Earth, Air, Fire, and Water 04 - A Treacherous Proposition

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  They descended the stairs as quietly as they could. Vincent didn’t want Sudbury to wake and follow them. Not only did he not want him near the children and Diana in the dark, the last thing he wanted was to have to explain this absurdity to anyone. He felt foolish enough as it was.

  Vincent had Feetham scout the dark courtyard before they ventured out, hating the feeling of vulnerability. If their spy were lurking about… But, then again, how likely was it that anyone would be expecting this lunacy?

  No one appeared to be in the area. Nurse led them to a seat in the center of a circular paved area surrounded by flower beds and hedges. A pile of branches lay beside it.

  “Here, m’lady. You sit down and hold Miss Selena. Lord Vincent, you keep Bytham with you for now.” Nurse made shooing motions. “No, no. Over there.”

  Vincent shifted Bytham to a more comfortable angle in his arms and stepped back into the shadows, signaling Throckmorton and Feetham to do the same. The light of the full moon cast everything into contrasting light and the blackest shadows. Damnation! He could not see anything except the stone bench. A brigade could be hidden in the hedges.

  Diana sat, and Throckmorton carefully placed Selena in her lap before taking up a position in the darkness opposite Vincent. Feetham moved into a different quadrant farther from the building. The girl muttered sleepily and rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. Diana smoothed her hair and whispered reassurances. Nurse picked up a branch from the pile at her feet.

  “Elder,” she muttered. Rummaging under the bench, she lifted up a bottle and poured something on to the leaves. Then she bowed her head and appeared to be praying.

  But not to the moon, Vincent grumbled to himself. That would be unChristian.

  Her prayer apparently complete, the old woman began to walk clockwise around the bench, shaking the branch toward Diana and Selena and muttering. The hair on the back of Vincent’s neck rose. Seeing the three of them in the eerie light— Selena, Diana with the child in her arms and her hair streaming down her back, and Nurse wielding an elder tree branch—reminded him of a carving he had seen at a Roman ruin. Something to do with the Roman triple goddess—the Maiden, the Mother and the Crone. Perhaps the veneer of Christianity lay much thinner over England than he had always imagined.

  Nurse completed three circuits around Diana and Selena, then, standing before them, began to strip leaves from the branch. She tossed a handful in each of the cardinal directions, then broke the branch into three pieces and tossed it into the hedge.

  A sudden puff of air ruffled his hair and far out in the park an owl hooted. In spite of himself, Vincent shivered.

  “There.” Nurse dusted off her hands. “Miss Selena will be safe. Now we must see to Master Bytham.” She felt under the bench again, coming out with a long-handled pot. A puff of smoke rose from it when she lifted the lid. Thrusting another branch into it, she stirred it about until the leaves began to smolder. She carried the small torch to where Vincent stood holding Bytham and repeated her previous ritual of circuits around them.

  When she had finished, she tossed the branch at Vincent’s feet. “Stamp it out,” she instructed.

  He did so hastily, uncomfortable with even that small amount of light, then looked up quickly as a dog howled somewhere off toward the stables. “Are we finished?”

  Nurse nodded. “Aye, we’re done.”

  Vincent gestured to Throckmorton and the big man took Selena from Diana. The whole escort moved back toward the house. As they approached it, a movement in the doorway caught his eye. He instantly handed Bytham to Diana, loosening his pistol from his belt.

  Justinian Sudbury stepped out of the shadows. He wore no coat or boots, and Vincent could barely see the outline of the gun stuck in his waistband.

  “All’s well?” Sudbury glanced over the group and back at Vincent.

  “Yes.” Be damned if he was going to explain the reason for the gathering. “Some of Nurse and Lady Diana’s doing.”

  Sudbury nodded sagely before turning back into the manor. “Women.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  He would never look at his old nurse quite the same way again. Vincent had known her literally all of his life, but hitherto only as the comforter of skinned knees, the washer of faces and, on one occasion, the administrator of a soapy mouth. He grimaced. He could still taste the soap. But the lesson had been learned. He’d never said that again.

