by Hazel Hunter
Margaret absently patted her hand. “I wish to be here with you, and show our dear neighbor how much I appreciate her kind invitation.”
“You do not care for Lady Hardiwick,” she reminded her. “You think she is a terrible gossip, and an unrepentant snob.”
“Just so, my dear,” her mother said absently. She seemed fascinated with the lines of dancers weaving in and out of the quadrille, and began tapping the toes of her slippers to the lively Scottish medley being played by the musicians. “They will be playing a reel next. Go and find yourself a partner, my dear, that I may see you dance.”
“Every gentleman of my acquaintance is presently engaged, Mama.” Jennet made a show of looking around the ballroom. “I cannot present myself to a stranger, nor dance a reel by myself. Besides, I do not wish to leave you alone when you are like this.”
“You are becoming a wall flower,” her mother scolded, and then her expression softened. “Or I have made you one with all my ailments and sickness. How you must resent the burden I have become of late, and yet you never complain.”
“Mama.” Jennet took hold of her hand. “Is that your reason for insisting we attend? For I would much rather stay at home with you.”
“That is because you are the very best of daughters, and I the worst of mothers.” Margaret touched her handkerchief to her lower eyelids before she shifted to peer through the dancers. “Well, I am old, and very prone to illness, it seems. I should die soon.”
“Mama.”
“There.” Sitting up, her mother pointed her fan at the doorway. “The Gerards have arrived. They have been in the city all of the winter, I should think.” She glanced at her for a long moment before she fluttered her fingers beside her temple. “Oh, what is their son’s name? I cannot remember.”
Jennet glanced at the stern face of Baron Greystone, and the softer, kinder features of his wife. As the Gerards lived most of the year in London they but rarely attended social gatherings in Renwick, so their arrival drew notice from every corner of the room. She did not see their son, but he had probably gone to the card room.
“William,” she murmured. “His name is William.”
“Yes, of course.” Margaret waved to the baroness to catch her attention. “A very kind young gentleman, I am sure. Mrs. Holloway told me that he called five times during my illness, and brought the most beautiful berries from the baroness, do you remember? Oh, do help me up, dear, she is coming.”
Jennet braced her mother as she rose, and kept one arm under hers as they both curtseyed to Baroness Greystone, who did the same.
“Margaret, I am so glad to see you recovered.” The regal lady smiled at Jennet before she said, “I hope the basket of fruit I sent from the lodge helped in some small way to cheer you.”
“Thank you, yes, Amelia.” Margaret beamed. “You do grow the sweetest berries in all of the shire, and your note was so welcome.”
Jennet felt suspicious now, for she could not recall either woman ever addressing each other with such affectionate informality. “What note was that, Mama?”
Her mother ignored her. “Have you time to sit with me, dear lady? I would love to hear the latest news from London.”
“Of course, for I have much to tell you.” The baroness immediately sat down in Jennet’s spot. “Do go and dance, Miss Reed. I will keep your dear mother company.”
Jennet frowned. Her mother had always disliked the city and the society there; she often referred to it as a den of iniquity. Nor had she ever known Lady Greystone to confide anything to Margaret. Yet the two of them had left her no choice but to nod her agreement.
She made her way around the dance floor, but once she was out of her mother’s sight she slipped out onto the terrace. A cool breeze greeted her, making her skirts flutter. All of the tension drained out of her as she went to the stone railing bordering the oval veranda. She would stay out here long enough to give the older women time to gossip, and then go in and lie to her mother. She would say she had a dreadful headache and needed to go home. Then she would spend the rest of the night tossing and turning in her bed until she gave herself one, but at least she would be removed from temptation.
“You will find no partners out here, Miss Reed,” an amused voice said. “Unless I prove acceptable to you.”
“I am not inclined to dance tonight, sir.” She didn’t look at the man who came to stand beside her. She had instructed the housekeeper to turn him away from Reed Park, which she had five times, but it seemed he meant to persist in his pursuit. “You should see if Miss Hardiwick has yet promised all of hers. She is an enthusiastic dancer, I believe.”
“Prudence giggles too much. Also, I think her mother wishes to abduct me and lock me in her daughter’s room for a night. I dare not provide her with any such opportunity.” A strong hand took hold of hers, clasping it with easy intimacy. “Come and walk with me.”
“No.” Sometimes the best refusal was the simplest.
“What do you imagine I mean to do, Jenny?” William Gerard tugged her to face him, and his voice dropped low as he added, “Drag you off into the woods there and have my way with you?”
Her heart aquiver now, Jennet placed a restraining hand on his chest. “The last time we were alone together, Liam, you very nearly did.”
This secret dance of theirs had been going on since Christmas, when William had caught her under a kissing bough at the village hall. No one had seen him pull her into his arms and covered her mouth with his, but the effect on both of them had been shocking. He had dragged her into another room, where his second kiss turned into an embrace so passionate they had all but undressed each other. He had even tried to convince her to come back to the lodge with him.
He was remembering that night, too; she could see the heat flaring in his wicked green eyes.
“This is how we started the last time we were alone together,” Jennet told him, hoping that would cool his ardor. “We must be sensible and avoid making another mistake.”
