Betrayal at Blackcrest (20 page)

I thought at first that my imagination was playing tricks on me. I had had a trying day. My nerves had been frayed and my emotions had run the gamut, but I was cool and calm now. No, this sensation did not come from within. It hung over Blackcrest like a pall. Something unpleasant had happened, and the atmosphere was permeated with its aftereffects. I dressed slowly, frowning a little, wondering what I would find when I went down to join the others.

During my absence, Betty had pressed the dress I intended to wear. It hung in front of the wardrobe now, a sober black with a high neck, a tight-fitting waist, and a short, flared skirt. The material was somewhat shiny with age, but the expensive simplicity of the garment still had an enduring chic. I slipped into it, smoothing it down about my waist and tugging at the freshly pressed folds of the skirt. I fastened on a wide leopard-skin belt, then emptied the contents of my purse into the small leopard-skin bag that matched the belt. The gun made a slight bulge, but I didn't want to leave it lying around the room for one of the servants to discover.

It was almost eight o'clock when I left the room. I walked slowly around the maze of hallways that would eventually bring me to the staircase that led down to the main hallway. Only a few lamps were burning, giving the barest minimum of light, leaving the rest of the area shrouded in shadows. The curious silence still prevailed. It was almost as though Black-crest were holding its breath, waiting for another eruption of violent emotion.

When I reached the head of the staircase, I paused for a moment to stand among the dusty green leaves of the potted plants. I could hear voices now, coming from the small drawing room beside the dining room. Although I could not distinguish individual words, there was no mistaking that harsh, guttural voice that soared up so forcefully. Derek Hawke was angry again. I wondered who the victim of his wrath was this time.

I hesitated, not wanting to go down, yet knowing that I must. I had already lost some of my confidence at the very sound of that voice. Despite my determination, I did not know if I could face Derek Hawke and keep control of my emotions. I was afraid I would fly at his face with claws unsheathed, or worse, dissolve into tears of hysteria and demand immediate answers to the questions that plagued me. It would take all my training as an actress to go through with this with the poise I knew I must maintain.

I took several deep breaths and started down the stairs. I was halfway down when Derek Hawke stepped into the hall. He stood at the foot of the stairs, watching me. He was glowering, his mouth surly, one brow arched arrogantly. I managed to keep complete command of myself. I gave him a cool glance and continued on down the stairs.

He stood with his hand resting on the banister. He was wearing a pair of black slacks, cut close to the leg, and a rather flamboyant jacket of maroon broadcloth embroidered with black silk floral designs. The jacket would have been effeminate on many men, but on Derek Hawke it only served to offset his rugged masculinity. There was a row of tiny ruffles on his gleaming white shirt front, and the maroon silk bow tie was knotted carelessly. He looked like a pirate dressed by a mod tailor, and the effect was one most men would have paid dearly to achieve. He wore the clothes as nonchalantly as he would have worn a bathrobe.

“I see you've managed to join us, Miss Lane,” he said in a mocking voice. “All dressed for the occasion, too, I see. We're not at our best this evening, but perhaps you can bring a bit of levity.”

“I'll try to,” I said, and I was surprised at how calm and normal my voice sounded.

“Did you have a nice afternoon?” he asked.

“It was quite profitable.”

“I'm pleased. You missed quite a lot of excitement here. I seem to be a dastardly villain. Not only do I thwart true love, but I overstep my authority and undermine my aunt's position.”

“How perfectly dreadful of you,” I remarked.

“I'm catching it from all sides tonight. Perhaps you will be kind. Perhaps you'll be on my side—though I doubt it. You're a woman. Women are incurably romantic. You'll undoubtedly think me vile, too.”

“Perhaps I shall. Would you really care what I thought?”

He looked up at me with his dark eyes. For a moment it was almost as though he genuinely wanted my sympathy, my understanding, and then his wide mouth tightened into a frown, and that moment was lost.

“Frankly, not a bit,” he replied.

He took my hand to help me down the last two steps. There was something arrogant and mocking in the gesture. He released my hand and stood back to examine me again. I was as cool and poised as a mannequin as his eyes swept over me, but I could feel that poise slipping.

