Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

by Nancy Allen Campbell

  “Lord . . . Lord . . .” She felt light-headed. Perhaps she was going to faint after all.

  Blackwell stared down at her, gripping her upper arms. “Miss Pickett, what in blazes are you doing?”

  “No, please,” she bit out, straining toward the door. “I must follow . . .” She was terrified and confused, the room reeling around her as if the whole experience were nothing more than a bizarre dream. A loud crash sounded from down the hallway, but it was followed so closely by a blinding flash of lightning and an explosion of thunder that she wondered if she’d heard the first noise at all.

  Blackwell cursed and winced at both the light and sound. He dragged her with him across the expanse of the library to the far wall, where the bank of windows showed the black of night and the relentless pounding of rain.

  “Who opened these?” he growled as he pulled a lever on the wall near the corner, activating a mechanism that hummed quietly to life and pulled the enormous drapes across the windows, effectively shutting out the storm.

  Lucy had opened the drapes earlier in the day with Kate. The thought of sitting in the magnificent room without enjoying the view—­admittedly, a messy view—of the patio and gardens outside had seemed ridiculous. She was not about to admit to her actions now.

  The earl’s grip was bruising her arm, and she winced. “Lord Blackwell,” she said, taking a deep, shuddering breath and trying to pull herself together, “please.” To her eternal mortification, one of the tears she had been holding at bay finally escaped and rolled in a solitary path down her cheek.

  Lord Blackwell looked down at his hand as if only then realizing he still held her captive. He released her, and she rubbed her arm, looking at the library doors and wondering if she dared go back out into the hallway and then to the portrait gallery. She wiped her cheek on her shoulder, willing herself to keep her composure.

  “Miss Pickett,” he said again, one hand thrust into his pocket and the other plowing through his thick, black hair, “I demand to know why you insist on prowling my home when all other reasonable beings are asleep. Despite my friendship with your brother, I’m nigh unto throwing you out on your ear. Are you stealing from me?”

  “Stealing?” Lucy tore her gaze from the doorway. She swallowed when she realized how close he stood to her—towered over her, really—with the ragged line of his scar prominent in his anger. A scar not unlike the first one she’d seen on his dead sister’s ghost. Her breathing still came in uneven gasps, as though she’d been running a great distance.

  She put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes, wishing desperately for a cup of tea. What were the odds that Marie still waited for her in the gallery? And furthermore, now that she was away from the apparition, did she really want to go and find her? There was something comforting about being in the presence of a living, breathing human, even if he was almost as frightening as the haunting spirit.

  “No,” she finally said, opening her eyes and looking up at Blackwell. “I am not stealing from you. I may not be titled, but I come from a fair amount of money; I do not need yours in the least. And what,” she said, feeling the beginnings of outrage creeping into her system, “were you thinking, dragging me in here? Could you not see I was otherwise occupied?”

  He gaped at her, opening and closing his mouth before echoing her statement. “Otherwise occupied? Lady, you were tearing through my house like a madwoman! I heard you rushing down the stairs and couldn’t, for the life of me, figure your reasoning other than that you were up to no good. This marks the second night you have been wandering my house, and I demand to know what you’re about. Kate’s relative or no, you will not remain here if this continues.”

  Lucy glared and set her shoulders. “Lord Blackwell, this household is not one of order. My cousin is not well, and I’ve hearing rumblings about some ridiculous ‘Bride’s Curse’ that, before I arrived, I would have considered the height of idiocy. And as if that weren’t enough, I have been visited”—she ground out the word, unable to believe she was admitting it—“by what appears to be a spirit bent on communicating something to me, and I have no idea what it might be.”

  He had watched her closely throughout her tirade, and when she paused for breath, he raised one brow.

  “I am well aware,” she raised a hand to forestall him, “that such a thing seems ridiculous, but—”

  “What spirit?”

  She stopped. “I’m sorry?”

  He inched closer to her, and she fought to keep from retreating. His eyes, holding hers, were unblinking, piercing. “You said you have been visited by a spirit.”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Who is it?”

  “My lord, I—”

  “Describe the person.”

  Why she was reluctant to tell him, she couldn’t say, but when she realized he wasn’t going to let the matter drop, she let out a small sigh. “It was your sister, my lord.”

  Miles looked at the petite woman before him, trying to maintain a neutral expression while feeling like she’d hit him in the stomach with a mallet. He hadn’t imagined it, then. Marie was here, and apparently every bit as tenacious as she had ever been.

  He noted Miss Pickett still rubbing at her arm where he’d squeezed the life out of it, and he felt a pang of remorse. He could no longer attempt to ignore that she was still fighting tears. It wasn’t anything about her expression—it was the luminescence in her eyes, the moisture that pooled there, hovering.

  His mother would be mortified by his lack of civility. It had been so long since he’d bothered with it that he wasn’t certain he remembered even the basics. He was fairly sure that accosting a young woman, a guest in one’s home, was hardly proper. She was trembling, and he briefly closed his eyes with a shake of his head. “Please.” He gestured toward a chair near the hearth where a few coals still glowed. “Sit.”

