Lucy’s skirts billowed around his legs, and she felt his thigh against hers. A combination of tension over the dank smell, which brought back the horrors of the night before, and the man’s proximity had her nerves stretched to the breaking point.
A click echoed through the passageway, and she looked up. His face was cast in shadow, barely visible in the dim light. He moved down a few steps and pulled her out of the way as he reached up to nudge the door with his fingers. She grasped the edge of it and pulled it toward them, immediately registering the rush of warm air. Stepping back to the small landing, she entered her bedroom with Blackwell close behind her.
“This would be why your door was still—” Blackwell broke off as he walked around Lucy. He stared at her bedding, which lay in ruins with large slashes and a profusion of eiderdown feathers. His jaw clenched visibly with the subtle movement of his scar. “I cannot believe I insisted you return this morning without at least the company of a ’ton.” He paused. “Miss Pickett, you must leave the manor.”
“I cannot go,” she said quietly. “I will not leave Kate, and she will not leave Jonathan. Something isn’t right. I’ve heard rumblings about a curse and—”
“What curse?” He looked at her, and she fought to keep from retreating a step.
“Some silly Bride’s Curse. I mentioned it to you before. I’ve no doubt it’s rooted in nonsense, but I admit I’m growing concerned.”
“Oh.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he frowned, drawing his brows together. “It is nonsense. Who told you of it?”
Lucy watched him closely. “Arthur.”
His nostrils flared slightly. “I suggest you ignore everything he says.”
“Why is there no love lost between you?”
His answering expression was flat. “Do not pretend to suggest you can’t comprehend the reasons.”
She shrugged. “He’s harmless enough. Would probably make someone a suitable match.” She was well aware that on some level she was baiting him; it was perverse.
Blackwell studied her before finally answering, “Yes, I suppose he probably would.”
She fought a scowl at his easy capitulation and followed his gaze back to the torn bedding.
“Miss Pickett, are you not in the least afraid? Your brother would have my head if he knew you were in danger under my roof, and he would be completely justified. Perhaps I should suggest Jonathan take his bride to Paris for an extended holiday.”
Lucy shook her head. “I’ve already tried. Kate feels their honeymoon was vacation enough and wants to familiarize herself with the staff.” She paused. “Kate is passive. She lacks a strong hand. Running a household of such magnitude is proving to be a challenge for her, I believe.”
“This household runs like clockwork. She needn’t do anything.”
“I know this, and I believe she does as well. I think she may feel she should prove herself worthy of her station. She is not the countess, but she is the lady of the house, for all intents and purposes, since you are—” Lucy nearly bit her tongue.
“Since I am . . .”
She closed her eyes briefly, wondering when she had ever been so tactless.
“Since I am single? Without a wife of my own? I did try. She seemed to prefer death to my company.”
Lucy cocked a brow, her emotions a swirling mass of mortification, pity, and exasperation. “What are you suggesting, sir?”
“I am suggesting nothing.”
In the end, compassion won out, and she moved closer, though she folded her arms across her chest to keep from reaching out to him. He wouldn’t appreciate the overture. She decided the wisest course of action was to redirect the conversation.
“Well, then, as I am a guest of your brother and his wife and refuse to leave, might I request a chamber that doesn’t adjoin another via a dank, eerie passageway?”
Blackwell lifted the comforter and let it fall back to the bed with a flurry of small, downy feathers. He looked at her for a long, measured moment. “There are guest rooms in the south wing. I’ve had Mrs. Farrell ready one for Oliver. I shall have another made up for you, and I shall also install a lady’s maid so that your reputation might remain unsullied.”
“That is very thoughtful of you, but I do not mind remaining here in the north wing if another chamber is available. I know you guard your privacy well. I regret intruding upon it last night.”
“Do you?”
Lucy blinked. She hadn’t expected that. To be coy or feign innocence? If he had been a man of Arthur’s ilk, she would have been comfortably in her own element. As it was, Blackwell seemed like a cobra ready to strike. “Of course. I woke you from sleep and then took your bed. I doubt you got any rest at all, and I am to blame.”
“I did not get any rest, and yes, you are most definitely to blame.”
“Well, then, I suppose I owe you a favor.”
“Go home.”
“Anything but that.”
“You are determined to stay.”
Lucy nodded.
“Very well. Tomorrow morning I must visit a few tenant families, and in the past, these visits have met with a more favorable outcome if I have a woman along to soften my fierce exterior. You will come with me. As a favor to me.”
Her lips twitched. “Any woman will do? What sort do you usually recruit for these appointments?”
“Marie always went with me. I haven’t been on any visits since her death.”
Lucy, her arms still folded, tightened her fists. Conversations were so much easier for her with people who appreciated sympathy. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “I would be honored, then.”
He nodded once. “In the meantime, I shall have Mrs. Farrell arrange for new sleeping arrangements for you and see that your things are packed up and moved.”
“I can pack them myself.” Lucy moved to the wardrobe, waving a dismissive hand.
“You’ll not stay in here alone.”
