Seduced by a Stranger

by Eve Silver

  A fair enough observation. “I ask because I already gave Madeline her medicine earlier this evening.” And I am certain I mentioned that fact to Gabriel. She did not voice the last bit aloud, wary of what trust she should place in the housekeeper.

  Catherine vacillated between disbelieving Madeline’s outlandish assertions that someone here wished her harm, and believing they were not so outlandish at all. There was something very wrong in this household, and Catherine dared not make a mistake. She had the horrible suspicion that Madeline’s life might depend on it. But who posed the danger? Mrs. Bell? Gabriel? Some as yet undisclosed pawn or bishop on the board? How was she to know?

  Each time she thought she had her answers, something else happened to make her question all she had already gleaned.

  “Did I not tell you so?” Madeline offered in a reedy whisper, as though driven to participate in some small way in this conversation that pertained to her. Her words were a paltry challenge to Mrs. Bell’s overwhelming personality.

  “Thank you for your solicitude, Mrs. Bell,” Catherine said, reaching out to lift the glass of wine from where the housekeeper had placed it on the table, intending to pour out the contents. She had no desire for Madeline to reach for it in a stuporous state and ingest more of the medicine than was safe. “I can only imagine how vast your duties already are. Surely you do not need yet another to add weight to your burdens. I shall take full responsibility for administering Madeline’s medicine from here on out.”

  The housekeeper’s lips thinned and she looked positively furious. “I tell you, Sir Gabriel bid me see to her. Only a short time ago I saw him below, and he was very clear in his instruction.”

  “A short time ago?”

  “A matter of moments,” Mrs. Bell insisted.

  But Catherine knew she was lying. Or perhaps only confused. For she had seen Gabriel ride away at least a half hour past.

  “I believe you are mistaken, Mrs. Bell.”

  The color drained from the woman’s cheeks, then rushed back in a crimson flush, but she held her tongue, spun, and stalked from the room. Catherine turned to watch her go.

  With a shake of her head, Catherine sniffed at the wine in her hand, curious to see if the scent would suggest the dosage the housekeeper had doled out. She froze in place. The smell was… wrong.

  Again she sniffed the glass. There was the sweet scent of the Madeira, and another aroma blending with it. But not the distinctive smell of laudanum that she expected. She had enough experience with the noxious stuff to know there was often a smell of alcohol, perhaps sassafras or cloves, and always the heavy, cloying, distinctive aroma of the laudanum itself.

  None of those scents were present now.

  The drink smelled of wine and—she sniffed again— almonds.

  The air left her in a rush.

  “Madeline,” she said, keeping her tone even and smooth as she shifted to face the bed once more. Her friend’s eyes were closed, her cheeks pale. At the sound of her name, she roused and turned her head, lifting her lids halfway. “Madeline, did you watch Mrs. Bell pour this wine for you?”

  “Wine?” Madeline murmured with a frown. Her lids drifted shut, then opened once more. “Is there wine?”

  With a sigh, Catherine realized that Madeline would be no help in solving this mystery. Recollection of laudanum’s effects—the dulling lethargy, the weightless floating—came to her, and she knew the state that Madeline was in. The helpless, drugged state.

  Carrying the full glass, Catherine crossed to the window, undid the latch, and pushed open the sash. She glanced down to make certain there was no one below, and then she poured the contents of the crystal glass out the window. With a shudder, she pushed it shut and drew the curtains.

  Whatever had been mixed with that wine, she suspected it had not been laudanum. What, then? Poison? Did she really believe that? And who was the poisoner? Mrs. Bell? To what purpose?

  Her gaze lit on the brown bottle that sat on the bedside table. Quickly, she closed the space, lifted the bottle, removed the lid and sniffed the contents. Cloves, alcohol, and laudanum.

  Whatever had been poured into the wine had not come from this bottle. She was certain of it.

