Beguiled

by Shannon Drake

  “Yes?” Ally said with a frown.

  “If he chose, he could ride to the cottage, guns blazing, and when you were both dead, he could claim Thane was the killer and you were a tragic victim in the gun battle Thane started.”

  “I don’t even own a gun!” Thane protested.

  “That wouldn’t matter. You would be found with one,” Mark said.

  “He has a point,” Thane told Ally.

  “Look,” Ally said, “something has to be done. We can’t allow this killer to go unpunished. Mark, you think the cottage was under attack because of—” she paused, glancing at Thane, then continued “—because of who I am, or possibly because the killer thought I was A. Anonymous, because he had followed me to or from the post office. Maybe the best thing to do is let Thane off the hook. You can tell your friends, in total confidence, that you’re afraid your new bride may be the essayist.”

  His hands went to his hips. He moved a step closer, staring down at her in anger. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  “I really do need to go,” Thane said.

  Ally placed a hand on her husband’s chest. “Mark, that essay will go out tomorrow, one way or another. And you suspect someone may know I’m the writer, anyway. If you really want to keep me safe, you’re going to have to use me as bait.”

  He caught her hand, pushing it aside. “You will not do anything more,” he said heatedly. “I mean it, Ally. Nothing.”

  “The essay will go out—”

  “And I will have a plan!” he snapped, exiting the library.

  She heard the front door slam.

  Thane let out a long breath. “That went, um…well.”

  She glared at him.

  “Well, he didn’t kill me.” He rose. “Ally…when you’re ready, when he’s ready…whenever, just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Thank you, Thane.”

  She remained in the library, watching him leave. Then she bit her lower lip, thinking she really needed a second whiskey.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  AS THANE GRIER LEFT the house, eager to reach the borrowed carriage and return it to the newspaper offices, he found Mark Farrow standing in the drive, staring at the now fully risen moon.

  Farrow looked at him. “She just manipulated us both, you know.”

  “But…she didn’t know I would come by,” Thane protested.

  “Yes, that was convenient for her,” Mark murmured dryly.

  “But…”

  “If you hadn’t arrived, she still would have used your name. She would have had me thinking that yes, by God, that would work, if you were willing. And she would have done all that just so she could turn it around and make me realize anew that she might well be in danger herself already,” Mark told him.

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  “I know someone tried to break into the cottage when she was there alone. Someone who might have known the aunts were out. At that time, the killer seemed to want to be discreet. Now…I don’t think the man would hesitate to kill all four of them. I think it has become all too easy for him.”

  “How does such a man go about his day-to-day business, without giving himself away?” Thane asked.

  Mark shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose that…eventually, he would show himself.” He stared at Thane. “But how much more can happen before then?”

  “Do you have a plan?” Thane asked.

  Mark Farrow smiled grimly. “It’s forming,” he said.

  “As I told Ally, I am willing to do whatever you would have me do,” Thane said, and he tried not to shudder as he spoke.

  Mark Farrow set a hand on his shoulder. “I will let you know.”

  Thane nodded, and at last made his way to the carriage.

  ALLY WAS STILL SEATED IN the den when Mark returned to the house. She was cradling a second glass of whiskey.

  She sipped it as she watched him enter the room.

  “Intriguing,” he said.

  “That would be…?”

  “You, drinking liquid courage.”

  “It’s wretched stuff,” she informed him.

  “You’re ready to be the bait to catch one of the most heinous murderers the country has known—but you need whiskey when you are planning to twist me around your finger.”

  She flushed. “I…no! I would never…well, I was afraid you wouldn’t be happy.”

  He went to her, kneeling down beside the chair, taking the whiskey glass from her hand. “Do you really have the intention of writing fiction rather than essays so controversial they may get you killed?”

  “It is what I have always wanted to do,” she said.

  “Come on.” He rose, catching her hands, drawing her with him. Her eyes met his with weary skepticism.

  “Where?” she whispered.

  “To supper and to bed,” he announced.

  “You’re…not really…”

  “Going to tie you to the bed?”

  “You did mention it.”

  “No, my love. Supper, then bed,” he assured her.

  THEY HAD EATEN AND BARELY reached the top of the stairs when they heard the telephone ringing. Mark paused, leaving her at the bedroom door, apologizing, but not wanting Jeeter to be left with the dilemma of whether or not to disturb him for a call.

  Ally went into the bedroom and changed into a simple cotton nightgown. She brushed her hair while she waited. Mark didn’t return. Sitting at her dressing table, she picked up the scarab Kat had given her and that she had been so determined to wear at her wedding.

  The curse-nullifying scarab. What a beautiful piece. And how sad and silly any fear she might have had. Eleanor Brandon had been a fake, an excellent actress. Sadly, she had paid dearly for her willingness to conspire in her husband’s death.

  Still, she loved the scarab, and who knew, maybe it had been a lucky piece.

  At last there was a tap on the bedroom door. She jumped when it sounded, then laughed at herself and, on a whim, pinned the scarab to her gown.

  “My lady?” Jeeter called softly.

