Lucy’s mouth dropped open as her thoughts clicked into place. “That’s why you married Clara,” she murmured.
His face gave nothing away.
“You’ve allowed everyone to believe you married an heiress to save the earldom. In reality, you did it to save the tenants from eviction.”
“The tenants are happy.”
“The neighboring landowners are not.”
He nodded.
“Miles, why? Why do you allow people to believe the worst about you?”
“They’re going to believe it anyway. I grew weary of the effort it took to convince them otherwise.”
She watched him quietly, knowing he wouldn’t appreciate any sympathy. “I would like your permission to examine the Tesla Room records at Blackwell when I return. There are details I’d like to examine. Also, I am not nearly tired tonight, and I would love a game of chess.”
As dawn approached, Miles stood outside the massive double doors that graced the front of the hunting lodge and stared into the trees at a small, dark shape that stood out against the white expanse of snow covering the ground. His energy had returned in spades; it was amazing how refreshed he felt after plugging into the heartclock machine for a few hours.
Lucy had lasted well into the night, playing several smart games of chess before fatigue eventually clouded her judgment. He had carried her back to her bed, amidst feeble protests on her part, and when he’d heard her deep, even breathing from the next room, he’d made himself comfortable in a reading chair next to the fire and plugged into the heart charger.
She was still resting, and he wasn’t surprised. He thought of her now as he made his way across the front lawn, his great coat dragging through the snow. He’d allowed himself the luxury of watching her sleep for a moment that morning, even with Mrs. Romany still in the room and snoring quietly from the sofa. Lucy’s dark hair spread across the pillow, eyelashes like fans against her cheeks. She gave the occasional wince as she shifted in sleep, unconsciously feeling the pain of her injuries.
He frowned as he thought of the mad tumble she’d taken down the side of the ravine. He barely remembered it. There were images, impressions, but he was never fully himself when he shifted. The thought that the fall could have killed her was never far from his thoughts, and he couldn’t shake the crushing sense of responsibility he felt. If she hadn’t been terrified of the wolf, she wouldn’t have fallen down the ravine.
He was still several yards away from the black object lying on the ground when he recognized it for what it was and stopped in his tracks. Quietly examining his surroundings, he waited for the space of several heartbeats before continuing, this time more slowly.
It was a trap, one with vicious teeth and strength enough to snap the legs or crush the head of an unsuspecting animal. He’d certainly seen them before, but never on Blackwell land. As he neared the thing, he kept watch, his senses alert, attempting to determine whether or not he was alone near the edge of the woods.
Moving to a nearby tree, he wrenched off a dead branch that he then used to trip the contraption. It snapped the branch clean in half, a harsh metallic sound ringing through the forest. He nudged the trap grimly with one booted foot as a very real fear began to take root. Anger was much easier to handle than fear, though, and he welcomed the surge of rage that quickly followed and coursed through his veins, causing his heartclock to increase in rhythm and exertion.
He could only hope that the wolf possessed an innate ability to sense danger. He didn’t recall ever having seen a trap anywhere near the lodge before, and one thing he did know for certain was that the wolf had never ventured beyond Blackwell land. It was as though he instinctively sensed his own boundaries.
He pulled the trap loose from the stake that anchored it deep into the cold ground and lifted it by its heavy chain to eye level. The trap had no qualities to give away the identity of its owner. He searched for a blacksmith’s mark and found none. The trap was sinister in both feel and appearance, and the cold of the metal seeped through his warm, lined leather gloves.
He turned back toward the hunting lodge, still holding the trap, and considered the fact that the next time he shifted, he would have to remain indoors. He’d tried that once before and had experienced a sense of frustration unlike any other. He’d shifted back to find the den in absolute shambles. It wasn’t the mess that had given him pause, it was the shattered glass that littered the floor and had cut him deeply, leaving him with gashes on his hands and feet. It was then that he’d realized he was a danger to himself closed in, and heaven help anyone around him who might happen to get in his way.
He entered the lodge and made his way with quick strides to the door in the kitchen that led to a small cellar. He didn’t need the light—one benefit, he supposed, to his genetic abnormality—and swept his gaze over the food that was stored on shelves and the racks of lamb and pork that hung suspended from the rafters.
Crossing to the far corner, he tossed the trap to the floor where it hit with a clang that was loud against the stillness. Perhaps it was time to accept Oliver’s offer of more aggressive investigation into the person—or persons—who meant him harm. What had once been apathy had given way to a fledgling sense of hope for a relatively normal future, and he found himself loath to abandon it after having been without it for so long.
Perhaps it was all just ridiculous nonsense. His father had not been happy, that much had been clear. And according to Blake family history, the wolf had appeared randomly over thirteen generations. Miles seriously doubted that any of his ancestors had ever found real joy or any sense of lasting peace.
For the first time since he had shifted as a young man, he found himself wondering if there was a cure. Perhaps it was time to send for Hazel Hughes—not so much for her abilities, which were clearly odd, but for her knowledge. She might know where to look for answers.
