Wicked

by Shannon Drake

  And though we have explored and dusted and cleaned and catalogued and packed, we have just begun to see the treasures. I am exhausted, but so excited. Poor George! Even here, he troubles himself with mysteries from back home. While I grow so terribly involved here, he is talking about Carlyle and how anxious he is to get back and discover if his theory regarding our lovely castle is correct!

  BRIAN SET DOWN his mother’s journal. He had read it time and again, desperately seeking between the lines to discover if she’d had serious difficulty with any of the erstwhile scholars who had been with them on the last expedition. But in her journal, as in her speech, Lady Abigail was ever kind.

  He picked up the autopsy notes he had received that afternoon, and tried not to think about the state of his parents’ bodies by the time they had reached England. Just where, exactly, had the asps been when his parents had come upon them?

  He closed his eyes. A drawer? Had his mother reached in and been bitten immediately? She had been bitten on her lower arms, twice. Had her cries alerted his father? He would have run to her immediately, taken her desperately into his arms.

  She must have fallen. That would explain the fracture at the back of her head. So she had cried out, fallen, then his father had come.

  But how then had his father been bitten on the arms, too? If the snakes had been in a drawer, and his mother had fallen, and his father had gone to her assistance, the snakes should have…either remained in the drawer or been on the ground, in which case his father would have been bitten about the legs or ankles.

  He studied the autopsy notes again. There had been a cut on his father’s throat. A shaving mishap? And then there had been the curious bruise on his mother’s shoulder.

  He set the notes down and rubbed his face, glad, in his private chambers, to be free from the mask, idly tracing the scar that ran down his cheek.

  He had been certain from the start that his parents had been murdered. He had always assumed that the murder had been perpetuated by someone seeing to it that the asps were in a place where they would instinctively strike before being seen. But now he began to wonder if the murderer hadn’t actually been there in the room. Had his parents seen the face of their killer and known just exactly what they were facing?

  He shuddered, torn apart once again to think of what had been done. Anger seared into him, and with the anger came the repeated question that tortured his mind. Why?

  The answer was somewhere. And by God, he was going to find it.

  “OH, MY, HOW DELIGHTFUL!” the woman cried, admitting Camille into the cottage. “Shelby dear, you are coming in, of course?”

  Camille turned to her great hulk of an escort, a little surprised that anyone could call such a giant “Shelby dear!”

  “Ah, Merry, of course, if you don’t be minding. I’d never leave without a spot of your fine tea and one of those scones I can smell on the air!” He cleared his throat. “Merry, this is Miss Camille Montgomery, a scholar at the museum. Camille, may I present Merry and the other lasses, Edith and Violet.”

  Again, she had to smile at the choice of words. The “lasses” were all well into their sixties, Camille thought. Yet, maybe Shelby was right to label them as such, for the women were all lovely, with beautiful, pert, young smiles.

  And she herself was hardly considered a scholar. She didn’t have the credentials that made one so.

  Violet was very tall and thin, whereas Merry was short and a bit squat with an ample bosom. Edith was somewhere between the two.

  “Camille…what a lovely name. I dare say someone loved opera!” Edith said.

  “Come, come, perhaps her mother just liked the name,” Merry said, pleasantly grinning away. “Edith was a teacher for years, my dear, and we still listen to opera day after day on the wonderful machine there. A bit scratchy, but…oh!” She turned to her sisters. “She’s so lovely, isn’t she?” Then back to Camille. “This will be such a pleasure!”

  Camille flushed. “Thank you.”

  “Merry, dear, you fix the tea,” Edith said. “Violet and I will do the measuring! Come along, dear.”

  Violet caught her arm and she was drawn through the little cottage to a room in the rear with a sewing machine, a dressmaker’s dummy, shelves full of material bolts, spools of thread and all kinds of paraphernalia. The women were charming, carrying on a conversation with one another, asking her questions, not really waiting for answers. Before she knew it, and before she could feel the least awkward, she was standing in nothing but a shift, with a tape measure going about her here and there. Somewhere along the line, she managed to get in a question.

