Those who loved her were close, she knew. The aunties were right in the front, like three mothers of the bride.
It was a dream; it was a blur. She felt as if she were moving through a fantasy. She was dimly aware of the aunties sniffling. Merry, she thought, was the loudest sobber. Edith was the one who consoled her, her words audible. “There, there. They make a fine couple.”
Someone hushed them.
The priest droned on.
Love, honor and obey. How could she vow before God to do such a thing? Would God understand a little white lie?
After all, she did love him.
She held the silver-gray touch of Mark’s eyes through it all, somehow said the right things at the right time.
Felt the touch of his hand on hers.
And sighed when he kissed her.
The roar of applause was like the roar of the surf, and the taste and scent and feel of him suddenly quelled her panic, the reality of the man making everything all right. Music played again, and they walked out of the great hall, though she had no idea where they were going, especially when they walked outside. There she discovered that everyone had been invited, not just the gentry, but the maids and blacksmiths, chefs…anyone who served in either household, or lived close enough to attend. The wishes shouted to her were sincere and excited.
She felt the scarab against her breast, and she smiled in return.
She had been insane to feel such foreboding. It had happened just as it was supposed to. It was a dream. She had met him; she loved him; she had married him.
Encouraged, she threw the bouquet. It was caught by a farmer’s daughter, who cried out her delight. Tables were set in the giant courtyard, more were set up inside the castle. Musicians played throughout the castle and the grounds.
“Champagne?” Mark asked, handing her a flute.
“To souls united,” Patrick cried. “And a better toast than that. To Ally, a true lady for such a man as Mark.” Ally had to laugh when she heard him whisper to one of his friends, “I told you I intended to be decent.”
Those moments were magical. Mark could not have been more handsome or charming. His father could not have been more welcoming.
Her first dance with her husband wound up being barefoot on the lawn, and they both smiled, remembering a different dance in the forest.
She swept by the aunts with their damp eyes.
“She’s so gorgeous in off-white.”
“Beige.”
“Pearl.”
The music filled the air, her veins, her soul. She was loathe to be parted from Mark, even to dance with his father. But there was so much more to the wedding, so many people. Mark, of course, danced with each of the aunts, as well as Maggie, Camille and Kat, and she danced with Brian, Jamie and Hunter…and what seemed like a million other men, Sir Angus, Sir Andrew, Lord This and Lord That whom she had not met before. Theodore, the chef, all dressed up for the occasion. Thane Grier, who hadn’t dared ask her, but whom she had drawn from the crowd.
Patrick, Thomas and Geoff…
The priest!
Detective Ian Douglas.
“Detective!”
“I’m sorry.”
“But you were invited. You are a very good friend of Mark’s.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him. “You’re not here because of that, are you?”
He swallowed hard.
“What’s happened?”
He shook his head.
“I insist that you tell me.”
“I don’t want the word out yet.”
She shook her head. “I can be trusted, Detective Douglas.”
He winced and swallowed again. “Elizabeth Prine was found dead in her bed just a few hours ago,” he said.
She missed a step and nearly stumbled.
“Elizabeth Prine. Jack Prine’s widow?”
“Yes.”
She felt the scarab against her flesh. “There’s more, isn’t there?” she demanded.
He nodded.
“Tell me. You are going to take Mark with you soon, on our wedding day. Tell me all that has happened.”
“I…we…we don’t want any of it known yet.”
“I understand that,” she said, trying for patience.
“Eleanor Brandon…”
“Dead?”
“She will be. She is unconscious. The blood loss was terrible.”
They whirled to a waltz.
The dream had become a nightmare.
“What about her housekeeper?” she demanded quickly.
He looked at her with narrowed eyes.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Mark never betrays a confidence,” she said bitterly. “I know what I know from the newspapers.”
“The housekeeper…” He paused, shuddering. “She must have been very easy to kill,” he said softly.
“Hudson Porter wasn’t married. His housekeeper…?”
“Yes.”
“They’re all dead?”
Mark came up behind Ian and tapped him on the shoulder. His expression was grim. “Damn it, Ian, what are you saying to my wife?”
She forced a smile for Ian and slid into Mark’s arms, forcing him around the floor with her, her head tilted back. “He is telling me the truth—something you seem loathe to do.”
“This is none of your business, Ally.”
She gasped.
He shook his head fiercely. “You’re clever, Ally. You write with a wicked edge. But don’t you see? This is a madman. He butchered four women in one night. Well, Eleanor Brandon is still hanging on, but most likely she’ll die before she can so much as mouth her killer’s name. Ally, you have to stay out of this, and you have to stop writing. Do you understand?”
“You’re going to casually leave your own wedding in a matter of minutes, aren’t you?” she asked pleasantly.
“Ally, I will be back.”
“I’m sure you will—at some point. But if I am to be so excluded, you must not count on the fact that I will be waiting.”
“Ally—”
“Why did Lionel Wittburg say what he did when he was lying in the street?” she demanded fiercely.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. And why were you and the others masquerading as highwaymen?”