  She looked at him for a long moment before finally moving to the chair and sitting on the very edge of it, her trembling still visible, although from the set of her chin, she was likely trying to squelch it. She blinked a few times, and to his immense relief, he saw she no longer seemed on the verge of tears.

  He retrieved a blanket from the arm of the sofa and, unfolding it, wrapped it about her shoulders before stooping and adding two more logs to the fire. After blowing on the embers, he straightened and brushed the dirt from his hands, glancing again at the young woman who watched him with an expression that could only be described as wary.

  Miss Pickett was alarmingly pale and still shook beneath the blanket.

  “Here,” he said. Motioning for her to stand and step aside, he pulled the chair closer to the fire.

  She cocked a brow at him but remained silent, retaking her seat with a nod of thanks. He had to admire her pluck. Clearly terrified, she still had a sense of confidence about her. She was one of few. His own wife had been horrified by his very presence. He frowned. Marie had found Clara ridiculous and had been angry that he’d married such a “ninny.”

  “I would ring for some tea, but there’s nobody about.” His tone sounded gruff to his own ears. “Even the ’tons are down for the night.”

  “I don’t need any tea.”

  “You could probably do with a good shot of brandy.”

  “I don’t drink spirits.” She laughed, utterly without humor. “Spirits,” she muttered as though to herself. She glanced at him and motioned with her hand. “Spirits, you see. We were just discussing . . .”

  “Yes. I see the irony.”

  She nodded, refraining from further comment, and rubbed her forehead as if it pained her. He felt something resembling an ache in the region of his chest. He didn’t know how to comfort her; he didn’t know how to comfort anyone.

  He cleared his throat. “Miss Pickett, I wish I could explain—”

  “She was trying to tell me something.”

  He bl
inked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Miss Pickett drew her eyebrows together, gazing into the fire. “She seemed very insistent that I follow her.” She looked up at him, and Miles had the distinct impression she was gauging his reaction.

  “And where was she leading you?”

  “Well, I might know the answer to that question had I not been dragged in here.”

  He squinted at her. “You were willingly following a spirit.” He paused. “Are you a Medium, then?”

  “Most definitely not.”

  He almost smiled at her tone. “So you are a skeptic.”

  She shook her head and looked away. “I was.”

  “Miss Pickett, you were running at full speed. And I’m gathering from your reaction now that you were afraid.”

  She frowned. “Perhaps I am more afraid of you.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” he muttered.

  Her expression softened, and he hardened his. He didn’t want or need her pity. “Did Marie say anything to you?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she sighed, “she . . . uh . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “The first night, she shook my bed. I thought she was angry at me.”

  Miles frowned. “The first night?”

  “She appeared in my room last night—just before I met you. In here, oddly enough.”

  “Ah, yes. With an entire canister of tea and a boiling teapot.”

  “She didn’t say anything then, either. But tonight was different. I wasn’t sleeping well—the storm woke me—” Miss Pickett gestured as thunder cracked, almost on cue. “And suddenly, she was just there.”

  “You said it was different.”

  Miss Pickett winced and shivered once, the movement noticeably more pronounced than before. A myriad of expressions crossed her face, belying thoughts that she likely would rather have kept to herself.

  He scowled. “What is it you’re not saying? Out with it, if you please. I have no patience for games.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw set as she met his direct gaze, holding it. “I am not playing games. And you, sir, are a cad.” She rose from the chair, took the blanket from her shoulders, and shook it once. Folding it neatly, she placed it on the arm of the chair and turned to him. “Good evening.”

  He stared at her with his brows raised as she walked toward the door with sure strides, not faltering even once although he’d clearly seen that she wasn’t yet collected.

  “Miss Pickett.” He was suddenly irritated, although he couldn’t say if it was at her or himself. He followed her, gathering his suit coat from a chair as he passed by. “I’ll see you to your chambers.”

  “You needn’t bother,” she said clearly over her shoulder. “I found my way down here, I can find my way back up.”

  He followed her anyway, keeping his distance. Her even, measured stride carried her through the front hall, up the wide, sweeping staircase, and around the corner to the right on the second floor. When he reached the landing, he followed her path and peered down the long hallway of the north wing. He saw her wrap her arms around her middle and quicken her step until she was almost sprinting.

  With equal parts self-recrimination and loathing, he waited quietly in the shadows until she was safely in her room, the door closed and locked behind her. For all the good it would do. He thought of Marie and was amazed that Miss Lucy Pickett had stayed beyond that first night.

  And Marie? What was she attempting to convey? The thought chilled him as he slowly made his way toward the south wing. The ache he felt at missing his sister warred with the wish, becoming ever more urgent, that she would leave. No good could come of her continued visits, and the fact that she had settled her attention on Miss Pickett, a self-proclaimed skeptic, was perplexing.

  Miss Pickett had said she would remain as long as Kate wished it, or until she was convinced Kate was well. While Miles knew he could have her forcibly shipped back home, he wasn’t certain even he was so crass. Let her stay. Let her try to heal her cousin and commune with the dead. It wasn’t as though his life was pleasant anyway. Why not add a little more chaos to the mix?

