She hesitated but followed. Perhaps it was Ellen after all, with her beau, and Anne couldn’t decide if she most feared for the young woman or suspected her. There was a clearing in the woods ahead; she could see a stream of moonlight and then… what was that, the voices? It sounded like drunken singing! She moved on and saw the creature more clearly now, the back hunched, ears pricked up. Her heart pounded.
There were some fellows ahead; she could dimly see moving shapes and hear their voices. They were singing “As I Walked Forth,” and when they got to the line “The Dead Man’s Thumb, an herb all blue,” someone drunkenly laughed out loud. They came to the chorus and shouted out, all together, “Alas! Alas! There’s no one e’er loved as I!”
But that last was punctuated by the fearsome howl of the wolf-monster, which just then came upon them. The drunken fools screamed and scrambled, beset upon in their drunken state, and ran pell-mell away, some of them stumbling, one screaming, all shrieking, “Wolf! Wolf!”
Human laughter followed, but from whence it came, Anne could not tell. It had an odd, muffled quality.
She followed the creature, which now strolled more leisurely. It broke down branches and left a clear path, so though Anne could not see it at all times, she could hear it and follow, seeing the broken remains of branches along the way.
What was it? Or who? Was it the same creature she had seen in the wood by the castle? And on the hill by the old gamekeeper’s shack? How could it be? That creature was doglike and moved on four feet, while this—animal though it was in appearance—seemed to move in a crouch but on two feet.
A trickle of fear warred with a desperate craving to know the truth.
There is a rational explanation for everything, Anne thought as she crept through the forest after it. Beside her, Irusan moved much more stealthily. She hoped they were headed for another clearing, because the dark, with only the flickering light of the lantern to show her the way, filled her with fear. Moonlight glimmered ahead. Following the creature’s trail, she broke through the last line of tangled brush, and a beam of moonlight from the almost-full disc above glowed. The beast had stopped.
“There is no such thing as a werewolf,” she muttered to Irusan under her breath, creeping forward into the clearing. Her words then proved terribly naïve, for the wolfish creature turned, staring directly at her with an intensity both human and bestial. “Though it seems I may have been mistaken,” she murmured.
The creature started toward her. Irusan hissed and arched his back, yowling with piercing intensity. This was utterly ridiculous, she decided, for she had never believed in the supernatural and was not about to start at the advanced age of twenty-four. She steeled herself and stared, holding the flickering lamp aloft; the glimmering light glinted against something shiny. Was it…? Yes, brass buttons! Surely a werewolf did not hold its skin on with brass buttons! As the creature advanced, threatening her with outstretched claws and growling menacingly, Irusan adding to the din with his unearthly yowls, Anne made a swift decision. She pulled off the glass and threw the flaming lamp, spilling oil over the creature. The fur caught aflame immediately, and the air was rent by a very human voice shrieking, “Damn and blast! Devil woman… I’m burning! Help me get this cursed skin off!”
“I will not!” she shouted, well satisfied by the sight of the fellow hopping from one foot to the other, pulling blazing bits of stinking fur from him and flinging them down to the damp grass, where the flames sputtered and died. “It well serves you for frightening poor Lydia and trying to trick me!”
“Help me, now!”
Anne stopped in her tracks. The voice sounded familiar, grumpy and complaining, yet at the same time commanding and imperious. She dashed forward and pushed the imposter down, rolling him in the dew-laden grass, then pulled away the last bit of stinking, singed fur, and a papier maché mask that came away from his face whole. It was the marquess! “Lord Darkefell! You are the werewolf?”
“I was,” he said dryly, gazing up at her, his face smudged with ash and soot, “until you destroyed my costume.”
Nineteen
“How dare you, sir!” Lady Anne cried, scrambling to her feet. It was dark now, her lamp extinguished by her rash action, and only the moon as illumination. “How dare you terrorize us all, your own people, your servants? What’s the meaning of this?”