She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the wardrobe door. “It is broad daylight. Alarming occurrences seem to happen only at night, here.” A rustle at the bottom of the wardrobe caught Lucy’s attention, and she lifted the hems of several dresses to see the slithering black body of a snake before she stumbled backward in surprise.
“What is it?” Blackwell’s eyes widened as the serpent’s head poked out from the yards of fabric. “Be still,” he snapped at her unnecessarily. She stood rooted to the spot, hardly daring to breathe.
Lucy stared at the reptile, hoping the spots appearing before her eyes were not a warning of pending unconsciousness. She abhorred snakes, had since she was a child, and had suffered a bite that had left her feverish for weeks. From the corner of her eye, she caught Blackwell’s slow approach before his torch flew through the air and smashed the head of the reptile against the base of the wardrobe with a sickening, soggy thud.
“I don’t mind spiders so much,” she said, inhaling and exhaling with more rapidity than was probably wise, “but snakes do rather terrify me.”
Blackwell was as white as a sheet. She saw the moment when fear metamorphosed into fury, and he rushed toward her, propelling her toward the door with an arm about her shoulders. “You will not—will not—stay in this room.”
“I need to get my things,” she said, fumbling to withdraw a key from her pocket.
“I will have someone else retrieve your things.”
He unlocked the door and pulled her through to the landing overlooking the main hall, past bewildered servants—human and ’ton alike—and down the long hallway into the south wing. He finally stopped at the doors to his suite where he pulled his own key from his pocket and shoved it into the lock, the fingers of his other hand biting into her shoulder. He opened the heavy door and guided her through it, finally glancing down at her face and loosening his grip.
“I appr
eciate your thoughtfulness.” Her fear had her feeling positively weak. “But my notes and journals are in there. They are very important to me, and I’d rather not have anyone pawing through them. We didn’t lock the door when we left, and I’m sure it seems silly, but there are some rather sensitive observations in my journals, formulas I am working on . . .” She was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop herself. “I realized this morning that I’d left the room unlocked and unattended last night when I . . . came here . . .”
“You were distressed. It’s to be expected.”
“Yes. Well.” Lucy took a deep breath. “I don’t much care for snakes.”
“Nor do I.”
“Clearly. You made quick work of it. Thank you.” She shuddered involuntarily, remembering the sound of the torch smashing the creature’s head.
“It was a black adder, if I’m not mistaken. They are highly venomous.” Blackwell nodded to the left of the large sitting room. “There’s a hallway branching off that way.” He moved toward it, and she followed him. “This is the countess’s quarters. As you can see, it’s a fair distance from mine, although still in the same suite, and there are maids’ quarters adjoining the main bedchamber.”
Lucy looked at him in some shock, not trusting herself to speak for a moment. “This was your mother’s room, then.”
He nodded.
“And the late Lady Blackwell’s.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Yes.”
“Lord Blackwell, I would never dream of imposing in such a way. You’d rather I not be here at all, and to install myself in your late wife’s chambers—it hardly bears contemplation.”
“Miss Pickett.” His tone was measured. “I would not have offered it if I hadn’t intended for you to accept it. You insist on staying in my home—very well. But it is my wish that you remain here, where nobody will dare another attempt on your life. As I said, I will assign you a maid, and she can use the adjoining room. Have a gaggle of them in there if you’d like.”
Lucy peered through the open door of the countess’s chambers. The room was dark—the drapes closed, the furniture covered. “It is most generous, sir. And with any luck, I shall soon find something of use for Kate. I will examine the herbs in the greenhouse today and do a bit more research in my botanical journals. The key to her health is somewhere, I simply need to find it.”
“We still don’t know why someone would try to kill you. Twice.” He muttered almost to himself.
“I am certain some might find me vexing.”
He looked at her with eyelids half closed. “That does not even warrant a response. Who have you met or interacted with since your arrival?”
“The three Charlesworths, and Kate and Jonathan, of course. And Mrs. Farrell, Mr. Grafton, and Mr. Clancy. Martha Watts. And a host of maids and ’tons. Also Dr. MacInnes and Mr. Reed.”
“What have you told people of the nature of your visit?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, really. Only that I am here to spend time with my cousin. I did mention to your relatives that I believe Kate may be ill.”
He frowned. “They may be irritating in the extreme, but I’m hard pressed to believe any of those three might be inclined to kill you. What would they gain?”
“Nothing.” Lucy spread her hands. “Perhaps there is a malfunctioning ’ton in the household. When I was at school, one of our ’ton maids turned three girls’ bedrooms upside down before she could be stopped. Her punch card had aged, and the hardware couldn’t read it properly. Rather than cleaning, she destroyed the place.”
Blackwell nodded. “We had a similar malfunction with one in India. Blasted thing turned its guns on us. I suspect Daniel may have mentioned it—that was how he received the shoulder wound.”
She stared at him. “Shoulder wound?”
Blackwell was silent for a moment. “He didn’t tell you.”
Lucy clamped her lips together and looked into the darkened room at nothing in particular. “No. No, he did not.”
“I am . . . I apologize. He clearly meant to keep it to himself, likely so as not to worry you or your mother.”
