by Cara Elliott
“You may have the stamina of youth…” She feigned a yawn. “However, I’m exhausted. It’s been a very long day.”
“We can have a comfortable coze while you ready your ancient bones for bed,” replied her sister.
Recalling the hurt her earlier rebuff in London had caused, Anna didn’t have the heart to say no. This was Caro’s first country house party and it was no wonder that she was abuzz with excitement. Count Rupert had been particularly attentive over supper—so with any luck, that first heady taste of flirtation would keep her sister distracted from discussing any of the other gentlemen guests.
But no sooner had the door closed when the first words out of Caro’s mouth quickly dispelled that hope. “It seems to me that you have changed your tune and are now willing to dance with the Devil.”
“You are mistaken,” scoffed Anna, as she untied the tabs of her gown and stepped out of the layered skirts.
“Oh, pish. Don’t deny it.” Planting herself in the armchair by the hearth, Caro crossed her arms in a silent signal that the conversation wasn’t going to be a short one. “It was dark in the far corner of the alcove, but no amount of shadows could disguise a certain set of broad shoulders and long legs.”
“Oh, very well.” She expelled a sigh. “I admit that the mistake is not yours but mine. I don’t know how to explain it, but when I am around the dratted man I can’t seem to think clearly.”
“Actually, there is a very simple word for what’s clouding your head,” said her sister. “It’s—”
“Don’t you dare say what I think you are going to say,” warned Anna. “Life isn’t as simple as a sonnet.”
“Sonnets are deucedly hard,” protested Caro. “Odes are even harder.”
Anna allowed a reluctant smile as she unpinned her hair and began to brush it out. “I was speaking metaphorically. What I meant was, things aren’t always black and white. Sometimes they are more…”
A muddle of grays.
Her sister looked thoughtful. “Sometimes they are more confusing?” she suggested.
“Yes.” The shadowy reflection of her face in the looking glass seemed to reveal all her myriad inner doubts. “I suppose so.”
Silence greeted the admission, rather than one of her sister’s exuberant opinions. Anna unwound the braided ribbon in her topknot and slowly worked the brush through a small snarl of curls. Outside, the raw, wind-roughened sounds of the Scottish night rose and fell with the gusting breeze, its cadence so elementally different from the familiar street music of London. Which only accentuated the feeling of having lost her way in a dark woods.
“And yet, you always seem so sure of yourself.” Caro’s tentative voice pierced the gloom. “I thought I was the only one who struggles with how to untangle my uncertainties.”
Anna hesitated. Their older sister, Olivia, had considered Caro too young and too impetuous to share in any serious heart-to-heart confidences. But of late, Caro had begun to show a newfound maturity, so perhaps it was time to stop treating her like a schoolgirl.
“If I seemed sure of myself in the past, that’s because I knew exactly what was expected of me,” she said slowly. “Mama had pinned her hopes for our family’s future on my ability to attract a wealthy husband, and I was determined to live up to that responsibility in order to make sure none of us would ever have to worry about having a roof over our heads.”
Caro sucked in a ragged breath. “I never quite realized what a terrible burden you bore. I saw that you had swarms of suitors, and it all seemed like such marvelous fun.” A grimace tugged at her mouth. “I suppose that I thought it was all an enchanted fairy tale, and that you were sure to find a handsome storybook prince who would sweep you off your feet.”
“Mama no doubt still shares your fantasy about the prince,” said Anna dryly. “But Olivia and Wrexham’s generosity has freed me from such responsibilities.”
“Yes, now you may choose a man who enriches your soul, not your purse.”
The burst of poetic passion stirred a snort of amusement, and Anna found herself hoping that at age eighty Caro would still display the same exuberant excess.
“Did you say something?” asked her sister.
“No, no, just something lodged in my throat.”
“Not an unsuitable husband, thank goodness,” quipped Caro. “You don’t have to swallow your dreams and compromise on someone who doesn’t make you completely happy.”