  But now… The image of her in the moonlight presiding over elder, fire and water would never leave him. Nor would the moment of seeing Diana in her mystical role as Mother. Now that he thought about it, all women seemed to have something otherworldly about them, something elusive that men rarely glimpsed.

  And never understood.

  This morning, on the front steps in the light of the sun, the whole episode seemed unreal. And all too real. A chill ran up his back. Perhaps he should adopt Sudbury’s laconic attitude.

  Women.

  As if the thought brought him into being, Sudbury appeared at his side, yawning. “Riding this morning?”

  “Yes. Did you not sleep well?”

  “Well enough. Not partial to mornings.” He yawned a second time. “Mind if I ride with you?”

  “Not at all.” Vincent wondered if that were the truth. Sudbury was good company, but why was he still at Inglewood? He had originally offered to stay and help keep watch, but now Vincent had an abundance of watchers at his disposal, and he had never asked Justinian to help, in any event.

  The possibility existed that Sudbury needed a place to stay. If he were under the hatches, he might find it convenient to enjoy Vincent’s hospitality until quarter day.

  Or he might find it convenient to watch Vincent for someone.

  The under groom brought Vincent’s muscular black stallion up to the steps and Vincent sent him back for Sudbury’s mount. Just as the man turned back to the stable, Vincent caught sight of another rider coming up the drive. Delamare. He called the groom back. “Please tell Murton that I will need him this morning.”

  Vincent seldom rode out with a groom in attendance, but he decided that this morning should be an exception. He had little doubt that Delamare would also offer to ride with him, and he had no desire to become isolated in the company of those two. If he could locate James Benjamin somewhere on the grounds, he would attach him, too, on the pretext of inspecting the patrols.

  Someone had to watch his back.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” Delamare reined in his tall bay by the steps, but did not dismount, instead bowing to them from the saddle.

  “Delamare.” Vincent squinted up at him where he sat against the brilliant sky. Trust the man to make them crane their necks to see him.

  “Servant, Delamare.” Sudbury sketched a bow. “Fine morning.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Delamare glanced Sudbury’s sturdy chestnut being led from the stable. “May I join you?”

  “Certainly.” Vincent vaulted into his saddle and Sudbury followed suit. “Through the park?”

  “I’d like to see the spring, if I may.” Delamare fell in alongside Vincent as they started down the drive.

  Vincent nodded. “This way.”

  Sudbury came up on his other side and Vincent’s groom, Murton, brought up the rear. They left the drive at the first convenient spot and cantered through the park in the direction of the stream.

  “I meant to ask you yesterday.” Delamare moved his horse a bit closer to Vincent’s. “Do you remember that old service corridor—the one we used to play in?”

  Vincent’s whole body tensed and he cast an inquiring glance at his visitor. Was the man baiting him, letting him know he had access to the house? Had he sent that intruder? Or had Sudbury simply mentioned something about the occurrence to him? On the other hand, Delamare might simply be tossing out evidence of the relationship he claimed.

  “What about it?”

  “I tried to find it when I stayed there night before last, to test my memory of the place, but I co
uld not. I remember that it comes out in the pantry, but I could not find the end in the upstairs corridor.”

  The possible implications of a stranger searching for that passage shook Vincent for a moment. Then he put the subject aside for later contemplation. “You were searching on the wrong floor.”

  “Indeed?” Delamare stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I thought it was on the same floor where we slept.” He glanced at Vincent inquiringly. “That was my old bedchamber, was it not?”

  “Aye.” So…he had remembered. Or guessed. Vincent decided he had no more to say about that.

  They rode over the rise that separated the house from the wooded borders of the small stream. Delamare looked up and down the brook and turned unerringly toward the spring. When they reached it, he dismounted and stepped up to the banks. Bending down, he trailed his fingers through the water, his eyes unfocused, as if staring into the past.

