Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

  An empty corridor beckoned. Drawing a breath and holding it, she closed the door behind her and scampered in the opposite direction Aidan had gone. Passing several paneled doors, she hurried on until the hall runner abruptly ended and she found herself surrounded by bare white walls.

  She had reached the service hallway. A few more frenzied paces and she turned a corner, arriving at a back staircase. Going down would lead her to the ground floor and the basement kitchens below that. Ivy grabbed the banister and headed up, to the attic rooms on the third floor.

  To where she hoped to find Simon.

  At the upper landing, she paused to gain her bearings. Along a corridor to her right stretched a runner whose dull russet weave bore the flattened trail of countless tramping feet. She went to the nearest oaken door, listened a moment, and tried the knob. The door opened upon a small room containing two narrow bedsteads, a dresser, and a washstand.

  Servants’ quarters, she concluded, and crossed back to the much darker hallway that sprawled away to the left of the landing. She hadn’t thought to bring a candle—it was nearly midday, after all. But she soon found herself wandering a maze of narrow, musty hallways, with only the light that filtered dimly beneath the closed doors to guide her way. With each step, dust motes swirled around her feet. She took pains to tread carefully over floorboards that creaked at the slightest provocation.

  Every few yards, she stopped to listen. She dared not call Simon’s name, nor could she expect him to give his location away by making any telltale sounds. An even more sobering possibility sprang to mind: that he was no longer in the attic, but had already made his way down to the ballroom using one of numerous hidden passages he had whispered to her about earlier. She came to a halt as the absurdity of her actions made her ashamed. What had she been thinking, disobeying Aidan and taking the risk of being followed? She might have put their entire plan in jeopardy.

  But the answer careened through her, stealing her breath. Had Simon been successfully framed for the murders, he would have been transported to the Cambridge jail, and eventually shipped off to London, where he would have stood trial and . . .

  Numbing horror rushed through her like a storm tide. Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she tried in vain to quell the appalling images she had managed to evade until now. Simon before a judge and jury . . . declared guilty . . . condemned . . . led to the gallows . . .

  No! None of that would happen. Deep down Inspector Scott still believed in Simon’s innocence, or he would not be attempting to trap the true killer. Still, she trembled and hugged herself, and wished she were hugging Simon, holding on to him for dear life.

  His dear, precious life.

  She had come, simply, to be with him, to share these hopeful, dreadful moments together before their plan was set into action. If their theory—her theory—proved false, and no crazed killer stole into the ballroom intending to dispatch young Mr. Peters, what would prevent suspicion from ricocheting back onto Simon?

  She took a step . . . and froze.

  In the stillness she heard nothing, only the caress of the wind beneath the eaves of the roof. She started to move—and it came again. Not the wind, but a human sigh. Ivy pricked her ears and heard the whimper that followed.

  The sound drew her deeper into the attic; she turned another corner, and a moan stopped her short. The sound had slid from beneath a door, but as she regarded the dark row stretching before her, she couldn’t decide which. She pressed her ear to the closest one, then moved on to the next.A murmured lament sent her diagonally across the corridor.

  The echo of a creak behind her drew her up sharp. In the stillness, a footstep resounded like a gunshot. Panic sent her blindly retreating through the darkness, until a splintered floorboard caught the toe of her boot and she lurched headlong into a pair of arms.

  Feeling the cry rising to Ivy’s lips, Simon pressed a hand to her mouth before she roused the devil himself to action. “Shh! It’s only me!”

  She struggled for another instant before the fight left her and she collapsed against his chest. He held her there for a long moment, one arm around her, the other hand plunged into the curls at the back of her head. He dipped his head and raised her face, guided by the warmth of her lips. Their tongues met and he inhaled her frenzied breath, her sweetness, her brash courage.

  Then he opened a few inches between them. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t bear to wait all alone, without seeing you ...”

  She trailed off, but her meaning echoed through him. Without seeing you one last time.

