Beguiled (22 page)

Suddenly freezing and deeply dismayed, she raced into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She filled the tub with hot water and sank into it gratefully, shaking. How she hated him.

How she loved him….

There was a tapping on the door. “Ally?”

“Go away!”

To her amazement, he did. She waited, hunched in the water, certain he would return. She was angry, and she wanted to remain angry.

She wanted him to talk to her. She wanted to understand everything.

She wanted to love him for the man he was, the way she had grown to love the strange nobility and the mind of an outlaw.

But he didn't return. She was sore, she realized, and she let the water ease her muscles. Her thoughts remained at frantic odds with one another as the water grew slowly cold. At last she rose. She hesitated before going out to the bedroom, but he wasn't there. She dressed quickly, with fumbling fingers.

When she ventured out to the parlor, he was waiting.

He was the son of the earl this time, decked in a fine brocade waistcoat and a handsome tweed jacket, britches and riding boots. He stood before the fire, her sketchbook in his hands.

And he was reading.

“Give that to me!” she demanded, starting toward him.

He snapped the book shut. When he stared at her then, he was a total stranger.

“You are an idiot,” he told her.

She stood rigidly still, fury bubbling inside her.

“I beg your pardon?” she demanded icily.

“You went back to the post office.”

“Back?”

“You wore a far more dangerous mask than I ever did, Ally Grayson,” he accused her. “Why do you think you were nearly assaulted at the cottage? Do you think these people are playing games? Perhaps I should take you to the morgue with me. Maybe seeing a man with his throat slit would force some sense into you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A. Anonymous. I was a fool to believe you when you denied the envelope was yours. And now…good God. You've written another essay.”

“I write excellent essays,” she informed him regally.

“You will get yourself killed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I see. As if a
highwayman
might not get himself shot one day.”

“That's entirely different.”

“It is? How? You apparently feel there is a strong reason to masquerade and risk your life stopping carriages. Perhaps I see an equal reason to risk my life stating what seems to me to be of importance.”

“A. Anonymous is inviting a murderer in!”

“A. Anonymous writes so that people will
think.
”

“You're all but begging for your throat to be sliced.”

“I write what I see, what others should see,” she said with dignity.

“You went to the post office—again. After the cottage was nearly breached.”

“I was not followed.”

“Oh? The telephone call that just came was from Scotland Yard. You were seen.”

“You had me followed? How dare you?”

He shook his head. “I did not have you followed. I had Ian send a man to watch the post office. And you were seen.”

“Well, obviously, if you told the police…”

“You were followed from the museum. You might well have been followed again. But what does that matter? You were seen once, you could be seen again.”

“Would you stop behaving as if what I did was a criminal act? It's what
you've
been doing that is illegal.”

He stood very still, staring at her.

“It stops now.”

She shook her head fiercely. “No.”

“You are about to become my wife.”

“I will not stop writing.”

“I don't intend to marry a corpse.”

She was startled by the shiver that seized her. She had never seen him so fiercely cold and unyielding.

She said softly, “I don't know you. I don't know you at all. But as I have said all along, you are not obligated to go through with the marriage.”

She spun around and returned to her bedroom, closing and then locking the door. But it didn't matter. He made no attempt to enter.

In a few minutes she heard the front door slam. She knew he had left.

For a while longer she remained where she was. Finally she stood. She no longer needed to search the hayloft. She was alone in the magnificent lodge. She could avail herself of the library. She could read the magnificent books. She could write….

Yes, she could write. She had the right to express herself. She would not stop at the dictate of a man, not even the man intended to be her husband.

She walked out of her room and went to the library.

The hounds were in, she realized. When she sat at the desk, Malcolm came up to her and whined, then settled at her feet. Cara trotted in behind him and curled up on the Persian rug in the center of the room.

Ally slid a paper into the typewriter.

No words came.

She was stunned and leaned her arms on the machine, bending her head over them…

And then she cried.

But not for long. She straightened, smoothed her hair back, stared at the typewriter and began to put her thoughts into words.

She sat back. This was not what she should be sending to the newspaper!

She stared at what she had written and started to rip it from the typewriter, intending to crumple it up.

Then she hesitated, struck by a thought.

The anti-monarchists were certain the monarchists were responsible for the murders.

The monarchists were certain the anti-monarchists were guilty, an idea she had helped to perpetuate.

