, drivers, and valets, indeed all—save the musicians—have once upon a time, to put it indelicately, worked on the streets in one illegal capacity or another. No one would have guessed had I not revealed it to you.”
Her point made, Imogen enjoyed the astonished conversation as it swelled around her. “Now that you know, Your Grace, perhaps you’d want to skip cigars and port … just in case you are correct and one of these so-called rats tries to poison you.”
For an infinitesimal moment, violence shimmered in the air. Imogen couldn’t exactly tell where it originated from, the duke, Blackwell, Argent, Ravencroft, or the few footmen who hovered nearby, many of whom had been former guests of Newgate.
An austere sort of rigidity sharpened the angles of Trenwyth’s features as he leaned toward her, speaking in carefully enunciated syllables. “If there is one thing that I’ve learned in my years of service to the crown, it is that people can, indeed, be trained for short bouts of time. Like rats. You can reward and punish them. You can even dress them up in finery or uniforms, until they are molded into a semblance of what you wish them to be. And the illusion might even convince those who are unaware. But believe you me, when the bullets begin to fly, when the blood flows and the explosions detonate, the rats scurry, only emerging again to pick over the rotting flesh of the brave and noble once the battle has ended. That is a constant. That is something you can rely on.”
“But this is about life, not war,” Imogen murmured, hoping to calm him.
“It speaks to your banality and ignorance that you think there is a distinction.” Tossing down his napkin, Trenwyth stood and jammed a finger toward the footmen. “Sooner or later, they will bite the hand that feeds them. Better yours than mine.” That said, he turned on his heel, and quit the room.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The crimson pall over Cole’s vision distorted the familiar warm halls of the Anstruther mansion into something ghastly and grotesque. His every breath died in his chest, and he gulped at the tepid, indoor air, never seeming to find enough. Despite a thin bloom of sweat that burned like acid over his entire body, he shivered as though he stumbled naked through the streets of London on a winter’s evening.
Out. He needed to get out. The lush halls had begun to bend and the ceiling lowered until he fought the urge to drop and crawl, lest it crush him.
A breeze cooled the beads of sweat on the back of his neck, and he whirled to face an open door, gauzy curtains fluttering over it like erstwhile ghosts. Lurching for escape, he plunged into the night and gasped in the unmistakable fragrance of lavender, evening primrose, and night-blooming jasmine. For a moment he stood on unsteady legs, panting and disoriented, eyes darting about the garden as a myriad of colors blended together in a bewildering kaleidoscope.
There. A long bench stretched into the shadows against the house, lending a view of the blossom-choked path. The limestone pathway led to a Tuscan fountain with a tiny fat satyr balancing on one cloven hoof, blowing a horn from which a steady stream of water spouted.
Cole tucked himself into those shadows, appreciating the stability of the bench beneath him, and the cool night air that soothed his raw skin.
He should leave. Should bloody well go home and exhaust himself with training, or running, or a woman. Maybe two. Until his heart stopped threatening to pound its way right out of its cage and onto the floor. Every vein was full of fire, or maybe ice. He could never tell anymore. One thing he knew for certain, he needed to survive the next several minutes before trusting himself to go anywhere.
Reaching a shaking hand into his jacket, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco, the stuff cut with a small amount of Asian ganja, which seemed to very much calm his nerves when they were in this state. His prosthesis itched and stung, the sweat beneath it causing the straps to chafe.
He needed rid of it.
“Christ,” he muttered, setting the pipe down to unlatch the attachment. As unsteady as he was, the chore at which he was generally so dexterous seemed an impossible feat. Uttering a slew of curses, he bit down on the already prepared pipe and found his matches. Smoke first. Steady on. Once he stopped shaking, he’d regain his dexterity.
Striking a match on the stone, he watched the flame flicker and dance in his trembling hand until he managed to light the pipe and draw in the first welcome breath.
Cole didn’t know how long he sat there. Long enough for dinner to end, he was certain. The night enveloped him in a shroud of sweet-smelling darkness and coveted silence. Every now and again, strains from the chamber orchestra would filter to him, but blessedly the noises of revelry did not. He’d had enough of people. Enough of everything.
Ivy clung to a familiar wrought-iron fence with a stone foundation. This was not part of the manse’s regular gardens in which he’d taken refuge. This was the east garden. Small, private, and walled off from the rest of the house, the east wall abutting his own estate.
Her garden.
The infuriating Lady Anstruther.
He’d thought her only a devious social climber, but it was much, much worse than that. She was, in fact, an idealist. A crusader. One of the consecrated few who’d pulled themselves out of the middle classes and wanted to reach into the gutter and pull everyone else up as well.
Curse her bleeding heart.
She couldn’t possibly be so blind, could she? How was it feasible to not realize the risk she was taking, letting criminals and whores into her home? How could she maintain such a misguided faith in humanity? She must have never known cruelty. Or betrayal. She must be a stranger to brutality; the only violence inflicted upon her the errant stick of a hairpin by her lady’s maid.