Happy? Ah, that was the very heart of the problem.
“If only I knew what my soul needs to make it overflow with happiness,” she responded. Not wanting to sound too wistful, she quickly added, “It hasn’t yet penned me a note with all the requirements spelled out.”
Caro didn’t laugh.
Shedding the last of her evening clothes, Anna slipped on her nightrail and a thick banyon-style wrapper to shield her from the chill. “Now that you’ve quizzed me on my evening’s interactions with the male guests, tell me about your time with Count Rupert. He seemed extremely attentive to you during supper.”
“Oh he’s pleasant enough.” She shrugged. “And undeniably handsome. But he doesn’t set off any sparks.”
“Sparks aren’t necessarily a good thing,” pointed out Anna. “They can be unpredictable.”
“But shouldn’t love be full of unexpected explosions of beautiful, brilliant little flames?” countered her sister.
“Sparks may look lovely flying up in a bright burst of light, but you never know when they will fall in the wrong spot and start an unwanted fire.”
“Better to have some degree of risk in flashes of fire than safety within the confines of a dull, colorless box of boredom.”
Caro’s eloquence was beginning to reflect some interesting insights. “I hope you are not speaking from experience. Of the three of us, you have the sort of passions that can ignite into trouble.”
“I am not the one dallying with a hellfire rake.”
“I am not dallying, I am simply…”
“Doing research for your novel?” asked Caro with an impish grin.
Anna tossed a pillow at her. “Go to bed, before your imagination becomes too overheated.”
“It’s not my mind that’s afire with forbidden fantasies,” said her sister as she batted the feathery missile aside. Rising, she sauntered toward the door. “Sweet dreams.” A teasing wink hung for an instant in the light of the lone candle. “Though I daresay they will be flavored with far more spice than sugar.”
Another pillow winged through the air, but this one bounced off only polished oak.
“Minx,” muttered Anna with a rueful smile, uncomfortably aware that Caro’s new sharp-eyed insights might prove to be a double-edged sword. Still, she had missed sharing sisterly confidences. Olivia’s sage advice had been a steadying force.
And if ever I needed to keep my balance…
A faint rumble of thunder in the distant moors warned that another storm was blowing in. Moving to the tall bank of leaded windows, Anna pressed her forehead to one of the panes, hoping to cool the feverish thoughts inside her head.
Pitchforks—it felt as if tiny pitchforks were jabbing at the backside of her brow. That, she decided, was because she was letting the Devil Davenport get under her skin. Rather than allow his little games to tease and torment her peace of mind, she ought to channel her emotions into something more positive than brooding.
Ha! All at once, the chill glass suddenly felt remarkably soothing against her skin as Caro’s offhand comment about research suddenly stirred an idea—no, more than an idea—to life.
She was about to turn to the escritoire for her pen and notebook when a flicker of movement in the gardens below caught her eye.
A man was stealing through the slanting shadows cast by the tall yew hedge. Keeping to the verge of grass rather than the graveled walkway, he crossed through a pool of moonlight before disappearing through the arched opening in the garden wall.
Anna stared at the slivered darkness, watching the thick twines of i
vy ruffle for just an instant against the stonework before going still. From somewhere in the nearby trees rose the hoot of an unseen owl.
A creature of darkness who did its hunting at night.
“Predators are on the prowl,” she whispered, and then reached up to draw the draperies shut.
Chapter Seven
The door was unlocked. Easing the latch open, Devlin stepped inside Count Rupert’s set of rooms, and after listening for any sounds of a servant stirring, he stepped to the center of the carpet and slowly turned in a circle to survey his surroundings. There was nothing out of the ordinary. The furnishings were a trifle worn with age, but displayed a tasteful rustic elegance.
A settee and several armchairs upholstered in muted earthtone stripes, a massive pine sideboard stocked with various libations, a pair of mahogany tea tables…a pine desk, already cluttered with various personal items.
