by Holly Newman
Maria Sprockett's eyes darted wildly as she saw Leona approach Mr. Sharply. Her proximity to Mr. Sharply was too close. Leona shook her head and smiled wryly to reassure her friend before going to her sister's side.
"There you are, Rosalie. I almost despaired of finding you, hidden among the flowers as you are."
"Oh, good. Then perhaps this truly is the best place for me to be this evening. I don't like crowds, you know."
"I thought I didn't either, but I'm finding to my surprise and satisfaction that I'm enjoying myself immensely! But before the real crush of guests arrive, I thought this might be a good opportunity for me to have that chat with your husband. Do you know what Sharply wishes to discuss with me?"
"Heavens, no, Leona. Well, at least not entirely," she amended. "You know George wouldn't bother my head with business." She laughed contentedly. "He had enough difficulty reconciling himself to your activities."
A wave of irritation swept through Leona. Remembering Deveraux's accusation of prickliness, she determinedly let it flow on through and out. "The world is not cut to every man's order."
"Nor every woman's," agreed her sister. "Leona, dear, I know you do not care for my husband, and that shall always be a sad fact to me. Dear George does not do well in situations like this. I shall be on tenterhooks all evening, cringing for his sake."
Leona shook her head, not understanding what her sister was trying to say.
Rosalie smiled ruefully. "He gets nervous, you know, and talks too loud and has his words come out with meanings he doesn't intend. Truthfully, he does seem a bit vulgar and he suffers such agonies for it later. But he can't seem to help himself! He's also like that around you. You intimidate him dreadfully."
"Me?"
"Yes. You're always so calm and cool. You've been like that since Mama died. It used to worry George to flinders to see you with such a serious adult air trying to pick up Mama's responsibilities. You were far too young to do so. Unfortunately, Father and Edmund and Charlie didn't see that. All they were aware of was that they were not made uncomfortable. They didn't care how that was achieved, nor at what cost, just so it was."
"Rosalie— I don't know what to say. You are revealing to me a side of Sharply I would never have guessed. I truthfully don't know whether to believe you or merely think you are a loyal wife!"
"Both, I should think," Rosalie declared.
"Rosalie, are you—can you be happy always to be at Sharply's beck and call, to be within his sight at all times?"
"Can I be happy? Leona, it is the most marvelous feeling to be wanted To have a man who insists on seeing me at all times. You are wearing blinders when you look at us! Yes, I am at his beck and call, but he is also at mine. He is as chained to me as I am to him, and it's marvelous! Pay attention, and you'll see that, too."
Leona shook her head, dazed.
Rosalie laughed. She patted her sister's arm. "But come. Talk to George now. He's waiting very anxiously to talk to you and, if you've noticed, he hasn't interrupted us. He knows he blundered badly when we arrived and you overheard him in the hall. The sight of this estate—what with a moat, walls, ruined keep—it was all too much for him! He was exceedingly nervous and simply did not know how to act, the poor dear. Please, come talk to him."
Leona allowed herself to be led over to Sharply's side. She kept trying to see him as her sister did, but the image remained elusive.
"Ah, Leona! There you are. Good, good," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Need to talk to you. Charlie's gone and done it, y' know," he said, shaking his head. "Surprised Rosalie and I, no doubt about it, eh, my pet?"
Rosalie merely smiled, encouraging her husband to continue.
"George, I don't—" Leona began, her brow furrowing.
"Of course, you'll come live with us. Everything all right and tight. Ol' George'll arrange everything. Miss Sprockett, too, of course. Jest talkin' to her a moment ago. Fine woman for a bubblehead. Been with you a long time, gettin' on in years, and all that, eh, what? No trouble. Always room for one more. Unless—" He winked and nudged her in the ribs. "Unless, you sly puss, you got plans you ain't tellin' us?"
"George!" Leona tried again, her voice rising. She paused, took a deep breath while asking heaven for patience, and spoke normally. "What are you blathering on about? I've told you repeatedly I've no intention of living with you."
"No choice, seems like."
