“I—I…” She could barely form a thought, let alone words.
“Answer me!” he bellowed in a voice that she swore rattled the windows.
Farah couldn’t look at him anymore. Couldn’t see the wrath piercing at her with an archer’s precision. Couldn’t face his lies, or more petrifying, his truths. “It wasn’t just that day. I went to Newgate every night for seven years and left Dougan cheese and bread.”
“No.” He retreated a step, staggered was more like it, giving her the moment she needed to gather her courage.
Farah stood, her head barely reaching his cravat so she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “You see, Mr. Blackwell, your kind are not the only ones who keep their promises. I, too, made a promise years ago, that I’d never let Dougan Mackenzie go hungry, and I kept that promise up until the day he … the day … he…” Her composure finally broke and she retreated to stand in front of the desk, swallowing frantic gulps of emotion.
He allowed it, gathering his own armor to him in front of her eyes in the form of cavalier tranquility. “He never knew that extra food was from you. We thought the other prisoners’ families left it as offerings, or some kind of payment for our continued favors or good graces.”
“But I wrote him letters every week and delivered them with the food,” she protested.
“He never received them.”
That, alone, was enough to break her heart. Farah’s shoulders lost all their ability to keep her head up, and she slumped over. “I thought I’d at least give him a little bit of hope. That he would know that, even locked away, he wasn’t alone in the world.” She didn’t look at him but for a glance from beneath her lashes. He still stood where he had before, with more information she didn’t want, but had to discover, locked behind his cruel lips.
“Tell me how he died,” she ordered softly. “If not by illness, then by what means?”
“He was murdered.” With those three cold words, Blackwell pierced her heart.
“How?” she whispered.
“Beaten to death in the middle of the night by three prison guards.”
Farah clamped a hand over her mouth as the tartlets churned in her stomach and crawled up her throat with an acid burn. She swallowed, then again, grateful the food couldn’t pass the lump of tears in her throat to end up retched all over the study’s expensive carpets.
“Why?” she gasped.
“That is the eternal question, isn’t it?”
Farah was too shocked, too disconsolate to be angry at the lack of emotion in his voice. She couldn’t be sure how long she stood staring at the hem of her lovely dress, one she’d had on for much too long that now felt tight and confining and bit into her skin. She wanted to be rid of it. To be rid of this room, of the past, of everything. She wanted to be back in her office, where she ought to be, shuffling paperwork and making ordered sense out of chaos. Pretending that she had no time for emotion, for grief, for guilt, only responsibility and an endless list of things to do to keep the dissonance of her thoughts occupied.
She didn’t hear Blackwell approach until he was standing beside her.
“Why are you telling me this now?” Her question came out more of an accusation.
He submitted her to another one of his protracted silences before finally answering. “Because I’ve owed Dougan Mackenzie a debt, one it has taken me ten years of careful execution to repay. When I saw you in the strong room, when I realized who you were, I thought, who better to share his revenge with than you? You can help me wreak vengeance on everyone who tore your lives apart all those years ago.”
Farah stared at him, searching for a lie on his pitiless face. Finding none, and still doubting her instincts. Dorian Blackwell was a thief, a liar, and a criminal. Could she believe him? Was he, even now, playing some kind of terrible, merciless game?
“Take my hand, look me in the eye, and promise me you’re not lying to me.” It came out more of a plea than a command. Morley had told her once that one could detect a lie by the tension in a man’s hand, the dilation of his pupils, and the direction of his gaze. Farah was not skilled in the practice, but she wanted to try.
Blackwell regarded her offered hand as though she presented him a slug or a spider. “No,” he said shortly.
“Then you are lying,” she insisted.
“No.”
“Prove it,” Farah challenged. “Why would you deny this innocuous request if you have nothing to hide?” She thrust her hand farther toward him, and he barely concealed a flinch.
“I have plenty to hide, but in this, you can be assured I am in earnest.”
“I could never trust someone who couldn’t even offer a handshake upon his honor.”
Blackwell considered her outstretched hand for a disturbingly long time. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to oblige you.”
She let her hand drop. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” So had he been lying about Dougan’s death? About all of it? What should she believe?
After a time, he seemed to come to a decision. “I will, however, give you a gesture of good faith. I will give you information about myself that few beyond the two of us have ever or will ever know.”
Farah found the gesture odd, but she stood silently, waiting for him to continue.
“The years I spent in prison, shall we say … disinclined me toward any contact with human flesh. That is why I do not shake your hand.” He presented this information as though informing her of the weather but, for the first time, his eye did not meet hers. “I also admit that I’m not above lying to you to get what I want; however, in this I’m certain our purposes are aligned, and therefore I have no need to manipulate you. I think you want those who have harmed Dougan, and you, to pay for their crimes.”