  But that was her only certainty. Other than that, all she had were questions without answers, for she had no idea if Mrs. Bell had prepared that wine herself or simply brought a glass prepared by another. If Gabriel had misheard when she said she had already given Madeline a dose of her medicine. If he had forgotten, or—horrific as the possibility was—if he had intended to see Madeline receive a second dose, perhaps an amount large enough to kill her. Or had Mrs. Bell fabricated the story altogether, attributing instructions to Gabriel when he had given her none?

  She shuddered and went to the washstand where she rinsed the crystal goblet before setting it down. Crossing to the bed, she stayed there for several moments, watching the steady rise and fall of Madeline’s chest. Certain that her friend slept, Catherine took the bottle of laudanum and left the room.

  It was only later, as she lay in her own bed on the edge of slumber, that her muzzy thoughts revisited the events in Madeline’s chamber. She was certain the bottle of laudanum had been open on the table when she had first entered the room to confront Mrs. Bell, but it had been closed when she went to sniff the contents.

  Such a small thing to note, but note it she did, though what possible significance there could be to such an observation escaped her. The tendrils of sleep that had begun to wrap around her evaporated like a mist, and she was left restless and troubled, certain that there was something here she had missed.

  * * *

  This one had disappointed him.

  Sweat stained his shirt, prickling at the small of his back and under his arms, beading on his forehead and lip.

  He had wanted her to moan, to scream against the gag, to thrash as he played. She’d done none of those things. She had only stared at him, eyes blank and glassy, as though she had left her body long before he ended her life. He had broken her before he had truly begun, and that made a cold knot of rage glow in his belly.

  Susan Parker had cheated him of the game.

  He wanted one who was strong, stubborn. Even brave. The longer they thrashed and moaned and struggled, the better he enjoyed his play. He decided when they cried out. He decided when they writhed and moaned. He decided when the game was done.

  But Susan had broken as soon as he slit her dress and peeled it from her shivering form. Where was the fun in that? The challenge?

  The joy he derived was intricately twined in the knowledge that he controlled them. Their thoughts. Their hopes. One of his favorite parts was when he offered comfort and his chosen victim turned her face to his hand, seeking warmth, seeking succor.

  Susan had denied him that. She had denied him the most delicious part.

  Her mind had collapsed, and in the end, she had never truly seen him. She was supposed to see him, truly see him. They always did in the end. But Susan had not been there anymore; she had gone somewhere else, somewhere he could not reach.

  In his rage, he had cut her head clean off. He had shoved his blade deep, sawing back and forth without finesse or delicacy, cutting skin and muscle, artery and vein. He had slashed her windpipe, the white cartilage bright against the river of blood. But his fury had not been assuaged. In the end, he had hacked at her until her head pulled free, slid from his fingers, and hit the floor with a dull thud. Then it had rolled to the side and lain there, glazed eyes staring up at him.

  Where was the pleasure in that?

  Instead of being the one in control, he had lost control, visiting his fury upon her. His arms were completely drenched in blood nearly to the shoulder. The rest of him was splattered with it, dark, glistening splotches.

  He licked his lips, tasted her blood on his tongue.

  It was then he realized he had forgotten the feather. Breathing heavily, he stood over the body, rage swelling anew.

  She had made him f
orget the feather. Bitch.

  He must salvage what he could of this. He must follow his routine. Lifting his knife once more, he plunged it deep and cut open her belly, pulling out loop upon loop of glistening intestine. Ripping it free, he shoved it in the open jar at his feet, then turned his attention to her stomach.

  * * *

  The following morning, Catherine breakfasted alone. She was not certain how she felt about that, for she both missed Gabriel’s unique brand of conversation and felt relieved not to have to face him in the aftermath of the kiss they had shared.

  Last night, they had both taken their masks off, but she had been far more naked than he. The thought was unsettling.

  A part of her felt certain he absented himself today out of consideration for her, that he offered her a respite from the raw emotions his presence stirred. The larger part of her felt certain that the sole reason she ate alone was because he had business elsewhere, for he had never struck her as an overly empathetic individual. In all likelihood, contemplation of her emotions and her comfort had never entered his mind.

