Shivers Box Set: Darkening Around MeLegacy of DarknessThe Devil's EyeBlack Rose (Shivers (Harlequin E))

by Barbara J. Hancock

  She dismissed the housekeeper with a word of thanks. “I have taken the liberty of setting one of the younger girls to wait on miss,” Mrs Lethbridge stated as she departed, “being as how it seemed unlikely she would bring her own maid.” The scathing look that accompanied these words perfectly summed up her opinion of me. I was assigned the supporting role of sponging relation. Never must I aspire to join the main cast known as “family.”

  Demelza fussed about briefly, rearranging the objects on the dresser, examining the fabric of the dressing gown with pursed lips and patting my hand. “Now I am going to leave you to rest. I do recommend you lay down on the bed to refresh yourself. Travelling is so fatiguing, is it not? We dine at eight and I will collect you so that we may go downstairs together. We have lost many a guest in these passages, believe me.” She bestowed a light kiss on my cheek and, with her own uniquely restless grace, flitted out of the door.

  I returned to the window and threw the casement wide, leaning out to drink in the view. I began to appreciate at last why my mother had loved this place. The peninsula was almost an island, so narrow was the strip of land that joined it to the coast. Cliffs rose, jagged and milky, straight out of the spangling azure depths, their bleak faces softened by the grasses and flowers which bloomed upon them. I glimpsed pretty pinks and bright valerian competing with scrubby grasses and dark purple heather. I breathed in clean, true air. Birds sang me a sonnet of shy welcome. Examining my injured heart, I found it a little healed. Who knew how long I would stay at Tenebris, or where next I would go? For now, however, thanks to Demelza’s altruism, I was no longer a servant. I had a home and, it appeared, a family. And I wanted to believe that this new start would lead me to a future filled with promise and accomplishment.

  * * *

  When I woke, the room was in darkness and the embers of the sleeping fire glowed low and red. A tentative tap on the door was followed by a hesitant head, topped by a profusion of blonde curls, peeping round the door. A lace cap proclaimed the owner of the curls to be a maid by profession. She was young and pretty and held a branch of candles high so that a halo of light shone around her. She dipped a nervous curtsy in my direction. “Begging your pardon, miss. Her Ladyship said as how you’d be wanting to freshen up before dinner.” She added, as an afterthought, “I’m Betty, miss, and Mrs Lethbridge has set me on to wait on you.”

  I stretched luxuriously and watched Betty as she bustled about lighting other candles and then pouring warm water from a pitcher into a bowl. She laid out soap and towel and shook out the dress I had been wearing when I arrived. She explained that Lady Demelza had given instructions not to disturb my rest by bringing my luggage up to my room while I slept. Betty had strict instructions to unpack my trunk later while I dined with my hosts.

  “Have you worked at the castle for long, Betty?” I asked as I rose reluctantly from the bed and began to splash water onto my sleep-lined face. I had not expected to sleep, and certainly not so well.

  “No, miss.” She watched with interest as I pulled the silver-handled brush through my long, straight hair. “Just a few weeks. I was took on as a parlour maid, but, when Mrs Lethbridge got Her Ladyship’s letter, she thought I might be a good choice to serve you.”

  I twisted my hair quickly into its usual neat chignon and Betty said, “Oh, miss! You look just like the pictures of the new queen!” Her hand flew guiltily to cover her mouth. “Begging your pardon!”

  I laughed. “No, why should you do so? You are not the first person to tell me I resemble Her Majesty.” I studied my reflection dispassionately in the dressing table mirror. The likeness lay in the fact that we were both little women with light brown hair, big blue eyes and unremarkable features. The queen—who was called Alexandrina but, it was said, wished to take the name Victoria—and I were of a similar age. I was a little older; she had by far the more robust figure. We should both probably smile more.

  I grimaced as Betty fastened my dress, thinking it far too plain for my grand surroundings. It had been made in India to my own design and was of a fine cotton-linen mix. The fitted bodice had a deeply rounded neck and the full skirt was box-pleated tightly at the centre back. The low-set sleeves were tightly gathered below each shoulder with a frill at the elbow. Its colour was pale blue with tiny embroidered flowers scattered all over. Betty clasped her hands together and declared I looked “pretty as paint.” I remained unconvinced.

