Echoes in Stone (34 page)

She nodded once before he disappeared. Rain pattered against the windows again today. Perhaps the heavens mourned for the dead servant. Melwyn. The woman’s name was Melwyn. Dash hadn’t said how the girl died. Why would a young woman die so suddenly, and why had the doctor been called?

She took a last sip of her now cold tea, then shrugged her shawl closer about her shoulders, grateful for the warmth. She tried to eat a few bites of toast, but couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She glanced around. Nothing. Just the yellow walls of the breakfast room, the food congealing in the dishes on the sideboard. Her skin prickled, the hair on the back of her neck tingling. She spun to the open door at her back, thinking Winston or Mrs. Penrose might be there.

Nothing.

The remains of her meal grew cold on her plate, her appetite gone. Too many unanswered questions cartwheeled through her mind, churning up acid in her stomach. She had to tell Dash about her conversation with Holly. She had to make him believe Lily still walked these halls—had threatened his daughter.

She tossed down her napkin, then hurried through the gloom after Dash.

44.

…some evil spirit has suddenly been set loose…

A CHEERY FIRE crackled in the grate, lending warmth to the study but doing little to fend off the dismal atmosphere. Dash sat behind his massive mahogany desk, idly drumming his fingers on wood that was woefully overdue for a polishing.

Winston move about, lighting lamps. He’d brought a tray with a pot of hot coffee, setting it on the corner of the desk. He moved behind Dash to draw the curtains closed, as was his custom.

“No. Leave them, Winston. My reflection no longer holds any terrors for me.”

Winston startled, but moved away from the French doors. Rain splattered against the glass, running down in sheets. The sky was so dark it looked more like evening than morning.

“Winston, sit. Have a cup of coffee with me. You look worn to pieces, man.” Dash indicated one of the deep chairs across from him. Winston sank into the chair, wiped a hand across his face, then closed his eyes, leaning back with a sigh.

“Sorry, Dash. I guess it’s all just catching up with me.” Winston leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees. “The last couple of days have been hell. That poor girl dying in such a wretched manner, and I’d no idea where you’d got off to. Jessa going missing as well. Then last night…” Winston leaned forward to accept the cup of coffee Dash poured for him.

“While you were off tending to Miss Palmer’s injuries—and whatever else you were getting up to—I was left to tend to a household in an uproar.” Winston’s tone was as bitter as the coffee in his cup.

Dash raised one eyebrow; Winston never spoke to him like this. Only then did Dash finally notice Winston’s appearance.

Gone was the impeccable manservant, each crease in his pants precisely aligned, his cravat crisp, his cuffs pristine. Now the cuffs were smudged, the knot in his cravat haphazard. His normally neat curls tumbled helter-skelter. He fidgeted, fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. His face lacked its normal high color. A white bandage, largely covered by his cuffs, wrapped around the man’s hand. A faint pink mark high on his cheekbone looked suspiciously like it might turn into a bruise in a few hours.

“What the devil has happened to you? You look like you’ve been on the losing side of a brawl.”

Winston glared up at his master. Dash could scarcely believe his friend glowered at him with such antipathy, but the expression was quickly shielded. A trick of the light. Or just frayed nerves, like the rest of them.

“It’s nothing to worry about Dash. I cut my hand on a piece of broken crockery when I checked on the girl—on Melwyn. It was all over the floor around her. Apple butter. Without thinking, I put my hand in my mouth to suck the wound. That’s when I tasted them. That clove-like flavor is very distinctive. I’m guessing that’s what was in one of the bowls that broke when she—that is to say—”

His face had taken on a grayish hue. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He took out his handkerchief, mopping his face. Poor man. Such a weak stomach. He’d likely spent half the night being ill just from the memory of dealing with the dead girl.

“And the bruise on your cheek? How did that happen?”

Winston raised his hand to cover the spot. “One of the maids. Last night. She was having hysterics. Lashed out at me. It’s nothing. She’s fine now. Mrs. Penrose has it in hand.”

