Daughter of Darkness

by Janet Woods

  ‘I did not notice until this morning when I began to itch.’

  She could have died at the fright in his eyes. She puzzled over a group of blisters decorating Jeffrey’s arm. There was something different about this. The rash of the smallpox victims she’d nursed had started on the trunk. Jeffrey’s rash was characterized by a line of blisters. His fever was mild. A smile nudged the corner of her mouth as she turned to Ambrose. ‘He survived smallpox in infancy, did he not?’

  Ambrose nodded tiredly.

  ‘I believe this to be shingles.’

  ‘Shingles!’ His breath expelled in one relieved rush. ‘You’re positive?’

  ‘Almost.’ She could have danced upon the spot with relief. She would not take God for granted again. ‘I will ask Doctor Tansy to confirm it when he comes to visit.’

  Her smile was joyous, and when she gazed at him Ambrose was momentarily overcome by dizziness. He staggered to a chair.

  Instantly, she was by his side, concern mirrored on her face. ‘Jeffrey is in no danger. I insist you go to bed and rest, dearest father.’ Leaning forward, she kissed the look of uncertainty from his gaunt cheek. ‘If need be, I’ll call you.’

  Ambrose was stumbling when he left. A great lassitude filled his limbs and his tongue seemed too large for his mouth. He felt older than his fifty-six years. He’d hardly seated himself on the bed when his head seemed to split asunder and he fell sideways. Without the strength to lift himself, he rolled from the bed to the floor.

  His valet gazed down at him with fearful eyes.

  I’m dying, he tried to say. Summon Gerard to my side. To his horror, he found he was unable to move or utter a word.

  Gerard heaved a sigh of relief when he finally set foot on English soil. The journey across the Atlantic ocean had been made perilous by storms. Both he and Charles had succumbed to the malady of seasickness. Dry land was reassuringly solid.

  Charles stamped his feet against the cold. ‘It looks as though it might snow. Don’t tarry too long in London if you intend spending New Year’s Eve at Lytton House. The road will become impassable.’

  ‘I leave in the morning.’ He fingered his beard. He’d intended to visit a barber before he headed for Dorset. Now he decided against it. It would provide protection from the cold. Impulsively he turned to his friend. ‘Travel down with me, Charles. You’re most welcome to spend the New Year celebrations with us.’

  ‘I must pay my respects to my family. Then I intend to find myself some rooms before I apply to become a student surgeon at Guys Hospital.’ He clasped the hand Gerard extended. ‘Keep well, friend.’

  ‘And you.’

  They’d shared much together, but their brotherhood had reached an end. They’d matured over the past few years and now had different paths to take, different responsibilities to fulfill.

  Neither of them looked back when they parted, and neither men admitted that the tears blurring their vision was caused by anything but the biting cold.

  Daphne de Vere smiled when the marquis slid a heavy diamond necklace against her throat.

  ‘Black looks well on you,’ he said. ‘Widowhood will suit you.’

  My grandmother is hardly cold in her grave, she thought, and not only does he pursue his own stepdaughter, he hastens death towards his nephew. ‘I’m not a widow yet,’ she said quietly. ‘And I cannot accept such a gift. People will talk.’

  ‘Let them.’ The marquis was besotted with Daphne. From a rather plump child who’d learned to please him in many ways, she’d blossomed into a voluptuous woman. Eduard had been chosen as a spouse because of his lack of manly attributes. but the bastard son of his dead sister had surprised and thwarted him by getting Daphne with child.

  Daphne had become a skilled courtesan since he’d introduced her to the court shortly after her marriage. The king was fond of her, and sought her company on many an occasion. She led a demanding life, a life from which the marquis was beginning to find himself excluded. The strain was beginning to show in the paleness of her face, and the listlessness which beset her when she woke. Once her maid had carefully applied the white paste, rouge and patches to her face, she sparkled with a beauty, energy and wit that was the envy of the other court ladies.

  Edward was the only bone of contention between them. Daphne was adamant her son would stay in Dorset. Her husband suffered from ever increasing bouts of insanity, and was now permanently restrained. She was scared he’d escape and harm her son, as he often threatened.

  ‘Lady Sommersley writes that my son is happy at Lytton House,’ she pointed out. ‘He’s survived smallpox and is making progress with his riding lessons.’