  With her meal complete, she rose and took her book to the small yellow sitting room at the front of the house. The light there was wonderful for reading and she was quite enthralled with Dr. Frankenstein’s story now, anxious to see where it would take him. And her. In a way, she felt as though she accompanied him on his journey, as though she was the one questing for dangerous knowledge.

  The story engrossed and provided a respite from her thoughts. She was restless, tired, for her night had passed in tossing and turning and battling haunting memories. But the fresh light of day had brought renewed determination to bury all the things that had no place in her life now, to lock them away in the box she assigned them, and to build distance between herself and Gabriel St. Aubyn.

  That was the only safe option. To let him burrow beneath her defenses was a mistake she would undoubtedly pay for. She felt certain of that.

  For a time, she read, immersing herself in the story. Her heart bled for Justine, accused of a murder she did not commit. And though she abhorred his weakness, she understood Victor’s hesitance to reveal the reasons Justine could not have killed William, for that would have seen Victor judged insane. There were things in this book that made her shudder, made her feel like weeping, not only for the characters within, but for the parallels to her own secrets.

  Had Gabriel known when he gave her this book that the story would reach inside her and pluck at old wounds? Did it do the same for him? Or was it mere entertainment he sought when he read this?

  She would know those answers only if she delved into his thoughts. She doubted he would allow such intrusion. Not by her. Not by anyone. And she was not certain if she even wanted to know what tragedies had shaped him, what secrets he held. That could only serve to make her more confused. Better to hold him at a distance, to learn nothing of his secrets and share none of her own. She had already given him far too many glimpses of her private truths.

  At length, she rose and crossed to the window, the one that gave her a clear view of the grounds and the distant woods, and a part of the long, graveled drive. Sweeping aside the yellow velvet curtain, she stared out at the world beyond the glass. The sky was overcast, heavy with charcoal-limned clouds, but at brief intervals a bright shaft of sunlight would break through to dance across the grass and trees, then disappear once more.

  She heard the sound of hoofbeats before the horse came into view, for her position allowed a glimpse of only the far end of the long drive. She waited, and after a moment, she saw Gabriel, mounted on his great black beast, cantering away from the house.

  As she watched, his path crossed that of a carriage that turned into the drive and came toward the abbey. He did not stop, nor did the carriage; they simply passed on the drive, each continuing on their way.

  Curiosity stirred. She wondered who came to Cairncroft that they did not warrant even a brief greeting from the master.

  She turned from the window and hurried out of the sitting room, returning to the breakfast room where the window offered a clear view of the section of the drive that was nearer the house. She was just in time to see the gleaming black coach rock to a halt and the door swing open.

  A man, tall and broad, stepped down, his face turned away from her. What little she might have seen of his features was obscured by the brim of his hat. A black greatcoat billowed about him as he moved away from the coach, and Catherine felt a stirring of familiarity. Something in the way he walked… his height… something…

  He stopped, his posture relaxed, then he turned fully toward her. The face was one she knew well now. Beautiful. Severe.

  With a gasp, Catherine shrank into the shadows.

  The man was St. Aubyn.

  But how? She had seen him only moments past, riding away from the abbey on his great black beast, garbed in tan cord breeches and a dark brown, square-cut riding coat. It was impossible that he could be this man, newly emerged from the carriage, standing on the drive in black greatcoat and hat.

  Yet here he was.

  Determined to get to the root of this, Catherine lifted her skirt and rushed from the room, tearing along the long, dim hallway in a most unladylike fashion. She was breathing rapidly, her pulse racing as she skidded to a stop on the narrow set of stairs that led to the main entry hall. She paused some five risers from the bottom.

  The front door was open, held that way by Mrs. Bell, and through the portal stepped the man she had seen through the window.

