Beguiled (24 page)

“I love you, too,” she said. “And actually, it's quite annoying, because you have that noble arrogance, or perhaps it's simply a
male
arrogance.”

“Perhaps we could sort some of it out over the next forty or fifty years?” he inquired, setting his fingers against her lips to silence her.

He was startled when she sat up, drawing the white gown over her head, tossing it aside. In the moonlight and shadow, her body gleamed—throat, shoulders, breasts like a perfect sculpture. Her hair gleamed with a strange brilliance, a cape that didn't cover but teased. She leaned against him and took the initiative, naked breasts pressing against his chest, strands of golden hair teasing his bare flesh as her face hovered above his for a moment. Then her lips lowered and brushed his with their caress.

The very essence of his being seemed to tremble and tighten. He fought to stay still, to allow her to tease…touch…and taste. She eased her body against him, moved her body sinuously along his. Her actions were instinctive. He prayed that this was truly more than mere passion, that she trusted him, that their battles were tempered by the emotions that lay beneath.

Thought left him, fading into oblivion as pure sensation began to take flight. Her lips nuzzled his chest; her teeth lightly danced against his nakedness. Her fingers moved down the length of him, caught at the waistband of his hastily donned pants, urged them open, slid lower….

He swept her into his arms, discarding the hateful barrier of clothing. He caught sight of her face in the moonlight and crushed her to him, his lips not tender then, but avid, tormented. He touched her in turn, hands rounding every curve. Her fingers curled around his buttocks, and she pressed him back in return, her touch sliding tauntingly along his erection at first, then growing more forceful, sliding, gripping. He pressed her back against the mattress, eager to taste her flesh. She returned his onslaught, sliding against him again, lower and lower…the hot sluicing of her tongue bringing thunder into his heart, his veins, pumping into his every extremity.

Their lovemaking was fierce, desperate…tender. The world became nothing but the need to reach a pinnacle, then the need to drift down. And then the need rose again. He could not cease touching her, nor aching for her lips….

Again and again, shadow and darkness gently cradled the most explosive climaxes…and returned them again to that place of sanity where the slightest touch was a treasure. Even as exhaustion came, they lay together and, in silence, treasured the feel of flesh against flesh.

They spoke no more that night, both silently agreed that there were moments that must be treasured and never questioned.

T
HEY WERE AT BREAKFAST
when the telephone rang.

Lord Farrow jumped, rolled his eyes and apologized. “I just cannot accustom myself to that racket.”

Jeeter came into the breakfast room, looking at Mark. “It is Detective Douglas,” he said.

Mark excused himself and disappeared. When he returned, he appeared to be troubled.

“Well?” Joseph asked.

“I don't believe it,” Mark said. He stared at his father. “They searched Lord Wittburg's carriage. They found a black cape encrusted with what they believe to be blood. And blood spots around the carriage.”

Joseph stared at his son in stunned silence.
“Lionel?”

Ally shook her head. “No.”

“I find it impossible to believe myself. He could not have gone so insane. He is not an agile man—and his coachman denies ever picking up Lord Wittburg anywhere near any of the murder scenes.”

“Lord Wittburg was distressed, Mark. He was not making sense. But I don't believe he meant me harm,” Ally insisted.

“He remains in the hospital,” Mark said. He ignored his breakfast, seemingly distracted as he said, “I have to go in. Father—”

“I have nothing urgent today. I think we will take Ally to see the aunts.”

Ally nodded, wishing rather desperately that she could go with Mark. Something was very wrong. She refused to believe what seemed to be so apparently the truth.

“Mark, could…could the police perhaps have…do you think…?”

“That the police falsified the evidence or put it there? I don't believe that, either,” Mark said. “Forgive me. I have to go.”

His father nodded. Mark rose to leave just as Jeeter walked in with the newspaper. Mark paused, taking the paper. Ally was certain he had taken it to see if the news of Lionel Wittburg's impending arrest might be in it.

She was stunned when he stared at her, a veil of pure silver heating his gaze to something so venomous that she shrank back in her chair.

“It appears that A. Anonymous is writing again,” he said, his voice sharp and penetrating. “We'll talk later.”

He cast the paper on the table and strode out. Ally longed to snatch it up, but Lord Farrow had already reached for it. “The fellow's essays are quite good. Whatever caused such a snap in Mark's temper?” Lord Farrow murmured. “Nothing on Lord Wittburg,” he murmured gratefully. “Very interesting opinion piece, though. Suggesting there might be a different motive entirely for the crimes.”

His head was bowed as he read.

Ally had no more taste for breakfast. “Excuse me, I'll just get ready to leave,” she murmured, and fled the table. How she longed to be elsewhere. But she knew, on that day particularly, Lord Farrow would not let her out of his sight.

