Reckless Desire

by Rebecca King

  Once at the kitchen door, she swiftly hurried inside and slid the bolt closed for good measure. Leaning her back against the door for a moment, she battled tears while she allowed the enormity of what had happened to her to sink in. It sounded fantastical even to her, but she had experienced it nonetheless and was terrified because of it.

  Strangely, while she felt a little safer being inside, it did little to eradicate her growing fear that something was still not right. Determined to find her father, whether he was in bed or not, she straightened her spine, shoved her wet hair out of her face, and marched into the main body of the house.

  “Father?” She called aloud, not caring if he was asleep.

  Slamming her way into each room as she passed it, she gave them each nothing more than a cursory inspection-until she reached her father’s study. Then she stopped.

  Silence settled its heavy cloak over her shoulders but it wasn’t welcoming. It was cold; as cold as the empty fireplace in the kitchen; as cold and empty as she felt right now.

  As she studied the empty room, something within her changed. It became harder, less accommodating, and more determined than ever before to do what was right for her. Alright, so her relationship with her father couldn’t ever be considered close but, as far as she could see she had never given him any cause to want to be rid of her, especially to someone like the Count. While as far as the gossip columns were concerned, the Count was the prize catch all the matchmaking mamas were desperate to secure, Marguerite knew him to be a fraudster who was on his way to gaol just as soon as he let his guard slip, like he did last night with her. Until that day came, she had to avoid him at all costs.

  “Father?” she called as she slammed the study door closed and searched the other half of the ground floor of the house.

  Her anger grew with each room she searched and found to be empty. Stomping up the main stairs, she studied the darkened hallway ahead of her. There was not even a hint of a flickering candle left burning in case she returned home. He either hadn’t been expecting her to come back or hadn’t come home yet, which was odd given her sire was a stickler for routine.

  “Father? Are you home?” she called when she reached the upper landing.

  The town house was large and sprawled over four floors. The first floor contained additional sitting rooms predominantly for the lady of the house, and the third and fourth floors were allocated for bed chambers. She had one floor and father had the other. It was a comfortable arrangement, and perfect for just the two of them, or had been until now.

  Shaking her head in disbelief, she hurried up to the floor her father occupied. She checked his sitting room and then turned her attention to his bed chamber. When she turned toward it, her wet skirt brushed the damp flesh of her thighs and elicited another rash of goose bumps that made her shudder. Wiping at the moisture her hair dripped steadily onto her face, she hurried up to her room and quickly changed.

  It was blissful to slide into the warmest clothes she owned. She took a moment to poke at the fire with the iron, but she didn’t bother to light it. Her discussion with her father had to come first.

  Her shawl wasn’t enough to warm her as quickly as she wanted so before she left the room, she dragged a blanket off her bed and cocooned herself in it before she made her way back down the stairs to her father’s bed chamber.

  “Papa?” she called. “Eustace?”

  Having spoken the two words, she realised that she was more comfortable now calling her sire, Eustace rather than Papa. There was something about his behaviour last night that had driven a wedge between them.

  She pushed open the door to his room. Her gaze immediately fell to the untouched bed, and her stomach dropped to her toes with an almost overwhelming sense of disappointment. The bed blurred as tears gathered on her lashes. Now that she was safe, and protected from the menace of whatever lurked in the fog outside, she allowed them to fall.

  “Where are you?” she whispered, unsure of everything now that the brutal truth was before her.

  She knew he couldn’t be at the Carmichael’s house still. Even if he had still been there when she had left the house, the fires proved he hadn’t come home to check on her.

  “Where are you?” she whispered aloud, tears trickling steadily down her cheeks.

  She wasn’t sure whether she should be angry, or deeply worried. She couldn’t think any more. Her mind had gone numb. She just wanted to curl up, get warm, and pretend the world didn’t exist for a while. Maybe after some sleep, everything would make more sense. Right now, she just couldn’t focus on one thing long enough to be able to think clearly. There were too many unanswered questions, problems, worries and concerns bubbling around inside her for her to even comprehend just yet, especially in her tired state.

  Her hand slid off the door knob. She turned to leave but something drew her back to face the room. Taking a step deeper into the bed chamber, her attention was immediately drawn to a large, looming shape hovering at head-height behind the door only a few feet away.

  Her scream locked in her throat-seconds before the world went black.

  When she returned to the world some time later the room was still dimmed by the fog outside. To begin with, she lay perfectly still while her senses returned. She was warmer than she had been, she knew that much, but her toes were still painfully cold. She frowned and tried to remember why the fire was not warning the room. There was also a heavy weight on her and, she was lying on the floor. Confused, she waited for her fuddled mind to begin to work.

  Slowly and carefully she took stock of her surroundings.

  One thing swiftly became evident was that she wasn’t in her bedchamber, in her bed where she should be. She rolled onto her back and moaned when her bruised and aching flesh protested. Opening her eyes, she peered at the wooden surface of the dresser mere inches from her nose. Her frown deepened as she pushed herself onto her elbow and studied it. It was then that she realised where she was.

