Seduction Becomes Her (14 page)

“Oh, he was,” said Anne Darby, a twinkle in her eyes. “Very. It is whispered that in the days of King John, while good King Richard the Lionheart was away on the Crusades, that he took for his own another man’s wife…”

T
he words barely left Anne Darby’s mouth before Miss Ketty, throwing a fulminating look at Daphne, said, “I must protest. I do not believe that Miss April should be listening to such improper nonsense.”

“Oh, dear Ketty, never say so,” begged April. “I have read the Arthurian Legends. I know all about Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere. Surely, this is little different.”

“It really isn’t,” agreed Daphne. “And I think you forget that April will be seventeen in a few months. While to us, she will always be the baby of the family, she is growing up. She is a young lady, and I think it unfair to banish her to the schoolroom.” Coaxingly, she added, “It is only a legend, a story. It cannot hurt her to hear it, and if at any time, I think the subject inappropriate, I shall ask Mrs. Darby to cease.” Not giving Miss Ketty a chance to reply, Daphne turned to Mrs. Darby and said with a smile, “Won’t you please begin?”

As Mrs. Darby spun her tale, Charles watched with amusement as Daphne, April, and Adrian listened spellbound. The Black Beaumont legend was just the sort of thing he’d thought it would be—the young and beautiful wife, Blythe, stolen away from her husband by a dangerous rogue, Black Beaumont. Blythe’s
much
older husband, died, of course, of a broken heart within weeks of Beaumont’s dastardly deed with Blythe’s name on his lips. In reality, Charles suspected that the husband died of old age and that Blythe was more than happy to exchange him for a handsome, virile young warrior of Black Beaumont’s ilk. He smiled to himself as Mrs. Darby finished the story with a traditional ending: after her husband’s death, Blythe married Beaumont, and they lived happily ever after.

As the story wound down, Charles noticed that Daphne looked disappointed. What had she expected? That Blythe stabbed Beaumont to death and returned forthwith to her husband? His lips quirked. More than likely, that was
exactly
the ending she would have preferred.

Charles was wrong. Daphne had no problem with the story as Mrs. Darby told it, but she was disappointed that the tale of Black Beaumont appeared to have no bearing on the strange visitation she had experienced. She sighed. She knew it was unlikely that she’d be so lucky as to discover the answers she sought so easily, but she was still disappointed.

There was an added urgency to her desire to discover more about the history of the Beaumonts—Adrian and April’s admission of the crying wind worried her. It was one thing for her to face a ghostly apparition, another for her brother and sister to be disturbed, even if only by the sounds of the wind. Their confessions lent credence to her growing fear that there was
something
roaming the halls of Beaumont Place. Whatever it might be, good or evil, she thought stoutly, I shall discover what it is and
make it go away.

The vicar’s papers and documents so far had revealed little that was of help to her. Daphne knew that further study of them might tell her what she wanted to know, but instinct told her that she could easily overlook that for which she searched. Ancestors, she admitted glumly, had a way of suppressing or watering down facts so that they did not reflect badly on the family. She sighed. Mrs. Darby’s stories might not reveal anything of use, but right now, Goodson’s sister was her best source of information.

Forcing a smile, Daphne murmured, “Won’t you please tell us another story?”

Between the social niceties and Mrs. Darby’s tale, the time had sped by, and dusk was falling. As the light faded, the storm arrived, announcing its presence by the occasional clap of thunder, the low moaning of the wind, and the rain flailing against the windows. Listening to the sounds of the increasing storm, Mrs. Darby said regretfully, “I’d planned to tell you another story, a ghost story, but I’m afraid that the worsening weather makes that impossible. Mayhap another time?”

“Oh, I say,” protested Adrian. “Can’t have you leaving in filthy weather like this. I insist that you remain here tonight as our guest. Goodson and Mrs. Hutton can fix you up right and tight.”

Daphne’s pulse leaped at the mention of the word ghost, and she could have kissed Adrian for his invitation to Mrs. Darby. The ghost story might prove to be utter nonsense, but Daphne was desperate to hear it, and when Anne hesitated, she leaned forward and touched her hand. “Please stay. As my brother says, Goodson can take care of everything, and it will be no imposition.”

“Yes! You must stay,” chimed in April. “It shall be ever so enjoyable.” A particularly loud clap of thunder rattled the windows, and April jumped. Turning a laughing face toward Mrs. Darby, she added, “You see—it is going to be a splendid night for ghost stories. Oh, do say that you will stay.”

