Midnight at Mallyncourt (19 page)

Fright forgotten, I was almost amused at myself now. Susie and the other servants might babble of ghosts and such, but I had far too much good sense. My hand on the doorknob, I peered down the long hall leading into the east wing. No misty white figure moved toward me. The shadows fell in thick clusters, dense, not stirring. I started to close the door … and then I saw him.

I felt as though some piercing shaft had been driven through me. The shock was so great, so intense, that it immobilized me. He was leaning against the wall, just inside the hall, concealed by the shadows, just his forehead and those dark, hypnotic eyes visible. A split second passed, and I could feel the scream forming in my throat. Quickly, before I knew what was happening, he seized my wrist, pulled me against him with brutal force and clamped a large hand over my mouth. I didn't struggle. I was stunned, too stunned to do anything but pray this was a nightmare, pray it wasn't really happening to me. Holding me in front of him, one arm wrapped around my waist, that hand crushing my lips, he moved out of the hall and across the gallery, past the wide steps, forcing me ahead of him, finally stopping in front of one of the fireplaces, far away from that open door.

It was a nightmare, it had to be. I would awaken, I would be in my bedroom, this would dissolve, disappear, shredding like a mist and going the way of all nightmares, vaguely remembered, unreal, but it wasn't a nightmare, no, that arm held me tightly against a large, solid body, and that brutal hand was clamped savagely over my mouth, forcing my head back, and I closed my eyes, willing it to dissolve, disappear, knowing even as the hysteria swept over me in shattering waves that he was a madman and I was going to die, here, in the gallery, black brushed with silver, in front of the fireplace. My head whirled, mind spinning crazily, and then his lips were almost touching my ear.

“I'll let you go, but you mustn't scream. Do you understand? Do you promise not to scream?”

I managed to nod. He released me. I turned around to face him. My knees were weak. I almost fell. He caught my shoulders, supporting me. I was still holding the book in my hand, clutching it as though it were a spar and I drowning in tumultuous waves. A great shudder went through me. I closed my eyes again, whirling, and when I opened them I looked up at him and tried to speak. I couldn't. Although we stood in the shadows, he was perfectly visible, wearing a robe of dark, gleaming satin over trousers and shirt. His handsome, rugged face was a mask of anger, mouth stretched tight over his teeth, eyes dark with fury, raven locks spilling untidily over his forehead. His hands gripped my shoulders savagely, and he looked as though he wished they were gripping my throat.

Downstairs, a clock struck the hour. The sound spiraled up the stairwell. There were twelve brassy, muted bongs, and as the last one died away I found it impossible to believe that only ten minutes had passed since I left my bedroom. It seemed a lifetime ago.

“What the
hell
are you doing here!” His voice was low, but it seethed with rage.

“I—I came to fetch a book—”

“In the middle of the night! Without a candle!”

“I had left it in the window recess, you see, and I couldn't sleep and I remembered the book and I thought—I was only going to be gone a minute and I'm not afraid of the dark and—”

My voice broke. I couldn't go on. The shock hadn't all worn off yet. Seeing the book in my hand, Lyman knew I had been telling the truth. He let go of my shoulders, scowled, jammed his hands into the pockets of his robe. In the misty light his face seemed hewn from granite, sternly chiseled. I felt the last vestiges of shock leaving me, and some semblance of calm returned. I shivered, but from the cold now. My shoulders ached where he had gripped them. Brows lowered, Lyman stared at me, and there was a moment of prolonged silence. I was painfully aware of my scanty attire, the frail cloth barely concealing my bosom. I folded my arms around my waist, shivering. A gentleman would have offered me his robe, but then Lyman was no gentleman.

“I'm sorry if I frightened you,” he muttered sullenly.

“I'm quite all right now.”

“You had no business traipsing through the night like that, without a candle.”

“At least I had a reason to be traipsing through the night. What were
you
doing there?”

Lyman looked at me sharply. He didn't answer my question.

“I heard something coming from the east wing,” I said. “It sounded like laughter.”

“You must have imagined it.”

“I didn't imagine it. What
were
you doing there?”

