Judith dug her fingernails into her palm. “Why is Bill-the-Swan referring to Fred as his dearest darling? That seems inappropriately affectionate.”
“Nothing inappropriate about it,” Christian said with a shrug. “I already told you. Swans don’t share our limited local prejudices.”
She let out a long, careful breath. “I don’t know why I bother to ask questions. Keep on; I couldn’t stop you.”
“So I was walking across the road,” Bill-the-Swan said, “nice as you please, taking my time as a gentleswan does. And then, well. You’ll never guess what happened.”
Judith waited.
Christian waggled an eyebrow at her. “Come now, my savory algae patch. Give us a guess.”
No. If she was going to play his game, she refused to play the way he intended.
“Bill,” she said in what sounded to her mind like an extremely unsuccessful imitation of a Liverpudlian accent, “how many times do I have to tell you? You can’t trust them roads, not with their horses and their carriages and their whatnots. One of these days, you’re going to get run right over.”
“Aw, my lovely great swath of duck weed.” Christian winked at her. “I knew you cared. You just pretend like you don’t. But I looked both ways, I did, and I didn’t see nothing. Not until the great beast was fair upon me, lickety-split, charging at me with its hooves like dinner plates. Steam rose from its nostrils—”
“What a crock!” Judith interrupted in her best Fred voice. “I have seen many a horse on the path by Hyde Park, and not one has ever had steam coming from its nostrils.”
“Am I telling this story or are you?”
Judith rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re certainly telling a story, all right.”
“Right, then. As I was saying: Steam rose from its nostrils in little wisps, like some kind of demon stallion. When it tossed its head, I saw fire in its eyes—that hint of flame, suggesting that the devil had put this beast on the road. That’s when I knew. There were children in the park. I couldn’t let that vile creature rend their flesh.”
“Bill,” Judith interrupted, “since when do you care about children? Nasty things, human children—noisy white wingless little grubs that they are.”
“Human children?” Christian pulled back in surprise. “No, nobody said nothing about those awful things. No. I mean little fluffy cygnets, not yet feathered out. Whatever else would I be thinking of?”
“At this time of year? Who’s nesting so late?”
“Am I telling this story,” Bill-the-Swan said, “or are you?”
“Well,” Judith huffed. “You’re still telling a story, that’s for sure.”
“Right, then. I knew what I had to do. I puffed out my chest. I spread my wings. I brought my neck up like a giant snake, and I hissed at the beast from hell. It reared, flashing its daggered hooves at me.” Christian demonstrated with exaggerated hand motions. “I saw those forelegs falling, and I was sure I was a dead swan. I had just enough time to launch myself at the beast.”
Judith looked upward. “They call us mute swans. Clearly someone made an error when it came to you.”
“God must have guided my beak,” Christian continued piously. “I propelled myself at the thing’s neck. I screamed in defiance—and next thing I knew, I’d pierced its jugular. It gurgled. It staggered. And then it dropped in a dead heap to the ground.”
Judith turned to look at Christian. He sat back against the seat with a self-satisfied expression on his face.
“Really,” she said in a disbelieving tone. “You killed it with your beak.”
“I know.” He settled against the seat, almost preening in misplaced swan pride. “I could scarce believe it myself.”
“You know you have white feathers,” she said. “There doesn’t seem to be much blood on you.”
Christian waved this off. “Demon blood. Demon horse. It smelled of sulfur. It burned like flame. But when the foul beast landed in a great thump on the ground in front of me, it disappeared in a cloud of smoke—hooves, carcass and all.”
Judith let the silence stretch. She raised an eyebrow and looked at Christian. “So,” she said. “If the horse disappeared, how on earth did you manage to eat it?”
There was a moment of silence. Christian caught her eye. His mouth quivered, as if he knew he’d been caught in a lie he couldn’t talk his way out of, not with any number of accents. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, well,” he said. “That little detail. Once I knew I could slay horses, why would I stop with just the one?”
