“In my life…?”
“We are moving ever forward, out of the Dark Ages,” he said ruefully. “Would you have let me call upon you, do you think?”
She stared back at him. His smile was so wistful beneath his mask. Before anything could happen that might be her undoing, she needed to flee.
“Sadly, you are a criminal. And I am engaged.”
“Perhaps…a few more words from you and I may atone for my sins.”
“You tease me, and I am afraid I cannot play your game,” she told him. Yet she set a hand upon his chest before she slipped past him, almost desperate to escape and return to the cottage.
He watched her go, wishing she would come back….
Angry she had stayed so long.
She had run off with the newspaper, he realized, and he couldn’t help but smile. Such a little thing to give someone so much pleasure. Frowning, he realized she had left her sketchbook.
He should leave it. She would come back for it eventually.
Yet it might rain before she found the opportunity. And if he took it, he would have an opportunity to return it to her—as the highwayman, of course. Clasping the sketchbook, he hurried down the trail to his horse.
It was rather convenient that the cottage in the woods was not far from the hunting lodge his father kept, Mark thought wryly. And indeed, the stream actually was on his father’s property.
He realized that he wasn’t at all certain how he was feeling after his encounter with Miss Alexandra Grayson. Certainly she shouldn’t be entertaining an outlaw in the forest—not when she was wearing an engagement ring.
And yet…
He was fascinated by the tawny fall of her hair, by the laughter in her eyes and by the keen eagerness with which she had read the paper. Even by her arguments. He wasn’t even sure why he had been so insistent about all he said, except in part for the enjoyment of sparring with her. He’d applauded the article in the paper, which truly had been excellent. And it was true that he prayed for the poor fool who had written it, because it really would be quite easy for someone to bribe his way into the files, or maybe there was someone at the newspaper who was less than honest and would be ready to divulge the truth to the wrong party for a price.
He heard a whistle and reined in his horse, replying in kind. A moment later, Patrick came riding hard down the trail.
“Your father is at the lodge, looking for you,” Patrick told him.
“Whatever for? I never explain my whereabouts.”
“Apparently he assumed you were at the lodge, perhaps playing with one of what he calls your detecting gadgets, and he has promised your appearance at a luncheon.”
“A luncheon?”
“At the museum.”
“I had thought we should comb the trails again this afternoon—”
“Mark, give this one afternoon to your father. We will ride out as ourselves and report anything we see, I swear it. Trust your fellow bandits,” Patrick said, grinning.
“All right. Watch the roads, though. I do want to know who is traveling where,” Mark told him. Then, spurring his horse, he hurried on toward the lodge.
His father was at his desk, holding a long scarf, frowning as he lifted it and found it heavy.
“What is this?” he asked his son.
Mark walked over to the desk and picked up the long knit scarf. He set it around his neck. Then he removed it and swung it, creating a whirring in the air.
“A backup weapon, Father.”
Lord Farrow looked unhappy.
“Where did you learn to make this?”
“From a book.”
“A book on warfare?”
“A book of stories about Sherlock Holmes. Arthur Conan Doyle is a very cunning man.”
His father sighed. “When you’re not out and about imitating his character, do you frequent the literary circles and drive the man crazy with questions?”
“Sometimes.”
Joseph sighed. “I believe I am actually best off when I’m unaware of your exploits.”
“Father, I remind you again, I serve the queen. You fought in the army, as I did. And now I believe I can serve in a better way. Would you have me do any less?”
“No,” Joseph said after a moment. “I would that these wretched internal conflicts came to a halt.” He sighed deeply. “A man must always do what he feels in his heart he must. But for today, perhaps you could play the role of my son. Can you come with me to the museum? We shall have to hurry.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Joseph said.
“Yes, I’ll come with you.”
Joseph smiled. “I hadn’t expected so easy a victory. The carriage awaits. Pray, dress like a nobleman this once, eh?”
“I shall be impeccable,” Mark promised. He started for his bedroom, then paused. “Are we going to lunch for a reason?”
“Indeed. You’re to meet your fiancée.”
“Today?”
“You should have met last week.”
“Yes…but…”
“Is something wrong?”
“I…no. No, of course not. I’ll get dressed quickly.”
ALLY WAS STARTLED TO SEE Lord Stirling’s carriage in the clearing in front of the cottage. She had known that they needed to discuss all that had happened, but she had assumed the Stirlings were busy with affairs of their own following all the fuss of the ball.
She looked back quickly, feeling a sense of panic that the highwayman might have followed her. She couldn’t help but feel a quickening in her heart, desperate that he should not be caught by Brian Stirling.
There was no sign of him.
She hoped she looked at least somewhat presentable as she started toward the cottage.
She still had the newspaper and realized she had forgotten her sketchbook. She lamented her foolish exit from the encounter, and considered going back for it. She had just turned back when the door of the cottage opened.
Kat was standing there. “Ally?”
No time to run back.
Ally stuffed the newspaper into a pocket, straightened her skirt and returned along the trail to the house.
