An elderly gentleman, a human, apparently, opened the door wider and gave her a perfunctory bow. “Miss Pickett? Welcome to Blackwell Manor.”
Miles Phillip Charles Blake, Lord Blackwell, sprawled in a stately chair before a hearth in the earl’s chambers at his ancestral hunting lodge, some two hours’ journey on horseback from Blackwell Manor. He twirled a tumbler of amber liquid, wondering if he would actually drink it this time. He knew it was folly—when he drank, he talked. By his own edict, however, he was the only person in attendance at the hunting lodge aside from a skeleton staff. There was no harm in losing himself for a moment in the dulling oblivion the drink would provide. It wasn’t wise for other reasons, however, not the least of which was that he would need his faculties about him for the next several hours.
In his other hand, he held a cryptic note written with the use of a typewriting machine.
I know your secret.
It was the ninth such note he had received in as many months. He felt his chest tighten as the words stared back at him. He was no closer to discovering the note’s author than when he received the first one, and that did not sit well with him in the least.
He had enemies, of that there was absolutely no doubt, but a good majority of those could be crushed with his influence and status, if nothing else. He couldn’t control the world, however, and some felt they had nothing to lose.
Leaning forward, Miles tossed the note into the fire. Oliver would be livid. His friend and former army captain was a consulting detective for Bow Street, as intelligent as he was ruthless. He had been collecting the notes, testing them in laboratories in an attempt to learn more about the person or entity who had sent them. As the flames licked around the parchment, first charring the edges black and then devouring the whole of it, Miles wondered how he would explain the foolish act of rebellion to Oliver. It was as though his world was spiraling out of control, and burning the paper had been one thing he could do to reclaim his life. It had been a stupid impulse, and Miles was not one who made a habit of doing stupid things.
Briefly closing his eyes, he reached into his pocket and withdrew an elegant copper watch suspended on a long chain.
Four hours. He had four hours.
He tightened his fingers around the tumbler until the logical voice in the back of his brain told him he’d crush the thing if he continued. So he threw it into the fire also, noting with satisfaction how the thick glass shattered and the flash of the flame as the liquid hit it.
It was the third night. From midnight until dawn, he had to hope nobody was anywhere near the hunting lodge.
The butler, who introduced himself as Mr. Arnold, arranged for two ’ton servant boys to carry Lucy’s trunk and portmanteau to her room on the second floor. While he was giving the boys instructions, Lucy looked around the cavernous front hall. Only two of the many wall sconces were illuminated, giving the space a gloomy feel that made Lucy shudder in spite of herself.
Mr. Arnold led Lucy into the parlor on the right, which, she noted with relief, was cheerily warm with a fire in the hearth. Several lamps chased away the gloom. The walls were covered with floral-patterned paper, and a thick rug adorned the floor. Intoning that he would fetch Mrs. Blake, the butler quietly closed the double doors behind him.
Lucy took a deep breath and sat near the hearth, holding out her hands to the warmth before settling back in the chair. She listened to the crackling fire and the ticking of a clock on the wall until Mr. Arnold opened the doors again.
“My apologies, miss, but Mrs. Blake is already asleep for the evening, and her husband has asked that she not be disturbed. I would be happy to show you to your room.”
Lucy glanced at the clock. It was late, but not ridiculously so. Kate was a night owl, and Lucy had telescribed her with the time of her pending arrival. Something was definitely wrong.
“Very well,” she said, rising from her chair. “Are there Tesla connections in the bedchambers, by chance?” Lucy followed Mr. Arnold from the parlor and up a wide flight of stairs to a hallway on the second floor.
“Yes, miss. We have a fully-functioning Tesla Room on the main level with connectors in each room.”
She nodded, and they continued to the end of the hallway, where he opened the last door on the right.
“Mrs. Blake has put you in one of the turret rooms. There is quite a lovely view of the front yard during the day.”
Lucy nodded. “Thank you, this is very nice.” A fire blazed in the hearth, casting a cozy glow over the rich wood paneling and cream-colored wallpaper.