He stared up at her. Her eyes glittered, the pale gray of the irises faintly silver in the moonlight, outlining the black of her dilated pupils; her hood was thrown back, and dark wavy hair tumbled over her shoulders, long as her waist. Fury was delineated in every part of her, arms stiff at her sides, hands clenched, shoulders rigid with wrath. Perhaps he had been right when he yelled “devil woman” in his flaming ire. The stink of his cremated fur still reeked, filling his nostrils. He was weary of the masquerade and, in truth, glad the damned costume was incinerated.
Something about his scorched appearance must have touched her, for she sighed and shook her head, then offered him her hand and helped pull him to his feet. “I am fascinated to hear your explanation of this… this aberrant behavior, my lord. Why do you inflict this travesty upon your people?”
He kept her hand trapped in his and pulled her closer, gazing down at her upturned face, the pale skin gleaming nacre-bright in the moonlight. No other person, except for Osei, knew of this trickery, and he wanted it kept secret. But how to ensure it? Bully her? She’d laugh at him. Bribery? Information was a currency she might accept, but how much was he willing to offer? Seduction? An oddly appealing thought to him, but she had proven adamant in the face of his romantic persuasion so far.
She was breathing quickly, even with no exercise to prompt it. He bent to kiss her, but she backed away.
“You, sir, stink of singed fur.”
His lips twitched. A bubble of hilarity welled up in him, and he burst into laughter. “And you, madam, are delightful,” he said, tweaking her cheek. He swept her a gallant bow, aware how ridiculous he looked with bits of animal fur hanging from him, and sooty-faced.
“I don’t know why you say things like that,” she said crossly.
“I merely speak the truth,” he said. “Help me get this off.” He pulled at the remnants of the costume, discarding the pieces in a smoldering heap.
She examined the “paws” made of dark leather gloves, and the bits of fur. “If I hadn’t found that fur robe with the bit snipped out of it already, I would be looking at you askance at this moment, my lord.”
“Let’s move away from this spot. I can still smell the fiery fur. Retrieve that lamp, first,” he said, pointing to the extinguished oil lantern she had flung at him. He felt a twinge in his ankle when he put his weight on it. Nothing he couldn’t stand.
“Look, you’ve twisted something and are limping,” she said. “Rest on my shoulder, and let us go… where?”
“There’s a spot close to here where we can rest a few moments.”
“Irusan!” she called out. The underbrush nearby rustled, and an enormous gray cat emerged, gave him a look he could only describe as disgusted, and moved to her side.
“That is Irusan?” he asked, eyeing the large beast, like no stable cat he had ever seen. It was at least twice as large and had a mane of gray fur framing its face like an Elizabethan ruff. It stalked to Anne’s side with ponderous dignity.
“This is Irusan, King of the Cats,” she said.
Without further comment, he pointed the way and leaned on her shoulder. “Those drunken fools from the village are thankfully gone now, frightened away by the werewolf, which has clearly made its last appearance, and good riddance. But the legend should be enough to dissuade others from venturing on my land for a while.” They limped on. “At least until I can figure out what is going on,” he added under his breath.
“I was hoping this wolf charade meant you knew all.”
“No.” It seemed that some measure of honesty was going to be required. “I must humbly admit to mystification on many points, including wh
at you are doing out here in the middle of the night, yet again!”
She gasped. “Ellen!” she exclaimed. “In the hubbub, I forgot my purpose in venturing out—where did she go, I wonder? I followed Ellen Henderson, the maid from Ivy Lodge. Did you see her? Do you know whom I mean?”
“Yes, of course I know whom you mean, but no, I didn’t see her tonight. Didn’t I scare her enough when I caught her and Jamey kissing by the tower on a night cold enough to freeze a man’s b… buttons?”
“That was you? I thought it was he and a friend who were being the werewolf.”
He didn’t answer. “Does anyone know you’re gone from the lodge?” he asked.
“I left a note for my maid, telling her not to concern herself and to go straight to bed, as she was not feeling well,” she said tartly.
“How considerate you are of your servants,” he commented.
