Mally : Signet Regency Romance (9781101568057)

by Heath, Sandra

“It was in Annabel’s book.” She remained by the door, unwilling to go nearer.

  “Come and lay your nightmare, Mally.” He held out his hand. “Come on.”

  She slowly crossed and took his hand. The lantern light wavered over the second dungeon, just as it had when her father had found her. A wave of revulsion swept over her and she drew away, but Richard held her firmly.

  “This was where he buried her,” she whispered, “where he left her to die.” She stared past Abel at the wall which Francis had built. The chain still hung rustily from the stonework, but the stonework itself had crumbled in one place, revealing the yawning, empty blackness of the tunnel. Her eyes went to the chain again, following it down to the foot of the wall. All that remained of Jacquetta still lay there, white and pitiful. Mally stood, swallowing.

  But at that moment Abel extinguished his lantern. “Someone coming, Mr. Vallender!” He turned and thrust the lantern back up into Richard’s hand, and Richard reached down to pull him up. Quickly they dragged the flagstone back into place.

  “Damn! If we only knew the other end of the tunnel, we could keep them in there until Chris gets back!” Richard took Mally’s hand again. “Did it say in the book?”

  “It starts in a cave. A cave behind a spring.”

  Abel nodded. “Maybe I know, Mr. Vallender.”

  “Take some men with you then, and some pistols. A shot or two should keep our friends well and truly in the cave. Hurry then.”

  “I send someone back if we got them, Mr. Vallender.” Abel hurried from the dungeon, and Richard took Mally’s arm.

  “We’ll bolt the dungeon door. Come on.”

  Louis followed them with the lantern and Richard dragged the old door to, bolting it firmly.

  “That’ll hold them. That and the door up into the courtyard.”

  Outside in the clear moonlit night, Mally shivered, partly from the cold and partly from the excitement.

  Gwynneth hurried across toward them. “Mr. Vallender, Mr. Vallender, it’s Mr. York. He’s woken up!”

  Richard hugged Mally. “Now, all we need is for Abel to send back that he’s got them trapped in the tunnel!”

  “Is he all right, Gwynneth?” asked Mally.

  The maid nodded. “He’s weak, ma’am, and I’m fetching some good broth now. But he knows Miss Maria, he said her name. Oh, and he asked if they’d caught Jasper Turney yet, caught him for murdering Mrs. Harmon.”

  Maria still didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when Richard and Mally came up. She sat by Andrew, holding his hand tightly.

  Richard grinned at Andrew. “You took your time, you sonofa——!”

  Andrew smiled. “If I weren’t so goddamn weak—”

  “You and whose army?” Richard stood at the foot of the bed. “Do you remember, Andrew?”

  “Yes. I saw them through the window. I heard her scream. The moon came out and I saw them do it. But they saw me at the same time. Have you got them?”

  A horse clattered into the courtyard below and Mally went to the top of the steps. One of the grooms came up, looking up to where she stood, her figure lit by the candles in the room behind her.

  “We’ve caught them, Mrs. St. Aubrey. Abel had the right place.”

  She turned. “We’ve got them, Mr. York.”

  Chapter 28

  Several days later the Turneys and Brew Darril were in custody at Hereford, and the township of Llanglyn was ringing with the tale of what had really happened on the night Agatha Harmon had died, and there were a considerable number of shamed faces to be seen around the streets and marketplace.

  But up at Castell Melyn, late on a sunny autumn afternoon, it was quiet.

  Mally stood alone by Gillian Vallender’s portrait. Richard’s dead wife stared out from the canvas, remote and lovely.

  “Gillie was a fine-looking woman,” said a voice behind her, and she turned to see Andrew York standing there.

  “You startled me,” she said, for somehow it was almost like looking at Gillian to see his pale fair face. And those bright blue eyes—

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to creep up on you, but this old place sure has that effect on me. I feel I must be stealthy.” He grinned.

  “How are you feeling now?”