“That should have been obvious,” he said coldly. “To one with your talent for ferreting out the possibilities.”
“The killer escapes in a carriage, so you stop carriages to search for evidence meanwhile poor Lord Wittburg lies in a hospital, his only crime trying to tell me what you would not.”
“I did not know then.”
“Does Brian know you will soon be leaving?” she demanded. He didn’t answer, but from his eyes, she could tell that Brian knew. She felt ill. The whole world, it seemed, had accepted the fact that he would go, would always go. And she understood that. What she couldn’t bear was being treated like a crystalline figure that couldn’t be moved because it might break. He acknowledged her talent, yet he was unwilling for her to exercise it.
“We are to head to the carriage, as if we are escaping for our wedding night,” he told her.
“How convenient that we’ve already had one,” she murmured icily.
“Ally, good God, surely you must see the enormity of this. This man will stop at nothing to hide the truth.”
“I do see the enormity.”
“Then forgive me,” he asked her.
A cry went up in the courtyard. The Farrow carriage, gaily festooned, the two black carriage horses feathered in white, rolled into view.
“It’s our cue,” he said softly. His eyes were on hers, steel-gray and thunderclouds. She longed for the man she had known so recently, the one who had asked rather than demanded.
But she turned, waving to the crowd, lightly running toward the carriage with her hand in Mark’s. Bertram had the step down, and Mark helped her inside, sweeping up her train.
She looked back, forced a smile and waved. Edit
h and Merry, with Violet between them, were clinging together, sobbing.
“I love you, darlings,” she called cheerfully, then sank back into the carriage, ripping the tiara from her head, sending the pins flying in her fury.
“Was the act carried out as you wished?” she demanded as the carriage started down the path to the great gates of the castle.
“Ally,” he said, his voice pained.
“Where am I going?” she demanded coldly, willing herself not to show emotion. “It’s all an act, isn’t it? Everything in your life is an act. Marrying a stranger is part of scene five.”
“Ally,” he said evenly, “four people were murdered in a single night, and the killer slipped away, his crimes not even discovered for hours. Should we mind so terribly that our lives of privilege are being briefly disrupted?”
She was even further infuriated. He didn’t understand at all that she wanted only to be respected and included.
“I didn’t want a life of privilege,” she told him. “I merely want my life to be my own. Once I had freedom. Now I do not.”
“Ally, you are hardly in a prison.”
“I’m not?”
“If you are, I did not create it.”
She stared at him, incredulous that he could say such a thing.
“Your prison was created by your birth.”
She shook her head, fighting tears. “It was created when you came into my life.”
She waved a hand angrily when he would have spoken. “I beg of you, if you must talk, answer my question. Where am I going?” she demanded icily. “All your friends are back at the castle.”
He looked away, as if he no longer cared. “They won’t be,” he said.
“Good God, can you not even answer one question? Where am I going?”
Silence was her only answer. They had barely cleared the gates when the carriage jerked to a halt. She heard the sound of horses’ hooves clicking up the road beside them.
“I will be back as soon as possible,” he said, and exited the carriage. She leaned out, seeing that Patrick, Thomas, Geoff and Ian were there, mounted and leading Mark’s horse. In a swift movement, he had leapt atop it.
The carriage jerked again.
She still didn’t know where she was going.
She burst into tears.
THEY VISITED THE MURDER scenes in order of closeness, which took them to Elizabeth Prine’s house first. The coroner was on site, and there were police officers guarding the house, but it was not roped off, and the officers in the front were in plainclothes. They were trying to keep the events quiet until they could at least get an understanding of what had happened themselves, hoping to get a jump on the killer.
It didn’t take long to ascertain that the killer had a key and had come in the back.
The body of Elizabeth Prine told them much, much more. She hadn’t just known her killer; she had expected him. Mark was sorry to realize he had been right about the affair.
His discovery of that fact might well have been what set off the murder spree. He made a detailed examination of the room, the house and the grounds, but he was certain the one aspect that mattered was the one that was first evident: Elizabeth’s lover had been her murderer. And from the beginning, Ian had been right about the killer’s mode of escape; out to a back road, where he was picked up by some conveyance before whatever blood had spilled on him might be witnessed by a casual passerby.
While questioning the officer who had been on duty watching the house, Mark found that theory to be the only one possible—the officer had watched the door and the house all night. No one had entered from the front. He was adamant about that fact.
There was nothing different at the Porter house, except that the housekeeper, slain in her bed, had probably not expected company. It was doubtful, however, that she had heard the killer. If she had been lucky, she had been dead before she even realized he was there.
Their last stop was the Brandon house. Again the housekeeper had been caught in her sleep. Again the entry had been with a key. He tracked the killer’s every step. The housekeeper had been killed first. The man had entered silently, his intent lethal. After the housekeeper had been dispatched in her lower-floor room, he had mounted the stairs. It occurred to Mark that they needed to speak with the maid Elizabeth had fired. She might have information and she might be in danger.