Leona went pale. "Has... has Charlie lost the entire estate?"
"What? No, no. Saved it! That oughta make you happy as a grig."
"It does," she said through clenched teeth, her patience rapidly sifting away. "But what has Charlie done that surprises you?"
"Why, ain't you been listening, gal? Gone and got himself leg-shackled!"
"Married?" Leona gasped. She blinked and shook her head. "Charlie is married?"
He nodded. "Knew you'd be surprised."
"I think I need to sit down," Leona said weakly. She edged over to a chair by the wall. "Married ... When? To whom? Is he selling out?" Rosalie sat down next to her, taking her hand.
George Sharply scratched the back of his neck. "Don't know if he's sellin' out—at least not with Boney on the loose again. Married a month ago. Some Bruges widow, I understand. Rich, too." He shook his head again. "That Charlie's a sly dog, and that's a fact."
She drew herself upright. "I do not see how Charlie's marital status would affect me. I do not live at Lion's Gate and haven't for some time. I see no reason why I can't continue to reside at Rose Cottage."
"Yes. Stands to reason. But the thing is, you can't. Oh, you can for a while, but not long."
"And why not?"
"Charlie wants to install his new mama-in-law there."
"What? George, how do you know this? If you're just supposing—"
"Egad, no, girl! Got a letter from Charlie. He told me all."
"Charlie wrote to you?" Leona gasped, nonplussed. Charlie hated Sharply!
"Yes. Wanted me and Rosalie to break the news to you."
She blinked, then her eyes narrowed and her chin thrust forward. That sounded like Charlie! "I'll bet' I'll just bet! That low-down, self-indulgent cowardly weasel!"
Anger roiled through her, an anger that was much hotter and more violent for the defense of him she made to Deveraux. Her anger swelled within her to the point that she wanted to explode—at anyone and for any reason. She turned toward her sister. "Rosalie, I thought you said you didn't know what Sharply wanted to say to me?"
"All I knew is that Charlie was married," her sister said tranquilly, depriving Leona of her target. "I never imagined he'd think to throw you out of Rose Cottage! Why, it was nearly a hovel before you and Maria took it over, cleaning it and fixing it. It does sound a great deal too bad."
"Don't think Charlie meant to do the thing this shabbily," George defended. "Said he was telling his wife about the estate, and she hit upon Rose Cottage for her mama without a how-de-do."
"Yes, but Charlie could have told her I was living there!" she said desperately, denying the ground cracking away beneath her feet.
George shifted uneasily. "Thing is, she's got a wad of the ready, y' know."
She nodded, understanding at last. "And money matters more than blood. Yes. So it would be with Charlie. . . ." She visibly shook herself. "Well, Charlie is the head of the family now. We shall all have to do what we can to make his wife welcome. That— That is the least of our duties." Her words were typically decisive, though the audible catch in her throat was not.
"And you will come to live with us?" Rosalie asked softly.
"I don't know. . . . Don't ask me now. My head is in a whirl." Leona rose shakily from the chair, the ballroom a confusing blur of color and motion, her entire world giving way beneath her feet, dropping her once more into that storm-tossed ocean, that wide, endless abyss of loneliness.
George Sharply looked as if he would object, but a gentle touch on his arm by his wife stilled his too ready tongue.
Leona turned almost blindly to face Sharply, the edge of hysteria glittering in her eyes, and her shrill laugh momentarily clouded her sister's calm countenance. "And now what would Mama have me do?" she asked no one in particular. "If you'll excuse me—" She turned and walked quickly toward the doorway.
"Leona!" her sister called after her.
Leona waved that she was all right, but did not look back.
The Marques of Keirsmyth lounged against a marble column near the musicians dais, his long, saturnine face impassive as he watched the dialogue between Miss Leonard and the rotund gentleman with the balding pate who had identified himself at dinner as Miss Leonard's brother-in-law. Judging by the man's manners—or lack thereof—he understood why Deveraux was loath to turn the problem of Miss Leonard over to her nearest relations. Now it appeared that these relatives, rather than being helpful, had delivered some stunning blow to Miss Leonard. The woman looked dazed, as if she'd spent too many rounds in the ring. Perhaps she had.
