Beauty and the Clockwork Beast

by Nancy Allen Campbell

Lucy murmured something she hoped was appropriate as across the room Jonathan laughed loudly at something Dr. MacInnes was saying. If she didn’t have a good, bracing cup of tea soon, her head was likely to split down the middle. She closed her eyes briefly and allowed Kate to carry the conversation with Arthur when Lucy felt the air in the room . . . change. She didn’t have to turn to the door to know that Blackwell had joined them.

  His head was pounding, and he would have dearly loved to remain in bed for the day with the curtains drawn. Miles was contemplating making his excuses and doing just that when he saw Miss Pickett standing with Kate and Arthur, the latter of whom was falling all over himself in an apparent attempt to charm them.

  Miss Pickett eventually looked over her shoulder at him and made eye contact before turning her attention back to Arthur. She hadn’t even nodded to him, and all things considered, he couldn’t say that he blamed her. She’d called him a cad, and she’d been right. He deserved to be called much worse. He hadn’t been sensitive at all to the distress she’d clearly been feeling.

  She was pale, he noticed as he walked into the room and made his way to Jonathan and Sam. She also winced slightly when Arthur barked out a laugh at something Kate said; he pitied Miss Pickett indeed if her head was pounding with as much pomp and circumstance as his own.

  “I’m sorry?” he said to Sam, blinking.

  “I said it’s good of you to join us. I didn’t think you were going to—you’re rarely late to breakfast.”

  “I’m not late.” He tugged on his cuff and straightened the cuff link. “The food has yet to even arrive from the kitchen.”

  As if on cue, Mr. Grafton entered with his ’tons following behind carrying warm dishes that they placed carefully on the sideboards. Miles was relieved at the interruption, truth be told. Eustace had been making her way to him from across the room. She was likely going to pester him about the fact that he never visited her at Charlesworth House.

  He almost smiled at the look of disappointment that crossed his aunt’s face as the small, conversing groups gathered around the table and settled in for breakfast. Arthur stood behind Miss Pickett’s chair and scooted her in before performing the same service for Candice, who sat to Miss Pickett’s right. Miles looked again at his houseguest, who was undoubtedly suffering from fatigue, but he was struck by the beauty in her face. A man could certainly do worse than gaze at her throughout the course of a meal.

  She was . . . different, though. Normal women did not run around strange houses, following ghosts hither and yon. Any woman with an ounce of common sense would have stayed in her room and screamed for help.

  Feeling infinitely more weary than he was willing to admit to anyone, he turned his attention away from his good friend’s sister—another reason he shouldn’t look at her for any prolonged amount of time—and placed his napkin in his lap. When he raised his head, a movement to his right caught his eye. He sucked in his breath when he saw Marie for a flash of a second, seated in the chair adjacent his, and then she was gone.

  Arthur pulled the chair out for himself, smiling at something Miss Pickett said.

  Miles stared at Arthur, or rather at the chair in which his cousin sat, long enough that Arthur looked at Miles, head tipped to one side in question.

  “Right, then,” he muttered and nodded to Mr. Grafton, who signaled the servers to begin. If Marie’s purpose was to slowly drive him mad, he feared she might accomplish it.

  “All I know,” Eustace was saying to the group at large, “is that this is the second body to be found drained in the last week. There must be a vamp in town, and I don’t see why authorities haven’t been brought in from London.”

  “They must be on their way, I should think,” Sam said. “One body alone is disturbing, but two can hardly be considered coincidence.”

  “Where was the body found?” Lucy asked.

  Miles cocked a brow but refrained from commenting. The woman certainly had no compunction about inquiring after grisly details. Might explain why she had the courage to go chasing around after ghosts.

  “Somewhere in the village, on a back street.” Eustace sniffed and scooped up a forkful of eggs. “A maid or some such, but still.”

  “Indeed,” Kate said, and Miles glanced at her with surprise. There was an edge to her voice he hadn’t heard before. Maybe having Cousin Lucy for a visit was doing some good. “I don’t imagine a maid’s family would mourn her loss any less than a noblewoman’s.”

