Shadow Dance (21 page)

“But, Val, I have a very great deal of money,” she said eagerly. “We could set up house here, and your husband could continue his travels. I confess, I don’t really want to leave England, but I want to be with you.”

“Sophie,” he said gently, “it really won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“We’d be ostracized by society.”

“Why?”

Lord, the child was an innocent! “Because,” he said brutally, “we wouldn’t be sharing a house as two friends. We’d be sharing it as lovers.”

He’d finally managed to shock her. And then she delivered the killing blow. “If that’s what you want,” she said humbly, “I’m willing.”

It took all his self-control not to reach for her. He took a deep, calming breath. She didn’t even realize what she was offering, didn’t understand either the ramifications or the logistics of such a suggestion. He knew full well that she didn’t desire women. She desired him. Enough to risk everything she had.

“I’m not,” he said. He gave her a moment to absorb the blow. “My dear Sophie, you’re very young. I’m experienced, sophisticated, and you find that attractive.” He was damned if he’d refer to himself as a woman again. “But you need a husband, babies, a life of your own. And I prefer my unfettered way of living. And I’m not interested in the romantic attentions of my own sex.”

“Oh,” she said, her voice small and mortified. “I didn’t mean, that is, I thought …” Her words trailed off in a flurry of embarrassment. “I’d better leave.” And she started to rise from the bed.

He couldn’t bear it. Humiliating her was even worse
than lying to her. But telling her the truth simply wasn’t possible.

“Forgive me, Sophie,” he said, his voice naturally deep. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Oh, Val,” she said with a muffled sob. And she flung herself across the bed, weeping, against him.

His arms came around her small body, almost of their own volition, when he should have pushed her away. He stroked her hair, kissing the flower-scented sweetness of it. He murmured soft, soothing words as she sobbed in his arms, her fingers clutching him. And she suddenly grew still, and he knew it was too late.

Her hands slid up his bare, muscled arms to his stubbled chin, and his hard, flat chest was beneath her tear-streaked face, and she froze. Then, abruptly, she pushed herself away from him, scrambling off the bed, and a moment later she’d crossed the room to fling open the shutters, letting in streams of bright, damning sunlight.

She stared at him, and her face was white with shock. The sheet lay at his waist, and he sat there in bed, indisputably masculine. Indisputably guilty.

“You bastard,” she said low, her voice full of misery.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. He kicked off the sheets, rising from the bed.

“You lied to me. Tricked me.”

“Yes,” he said again.

“And all the time you were laughing at me. At the stupid little provincial, ready to throw everything away in her passion for another woman.”

“I never laughed. I was … touched.”

“Damn you,” she said fiercely.

“Yes.”

She slammed the door as she left. He made no move to stop her. There was nothing he could say, no excuse that would make his lies more acceptable. He’d known there was no future for the two of them. He’d just hoped he could have salvaged a tender memory.

The door slammed open again, but this time it was Phelan. “What the hell happened?”

“Can’t you guess?” Val said wearily, turning from the window. “She offered to run away with me. I declined the offer. She told me she loved me. I told her she should wait for a man. She flung herself into my arms, and then the entire question became academic. She hates liars.”

“Did you try to explain our reasons?”

“No.”

There was a moment of silence. “Just as well,” Phelan said finally, ever practical. “The fewer people who know about us, the better.”

“We’ve got to get out of here, Phelan. Once the people of Hampton Regis find out …”

“She’s not going to tell anyone. It would only reflect poorly on her. After all, everyone knows she’s been living in your pocket for the past few weeks. Not to mention the fact that she spent the night alone with you in an inn. If it’s discovered you’re a man, then she’s well and truly ruined.”

“She might not realize it. She’s absurdly innocent …”

“Innocent, yes. Stupid, no. She won’t tell anyone. And not for her own sake. Once she calms down enough, she’ll realize you must have had a good reason for lying to her. She might not understand that reason, but I’m willing to wager our safety that she’ll keep quiet in deference to it.”

“I’ve got to get out of here, Phelan. If worse comes to worst, I’ll swim for France.”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

“There’s a small boat leaving for France tomorrow. I’ve booked passage for the three of us. You, me, and Hannigan.”

