Legends (32 page)

Animated chatter once again filled the room, and Herb quieted them for one final directive. “The party will end with a buffet tomorrow evening, at which time all of you will demonstrate your deft powers of deduction and attempt to point the finger of accusation in the right direction. A prize—marvelous, of course—will be awarded our supersleuth. Meal schedules and such are in each of your suites, and the staff is available for anything you might need. Go now”—his large hands swept the air—“ and mingle, my friends. With … murder!”

The room was filled instantly with excited conversation and the shuffling of chairs as people got up from their tables.

Nick whispered into Halley’s ear, “What will it be, my Tessa? Dancing? A boat ride? Or perhaps we could retire to my guest suite and renew old acquaintances?”

“Oh, I hardly think we’d find clues in your suite. Much too obvious!” Halley’s words tumbled out on top of each other, her mind racing. Even the Contessa wasn’t ready to tackle that last choice! And although she’d love to dance, her feet were beginning to feel like bruised cucumbers in Rosie’s skinny heels; she knew she wouldn’t last on the dance floor. “How about a short walk?”

Nick’s warm smile was her answer, and they walked outside and down the cobbled path that cut through the rolling lawns as it wound its way to the lakeshore. Halley breathed in the crisp night air. So this was what Cinderella had gone through. Lovely …

“What are you thinking?” The Baron’s deep voice matched her dreamlike mood, and she smiled.

“That I’ve had enough champagne tonight to last me the rest of the year. That the meal was absolutely fantastic. That it’s a lovely, beautiful night and that I’m enjoying myself.”

“You forgot one thing.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head sideways.

“You forgot to mention that the Contessa is surprised at her enjoyment.”

“Well, sure, a little surprised. I did have other plans for the weekend—”

“Oh? Let me guess.” His arm slipped around her waist as they walked, his brows drawing together in an expression of exaggerated concentration. “You were planning on spending it in the solitude of a great museum, admiring magnificent works of art.”

She shook her head and smiled.

“No? Well, then, let me try again.” His free hand swept the air in front of them. “I have it! You were to be the guest of honor at a gala charity dinner for the preservation of pigeons, a lavish event attended by the rich and famous.”

Halley laughed as she loosened herself from his hold and slipped down a side path and onto a curved bench that was surrounded by a cluster of bushes. A circle of thick-growing cedar trees backed the foliage and formed a grove, lit only by the moonlight trickling through the branches.

“Please, may we sit for a second? I find your conjectures delightful, but my feet are absolutely killing me.” She slipped off the shoes and sighed deeply. “Oh, that feels wonderful! I’ve been wanting to get out of those high heels all night.”

Nick sat down beside her and watched the slow graceful movement of her legs as she stretched them out before her. “Here, let me.”

Before Halley could respond, he bent over and lifted both her feet, sliding them across his knees while her whole body rotated automatically on the cool stone. “I know just the trick,” he said calmly. With both of her stockinged feet in his lap, he slowly began to massage the tender arches.

Halley’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, but there wasn’t time to refuse. She clasped the bench tightly on either side of her. “You … you’re a masseur back there in the real world, right?” Her voice sounded choppy, reaching her ears in starts and stops. But Nick’s fingers gently rubbing and pushing into her tired feet felt magnificent, and she closed her eyes and let her head drop back on her shoulders. “Hmmm, that feels absolutely wonderful. Even if it turns out you
are
the murderer.”

His answering laugh filled the dark cove. “Contessa, you surprise me.” Nick watched her face closely as he spoke. “Here we are in our own private grotto, just the two of us. Aren’t you afraid?”

“Certainly not. Why would I be afraid?” Because he might seduce her? No, no one, most especially a handsome baron, would seduce a quiet librarian with freckles on her chest. Didn’t he know that? A small smile teased up the corners of her lips.

“Good.” His palms enclosed her ankles, and he rotated his hands gently, trying to ease the tiredness out of her bones. “I’m not afraid of you, either, although contessas, I’m told, are born to passion and are often quite aggressive.”

