by Sandra Dubay
"I met Lord DeVille once," Dyanna admitted, a rosy stain pinkening her cheeks as she remembered what had passed between them at the Angel Inn. "He is an exceedingly handsome man."
"Looks do not signify, my dear," Geoffrey chided, more than a touch of annoyance in his tone. "Does it not say in the Bible that Lucifer himself was the most beautiful of the angels before the fall?"
"Lord DeVille was most charming. I find it difficult to believe his blood as tainted as you say." Dyanna stopped, wondering at herself for her defense of her guardian. "Although," she added hurriedly, "Miss Pettigrew, one of the mistresses of the school I attended, did compare Lord Justin's father to the Devil."
"As well she might," Geoffrey decreed. "You know they called Sebastian DeVille Lord Lucifer."
Dyanna's ever-fertile imagination snapped to attention. "Lord Lucifer?" she repeated, eyes wide.
"Oh, yes. In his day, there was much speculation about him. They said he was a sorcerer. A necromancer. He was as notorious as Sir Francis Dashwood and his Hell Fire Club. In Devonshire, Sebastian DeVille is a part of the local folklore. They say that in Cheswyckthe village that lies near the DeVille landsmothers of disobedient children tell them Lord Lucifer will get them if they don't behave."
Dyanna shivered, a thrill coursing down her spine. Here was every Gothick novel she'd ever read come to life! Here was excitement far beyond anything Jenny Flynn had known.
"Was he truly as wicked as all that?" she asked, a breathless hush in her voice. ''Were the rumors true?"
"He was the stuff of novels, apparently," Geoffrey assured her, wondering if the thought of being delivered into the clutches of the son of such a monster might not frighten Dyanna into accepting a proposal. "I'll wager you like novels, don't you? Gothick novels full of specters and curses."
Dyanna felt the hot blush that pinkened her cheeks. "Yes," she admitted guiltily. "I do. I expect you think me foolish."
"Not at all. I suspect more people read them than will ever admit it. I was merely going to say that there was such a book written, so it was said, about Sebastian DeVille. It was reputed to be a thinly disguised account of his foul deeds."
"Really?" Dyanna breathed. "What was it called?"
Geoffrey expertly feigned reluctance. "I should not have mentioned it. Please forgive me. Lord DeVille is your guardian, after all, and doubtless has suffered enough over his father's soiled reputation. And, after all, it was only rumor which named Sebatian DeVille the model for the novel's wicked Lord Lucifer Wolfe."
"Even so," Dyanna persisted. "I wish I could see the book."
"There may be a copy here," Geoffrey mused. "But no, it would be wrong of me to show it to you. I could not be responsible for coloring your opinion of your guardian's family by giving you a book which is likely no more than the gleanings of some author's fevered imagination."
"It has been so long since I had a new novel to read," Dyanna murmured, pouting prettily. "Please let me see it, Geoffrey."
"How can I resist such a pretty request?" he smiled. "But you must promise to treat it as a work of fiction and remember it is only malicious rumor that names Lord Justin's father as the model for the character."
Solemnly, Dyanna promised, but Geoffrey knew that the wheels of her imagination were already in motion, turning Justin's father into some dark and monstrous creature. Taking up a candle, Geoffrey led the way to the library.
The library of Summersleigh House had a closed, abandoned air that told Dyanna without words that the marquess and his family were not much given to reading. She waited in the shaft of light spilling through the open door while Geoffrey lit the tall, dusty wax tapers of a five-branched candelabrum.
"Let me see," he murmured thoughtfully as Dyanna joined him beside a gilded library table topped with a polished slab of green malachite. "I saw the book in here once. Where was it?"
"Perhaps someone moved it," Dyanna suggested, though the dust that frosted the shelves and the books made it seem unlikely that even the marquess's maids had seen this room recently.
"Moved it?" Geoffrey asked, squinting as he peered at row after row of finely bound volumes. "Whyever should anyone do that?"
"If they read it, they may not have put it back in the same"
"My dear Miss McBride, these books were bought by my grandfather years ago, when he refurbished Summersleigh House. I doubt if more than a dozen have been taken from their original places since and even fewer new volumes have been added. Ah" He plucked a thin volume bound in scarlet leather from a shelf. "Here it is."