“What about Dulcie?”

“She stays behind. She has family nearby—she has no interest in wandering the globe with us.”

“Tomorrow,” Valerian said glumly, telling himself he should be relieved.

“Cheer up, Val. By the time we’re in Paris, you’ll have forgotten all about her,” Phelan murmured.

He glanced up, meeting his brother’s eyes. “Just as you’ve forgotten Juliette?”

“Juliette? Who, pray tell, is that?” Phelan countered.

“Just someone who loved you.”

And Phelan stamped from the room, no longer making any attempt to hide his temper.

Sophie de Quincey was sick, angry, and shaking inside. If she hadn’t made the journey out to Sutter’s Head in the old trap, pulled by an ancient and much-beloved mare, she would have raced homeward in a frenzy. But Buttercup was too dear and too old to be whipped into accumulating some speed, and Sophie had to content herself with plodding slowly back to town, tears of rage and hurt streaming down her face.

How could she have lied to her? Or rather, how could
he
have lied to her? Valerie Ramsey, the bawdy, elegant, sophisticated lady of her acquaintance, was no lady at all, but a man.

And such a man. She’d never seen a man without a shirt
on before, and the sight had been dazzling. He had all that bronzed, muscled skin. And it was so warm and resilient beneath her hands.

He hadn’t shaved. The stubble across his chin only made him more attractive, and those beautiful gray eyes with their absurdly long lashes no longer seemed the slightest bit feminine. How could she have been so gullible?

He was so tall, looming over her in the bright light of the bedroom. He’d never seemed that tall before. But suddenly, shorn of his disguise, he’d been large, and masculine, and absolutely devastating,

And a liar, Sophie reminded herself. What a fool she’d been, ready to throw everything away for him. She hadn’t even understood herself what she’d been offering; she only knew that a future without Valerie Ramsey had seemed bleak indeed.

It would have been heaven, compared to this devastating betrayal. Better for her to have gone through life thinking she’d been moved by a female.
Aroused
was the word, much as she’d shied away from it. Fallen in love. There it was, for her unwilling mind to accept. She’d fallen in love with another woman. Only to find out he was a man.

Suddenly the absurdity of it struck her, and she wanted to laugh out loud. Until she remembered stripping off her clothes in front of him. Beseeching him to tell her about what men and women did together. Lying in the gazebo, her head in his lap, while he told her about the strange and wonderful things that went on between a man and a woman.

She could feel the heat suffuse her entire body. She’d talked about things she wouldn’t even discuss with her
mother, or with her closest friend. She’d allowed her curiosity full rein, and he’d satisfied it. Damn him.

If he’d been any gentleman at all, he would have steered the conversation to more acceptable topics. He would have kept away from her, not encouraged her. He would have …

He would have told her the truth. It was the one thing she needed in her life. Honesty, no matter how brutal.

It wasn’t until she was almost at the outskirts of Hampton Regis, her tears dried on her cheeks, that she thought to consider exactly why he’d lied to her. She hadn’t bothered to ask, and he hadn’t offered an explanation. But he must have had a very good reason.

And who was the man calling himself Val’s husband? A relative, obviously, and Sophie guessed they were probably brothers. But why were they embarked on such an absurd masquerade?

She was half tempted to turn around and drive back to Sutter’s Head. Her mother would have a fit of the vapors when she realized her daughter had taken the trap out alone, though at least she’d assume Sophie had gone calling on a female friend, an act which was completely acceptable. If her mother ever found out she’d been alone in a bedroom with a half-clad male …

Come to think of it, she’d spent the night in bed with that same male. If anyone were to find out, she’d be thoroughly ruined.

The thought didn’t even begin to disturb her. She wasn’t interested in the opinion of society, her mother’s disapproval, or even Captain Melbourne’s offer.

She was only interested in whether Val’s reason for lying was justification for his acts. And whether she could ever forgive him.

