If He's Wild (4 page)

He could easily recall each incident depicted in her drawings. There he stood at the graves of his mother, his father, his brother, his sister, and his dearest friend. There was the duel he had fought over that faithless jade, Cynthia. Alethea had peeked into so many of the most important moments of his life, he did not know whether to feel violated or terrified. After he went through the whole collection, he returned to the one that had briefly cut through his numb shock and studied it. When he realized why the simple drawing of him staring into the fire had so firmly grasped his interest, he abruptly shut the book and looked at her.

“Your eyes,” he whispered, feeling so unsettled that he briefly feared he might swoon like some maiden.

“Pardon?” she asked, wishing that he did not look so ill. That did not bode well for her chances of getting him to listen to her.

“The drawing in which I stand staring into the fireplace, a drink in my hand. I now understand why I felt as if I should know you when we were introduced, or I think I understand. I saw your eyes that night. I decided I had had too much to drink.” He handed her book back to her. “I wish I could use that excuse now. I consider myself a man of logic and science. This sort of thing is not logical. Ghosts are not logical.”

“No? Do you not believe in the soul, the spirit, which leaves the body to go to heaven or hell when a person dies?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So, if there is a soul or spirit, why can it not linger awhile when death comes unexpectedly, too soon or too violently? Why can it not be confused or in need of finishing some task or be seeking justice for a wrong done to it? And, once one accepts that there is a soul or a spirit, why would it be so illogical for some people to be able to see it?”

“You have argued this many times.”

“Many, many times.”

“But how do you make visions sound logical?”

“Intuition that is simply more finely honed than that possessed by others.” She almost smiled at the sardonic look he gave her. “I have no wonderfully logical or scientific explanation for my gift. It just is. It has been with me for my whole life. I cannot rid myself of it and, sometimes, cannot even control it. I prefer to see it as a gift, inconvenient, sometimes annoying, and occasionally terrifying, but still a gift. Since it was given to me, I feel it is my duty to heed it. It told me that you were going to be kidnapped, tortured, and murdered. From what little I have learned this night, I still believe in what I saw. Since, I suspect, you know more than we do, I would think you would at least consider the possibility that I am right. If you will not, it does not signify. If you will do nothing, it is still my responsibility to try to ensure that my vision does not prove to be an accurate prophecy.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Aldus as he and Gifford retook their seats.

“You believe in all of this?” asked Hartley, astonished at the ease with which his friends accepted the idea of visions.

“Yes. And, even if I doubted, she is right. Everything we know adds weight to her warning, no matter how she came by the knowledge of the threat.”

“And the ghosts?”

“Ah, I do…but I do not. Truth is, I do not want to believe. Then again, I have to agree with what Alethea said about souls and spirits. There are many things we believe in that we have no proof of, things that might even defy logic. God, Satan, angels, the soul, heaven, and hell. I have seen no proof of any of that, but I do believe. And, as was said by Shakespeare in
Hamlet,
‘
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’
Aldus frowned at Iago. “I had heard that ghosts tended to stay where they died, however.”

Iago nodded. “Quite true for the most part, hence so many haunted castles and dungeons. Some, however, can become attached to a person instead of a place. Some seem to just come round for a visit, the bonds of affection too strong for death to break completely.”

Although Hartley did not want to have this discussion, he could not resist saying, “You did not see loved ones around Claudette, did you?”

“No. I saw fury, hatred, and a need for justice,” replied Iago. “In truth, I heard the whispers demanding retribution. I did wonder if she had simply been very close at hand when the people had died, but, no, she had blood on her hands. Their blood.”

“You think her guilty of murder?”

“Not by her own hand, perhaps, but she had a large part in the deed. She may even have been close at hand when the deed was done.” Iago looked at Alethea. “Although you did not mention seeing a woman in your vision.”

“No, I
saw
no woman,” replied Alethea, “but in the end I could smell roses.”

“But you did not
see
her get into the carriage, did you?” asked Hartley, a part of him astounded that he was speaking with her as if her talk of visions was perfectly acceptable, dependable, even reasonable.

“No, but that does not mean that she did not come to the place where you were taken,” Alethea replied. “I was not shown that she was there, did not hear her voice, but there was that strong scent of roses. That could mean any number of things. I took it to mean she was part of the crime done against you, and, after what Iago saw, I truly believe that she is. However, it could mean only that there are roses near the place you were taken to, or it is a repetition of the warning that your presence at her house leads you into danger. Or it could even be that the first scent of roses was so strong it lingered in the air throughout the vision.” She looked at each of the three men. “But you all believe her capable of murder, I think.”