  ‘He could have riding lessons here.’

  ‘The King has indicated he’s pleased with his godson’s progress. He wishes him to stay there.’ Tears pricked her eyes. ‘Perhaps I shall find time to visit him in the spring.’

  The marquis was not prepared to oppose the King’s will, and despite his inclination to see his heir had no intention of losing face by visiting Lytton House. If only he’d been able to father a son from his three dead wives. Of his daughters, only one had survived… Willow, the daughter of the witch. He would have killed her in infancy had he not been in fear of her mother.

  Marietta had been his ward from a defunct French branch of the family. She’d come to him with a fortune after her mother had been arrested—then executed—for offences against the French throne. Marietta had been independent by nature. The more he’d tried to beat it out of her the worse she’d become. When she’d fallen in love with Ambrose Lytton the empty-headed Caroline Cowan had warned him of the affair. Full of spite, she’d been frightened of losing the earl. He’d deflowered Marietta when she was fifteen, then married her himself. He’d possessed her body, but had never conquered her mind. She’d hated him with a passion. For years, she’d both excited and repelled him.

  Her interest in the occult had bothered him somewhat, but he’d overlooked that at first. When she’d unexpectedly become pregnant a few years after the marriage, his hopes for an heir had been revived. Delivered of a healthy daughter, she laughed at his bitter disappointment. ‘You’ll never beget a male heir,’ she’d prophesied. ‘I have curse your seed.’

  In his rage he’d torn the suckling infant from her breast. ‘You’ll never see the child again,’ he’d whispered. ‘And you’ll never know if she lives or dies.’

  ‘I’ll know’ Her eyes had been full of malevolence. ‘Willow has God’s protection. If your hand brings her death, you’ll burn in everlasting fire. Whilst I live I will always know. I’m gifted with second sight.’

  ‘You shall not live long enough to use it.’

  His rage had known no bounds. That night he’d given her to several of his drunken compatriots for sport. Afterwards, he’d beaten her to pulp and taken her body to the woods. The moon had sent a beam of silver to touch her face as he’d laid her in her grave. Her eyes, glowing with loathing had flickered open. They’d haunted his dreams ever since.

  Shivers raced up his spine as he caught Daphne’s glance in the mirror. For a moment she had the look of one who was enjoying his discomfort. Rational thought took over. Daphne knew nothing, and even if she did she’d say nothing, fearing she’d risk losing her popularity in court circles. She enjoyed her position too much.

  Besides, Marietta’s curse had not worked, he scoffed. Daphne had provided him with a strong heir who’d just survived smallpox. He slipped his hand inside her bodice and touched the ripe peak of her nipple. His desire was something almost tangible, beating in his breast like a drum. It was a desire she ignored. Daphne was no longer the sweet, innocent child he’d fondled upon his lap. He’ d been unaware then that his fondness for her sprang from the sickness in him. Now she punished him for it, withholding from him that which he craved most.

  She gave a silvery laugh as she slapped his hand away. Her eyes glowed cruelly as she rose from her seat and shook her rustling skirt into place. ‘Do not crush my gown. The king
requests my company later tonight.’

  He bit back a frustrated sigh as he offered Daphne his arm. Had it been anyone else he would have called him out and killed him. His fingers closed around the necklace, then gently twisted it. Fear came into her eyes as the necklace tightened around her neck.

  ‘He is an old man. He will tire of you soon.’ Loosening his grip he flicked an imaginary piece of fluff from the cuff of his green brocade coat.

  ‘I invited Sapphire,’ Daphne said as they descended the sweeping marble staircase to the salon below. ‘She wrote to say she was honored by my invitation but was leaving shortly for the country.’

  ‘She should feel honored,’ he growled. ‘You’re the toast of London, my dear.’ Proudly he added. ‘If it hadn’t been for me you’d be buried in the country breeding brats for the Lytton family. Don’t you ever forget that.’

  Daphne thought bitterly. No, I’ll never forget it!

  Snow! The flake on her tongue swiftly melted as Willow drew it into her mouth. Grinning at Brian O’Shea she indicated the track. ‘A race?’

