Lucy figured they’d been down since Marie’s death. “They are still programmed for grounds keeping, then?”
“Aye. I didn’t turn them back over to the main house, just put them away for a time.”
“How many do you have?”
“Eight.”
Lucy moved along the path into the center of the garden. It smelled divine, and she took a deep, appreciative breath, eyes closed. Multitudinous forms of flora mingled to form an olfactory cocktail that had her senses reeling. It was no wonder Marie had loved it so much.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Mr. Clancy observing her with eyes that watered. Before she could ask him if he was well, he turned and left the garden without saying a word.
Lucy thoughtfully watched the empty gate before turning her attention back to the plants. Withdrawing a small black notebook from her cloak pocket, she began making notes. The mesh netting that hung down from her top hat and framed her face warred with her ability to focus on the paper, and she impatiently folded the veil up and out of the way. Sometimes function required fashion take a backseat, a fact with which her school mistresses would have never agreed.
She quickly sketched the garden. With five ’tons helping her, she could easily divide the work and be finished in perhaps a week, maybe less. And the repetitive nature of the manual labor would give her time to mull over Kate’s condition and some possible solutions. She’d tried several different herbal concoctions, but each had alleviated only one or two of the symptoms at a time and not the root cause of the illness. Sam had examined her, and he was baffled as well.
Lucy frowned as she moved deeper into the garden, pursing her lips in thought. Perhaps Kate was suffering from an ailment of fatigue. Sam had told her of other cases similar to her cousin’s where the afflicted slept sixteen hours a day and it still wasn’t enough rest. Except Kate had begun experiencing some nausea as well. Each time Lucy felt she was narrowing in on a solution, Kate developed another odd symptom or complaint.
Also in the back of her mind was Director Lark’s answer to her message about the recent vampire killings in the village: The matter was under investigation, but all leads had run cold. It left Lucy feeling unsettled, anxious.
Lucy walked to the wrought-iron gazebo. Ivy grew so thick it draped walls around the whole of it, rendering the interior significantly dark. It was eerie and cold—cold in a way that the rest of the garden wasn’t. Lucy had placed one boot on the bottom step, if only to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid, when a yell from the gate arrested her progress.
“Stay out of there,” Mr. Clancy shouted. He made his way quickly across the garden, and when he reached Lucy, his face was flushed with exertion. “Do not enter that place,” he said, his voice as rough as gravel.
Lucy stepped back onto the ground. “Mr. Clancy, I should very much like to clean it up, to straighten it so that it might be a place of enjoyment again. That beautiful bench inside is completely filthy and covered with dirt and moss. With your permission, I’ll restore it to its former glory.”
The gardener’s gaze hardened more, though she wouldn’t have thought it possible. “I’ve given ye all I’m going ta,” he ground out. “Stay out of that gazebo or I’ll have it torn ta the ground. I just may do it anyway.”
“No, don’t. I will leave it be, I give you my word.”
Mr. Clancy finally relaxed by degrees: his shoulders dropping, the angry red splotches receding from his cheeks, his expression smoothing. He again resembled the mellow, gnarled old man she’d come to recognize, as opposed to a rage-fueled, gnarled old man.
Lucy moved away from the gazebo that seemed to cause him such consternation. In the back of her mind, she wondered at his reasons for keeping her out of it. Was it because it was Marie’s and he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else setting foot in it? Or was it because he was afraid?
“The ’tons are connected to the Tesla station in the garden shack.” Mr. Clancy scratched his chin while examining the sky. “They need two hours to fully charge, but there’s no telling about the weather.”
Lucy nodded. “Mr. Clancy, I’ve been wondering about some of the herbs in the greenhouse. Mr. Grafton doesn’t know where they’ve come from, and there are a few I’ve never seen before. Are they yours, by chance?”
The old man drew his brows together. “No, I don’t set foot in that place. Grafton—he be verra territorial about it.”
