Wicked (3 page)

It was precisely then that a tapping did sound, firm upon the door to the den.

Shelby, in his footman’s attire—a little bizarre, but certainly imposing upon a man of his great size and musculature—cracked open the door when bidden to do so.

“There’s a young woman to see you, Lord Brian.” He seemed quite baffled.

“A young woman?” Brian repeated, frowning.

Shelby nodded. “Actually, a very beautiful young woman, waiting down at the gates.”

“A young woman!” Evelyn exclaimed, staring at Brian.

“Yes, yes, we’ve established that,” Brian said. “What is her name? Why has she come?”

“What does it matter?” Evelyn said. “You must invite her in and find out what it is that she needs or wants.”

“Evelyn, certainly it matters. She must be a fool, to be coming here. Or she’s working for someone,” Brian said.

Evelyn waved a hand in the air. “Shelby, you must bring her in. Immediately. Oh, Brian! Please, you mustn’t always be so suspicious.”

He arched a brow.

“Brian, please! We haven’t had an actual visitor here since…in years!” she finished with a flush. “I can serve a delightful meal. It’s actually quite exciting!”

“Exciting,” Brian said dryly. He lifted his hands. “Shelby, do invite the young woman in.” He looked at Evelyn. “For, indeed, she has come tapping at our door.”

C
AMILLE HAD BEEN QUITE CAREFUL
regarding every move she made, including their conveyance and their appearances. Ralph was handsomely decked out in one of Tristan’s day suits with a proper cap, giving the impression of a properly clean and dignified individual, but one in service. She had drawn out her best gown, a feminine concoction in deep maroon, the bodice neither too high nor too low, the bustle of a medium size, the overskirt in satin, with lace bordering the underskirt, showing through the delicate scallops at the hem. It was an outfit, she had determined, that dressed a young respectable woman who did not possess a great fortune, yet had the most respectable means to see one through life.

She definitely begrudged the money she had to pay the hansom cab to bring them so far out of the city, but the driver was courteous, glad of the fare and quick to assure her that he was willing to wait to return them to London. So it was that she stood at the massive gates to Carlyle Castle, staring at the massive structure of wrought iron that prevented them from entering, and turned to Ralph in disbelief.

“You two determined that you must scale
this
wall?” she said.

He shrugged unhappily. “Well, if you follow the wall itself around a bit, there’s a damaged area. It was actually
quite easy to get a foothold, and then…well, I boosted Tristan and he dragged me. Really, I might have broken bones escaping, since I had to depart the same way, and by that time there was some kind of very large hound after me. Unless, in fact, he does raise wolves…but no matter. I did escape, and I do swear I wasn’t seen.”

Ralph blushed, aware that she hadn’t in the least appreciated his story.

She had already pulled upon the massive cord that presumably rang a bell somewhere in the castle.

“Tristan is within,” she murmured.

“Camie, honestly, I’d not have deserted, ever!” Ralph protested. “But I didn’t know what else to do, other than come to you.”

“I know that you wouldn’t have deserted him,” she said softly, then added, “Hush! Someone is coming.”

They heard a pounding of horse’s hooves, and a man on top of a huge steed appeared behind the gate. When he dismounted, Camille could very well understand the huge horse, for the fellow was a giant. He stood many inches over six feet, and his shoulders seemed to have the breadth of a doorway. He was no lad, but neither was he ancient. She thought his age to be, perhaps, midthirties. Muscled and tense, he made his way to peer through the gate.

“Yes?”

“Good evening,” Camille said, flustered despite herself by the fellow’s size and foreboding tone. “Excuse the late hour and the unannounced call, I beg you. It’s imperative that I see the master of the house, the Earl of Carlyle, on a matter of utmost urgency.”

She had expected questions; she received none. The man stared at her from beneath dark, bushy brows, then turned.

“Excuse me!” she cried.

“I will see if the master is available,” he called over his shoulder. He leaped atop the huge horse once again, and the sound of the animal’s lope disappeared into the darkness of the trail that led to the castle.

“He won’t be available,” Ralph said pessimistically.

“He must be. I will refuse to leave until he sees me,” Camille assured Ralph.

“To most men, the thought of a lady waiting at the gates in the darkness would be distressing. But we are dealing with the Beast of Carlyle,” Ralph reminded her.

“He will see me,” Camille insisted.

She paced before the gate.

“No one is coming back,” Ralph said, growing distressed.

