After Midnight

by Teresa Medeiros

  Caroline snatched her hand back as if the gown had burst into flames, caught off guard to find herself suddenly seething with outrage. “How dare he? Who does the man think he is, flaunting convention this way? Gifting you with something as personal as a necklace was ill-mannered enough, but this rises to a whole new level of impropriety. If it had been a fan or a pair of gloves, I might have been able to overlook his insolence, but this…this…” She waved an arm at the offending garment, sputtering into incoherence.

  Portia clutched the dress even tighter, as if fearing Caroline might rip it from her arms. “Oh, please, don’t forbid Vivienne to accept it, Caro! She’ll be so very lovely in it!”

  “I’m certain she would, but I simply can’t allow it. If anyone should find out where the gown came from, Vivienne’s reputation would be damaged beyond repair. Why, it’s the sort of gift a husband might give his…”

  Caroline’s voice faded as Vivienne slowly lifted her eyes to meet hers. Lowering her voice to a near whisper, her sister said, “I may be speaking out of turn, but Lord Trevelyan has been behaving rather oddly in the past week. I think he might be planning on using the occasion of the ball to ask me to be his wife.”

  At first Caroline thought the crash of breaking pottery was the sound of her own impossible dreams shattering into a thousand pieces. Then she looked up to find Constable Larkin standing on the path. His hands were empty, but the jagged shards of a Sèvres tea set littered the cobblestones around him. Although his face could have been carved from marble, his eyes were a stricken mirror of her own.

  Ducking his head, he dropped down to kneel in a puddle of tea, mopping ineffectually at the mess with his handkerchief. “That was frightfully clumsy of me, ladies. All thumbs, I fear. At least that’s what my mum used to say when I was a lad. I’m so dreadfully sorry. I’ll find a maid to clean up the mess right away.”

  Without meeting any of their gazes, he stuffed the sodden handkerchief back into his coat pocket and went striding back toward the house.

  Caroline turned to find Vivienne scowling after him. “Odious man,” she muttered, plucking fitfully at the lap rug. “Once my betrothal to the viscount is announced, I suppose he’ll have no further excuse to plague me.” Despite Vivienne’s truculent expression, Caroline would have almost sworn she glimpsed a telltale sparkle in her sister’s eyes.

  “What is it, Vivienne? You’re not crying, are you?” Caroline asked, as bewildered by her sister’s mercurial moods as she was by her own.

  Blinking away the moisture, Vivienne lifted her chin and smiled brightly. “I should say not. My eyes are still just a little sensitive to the sun. If I was crying, I can assure you that I’d be weeping tears of pure joy. Lord Trevelyan will make a splendid husband, don’t you think? Why, I’ll be the envy of every woman in the ton!”

  Tenderly stroking the bodice of the gown, Portia gave Caroline a pleading look. “Especially when they see her wearing this at the masquerade tomorrow night.”

  Surveying her sisters’ hopeful faces, Caroline sighed. Her outrage had been swept away by some darker and even more dangerous emotion. “I can’t fight the both of you. As long as no one finds out the gown was a gift from the viscount, I suppose there won’t be any harm in it.”

  Suddenly as eager to escape Vivienne’s company as Larkin had been, she began to back toward the house. “I believe I’ll just run up to the house and make sure the constable remembered to ring for a fresh tea tray.”

  Keenly aware of Portia’s troubled gaze, she started for the refuge of the house, the soles of her slippers crunching over the broken china.

  Caroline wasted no time once she reached her chamber. She strode over to the bed, knelt beside it, and drew out the brocaded valise she had tucked away her first night at the castle. Resting the bag on the bed, she extracted a small glass bottle from its silk-lined interior and held it up to the sunlight.

  “And what’s this? Have you been hoarding liquor?”

  Caroline whirled around to find Portia standing in the doorway.

  “Don’t you ever knock?” Caroline demanded.

  “Not when the door is already open,” Portia pointed out, crossing the room. “I was worried about you,” she confessed. “You were behaving so oddly down there. I had no idea you were coming up here for a little shot of something to steady your nerves.”

