A Most Novel Revenge (3 page)

Nevertheless, there remained something of the impression that the dustcovers had been whisked away moments before our arrival. I wondered again what had brought them back to Lyonsgate. If the family had only returned here recently, I thought it strange that they should have wanted guests before the house had been properly prepared. In fact, I somehow felt that Mr. Lyons did not want company at all. He had been cordial in the way of a man who is accustomed to behaving properly, but his enthusiasm had been artificial. This certainly wasn't an ordinary country weekend.

Laurel had wanted me to come for reasons that remained to be seen, and Mr. Lyons had no doubt politely acquiesced to her suggestion. If we were not exactly welcome here, I wondered even more why Isobel Van Allen had been invited. After all that had happened, I thought it somewhat strange that she should be welcomed back with open arms to the scene of a tragedy she had attempted to exploit for her own personal gain.

“… ghosts creeping down the halls in long, trailing gowns. But I don't know if they wore trailing gowns, did they?”

I came back to the present to find Winnelda watching me expectantly.

“I'm not certain about the trains, Winnelda, but I don't think you need worry much about ghosts.”

“No, I suppose there are a good many strange people here already. I think it would be a shame to have ghosts as well.”

I was about to respond to this curious comment when there was a perfunctory tap on the door and Milo entered from the adjoining room. “Rather a drafty old place, isn't it?” he said, casting his eyes about my room. “Your room or mine, darling? I don't intend to sleep in a cold bed alone. I shall need you for warmth.”

“I'll just go see to … something, shall I, madam?” Winnelda said, hurrying from the room.

“You shouldn't say such things in front of Winnelda,” I told Milo with a smile. “You know she is easily shocked.”

“I don't see why she should be.” He came to me and pulled me against him. “I should think she'd be accustomed to my wanton behavior at this point.”

I looked up at him, taking the opportunity to address what was really on my mind. “While we're on the subject of wanton behavior, I wasn't aware you knew Isobel Van Allen.”

“Oh, didn't I mention it?” His face was the picture of perfect ease, and his arms around my waist didn't loosen in the slightest.

“No,” I said. “You didn't.”

“Well, I didn't know her very well.”

“How well?” I questioned pointedly, looking up at him. I might as well know the worst of it.

He met my gaze without reservation. “I was not among her coterie of young lovers, if that's what you mean.”

Well, that was direct enough. “She seemed to harbor quite fond memories of you,” I said.

“She is, perhaps, remembering things differently from the way they were.”

I felt certain he was telling the truth. After all, we had not known one another at the time. There would be no reason for him to conceal it; I was perfectly aware that there had been women before me.

“She's very beautiful,” I said.

“I suppose, though her type has never appealed to me. Beneath her affected elegance, I found her a bit gauche.”

“You surprise me. Whatever else she may be, I think she's a very elegant woman.”

He shrugged. “It's a very well maintained façade, I'll grant you. But veneers wear thin. In any event, you needn't be concerned. I'm too old for her.”

I laughed. “I'm not concerned.”

He dropped a kiss on my lips, and then I stepped back from his embrace.

“It's very odd, though, isn't it?” I said. “Her being here, I mean. After what happened, I should have thought she would be the last person that Reginald Lyons would have invited to Lyonsgate.”

“They're not fond of one another,” Milo said. So he had noticed it, too.

“No,” I said vaguely. “I wonder if anyone else has been invited.”

There was a sharp rapping on the door, and a moment later it was flung open and my cousin Laurel came into the room.

She wore her riding clothes, her face still flushed from the cold, her golden hair windblown. “Amory, darling! I knew you'd come!” She brushed a kiss across my cheek and spared a glance at my husband. “Hello, Milo.”

“Laurel,” he acknowledged, with an equal lack of enthusiasm.

“How was your trip?” she asked me. “Did you take the train?”

“No, Milo drove us in his new car.”

Her brows rose, a hint of mockery glinting in her brown eyes. “Did he? How very bourgeois of him.”

“I'll just give the two of you time to catch up, shall I?” Milo said. “Lyons said he'd show me the stables.”

“Yes, of course.” I knew Milo would much prefer to spend his afternoon with the horses than with Laurel and me.

He left, and I turned to my cousin. There was so much I wanted to ask her, I was not even sure where to start. She spared me the trouble by bursting at once into a somewhat confusing speech.

“The rooms are a bit drafty, aren't they? Mine is just down the hall. All the guest rooms are in this wing, I think. Oh, Amory, I'm so glad you've come. I should have hated to come back here without you.”

“But how did you come to be here, Laurel?” I asked. “You said you were going to visit your parents.”

“Oh, I did,” she said. “Mother sends her love and says you are to come and see her. In any event, Reggie had happened to send me a letter. It was quite a coincidence that I happened to be at home when he sent it. He didn't have my address, of course, and sent it to Pearmont.”

Pearmont was the home of Laurel's parents, and I had spent many happy summers there as a child. Laurel's mother was the sister of my father. We had grown up very much like sisters, neither of us having any siblings.

“What did the letter say?” I asked.

“That's just it. It didn't say much of anything. Reggie asked me to come to Lyonsgate as soon as possible. I haven't seen or heard from him in years, but there was something about the letter that gave me pause.” She hesitated, a worried expression crossing her normally cheerful face. “There's something wrong in all of this, but I don't know what.”

“Perhaps you had better start from the beginning,” I said patiently. My cousin was my closest friend and confidante, but she did enjoy making an event out of the ordinary. I might have been inclined to believe all of this was a figment of her imagination, had I not sensed for myself that something was amiss at Lyonsgate. There was just too much that did not seem right.

She dropped down on the bed. “It's all so strange. I knew at once that you must come and untangle it all.”