Reluctantly he straightened to follow her as she left the ballroom. Damn Deveraux and friendship, anyway. He was getting too old for intrigue.
Deveraux watched helplessly as Leona made her way through the crowded entrance hall and out the manor house door. She did not appear to be fleeing something specific, rather the world in general. She went out without even the protection of a wrap. Not far behind her followed Keirsmyth who flicked a nod of reassurance in Deveraux's direction as he passed.
Deveraux gnashed his teeth together as another person came up to shake hands with him. He'd be in this line for another hour at least. What had sent her scurrying off like that? Damn. This was not the time to be forced to "do the pretty," as Keirsmyth said. He was glad he'd set the Blackguard on her tail. It was the only thing that kept him at his sister's and mother's sides. As the guest he greeted passed on, he glanced over at Fitzhugh. He nodded almost imperceptibly. He'd also seen Leona's hurried departure.
Deveraux swore again and silently contemplated how much longer he would be tied to the damned receiving line.
The nearly full moon washed the night landscape in gray and silver hues, leaving only patches of deep blackness for contrast. It was not a threatening darkness, not one to call forth weaving black shadows of bare branches brought to life, nor spectral sounds of sighing ghosts in the wind.
It was far removed from an evil, frightening night The air was fresh and clean-smelling—a little damp, but full of the promise of spring. It was a night with the sounds of spring beginning to be heard and the silence of winter something of the past. The night soothed Leona's battered soul.
In the moonlight, the old keep on the motte shone with a silver brilliance like an old hunched woman decked out for one last time in the family's jewels. The old woman beckoned, and Leona went.
The path up to the old keep was of large stones cut square and laid like a spiraling stairway up the motte. The stones were smooth and, in places, covered with moss. Cold dampness soaked Leona's fragile dancing slippers; but she ignored it. It was too late now to save them from ruin. It didn't matter anyway. She would not be, could not be a comfortable guest at the ball. Her mind was too full and yet at the same time empty. She couldn't seem to gather her scattered thoughts. They ran through her mind like sand through her fingers.
Charlie, married.
She'd long ago shelved that fear. She never thought, never even dreamed, he would marry! He was almost without a feather to fly with, hardly a marriage mart catch of any sea-son! She thought to have a home at either Rose Cottage or Lion's Gate and therefore always have duty to fill her hours and days, keeping loneliness at bay. Why had she discounted the possibility of Charlie marrying? Why did she never make contingency plans? It was stupidity. Plain, unadorned stupidity. No—worse—it was fear.
That realization stopped her in her headlong flight up the stone steps. Fear. An emotion she kept buried, refused to acknowledge. For all her lack of attention, it seemed nonetheless to have acknowledged her. She felt the first stirring of that fear now, a heaviness in her stomach and a tightness in her chest and throat. Nonsense. She was stronger than fear. It was fear that made people weak and incapacitated. She was neither. She merely needed to get her mind functioning again on the problem of her brother and Lion's Gate. A solution would present itself if she only concentrated.
She looked up at the keep looming above her. She was three quarters of the way up the hill. She imagined the view of the surrounding countryside would be beautiful up there, especially with the silver brush strokes of the moon highlighting the countryside. It was getting colder though. Up here it was not so sheltered from the wind as the drive before the house. She shivered slightly, drawing her light decorative shawl more closely about her. No matter. She would not go back down until she'd seen the sights from the keep. Recalling Deveraux's words of warning that the keep was dangerous, she would be careful. She silently promised Deveraux she wouldn't go in. Actually she didn't see how anything in this beautiful moonlight could be dangerous. It was too wrapped in enchantment for harm. She smiled at her whimsical turn of mind and started on up the hill with a lighter step.
She was nearly to the keep itself when she realized two things. First, someone had been up that way fairly recently, for a man's cap lay in the tall grass next to the stone stairway. Secondly, she was being followed.