“Kat,” she said with pleasure. “I saw that the Stirling carriage is here.”
“Yes, I’m here with Camille. I was about to start combing the forest for you. We’ve come to collect you for lunch and an event.”
“An event? Lunch?”
“A late lunch. There was a bit of a sudden furor, someone at the museum wanting Brian to speak at a small opening—and at all such things, there is a bit of fund-raising,” Kat said. “Camille got it into her head that we should go, then take lunch in the café at the museum.”
“That’s a lovely idea. I adore the museum.”
“We all do—and the café is newly decorated with several recently cataloged funerary containers. It’s a lovely place to meet people.”
“And a place to talk, I hope.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“We need to talk,” Ally persisted softly.
“It will be a marvelous place for you to meet,” Kat said airily.
“For…who to meet?” Ally asked.
“You and your fiancé, dear. Mark. The Earl of Warren’s son. You will just adore him. He’s quite handsome, terribly well read.” She shook her head. “And customarily so responsible in every way. But if it was a matter of business, it was a matter of business, and I know that Joseph would not be the type to lie—even for his son—for the sake of expediency. Today, though it won’t be quite like meeting at a magical ball, it will still be lovely.”
Lovely? Ally thought in a moment of panic.
She winced and opened her mouth. She could start with Kat, tell her that she couldn’t marry a stranger. Surely they would understand that.
Before she could speak, the door burst open. Brian Stirling strode out, carrying the day’s paper. “Rubbish!” he roared irritably. “This article written by Giles Brandon…and yet the fellow had a way with wor
ds. He will sway those who can’t see that even if they disagree with policy, they cannot go blaming murder on the queen.”
“There’s another article,” Ally said, forgetting that she was not supposed to have seen the paper.
Luckily Brian didn’t seem to notice. He was deep in thought over the situation.
“Yes, a valiant effort, a fine second piece by the author A. Anonymous. I pray no one ever discovers who he may be.”
Ally took a deep breath. “Why is that?” she asked.
And he repeated the words the highwayman had so recently said.
“Because he’d be a dead man!”
CHAPTER SIX
BRIAN STIRLING, WARY OF THE highwayman, didn’t ride inside the carriage but chose the seat next to Shelby. Hunter chose to ride behind the conveyance, also keeping an eye out for any disturbance along the way.
Once again the aunts begged off, promising that they would happily come along in a few days’ time when the group set out on a mission to support Lady Maggie’s passion, a day tending to the children in the East End. Ally had argued fiercely with them, as had Lady Camille, who could be extremely persuasive. But they hadn’t planned on going out, they insisted, and good heavens, how could they get ready when they’d had no warning?
In the carriage, having at last given up, Ally remembered another frustration. “Camille, what about Eleanor Brandon? Where is she now? Poor woman. Has she no relatives? Her husband’s body barely found…and she, alone with her coachman, coming to the castle because there was nothing else she could do to ease her pain.”
Camille sighed softly. “She was much better the next morning. It must have been horrible for her to come home only to find that her husband was lying in the morgue. It’s been a week, but I don’t believe they will release his body for another few days. Shelby drove Eleanor home Sunday morning and spoke with the housekeeper, who has promised to stay with her all the time from now on.”
“I feel sorry for the poor woman,” Ally murmured.
“And not frightened by any curse?” Kat said.
“No, of course not,” Ally replied.
She hesitated, looking out the window. She had almost forgotten about the curse, but now, despite herself, she felt a chill.
Impatiently, she forced all thoughts of curses away.
She had to do so, because this was her chance.
She was alone in the carriage with Camille and Kat. It was the perfect time to explain that although she sincerely appreciated their efforts, she didn’t want to marry. Even if the man was noble and his father charming. It was time to tell them that she was grateful for the many tutors and lessons that had enabled her to learn so many things, but she had found a calling, and now, more than ever, she was certain she could make it on her own.
But how could she tell them when both a highwayman and a lord had echoed the same sentiment about A. Anonymous?
She drew a breath. Maybe they didn’t need to know the whole truth but only the fact that she felt it was beyond archaic to enter into an arranged marriage.
“Camille, Kat…” she began.
It seemed they were destined to be interrupted. Before she could speak, the carriage jolted and began to slow.
“The village,” Kat said.
“Another protest,” Camille added.
“Naturally. The newspaper carried so much about the murder,” Kat said.
“And that piece by Giles Brandon, damning the Crown…” Camille said.
“It’s true, sadly. He had an amazing talent with words,” Kat murmured.
“Yes, but…oh, people simply do not think!” Camille said.
“But there was another article in the paper, too,” Ally said. “And another today, one that chastised those who would foolishly give in to persuasion without seeking facts.”
“You read it?” Kat asked. “I thought the paper had only arrived just before we left?”
“I saw the headlines,” Ally said quickly.
“Brian was quite upset,” Camille said distractedly. “This is so ridiculous! Look at all the people, and this is such a small village.”