Turning away from the death trap, he returned to the kitchen and shook out of his coat and gloves. Lucy would be awake before long, and it appeared Mrs. Romany was still sleeping comfortably in the room with her. It was the butler’s day off, and Miles hadn’t bothered to program the few ’tons in residence for some time. It fell to him to find something for breakfast and, while he never felt compunction about finding something for himself to eat, it was awkward in the light of day to fix food for a lady and his housekeeper while lacking any kind of culinary talent. Bread and cheese while half drunk had been one thing. Now he was sober, and he felt ridiculous.
Lucy wouldn’t complain, though, he knew that much. But he found himself wanting to be more than adequate. He wanted to be exceptional for her, and there was the rub. Miles Phillip Charles Blake, fourteenth earl of Blackwell, had never bothered trying to impress anyone.
With an irritated sigh, he opened several cupboards and a pantry door before he found some biscuits and jam. He supposed it would have to do. Besides, he had bigger issues at hand. Coupled with the fact that somebody was bent on killing him, he had to get Lucy back home without a soul knowing she had spent the weekend alone with him. And the sooner, the better. He had an uneasy sense that she wasn’t safe with him. As much as he would have liked to convince himself that he could protect her, he knew she could easily be caught in the cross fire, and it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.
Lucy was livid. After breakfast, Miles, with no more than a handful of words, had packed her belongings and hauled them to the lodge’s entryway. He told her he had programmed the carriage to take her home to her mother. Only when she’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that she would simply leave her mother’s house and return to Blackwell on her own did he reprogram the carriage’s destination.
Acquiescing with quiet, although visible, fury, he had taken her telescriber and sent word to the manor that she would be returning and to please have the countess’s chambers ready for her arrival. When she’d balked at the high-handedness of the request
, he’d quelled her objections with a look that brooked no argument. She wisely kept any further objections to herself.
The circuitous route through London had added an additional two hours to her trip, and she was exhausted.
Upon her arrival, Mrs. Farrell had told her that Jonathan had telescribed from Bath to say that Kate was doing very well and they would leave for the ball at Charlesworth House directly from there. Kate’s maid was to pack a trunk that Lucy would take with her for Kate when she left for the ball in two days.
Lucy had been looking forward to the trip with some anticipation, hoping for some time alone with Miles in a covered carriage, but the way he’d been acting since that morning had her doubting he would come near her with a ten-foot pole.
Not one for fits of self-doubt, she nevertheless found herself wondering if Miles was losing interest, if perhaps now that they were no longer marooned in a blizzard his ardor had cooled. He had lived a solitary life before meeting her, and just because he desired her and had shared a moment or two of emotion didn’t necessarily mean he planned to have any kind of future that included her.
Well, that was just fine, she fumed as she moved around the countess’s chambers, jabbing loose pins back into her coiffure and straightening her gown despite screams of protest from her aching and bruised body. If he didn’t care for her company, if he had insisted she stay in this suite out of a sense of personal duty to her safety and nothing more, then she was not going to beg for his affection.
She could, however, finish the task she’d begun upon her arrival at Blackwell. Kate had been poisoned by ’tons who had been programmed to do the deed, and Lucy was determined to uncover who was behind it. Locking the door behind her, per his lordship’s instructions, she made her way through the sitting room with the use of the cane Miles had given her at the hunting lodge. When she reached the front stairs, she finally began to feel the welcomed effects of the numbing herb she’d crushed and put into her tea, and she walked with more ease.
She continued her way through the main hall, past the breakfast and dining rooms and through the next door on her right. The hum of the Tesla Room was familiar, and it never failed to leave Lucy with a sense of awe at the power contained in the electric coils.
The logs were kept in neat black books that marched side by side down rows of shelves in the large room. Every week, the paper roll bearing copies of each telescribed message that either came into or left the manor was collected, cut, neatly labeled, and filed away in the books.
Lucy pulled the black ledgers from the shelves that dated back to Kate’s arrival at the manor and set them on a waist-high table at the far end of the room. She flipped through the pages, running her finger down the text of incoming and outgoing messages. There were telescriptions to the market requesting deliveries of various foodstuffs, mentions of pending visits from the Charlesworths, Sam, and Oliver, requests for meetings with Miles from members of Parliament and also from surrounding neighbors.
Lucy looked pensively at the books, tapping her forefinger against the paper. On a whim, she returned to the archives and selected two more ledgers dating back six months. She opened the first and walked back to the table, where she continued her perusal to the comfortable accompaniment of the Tesla coils’ hum.
She reviewed the telescriptions sent from Clara to her family across the ocean as well as the communications sent to and from Marie. Clara had scribed on more than one occasion that she wasn’t feeling well, and Lucy’s heart raced as she read the haunting words of a dying woman to a family who didn’t seem inclined to offer much support in return. Their answering messages contained suggestions that she stay indoors and away from the cold English air. At one point, Clara’s mother had scribed to say that Clara should have the earl contact a physician if she were truly worried for her health. The message was dated shortly before Clara’s eventual demise.