Juliette sat in the corner of the tiny cottage and tried not to stare at the woman across from her, concentrating instead on the arcane intricacies of pastry dough. Lady Margery had seldom left her alone in the past few days. Juliette had become maid, driver, and cook, taking the place of the mysterious Barbe. She allowed herself to wonder what had happened to the woman who’d accompanied Lady Margery as far as the inn. Was she as dead as Mark-David Lemur, or perhaps only wounded? Lady Margery seemed to have no interest in her servant’s fate, and Juliette hadn’t dared to ask. She’d simply done as she was ordered, stripping out of the boys’ clothes that had gotten soaked with blood, dressing in skirts that were too long for her slender body. It was the first time she’d worn women’s clothes in more than a month, and she hadn’t missed them at all.

“I can’t imagine what my son would have seen in you,” Lady Margery had said with a critical glance. “I would have thought he’d have better taste. I brought him up to be more fastidious.”

“He didn’t see anything in me,” Juliette had replied, and received a stinging slap across the mouth for her troubles.
Despite her elderly appearance, Lady Margery was far from weak. But then, Juliette had guessed as much. It would have taken a certain amount of strength to cut Lemur’s throat, then drag his body up onto the bed beside her.

“Don’t ever lie to me, child,” the old woman said, her eyes glinting with madness. “I don’t care for it. If you had decent clothes you might not be bad-looking, but no one is worthy of my son. He belongs to me, and me alone. Anyone who interferes between a mother and a child deserves to be punished. Don’t you agree?”

She had had little choice. If she’d said yes, she might be signing her own death warrant. If she’d argued, the result could be the same. She’d said nothing, learning that silence was her safest course.

Lady Margery needed not much more than a servant and an audience, and Juliette performed those roles admirably. She had no difficulty handling the small carriage, and they arrived at the tiny village of Hampton Parva by midafternoon the next day. But all of Juliette’s hopes for assistance against a murderous madwoman were in vain.

The village was small, shabby, not much more than a settlement. A few ramshackle cottages, a straggly garden or two, and pigs and chickens roaming the narrow streets like vermin. There were less than two dozen people there, and they all regarded her with unfriendly curiosity. And they all looked vaguely familiar.

“Hannigans,” Lady Margery announced, answering her unasked question. The hovel they’d taken over was just as decrepit as the others, the thatched roof undoubtedly leaked, and Juliette could hear the rustle of rats as they nested in the corners. The vermin frightened her far less than Lady Margery. “Everyone in Hampton Parva is a
Hannigan. They’ve inbred quite a bit, and it’s no wonder. Decent people won’t have them around.”

Juliette wanted to ask questions, but she kept silent, waiting, pounding on the pastry dough that simply seemed to get tougher. She couldn’t cook, but Lady Margery was too mad to notice. She ate what Juliette put in front of her, and Juliette found herself wondering if she might find some rat poison in this benighted town.

Hannigans. The suspicious-looking villagers were a far cry from the Hannigan she knew, with his protective mien and friendly nature, but there was a definite physical resemblance.

“They’ve been at Romney Hall for close to forty years now,” the old woman continued. “Not that they’re there now. No, Hannigan ran off with my son, and Dulcie went with them. And Barbe—I wonder where she is,” she said, her mind beginning to fade a bit. “She came with me to the inn.”

“Did you hurt her?” Juliette asked.

“Hurt Barbe? Why should I do that? She’s been with me since Phelan was born. Since Catherine died.”

“Catherine? Who was Catherine?”

“None of your business,” the old lady snapped, furious. “You concentrate on the cooking.” She smiled with sudden cunning. “I remember what happened to Barbe. I hit her.”

“Did you kill her?”

Lady Margery shrugged her thin shoulders. “I don’t know. I hardly think it matters—you never met her. There are enough Hannigans in this world, and doubtless no one would blame me. Not any more than they’ll blame me for killing your husband. A worthless bully.”

“Will they blame you if you kill me?” Juliette asked carefully, laying the thick, cracked dough in a pie tin.

“Certainly not,” she said with great dignity. “They’ll trust my judgment. After all, I’m Lady Romney of Romney Hall. I’m not a nameless little nobody like Catherine Morgan.”

“Who was Catherine?” Juliette asked again, no longer worrying how Lady Margery might react.

“Catherine doesn’t matter. She’s been dead for more than … thirty-four years.”

“If she doesn’t matter, why do you keep talking about her?”

“I don’t keep talking about her, you do,” the old lady shot back in a querulous voice.