  “Edith, you were a teacher?”

  “Oh, yes, dear. And I did love teaching!”

  “But now…you are all dressmakers?”

  “Oh, no!” Violet told her. “Well, we do have a love of it, as you see. But we’re sisters, of course—all widows, I’m afraid.”

  “How nice that you have one another,” Camille murmured.

  “Delightful!” Violet said.

  “Oh, we’ve much more, as well,” Edith told her. “Merry has a wonderful son, with Her Majesty’s troops in India.”

  “And he has three sons!” Violet supplied.

  “I see. Is that how you know Lord Stirling?” Camille asked.

  Edith laughed charmingly. “Oh, no, dear. We’ve had this cottage now for…twenty years, is it, Violet?”

  “Indeed.”

  Camille must have looked a little baffled because Violet continued. “My dear, we’re on property belonging to the Earl of Carlyle. Of course, we moved here when George and his dear lady were still living…we made all of Lady Stirling’s clothing. Now we only make shirts for Brian. How I miss his dear mother! Not that he isn’t the most generous of men to us. A great sense of responsibility, he has. Now, please turn for me, dear.”

  Camille did so, and was startled to see a child standing in the doorway, a beautiful little girl of four or five. She had glorious dark ringlets, huge eyes and dimples. She didn’t seem at all shy as she stared at Camille.

  “Um…hello,” Camille said.

  Violet swung around. “Ally! Child, what on earth are you doing out of bed?”

  Ally gave Camille a secretive smile. “Thirsty!” she said sweetly. “And hungry, Auntie Vi!”

  “Ah, she smells the scones, she does!” Edith said, chiding with no real thought of discipline. “Oh, where are my manners? Ally, you must meet Miss Montgomery. Miss Montgomery, Ally.”

  They offered no last name.

  “Hello, miss!” Ally said, bobbing a curtsy.

  “Hello, a pleasure to meet you, Miss Ally,” Camille told her.

  She looked at Violet. “One of Merry’s grandchildren?” she asked.

  “Oh, no! The grandchildren all live with their mothers,” Violet said.

  “Ally is our dear little ward,” Edith told her, folding the measuring tape. “Well, there, that’s done and set. Oh, dear! You must see the fabric.” She drew a bolt from one of the shelves. “Well, it’s for the overskirt, you see. I do hope you’ll be pleased. We’re so excited about this gown!”

  She admired the fabric. It looked like spun gold, and yet…there was an underlying hint of green to it.

  Ally came in, tentatively touching the fabric. She smiled her beautiful little dimpled, impish smile at Camille.

  “Like your eyes.”

  “Exactly!” Violet said. “Well, it is what Lord Stirling told us, isn’t it, Edith?”

  “Oh, yes, and it does match.”

  “Here, dear, let’s get your clothing back on you, and then, tea!”

  “Oh, yes! Tea!” Ally said with a clap of her hands.

  Violet had the borrowed blue work dress quickly over Camille’s head. Edith was there to help with the lacing and petticoats in seconds flat. Between them, they were incredibly deft and efficient.

  And yet, while the dress went over her, Camille couldn’t help but wonder, whose child was it? And why did she live here with her
“aunties”? Was the lovely little girl Brian Stirling’s…child? His illegitimate child?

  “Come, come, tea!” Violet said, turning down the lamp. Edith was leading the way out.

  Ally came to Camille and slipped her little hand into hers. “Miss, tea. Oh, do come, please! The scones are so very, very good!”

  As the child had promised, they were. It was a lovely setting, having tea at the kitchen table in the little cottage. It was warm, and the aroma of the fresh-baked scones enwrapped them. Shelby, the great hulk, was obviously a favorite with the aunties, and with Ally, as well. She squealed with delight as he hiked her onto his back and gave her a horsy ride around the room. Camille found herself forgetting all else for a time as she enjoyed the child’s laughter, the comfort of the tea and the delicious scones.

