Ariadne's Diadem

by Sandra Heath

  Hugh knew when he was up against it. “Oh, very well, yes, I will leave within a day or so.” He was mindful of his wish to appear in a good light, so he went on. “Maybe it would be appropriate if I wrote as well? If I use your facilities here, it can be sent with your letter.” And it will cost me nothing, was the unspoken addendum.

  Mr. Critchley was impressed. “Excellent. By the way, perhaps I could presume to recommend a certain hostelry in the neighborhood of Llandower? It’s called the White Boar, and although five miles away, is a clean and comfortable establishment with an excellent table. I know of it because my widowed and somewhat eccentric sister fancies herself a writer of Gothic novels and has become a devoted Wye Valley sightseer in recent years. The area is a magnet for artists, poets, and writers of all description, for it possesses the requisite gorges, mountains, rapids, castles on crags, lush meadows, and woodland, et cetera. She always stays at the White Boar and speaks of it most highly.”

  “Then I will stay there too, sir. Thank you for your advice.”

  “Not at all, sir, not at all.”

  They both rose to shake hands, but as he went to the door Hugh paused, glancing down at his cigar as if searching for the right words to say something exceedingly delicate. “Mr. Critchley, I am curious to know what would happen if...heaven forfend...Miss Willowby should expire? I mean, we now know that the clause applies to whoever becomes heir to the dukedom, but what of the lady? Will her heir—a sister perhaps—have to obey it as well?”

  The lawyer was a little startled. “No, the will is most specific in naming Miss Willowby as the bride concerned, so her demise would negate the clause entirely. Where the bridegroom is concerned, however, it merely refers to the heir to the dukedom. So if you in turn were to pass on, which also heaven forfend, of course, the dukedom will become extinct.”

  Hugh did not hum beneath his breath as he strode bitterly back to Kitty’s house in Knightsbridge. His cane lashed angrily from side to side, and his fashionable spurs rang on the fine pavement as he considered the full implication of his late uncle’s will. At first he contemplated making himself so obnoxious that not even regard for her beloved father would induce the Willowby woman to throw herself onto such an odious marital pyre. But such a course offered an uncertain conclusion, for what if, come what may, she remained determined on the match? Then there was Kitty to consider. The advent of another bride was bound to mean forfeiting the sensuous favors he had lusted after for so long and had only just begun to enjoy! The answer was simple. Anne Willowby had to go.

  When he arrived at the house and told Kitty what had happened, she wasn’t at all pleased; indeed she was so beside herself at having her dream snatched from under her nose again, that it took a great deal of persuading to prevent her from having him thrown out immediately. The chestnut-haired actress was hardly able to believe that once again she was apparently being cast aside because a titled lover needed to marry elsewhere, and in furious silence she swept up to her rose brocade boudoir, intending to slam the door in Hugh’s face should he dare to follow. He pushed his way past, and they faced each other at the foot of the sumptuously draped four-poster in which she had given her all to an unconscionably long list of gentlemen. A rather florid watercolor hung above the headboard, depicting a bacchanalia of naked nymphs and other mythical beings cavorting in a grove, and from behind one of the trees there peered a creature very like the beggar in the grove above Naples. Its eyes seemed to rest mockingly on Hugh as he implored the furious actress not to reject him.

  Still too angry to trust herself to speak, Kitty flounced to the window and twitched the lace curtain aside to look down at some boys playing with hoops in the street below. Her rich red-gold hair spilled smoothly about her shoulders, and her primrose muslin robe parted to reveal a shapely thigh. Her full, pink-tipped breasts were evident through the diaphanous material, as was the slenderness of her tiny waist. She was twenty-six years old and unbelievably beautiful, but the sweetness of her visage belied the sourness within. There was nothing soft or caring about her, nothing gentle or endearing, just a magnetic voluptuousness she didn’t hesitate to use to her own advantage. Most men found her irresistible, unless, like Gervase, they discovered what she had caused to happen to her tragic little brother.