“No reason for you to be snide, my lord.”
“I’ve been accused this evening of coddling my secretary, so you are, I feel, in excellent company. We both apparently lack appropriate frigidity toward our valued underlings. Up this hill and through those trees,” he said as they slowly advanced, “there is a cottage with all the necessities.”
It was a small wooden cabin, protected from view of the tower and everyone else by the woods surrounding it on three sides. They entered, Irusan before them, and the marquess lit a lantern with flint and tinder from a box on the table. Lady Anne glanced around as the light illuminated the interior. Her cheeks flamed as her eye caught and held on the bed made up in the corner. He would have enjoyed the sight of her discomfiture, but the place reminded him of painful things in the last couple of years. He shouldn’t have brought her to the cabin, but it seemed the only place they could talk comfortably out of the chilly, damp evening air.
She didn’t comment but pointedly took a rush chair near the table, angling it first so she did not need to look at the bed. Her giant cat made a slow circle, sniffing each crevice and corner of the small structure, then settled on the empty hearth and pointedly glared at him.
“Why did you never marry after your fiancé died?” he said suddenly, watching her closely as he turned up the flame in the lantern.
“That’s rather far afield from the subjects at hand. Who do you believe killed Cecilia Wainwright? Do you honestly think William Spottiswode did it?”
He took her pointed rebuff in stride. “I don’t, but I can’t imagine why he would confess to it, knowing his fate. It makes no sense to me.” He hesitated but decided to share what he had learned that night. He turned around a chair, straddled it facing her, and told her about Spottiswode’s supposed recantation. “I’m inclined to think he’s just now beginning to realize the seriousness of his predicament, and that would be reason enough for him to say he wrongly confessed, even if he truly is guilty. I’m going to question him tomorrow… or today, as it is after midnight.” He rubbed his smoke-grimed eyes. “I cannot rest easy until I judge for myself whether he is lying now or lying before.”
Her gaze fixed on his face, she said, “I’d like to be there, my lord.”
Why did she have to continually “my lord” him? he wondered, irritated. “No,” he said stiffly. “Absolutely not.”
“Darkefell, I don’t think you understand,” she said, her voice softened. “I have known for some time that Lydia was upset about something more than the supposed werewolf. I suspect that was merely an excuse to call me to her side. She wouldn’t tell me what it was that prompted her oft-asserted notion that Lord John did not love her anymore, but today I finally got down to the truth.”
He felt a wrench in his gut. “What are you talking about?”
“You first, my lord. Agree that I may accompany you tomorrow, and I will tell you something of great import.”
“You,” he said with feeling, “are the most stubborn, wretchedly determined, and unfeminine female I have ever met.”
Irusan growled from the hearth as if understanding his discourteous words.
“I suppose you call me unfeminine because of my curiosity.” She sat forward on the edge of her chair and stared directly into his eyes, giving him an unsettling impression of her vigor. “Let me assure you, Darkefell, that my curiosity and need to know the truth are not unfeminine, nor is my intelligence, my determination, my strength. Those are false notions of femininity that you hold, encouraged by the legion of gentlemen who would feel less than men if their ladies were every bit as capable as they are. I did not account you to be one of those… those poor examples of masculinity, sir.”
He jumped from the chair, knocking it over in his haste, took her face in his big hands, and kissed her. She wrenched herself from his grip and staggered to her feet, smacked him hard, and ran to the door, followed swiftly by her cat.
He advanced upon her, ignoring the feline’s warning howl. “Go. Run, if you’re afraid of me. But I know you want to kiss me. Admit the truth, and I’ll think you the bold woman you claim to be.”
Anne watched him warily; his eyes glittered in the dim light, and she put one shaking hand to her lips. “Quiet, Irusan,” she said and put out her other hand. He calmed. Anne tried to calm her pounding heart so easily. Darkefell’s kiss had been thrilling, but also a little frightening. How well did she know him? He would not be the first man to take advantage of a woman alone. She had heard the tales of lords and barons who made a sport of taking advantage of women, especially those in a vulnerable position. She had the protection of her name and status, though, and he shouldn’t kiss her unless he wished marriage.
