My Lady Caroline

by Jill Jones

  Childe Harold.

  Alison picked up the book and held it with trembling fingers, knowing it was the poem that had made Byron famous, the one that had attracted Lady Caroline in the first place. The publication date was 1812. She leafed through the pages tentatively, respectfully, realizing that it might even be one of the first pieces of Byron’s work ever to be set in print. Then she came to the back of the book, where her eyes spied the same inscription Jeremy had seen:

  For Caro, my love,

  B.

  “My, God,” she whispered. “He gave her this very book.” She closed the volume gently and held it to her breast, then turned and surveyed again the sad destruction in the room. Alison guessed that when Jeremy had found this book, it had confirmed his suspicions that Byron’s memoirs must be nearby. Those memoirs must be very, very valuable, she thought. Incredibly valuable. So valuable that he’d thought nothing of leaving other, priceless books such as the one she held, strewn carelessly about about the room.

  And why should he care? she argued with herself. They didn’t belong to him. They didn’t belong to her, either, at least not at the moment.

  But they would.

  Placing the book back on the windowsill, Alison sighed deeply. Maybe she was being foolish, but she’d made another decision. She was not only going to purchase Dewhurst Manor, she was also going to buy everything in it, lock, stock and barrel. It was one way to get Jeremy out for good—before he could do any more damage or steal what rightfully belonged to her. Or before she had a chance to make a fool of herself in front of him again.

  Closing the door behind her, Alison went to find Mrs. Beasley to have someone put the library to rights as quickly as possible. Later, with Jeremy safely out of her way, she would mount a search of the room on her own, a methodical, meticulous inch-by-inch, volume-by-volume crawl through the library in quest of the memoirs. She would find them, if they were there.

  If Jeremy Ryder had not already found and made off with them.

  Jeremy slept later than usual, but he allowed himself a few moments before getting out of bed to contemplate what had taken place the night before. He’d been pleased when Alison had asked him to dine with her, and even more so when she’d started to open up to him. Jeremy was a born listener, and he’d found he had genuinely wanted to hear more of her story, although he was taking a chance, he knew, that she’d be like all the rest and would jump to the wrong conclusions as soon as he showed an interest in her.

  What were the wrong conclusions? Normally, they would include such things as committed relationships. Monogamy. Weddings. Things like that. But with this woman, his feelings didn’t seem so clear-cut. She intrigued him. She aroused him. She reached inside and touched something he’d long thought untouchable. He was in deep trouble when it came to Alison Cunningham, and he knew it. So what had possessed him to take her into his arms? She had resisted at first. It would have been easy not to pursue her.

  Possessed.

  That’s it. Maybe he was possessed. He had no other explanation for his actions, or for what had happened next. He had stolen a kiss, and to his surprise, after her initial hesitancy, she hadn’t resisted, had in fact, given it back fully, even with the promise of passion. That in itself was remarkable, and he’d been poised to make the most of the situation. But when he’d raised his gaze, he’d seen, or thought he’d seen, a reflection of Alison as if in a mirror at the far side of the Great Hall. She had been wearing the sensuous dress with the daring décolletage, and she’d been staring at him with large, dreamy eyes. His flesh had suddenly crawled, and he’d almost roughly shoved Alison from his embrace, leaving her obviously stunned and perplexed by his behavior.

  Well, she could be no more stunned or perplexed than he was. Or embarrassed. When he’d looked back to where the figure had been, the hall was empty except for the flickering firelight. Completely shaken, he’d only glared at Alison before taking his leave. Now, he wished desperately he had demanded an explanation. What was she, some sort of sorceress? How could she project her image, like a hologram, across the room? And what was she up to that she kept playing these tricks on him?

  Angrily, he swore he’d find out the next time he saw her, then stopped himself. There wouldn’t be a next time, not if he could help it. Whatever her scheme, he didn’t need it. Or her. He’d come here to find the memoirs. It was his only real interest in hanging around Dewhurst Manor. He would begin his search again immediately, and steer clear of the fey Miss Cunningham. Maybe he’d get lucky. Today. Or tomorrow. As soon as he had his hands on the papers, he’d call the bank and make other arrangements for finishing the appraisal work…off-premises.

  He dressed quickly and almost sprinted toward the library. She’d interrupted him there yesterday, just when he was getting his search well-organized and under way, and he wanted to sustain the momentum. He could pick up where he’d left off and, if he did not allow the rich treasure trove to distract him, he could finish at least a cursory search by nightfall.

  But when he stepped inside the large, gloomy room, he looked around in shock and dismay. What he had left in good order was now in total chaos. Fragile bindings were bent and pages were torn as books rarer than most he’d ever seen had been dashed from the shelves. The room looked as if it had been vandalized. What in the world had gotten into that woman? How could Alison Cunningham treat this property in such a manner, tearing into these treasures like a tornado, with seemingly no respect for either their antiquity or their monetary value? So much for her altruistic notions of protecting historical artifacts for the Great Unwashed, he thought bitterly, a knot forming in his stomach as he surveyed the damage. Anyone who gave a whit about history and the relics such as these books that preserved history would certainly never mishandle the books in the Dewhurst Manor collection as Alison had obviously done.