  Her stomach lurched. Her eyes widened. Horror suffused her. Slowly, she turned to look at the door. A scream turned to a whimper when her stunned gaze landed on the figure hanging from a solitary strand of rope attached to one of the beams running along the ceiling.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered, her eyes locked in stunned disbelief on the macabre sight.

  Everything slowly shuddered to a halt. Time was temporarily suspended. Nothing registered beyond the sight of her a man-a stranger-hanging lifelessly from the neck in her father’s bedchamber.

  Is this why father isn’t here? Has he done this? As soon as she thought it she began to deny the possibility. Her father wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t be responsible for something like this. But then, she wouldn’t have believed him to be the kind of father who would abandon her at a musical, but it looked like he had. She dreaded to think what this meant for the arrangement he had apparently entered into with the man who called himself the Count.

  “What have you done?” she cried softly in dismay.

  She couldn’t bring herself to look at the horror again. What she had witnessed already was indelibly printed on her mind for all eternity. For as long as she lived she would never forget the sight of …. that.

  She awkwardly pushed herself onto her knees and tried to stand up only to find the trembling in her legs wouldn’t allow her. Her horror grew when she realised she couldn’t get away from it-him-whoever he was. She didn’t need to look at that twisted face again to know that she didn’t recognise him.

  “I need to get out of here,” she sobbed aloud.

  This time, when she got to her feet, she forced her legs to lock beneath her and hold her upright. Her stomach roiled its objection to the movement, but she ignored it as she stumbled to the door, desperately trying to ignore the way the body swung silently in a circle. Around and around in a haunting circle, it was unnerving. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious on the floor, but from the way the body was gently swinging in the room with no breeze, it looked as th
ough the death had only recently happened.

  Fear began to build and made her shake alarmingly. Her gaze flew around the room in search of someone and fell on the swinging body again. Whoever the man was, his face wasn’t mottled, so hadn’t been there all that long. Rigor mortis hadn’t settled in yet.

  Did that mean the killer was still in the house somewhere?

  Placing her hands on either side of her head, she stared blankly at the body and tried to decide what to do. Everything within her screamed at her to leave; to not just get out of the room but out of the house completely, but she couldn’t. Her feet wouldn’t work. If she ran into someone out in the hallway, she had no idea what she would do. She was too scared to go anywhere. Besides, she had no place else to go. This was her home.

  “What is going on? Why?” She whispered, well aware that the silence wouldn’t bring her any answers. Talking to herself didn’t bring her the solace it usually did. Instead, it emphasised her loneliness which in turn increased her worries.

  “I have to get out,” she gulped.

  She forced herself to move before she could talk herself out of it. On her way to the door she forgot that the blanket was wrapped around her and stumbled when she tried to take a shuffling step. She dropped the blanket and was immediately swamped with cold air again. It made her shiver even more. The more she walked, the faster she walked until she was running by the time she reached her room again. Slamming the door behind her she leaned against it, but couldn’t drag her thoughts away from the macabre scene behind her.

  It, the body, was still in the house with her.

  Stumbling forward, she dug into her drawers and unearthed her pouch of coins. It was her precious stash of money from the allowance her father gave her that she hadn’t spent and was all she had in the world aside from her clothing. It was enough for her to get away. Quickly stuffing as many of her things into a carpet bag as she could, she yanked it off her bed, threw two of her thickest shawls over her shoulders, and slammed out of the room.

  She daren’t even glance at her father’s bed chamber as she ran past it. Neither did she stop as she raced through the house, straight out of the back door. In that moment, she didn’t care who was outside or still lurking within, as long as they didn’t try to stop her.

  But stop her they did, when she raced down the garden path and slammed straight into a tall, solid figure that was achingly familiar. Instinctively, she cried out and clung to him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Marguerite allowed the tears to flow. She didn’t have the strength or presence of mind to withhold them, especially when she looked up, straight into the eyes of Jeremy, the man she had once thought she should avoid.

  “What is it?” Joe demanded when he saw the look on her face.

  When she had run into him, his hands had instinctively lifted to hold her in place, not least to prevent her from running away again. Now they held her in place to keep her upright because he suspected that whatever had happened inside, she was going to fall if he didn’t hold her up.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded harshly when she swallowed several times, opened her mouth but didn’t seem able to speak.

  He had been working with the Star Elite for many years now and knew when a person was in shock.

  She is also going to be ill if she stays in this cold, Joe mused feeling her chilled flesh beneath his fingers.

  Hauling her toward him, he was alarmed by the defeated way she slumped against him and rested her head on his chest for several moments. His eyes met Marcus’ and Ben’s for a few moments. They all studied what they could see of the gardens and house, but nothing appeared to be wrong. But, to their well-trained eyes, that was no reassurance. It was almost too still and quiet.

  “Marguerite, I need you to talk to me,” Joe began. “Tell me what has happened. What’s in there?”

