‘Are you unwell, Miss Kellaway?’
The Earl of Seagrave was coming down the library towards her. Lucille felt hot and then cold. How curious, a part of her observed, that the brilliant charm of Harry Marchnight had left her unmoved when the slightest word from Seagrave could throw her into complete confusion. She cleared her throat.
‘No, my lord, I thank you. I am quite well.’
‘Then why are you hiding away in here? Your hordes of admirers are quite desolate, I assure you!’
Seagrave took a chair opposite Lucille and scrutinised her carefully. His tone softened.
‘What is the matter, Miss Kellaway? And do not try to fob me off with the answer that nothing is wrong, for I shall not believe you!’
Lucille hesitated. The temptation to tell him about Miss Elliott’s carelessly spiteful words was very strong, but she knew she had to resist. Such a confidence could only lead on to dangerous ground.
‘I am tired, I think, my lord,’ she said, avoiding his too-observant gaze. She tried to smile. ‘This is my first ball, after all, and I am accustomed to living quietly. I came in here for a little solitude.’
Seagrave’s steadfast gaze had not faltered and she knew that he did not believe her, but after a moment he said lightly, ‘This is a fine room, is it not, Miss Kellaway? Perhaps you include an appreciation of architecture amongst your interests?’
Lucille looked at her surroundings properly for the first time. The library was indeed beautifully proportioned, with arches at either end and long windows opening onto the terrace outside. As well as the shelves of books behind their glass cases, there was a fine collection of sculpture and some paintings which she could not see clearly in the dim light.
‘A part of the sculpture collection was accumulated by my father on his Grand Tour,’ Seagrave was saying, ‘but your father also brought back pieces for him over the years. You may have realised from what my mother has said that your father and mine were great friends. He was both a prodigious scholar and also a traveller who had remarkable stories to tell of his time abroad. I used to come to Cookes when I was down from Cambridge, to hear tell of his adventures.’
‘I have read some of his manuscripts,’ Lucille admitted. ‘He must have been a fascinating man to talk with.’
‘Indeed he was.’ Seagrave was looking at her with that same watchful consideration that Lucille found so disconcerting. Then he smiled at her suddenly, which was even more disturbing. ‘He would have liked you, I think, Miss Kellaway! In some ways you have much of the same unconventionality. Tell me, what were you discussing with Henry Marchnight?’
How clever of him, Lucille thought, with reluctant admiration, to lull her into a false sense of security before springing on her the question that really mattered. No doubt his concern for Polly was prompting the enquiry—he must be concerned that Henry could not make an approach to his sister through Lucille. Suddenly she felt reckless. She might have to let go of her own hopes, but she would do her utmost to help Henry.
‘Lord Henry was telling me of his regard for your sister,’ she stated boldly. ‘He has not, I believe, recovered from the disappointment he suffered in that direction several years ago.’
There was a short, sharp silence.
‘He hides his disappointment remarkably well,’ Seagrave said drily. ‘And how does Polly feel?’
‘I have not asked her, sir,’ Lucille said calmly. ‘I had intended to speak to Lady Polly, for I saw that Lord Henry’s presence discommoded her. However, if you prefer, I shall not broach the topic. I imagine that you would not wish to encourage a friendship between your sister and myself!’
Seagrave’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘A curious assumption, Miss Kellaway! I assure you that I have been pleased to see the growing friendship between the two of you! Polly has lacked friends within her own circle—whilst she enjoys all the usual society diversions, there is a seriousness about her that relishes sensible conversation. I understand that, for in some ways she and I are very alike. So please do not imagine that I would wish to discourage you from spending time together. But Lord Henry is another matter, perhaps.’ His voice took on a reflective quality. ‘I have always liked him, but there has been an undeniable rake’s progress in his behaviour in recent years.’
‘Perhaps it is the aimless seeking after distraction of one who has lost the only woman he truly cared about,’ Lucille said boldly. She could not believe that she was speaking thus. Perhaps the lemonade had contained a secretly alcoholic component which had loosened her tongue.
