by Sahara Kelly
Burke thought for a moment. “Truthfully, I cannot say for certain. However, back to being logical because right now it’s all I can be, my senses tell me that whoever killed McCardle might be more cautious at this time. There will be a lot of activity in and around the Hall as well as in the surrounding neighborhood. I doubt that a regimented officer would be a good candidate for brain smashing. His absence would be immediately remarked.”
“Good point,” agreed Devon.
“Well, I’m for bed. Perhaps enlightenment will visit me in my sleep and point the way toward ending this chaos.” He glanced at the younger man. “You’ll see to the fire?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me something.” Burke paused on the way from the room. “Would you really marry Portia tomorrow?”
“With all my heart.” The answer was fast, firm and unwavering.
Burke smiled. “I thought as much. Goodnight.”
Chapter Seven
“Yes, m’Lady.” The maid curtseyed and left the room obediently, after adding a couple of logs to the fire.
Alwynne walked slowly to the fireplace and gazed down into the flames, only dimly aware of the ache in her leg. It was healing now, and healing well. She would use a cane occasionally, but admitted to herself that it was more for effect these days.
She realized that there was a fine line between being obvious about her injuries and gently reminding everyone that she had suffered. The cane was a decided asset and served its purpose well.
She didn’t care one whit about anyone’s sympathy. That was for victims. She was done with being a victim, her scars notwithstanding. She was now returned and her initial goal was recovery.
After that, there was only one thing she wanted.
Revenge.
The flames danced bright in the hearth, their warmth touching her hands as she held them out and spread her fingers against the brilliance. This fire, this burning heat—it was inside her and flaring now as fiercely as the one in front of her.
She could not rest until she had exacted punishment, a punishment that would fit the crime. A public punishment too…that would work most effectively. Her recent experiences could easily have affected her—Gerolf would stand up for her, without a doubt.
So the question before her, to be considered in the cold and calculating parts of her brain, was how to kill her husband. She had to suppress the burn of anger and pain…at least for the time being.
The plan needed to be faultless and fatal. Her opponent was crafty, intelligent and completely insane. A worthy adversary indeed, some would say, since Alwynne Harbury had often been complimented on her quiet but impressive acumen.
Indeed, she had needed every bit of it to manage Harbury and keep it running in spite of her husband’s antics. She’d even done her best to keep him alive up to now, knowing his demise would change her life and necessitate her removal from the place to some unimportant and likely small mansion with a limited staff. Such was the fate of a displaced widow, especially one whose husband had a rather dubious reputation.
But everything had changed on that fateful night. Her world had shattered along with her body, and although her physical scars might fade, the psychological ones would remain her constant companions until the brute was dead.
Absently she lifted one hand and reached behind her neck to touch the little lumps between her shoulder blades. The souvenir of a word carved there by the madman she’d married.
That would be the price she’d demand. She would place her own mark on him before his final moments.
She thought about that. And it came to her.
It would be on the night of the Winter Ball.
Moving away from the fire she returned to her desk, her mind simmering, ideas forming and dissipating, thoughts stimulated by the thought of her final victory.
How to accomplish her task; that was the only thing that mattered. The Howell woman could manage all the other details, and from the looks of her she would do so quite adequately.
Alwynne had one job only. And it was about to consume most of her waking hours, because planning a death should never be simple. Especially this one. This one had to be a work of art, the perfect revenge and one that would leave her completely untouched by any whisper of involvement.
She sharpened a pen and drew a blank sheet of paper toward her, then paused. She must exercise caution, since anything she wrote—unless destroyed—might occasion unwanted questions.
So instead of a battle plan, she began to list the things she knew would be in place for her ball.
Always begin with the basics and see what was available.
Orchestra, servants, food, flowers, other decorations. She thought for a moment. Guests, candles, silverware, table linens, glasses. Vases. Fires throughout. Yes, it was winter and this was a winter ball. Her pen flew faster. Lots of candlelight. Greenery in addition to flowers. Pine boughs to bring in the fresh scent, but not with Christmas decorations…with something white. White and gold for the military. Ribbons.
With her list now taking shape, she sat back and let her eyes roam over the assorted items, looking at them, considering them and then putting them into the context of her purpose.
Which one of these would work? Or what combination of items might succeed?
Again she paused, then bent to the paper, beginning a second list of the locations that she would use. The ballroom, of course. No open windows given the nighttime temperatures. The foyer and the smaller salons, two of which opened into each other and might serve as card rooms should any of the military prefer a game or two over dancing.
Dinner would be in the massive dining hall, which could easily handle a couple of hundred guests rotating through the evening. She’d rely on Charlotte to take care of those details. There would be several small parlors set aside for the outer garments of attendees, and even more on the floor above for withdrawing rooms.
She needed something. Something unusual. Something to bring gasps of astonishment to the throats of her guests, and send them away with stories of the outstanding nature of Harbury Hall’s Winter Ball.
It would come to her, she knew. It just needed to coalesce into existence within her mind.
Closing her eyes, she visualized the scene, the ballroom filled with candles, the chandeliers—no, wait.
What if…what if there were only candles in the sconces along the walls of the ballroom? What if the majority of the light in the room came from another source? Sources?
