CHAPTER ELEVEN
Blackthorn Manor
That evening
“We are all magnificent specimens,” Sinjun said, looking back and forth from Colin to Grayson when Colin assisted her from the Kinross coach.
Actually, Colin believed Sinjun grew more beautiful by the year. Tall, slender, her Sherbrooke hair so rich in all its colors. He leaned down, but not that far, and kissed her. “Yes, I promise I will take care around Lady Blackthorn. Dinna fash, lassie.”
Of course she would worry—she always worried when something threatened him. He’d occasionally think in odd moments how blessed he’d been when she’d chanced to see him in a crowded theater lobby in her first season and told him she was an heiress and he should marry her. He smiled. So many years, so many adventures, and blessed be, the joys outweighed the sadness that life invariable dished out, no rhyme or reason.
A new adventure, and he had to admit his blood was racing in his veins, his eyes seeing more than they usually saw. He couldn’t wait to meet the demon, this Belzaria. Demon? He was actually thinking a demon could possibly exist? And she wanted him, Grayson had said.
“Grayson,” Sinjun said to her nephew, “I must say I hadn’t realized you and Colin were of a size.”
“Thankfully,” Grayson said.
They turned to see a gray-haired man of noble stature standing at the head of the newly constructed marble steps to Blackthorn Manor. Sinjun and Colin didn’t recognize him.
Was he a demon? Grayson did as Jane had said. He looked at the man straight in the eyes, but all he saw was a hint of boredom, swiftly followed by a hint of pleasure at the sight of Sinjun. No demon, then? He bowed low, said in a rich deep voice, “Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, my lord, my lady, Mr. Sherbrooke. I am Beaufort, the Blackthorn butler. Her ladyship desires you be brought directly to her. Follow me, if you please.”
Beaufort had spoken in clipped, clear English. Yet, somehow, Grayson knew he wasn’t English. Where was he from, then? Grayson looked at his straight back as they followed him into the manor.
The ceiling of the magnificent entry hall as well as the high ceiling over the immense staircase were painted stark white with dozens of gold-painted plaster cherubs hanging off the molding, staring down at them. If he touched that stark white wall, he wondered, would he feel cold? He felt his heart begin to pound fast deep strokes when he looked up to see Lady Blackthorn gracefully making her way down the stairs toward them. He had not a single doubt it was her. She was gowned like a queen in yard upon yard of pure-white brocade and silk. From a distance, she looked older, a matron, but as she moved nearer, she became young and younger still, until she didn’t look above twenty-five when she stopped in front of them. Her gown was exquisitely cut, showing her small waist and her delightfully full bosom. She wore long white gloves and diamonds in her ears, around her throat, in her hair, and on her wrists and fingers. Too many diamonds, as if she had a bottomless cask filled with them and loaded on as many as she could.
She dipped a beautiful curtsy to Colin but gave only a cursory nod to Sinjun. She said in a beautiful, deep, smooth voice, “Welcome to my home, my lord. I am delighted you could join all our neighbors.” Like her butler Beaufort, Grayson knew Lady Blackthorn wasn’t English.
All her attention remained now on Colin. She held out her hand to him. Colin took her gloved her hand and bowed over it, but he didn’t kiss it.
Only then did she turn to Grayson. She was no longer twenty-five—she was at least twenty years older, and she looked like the matron he’d first seen coming down the stairs. What was going on here? He looked into her dark eyes, as Pearlin’ Jane had told him to do, searching, and he saw something flicker, shine. Mirrors, he thought, mirrors flashing, and there was something more that shouldn’t be there, something that smoldered hot and deadly, but it was quickly gone. He was left staring at an older woman who was staring back at him, a dark eyebrow raised in question. She was a demon. Was she Belzaria? He felt a punch of fear. At least now he was certain what this creature was, but he didn’t know how powerful she was. What was he facing? He was but a man, a mere mortal man.
Like Colin, he bowed low, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her hand, its hand. She raised her hand and lightly tapped his cheek. “Ah, Mr. Sherbrooke, soon you will join my forty other guests in the dancing.” She nodded toward the drawing room. “You do have the look of your father, Mr. Ryder Sherbrooke, and, of course, your aunt, Lady Ashburnham. The famous Sherbrooke blue eyes.”