  A moment of silence—just a fraction, really—shot around the table, and Miles’s estimation of his sister-in-law rose a notch. She had some spine after all. Lucy, for her part, raised her glass for a drink, likely to stave off a snort of laughter. Even Candice regarded Kate with a cocked brow and a light nod of approval.

  Arthur laughed, as of course he would, and attempted to steer the conversation to safer ground by suggesting such unseemly talk was certainly something they could all do without. Sam picked up the cue seamlessly and asked Eustace about the current state of medical care in Stammershire.

  Jonathan, for his part, regarded his bride with the same besotted expression he’d worn since their wedding. He picked up her hand and, with a wink, placed a kiss on her fingers.

  Lucy stood in the portrait gallery, massaging her temples with her fingertips. She figured she might be able to handle the sight of Marie during the daylight hours and actually wished the woman would appear. Whose picture did you knock down, Marie?

  Her heels echoed against the marble tile as she slowly walked the perimeter of the room, examining the austere pictures of generations of ancestors: his lordship’s parents, a painting of the three Blackwell children when Jonathan had been little more than an infant, and a more recent painting of Blackwell in his military finery, which she had missed during her first tour of the gallery.

  Lucy sucked in her breath at the sight of the painting. The artist was to be complimented—the likeness was astounding, right down to the look in his eyes that spoke clearly of his inner discontent. He was a handsome devil; were it not for his mean disposition, people might find him less frightening.

  Having a better knowledge of the Blake family’s personalities gave Lucy a different perspective than when she’d first toured the room. When she examined the portrait of the former earl as a youth, pictured with a young Eustace, she had to wonder what kind of dreams the young woman had harbored before the realities of adult life had intruded. One detail remained consistent—the young Eustace was pictured without a smile.

  A display of three portraits near the window caught Lucy’s eye—Marie, Clara, and the three Charlesworths. Lucy had noted them on her first visit but now had time to study the images in detail. Aunt Eustace was seated with her children standing beautifully poised behind her chair. Arthur and Candice were depicted with as much perfection as they possessed in reality. Even Eustace was the image of her former, younger self—with the exception of several added pounds.

  Clara seemed to have been the quintessentially delicate maiden. There was a naïveté about her that almost had Lucy’s pity. Looking at the image of the fiery Marie next to her, Lucy wondered if Clara had ever stood a chance of success in the Blake household. She would have stepped into a situation where she was expected to be the lady of the manor while living with a sister-in-law who had grown up in the home, who could have possibly been extremely territorial, and who could have eaten her for lunch.

  What had Clara’s short relationship with Lord Blackwell been like? Lucy rolled her eyes, immediately regretting it as her head throbbed. That man would require a woman who could hold her own with him, someone who wouldn’t back down from the bulk of his intimidating stature and the even more intimidating personality housed within it. Heaven help any woman not equal to the task. As she considered the sweet face of the late Lady Blackwell, she figured that heaven probably had.

  She turned to leave when she noticed a smal
l chip in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame of the Charlesworth portrait. She touched it with her fingertip, wondering if the frame had had the slight imperfection for long—or perhaps for just a matter of hours. Surely a woman of Eustace’s stature, or imagined stature, wouldn’t permit such an atrocity for long if she were aware of it. Lucy suspected the vain woman probably visited the portrait gallery with each pass down the hallway.

  She looked around the easel, examining the cold marble tiles for telltale signs of disturbance, and was rewarded with the sight of a splintered piece of mahogany that matched the chip missing from the frame. She fit the piece to the frame and nodded, chewing on her lip in thought.

  Lucy had distinctly heard a crash the night before, a loud one that had carried clear into the library. Continued examination revealed a slight scratch on the upper right corner of Marie’s picture frame. Lucy put a hand to the frame and moved it fractionally. It was heavy. A similar test of the Charlesworth frame proved the same.

