The Lily Brand

by Sandra Schwab

  Lillian hid her smile behind her teacup.

  She looked up when the door opened and the butler appeared. To her surprise, he strode toward her, bowed, and then leaned down to whisper discreetly, “I beg your pardon, my lady, there is a lady waiting for you downstairs. She says she has important business to discuss with you, but I could not show her up. Lady Holland does not like surprise additions to her dinner parties.” He stood back.

  “I quite understand,” Lillian hastened to assure him. Who could this mysterious lady be? Hesitantly, she put her cup on a side table and stood.

  “Is everything all right, my dear?” inquired Lady Holland from the settee.

  Lillian forced herself to smile. “Everything is fine, my lady. Thank you. If you will excuse me? I will be right back.” She nodded at the butler, who led her out of the room and back to the great staircase.

  “This lady, did she not give you her name?” Lillian asked.

  The servant shook his head. “She did not. I am sorry, my lady. Yet she has the manner and looks of one of high rank.”

  “I see.” The oaken banister felt slippery under Lillian’s hand.

  They reached the landing and rounded the bend in the stairs, allowing Lillian a clear view of the woman who was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. A tall, sleek man hovered behind her.

  When the woman caught sight of Lillian, her ruby red lips lifted into a smile. “Bon soir, chérie,” she said.

  Chapter 14

  It was, Troy had to admit, the sneakiest, most perfect revenge possible. Mr. Prestwood Smith, Esquire, did not stand a chance. First Allen drank with him, soon to be joined by Luttrell. Even Mr. White broke his vow of asceticism for the good cause, sidling up and regaling the stout lawyer with numerous toasts, some in Spanish, some in Irish-Gaelic, some in Latin and Greek. As soon as Drake and Justin had smelled the rat, they cheerfully raided Holland’s drinking cabinet and armed themselves with bottles of whiskey and brandy.

  “Look at that!” Drake whistled appreciatively. “Jamaican rum!”

  “And Austrian gentian schnapps!” Justin grinned.

  “And kirsch! Have you ever had kirsch? No?” Drake had problems balancing all the bottles in his arm. “My dear Prestwood Smith, you simply must have some kirsch. I insist on it. It is delicious, I tell you, delicious!”

  The two friends joined the group around the lawyer, and less than half an hour later, Mr. Prestwood Smith, Esquire, slowly slid off his chair and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

  “Dearie me,” said Luttrell.

  Mr. Allen took a handkerchief out of his pocket and started to wipe his spectacles. “The poor fellow—”

  “Will have such a dreadful headache come tomorrow morning,” Justin finished. He shook his head.

  “Slaínte!” Mr. White added, his expression slightly less mournful than several minutes before.

  “Whatever has happened to poor Mr. Prestwood Smith?” inquired Lord Holland from the other side of the room where he had been absorbed in a discussion with Lord Swanscott about the assets of ancient Greek literature.

  With great care, Mr. Allen put his glasses back on his nose. “I am afraid he feels rather indisposed at the moment. In fact, it appears that the food and drinks at Holland House do not quite agree with him.” He peered at his friend. “My lord.”

  “I see.” Lord Holland cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I suggest we join the ladies next door lest anybody else should start feeling… um… indisposed.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” Mr. Allen bowed courteously.

  Grinning, Troy emptied his glass and left it on the table. As they were all walking toward the door, he sauntered over to his friends. “You two are quite incorrigible,” he said with amusement.

  “Troy, my boy, I am devastated.” Drake’s eyes sparkled with devilment. “You do realize that you’ve begun echoing your wife.”

  Troy frowned.

  “Besides,” Justin said, poking one long finger into his arm. “You have to admit that it was great fun. That odious man only got what was his due. Regard it as a form of… well… higher justice.” He raised his hands in a Gallic shrug.

  “Higher justice.” Troy stared at him. “You mean, Drake Bainbridge and Justin de la Mere are the helpers of the gods?”

  Drake shrugged. “You heard what Lady Holland said. We are the Dioscuri.—Ahh, Lady Holland, we were just talking about you.” Smiling, he went to the settee where the mistress of the house reclined.