Devlin really didn’t expect to find anything momentous. However, he had found that having a sense of an individual’s personality was often an advantage in gambling. And as discerning whether the prince faced any real danger was a game of chance, he went over for a quick look.
The desktop showed none of the usual Germanic penchant for order. A set of meerschaum pipes lay carelessly atop several sporting journals. Next to them sat a book—poetry by Goethe, discovered Devlin, as he thumbed through the pages. Moving on, he found gloves, an oilskin hunting hat still in its wrappings, a pen case, and a portfolio of letters.
Count Rupert appeared to have a number of ardent female admirers scattered throughout Europe.
Finding nothing else of interest, he headed for the half-open bedchamber door. If discovered there, he could always feign drunken disorientation. House parties were notorious for guests stumbling into the wrong rooms, and he had taken care to splash a good amount of whisky on his coat. However, there was no need to linger, for a search turned up nothing, save for the fact that the count had expensive taste in clothing and boots.
Devlin checked the clock on the mantel and decided it was safe to move on to the margrave’s quarters. And depending on how long it took to take a look around, he might also have time to explore Prince Gunther’s quarters. However slight the chances, it was possible that some hint as to why anyone would wish him ill might be there among his belongings.
Too unsettled for sleep or for writing, Anna wandered first to her dressing table, and then to the armoire. But neither the rhythmic strokes of her hairbrush nor the rearranging of her evening slippers and reticules helped to quiet the nagging question echoing in her head.
Why was Lord Davenport sneaking through the garden at this late hour?
“An assignation, that’s why.” Muttering the answer aloud seemed to give it more force. “Good heavens, the man is a notorious rake, and that is what rakes do at a country house party—they steal into a willing lady’s bedchamber for a night of passionate amour.”
And yet, on her arrival, the layout of the castle had been carefully explained by the butler to help avoid becoming lost in the various wings. Devlin had been heading to the section that housed only the prince and his friends.
Which raised yet another question.
Why?
After pacing the perimeter of her room several times, Anna gave up any pretense of silencing her speculations. Tightening the sash of her wrapper, she decided there was no harm in doing a little reconnoitering. If spotted, she could claim that she had become disoriented in trying to find her way to the library for a book.
Easing her door open, she tiptoed past Caro’s room, praying her sister was not still awake. At the end of the corridor, the low-burning wall sconce by the carved staircase illuminated several choices. Recalling the neatly inked floor plan posted in her room, she chose the right-hand turn.
The shadows deepened, and the gloom seemed amplified by the flitting black shapes that dipped and darted over the ancient tapestries and objets d’art decorating the passageway. The little creaks and groans of the floorboards grew louder, the sounds stirring a prickle of uneasiness at the back of her neck.
Anna paused for a moment, suddenly feeling foolish. There were any number of perfectly plausible reasons why Davenport would be visiting the German gentlemen in the privacy of their rooms. A high-stakes card game…a comparison of Continental and English women over brandy and cigars…a look at the latest sporting rifles from the famed gunsmiths of Prussia…
She sucked in a breath on hearing the light tread of steps in the adjoining corridor, trying to gauge whether there was time to make a hasty retreat. Or was it better to seek shelter in one of the many display rooms?
There wasn’t a moment to lose—the steps were coming on faster than she anticipated.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Anna decided to hide behind the suit of armor standing guard by the entrance to the display room of ancient weaponry. Having come this far, she might as well see if her suspicions were correct.
A wiggle, a squeeze…a whispered oath.
“Hell’s Bells.”
She hadn’t realized how short the men of the Middle Ages were, or how many moving metal parts their fighting regalia contained. Already she had caused a slight jangle by bumping against a hinged kneepiece. And there was a most peculiar odor emanating from inside the helmet.
Perhaps mice had made a home in the pointed visor. She could swear she heard a scrabbling of tiny claws.