“Ralph, our hansom is waiting, but I will not leave without Tristan. If no one appears soon, I will ring that bell until they are all half-mad from the sound,” Camille said.

She stood still, arms crossed over her chest.

Ralph began to pace. “No one is coming,” he repeated.

“Ralph, it is some distance to the castle. The man surely had to go to it, find his master and then return to us.”

“We will sleep out here,” Ralph warned.

“Well, you do know how to break back in to the property,” Camille reminded him.

“We should start now, then.”

“We should wait,” she said firmly.

She began to fear that Ralph was right, that she would be ignored, left to wait at the gates with no leave to enter and no refusal sending her away. But then, just when she had nearly despaired, she heard the sound of hooves once again and the clacking of wheels.

A small wagon, handsomely roofed in leather and fringe, appeared with the huge man at the reins. He hopped down from the driver’s seat and came to the gate, using a
large key to open the padlock braced around it, then swinging the gate open.

“If you’ll please accompany me?” he said, the words polite, his tone as dour as ever.

Camille flashed an encouraging smile at Ralph and followed. Ralph came along, as well. The big man hoisted Camille into the rear seat of the conveyance, and Ralph hopped up behind her.

The small carriage took them down a long and winding path. The darkness on either side of the road seemed to be deep and endless. By day, Camille was certain, they would have seen massive trees and an overgrown forest flanking the path. The master of Carlyle liked his environs secluded, to the point of it all appearing to be like some godforsaken no-man’s-land. As they trotted along, it seemed to Camille that the forest breathed, that indeed it was an overbearing entity ready to suck in the unwary, entangle the soul.

“And you two thought you might begin to
find
some treasure here?” she whispered to Ralph.

“You’ve not seen the castle yet,” he whispered back.

“You’re both mad! I should leave Tristan here,” she murmured. “This is the greatest foolishness I have ever seen.”

Then the castle loomed before her. Mammoth. It retained a moat over which lay a great drawbridge, permanently down now, Camille imagined, since armies were unlikely to come and besiege the place. Yet, it appeared quite certain that no one could simply slip into the place, since the castle walls themselves were staunch and windowless to a great height, and only narrow slits could be seen.

She looked at Ralph, angrier and more distraught the closer they came. What had the two been thinking?

The carriage clattered over the bridge. They came to a great courtyard and she saw just what Tristan might have known—the area was covered with antiquities, fascinating statues and pieces of art. An ancient bathtub—Greco-Roman, she thought—had been handsomely altered to act as a contemporary watering trough. There were various sarcophagi lining an area of the outer wall, and numerous other treasures were laid closer to the path that led to a great door. The castle had obviously seen some construction work to bring it into the nineteenth century. The doorway was rounded handsomely, and from the turret atop it, boxes of vines spilled over, offering a tiny bit of welcome to a visitor.

She continued to survey the courtyard as the huge man came to help her from the carriage. The artifacts belonged in the museum, she thought indignantly. But she was well aware that many things she would consider precious were ordinary to rich world travelers. She’d heard, as well, that mummies were so plentiful, they were often sold as fodder for fireplaces and heat. Still, there were many stunning examples of Egyptian art here—two giant ibises, a few statues of Isis and a number of others that were surely lesser pharaohs.

“Come,” the big man said.

They followed him up the path to the door. It opened to a circular reception area, where once, it was planned that the enemy should be bottled and trapped, were they to get this far. Now, the area was a mudroom.

“If I may?”

The man took her cape. Ralph held tightly to his overcoat. The big man shrugged.

“Come.”

They passed through a second door to an outstanding hall. Here, modernization had definitely been in effect. In
fact, the room was actually gracious. The stone stairway curved to an upper level and balcony, and the stairs were covered in a warm, royal-blue runner. Weapons lined ceilings and part of the walls, but they were interspersed by beautiful oils, some of them portraits, others medieval and pastoral scenes. She was certain that many were the works of great masters.

A fire crackled in a massive hearth. The furniture surrounding the hearth was in deep brown leather, yet not austere in the least. Rather, it offered a plush and welcoming comfort.

“You, wait here,” the man told Ralph. “You, come with me,” he said to Camille.

Ralph stared at her like a frightened puppy being left behind in a ditch. She inclined her head to let him know that it was quite all right, and followed the man up the curving stairs.

He led her into a room with a massive desk and endless shelves of books. Her heart leaped at the sight of them. So many! And the subject matter on one wall was that near and dear to her heart.
Ancient Egypt
was a massive tome aligned next to
The Path of Alexander the Great.