“Do I meet with your approval?” I asked icily.

“Very much so.”

“Are you always so rude?”

“You dislike being admired?”

“I dislike being stared at, Mr. Hawke.”

He grinned wickedly, pleased that he had irritated me. “It seems I am a monster,” he said. “Rudeness is the least of my crimes. You must bear with me. Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he added in a grim voice.

“I'm not sure I know what you mean.”

“These formal dinners of Andy's are always a pain. She was brought up in that era when one always dressed for dinner, and I endure them to please her. As I mentioned, we're not at our best tonight. There's been a family crisis—they're becoming all too frequent—and I don't think it will be especially pleasant for you to sit through. I can have Jessie prepare a tray for you.”

“I wouldn't think of it,” I said.

He seemed about to say something more but restrained himself with a visible effort. He turned his back on me and walked back into the drawing room, moving in quick, angry strides. I followed him, feeling not the least bit of trepidation.

Andrea Hawke stood in front of the pearl-gray draperies. She gave me a preoccupied nod and then glanced at her nephew with a perplexed expression. She wore a floor-length gown of royal purple velvet with long, elegant sleeves. Although the gown was old, the nap shiny, it was still a regal garment, and Andrea wore it with all the flair and confidence of a true grande dame. She toyed with a long black fan, and I could sense her tension. The air was electric with it.

“She still hasn't come down yet?” Derek Hawke snapped.

“Not yet, dear.”

“I'll give her five more minutes!”

“Derek—”

He glared at her, and Andrea bit back whatever she had been about to say. The tension seemed to crackle. Derek Hawke stalked about the room, one hand jammed in his jacket pocket, the other tugging at the maroon tie. He was like a panther, the anger and energy charging through him and making it impossible for him to stand still.

“I so wanted everything to be nice for Miss Lane—” Andrea began.

“I told her there'd been a family crisis. She didn't have to join us. Since she has, she may as well see us as we really are. I'll put on these damn clothes once a week and eat from the best china and crystal, but I'll be damned if I'll stand around and make polite chitchat when I feel like cracking someone's skull!”

I gave him a caustic glance. Andrea Hawke drew herself up.

“You seem to forget you're in my house,” she said.

“Oh, to hell with your house,” he barked. “I indulge your whims, and I overlook your maddening conduct, but I have no intentions of letting this place become a brothel.”

“Really, dear—”

“I warned her I wouldn't put up with it, but she kept right on seeing him, sneaking around at all hours of the night like a promiscuous little slut. I told Jake what was going on, and I told him to keep his son away from her, but he didn't seem to be able to. He knew what a good thing it would have been if that boy could have trapped her. He'll have second thoughts now.”

“Jake has been with this family for over twenty years. What will he do now?”

“I haven't the foggiest idea, and I couldn't care less.”

“You could have at least let me speak to him, Derek.”

“It's over and done with, Andy! Now maybe that girl will listen to reason. Five minutes are up!”

He marched over to the wall and pulled a cord, jerking it savagely. In a moment Morris stepped into the room. His uniform was spotless, his silver hair brushed sleekly, but his withered old face looked as though it might crumple at any moment. The servants must have been discussing the affair all day belowstairs, and I wagered there wasn't a one of them who wasn't on Honora's side.

“Go fetch Miss Honora,” Derek Hawke commanded. “Tell her she is to be down here in ten minutes or I'll be up after her myself.”

“Leave the girl alone,” Andrea protested.

“Hurry up, Morris!” he said sharply.

The butler left the room, and Andrea Hawke frowned, her eyes growing cloudy. She toyed with her black fan, slapping it against the palm of her hand. “I just can't believe it,” she mumbled. “I just can't believe it's happening.” She shook her head and seemed to drift off into her own private fog, her blue eyes distressed. “My own nephew …” she whispered.

“I'm sorry, Andy,” Derek Hawke said impatiently. “I haven't meant to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” she said. “I'm old, and I don't matter. It's the girl—”

“I've only done what's best for her.”

“She said she loved him.”

