Lois Greiman (10 page)

Pentmore Hall was lit up like Michaelmas. It stood atop a hill surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and sweeping acres of frosty lawn.

William blew into his hands, then rubbed them together, but there was little hope of warming up. The temperature had dropped with the sun. His breath curled into the black night like ghostly dreams.

From across the frozen turf, an echo of laughter found his ears. He shivered against the effects and wondered if he had received an invitation to this particular party. He often ignored the engraved cards that lay piled in a tray on the marble table in his vestibule. But he wondered now if his old friends thought about him. Did they assume he was dead? Did they think he had drunk himself into a stupor and made some foolishly fatal mistake? Were they surprised? Did they care that he was cold? That he was tired? That he was wounded?

“Drink yourself to death if you like.”

Princess’s words echoed in his memory. He had very nearly made a foolishly fatal mistake. Indeed, he had nearly made several, even when sober. What would have happened had he been drunk? What lethal truths would he have spilled? He scowled at the thought, remembering his stomach’s reaction to the spirits Princess had given him. Had his illness saved him from his own foolishness? Might that have been her intent despite her words to the contrary? He shook his head and paced silently along the fence. Back in his own world, he had dozens of friends, scores of associates. He’d been inebriated with most of
them. Scores of times with the baron called Cask, and not once had Will been poisoned. But neither had the jovial baron asked him to change his self-destructive ways.

He nearly laughed at the thought. Obviously he was losing his mind, for she had surely not hoped to save him from himself. Far more likely she’d planned to get rid of him for all and good. Turning, Will paced back along the black metal fence. The wind found his face, biting on contact, gnawing at his fragile resolve.

There was no reason he couldn’t return home. No reason except…Princess’s face blew mistily into his mind. Her silvery eyes were watching him, and her lips were slightly bowed, as if hiding a thousand secrets.

Footsteps from behind brought him out of his trance. Was someone following him? He turned, stilling his breath and waiting. Not a whisper of sound disturbed the night. He searched the trees behind him. Darkness and billowing fog conspired against him. But if he could not see, surely the same could be said of any who might have tried to follow him…unless the other had the senses of a beast.

Oxford’s squat image flickered in his mind. Will braced himself against a shiver. If he was quiet, if he was careful, he could return home. Forget all this, get himself a drink. But it would be different now, for he had learned much, realized, in fact, that he had been killing himself by slow increments. He’d dulled his senses and lived in shameful darkness for a score of years, but he would not do so again. One drink. That’s all he’d have, for he no longer wished to die. Thus, he’d return to Landow Manor and change his ways, become a new man.

“Surely you would be safer in your manor house.”

Her words seemed to echo from the darkness around
him. What did she know of Landow Manor? What did she know of him? And how did she know it? Had she somehow been involved in Elli’s death? Memories flickered in his mind. Laughter, sadness, whispered words—but each image was of a silvery-eyed princess and not of the wife he’d failed.

Gritting his teeth against the guilt, Will grasped the iron bars of the fence and levered himself over. Pain ripped up his chest, gnawing hungrily. Every muscle jerked tight when he dropped to the ground on the far side and he paused for a moment, letting the agony subside to a dull growl before making his way quietly across the crisp grasses.

A hum of noise issued from Pentmore Hall. Will eased into the shrubbery, careful of every footfall until he stopped but a few yards from the towering manse. He waited there, letting his heart settle, letting his hands steady and closing his eyes against the lunacy of his present actions. It seemed to take forever for the bump of his heart to slow. The rumble of noise separated itself into individual voices, some near, some distant.

Opening his eyes, he grasped a fir bough and peered between the ever-fresh branches. A pair of gentlemen stood on the stone walkway, one tall and one stocky. They stood shadowed and illumined by the beveled lantern that hung from a curved iron rod, and smoke from their cheroots danced over their heads. The scent was sweet and strangely nostalgic, causing the ache in his chest to intensify.

“Aye,” said the taller of the two men, “she’s young, but ’tis said she’s got some starch to her.”

“And a good thing, too,” said the stocky fellow and leaned toward his companion. “’Tis said there’s a traitor
in the palace, one who’s spilling Sedonian secrets to those who shouldn’t hear them.”