  “Well. I’m more concerned now about Maria.”

  “She’s as healthy as ever, you don’t need to worry about her.”

  He nodded up at the portrait. “Gillie died in childbed. I have to worry about Maria.”

  “Looking at this portrait, I would guess that Gillian was not as hale and healthy as my sister.”

  “Looking at that portrait you would not guess anything about my late cousin.” He came closer, studying the canvas. “It was painted only a year before she died, you know. Before then, the artist would have captured a different woman entirely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He looked at her, his blue eyes shrewd. “I will tell you the truth about her, Mally—I may call you that?”

  “If you are to marry my sister I should hope you would.”

  “Right, Mally. I will tell you, because I have already noticed you here several times, looking at Gillie. But what I say is between you, me, and the last bayou.”

  “The last what?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You, me, and the doorpost then. Richard thinks he married Gillie because he was sorry for her, because she was shackled to old man York’s plantation more than any slave, and because he wanted to rescue her. Maybe it’s true, in a way. But Gillie was no delicate blossom, not by a long way. Her life was stifling, but not that much. Her father intended marrying her to the son of a neighboring owner, a family of French extraction. More than anything else in the world Gillie wanted out of that betrothal. Richard happened along at the perfect time, and she knew how to play a part. We Yorks are adept at that part, Mally, for I used the same ploy myself on your sister.” He smiled at her startled face. “I wanted Maria more than anything else in the world, and I knew how to catch her eye, her interest, and her heart. The Yorks look soulful, like spaniel puppies, but we’re far from that.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “The difference between my action and Gillie’s is that I was in love with Maria. Gillie didn’t love Richard. At least, not at first. In the end she did. He married her because he liked her, because he was sorry for her, and because in the end it would bring him Le Bosquet Bas—I’m the son of a third or fourth brother, and don’t count, I’m afraid. Old man York was so mad he had a fit when she and Richard got married. Right under his nose, it was, in the fanciest church in New Orleans. But, it was done, and he was powerless to do anything but grit his teeth and smile. Or make everything over to me, which he would never do in a month of wet Sundays, as he regarded my mother as a whore, if you’ll excuse the word. She was an actress, and no one born of her was to get his hands on Le Bosquet Bas. So, Richard was welcomed home. Within a year old man York was dead anyway. Fever. And by then my cousin had realized that she was desperately in love with her British husband. She had hidden her true self from him, Mally, because she knew that he would not have liked her true self. Mally—Gillie had throughout her life been hard, grasping, spiteful, and selfish. And that is no exaggeration.”

  Mally stared at him. “Surely not.” She then looked up at the sweet face in the portrait.

  “That face you see there is Gillie not long before she died, when she was in love with Richard. She knew she would never have him, not completely. Damn it, I liked her then, I’d hated her before. She’d become unhappy. And she’d softened.”

  “Richard didn’t make her unhappy.”

  “No, he didn’t, he was the perfect husband, if such a beast exists. He didn’t love her, though. I sat on the wall between them, watching both and knowing more about each than the other di
d.”

  “Richard thinks she never knew he didn’t love her.”

  “I know. She did, though. The knowledge that she was having his child brought her great joy. What might have happened if she had lived—and the little girl—I don’t know. But you don’t have to look over your shoulder at Gillie Vallender, Mally. Richard’s yours, absolutely and completely. Just as you are his. There’s no Daniel St. Aubrey now, is there?”

  “No.”

  “Then why worry about poor Gillie? She can’t touch him now any more than she could then. Let’s have only one ghost at Castell Melyn—the late, departed Lady Jacquetta de Winter.”

  She smiled at him. “I can understand how you absolutely devastated my sister, Andrew York—to use my mother’s words.”

  “It’s my American charm and boyish beauty.”

  “Obviously.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Go on, go to Richard and forget Gillie.”

  “And give in to my baser feelings as you and Maria did?” she murmured, smiling at him.