“I think I shall take a few samples and set about identifying them. Perhaps I’ll do that now while we’re waiting for the ’tons to charge.”
“Aye, then. Ye’ll find me at the garden shack.”
With a smile, and making a concerted effort to not look at the gazebo, Lucy left Marie’s garden. She quickly made her way along the twisting path, breathing an unconscious sigh of relief when she spied the imposing view of the back of the manor.
Crossing the lawns to the greenhouse, she slipped inside. Withdrawing her plant identifier from her pocket, she walked down the aisle to the back corner where she’d seen the odd plants the first time she’d entered. She stooped down to examine the lower shelf and frowned. Someone had moved the plants in question and replaced them with two pots of basil.
She stood and turned, looking on each shelf above and below the basil pots, wondering if she’d been mistaken about the location of the strange herbs. She took her time walking the greenhouse from back to front, carefully scrutinizing each plant and herb from the large to the small, her brows pinched.
Lucy placed a hand on her hip and narrowed her eyes at the greenhouse in general. Who had she spoken to about the herbs? Mr. Grafton, Mr. Clancy, and Blackwell. One thing was certain—the plants she sought were most definitely gone from the greenhouse.
Perhaps it meant nothing.
Miles awoke with a start. He wasn’t a light sleeper—had never been, really, and even if he had, the war would have drilled it out of him quickly enough. The slightest noises often roused him with alarming results: his heartclock pounding, blood pumping furiously. This evening was no exception. He sat up in bed and stilled his breathing, straining in the silence to hear anything out of the ordinary.
Nothing.
He was likely hyperalert. Even in an unconscious state he must have been well aware of the fact that Lucy Pickett was asleep in his suite. In his dead wife’s bedchamber. That was surely the problem. She must have stirred in her slumber, and he heard every movement; compliments of his “condition,” he was not unlike the proverbial “Princess and the Pea,” who was sensitive to the slightest detail.
With a grunt of disgust, he left the bed and pulled his robe from a bedside chair. Shoving his arms into the sleeves, he exited the bedroom and made his way through the large sitting room and to the countess’s chamber doors. They stood tall and closed. Hopefully locked.
He’d been very specific in his instructions. Miss Pickett was to lock her hallway door, the double doors leading to the balcony overlooking the back lawns, and the door inside her dressing room that led to his dressing room.
Lightly tapping her door with the back of his knuckles, he leaned in close to listen. If he didn’t hear anything within the next thirty seconds, he would assume all was well and leave. Thirty seconds turned into a full minute. He knocked again. It wasn’t long before he heard movement on the other side of the door, followed by the click of the lock sliding back.
The door opened a crack, and a thread of light spilled across the hallway. Lucy peered up at him, blinking. “Is something wrong?”
Miles stared at her, his mouth going dry as he remembered how she’d felt in his arms. “I thought I heard something.” He suddenly felt very foolish. “You are well, then?”
Lucy rubbed at her temple and then brushed her hair off her shoulder and away from her face. “I believe so. If there was a noise, I didn’t hear it.”
Miles nodded. “Good. Very good.”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t seen . . .”
“Your sister?”
Miles nodded again.
“No. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps you’ve effectively scared everyone off, mortal and spirit alike.” Lucy smiled and rubbed her eye. Her fingers were slender, the nails perfectly shaped and tended. There wasn’t a detail about her that seemed amiss. Even the tendrils and curls that fell around her face, mussed from her sleep, seemed to fit her, didn’t make her any less polished or cultured. He thought of the way he’d found her in his bed only that morning, sprawled and disheveled, and smiled.
“Are you well, then, my lord?” Lucy asked him.
“You should call me Miles. We are suite mates, after all.”
“Which is precisely why I should continue to address you properly.”
Miles frowned. That hadn’t gone at all as he’d expected. He’d been fully prepared for her to give him leave to call her “Lucy” as she’d done for Sam. “Well, then,” he said. “I bid you good night. Tomorrow following breakfast we will make our visits to my tenants after making a quick stop at the apothecary. Lock your door.”