“Your confidence in me is flattering,” I said wryly. “But I really don't know what business I have coming here. I don't even know Mr. Lyons, and, after all these years away from Lyonsgate, I don't see why he should want strangers crowding up the place. I should think he would like some time to set the house in order.”

“I doubt he will remain here long,” she said. “He's anxious and uneasy. He goes for long, solitary walks in the morning and always comes back with a troubled expression. I don't think coming back to Lyonsgate was his idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it all has something to do with Isobel. I didn't like to ask him, but I've rather had the feeling that she somehow convinced him to come back.”

That explained the impression I had had that Isobel was our hostess. This weekend was, in essence, her event.

“But why should he do as she asked, after what happened?” I mused.

“That's just it,” she said solemnly. “It doesn't make sense, and that's what worries me.”

“I didn't detect any romantic feeling between them today,” I said.

She shook her head. “No, all that ended long ago. He was mad about her at one time, of course. It seemed that all the men were. We used to say she must be a witch, the way she could put any man under her spell. That was what happened to Reggie. He was always the sweetest thing. I never would have imagined … well, never mind that. Suffice it to say, he was very much in love with her. I think he would have done anything she asked.”

I couldn't help but wonder what my cousin's feelings for Reginald Lyons had been at the time. We had always confided in one another, and she had claimed that she had only viewed Mr. Lyons as a friend, but it had often seemed to me that there was something more than friendship in her voice when she spoke about him.

“But something happened between them,” she went on, “even before the incident. They were cold toward one another that weekend, and we all wondered if things were coming to an end. I thought perhaps Isobel had found someone else. She was very fickle in her affections.

“Then, when it all happened and she wrote that dreadful book, I think he might have killed her if he wasn't so broken up about all of it. And after what happened to poor Brad…”

“Bradford Glenn?” I asked, remembering the young man Isobel Van Allen had accused of murder through her fictional account of the incident. “What happened to him?”

Laurel looked surprised. “You don't know?”

“No.”

“Of course,” she said. “I'd forgotten. It was during your wedding trip. Shortly after the book was published, insinuating those dreadful things about him … he killed himself.”

“How dreadful,” I whispered, truly horrified. It was clear to me now why Isobel Van Allen had been forced to leave the country in the wake of such a scandal. A life had been tragically lost at Lyonsgate, but many more had been torn apart by her exploitation of the incident.

“It was awful,” Laurel agreed. “I almost declined to come when I received his letter, but I felt that I couldn't deny him, not if he needed me. Imagine my horror upon arriving to find that he had invited her. And that's not all. He's invited all of them.”

“All of whom?”

“All of the people who were there that cursed night.”

I felt something like a chill at the words. It was the same sense of foreboding I had had standing outside, looking up at the gray walls of Lyonsgate. I was not at all superstitious, but I did wish that the uneasiness I felt would dissipate.

“Why on earth would he do that?” Already my brain was turning over the possibilities, none of them pleasant.

“I don't know, and that's why I wanted you to come at once. When I found out she was here.… that they would all be here … I don't know how to explain it, but I had a feeling. Something ghastly is going to happen, Amory.”

As much as I wanted to discount my cousin's presentiment, I could not. I felt the same way myself.

 

3

I HAD DONE
my best to quiet my cousin's fears, but I could not shake my own unease. I tried to put my dismal thoughts aside as Laurel went along to her room to bathe and dress before dinner.

I needed to freshen up, but first I went to the wardrobe to begin choosing something to wear to dinner. I hoped Winnelda had packed an evening gown that would provide at least a modicum of warmth in what was sure to be a drafty dining room. I was engrossed in the task and barely took notice of the tap at my door.

“Hello,” said a voice behind me.

I turned to see a gentleman standing in the doorway. It was a bit startling, having been talking about ghosts, to see the pale face looking at me from the dimness of the hallway. Apparently, Laurel had not closed the door tightly and it had drifted open.

The gentleman in question, however, did not look much like a ghost. In fact, he rather reminded me of a statue of Apollo with his classical features and golden curls. Curiously intent eyes, so pale a blue as to seem almost colorless, were looking me over in a matter-of-fact way. It was quite a thorough examination, but somehow I didn't feel as though he were being rude, even if it was unusual for this strange gentleman to introduce himself to me on the threshold of my bedroom.

“Hello,” I replied, more to break the silence than for any real desire to start up a conversation. There was something vaguely familiar about the man, but I couldn't place him. I was quite certain we had never met before, but I felt that I had definitely seen that face. It was the sort of face that one remembered.

“I'm Gareth Winters,” he said.

Of course. The artist. I had seen his paintings in the homes of some of my friends. I remembered now, too, that he had been a part of that group that had been here the night that Edwin Green had died.

There had been a period before the death of Mr. Green when Mr. Winters's paintings had been very much in vogue, and he was generally considered to possess a good deal of talent. His portraits had been especially sought after, and I knew women who had sat for him, all of them commenting on his golden good looks. But there had not been much art since the tragedy. Occasionally a piece had come up for auction, but his name was not often mentioned in artistic circles these days. I remembered one of my friends telling me that his paintings had lost much of their fire since the Lyonsgate scandal.

“How do you do, Mr. Winters,” I said. “I'm Amory Ames.”

“Amory Ames,” he said it slowly and quietly, almost to himself, as though contemplating it. I wondered if he was trying to recall if we had ever met. “You're a guest of Reggie's, I suppose.”

We were all guests of Reggie's, but I didn't like to point this out.

“Yes, my husband and I came at his invitation.”

“It's going to be a very unpleasant stay, I should think,” he said, his tone giving no indication of what he meant by that remark.

I didn't quite know how to respond to this. Though I had felt very much the same way, it was interesting to hear this opinion from a stranger. “Do you think so?” I asked lightly. “Lyonsgate is quite prettily situated.”