“We suspect she is not what she claims to be,” replied Hartley. He hesitated a moment and then decided that, between Aldus’s assurances that the Vaughns could be trusted and all that they had already guessed, there was little point in being hesitant or secretive. “Her choice of lovers is too precise, always men who could give her information the government would prefer to keep secret. Men have died, ones thought to be safe and unknown to the enemy. ’Tis only a hint, but there may be deaths in France that she is responsible for, people who should have been safe or could have escaped. Several well-planned escapes were foiled, the people killed, and she was always, well, around, shall we say.”

“Your angry spirits, Iago,” Alethea said to her uncle.

“Yes, undoubtedly,” Iago replied. “And Claudette’s sister is not so innocent, either.”

“You saw spirits around her, too?” asked Aldus.

“No, but”—Iago grimaced—“she is cold, cold to the bone. I had a very brief affair with the woman. Once my blind lust eased, I felt that coldness, that emptiness, and could not abide being near her.” He smiled faintly at the looks of confusion and doubt upon the faces of the other three men. “I do not possess the gift of seeing or knowing how a person thinks or feels, but I can sense approaching death. Margarite is not approaching death, yet there is about her a similar feeling, a chilling emptiness, as if some part of her has died or left her spirit.”

“Her conscience?”

“Possibly. If she has been responsible for any deaths, those who have died may not have suspected her. She might just help her sister in some small way. What I sense, however, is the soulless chill of a killer. She might not do the killing with her own hands, but she does not, or will not, hesitate to see it done or care who is killed. Or how.”

Alethea could see that Hartley was made uncomfortable by such talk, and a sharp pang of disappointment struck her heart. After seeing him in visions and dreams for so many years, she had obviously nurtured the hope that he would be the one who would understand, would believe in her and not fear her as her husband had. Despite the fact that he had seen her eyes that night she had seen him staring into the fireplace, he was stubbornly hanging on to his disbelief. The meeting lasted barely a half hour longer, and, after arranging another, she left with Iago.

“I think they actually begin to believe us,” Alethea said as Iago’s carriage began to move along the busy streets.

“More or less,” agreed Iago, “but Hartley did not want to. There is no denying the proof held in that sketchbook you brought, but Hartley was struggling mightily to do so. Aldus and Gifford believe. I am certain of it.”

“They are both very curious men, and that probably makes them more accepting of new ideas, more prepared to accept strange things without fear or unease. I got the feeling that your gift, and mine, were ones Aldus has long been intrigued by.”

“True. Of course, none of them have met Modred. The tolerance we met with tonight might fade quickly when faced with his particular gift.”

“Sadly true, even amongst our own family. His gift does tend to make people very uneasy. What do you think their lordships will do next?”

“I have no idea. The only thing I can be sure of is that they no longer think we are in league with the enemy.”

“For the moment, I suppose that is enough,” Alethea murmured and fiercely beat down that part of her which tried to ask for more, a great deal more, from a certain golden-eyed man.

“Do you believe all that?” Hartley asked his companions the moment he was certain the Vaughns had left.

“Yes,” replied Gifford, and Aldus nodded.

“Damnation, we cannot accept talk of spirits and visions. Are we not men of science, logic, and education?”

“Of course we are, but what difference does that make?” asked Aldus. “Did you not see logic in what Lady Alethea said when she explained, even defended, such gifts? And what of the fact that you saw her eyes in your fire at the same time she saw you in her fire?”

“She is simply well-practiced in mouthing logical explanations for things that are
not
logical. As for the fire, the eyes, and all of that, I am sure there is a logical explanation for that, too.”

“Come, Hartley, there are many, many things we accept as truth that are not logical in the least. We have all accepted a fellow soldier’s intuition, even his prophetic belief that he will not survive a certain battle.”

“She said that,” Hartley muttered.

Aldus ignored him and continued. “We have all felt that moment of blind intuition ourselves, that certain sense about something or someone, and we heed it without question, or nearly so. And have we not all, at some time, felt that chill, that tickle of suspicion, even fear, that we are suddenly not alone? Why is it so difficult to believe that some people may have a keener sense of such things, a true gift for seeing and knowing things we cannot?”

“Because it is strange?” Hartley drawled, but found himself very much in accord with his friend’s opinion.