“Don't ask questions, Mrs. Baker.”

“There's something wrong—the east wing. The servants claim they hear peculiar noises. They say it's haunted. That's absurd. There's—it has something to do with that room with the red walls.”

“What do you know about that room?” he demanded, tense.

“I—nothing. I merely saw it. It wasn't like the others. There were no dust sheets, no cobwebs. Edward found me there. He—he was very angry with me. He told me never to—”

“It's just a room,” he said tersely. “Forget about it!”

“But—”

“Come along. I'll take you back to your bedroom.”

“You haven't answered my question. You—”

Seizing my wrist, he marched toward the hall, dragging me along behind him. I cried out in protest, but Lyman Robb paid no heed, moving briskly down the hall with long, angry strides, the skirt of his robe swinging with a loud silken rustle, his hand gripping my wrist firmly, tugging me along. I tottered, stumbled, my petticoat billowing in a flutter of ruffles. He turned the corner, briskly. I almost crashed against the wall. He didn't even notice. When we finally reached the door to my bedroom, he came to an abrupt halt. The door was closed. Grabbing my shoulders, he thrust me back against it. I gasped. He spread his palms against the door on either side of my shoulders, holding me there, his arms making a prison. I looked up at him, amazed, outraged, horrified. It was much darker here. I could barely make out his face: broad, flat cheekbones white, eyes dark and glowing, forehead half-concealed by the thick fringe of hair.

“How dare you!” My voice trembled with anger. “How dare you treat me like—”

“Listen,” he barked, “
care
fully! Forget about tonight. Forget you heard anything. Forget you saw me.”

“I didn't do
any
thing! I merely went to fetch my book, and you leap out of the darkness and grab me and—”

“Jenny! Damn you, listen! It never happened, none of it! You never left your room. Do you understand?”

“No! No, I don't understand. You can't—”

“You're not to tell anyone, not Edward, not anyone. You're not to say a word. For your own good. It's imperative! You've got to trust me.”

“Why? Why should I trust you?”

“Because I'm asking you to,” Lyman said. There was weariness in his voice now, all anger spent.

He moved his arms away from me and stood up straight. He brushed back the fringe of thick locks, sighing heavily. In the hazy semidarkness his face looked strangely vulnerable, all shadowed planes. His robe, wrapped loosely around his body, gleamed with a dark, rich sheen. He stood there in front of me, powerful, robustly male, and somehow or other I sensed that what he had done had been done to protect me. My own anger ebbed. I felt weak and bruised.

“Very well, Lyman. I—I won't say anything.”

He looked at me for a long moment as though to determine my sincerity, and then, abruptly, he gave me a curt nod and padded away into the darkness. I went into my room, put the book down, climbed into bed, and, surprisingly, I fell asleep almost at once. I had no time to think about anything the next morning. A maid brought in my morning tea, and I had barely finished drinking it when one of the footmen knocked on the door and informed me that Edward wished to see me in the drawing room immediately. I dressed quickly, puzzled, and, giving a final pat to my hair, went down to see what he wanted. Edward was standing in front of the fireplace, his features impassive, telling me nothing. As I entered the room a man got up from one of the chairs, made a gallant, mocking bow and regarded me with dark, dancing brown eyes.

“My
dear
cousin Jenny,” he said. “Isn't this nice? Your poor cousin Gerry finds himself in—uh—rather distressing circumstances. He's come to stay with you and your fine, wealthy husband.”

Chapter Ten

T
HE LAST
time I had seen him he had been wearing the resplendent costume of Cesare Borgia, his hair a cap of tight gold curls, the Borgia goatee adding a devilish touch, but now he wore tight tan breeches and elegant tan frock coat, his brown knee boots gleaming, his plum colored waistcoat decidedly flamboyant. His hair was its natural shade, a glossy brown, a bit too long, a bit too studiedly tousled. Though leaning to stoutness, Gerald Prince was still very much the matinee idol, undeniably striking, floridly handsome. I stared at him, stunned, at a loss for words. His mobile, sensual mouth curved into a smile. His magnetic brown eyes danced with amusement.