“She's a child. She's not capable of seeing him for what he is. He would ruin her.”

“Even so, you don't have to torment her now. Why can't you let her be? Do you have to force her to come down here?”

“I won't let her sulk and brood. She's got to face things. She has to accept reality. She thinks I'm a monster now, but the day will come when she'll thank me.”

“I wonder,” Andrea Hawke said. “I wonder.…”

She turned her back on us. She parted the pearl-gray draperies and stared out at the night. There was a flash of lightning, and from far off came the rumble of thunder. Derek Hawke stared at his aunt, and his eyes were dark. A painful frown creased his brow, and he looked as if he wanted to go to her and beg her forgiveness. For a moment he was vulnerable, exposed, and then he saw that I was watching him. I knew that both of them had forgotten my presence in their emotional stress.

“I told you it wouldn't be pleasant,” he said.

I made no reply. A sarcastic smile formed on his wide mouth.

“Sorry we couldn't provide witty Noël Coward dialogue.”

“The situation hardly calls for it,” I said.

“You have no idea what the situation is,” he told me.

“I think I can guess.”

“No, you can't. You know nothing about it. The gardener's son has been courting Honora. The girl is young, foolish, vulnerable. He's only interested in her money—and she'll come into quite a lot of that in a few months. I warned the boy's father to keep them apart. I talked to him again this afternoon, just as you were leaving, as a matter of fact. He said he'd do all he could, and then the boy had the audacity to storm into my study this afternoon and tell me that he and Honora were going to be married, that there was nothing I could do about it. I proved him wrong. I threw him out and gave him and his father till sundown to be off the place.”

“How very proud you must feel,” I said.

I was unable to keep the hatred from my voice. I stared at the man in his elegant clothes as though he were Satan himself, and Hawke seemed almost pleased at the intensity of my stare. He arched a dark brow and tugged at the maroon tie, the mocking smile never leaving his lips. He started to make some remark, but before he could begin, Honora came into the room, startling us both.

“Good evening,” she said. “I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting. I knew Andy wanted us to dress for the occasion. It took a little time.” She smiled at me and nodded at Derek Hawke. Her voice was as cool and pleasant as a crystal stream, and her poise was exquisite. I knew what agony it must have cost her.

She wore a yellow dress the color of buttercups. The skirt swirled about her knees, and the bodice displayed her young figure to advantage. Her platinum hair was coiled and curled to perfection, a yellow ribbon fastened at the back. Her lips were coral, and if she had been crying, the skillfully applied eye makeup revealed no evidence of it. There was something odd about her, I thought, something that had not been there before. It took me a while to realize what it was.

The soft, poignantly fragile quality seemed to have vanished from her face. In its place was something hard and frighteningly mature. It was something I recognized instinctively, and I knew it was not just the strain, not just the hard-imposed poise. I was looking at a woman who has been hurt and is bent on revenge. The metamorphosis was alarming. There was steellike control as she looked up at Derek Hawke, challenging him with her lovely blue eyes.

“Are we all ready?” she asked pleasantly.

Derek Hawke was wary, totally unprepared for this reaction. I could sense his uneasiness. He would have known how to deal with a wretched, teary-eyed teenager, but he was completely at a loss with this strange new Honora. He frowned and shifted nervously, looking at her with lowered brows. Honora knew she had disturbed him, and a faint smile played on her lips as she went over to Andrea and took her guardian's arm.

We went into the dining room. The meal began in silence. I tried to concentrate on the bowl of consommé but found it impossible. I could not even pretend to eat. There was too much tension in the room. Morris removed the soup bowls and brought in the filet of sole. As he left, he cast a furtive glance at Honora, apparently as bewildered by her poise as Derek Hawke had been.

The draperies across the great sweep of windows were opened, and I could look out at the terrace, illuminated now by flashes of lightning. Thunder still rumbled in the distance, coming closer and closer. We were in for a storm. It was building up slowly, but it would surely explode with savage fury. Here, inside the dimly lighted dining room with its gleaming mahogany and cut glass and blue-gray wallpaper, another storm was brewing, and I feared it would be even more violent than the one outside.