Fear clawed at her chest making breathing difficult. She forced herself to relax, to think clearly. She knew it wasn't Deveraux following her. He was in the receiving line greeting guests. Even if he wasn't, he would never attempt to hide the fact that he was following her. Deveraux would not move stealthily behind her, keeping to the shadows and stopping when she did. North? She remembered his expression in the stable courtyard, full of hatred and the wild glitter of vengeance in his eyes. He was more than a possibility. Her memory sent shivers down her spine and a cold clutching at her stomach. She did not dare turn around. It would warn him of her suspicions. But what could she do? She stared up at the keep towering above her in the night sky. If she could make the keep, maybe there she could find a club or rock to use as a weapon—or failing that, a safe hole in which to hide.
She continued up the stairway, moving a Little faster, trying to place more distance between herself and North. An old fall of rock preceded the keep, but the stones were all large boulders toppled from the crumbling walls, too small to offer shelter. Leona picked her way as quickly as she dared through the fallen rubble amid deep shadows, praying she would not trip and sprain an ankle or worse. It was colder up here on top of the hill. Wind whistled around the rocks. Leona shivered, her attention now on the keep and its offer of sanctuary from cold and evil. She crossed into the keep itself, its fitted stone floor rustling with dry leaves and twigs. Moonlight pierced the gaps in the walls and the narrow slitted windows throwing odd patterns of light and shadow across the floor. She couldn't stay here. There was nowhere to hide and no weapon at hand. To the left at the end of the empty hall was a stone staircase leading farther up into the tower. She ran toward it, only vaguely aware of the large bundle of cloth in a dark corner by the open hearth.
The stairway was black unlike any darkness Leona had ever known. It was enveloping and suffocating in its density.
If it weren't for the slope of the stairs, it would be easy to lose one's sense of direction. She went on. Behind her she thought she heard the sound of a shoe striking stone. Was her pursuer that close already? Panic threatened to close her throat.
Fool!
The keep was not a safe harbor. It presented more danger and left her more alone and isolated. Bitterly she chastised herself for her impetuousness. Was Charlie's marriage that horrible that it must thrust her willy-nilly into disaster?
Using her hands to guide herself up the narrow staircase, she plunged on, taking some measure of satisfaction from the fact that the black stairway would be as blinding to her follower as it was to her. Finally, rounding another part of the steps, she thought she discerned a growing lightness on th
e stairway. Yes! There was moonlight streaming in from somewhere. She hurried forward, anxious to gain some measure of sight back. The steps stopped at a broad landing facing a heavy oak door on iron hinges. The door was ajar, spilling the light into the stairwell. Leona sobbed when she saw it. All she had to do was get behind the door and slam the heavy bolt home. She looked back over her shoulder down the dark stairwell as she pushed the door wide open, straining to hear the slightest sound. She turned back to look into the room and stopped cold. There, lying in the moonlight in the middle of the floor with empty eyes staring out of a white face was Ludlow, the groom.
Leona's piercing scream echoed off stone walls and out over the countryside. It seemed to reverberate and last forever.
Behind her came a flurry of sound. A man's hard rough hand clamped across her mouth. She bit it, and it snapped away only to be replaced by a cloak thrown over her head. She twisted and turned, struggling against the arms binding the cloth to her body. She kicked backwards with her foot, catching his knee. He cursed in pain and flung her hard against the wall. Leona staggered blindly, frantically trying to throw off the cloak before he grabbed her again. Suddenly she heard a rush of footsteps in the room. She threw off the cloak in time to see North double up from a sharp blow to the stomach from a tall fair-haired man. The Marques of Keirsmyth? Leona stared at him in shocked surprise.
From far away she heard voices raised, her name, sharp and distinct, floating out above them. She looked toward the window and the sound, then back to the combatants. North now had a long, wicked-looking knife in his hand. The two men circled each other, oblivious to anything but themselves. North's knife flashed silver once then twice in the moonlight. Keirsmyth danced away, but his breathing was ragged. Finally North lunged; Keirsmyth caught his knife arm and held it away from him.