She paused before nodding once. “Good night.”
“Good night.” He waited until he heard the lock turn before returning to his own bedchamber. He tried not to think about the fact that Miss Pickett was far more distracting than his wife had ever been. Of course, Clara had made it abundantly clear she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. How she’d figured they would ever conceive a child, he didn’t know. On their wedding night she’d cried and cowered, and he hadn’t used even a modicum of patience to allay her fears. Instead, he’d left her alone and decided to give her time to grow used to the idea that she would have to lie with him at least once if they were to produce an heir, but before a month was out, she was dead.
His mood suddenly dark, he closed his door with a little more force than was strictly necessary.
“You must go, I insist,” Kate said to Lucy the next morning.
“If you are unwell, I should stay.” Lucy placed the backs of her fingers against Kate’s brow. She was warm, but not alarmingly so.
“Nonsense. Go with Blackwell. If he’s requested your company, it must mean he likes you. I shall be fine. Jonathan stepped out for a moment and will be back with some tea. Says he wants to brew it himself.”
Lucy frowned. “Does he not trust the kitchen help?”
Kate shrugged. “I believe he’s growing leery of everyone.”
“Again, I think the two of you should leave. Go on holiday for a while.”
Kate shook her head. “Travel, with my nausea? The very thought makes my stomach turn. No, I shall stay put and fight whatever malady plagues me.”
Lucy thought of the strange herbs in the greenhouse that were suddenly gone and wondered for the hundredth time if Kate were being poisoned. Leaning forward, Lucy placed a kiss on Kate’s forehead and squeezed her hand. She made her way from the bedroom to the main hall where she descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen.
“Miss Pickett,” Mr. Grafton said in surprise, “we are nearly ready to serve breakfast. Do you need something?”
Lucy eyed the man, rethinking her impulse to take Kate’s cause to the staff. She knew close to nothing about the people who resided under Blackwell’s roof with the exception of Kate herself. For all she knew, the rumors were true and Blackwell had killed his wife and sister. Kate might simply be the next in line.
That makes no sense, though. To what end?
Lucy spied Jonathan and joined him with a quick smile at Mr. Grafton. “Just checking on Kate’s tea.”
Jonathan glanced up, his face grim, and the smile he gave her was strained. “Nearly ready,” he said. “I’m giving her a rather weak brew and some plain toast with a bit of jam and butter.”
Lucy patted his arm, pondering two things: If Jonathan were harming Kate in some way, he would certainly know by now that Lucy was not about to be put off or sent home, and if he were innocent and truly the loving picture of a spouse he appeared to be, he might find comfort in the fact that he had an ally.
“I’ll remain here for as long as it takes,” Lucy murmured to Jonathan. “We will find a solution to whatever ails her.”
Jonathan glanced over his shoulder and then back to the teacup, where he stirred the liquid slowly. “People keep speaking of the curse,” he whispered, barely moving his lips. “I worry that Kate will hear it.”
“Nonsense. I do not place stock in such things. Nor does Kate.”
“Nor do I. But there are those who do.”
Lucy shrugged. “So let them.”
Jonathan set the spoon down and reached for a saucer. Placing it and the teacup atop a tray, he glanced at Lucy. “I should hate for Kate to be burdened by the rumors. She is feeling badly enough as it is. She doesn’t need the staff gossiping about her.”
“Staff will gossip regardless of the issue. If it isn’t this, it will be something else.” She gave him a small smile and patted him on the arm.
Jonathan finished Kate’s tray and climbed the servant’s stairs just off the kitchen to the second floor. What a singular man, he was, Lucy thought. He served his wife as a personal maid would without giving it a second thought.
As she made her way down the hall from the kitchen, she saw Blackwell standing at the breakfast room doorway.
“There you are,” he said. “You are late.” He watched her, his brows drawn.
