Diccon chuckled. “So your generous gifts to your family weren’t paid for by a lucky wager. What a slyboots to have fobbed your sister off with some tale of grandiose investments! I knew it was unlikely, at your age. Rum running, eh?”
“Not so!” exclaimed Eric, indignantly. “Bigger game, sir! I”—a swift glance at the door—“I am a—a sort of courier. An exceeding high paid courier, I might add. For a group of influential gentlemen.”
Diccon’s eyes were veiled, but his lips twitched and one of his brows arched upward ironically.
Touched on the raw, Eric flared, “You think I brag, and that gentlemen would not trust weighty matters to the care of a man of two and twenty! Well, that is exactly why I am hired! Because I look younger than I am.” He laughed suddenly. “You should only see the rig I wear when I’m sailing! I look like nothing so much as an underpaid apprentice clerk. How I laugh to myself when the Riding Officers don’t so much as glance my way! If they did but know what—” He broke off. He’d said more than he intended, and finished rather lamely, “You’d not credit the amount of secrecy and spying that goes on in the world of industry.”
“Is that so? Well, I expect you’re old enough to know what you’re about, and whether the risks you run are justified. For my part, I’m of a mind to marry and settle down.” Diccon sighed, and said ruefully, “I’ll have to give up smuggling then, of course. A gentleman cannot take the chance of bringing shame to his loved ones.”
Eric frowned into his wineglass and said nothing.
“I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed meeting your family,” Diccon went on, his eyes very keen under the thick brows. “They’ve been most kind to me. I really envy you your young brother. He’s an engaging little scamp. You’re his idol, and it’s plain to see that he’ll take you for his model in life.”
Lifting his head, Warrington searched the lean features and found only a friendly smile. “Yes,” he said, setting down his glass. “Well, I must be getting home. Good day, sir, and thank you for your hospitality.”
Outside, the skies had darkened, the air was very still and the clouds had the yellowish tinge that warned of a thunderstorm. Eric Warrington rode up the hill slowly, in a marked departure from his customary neck or nothing pace. The smuggled brandy was potent stuff and his head felt just a touch fuzzy. But it was not the effect of the wine that brought the uneasiness to his spirits. He wondered if he’d said too much to a man he really scarcely knew. He heard again a deep voice that said, “… he’ll take you for his model in life.” It did little to lighten his mood.
Diccon stood on the drawbridge and watched him out of sight. Deep in thought, he wandered around to the barn, kicking a pebble before him. Mac had gone back into the house and the barn was dim and quiet, the air heavy with the scents of hay and animals. He came to a halt and gazed blankly at an empty stall. Then he drove a clenched fist at a post and said an explosive “Damn!”
* * *
The storm, which had been threatening all day, broke in full fury shortly after four o’clock. Jocelyn Vaughan pulled the top cape of his riding coat higher about his throat, ducked his head against the teeming rain and urged his horse to a gallop. He’d glimpsed the chimneys from the top of the hill and thought it would be a short ride to the manor, but the distance was deceiving and by the time he approached the closed lodge gates he was soaked. The little lodge was unoccupied and he had no intention of dismounting to open the gates. The tall grey gelding cleared the hedge neatly and cantered along the short drive-path to the terrace steps.
Even through the downpour Vaughan could see that it was a much smaller house than he’d envisioned, and in better repair. Urged on by a deafening peal of thunder, he dismounted, secured the reins to a post, and ran up the steps and across the terrace.
There was no sound from within, and not a single candle brightened the windows. “Hello!” he shouted, pounding on the door. “Are you asleep again, you lazy varmint? Wakey, wakey!”
Rushing into the kitchen with her arms full of damp washing, Fanny heard the shouting and the repeated blows on the front door. “Oh, rats!” she panted. “Go away, whoever you are!”
The pounding was redoubled and an irate roar advised that if the door wasn’t opened instantly there would be bloody murder done.