Halley held her face up to catch the breeze and cool the hot blush that swept across her cheeks. His hands, on her ankles, were doing surprising things to her heartbeat as well as to other parts of her body. She took a quick breath and sought a contessa-like answer.

“Yes, Baron,” she finally said, smiling at him down the length of her nose as the power of the masquerade rescued her. “But we’re also taught the fine art of control. And, dear Baron, I’ve mastered it beautifully.” There, she’d handled that well—well enough to make her wonder briefly if perhaps she had been royalty in another life.

The Baron sneaked his fingers beneath the hem of the slinky red dress and crawled them slowly over the smooth, firm skin of her legs. Her dress collected around the stiff white cuffs of his shirt and rode up along with his movements.

“Hey!” Halley shot up, her eyes wide as her body reacted violently to his explorations.

Nick grinned slowly. “Perfect control, hmm?”

“Baron,” she demanded feverishly, “remove your hands from beneath my dress immediately.”

Nick Harrington wasn’t at all used to listening to the pleas of ladies in situations like this because the women usually meant the opposite of what they said. But then, the freckled Contessa was not like anyone Nick had ever met before. He removed his hands and smiled softly. “Sorry, just wanted to know the extent of that control. You’re a pretty sensuous lady, you know.”

“You’re speaking in non sequiturs, Baron. A definite breach of logic.” She swung her bare feet down to the ground and wiggled her toes.

Nick threw his head back and laughed. “Tessa, I think I’m falling in love.”

“Well, good,” Halley said as primly and calmly as she could manage, her palms pushing away the wrinkles on her dress. “You’re following the script nicely, Nick.”

“Nick? Now how did he get in here? It’s not fair, you know, that you know my name and I know absolutely nothing about you.” He sidled closer to her.

She lifted her chin slightly. “Fair? There was nothing on
my
invitation, dear Baron, that said a thing about being fair. Now come.” She stood and looked down at him in the purple shadows. “Let’s head back. All this fantasy has made me terribly tired. I think it’s time I hit the hay.”

Nick watched her as she rose from the bench. A stray beam of moonlight splashed across her face and lit her remarkably honest green eyes. More women than he could count had said the same thing to him in the past four years—in slightly different words, of course, but she was probably the first one who meant she wanted to go to bed … alone … to sleep.

His smile went unnoticed by Halley, who was feeling around the pebbled walkway with her toes in an effort to find the spike-heeled shoes. Beneath that wonderful makeup job and sexy dress, Nick decided thoughtfully, was someone who had never come within fifty miles of a contessa in her life.

“Here, contessa, allow me.” He bent over and picked up her shoes, slipping each one onto an arched foot while she balanced herself with one hand on his back.

“Thank you. I feel like Cinderella.”

“In that case, you’d have to leave one shoe behind, and those pebbles would hurt like hell.”

Halley nodded. “Right.” She comfortably hooked one arm through his. “I’d also have to run off, and there’s no way on earth I’d be able to manage that tonight.”

“Good.” He looked down and smiled softly. “I don’t want you running off.” He led her carefully back toward the well-lit terrace of the Harrington estate.

Later that night Halley stood barefoot before the French doors of her bedroom. Outside, all was still, except for the gentle breath of a breeze through the giant maple trees and several couples who strolled across the broad expanse of lawn. Tiny gaslights dotted the blackness like fireflies. Halley breathed deeply, then slipped through the doors and out onto the tiny, private patio, shielded from view by a thick, circular hedge of yew bushes and clumps of mulberry.

“A real fantasyland,” she murmured as the breeze ruffled her filmy nightgown.

She thought of her own apartment, a world away on the other side of Philadelphia. It was a cluttered, homey space in the old gatekeeper’s cottage on the Thorne Estate where she worked. Then she looked back through the open doors into the perfectly lit suite to which she’d been assigned for the weekend.
Everything
was perfect. The glistening white-silk and chrome furniture was accented by a slight smattering of pastel colors here and there on the upholstery and wall coverings.