  Perhaps it hadn’t been just one portrait that had fallen over. Perhaps Marie had taken a swipe at two of them, or even all three.

  Lucy cast one last glance at the portrait of Marie as she left the room, feeling a connection with the woman that wasn’t necessarily welcome. The sight of her face was becoming familiar, and that was an unsettling notion.

  After returning to her room, Lucy telescribed a message to Director Lark that there were rumors of a vampire in Coleshire. She then pawed through her wardrobe until she found a warm, hooded cape that hung almost to the ground. The sun had been short-lived—the heavens had reopened as though making up for lost time. Retrieving her parasol and gloves, she made her way through the house and to the kitchen.

  Mr. Grafton was in deep discussion with Kate, who looked slightly overwhelmed at the papers and menus strewn before her on the kitchen butcher block, so Lucy slipped out of the back entrance alone and snapped open her parasol.

  The rain immediately pattered on the surface of it, and she pinched the handle between her arm and her body in order to lift her fur-lined hood over her hair and tie the bow loosely under her chin.

  A glance to her right showed figures in the greenhouse. They wore the dark maroon uniforms of Mr. Grafton’s kitchen help, and she imagined the ’tons were busy, culling the spices and herbs necessary for the day’s lunch and dinner. The five of them worked seamlessly as opposed to Mrs. Farrell’s maids, who, she’d noticed, tended to clash occasionally.

  The brisk walk along the path into the woods was bracing, and Lucy felt her head clear as she breathed deeply. The rain, the foliage, the encroaching autumn—it all combined to fill her with a fresh sense of euphoria. The oppression she’d felt in the portrait gallery slipped away.

  The world was silent except for the soft sound of her feet against the earth and the rain on her parasol. A few moments later, she found herself standing outside Marie’s garden gate. She hadn’t realized that was where she’d been headed. She frowned at the gate and once again, as she had before, tried the handle. Of course it was locked, and she lay her gloved hand against the thick, wooden door, wondering if she should bother Mr. Clancy and retrieve the key.

  The rain was steady, though, and there would be better days to examine the garden at her leisure. Angling her head, she could see through a crack in the gate, and she moved closer to it. The green of the interior blended together, and she strained to bring it into focus when a face appeared on the other side of the gate.

  She gasped, stumbling back several steps. It had been Marie—of course—who else would be in her garden?

  “Honestly,” she whispered, her breath running shallow in her lungs. “Were you this terrifying in the flesh?”

  A slight rustle behind her—no more than a shift in the wind, really—told her she wasn’t alone on her side of the garden wall, either. Thoughts of blood-drained bodies flooded her brain as she whirled around, heart in her throat, to find Arthur Charlesworth standing so close to her that she nearly smacked him upside the head with her parasol spokes.

  “Mr. Charlesworth!” She was light-headed with all the shock and gasping and wondered if she might actually faint.

  The gentleman reached forward and steadied her arms while avoiding the swinging umbrella with a laugh. “My goodness, Miss Pickett! I did not mean to give you such a start. Are you well?”

  She nodded, pressing her hand to her chest. “I shall be in a moment. How long have you been standing there? You might have announced yourself.”

  “I only just approached.” He placed his hand beneath her elbow. “I saw you leaving the house and wondered if you would enjoy some company. I had no idea you were such a quick walker.”

  Lucy gathered her scattered wits. If she were a betting woman, she’d wager that he had been behind her for a while. When she’d spun around, he hadn’t been walking toward her. He had been firmly planted in that spot.

  She glanced at his face, searching for guile or deceit in his features. He was as he always was—genial, charming, handsome. “I believe I’ll head back for the house,” she said with a light smile. “Will you join me?”

  He inclined his head and walked with her, his hand still supporting her elbow. “You seemed most startled. Before you spied me, that is.”

  She nodded. “I thought I saw something. Likely just a trick of the shadows.”

  He raised a brow. “Shadows in the rain?”