“Very strange indeed. However, one cannot deny the truth of her sketchbook. Nor are the Vaughns out to wrest money from anyone. It would certainly explain why the Vaughns are all such recluses. I would certainly be wary about where I went and who I accepted as a friend if I were burdened with such a gift.”

“Can you not imagine what value such gifts would have in our work?” asked Gifford.

The three men stared at each other and then frowned in thought. The value of such gifts was all too easy to see. Hartley suspected they would be thought mad if they presented the idea to their superiors, however.

“Iago said he did not have the gift of how a man thought or felt,” murmured Gifford. “It makes one wonder if one of that clan actually does possess such a skill.”

“Bloody hell, just imagine what one could make of that.” Aldus shook his head and then looked at Hartley. “Is that what you intend to do? Use them? Is that why we will be meeting with them again?”

“Yes.” Hartley dragged his hand through his hair, making a mess of his neat queue. “I may waver in believing
how
they came to know so much about those cursed sisters, but the fact is, they
do
know a lot. They might also learn more. Right now, I would accept anything, even some pagan ritual done under a full moon, if it will halt the killing.”

“That was unpleasant,” Iago said as he finished off the brandy a concerned Alethea had served him.

Alethea sat next to her uncle on the thickly cushioned settee where he had collapsed after Margarite and Claudette had left. He had made use of her sketchbook, but she had not yet found the courage to look at what he had drawn. After what he had seen clinging to Claudette, she knew the images would be sad, even dark. Instead, she had busied herself in getting him a drink in the hope of putting a little color back into his cheeks. Her venture into London may have been prompted by the best of intentions, but it was proving to have a lot of frightening pitfalls she had not anticipated.

“Perhaps we should step aside,” she said. “The warning has been given. ’Tis enough, is it not?”

“No, and in your heart, you know that to be true. You were right to say it has become our responsibility.” Iago smiled weakly and patted her hands where they lay tightly clenched together in her lap. “I was prepared this time, but you must give me leave to suffer a moment’s weakness after the ordeal. And the two of them together was very much an ordeal.” He shook his head. “It seems a sin to have such beauty encase such evil. Evil as they have within them should give some sign of its presence, and not just to ones like us.”

“A large, hairy wart, perhaps,” she murmured and was pleased to hear Iago laugh. “Why did they come here?”

“I do not mean to sound vain, but Margarite wants me.”

“Ah, of course, and she is not a woman who likes to be denied or cast aside. For a moment, I feared they knew about us.”

“No, for if they did, they would never risk drawing so close to us.”

“True. Do you think Margarite could be a danger to you?”

“She
is
angry, so quite possibly, but I am aware of the threat she poses to me and others. We must see this through to the end, Alethea. You know that, as I do. You said so before I did. Your visions demand it of you, and what I have seen concerning these two women compels me. What use are such gifts if they are never used for something worthy?”

“And using them against the enemies of one’s country is worthy. I know it. I just had not anticipated that the danger I saw reaching out for Lord Redgrave would also try to reach out for you. And me.”

“I am not at ease with the fact that there is any risk for you, but I will do my best to see that such risk is minimal. I believe we will both be well guarded. Despite their unease, those lordlings believed us, and they are smart enough to see that we, and our particular talents, could be of some use.” Iago stood up. “Our reluctant allies will soon arrive, and I wish to show them a list I made last evening.”

“A list of what?”

“The men I know of who have shared the beds of Margarite and, or, Claudette. I suspect they already have such information, but one never knows.”

Before Alethea could ask how Iago had come by such knowledge himself, he was gone. She sighed and slumped down in her seat. It was naïve to have thought she only needed to warn Lord Redgrave and not only would he heed her, but that her part in it all would then be done. Her uncle seemed almost pleased to have become a part of the secretive battle against England’s enemies, but she sorely regretted pulling him into her mess.

If she was honest with herself, she, too, experienced a touch of pleasure, even excitement, over the chance to help her country. She felt the same over the opportunity to be close to the Marquis of Redgrave. There was a strong possibility, however, that he could prove a greater danger to her than the French spies.

When she had first set eyes on the living, breathing form of the man who had haunted her dreams for so long, she had been spellbound. If not for the importance of what she had come to London to tell him, she feared she might have fawned over him like some love-struck schoolgirl. The more she had thought about her reaction to the man, the more she began to fear that all those years of visions and dreams had not only been leading up to this very important warning. There was a very good chance that she had been connected to him for so long, bound to a man she had never met and knew nothing about, because he was the one she was fated for.