“Aye, well, she’s got Laird MacTavish at her side now.”

“That she has,” agreed the squat nobleman, and puffed on his cheroot. “And ’tis just that that worries me.” He removed his cigar and squinted through the smoke. “Good Christ—he’s a pirate.”

“Was, at any rate,” agreed the other, “but he cleaned up the isle, didn’t he? Perhaps he can do the same for Sedonia.”

“Or perhaps the old lord’s nephew will put a knife through his chest and claim everything MacTavish calls his own. Which would include our young queen and the very soil on which we stand.”

“Wheaton has neither the manpower nor the wealth to best MacTavish. As you said, he’s a pirate at heart. It’ll take more than a disinherited weasel like Wheaton to beat him down.”

The political conversation droned on as they turned and made their way inside. Will pulled his attention away to scan the area. A wreath hung on the heavy timber of the front door, holly berries, as red as blood, snuggled in the greenery. From inside a woman laughed. William raised his gaze up the rough stone exterior. A candle flickered in every window, haloed by a fat dollop of golden light. Laughter wafted from the house again, sounding content and cozy, unaware of the masses that huddled behind the cold, iron fences. Unaware, or at least uncaring, about the scared, hungry populace. Unappreciative of the wondrous comforts found behind closed doors.

Will curled his fingers into his palms. They no longer
felt cold. Indeed, they were hot and stiff, too numb to climb to one of those golden windows. He skimmed the length of the house. The back door was probably open, but even if he did succeed in entering there, what then? He was dressed in little more than rags. Peter had found him a pair of shoes. They were two sizes too big. His trousers had once been high-grade wool, but were frayed and dusty now. And his shirt. There was no disguising the shirt, even with the coat Gem had given him. It was three inches short at the wrists and bore a hole in the back that made him doubt if the former owner had died of natural causes.

Memories of Landow’s coffers filled his mind. Not for many years had he cared about the state of his garments, and yet every article of clothing he possessed was preferable to what he now wore.

What the hell was he doing here? He should go home. The thought of Landow Manor filled him with a sharp yearning. Warmth, security, light—they could all be his. Had been, in fact, and yet he hadn’t known it, not for as long as he could recall.

“Go back to where you came from, before it’s too late.”

But too late for what? He scowled at the mansion that loomed overhead, but a flicker of motion caught his eye. Someone was racing toward him. He jerked back, but the truth registered in a moment. He’d not been discovered in his piney bower. It was naught but a young couple searching for a few minutes alone, giggling as they fled the house and made for the bushes. The lad’s old-fashioned top hat was tilted at a precarious angle and the girl’s eyes gleamed with mischief as they raced across the cobbled walkway and into the nearby shrubbery.

Will could hear their breathy whispers in the darkness.

“James!” Her tone was aghast, but there was teasing heavily laced with the shock. “I must insist that you cease.”

“I can’t.”

She giggled again. “If my father finds out—”

“I’m not about to tell him.”

They were silent for a moment, presumably kissing before the girl spoke again. “You’re mad.”

“I’m randy.”

“Harriet says you’re always randy…and hard.”

“Julia.” The boy’s voice was a growl. “Do that again, and I’ll not be responsible for my actions.”

“Oh…” There was a moment of silence. “And what might those actions be?”

He groaned. “Come to my carriage.”

“Someone would see us.”

“They’ll not recognize us in the dark.”

“In that hat?” she scoffed.

“I adore this hat,” he said, as if mightily wounded. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The buckle shines like a beacon. You look like a bloody pilgrim.”

“As it happens, the pilgrims were excellent lovers.”

She snorted. “You’re intoxicated, James Crogen.”

“’Tis not true. I’m but mad with longing. I must—”

“Shh,” she hissed.

Voices sounded from the lawn, deep and male. A trio of gentlemen passed by, close enough to smell the hot buttered rum they carried in steaming cups.

Giggles issued from the bushes. Will tensed, but the gents kept walking, oblivious to the fornication about to take place nearby.

“James! What would—” But the words stopped, and she sighed. “Pilgrims do have lovely hands.”

“Aye,” he whispered, “and other things that are lovelier still.”

“James Crogen, whatever are you suggesting?”