She tried to imagine all her friends and acquaintances here, in this setting. It was hard to visualize. The Thorne Estate had been donated to the community by the Thorne family, and Halley loved her job there as director of the library, which was located in the main house. She loved the tiny cottage that was open to her friends at all hours of the day and night. She thought of them flopping on her couch and ordering pizza, laughing and crying and feeling completely at home. She thought of Archie, the hobo who lived behind the library in the old stable and sometimes came for tea in the gazebo, and the neighborhood kids who pasted their rubbings from the old cemetery grave markers on her walls.

Halley burst out laughing. No, these were
definitely
two different worlds.

But she
could
picture Nick, the Baron, here. Sure, she could see him easily stretched out on that long, lovely couch in his handsome tuxedo. Even when the wind had ruffled his dark hair as they walked along the path earlier, it hadn’t looked mussed. Nothing about him was haphazard, not his long, lean physique, nor his way of conversing, nor his elegant mannerisms. The Baron von Bluster was definitely not haphazard. But what
was
he, exactly?

Halley looked up into the sliver of a moon that caught her eye and whispered, “A dashing, romantic dream. That’s what the Baron is.”

A piercing scream from out of the darkness shattered her thoughts into a million tiny pieces.

Immediately following was a shot and a bellow and a scuffling of footsteps, although later Halley wouldn’t be able to tell anyone in what exact order these events had occurred.

She stood frozen in place, the hair on her arms and back of her neck standing upright.

And then, in seconds, impulse took over, and without a backward glance she plowed through the carefully manicured yew bushes and ran down toward the lake and the sound, her gown flattening against her body in the breeze.

The night wind drove needle-like snow into the young man’s back as he kicked the heavy door closed behind him. There was no heat in the huge main hall of the mansion, and his footsteps echoed in the open emptiness as he stamped sticky snowflakes from his boots and shook them from his shoulders. Country darkness had fallen outside hours ago, and only a thin slip of muted moonlight poured like liquid silver seafoam down the grand staircase from the tall windows on the first landing.

But there was no hesitancy in the man’s stride as he walked through the shadowed quiet of the hall. He had crossed this floor uncounted times since he had taken his first faltering steps here twenty-seven years ago, when his mother had released his baby fingers and watched in laughing excitement as he toddled into his father’s outstretched arms. Gone was that laughing mother with the gentle hands and the whispered fragrance of gardenia. Gone was the father with the moustache that made his kisses tickle.

Walking in the cavernous gloom, alone except for the tiny burden under his pullover that he supported with both hands, the man felt no unease. His nature was at times a whimsical one, but even as a child he had never been fearful. And he was not completely devoid of company.

“I’m home, Chaucer,” he called softly in the darkness. Hampered by the limitations of human hearing, he missed the owl’s silent flight, though he could feel the slight draft from its wings brush his wind-stung skin, and the light weight of padded feet coming to rest expertly on his shoulder with a subtle shift in balance. There was a musical trill of greeting. The man resettled the burden under his pullover and withdrew one hand, dragging off a suede glove with his teeth. He reached up and gently scratched the owl’s silky breast with a friendly finger.

“We have company, old son,” he said, the very attractive voice husky from the heavy cold outdoors. “Orphans. Orphans of the storm. How are your parental instincts functioning?”

A wing, lifted indignantly, touched the back of his head as the owl hissed, and that drew a slight laugh from the man.

Together they passed under the high cool ceilings, going by the small dry fountain and ceramic pool. In the vast dining room, a huge chandelier dense with dusty prisms sparkled above them in the dimness, and answered the man’s footsteps with a faint chime. Beyond, he passed the summer dining room and the butler’s pantry. At last he came gratefully into the kitchen, where the antiquated central heating had been puffing a steady, pillowy warmth. His hand hit the upper button of the old-fashioned light switch, flooding the warm wide expanse of the room with cheerful yellow light, and his eyes, night-adjusted, stung. He registered the fact briefly, instinctively, by its biology: the rapid decomposition of rhodopsin in the eye.

Crossing the parquet floor, he knelt by a low cupboard, withdrawing a cardboard shoe box. Working one-handed, he lined the box with a clean dishtowel, and then set it on the rosewood work table. With utmost care, he reached under his pullover and brought out his two tiny orphans, supporting them carefully in his cupped hands. He brought them level with his face and looked at them closely.