Fire.
“Oh, God!” Olympia muttered as she reached out and tested the door handle. It was already warm to the touch. Panic set in. She had no idea what to do… which way was safe?
***
Griffin crushed chamomile leaves to add to the tonic he’d developed for Cassandra. It had been a long process of trial and error, experimentation before he’d discovered the right combination of herbs that would calm her without simply sending her to sleep.
As the mixture steeped, he placed the palms of his hands flat on the work table, let his chin drop to his chest and tried to will away his exhaustion. Mrs. Webster’s words came back to him. Some things, once broken, could not be repaired. Holding on to the hope that Cassandra would regain any of her mental functioning was perhaps the most hopelessly mad thing he’d ever done.
She’d always been fragile, her mind never quite developing at the same rate of other children’s. Then, as the years had progressed and he’d learned the true extent of his uncle’s abuses towards her, not just the pinches, shoves and slaps he’d visited on all of them, but his other, more perverse desires, Griffin had wanted to murder him. It had been that knowledge, that awful discovery that had prompted Griffin’s own father into that last deep melancholy that had preceded his suicide.
His mother had begged him not to act, pointing out that they were now financially dependent on his father’s brother, Viscount Darke. Griffin hadn’t cared, he’d boasted that he could work, he would obtain employment. She’d calmly pointed out that he’d be in prison and she would have to work, which meant Cassandra would have to be placed in an asylum.
He’d seen the validity of her point, though it had goaded him horribly. But as the months had worn on and his uncle had grown more and more irrational, his moods more violent, he’d wondered if they weren’t courting disaster by remaining at Darkwood, even in the relative safety of the dower house.
Pushing away those thoughts, recognizing them as an exercise in futility, he rose to his full height, only to see Florence standing in the doorway. She’d never come to the conservatory before, certainly never to his small workroom in the back.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to visit,” she said with a coy smile. “Don’t be so mean, Griffin. You used to enjoy my company… once upon a time.”
He had no patience for her. Exhausted beyond all reason, her cat and mouse games were too much. “Once upon a time,” he replied, “I was unaware that you were a vicious, grasping harlot.”
She didn’t take offense. He’d learned long ago that any display of emotion from Florence was entirely manufactured. The woman was completely without feeling, unless one counted greed and vanity. Those she had in abundance.
“Is that to greet me when I’ve come to offer you my silence?”
“You are incapable of silence. You will forever yammer on until even the dead wish to tune you out.”
“Well, your charming new wife’s uncle isn’t dead, is he? In spite of her best efforts.”
Griffin had been ignoring her, tidying up his work space and preparing to bottle the elixir. At he words, he stopped immediately and faced her. “Spying are you?”
“Not me personally, no. But Mrs. Webster is rather good at it. She filled me in on all the gory details… Such a bloodthirsty little thing, your bride. I do believe Darkwood Hall might be perfect for her after all!”
“What are you after, Florence? I’ve given you a great allowance… I’ll hire a stable of handsome footmen for you. What more could you ask for?” he demanded.
She smiled. “London. You’re going to secure a house for me, a wardrobe fit for a queen… and I’m going husband hunting. Rich, old, feeble.”
“And here I thought strapping young lads from the country were more your cup of tea,” Griffin uttered sarcastically.
“Only for lovers. For husbands I have a different set of criteria altogether. I learned a lot of lessons from my first disastrous marriage. I was sadly disappointed by your uncle. I had thought him too old and too infirm for the marriage bed. How bitterly disappointed I was when he proved me wrong night after night. He was nearly insatiable. You’ve no need to hate me or want revenge against me for jilting you. Suffering his attention nightly was torment enough.”
“Fine, Florence,” he relented. He was too tired to argue with her about it. “You may have a house in London, you may have a fleet of willing men. Any expense would be worth it not to have to bear your presence here.”
Her eyebrows rose in a clear expression of surprise. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought you’d relent so easily,” she said. “I believe your new wife has made you soft… in a manner of speaking.”
Bored with her double entendres and her smug tone, Griffin simply poured the elixir he’d created into a new vial. “I need to get this to Mrs. Webster. Good night, Florence.”
She approached him then, placing her hand on his chest. Every movement of her lithe body was intended to seduce. Swaying hips, sultry languorous steps, and her wrapper conveniently falling from one shoulder to reveal the upper swell of her breast. “We enjoyed each other once, didn’t we?”
“Once,” he agreed, completely unmoved by her display. “But that was before I understood precisely what you are… and precisely what you lack.”
Her lips formed a pretty pout. “You told me once that I was the most beautiful woman in the world. What could I possibly be lacking?”
“A heart and a conscience,” he said evenly. “Now, let me pass, Florence. I must attend my sister!”
Griffin was prepared to move her bodily from his path, but there was a commotion in the hall beyond. Servants began running and shouting. He heard one word that made his blood run cold. Fire.
It all made perfect sense to him in that moment. She was there to keep him occupied, so that whatever elaborate plot she and the housekeeper had cooked up could be carried out in his absence. “What have you done?” he asked in horror, but he did not wait for her answer. He shoved past her and raced toward the stairs.