“I think you know.” His voice was rife with frustration.

“We’ll freeze.”

“Freeze! The devil, I’m burning up. Feel this.”

She sighed, and he groaned.

“Julia, please. I’ll keep you warm, I swear it. Just a moment.” There was the sound of madly rustling clothing. “Lie on my coat.”

“James—”

The sentence was cut short.

“My God, you’re beautiful.” Clothes rustled again.

She gasped. “Harriet was right. You’re far bigger than Timmy.”

“Touch me like that again, and I swear I’ll explode.”

“Like that?”

He growled something Will couldn’t quite understand. But the meaning was clear enough.

“You know we shouldn’t.”

“I know no such thing. I’m dying, Julia.”

“Really?” Will could hear her kiss him. “Will it stay hard even after you’re dead?”

“Julia!” He sounded honestly scandalized.

She giggled, and he groaned.

“Save me,” he whispered.

There was a moment of indecision, then, “If you take off that ridiculous hat.”

In a heartbeat, Will heard the thing sail through the air and land not ten inches from the bush behind which he hid.

An idea struck him like flint. A decent hat and coat could cover a host of fashion sins. Even he knew that
much. Staring into the darkness, he made certain he was not being watched, then reached out to snatch up the hat. His heart was pounding, though probably not so hard as the nearby couple’s. He could hear their heavy breathing as he stepped out of the bushes.

“Oh, God, Julia! Oh God!”

The boy was quick. Will would give him that, but a little honest fear of God wouldn’t hurt either of them. They shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain anyway, he thought, and almost smiled as he spoke.

“Julia!”

A rasped hiss sounded from the bushes.

“Julia, where the devil are you?” He rustled his hand around in the brushes some ten yards from where they lay hidden. “By God, Mr. Crogen, if you’re out there with my daughter, there’ll be hell to pay.”

There was a whisper of noise. Bushes rustled, then the hustle of beating feet could be heard.

William glanced about. No one was in sight as he made his way through the shrubbery. A black shape lay upon the ground. Picking up the coat, he brushed it off, shed his own tattered garment, and pulled on the new. It still bore the heat of young love—or lust as the case may be. It was a bit tight across the shoulders, and the sleeves were too short, but he’d never been known as a natty dresser. Still, he realized as he buttoned up the tailcoat, he would need a cravat of some sort. Pulling his shirt out of his pants, he tore a strip off the bottom. In the flickering light it was impossible to tell just how filthy it was, but he had no other options, so he tied it sloppily around his neck, tore the buckle from the aged hat, and tilted it onto his head.

“Julia?” A man’s voice sounded from the back door. “Where the devil have you gotten off to now?” A dark
form strode around the corner of the house and stopped at the sight of William. “Who are you?” His tone was filled with the harshness of too much liquor and an elevated opinion of his own importance. Will had heard it a thousand times and wondered vaguely if his own voice had sounded the same.

“Lord Ives,” he said, chancing a shot in the dark. “I am Sir Benjamin Bowery. I don’t believe we’ve ever met.” He extended his hand and forced himself to breathe.

The portly fellow took his palm in his own. “I don’t remember inviting you,” he said, but his tone had mellowed a bit.

“Your daughter asked me to come.”

The man swore with some fervor. “Where is she?”

“Julia?”

“Where the devil has she got off to?”

“I believe I saw her strolling in the garden with a young—” he began, but Pentmore was already gone, rolling away like a steam engine.

William watched him go, then turned toward the looming house. It leered at him. This was madness. Insanity. He didn’t know how to find the library. He couldn’t identify the bloody chest if it fell into his lap, and he had no idea what to do with it if it did.

“Nobody fights my battles.”

But no one had fought his sister’s either, and she was long dead. He remembered how she had looked to the skinny boy who had peered into her casket—hollow, fragile, and eternally sad. Ancient demons cackled in his soul. Failure loomed like ancient gargoyles.

The back door opened. Light blasted out like the fires of hell. His stomach twisted as three dark shapes emerged and tottered down the walkway, nearly ricocheting off Will as they went, but none so much as turned
his way. Despite everything, he was one of them. And yet he was not. Not tonight, for he was Slate—bold, clever, strong.