“A mistake?” He sounded distracted, and had his gaze fixed on her lips. “I would call it a revelation. A glorious, tempestuous miracle that ended far too soon. I swear you have grown more beautiful. How is that possible? When last I saw you, you were perfection.”
“Liam, please.” She nudged his chin until he looked into her eyes. “I am very flattered, but this is a calamity in the making. Your family doubtless has expectations of you. You will be a baron someday.”
“I cannot escape my father’s title,” he agreed, and cupped her cheek with his hand. “That has nothing to do with us.”
“There is no us.” And it tore at her heart, but she had to be practical now. “We cannot give in to temptation again. The consequences for us both would be disastrous.”
His brows drew together. “I disagree.”
“In time you will forget this, ah, infatuation with me,” Jennet assured him, “and make a sensible match.”
William nodded. “Will you permit me to say–”
“Catherine knows many fine young ladies in the city,” she said, smiling as if her heart was not shattering. “Perhaps I might persuade her to–”
“Do shut up, my darling.” William pressed a finger to her lips. “I have spoken to my mother about her expectations, and settled them. Tomorrow she and I will talk with my father, and then we will all come to Reed Park to sit down with your mother.”
“Why would you…” Her eyes widened as he went down on one knee. “Oh, no. You cannot be serious.”
“You will not dance with me. I cannot take you into the woods and ravish you. I can think of nothing else—the ravishing, I fear, not the dancing—yet you will not abandon your inflexible morals. We are at an impasse.” He looked up at her, his eyes shining. “Then there is the fact that somehow we have fallen madly in love with each other.”
“You noticed,” she said faintly.
“Our mothers have, which means everyone has. Only one solution, really.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Mi
ss Reed, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Jennet pressed her palm to his cheek, savoring the moment before she answered him. “Yes, Mr. Gerard. I will marry you.”
I will marry you.
Opening her eyes to darkness, Jennet pushed at the mound of coats covering her until she freed her arms. Her hand went to her throat, which felt tender but not bruised. If Liam had meant to kill her, she would be dead. Instead he had done something to make her swoon so he could leave her here, and then piled coats atop her to conceal her.
That wretched, pig-headed, insidiously noble dolt of a man.
Something with an odd shape shifted in her bodice as she sat up, and she reached in to extract what felt like a thin, narrow, tightly-bound book.
I must give you something for safe-keeping. It is the reason they killed Pickering.
Terror rose inside her in a cold, icy rush. Liam would not have asked her to keep it safe unless he knew that he could not. Even with his skills, she thought it unlikely he could defeat three agents by himself. He intended to sacrifice himself to protect her and the book, and had knocked her out to assure she could not interfere.
He means to leave me again—permanently.
Jennet groped until she found a coat with a loose lining, and tore it partly away from the collar seam. She then worked the book into the tear, and shook the garment until she felt it drop down to the hem. She pushed her arms into the sleeves as she donned the coat, and plucked out her hair pins. Once she had spread her thick tresses over her shoulders and back to conceal the tear, she stood and put her ear against the door.
She could hear the muffled sound of two voices, one of which she knew to be Liam’s. They were speaking in French.
A strange sense came over Jennet as she took hold of the door knob. She felt her skin cool, and her muddled thoughts clear. She also no longer felt alone, as if others had slipped into the closet unseen and now stood around her in the darkness.
Emerson Thorne had warned her of this: Tonight, every soul lost within these rooms has been awakened. Most intend only to wander, but among them walk malevolent and vengeful spirits that one should not cross.
The legend of Dredthorne Hall had it that many of its mistresses had died within its walls. If she and Liam were doomed to share their fate, so be it, Jennet thought. She would not surrender to the curse, however, without fighting for her love and their lives.
Yet if she won that battle, perhaps it would break the curse once and for all.
“Please help me save him,” she whispered, and thought she felt the coolness around her increase. Her eyes widened as the door to the closet slowly creaked open, showing her the empty hall outside. Never again would she claim not to believe in spirits. “Go to him, yes, I will. But what am I to do?”
On that matter the spirits remained silent.
Jennet peeked around the corners before she stepped out, and followed the sound of the Frenchwoman’s shrill laughter. That took her back into the dining room, where the door to the kitchens stood open. Through it she saw Greystone in a terrible state. He had been tied to a chair placed in the center of the room, and sweat gleamed on his pale face. Dozens of bleeding cuts crisscrossed his bare chest; some so deep they gaped like stretched, ghastly mouths.
He could not defend himself tied to a chair, that much was evident to her. But what monster had been torturing him?
Forcing herself to remain out of sight, Jennet watched until a smaller figure came into her view. This young woman held a bloodied boning knife in her delicate fingers. Although she had dressed as a man, she had left her brown curls loose, so they spilled artfully around her rosy-cheeked face. She didn’t look aghast over Greystone’s state; her expression could only be called cruel, gloating fervor.
Jennet blinked, but what she saw was not an illusion. The merry butterfly of London society, her dearest friend, the confidante she had trusted above all others, was not reeling drunk, or attempting to set Greystone free.
No, Catherine Tindall seemed very amused by her own, hideous work.