With a bow, the butler left, closing the heavy door behind him.
What in the world had she stepped into? There was no sign of Kate, and she’d just been shut most effectively into a large, rambling manor house that resembled a small castle. One that Kate feared was haunted, no less.
Lucy noted a large brass key in the door lock and turned it, hearing a loud click as the bolt slid home. Withdrawing a handheld telescriber from her reticule, she located the Tesla connector behind the right bedside table. She plugged into it and scribed a quick message to her mother that she had arrived safely and would communicate again soon.
After she unpacked her trunk, hung her clothing in the wardrobe, and changed into her long, white nightgown, she washed her face with water from the basin on the dry sink and then climbed into the big bed. Her worries about not being able to rest faded as her eyes drifted closed mere moments after her head hit the pillow.
An insistent banging on the door jarred Lucy awake, and she squinted at the early morning light filtering through the turret window. The sun was hidden behind gray clouds, but at least it wasn’t raining yet.
“Lucy!”
She climbed out of bed and made her way to the door, rubbing her eyes and trying to get her bearings. When she unlocked the door, it flew open to reveal Kate, whose face was a myriad of expressions ranging from joy to relief. “You’re here!” She clasped Lucy in a tight embrace.
“I am.” Lucy smiled and pulled back to examine her cousin. “Have I overslept, then?”
“No, no.” Kate closed the door. “Breakfast isn’t for another hour yet, and we all dine together in the breakfast room. But when I received the message this morning that you’d arrived last night, I nearly throttled Jonathan for not waking me!”
“He wanted you to rest, I’m sure.” Lucy climbed back into bed, patting the spot next to her. “Suppose we just dispense with social chatter and get right to the heart of the matter. What is wrong?”
Kate joined Lucy, a frown marring her pretty brow. “I hardly know where to start.” She clasped Lucy’s fingers with her own.
Lucy stifled a yawn and settled back into the warm spot she’d only just vacated. The fire needed to be lit, but it could wait. “Begin by describing your illness.”
Kate shrugged. “I am not my usual self. You know how often I walk—why, I normally cover several miles each week with daily jaunts around the countryside. Now, when I venture outside, I am weak before I’ve even made it beyond the back gardens. Which are horrid, incidentally,” she added with smile. “Your botanist’s heart will cry buckets when you see them.”
“You are feeling fatigued, then?”
Kate nodded. “And my appetite is sparse.”
“That is odd. You eat like a horse.”
Kate stuck her tongue out at Lucy.
“Could you possibly be expecting a little miracle?”
Kate flushed. “No. I am not expecting.”
Lucy pursed her lips and gave her cousin her thorough regard. Kate seemed her normal self, if perhaps a bit tired. “And why is it you think the house is haunted?”
Kate’s eyes widened. “I see someone,” she whispered. “I hear things late at night, feel the presence of someone in my room when I know I’m alone.”
“What of Jonathan? Has he also experienced
such things?”
Kate shook her head. “He believes me, though. As opposed to his wretched brother.”
“Daniel speaks quite highly of the earl.” Lucy watched Kate’s reaction.
Kate waved a hand dismissively. “Heaven knows I adore your dear brother, and were it not for him, Jonathan and I would never have met, but I am forced to wonder about his judgment where it concerns Lord Blackwell.”
“He cannot be all bad. He allowed his brother to wed a few scant months after two family deaths. And it was very bad of you, you know, to marry while I was abroad.”
“It was sudden.” Kate’s eyes lit up as she smiled. “But oh, Lucy, Jonathan is so wonderful. He writes poetry—he is the world’s most gentle soul.” She paused. “And you are correct about the earl’s generosity in letting us wed so soon. I do believe the only soft spot in the man’s heart is for Jonathan. Because they are still in mourning, however, we were unable to have any sort of celebration. We’ve talked of hosting a gathering for family and close friends—we shall see.”
