With This Ring

by Amanda Quick

  Beatrice was as certain of Monkcrest’s disdain for the occult sciences as she was of his sanity. He was a respected authority on antiquities and ancient legends. He had written extensively on his subject and always from a dry, scholarly perspective.

  Unlike herself, she thought ruefully, he did not seek to heighten the supernatural or the romantic in his work. During the past two days she’d read several of the long, dull articles he’d penned for the Society of Antiquarians. It was painfully clear that Monkcrest felt utter contempt for the thrilling elements that were her stock-in-trade.

  If he were to learn that she wrote horrid novels for a living, he would likely send her packing in a minute. But that was an extremely remote possibility, she reminded herself. Her identity as Mrs. York was a closely guarded secret.

  And in spite of his staffs opinion to the contrary, she was confident that the Mad Monk was no sorcerer. He would not be able to look into an oracle glass and determine her true identity.

  Sally sipped her gin. “From what that fat butler said, ’is lordship ain’t overfond of company. Wonder why Monkcrest agreed to see ye without an argument?”

  Beatrice reflected on the empty feeling that shimmered beneath the surface of Monkcrest Abbey. “Perhaps he’s bored.”

  Chapter 2

  Something glided through the shadows, a phantasm which had been disturbed by her presence and which could not now return to its deep slumber.

  FROM CHAPTER TWO OF The Ruin BY MRS. AMELIA YORK

  “You came all this way, braving highwaymen, bad inns, and a storm just to ask me about the Forbidden Rings of Aphrodite?” Leo tightened his grip on the carved edge of the marble mantel. “Madam, there is little that can astonish me, but you have managed to do so.”

  The damned Rings. Impossible.

  He had heard the ridiculous rumors, of course. He cultivated gossip on matters that touched upon the subject of antiquities the way a farmer cultivated crops. Recently he had heard that after two hundred years the mysterious Forbidden Rings had reappeared, but he had discounted the tales.

  His source, a dealer in antiquities, claimed that the Forbidden Rings had materialized in a pawnshop in London, of all places, then had just as quickly vanished again, presumably sold to some gullible collector.

  Leo had put no credence in the authenticity of the supposed relics, nor of the reports he had heard, because there had been no confirming evidence. The world of antiquities was rife with fantastical claims and whispered tales of strange events and rare objects. Sorting out the truth from the fraudulent was his life’s work. He had learned long ago not to accept anything at face value. It was a rule he applied not only in his professional investigations but also in his personal life.

  As legends went, the Forbidden Rings of Aphrodite ranked among the more obscure. As far as Leo was aware, only a few scholars such as himself and a handful of collectors had ever heard the tale. Such arcane lore was not the subject of casual drawing-room conversation. In his experience, it rarely succeeded in attracting the interest of the fashionable.

  But tonight he was confronted with a woman who was not only aware of the legend, she was intent on learning everything she could about it. Of all the possible explanations for a late-night visit from a lady he had never met, this was the most farfetched.

  But, then, nothing about this meeting was proving to be predictable, he thought grimly. For starters, it annoyed him that he could not take his gaze off Beatrice. To avoid the appearance of staring at her, he had resorted to watching her out of the corner of his eye. It was ludicrous. There was no logical explanation for the unwilling fascination he felt. It was as if she secretly practiced some form of mesmerism on him.

  Beatrice sat in one of the two chairs that had been arranged in front of the fire. It was difficult to believe that she had just completed a long and tiring journey. There was an aura of feminine vitality about her that drew his attention the way nectar drew bees.

  He was no connoisseur of fashion, but her air of stylish elegance was unmistakable. Her golden-brown hair was drawn up into a sleek knot that emphasized the pleasing shape of her head and the graceful curve of the nape of her neck. The small corkscrew curls that bobbed at her temples had an artfully disheveled appearance, as if they had accidentally slipped free of their pins.

  The bodice of her gown revealed the gentle curves of small, firm breasts and a slender, supple figure. The flounced skirts of the long-sleeved, copper-colored gown fell in graceful folds around her trim, stocking-clad ankles. The soft woolen fabric was very fine. The high-waisted gown fit so perfectly, he knew it must have been designed by a highly skilled modiste. A very expensive modiste.

  The gown was a piece of the puzzle that did not fit. There was no other evidence of a great deal of money here. Beatrice had not arrived in a private carriage with liveried footmen and a multitude of attendants. Her coachman had, in fact, been hired only the previous day. She wore no jewelry. Her maid sounded as if she had recently come off the streets.

  The one question that had, for some reason, concerned him the most had been answered. She had quietly contrived to let him know that she was a widow. If he had to guess, he would have said that her husband had left her a small inheritance, but certainly not a fortune.

  How to, explain the gown?

  Beatrice was—He paused, groping for the right word. His beleaguered brain finally produced interesting. It suited, but it did not go far enough, he admitted grudgingly. She was much more than merely interesting. In point of fact, she was quite unlike any other woman he had ever met.

  Her fine, well-molded features were animated with intelligence and the sheer force of her personality, not great beauty. He had been correct in his earlier estimation. She had to be hovering in the vicinity of thirty, although much of that impression came from her air of self-confidence, not her looks.

