“Not really,” she said. “Some parts of the backstage are still standing, but they’ve been boarded up because it’s unsafe.”
Naturally the sergeant ordered the door leading to the area unbarred. Two of the men went through and there was a silence as the third poked through Maude’s chest. Why, Lily wasn’t sure, since the chest was far too small for anyone of normal size to hide in, let alone Caliban.
Lily tried to remain calm as she fretted. Were there more soldiers searching the garden even as these messed about in the theater—or were there only these four men? Could she somehow send word to warn him?
But he must’ve heard the noise the soldiers were making by now, surely?
After a few minutes there was a crash and a good deal of cursing from the soldiers who had gone into the unsafe area of the theater. They returned, quite sooty, looking sheepish, and with one of them limping.
Lily smiled, trying to appear at ease and not as if she wanted to rid herself of the soldiers. “If that’s all, Sergeant, I must be getting my son’s breakfast.”
“Thank you for your time, Miss Goodfellow,” he replied, “and if you should see a big fellow sneaking about the garden, you must notify the authorities at once.”
“Oh, you can be assured I will,” she said, putting a tremor of fright into her voice. “But can you tell me what he’s wanted for?”
“Why, murder, ma’am,” Sergeant Green replied with grim relish. “The Viscount Kilbourne escaped nine months ago from Bedlam, where he was committed for savagely and insanely murdering three of his friends for no reason at all.”
Lily stared at him, shocked into silence. She couldn’t seem to even make her brain work.
Sergeant Green seemed satisfied with her reaction. “Be careful, Miss Goodfellow, you and your boy and your maid. Kilbourne is no more than a beast. He’d as soon kill you as look at you.”
With that he bowed and with his men tramped out of the theater.
In the sudden silence Lily turned mutely to stare at Maude. “Oh, my God.”
“BUT ’TIS ONLY nine of the clock,” the sleepy blond wench mumbled as Asa Makepeace bundled her out his door. A blue ribbon trailed forlornly from her half-done hair. “Thought we could at least ’ave a bit of a cuddle this morn afore I ’ad to go.”
“And we will, love—next time,” Makepeace said, and then bent to whisper something no doubt salacious in her ear.
Apollo made sure to turn his back, staring at a box of marzipan sweets carelessly left open on a pile of papers. They were shaped into oranges and lemons. He wanted not only to keep from hearing whatever it was Makepeace was whispering to his paramour, but also to prevent her from seeing his face.
It’d taken him hours to get to Makepeace’s door. He’d had to first escape the soldiers and then make sure he wasn’t followed. After that he’d spent some time outside Makepeace’s building, watching and waiting to see if the soldiers would come there next. They hadn’t turned up, which could mean either that they simply hadn’t arrived yet or that they didn’t know his connection to Makepeace.
In either case, he couldn’t stay here long.
The door closed behind the girl and Makepeace turned to him, looking unusually serious. “Damn it, when the hell did you regain your voice?”
“Only a few days ago,” Apollo said impatiently.
“No one ever tells me anything,” Makepeace muttered, crossing to the fireplace.
“My voice… isn’t why I’m here.”
“Then what is?”
“At least a dozen… soldiers in the garden.” Apollo paced as well as he could in the overcrowded room. “They knew who I was… and they knew where I slept.”
“Someone betrayed you.” Makepeace stoked the fire and filled his kettle with water before hanging it from a hook he swung over the blaze. “Well, you can stay here until—”
“That’s just it… I can’t.” Apollo noted absently that a mechanical hen had joined Makepeace’s collection. It had a key in its side to wind it. No doubt it would lay eggs or even little chicks when wound. God only knew where Makepeace had found it. “If they know… so much about me it’s only… a matter of time before they discover… my friendship with you and come here. I must flee the city.”
And leave Lily behind. He stared blindly at the mechanical hen’s glass eye. Would he ever see her again? Her inquisitive lichen-green eyes, her lush pink mouth? Damn it, would she even want to see him when she found out why the soldiers were after him? He ran his hands through his hair in frustrated despair.
“But the garden.” Makepeace sat heavily on a chair, unmindful of the books that slid to the floor as a result. “Damn it, ’Pollo, no one can design that garden the way you can. It’s you that has the vision. It’ll just be another boring line of box hedges in geometric patterns without you.”
Apollo winced. “I can make you notes to… give to whomever you… hire to take over.” He slumped as well—on the only other available surface, which was the bed. The garden had been his delight. A place to make beautiful in his own design after four years of stagnation in Bedlam. This, too, he would have to abandon. And then another realization hit him. “I left my notebook. I only… had time to… take my shoes… and my knife.”
“Goddamn it!”
Apollo shrugged. “I have most of it… memorized anyway.” He sighed, letting his head drop back. He could recreate the plans, but that notebook held all the conversations and musings he’d had since he’d been freed. He felt its loss like a tangible wound.
He closed his eyes in near-despair at another thought. “Lily’s in the garden. D’you think they’ll… harass her? The soldiers?”