But…

Emotion, not logic, tended to rule the world. Passions on a grand scale held sway in politics.

What if they had all been wrong?

What if murder had been committed not because of politics but because of a far more personal passion? She had never felt emotion or sensation so deeply as now—because—honesty forced her to admit—she had never known such intense feelings before Mark had entered her world.

She could suddenly understand feelings of hatred, anger, all tied in with love and longing, and the hurt that could come only when emotions were deeply felt.

She hesitated; then her fingers found flight.

She might be wrong, or she might have been wrong the first time. It didn't matter. She was stating her opinions, not insisting on them as fact. She was offering her thoughts for discussion, so that others might delve into their own minds.

Right or wrong, her intent was to make people think.

 

T
HAT EVENING
, L
ORD
F
ARROW
returned home before his son. Ally was grateful. She greeted him warmly but told him that she had to go home.

“It isn't safe,” he protested.

She smiled. “I'm certain Mark has either a friend or a policeman watching the cottage through the night,” she said, and his face betrayed the fact she was right. “And we have the loan of your dogs. They are excellent defenders. I will be safe, as will my aunts. I must go home.”

“But…in a few days' time,
this
will be your home.” He paused, frowning. “Have you decided not to marry my son?”

“If he wants me
as I am,
I will gladly marry your son. But tonight, please, I need to go home.”

Lord Farrow was not happy, and she knew he didn't understand.

“We shall visit your aunts tomorrow.”

“I can't stay here,” she insisted.

“We'll talk in the morning,” he said.

In bed that night, Ally tossed and turned. She realized Lord Farrow was intent on keeping her safe. He was never going to let her stay at the cottage.

When she awoke in the morning, Mark was still absent.

 

T
HE HOME WHERE
H
UDSON
Porter, dear old army comrade and good friend of Lord Lionel Wittburg, had lived was perhaps a mile closer to London than the village. As Ian had assured him, the housekeeper was still working there daily, awaiting the arrival of the man's only relatives from Boston. Mark arrived early.

“Mrs. Barker,” he said, greeting her at the door.

She nodded. She had known he was coming and made a little bowing motion to him, as if she wasn't quite certain what she should do in his presence.

“Tea, sir? My lord, uh…Your Grace.”

“No, thank you. Let's just sit and talk, shall we?”

Maybe he should have opted for tea. The woman, as slender and bony as Hattie, the Brandon housekeeper, reminded him of a bee ready to take flight.

“You live in the house?” he asked.

She nodded, looking toward the window.

“Why weren't you here the night Hudson Porter was killed?”

“The police have been here,” she murmured.

“Yes, I know.”

She lifted her hands in a shrug. “He gave me the night off.”

“Why?”

“He…he wanted to work. Undisturbed.”

“And what did you do with the night?”

“I…I stayed with a friend.”

“Who is the friend?”

“Linda Good.”

“And where does she live?”

“Near the village.” She met his eyes quickly, then looked away again. “I…sir…Your Grace…my lord…I have been through this so many times. I came home to find Mr. Porter upstairs. His throat slit. It was horrible. I—I don't think I can do this anymore. He is buried now. We need to let him rest.”

The woman's nervousness was apparent. He wondered why. Ian Douglas would certainly have had her alibi corroborated.

Still…

“Where are your keys kept?” he asked her.

She pointed. As there had been at the Brandon house, there was a hook near the door.

“Will you show me, please, where the murder occurred?”

She nodded, as if glad to have something to do at last. She led him up the stairs.

The room bore a striking resemblance to that in which Giles Brandon had died. Bookshelves lined the walls; the desk sat dead center. One door. One way in, one way out.

“Thank you. You can leave me,” he told her.

She hovered.

“It's fine,” he said pointedly, staring at her.

At last, reluctantly, she left.

Mark began to go through the desk. He knew the police had done so already, and at first he found nothing. Then, looking at the man's calendar for the night on which he had been killed, he found a notation that seemed strange.

Mrs. Barker off?

Why the question mark if he had determined to give the woman the night off himself?

He stared at the calendar, thinking it had to make sense somehow.

Then his mind drifted. He was tired, having spent most of the night riding aimlessly, tension knotted in his belly.