“And that is a grossly unkind twist of fate if ever there was one,” she muttered, sitting up straight and rubbing at her temples in an attempt to banish a beginning headache.

The man was far above her touch. Too thin, oddly shaped ladies with coal black hair and strange eyes did not capture the attentions of men like Lord Redgrave. Oh, she had bosoms full enough for a man and rounded hips, but she was built on very lean lines everywhere else. But such men were meant for the Claudettes of the world, for the beautiful, worldly women. He was also a rake, a sophisticated seducer of women. She had not the faintest idea how to play that game, even if, by some miracle, he wanted to play it with her. If Hartley revealed an interest in her, a part of her was already more than willing to cast aside all caution and let him lead her down the primrose path. The problem was that with her body would go her heart, and when he walked away, as a man like him surely would, he would take her heart with him.

Then again, she mused, if fate had chosen this man for her, there was not a great deal she could do about it. She would do what she could not to play the fool, but suspected that was all she would ever have control of with that man. It seemed weak to be so resigned to fate, she decided as she noticed a lacy handkerchief on the floor, but she was not sure anyone could be anything but resigned. Fate was a very strong force to fight.

Discarding that problem for the moment, Alethea reached for the handkerchief. A little voice in her head told her she did not want to touch it, but her curiosity proved stronger. The moment she grasped hold of the expensive handkerchief, she wished she had listened to that little voice. She cried out as she was swept into a whirlpool of frightening images, dark visions of death and hate. Unable to pull free, she screamed for her uncle before she lost all ability to do so, and then became a prisoner of her own gift.

Iago entered the hall just as his butler let in the lords Hartley, Aldus, and Gifford. So punctual, he thought with an inner smile as he greeted them. It was hard to hide his smile as he looked at a scowling Hartley.
And one of them so very reluctant to be here.
He could not quibble over that reluctance, however. The confrontation and all its revelations had gone far better than he had expected.

“Welcome, my lords,” he said and then quietly instructed his butler to have some refreshments brought to the parlor for his guests. “You
are
welcome,” he continued as the butler left to do as he had been ordered, “even though I am not quite sure how much more help we can be.”

“Neither am I,” muttered Hartley and ignored the scowls his companions sent him.

“Actually, we did have some interesting callers today,” Iago began.

“Iago!”

The scream sent a chill down Hartley’s spine. Instinct told him it had come from Alethea. He was astounded at how quickly Iago reacted, turning and racing down the hall without hesitation. Hartley ran after him, his friends but a step behind. He could hear the rapid approach of others and suspected there would be anxious or alarmed servants to deal with soon.

He stumbled to a halt a few feet inside the room Iago had rushed into, his friends flanking him. Alethea knelt on the floor, slowly rocking back and forth. She clutched a lacy handkerchief in her hand. Her complexion was gray, tears ran down her cheeks, and she was staring blindly at something that deeply horrified her, something he could not see. Just as Iago reached for the handkerchief Alethea held, a plump maid, Iago’s butler, and another man who closely resembled the butler rushed into the room.

“No, m’lord,” cried the maid. “Leave it be!” She ran to Alethea’s side and knelt down beside her.

“But, Kate, ’tis that which upsets her,” said Iago.

“I can see that, but she is deep into a powerful seeing. Might not be good to pull her free of it too quick like.” Kate gently stroked Alethea’s hair. “Best we wait for a sign that she knows we are here, I be thinking.”

Hartley watched the servant who so closely resembled Iago’s butler crouch down behind Alethea. He heard movement in the doorway behind him, and, after a brief glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was in the way, Hartley shut the door on the curious servants peering into the room. When he looked back at Alethea, Kate was gently dabbing the tears from Alethea’s cheeks with her apron and murmuring softly into the woman’s ear. Hartley could see complete acceptance upon the faces of the servants tending to Alethea. Their actions indicated that they were accustomed to this. They only looked concerned for the well-being of Alethea.

This was real, he thought, staring at the small woman caught tight in some waking nightmare. This was no game, no trick or show. No one could act this well. He was sure of it. And, if Alethea had
seeings,
as the maid called them, then that meant that Lord Iago Vaughn saw ghosts. Hartley wondered just what he had gotten himself tangled up in. It was beyond strange. It was beyond his comprehension. It left him feeling uncertain, uneasy. In truth, Hartley was certain of only one thing—he did not like this.