  He touched his fingers to his lips. “Now I recollect the smell.” He pointed downstream. “And we fished there, in that pool.” He stood. “That is where I got the fishhook in my ear.”

  He touched his left ear and all of them looked at it. A white scar ran from the center of the lobe to the edge.

  Before he thought, Vincent said, “And you screeched like the very devil.”

  Delamare frowned and said, testily, “Well, it hurt. And it was your hook. The farrier had to cut the barb off to get it out.”

  Vincent nodded, deciding once again he had said too much. The scar looked old, but it was altogether possible that Delamare had been talking with someone who had been at Inglewood in those days, and scars could be created. He turned in his saddle and directed a look at Murton. He had been with them for decades. Murton shrugged. Never mind. Vincent would ask him about it later.

  As they jumped a narrow spot above the spring and continued up the next hill, Vincent found himself with a great deal to think about.

  Diana had come to dread seeing the post lying on the entry table. Each day when she passed, she looked to see if there was anything directed to her, then hurried by as though to avoid a reptile. Perhaps she was avoiding a reptile—one of the two-legged variety. But happily, since they had come to Inglewood, there had been nothing from Deimos.

  Had he actually gone to the authorities? Diana doubted it. It had become clear that getting what he wanted from her was more important to him than seeing justice done. That must always be true of blackmailers. She began to wonder if her fears had been foolish. But no matter what he did, she would not tell him one word about Vincent. She could not imagine why the fiend wanted to know about him, but whatever it was, it could bode Vincent no good.

  Suddenly another thought struck Diana. When she had told Vincent that her secret did not involve their safety, she had been thinking only of whomever had tried to take the children—most likely Bonaparte’s supporters. They had been uppermost in her mind for so long that she had not thought about how much threat to Vincent might be involved in Deimos’s order. When he made the demand, Diana had not known that Vincent was involved in espionage.

  All at once the threat loomed large. She must tell him. She could not risk putting him in danger.

  As though the idea brought about the reality, today when Diana peered at the assortment of letters, one addressed to her in that hated hand lurked among them. She reached for it hesitantly, loathe to touch it. As she lifted it, it slithered out of her fingers and fell to the floor.

  Quickly, before one of the footmen could retrieve it, Diana bent and picked it up. As she stood, she heard a commotion at the front door. Looking toward it, she beheld the riding party coming in, Delamare in the lead followed by Sudbury with Vincent ushering his guests through the door. She crammed the message into her pocket and forced a smile.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Diana, your most obedient servant.” Delamare stopped beside Diana, bowed and gazed down at her. “You look especially lovely today.”

  The gallantry meant nothing, but Diana saw something in his eyes—the same kind of intensity that she often saw in Vincent’s—that made her want to step back. She did so. “Mr. Delamare. I hope I find you well, sir.”

  For a moment she thought he would take another step toward her and she retreated again, fetching up against the hall table. What he would actually have done, she was never to learn. Vincent saw her at that moment. “Hello, my lady. We have come in search of a glass of wine. If you can tolerate us in all our dirt, will you join us?”

  “Why, thank you.” Diana surreptitiously touched the paper in her pocket, gently so as not to betray its presence with a crackle. She would have much preferred to go upstairs and read it. What a horror to have hanging over her head while she made polite conversation. But something told her that Vincent wanted her to come with them. “I would enjoy that.”

  As they started toward the stairs, Henry Delamare, one step ahead of Vincent, offered her his arm. She could see no way to politely avoid him, so she accepted it and climbed the steps with him.

  “Which chair would you like, my lady?” he asked solicitously as he led her into the drawing room.

  “I like the one there—with the footstool.” Diana indicated a seat with no other immediately adjacent to it. At least he would not be able to sit beside her.