Dyanna took the book from his outstretched hand. On the spine, in tarnished gold letters, she read:
"Lord Lucifer Wolfe," Dyanna repeated. "You did say they called Sebastian DeVille 'Lord Lucifer,' didn't you?"
"Now Dyanna, you promised to read it only as a work of fiction and forget the rumors," Geoffrey reminded her, secretly delighted that she seemed so susceptible to suggestion. "Just because they called the former Lord DeVille 'Lord Lucifer' does not make him guilty of all the misdeeds of the man in this book. He is not, after all, here to defend himself and it is not fair of us to libel himeven now, so long after his apparent death."
"Apparent death?" Dyanna repeated, hugging the slim book to her breast.
"Yes. He disappeared, you see. One night there was a terrible storm. Lightning struck Castle DeVillethe DeVille country seat. The lightning set the castle ablaze. In the morning, the smoldering ruins were searched as thoroughly as possible, but Sebastian DeVille was nowhere to be found. It was presumed he perished in the fire, but his body was never recovered. Local legend has it that he had made a pact with the Devil, and Satan came at the height of the storm and took Sebastian away to Hell." He paused, gazing down into Dyanna's wide-eyed, fascinated face. "But then, of course, country folk are notoriously superstitious, are they not?"
"And Justin," Dyanna could not resist asking, "where was he when all this was happening?"
"Oh, he was there. He was a young child. Sebastian's wife, Lady Barbara DeVille, was the daughter of a baronet who had made his fortune in trade. He married her for her fortune and to have an heir. Gossip said he treated her cruelly, that he flaunted his infidelities beneath her nose. She died in a fall from the highest tower of the castle." Geoffrey stifled a smile as the audible intake of Dyanna's breath. "Some said," he went on, his tone low and intimate, "that she jumped. Some said she was pushed, though opinions vary as to whether her murderer was Sebastian himself, or his mistress."
Dyanna's pent-up breath was expelled in a long 'ooooh' of horrified surprise. "His mistress!"
"Hmmm. Georgiana, Lady Naysmith. Her husband's lands adjoined the DeVille lands."
"How evil it all seems," Dyanna whispered.
Taking her arm, Geoffrey led her to a chair near the elegant, if grimy, bowed window. Beneath his hand, he could feel her trembling.
"Now, Dyanna, we don't know if any of it is true. As I said, it is all rumors and gossip, which we both know are often false and malicious. And this"he indicated the book that lay in her lap"is merely a story. It may be that none of it has anything to do with Lord Justin's familyexcepting, of course, that both Lord and Lady DeVille perished under mysterious circumstances."
"If Lord Sebastian actually did perish," Dyanna whispered.
"The courts were satisfied that he had and so must we be. When Justin came of age, he inherited his father's titles and lands."
Dyanna chewed her lip and Geoffrey frowned, apparently troubled but secretly delighted that the tales of Justin's notorious family should have such an obvious and profound effect on her. "Perhaps it would be better if you did not read"
"No!" Dyanna clutched the book tighter as he reached for it. "I want to read it, Geoffrey. I must."
Geoffrey's heart fluttered. Even though he had tried to dissuade her from connecting the villainous Lord Lucifer Wolfe with Justin's father, he knew she would subconsciously attribute Sebastian DeVilleand, he hoped, Justinwith the wickedness related in the bo
ok. If her mind were filled with terror at the thought of being given over to a man whose family history was so blackened with shame, it might be easier to convince her to marry him. She was a beautiful girl, heiress to an immense fortune. He could not risk losing her.
"If you insist." He took her hand and held it gently. "But remember, even if the rumors about Sebastian DeVille are true, Justin is not to blame for what went before. Doubtless he is a good man, honest and kind. You must not allow this book to prejudice you against him when you don't even know him."
Dyanna's sea-blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. "How very good you are, Geoffrey," she murmured. "I promise to give Justin the benefit of the doubt. After all, the wildness of my father's family is well known, but that does not mean that I have inherited it."
"Certainly not," Geoffrey agreed, thinking to himself that any well-bred girl who could pack a rag-tag bundle and set out alone for London was no timid flower. She was a wild onea true McBride. But if she chose not to believe it, he would not contradict her. There would be time enough later, after she was his, to break that spirit and tame that wildness.
