“I’m here to help, Spencer. I understand that he is ill,” Larissa replied loudly.
The old woman cackled. “Ill! Ha. Cursed! He’s cursed like all the Kinravens! Why Katie here couldn’t get a husband… prettiest girl in the Highlands and no man would have her.”
Larissa, in spite of her instantaneous dislike of the other woman, felt some measure of sympathy for her. She knew all too well what it felt like to be held up as the piteous example of spinsterhood. “I’m sure that isn’t so. If Miss DeWarre is desirous of a husband, I doubt there is very little that could inhibit her endeavor.”
Katherine inclined her head. “You are too kind, Miss Walters. Allow me to show you to the study where you can inform the earl of your arrival in person. Your… maid?” she asked with a somewhat befuddled glance at Dorcas.
“Traveling companion,” Larissa corrected. Given the nature of Miss DeWarre’s appearance, there was no hope of passing Dorcas off as any sort of lady’s maid.
“Ah. I see. You have no maid with you then?”
“No. Dorcas has been assisting me. My maid took ill during the first leg of our journey.”
“I hope it was nothing serious,” Katherine said.
“Only seasickness, but she was unable to continue the journey,” Larissa lied. She could feel Dorcas gaping at her behind her back as she spun the elaborate tale.
“I see. Well, your companion will be shown to your room… I assume you won’t mind sharing space with her? You must have grown quite close during your arduous journey?”
“How’d you know it was arjous?” Dorcas demanded, butchering the word in a way that only she could, with an arch look and sharp tone.
Larissa glared at the woman over her shoulder. “Because we look as if we’ve had an arduous journey, Dorcas. Please, go on to our room and if you’ve a mind to do so, unpack the things we have with us.” Turning back to Miss DeWarre, Larissa asked, “Would it be possible to send a groom with a cart for the rest of our bags? The coachman left us at the bottom of the hill.”
Katherine nodded. “Of course he did. People are quite silly about Kinraven. I’ll see to it that your things are fetched while you and Spencer… catch up. Forrester, will you show Miss Walters to the study and perhaps give her some inkling as to how she might find his lordship changed? It would not do for her to be taken by surprise.”
The tiny valet who’d been watching exchange with wide eyes and wringing hands nodded, and his whole body appeared to vibrate with nervous energy. “Of course, Miss DeWarre. Please, Miss Walters, come with me.”
“There are no rooms prepared,” the butler said, directing his protest to Miss DeWarre.
The look that passed between the woman and the servant was shockingly familiar. It reminded Larissa of her sister and brother-in-law when they were in the midst of a disagreement in front of others. “One may be prepared with little effort, Fergus. You will see to it!”
“I do plan to have a long chat with Lord Kinraven which will allow ample time for the preparations. I’m so sorry to put you out,” Larissa offered.
Miss DeWarre smiled but there was a tension in her features that belied the friendly gesture. “It is no trouble at all, Miss Walters. It will be quite exciting to have new people at Kinraven for a visit. You may catch us up on all the gossip from town. I haven’t been to London in years, so I daresay I am far behind on the latest fashions and on-dits. Enjoy your visit with the earl and we will have everything situated for you when you have finished.”
Larissa inclined her head and in gratitude and turned toward the waiting valet. “Where is Lord Kinraven, Forrester?”
Forrester’s gaze fell, the tiny man seemed to simply deflate before their eyes. “He’s in his study, miss. I must warn you, he is not well. But I am ever so glad of your arrival! If anything could set my lordship to rights, it would be the sight of your sweet face.”
Larissa said nothing, though she was aware of Miss DeWarre hanging on every word. She gave Dorcas a warning glance and placed her finger to her lips indicating that the woman should be quiet. Dorcas replied by dropping onto the stairs on her rail thin behind and looking up at the butler with derision.
“You overestimate his lordship’s esteem, Forrester, but I thank you for the compliment.” To her companion she said, “Dorcas, do try not to offend anyone in my absence… please?”