  Idly, Troy went to the sideboard and poured himself some coffee. Cup in hand, he turned and scanned the room. Luttrell and Kemble helped Lord Holland, who, after all the sitting, apparently could walk only with great pain, to one of the upholstered chairs. Mr. Foscolo had decided to join Lady Eckersley and Miss Fox in order to regale them with some more of his Italian adventures. Lady Holland was busy ordering Mr. Allen around, while Mr. White had started a conversation with Lady Swanscott.

  Troy took a sip from his cup. The bitter coffee hit his tongue in a scalding wave, nearly causing him to drop the delicate china. “Damn!” he muttered.

  “You were saying?” asked Luttrell, who had come up to the sideboard to pour two cups of tea.

  “Nothing.” Troy coughed. “General Luttrell, you haven’t by any chance seen my wife?”

  “Your wife?” The other turned, brows lifted quizzically. “Have you misplaced her?”

  Troy frowned and let his eyes glide over the assembled party again. “It would seem so.”

  “Oh dear.” Luttrell glanced around the room. “You should ask one of the footmen. John?” He snapped his fingers. Immediately, one of the livery-clad figures hurried toward him.

  “Sir?”

  “Have you any idea where Lady Ravenhurst has gone?”

  “Sir?” Hesitantly, the man looked from Luttrell to Troy and back again. “Mr. Lund—the butler—he said there was a lady who demanded to speak to my lady. But he could not let her up, of course. So—”

  “Yes?” Troy prompted, growing impatient. He could not imagine what kind of scheme his precious wife was spinning here, but he found it rather annoying. Especially since he had almost, almost been prepared to believe his friends were not totally wrong about her.

  “So Lady Ravenhurst went downstairs to meet her.”

  “And this mysterious lady,” Luttrell drawled. “Does she have a name?”

  “No, sir,” said the footman. “I mean, sir, she did not give Mr. Lund one.”

  “I see.” Troy put his cup back on the sideboard. “Are they still downstairs?”

  “I do not know, my lord.”

  “Never mind, I’ll have a look. No,” Troy halted the man. “There’s no need to accompany me. You have got enough work here. I shall find the way by myself.” Giving Luttrell a tight smile, he strode off.

  He went through the short passageway into the wainscoted room and through there to the main staircase. From below the sound of murmuring drifted up, too quiet to distinguish the voices, too quiet really to say whether the speakers were male or female. It might be servants talking.

  Troy hesitated.

  Outside night had long ago fallen, and the staircase was brightly illuminated by several candles. Through the doorway at the far end of it, however, Troy caught a glimpse of another, much smaller and more dimly lit staircase, the servants’ passage most likely. If he was lucky, it would take him to the back of the main staircase, from whence he could observe the speakers unnoticed. Without further ado, he walked to the back stairs and down into darkness. A beam of flickering light showed him another doorway, on level with the first landing of the main staircase.

  The voices were much clearer now, much, much clearer.

  Cautiously, he approached the archway, making sure that he kept to the shadows all the time. He could already see the head of his wife. Just a little bit nearer now and the second speaker would be visible. Just a little bit…

  Troy stopped dead.

  A wave of dizziness swept through hi
m.

  It cannot be!

  His body broke into cold sweat.

  It cannot be!

  Yet the voice—he would never forget that voice, never in his whole life. That melodious voice that flowed over blood-red lips, that rippling laughter that made the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end.

  He steadied himself with one hand against the wall and took an unsteady step forward, bringing him into the shadows next to the threshold, just out of the light. Breathing hard, he pressed himself against the wall. His heart thudded in his ears. The metallic taste of remembered fear filled his mouth. Dear God…

  He squeezed his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists. He tried to still the helpless trembling of his body, tried to calm his racing heart so he would hear something over the drum of his pulse. You have to get a grip! Think! Concentrate!

  He opened his eyes again.

  La Veuve Noire had brought one of her men, he now saw. Antoine, the best-loved of her pets. He stood behind her like a golden shadow, his eyes fixed on Lillian, his wife, who was wringing her hands behind her back.