  Hugh was at last able to put into words the thoughts he’d had on leaving Mr. Critchley. “Kitty, I swear you will have the world itself if you will only wait until I can bring about Anne Willowby’s demise.”

  Kitty’s lustrous hazel eyes swung from the boys, one of who reminded her sharply of her brother. “Bring about her demise?” she repeated incredulously, a hand creeping to the creamy expanse of bosom revealed by the plunging décolletage of her robe.

  “Yes, for it is the only certain way of being rid of her.”

  “You’re prepared to go to such a length?” Incredulousness began to give way to a thrill of erotic excitement.

  “I will do anything to keep you. Kitty.”

  “I’ve never had a man want me that much,” she breathed. A new light had begun to gleam in her eyes, but then her gaze sharpened once more. “When will you do it?” she demanded.

  “I swear it will not be long. I have undertaken to leave for Llandower within a few days.”

  “Do you promise you will do it?”

  “Yes, oh, yes,” he whispered.

  She smiled a little. “I really believe you will,” she murmured.

  Encouraged, he ventured to approach her, slipping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair. “I want you, Kitty,” he whispered, becoming aroused by the perfumed softness of her body through the diaphanous robe.

  She pressed back against him. “And you’ll still make me your duchess?”

  “Yes, oh, yes...” His hands moved up to cup her full breasts. She pushed her nipples into his palms, savoring the desire kindled by his wicked promise, and his arousal became almost unendurable. “Oh, Kitty, Kitty...”

  She turned to link her arms around his neck. “Make love to me. Your Grace,” she whispered.

  He caught her up in his arms and bore her to the bed, where she lay with impatient eagerness, her fiery copper hair spreading over the pillows. Hugh was conscious of the watercolor and the creature gazing at him from behind the tree, but he didn’t glance up as he hastily tore off his clothes, and then lowered himself into Kitty’s waiting arms.

  Chapter Six

  Several days later, Anne was on the point of setting out for a late ride when the letters arrived from London. She had been kept busy all day with problems on the estate, and had just spent three long hours in her father’s study composing letters to importunate creditors who had heard of her match and thought the Willowbys were suddenly overladen with wealth, so she was in much need of a little relaxation. She wore her nasturtium riding habit and a black top hat from which trailed a long white lace scarf, and she was just pulling on her gloves by the table in the hall when Martin hurried in with the mail he’d intercepted.

  The letters were both addressed to her father, but since she was empowered to act on his behalf in everything during his absence, she read them both. The contents caused her to sit down a little weakly beside the table as she tried to marshal her thoughts. Gervase was dead, and instead she was expected to marry the cousin he had accompanied to Italy? It was hard to take in, but common sense prevailed. She didn’t know either of them, and she still had to save Llandower for her father if she could, so what earthly difference did it make which man she married? That was that then—she would go to the altar with the ninth Duke of Wroxford instead of the eighth, although heaven alone knew what her parents would make of this latest development.

  At least Hugh Mowbray was going to call in a few days’ time, which was more than the late unlamented Gervase had ever done! She glanced again at his letter. It was couched in the sort of courteous and considerate terms she’d always looked for in vain from Gervase, and when she recalled the frosty missives tucked behind the candlestick in
the drawing room, she could only hope that Hugh Mowbray lived up to the promise that seemed evident in this single communication. The thought of Gervase’s letters dispelled any fleeting idea she might have entertained about wearing mourning for him, for he didn’t deserve so much as a single black ribbon!

  Anne knew she would have to wait until later to inform Mrs. Jenkins of the new duke’s impending visit, because the housekeeper had gone to visit her sister in Peterbury, so she tossed the letters on the table and then hurried out to the courtyard, where Joseph was waiting with her favorite roan mare. The evening shadows were already beginning to lengthen as he helped her onto the mounting block so that she could slip easily onto the sidesaddle. After telling him she intended to ride east to see if the bluebell wood was in full bloom yet, she kicked her heel and urged the mare out of the courtyard. But she hadn’t ridden far when she changed her mind about the bluebells, for she’d set out later than she intended and wouldn’t reach the woods before darkness fell. So instead she decided to ride north along the river as far as the bridge carrying the Peterbury road.