  He should have been furious with her, putting herself in danger this way. She had almost missed him, too, for he’d been about to make his way down one of the house’s ancient staircases, part of the original monastery, that led to a hidden entrance to the ballroom. Despite Inspector Scott’s intentions to the contrary, Simon fully aimed to be on hand when the killer struck.

  Then he’d heard a muted cry of distress, a sound that had prickled beneath his skin and sent him in search of its source. Drifting through the dim corridors, he’d begun to believe that what he’d heard had been a restless Granville ghost. Then Ivy’s very solid form had collided with his.

  He drew her into his arms again and ran his lips across her brow. “Heaven help me, I’m glad you’re here.”

  She nodded against his shoulder. Then her head came up. “Right before I heard your footsteps, there was a voice, sighing and moaning.”

  “That wasn’t you?”

  She pointed down the corridor. “It came from there.”

  He took her hand and let her lead him to a door. Not a sound issued from the other side. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I was so certain.... Wait! There.”

  From inside came a faint mewling, like that of a hungry kitten. His skin prickled, and the hair at his nape bristled. He pressed his ear to the door. The sound stopped and then took up again, and he experienced a powerful tug at his heart.

  He tried the knob. “Locked, damn it.”

  “What . . . or who . . . do you suppose is in there?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. Stand back.”

  “But—”

  Her caution was drowned out by the thwack of his shoulder hitting the door. The oak shuddered on its hinges. Simon backed up and tried again, and this time he was rewarded by a splintering of wood. On the third try the lock gave and the door swung open against his weight. He careened inside and stumbled to a halt in a space no bigger than his dressing room downstairs.

  An onslaught of perceptions bombarded him: the blackened window, the airless oppression of the room, the acrid scent of aging beams and floorboards and . . . something else, stale and heavy and sickly sweet.

  The dull orange light of an oil lantern seized his attention. Beside it, a disheveled cot took up the length of an entire wall. The twisted heap of coverlet and linens startled him by suddenly moving. A prone figure took shape, swathed in wrinkled, soiled folds of ivory linen.

  An arm came up. . . . The hand beckoned weakly.

  Simon’s heart wrenched as recognition raged through him. “Gwendolyn?”

  He bolted to the bed. Crouching on one knee, he reached for the hand that had fallen limply to the mattress. “Gwendolyn? Gwen?” He tapped her cheek, pale and sunken nearly beyond recognition.

  Her sooty eyelashes fluttered as her head lolled back and forth against a dingy pillow. Her lips parted on a moan.

  Beside the pallet, a barrel cut in half served as a table. On it were scattered a cup, a bowl of porridge that had long since cooled and congealed, and a vial that lay on its side, its cork having fallen out and rolled several inches away. A small dark pool stained the wood.

  “Good Lord.” Her hand on his shoulder, Ivy knelt at his side. “Your sister?”

  Gwen stirred again, and Simon cupped her hollow cheeks. “Gwen? Gwennie, it’s me, Simon. Good God, what happened to you?”

  “I ca
n’t believe it.” A treble note wavered in Ivy’s voice. “Can she have been here all this time? But Sir Alistair said—”

  Simon shushed her as Gwendolyn’s lips formed a word. “Simon ...”

  “Yes, Gwennie, it’s Simon. Open your eyes.”

  Her eyelids formed encrusted slits. She focused on him through a misty haze before her eyes glazed over. “Where is he ... ?”

  “Where is who, Gwennie? How did you get here?” But the answer sinking in his gut was not one he wished to hear spoken aloud.

  Ivy reached for the overturned vial and held its rim beneath her nose. “Laudanum. Very strong. She must be delirious.”

  “I don’t understand.” Simon looked helplessly down at his sister. “All along I believed Colin—”

  Gwendolyn cut off his words. “Will . . . marry me.”

  “Who, Gwennie? Who will marry you? Colin?”

  Her head thrashed from side to side. A reply? Simon couldn’t be sure. Her hand fought his hold with surprising strength. A shrill laugh spilled from her lips. “Not Colin. Never Colin.”