  He did, however, make a point of bringing her a glass of sherry, of asking if she wanted it refilled, and of addressing most of his remarks to her. Vincent made no obvious objection, but Diana could sense that he was not pleased. She carefully avoided answering Delamare’s invitations to flirt. The last thing she wanted was to appear disloyal to Vincent.

  After several yawns Justinian Sudbury excused himself and went in search of a nap. Delamare stayed the proper half hour, and took himself off, stopping before Diana’s chair to kiss her hand. As soon as Vincent had seen him out and returned, Diana would tell him about Deimos. She would show him the letter.

  But just as Vincent came back into the drawing room, Durbin intercepted him to say that Rugerton, his steward, wanted a word with him. “Forgive me, Diana. I wanted to speak with you, but I suppose that can wait. I best see what’s needed.”

  He followed the butler away down the hall, and Diana sat for a moment in thought. Then she stood and made for her bedchamber, her bodyguard trailing behind her.

  The letter was by far the worst yet. This time Deimos did not include even spurious courtesy. He was raging.

  Lady Diana, my worthless whore—

  I hope you have enjoyed your interlude in Lonsdale’s bed, for it will soon come to an end. No one—no one—my beautiful strumpet, accepts my favors without returning them. I always take what is due to me. You have accepted my silence, yet refused to provide the simple service I have requested. But I will have use of you, nevertheless. You have taken my gold, and I will have the worth of it.

  Do not fear the Runners. I will not send them. I am coming for you myself. And when you feel my heel on your neck, you will wish I had sent the hangman. Fear me, my lovely whore.

  Fear me.

  Deimos

  Diana crumpled the message in her hand and shook. She stood, shaking for a long time. Then she put the paper in the cold fireplace and reached for the flint. She could not show that to Vincent. She would tell him, but she would not let him read those lying words. The monster made it sound as though she had been his bedmate for the sake of money. She had never sunk that low.

  Nor would she—ever.

  But would Vincent believe that?

  Having made the decision to tell Vincent the whole truth, Diana could scarcely wait until bedtime. His business with the steward took up the whole afternoon while she paced about in her bedchamber. She dined with him and Justinian and later drank tea with them in the drawing room, fidgeting internally all the while. Later, the two men played chess while she watched, admiring Vincent’s elegant profile while pretending to read. He had become so beautiful in her eyes.

  When she told him, would she still be beautiful in his?

  She le
ft them to their game and their brandy and went up to change for bed. She was again pacing the room when Vincent knocked on the door. He had barely shut it behind him and turned the lock when he came to her and took her in his arms. Diana had opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with a long kiss.

  When he released her, he started talking immediately. “Diana, I need to discuss the matter of Delamare with you.” He sat of the edge of the bed and began to pull off his boots.

  Oh, dear. He was annoyed by the man’s flirting with her. “Vincent, I…”

  But he continued, apparently without hearing her. “He said several things today that I must seriously consider.”

  Ah. Not the gallantry. She went to sit beside him on the bed. “What sort of thing?”

  “Details that he remembered about Inglewood.” He shrugged out of his shirt. Diana’s gazed drifted to the dark curls covering his hard chest, then back to his face. Vincent went on. “He asked if the room in which he slept had not been his bedchamber as a boy. It was, of course. I wondered if he would recognize it.” He removed his britches and leaned back against the headboard, pulling Diana into his lap.

  “And he did.” She snuggled her head against his shoulder. So comforting. She did not want to tell him, to risk that comfort.

  “I suppose.” Vincent stared at the far wall for a moment. “The possibility also exists that he predicted that I would do exactly what I did—test him with it—and thus hazarded the guess.”

  “I imagine he is shrewd enough to do that. He would have had nothing to lose in trying it.” Diana fingered the crisp, black hair tickling her chin. “Had he been wrong, he could simply say that he must have forgotten.”

  “He can say that about anything—anything that we ask. It has been twenty years.” He began to stroke her thigh absently. “But there were other things. He knew exactly how to find the spring.”