“Who’s to offend? The butler? There’s a stick if ever I saw one,” she muttered.
Larissa shook her head in dismay. She spared a glance at Miss DeWarre and Lady Finella, but both appeared to be so engrossed in whatever they were saying to one another that they’d not heard Dorcas’ comment. It was a small favor but one for which she was quite grateful. Turning back to the tiny valet, she frowned. Forrester was well known for waxing somewhat poetic but the idea that seeing her would put all to rights in Spencer’s world was more than a bit tempting. “Show me to him, please.”
“Oh! Yes,” he said. “Of course! Follow me. Now, please don’t be frightened when you see him. It’s very important that you remain calm.”
That same feeling of dread that she’d experienced in the woods filled her. Larissa looked up and at the top of the stairs was a tall, thin woman in a black gown. Her face was tight and drawn, her dark hair scraped back so tightly it could only have been painful. She could feel the weight of the woman’s gaze on her. “Who is that?”
Forrester didn’t smile. In fact, the man looked petrified. “That is Mrs. Agatha, the housekeeper. Now, remember, when you see his lordship, speak softly and be cautious what you say to him.”
Larissa pulled her gaze from the disapproving figure of the housekeeper. “What precisely is the matter with Spencer?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
Forrester glanced away as tears fell from his eyes and rolled down his thin cheeks. “I wish I knew, miss. I wish I knew.”
In his study, Spencer still stared out the window at the darkness beyond. He was unsure of how long he’d sat there. Time had become somewhat fluid for him. The letters remained unopened on his desk. He remembered that he’d assured Forrester that he would take care of them. Cursing softly, he turned toward the door. The shadows shifted, the pattern of the carpet appearing to coalesce into some dark being. It writhed and moved on the floor, peeling itself away from the rug beneath.
“Not real,” he muttered. “It is not real.” Saying it did nothing to lessen the appearance of his twisted and horrifying visions, but it did remind him and allow him to hold on for a bit longer to the here and now. In all, the manifestations of his madness had been mild that day. Some days, were infinitely worse, the visions so terrifying that no amount of encouragement or naysaying on his part could keep the dark and twisted visions at bay. On those days, he was incapable of reminding himself what was real and what was not.
Nothing was as it seemed to him. He could no longer trust the senses that had served him so well. The things he saw and heard were figments of a fevered brain, and they came upon him without rhyme or reason. Sometimes in the morning, often at night, or any hour in between, the world would simply shift away from him as it morphed into a dark place filled with images of demons and devils. But it was the ghosts of his past that plagued him the most. Bloody and mangled bodies, some bloodied by his own hands, stared at him beseechingly from the corner of the room, invisible to anyone else.
When he looked up and saw Larissa standing in the doorway, it was natural to assume that her appearance was simply a part of his insanity. If his mind could fabricate things that made him cringe and shudder, then his consolation should be its ability to conjure images that offered a modicum of peace and comfort. Of course, he did not trust it. Those fleeting images could alter in a second, becoming something grotesque and cruel. Still, for a moment, he allowed himself to drink in the sight of her, something he thought never to lay eyes on again. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her in his madness here, but it was the first time he’d seen her wearing anything other than the expression
of terror that had been etched on her face that last night at Briarwood Hall. He’d done that, he thought. With drunkenness and selfish need, he’d frightened her beyond reason because he lacked the ability to control his baser emotions. Perhaps he’d been going mad even then.
“You can’t really be here,” he said. His voice was pitched low, the statement intended more for his own ears than for the phantom before him.
She smiled back at him. As beautiful as she was, she looked tired and disheveled. “Of course, I’m here. Where else would I be?”
“At Briarwood, where you belong… It is not safe for you here.”
“You are unwell, Spencer. I’ve come to help you,” she protested.
He smiled and reached for the snifter of brandy on the desk. It was empty. A glance at the accompanying decanter revealed that it was empty, as well. Damn. “I am the worst sort of unwell… I am a lunatic, fit for nothing but howling at the moon.”
