She had often frequented the legendary publisher's lending library and bookshop on the first floor of the brick building, but she'd never before dared to breach its inner sanctum. Here in this magical and somewhat shabby place, where the air was perfumed with the intoxicating aromas of dust, ink, leather and paper, one's dreams could be bound and sold to provide endless hours of pleasure. Perhaps Mrs. Eliza Parsons herself had once sat in this very chair while she nervously awaited the publisher's verdict on The Mysterious Warning or Castle of Wolfenbach.
Ned lounged in the ladder-backed chair across from Lottie, rhythmically tapping his walking stick on the hardwood floor. Catching her eye, he stopped tapping. "It's not too late for us to duck out of here, you know. Are you absolutely certain this is what you want to do?"
She nodded. "It's what I have to do."
"You realize he may throttle me for allowing you to do it? That is, if your brother-in-law doesn't throttle me first."
Lottie crinkled her nose at him. "That's a risk I'm willing to take."
They both sat up straighter as the door behind the desk swung open. A stoop-shouldered, balding man entered the room, a manuscript tucked under his arm. He wore an unadorned frock coat, a moth-eaten cravat, and a waistcoat and trousers of mismatched plaid. Lottie found it somehow comforting that his neatly trimmed fingernails were rimmed with half-moons of ink.
Sinking into the chair behind the desk, he placed the manuscript in front of him, then drew off his spectacles to wipe his eyes.
"Come now, Mr. Beale," Lottie said with a halfhearted laugh. "Surely it wasn't as bad as all that."
The publisher pinched the bridge of his nose before slipping his spectacles back on. "My dear lady," he said, fixing her with an earnest look, "surely you must be aware that this is not the sort of novel we usually publish at Minerva. Our readers are accustomed to more… how shall I say it…?" he steepled his fingers beneath his chin "… sensational fare."
Ned started to rise. "We're very sorry to have wasted your time, sir. I do hope you'll forgive us for— "
Glaring at him, Lottie cleared her throat pointedly. Sighing, he dropped back into his chair.
She leaned toward the desk, seeking to charm the publisher with her warmest smile. "As one of Minerva Press's most devoted readers, I can assure you that I am well aware of what you usually publish. But under the circumstances, I was hoping you might at least consider my manuscript. Surely you can't deny that it would be a profit-making endeavor for your company."
"But at what cost? You must realize that the publication of this work is bound to engender a certain amount of notoriety for its author. Unless you're willing to publish under a pseudonym— "
"No," Lottie said firmly, settling back into her chair. "Absolutely not. I want my name to be the first thing the reader sees when he or she picks up the book."
Mr. Beale shook his head sadly. "I've searched my heart, but I just can't see any way to make this endeavor work."
"Please don't dismiss us so easily," Lottie entreated him, no longer able to hide her desperation behind a gracious smile. "I realize the quality of my writing may not be up to your usual high standards, but I still feel that with some drastic cutting and some extensive revisions…"
She trailed off. The publisher was blinking at her as if she'd sprouted a second head. She exchanged a baffled look with Ned.
"You misunderstand me, my lady." Mr. Beale rested a hand gently on top of her manuscript, his rheumy brown eyes going damp again. "This is one of the most profoundly moving pieces of fiction I've ever read. I would dare even the most cynical of our readers to finish it with a dry eye and a cold heart toward his fellow man. I wasn't implying that the book was below our standards, but above them, suited to a far more prestigious publishing company than ours."
Lottie gazed at him in open-mouthed disbelief, wondering if she'd somehow dozed off and drifted into a dream. She didn't realize tears had welled upin her own eyes until Ned handed her a handkerchief.
"But if I prefer your company over the others," she asked, stealing another glance at his ink-stained fingers, "would you consider publishing it?"
Mr. Beale nodded, a smile breaking over his long face. "It would be both a pleasure and an honor."
"Did you hear that, Ned?" Lottie turned to her friend, laughing through her tears. "I'm going to be notorious!"