Charles saw the change in Daphne’s face when Mrs. Darby mentioned the word ghost. His bride-to-be clearly wanted Mrs. Darby to stay. But why? Mere politeness? A ghoulish streak? He doubted it. But ever helpful, he murmured, “There is no question, Mrs. Darby, of you leaving tonight. The weather is frightful; you must remain as Sir Adrian’s guest.” He flashed his most charming smile. “Besides, as the young lady has said, it is a splendid night for a ghost story.”

Mrs. Darby capitulated. Daphne rang for Goodson and Mrs. Hutton, and they were informed of the change in plans. If Goodson’s features congealed into a rigid, immobile mass at the news, Mrs. Hutton was easier to read, a smile breaking over her face at the announcement.

“Goodson shall have another place set for dinner,” Mrs. Hutton said. “And I shall tell Cook that there is one more person dining tonight.”

“It’s not necessary for me to dine with your family,” Mrs. Darby said calmly, looking at Adrian. “I appreciate your kindness, Sir Adrian, but I’m not one to get above myself. I think it would be more fitting, and I would be more comfortable, if I dined in the kitchen with staff.”

“And considering the hour,” said Daphne, eager to gloss over any awkwardness, “I suggest that we allow Mrs. Hutton to show Mrs. Darby to her room and that she rejoin us here after dinner.” Turning to Mrs. Darby, she added, “That will give you time to, er, settle in before you once again regale us with another story.”

“Settle in?” Charles remarked after the doors had closed behind the two servants and Mrs. Darby. “Don’t you mean to tend her brother’s wounded sensibilities?”

Daphne smiled. “That more than anything else. Poor Goodson. He is on the horns of a dilemma, isn’t he? We shall have to be very kind to him if we are not to be in his black books forever.”

Dinner behind them, they were once again gathered in the blue salon, the candelabra had been lit to cast out the gloom, and the fire danced on the hearth. Outside, the wind shrieked around the house, the rain pelted the windows, and the flashing lightning and rumbling thunder created the perfect atmosphere for a ghost story.

The Beaumonts were scattered comfortably around the room, Adrian and April sitting side-by-side on a sofa across from where Daphne again sat beside Mrs. Darby. Charles stood near the fire, his arm resting along the marble mantle facing the room. Mrs. Ketty was in her chair by the fire, her tatting spilling off her lap and onto the floor, her expression that of long-suffering disapproval. She was not the only one unhappy with the situation. The few moments that Goodson was in the room as he placed a large tray of refreshments on a low rosewood table in front of the sofa where Daphne sat were strained. The tension between Goodson and his sister was almost palpable, the air vibrating with condemnation from Goodson, defiance from Mrs. Darby.

Goodson departed, outraged disapproval fairly radiating from him, his bow to her so stiff that Daphne feared he’d have shattered in a thousand pieces if his spine had been any more rigid. She sighed. Tomorrow, she would make amends, she thought as she served the ladies tea and Charles poured himself and Adrian a snifter of brandy.

Daphne took a sip of her tea and glanced at Mrs. Darby. “You mentioned something about a ghost?”

Mrs. Darby set down her cup and saucer and nodded. “Yes, I did.” She smiled at April. “I’m afraid there is no happy ending this time. It is a sad, tragic tale.”

April’s eyes went round, and she clasped her hands under her chin in anticipatory delight. “How lovely. Please begin.”

“It was,” Mrs. Darby said in a solemn voice, “during the reign of Bloody Mary, and Sir Wesley and his nephew and heir, John, were on opposite sides of the upheaval.” Mrs. Darby explained that Sir Wesley had no children of his own and that John was the only child of his younger brother, Edward. Sir Wesley, a secret supporter of Rome, had long awaited the return of the true faith, but Edward, who had died the second year of Mary’s reign in 1555, and his son, John, were ardent followers of Henry the VIII’s Protestant religion. Edward and Sir Wesley had been bitter enemies—even as boys, they’d fought and argued over the smallest of things. As they matured, the rift grew wider, but it was Edward’s marriage to a lovely young heiress that put an end to any hope that the two men would ever be reconciled. Sir Wesley, mad with jealousy and envy, believed that his brother had deliberately seduced and married the only woman he’d ever wanted, thereby depriving him of a family and an heir from his own loins.