‘Lord Henry seems to have gained a champion in you very swiftly,’ Seagrave said, and there was an element in his tone which Lucille could not interpret. Nor could she read his face, which was in shadow. ‘I should perhaps warn you that Lord Henry is accounted very dangerous!’
‘So I understand!’ Lucille said tartly. ‘That is, however, rather like Satan rebuking sin, is it not, my lord!’
Again there was a sharp silence, then Seagrave laughed. ‘Once again you have surprised me, Miss Kellaway. I would have you know that Harry Marchnight has far worse a reputation than I have!’
‘In general terms that may be so, sir,’ Lucille allowed fairly, ‘but I can only speak as I have found and Lord Henry has always treated me with perfect chivalry. However,’ she added kindly, ‘I daresay that you have had more provocation than he did, sir!’
Seagrave was shaking his head in amused disbelief. ‘I cannot dispute your words, Miss Kellaway! I have indeed behaved towards you like the veriest rake, but yes, the provocation has been excessive!’
He stood up, and a sudden ripple of anticipation went through Lucille.
‘There is something about you, Miss Kellaway,’ Seagrave continued reflectively, ‘that makes me wish to live up to my reputation!’
He put a hand down and pulled her to her feet, and Lucille wondered whether he was about to kiss her. The orchestra had stuck up for a waltz in the ballroom next door, and the faint strains of the music floated into the library.
‘You promised me a dance,’ Seagrave said, softly. ‘Dance with me now.’ He pulled her into his arms before she had time to reply. Lucille’s eyes widened as she felt the response of her body to his proximity. Waltzing with Henry Marchnight had not been like this. Just the brush of his thigh against her was sufficient to send a shiver of sensation right through her. His arm was hard around her and she seemed acutely aware of every line of bone and muscle in his body.
The dimly lit room, with the sculptures watching them with unseeing eyes, the soft lilt of the music, the darkness outside, all seemed to combine to create that secret, magical atmosphere which spun its web around them. Once again, as in the churchyard in Dillingham, Lucille scarcely dared to breathe for fear of breaking the spell.
Her dress brushed against a sheaf of lilies arranged in a large basalt pot, and their scent suddenly filled the room, heady and sweet. Seagrave’s face was in shadow, defeating her attempts to read his expression once more, although she thought that he was smiling slightly. The music swept on, the distant notes all part of the dream. Lucille could feel the warmth of his body and had to fight against the surprisingly strong urge to slide her hands beneath his coat and press closer to him.
This time it was the sound of voices from immediately outside the door that interrupted them. Their dancing feet faltered and Seagrave’s arms fell away from her as he stepped back.
‘I believe that I hear Miss Markham’s voice.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘No doubt she is ready to leave for home, as I understand that you did not wish to stay the night at the Court.’ His voice had regained its habitual coolness. ‘Good evening, Miss Kellaway!’
That had dropped her down to earth with a bump, Lucille thought resentfully. When would she learn? As she slipped out of the door, she saw Seagrave reach for a book and settle himself in an armchair. He seemed to have forgotten about her already.
In the hallway she was pounced on by Hetty who, together with Lady Seagrave and Poll
y, had been hunting for her.
‘Lucille! Are you all right? We looked for you everywhere but could not find you!’
Lady Seagrave’s observant brown eyes were scanning her face and Lucille could feel a betraying warmth rising in her cheeks. She tried not to look towards the library door, and found it almost impossible not to do so.
‘I am sorry to keep you waiting, Hetty,’ she said hastily. ‘I had a headache and went to sit down quietly for a while.’
Hetty chattered about the ball all the way back to Cookes, and only fell silent when she saw the lines of genuine strain and tiredness in Lucille’s face. She parted from Lucille in the hall at Cookes and wafted up the staircase on a wave of euphoria after a barely coherent good-night. Lucille, in comparison, felt bone tired. Mrs Appleton had left a tray of food out for her in case she had wanted anything, but all she felt ready for was her bed. She picked up the candle and as she turned to go upstairs, her gaze was caught by something white lying on the tiles of the hall floor.