  She threw the door open, heedless of the nightgown, which was certainly decent enough.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t certain if you had gone to sleep.” He smiled sheepishly.

  “It’s fine. What is it?”

  “Mr. Farrow was…called out.”

  She sighed. “Called out by whom and for what reason?”

  He looked very uncomfortable, as if he didn’t want to reply.

  “Jeeter?”

  “The carriage bearing Mr. Grier never returned to the newspaper. He had borrowed it strictly to come here, so of course they called.”

  Ally inhaled sharply, feeling cold. If something had happened to Thane Grier, it would be her fault.

  Worse. If something happened to Mark…

  “Bertram has gone with him,” Jeeter said gently, and she wondered if he had the ability to read her mind or if she had given so much away through her expression.

  “Thank you,” she told him.

  “And don’t you worry, my lady, I won’t be leaving.”

  “Thank you,” she said again with a smile. “I won’t worry with you here.”

  He left her. She closed the door and paced. She lay down. She got up.

  She wasn’t going to sleep until Mark returned. At length she remembered the envelope Thane had brought with him that afternoon.

  She rose, slipped out of her bedroom barefoot and hurried down the stairs. She didn’t see Jeeter in the parlor and went into the den. She undid the offending clasp and dumped the contents onto the desk. These articles were similar to those she had already seen. Events, parties. Meetings, statements put out by different anti-monarchy societies. One by one she went through them, trying to find a mention that either Sir Angus or Sir Andrew was an anti-monarchist. Both men had been knighted, so the motive couldn’t be that one of them had been overlooked for an honor.

  Sometimes there were pictures
—photographs or sketches—sometimes not.

  She found herself pausing at an article with a sketch. Frowning, she studied it, then gasped. It was an anonymous article about the injustice of property and title laws. The article rambled on, but it was the sketch that was intriguing. It had been done perhaps two years back.

  And the unidentified woman in the drawing could easily be Elizabeth Prine.

  A man stood at her side, consoling her.

  Sir Andrew?

  Or Sir Angus, without his muttonchops and facial hair.

  She let out a sigh of frustration, unsure, and shoved the articles away. Then she drew them back and started going through them again. One had nothing to do with the anti-monarchists. It concerned a fund-raiser being held at the church. There was a sketch with that article, as well. Flowers bloomed everywhere, and women were wearing their loveliest hats. The past rector of the church, Father Mason, was shown speaking to the crowd. And up front…a woman who appeared to be Elizabeth Prine.

  There was a man on either side of her. Ally studied it hard, frustrated that it was only a sketch. Was one man her husband? No, once again, it looked like it might have been Sir Angus Cunningham without his facial hair. And the other man…Elizabeth’s cousin. Sir Andrew Harrington.

  She sighed and whispered aloud to herself, “So…would you have an affair with your dashing but tooclosely-related first cousin or an older man of distinguished accomplishments?”

  As she pondered the question, she heard the sound of a thump just outside the front door.

  She froze.

  Dead still, she listened.

  She thought she heard movement from upstairs. Silently, she stood. After several seconds, she made her way to the door of the den. She started to call out for Jeeter, but something inside warned her to keep quiet.

  She dashed across the parlor, through the dining room, glancing into the kitchen and the breakfast room and beyond. Jeeter wasn’t downstairs.

  Was he upstairs?

  What had caused the thump?

  She walked across the parlor to the telephone, ruing the fact that using it would be so loud that if anyone were in the house, they would certainly know her location immediately.

  More sounds from upstairs. And they seemed to be coming from the bedroom where she should have been sleeping.

  She heard another sound from just outside the front door.

  In agony, she hesitated. She couldn’t attempt to use the phone. If there was an intruder in the house, he would surely be on her before she could so much as reach an operator.

  If the phone lines hadn’t already been cut.

  She moved to the front entryway and saw that the door was ajar.

  It had not been opened with a key but had been pried open.

  With a knife?

  Movement upstairs again…

  A soft moaning sound from the front.

  Where in God’s name was Jeeter?

  She was terrified of the answer.

  The sounds coming from upstairs were suddenly hair-raising. Muffled thumps, again and again.

  She closed her hand around the doorknob, praying the hinges were well oiled, and stepped outside.

  And found the source of the moaning.

  MARK’S CALL TO IAN DOUGLAS had set a massive search into action.

  He and Bertram had taken the streets near his own area, while officers combed all of London.

  They were near King’s Cross Station when a uniformed officer rode up to them. “My lord!” he called to Mark. “The carriage has been found! By Hyde Park. Follow me.”

  A quick race through the night brought them to Hyde Park and the carriage. Ian Douglas had arrived first, and he stood by the open door to the conveyance.

  “Empty,” he told Mark.

  “Grier?” Mark demanded.

  “There’s no sign of him,” Ian said.

  Frustrated, Mark stared at the carriage. He had searched it thoroughly just hours ago. He shook his head in frustration.

  “You’ve looked inside?”

  Ian nodded. “I found nothing.”

  Mark strode toward the open door and stepped inside. The compartment held nothing. No driver. No sign of Thane Grier. No damning evidence. He turned to step down, then paused.