  The Wye was beautiful at any time of year, but it was particularly so in April when the hawthorn was in bloom and the meadows were full of cowslips. She reined in for a while by the jetty, where willows draped their fresh-leaved fronds in the current and tall reeds swayed in the slightest breeze. The rowing boats bumped together from time to time, as if impatient to skim out on the swift water again, and flowers filled the spring evening with fragrance. Suddenly, she remembered her seventh birthday and the wonderful moonlight picnic she and her parents had enjoyed on the jetty. After a fine feast prepared by Mrs. Jenkins, they’d rowed a few hundred yards downstream to the medieval stone-edged spring known as St. Winifred’s Well, which lay on the opposite bank just before the river formed white rapids to carve its way through a rocky but leafy gorge. Everyone had enjoyed it so much that the exercise had been repeated every year since...until now. Sadness swept over her then, for she knew that once she was Duchess of Wroxford, there would never again be a birthday picnic on the jetty or a moonlight trip to St. Winifred’s Well.

  She glanced at Llandower. If there was a paradise on earth, it was here, she thought, and it was up to her to do all in her power to save it for her father. She wondered how her parents were. Was the visit to Ireland going well? Or was it an unmitigated disaster? She wished she knew, but there hadn’t been any word at all since they’d left.

  She rode on, observed only by the cattle grazing in the rich meadows. The sun’s rays slanted crimson when the bridge came into view several hundred yards ahead, and everything was so calm and peaceful that it seemed nothing could possibly happen. But happen it did, for suddenly there was a flash of lightning—at least she thought it was lightning. The mare reared, and Anne screamed as she was flung from the saddle. The Wye glittered in the setting sun as she fell on the very edge of the bank. She wasn’t hurt and wanted to get up again immediately, but a strange lassitude came over her. It was a delicious, irresistible weariness, and she had to close her eyes and sleep. The last thing she remembered was the heady scent of cowslips and the sound of the mare cantering back to Llandower.

  It was no ordinary sleep, of course, and far from being a natural occurrence, the lightning was the result of divine intervention, for at the very moment Anne had set out for her ride, in far -off Italy an angry Bacchus had at last come to punish Sylvanus for the loss of Ariadne’s diadem.

  The Mediterranean evening had already closed in as the ever-young god of wine, pleasure, and wild nature arrived in the grove, attended by a retinue of scores of Sylvanus’s mischievous brethren. The purple-robed deity was tall, handsome and dazzlingly golden, and led a panther on a silver chain. He wore a vine and ivy leaf wreath, carried a long wand topped by a bunch of myrtle, and his eyes were ablaze with fury as he commanded Sylvanus to come forth from his hiding place.

  The terrified faun crawled out on all fours, and his goat tail trembled in the air as he pressed his face to the grass. “Have pity on me, oh, mighty Bacchus, oh, Great One...” he whimpered.

  The panther growled, and Sylvanus forgot his fear for a moment in order to give the animal a look of loathing. As far as he was concerned, it was little more than a large tomcat with airs and graces above its station.

  Bacchus poked Sylvanus with his wand. “Save your attention for me. Faun!”

  Sylvanus cowered again, and the gathered fauns began to snigger at his discomfort, although they were immediately silenced by the god’s baleful glare. Then Bacchus stretched out a foot and pushed Sylvanus to the edge of the pool. “You’ve let me down, Sylvanus,” he accused.

  “F-forgive me, Master,” Sylvanus whimpered, eyeing both the god and the shining water that was once again within inches of him.

  “Forgive you? Why should I do that? Your task was to guard the grove, but you failed! Now my Sweet One’s crown has been taken, and all because of your folly. Can you give me one good reason why I should spare you?”

  “Give me one more chance. Lord, and I vow I will redeem myself!” Sylvanus pleaded.

  Bacchus bent to stroke the panther. “You are not a cat with nine lives, Faun, merely a worthless creature who has displeased me. Your time has come.”