  She had probably not been the toast of the London ballrooms in her younger days, Leo thought. But he for one would always know if she was anywhere in the vicinity. She was impossible to ignore.

  She stirred a curious restlessness in him. His senses all felt vaguely disturbed in her presence, as if they had been touched by an invisible current of electricity.

  He had an uneasy feeling that Beatrice could see beneath the surface of the cool, enigmatic facade he was careful to present to the world. It was an illusion, he told himself, but it was disconcerting nonetheless. He did not care for the sensation.

  Her eyes, he concluded, were part of the problem. They were an unusual mix of green and gold, but that was not what drew his attention. It was the clear, disconcerting awareness of her gaze that simultaneously intrigued him and made him cautious.

  He sensed that she was studying him as closely—and just as obliquely—as he was studying her. The realization had an odd effect. He controlled a sudden impulse to abandon his station in front of the fire. He would not surrender to this inexplicable urge to prowl the room the way Elf did when he wished to go hunting.

  “I believe that you may be the only person in all of England who can assist me, sir,” Beatrice said. “Your extensive study of old legends is unequaled. If there is anyone who can supply me with the facts concerning the Forbidden Rings, it is yourself.”

  “So you have come all this way to interview me.” He shook his head. “I do not know if I should be flattered or appalled. You certainly did not need to trouble yourself with a difficult journey, madam. You could have written to me.”

  “The matter is an urgent one, my lord. And to be perfectly truthful, your reputation is such that I feared you might not see fit to reply to a letter in, shall we say, a timely manner.”

  He smiled slightly. “In other words, you have heard that I am inclined to ignore inquiries that do not greatly interest me.”

  “Or which you deem to be unscholarly or based on idle curiosity.”

  He shrugged. “I do not deny it. I regularly receive letters from people who apparently waste a great deal of their time reading nov
els.”

  “You do not approve of novels, my lord?” Beatrice’s voice was curiously neutral in tone.

  “I do not disapprove of all novels, merely the horrid ones. You know the ones I mean. The sort that feature supernatural horror and strange mysteries.”

  “Oh, yes. The horrid ones.”

  “All that nonsense with specters and glimmering lights in the distance is bad enough. But how the authors can see fit to insert a romance into the narrative in addition is beyond me.”

  “You are familiar with such novels, then, sir?”

  “I read one,” he admitted. “I never form an opinion without first doing a bit of research.”

  “Which horrid novel did you read?”

  “One of Mrs. York’s, I believe. I was told that she is among the more popular authors.” He grimaced. “Perhaps I should say authoresses, since most of the horrid novels seem to be written by women.”

  “Indeed.” Beatrice gave him an enigmatic smile. “Many feel that women writers are more adept at depicting imaginative landscapes and scenes that involve the darker passions.”

  “I would certainly not argue with that.”

  “Do you disapprove of women who write, my lord?”

  “Not at all.” He was startled by the question. “I have read many books that have been authored by ladies. It is only the horrid novels which I do not enjoy.”

  “And in particular, Mrs. York’s horrid novels.”

  “Quite right. What an overwrought imagination that woman possesses. All that wandering about through decayed castles, stumbling into ghosts and skeletons and the like. It is too much.” He shook his head. “I could not believe that she actually had her heroine marry the mysterious master of the haunted castle.”

  “That sort of hero is something of a trademark for Mrs. York, I believe,” Beatrice said smoothly. “It is one of the things that makes her stories unique.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In most horrid novels the mysterious lord of the haunted abbey or castle turns out to be the villain,” Beatrice explained patiently. “But in Mrs. York’s books, he generally proves to be the hero.”

  Leo stared at her. “The one in the novel I read lived in a subterranean crypt, for God’s sake.”

  “The Curse.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Beatrice cleared her throat discreetly. “I believe the title of that particular horrid novel is The Curse. At the end of the story the hero moves upstairs into the sunlit rooms of the great house. The curse had been lifted, you see.”

  “You have read the novel?”

  “Of course.” Beatrice smiled coolly. “Many people in Town read Mrs. York’s books. Do you know, I would have thought that a gentleman who has made a career out of researching genuine legends would have no great objection to reading a novel that takes an ancient legend as its theme.”

  “Bloody hell. Mrs. York invented the legend she used in her novel.”

  “Yes, well, it was a novel, sir, not a scholarly article for the Society of Antiquarians.”

  “Just because I study arcane lore, Mrs. Poole, it does not follow that I relish outlandish tales of the supernatural.”

  Beatrice glanced at Elf, who was sprawled in front of the fire. “Perhaps your intolerance for horrid novels stems from the fact that you have been the subject of some rather unfortunate legends yourself, my lord.”

  He followed her gaze to Elf. “You have a point, Mrs. Pooled When one finds oneself featured in a few tales of supernatural mystery, one tends to take a negative view of them.”

  Beatrice turned back to him and leaned forward intently. “Sir, I want to assure you that my interest in the Forbidden Rings of Aphrodite is not in the least frivolous.”