How could she possibly know that? Grayson looked toward the drawing room, saw the glitter of candlelight off the white walls, and heard the waves of laughter and voices. The laughter was louder, more raucous and unrestrained than when they’d arrived. He looked back into her face. She was tall, nearly his height. He said, his voice utterly emotionless, “How come you to be acquainted with my father?”
She gave a light laugh that sent a jab of pain into Grayson’s head. It was familiar, that pain, and he shook his head.
She said, “I am fortunate to meet many people in my travels. I met your father at a soiree in London, I believe it was. But perhaps it was at a soiree in Paris? There are so many. Who can remember?”
Grayson saw Aunt Sinjun blink, open her mouth, then close it and look perplexed. He said, “You have traveled extensively then, yet you chose to move here to Loch Leven? It is not a renowned capital, my lady.”
She shrugged. “I do what I wish, nothing more, and I wished to restore this particular property. Listen, Mr. Sherbrooke, my guests are laughing, enjoying themselves.”
“Your guests appear to be enjoying themselves overmuch. It sounds almost as if there is madness floating in the very air itself.”
She lightly touched her gloved fingers to his forearm. “What a clever thing to say, sir, but you are a writer of some renown, so I suppose you must be clever in order to impress others.”
He never looked away from her. “Yes, that is very probably true. Are you impressed?”
“With you?” She looked him up and down, said again, “With you?” And nothing more. She fastened her eyes once again on Colin. He was staring at Lady Blackthorn as if mesmerized. He didn’t look away from her. As for Aunt Sinjun, she was standing still as a statue beside him.
“I hear a waltz,” Grayson said.
Lady Blackthorn looked back at him and laughed, and to his ears that laugh promised nothing good. He saw that she was looking back toward the massive staircase. Grayson turned to see a beautiful young girl. Surely she was a princess. She was gliding down the stairs, her step light, radiating joy and pleasure and energy—it was coming off her in waves. She skipped to their small group and lightly laid her hand on Lady Blackthorn’s gloved arm. “Mama! I have met everyone but not—” She stopped and stared at Grayson.
“I am Millicent,” she said, her voice demure, and gave him her hand.
Grayson bowed but didn’t touch her hand. Was she Millicent or perhaps Queen Maeve? He wanted to look into her eyes, but she averted her face.
She was Belzaria’s daughter? He realized she was no more English than her mother was. Ah, but her glorious blue eyes sparkled, and her smile was beautiful, showing perfect white teeth. Introductions were made, and again Grayson was drawn to the raucous noise coming from the drawing room as if all the guests were speaking at once, laughing at once.
“Your guests are enjoying themselves,” Sinjun said, the first words out of her mouth. She looked vaguely surprised that she’d spoken.
Lady Blackthorn gave her a dismissive look. “I don’t recall having asked your opinion.”
“Forgive me,” Sinjun said, and Grayson’s mouth fell open. What had Belzaria done to her? Done to Colin? Why was Grayson seemingly immune?
Millicent drew close to Grayson. She tapped his arm with an exquisitely detailed oriental fan. “Mr. Sherbrooke, perhaps you would waltz with me?”
He felt the pull of her and bowed, lightly laid her gloved hand on his arm, and walked to the drawing
room. Beaufort stood in the doorway, his eyes on the half dozen servants gliding through the crowd with trays of champagne. Grayson had never seen such exquisite goblets. From a distance, they appeared worked with gold.
“I’m older than I look.”
He looked down into her beautiful upturned face. “You are seventeen and not fifteen?”
She laughed, tapped her fan on his arm. “No, I am nearly your age, quite of an age to be your wife, sir.”
“You look young enough to be my son’s older sister.”
“I am lucky in my mother, sir. When I was born, you see, my mother bade all the visiting dignitaries to give me presents to carry with me into eternity. The Wizard of Spain gave me eternal youth. He said I would age very slowly, and thus I would have many husbands. All would grow old and die, and thus I would have to find another, then another.”
“I have not heard of the Wizard of Spain. Who is he?”