  At last, it was time to leave. “You’ll have to come again tomorrow, dear, for a fitting,” Violet told her.

  “Well, everything should be perfect. We do know what we’re doing!” Edith said, then grinned. “But we want it to be perfect, so you really should have a fitting.”

  “This is needed in such a rush, dear,” Merry murmured, shaking her head.

  “But you will be so beautiful, miss,” Ally told her.

  For some reason, the child’s wide-eyed compliment suddenly seemed to bring a rush of tears to Camille’s eyes, and she didn’t know why. Maybe because she could remember being so young, and then a little older…

  She’d never had such ladies as these to raise her. No, she’d had Tristan. He hadn’t been like an auntie, and he certainly had never baked scones, but he had given her all of his heart—he’d given her a life.

  “Thank you,” she told the little girl. Yet she was suddenly angry, as well. Torn. So Lord Stirling was seeing to it that his child was properly raised! He was no better than the other rich and titled men who ran about using young women who had not been blessed at birth with wealth and inheritance, then left them to brave the world with no name, no dignity.

  She dared hug the child tightly to her. “Thank you!” she repeated.

  Ally pushed away from her to study her eyes. “Are you scared to go to the ball?”

  “Uh, no…no,” Camille said. “And it’s not exactly a ball. It’s a fund-raiser for the museum.”

  “Scared? Silly little moppet,” Violet said, affectionately tousling the girl’s hair. “And it is a ball, a grand gala for the museum. It will be elegant and beautiful, and Miss Montgomery will dance the hours away. It will be lovely!”

  “You’ll be the most beautiful one there,” Ally told her, taking Camille’s cheeks between her chubby little hands. “Like a princess.”

  “You are very, very sweet, but I’m hardly a princess. I work for the museum, you see.”

  “And that should keep you from spending a night dancing just like a princess?” Merry demanded. “Oh, no, dear! You will put on that golden dress, and for the night you will be magical. I cannot wait to see you dressed and on your way.”

  “On our way is what we must be right now,” Shelby interrupted. “Lord Stirling will be waiting.”

  “Oh, right! Absolutely. Shoo, shoo!” Merry said cheerfully. “And don’t forget, a final fitting tomorrow!”

  Camille paused, looking from them to Shelby. “I’m not sure that can be arranged. I am employed by the museum.”

  “Lord Stirling can arrange anything,” Violet said. “Get along now!”

  They were ushered out. Before she knew it, Camille was back in the carriage with the huge crest of the house of Stirling emblazoned upon it. As they drove, she wondered just how far the Stirling wealth and holdings went. And again, she found herself wondering about the child, and the way that Lord Stirling could “arrange anything.” By the time they returned to the castle, she found that she was really simmering in a state of anger. And she wasn’t even sure exactly why.

  BRIAN DISCOVERED that he was looking forward to the evening. Shelby informed him immediately when Camille returned, and Brian allowed time for her to visit with Tristan and freshen up from the day before sending Evelyn to her room to escort her to his quarters.

  The day hadn’t brought forth much new in his quest for truth, but it had allowed for a few pleasing and refreshing surprises.

  He realized that Camille entertained him. That she was quick with her wit and her responses, and that she stood her ground. No, she more than entertained him, he thought.

  When he heard the door open, he quickly turned. “Good evening, Miss Montgomery.”

  “Is it?” she replied.

  “It’s not?” he inquired, frowning. She always stood straight, and when she walked she seemed to glide. Tonight, she moved with purely regal disdain.

  “It is evening, that much is certain,” she agreed.

  “Did something happen?” he inquired.

  “Indeed. My guardian is here, and therefore, so am I,” she informed him. She swept out a hand, indicating the table. “I am afraid that nothing happened at the museum today that I can report, so your meal is a waste.”

  “I believe you’re mistaken, actually,” he told her. “A great deal might have happened at the museum, of which you might not be aware.”