  Brian was exercising Ambrose’s stallion, a muscular grey with an ungainly rapid stride, an ugly nose and an intelligent eye. Most of the horses on the estate were bred from him, but so far Circe had refused to be covered by him. Brian indicated the hedge Willow was pointed at. ‘This old boy can run, but his steeple-chasing days are over.’ He watched Circe dance delicately on the spot. ‘She’s frisky this morning. She’ll be coming into season again, I reckon. It’s a pity we haven’t permission to use one of the Sheronwood stallions. The Lytton stables could do with some fresh blood.’

  ‘Sheronwood is deserted, and the horses sold.’

  ‘One of the stallions escaped and is roaming the grounds.’ Brian grinned to himself. ‘To be sure, he’s a handsome fellow, almost as dark as Circe with a white star on his nose.’

  ‘Then we’d be doing them a favour if we stabled the poor creature for the winter.’ Willow gazed at Brian with twinkling eyes. ‘To be sure, the poor creature will freeze to death if my wily Irish groom doesn’t play the good samaritan.’

  ‘You’re a girl after me own heart, darlin’ child.’

  ‘So say you, Brian O’Shea.’ She gave a soft laugh. ‘If that’s the case why does Kitty spend more time at the stables than she does attending her mistress? Is it teaching her to ride, you’re after?’

  Brian smiled. ‘It’s marrying her I’m after, but she won’t say yes and she won’t say no at the moment. Her first loyalty is to you.’ Gloom edged into his voice. ‘Even if Kitty said yes we’d need the earl’s permission, and he—poor soul—is in no state to grant it. The man would be better off dead.’

  ‘If you dare say that again I’ll have you thrown off the estate,’ she snapped. ‘Doctor Tansy said the earl might regain his faculties and strength, and I have told God that he must.’

  Unaffected by her imperious flash of temper, Brian grinned. Only Willow would presume to tell God what to do. The Almighty would not think the worst of her for it. He watched as she expertly applied her hands to the reins. Willow is as fine and as mettlesome as the horse she rides. God grant her husband the sensitivity to recognize her wild spirit

  Patting the earl’s stallion on the nose he watched Circe carry its rider safely over the fence. If she had a fault it was that she never skirted obstacles. She faced them head on with little regard for the consequences, and that wasn’t always wise. Fury snickered in impatience to be off after them. ‘Begging your pardon, Fury,’ he said. ‘Circe’s like her mistress and no match for a staid old fellow like you. It’s a fine mate with Arab blood she’ll be having, and that’s what Brian O’Shea’s after getting for her.’

  He brought in the stallion late that afternoon. The horse was young and proud, his coat winter rough, his plumed tail matted with thorny twigs. Gaunt with hunger, his ribs showed plainly through his coat, yet his nostrils flared at the new sights and sounds and he found the energy to squeal a challenge to the stable rafters.

  From her stall Circe watched him perform, then gave a flirtatious little snicker.

  ‘Be patient, me darling’ he said, leading the stallion into an adjoining stall. He sent the stable-boy scurrying for a grooming comb. ‘I’ll be building up his strength before he makes your acquaintance. The viscount will be overjoyed with the outcome. To be sure, it was a lucky day altogether when he met my darling Willow.’

  Just at that moment the viscount was cursing his luck. He’d been hoping to reach Dorchester before nightfall, but his mount had thrown a shoe. It was nearly dark, the sky bleak. A bitter wind cut through his heavy cloak and numbed him through to the bone. Gerard’s one consolation as he wearily trudged towards the distant lights of an inn was the thought that only fools would be abroad on such a night.

  Which was just as well, because his pack horse was fully laden. He also carried a considerable amount of gold coin and jewelry on his person, including the Lytton betrothal ring which had been returned to his lawyer by Daphne de Vere.

  He scowled as he thought of the ring. Its flawless oval diamond was supposed to signify the purity of the wearer. By all accounts Daphne had forgotten the meaning of purity. She’d become a notorious courtesan in his absence and was well ensconced in court circles.

  He counted himself lucky to have escaped the clutches of such a woman, but he mourned the loss of the childhood friend he’d once cared for. Breath steamed from his body, as with head bowed he battled against the bite of the wind-driven snow. Cursing it soundly he kept pushing on. Feet numb, his beard full of icicles, he stumbled through the inn door some twenty minutes later. ‘Is there someone to tend my horses? They’re nigh on frozen and in need of a feed and a warm stable,’ Gerard croaked to the innkeeper. His legs collapsed under him as he sank on to a bench adjacent to the roaring fire.