Chapter 20
I could feel the Devil's icy breath against the back of my neck…
AN ILL WIND WAS BLOWING AT OAKWYLDE Manor.
It came whipping across the moors and down the chimneys, poisoning every breath with its bitterness. It wrested the leaves from the trees with ruthless fingers, leaving them stark and bare. It stripped away every trace of summer until that brief season seemed nothing more than a dream.
Some claimed that if you stepped outside and tilted your head just so, you could even hear the distant tolling of the bell the wreckers had used to lure unsuspecting ships to their doom on the jagged rocks a century ago. Others whispered that it was the same wind that had blown the night the master's first wife had taken her fatal fall, the same wind that had carried his agonized cry to their ears.
The servants once again took to locking themselves in their quarters as soon as dark fell. It was no longer a ghost they feared encountering in the gathering shadows, but a man. Although he spent his days barricaded in his study, their master would stalk the deserted corridors of the manor at all hours of the night, his savage countenance and burning eyes making him look somehow less than mortal.
Although no melodies, ghostly or otherwise, emanated from the music room after he sent his wife and daughter away, the maids still dreaded entering the chamber. None of them could shake off the eerie sensation that they were being watched. They would whirl around, their hearts in their throats, only to find themselves all alone with the portrait of the first Lady Oakleigh. One young girl swore that while she was dusting the piano, a choking cloud of jasmine had arisen from the keys, sending her staggering from the room, fighting to catch her breath. After a porcelain figurine went flying off the mantel, barely missing Meggie's head, neither Martha's pinches nor Mrs. Cavendish's threats of immediate dismissal could coax any of the terrified maids into returning to that room.
The footmen began to complain to Giles about icy pockets of cold lingering in certain corridors. They would rush back to warm themselves by the kitchen fire, chilled to the bone and wracked by uncontrollable shivers.
When Martha reluctantly informed Hayden of the servants' growing fears, he suggested that she hire less superstitious servants. He no longer believed in ghosts. Just when he longed for their company the most, they had deserted him.
Although he'd sent Allegra away nearly four months ago, he insisted that the maids keep a lamp burning in her chamber all through the night. He would ease open her door and expect to see her lying there, her cheeks flushed with sleep and Lottie's doll nestled in her arms. But her bed was always cold and empty.
He would linger in the drawing room doorway in the wee hours of morning, hoping to hear the clinking of teacups, the echo of a high-pitched giggle, or a snatch of some ridiculous Scottish ditty. But all he heard was silence.
His aimless wanderings would eventually drive him to the third floor of the house, to Lottie's bedchamber. The first time he'd pushed open her door, he'd been surprised to discover that she had left most of her things behind. Perhaps she had simply packed in haste, he told himself bitterly, desperate to be free of him. He had seen the fear in her eyes when he'd put his hands on her that day on the cliff. It was a fear he never wanted to see in any woman's eyes again as long as he lived. Especially not Lottie's.
He would drift around her room, haunted not by ghosts but by the way she had crinkled her nose when she laughed; the way her hair had gleamed like molten sunshine as she went flying down the drive on the hobbyhorse; the soft, broken cries she had made against his mouth when he had urged her over the crest of pleasure into sweet oblivion. Although h
e knew he should have Martha and Mrs. Cavendish pack up her things and send them to London, he would simply pull her door shut behind him each night, leaving everything exactly as she had left it.
In the first few weeks after Justine had died, Hayden had learned the dangers of seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle. Yet late one night he found himself stumbling out of a French window in the study, gripping an open bottle of port by the neck.
He picked his way over the rocks, his steps none too steady, until he finally found himself swaying at the edge of the cliff, listening to the sea crash against the rocks below like the last of his dreams. The wind had scattered the clouds, freeing the shimmering orb of the moon to etch the waves in silver. Hayden took a deep swig of the port, then closed his eyes and spread his arms wide, all but daring the wind and the night to take him.
That was when he heard it — the echo of a distant melody drifting on the wind. The song was achingly sweet, irresistible in its simplicity. His blood curdling in his veins, Hayden slowly turned to look at the house. This time he knew there was no Lottie and no Allegra to stroke those piano keys to life.