  My misgivings were compounded when, some ten minutes later, Demelza swept into the room. She was clad in a gown of deep ruby silk that left her creamy shoulders bare and exposed a deep expanse of cleavage. Her burnished hair was piled high and diamonds glittered at her throat and in her ears. If this was the requisite standard of dress for a quiet dinner, then I was going to prove a sad disappointment to my new family!

  She looked me up and down with pursed lips and pointed out, with unwonted sharpness, to Betty that my boots should have been polished before I put them back on. Blushing, the little maid begged pardon and curtsied her way backward out of the room.

  “Now, my dear, I took the liberty of bringing a shawl for you to wear,” Demelza told me, arranging this item of fine gossamer Norwich silk so that it covered my shoulders and chest. “It can be quite shockingly cold here, even on a summer evening. Oh, you are wondering why I do not wear it myself!” she laughed as my gaze dropped unbidden to her magnificent bosom. She did not appear offended. “I was born and raised within the walls of Tenebris, remember. We Jagos thrive on draughts.”

  She drew my hand into the crook of her arm and we traversed the maze of corridors. Old fashioned torches, set high in their decorative sconces, created alternate circles of leaping shadow and spluttering light. The floorboards creaked and groaned to herald our approach and, as we descended the stairs together, the man who had been gazing into the fire turned to look up at us. My aunt, for as such I supposed I must begin to think of her, left me standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs and hurried forward, her hands outstretched.

  “Uther! Dearest brother!” She turned her face up to receive the kiss he aimed at her cheek. “But I am so pleased to see you that I am quite forgetting to be cross. How I wish you had been here to greet me.”

  “You are neglecting our guest, Demelza.” His voice was honey-warm, husky and faintly amused. I had the oddest feeling that his reminder jolted Demelza. It was almost as if she had forgotten my presence. She quickly collected herself and caught my hand in hers, bringing me forward to stand in front of him.

  “This is my brother, my dear…The Honourable Uther Jago.” She released my hand and I stood there for a moment, awkward and hesitant. “Uther, this is Miss Lucy Alleyne, our dear cousin Eliza’s child. Is she not pretty?”

  Uther Jago was, quite simply, the most magnificent man I had ever seen. Or had ever dreamed might exist. He was possessed of gold-tinted skin, features carved by the hand of an artist and amber eyes lit with unholy fire. A narrow scar—like a fencer’s badge of honour—traced his left cheek. It should have been a flaw, but it only drew attention to the perfection of his countenance. There was something feline about him that tugged at a primeval chord, one I had hitherto been unaware of, deep within me. In that very first instant of meeting, I wanted to tame, and yet be devoured by, this beast. These thoughts, as he took my hand, stained my cheeks with red shame. I had a horrible feeling that he read my mind and was amused by it.

  He seemed comfortable with silence in a way his sister was not. For long minutes, he studied me while the smile that touched his eyes told me nothing of his thoughts. “You have done well, my dear,” he informed Demelza over my head, neatly sidestepping the question of my looks. As if mere “prettiness” could possibly impress these Jago thoroughbreds! “I must apologise, Miss Alleyne, on behalf of my nephew, the earl. He is desolate that he cannot be here to greet you, but, as I am sure my sister has explained, his constitution is not robust and he suffers dreadfully with migraine. Sadly, he is often incapacitated for days following an atta
ck.”

  I mumbled something sympathetic, still trying desperately to collect my disordered thoughts.

  The dining room, which was reached by way of the Grand Stairway, the hall-bearer’s gallery, another broad corridor and an anteroom, was an immense apartment on the first floor of the castle. It was panelled in black oak, and hung with crimson damask draperies. Several rather gruesome paintings of battle scenes did little to lighten the mood. Nor did the four enormous chandeliers, which were suspended over a long, rather narrow table. The chairs were carved Jacobean oak, with tall backs and seats upholstered in crimson brocade. They were supremely uncomfortable. In the gloom that lay beyond the circles of light I dimly perceived larger objects of furniture, including a monstrous sideboard and matching dresser.