Juliette kept silent for a moment, waiting for the woman’s garrulousness to get the better of her. It didn’t take long.

“She was very pretty, Catherine was,” she said in a dreamy voice. “Too pretty. Harry wanted her, of course, but he didn’t dare touch her. Not when she was married to his younger brother. Back then he had a few standards. Keeping faithful to me wouldn’t have entered into it, but he wouldn’t have taken his brother’s wife.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died.”

“How sad,” Juliette said gently.

“Not in the slightest,” Lady Margery snapped. “Her husband had been killed in a carriage wreck several months before, and she had nothing to live for. It was a blessing, even if Barbe and Hannigan didn’t see it that way.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“They were her servants, you see. Hannigans are a
strange breed, wildly loyal to those they choose to serve, completely amoral where others are concerned.” She didn’t seem to think it the slightest bit odd that she pass strictures on someone else’s morality.

“But they transferred their loyalty to you, once she died,” Juliette said.

“They transferred their loyalty to my son. But I keep them under control. I know their secrets,” Lady Margery said craftily. “Just as they know mine. We cannot hurt each other, as long as we know so much.”

“Secrets?” Juliette asked idly, tossing chunks of onion into the pie crust. She hadn’t managed to get all the papery skin off them, but she didn’t think it would matter. “What secrets?”

“If I told, they wouldn’t be a secret anymore, now would they?”

“Who would I tell?”

The old lady smiled, exposing large, yellowed teeth. “True enough. You won’t have a chance to tell, will you? I won’t tell you my secrets. I’ll carry those to the grave. But I can tell you one thing about the Hannigans.”

Juliette couldn’t care less about the Hannigans, but she decided any information might come in handy if she was going to get out of this mess alive. “What about the Hannigans?”

“Don’t you wonder why they’re forced to live out here, far away from civilization? Why no one will have them around, why they’re considered the dregs of the earth?”

“I hadn’t realized they were,” Juliette said mildly.

“They’re murderers.”

Juliette thought of her husband’s body, lying lifeless in the bed next to her. “Really?” she said politely to his killer.

“That’s their family business, girl, for generations.”

“They don’t look particularly lethal to me,” she said. But then, neither did Lady Margery.

“Oh, they don’t ply their trade anymore. Most of their lot was hanged more than fifty years ago, and since then they’ve had to turn to more peaceful ways of earning a living. They’re terrible farmers, but they make good servants. They’re very loyal.”

Juliette glanced at Lady Margery, wondering if this was one more mad fantasy. It had the eerie ring of truth. “Why did they kill people?” she asked, pouring semi-congealed pig fat over the potatoes and onions and trying to keep from shuddering.

“Why do most people kill? For money. Have you ever been to a place called Dead Man’s Cove?”

“I’ve heard of it,” she said carefully, thinking of Phelan’s long, deft hands, and the sketch that she still managed to keep hidden from Lady Margery’s sharp, crazed eyes.

“The Hannigans were wreckers. They lured ships to their doom, and then they clubbed the survivors to death, leaving them in the water after they stripped them of their valuables. They thrived for hundreds of years, until the government sent in the militia to put a stop to, it, and they hanged every Hannigan they could find, be it man, woman, or child.”

“How horrible.”

Lady Margery shrugged, clearly unmoved by her gruesome tale. “The children were just as savage as their elders. A few of them ran into the woods to hide, and they stay here to this day. They leave people alone, and in return they’re not hunted like the monsters they are.”

“Why did you come here? Why did you bring me here?”

“It’s the best place to keep an eye on Phelan. Why do you suppose Hannigan talked them into coming here? So his family could make sure they were safe. He didn’t realize I would guess where they were hiding, or that I’d force Barbe to come with me. Where is Barbe?” she added in a fretful voice.

Early on, Juliette thought that querulous vagueness signaled an opportunity for escape. It hadn’t. Lady Margery grew even more dangerous when her confusion reined, and Juliette had a knife slash on her wrist to prove it.

“She’ll probably be here sooner or later,” Juliette said gently.