Mrs. Gillespie had gone home early with one of her “headaches,” and Marietta was striving frantically to rescue the rest of the laundry. Papa and Eric had driven off somewhere in the new coach, which left to Fanny the task of dealing with this violent caller. She deposited her load on the kitchen table and hurried across the withdrawing room, prepared for battle. Lightning flashed as she entered the hall. The front door was being pushed open. A gauntletted hand came into view and that irate male voice shouted, “Where the devil are you, traitor? Guard yourself! I’m coming in!”
Fanny’s impassioned retort froze on her tongue. Into her mind came Marietta’s story of the intruder who had broken into Lanterns and so brutally attacked Diccon. This was very likely the same creature. Having failed at the manor he’d decided to search the dower house! She started to back away. Terrified by the slow opening of the door, she fled into the drawing room. There was no time for a further retreat. Fortunately, they’d not yet lit candles and the room was quite dim. She sank onto the sofa next to “Mrs. Hughes-Dering” and did her best to resemble a dummy.
Jocelyn Vaughan stepped into a spacious but gloomy entrance hall. He peered about curiously, his eyes still dazzled from that brilliant lightning flash. Directly opposite, heavy draperies were tied back on each side of an archway giving onto a corridor. He went over to the archway and saw a flight of stairs at some distance to his left, several rooms to his right, and, facing him, a partly open door. It was chill and deathly quiet. He took off his hat and shook it, sending water spraying from the brim. ‘Grim sort of place,’ he thought, and howled, “Hello? Did everybody die?”
Aside from another peal of thunder there was no response. He crossed the corridor, pushed the door wider, and looked into a large drawing room. He was considerably put out to find upon entering this shadowed chamber that several people were present, all of whom saw fit to ignore him. “Good day,” he said stiffly. “Your butler must not have heard me at the door.”
Silence. Not a word, not a movement.
“All dead, are you?” he enquired with heavy sarcasm.
The complete lack of any reaction was peculiar, to say the least. They were so unnaturally still. Uneasy now, he moved forward and addressed the military man seated by the empty hearth. “Are you asleep, sir? Have I broke into the wrong house? I’m here to … see…” The eyes were open, however, their fixed, glassy-eyed stare was unnerving. Vaughan, who was no stranger to death and had himself almost succumbed to wounds sustained at the Battle of Quatre Bras, recoiled, the hair on the back of his neck lifting. He held his breath, put out a hand and gave the man’s shoulder a tentative shake. There was no angry protest, no resistance at all. Slowly, the soldier slumped to the side.
“Jupiter!” yelped Vaughan, horrified.
He touched the arm of one of three ladies seated on a sofa, and the large dowager sagged slightly. The lady to her left sagged more than slightly, her head lolling in a most horrid fashion.
“What a … ghastly … thing!” he whispered, breaking into a sweat. His hand shook as he reached for the slender girl on the far end. A piercing shriek rang out and his hand was knocked aside. His heart jumped into his throat. With a terrified shout he fairly leapt back. The young woman sprang to her feet. The poor creature’s mind must have cracked, he thought dazedly, for in such a place of horror she was laughing hysterically.
Desperate, he looked about. Three roses in a crystal vase were displayed on a round occasional table. He snatched up the vase, removed the roses and flung the water in the face of the convulsed girl. Her laughter was cut off. She stood rigid and gasping, her eyes (which, sadly, were very pretty) wide with shock, and water dripping down her nose.
&nbs
p; “Ooo-oh!” she gulped.
“My poor little soul,” said Vaughan kindly, setting the vase aside and putting a consoling arm about her tiny waist.
“Monster!” she shrieked, swinging one damp but efficient hand into cracking contact with his cheek. “How—dare—you!”
“What—on earth?” Another lady, very wet and dishevelled and wrapped in a large apron, hurried to join them.
“Don’t look!” cried Vaughan, flinging up a gallantly protecting hand. “It’s horrid! Is your master still alive?”
Marietta’s lower lip sagged, and Fanny stared at this (astonishingly handsome) young lunatic speechlessly.