Mrs. Darby stopped speaking for a moment to take a sip of her tea, and Adrian muttered, “If that don’t beat all! Don’t see why Sir Wesley couldn’t have married some other gal. If you ask me, it was his own fault he didn’t have a son of his own. No reason to blame his brother.”

“But perhaps no other woman would do for him,” breathed April. “John’s mother may have been his one and only true love.”

Adrian sent her a look. “Balderdash! You been reading some of those silly books from Minerva Press again?”

“Of course she hasn’t!” snapped Miss Ketty. “As if I would allow such a thing.”

The guilty look on April’s face told a different tale, and not wanting to give Miss Ketty an opening to scold, Daphne said quickly to Mrs. Darby, “Won’t you go on?”

Mrs. Darby nodded. “It is said that Sir Wesley’s reputation,” she began again, “was that of a cold, hard, unfeeling man. His tenants feared him, and he was generally held in low esteem by his neighbors, few caring for his brutal ways. Edward was admired and respected by many, and Sir Wesley hated his brother for that, too. There was no love lost between him and his nephew, either. The chasm was so deep that after Edward’s death, Sir Wesley swore that he would stop at nothing to keep John from standing in his shoes.”

Despite the cheerily burning fire, Daphne felt a chill and pulled her gaily patterned Chinese silk shawl closer around her shoulders. She glanced around the room, seeing that everyone was intent upon the story that Mrs. Darby was telling. As the seconds passed, the chill intensified, and she noticed that April shivered a little in her thin, spotted muslin gown and that Miss Ketty was rearranging her woolen shawl to cover her arms. Even Charles, a slight frown on his face, reached down to poke at the leaping gold and scarlet flames. A feeling of dread shot through her—the chill was not her imagination, the others could feel it, too. Remembering the icy cold of her bedroom the night she had seen the apparition, Daphne searched the room for the foglike form, but there was nothing. Except, it seemed to her that the candles were not burning as brightly, that a creeping gloom seemed to be stealing into the room.

The storm cast its own eerie spell, the house creaking and rattling from the force of the wind and the brilliant white flashes from the lightning, each flash followed by the angry snarl and rumble of thunder.

After an especially powerful thunderclap, Mrs. Darby frowned and rubbed her arms as if cold before saying, “John, as handsome a young man as you could find, like his father before him, had married an heiress, a lovely young lady, Anne–Marie, only months before Edward’s death. And though saddened by his father’s death, in the spring of 1556, John had much to be happy about—his beloved Anne–Marie was pregnant, and they were looking forward to the birth of their first child.” Mrs. Darby’s voice lowered. “It was a bloody time for the Protestants,” she said gravely. “With Queen Mary’s blessings, the Pope had restored Catholic control over England, and just the previous year, our own brave Bishop Latimer, refusing to recant his Protestant faith, was burned at the stake along with other martyrs who refused to bow to papal Rome.” Her gaze moved from one rapt face to another. “It was a terrible time—no Protestant dare openly practice their faith for fear of reprisal. Worse, there were those who used the situation to further their own dastardly aims. Including Sir Wesley. He used his power as Queen Mary’s man to seize other lands and fortunes and to retaliate against his neighbors. It is whispered that at Sir Wesley’s command, more than one poor soul died screaming in the dungeons beneath this very house and that even his bride, taken in the desperate hope of siring an heir, was not immune to his cruelty.”

A wave of cold so powerful it made her teeth chatter swept over Daphne just as April said, “Why is it so cold in here?”

“What is wrong with that fire?” Miss Ketty demanded. “Miss April is right, this room is freezing.”

“It is a bit chilly,” remarked Adrian. “Must be the storm, the wind forcing itself around the window frames.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the fire,” Charles said. “Look for yourselves. It’s burning well, but I’ll throw on more wood if you like.”

“Please do,” said Daphne, though she suspected that no amount of wood was going to make any difference. She watched as Charles piled several more logs on the fire, golden sparks shooting up the chimney. Yet there was no added warmth in the room, and the sensation that something lurked just beyond her sight was overpowering. Whatever was causing the icy cold this time felt vastly different from that night in her bedroom, and she glanced around, afraid of what she might see. That last time, she had been frightened, it was true, but there hadn’t been this sense of dread, of terror that rose up in her throat, nearly choking her. The candles dimmed, and she had the uneasy impression that
something
was in the room with them and that it was
not
the sad little ghost that had appeared previously to her.