Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [90]
He realized with surprise he had no idea where she lived, and he was interested when she gave the driver an address on the edge of Mayfair. They sat close together in the alternating darkness and light as they bowled along Oxford Street westwards, then turned left down North Audley Street. He could not remember having felt more perfectly at ease in anyone’s company, and yet never for an instant bored or irritated. He looked forward intensely to the next time he should see her. He must think of other things to do which would entertain her when the business of Angus Stonefield was concluded.
They were passing a large house where some kind of party was coming to an end. The street was full of carriages and they were obliged to slow their pace. There were lights everywhere, torches and carriage lamps, the blaze of chandeliers from the open doors. At least a dozen people stood around on the footpath, and five or six more in the street. Liveried footmen assisted a woman to get her massive skirts into her carriage. Grooms held horses’ heads, coachmen steadied the reins.
Suddenly Drusilla lurched forward. Her face had changed utterly. There was a blind hatred in her which made her almost unrecognizable. Her hands went to the bosom of her gown and with a convulsive movement she tore it open, ripping the fabric, exposing her pale flesh and gashing it with her fingernails till it smeared blood. She screamed, again and again, piercingly, as if in mortal terror. She beat her fists against his chest, forcing her way past him, then plunged headlong into the street, landing in a heap in the road. Immediately she clambered to her feet, still screaming, and ran towards the astonished footman, now trying to control a startled horse, which was taking fright at the commotion.
Monk was too stunned even to comprehend what was happening. It was not until another footman tried to climb into the hansom, his face contorted with outrage, shouting, “Blackguard! Beast!” that Monk electrified into life. He lifted his foot and sent the man sprawling backwards, then yelled at the cabby to drive!
The cab lurched forward, the driver perhaps more frightened than obedient, hurling Monk hard back against the seat. It was a moment before he regained his balance, and they were going at a very smart pace southwards.
“Fitzroy Street!” he shouted at the driver. “As fast as you can! Do you hear me?”
The driver shouted something back, and a moment later they turned. Monk’s mind was numb. It was inconceivable. It was as if he had suddenly taken leave of his wits and plunged into some total insanity. One moment they had been the closest of companions, happy and at ease; the next she had changed as if she had ripped off a mask and exposed something hideous, a creature filled with hatred and consumed by it, deranged, prepared to risk injury by falling out of a moving carriage.
And the accusation she had made against him could ruin him. Only as he reached Fitzroy Street and the cab stopped did he realize the implications of what she had done. It was there in the cabby’s face, the horror, and the contempt.
He opened his mouth to protest his innocence, and saw the uselessness of it. He thrust his hand into his pocket and paid the man, then strode across the footpath, up the steps and in the front door. He was cold to the bone.
7
MONK WOKE the next morning and memory returned like a cold tide, almost choking him. He gasped for breath, and sat up, his body shaking. The evening had been wonderful, full of laughter and companionship. Then suddenly, without the slightest warning whatever, Drusilla had changed from the caring, intimate friend she had been, and became a screaming accuser, her face contorted with hate. He could remember it with fearful clarity, as if it were still in front of him, the lips drawn back, the ugliness in mouth and eyes, the triumph.
But why? He hardly knew her, and everything they had shared had been of the greatest pleasure. She was a sophisticated, delightful woman