She stepped deeper into the room. A concerned frown marred her lovely face as she moved toward him. “You are not lunatic, but you are clearly ill… and foxed,” she said, pressing a cool hand to his brow.
Her touch felt like ice against his skin, and yet it soothed him. Perhaps it was a fever that had robbed him of his sense, but if so, surely it would have taken his life already. No fever could last so long without bringing death. He wanted to believe she was real, that the comfort and solace promised in her touch could actually be his. It was such bliss that he could not trust it. Everything that was pleasant and lovely would shift into something vile, ugly and terrifying. Paranoia struck then. This creature before him wearing the face of the woman he craved, what was she after? “Why have you come here? Why now? How did you know that I was ill?” he asked
She straightened, though she still stood close enough to him that he could see the dirt of the road that speckled her gown. “I saw the letter, Spencer… the one you sent to Rhys. I’ve come here to help you.”
He chuckled, a dry humorless sound. That letter, written in a rare moment of complete lucidity, was utterly humiliating. Of course, she’d seen it. “I fear you are too late. There is no help for me.”
She did not respond to his statement but called out for Forrester, his valet, who entered immediately.
“Yes, miss?”
“How long has he been this way?” she demanded.
“The brandy, miss?” Forrester asked frowning.
“No… the other,” she replied, still uncertain of precisely what it was.
“It comes and goes, miss,” the valet replied. “It started a few months ago, but the spells have become more frequent. They last much longer and then he’s not right for days afterward.”
Spencer allowed them to speak about him as if he were not even present. It was something that he would surely have to become accustomed to. Also, he lacked the energy to reprimand either of them for it. He wanted only to the peace and blessed darkness of his bed. In the dark, there was no question as to what was real and what wasn’t.
The heavy iron pot came to a boil, the foul smelling contents creating a heavy fog in the small room. Standing over the pot, inhaling the steam, the woman stared into the mist that rose. “She’ll alter everything if permitted. You must put a stop to her.”
The other person in the room, who’d stood in the shadows seemingly unobserved, let out a mild oath. Of course, she’d known she was not alone. She knew everything. Everything except the arrival of their guest and the inherent complications Miss Larissa Walters would bring. “How am I supposed to do that exactly?”
The woman shrugged. “She’s gifted… she sees things. But this house is shielded, as are you. She will not know your motives or your deeds, but she is powerful. More so than she knows. She loves him, so her motivation is great.”
Fury, cold and sharp invaded then. “How do you know that she loves him?”
“Would she have come here otherwise?”
“What do we do to stop her?”
The woman closed her eyes, drawing the steam deeply into her lungs, much as one would smoking a pipe. Slowly, she expelled it. When she looked back at her accomplice, her eyes were dark and sightless. “He will stop her. Continue with the plan… allow the devil’s trumpet to drive him mad. In his rage, he will end her and in his guilt, he will end himself.”
A shivering nod was the only response. The woman was terrifying when she called on whatever dark force guided her. “I’ll see to it.”
The woman tossed a packet of herbs across the room to land at the feet of her accomplice. “Take those and burn them in the hearth in her room. They will augment the other herbs placed above her bed to thwart her dreams. Close as she is to him, our other safeguards might not be enough to prevent her from seeing what is occurring here.”
“I’ll take care of it now.”
“And the other one,” she called out. “The other one is dangerous too.”
“Which other one?”
“The one whom you ought not to dally with! Be mindful you do not toss everything away on such nonsense!” The warning voice did not truly belong to the woman at all, but to whatever force was no speaking through her. Or at least, that was her claim. Glamour and manipulation of the mind were her greatest gift. She could make a person hear or see anything she wished. He was no different.
Another nod and a hasty exit. When the door slammed, the woman who stood over the boiling caldron laughed softly. The power she’d harnessed at Kinraven was unlike anything she’d ever known in all her years of practicing the dark arts. She’d not give it up willingly and no one would stand in her way, regardless of their station.