I really must find a way to include this scene in one of my next chapters, she thought wryly as she flattened her back to the wall and sank down into an awkward crouch. At least her own outrageous escapes were proving useful in inspiring ideas for Emmalina’s adventures.
A flicker of movement, dark on dark, made her go very still. No glimmer of a candle—like her, the person preferred to move about unnoticed. However the moonglow coming in through a pair of narrow windows was just bright enough that the shape slowly materialized into a distinct figure as it came closer.
There was no mistaking the broad shoulders and long, muscular legs.
The marquess was moving with a stealthy grace, his steps quick but careful as he kept close to the paneling.
Closer, closer.
Was there an odd bulge in his coat pocket? Anna shifted just a fraction for a better angle of view.
He was just about to pass her hiding place when all of a sudden he came to a halt and shot a hard look at the door of the Weapon Room.
Anna didn’t dare breathe.
His boots shifted.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed that Lord Dunbar’s ancient ancestor was stout enough to protect her from the marquess’s prying eyes.
Silence.
Surely he must hear the hammering of her heart. It was loud enough to wake the dead knight, wherever his bones might be resting.
Leather scuffed against wood as Devlin started to move away. He paused at the corner, and then to her surprise, turned down the corridor that led to the most ancient part of the castle, which held nothing of interest to any houseguest.
Anna made herself wait several moments before crawling out from behind the armor. Repressing a wince, she picked a cobweb out of her hair. Crouching in a cramped space was deucedly uncomfortable.
“Thank goodness Emmalina is a hardier soul than I am,” she murmured, shaking the dust from the hem of her wrapper. Otherwise her intrepid heroine would long since have succumbed to the evil machinations of the villainous Lord Malatesta.
Villain. What in the world was Lord Davenport doing creeping into a part of the castle that held only the earl’s most ancient art collections? Anna drew a deep breath, knowing she should ignore the question and head back to bed. And yet…
Tiptoeing to the corner, she darted a look around and then followed after him.
The passageway narrowed and wound up and down several sets of roughhewn stairs. There were few windows, so Anna could barely see more than several yards ahead. More than once, she hesitated, knowing she was asking for trouble by acting on impulse.
But the sound of the marquess’s footsteps echoing further off assured her there was little danger of being caught.
So some inner demon impelled her to go on.
Suddenly the steps ahead stopped. A raspy clang of metal against metal rang out.
Inching forward to the next turn, Anna ventured a peek around the corner.
Davenport’s back was to her. He had just finished unlatching the last of three massive bolts and was pushing up an iron-banded oak door. After striking a flint to the lantern he had unhooked from the wall, he disappeared through the opening.
What…
Anna was about to creep forward, when all at once reason reasserted itself. The realization that he might return at any moment spurred her to gather her wits and make a quick retreat. Picking up her pace, she hurried back through the twists and turns, giving thanks as she made it to her own rooms that no one had spotted her.
Closing the door, Anna slumped against the paneled oak and felt her limbs go a little limp.
So much for the peace and quiet of the country. Perhaps she should have gone to Baden-Baden after all.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Anna awoke to a downpour pelting against the windows. The skies were a sullen gray, and the dark clouds hanging low over the moors looked heavy as Scottish granite.
“Nay, miss, the storm looks te be a stubborn one,” said the young chambermaid who scuttled in to light a fire in her hearth. “I dunna think it will blow over today.”
“What filthy weather,” groused Josette, as she entered with a freshly pressed gown for the evening’s supper. “No wonder the Scots all drink whisky instead of wine. You need a potent fire to warm the chill from your bones.”
Anna shivered as a damp gust rattled the windowpanes. “Lady Dunbar assures me that it’s quite warm when the sun shines.”
“Hmmph.” Throwing open the armoire, her maid began to rearrange the various items of clothing. “Mon Dieu! Speaking of filthy, what has happened to your wrapper, mademoiselle? I am quite sure I would never have hung it in here looking as if the cat had dragged it in from a mousehole.”