  “Ah—now that’s entirely up to you. Between you, me, and—”

  “The last bayou.”

  ***

  Annabel knelt beside the little mound of fresh earth and put a bunch of pink chrysanthemums beside the little wooden cross. “There, Lady Jacquetta,” she said, “may you rest in peace after all this time.”

  Gwynneth bent quickly and put some Christmas roses next to the other bouquet. “Ffarwel,” she whispered.

  “A fitting end to all this, don’t you think?” asked Chris.

  Mally smiled at him. “Yes, and an ending I did not expect for one moment. Andrew is better and Maria happy beyond all reason, and you and Annabel are together. It is all as it should be.”

  He slipped an arm around her shoulder. “And you and Richard?”

  “I love him, Chris.”

  He looked at her. “I can see that you do—you never looked at me the way you look at him. Damn his eyes. But I wish you both well—you know that, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “So,” he said, “when Richard returns from Hereford today, we shall celebrate.”

  At that moment Annabel leaped to her feet, looking around with wide eyes. “Something touched my shoulder!”

  “There’s nothing there,” said Chris.

  Gwynneth smiled. “She was only saying good-bye and thank you.”

  “Who?” asked Annabel.

  “Why Lady Jacquetta, of course. She won’t be back again now, for she can rest happily after all this time.” The little maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried back toward the castle.

  Annabel stood there, looking from Chris to Mally.

  Chris laughed. “Well, don’t stand there looking like that. After all, that is why you came here.”

  “I didn’t really believe in it,” she said at last. “Not really.” She looked down at the grave for a long moment.

  Mally smiled at Chris. “Take heart, my friend, for I fancy that’s the last ghost-hunt you’ll ever be dragged on!”

  ***

  Mrs. Berrisford sat gingerly in the solar, looking around carefully. “Most exquisite,” she said at last, sniffing once.

  Richard smiled at her. “I take that as a compliment, Mrs. Berrisford.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Vallender. Oh, dear, this is all most embarrassing, for I do not know how to address you. I have been mistaken in the past, most mistaken, and for that I apologize. However—”

  “Mother!” Mally stood beside Richard. “There is no however about it. For goodness’ sake, be gracious.”

  “I’m trying, Marigold, believe me. But after receiving Maria’s most distressing news—”

  “Distressing? But everything is going to be all right, they will be married next week—”

  “Yes, and the child born rather too soon after that date for my comfort. What will everyone say? And there’s that dreadful Mrs. Clevely calling upon me tomorrow. Word’s reached her, you know. Some idle toad of a gossip went whispering to the old dragon.”

  “Refuse to see her.” Mally looked at her mother patiently. “Or see her and spit in her eye.”

  “Marigold!”

  “Well, as if it matters what that old biddy has to say! She’s a nothing!” She smiled then. “Anyway, if Maria and Andrew marry up in London, how is anyone down here going to know when they were married? Mm?”

  Mrs. Berrisford smiled slowly. “My dear, I hadn’t thought of that! Of course, they could have married months ago. Absolutely months!” The smile faded. “But then there’s the matter of your engagement to Sir Christopher.”

  Richard took Mally’s hand. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Berrisford, that the name of Vallender carries little of the shine carried by that of Carlyon.”

  “But it’s not that which concerns me, Mr. Vallender,” said Mrs. Berrisford, looking hurt. “It’s that people might say he threw Marigold over in favor of Lady Annabel!”

  “Oh, mother, for heaven’s sake—”

  “Don’t blaspheme, Marigold.”

  “You drive me to it. If I don’t care what people say, I really don’t know why you do. If you like, I’ll rush Richard to the altar as quickly as Maria is rushing—now that would give the gossips something to chew over.”

  “That will not be necessary, Marigold. As you say, if you don’t care, why should I? That’s the end of it then. I congratulate you both.”

  Mally took a long breath. “Don’t fall over yourself with enthusiasm, Mother.”