She’d heard tell of lanterns in the Orient, light, filled with something that floated. Not unlike the airships…and what if they were shaped like airships? After all this was an event to honor the men who served Her Majesty.
Yes.
Her eyes snapped open, her brain whirling with plans. She needed someone who could build such lanterns on a scale large enough to dominate the ballroom. They would attract the eyes of her guests, and bring gasps of delight and amazement as they watched the tiny airshow circle above their heads. And, if she remembered correctly, they were quite flammable…
A smile curved her lips. A smile of triumph. It was not an attractive smile at all, but Alwynne didn’t care at that moment, since she was feeling small shivers of excitement, not pleasure. Of anticipation and even yearning for the moment she would plan down to the last tiny second.
It would take excellent timing, of course. She would have to put in some extra time focusing on placement, positioning and making sure that all the unpredictable actions of everyone present had been factored in to her plan.
But it was a plan.
And the more she thought about it, the more positive she became that it would work. It would accomplish her goal.
Everyone’s attention would be on the ceiling…and at that moment, she would dispose of Randall Harbury forever.
*~~*~~*
Portia knew the situation in which they were all ensnared, without a doubt. But being nineteen-almost-twenty, and assisting in the preparation of what was tu
rning into a very impressive evening’s entertainment, she was unable to completely divorce her emotions from the actual tasks at hand.
After listening to Lady Harbury’s plans for the décor, she wanted to bounce up and offer her thoughts. It was frustrating to have to sit quietly off to the side while Charlotte perused drawings and debated this and that.
Finally, she cleared her throat softly, and Charlotte turned. “Thoughts, Mary? We could use an idea or two here.”
Bless you. Portia offered silent thanks then nodded and rose to stand beside Charlotte, her hands clasped respectfully in front of her. “If it please you, ma’am, I remember my sister speakin’ of a ball where the flowers weren’t flowers at all, but bits of evergreens with ribbons wrapped around their stems. Real pretty she said it was.”
“Oh.” Lady Harbury’s face softened into a gentle smile. “What an extraordinary idea.” She gestured at a side table. “I had one of the maids bring these down from a storage cupboard. I think they were used a long time ago, but they still look quite white—would they work?”
“May I, ma’am?” Portia hesitated before approaching the table.
“Of course, girl. I like your idea if you know how to execute it…”
Portia dropped a quick curtsey then crossed the room, fingers itching to touch the spools of silken ribbons. There were wide ones, narrow ones, some ruched softly, others stiff and crisp. There were even several edged with metallic strips of gold and silver.
“These would be perfect, ma’am. I have no doubt in me mind.” She glanced outside. “If we could get a bit of green I could show you one…?”
“I would really love to see it, Mary.” Charlotte smiled at Alwynne. “May I send her outside to prune a fir or two for us?”
“Indeed. I am eager myself.” She looked at Portia. “Go girl. Hurry. I think this might be just the thing we need for our floral arrangements.”
“Yes m’Lady. Ma’am.” Portia curtseyed once more and then hurried from the room.
Lord, sometimes her thighs ached with all this curtseying, but she was happy enough to be gone from the minefield that was Lady Alwynne’s parlor. The woman was incredibly beautiful, but few could know how damaged she was. Portia was one of the few, since she’d seen first-hand the devastation wreaked upon her. It still haunted Portia’s nightmares, so God only knew what it did to Lady Harbury’s.
She quickly donned her cloak and left the house through a side door, knowing it was the quickest way to the garden. Thankfully it was brisk, but not bitter and there was even a bit of bare ground here and there thanks to the shelter of the walls and a ray or two of sunshine.
Within a few moments she’d reached a stand of fir trees and was busily surveying the lower branches for the sort of needle arrangement that would work.
“Enjoying nature, Miss Jones?”
She spun around so quickly her heel caught in the muddy grass and she stumbled, only to be caught and righted by a strong, wool-clad arm.
“Oh, thank you sir.” She looked up to see the full beard and well-tended moustache, curved now as he smiled at her.
“No thanks necessary, Miss Jones. It was entirely the fault of my failure to announce my presence.” He swept his hat from his head and bowed. “I am Baron von Landau, Gerolf to my friends. I hope I may count you among them?”
She shocked herself by giggling, then turned it into a cough. “Oh no, sir. I couldn’t. I’m just a companion.”
“And one who is stealing the Harbury branches?” He stared at the one in her hand and lifted an eyebrow. “Have I interrupted an attempted crime?”
She smiled again and shook her head at his silliness, then explained the situation. He looked intrigued and before she knew it, he was walking beside her, pulling branches, asking if they were good or not.
“Ja or nicht, Fraulein?” He shook snow off a goodly sized specimen tufted at the tip just as she wanted.
“Oh definitely ja, sir.” She nodded enthusiastically.
“So. We shall search more for the pin sylvestre.”
“Right you are, sir. Scots pine it is.” She wandered on and then stopped. “Here. If you please? This one will be ideal.”
“’Tis a branch too thick for breaking I think. One moment, Fraulein.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like an heirloom tube of something.