  “Indeed?” He was fascinated by the way the firelight turned her hair to dark gold. He had a sudden vision of how it would look falling loose around her shoulders. He shook off the image with an effort of will. “May I ask how you came to learn of the Rings and why you are so determined to discover them?”

  “I am in the process of making inquiries into a private matter that appears to touch upon the legend.”

  “That is a bit vague, Mrs. Poole.”

  “I doubt that you would wish to hear all of the particulars.”

  “You are wrong. I must insist on hearing all of the details before I decide how much time to waste on the subject.”

  “Forgive me, my lord, but one could mistake that statement for a veiled form of blackmail.”

  He pretended to give that some thought. “I suppose my demand to hear the full story could be viewed in that way.”

  “Are you telling me that you will not help me unless I confide certain matters that are very personal in nature and involve only my family?” Beatrice raised her brows. “I cannot believe that you would be so rude, sir.”

  “Believe it. I certainly do not intend to gratify what may be only idle curiosity.”

  Beatrice rose and walked to the nearest window. She clasped her hands behind her back and gave every appearance of gazing thoughtfully out into the night. But Leo knew she was watching his reflection in the glass. He could almost feel her debating her course of action. He waited with interest to see what she would do next.

  “I was warned that you might be difficult.” She sounded wryly resigned.

  “Obviously the warning did not dampen your enthusiasm for a journey to the wilds of Devon.”

  “No, it did not.” She studied him in the dark glass. “I am not easily discouraged, my lord.”

  “And I am not easily cajoled.”

  “Very well, since you insist, I shall be blunt. I believe that my uncle may have been murdered because of the Forbidden Rings.”

  Whatever it was he had expected to hear, this was not it. A chill stole through him. He fought it with logic. “If you have concocted a tale of murder in order to convince me to help you find the Rings, Mrs. Poole, I must warn you that I do not deal politely with those who seek to deceive me.”

  “You asked for the truth, sir. I am attempting to give it to you.”

  He did not take his eyes off her. “Perhaps you had better tell me the rest of the story.”

  “Yes.” Beatrice turned away from the window and began to pace. “Three weeks ago Uncle Reggie collapsed and died in somewhat awkward circumstances.”

  “Death is always awkward.” Leo inclined his head. “My condolences, Mrs. Poole.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Who was Uncle Reggie?”

  “Lord Glassonby.” She paused, a wistful expression on her face. “He was a somewhat distant relation on my father’s side. The rest of the family considered him quite eccentric, but I was very fond of him. He was kind and enthusiastic and, after he came into a small, unexpected inheritance last year, quite generous.”

  “I see. Why do you say that the circumstances of his death were awkward?”

  She resumed her pacing, hands clasped once more behind her back. “Uncle Reggie was not at home when he died.”

  This was getting more interesting by the minute. “Where was he?”

  Beatrice delicately cleared her throat. “In an establishment that I understand is frequented by gentlemen who have rather unusual tastes.”

  “You may as well spell it out, Mrs. Poole. I am certainly not going to let you get away with that meager explanation.”

  She sighed. “Uncle Reggie died in a brothel.”

  Leo was amused by the color that tinted her cheeks. Perhaps she was not quite so much the woman of the world after all. “A brothel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which one?”

  She stopped long enough to glare at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Which brothel? There are any number of them in London.”

  “Oh.” She concentrated very intently on the pattern in the Oriental carpet beneath her feet. “I believe the establishment is known as the—” She broke off on a small cough. “The House of the Rod.”

  “I ha
ve heard of it.”

  Beatrice raised her head very swiftly and gave him a quelling glance. “I would not boast of that if I were you, sir. It does you no credit.”

  “I assure you, I have never been a client of the House of the Rod. My own tastes in such matters do not run in that direction.”

  “I see,” Beatrice muttered.

  “It is, I believe, a brothel that caters to men whose sensual appetites are sharpened by sundry forms of discipline.”

  “My lord, please.” Beatrice sounded as if she were on the verge of strangling. “I assure you, it is not necessary to go into great detail.”

  Leo smiled to himself. “Carry on with your story, Mrs. Poole.”

  “Very well.” She whirled around to stalk toward the far end of the library. “In the days following Uncle Reggie’s death, we discovered to our great shock that sometime during the last weeks of his life he had gone through a great sum of money. Indeed, his estate was on the very brink of bankruptcy.”

  “You had counted on inheriting a fortune?” Leo asked.

  “No, it is vastly more complicated than that.”

  “I am prepared to listen.”

  “I told you that Uncle Reggie could be very generous.” Beatrice turned and started back in the opposite direction. “A few months before he died, he announced his intention to finance a Season for my cousin Arabella. Her family has very little money.” She broke off. “Actually, no one in my family has a great deal of money.”

  “Except Uncle Reggie?”

  “He was the exception, and the inheritance he came into last year could be called only modest at best. Nevertheless, it amounted to considerably more than any of my other relatives could claim.”

  “I see.”

  “In any event, Arabella is quite lovely and perfectly charming.”

  “And her parents have hopes of marrying her off to a wealthy young gentleman of the ton?”

  “Well, yes, to be frank.” She scowled at him. “It is not exactly an unusual sort of hope, my lord. It is the fondest dream of many families who are somewhat short of funds.”