“This was only a little flirtation, William,” Catherine said in French as she plied the blade along his collarbone, sending fresh blood streaking down his flesh. “We are running out of time. Now tell me what I wish to know, or I will begin to truly enjoy myself. I like to work my way from the ballocks to the brow, so you’ll see everything I do until I cut out your eyes.”
“Go to the devil,” Greystone said in the same language, his tone taunting.
Jennet clamped down on her outrage, and braced herself against the dining room wall as she quickly thought of a dozen ways she might rescue her lover. Her gaze kept straying to an open bottle of wine that had been left on the sideboard next to her. She recalled the state Catherine had pretended to be in just before she had escorted her to the carriage, and then knew what she would do. She then closed her eyes for a moment, and silently beseeched all the souls desiring vengeance within Dredthorne Hall to come to her.
Be with me now, please. Help me to defeat her, and save my love.
The air around her grew chilly as Jennet picked up the bottle and tipped it toward herself, dribbling the wine down her front. She drank from it, just enough to scent her breath, and gripped the bottle in her fist. Rumpling her hair so that it appeared badly disordered, she staggered and collided with the door between the rooms before she burst into the kitchens.
“Catherine, is that you?” she called out in a slurred voice, and stumbled a little as she gave her a foolish grin. “You came back, and changed your costume. How original.” She looked down at herself. “Oh, so did I.” She frowned and swayed on her feet. “When did that happen?”
Catherine quickly stepped in front of Greystone to block him from her view. “I could not leave you here without a carriage to take you home, my dear.”
“You are the very best of friends.” Jennet needed to get closer, but she was not sure she had convinced the other woman. She took a drink from the bottle, and let her gaze wander around the room. “I thought I heard Liam swearing in here. Or perhaps it was someone else. I cannot recall.”
“Jennet, get the hell out of here,” Greystone grated.
“No, it was him.” She crooked her finger at Catherine, bending forward to say in an overloud whisper, “I remember now. He took my gown and made me wear his shirt. And between that, he ruined me again. Not like the first time. I am very, very ruined.”
“Surely not,” the other woman said, looking bored, and still keeping her distance.
“I assure you. Ruined forever.” She held up her hand and smacked her own cheek with the back of it. “Ouch. I am so ruined I must go to a convent and become a nun. Only I am not Catholic.” She peered at her former friend. “Does that matter?”
Catherine made an exasperated sound. “Generally speaking, yes.”
“Pity.” She managed to produce a small belch. “Oops. I hope I will not be sick.” She turned around and looked all around her before regarding Catherine again. “Will you help me up to the retiring room? I cannot recall where it is. Or the door. What did you do with the door?”
“Of course.” The other woman came to put her shoulder under Jennet’s arm to support her. “Come, let me–”
Jennet used the wine bottle like a club to knock the blade from her hand, and then reversed the swing, striking Catherine with it squarely on the chin. The other woman flew back into the work table before she pitched forward in front of Greystone and landed on her face with a painful-sounding thud.
“It seems that I am the better actress,” Jennet said as the other woman tried to rise, and kicked her in the head. She held the wine bottle ready to deal her another blow, but Catherine collapsed and stopped moving. “I cannot believe this. All this time you have pretended to be my friend while you have been spying for the French? You evil, conniving, deceitful, hateful, guttersnipe of a traitor.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Greystone demanded as she picked up the bloody blad
e and hurried over to him.
“Would you blame me if I had, after all I have endured?” she demanded as she went around to saw through the rope binding him. When he tried pulling at his bonds she said, “Hold still. In my present mood I may pick up where Miss Tindall left off, and do far more damage to your person.”
He eyed Catherine. “Indeed.”
As soon as she had freed him Greystone jolted out of the chair and yanked her into his arms, holding her so tightly her ribs creaked. “You are mad. Utterly, completely, entirely mad.”
“In regard to you, yes, I am.” She pulled back and glanced down. “I did not kill her, which I think is a pity. She must be taken to the magistrate along with that book you left in my stays.” She glared at him. “You do remember that, just before you throttled me until I swooned.”
“I must take her and the book to London tonight.” He picked up the rope she had cut through and expertly tied Catherine’s wrists behind her back. “First I must deal with the other three agents. Did you see them?”
At that moment a man with his head wrapped in his scarf hurried in from the staircase tower landing. In his hand he held a length of blood-stained firewood.
“No, Liam,” Jennet said sharply as Greystone snatched the blade from her and started for him. “Mr. Branwen, what are you doing here?”
The vicar pulled down the scarf, which she had recognized as one she had knitted for him, and sighed. “Rescuing you, Miss Reed.”
The sound of heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs made them all still.
“Outside,” Greystone said as he hefted Catherine’s body up under his arm. “Quickly.”
Chapter 21
When they emerged from the staircase tower, Greystone dropped Catherine’s limp form by the wood bin and regarded the vicar. “Please tell me that you brought a pistol with you, Mr. Branwen.”
The vicar sniffed. “I am a man of God. I do not own a pistol.” He held out the length of firewood he still held, and gave it an expert swing. “I was, however, the best batsman ever to play for the Saint Peter’s Smashers in college.”