  Before Caroline could protest, her sister had plucked the bottle from her hand and tugged out its cork. She gave its contents a tentative sniff before bringing the bottle to her lips.

  “Don’t!” Caroline shouted, snatching for the bottle.

  Portia froze, her lips already moistened with the clear liquid. Giving Caroline a wounded look, she licked away a drop of the stuff. “There’s no need to startle me half to death. It’s only water.”

  Despite Portia’s shameless snooping, it was Caroline who could feel a guilty flush creeping up her throat.

  Her sister’s eyes slowly narrowed. “Or is it?”

  Carefully re-corking the bottle and setting it aside, Portia reached into the valise and withdrew a silver chain. A gaudy silver crucifix dangled from the end of it, glinting in the sunshine.

  “How interesting,” Portia remarked, giving Caroline a bright-eyed look. “Before we left Edgeleaf, did you by any chance inform the village vicar that you were thinking of becoming a Papist?”

  “I fancied the chain,” Caroline replied weakly.

  “And what have we here?” Reaching back into the valise, Portia drew out a long, round, smooth piece of wood carved to a lethal point on one end. “Were you planning on catching up on your needlework?”

  Caroline winced in anticipation as the most damning item of all emerged from the interior of the bag—a dog-eared copy of the April 1819 issue of the New Monthly Magazine, the very issue that contained Dr. Polidori’s controversial story, “The Vampyre.”

  “Why, you wretched little sneak!” Portia glared at her as she thumbed through the magazine’s well-worn pages. “I’ve been looking for this all week! You filched it out from under my mattress at Aunt Marietta’s, didn’t you?”

  Caroline sighed and nodded, knowing the time for denials and excuses had passed.

  Portia tossed the magazine on the bed with the rest of her ill-gotten booty, then rested her hands on her hips. “‘Don’t be ridiculous, Portia! There are no such things as vampires,’” she mimicked, perfectly capturing Caroline at her most imperious. “‘Or werewolves. Or ghosts. Or mermaids in the garden well. Or handsome princes who will rescue you from every peril before sweeping you away to their castles to live happily ever after.’” She shook a finger at Caroline. “Why, you’re nothing but a fraud, Caroline Marie Cabot! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Caroline muttered, sidestepping her sister to shove the holy water, crucifix, and magazine back into the bag.

  “I thought you were supposed to be the practical one.”

  “Isn’t being prepared for every eventuality part of being practical?” Caroline retorted. After a moment’s hesitation, she tucked the stake into the pocket of her skirt.

  Portia followed the motion, her eyes widening. “Just what do you intend to do?”

  Caroline briefly toyed with the idea of lying, but her sister had already proved herself an excellent ally when it came to matters of subterfuge. Facing Portia, she said, “I’m going to search every chamber in this castle until I find the viscount. If I can find him before the sun sets today, then perhaps I can lay all of our fears to rest.”

  “A rather unfortunate choice of words, don’t you think?”

  “If Kane truly intends to propose to Vivienne tomorrow night during the ball, this might be my last chance to prove that he’s simply a man—a mere mortal just like the rest of us.” Ignoring the suffocating tightness in her throat, Caroline added, “If I can do that, then I’ll be free to give him and Vivienne my blessing.”

  “Are you entirely sure that’s what you want to do?” Portia
asked, plainly choosing her words with care.

  “What ever do you mean?”

  Portia chewed on her bottom lip for a moment before replying. “I saw your face in the garden when Vivienne mentioned becoming Lord Trevelyan’s wife. I was afraid you were starting to have feelings for him.”

  “Of course I have feelings for him,” Caroline said briskly. “The sort of feelings one is expected to have toward a man who may very well end up saving her family from ruin.”

  Recognizing the determined glint in Caroline’s eye, Portia sighed in defeat. “What do you want me to do? Shall I follow along behind you, waving the crucifix and sprinkling holy water?”

  “Just keep Vivienne occupied and out of my way.”