  Trying to overcome his shock and disgust, Jeremy began picking up the volumes one by one and attempting to put them back as they had been the day before. It was a huge job and would probably take him most of the day. A day that would be lost from the search for Byron’s memoirs. His revulsion turned to fury. What had made her do this?

  The thought he’d been trying to ignore flashed through his mind like a neon sign. She’d been looking for something in here. She must have been. What else could explain the situation? What was she after? Had she read Caroline’s letter after all and been smart enough to know what it meant? He would never have thought such an air-head would have the kind of esoteric education to understand what the letter was all about. But what else could she be looking for, if not the memoirs? What else could she be searching for, the same as he, only without his scruples and sense of preservation?

  Oh, God.

  The door opened and a young woman, barely out of her teens, dressed in a gray and white uniform, peeped in hesitantly. “Good day, Sir,” she said.

  “What do you want?” he snarled, taking his anger out on the servant girl.

  She shrank from his fury. “Uh…Mrs. Beasley sent me in to straighten the library. She said…uh…said that Miss Cunningham told her to have someone clean up the mess.” Then her gaze traveled around the room. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, her eyes wide.

  “Oh-dear is right,” Jeremy replied. “Bloody oh-dear. Do you know where Miss Cunningham is at the moment?” He’d a good mind to seek her out and force her to put the room back together, even if he had to paddle her pretty little behind to get her to do it. Imagine, sending a servant to straighten the mess in the room! How contemptible!

  “She’s left for the day, Sir.”

  “Damn good thing,” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m sure you have other things to do,” he said aloud to the girl. “I’ll straighten up in here. I have a lot of work to do in this room anyway. No need for two of us to clean up after Miss Cunningham’s madness.”

  The servant managed to maintain an expressionless face, although Jeremy wondered what must be going through her mind about her new mistress. “That will
be all.”

  “Yes, Sir. Good day, Sir.”

  The servant left the library, and as she opened the door, Jeremy thought he heard voices from the front of the house. He paused a moment at the door, listening, then followed the sounds which grew louder as he approached.

  “What do you mean, I can’t come in?” A man’s voice was impatiently insistent. “I’m sure she is expecting me.”

  “Miss Cunningham did not tell me she was expecting anyone, beg your pardon, Sir.” Mrs. Beasley’s voice was unperturbed, but firm. “If you will leave your card, I will inform her of your visit upon her return.”

  “Return? Where is she?”

  “She’s gone…out for the day. Who may I tell her has paid a visit?”

  “Hawthorne. Drew Hawthorne. I’m her attorney, and I must see her immediately.”

  “I shall marry, if I can find any thing inclined to barter money for rank…”

  Lord Byron

  Annabella turned me down, saving our Disaster for a later date. Greatly relieved, yet still wishing to escape from Caroline, I turned my attentions to as many other women as my Constitution could sustain, including a scullery maid, an Italian opera singer, a seamstress, my agent’s wife & his daughter, too. I even entertained myself before a picture of Napoleon’s wife! In October—only days after Annabella’s rejection—I came under the spell of Lady Oxford, that Voluptuous & Virtueless practitioner of the art of Aphrodite. Demanding nothing other than the indulgence in unrelenting Pleasure, she was a kindred spirit, & at once I sought in her the refuge from Caroline I so desperately needed. I spent several delicious weeks at her husband’s country estate of Eywood—weeks spent, as she described, “like the gods of Lucretius.” But even as I luxuriated in her Lasciviousness, I perversely continued to dwell upon Caro.

  It was at Eywood that we contrived the Plan, the wicked, premeditated design against Caroline’s already tenuous hold on reality. Drive her mad, advised my aging Paramour. She deemed it far less messy than murder. We plotted together coldly & callously, even placing wagers on how long it might take. It seemed the ideal solution, and I entered into the conspiracy with enthusiasm, not knowing that the trap I was setting would ensnare me as well.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brocket Hall, December 1812

  Is this Guy Fawkes you burn in effigy?

  Why bring the traitor here? What is Guy Fawkes to me? Guy Fawkes betrayed his country and his laws,

  England revenged the wrong: his was a public cause.

  But I have private cause to raise this flame,

  Burn also these, and be their fate the same,

  Rouge, feathers, flowers, and all those tawdry things,

  Beside those pictures, letters, chains and rings,

  All made to lure the mind and please the eye,

  And fill the heart with pride and vanity.

  Burn, fire, burn, these glittering toys destroy,

  While thus we hail the blaze with throats of joy.

  Burn, fire, burn, while wondering boys exclaim,

  And gold and trinkets glitter in the flame.

  Ah, look not thus on me, so grave, so sad,

  Shake not your heads, nor say the lady’s mad.

  Judge not of others, for there is but one

  To whom the heart and feelings can be known.

  Upon my youthful faults few censures cast,

  Look to my future and forgive the past.

  London, farewell; vain world, vain life, adieu!

  Take the last tears I e’er shall shed for you.

  Young tho’ I seem, I leave the world for ever,

  Never to enter it again; no, never, never!