Lucy nodded, scrutinizing Kate’s features. “You are awfully pale, cousin. I shall see about mixing a special drink for you. I would assume there is an herb garden, or at least a good supply in the pantry?”
“Yes. There’s a greenhouse just off the kitchen, in fact. Mr. Grafton keeps it in tip-top condition.”
“And this room is lovely. You selected it for me?”
Kate nodded and looked around. “There are four turret rooms on the second floor that are kept in good condition for guests. The other guest rooms are never used and are closed up. The servants’ quarters and the widow’s walk are on the third floor, along with the observatory, though we do not go there. That is Lord Blackwell’s lair, as is the entire south wing.”
Kate paused and then grasped her in an embrace that caught Lucy by surprise. “How long will you stay?” she whispered in Lucy’s ear.
Lucy drew her hands up to pat Kate’s back in reassurance . . . but from what? A crack of thunder outside heralded an approaching storm—typical for the season, but which still evoked a sense of unease.
“As long as it takes to be sure you are well.” Lucy pulled back from her cousin so she could look at her face. “I’m not a Medium, Kate. I’m not sure I can be of any help if you do truly have spirits roaming these halls.”
“Not spirits. Just one.”
“How do you know?”
“I feel the distinct personality—one distinct personality.”
“Do you have any idea who it might be?”
Kate paused. “I wondered at first if it was Lord Blackwell’s wife, Clara. She died suddenly, you know.”
Lucy frowned. “But you decided the ghost isn’t hers?”
“No. I’m afraid it’s Marie.”
“The sister?”
Kate nodded. “She was brutally murdered the day after Clara died.”
Lucy exhaled a long breath. “I knew she had died, but rumor said she’d been ill.”
Kate’s voice dropped to a low whisper though the two were alone in the room. “Rumor also says that Blackwell married Clara for her fortune and then killed her after they’d been married but a month. And then, with what happened to his sister . . .”
“What do you think?”
Kate lifted a shoulder. “He is so fearsome. And he never smiles.”
Lucy fought a smile of her own. “That doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“There have been other issues, problems . . .”
“What sort of problems, Kate?”
Kate closed her eyes. “Dead animals on the property—drained of blood. And I heard Mrs. Farrell talking about a possible vampire attack in town.”
“An attack on an animal?
Kate shook her head. “A woman.” She paused. “You’re working on something that might address such a thing, yes?”
Lucy nodded fractionally. “Something.”
Kate was quiet for a moment and then smiled brightly. “Enough of this maudlin madness. You’re here! Let me help you dress for breakfast.”
“Very well. I shall let you play the lady’s maid.” Lucy leaned forward and kissed Kate’s cheek before hopping off the bed and making her way to the wardrobe.
“It’s a shame to put your hair up. Look at those long, dark curls.”
Lucy shook her head as she chose a day dress. “There’s entirely too much of it.”
“Oh, Lucy! I’ve missed you so very much. Everything will be absolutely perfect now that the two of us are together again.”
Breakfast was an uneventful affair. Lucy and Kate dined with Jonathan, who was every bit as charming and gentle as Kate had proclaimed. He said he was grateful that Lucy had come for a visit; she wondered if Kate had told him that she’d invited Lucy because she was frightened and not just because she’d been missing her.
Afterward, Kate introduced Lucy to the upper echelons of the human staff. Mrs. Farrell, the head housekeeper, was a tiny, thin woman who brooked no argument and expected perfection from her underlings. Mr. Grafton, the head chef, was large and loud, effusive and energetic in meeting “Mrs. Kate’s dear cousin.” Martha Watts, the weathered-looking stable mistress, tolerated no foolishness from her stable boys, and her domain was neat as a pin, a notable fact considering it was an abode for large, smelly animals, both natural and animatronic.
She had met Mr. Arnold the evening before, and there were a few additional human servants who helped the upper staff manage what Kate referred to as “the minions,” non-sentient automatons that ran on programmable tin punch cards.