  “You should have given that task to Constable Larkin. I doubt that a pack of howling werewolves could tear him from her side. I suppose I should be grateful that at least Julian’s not in love with her, too.” Portia’s casual shrug couldn’t quite hide the hurt that shadowed her eyes. “Of course, he’s made it perfectly clear that he’s not in love with me, either.”

  Caroline shook her head helplessly, wishing she had the power to untangle the chains that bound all of their hearts. “I don’t believe you’ll find the constable keeping company with Vivienne this afternoon. Which is why I need you to keep one eye on her until I return.”

  As Caroline brushed past her, Portia seized her arm. “Have a care, won’t you, Caro? Even if the viscount doesn’t turn out to be a vampire, he might still be dangerous.”

  For a place with so many secrets, Trevelyan Castle contained remarkably few locked doors. Caroline wandered its winding stairwells and flagstone corridors for what seemed like an eternity, feeling a bit like a princess in one of Portia’s beloved fairy tales. But it remained to be seen whether this castle was enchanted or cursed. Or whether her invisible captor was prince or beast.

  The castle was already bustling with servants seeking to prepare its myriad rooms for the in-flux of guests who would begin arriving on the morrow. Some of the viscount’s guests would be staying at nearby inns, but many of them would be spending the night at the castle itself. Passing easily among the distracted servants, Caroline searched each floor with methodical precision, finding several chambers she and Portia had missed when they were looking for mirrors. After a futile search of the upper floors, she found herself standing outside the door of the portrait gallery.

  She touched her fingertips to the knob, longing to slip inside and see if she still possessed the courage to stand toe-to-toe with that ruthless warrior who bore Kane’s face.

  She stole a glance over her shoulder at the lancet window at the far end of the corridor. Her time was running out. The daylight was waning; the moon would be rising soon. Turning her back on the portrait gallery, she lifted her skirts and hurried toward the stairs, her steps quickening along with her sense of urgency.

  It wasn’t that difficult to slip past the servants in the basement kitchen. They were already shouting orders and clanging pans as they peeled vegetables and baked bread for the extravagant supper that was to be served after the dancing tomorrow night. She flitted past an arched doorway, grimacing as she caught a glimpse of a fat copper kettle that had been situated beneath an iron hook to catch the draining blood from some unidentified haunch of meat.

  She doubted she would find anything of significance off the labyrinth of rooms that comprised the kitchen, but she was running out of places to search. Stealing one last glance behind her to make sure she hadn’t been spotted, she slipped down a narrow corridor, leaving the cheerful chaos behind.

  The corridor had a sloping dirt floor and low oak ceiling beams. As she ducked beneath one of them, a cobweb tickled the back of her neck, making her shudder. If not for the rusty iron sconces spaced at uneven intervals along the pitted, water-stained walls, she might have sworn no one had traveled this particular path for centuries. The squat tallow candles cast more shadows than light. Caroline didn’t even realize the corridor had taken a turn until she glanced behind her to discover its mouth had disappeared. There was only darkness behind and flickering shadows ahead.

  Something went scuttling across the floor behind her, its sharp claws scrabbling at the dirt. Letting out an undignified yelp, Caroline sprang forward, running smack dab into a door. Frantic to escape what she feared was probably a large, hungry rat, she rattled the doorknob, only to discover that she had finally found what she had been looking for—a locked door.

  Forgetting all about the rat, she twisted the knob again, testing it for any hint of vulnerability. What if she had inadvertently stumbled upon the door to the family crypt? Or to that fully equipped dungeon Kane had boasted about so glibly?

  She was kneeling to press her eye to the keyhole when a voice as dry as grave dust came out of the darkness behind her. “May I assist you, miss?”

  Caroline sprang to her feet and whirled around. Wilbury was standing just behind her, looking as if he’d just staggered out of the family crypt himself. His face was as drawn and pale as a death mask in the sallow light.

  He wore a ring of iron keys at his waist, most of them rusty from disuse.

  “Why, good afternoon, Wilbury,” she said, dredging up a pleasant smile. “What fortuitous timing you have! I was just wishing someone would come along and unlock this door for me.”

  “Indeed.”