  “My day was boring,” she informed him.

  “Tell me about it. I’ll see if I agree.”

  He drew out her chair. She swept by him. He frowned, still puzzled by her hostility. As she sat, he was brushed by the fabric of her gown, teased by a touch of her hair against his fingers. He was startled by the quickening that seized him, and he moved back behind her, glad that she faced forward, not certain if even the mask he wore could hide the sensation that had ripped into him. Simple. Basic. Instinctive. Purely carnal.

  She was a beautiful young woman. Such thoughts would not be far from the mind of any man. But such thoughts most often existed without such a fierce response from within.

  He gritted his teeth, angry with himself. Composed, he walked around the table and drew out his own chair. “Were the sisters difficult? I cannot believe that they were.”

  “They were charming. I remain displeased, however, that you’re forcing me to have a gown made.”

  “Why?”

  “I am not a charity case.”

  “It is not being offered as if you were.”

  “If I didn’t have to attend the fund-raiser, I would not need a gown.”

  “But you are attending. Therefore, you need a gown. You are attending because I have asked you to do so. Therefore, the gown is my responsibility. Not charity in the least.”

  He poured wine. She picked up her glass a bit too quickly, he thought. Sipped it immediately. More than sipped. Was she seeking courage? Or had something seriously disturbed her?

  “Tell me about your day.”

  “I went to work. Shelby came at four. I went for the fitting.”

  He gauged his response, inhaling slowly for patience. “What happened at work?”

  “I worked.”

  “Miss Montgomery—”

  “I continued my translation. I’m afraid that the symbols promised a curse upon those who defiled the tomb and their heirs into perpetuity.”

  He smiled coldly. “I’m well aware that a curse is supposed to be eternal. Did you think that such news would be upsetting to me? I don’t believe in curses, Miss Montgomery. I do believe in evil, but it comes from men. I thought I’d rather established that fact. You worked, you translated. And what more?”

  She hesitated, taking another swallow of wine. “I saw…a newspaper clipping. Of your parents and the others at the dig.”

  “Ah,” he murmured. “And where did you see it?”

  She said slowly, “In Sir John’s drawer.”

  “There, you see? Your day does offer light on the subject most passionate to my heart.”

  “Sir John is not a murderer,” she insisted.

  “Ah! Does that mean you actually believe that someone may be?”

  Her lashes fell over her eyes. She leaned forward suddenly. “S
uppose someone did see to it that the asps were where your parents would be. There is no way to know! No way to prove foul play. So you are torturing yourself and nothing more.”

  For a moment, the glass encasing she seemed to be wearing that evening had slipped away. She straightened almost immediately, though, as if irritated that she had shown him any real emotion.

  “What of my illustrious colleagues in the quest of ancient Egypt?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sir John was there. And…the others?”

  She sighed. “Alex was working. I saw Aubrey moving about. Neither Hunter nor Lord Wimbly were in today, at least, not that I saw.”

  “And what about Alex?”

  She stared across the table at him. “What about him?”

  “Did he say or do anything unusual. Did you share a conversation?”

  She frowned. “We do work in the same department. Since we are both fairly polite and courteous people, we tend to have conversations daily.”

  “Did he say anything special? And did you have a reply?”

  She finished the last of her wine. He kept his eyes locked with hers as he waited for her reply and refilled her glass.

  “He said nothing new. He is afraid for me.”

  “Because he believes me to be a monster?”

  She lifted her hands, refusing to tell him that Alex might have used those words.

  He lowered his head, smiling, then asked, “And what did you tell him?”

  “What does it matter? In truth, I begin to believe that all men are monsters!”

  “And that would definitely include me,” he murmured.

  “Well, you’ve worked hard to make yourself one, haven’t you?” she demanded, staring at him and reaching for her wineglass once again. “But then, it doesn’t always take work, does it? Sometimes behavior just comes naturally. A man is born into a world of privilege, so he feels free to toy with those beneath him!”