“Kate,” Alethea whispered as the tight grip of her vision began to ease.

“I be here, m’lady,” said Kate, and then she asked, “Can ye leave go of the linen?”

“No. Take it away. Please.”

Iago snatched the lacy handkerchief from her hand. Alethea collapsed, but Alfred’s strong grip kept her from sprawling on the floor. A strange look came over Iago’s face, and Alethea tried to tell him to drop it. Kate cursed softly and yanked the handkerchief from his hand, tossing it toward the fireplace.

“None of you touch that again,” Kate ordered. “’Tis cursed!” She looked at Iago’s butler. “Hot, sweet tea, Ethelred. Alfred, help me,” she ordered the man steadying Alethea.

“My sketchbook,” Alethea said in a hoarse voice as she crawled toward a table set between the two settees.

Hartley cautiously moved closer, his companions matching his steps, as an ashen Alethea made frantic sketches in her book. The two servants gently steadied her still-trembling body. A pale Iago slowly hoisted himself up from the floor and collapsed in a chair. The moment Alethea ceased her drawing, Kate and Alfred helped her onto one of the settees. Hartley quickly claimed the spot next to her, Aldus and Gifford taking seats on the settee facing him.

Iago’s butler arrived with the tea for Alethea, and Kate stood by as she drank it. Right behind Ethelred came two footmen with trays heavily laden with food, wine, and more tea. Kate shooed the other servants away, ordered Alfred to serve the drinks, and fruitlessly tried to convince Alethea to seek her bed. After a few minutes, Iago told both Alfred and Kate to leave. Hartley gulped down the wine he had been served and hastily refilled his glass.

“You can trust the Pughs to say nothing,” Iago said as he helped himself to a lemon tart.

“Poos? Your servants are called Poos?” Hartley tried to clear his head of the numbing effects of shock.

“No.” Iago briefly grinned. “Pughs. P-U-G-H. I think it was once Ap-Hugh, son of Hugh, but over the years it degenerated into simply Pugh. Pughs, Davies, and Jones. The three families have served the Vaughns and the Wherlockes for centuries. Not a whisper of what is done or said here will ever leave these walls.”

“So, the Welsh connection is strong.”

“Very strong. Stand on the walls of Chantiloup and you can spit into Wales. Have a few holdings in Wales as well.” He looked at Alethea. “Better?”

“Yes,” she replied. “It was rather”—she hesitated as she searched for the right word but found none—“unpleasant. I knew, even as I reached for the handkerchief, that it was a mistake. The smell of roses warned me, but I was already in the act of picking it up.”

“May I look?” Iago began to reach for the sketchbook.

“Please do.” Alethea glanced at the other three men. “All of you. One of you may be able to understand what I saw. I fear the images came so quickly and so fiercely it will be a while ere I can puzzle it all out. And, the faces…” She shivered a little and quickly moved to pour herself another cup of heavily sweetened tea. “I do not recognize any of them.”

Hartley moved quickly to join his friends in studying the sketches along with Lord Iago. He was stunned by what he saw. Lady Alethea had filled the page with hastily but superbly drawn images. If her mind had been crowded with so many dark images, it was no wonder that she had been so badly overset.

“I see Peterson there,” Aldus said in a soft, unsteady voice.

“And Rogers,” said Gifford in a similar tone.

“And the Compte de Laceau and his lady,” whispered Hartley.

“They must be the strongest ones.” Iago pointed to his own sketching done on the facing page. “I saw the same earlier, saw their faces in the miasma surrounding Madame Claudette.”

Lord Uppington was also very skilled at drawing, Hartley decided as he studied the man’s sketches, although his work lacked the emotional impact of Alethea’s. Yet it was still chilling to think this man could see such things. Even more chilling to think that Iago saw it all around a woman Hartley had planned to bed. He was going to have to change his plans. It would prove impossible to feel any desire for Madame Claudette now. Despite his strong need to deny all he was seeing now, he knew he would forever see these images in his head when he looked at Claudette. The fact that he felt relieved over the possibility of ending his seduction of Claudette was something he would have to examine later.

Turning his study to the words Alethea had written by each drawing, Hartley frowned slightly. The word
roses
was very easy to understand. Alethea had already made it clear that the scent was Claudette’s signature. The other words troubled him, however. As he retook his seat by her side, he was relieved to see that she looked less pale.

“Why did you put the word
laudanum
next to Peterson?” he asked her. “He was not killed by that.”