Lucille bent closer, then recoiled as she recognised the bold black writing on the white envelope. Another anonymous letter! But surely, now that her identity was so well known in the neighbourhood there could be no reason—Very gingerly, she bent down and picked the letter up. It must have been left there after Mrs Appleton had retired to bed, which could only mean that her mysterious accuser was out wandering the village that very night. The thought made her uneasy and she glanced towards the door to make sure that it was securely locked. Taking the letter in one hand and the candle in the other, Lucille made her way slowly upstairs. Suddenly she had never felt less like sleeping. In her room, she put the candle down on the washstand, and ripped open the envelope.
‘You are still pretending to be a respectable lady, you slut, but we all know the truth. You are Seagrave’s whore and if you are not out of this house within a sen’night it will go badly for you.’
Lucille held out the letter to the candle flame with a hand that shook. Not just insults, but threats as well now! Either the writer did not believe the story of her identity, or he thought her of easy virtue anyway. Lucille remembered the kiss in the garden, this time with a shudder of horror rather than pleasure. Had someone been spying on her then? Perhaps, even now, an unseen watcher was outside, his gaze trained on her window where the faint light still burned, knowing that she must have read his letter…The flimsy ashes of that letter stirred in a slight breeze from the casement. Lucille shivered. Now she was getting fanciful, and at all costs she could not let her imagination run away with her. Perhaps, if she told Seagrave…She paused for a moment, all too aware of the difficulties of explaining to the Earl that an anonymous member of the village thought that she was his mistress. And yet, the matter was becoming too dangerous to be simply ignored.
There was a scream, sudden and shocking in the quiet house. Lucille grabbed the candle, leapt to her feet and rushed to the door. On the landing she collided with Mrs Appleton, resplendent in a voluminous nightdress and lacy bedcap, and grasping her bedroom poker very firmly in her right hand.
‘Miss Kellaway, what on earth is going on? Was it you who screamed just now?’
‘Hetty!’ Lucille grasped Mrs Appleton’s sleeve with an urgent hand. ‘Go and waken John the coachman, Mrs Appleton! I will—’
She got no further as the door of Hetty’s room burst open and her sister ran along the landing and flung herself into Lucille’s arms, sobbing wildly. Lucille nearly dropped the candle.
‘Lucille, there was someone in my room just now!’ Hetty cast a terrified look over her shoulder towards the half-open door. ‘I opened my eyes and saw a face looking at me through the bedcurtains! I thought I would die of fright!’
As Lucille wrapped an arm around the terrified girl, Mrs Appleton took the candle and advanced purposefully towards the door.
‘Oh, no!’ Hetty gasped fearfully. ‘Mrs Appleton, do not! He may be dangerous!’
Lucille, who would have wagered any day on Mrs Appleton against any unknown intruder, drew her sister into her own bedroom and encouraged her to curl up under the eiderdown. Hetty was still pale and shaking, her hair a mass of tumbled curls, her thin nightgown providing no warmth against the shivers that assailed her. She clung to Lucille’s hands.
Lucille tried gently to free herself, but Hetty clung harder. ‘Do not leave me, Lucille!’
At that moment, Mrs Appleton appeared in the doorway, shaking her head. ‘There is nobody there, ma’am. I have checked thoroughly, behind the furniture and under the bed, but there is no one.’
Hetty gave another sob. ‘I know he was there! I saw him!’ She looked at Lucille defiantly. ‘I know you think I was dreaming, but I swear I was not! I had not even gone to sleep, and I turned over and opened my eyes and there was a pale face staring at me through the curtains!’ She gave another shudder and looked as though she was about to burst into tears again.
Lucille hugged her. ‘Of course we do not think you imagined it! It is just difficult to see where the man can have gone!’
Hetty looked mutinous. ‘I don’t know, but I know he was there!’
‘What manner of man was he?’ Lucille asked. ‘Tall or short, dark or fair, young or old?’
‘I don’t know!’ Hetty burrowed under the covers, drawing her knees up to her chin. ‘He was dark, I think, and not old…I only saw his face for a moment!’ Her voice wavered and she shuddered.