He noticed that she was gazing longingly at the book, even lifting the cover to steal a glance at the frontispiece.
"I think it is time I took my leave," he suggested tactfully. "It is getting late and you must be tired after your long journey."
"I am tired," she agreed, too quickly, wishing only to retire to her room and begin reading the fascinating, dreadful tale of Lord Lucifer Wolfe.
"Then I will bid you sweet dreams."
Lifting her hand to his lips, Geoffrey kissed it tenderly, his eyes fixed upon hers in a glance filled with meaning and unconcealed longing. "Until tomorrow."
"Until tomorrow, Geoffrey," Dyanna whispered, trying without much success to match his tone.
Demurely she walked with him to the grand entrance hall and stood, a sweet smile curving her full lips, until he had disappeared out the door. Then and only then did she catch up her billowing skirts and petticoats and race up the grand, curving staircase to her room.
Chater Six
Dyanna lay on the canopied bed in her room, bathed in the golden glow of a single candle, the fascinating book cradled in her hands. The book about Jenny Flynn she'd been so careful to bring with her from the Academy lay forgotten in a drawer. This new tale was far more interesting.
As she always did before beginning what promised to be a particularly interesting read, Dyanna hesitated. She knew that the sooner she started the book, the sooner she would finish, and all the delicious anticipation would be behind her. Still, her curiosity was far stronger than her desire to savor the waiting. With eager fingers she opened the book and turned past the title page where she read:
Turning a few more pages, she read the opening lines:
"The village of Rottinghurst cowered in the shadow of Wolfe Hall like a mongrel dog brought to heel by a cruel master. It huddled there as it had for centuries. Not war nor plague nor time could ease the web of fear the Hall wove about the village and its inhabitants. The turnings of the world mattered little to the villagers. For their world was ruled by the changeable whims of Lord Lucifer Wolfe, the Wicked Earl of Legend, the Monster of Wolfe Hall."
Dyanna thought of what Geoffrey had saidthat the book was said to be a thinly disguised account of the evil actions of Sebastian DeVille, Justin's father. But surely, if that were true, some legal action would have been brought against the author. Surely Justin would not have allowed his father to be portrayed in such a scandalous light. Unless, she told herself, unless there was enough truth to make legal action futile. She stroked the leather cover. She meant to savor the book, truth or not, and discover what kind of man Justin's father was reputed to have been. In doing so, she hoped to learn what kind of man Justin might be.
A yawn overtook her, a reminder that she had not had more than a few hours' sleep in the past three days.
There seemed no use trying to read any more, much as she wanted to. The words blurred before her exhausted eyes and the sentences could not penetrate her dulled senses.
Sliding the book far beneath the topmost feather mattress, Dyanna blew out the candle and slipped between the lavender-scented sheets. With another great yawn, she abandoned herself to sleep and to dreams of Justin. Dressed in black, his angelically fair masculine beauty became diabolical; he swept through the ruins of a burnt-out castle, a caped cloak swirling about him, pursuing her for dark reasons even her unconscious mind dared not contemplate.
The following morning dawned clear and warm. Dyanna awoke late to the sound of birdsong and the clip-clop of horses' hooves from outside in the square.
Stifling a yawn, she slid her hand beneath the mattress and retrieved the book from where she'd hidden it the night before.
Turning over the first few crisp, yellowed pages, she took up where she'd left off:
''Lord Lucifer Wolfe was a handsome man, dreadfully handsome as only the truly wicked can be. He gave his allegiance to no mortal man. His sovereign Lord was the Prince of Darkness. His religion was the Black Arts. His piercing golden eyes could look into the heart, the very soul, of the most pious of men. He could divine the mind's most secret thoughts. His was the power to fascinate . . ."
A light knock at the door was followed by the appearance of a muslin-capped girl whose unruly titian curls strayed about the shoulders of her demure grey gown.
"Morning, miss," she said cheerfully. "It is near eleven and Mrs. Critchley said you'd be awake by now."
"Mrs. Critchley?" Dyanna repeated.
"The housekeeper, miss."
"And who are you?"
The girl bobbed a curtsy. "Putney, miss. Charlotte Putney. I'm to be your maid, if it pleases you."