Lucy frowned as she turned the next page and saw the message from Miles to the family saying that Clara had passed from an unknown illness.
The obsequious reply from the Americas was that the family was glad to know their daughter would be buried on esteemed Blackwell land and that perhaps a member of the family would visit the grave the next time one of them traveled to London on business.
Lucy looked up in disgust and stared at the wall, deep in thought. What was wrong with the girl’s family? As much as she felt pettily jealous of Miles’s first wife, her sense of pity overrode any other emotion.
As Lucy read the telescriptions that followed, an ache gathered in her throat. Miles’s messages to the Charlesworths and his friends about Marie’s death were succinct and devoid of emotion. It was a far more telling sign of his grief than lengthy explanations would have been.
She replaced the transcription books in their proper places on the archive shelves and walked to the door that connected the Tesla Room to the Programming Room. The quiet in the room after the hum of the Tesla coils was marked, and Lucy flipped a light switch on the wall as she closed the door behind her.
The programming tins were as neatly categorized as the telescribed messages had been; neat rows of boxes lined side by side were dated and catalogued numerically. It was a testament to the estate’s wealth; the average household sent their ’ton’s cards through a buffer, smoothing out the programming bumps and readying them for new instruction. Recycling the tins saved money, but, while it was efficient, it didn’t allow for permanent records. When mistakes were made, whether big or small, a quick examination of the programming instructions pointed fingers in the right direction—either the programmer was at fault, or the ’ton itself had malfunctioned.
Lucy made her way slowly along the shelves, looking for the dates in question. “Six months ago,” she murmured aloud and stopped when she spied the correct collection of spent tins. Pulling a box from the shelf, she opened the lid and carefully withdrew several cards dated from Clara’s arrival at Blackwell. She fed them one by one into the reading machine and scanned the instructions as they appeared on the black screen.
The programming was standard: the name and serial number of the ’ton read across the top, along with a listing of duties to be performed and the duration of each. Ejecting and feeding card after card, Lucy watched specifically for cards that had been inserted into Mr. Grafton’s cooking staff. Some of Mr. Grafton’s cards and a few for Mr. Clancy’s ’tons were notably absent.
She wondered if Mr. Clancy kept his archives in the grounds’ Charging Room. It would have been unusual for the tins to be housed in different places on the estate. Families who wanted a record of everything that transpired on their property typically maintained a tidy system in one central location.
Lucy glanced at the numbered tin she had just fed into the machine before placing it back into the box where she’d kept her other hand as a placeholder. She lifted the next several tins, prepared to continue her examination, when she noticed a discrepancy in the numbering. Looking again at the tin in her hand, she looked back at the box to the one she’d just replaced.
She chewed on her lip as her heart began to thump. Flipping through the tins showed a clear gap in serial numbers; they hadn’t merely been misfiled. There were a total of five missing programming cards and no way of knowing which ’tons had used them—or to what end.
Lucy scrutinized the dates in question and pulled a pen and small notebook from her pocket. She scribbled the dates onto the page and then continued to flip through the tins, making careful note of missing dates and serial numbers. As she made her way through the box and into the beginning of the next, an alarming pattern emerged.
She carefully replaced the tins and returned to the Tesla Room. She pulled one of the telescribing books off the shelf and leafed through several pages, stopping periodically and jotting notes next to those she’d already made. When she finished, she took a deep breath and examined her findings.
There were programming tins
missing throughout the entire month of Clara’s residence, and, perhaps more telling, two were absent on the day immediately following her death—the day of Marie’s death.
According to the transcription records, there had been a series of guests at the manor during those times that included several players Lucy knew, and a few she did not. The names of those she hadn’t met included men Miles had mentioned as his father’s former friends who were now his enemies.
And among the names she knew well were Eustace, Arthur, and Candice Charlesworth; Samuel MacInnes; Daniel Pickett; and Oliver Reed.
Mrs. Farrell was present at the manor every day and night, as were Mr. Clancy, Miss Watts, and Mr. Grafton. Any one of them could have gained access to the Programming Room, and Lucy had seen with her own eyes that each staff member possessed at least a rudimentary ability to program.
The one thing that gave her hope when she considered the possibility of telling Miles that one of his friends may well have killed his wife or sister was the fact that Marie had knocked over the portrait of the Charlesworths in the gallery, which seemed to implicate the family.
Lucy frowned as she reflected on Candice’s attraction to Oliver; she had certainly seemed fixated on him despite the fact that he had remained largely aloof. Might his aloofness been an act? The possibility that the detective might somehow be involved was chilling. He would have contacts, possible methods of avoiding investigation. She didn’t suspect her brother for even a moment.
Of course, there was always Miles himself, but she doubted he had any involvement in the deaths. He could have disposed of Lucy easily enough at the hunting lodge for bringing up questions that might have cast suspicion upon him. Not to mention the fact that it would break her heart to discover he was a murderer. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 24