“Lily, is it?” The other man perked up like the idiot he was.
“Makepeace,” Apollo growled.
“No,” Makepeace sighed. “They have no reason to think that she even knows you—do they?”
Apollo shrugged, feeling weary. “Her brother… was there yesterday. He was… quite foul to her and I… tossed him out.”
“ ‘Tossed,’ ” Makepeace repeated carefully.
“Not literally,” Apollo snapped, then had to concede, remembering Edwin landing on his rump in the dirt. “Well, in a way. But I didn’t hurt him… though he did make… several threats to me.”
“And seems to’ve carried them out,” Makepeace replied drily. He jumped up as the kettle began to steam. “No one else knew you were in the garden, did they?”
Apollo ticked them off on his fingers. “My sister… and thus His Grace the Ass… you, Montgomery, and James Trevillion.”
Makepeace paused with the kettle in one hand and then swore and had to set it down when the hot handle apparently burned his fingers. “Who’s this Trevillion?”
Apollo looked at him. “The man who… arrested me the morning of the… murders.”
“And you didn’t think to mention him until now?” Makepeace’s eyes widened in outrage. “Good God, man, that’s your betrayer right there.”
Apollo was already shaking his head. “No… he’d realized he made a… mistake in arresting me. He vowed to help… discover the real murderer.”
“So he told you.” Makepeace furiously shook tea into a teapot from a tin without bothering to measure it. “How can you be such a fool?”
“I’m not a fool,” Apollo growled.
“He was merely placating you until he could inform the King’s men.”
“I saw him just yesterday.”
“And that makes my point!” Makepeace filled the teapot and banged down the kettle on the hob. A few drops of water splashed out and hit the hearth, sizzling as they evaporated. “He betrayed you, ’Pollo.”
“No—”
There was a knock on the door and they both fell silent. Apollo exchanged glances with Makepeace, and then took his hooked pruning knife from the belt at his waist.
He wasn’t going back.
He slid behind the door as Makepeace opened it.
“Mr. Harte?” said a familiar voice, and Apollo peered around the door. Trevillion stood in the outer hall, alone and leaning on his cane.
“Inside,” Apollo muttered, gesturing him in.
“Are you insane?” Makepeace hissed as Trevillion limped in. “Who’s this?”
“Trevillion, the man… I was telling you about.”
Makepeace looked outraged. “This man betrayed you!”
“I didn’t,” Trevillion replied with stiff dignity.
“Indeed?” Makepeace thrust out his face, a sarcastic smile twisting his lips. “Then why, pray tell, are you here, only hours after ’Pollo had to flee for his life from Harte’s Folly? How do you even know where I live when I’d never heard your name before this morning?”
“ ’Tisn’t my fault you’re not well informed,” Trevillion replied, his upper lip curling.
Apollo nearly banged his head against the wall. Naturally Trevillion would rather antagonize than explain. But with Trevillion’s next breath he was proven wrong.
“As for your first question,” Trevillion continued, “I’m here because a man who was under my command four years ago, when I arrested Lord Kilbourne, came to me. He informed me that he’d heard there’d been a raid on Harte’s Folly this morning, but that Lord Kilbourne had escaped. I arrived at your door, hoping you would know of Lord Kilbourne’s whereabouts, and,” he said, casting a significant glance Apollo’s way, “as it turned out, you did.”
“So you could arrest him anew!” Makepeace shouted.
“Had I wanted him arrested, he’d be languishing behind bars now,” Trevillion replied, hard.
Apollo stiffened at how easily Trevillion talked about putting him behind bars.
The door to Makepeace’s rooms opened and the Duke of Montgomery strolled in as casually as if he were entering an afternoon musicale.
“I say,” the duke drawled, “am I interrupting?”
“No, but you’re barging in uninvited to my rooms,” Makepeace snapped.
“It’s so tedious,” Montgomery sighed, “to have to wait for invitations and, I find, they often don’t come when you most want them to. Much easier to simply disregard formal invitations altogether. Good Lord, man,” he continued in the same bored tone, “haven’t you anywhere for guests to sit in this pigsty?”
“Invited guests are welcome to sit on the bed.” Makepeace pointed. “Uninvited guests are welcome to—”
“What are you… doing here, Your Grace?” Apollo asked hastily before Makepeace could finish his sentence—perhaps disastrously.
Montgomery slowly pivoted to him. “You’ve regained the use of your voice, Lord Kilbourne.”
Apollo impatiently inclined his head.
“How very fascinating,” Montgomery said as if Apollo were an exotic animal he’d never seen before.
“You’ve not answered… my question.”
Montgomery spread his elegant hands wide. “I heard you were in trouble and naturally I came to help.”
“You wanted to… help me,” Apollo said, flat.
“You are, after all, the gardener with the grand scheme for my pleasure garden.” Montgomery cocked his head whimsically.
“My pleasure garden,” Makepeace interjected.
Montgomery cast him an amused glance, but addressed Apollo. “Helping you, I admit, helps me as well, but I see no problem with that.”