  For a moment, her head spun at the impossibility of what she saw. Gabriel, standing in a place he could not possibly be. How? How had she seen him only moments past riding away from Cairncroft, even crossing the path of the carriage, only to have him emerge from within it? What manner of illusion was this?

  Mrs. Bell smiled in greeting, even offering her hand, which the newcomer closed in his own black-gloved one and gave a quick squeeze. The oddity of that greeting struck Catherine, as did the bright smile he flashed.

  An open, happy smile.

  White teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  It was then she realized the newcomer could not possibly be Gabriel, who never smiled like that and certainly never interacted with the housekeeper in such an easy, friendly manner. No… more than friendly… Affectionate.

  She saw the differences now. The height and build were similar, the color of his hair, even the angle of his jaw and the slant of his cheeks. But this man had a slight bump at the bridge of his nose, and as he took his hat from his head, she saw that his hair, while thick and honey-hued, was far shorter than Gabriel’s and a shade or two darker. Then he turned his face toward her and any doubt she might have harbored evaporated entirely, for his eyes were a clear and vivid green, while Gabriel’s were amber gold.

  His gaze raked her in a leisurely assessment, his mouth curving in a far different sort of smile than the one he had offered Mrs. Bell, and Catherine understood from that perusal quite a bit about him. This man knew women and liked them very much. He was not the aloof, cold creature that Gabriel was.

  Which made him far less intriguing.

  “Are you his brother?” Catherine asked, not bothering with niceties, certain he would not be surprised by the question. But she was surprised, for in all her time here at Cairncroft, and in all the years she and Madeline had corresponded, she had never heard mention that Gabriel had a brother. Not a word. Not a whisper.

  Mrs. Bell gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth, as though the query was horrific in some manner. Catherine might have ignored that reaction except the stranger’s eyes narrowed and his expression closed in clear indication that her question crossed some unseen boundary.

  “No,” he replied, recovering his aplomb so quickly Catherine almost believed she had imagined the telltale signs of caginess. He offered a perfectly executed bow with a flourish. “I am Mr. Sebastian St. Aubyn, the black sheep cousin, the wastrel, the wanderer”—he winked, and added audaciously
—“come home for a visit. Haven’t I, Mrs. Bell?” He turned to the housekeeper, and to Catherine’s utter amazement Mrs. Bell fluttered her lashes like a girl.

  Catherine introduced herself, and with the formalities taken care of, she asked, “Where were you wandering, Mr. St. Aubyn?”

  “Egypt,” he said with a grin, then addressed the housekeeper. “Mrs. Bell, can you offer a starving man some sustenance? In the blue parlor? You know I favor the size and comfort of the chairs in there.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “And Miss Weston, can you offer this lonely soul some company? I shall regale you with stories of my travels and I promise you will be entertained.”

  He shed his greatcoat and offered her his arm.

  “I should be delighted to join you,” Catherine murmured, curious about more than his travels. She thought he might be persuaded to answer some questions about Gabriel and Madeline and the pall that hung over the abbey. And if not persuaded, tricked.

  Taking his arm, she accompanied him to the blue parlor. She could see why he liked it; the size was cozy rather than imposing, the chairs comfortable, the windows opening to a small, walled garden that was pretty if slightly wild.

  At first they exchanged small pleasantries. Catherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as they discussed the weather at some length. If she had required any further proof that this man was not Gabriel, the turn of their conversation would have provided it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  A maid brought tea and cakes, along with a cold pheasant pie and some fruit.

  Sebastian St. Aubyn polished off a healthy portion as they conversed. She noticed that he did not ask after Madeline or Gabriel, and she wondered why, but did not ask. Good manners prevented it, but more than that, she felt that such a line of inquiry would give too much away and perhaps put him on his guard. Better to see where he led the discourse and glean what information she could before formulating her questions and coaxing free what answers she might.

  When he was done with his meal, Catherine poured more tea at his request, and said, “Mr. St. Aubyn, I will hold you to your word now. Do tell me about Egypt and your travels.”