She had captivated him from the first moment. Her smile, her quick mind, the sound of her laughter, the scent of her perfume, all had ensorcelled him. It had been the most incredible thing in the world to discover that such a woman, beautiful in every way, was destined to be his bride. Even the game they had played—knowing, not knowing, the teasing and the taunting…They were both headstrong, prone to temper, and even the glitter of challenge in her eyes was something he had come to love….

But how could she? How could she continue to test the brutal hands of a murderer? She had been caught, and not only was she not in the least remorseful, she was defiant. She would throw over not only a life of security, a title, position, but
him
in pursuit of an elusive dream. And there was the rub. He had been falling in love and had thought she had been doing so, as well, that the personalities of the earl's son and the highwayman would become one, and they would laugh in latter years over their first meeting. There had been nothing like touching her, being with her, making love to her, feeling the heat and the fury, the passion and…

He sensed that the housekeeper had returned. That she was standing at the door. He rose, smiling at her.

“Sir…you have Mr. Porter's calendar,” she murmured.

“Yes, I do. I'm taking it in to Scotland Yard. It will be returned to Mr. Porter's relatives when they arrive.”

As he left, he felt that she was far more nervous than she should have been, and he was angry with himself for being too distracted to think clearly about the murders.

Damn Ally! She was wrong…. She couldn't risk her own life so carelessly because…

Because she had become a part of him.

He determined to ride back to the lodge. He wasn't certain if he could bring himself to apologize, but he had to see her. Talk to her.

Touch her.

Outside, on the dirt road, reaching for Galloway's reins, he felt a sudden sense of urgency.

God, yes. He had to get back to her.

L
ORD
F
ARROW NEVER FALTERED
. Though his son was absent with no explanation, Joseph did his best and remained polite and considerate, pretending it was quite natural for his son to disappear now and then.

Of course, since Mark was the highwayman, it
was
natural.

Over eggs she asked him, “You know your son is the highwayman?”

He stared at her, then nodded. “And
you
know because you were in the hayloft.”

She flushed. “Lord Farrow—why?”

He let out a sigh. “It's not my place to tell you. Mark must do so. But rest assured, it is a secret that must be kept. Not even Brian Stirling is aware. Believe me, he would not harm any man or woman.”

She was silent, knowing he would tell her nothing more. She asked, “Are you going into the city today?”

“I need to, yes. But I promised I would take you to see your aunts first.”

“Actually, I would like to go back to the museum and spend some time with Lady Camille.”

“Do you know she is working?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes, she will be there. As the exhibition has just opened, she will be in for several days to assure herself all is in order.”

“I worry—”

“You mustn't worry so much. In London, the streets are busy. The museum is guarded, and I know everyone there. I shall be quite safe. I can't spend my life hidden away.”

“I wish Mark were here,” Joseph murmured.

“I'll be fine,” she said firmly.

When they arrived in London, she bade him a good day and went into the museum. Camille was working, and she was surprised but pleased to see Ally. “What are you doing here, when you are to be married in just a few days' time?” she queried.

Ally smiled. “Camille, what
should
I be doing? The wedding is at your residence, I'm certain my aunts are working hard on the dress, and…it's all really out of my hands.”

“I had hoped that…”

“That I might be getting to know Mark?” Ally asked. “Well, he isn't about. Don't let me disturb you. You must do your work.”

“Ally, I heard about what happened at the cottage the other night. Please, be careful.”

“I shall be very careful.”

She smiled, and left Camille's office, hurried through the exhibits and out to the street. When she would have headed toward the post office, she changed course instead, walking straight to the offices of the newspaper.

Thanks to Thane Grier, she knew her way about and headed for the editorial offices, hoping he would be there. To her relief, he was.

He nearly spilled his tea as he fumbled to his feet, startled to see her. “Miss Grayson.”

“Good morning.”

“Wel-welcome.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to read some old articles. Would that be possible?”

He arched his brows. “Yes…if you've the patience of a saint. You must go through many, many papers to find anything specific.”

“I don't wish to go back terribly far. I want to read everything I can on the murders of Hudson Porter, Jack Prine and Giles Brandon.”

Grier's brows hiked up.

“Indulge me?” she said softly.

He lifted his arms. “I'll help you.”

“I don't want to take you away from your work.”

“I've been staring at the same two words for quite some time now,” he told her. “A break will do me good.”