She shrugged white shoulders. “He is a grand old pooh-bah—Uncle Alessandro, I call him. He is all bluff and good-natured, and he adores Mama, has forever. He would make the seas flood the land if it would please her. Do you recall the tidal wave in Lisbon in 1755 that destroyed the town? And what a ratty little town Lisbon was in those days. You see, the Wizard of Spain was very angry at the Portuguese bandits because they’d had the gall to rob three of his ships, and so he took his revenge. He smells of lemons, from the immense groves in Seville, where he resides. Do you like my gown?”
He stared at her, and she stared back. He looked fully into her eyes. He saw vivid deep blue, no mirrors, no tiny bursts of flame, but he knew somehow she’d managed to shield the shining mirrors and the flame. He knew she was a demon.
“I asked if you liked my gown, Mr. Sherbrooke. You are staring at me. Will you be the third of my husbands, do you think?”
He saw laughter in her eyes, and then he saw something else looking out at him that gave him a jolt. “Yes,” he said, “I like your gown. It is very white.”
She sighed, tapped her fan on his arm. “Mama insists upon white. Everything must be white. Myself, I prefer blue, a light blue like your eyes.”
“You spin a fine tale, Miss—?”
“Blackthorn is my mama’s title and a family name as well. Mama tells me we come from a long line of Scottish prelates. You have not answered me. Would you like to be my third husband? The other two, I did them no harm. They lasted their allotted time, as would you.”
“Perhaps you could convince me,” Grayson said. She laughed gaily and pulled him into the throng of dancers.
The waltz was fast, too fast, and too loud, as if the musicians were drunk. He saw that the dancers were hopping about, ankles showing, gentlemen sweating, weaving, and laughing, trying to keep up. He saw Lord Fergusson, the local magistrate, dancing with his plump younger wife, and his hand was rubbing her breast as her small white hand was touching the front of his breeches. There was Mr. Bellingham, the local squire, twirling his wife round and round until they were both staggering, crashing into another couple who didn’t seem to mind at all. They were holding each other up and laughing, always laughing, manic laughter. The squire kissed the other woman, and her husband grabbed the squire’s wife. He wouldn’t be surprised if they began ripping off their clothes. He’d always wondered what a Roman orgy was like. He was seeing it now. He pulled Millicent to a stop. “What is in the champagne, Miss Blackthorn?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
She dimpled up at him, came up on her tiptoes, and whispered, “It is Mama’s special mixture—more a punch, really. It is remarkably delicious and effective.” A servant appeared at Grayson’s elbow and handed him a glass, then gave Millicent one as well. She clinked her glass to his and said, “To our destiny, Mr. Sherbrooke.”
“Yes,” he said, “destiny.” Grayson tapped his golden goblet to hers and pretended to take a sip. He noticed she drank deeply, smacked her lips, and leaned up to kiss him. Her mouth was warm, her breath sweet. He took a quick step back, smiled, and pointed his goblet toward an elderly man who wore immense side whiskers and was whispering something to Lady Henchcliffe even as his hand was roving over her bottom. She was a matron he’d once heard his aunt Sinjun say, who had amazing stamina in the bedchamber. “Who is that gentleman?”
When Millicent looked away, Grayson poured the punch into a potted palm tree and prayed the plant wouldn’t die. She was laughing when she turned back to him, and he pretended he’d drunk all the punch. “That’s Major Plintburough,” she said. “He fought in the big war with Napoleon, led a charge at Waterloo. He was quite the hero—if you are English, that is.”
“And you are not?”
“I? Not English? Don’t I look English?”
Before he could answer, she gave a look at his empty goblet. She took it from him and tossed it to a servant, who deftly caught it and bowed to her, and she pulled him onto the dance floor. Another waltz began.
“I adore waltzing,” she said, louder now, to be heard over the mad noise and the strident beat of the waltz that pounded into his head. Was she watching him closely to see if he would be affected by the champagne?