  There was blood on the seat. Not the massive spill that would have resulted from a slit throat. Rather, a smudge that might have come from an injury.

  There was shouting from outside. Mark hopped down from the carriage and saw one of the officers waving to Ian from the side of the road where thick bushes overgrew the walk.

  “There’s a body, sir,” an officer called.

  Ian and Mark started to run. A man lay on the ground, facedown. Ian felt for a pulse. He shook his head, then moved to turn the body over.

  A pool of still-warm blood lay beneath the body.

  The man’s eyes were wide in death, staring sightlessly at whatever horror had assailed him.

  Ian rose. “Search the park,” he said.

  “Already in progress. You’ve seen this man?” Ian asked.

  “It’s the coachman I saw today,” he told Ian.

  The coachman dead, Thane Grier gone. A spot of blood on the seat of the carriage.

  Mark turned, heading quickly for his house. Bertram followed him.

  “Where are you going?” Ian called after him.

  “My house! Send whatever officers you can spare.”

  He leapt up on Galloway and nudged the animal, verbally urging him into a gallop.

  “THANE!” ALLY CRIED, dropping down beside the man who lay prone, an arm outstretched, as if he were trying to reach the doorknob. “Thane?” She touched him; he wasn’t dead. He was warm, and she could see that he was breathing shallowly. She rolled him onto his back and lifted his head.

  His eyes fluttered, then closed again.

  There was a huge gash on his forehead. She knew she had to get help. She eased his head back down. As she did so, his eyes fluttered open, then widened.

  She realized suddenly that the light spilling from the house had grown brighter as the door opened wider. She started to turn.

  Suddenly burly arms were around her, a rag shoved against her face. She struggled to avoid it, smelling the drug on the cloth.

  She clawed at her captor’s arms, then remembered the scarab pin she had secured to her gown. With desperate, trembling fingers, she reached for it, fighting the alternating waves of nausea and blackness that threatened to overwhelm her.

  She clasped hold of the pin.

  Near falling, she aimed as best as she could, directing the point toward what she hoped was her attacker’s eye.

  A harsh bellow erupted from the man. For an instant, his hold eased. Desperately fighting for consciousness, Ally rammed her foot backward with all her might.

  The man fell back, and she started to run, desperate to reach the street.

  But even as she ran, she saw another figure standing there, masked by the shadows of the night.

  Wearing a black cloak.

  She turned and fled toward the back of the house. She reached the tree, but she could hear her pursuers closing in. She gulped in fresh air and climbed as fast as she could.

  She dropped down into the neighbor’s yard, dashing toward the door, where she pounded on the wood and tried to scream.

  There was a thump and a curse as her attacker followed.

  She pounded hard on the door. “Help!”

  She’d all but lost her voice, but anyone inside must have heard the pounding.

  “Help!”

  He was almost on her. There was nothing left but to run for the street and pray to elude the man in the cloak.

  She screamed and ran, but her prayer went unanswered.

  He was there. She fought fiercely as he caught her, and she recognized the eyes she had seen so many times before, filled with charm and laughter.

  She opened her mouth to scream again.

  This time, there was no escaping the drugged cloth. />
  There was no fighting the overwhelming blackness.

  MARK RODE UP IN FRONT OF the house and dismounted instantly. His heart sank. The front door was standing wide open.

  He rushed toward it, noticing that the bushes at the front entry had been flattened. Ducking down to the step, he found a drop of blood.

  Bertram was behind him.

  “Someone was here,” Mark said.

  “No one’s here now,” Bertram said.

  A man in a cap, a nightshirt and slippers was on the road. Mark vaguely recognized him as one of the neighbors. “I heard screaming, pounding! I came down as fast as I could but…There was a carriage, but he drove away.”

  “Which way?” Mark demanded.

  The man pointed, but Mark was suddenly certain he knew which way the carriage was headed.

  “Sir,” he told the befuddled man in the nightcap, “my father’s valet is in the house. Alive or dead, I don’t know. Please find him and get him help. Bertram, call my father’s lodge. Get him out on the road with any help he can find. Tell Ian’s officers to follow as quickly as they can.”

  With that, he leapt back into the saddle and headed in pursuit.

  ALLY WAS STARTLED TO AWAKEN, finding herself still alive, even though she felt so sick that she almost wished she had stayed unconscious. She could feel the terrible swaying and jolting of the carriage, moving far too quickly through the night. She had no idea how long she had been unconscious or why she was still alive. She was aware that she was half on a seat and half on the floor—and she was slamming against a set of legs on one side and a body on the other. She very carefully opened her eyes a fraction.

  It was Thane’s body on one side.

  And on the other side…

  “Bloody bitch! She’s blinded me,” she heard.

  It was the deep voice of a man she had known for years.

  The sheriff, Sir Angus Cunningham.

  She suddenly realized what she would have discovered had she studied the articles—and the sketches—longer.

  There were two killers.

  For some reason they had all assumed that the coachman was a servant of the murderer, not his true partner in crime. They had been wrong.

  She shrieked aloud as fingers tore into her hair, wrenching her head up.