Chapter Three
In the library, Larissa looked at the man before her and hardly recognized him. He was pale and thinner than she’d ever seen him. Though he still towered over her and cut an impressive figure, she could see that he’d lost nearly a stone or better. Disheveled and more deeply in his cups than she’d ever seen him, it was terrifying for her to witness. His hair was far too long and it had been days since he’d shaved or bathed, all of which was so unlike him. “Forrester, have his lordship’s bed prepared… and a meal. Nothing too strenuous. Some bread and weak tea, I think. I daresay anything else would have him casting up his accounts.”
When Forrester departed to see to her requests, she turned back to Spencer. “Can you walk?
He raised an eyebrow at her, and whatever strange illness had befallen him, it had not entirely eradicated his autocratic tendencies. “Clearly, I must for your orders brook no disobedience.”
Larissa sighed. “It is not my intent to be difficult or to overstep, but it is apparent to me that no one else in your household is caring for you as they ought. Would you prefer that I stop? I can leave you to your own devices… sitting here in the dark surrounded by empty brandy bottles and unopened letters.”
Spencer shrugged. “I am sorry the welcome you found at Kinraven was not up to your standards… I fear very little within these walls will be. I have inherited an impoverished and apparently cursed earldom. Did you know that? It seems I may have also inherited my father’s love of brandy.”
“That you’d inherited an earldom?” she said, reaching for his hand. “Come, get up. Yes, I knew you’d inherited one,” she said somewhat breathlessly as she tugged him to his feet. “As for the rest, impoverished is a complication. Cursed is surely nothing more than gossip… brandy, well, that’s a choice now isn’t it?”
“I would have thought so too,” he agreed. “Can you see him, Larissa?”
“See who?” she asked, draping Spencer’s arm around her shoulder and walking towards the door. It was less about supporting him than directing him.
“The Frenchman standing there in the corner,” he said, pointing.
Larissa glanced to where he directed. There was no one standing there, but Spencer appeared to be utterly convinced. She didn’t have Emme’s ability to see spirits or commune with them, but her own senses were heightened enough that if she were
to occupy the room with one, she would know it. Whatever Spencer was seeing was entirely in his mind, and that terrified her. “No, Spencer. I don’t.”
“I had almost hoped you would,” he admitted softly. “I’d rather be haunted than mad.”
It nearly did her in to hear him sound so broken, so hopeless. Deciding to lighten the mood and to attempt to coax a smile from him, she offered, “If you’re mad, you're in good company. I’ve managed to hire the most inappropriate of companions! Apparently she has a plethora of late, abandoned and perhaps nonexistent husbands. She prefers gin to brandy, incidentally.”
He shuddered. “Bedlamites, the both of us!”
“Then we shall all be there together for she will almost certainly drive me mad!” Larissa commented. Carefully, she opened the door to the library. Beside her, Spencer winced and covered his eyes. Worriedly, she glanced up at him. He was glassy eyed and his pupils were wide, almost as if he’d taken laudanum. A thoughtful frown notched her brow as she guided him toward the stairs. Two footmen were waiting there, Forrester had practice getting Spencer upstairs, clearly.
“Go with them, Spencer, and try to rest. I’ll come check on you shortly.”
He turned back to her and for a moment, in spite of everything, his gaze was clear and direct and he looked like himself. “You should leave here. Tomorrow morning. I’ll make the arrangements… or Forrester will. This is no place for you, Larissa. I don’t know myself some days, much less anyone else.”
“I’ll see you shortly,” she replied firmly. She had no intention of leaving him in such a state, and if he thought to convince her otherwise, he’d be in for the battle of his life. He was here, in this place and in whatever predicament was currently affecting him because she’d been a coward, because she’d run from him and she vowed it would not happen again.
A short time later, Larissa entered her own room and eyed the steaming tub of water that had been prepared before the fire. Dorcas was putting away the few articles of clothing that they’d managed to carry with them. She could only hope that their trunks would not be scavenged before the servants retrieved them in the morning.
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