  His withering reply left her with no choice but to persist with her bluff. “Your—Your master sent me down here to fetch something for my sister.”

  “Did he now? And just why didn’t he ring for it himself?”

  “Because he knew I was coming this way and he didn’t wish to trouble you.” The butler’s only reaction was to arch one snowy eyebrow. Caroline leaned closer and whispered, “It would behoove you to help your master please my sister, you know. She may someday be mistress of this castle.”

  Muttering something beneath his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Balderdash,” Wilbury began to fumble his way through the keys. He finally located the one he sought and slipped it into the keyhole. Caroline pried one of the candles from its sconce, anticipation quickening her breath.

  Wilbury swept open the door, his bones seemingly creaking nearly as loudly as the ancient hinges. Keenly aware of him lurking behind her, Caroline crept forward, holding the candle aloft. Instead of manacles and chains holding the rotting remains of naive young virgins, the modest chamber sported mundane wooden shelves that housed row upon row of jars, bottles, and canvas bags. Their carefully inscribed labels didn’t read Wolfsbane or Eye of Newt, but Nutmeg, Ginger, and Thyme.

  It seemed she had stumbled upon nothing more damning than a spice cellar.

  “We respect the old ways here,” Wilbury informed her. “In medieval times, it was customary for the castle’s steward to keep the precious and costly spices under lock and key.”

  That had only been three or four hundred years ago. Wilbury had probably been a boy then, Caroline thought uncharitably.

  “Ah, there it is!” Struggling to hide her disappointment, she swept the nearest bottle off the handiest shelf without bothering to read its label and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. “I’m sure this will be just what my sister’s tea requires.”

  As Caroline brushed past him, Wilbury said, “You might want to take her some extra sugar as well, miss.”

  Caroline turned, blinking brightly at him. “And why is that?”

  He nodded toward her pocket. “It will mask the bitter taste of the laudanum.”

  Caroline sat on her bed, hugging her knees and watching the sun sink on the western horizon. Their last full day before the ball would soon be over and her search of Trevelyan Castle had left her with more questions than answers. Despite her bold intentions, she was no closer to learning the truth about Adrian Kane than she had been the first night she laid eyes on him.

  “Adrian,” she whispered, wondering what it would be like to have the right to address him by his Christian name. “Would you care
for some more blood pudding, Adrian? Shall we plan a midnight supper for your birthday this year, Adrian? What would you like to name our first son, Adrian?”

  Beset by an aching stab of loneliness, Caroline rested her cheek on her knee and watched the shadows of twilight creep toward her balcony doors. Perhaps she would tempt fate tonight and leave them unbolted.

  Caroline stiffened. She lifted her head, her gaze sharpening on the balcony doors. She was remembering a furtive footfall, a shadow flitting across the night sky, a tendril of mist creeping out of the moonlight. Slipping off the bed, she went gliding toward the doors, her steps as measured as if she’d fallen into some sort of hypnotic trance.

  When he appeared outside the doors her first night at the castle, Kane had claimed that he couldn’t sleep. That he had forsaken his bed and come outside for a smoke and a stroll. Then he vanished as abruptly as he had appeared.

  Throwing open the doors, Caroline stepped out onto the balcony. The cool evening air caressed her bare arms beneath the short, puffed sleeves of her cambric gown, raising a thin layer of gooseflesh. In all of her fruitless wanderings that afternoon, why had it never occurred to her to simply retrace his steps?

  She glanced at the horizon. She had little time to lose. The sun had already dimmed to a hazy glow, edging the bottom of the gathering clouds in gilt.

  Caroline slipped along the battlements of the castle, hugging the curve of the tower wall so she wouldn’t be spotted by anyone who might be lurking on the grounds below. She could only pray that Portia was still keeping Vivienne occupied.

  On the side of the tower already cast in twilight, she finally found what she was looking for—a winding set of stone stairs. She followed them down one flight, where they connected to a narrow footbridge that spanned the gap between the north and south towers. As she hastened across the bridge, the rising wind lashed at her thin skirt, making her regret leaving her cloak behind.