“The master will be with you shortly,” the big man said, closing the door behind him as he left.

Standing alone in the large room, Camille was first aware of silence. Then, bit by bit, those little noises that intruded upon the night. From somewhere, she heard the plaintive, chilling call of a wolf. Then, as if to alleviate that chill, the snap of a fire burning brightly in the hearth to the left of the entry.

A crystal decanter of brandy, surrounded by fragile snifters, sat on a small brown table. She was tempted to run to it, seize up the elegant crystal and imbibe the brandy until it was gone.

Turning again, she noted a large and beautiful painting behind the great desk. The woman within it wore clothing of perhaps a decade earlier. She had lovely light hair and a smile that seemed to illuminate. Her deep blue eyes, almost a sapphire, were the most alluring aspect of the painting. Fascinated, Camille moved closer.

“My mother, Lady Abigail of Carlyle,” she heard, the tone deep, richly masculine, yet somehow harsh and menacing.

She spun around, startled, not having heard the door open. Despite herself, she was afraid that she gaped, as well, for the face she saw upon the fellow who had entered the room was that of a beast.

He wore a leather mask, she realized, molded to face and features. And though not really unattractive—and certainly artistic—it was still somehow frightening. And in the back of her mind, she wondered if it hadn’t been crafted to be so.

She wondered, as well, just how long he had watched her before speaking.

“It’s a beautiful painting,” she managed to say at last, praying that the time she had stared at him, mouth open, was less than she feared. She tried hard not to let her voice waver, though she couldn’t tell if she succeeded.

“Yes, thank you.”

“A very beautiful woman,” she added, the compliment sincere.

She was aware of the eyes behind the mask, watching her. And she noticed, because the mouth was somewhat visible beneath the edge of the facade, that there was a mocking amusement to him, as if he was accustomed to gratuitous compliments.

“She was, indeed, beautiful,” he said, and came closer, his strides long, one hand clamped around a wrist behind
his back as he neared her. “So, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

She smiled and extended a hand graciously, hating the fact that she was playing at the social butterfly—which she was not and never would be.

“Camille Montgomery,” she said. “And I am here on a desperate quest. My uncle, my guardian, is lost, and he was last seen upon the road before this very castle.”

He looked at her hand a long time before deciding to bow to courtesy and accept it, bending over it. The lips beneath the mask were searing as they touched her flesh, yet he released her instantly, as if it were he who had touched hot coals.

“Ah,” he said simply, walking past her.

Though not so tall as the giant who had come to the gate, he was certainly a few inches over six feet, and his shoulders were very broad beneath his handsome smoking jacket. His stature was trim, his waist quite narrow, his legs long and powerful. He appeared both strong and agile, whatever the condition of his face. A beast? Perhaps, for she could too easily recall the heat of his lips against her flesh, the length of his fingers, the power in his hand.

He didn’t speak; his back was to her as he, too, surveyed the painting above the desk.

At last, she cleared her throat. “Lord Stirling, I do apologize with the greatest regret for intruding upon you at this hour and without inquiry. But I am, as you can well imagine, distressed beyond all measure. The dear man who raised me is missing, and there are so many dangers in the woods. Cutthroats, wolves…all manner of creature might be about in the night. I am so very worried, and therefore I pray that I may turn to a man of such high position as Your Lordship.”

He turned, once again very amused.

“Oh, come, my dear! All of London has surely heard of my reputation!”

“Reputation, sir?” she said, feigning innocence. It was a mistake.

“Ah, yes, the misbegotten beast! Were I simply the Earl of Carlyle and recognized as such with a modicum of respect and dignity rather than fear, dear woman, you’d not have come to the gates with the least hope of being received by me.”

His tone was flat and harsh, allowing no quarter for a pretense of ignorance. In fact, she nearly took a step back, but refused to allow herself to do so—for Tristan’s sake.

“Tristan Montgomery is here, somewhere, sir. He was traveling with a companion and disappeared outside your gates. I want him given into my care, immediately.”

“So you are related to the loathsome rascal who crawled my walls like the most common of thieves this evening,” he said, unperturbed.

“Tristan is no loathsome rascal,” she denied hotly, although she refrained from declaring that he was certainly not a thief. “Sir, I believe he is in this castle, and I will not leave without him.”

“I hope then that you are prepared to stay,” he said flatly.

“So, he
is
here!” she claimed.