With catlike movements she crossed to where he sat and lowered herself beside him. “Are you well pleased, my lord, with the dance?”
“I am well pleased.”
She grinned and then lowered her hand to cup his manhood through his breeches. Her brows bunched and a tiny pout formed on her lips. “You do not seem well pleased. Perhaps your man-root needs a more physical kind of stimulation?”
He shrugged, permitting her fingers to stroke and squeeze him. “Maybe.”
She narrowed her eyes with a sly smile. “For another coin I can make your manhood sit up and take notice of my charms, I’m sure.”
He regarded her through half-closed lids. “Hmm, in a more private place with some comforts I suppose.”
A musical giggle slipped from her lips. “As you wish, my lord. Come.” Rising to her feet she tugged his hand until he rose and followed her to her wagon.
Ducking through the low door he glanced back at the platform. The gypsy musicians still played minus the mysterious figure on the pianoforte. Giving it no further thought, he closed the door and prepared to enjoy his purchased entertainment.
• • •
Tyrone lay back against the pillows, flipping the brightly colored blanket over his groin as Nadia rolled from the platform serving as a bed. He raked his gaze down her naked buttocks, as she stepped to the table to light the reed of opium between her lips. His limp member remained unaffected as she turned and strolled back to the bed. Why didn’t Nadia have the powers to make his appendage dance to her gypsy tune? He should be attracted to her, she was beautiful and willing, yet he had no interest in bedding her, something that had never happened to him before. His conscience told him Delilah was the root of his disinterest but he brushed it aside. He came here to rid himself of her memory not wallow in regret. He glanced at Nadia as she drew on the opium and frowned. After they smoked the dream stick he doubted she would be much pleased with his even more flaccid tool. He took the stick from her moist lips and put it to his own. The sweetness of her lip balm still lingered as he took a deep drag and blew the smoke in a lazy ring about his head.
After a few puffs she took back the reed, kissed him, and drew on it with a smile. “You should have your fortune told while you are here, my lord. Perhaps it will put you in a better frame of mind.”
He gave her a lazy smile and took back the reed. “I do not believe in such frivolities. Besides, I am sure it would cost me, and I detest wasting more coin this night. ”
Her brows bunched in displeasure. “Let it be my gift to you for a most enjoyable night to come.”
The drug eased the tension in his body, leaving him little will to oppose her whims. “As you wish, seductress.”
After turning down the lantern to make him more comfortable, she wrapped herself in a long shawl and stepped from the caravan.
Tyrone lay back and stared up at the water-stained roof, watching the rings of smoke rise and then dissipate. He wondered how Delilah was these days. Did she think of him? Was she happy with the baron? Perhaps she was with child by now. His lip curled on one side at the thought of a tiny, dark-haired cherub with violet eyes. He closed his eyes with a sigh as the drug made his lids heavy and his limbs limp. A light breeze caused his skin to prickle as the door opened and closed. Ah, the fortune teller is here. Not bothering to speak or open his eyes, he held out his hand. After a moment cool, wrinkled fingers took his in a gentle grip. A light expelling of air was the sole sound as the woman placed his hand on a smooth orb. After a few minutes of silence, the fingers holding his tensed.
A loud gasp made him chuckle. “Have you found some incredibly heinous accident about t’ befall me in your crystal ball, oh great seer?”
“No, my lord.”
“Get on with it then, I’m waiting for my fortune t’ be told.” He grimaced at the slur in his voice, the opium pipe not unlike the effects of liquor.
“As you wish, my lord.”
Yes. As I wish.
She sighed, making him smile. “You are searching for someone. A woman.”
He shook his head. “I was. I thought she skipped out on her marriage but found she returned to the arrangement of her own accord.”
“You have yet to solve the mystery you started.”
“So?” He shrugged. “There is no need, the woman in question is no longer in danger.”
“You are wrong.”
Grunting he opened his eyes and stared at the woman. “She is where she belongs.”
The old gypsy stared into the crystal ball beneath his hand. “No. She is close.”
With a snort he sat up. “Wrong, she is in the countryside. You will have to do much better if you expect me to fall for your tricks.” Swinging his legs over the side of the platform unabashed by his nakedness, he yanked on his trousers and boots. “Good eve, madame.” Shrugging into his shirt he left. Heathen, tricksters the lot of them. He stomped through the camp. Why was he angry? Was it the effects of the pipe? He suspected it more to do with Delilah and the ridiculous sense of misplaced guilt nagging him. She was married and there was naught he could do about it.
“Ty! I hoped I might find you here.”
Tyrone stumbled and looked up to find Perry getting ready to mount his horse. “I was just leaving.”
“Good, we shall ride together.”
“Suits me fine, Perry. I’ve need for an escort home.”
Perry peered at Tyrone and chuckled. “Ah, a little bliss you indulged in, eh?”
“Yeah.” Tryone grinned and then frowned as a shaggy brown pony who looked like Jester wandered past. “Bloody hell. I must be high as a three layer cake, for now I’m seein’ blasted ponies.”
Perry laughed. “Come on, let’s go.”
