A Most Novel Revenge (2 page)

Reggie Lyons had shut up Lyonsgate and had gone to live abroad, Beatrice Lyons had married shortly afterward, and the youngest Lyons sister had been sent off to boarding school.

Laurel had been greatly troubled by it all, but eventually the matter had gone to the back of all our minds. It was not something one much cared to remember.

So what was it that had brought the Lyonses back to Lyonsgate? And why had Laurel gone there? Why the urgent summons? I wanted to believe that it was nothing more than my cousin's overactive imagination, but my instincts told me there was something more to it than that.

“It will certainly be interesting to view the scene of such a scandal,” I remarked.

“I thought we disliked scandals,” he said.

Milo and I had had more than our share of scandals in the past. Though he had been behaving beautifully as of late, more than a few indiscretions had been linked to his name since our marriage.

“We dislike personal scandals,” I corrected. “But the death of Edwin Green has no direct bearing on us.”

“As of yet.”

He was, as it turns out, correct. I dislike it intensely when he is right.

*   *   *

IT WAS EARLY
afternoon when we reached Lyonsgate. The entrance to the estate came almost without warning, a gate appearing suddenly to break up the wall of trees that lined the road. Milo screeched nearly to a stop and pulled into the drive. I breathed a sigh of relief that we had reached our destination in one piece. This car moved entirely too quickly for my comfort.

Before us the wrought-iron gate was guarded by two huge stone lions on massive pillars, their mouths open, teeth bared, in what might have been either halfhearted roars or aggressive yawns.

“A bit obvious, perhaps, but I suppose impressive enough,” Milo noted.

I had to agree with him. At least, it must have been impressive one time. Now, with dead vines creeping up the rails as though to strangle the weary-looking beasts, it seemed a bit sad somehow. I knew that the Lyons family had not been in residence for many years, but it looked as though upkeep of the estate had not been a priority in their absence.

The gates were open wide to reveal a long drive. We pulled through and, once out of the little copse of trees, we had the first glimpse of the house. The afternoon sun shone brightly on walls of pale stone. It was impressive, beautiful in a somber way, yet there was something haunting about it as well. Perhaps it was my imagination, knowing what I did about the history of the house, but it seemed to me that there was something forlorn in its appearance.

To the east, in the direction of the village, I could make out the lake and a distant building that was no doubt the summerhouse where Edwin Green had spent his last night. It looked quiet and peaceful in the light of a bright winter afternoon.

We pulled up before the house, and Milo came around to open my door. I stepped out of the car onto the gravel drive, looking up at the imposing stone façade. It was not what one would call a welcoming building. It was in the Tudor style and, if I remembered my history of English manors correctly, the main part of the house dated back to that period, with additional wings having been added by subsequent generations.

The house had clearly been neglected, and, though work had recently been done to refurbish it, an air of desertion still hung about the place. The stones were stained and scarred, at least what was visible of them beneath the tangled profusion of dried ivy. The oriel windows on the lower floors had been cleaned and gleamed brightly in the sunlight, but the higher windows were streaked with dirt and grime.

A cold gust of wind blew just then, and I felt what might be termed a foreboding chill.

I heard the sound of approaching steps behind us, and we turned to see a woman coming around the house, leading a horse. She was a pretty girl with honey-colored hair glinting in the afternoon sunlight. She was young, perhaps twenty-two or -three, and I guessed that she must be the younger Lyons sister.

The sun was in her eyes for a moment, but when she stepped into the shadow of the building she caught sight of us and walked in our direction.

“I thought I heard a car,” she said. As her eyes adjusted from the glare she caught sight of Milo and stopped, a flush spreading over her cheeks. “Oh. Hello.”

She looked up at him, dazzled. I had to admit that I sometimes forgot how very handsome Milo was until I observed other women's reactions to meeting him. With his black hair, bright blue eyes, and striking good looks, he always managed to create quite a favorable first impression. All this was supplemented with a winning manner and excessive charm, which made my husband exceptionally popular with the ladies.