  Lady Caroline Lamb

  The old man lived in a ramshackle cottage near the river at the edge of the village. The country lane that had once passed at the edge of his dooryard had expanded into a major thoroughfare, coming to within inches of the plastered walls of his house, with cars zooming noisily by. Children laughed and squealed as they played in a public park which lay on the other side of the road. “Used t’ be in th’ middle of peace and quiet,” he grumbled as he and Alison, along with his aging retriever, sat at the river’s edge and ate the sandwiches she had brought.

  Wanting to get away from the house until she could regain her composure for the inevitable confrontation with Jeremy Ryder, but not wanting to waste a moment in searching for the missing memoirs, Alison had decided to seek out the person who was responsible for starting the rumor that Dewhurst Manor was haunted. Maybe the old man named Ashley T. Stone could shed some light on Caroline’s visits to Dewhurst Manor. Maybe if she got him to talking about his favorite ghost, he would inadvertently give her some clue as to where Lady Caroline might possibly have hidden away the memoirs.

  Finding Ashley T. Stone had not been difficult. He was a legend in the small community. Some folk, she discovered, revered him, while others laughed at him, and still others were somewhat afraid of him and his peculiar ways. But everyone knew him. She had stopped in at several shops in the village and put together a lunch in a basket, thinking that if she didn’t find him, she would at least spend the day outdoors exploring the verdant countryside of her new homeland while she decided what to do about Jeremy.

  Ashley T. Stone peered at her suspiciously when he first answered her knock on the door, and then his face had softened, and he greeted her warmly, almost as if he’d been expecting her.

  “I’m Alison Cunningham,” she introduced herself.

  “Yes. I know. You’re th’ new mistress of Dewhurst Manor, I hear. Please come in.”

  “How did you know that?” Alison stepped into a tiny but immaculate kitchen at the front of the cottage. He offered tea, which she accepted politely. If she was going to live in England, she’d have to develop a taste for tea, she could see that right now.

  “You look just like ‘er,” he explained irrationally, banging the tea kettle onto the stove.

  Alison frowned. “Look like who?”

  “Lady Caroline.”

  She felt a shot of adrenaline pump into her veins. “Lady Caroline Lamb, you mean?” she replied cautiously.

  “Yes, exactly.” He turned and squinted at her. “White?”

  “I…I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “White. Do you prefer your tea white…you know, with milk?”

  “Yes. Yes, that will do fine.” She watched as he returned to the tea-making ritual. “Actually, the reason I came here is to ask you about Lady Caroline.”

  “I thought it likely.”

  “Is it true? That you have seen her ghost at Dewhurst Manor?”

  “Oh, many times,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her with his blue eyes twinkling beneath bushy brows. “People round about think I’m just an old fool, but I know what I’ve seen. And I know it’s her.”

  “I believe you,” Alison said, taking the tea cup he proffered. “I’ve seen her, too.”

  “T’was it Caro brought you here?”

  “Um-hum,” she replied, sipping the “whitened” tea and finding it delicious. “She appeared to me during a…well, a séance.” She hoped she didn’t sound too crazy, but she’d decided to trust Ashley T. Stone. At least he believed in the ghost, so it was unlikely he would make fun of her.

  “Where was that? In London?”

  “No. In Florida.”

  He stared at her. “Florida? Now what would take her to Florida?” He mulled that over for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, she was always one for a good time. Maybe she went on a cruise,” he laughed. “I knew she wasn’t at Dewhurst Manor. I hadn’t seen her in a long time. I know when she’s there, you see. The house sort of…lights up all around, like it’s on fire when she is present. It’s been dark for decades.”

  “She said she’d been searching a long time for someone to help her,” Alison went on, encouraged. “She spoke through a medium in a small town that kind of…uh…specializes in séances and that sort of thing. The medium told us that Caro had
often taken over her séances. I guess I was the first one gullible enough to take it seriously.”

  “What did she want you to help her with?”

  Now Alison had to take a giant leap of faith. Should she entrust her secret to this old man she hardly knew? But intuitively, she knew it would be safe with him, and she’d come here, after all, to enlist his help in her search. “She wants me to find the memoirs of Lord Byron, which she claims to have hidden somewhere at Dewhurst Manor.”

  The old man wheezed. “She what? She hid Byron’s memoirs? Preposterous. She burned everything he’d ever given her, right in Brocket Park. One hell of a ceremony. Had all the village girls dressed in white, singing little songs and circling a bonfire, while she burned Byron in effigy.” He laughed. “It was one of her more famous stunts. I’m surprised you haven’t read about it.”

  “But I did read about it,” Alison replied, disappointed that Stone was proving a less than reliable source. “The biography said, however, that she only burned copies. That it was just a farce.”

  Ashley T. Stone stopped laughing. “A farce, they called it? Humph! I heard the tale from the son of Caroline’s stable boy himself, and he didn’t think it was no farce. He was there, watching from behind the trees, and he said she’d never looked more beautiful. Or more insane.”

  “Her stable boy? You couldn’t possibly have talked to Caroline’s stable boy.”

  “No. I said his son, who was an old, old man when he told me when I was just a boy. Still, I believe what he said. We’ve lost it in these days of computers and instant communication,” he added with a sigh.