  “It just takes a little getting used to, that’s all. Well, really, if you must know I’ve been embroidering some bed linen with the initials M and C. Now I’ll have to unpick it all! It’s too much, really it is.”

  Mally smiled, going to the plump, red-wigged figure and putting her arms around her. “Give them to Chris and Annabel for a wedding gift. M and C. Murchison and Carlyon. It’s perfect.”

  “Marigold, how absolutely splendid. Now I shall not have to sit up night after night unpicking. I do so hate unpicking.” Mrs. Berrisford beamed. “And I didn’t like the colors I’d chosen anyway. Yellow and green. Not the thing. No, now it shall be oyster and white on cream sheets. Yes, and the initials M and R.”

  “Mother, do you remember the day Daniel left me in that tunnel?”

  “Why, yes, my dear. Your father and Daniel’s father spent a good deal of time up here putting the floor of the dungeon back into place. And they pushed a boulder across the entrance of the tunnel down in the woods. And to think that dreadful Brew Darril sniffed it out after all that time. Oh, what might have happened if those three ruffians had got in here, I dread to think—still, poor dear Agatha’s jewels have been recovered and have gone to their rightful owner. Agatha had a niece, you know. Mind you—” There was another sniff. “The gel never came near her old aunt. Not once. Agatha couldn’t stand the wench.”

  “Now who’s being a gossip?”

  Mrs. Berrisford smiled sleekly. “It’s one of the greatest pleasures in life, child. You’ll find that out in the end, even from up here in this drafty castle. Gossip and chitter-chatter. The most feared and most enjoyed pastime. Well, perhaps almost the most enjoyed.” She pulled Mally a little closer and whispered in her ear. “Do you know, Marigold, he’s even more good-looking than Sir Christopher, but when I look at him I just can’t think how. Charming. One can imagine some most enjoyable pastimes with him, don’t you know.”

  “Mother! I’m surprised at you.”

  “Why? Even I have my memories. Now then, take yourselves for that walk. I’m going to the kitchens to see how that Creole cook produces those dishes. Pattie will have to master that particular art, if it kills me.”

  ***

  Lucy walked among the trees, and the deer took little notice of her slow figure.

 
Mally and Richard watched her and Mally slipped her hand into his. “There, she will be here when the daffodils are out again after all.”

  “She seemed quite overcome when the landau came over the lodge drawbridge.”

  “She was.” Mally looked up at him and smiled. “Mother was right, you know—one can imagine wickedly pleasing ways of passing the time with you.”

  His dark eyes glittered. “I can help you do more than imagine them, sweetheart!”

  “Ah, but think of losing all that delicious anticipation.”

  “The hell with anticipation.”

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from another Regency Romance eBook by Sandra Heath

  THE UNWILLING HEIRESS

  Available now from InterMix

  The post chaise clattered to a standstill on the wet cobbles behind the theater. There was still rain in the dark summer night, the tiny drops picked out by the weak lamps at the front of the battered old chariot.

  A girl in blue dimity climbed wearily down with two bags, setting them down as she searched in her reticule for some coins to pay the postboy. It was eleven o’clock, and suddenly the London night was alive with church bells chiming the hour. The two horses shifted and the boy growled at them.

  “Want change?” he demanded of the girl, in a way surely calculated to intimidate.

  His ploy was successful. Janine shook her head and picked up the bags again, walking slowly over the cobbles to the stage door. Dimly through the night, as the bells ended, she could hear the sound of the audience cheering and shouting inside. Strains of well-loved tunes drifted in the air. Peg Oldfield’s songs, the most popular, most whistled, most hummed songs in London. Smiling fondly, Janine reached out to the bellpull.

  The doorman peered cautiously round the door, and his stern face broke into a grin as he undid the various chains which protected the theater from any unwelcome intruders. “Miss Oldfield! Miss Jan! Oh, come in, come in out of the rain!” He seized the bags and took them inside, setting them down and looking out suspiciously into the night again before closing the door and putting the chains back, locking each one.