Upstairs, she paced the bedroom. Mark was furious again. She ached as she thought how very close they had grown…how he could whisper he loved her…then go off like a flare. She had done nothing wrong, she told herself. In fact, had it not been for him, she would not even have written such an essay.

She must have paced and seethed longer than she knew. A tap at the door sounded, and she heard Lord Farrow ask, “Ally? Are you ready?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

She tried very hard to think of casual conversation as they traveled from London deep into the woods. Her efforts, however, proved unnecessary. Lord Farrow seemed to have sunk into a deep retrospection himself. After the first half hour, she was grateful when they seemed to have settled into a comfortable silence.

She was startled to see a man seated on the porch of the cottage, whittling a stick.

He seemed equally startled to see the carriage and stood as they rode up.

“Patrick,” Lord Farrow said. “Good to see you.”

Ally stared at the man. He was a tall redhead who flushed as he looked at her and offered a rueful smile along with his hand. “Patrick MacIver, Miss Grayson.”

“Patrick is one of Mark's good friends, my dear.”

She laughed suddenly, knowing they had met. “A highwayman, I believe?”

Patrick paled and stared at Lord Farrow.

“It's all right, Patrick.”

The red-haired man shrugged. “We have met,” he murmured.

She squared her shoulders; this man deserved no blame. “I assume you are here because you're guarding my aunts. Thank you.”

He relaxed, color returning to his cheeks, and his smile became warm and very real. “I have been so honored. There are three of us entrusted with the task, and what we had thought no more than duty has become pure pleasure. They appear so sweet, yet they are cunning. They knew us immediately. I'm quite willing to bet we've all gained a full stone in weight, and we will have handsome new waistcoats for the wedding.”

Ally didn't get a chance to reply. The sisters had heard the carriage arrive. Violet came out first, her arms flying in the air before she wrapped them around Ally. Merry was behind her, and Edith behind Merry. The two wolfhounds bounded out after the sisters, cutting the air with their deep baying, massive tails wagging with a frenzy that might well have knocked someone over.

Then, of course, there had to be tea.

But when Ally went in with the aunts, Lord Farrow stayed outside with Patrick, and she knew her soon-to-be father-in-law was telling the other man about the latest events. She refrained from ruining the aunts' pleasure by telling them anything. They were chatting about her dress, telling her how beautiful it was, then insisting she not see it until it was time to dress on Saturday morning.

“It's not going to be quite the affair that was always intended,” Merry said, shaking her head a bit sadly.

“But magnificent still,” Edith said.

“Very fine,” Violet said sagely.

Ally laughed and hugged all three. “If you darlings are there, it will be all I could want.”

“Oh, but Lord Stirling must be there—to give you away,” Merry said, eyes wide.

“Of course I want the guardians there, as well. But quite seriously, my loves…you are my life.”

“Oh,” Merry said, and she started to sniffle.

“Don't you go crying,” Violet warned sternly, then drew out her own handkerchief.

Edith let out a sob.

“Oh, please, please,” Ally said, gathering them in an awkward hug once again.

“But…we're losing our baby.”

“You'll never lose me.
Never,
” she vowed.

The kettle began to whistle. “Tea,” Violet said, composing herself.

“The scones are in the bread box, dear,” Merry told Ally. “Goodness, we will be so busy in the next two days. Tomorrow we have Lady Maggie's charity event, and Saturday I suppose it would be best if we all returned to the castle after we're finished in London tomorrow. I hope that will suit Lord Farrow. But how else can we fit everything in?”

“I should be ashamed,” Ally said. “I had all but forgotten tomorrow.”

“Good heavens, child,” Violet said sternly. “Don't be ridiculous. You've so much going on. In fact, you should not go at all.”

“I must go. I've gone every year for…well, as long as I can remember,” Ally said.

“We'll ask Mark,” Edith said.

“No. We will ask no one. It is Lady Maggie's event, and I will be there.”

“But your wedding is the next day,” Edith said.

“And what do I have to do but attend?” Ally said, and laughed. “Everything has been taken care of for me.”

The aunts looked at one another skeptically.

“Well…” said Violet, and the other two echoed her.

“It is decided,” Ally told them firmly.

“Then perhaps Lord Farrow will not mind transporting some of the food we've prepared,” Merry murmured.

“Lord Stirling will send his carriage in the morning, as always,” Edith reminded her.

Ally suddenly noticed all of the boxes and containers around the kitchen. The aunts had certainly been industrious. The poor in the East End would receive not just sustenance; they would receive deliciousness. She laughed suddenly and hugged them all again, one by one. “You will never, never, ever lose me,” she promised them. “No child was ever so lucky,” she swore. Then she drew back when she heard Merry sniff again.