Marriage. With him. And her. She trembled.
He saw it, and his expression altered. “My lady, I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I apologize. I will never force another kiss upon you, I promise it.”
He had misunderstood her trembling. “I’m not afraid,” she said. She proved it by walking over to him. Gently, she dusted away the last vestiges of the burned fur costume and sooty smoke from his cheeks, then put her hands on his shoulders, stood up on tiptoe, closed her eyes, and met his lips with her own.
After his first startled “mph” of surprise, he met her kiss with a deeper, more thorough challenge. His arms, powerful and thick, snaked around her and pulled her close, and she was lifted slightly from her toes, so that she felt as though she were floating. And his lips… soft, clinging, wet tongue darting… she pushed away and staggered back, panting. His dark eyes gleamed with challenge and delight.
“Do not start what you don’t intend to finish, Lady Anne.”
“Follow your own advice, sir. We started a conversation, and I intend that we finish it. Let me go with you tomorrow to question Spottiswode.”
“Damn you! Damn your infernal single-mindedness,” he growled and turned around, leaning against a nearby chair for a long moment.
“There’s absolutely no need to curse. Are you quite all right, Darkefell?” she asked finally.
He laughed, but it was a harsh, grating chuckle. “I don’t think so. I think I must be mad, because I’m going to say yes to you, my lady. Yes, you can come with me tomorrow when I talk to Spottiswode.”
It was unexpected, and she hadn’t even offered her information again. She had been willing to tell him, guardedly, the story that John was caught kissing Cecilia Wainwright, but she wasn’t sure she would now, for he had not made it a condition. He seemed to have forgotten she had anything to tell him at all, an unexpected lapse in his acuity of which she was willing to take advantage. “Why the sudden agreement?”
He turned and shrugged. “I find myself interested in what you will ask him and what you will think once we’ve spoken to him. I hope you know I want the truth, nothing more, nothing less. And I don’t want an innocent man to hang. Things are moving swiftly now, for the spring assizes are in two weeks, and I need to hurry my pace.”
She understood his concern; within days of a guilty verdict, Spottiswode would be hanged, all chance of reprieve gone. There w
ere many unanswered questions, but Pomfroy, the magistrate, had not seemed the kind of man to look further than a convenient confession. When the gentlemen joined the ladies after dinner, he had talked expansively of the efficacy of British justice, that it could so expeditiously seize, try, and hang a man.
She turned away from dark thoughts and back to her problem of Ellen and Lord John. It likely had nothing to do with Cecilia’s death, that she had been seen kissing the marquess’s younger brother, but Anne still wanted to hear the tale from Ellen’s own lips. “Darkefell, I told you the truth. I did come out here following Ellen… or at least, I thought it was Ellen. I wanted to speak with her earlier, but she had her half day off. If it was her I saw leaving Ivy Lodge, where could she have gone?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see her, but then I was single-minded in my purpose. I had heard about those young fools from Hornethwaite, coming up this evening to roust out the wolf, and I needed to get rid of them before they caused trouble. I suppose I could have confronted them in my guise of enraged master of Darkefell, but it suited me tonight to be the werewolf. For the last time, as it turns out.”
Anne eyed him thoughtfully. “Are you sure you’re the only werewolf, sir?”
He gazed at her in admiration. “Good question, and reasonable. However, to my knowledge, I am the only one.”
“One thing that’s troubling me. Who—or what—slaughtered the sheep? Mr. Hiram Grover and some others, I have heard, lost part of their flock, and for the animals to just be savaged and left to die does not seem the action of a reasonable person, but rather animal in nature.”
“Any animal that would kill a sheep would presumably do so for food. The animals were not eaten. I saw the remains. Again, that’s one of the many mysteries that have plagued us over the last few months. We’ve had our share of thieves in these parts, but a thief steals, he doesn’t slaughter and leave the carcass to rot.”
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