Dash leaned back, his fingers steepled under his chin. “I’m sorry to have left you to deal with the mess, my friend. It was selfish of me. I was so concerned with Jessa’s injuries—”

“I’m sorry as well, Dash.” Winston straightened in his chair. “I forgot to ask. How is she this morning? Aside from being spitting mad at you, that is.”

In spite of Winston’s concerned expression, Dash couldn’t help remembering the quickly-hidden animosity of a moment ago. “Bruises mostly. A sprained wrist. Nothing that won’t mend. I’m more worried about how she came to be trapped in that stairwell. Something’s going on here, Winston. Damned if I can figure out what it is. It’s as if some evil spirit has suddenly been set loose in my household.”

Dash sprang from his chair to pace in front of the French doors. He caught his scowling expression reflected in the wavering glass. He spun back to face his friend, slamming his palms flat on his desk. “Damn it, Winston, what’s going on here? You have the ear of every servant in this house. Nothing escapes you. What am I missing?” He blew out a frustrated breath.

Winston set his coffee cup on the desk, then slowly stood. “Dash. My friend. You should do as I’ve already said. Take Jessa and Holly. Go away. Even if it’s only for a few days.” He looked down, refusing to meet Dash’s gaze. “We can manage, Mrs. Penrose and I. A week perhaps. Get through the funeral, then go somewhere. Let things settle down. Return to normal. Let the staff grieve without having to worry about their duties to you at the same time.”

Winston’s voice had an edge of desperation to it. His hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, lent force to his words. In all the years he’d known him, Dash had only seen him this agitated a few times.

Every one of those times, Lily had been the cause of the agitation.

Before Dash could question him further, a knock on the door interrupted them. Winston sprang to answer it.

Jessa nodded politely at Winston, but did not smile, then edged past him into the room.

“If you will excuse me, Captain,” Winston said, “there is much to attend to today.” With a curt nod, Winston made his exit, closing the door behind him.

Jessa’s patience had reached its limit. The flush high on her cheeks and the glitter in her green eyes gave her away. She clutched her shawl about her shoulders in the way that the fierce warrior goddess Athena might have clutched a shield.

Dash drew a deep breath. His patience had worn to the breaking point as well.

This stubborn, beautiful woman had plowed through all his defenses. She crawled under his skin like a chigger, setting up an itch no amount of anything in Mrs. Penrose’s bottles would relieve. The only ease to be found was in Jessa’s arms. In lying between her thighs. Trapped in her heat, he’d have done anything for her, granted her any wish, if it meant he could lie in her embrace forever. He was falling under whatever spell those witchy green eyes cast. He was falling—

Dash shook back his hair. Stiffened his stance. She’d come here to take Holly from him. Or perhaps to take Lily’s place as the pampered wife of a wealthy, titled man. It didn’t  matter. His own feelings for her could not factor into the equation. For both their sakes, he had to get her out of this house.

Now. Today.

“Captain, how did Melwyn die?”

Jessa’s question caught him off guard.

“Apples,” he said. He immediately recognized the inanity of his own words. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “That is to say, the doctor believes she may have accidentally ingested something poisonous. As the staff had already cleaned up everything before he arrived, it’s impossible to know what.”

“How does one
accidentally
ingest poison? Nibbling unknown varieties of mushrooms or something might do that, but Melwyn was the cook’s assistant; she’d have known better. What made  you say
apples
”?

“It was something Winston said. He cut his hand trying to help the girl. When he sucked the wound, he said he tasted Cornish Gillyflower apples.”

Dash stopped. Horror bloomed in his mind like a noxious weed.

From the expression on her face, the same evil flower had taken root in Jessa’s mind.

“Dash. When I was so very sick—”

“You’d eaten that apple butter. When I got sick that day in the glade—”

“You’d eaten an apple tart. A apple tart put there for me. One likely laced with Gillyflower apple butter. But you ate it instead.”

“The birds. I went back there a few days later, Jessa. There were dead birds all around the remains of our picnic.”

“Birds who’d likely feasted on leftover apple tarts. Oh Dash!” Jessa covered her face in her hands. Only her eyes, wide with shock, showed.

Dash reached her in two strides, clutching her to his chest.