  Marguerite lifted her head. She had no idea if she could trust him or not, or how he had managed to find her, but he was the only person around she could turn to.

  “There is a man,” she whispered. “I-inside. Jeremy, he is d-d-dead.”

  She gulped and felt sick.

  Joe immediately whistled and watched Marcus freeze. Marguerite watched Jeremy make a strange signal with his hand, after which the man by the kitchen door suddenly retreated and came to stand beside them.

  “Who? Where? Your father?”

  “I don’t know who he is,” she cried.

  Joe had seen that look on her face several times before. It was the look of someone who had been bombarded with too much fear. Whoever she was connected to, whether it was Sayers or not, she was deeply shaken and barely coherent. With that, he immediately softened his stance toward her, namely because he suspected that to be harsh with her right now would leave her crumbling and unable to communicate at all.

  Joe nodded at Marcus who followed Ben into the house. Once they had gone, Joe leaned back and looked into the terrified gaze of the woman who bothered him more than anyone ever had done in a very long time.

  “Are you sure you don’t know him?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know where my father is. He should be home but he isn’t here.”

  Joe swore. “Have you seen your father since the party?”

  Too choked to speak, Marguerite shook her head. She was shaking so much she wasn’t sure her knees were going to be able to hold her up for much longer.

  “Tell me where the body is,” he suggested. He looked up at movement in the kitchen doorway and knew Marcus and Ben were waiting for them to join them. “Come on.”

  “I am not going back in there,” she whispered.

  Joe looked down at the bag in her hand. “Where were you going?”

  Marguerite shrugged. “I don’t know, but I can’t stay here.”

  “Do you have any relatives in the area?” he frowned, wondering if she was going to go to Sayers.

  She shook her head. “I have an uncle in Cumbria, so I might go there. I can’t go back in there.”

  Joe sighed. “Well, you can’t stay out here, and I don’t think you should go wandering off on your own.”

  He slowly released her and stepped back cautiously. He kept his hands out in case she started to fall again, but she held herself upright. However, the shivers that swept through her were visible and a clear warning of just how shaken she was, or how cold. Either way, she was going to be ill if he didn’t do something to help her. He suspected that another altercation like the one she experienced last night would just about tip her over the edge. To prevent that from happening he adopted a soothing approach which seemed to work on her.

  “I need you to come back inside. You don’t have to go anywhere near the body if you don’t want to, but you cannot stand out here in the cold. You are freezing,” Joe murmured soothingly.

  She shook her head. Joe sighed and dug deep for his patience.

  “Look, if there is a body in the house then the killer might be around out here. I need to go inside, and you need to come with me where you are safe. I won’t hurt you, and neither with my colleagues. It is just not safe for you out here right now, just in case someone is lurking in this fog.”

  He glanced around the garden. The three of them had done a very thorough search of the grounds and were relatively certain that nobody was lurking in the bushes but it was a situation that could change in a heartbeat. Thankfully, his reasoning seemed to penetrate her fear because she glanced hastily around and sidled closer toward him. Although reluctant, at least this time she went with him when he prodded her back into the house.

  “Show us where he is,” Marcus murmured. His eyes met Joe’s for a moment, silently asking if there was any danger.

  Joe shrugged. The tension within the house thickened as the men began to search.

  “What’s your name?” Marcus asked when they converged at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Marguerite.”

  “This is your home, is it?”

  She nodded.

&
nbsp; “Who else lives here?” Joe queried.

  “Just me and my father. We have a housekeeper, Mrs Tingay, who comes in three times a week but she isn’t due in until Tuesday.” Realising she was babbling, Marguerite fell silent.

  “After you.” Joe waved toward the stairs. He knew she was reluctant. “Go on. He is dead. He can’t hurt you now.”

  “It is macabre,” she whispered.

  “Death is,” Marcus replied flatly.

  There wasn’t much Marguerite could say to that. The men’s disaffection did little to erase her own doubts and fears but at least it gave her the strength to climb the stairs and lead them to her father’s bedchamber.

  “He hasn’t been back I take it?” Joe asked of her once at the door.

  Marguerite shook her head. “I had hoped-”

  Joe nodded.

  “What’s your father’s name?” Marcus asked.

  “Eustace Smisby,” she whispered.

  Joe’s brows furrowed. “Now, where have I heard that name before?”

  “He is a clock maker,” Marguerite explained.

  “From Smisby and Wreake,” Marcus replied with a knowing nod.

  Marguerite nodded.

  “They make fine quality timepieces,” Joe murmured, impressed in spite of himself.

  “Mr Wreake died last year, I am afraid, but my father still makes clocks,” she whispered.

  Strangely, in spite of the worries surrounding her, talking about such mundane matters brought a sense of normality to the situation that was disconcerting. At any other time, she would have offered to show them a few of her father’s time pieces. Now, she couldn’t bear to move anywhere in the house she didn’t have to go. It was odd because she had once felt comfortable here. Now she wanted to be as far away from the place as it was possible to get.

  “I am not going in there,” she protested with a fervent shake of her head.