  She twitched her lips into what she knew was a flirtatious gesture, even while she fought the urge to pull her arm free of his grasp. She chuckled instead. “Stranger things have happened, I’m sure. From what I understand, the garden is overgrown and in need of pruning. It must have been an excess of foliage.”

  “It was Marie’s domain, you know. She loved that sanctuary of hers—as if she needed one.” The last part sounded to Lucy as though it had come out of his mouth of its own accord. He seemed almost surprised by it himself. He laughed and shrugged. “One needed a gilded invitation to join her in that place. Such a shame it’s gone to ruin.”

  It sounded to Lucy as though Cousin Arthur had not been welcome in the garden, but she kept her opinion to herself. Perhaps it was the depressing reality of Marie’s garden, coupled with the dreary weather and the tangled undergrowth in the woods, that made Arthur seem more shiftless than he actually was. Just because Marie hadn’t liked her relatives when she was alive didn’t necessarily make them sinister.

  “Do you miss her, then? It must have been painful to lose her, as young as she was. And on the heels of Lady Blackwell’s passing.”

  He nodded, brows drawn in thought. “Of course I miss her—I miss her terribly. Marie was . . .” Arthur looked into the distance as they strolled through the darkened, tangled woods. “Alive. She was vibrant. Mercurial. She knew exactly whom she liked and whom she did not. And Lady Blackwell—sweet Clara.” He shook his head. “At the time, townspeople and even some of the staff here began to whisper that it was the old Bride’s Curse come home to roost.”

  “I’ve heard that mentioned once before. What, exactly, is this curse?” It was dark in the tunnel of trees, and there were places where a stray branch or twig tugged on Lucy’s cloak, like bony fingers. She shivered and pushed back her hood. Not having the full benefit of her peripheral vision was disconcerting.

  “It’s nonsense, really. Three generations ago, the Blackwell family had five sons, each of whom brought home a bride—who died within a month, maybe two, of the wedding. It was only through the family’s daughter that the family legacy continued. She had a son who inherited the title from his grandfather.”

  Lucy frowned. “I can imagine why the family would have believed they were cursed.”

  Arthur nodded. “As the family continued, the curse became nothing more than a legend. But now—well, legends linger in the memory, and I’m afraid Clara became the latest victim of the Bride’s Curse.” He looked at Lucy. “Do you b
elieve in such things?”

  “Not as a rule. I do not much care for things that have no explanation.”

  “But, Miss Pickett, there are many things in this world that have no explanation.”

  “That may be true, but to the best of my abilities, I study the matter until I can explain it.”

  “A bluestocking, then?”

  Lucy glanced at him. He was all charm and friendliness. “I believe in the rights of women.”

  “As you should, most definitely. I find it . . . refreshing.”

  “And I find your enlightened opinion refreshing.” She smiled at him, thinking that too much more refreshing conversation would find her losing her breakfast. She didn’t trust the man as far as she could throw him.

  He laughed, and they emerged from the thick entanglement that guarded the pathway. Lucy realized it was the first time since her arrival that she could honestly say she was glad to see the manor. “To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,” she murmured.

  “Home again, home again, jiggety-jig,” he finished for her, and she tipped her head in acknowledgment. “And this is where I must leave you,” he said as they neared the courtyard. He released her elbow, and Lucy resisted the urge to rub it clean. “I’m off to the stables to check on my stallion. He threw a shoe yesterday and stumbled a bit in the process.”

  “I do hope he is well.” Lucy continued on her way to the house, acutely aware that Arthur watched her leave.

  Once in the kitchen, Lucy unwound her scarf from her neck. She lightly shook her parasol outside the open kitchen door before closing the door firmly.

  “Lady Kate is in the ballroom,” Mr. Grafton told her as he whisked something in a large bowl. “I was instructed to tell you to join her as soon as you return.”

  “The ballroom in the south wing?”

  “The very same.”

  Lucy was surprised. Had the lord of the manor lifted his edict about mere mortals traipsing through his territory?