“There has been a most frightful tragedy,” said Vaughan, drawing his handkerchief and wiping his pallid brow. “This poor demented maid appears to be the only survivor! We shall have to call in the authorities at once. Are you the housekeeper? Or is there someone who can—”
“Survivor … of what?” asked Marietta, bewildered.
“Mass murder in the drawing room,” spluttered Fanny.
“Oh, dear me! Another visitor! The Mystical Window Through Time was right again!” A startling figure came in from the front hall and peered up into Vaughan’s face. “So you have this way come,” she remarked. “But you don’t look very wicked.”
He was unable to return the compliment and gazed at her, stunned. A tangle of wet hair was plastered to her forehead, thick face paint was running, giving her a most ghoulish appearance, and a voluminous cloak sagged, drenched, about her.
A small boy clad in what appeared to be chain mail, and with a most odd helmet on his head came clanking down the stairs accompanied by a large ginger cat that flashed across the dining room and launched itself into the visitor’s arms.
“I knowed he wouldn’t keep his promise,” the child wailed. “I’ll split his wishbone!”
Vaughan whispered, “Oh … my … God!”
Fanny could not contain herself, and laughed till she cried.
CHAPTER XI
When the explanations and introductions had been made Vaughan was invited to stay for tea. In the absence of their groom he took his mount to the barn and tended to its needs with the swift efficiency learned by all those who had been members of the Duke of Wellington’s dauntless cavalry.
When he returned to the house the younger ladies and the pile of washing had disappeared somewhere. Mrs. Cordova was in the kitchen and offered a curtsy so deep and flourishing that he was taken aback, but with the paint removed from her face, she looked far less frightening. Despite her odd appearance he was astonished to find a lady of Quality working in the kitchen, but there was no doubt that this was a very unconventional household. Mrs. Cordova seemed not at all disconcerted by his presence but bustled about making preparations for tea, and chattering endlessly about his uncle, John Moulton, of whom she spoke very highly. Enquiring after Lord John’s bride, Lady Salia, she smiled nostalgically at the tea strainer, and murmured, “She was of the gypsies, I know, but such a beautiful creature.” Before he could comment, she burst into song. “She has healing hands of green. But through my window she’s not seen!”
He had not the faintest notion of how one responded to such odd behaviour and was murmuring a feeble, “How—ah, nice,” when to his great relief Miss Warrington reappeared and ushered him into the drawing room. She had changed for dinner and he thought her very pretty in a white gown trimmed with red velvet. A moment later her sister arrived, and his breath was snatched away. In a gown of primrose and gold, with a golden fillet threaded charmingly through her dark curls, Miss Fanny was so dazzling that he was scarcely able to respond properly when Mrs. Cordova left them, saying she had to “make some necessary repairs.”
“You must think me a proper cloth-head,” said Vaughan, taking the cup of tea Fanny offered. “I can only plead that I should have recognized Miss Warrington at once save that the light was rather dim, and—er—”
“And one sees what one expects to see,” said Marietta, adding a log to the now merrily blazing fire. “You could not have expected to see me here, and considering the way I was dressed I’m not surprised that you were confused.”
Miss Fanny’s big hazel eyes laughed into his as she proffered milk and sugar. A dimple flickered at the corner of her mouth reminding him that he was staring again and had not replied to her sister’s remark. He said hurriedly, “You are very kind, Miss Warrington. I’ll confess I’d not known you had removed from Town.”
“We have suffered reverses, you see,” explained Fanny in a frank, unspoiled way that he thought enchanting. “We lost our own home and in fact this house is only leased.”
“I would never have guessed,” he declared staunchly. “Leased homes are so often rather stark, whereas this is perfectly charming.” And indeed, now that the candles were lit and firelight warmed the room, it was very different. So different that had he been offered the choice of any mansion in the land at that moment, he would have wanted to be nowhere else.
“It is a nice house,” said Marietta, taking a seat nearby. “But I can appreciate what a great shock it was for you to come upon my aunt’s—er, ‘friends’ in a darkened room in the middle of a thunderstorm.”
“Oh, a very great shock,” said Fanny demurely.
He grinned. “You had a jolly time laughing at my consternation, Miss Fanny. If I had suffered a heart seizure, you’d have been sorry!”