  Stunned, Simon sat back on his heels.

  Never Colin. Then, whom had she gone to meet at that roadside inn last winter? Had it not been Simon who intercepted her before her tryst, but Colin? Was that possible? But then why hadn’t Colin said so?

  The only logical answer slammed through him. Colin had prevented Gwen from ruining herself, and had taken the blame to save her. He must have known only that Gwen had invited trouble into her life and he had hastened out to that inn to forestall her from making a wretched mistake. Perhaps Colin’s sudden appearance had frightened off the real suitor, so that by the time Simon had arrived, his friend appeared the blackguard.

  Sickened, Simon leaned over to gather his sister’s wasted frame into his arms. “Ah, Gwennie, we have made some terrible mistakes, you and I. But we can make amends now. I’m going to take you home, see that you get well, and ...”

  Looking up at Ivy, he perceived in her dark eyes a tearful but steady promise of redemption and new beginnings. She nodded, and her lips curved in a tremulous smile.

  “There is someone here who can smooth matters with the queen,” he said to his sister. “All will be well, Gwennie, I promise.”

  Cradling her to his chest, he started to push to his feet.

  Behind him, the threshold creaked and a voice said, “Stay where you are.”

  Chapter 25

  Ivy’s breath froze in her lungs at the sight of Alistair Granville’s chilling smile and the pistol in his hand.

  Gently Simon laid Lady Gwendolyn back on the cot. Then he stood and whirled to face their adversary. “Alistair,” he said without a trace of surprise. “Why?”

  In her confusion, Ivy blurted, “But you’re supposed to be—”

  “In the ballroom murdering a certain police clerk who happens to slightly resemble you?” Sir Alistair’s sinister leer stretched to reveal a row of small, perfect teeth. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Ivers.”

  “How did you know about our plan?” she demanded.

  He flicked the pistol’s barrel at Simon. “Those speaking tubes of yours are a remarkable invention. I’ve installed them throughout Windgate Priory, and they’ve proved most useful. Especially the one behind your dressing mirror.”

  “Bastard.” Simon spat the word.

  “That is hardly a civil way to address your host.”

  Silently Ivy begged Simon not to do anything that smacked of foolhardy courage as he set himself between her and Sir Alistair’s gun. “All of this,” he said, “Gwen’s disappearance, the murders, even holding the consortium here, were all part of some sick plan of yours. Again I ask you why, Alistair.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  Ivy peeked out from behind Simon’s shoulder. “You’ve had the stone all along.”

  “Yes, I have the queen’s precious stone. Gwendolyn was most accommodating in that respect.”

  Fury emanated off Simon in waves that heated Ivy’s skin. “You irredeemable blackguard.”

  Have a care, my love, Ivy prayed.

  “Now, now.” Sir Alistair flicked a glance down at his pistol. “In case you’re considering doing anything rash, Simon, allow me to explain the miracle of technology I hold in my hand. It is called a revolver. A young American gentleman by the name of Colt had it made especially for me, in exchange for funding and help in gaining a patent for his invention here in England.” The weapon reflected the lamplight as he held it up higher. “It holds several bullets at once, and each time the trigger is squeezed, a fresh shell falls into the chamber. Quite ingenious, really.”

  Ivy had heard of such a weapon, but she had never before seen one. Dared she hope the prototype might misfire and take off Alistair’s hand?

  No, she could reckon their chances on no such miracle, nor on the possibility that she and Simon might devise a way of overpowering the man. The room’s dimensions allowed them too little space to maneuver. They could hardly take a step in any direction without knocking into a wall or the mattress, or walking straight into the threatening pistol.

  She sensed Simon, too, assessing their options and calculating their chances of success. Finally, he held out a placating hand. “What have Gwen and I ever done to you? We were friends, you and I. Colleagues. You supported my aspirations when my father scorned them.”