“I do too,” he said, and twirled her around and around. They bumped into two other couples who exuberantly danced into their path, but there were only laughing apologies, one gentleman’s eyes openly examining Millicent’s breasts. The waltz grew louder, faster. Suddenly, the madly dancing couples left the dance floor. They were running toward a large table that had suddenly appeared at the other end of the drawing room, at least a dozen platters set upon it. Why hadn’t he noticed the table before? Why put the supper in the drawing room? He saw guests were dipping their goblets into a huge bowl of punch in the center of the long table. Endless goblets dipped into the punch. Grayson would swear the level never changed.
“We are nearly alone,” she said, smiling up at him, still moving in place as the musicians had left the narrow dais and had dashed to the punch and food behind the guests. She leaned up, pulled his earlobe lightly with her white teeth. “Do you think it is because we look so beautiful dancing together that all wish to look upon us, or because they are all cochons—excuse me—pigs, to the trough?”
“You aren’t French.”
She said in English, then in fluent French, “I am very gifted. I speak five languages. Mama insisted.”
“Did a visiting wizard bestow upon you the gift for languages?”
She frowned. “Not that I know of.”
“What language is spoken in Border?”
“Border? You mean the lowlands of Scotland? Please call me Millicent, and I will call you Grayson.”
He twirled her around and around to the beat of the waltz that was in his head until his heart was beating hard and fast, and he knew it wasn’t from exertion—it was something that simply wasn’t right. She felt eager and soft. Her breath was sweet and her eyes a deep beguiling blue. Yet there was something—
“How old are you really, Millicent?”
“Ah, but Grayson, I have already told you. Surely a gentleman wouldn’t request a lady’s age a second time?”
“Are you also called Maeve?”
She continued to sway in his arms even though he’d stopped moving. “Maeve? Who is this Maeve?”
“She lives in Border. She told me she is Queen Maeve. I don’t remember what she looked like. Are you she?”
She frowned up at him and tapped her fingers on his black sleeve. “I seem to recall one of the dignitaries my mother summoned at my birth was called Maeve. But a queen? No, I believe she was a sorceress from the Bulgar.”
“How could you recall it if you were but newly birthed?”
“That was another gift, from a witch in Naples, a childhood friend of my mother’s, I believe. She gifted me with absolute memory from before I was even born throughout my life.”
“I wouldn’t want to remember everything.”
“I agree, but I am doomed to lose not a single second of my existence. I will remember each word, ea
ch nuance of this, our first meeting.”
“And what did the sorceress Maeve give to you?”
“My beautiful white teeth with the promise that no matter how many years I gained, they would never fall out.”
“A very fine gift indeed. Tell me, Millicent, who is your mother that she was able to garner all these favors from sorceresses and wizards?”
Millicent smiled up at him, still swaying. “Look into her eyes, Mr. Sherbrooke, and you will know. But you already have, have you not? Come, let us go back to your aunt and uncle. If I am not mistaken, your uncle is already in love with my mama. She has but to look at a man and he would kill to have her.”
Grayson felt a pounding behind his left temple. This was madness—a mad illusion, a mad play with mad players. For a moment, he was back in that tower room, with the rat and Queen Maeve. Why couldn’t he remember what she looked like?
Millicent grabbed another goblet of champagne punch from a hovering servant and handed it to him. He simply held the priceless gold-worked goblet. The huge drawing room was now stifling, the guests all speaking over each other, fondling each other, feeding each other. So much discordant noise and it filled his head, and the pounding behind his temple grew, making him nauseated. Did the drawing room seem larger now? Did it look more like a ballroom than a simple drawing room? Were there more candles in the ornate chandeliers, flames dancing, all glowing madly? He looked at the gigantic punch bowl in the middle of the large table, and he’d swear it was still full with the punch, magic punch, drugged punch. He saw one guest drink deeply, throw back his head and laugh loudly, then throw his goblet to a lady in a dark green gown. She caught it, saluted him, and joined him in laughter. Then she hurled the priceless goblet against the wall. The goblet didn’t shatter—it seemed to float slowly to lie on the floor.
The pain in his head grew. His eyes hurt.
He heard her voice as if from a great distance. “Drink the champagne, Grayson. It will make you feel wonderful. I know—I snuck a sip when Mama wasn’t looking.”
The Resident Evil at Blackthorn Manor (Kindle Single) (Grayson Sherbrooke's Otherworldly Adventures Book 2) Page 5