Thane led her to the newspaper's morgue and introduced her to the clerk there, a cheerful lady in her early sixties who was happy to steer them in the right direction. The room seemed huge; there were boxes of files everywhere. The woman, however, knew where everything was, at least by date, and since they were seeking relatively recent news, it was not so difficult a task. Between the three of them, they soon had an array of papers on a desk, and Mrs. Easton, the clerk, went on about her business.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Thane asked. “I could be of more help if you would enlighten me.”

“I don't know. I'm reading between the lines.”

“Don't tell me you're trying to discover who the murderer might be?”

She shrugged.

“There's no evidence in the files,” he told her.

She hesitated. “Do you remember the Ripper case?”

“I was young, but who can forget it?”

“There were all manner of theories put about.”

“There still are.”

“True. But from everything I've read, it's most likely those murders were committed by a deranged individual with not a trace of the complex elements people want to afford the current killer, such as thinking he might be in some way attached to the Crown.”

Thane frowned, shaking his head. “You've lost me already.”

“What if the murders had nothing to do with the present situation?”

“You mean the uproar over the monarchy?”

“I do. What if the murders were a cover-up?”

“For what?”

“I don't know. That's why I'd like to read all the papers.”

“All right, let's read.”

Time ticked by. Thane looked up at Ally. “For a moment I thought I was on to something.”

“Oh?”

“Insane housekeepers,” he said with a sigh.

“But…?”

“Then I remembered Hattie—Giles Brandon's housekeeper. She is barely skin and bones. I don't think she could have successfully wielded a weapon against him.”

“Perhaps she wasn't working alone,” Ally said.

“How does an insane housekeeper coerce someone into working with them?” Thane asked.

She lifted her hands. “I don't know.”

He hesitated, staring at her. “I wish you worked here,” he said softly.

She flushed. “Thank you.”

His mouth twisted slightly. “What we should do is find out the truth about you.”

She laughed. “Oh, Thane! There is no truth about me.”

He sat back in his chair, stretching. “Ally—if I may—you are an incredible woman. I can't believe any man, titled or no, would give up a chance to spend his life with you—once he knew you.”

“That's very sweet.”

“No, no, listen. The key is that the man know you. But your engagement to Farrow was set years ago. Lord Farrow couldn't possibly have known you would grow up to be such a beauty, a woman of kindness and intelligence—”

“Thane, please believe me—”

“Why pledge your son—when you're the Earl of Warren—to an orphan foundling simply because your dear friend has decided to become godparent to the child? Perhaps if you had been Brian's child from an affair…”

“I am not Brian's child.”

“How do you know?”

“Camille. If I were Brian's child, if he had been involved in an affair before marriage, neither of them would have denied me. They are fierce in their sense of right and wrong, and Camille, even as his legitimate wife, would have demanded all the earl's children be raised in his house.”

“Maybe Camille doesn't know.” Thane looked perplexed, as if her reasoning made sense. “Still…there is something,” he insisted.

“I don't know. My memories begin in the woods, and that's all I can say,” she told him. “Back to work.”

“Studying the case, yes,” he murmured.

After a while, he looked at her again. “You're still getting married on Saturday?”

“It's the plan,” she murmured.

“I've not been invited.”

She looked up at him. “Well, it's my wedding, so you're invited.”

“Thank you.”

Suddenly Ally realized that time was slipping away. In fact, she had stayed far too long. She had to get back. She rose, and Thane instantly did the same. “Thane, I must leave, but thank you so much.”

“Will you come back?” he asked her.

“I hope so. I'm sure you think that I can't possibly be useful, that I'm just playing at all this, but…thank you. Thank you so much.”

“It's my pleasure. I am happy to indulge you at any time.”

Smiling, she hurried out, wondering if the essay she had left on the clerk's desk had made its way to the editor yet, and if her latest piece would see print in the morning's paper.

Thane watched her leave.

Then he followed.

 

B
Y THE TIME HE REACHED
the museum, Mark was afraid he had grown so distraught he might well be acting like a madman.

But he had arrived at the lodge to find no one in residence. Since Bertram wasn't about and only the hounds were keeping guard duty, he forced himself to be reasonable. His father usually had business in London; he had, in fact, only remained at the lodge so long rather than return to the town house in order that Ally might stay with them there, in safety.

If his father had allowed Bertram to take him in the carriage, rather than riding on his own, it had to mean that Ally was with him.