She struggled in his arms. “From that first day, you ordered the kitchen to always include the Gillyflower apple butter on my tray. You knew I loved it. How easy it would be, to serve me poison in the one food you knew I’d eat. The one thing you’d told Cook to set aside especially for me. To ensure it was at every meal. On every tray. How expedient it would’ve been, if I’d only died then. No more threat to you. No more threat to Holly.” Jessa fought harder against him.

He recognized the signs of incipient hysteria. God only knew he’d seen the same thing in Lily often enough.

He pulled her harder against him. “Damn it, Jessa, stop fighting me! You know full well it wasn’t I who put any poison in the apple butter. If I had, why on earth would I have eaten that blasted pastry myself? If I’d wanted to kill you, it would have been so much easier to feed you the apple tart instead of the lemon one.”

“If you wanted to throw someone off the scent, to make it look as if you were a target as well—” She resumed her struggles.

Dash bristled with anger, but refused to release her. Instead, he locked his arms tighter around her. “How do I know you didn’t poison yourself, just for the attention? It’s the same sort of dramatic stunt Lily would’ve tried. It certainly got everyone’s attention and garnered you a few more days to worm your way into my household.”

Jessa got her hands between them, shoving hard against his chest.

He allowed her to break the embrace. Her black shawl rose and fell with the force of her heaving chest.

“How dare you,” she hissed. “How dare you insinuate—”

“I dare, Jessamine. I dare because of this.”

Dash seized her once more, yanking her to him. He lowered his head, claiming her lips in a fierce, possessive kiss. Damn the woman, for thinking he could ever harm her. How could she not know he’d battle the devil himself to protect those he loved? That every hurt she endured hurt him as well? How could she not know that he—

“Oh God, Jessa.” He deepened his kiss, licking the seam of her lips until, with a mewl of surrender, she opened to him. His tongue swept into her mouth. A thrill of unfamiliar emotion jolted him. The ice around his heart cracked with a nearly audible sound.

He raked his fingers through her hair, dislodging pins, relishing the feel of the heavy silk in his hands.

She kissed him back, the salt of her tears mingling with the sweet taste of her lips.

His cock engorged, rigid to the point of pain. With a groan, he bunched her skirts in his hands, yanking them up. Her answering moan told him what he needed to know.

Not until Winston’s loud cough penetrated his haze of desire did he realize the study door now stood open.

“I did knock, Captain.”

Jessa sprang from his arms, joining him in an open-mouthed stare at the small group crowded into the doorway. He didn’t recognize either of the men who stood there.

The taller of the two stood stiff, his bearing regal. Neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair rimmed an otherwise bald head. It matched his luxuriant mustache and sideburns. The wrinkles around his eyes gave away his age, but his deep jade eyes glittered with the fury of a much younger man. His white-knuckled hand fisted on the head of the ebony cane on which he leaned, as if sheer willpower were the only thing keeping him from using it on Dash. He quivered with suppressed rage.

The second man looked to be about the same age as the first, but stockier. Broader. Silver glasses framed snapping blue eyes, squinted in a glare at Dash. Wavy silver-white hair swept to his collar. A mustache and goatee outlined a mouth set in a grim line. Most notable was his attire. He wore a cardinal-red jacket over a dark green and blue kilt. Red and white argyle socks left his sturdy, fish-belly-white knees exposed. Dash recognized the uniform. The 42nd Highland Regiment. A military man, then. One ready to declare war on Dash.

In spite of the threat from the man with the cane, and the glare of the old soldier, the woman at Winston’s side struck the most terror into Dash. Dressed in a garish shade of deepest purple, she rattled with strings of jet beads.

“Marguerite,” he said.

Jessa’s mother had arrived, just in time to catch him in the act of compromising yet another of her daughters.

45.

...only destruction could exorcise her demons…

FOR THE SECOND time in his life, Dash found himself facing this smirking, simpering woman, reciting the exact same words.

“Mrs. Palmer, I have the very great fortune of announcing that your daughter has just agreed to be my wife.”

When he’d said those words the first time, long ago, Lily had squealed in delight, then run to be hugged by her smugly smiling mother.