The ’tons personalities were nearly nonexistent, in accordance with Mrs. Farrell’s wishes. According to Kate, she preferred a “tightly run ship” rather than an army of helpers with human foibles, but Kate told Lucy that their blank expressions and lack of discernible traits made an already gloomy house even gloomier.
If nothing else, however, the servants were well-dressed. The stable boys wore green uniforms with gold buttons that bore the Blackwell crest, the kitchen help donned maroon uniforms with silver buttons, and the grounds help wore blue uniforms with white buttons. The maids were outfitted in light gray dresses and white, stiffly starched aprons. There was little variety to the physical appearance of the ’ton help. Lucy imagined the family made good use of the name tags firmly affixed to the shirtfronts and aprons.
She had a brief tour of the manor’s main rooms—those that were unlocked—and Lucy noted that the house was indeed well kept. Mrs. Farrell’s emotionless army cleaned and polished, maintaining a beautiful home that still managed to feel somewhat cold. What should have been inviting was instead oddly off-putting, from the many locked doors to the heavy drapes closed over the floor-to-ceiling library windows. Places where the human staff gathered—the kitchen, various workrooms—were the only places that felt comfortably inhabited. A pall hung over the rest of the house, heavy and foreboding.
The portrait gallery was a showpiece. According to Kate, the original earl had delighted in boasting of his ancestry to his visitors, and, despite the fact that Blackwell no longer hosted grand parties, the gallery was still kept in pristine condition.
Kate pointed out portraits of the family. It was indeed a handsome, if somewhat somber, gene pool, but the painting of the late Lady Marie Blake, Jonathan’s deceased sister, was particularly striking. She had posed in a resplendent red gown, her black hair curling in glorious waves, and the expression on her face was all but majestic. She had been an incredible beauty, and if the portrait accurately captured the spirit of its subject, intimidating. It was situated on an easel between two other paintings: a smaller one of a delicate-looking young woman Kate identified as the late Countess of Blackwell, Clara Appleton Blake, and a portrait of a rather large mother with two beautiful adult children who were Kate’s new cousins-in-law.
It was when Lucy saw the garde
ns at the rear of the house that she realized how well Kate knew her—it did break her heart to see them in such disarray. Trees and vegetation were thick, tangled and unruly, stretching from the house to far across the expanse of the rolling, wooded Blackwell property. Lucy imagined one might be able to make sense of it from above, but at ground level, it was an overgrown mass that resembled a jungle.
The only spot of organization was the herb garden greenhouse just outside the kitchen door. Mr. Grafton clearly made good use of it—the rows of herbs were neat as pins, marching orderly, side by side. Lucy readily identified a good majority of the plants and made a mental note to examine the rest later and compare them with her reference book.
Next to the greenhouse was a wide stone staircase that rose upward as high as Lucy’s line of sight onto a landing that served as a courtyard with access to the library’s double doors. In the spring and summer months, with large potted plants, umbrellas and comfortable chaise longues, tables and chairs, the area would serve as a beautiful gathering place if the house’s inhabitants were so inclined. Lucy pictured the whole of it, down to the last detail, and felt a wistful sense of loss that it would likely never be used and loved—even with Kate and Jonathan in residence.
“It is cold now,” Kate said as they moved past the greenhouse and surveyed the flowerbeds and smaller trees that had once likely been beautiful. “Plants do die in extreme temperatures.”
Lucy glanced at her. “These gardens were neglected long before the temperatures changed. The weeds are as tall as many of the plants, and these here should have been pruned and tied in preparation for winter.” Lucy looked down the path that led to the darkened interior of the landscape. “And that hasn’t seen attention for decades.”
Kate nodded, seemingly resigned. “I understand Lord Blackwell’s mother had directed the care of the grounds on the larger scale. She’d had an army of servants who kept the entirety of it in mint condition—well groomed, easily navigated. She hosted parties in the summer months that involved treasure hunts and mazes that stretched acres across the property for both children and adults alike.”
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 2