  Troy frowned.

  There was something in her posture, something he remembered now but had not seen since France: that submissive half-bow of her head. Her eyes would be cast down, he knew, remembered.

  He shook himself like a wet dog, willing the last roaring in his ears to subside.

  He blinked.

  “…ran off like that. Do you not know, chérie, that nobody just slips away from Château du Marais? Of course I had to come and see how you are.” The French sounded almost lyrical. “Quite the refined lady you have become, I see.” The woman raised one of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows and waited.

  His wife’s answer was almost inaudible. “Oui, maman.”

  La Veuve Noire smiled. She reminded Troy of a cat that had caught the mouse but enjoyed playing with it for a while before squashing it under her paw. “And married, I have heard. Toutes mes félicitations, ma chérie.”

  “Merci, maman.”

  When the Black Widow reached out and trailed one long, ruby-red nail over the younger woman’s cheek, Troy saw his wife flinch.

  “So shy, chérie?” The sound of the woman’s laughter drifted up, making him feel sick. “Tell me, have you told your husband about the present I gave you? About that precious, precious gift? That magnificent toy?”

  His mouth went dry as he realized the woman was talking about him. He swallowed.

  “My present?” For the first time, his wife looked up. “I am sorry, maman. I no longer have it.”

  “Non?”

  His wife gave the tiniest of shrugs. “He is dead, I suppose.”

  Troy’s jaw dropped.

  What?

  She went on, her voice cool and uncaring. “I left him in the garden somewhere, chained to a tree. He must have died after a few days. The chains were strong, non?”

  Troy could hardly believe his ears. What kind of tale was his wife spinning now?

  “Is that so?” la Veuve Noire asked slowly.

  “Did you think I would have taken him with me? With his lame leg and everything?”

  “You left him so the crows could pick his eyes out and chew the flesh from his body?” Disbelief tinged the Black Widow’s voice.

  His wife stood unmoved, her back ramrod straight. “If you search the gardens, you might still find the bones.”

  A slow smile started to spread over the woman’s face. Gently, she patted his wife’s cheek. “Very well, chérie, very well.”

  Warily, Troy rubbed his hand over his face. He did not mow what kind of game his wife was playing right now, bat he intended to put a stop to it here and now.

  He rolled his shoulders, his head, and straightened to his full height. Placing a nonchalant expression on his face, he stepped out of the shadows onto the landing. “Ahhh, there you are, my dear,” he said, giving his voice a hint of faint surprise. “We have already been missing you.” Idly, he started to walk down the stairs.

  At the sound of his voice, his wife’s head whipped around. She stared at him as if she were seeing a ghost, her eyes round, her face suddenly deathly pale.

  “And who might this be?” breathed the Black Widow in accented English.

  He could see his wife swallow convulsively. He remembered how he had wanted to witness her fear all these past months. What he had not achieved then, happened now: Stark fear was written in her expression, flickered in her eyes.

  In the past, he would have exulted in her terror.

  Smiling, he turned to the Black Widow. “I am the lady’s husband.” He put his arm around his wife’s waist and picked up one of her hands to place a kiss on its back. “Isn’t that so, my dear?” He smiled down at her, tightening the grip on her waist, when he felt slight shivers racing through her body.

  “Son époux? Enchanté!” the woman simpered. Obviously she did not recognize him. And why should she? She believed him to be dead!

  Out of the corner of his eye, Troy caught a fleeting expression of amused surprise on the face of her companion, and his own wife, standing transfixed. Very slowly, the Black Widow’s golden shadow lifted an eyebrow.

  Troy’s wife jerked against his body, once, then stiffened.

  The Frenchwoman tittered. “Don’t you want to introduce us, chérie?” Despite her strong accent, she managed to infuse her words with malicious disdain.

  “Oui, maman.” His wife’s voice was faint. “Maman, Lord Ravenhurst. Lady Camille Abberley, my… stepmother.” She looked up at him, and what Troy saw in her eyes made him think of a cornered fawn.

  “Delighted, my lady.” He bowed. “Much as I wish to talk to you further, I am afraid our hosts would send out a search party if we were not to return to them soon. May we call on you tomorrow instead?”