  Sylvanus squeaked with terror and hid his face again. “Please! I beg of you! Remember that the Lady Ariadne liked me, and would not wish to see me die!”

  Bacchus had raised his staff, but then paused. “You presume by mentioning her name,” he breathed, glancing up at the deep turquoise sky, where the first evening stars had begun to appear. He had commemorated his adored Ariadne in the constellation known as the Corona Borealis, named after the very wedding diadem this inept failure of a faun had allowed to be stolen!

  Sylvanus’s tail shook with dread. “Let me save the diadem for you. Liege, let me go after the Englishman and punish him as I punished the duke!”

  “That is another thing. The man you turned to marble is innocent of attacking the woman Teresa.”

  Dismayed, Sylvanus clasped his arms over his head. His goat tail became very still, and he drew his hooves up until he could have been rolled into the pool like a ball.

  Bacchus snapped his fingers and nodded at one of the other fauns, who immediately ran to Sylvanus’s hiding place and returned with Gervase’s clothes, which were placed respectfully at the god’s feet. The silver buttons of the greatcoat winked in the half-light, their maze pattern very clear to see. “Ah, the defenses of Troy, how well I remember them,” the god murmured, touching one of the buttons with the end of his staff. A flood of knowledge immediately swept through him. He saw the maze at Llandower Castle and the old duke issuing his ultimatum to Anne. He saw Gervase being told he must marry Anne if he wished to retain his inheritance. He saw how very much the man who now lay entombed at the bottom of the pool resented the match, and he saw also Hugh, the new Duke of Wroxford, lying in the arms of Kitty Longton. Last but not least he saw Anne riding through the early evening sun along the bank of the Wye.

  A thoughtful expression entered the god’s eyes, and he prodded the terrified faun. “Get up,” he commanded.

  Sylvanus couldn’t move.

  “Get up!” Bacchus ordered, poking him more harshly.

  Sylvanus uncurled and rose unwillingly to his hooves, then stood with his head bowed as he awaited sentence.

  “You’re right to remind me that my Sweet One liked you, and for her sake I will indeed give you another chance, but don’t think I intend to let you off lightly.” Bacchus hooked the greatcoat with the end of his staff and tossed it toward Sylvanus, who caught it. ‘Touch one of the buttons,” the god commanded.

  Sylvanus obeyed, and the knowledge flooded through him, too.

  “There are conditions to be met before you will have fully redeemed yourself in my eyes, Faun. You will go to the place called Llandower Castle, where the diadem will soon be brought. It must be given willingly into your hands, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master.”


  “But before you can receive the diadem, you must help the other man complete his task.”

  “What other man?” Sylvanus was puzzled.

  The god pointed at the water. “The wrong cousin was punished for what was done to the woman Teresa, but even so he was guilty of trying to steal the diadem, so I am going to send him to England as well. He will have to assume a new identity and win the heart of the bride he treated so badly. He will remain a statue by day, but at night will be turned into flesh and blood again in order to woo her. Without ever knowing who he really is, she must tell him she loves him. It will not be easy to make her confess, for she is a young woman of great integrity who now considers herself honor-bound to the man called Hugh. There is only one circumstance that will afford any advantage at the moment—the lady is temporarily alone because her parents have gone to Dublin. There will be several days, or rather nights, before Hugh arrives.”

  “What if she cannot be won?”

  “Then the duke will remain a statue throughout eternity, and you. Faun, will stay in England with him, provided I spare your miserable hide, that is,” the god said harshly, and the other fauns sniggered again, for they always took mean delight in each other’s misfortune.

  Sylvanus swallowed, resigned to what lay ahead. “What is to happen to the man called Hugh?” he asked then.

  “His fate I will leave to you and the duke. If you both succeed in your allotted tasks, you will have the pleasure of punishing him as you both see fit.”

  Sylvanus shuffled his hooves. “When are you sending us?”

  “At this very moment,” Bacchus replied. “However, first I must make one thing clear. You are not to employ your power to make men and women irresistibly drawn to each other. What the duke achieves must be done without your intervention, is that clear?”