"Damn you," Hayden whispered hoarsely as that siren song drew him away from the edge of that cliff one inexorable step at a time.
Still gripping the bottle, he stalked through the darkened corridors of the house, both the music and his fury swelling with each step. But when he flung open the door of the music room, he found it exactly as he had expected to find it — dark and silent. He strode to the piano and flattened one palm against its closed lid. He could still feel the faint vibration of its strings, still hear the echo of that bittersweet melody hanging in the air.
He whirled on Justine's portrait, roaring, "I hope to God you're happy now!" Drawing back his arm, he hurled the bottle at the portrait with all of his strength. It shattered against the canvas, the port spattering like drops of blood over Justine's white dress. "Perhaps your intention was always to drive me mad so that you'd never be alone again, not even in death!"
Justine simply gazed down at him, her expression both mocking and inscrutable.
"Hayden?"
Hayden whirled around to find a man standing in the doorway, his face shrouded in shadows.
For one frozen fragment of time, he thought it was Phillipe standing there, young and brash and full of hope. As he waited for his old friend to step out of the shadows, the scorched pistol-ball hole over his heart still smoking, Hayden knew he'd finally gone well and truly mad.
"Hayden?" the man repeated, a querulous note edging his voice. "You haven't gone and scared off all the servants with that frightful bellowing, have you? I knocked and knocked and no one ever came so I finally went around to the back of the house, found an unlatched window in your study, and let myself in."
As his visitor stepped forward, his hair shining silver in the moonlight, Hayden staggered backward and sank down on the divan, going numb with relief. He buried his head in his hands, a broken laugh escaping him. "Sweet Christ, Ned, I never thought I'd be so glad to have you barge in unannounced and uninvited."
"That's certainly the warmest welcome you've given me lately. That was a lovely piece, by the way. I never realized you played."
Hayden slowly lifted his head, gazing at the piano keys with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. "Neither did I."
"I'd ask you to offer me a drink," Ned said, slanting the portrait a wry look, "but I much prefer a glass to having the bottle hurled at my head."
Hayden sheepishly raked a hand through his hair. "Justine never was much of a port drinker." He frowned at his friend, realizing for the first time how odd it was to find him there. "So what brings you to Cornwall in the dead of night?"
Ned sobered. "My apologies for arriving so late, but I brought you a gift from your wife — something she thought you needed to see right away."
"What is it?" Hayden asked, a bitter snort escaping him. "Her petition for an annulment?"
"Not exactly." Reaching into his valise, Ned drew out a slim leather-bound volume and handed it to Hayden.
Hayden examined the book, recognizing it as the first installment of a triple-decker novel. Even before he turned its scarlet cover to the moonlight, he knew what its florid title would read.
LORD DEATH'S BRIDE by Lady Oakleigh.
Disappointment welled up in his throat, more bitter than gall. Although he'd told Lottie to finish the novel, a part of him hadn't truly believed that she would. He'd certainly never dreamed that she'd be so heartless as to throw the book in his face after it was published.
He held it out to Ned. "Thank you, but I don't have to read it. I already know the story… and the ending."
Ignoring Hayden's outstretched hand, Ned tossed the other two volumes of the novel into his lap, a cryptic smile curling the corner of his mouth. "I'd read it anyway if I were you. Sometimes even the most predictable endings have a way of catching you by surprise." Snapping the valise shut, Ned yawned. "Although I hate to deprive you of my company, I'll be leaving for Surrey early in the morning. I've promised my dear mum a long overdue visit. So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to find a bed and some pretty maid to warm it."
"You might try waking Martha. She's always had a soft spot for you."
Ned shuddered. "I think I'd rather cuddle up to a warm brick."
After he had gone, Hayden sat staring down at the three volumes in his lap. He could hardly blame Lottie for betraying him, but he couldn't believe that she would betray Allegra so callously. By confirming the worst of what everyone believed of him, she had spoiled any chance his daughter might have had of escaping the sins of her parents, of marrying a decent man and making a life for herself in society.