"It does please me, Charlotte," Dyanna decided, liking the spark of vitality in the girl's bright blue eyes. "Very much."
"Would you be wantin' breakfast now, miss?"
"No. But I would like a bath."
"It's been ordered. It's nearly ready."
Climbing out of bed, Dyanna pulled on the dressing gown that matched the nightdress she'd found laid out for her on the bed. With a last longing look at the book, she left for the sweetly scented bath that awaited her down the hall.
When she re-entered the room, her damp hair pinned atop her head, Dyanna found Charlotte curled in a chair, reading. It was obvious she found the book as fascinating as Dyanna had, for she appeared not to notice her mistress's return. One finger was thrust into her mouth and she gnawed at the ragged nail as she read, her eyes wide as saucers.
"Charlotte?" Dyanna said quietly.
With a shrill little scream, the maid dropped the book and thrust herself to her feet.
Dyanna laughed. "I didn't mean to frighten you," she lied blithely.
"Oh, miss! What a story! That man must be the Devil himself!"
"A close acquaintance at the very least," Dyanna agreed, sitting at her dressing table.
"Thank the good Lord 'tis only a story."
"Actually, it is not only a story," Dyanna disagreed, watching in the lace-draped mirror as Charlotte went to work on her hair. "Supposedly, it is based on a real person. The father of a gentlemanwell, a person of my acquaintance."
The maid shuddered. "I hope he never comes here, Miss."
"I hope so too," Dyanna agreed fervently.
Falling into a reverie, Dyanna could not help wondering how much of what she'd read was true and how much was simply libel and slander invented by people with nothing better to do than create and spread gossip. It was not impossible that most of it was the latter, though certainly there were men like Lord Lucifer Wolfe. Less than twenty years had passed since Sir Francis Dashwood and his Hell Fire Club had practiced Devil-worship at Medmenham Abbey.
And there were men with the power to fascinate. Dyanna had read accounts of the famous Austrian, Friedrich Mesmer, who put people into trances in which they could be bent to his will. He had even gone so far as to claim he could cure d
isease by suggestion alone.
But if Geoffrey's book were to be believed, Sebastian DeVilleor his fictional counterpart, Lord Lucifer Wolfehad powers far beyond even these, powers bestowed upon him by Satan himself. Dark, supernatural powers. But surely that couldn't be?
Both she and the skittish Charlotte started as Maria, the maid who had shown Dyanna to her room the night before, appeared in the opened door.
"Pardon, miss, but his lordship asks that you attend him in the saloon. There is a gentleman here asking for you."
"A gentleman? Lord Geoffrey?"
"Oh, no, miss. Another gentleman." Maria rolled her cornflower blue eyes. "So handsome! Tall, with dark golden hair and eyes that send shivers down"
"His name, Maria! Tell me quickly!"
The maid seemed startled by Dyanna's near-panic. "Why, I believe it was DeVille, miss. Yes, that was it. Lord DeVille."
The room seemed to tilt around Dyanna. She felt Charlotte's hand at her elbow, steadying her.
"Are you ill, miss?" she asked, exchanging a curious glance with Maria. "Should we send for"?
"No. No one," Dyanna interrupted. "I'm quite all right. It was only . . . " She waved a dismissing hand. "Tell his lordship I'll be down directly, Maria."
The older maid left and Dyanna rose and went to the wardrobe where a selection of the clothing she'd been given had been arranged for her use.
"Justin," she whispered. "How did he find me? Could itcould it possibly be true?"
Her eyes went to the book on the chair. Could Justin's father truly have possessed supernatural powers? Could Justin also . . . ? No! It couldn't be! And yet, he was here, below, waiting for her.
Having been raised in the country where old wives' tales were accepted as fact and superstitions were taken seriously, Dyanna had heard, since her earliest years amongst the villagers and gypsies, tales of witches and warlocks, of demons and sorcerers. Nor were such beliefs confined to the poor. There was scarcely a great manor house or castle in England that did not boast its Grey Lady or Phantom Monk or haunted room. Few aristocratic families were without some tradition of deaththe appearance of a mournful specter, the tolling of a long-silent clock, the approach of the coach of bones that foretold the death of a family member. Suicides were still buried at a crossroads, a stake through their hearts to keep their restless spirits from rising and wandering the night.