  Pascoe escorted us to the table with great ceremony. I found the formality of the occasion unaccountably droll, and I choked back an involuntary laugh. Uther, standing close by, overheard the stifled sound and raised an enquiring brow. “Something amuses you, Miss Alleyne?” He moved nearer as he spoke.

  “No, sir.” I met his stare limpidly, but I knew that the gleam of mischief in my eyes betrayed me. Candidly, I added, “Do you not sometimes feel that there is an element of the absurd in all formal situations?”

  He regarded me thoughtfully from his superior height. “I must ask you to explain your meaning.” His voice was low and smoky. It whispered to that new, hidden part of me, drawing me deeper into the web of his enchantment.

  “Why, merely that we all conform to the expectations placed upon us by society,” I replied. “Like characters in a play whose scripts have been written for them in advance.”

  “And you, Miss Lucy Alleyne?” He leaned in toward me, and I was once again aware of the power of those molten eyes. “Do you always conform to the script laid out for you?” There was a challenge in the words.

  I had the oddest feeling that the air between us crackled with the intensity of the moment. He was so close that my eyes were level with the perfectly moulded bow of his upper lip, and the musky tones of his cologne filled my senses. I had no chance to reply, however. Demelza pointed out, a tad sharply, that Pascoe was holding out my chair. I begged her pardon and hurried to my place.

  Chapter Two

  One week earlier

  “Miss Alleyne, must I remind you that I do not allow my staff to entertain visitors?” The voice had been querulous, as my employer’s worn face folded into uncompromising lines. I bit my lip. I had no idea who the lady waiting in the parlour might be, or why she had asked for me, but I fervently wished her elsewhere. I had been employed with Mrs Grimshaw for barely a month and I could not afford to lose this position. Muttering an apology, I promised to be no more than ten minutes.

  Pausing before the speckled mirror that hung in the narrow hallway, I smoothed my hair and straightened the neat collar on my prim blue dress. Nervously, I pushed open the parlour door.

  “Oh, my dear!” My visitor called out in a soft, lilting voice, and I was instantly clasped in a scented embrace. “Oh, do forgive me, I have startled you! But, you see, I could not help myself. You are so very like your beloved mama.” I must have been staring in surprise, because she gave a trill of laughter and said, “But now you are looking at me as if I have run mad and, indeed, I cannot find it in me to blame you. What a shocking nonsense I am making of this! May we sit down? Will your employer—she is terribly fierce, is she not?—object?”

  I shook myself out of my shocked state and begged forgiveness. I gestured to an ancient sofa with tired covers the colour of old blood and we sat together. My unexpected, uninvited visitor continued. “Let me start again. I am Lady Demelza Jago. Oh, I know it is quite horribly outlandish, is it not? But I am Cornish and we have a language all our own and preposterous names to match.” She held out a white-gloved hand and I took it automatically, my mind registering the vague familiarity of the name.

  “You are a relative of my mother?” I quickly passed the family tree under mental review.

  “Yes, indeed.” She retained her grip on my hand and patted it. “Why, I remember playing with Eliza—your mama—as a child in the castle grounds. She was a few years older and I called her cousin, although, if we are to be wholly accurate, it was our mothers who were cousins, and our relationship was, therefore, rather more remote.”

  Lady Demelza Jago was incredibly pretty, with glossy dark hair and eyes like molten amber. I couldn’t judge her age, but the fact that she remembered my mother’s visits to Tenebris placed her past her mid-thirties. Yet her face was unlined, her figure lithe and her laughter musical and youthful. “So I think you and I can claim kinship after a fashion,” she said. “Shall we do so? I would like it above all things. When I read the dreadful news of your father’s death, I could not have been more shocked. I instantly set my brother’s man of business about the task of finding you. It was no easy feat, I assure you. But, well, I am here at last.”

  My mind was in turmoil. My mother died when I was ten and, soon after, my father took up his post with the East India Company. My home, until a handful of months ago, had been in Madras. These circumstances meant that I had never known any members of my mother’s Cornish family.

  She studied my face with wide, concerned eyes. “Oh, pray forgive me! It cannot be easy for you to recall the shocking circumstances—that such barbarians should live, and in this day and age. Then for you to undertake that horrendous journey back to England, all alone.”