“Hello,” Milo replied. I was gratified that he seemed more interested in the horse than the pretty young woman leading it.

“I'm Lucinda Lyons,” the young woman said. “Lindy, to my friends.” She smiled as she said it and, if I was not mistaken, batted her lashes.

“How do you do, Miss Lyons. I'm Milo Ames, and this is my wife, Amory.”

She looked at me for almost the first time, as though she had only just noticed that I was there.

“How do you do,” I said, amused. It was not the first time Milo had absorbed all the female attention in the general vicinity.

“You're Laurel's cousin, aren't you?” she said, recovering nicely. “I've heard so much about you. I'm very pleased to meet you at last.”

“And I you. It was kind of your brother to invite us. The house is lovely,” I said, looking behind me.

“I don't like it at all,” she said without any particular emotion.

Her horse shifted its feet impatiently and she turned to speak soothingly to him. “There, there, Romeo. You mustn't misbehave in front of our guests.”

“It's a beautiful animal,” Milo said, stepping forward to touch the shining chestnut coat. Milo loved horses. I suspected that part of the reason he had agreed to come, other than the opportunity to frighten me to death with hairpin turns, was that he had thought Reginald Lyons would have begun building up the stables at Lyonsgate now that he had returned. Milo liked to be sure that his horses were better than everyone else's.

“Oh, here's Henson,” Miss Lyons said as the door opened and the butler stepped out onto the portico. “Mr. and Mrs. Ames have arrived, Henson,” she called.

“Very good, Miss Lucinda.”

She turned back to us. “He'll see to you. I'll just bring Romeo back to the stables. Lovely meeting both of you.”

Her eyes were still on Milo as she said this, and it seemed that she had to tear them from his face to begin leading her horse away.

“A charming young woman,” Milo observed as we walked toward the house.

“I expect you say so because she was properly dazzled by you.”

“She's practically a child.”

“‘Practically a child' and ‘a child' are two very different things,” I replied dryly.

Henson led us into the house, and a moment later Reginald Lyons came into the entrance hall to greet us. He was not quite what I had expected, not how I remembered Laurel describing him. He had a handsome, ruddy face and was quite tall and bit heavyset. He looked the part of a country squire in his tweeds and hunting boots.

I didn't see much resemblance to his sister, and I judged him to be perhaps ten or twelve years older than she was. If I remembered correctly, Lucinda had a different mother than Reggie and Beatrice. Reggie had the same honey-colored hair as his half sister, but his eyes were dark brown rather than blue, and there was something troubled about them, a weariness that belied his robust façade.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ames. Welcome to Lyonsgate,” he said in a hearty tone.

“Thank you for having us, Mr. Lyons. The house is lovely.”

“Thank you, thank you. I expect you'll be looking for Laurel, but she's out riding at the moment. Should be back soon enough.”

“Your sister Lucinda just came back from her ride,” I told him. “She's a charming young woman.”

“I was admiring her horse,” Milo said. “It's an excellent animal.”

Something flickered across Mr. Lyons's face, and then he nodded. “Thank you. I do enjoy horses. I'll give you a tour of the stables later, if you like.”

“I should like it very much indeed.”

“I suppose first you'd like to be shown to your rooms…”

Before he could finish his sentence, there was movement on the staircase behind him.

A tall, dark, and very beautiful woman descended them to meet us in the entrance hall. I had never met her before, but I recognized her well enough.

It was Isobel Van Allen.

 

2

I WAS VERY
surprised to see her standing there, especially after the events we had been discussing only this morning. What she was doing here rather than in the wilds of Kenya, I couldn't imagine.

She didn't look any older than I remembered her being in all the society photographs, except for perhaps a bit of tightness around her eyes. She was still a stunningly beautiful woman, poised and almost regal, her flawless skin apparently untouched by the scorching rays of the African sun. She was nearly as tall as Milo in her heeled shoes, and her slim figure looked as though it had been designed for the French fashions she wore. The scent of her expensive perfume hovered in the air around her as she came toward us.