But apparently Eleanor Brandon had been forewarned. There were signs of struggle in the bedroom. She had been left, Ian told him, on the bed, and he was sure the killer had assumed she was dying, choking on her own blood, when he had left. It had been one of the duty officers—accustomed to watching the house since the murder of Giles Brandon—who had noticed the lights didn’t go on in the morning. She was alive now because he had kicked in the front door, sounded the alarm and taken her to the hospital.
At last they went to the hospital. Eleanor Brandon lay on the bed, as white as a sheet—except for the crimson stitching at her throat. She had defensive wounds on her arms.
“Much like her husband,” Ian said.
Mark nodded. “What are the chances she will awaken?” he asked the doctor.
The man shook his head. “One in a hundred, but we will do our best.”
By the time they left the hospital, it was late. Patrick, Thomas and Geoff, who had waited outside, leaning against a retaining wall, straightened when they reappeared.
“There’s nothing we can do now,” Mark said. “It’s late. Tomorrow, however, I think our best use of time will be to ride again.”
“As highwaymen?”
“The women were involved. They were a part of the murders. They didn’t wield the knife, but they allowed it to happen. Maybe the killer was promised part of the financial reward. The killer, in turn, had his own purpose. Once again, we know he escaped the scene in his coach, which waits in the back streets, so there are at least two men involved—a driver and lookout, and the killer. The cloak found in Lord Wittburg’s coach was real, but it was placed there to cast blame. If the killer hadn’t feared Elizabeth Prine had betrayed him…In any case, the night Lord Wittburg accosted Ally, he had been at the club. He saw Arthur Conan Doyle, Sir Andrew Harrington, and the sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham. He also saw the journalist Thane Grier on the street. We can discount Doyle, because he wasn’t involved in any of the business that took place at the houses, or in the ranks of the anti-monarchists.” He offered them a grim smile. “We can also discount him because I know he is incapable of this kind of butchery. Read his work and you will agree. But in all the lists, Harrington and Cunningham have appeared again and again. And the journalist has appeared many times at the right place.”
“Sir Angus is the sheriff,” Ian said almost angrily.
“Yes, but at this point, I don’t think his status can sway us from looking into the possibility that he is involved.”
“Sir Angus involved…in something this heinous!” Ian was incredulous.
“I didn’t say it must be Sir Angus, only that it could be. How long do you think you can hide the news of the murders, keep them out of the newspapers?”
Ian shook his head. “The longer we hide the truth, the longer it appears we are trying to abet a conspiracy.”
“Then I suggest you inform the newspapers yourself. Soon. Let your men go over the scenes one more time, seeking any evidence. Then let the information out.”
Ian nodded glumly. “I can only imagine the sermons in the churches across the land tomorrow.”
ALLY WAS SURPRISED BUT PLEASED to realize she was being taken into the city. The carriage arrived at last at Lord Farrow’s townhome.
Bertram, looking sheepish, helped her down. “Jeeter will be inside to help you with whatever you may require, Lady Farrow,” he murmured, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “And you needn’t be afraid. I will be standing guard.”
“Thank you, Bertram. I am not afraid, but I am grateful for your protection,” she told him.
“Lord Joseph intends to stay a
t his club this evening, leaving the house for your convenience,” he told her.
Ah, yes, she was a newlywed, after all.
“None but your guardians know your destination this evening.”
“Thank you.” None knew? Anyone could recognize the carriage. Now, however, it was safely off the street, beneath the porte cochere.
Inside, she greeted Jeeter, but she longed to escape everyone. She hurried upstairs to the room that had been hers before and found it had been well prepared. She stood in front of the dresser mirror for a moment. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and she was in definite disarray. She had set off so differently that morning.
She started to undo the tiny buttons on the bodice of the gown, then hesitated, frowning. There was a strange mark on the delicate beauty of the sleeve.
A red mark….
She nearly ripped the elegant gown in her haste to be free of it. Yes, there was a smudge of what appeared to be blood on the sleeve. There was another on the back of the gown, where a man would have set his hand while leading her in a waltz.
Her blood seemed to congeal.
Anyone might have cut himself. Shaving, of course, or cooking, gardening…
Committing a murder?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MARK HAD NO IDEA WHAT to expect when he reached home that night. When last he saw her, Ally had been furious, yet what bride would not be? He wondered, staring at the entry, if he hadn’t assumed too much. He didn’t think that being the son of the very eminent Lord Joseph Farrow had ever caused him to consider himself important. He had spent most of his youth fighting against such an image, doing his duty for the Empire, never shirking the responsibility of taking his place in the front lines. Two guiding aspects had caused him to set out on the life he now led: a true empathy with the aging Queen Victoria, and a real friendship with and appreciation for Arthur Conan Doyle. Fans had avidly fallen in love with his sleuth, Sherlock Holmes, a fact that had startled Doyle, whose interest lay in creating what he considered more important literature. He’d been distraught when the public had decried Holmes’ fictional death, while in his real life, his wife sickened. But in private circles, he never tired of speaking about the importance of observation, his years studying with Dr. Joseph Bell, and how his methods could serve the police.
Beguiled Page 26