Lucy shook her head. “That stubborn . . .” She wrung her hands, a habit she’d not succumbed to since finishing school had polished it out of her. “I knew it.”
Blackwell cursed under his breath, and Lucy glanced at him. “You needn’t worry, my lord. I shall not give you up to him. I shall encourage him to tell me on his own.”
“You expect him to tell you everything?”
“He used to!” She frowned. “Though he’s not been the same.” Lucy flushed. “I feel as though I lost a friend when he went away to fight and I’ve yet to get him back.”
“You care for him very much.”
Lucy’s eyes burned with tears that caught her by surprise. “Yes.” She turned her head, embarrassed.
“Come,” Blackwell said and held out his arm. “I must speak with Mrs. Farrell.”
I must admit, I’m surprised to see you opening the south wing.” Oliver looked askance at Miles. “Why the change? Are you no longer worried about unintentionally harming someone?” Oliver poured himself a drink at the sideboard in the third-floor observatory before joining Miles and Sam in the comfortable chairs around the hearth.
Miles shook his head and leaned back against the chair, closing his eyes. He was so very tired. “I’m worried now more than ever, but I’m fairly certain nothing will happen here. If I make my usual trip to the hunting lodge at least a day in advance, nobody will be in any danger. It’s been years, and I think the pattern is well-established. I’ve yet to see a variation, even in extreme circumstances.”
“A variation might have been nice in India.” Sam crossed one booted foot over his other knee. “The enemy wouldn’t have seen it coming.”
Miles opened his eyes a fraction and looked at Sam. “You know very well I can’t control it.”
“You don’t know if you can control it because you’ve never taken the opportunity to find out. What better way than with one of us?” Sam looked at Oliver, who nodded in agreement.
“There is no worse way to find out. I’ll not entertain the topic again.” He turned his attention to Oliver. “You said you had a promising lead?”
Oliver nodded. “Several of the notes seem to have originated from the mid- to northern regions. Except the last one—I’ve traced it to Scotland.”
Miles blinked. “Scotland?”
“Yes. And I’m hoping you have another note for me. You should, if the writer continues his pattern.”
Miles was quiet for a moment. “I did receive another one.”
“Where is it?”
“The hunting lodge.”
“Did you leave it there?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Oliver raised a brow.
“I burned it.”
Oliver’s mouth dropped open fractionally. “Why on earth would you burn it?”
Miles braced his elbows on his knees, massaging his temples with his hands. “I was angry, Oliver. I am livid that someone dares to play this game with me.”
Oliver turned his attention to the fireplace, his brows tightly drawn. Sam remained wisely silent.
“Well,” Oliver finally said, “should you receive another, and I must assume you will, I’d like it sent to me immediately. I don’t care where I am—telescribe me and I will give you my location.”
Miles nodded. “There’s something else.” He glanced at his good friends before fixing his gaze on the majestic view outside the large windows. He winced, thinking of Lucy. He gave them what he knew of her history upon arriving at Blackwell, leaving nothing out. He was worried for her safety and didn’t have the luxury of attempting to solve the problem on his own.
“I returned to the chamber with her after instructing Mrs. Farrell of the change and helped Miss Pick
ett gather her papers and books. She was most concerned about them.”
Sam nodded. “She should be. The Botanical Aid Society has her exploring theories about counteracting Vampiric Assimilation Aid.”
Miles’s gut churned with something he couldn’t define. “She didn’t tell me,” he finally muttered. “When did she say this?”
“The other afternoon. I had heard rumors about it in medical circles, that there were a few women on the Botanical Aid Society’s research team. Lucy was in the greenhouse, and I happened upon her while taking a stroll after lunch. I asked her, and she confirmed it.”
“Lucy, is it?”
Sam regarded him before his mouth twitched at the corner. “Yes. She’s given me leave to use her Christian name. Am I to assume she’s not done the same for you?”
Miles narrowed his eyes. “What are your intentions?”
“My intentions? Blackwell, I have no intentions. I enjoy the lady’s company.”
Oliver made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, but when Miles looked at him, the man was the picture of innocence. The chime of a clock on the wall signaled the luncheon hour and dispelled the awkward moment.
The day was cool, but not uncomfortably so, and for once the rain had decided to abate. Lucy stood at the threshold of Marie’s garden dressed in warm brown breeches and knee-high boots with a cream-colored blouse and brown satin outer corset. The whole of the ensemble was topped with an overcoat that had been tailored to her trim frame. Her fingers were cold despite the leather gloves, but that was nothing new. Unless she wore furred mittens, her fingers were often cold.
Mr. Clancy stood beside her at the gate, perusing the sight before them.
“I don’t suppose you have any ’ton servants at your disposal?” she asked.
He nodded curtly. “Aye, I might. How many do ye want?”
Lucy considered the state of the garden, which wasn’t so overgrown as to be hopeless, but it was certainly more than she could manage herself. “Five should do the trick, don’t you think?”
“I’ll have them started up straightaway. They’ve been down for . . . a while.”
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 14