His anger flaring, Hayden decided to seek out the first fire he could find and toss all three volumes in the flames. As he rose, still a little unsteady on his feet from the port, one of the books slid to the floor, falling open in a puddle of moonlight. He bent down to pick it up, not realizing until he saw the scrawled inscription on the frontpiece that it was the first volume of the set. Lottie's handwriting was every bit as extravagant as he remembered.
He traced the tip of his finger over the graceful dips and loops, murmuring aloud, "From my heart to yours…"
Unable to bear her mockery, he was about to slam the book shut when, against their will, his eyes were drawn to the very first sentence on the very first page — I'll never forget the moment I first laid eyes on the man who was to save my life.
Chapter 21
Was it possible I had misjudged him so badly?
"DID YOU GET IT? DID YOU GET IT? OH, please tell me you got it!" Elizabeth Bly exclaimed, bouncing up and down on her toes in excitement as her best friend came running out the glass-fronted door of Minerva Press's bookshop.
"By Jove, I got it!" Caro Brockway crowed, whipping the thin leather-bound volume out from under her cloak. The girl's breath escaped in white puffs on the frigid air.
Before she could reach Elizabeth, a hulking footman garbed in navy livery stepped into her path. "I'll give you three pounds for that book, miss."
Caro stumbled to a halt, clearly taken aback. "But I only paid half a guinea for it."
"I'll make it five, then." The man stole a desperate look at the long line of carriages parked just behind them.
The elegant carriages and public hacks were lined up all the way to Gracechurch Street. Swaddled in furs and muffs, their occupants were willing to shiver in the cold for hours, all in the hope of obtaining the third volume of London's latest literary sensation, Lord Death's Bride.
"Please, miss, take pity on me," the man begged. "You heard what happened to Lady Dryden's footman, didn't you?"
The girls exchanged a wide-eyed look. All of London had heard what had happened to Lady Dryden's footman. He had dared to return to the countess's carriage empty-handed only to sheepishly confess that he'd let the last available copy of Volume Two of Lord Death's Bride slip through his fingers and into Lady Featherwick's grasping paws. Some sa
id the countess's outraged shriek was heard all the way to Aldgate. She had beat the poor fellow about the head with her parasol, then stuck her nose in the air and commanded her coachman to drive on without him. The footman had chased the carriage for ten blocks, begging for her forgiveness, before finally succumbing to exhaustion and falling face-first into a pile of fresh horse manure. Rumor had it that he was now seeking employment on the docks.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I can't help you." Clutching the book to her heart, Caro veered around him and backed toward Elizabeth. "I've been waiting in line since dawn and I promised my mother I'd bring the book straight home. She's going to read itto the entire family after supper tonight. They've all been dying to know what happens after the noble duke realizes his new bride has betrayed his trust."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "I can't believe what a ninny she's turned out to be." The girl clasped her hands beneath her chin, a dreamy expression softening her features. "Why, I would have realized from the beginning that such a kind, generous, and incrediblyhandsome man would never hurt any woman, especially his wife."
The footman began to stalk Caro, his countenance taking on a more menacing aspect. He stretched out one white-gloved hand. "Come on, gel. It won't kill you to hand it over. Five pounds must be a fortune to a common chit like you."
"Run, Caro, run!" Elizabeth shrieked, grabbing her friend's hand and tugging her out of his reach.
As the two girls sped away, their cloaks flapping behind them, the footman tore off his top hat and shouted, "Seven pounds! I'll give you seven pounds!"
At bookshops and lending libraries all over London, the same drama was being replayed. The author had insisted that an abridged version be published in weekly installments in the periodicals for those who couldn't afford bound books. The second a new edition appeared, the milling crowds would rush the street vendors, snatching and grabbing until the flimsy pamphlets came apart in their grimy hands. Down on the docks where the penny broadsides were sold, even those who couldn't read wept over crude sketches of a noblewoman on her knees begging for her husband's forgiveness as he turned his sad face away from her and pointed toward the door.
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