Ally pulled back the curtain at the window. She was dismayed. There was an even larger crowd gathered than there had been the other day. As Camille had said, there were a lot of people for such a small village. Still, it was nearly six weeks since the first murder, two weeks since the second, one since the third, and the police were still desperately searching for the killer. Judging by the amount of people here, she could only believe this demonstration had been organized and people brought in from the surrounding countryside. Angus was once again on the steps of the brick building that housed the sheriff’s office and the court, trying to speak. He roared in fury when a tomato came flying his way.
The carriage halted.
Brian Stirling hopped down from the driver’s seat, and with Hunter striding angrily behind him, they approached the steps.
Before they could reach their destination, another man leapt up beside Angus.
“Cease! Have you all lost your senses?” he asked.
He was tall and young, and stood very straight, with rich dark hair and a strong-featured face, jaw set squarely, firmly sculpted high cheekbones, and eyes that seemed to assess and blaze, and had the ability to quell the crowd.
“Sir!” someone called out, but the voice seemed to quaver a bit. “Don’t you realize that something must be done? There’s been nothing yet, not a clue. The police allow these murders.”
“They don’t allow any such thing. There are special units who are desperately seeking the truth, day after day. And they will find it. Do you read the papers? Do you see what lies between the lines?” he demanded. “You are being manipulated. We are British, damn it! We are all allowed our political beliefs, to speak, feel and think as we choose. We are about to enter a glorious new century, and every day, with British ingenuity and technical prowess, we are making life better. But there are those out there who don’t want to allow you your opinions. Good God, look at your queen. Look at the progress she has struggled to achieve for her people. I’m not trying to tell you that you should or shouldn’t support the monarchy. I’m telling you to use your own minds. Yes, there has been another murder, and yes, it was terrible. But there is an article today warning that someone wants us all to jump to conclusions, to damn the police. Read that piece, which is so filled with intelligence the editors saw fit to set it on the front page. Isn’t it just as likely that the murders are coldly and cunningly being committed to create martyrs for a cause? What better way to steer people to someone’s devoutly desired outcome? Think about it. Look in all directions. Don’t be herded like a flock of sheep. Use your minds, your God-given right to form your own opinions!”
Silence followed his powerful speech. And then it was as if the crowd began to melt. A man near the carriage simply threw down his sign. Murmurs rose, some still arguing that the queen must be behind the murders. But there were retorts now, and others muttering that they were sick of losing work. Someone else said clearly, “I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it now any more than I ever believed that the queen was behind the Jack the Ripper murders. It’s true. We are being manipulated, herded about like sheep.”
“Don’t let yourselves be so used,” came a voice. Brian had reached the steps.
“Lord Stirling,” someone muttered.
“Indeed, as my esteemed friend has said, live your lives and use your minds. We are thinking men—and women. Protest, if you will, but think clearly and look at all possibilities before you cast out slanderous accusations,” he said.
The crowd continued to disperse.
“Well, what do you think?” Camille asked, leaning forward, tapping Ally’s knee.
“I think the crowd was quelled nicely,” she said. And despite the fear that had so recently been instilled in her, she was feeling a keen sense of pride. The man had told them all to read the article by A. Anonymous. “Who is that man?”
Camille glanc
ed at Kat, and Kat smiled and shrugged.
“Your fiancé, dear. That’s Sir Mark Farrow.”
“Sir…?”
“He was knighted for service in South Africa,” Camille explained. “Ah, there, see? His father waits with their carriage, just over there.”
Ally stared out the window again. She couldn’t see the man. His back was to her. He, Brian, Hunter and his father were talking. As she watched, they split up, going to their prospective carriages.
“I’d thought they were in town,” Camille murmured to Kat, as Ally let the curtain drop and returned her attention to her companions.
“They must have been at Lord Farrow’s hunting lodge. The property borders yours, doesn’t it?” Kat said.
“Yes, I believe so. We haven’t any fences, of course.
I’d not know myself where our property ends and Lord Farrow’s begins.”
There was a tap at the window. Ally nearly jumped from her seat. She drew back the curtain.
“You are all quite all right?” Brian Stirling asked.
“Of course, my love,” Camille said.
Brian smiled. Then he returned to his seat beside Shelby, while Hunter walked back to his horse. The carriage jerked, and they resumed their journey.
“So, Ally,” Kat said, smiling wickedly. “What did you think? Isn’t he quite something?”
“You are referring to Mark Farrow?” she said.
“Of course,” Camille said. They were staring at her like a pair of very smug and well-pleased cats.
“He seems to be a…commendable person,” she said.
“That’s all?” Kat laughed.
“I still don’t know him,” Ally reminded them.
“But you will,” Camille said.
“He’s very handsome,” Kat told her. “Of course, in my mind, no one is quite as charming and handsome as Hunter, but…”
“He’s younger, appropriate for Ally,” Camille reminded her.
Again the two of them gave her those cat-like smiles.
Now or never.
“He does seem to be an excellent speaker. An intelligent man, as well—he reads the paper and gives credit where it is due,” Ally began. “But…”
Beguiled Page 10