  His only concern was Blackwell Manor itself. It was all he had, his only legacy, the one thing he would pass on. All he could hope for was that Jonathan might someday tell his children a story of his childhood and of his older brother, who hadn’t always been a monster.

  Miles entered his suite and saw that Marcus had banked the fire and left a light glowing on a side table. Fighting the urge to slam the door shut, he closed it quietly instead and made his way to the window. The thunder had quieted, but an occasional spear of lightning flashed in the distance, visible through a crack in the drapery. The rain still fell steadily against the glass.

  Removing his cuff links, he lifted the curtain aside and caught his reflection in the black expanse of the night. The glass, slightly wavy, distorted the image of his face, and he stared for a long moment before clenching his jaw and dropping his hand, the fabric falling silently back into place.

  When Lucy descended for breakfast the following morning, she did so with steps that dragged. Her eyes were red and sore. She had cried herself to sleep, half terrified she would receive another visit from Beyond. She was exhausted and had awoken with a blinding headache that had her wincing in pain.

  As she neared the last few steps on the main staircase, she spied Kate, who was deep in conversation with Mrs. Farrell. Lucy made an effort to perk up. Nobody but his lordship needed to know she’d spent time the night before with his crazed sister and, more scandalously, him—again—in her nightgown.

  Kate and the housekeeper spoke in hushed tones, and as Lucy approached, she slowed her step. Kate glanced at her and beckoned while Mrs. Farrell continued speaking.

  “ . . . was already put back into place by the time I entered. Although it’s likely inconsequential, I thought I’d mention it.”

  Kate nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Farrell. I wonder if I ought to tell his lordship . . .”

  It was all Lucy could do to remain silent and not interrupt the conversation to thank Mrs. Farrell for her efficiency and tell her that Kate would handle the matter—whatever it happened to be. Mrs. Farrell seemed genuine enough, fair and professional, but there were many a housekeeper who weren’t, and the last thing Kate needed was a household that undermined her authority. Be decisive with the staff, Kate.

  “I shouldn’t see why Lord Blackwell need bother himself with it,” Mrs. Farrell said, looking at Kate as one might a daughter, and she patted her arm and offered her a quick smile. “I feel you should be kept abreast of all happenings in the residence, as the lady of the house.”

  “Of course,” Kate said. “Thank you again.”

  Mrs. Farrell tipped her head in acknowledgment and deference and, with a nod to Lucy, left the front hall.

  “What is it?” Lucy asked.

  Kate waved a hand. “Nothing, really. One of the paintings in the portrait hall fell to the floor last night.”

  Lucy’s heart thumped. “Which one, did she say?”

  Kate looked at Lucy, her expression scrunched. “Why?”

  Lucy looped her arm through Kate’s and began walking slowly with her toward the dining room. She looked around to see if they were alone. In an undertone, she gave her the briefest of details about her nocturnal visit.

  Kate’s mouth dropped open, and she stopped walking. Lucy nudged her forward with a little shake. “Which is why I find myself wondering,” she murmured to Kate, “which portrait ended up on the floor.”

  “I’m afraid we will never know.” Kate frowned. “Mrs. Farrell’s new ’ton assistant, Alice-Two, was the one who righted the portrait, but apparently she then went to the kitchen and hasn’t moved since. She’s being reprogramed as we speak. Even if we were to examine the record of her behavior on the tin itself, it wouldn’t tell us whic
h portrait she picked up. Mrs. Farrell has had the worst luck with her assistants; this makes for the third one this month.”

  Lucy frowned, wincing at the stab of pain to her forehead. “Is there an issue with the ’tons programming?”

  “I’m not certain. After the programmer Mrs. Farrell was paying to come in from town made off with a matching pair of silver goblets, she has taken to programming her own staff. Though I personally think she may not fully understand even the basics of the task.”

  Lucy glanced at Kate with a smile as they neared the dining room. “‘Alice-Two,’ is it? Dare I assume ‘Alice-One’ was the last assistant?”

  “Yes.” Kate laughed. “Although we merely referred to her as ‘Alice.’”

  “Of course.”

  “Mrs. Farrell says she’s tired of coming up with new names for the staff.”

  “So might we see an ‘Alice-Fifteen’ sometime in the future?”

  Kate laughed again, and Lucy was glad of it. There was a sparkle to her eyes, the truest sign of her cousin’s genuine happiness, although there were smudges beneath them that still gave Lucy pause.

  She surveyed the dining room as they entered, wincing at the bright light that streamed through the windows and straight to the back of her skull. Of all days for the sun to finally show its face . . . She hoped to be able to claim a seat facing the door.

  A quick glance around the room showed all of the usual diners in attendance. “How long do the Charlesworths usually stay?” she whispered in Kate’s ear.

  “Too long,” came the muttered reply. “Jonathan says their visits are rarely less than a week or two.”

  Arthur Charlesworth excused himself from Jonathan and Samuel MacInnes and made his way to Lucy and Kate. Where was his lordship? Not that she cared, precisely. It was only that she found it rather unfair that she should be well enough to attend breakfast after the ruckus last night, but he had yet to show his face.

  “Dear ladies,” Arthur said with a courtly bow and that devastating smile. “And how are you both this fine morning?”