‘I shall make us a nice pot of tea,’ Mrs Appleton interposed comfortably, ‘and no doubt we shall all feel better for it. Miss Kellaway, if you have a moment…’
Lucille tucked Hetty up and went out on to the landing. Mrs Appleton was holding something in the palm of her hand. It looked like grey dust.
‘I did not say anything in front of the young lady, ma’am,’ she began, ‘but I thought that you should see this. I found it in the room, by the side of the fireplace.’
Lucille touched the powder and held it up to her nose. She almost sneezed as the pungent smell filled her nostrils. ‘Snuff! But—’
Her puzzled gaze met Mrs Appleton’s. ‘I cleaned that room only this morning, ma’am,’ the housekeeper said quietly, ‘and there was no trace of this then. But someone has been in the room tonight—there can be no doubt!’
They looked at one another in silence for a moment, then Mrs Appleton patted her arm reassuringly. ‘Let us leave it until the morning, Miss Kellaway! I’ll go and make us that tea!’
None of them slept very well that night, and the morning saw Hetty keep to her bed pleading tiredness. Lucille took breakfast alone, knowing she looked pale and drawn, her mind full of anonymous letters and unknown intruders in equal measure. She scoured the room, with Mrs Appleton in attendance, but they could find no further trace of the mysterious trespasser. Yet there was no denying the small pile of snuff which Mrs Appleton had carefully collected and put in a little glass bottle.
Lady Seagrave and Polly called in the afternoon, and were distressed to find Hetty indisposed and Lucille looking so wan. Lucille told them of Hetty’s experience, but did not mention the snuff. For the time being she thought it better that the episode be explained away as a bad dream. She had still not decided whether or not to tell Seagrave. Polly too, was looking a little jaded, and Lady Seagrave seemed rather annoyed that such a splendid social occasion had left all her protégées looking rather the worse for wear.
‘Here’s a to-do!’ she said, crossly. ‘I thought you young people would have had more stamina! Peter is nursing a sore head, and Seagrave is in some kind of bad mood! I despair of the lot of you!’
Lucille laughed, but as they were leaving she took the chance to draw Polly aside for a quick word and promised to visit her the next day. Polly smiled at her, but still looked sad.
That night, both Lucille and Hetty had retired to bed early, Hetty having been moved to the second guest bedroom and the door of her original room locked. The house was very quiet. Lucille was attempting to read and was experiencing the most enormous di
fficulties in keeping her mind on the written page. Why was somebody apparently waging this campaign against them? Surely it could not be Seagrave, still intent on ridding the village of them? It would take the greatest hypocrisy to fall in with his mother’s plans whilst simultaneously working secretly against them. She could not believe it of him. And were the letter-writer and the intruder one and the same? Lucille sighed, blew out her candle and lay down with no real hope of going to sleep.
Surprisingly, she fell asleep almost immediately, and did not dream. It was an unquantifiable time later that she woke suddenly, unsure what had disturbed her. The wind had got up during the night and was sighing in the trees outside. The house creaked a little. Lucille’s nerves prickled. She opened her eyes and stared into the dark. Then she heard it again, the noise which must have woken her. It was a soft, scraping sound, and it came from immediately outside her window.
Lucille slipped silently out of bed and crossed the bare boards to the window, hesitating only slightly before she slipped behind the heavy curtains. The night was dark, for the wind had brought up some cloud which was harrying the full moon. Its silver light was fitful, one moment lighting the whole garden, the next plunging everything into darkness as it disappeared. A branch tapped against the glass and made Lucille jump. Nothing moved in the silent garden.
Then, as she was about to return to her bed, Lucille saw a shadow detach itself from the side of the house just below her. There was the quietest of clicks as the window was closed behind him. The moon disappeared behind a cloud. When it came out again, there was nothing to be seen.
Lucille returned to bed and sat shivering beneath the covers in much the same way as Hetty had the previous night. There was no doubt that there had been someone there—someone who had broken into the house for some secret purpose, and had left like the thief in the night that he was. Lucille had absolutely no inclination to go downstairs and investigate. She lay awake until the first hint of dawn light crept into the sky outside.
Virtuous Cyprian Page 19