Curious, Portia watched him extract a tiny saw blade and insert it in the end of the tube. “Oh.” She drew in a breath. “How clever.”
“It was my father’s. Made for him by my uncle.” The Baron proceeded to use the little tool and easily saw through the branch in question, carefully passing it to Portia. “Beware the resin. It is very sticky, so be careful, yes?”
She nodded. “I will sir. Thank you very much.”
They turned, Portia with an armful of evergreens and the Baron watching her every step with a paternal air. They both looked across at the house as they walked along the path she had trodden earlier, and sure enough two faces watched them from one of the windows.
Portia managed a wave with her one free hand, noticing the Baron also tapped his hand to his large bowler hat.
The ladies smiled and beckoned them.
“’It would seem we are required?” He glanced down at Portia.
“Indeed sir. I’m sure Mrs. Howell will be glad to see you. An’ her Ladyship, of course.”
“Of course.” He leaned over and took a branch from her. “But I must also bear the burdens, so you will allow me at least one piece of the Scots pine.”
“Thank you sir. You’re ever so kind.”
“And you, Miss Jones, are a continuing mystery to me.”
The hair on Portia’s neck stood up on end at his words, but she hid the wave of apprehension that washed over her. “Oh sir, you are jestin’. I’m just a local girl. Nobody special.” She walked a little more quickly. “An’ we mustn’t keep the ladies waitin’, sir.”
“That we must not.”
He said no more, but followed her, his long legs easily keeping pace and managing to arrive at the door a step ahead. He opened it and bid her precede him. “Thank you for the little adventure, Miss Jones. Would you tell the ladies I shall join them momentarily? A matter of boots and coat, you understand…” He looked at her, his eyes dark and intense.
“O’course, sir. Thank you for the assistance.” She curtseyed and hurried away.
She paused outside the door to Lady Alwynne’s salon, swallowing down another surge of concern. Had she revealed too much to the Baron? Was there something about her that betrayed more of herself than she wanted? Where was she making a mistake?
Still disturbed but now at least exerting a modicum of control, Portia tapped on the door and entered, shouldering her greenery with her.
“Oh excellent, Mary dear.” Charlotte stood and smiled warmly. “We saw the Baron helping you.”
Portia dropped another of her interminable curtseys. “Yes indeed, ma’am. Ever so nice he is. Helped me with the big ones and made sure I didn’t touch them sticky bits.”
“Over here.” Lady Alwynne called to her. “Bring the branches here and let’s see how all this works.”
“Yes, m’Lady.” Portia did as she was bid, showing the older women how to strip the needles off part of the lower branch, leaving a “flower” tuft of needles at the top. Then she wrapped a ribbon carefully around the stem, securing it with a tiny pin and clipping it with the pair of shears also on the table.
“There we go, ma’am, m’Lady.” She pulled a vase near and stood the result upright. “With several of ‘em placed nicely and a few ribbon bows, perhaps one or two draped over the edge like this…mebbe even a sprinkle or two of somethin’ sparkly…”
Taking a length of stiffened ribbon, her deft fingers shaped a bow into a semblance of leaves. The effect was quite delightful, she thought, as she stepped back and surveyed her handiwork.
“Well, look at this.” Lady Alwynne blinked. “That is excellent, my dear. I am most pleased. M
ost pleased indeed.”
Charlotte nodded happily, her red curls bouncing. “I always knew you were a clever gel, Mary. I just didn’t realize how clever you are until this minute.”
“Oh ma’am, ‘t’was nothin’ really.” Portia lowered her gaze and did her best to blush.
“You shall show my servants how this is done, Mary.” Lady Alwynne sounded resolute. “In fact I shall have you do that right this minute. Mrs. Howell and I are ready for tea, in any case.” She walked across the room and rang the bell.
Portia noticed she’d left her cane by her chair. Evidently her physical strength was returning.
“I’d be honored, m’Lady.” She turned as Malcolm entered the room and looked at his mistress.
“Take Jones to the servant’s sitting room, please Malcolm. And send a couple of the girls up for this.” She waved at the ribbons and greenery. “They are to watch Mary create the decorations for the ball and learn how to do it themselves under her direction. I want at least eight to ten vases filled on the night, so make sure they fully understand.”
“I will, my Lady. It shall be exactly as you wish.” He flicked a glance at Portia and tilted his head in the direction of the door.
She curtseyed to both ladies and took the hint, hearing him behind her closing the door.
“Well get on then, Jones. You know the way. Tell whoever’s there I shall be down immediately. I just have to show the Baron into the salon.” He lifted his chin and glared down at her. “Well? What part didn’t you understand?”
“Er, nothing, Mr. Malcolm. I’m on me way.”
She fled.
*~~*~~*
In the room behind her, Charlotte was frowning down at the papers in front of her, but not seeing any of the writing on them. She wondered again at the camaraderie the Baron seemed to be developing with Portia.
It worried her, gnawed at the back of her thoughts and distracted her a little. But the entrance of the gentleman himself jerked her back into the present.
“Baron von Landau, my Lady.”
“Excellent.” Lady Alwynne beamed at him. “Tea, Malcolm. As soon as maybe.”