She couldn’t help herself. She put a hand over her face and burst into laughter. She had no idea how he’d baited her into…oh, God, what had she just been doing? Talking to him in a Liverpudlian accent, pretending to be a swan of all things?
That was the way he was. You had to be careful of Christian. If you weren’t, he’d have you playing his dubious Liverpudlian swan lover before you knew what he’d done.
He gave her a long, self-satisfied smile. One that said that he knew that she’d fallen into his trap. One that promised that she had only to do it again and again. That if she let herself, she could forget what he had done.
He’d made her forget for five entire minutes.
“And look,” Christian said, in a tone so innocent that she knew that whatever he was about to say was going to be even worse than his Cockney accent. “I have the most dreadful sore throat to show for it.”
She was almost afraid to ask. “From…the screaming?”
“No.” He leaned in and dropped his voice to a low whisper. “I did murder most hoarse.”
The pun was so appalling that Judith made a fist and hit her forehead. It was her pun, too; she couldn’t even rightfully complain. She hit her forehead again. “Death is too good for you. Dismemberment is too good for you.”
“You see,” Christian said with a nod, “there we are. That’s precisely what I wished to show you.”
“Boiling in hot oil is too good for you,” she said passionately. “Wait, what are you saying now?”
“We’re not friends,” he said. “But we could be excellent allies. Of a kind. We’re working together, after all.”
“What has that to do with your terrible sense of humor?”
“Just this: I think we’re both happier when you’re thinking of killing me than we were earlier. When you…” He paused.
When she’d grabbed hold of him. She’d remembered that she had once cared. She could still feel the echo of his arm against her gloves, if she let herself think about it. The feel of his muscle beneath her hand; the look in his eye. The memory of what they’d once been.
She strove for neutral wording. “When I braced myself using your arm?”
“Yes.” He looked at her. “I know you’ll never trust me, Judith. But that’s precisely it. I trust you to never trust me, and in return, you can trust me to make sure you’ll never trust me, even when we both stand in danger of forgetting. Alliances have been built on less.”
She blinked, working that out. He looked sincere.
“You’re proposing an armistice on the condition that I hate you,” she said slowly, “and in return, you’ll continue to make me hate you?”
“Precisely.” He held out his hand. “We have things to do. This will be so much more effective than continually sniping at one another just so we can remember that we hate one another. Truce?”
She looked at his fingers. She looked at him. They had once been so much more. He was right; she was only sniping at him because she didn’t want to remember how deep their friendship had run.
“Very well.” She took his head and gave it a firm shake. “Truce. I hate you.”
“Excellent work,” he said. “I’ll keep your hatred stoked with swans and horses until we can part ways.”
Chapter Six
“Christian Trent.” Christian offered his hand as the solicitor entered the room. “Marquess of Ashford. I’m here with Lady Judith Worth as a friend of the family, to assist in her i
nquiries.”
The man’s handshake was almost perfunctory, his grip cool. Nothing like Judith’s had been when they’d clasped hands to seal their alliance.
“Mr. Ennis,” the little solicitor said, swiping at the thin row of white hairs that he’d carefully combed over his head. “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” Christian sat on one side of the desk.
“We’d best get to business,” Judith said.
“Business.” Mr. Ennis sat down. “With the both of you?”
Christian had little doubt that his reputation preceded him, but normally, people tried to hide their reaction with greater success. He decided that a bit of a glower was in order, and so he narrowed his eyes at the man as if daring him to spell out why his accompanying Judith was so unlikely.
One. She hates you.
Two. You killed her brother.
Not much of a dare, with such easy choices.
“Yes,” Judith said. “Business. With the both of us.”
Mr. Ennis sighed. “Lord Ashford, you called yourself a family friend, did you?”
Christian added a mental heap of coal to the furnace of his glower, and growled a response. “Yes.”
“That’s what we’re calling it these days, then.” The man looked upward. “I see that standards of friendship have altered considerably in the last years.” He didn’t look at Judith. Instead, he gave Christian a pained smile. “I shall do my best to…what was it you wanted? Ah, yes. You wanted me to assist in some of your inquiries.”