  ‘The lad will see to it.’ The innkeeper, who recognized quality when he saw it, set a tankard of mulled wine in front of his customer. ‘Come far?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘My good wife’s mutton stew and dumplings will chase the cold from your bones if you’ve a mind to eat, sir.’

  ‘I’ve a mind to both eat and stay the night,’ he muttered, his stomach growling at the mention of food. He eyed his host’s ample belly with something akin to awe. ‘Your girth is recommendation enough of your lady’s cooking abilities.’

  The conversation, which had temporarily ceased at his entrance, hummed pleasantly back into life. Loosening his cloak from his shoulders he shook the melting ice from his beard, and removing his hat, set it in the hearth to dry.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ a voice said at his elbow. ‘The hat will be ruined if left to dry in such a way. The brim must be emptied of snow and the inside padded to keep its shape. If you’ll allow me, sir?’

  The fire hissed as the snow was flicked into the fire. ‘My name is Rodgers, sir. I was personal servant to Squire Tupworthy until he was unfortunate enough to die.’

  ‘Tupworthy is dead? A pity, he was a decent man.’ His gaze flickered over the small, dark-haired man. Although shabbily dressed he was clean and tidy. His face had the look of a servant who knew his own worth. ‘How come you here?’ Gerard asked him.

  ‘The new squire had his own man. The innkeeper offered me bed and sustenance for my labour.’ Pride came into his face. ‘I intend to go to London when the weather improves and seek more suitable employment.’

  Gerard liked what he saw of the man. He’d got used to being without a body servant for most of his time abroad. Now he was back he would need one. ‘You have references?’

  Rodgers took a crumpled letter from his pocket. ‘I have this letter from the late squire’s lawyer, who’s offered to vouch for me.’ Indignation came into his face. ‘My employer valued me highly. I confess, I didn’t expect to be thrown out into the dead of winter without recompense and reference.’

  Gerard remembered the old squire being neatly turned out. Attacking the huge platter of food the innkeeper
had set in front of him, Gerard’s eyes scanned the contents of the letter. Satisfied, he gazed up at the man. ‘Tell me of the new squire.’

  ‘He comes from the north.’ Rodgers hesitated, as if wondering how far he should go. ‘His lady is a gentle soul, and not deserving of his treatment of her. I confess, his patronage is no great loss. More I cannot say.’

  Gerard liked his answer. Rodgers had the superior attitude typical of a good personal servant. There was a definite order amongst the servant class, he mused. The more elevated the master or mistress, the more status the servant had. He prided himself on being a good judge of character. If fairly treated, this one would put his master’s needs before his own, and take pride in his work.

  ‘You’ve made it patently obvious you’re fussy about whom you work for, so I’ll be equally honest with you. Despite my present appearance, I’m also fussy. I’m in need of a man at the moment, and am prepared to take you on paid trial for a month. In that time we’ll discover the best and the worst each has to offer. You agree to my terms?’

  ‘I’d be honored to serve you, sir.’ Rodgers picked up Gerard’s cloak. ‘I’ll make sure these are dried and your bed is properly aired. You have luggage, sir?’

  ‘On the pack horse. You needn’t bother to unpack the bags until we reach my home on the morrow.’

  Rodgers cocked an inquiring eyebrow his way and Gerard smiled at him. ‘Our destination is Lytton House. I’m Viscount Sommersley. My father is the Earl Lytton.’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’ If Rodgers was surprised he was too well trained to show it. ‘Is there anything else you need, My Lord? I can vouch for the apple pie.’

  ‘Thank you, Rodgers.’ He began to relax as the effects of the fire and the wine took over. He’d forgotten how pleasant it was to be fussed over. ‘Tell the innkeeper I’ll sample his wife’s pie in a little while. I’m too full to contemplate it at the moment.’

  An hour later, feeling pleasantly warm and full, he nursed a tankard of ale and gazed into the fire. Apart from the enterprising Rodgers none had approached him. Most of the inn’s patrons were simple country folk, though a group of red-coated officers had burst noisily through the door earlier and established themselves at the far end of the room. He listened to the soft familiar buzz of country dialect with pleasurable nostalgia.