“How could I help but laugh?” she countered. “You looked so funny, and clearly feared you’d wandered into a mad-house.”
“And indeed we would have been very sorry,” said Marietta, quite aware of the becoming blush on her sister’s cheeks and the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “I promise you the figures were not made with the intent of alarming people, but to console my aunt. She misses her friends, you see.”
Fanny said, “I expect you think it odd that she pretends they’re really here, chatting with her.”
It seemed to him excessively odd but he said heartily, “Now that I see them in a better light I have to say the likenesses are remarkable. Miles Cameron especially. You’ll have to make a change though; Miles was promoted. And about time!”
This news was received with delight. “He’s a charming gentleman,” said Marietta. “A close friend of your cousin, Lord St. Clair, unless I mistake it. Were you all at Waterloo?”
“Lucian and Miles were. I was knocked down at Quatre Bras, so can’t claim the distinction of having survived the big battle.” He paused, a far-away look creeping into his dark eyes.
Marietta was reminded of just that same haunted expression in Diccon’s eyes when he’d spoken of Waterloo.
Fanny said earnestly, “I think most people think of Quatre Bras as being a part of the battle. You may be sure we are all very proud of the men who fought for us so bravely.”
Touched, Vaughan flushed and stammered that although his own participation had been minimal, there were countless splendid fellows who deserved such accolades.
“No such thing!” Mrs. Cordova surged into the room clad in an impressive purple gown and a turban in which a single rather threadbare feather soared skyward. “Lucian St. Clair never tires of telling people that you saved his life,” she went on, “and very nearly lost your own in the process. One cannot like a braggart, but false modesty is tiresome.”
Vaughan had stood politely when she entered. Red as fire, he wished the floor might open under him, and said with an embarrassed laugh that it was hard to know where one began and the other left off. And maligning the cousin who was as close to him as a brother, he added, “Besides, St. Clair is a very frippery fellow, ma’am. I’m not eager to go about claiming responsibility for his continued existence!”
Viscount Lucian St. Clair’s exploits had won him widespread admiration, and at this they all laughed.
Fanny said, “I am going to guess that is why you are in the neighbourhood. Lord Temple and Cloud was also at Waterloo, and is a friend of yours.”
Grateful for this c
hange of subject, Vaughan sat down again. He had not met Temple and Cloud, he said. “I intruded on you so rudely because I thought this was a manor called Lanterns. Am I very far off?”
“About two miles,” said Fanny, puzzled.
“You are on the Lanterns estate,” explained Marietta, passing a dish of warm scones. “But this is the dower house.”
“Do you mean to call on Lord Temple and Cloud?” asked Fanny.
In the act of reaching for a scone, Vaughan paused, looking at her curiously. “No, ma’am. Should I?”
Marietta said, “I understood you to say you had mistaken this house for the manor. I believe there is no one else there, unless perhaps you are calling on Micah MacDougall.”
Relieved, Vaughan exclaimed, “Oh, good! If Mac’s there, Diccon must be somewhere nearby.” The scone was light as a feather, and he was about to compliment the cook when he saw their exchange of glances. At once apprehensive, he said, “Something is wrong, I collect. Never say Diccon has met with another accident.”
“Oh, several,” said Fanny.
Watching him over the rim of her teacup, Mrs. Cordova said, “That disturbs you. Are you close friends?”
“I think not,” Fanny interpolated. “When Mr. Vaughan arrived he called the Major a traitor.”
Vaughan said tersely, “Your pardon, ma’am, but I said ‘trader,’ not ‘traitor.’ And we are indeed friends. Is he badly hurt this time?”
Marietta answered, “Fortunately, not,” and hid her surprise that even his friends did not know of Diccon’s title.
Less tactful, Fanny exclaimed, “But if you are his friend you surely must know that Diccon Paisley is Lord Temple and Cloud?”
Vaughan stared at her speechlessly. Then laughter gleamed in his eyes. He said, “Miss Warrington, I think someone has been hoaxing you.”
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