  The woman smiled, a smile Troy remembered quite well. This time, however, it was directed at his wife, not at him. “That will not be necessary, my lord. I will call on you, n’est-ce pas, chérie?”

  Troy bowed again. “As you wish, my lady.”

  “Indeed.” And with that, she swept around and walked back to the entrance hall, her man following on her heels like a pet dog.

  Only when Troy heard the entrance door close behind them, dared he to relax. “I did not fib,” he said quietly. “We really should go upstairs.” He felt strangely empty, as if the encounter with the Black Widow had frozen his mind and soul.

  “Yes,” his wife murmured.

  She let him guide her up the stairs, back into Lady Holland’s crimson drawing room. “Ah, there you are!” Luttrell greeted them. “Your husband feared you met with some mishap, my lady.”

  Something like a laugh bubbled from the lips of Troy’s wife. “I should think not.” When he looked down at her, surprised at her show of gaiety, Troy saw that her eyes glittered feverishly. “After all, what kind of mishap should befall me here in this house?”

  “Who knows?” Luttrell shrugged, a droll expression on his face. “You might have been kidnapped by Lord Holland's Royalist forebear to be kept prisoner in the famous priest hole.”

  “To make her his ghostly bride,” Drake added with a groan. “Dear God, Luttrell, don’t tell me you’re into these gothic novels where one horror stumbles over the other to come crashing down onto the poor, insipid heroine.” His grimace transformed into a wide grin. “Don’t you just love Mrs. Radcliffe’s tales of horror?”

  The rapping of Lady Holland’s fan on the wooden arm of the settee cut into their conversation. “Lady Ravenhurst, you must come here and join us for one of Mr. Foscolo’s delightful stories. Are they not delightful, Ibby?” she asked Miss Fox. “Mr. Foscolo, do tell us again what you did with that sausage.” Impatiently she patted the empty seat beside her. “Do come, Lady Ravenhurst. Lord Ravenhurst, you can get your wife another cup of tea in case she wishes for some refreshment.” Like a queen, the woman resided on her black and buttercup-yellow settee, overseeing that all her commands were followed in due course.

&nbs
p; Troy accompanied his wife to the empty chair Lady Holland had indicated. Her delicate dress rustled as she sat down, hands demurely folded in her lap. Her cheeks were still pale, and Troy thought that a brandy would probably work more wonders than a mere cup of tea ever could.

  Yet Lady Holland did not care for his lingering. She sent him off with shooing sounds. “The tea, my lord. The tea!—Now, Mr. Foscolo, tell us again about the sausage.”

  The Italian’s chest swelled. “It was garlic sausage. Very strong. Fuerte,” Troy heard as he walked away toward the sideboard.

  As he had been ordered, he poured a cup of tea for his wife, the earthy aroma of the brew strangely soothing. He added some milk and put a clean teaspoon on the saucer. When he turned, Mr. Foscolo had apparently reached an especially exciting point in his tale, for he waved his hands about, this way and that, nearly knocking Miss Fox’s cup off its saucer.

  With long strides Troy returned to the group on the settee. His wife looked wan, as though all of her color had been washed out. Still, her lips were lifted in an apparent attempt at a smile.

  “…hit bat devant la fenêtre.” Mr. Foscolo slammed his fist into the open palm of his other hand. “Bang! Straight into estómago.” He glanced around his rapt audience. “Bat. Chauve-souris.” He made flapping motions with his arms, again endangering Miss Fox’s cup.

  “Yes, yes,” Lady Holland swatted at his flaying arms. “A bat, we know.—Ah, Lord Ravenhurst, there you are. My dear Lady Ravenhurst, you have the appearance of a wilting flower. Do drink some tea to refresh yourself, will you?—Mr. Foscolo, go on.”

  “Sausage hit se bat. Bang!” His fist hit the arm of the settee and made Lady Eckersley jump. “Bat fall to ers, sin sentido.”

  Troy leaned down and handed his wife the saucer with the cup of tea. Her thank you was no more than a whisper. Nodding, he straightened.