  “Your aspirations.” The quiet rage trembling in Sir Alistair’s voice quashed any hopes of swaying him with reason. “Damn you, Simon de Burgh. You have been a blight on my life these many years. Everything I have ever wished for, strived for, you stole from me.”

  “Such as what?” At a loss to understand, Simon raised his arms from his sides, then let them fall.

  “Discovery, advancement, the acclaim of our peers ...”

  “I never prevented you from achieving any of that. I assisted you until I was ready to conduct my own research. And then you left the university—”

  “Forced out, made to retire.” The bark of Sir Alistair’s reply made Ivy jump. “They said I attempted to steal credit for John Dalton’s theory of atomic structure. Trumped-up charges, nothing more. If anything, he stole my ideas.”

  “John Dalton’s theory ...” Simon plowed his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I remember now. You told me you and he had been collaborating....” He trailed off as understanding dawned in his eyes. “You lied. You claimed you had been working on those formulations all that year, that you were preparing to publish a treatise that would revolutionize how the scientific world viewed solid matter.”

  “And you went to Robert Leighton with the information.”

  “Ben’s predecessor? I mentioned it merely in passing. I assumed he knew.”

  “And he went straight to Dalton. Another fortnight, and those results would have been to my credit, and John Dalton the one quietly charged with plagiarism and banished from the university.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Alistair. If that theory had been yours, you could have proved it easily enough. But you couldn’t, because those results were pilfered. They were a lie.”

  “If not for you, it would have been Dalton’s word against mine.”

  “You made your bed. Yet in some twisted attempt at revenge, you committed murder and this—” Simon gestured with a shaking fist at his restive sister, half tangled in the bedclothes.

  “I lost everything,” Sir Alistair shouted. On the pallet, Lady Gwendolyn flinched. When Alistair spoke again, his poise had returned. “First my reputation . . . and then ...” He thrust a finger at the unconscious girl.

  Simon staggered a step forward as if to throttle the other man. “You didn’t want Gwen. You only wished to use her.”

  “Oh, there you are wrong. I wanted her, and I’d have whisked her to Gretna Green and married her if your idiotically valiant friend hadn’t shown up and botched my plans. I had just arrived and was stabling my horse when I looked up and saw him framed in the window of Gwendolyn’s room, looking as if he were having an apo
plexy. Damn Colin Ashworth’s hide. And damn your hide.”

  “None of this makes sense. You’re nearly thirty years older than Gwen. Why would she interest you . . . ?” Simon trailed off, then blew out a breath. “You and your endlessly expensive tastes. You finally managed to spend yourself dry, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t understand,” Ivy said from behind him.

  Simon answered without taking his gaze from Sir Alistair. “Gwen’s dowry. It is considerable, and he needed it.”

  “And I would have had it, if not for you and your meddling mate.”

  “You pathetic, deceitful, miserable excuse of a man ...”

  “Simon, please,” Ivy whispered. From around his shoulder, she stared into the gaping black end of the pistol aimed squarely at his chest. However loose Sir Alistair’s hold on sanity might be, his grip on his weapon remained firm, his arm steady. “Please, Simon, don’t provoke him.”

  Sir Alistair’s features stayed impassive. “It might interest you to know, Simon, that marriage or no, I have made your sister mine.”

  “You . . . didn’t ...” Simon’s shoulders heaved. He lurched forward, but before he took a full step, Ivy fisted her hands on his coattails and yanked him back with all her strength. Yet she realized quickly enough that it had been the element of surprise and not muscle power that checked his onslaught. If she couldn’t succeed in talking sense into him, she would not be able to restrain him.

  Releasing his coat, she slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her lips to his nape. “Don’t listen to his taunts, my love. He only wishes to goad you into doing something stupid. For Gwennie’s sake, don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  His head turned a fraction toward his sister, who appeared to have sunk deep into unconsciousness again. His features contorted. To Sir Alistair he demanded, “What do you want?”

  “What I have always wanted.” The man’s eyes narrowed, transforming him from elegant gentleman to back-alley cutthroat. “To claim my rightful place in the scientific community.”