“I hope so. Once I take care of you, I’ll need someone to help me. I don’t like to be alone. Too many ghosts. Harry comes to me at night. Never did when he was alive,” she added with a cackle. “But he comes to me now. And Catherine. So reproachful. It’s not my fault. I’ve done my best, better than she ever would have. She was weak, weak-blooded, weak-minded. I was strong. It was only right what I did. Only right.”

“What did you do?”

Lady Margery gave a sly smile. “I’ll tell you,” she said, “just before I kill you.”

“A shame about your friends, dear,” Sophie’s mother said across the dinner table.

Sophie listlessly stabbed her sturgeon with a fork. Her mother’s conversation always tended to be arch, and Sophie had learned to ignore the majority of it.

“Which friends are those, Rosalind?” Percival de Quincey, Sophie’s kindly, slightly befuddled-looking father, asked dutifully.

“That odd Mrs. Ramsey and her husband. I must say I always found her a bit … dashing for my taste, but certainly there was no harm in her. Nevertheless, I’ll be happy when my precious concentrates on friends her own age. After all, it won’t be long before she’s a married woman, and these gay, happy summer days will be long gone.”

Sophie ignored her mother’s ridiculous phrase to concentrate on what mattered. “What has happened to the Ramseys?” she demanded, dropping her fork.

“Why, I assumed you would be the first to know,” said her mother, clearly assuming no such thing. “After all, you paid a courtesy call on the woman this morning.”

“We didn’t have much of a discussion,” Sophie said. “She was feeling unwell.”

“This climate doesn’t agree with her,” Mrs. de Quincey said archly. “If they’d asked me, I could have recommended an herbal concoction that would have made a new woman out of her.”

Sophie couldn’t help it, she found she could laugh. “I’m not certain it would have been appreciated.”

“Perhaps not,” her mother said in a judicious tone of voice. “Acts of Christian charity seldom are. Still, I imagine you’ll miss her.”

“Miss her?” Sudden, overwhelming dread filled Sophie’s heart.

“Her husband has booked passage on the
Sea Horse
for the next tide tomorrow. I don’t imagine you’ll see them again.”

“The next tide,” Sophie’s father announced, “is at eleven fifty-two in the morning.” He beamed, obviously pleased with himself.

“Yes, dear,” his wife said, dismissing him. “I’m certain
Sophie doesn’t care when the tide is. She has more important things to consider.”

“On the contrary,” Sophie said breathlessly. “I’m fascinated by the tides.”

“That’s a new one,” her mother said critically. “At least you’re showing a trace of scientific interest, instead of being so abysmally concerned with household matters.”

“Nothing wrong with household matters, m’dear,” Mr. De Quincey dared to remark. “She’s a little earth mother, is our Sophie.”

“No daughter of mine,” said Rosalind de Quincey in a chilling voice, “is an earth mother.” She made it sound like something completely indecent. “She has an excellent mind, and I’m certain Captain Melbourne will give her ample opportunity to use it.”

It hit Sophie like a bolt of lightning, the sudden, joyous realization, and she laughed out loud, startling her father into dropping his soup spoon. “I’m not going to marry Captain Melbourne,” she announced firmly.

Her mother looked at her as if she’d suddenly grown horns. “Don’t be ridiculous, child,” she said flatly. “Of course you are. It’s a daughter’s duty to be guided by her parents in matters such as these, and your father and I decided—”

“As a matter of fact,
I
haven’t decided,” her father said abruptly. “I don’t care for the fellow above half. Dashed dull stick, if you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you,” Mrs. de Quincey said in frosty tones.

“Yes, my love.” He subsided quickly.

Mrs. de Quincey turned her steely blue gaze back to her
recalcitrant daughter. “As I was saying, you will—Where are you going?”

Sophie had already fled the table, racing toward the door on dancing feet. “I’m off to see Mrs. Ramsey,” she called back over her shoulder, her voice a bubble of laughter.

“Stop her, Percival,” Mrs. de Quincey demanded. “She can’t run off at this time of night.”

“I imagine she just wants to wish her Godspeed.” Sophie’s father, as always, was trying to be reasonable. “No harm in that, my love.”

Sophie paused at the door. “No,” she said. “I most definitely do not.” And she ran out of the room before her parents could come up with one more halfhearted protest.