“Mrs. Ames, isn't it? How good of you to come.”

It was, I thought, something of an odd thing for a woman who was not our hostess to say, but perhaps she was acting as hostess. After all, she and Reggie Lyons had been lovers at one time. It had been my understanding that things had ended badly between them after the incident, but it would not be the first time a shattered romance had been rekindled. I didn't have much time to process this thought, however, before she moved to stand before my husband.

Her gaze moved over Milo in an appraising way. “Hello, Milo,” she said with a slow smile. “I would say you haven't changed a bit, but that would be untrue. You're even more handsome than I remembered. Your age suits you. I find very few men more handsome at thirty than they were at twenty.”

She held out her hand and Milo took it, her fingers, tipped with blood-red nails, curling around his.

“Hello, Isobel. It's been a long time.”

Milo showed no sign of uneasiness, but he never did. I had been unaware that they had known one another. My husband was full of delightful surprises.

She smiled. “Yes. Nine or ten years, at least. Funny how life brings people back around to you again, isn't it? I shall look forward to getting reacquainted.”

I wondered what exactly their past relationship had been. Both of them being exceptionally good-looking people, I had a fair idea. Milo would have been in his early twenties when they knew each other and Miss Van Allen perhaps thirty-five, but the rumor was that she had always preferred younger men. Reggie Lyons was, himself, at least ten years younger than she.

“And I'm delighted to get to know your charming wife.” She turned her attention to me then, her dark eyes sweeping over me in an assessing, yet not unfriendly manner.

“I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Ames,” she said.

“And I you,” I replied, not really meaning a word of it.

“You've married a beauty,” she said to Milo, her eyes still on me. “Of course, it was only natural that you would.”

“Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Ames would like to see their rooms,” Reginald Lyons said stiffly.

There was something odd about his interactions with Miss Van Allen, some strange sort of tension between them. It wasn't just that he seemed uncomfortable with her rather forward remarks. Nor was it jealousy. In fact, it seemed clear to me in that moment that there had not been any rekindling of their romance. It was fairly obvious that he disliked her intensely but was doing his best to hide it. Why, then, had he invited to her to Lyonsgate? It was very curious indeed.

*   *   *

MILO AND I
were shown to our adjoining rooms by a maid, and we did not have a private moment to speak about the encounter with Isobel Van Allen.

I walked into my bedroom, and my maid, Winnelda, who had gone ahead early that morning with the luggage, turned from where she was hanging my dresses in the wardrobe. She smiled brightly when she saw me and came to help me off with my coat.

“Oh, hello, madam. I'm ever so glad you've arrived. This house is a bit frightening, isn't it? I feel as though I might be trapped in some sort of fairy castle, with ogres and things lurking about. I didn't much like to be alone here, without anyone I know.”

It would have been a fitting setting for Winnelda, as she reminded me of a fairy, pale and petite, with wide eyes and platinum hair. In truth, her actions reminded me a bit of a woodland sprite, the way she flittered from one thing to another. She had become my de facto lady's maid, and I had grown quite fond of her, in spite of her flightiness.

“It's a charming house, though, isn't it?” I said.

“It's old,” she replied disparagingly, wrinkling her nose. That was one way of describing the grand Tudor architecture, I supposed. Winnelda had become accustomed to the modern conveniences of our London flat, and I very much feared she was becoming a snob.

I took off my hat and gloves and looked around. The room was large and very cold, despite the fire burning in the fireplace. I thought I could even detect the whistle of the wind through the casements. The tapestries on the paneled wall were intricate and lovely, but they were not keeping much warmth in the bedroom. However, it was not the first drafty country house I had stayed in, and it would probably not be the last.

The furnishings were high-quality antiques that had seen better days. The bed was an enormous thing with intricately carved posts the size of tree trunks. It looked as though it might have dated back to the Tudors as well. The bedding, however, was modern, as was the thick rug on the floor. It seemed the Lyonses had done whatever they could to add a bit of warmth to the room.