Tyrone climbed aboard his horse taking one last look at the encampment, but the pony was nowhere to be seen. Next time he visited the camp he wouldn’t indulge in the smoke, he promised himself as he rode away.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Damn the bitch!” Augustus slammed his fist on the desk. “Three long weeks and there is still no sign of her. Where could she be hiding, Benson? She will ruin it all, all I tell you.”
The butler poured another glass of port and pushed the glass across the desk to his employer’s hand. “I’ve no idea, sir. It is as if she just vanished like one of those no good gypsies.”
Augustus spat a wad of tobacco into the hearth and then took a deep swig from the glass. “It is all their faults, damned infernal vagabonds. The squire is nothing but a man-whore — but for him I would gain all that should be mine by birthright.”
The butler didn’t bother to point out the idiocy of his complaint, for the former squire was both the means and the end to the baron’s claim to the vast fortune at Delilah Daysland’s fingertips. “There is naught between here and Westpoint except two farms and the woods, unless she went the other way without the pony.”
“We have looked everywhere,” Augustus fumed. “People are starting to talk about her absence.”
“No more than before I am sure, since she was a hermit of sorts before your marriage.”
Augustus scowled at the butler. “For my purpose she must be dead, or at least imprisoned here, not missing.”
“How hard can it be to find a blind wench?”
“Not hard, you would think, especially without the blasted pony.” Augustus gulped down the rest of the port and rolled the glass between his stubby fingers. “I have already raped the Westpoint storerooms, fields, and stables, but without the wench I cannot lay claim to a penny of the estate’s coin or land.”
Benson shook his head. “She wouldn’t have run had you not gotten foxed and tried to force yourself on her.”
“And I suppose your idea of honoring the bargain and leaving her to fend for herself at Westpoint would have been better?”
The butler shrugged. “I’ve no qualms about relieving my needs between a blind wench’s thighs for the right coin. Even so, getting her in her cups would have made
it easier and her none the wiser.”
“Think you I want her bastard to claim what is rightfully mine?”
“That is the pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me.” The man grinned.
Fury threatened to escape the baron’s controlled demeanor. “The accident of my birth was just that, an accident. Allowing the likes of you to defile my own deliberately would be idiotic, to say the least.”
“Not as bad as siring your own inbred bastard.”
This time Augustus lost control. “Shut your gob, you daft bastard, before someone hears! Besides, I have no intention of letting her live long enough to give birth to any gypsy spawn. A neat trip down the stairs would have rid me of any guilt after dousing my lust with her. How did it all go so wrong?” he whined more to himself than anyone else.
The butler shrugged. “Perhaps you should offer up a reward for her safe return?”
“Bah! And waste more money on the wench? I already spent a ridiculous amount feeding all those useless villagers at my sham of a wedding celebration.”
“Careful, those who you insult are the ones doing your dirty work for you.”
Picking up the half empty glass, Augustus flung it at the butler. “Get away with you! You are doing naught but annoying me with your prattle.” He grunted with satisfaction when the butler skulked out the study door and closed it behind.
It shouldn’t be this complicated. Killing his father was the result of anger, disgust, and determination to get what was his by right. Augustus should have been able to claim the estate, but the old whore monger refused to acknowledge him for fear it would cost his precious gypsy spawn a suitor. No woman, even one as pathetic as her, deserved his money and land. He needed to find the wench before she ruined everything, but where was she?
Running a hand through his hair, he growled. He needed sleep, but even in rest his deeds haunted him. Storms and blood were the things of his nightmares, often concluded with visions of a demon pony whose human eyes pierced him with accusation. Was he so far gone in dementia a simpleminded beast took on a supernatural essence? No, he was sane, sane enough anyway. Maybe it was some gypsy curse heaped on his head for the death of his sire. He shook his head and poured another drink. Now he was being absurd.
A log rolled from the pile aflame in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks and uncanny apparitions to dance about the room. For the briefest second he thought he saw the pony’s eyes flickering in the coals. It alarmed him enough that he sloshed the liquor he was pouring over his hand. It wouldn’t due to waste his means of a dreamless sleep. To hell with the glass. Turning from the fire he raised the bottle to his lips and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“My lord, there’s a maid here to see you.”
Tyrone looked up from the paperwork he was trying to concentrate on and ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. The butler shifted his weight and gave him an apologetic grimace. “A maid? Tell her I am not hiring and send her on her way.” He rubbed his eyes, regretting the night spent with the gypsy girl and her “magic” pipe.
“She’s not here for a job, my lord. The woman insists on speaking to you about Miss Daysland … I mean the baroness.”
“Very well, send her in.” Tyrone tidied his papers and set them back in the file on the desk.
A young lady was shown into the room and the butler closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Tyrone frowned. “You are Teresa, are you not?”
“Yes, my lord.” The maid curtsied with her eyes fixed on the floor.
He leaned back in his chair. “What can I do for you?”
She glanced up, an uneasy expression crossing her face. “I wouldn’t have bothered you, but I have nowhere else to turn.”