“You seem surprised, luv,” he said.

“What—what are you doing here?”

“I've come to
stay
with you, Jenny dear. Surely you don't object? It's such a large house, and you wouldn't want your poor cousin to put up at an inn, would you?”

“‘Cousin?' I don't understand—”

I looked at Edward as though for an answer. He was calm and composed, totally unperturbed.

“It should be fairly obvious,” he commented idly. “He's come here to blackmail me.”

“That's such an
ugly
word, old chap,” Gerald Prince remarked. “Let's just say I'm giving you an opportunity to make a cultural investment. Ten thousand pounds will enable me to form a new company, and you, Sir, will be our patron.”

Edward made no comment. I found his calm far more alarming than anger would have been. Elegantly dressed in pearl-gray suit and black and green striped waistcoat, his blond hair sleekly combed, he stood in front of the fireplace as though he hadn't a care in the world, his arms folded loosely across his chest.

“We must be reasonable about things,” Gerry said amiably. “The sum isn't all that great—you could raise it without the least effort, and it means life or death to me. Do try to see it my way, old chap, and try to remember that—as the saying goes—I've got you by the throat.”

“That's putting it rather strongly,” Edward remarked.

“But aptly,” Gerry told him.

“Do you really imagine you can get away with this, Prince?” Edward inquired.

“But of course. You, Sir, have been getting away with your little deception for well over a month now. An admirable endeavor—I fully appreciate it. My own is far more direct, and not a bit more treacherous. Cousin Gerald has come to visit his dear, dear Jenny, and he will remain until the money is in his hands.”

“And if you don't get the money?”

“Then, Sir, I squeeze.”

“Meaning you'll inform my uncle of our little charade.”

“Precisely.”

“You'll regret this, Prince,” Edward said lightly.

“I think not. I stand to lose nothing but ten thousand pounds, while you, Sir, stand to lose everything. Come now, no need for gloom. Once I have the money I'll be on my way, never to bother you again. Think of it as an investment.”

Edward made no reply. The faintest suggestion of a smile began to play at the corner of his lips, as though he found the situation rather amusing. Gerald Prince stepped over to study one of the engravings on the wall, and I looked up at Edward. He didn't seem at all angry. That worried me. What was he thinking? What was he planning to do?

“Your letters,” he informed me.

“I—I'm sorry.”

“Your friend Laverne left them in her dressing room. He saw them.”

“Quite so,” Gerry remarked, turning to face me. “Careless of Laverne to leave them laying about like that. I chanced to step into her dressing room when she was out, spotted the letters immediately. They made most interesting reading. I was rather surprised—this sort of thing isn't your style at all, Jenny—but I didn't think too much about it at first. It was only after a series of—uh—most distressing circumstances that I began to formulate a plan.”

“Laverne wrote me about those ‘circumstances.' You left the company stranded. You absconded with the money, and—”

“Past history, luv. We needn't be concerned with that.”

“And when the money ran out, you decided to employ a bit of blackmail. You came here, thinking you could get by with—”

“
Knowing
I could get by with it,” he corrected. “Your—uh—husband can't afford to refuse me. I have the upper hand, and he knows it. Right, Sir?”

“So it would seem,” Edward replied.

“I find your attitude most sensible—I half expected violent threats, smouldering rage, melodramatics. It's plain to see you're an extremely intelligent man, quite civilized.”

Edward acknowledged the remark with a slight nod.

“You'll pay?”

“I can't raise a sum like that overnight,” Edward told him. “I'll have to write my solicitor in London. It'll take at least a week for me to get the money.”

“No hurry,” Gerry said generously, “no hurry at all. I rather fancy spending a few days anyway. I've always been curious about how the other half lives—historic old house, servants at every turn, private stables and all. It should be pleasant.”

Edward smiled his thin smile. I found it frightening, but Gerry was quite sure of himself now, and he found nothing at all extraordinary about Edward's attitude. But then he didn't know the man. I did.

“You brought bags?” Edward asked.

“I left 'em on the front steps,” Gerry said.