By the time he reached the city, much of the day had gone by. And in London, even knowing his father would be found in the Houses of Parliament, actually reaching Lord Joseph Farrow was no easy task. He didn't find his father, but he did at last realize Bertram would have the carriage waiting, and when he found Bertram, he was directed to the museum.

At the museum, he had a moment's peace when he found Camille. “Yes, Ally is here. She is about in the museum somewhere.”

The museum was vast. But no one had seen Ally in hours.

In the end, as dusk began to fall and it came close to closing time, he knew she had only used the museum as an excuse to roam the city, something that he, coming to know her so well, knew he should have realized earlier. It wasn't that she intentionally lied. She simply believed in herself so strongly that she would humor others, so they, too, would believe she was safe, since she certainly believed she was in no danger herself.

He went back to Camille's office.

“Camille, if she returns, hold her. Under lock and key if necessary,” he said, and then he left the museum, thinking he would begin looking for her at the post office. She simply didn't understand the danger she had cast herself into if others knew she was writing as A. Anonymous, he thought in frustration.

 

L
ONDON WAS ALWAYS BUSY
. Ally loved it and considered it a wonderful city. And yet, to her amazement, when she turned the corner, heading down the street to the museum entrance, it suddenly seemed very empty.

She could hear music from various pubs and restaurants. From distant streets came the clip-clop of horses' hooves. But darkness was falling.

A streetlight flickered…and died. The shadows seemed to grow darker…deeper.

She hurried forward, trying to reassure herself. Businesses were still open. Workers were sipping their pints behind the doors of pubs.

Then she heard the sound of the carriage approaching.

She turned back to look.

It was a grand carriage, moving slowly down the street. Because of the shadows, she couldn't see the driver.

Odd that it was moving so slowly.

She looked forward, quickening her pace again.

The carriage drew abreast of her.

And stopped.

“Alexandra!”

The sound of her name, called in a husky tone, sent shivers racing down her spine. She started to run.

The carriage moved again, drew past her, then stopped.

The door opened. A man stepped out. A big man.

“Alexandra!”

The voice was deep, rough. All she saw was the huge figure, a black cape swirling around it. She started to run, aware of footsteps behind her. She screamed as she felt a heavy hand clutch her shoulder.

“Stop!”

She was swung around—and found herself staring into the face of Lord Lionel Wittburg.

“Lord Wittburg!” He was flushed, his eyes wild. She fought his hand. He was old, but he was still powerful. She remembered that he had been a military man. He had never lost the physique or the strength of a hardened soldier.

“Come with me. You must.
Now.
”

“Lord Wittburg, you have to let me go—I'm expected at the museum.”

“No, you must come with me.”

She gasped as he reached for her, lifting her. She slammed her fists against his chest, but he was like a stone wall, half carrying, half dragging her toward the carriage.

Suddenly she was ripped from Wittburg's hold and fell to the road as Wittburg let out a fierce bellow. Ally was aware of a second man in the street. Wittburg was like a man gone mad, swinging his fists. But the second man ducked, rose and sent a jab flying.

Lord Lionel Wittburg went down, a soft gasp escaping his lungs.

“Ally!”

It was Mark. Impossible…but real.

He came to her, helping her to her feet. There was the thunder of more footsteps, people streaming from the museum and nearby pubs, and from the carriage, a man jumping down to the street.

Mark was holding her close. She could hear his heart beating. She looked at him, but he was staring at Lord Wittburg. The man's coachman was at his side by then. Mark left her and went to hunker down next to Wittburg. He stared at the coachman. “What was he doing?”

Wittburg groaned and opened his eyes. He clutched Mark by the lapels. “The truth…she has to know the truth. Tell her the truth.”

“Lord Wittburg, for the love of God, what truth?” Mark asked urgently.

Lord Wittburg's eyes closed again.

Mark looked up at the crowd that was now beginning to surround them. “Someone, call an ambulance!”

 

L
ORD
L
IONEL
W
ITTBURG
was going to live; Mark had only knocked him out with his sound jab to the jaw.

But what happened after was chaos. The streets were filled with people. An ambulance took Lord Wittburg, his coachman at his side, to the hospital. The police spoke with Mark and Ally. Camille arrived on the scene, then Brian, and then Lord Farrow.