“I am not late; breakfast has not yet arrived from the kitchen.” As she drew closer, she noted fine lines around his eyes and a faint smudge of darkness beneath them. “And you didn’t sleep well.”
He paused as though weighing the words of a possible response. “I trust you did?” he finally said.
She nodded. “Blissfully. Thank you for providing the peace of mind.”
He smiled, although it clearly lacked humor. “Seems like a commodity that ought to be a given when visiting the home of a relative.”
“I’ve told you I do not judge you harshly over that which you have no control. You’ve shown me every courtesy.”
Blackwell lowered his voice. “I’ve discreetly questioned some of the staff. None of them claim to have any knowledge of the snake in your wardrobe or how it came to be there.”
“Someone is seeking to frighten me off. I must have made an enemy somewhere along the line.”
He frowned, inching infinitesimally closer until she could smell his aftershave and that indefinable something that seemed to draw her to him against her better judgment.
“You oughtn’t to go about alone.”
“I do not know whom to trust,” she whispered, giving voice to an unconscious fear.
“Trust me,” he murmured. “Or Jonathan.” A glance at his face revealed clear tension.
“Nobody else? Not even Mrs. Farrell or Mr. Grafton? Martha Watts, the stable mistress?” Her mouth lifted in a smile. “They seem innocent enough.”
He didn’t share the lightness of the mood she was trying to create. “Yet your cousin lies ill, and you are nearly killed twice.”
She sobered and drew in a breath. “I trust you.”
He shook his head slightly. “Probably not wise,” he muttered.
Lucy raised a brow. “You only just told me that you are but one of two people who are certain to not wish me harm.”
He looked at her for a long moment before finally offering his arm. “Mr. Grafton is coming with breakfast. Let’s eat so we can be on our way.”
Breakfast followed the same pattern as it had every other morning at Blackwell Manor, with the notable absence of Kate. Lucy’s nerves stretched taut as she tamped down her worry over her cousin and replaced it instead with thoughts of riding around Blackwell lands with one very irascible earl who set her pulse pounding and kept her slightly off-k
ilter.
He disappeared into his den immediately following breakfast after giving her instructions to meet him in ten minutes at the stables with her warmest outer clothing but not necessarily a riding habit. What the others might have thought of the fact that she was going out with him, she could only speculate. Arthur had looked positively sulky, Aunt Eustace angry, Candice contemplative.
Samuel told Oliver he wanted to show him his progress on his most recent mechanical project in the observatory, and Lucy fought the urge to ask if she might see it later as well. Candice had pouted about the fact that the three gentlemen seemed to spend so much time in that “infernal observatory,” which was hardly the thing to do in a house full of mixed company and cherished guests. The comment had served to pique Lucy’s curiosity that there was something not only scientific but also apparently fairly secretive in nature happening on the third floor. She considered methods for manipulating an invitation out of Dr. MacInnes.
Mr. Arnold retrieved Lucy’s heavy cloak and gloves from the cloakroom just off the front hall entry. She exited the house and walked around the side toward the stables, which were situated down a gradual slope lined with grass. She pulled her fur-lined hood over her head in the cooling air and tucked a few errant curls away from her face.
A quick glance inside the stables told her that Blackwell was either out of sight at the back of the enormous room or he hadn’t yet arrived from the house.
Martha Watts called out to Lucy, giving a quick nod with her head. “Miss Pickett, his lordship’s waitin’ for ye around the other side in the autocar garage.”
Lucy thanked the woman and walked around the stable to the connected garage at the back. A variety of polished and smooth conveyances and auto-propelled craft stood in orderly rows, ready for the lord of the manor. A few more were in various states of disassembly as a handful of ’tons worked to repair damage and replace worn parts.
She caught sight of Blackwell speaking with one of the mechanics, who was bent down and tightening a bolt on one of the double-seater auto-propelled Travelers, which resembled an open-horse carriage.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 15