“Tea. And we must make Bertram come in, as well. If we don't go get him, he will read atop the driver's box and forget he needs to eat,” Ally said.

Violet set her hands on her hips. “I will make sure he comes in.”

Ally smiled.

Bertram didn't stand a chance.

 

M
ARK SAT IN
I
AN
'
S OFFICE
, aware he was still steaming and that every few seconds he clenched his teeth so hard that the clicking could be heard all across London. The paper lay across Ian's desk, and the other man was bent over it, reading.

What did he have to do to make her realize the danger she kept putting herself in?

“Excellent article,” Ian said, looking up from the paper. “Except, of course, we now know that, sad as it may seem, Lord Lionel is guilty of murder. Poor soul. He lost his mind somewhere.”

Mark had to wonder then if he wasn't angry about the article in part because Ally had somehow come to the same conclusion that had plagued his own mind.
What if they had all been missing the forest for the trees?

“You've spoken to Lord Wittburg at the hospital, I imagine?” Mark said.

“Of course. He denies everything.”

“I think he is telling the truth.”

“Mark, we found the evidence.”

Mark shook his head firmly. “I stopped his carriage just the other day. There was no cloak, no blood. The evidence was put into that carriage sometime later.”

Ian stiffened. “Mark, we may not solve every crime, but I'd swear by any of my officers!”

“I'm not suggesting your officers did anything.”

“Well then…?”

“There was mass chaos on the street. A throng appeared in response to the fracas.”

“All right. How did whoever happened to be holding this evidence know that Lord Wittburg's carriage would be there?” Ian asked.

Mark stood. “I need to see Lionel.”

Ian shook his head. “Mark, you don't want it to be him.”

“No. I can't believe it is him. I need to talk to him.”

“Of course,” Ian said with a sigh. “Do you want me with you?”

“Indeed. I want you to hear what I hear. But I also want you to get your men busy checking on bank records.”

“Bank records?” Ian said.

Mark tapped the newspaper. “You said it was an excellent article. It suggests maybe we are looking at grand motives when perhaps it is all part of something more personal. Find out who benefited from the death of each man. We know, from the housekeeper, that Eleanor Brandon
apparently
adored her husband. But he remained rude to her. I don't know anything about the relationship between Jack and Elizabeth Prine.”

“Hudson Porter wasn't married,” Ian said. “And what are you thinking? That these women conspired together to kill their husbands?”

“Someone else was involved, someone who perhaps did want to boost the cause of the anti-monarchists. But I think it would be expedient to discover who gained financially from these deaths.”

“Giles Brandon's money came from his wife.”

“And maybe she wanted it back. Maybe I'm going off on a tangent. But before we hang Lord Wittburg, I'd like to be certain we know the truth.”

 

T
HE AFTERNOON WAS LOVELY
, and even in her agitated state, Ally enjoyed herself tremendously.

As she prepared to gather up the remains of the tea, the largest hound-on-loan, Sylvester, bounded to the door.

“What is it, boy?” she asked. “Nature calling?”

She opened the door for him and stepped outside. He began to bark, then ran off toward one of the trails. She followed him, then stopped, certain she heard a rustling in the forest ahead.

“Sylvester!” she called.

The dog didn't return.

“Sylvester!” she called again. By then the female was out, and Lord Farrow was by her side. He turned back toward the cottage, tense. “Patrick!”

Patrick appeared instantly.

“You're armed?” Lord Farrow asked.

Patrick nodded, lifting the edge of his jacket to show his gun. Lord Farrow nodded, and the two of them started down the trail, following the female hound, Millicent. Ally started to follow, as well.

“Go back to the cottage,” Lord Farrow told her.

“But—”

“Please. Bertram will not leave you, nor the aunts,” he assured her.

She stood tensely, allowing them to go. She nearly started, suddenly aware that someone was at her shoulder. She turned. Bertram.

“Miss…it would be better if you were in the cottage. It might be nothing, but…”

She sighed and walked back into the cottage. The aunts were still picking up, unaware of anything wrong. “Would you get that jar of jam, dear?” Merry asked.

“Of course,” she said. She helped in the kitchen, listening, tense.

Minutes later, the door to the cottage opened and the hounds rushed in, bumping furniture out of place as they did so. Lord Farrow and Patrick followed, talking casually to each other.

Ally stared at Lord Farrow.

“I think I'd love another cup of tea, if one is available. Violet?” he said.

In frustration, Ally stared at him, then at Patrick, who shrugged. She let out a breath of frustration, knowing she was just going to have to wait.

 

L
ORD
W
ITTBURG SEEMED
to have gone terribly downhill.

Mark could easily understand why. He was being treated in a facility where the criminally insane were kept.

The smell was horrid. And though he had been brought to a private—albeit barred—room, the strange screams and cries of the demented were all too audible.