  “I was not alone,” I pointed out matter-of-factly. “I brought my father’s ashes home with me.”

  She shuddered theatrically. “But that makes it even worse!” Her restless eyes roamed over my face and body as she spoke. I was being assessed and I did not know why. “You are quite dreadfully thin!” she exclaimed. “That will be the fault of all you have endured. And your face is so serious for one so young, but prodigiously pretty, of course.” It was said in the lightly smug manner of one secure in the knowledge that her own beauty remained unrivalled.

  “My lady.” I glanced nervously at the clock on the mantel. I could hear Mrs Grimshaw’s stick tip-tapping impatiently on the boards of the room above. Every afternoon at this time, I was expected to spend an hour reading to her while she dozed in her chair. I was already weary of the faded grandeur and dark, discouraging aura of this house. And its mistress with her parchment skin, rheumy eyes and sour smell. I had not yet resigned myself to the reality that, as a hired nurse-companion, I would probably spend the remainder of my working days in what my father would have called “God’s waiting room.” But the alternative was starvation—or worse—on London’s mean streets. “It is very thoughtful of you to have come to offer your condolences. But, you see, I am paid to be a companion to Mrs Grimshaw and she will be requiring my services—”

  “But, child.” Before I could rise from my seat, Demelza reached out impulsively and covered both my hands with hers. “I have not come merely to pay my respects. No, indeed, I am here to ask you to leave your position here and instead come to Tenebris and be a companion to me.”

  * * *

  I could not sleep. Whether it was the strangeness of my surroundings, the speed with which Demelza had whisked me away to this place or, as I suspected, the unsettling effect of meeting Uther Jago, I could not say. But I rose from my restless, curtained bed and sat in a chair by the dim light of the dying fire for what seemed to be many hours. The shadow of the bedpost danced upon the wall, but my thoughts were as still as the grave.

  I remembered with great clarity how my mother talked of her occasional childhood visits to Tenebris. Although she died when I was young, she had a remarkable gift for painting with words a vivid picture of reality. Her stories stayed with me long after she had gone. Bemused affection always tinged her recollections of this Jago stronghold, the walls of which had seen so many bloody endings. She viewed Tenebris through the romantic eyes of a fanciful child, and it had not disappointed. Ghosts and hauntings, mysterious whispers, troubled
winds, darkened moors and secrets…these were the colours of her memories.

  The awful grandeur of Tenebris, it seemed, exerted a powerful attraction over the Jago family, even those for whom it had never truly been home. My grandmother, a Jago cousin, spent her childhood nearby in an unremarkable manor house. Once married to a successful London diplomat, and with a family of her own, she made regular summer pilgrimages to the remnant of her ancestry. My own mother had married well, but perhaps not quite brilliantly enough for her Jago relatives. Although my father died a baronet, the title came to him through hard work, not birth. I suspected that my mother’s visits to Tenebris were curtailed because her husband—who, at that time, had been plain Mr Reginald Alleyne—was not quite grand enough for her noble relatives.

  Of her Jago cousins, my mother had spoken little. And that struck me, with the great gift known as hindsight, as rather odd. I wondered at the charismatic duo who made up two-thirds of my new family. Brother and sister had physical beauty in abundance, undeniable charm and something more besides. Their wealth and pedigree were beyond question. Yet both were well past the expected marriageable age and remained unattached. Were they particularly difficult to please? Or, as my aunt had hinted, had their great sacrifice to the altar of family duty been their care for an orphaned, delicate nephew? And what of that nephew? Of Tynan Jago, the man who was master of this towering monument to the cruel vanity of men? In spite of Demelza’s dismissive assurances, I remained nervous about how the Earl of Athal would view the introduction of an indigent—and tenuously distant—relative into his ancestral home.

  Uther, yielding to Demelza’s promptings, had promised to escort me around the castle on the following day. I looked forward to learning something of the castle’s history. Dare I also admit that I relished the prospect of his company? My thoughts, unbidden, returned repeatedly to dwell on this possibility. Indeed, if I am honest, my mind had not strayed far from Uther Jago since the minute I met him. I was utterly devastated by his charm.