Twenty-One
Olympia had managed to open the door to the dressing room by using her shawl to protect her hand. As she peered through the flames, she could see no one in the room. If Cassandra had truly been in there, and she couldn’t imagine who else would have been, who else would have been able to replicate that strange and haunting cry, she was no longer. On the far side of the small room, she could see that the window was broken. Had that been the sound of breaking glass she’d heard?
Dread washed through her. No one could survive such a fall. Servants began to race in the hall behind her. Someone outside or possibly in the stables must have seen the flames and raised the alarm she realized.
A rather brawny footman pulled her back out of the way, as he and several others rushed to put out the flames. Buckets of sand and water were dumped on the worst of it while another man ripped burning clothes and curtains and tossed them from the window.
“It won’t catch anything else on fire, m’lady! There’s a small spring runs by that side of the house. Everything stays damp there.”
The reassurance had been offered by Marjorie, the young maid who had attended her on her first day at Darkwood Hall. It had been little more than a week in all and yet it seemed a lifetime ago.
Griffin came tearing into the room. When he saw her, he stopped short. His eyes roamed over her as if taking in every detail and then, almost before she could process the look of intense relief on his face, he jumped into the fray, battling back the stubborn flames.
Collins came rushing in and Mrs. Webster was at her heels. Mrs. Webster saw the flames and began scanning the room. Watching her, Olympia realized she was looking for one person specifically.
Cassandra hadn’t simply escaped her chamber. She’d been deliberately set free to injure her, or worse. Her suspicions were confirmed when Mrs. Webster fell to her knees and began to weep.
“What’s the matter with her?” Collins asked.
> “Guilt,” Olympia replied succinctly.
The fire was rather anticlimactic once everyone had arrived. The small dressing room was comprised of stone walls, and because her wardrobe was so limited, there was little enough in the room to feed the flames. Any remaining fabric or upholstery had been tossed out the broken window, along with the carpet. The room was emptied of everything but a blackened marble washstand. The walls were stained with black smoke and streaked from the rivulets of water that had run down them.
Griffin emerged. His shirt sleeves were singed and blackened, his hair was mussed, but it was the expression he wore that terrified her. He was focused solely on Mrs. Webster who still wept on the floor. Not a soul had offered her comfort.
“Griffin—.”
“She did this,” he interrupted her. “She and Florence engineered all of this!”
“I do not doubt it,” she said softly. “But Griffin, they didn’t set the fire.”
“Then who did?” he asked.
Olympia looked at him, stared up into the harsh planes of his face. She had only an inkling of all the losses that he’d suffered in his life, but even that was overwhelming. The very idea of uttering the words left her shaken, and yet she had to tell him. Taking a deep steadying breath, she spoke quickly. “It was Cassandra… I don’t think they meant for this to happen. Not the fire. But I think they set her free with the intent that she would do me harm.”
His face hardened, the muscles in his jaw clenching tightly. “Where is she now?”
“When I got the door open finally, she wasn’t in the room,” Olympia said. Tears flowed freely and she was struggling to speak clearly through the sobs that threatened. “But the window was already broken.”
He said nothing for what seemed like ages. The whole room, which had previously been abuzz, went utterly still. Then he simply brushed past her, past the weeping and sobbing form of Mrs. Webster and made for the stairs.
Olympia gathered as much of her composure as possible, and urged several of the footmen, “Go with him. He may need your help.”
They looked at Mrs. Webster, as if waiting for her to countermand the order, but she was beyond such thoughts. Then, after a heartbeat’s pause, they followed him down the stairs and out into the night.
“Let’s get you out of this smoky room, m’lady. It can’t be good for you,” Collins urged.
“The letters and the journal, Collins… Get them from the desk,” she said. It was imperative, given the sensitive information they contained, that they not fall into either Florence’s hands or Mrs. Webster’s when she was recovered enough to even care for such matters.
The maid nodded her agreement, and once she’d secured the items, they made their way downstairs to the drawing room. Dressed only in her wrapper and nightrail, Olympia realized that was literally all she owned. Her meager wardrobe was gone entirely. But others had lost so much more. Thinking of Griffin, of what he must be going through, Olympia had to sit down. She couldn’t bear to think of what he must be suffering, to know that he would undoubtedly blame himself for everything when clearly there were only two people at fault in the entirely horrific chain of events. Mrs. Webster and Lady Florence were the ones to blame.
“Marjorie,” Olympia instructed, “Have another room prepared for Lord Darke and myself, as our suite will be uninhabitable.”
“Yes, m’lady,” the maid said. She paused at the door, “Only one chamber, m’lady?”
“One will suffice,” she confirmed.
The maid blushed and nodded her agreement before scurrying off to do as she’d been bidden. With nothing else to be done, Olympia simply waited for the inevitable—for Griffin to return with his sister’s body.
***
She’d fallen into the spring. If there’s been any blood, it had already washed away. But it was clear to him that her neck had simply snapped. It was a consolation, albeit a small one, that she had not suffered.