With a sigh he leaned forward and propped his elbows on top of the desk. “What kind of trouble are you in, Teresa?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh no, my lord. ‘Tis not what you think. ‘Tis not me in trouble, but Miss Daysland. At least I think she is in trouble, though I can’t say for sure and Miss Daysland bade me promise not to tell. I would not even think to betray her confidence either, my lord, except under the most dire of circumstances. Not very becoming in an employee — ”
He held up a hand to put an end to her rapid commentary. “Slow down and get to the point, please.”
She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Well, Miss Daysland thought to fool you, not to be dishonest you understand, but to protect herself.”
He nodded, growing more and more annoyed by the moment with his own inability to understand what she was referring to. Impatient, he waved her on.
The woman’s hands fluttered, washing each one with the other in distress. “She made a deal with the baron where she would have a marriage in appearance and return to Westpoint the day following her nuptials. You see, the baron has need of her inheritance and didn’t really want to marry her, either. You know how it is with nobles, my lord.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, get to the point. Why is it you believe Miss Daysland is in trouble?”
“Well, it has been weeks now and Miss Daysland has not returned to Westpoint. I sent a note to inquire of her plans with no response, and then went to the baron’s myself to ask after her, but was turned away by the butler who said my mistress was too busy to see me. ‘Tis not like her to turn me away, my lord, not like her at all.”
“I see.” A bad feeling welled up in the pit of Tyrone’s stomach. In truth Delilah was very close to the household servant, and the idea she would snub one of her favorite maids was disconcerting. “Rest assured I shall inquire after the baroness.”
The maid wrung her hands. “I should not like it to be known I betrayed my mistress, my lord.”
“I will keep your visit in the strictest confidence.”
She nodded and then hurried from the room with a shaky smile.
Tyrone pondered the situation as the door closed behind her. I knew it. Delilah agreed to the marriage too readily after all the fuss about having to give up her freedom. Opening the desk drawer he rummaged for the file on Westpoint. Was Delilah back at the baron’s as he claimed, or did something happened to her the night of the storm? If she wasn’t there, then where was she, and why would the baron lie about it? The matter of the missing property still remained and the strange note in the squire’s log about the baron and Delilah. He scanned the papers and then rang for the butler.
The man poked his head around the corner of the door within moments.
“Tell my valet to pack and send for my coach. I am returning to Westpoint on business,” Tyrone instructed.
• • •
Tyrone leaned forward and peered out the window at the baron’s manor as his coach rounded the bend. Though at first glance the estate appeared more prosperous than before, there were still subtle signs of disrepair. Shakes loosened from the recent storm littered the ground around the barn. Whitewash peeled on the ornamental gazebo, perched amid the overgrown roses in the circle of the carriage turnabout. He jumped down from his conveyance and marched to the door. It opened after he pounded on it twice.
The pasty faced butler peered at him. “May I help you, my lord?”
“Yes, I would speak with the baron immediately.”
“I am afraid it is not possible, my lord, but I shall tell him you came ‘round.”
Tyrone glowered at the man. “Is the baron here?”
The butler tossed a hasty look over his shoulder. “He asked not to be disturbed, my lord.”
“Disturb him.”
“But — ” The man jumped back when Tyrone stepped forward.
“Now.” With the flat of his hand Tyrone shoved the door open and entered the baron’s foyer. “March!”
The servant trailed in his wake as Tyrone stomped down the hall in search of the baron’s study. “See here — ”
“Stubble it! I will speak with the baron now, and God help him if he should give me the wrong answers to
the questions I have to ask.” He located the study and flung open the door.
The baron looked up from his spot behind a desk cluttered with papers. “Frost? What brings you here?”
Tyrone crossed to the desk, leaned forward and placed both palms on it to look the baron in the eye. “Where is my ward?”
The baron blanched. “I beg your pardon? Are you referring to my wife, Frost?”
“She is exactly who I am referring to, March.” The baron was afraid. The tension in the air, the sweat beading on his brow, and the nervous tick of his right eye all gave testimony to guilt and deceit.
“She is resting right now. Do you have a message I may pass on to her, on your behalf?”
“No. I will speak with her now.”
The man paled even more, his complexion taking on a ghost-like hue. “It is not possible.”
Tyrone grabbed him by his shirt front. “Why not?”
“She’s gone,” Augustus squeaked, his eyes growing huge when Tyrone twisted the shirt tight around his fist.
“Where?”
Augustus shook his head. “I have no idea, been searching for her for weeks.”
“Why?” Tyrone released the baron’s shirt and thrust him back in his chair. “What did you do to make her run and hide?”
“Nothing.” The baron rubbed his neck where a red mark remained from the shirt’s pressure. “We had an agreement. She was to return to Westpoint Manor the day after our nuptials.”
“She did not arrive there according to her maid, who came to you when she became concerned. Why did you lie and tell the servant her mistress was here?”
“Well, I did not want the whole land to know I misplaced my wife. I’ve no notion to be a laughingstock because the girl flew the coop and is playing games.”
Through Gypsy Eyes Page 14