Griffin waded into the shallow water and lifted her gently. The footmen were there to assist him, sent by Olympia no doubt, as Mrs. Webster had clearly been in no condition to command the servants. Guilt was a terrible thing. He’d carried it for years and it would undoubtedly plague him for the rest of his days. Now she understood what that felt like.
As he carried her back to the house, he realized that it was quite possibly the last thing he would ever do for his sister. He had no family left. They were all gone.
There were no tears to shed. Perhaps he should have wept, but the overwhelming sense of relief he felt shamed him. He missed the Cassandra of his childhood, he missed the girl she’d been, but he did not and could not miss the wild and volatile creature she’d become. He grieved for her, but that did not change the fact that a heavy burden had been lifted from him. He didn’t deserve the release of tears, he thought.
The door was opened for him and he carried her into the house and up the stairs into one of the unoccupied bed chambers. Several of the maids were there, clearly confused about who she was, as they’d all been hired long after she’d been banished to the far reaches of the East wing.
He laid her on the bed, heedless of the wet gown she wore. Still he drew the covers over her. “Ready her for burial. It will be done in the morning,” he said stiffly, and then simply walked out. He could hear the maids whispering behind him, asking who she was and where she’d come from. Answering their questions was beyond him, explaining the tragedy of who she was and what had ruined her so completely was simply beyond him.
Olympia was standing at the top of the stairs. “Are you—no,” she said. “I won’t even ask how you are. The answer is obvious… I am so terribly sorry, Griffin. If I’d known that she would jump—.”
“Do not,” he said, cutting her off. “Nothing that has occurred here tonight is your fault.”
“I was too afraid to open the door, but if I had, she might have survived.”
“Or you would have died,” he said. “Since her injury, she had no perception of pain or exhaustion. It was all just rage with her.”
She walked toward him slowly and took his hand in hers. “Come. I’ve had them prepare a chamber for us for tonight.”
He allowed her to lead him into their temporary chamber. “It’s my fault,” he said. “It’s my fault that she was injured at all. It’s my fault that Mrs. Webster and Lady Florence were here to exploit her the way that they did.”
“How is it your fault?” she demanded. “How, when you’ve done everything in your power to care for her and to help her, to make her better, is it possibly your fault?”
“Because when I found out what my uncle was doing to her… that he was cut from the very same cloth that your own uncle is, I didn’t insist that we leave this house. I allowed my mother to convince me that we should remain here. And then when my uncle had his final breakdown, he murdered both of his sons in the dining room and attempted to put a pistol ball in her brain as well.”
***
Olympia tried to absorb the impact of what he’d just said, but it was too much. “Oh, Griffin… that wasn’t your fault.”
He sat down on the bed, defeated, his shoulders slumped forward and his head resting in his hands. It looked as if the events of the night had simply been too much for him to bear, as strong as he was. Uncertain what else to do and desperate to do anything that would help him, she moved toward him and closed her arms around him. He accepted the embrace, locking his arms around her thighs and holding her to him.
“He thought he’d killed her, you see,” he explained. “But apparently the gun misfired in some way, or it simply didn’t have enough powder in it. The ball didn’t penetrate her skull, but it did enough damage regardless… Enough damage that there were times when I believed she would have been so much better off had he succeeded.”
There was nothing to say in response to that, so she continued to hold him, stroking his hair and letting him speak. Finally, she managed, “You did everything you could for her, Griffin. There was no way t
o predict your uncle’s behavior, there was no way to predict what Lady Florence and Mrs. Webster would do tonight. What we have to do now is determine how we will deal with them.”
He looked up at her. “I can’t think about them. If I think about them tonight, I’ll do murder. Her life had been brutal enough without them using her so basely and letting her meet such a miserable end.”
“Then we won’t think about them tonight. We’ll deal with them in the morning… for tonight, you will rest. You were exhausted to begin with and I cannot imagine what this has been like for you.”
Griffin settled his head against her, resting it just beneath her breasts. Olympia held him there, offering what comfort she could.
“I have no other family,” he said. “They are all gone now… cousins, sibling, parents. I am the last. It was what I had wanted to ensure this madness ended with me, but I hadn’t realized that it would feel so very lonely.”
She had to tell him, Olympia realized, to disclose what she’d discovered in the letters and journal. It had initially seemed like such a terrible time, but given what he’d just said, she wondered if perhaps the information wouldn’t offer him some peace.
“Griffin, Mrs. Webster had accused me of spying and lurking,” she began. “And she was correct. I have been lurking and spying… and I took something that wasn’t mine.”
He leaned back and planted his hands on the bed so that he could meet her gaze. “I am beyond tired, Olympia. If there is some point to this, it needs to be made very clearly because I am unable to put the facts together myself.”
“I found your mother’s journal and some letters… they were hidden in a trunk in the East wing. And your father… rather, the man you thought was your father, well, he wasn’t.”
He blinked at her. “It isn’t any clearer, Olympia.”
“Your mother was involved with a man, a soldier based on the letters I read. She was intimate with him… and you were the result.”
A Love So Dark (The Dark Regency Series Book 4) Page 15
